Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2102508.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Soul_Eater
  Relationship:
      Giriko/Justin_Law
  Character:
      Giriko_(Soul_Eater), Justin_Law
  Additional Tags:
      Master/Pet, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot,
      Established_Relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-16 Words: 3826
****** Feral ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "'I think I’m going to get you a collar,' Giriko announces from the
     doorway, before even waiting for Justin to put his book down." Giriko
     tries to pick a fight but Justin proves more compliant than expected.
Justin is reading when Giriko comes into the room. They live together in the
technical sense of the word, and fairly frequently interact on a more intimate
level than just cohabitation, but Justin has found that their interests, other
than in each other, have almost no overlap. That’s fine with him. The chainsaw
is capable of amusing himself, sometimes even of doing so without massive
bodily harm to bystanders, and since he steadied enough to be trusted without a
babysitter Justin has taken advantage of the freedom this grants him to retreat
into his more naturally introverted state. It’s more comfortable to shut
himself away in the bedroom sometimes, away from the other man’s presence and
the sound of his perpetual television shows, so Justin can drop into the
singleminded focus he has always excelled at. But sometimes Giriko gets bored,
or wants to amuse himself with Justin more than with something else, and Justin
realizes this is one of those times even before the door has ricocheted off the
wall from the force of Giriko’s shove.
“I think I’m going to get you a collar,” Giriko announces from the doorway,
before even waiting for Justin to put his book down.
Justin was going to set a bookmark in place and turn his full attention to the
chainsaw, but that particular introduction ruffles his patience; just for that
he leaves the book open, turns his eyes up with excruciating slowness to
highlight just how much of an interruption Giriko has just caused. He’s not
entirely certain this show makes it through Giriko’s attention, but it
certainly helps him fall into the icy coolness that permeates his voice when he
says, “Excuse me?”
“A collar,” Giriko repeats, drawling over the word as if his grin wasn’t enough
to indicate he’s trying to needle the blond. “You’d look so good in one.”
“Is this some sort of commentary on my preference for receiving?” Justin asks.
“If you want to bottom, all you have to do is say so.”
That gets him the growl of irritation he was angling for. Justin smiles at the
victory, snaps his book shut and moves to set it on the bedside table while
Giriko hisses, “That ain’t got nothing to do with it,” before he recovers some
modicum of composure. “I was just thinking. Living with you is kinda like
living with a cat.”
Justin is fairly certain this is supposed to get a rise out of him. He doesn’t
feel particularly offended, though, and his lack of response makes Giriko
seethe visibly even before he raises an eyebrow and says, “Cats don’t usually
put up with collars, you know.” When he slides off the bed he moves
deliberately slowly, arches his back farther than is strictly necessary when he
stretches. “Besides, I’m fairly certain if either of us needs a collar it’s
you.”
“Cat is giving you too much credit.” Giriko steps in from the doorway and
Justin sits back on the bed, shifts away from the reach of his fingers to lie
across the mattress with every appearance of inadvertent motion instead of
active avoidance. “You’re more of a kitten.”
“Mm.” Justin comes up onto an elbow, props his chin on his hand so he can purse
his lips in feigned consideration. “I’m your kitten, huh?”
He can see the exact moment Giriko’s expression softens from picking a fight
into consideration of this new angle. Even out of the corner of his eye the
momentary relaxation of the other man’s features is perfectly clear. “What?”
“Isn’t that what you’re saying?” Justin rolls over onto his back, tips his head
back so he can stare at Giriko upside down. “If I’m a kitten you must be my
owner. Although I admit, I have thought of you as my dog before.”
“Fuck you,” Giriko growls. Justin doesn’t even bother fighting back his smirk
of achievement; nothing can sway Giriko from the follow-through, not now he’s
actually angry. “No, no way, I ain’t wearing a collar for you.”
“I never said anything about collars,” Justin points out without turning over.
“That was your idea. Though it doesn’t work as well for cats.”
Giriko shrugs one-shouldered, steps in to lean over the bed so he can dig his
fingers into Justin’s hair. “I’m not that attached to that part of the idea,
anyway.”
Giriko’s fingers are shoving harder than usual over Justin’s scalp, scraping
down against the blond’s hairline and pressing into the soft skin just behind
his ear. When Justin tips his head sideways to expose his neck he lets the
movement go a little slower, a little more graceful than usual. “Which
parts are you attached to, exactly?” he asks, keeping his voice cool so he
sounds only mildly interested.
“The quiet,” Giriko answers, so fast it’s a sure tell that he’s been thinking
about this. “You’d be a lot easier to handle if you kept your mouth shut.
Prettier, too.”
Justin laughs, sharp-edged with amusement, but he doesn’t pull away. “I’m
fairly certain hearing and sight are independent, Giriko. And cats are not
nearly as quiet as you seem to think they are.”
“See.” Giriko draws his hand away, leaving relatively chill air to take its
place, and Justin frowns at the loss. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I thought you liked me mouthy,” Justin complains, but he does it quietly, so
Giriko can pretend to not hear him, and rolls back over to come up onto his
knees. “You want me to be quiet, then?”
Giriko blinks at Justin, stares at him like he’s looking for the catch under
the blond’s words. When he says, “Yes,” it’s hesitant, like he’s expecting some
sort of physical attack in retribution for his words. “No talking, at least.”
Justin coughs a laugh -- he knows perfectly well what Giriko is angling for -
- but then he covers his mouth with his hand, shuts his eyes to focus his
attention into determination for a moment. Then he breathes out, drops his
hand, shuts his mouth, and looks up to meet the chainsaw’s eyes as levelly as
he can manage.
Giriko actually draws back from the edge of the bed, takes a half-step
backwards as his eyes go wide with shock. “Wait. You’re actually gonna do it?”
A lack of words doesn’t stop Justin from rolling his eyes -- obviously, it
says, clear as speech -- lowers his chin, raises his eyebrows in the best taunt
for more he can manage without actually reaching out over the bed for the other
man. Giriko’s eyebrows go up, his mouth drops open; then he laughs, rough and
dragging over genuine amusement in his throat, and comes back in, reaches out
to ruffle Justin’s hair roughly enough that the blond flinches.
“Well, shit,” Giriko says, and there is so much audible delight in his voice
that Justin’s rising irritation evaporates. He never hears Giriko sound like
that. “I thought we were gonna get into a fight, not that you were gonna
go along with it.” His tone is infuriatingly condescending, but without words
there is only so much Justin can convey with a frown, and there’s a
possessiveness to the fingers sliding down and around the back of the blond’s
neck that makes Justin’s skin flare hot, convinces the blond to duck his head
so Giriko doesn’t see the way his frown starts to melt into the leading edge of
a smile.
“You’re wearing too much,” Giriko observes, bringing a knee up onto the bed so
he can lean in farther. Justin smoothes his expression into neutrality, lifts
his head in half-thought expectation of a kiss, but Giriko just leans closer
until he’s pulling Justin in against his shoulder, blocking the other’s vision
with the pressure of his shirt. “Pretty sure shirts aren’t standard, kitten.”
Justin wishes he was irritated by that diminutive. He’s pretty sure
he should be; he’s a Death Weapon, he’s more than capable of holding his own
against the chainsaw. The endearment is intended to be insulting, he can hear
the condescension dripping off Giriko’s tongue. But the flush that rolls under
his skin has nothing to do with rage, and when he swallows it’s not a growl
he’s holding back from his throat.
He doesn’t try to respond. Justin doesn’t trust himself to make any sound at
all, words or purring or otherwise; he just slides sideways, pulls free of
Giriko’s hold so he can shift off the bed to the floor and pull his t-shirt up
over his head. Giriko’s watching him when he comes free of the fabric, the
chainsaw’s eyes lingering against Justin’s skin more than his face like the
movement of his arms as he tosses the cloth aside and reaches for his pants is
as important, maybe more important, than his expression. His gaze barely
flickers when Justin pushes his jeans free, steps out of them to climb back
onto the bed bare of anything but his skin. He looks faintly abstracted, more
like he’s watching artwork than a living person, and when Justin stretches back
out over the sheets Giriko doesn’t immediately grab at his cock to work him
hard, like he usually would. The chainsaw’s fingers touch against Justin’s neck
instead, drag across his side and down to his hip like he really is stroking a
cat, and Justin shivers as much from the unprecedented tenderness of the other
man’s fingers as from the sensation prickling through his skin.
“You’re so small,” Giriko says, his tone saying he’s speaking more to himself
than to Justin. “You really are like a pet, I could pick you up without even
trying.” His hand curves back up, around to Justin’s back and down over the
curve of his ass; Justin can feel the intention drawing tight in Giriko’s wrist
even before the chainsaw shoves him down flat into the mattress, is sighing in
anticipation before Giriko has pinned him down. “Or crush you, if I wanted to.”
Justin takes a too-quick breath, audible even past the sheets to Giriko’s ears,
and the chainsaw laughs and draws his hand back. “You don’t even want to be
handled gently.” There’s a pause, the wet sound of Giriko sucking moisture over
his fingers. “‘S for the best. I’ve never been very good with animals,
honestly.”
The hand that closes against Justin’s thigh is too hard, shoves the blond’s
legs apart rather than asking or even waiting to see if the other is willing to
cooperate. Justin whines a wordless reaction, not sure if he’s protesting or
encouraging or both, but his skin is flushing hot and expectant, pushing him
hard against the mattress even before Giriko’s spit-slick fingers slide over
his entrance.
“Sorry,” the chainsaw says in faux sympathy. “You’ll have to use words if you
want me to understand you.” He pushes, twists his wrist to force his fingers
inside, and Justin lets his breath go all at once and relaxes as Giriko slides
into him. There’s more friction than usual, the minor lubrication of the
chainsaw’s saliva fading even as he starts to thrust his fingers, but even the
edge of almost-pain is rushing to Justin’s cock, bringing his breathing faster
and hotter until he can’t fight back the instinct to fist his hands in the
sheets and rock himself desperately against the bed. There’s the sound of a
laugh, more of a growl than coherent noise, and Giriko pushes needlessly at
Justin’s knee to angle his legs wider.
“You like that.” It’s an observation rather than a question, judging from the
way the chainsaw shoves his fingers in harder without waiting for a response.
“Do you want me to get the lube and fuck you, kitten?”
Justin arches against the bed, shuts his eyes against the self-conscious flush
burning over his skin, and when he opens his mouth a strangled mewling sound
comes out, torn straight from his bloodstream without any stop-off at rational
intention along the way. Giriko’s laugh is sharp enough to cut and hot enough
to burn; Justin’s flush darkens, takes his breath directly from his lungs, and
he turns his head in harder against the sheets in a half-hearted attempt to
hide his glazed expression.
“No need to be embarrassed,” Giriko says. The words roll over his tongue,
picking up a taunting rumble in direct opposition to the initial meaning of the
words. He slides his fingers back, deliberately pressing in against Justin as
he pulls back so he drags another groan from the other’s throat, even if it’s
half-muffled against the bed. “I’ll take care of you, you don’t need to worry
about anything.” He rests one hand in the small of Justin’s back, more like
he’s offering casual comfort to the blond than to hold him in place. Justin can
feel him shifting but doesn’t look up, doesn’t lift his head from the sheets
even when he hears the sound of Giriko dragging the drawer in the bedside table
open, rifling through the contents with more haste than care. The other man
straightens, the hand on Justin’s skin moves, and Justin takes a breath like
he’s only just remembered how. He’s still hot, he’s certain his blush is
coloring all his skin pink, but he can hear the wet sound of Giriko slicking
his fingers with the lube, and any further attempt to feign indifference is
useless.
Giriko is reaching for the front of his jeans when Justin turns over, glances
up and starts to grin in the moment Justin can see his face before the blond
sits up and reaches out to slide his hands up under the chainsaw’s shirt.
Giriko chuckles, low enough that Justin can feel the vibration hum under his
fingertips, unfastens the button of his jeans while Justin slides his fingers
up over the chainsaw’s skin, leans in to bump his forehead against Giriko’s
chest. When he opens his mouth his throat pulls tight around another whimper,
so high it hums ticklish against the top of his mouth.
“Patience,” Giriko growls in amusement. A hand closes on Justin’s shoulder,
shoves him back until he falls flat to the mattress. “I need like three
seconds, it’ll just take me longer if I have to hold you down.” Justin wrinkles
his nose, reaches back for the bottom of Giriko’s shirt and starts to pull
again before Giriko hisses and closes his fingers on his wrist to hold him
down.
“Fuck,” he sighs. Justin hooks a leg around Giriko’s leg, tries to pull him in
bodily or maybe just give himself the leverage to arch up closer, so when
Giriko gets his zipper down his knuckles brush against the inside of the
blond’s leg. “What the hell do you want, are you that impatient for my cock?”
Justin rolls his eyes, huffs in exasperation, and shoves so hard at the bottom
of Giriko’s shirt that he gets it halfway over the chainsaw’s arms before the
other man can collect himself enough to resist the force. There’s the start of
a hiss of frustration; then Giriko goes silent and considering. Justin doesn’t
even have to look up to see the understanding flicker over his face before
there’s motion, the chainsaw reaching to pull the cloth from Justin’s fingers
so he can tug the shirt up over his head and toss it aside.
“Is that what you wanted?” he’s saying, but he’s not waiting for a response
before he leans in to offer his bare skin for Justin’s reaching touch. Justin
purrs needless agreement, winds his arms in around Giriko’s waist and pulls
himself closer by the angle of his leg; Giriko doesn’t push him away, doesn’t
even say anything other than to growl on a laugh as he gets his hand braced
against the bed over Justin’s shoulder. Justin pulls himself up, off the sheets
entirely until he bumps in against Giriko’s cock, and that gets him another
cough of amusement.
“Yeah, okay.” Giriko’s hand brushes the inside of Justin’s thigh, as he reaches
down to line himself up, his head comes down against Justin’s shoulder. There’s
a gust of warmth as he sighs, a slick draw of damp as he slides his mouth
sideways against Justin’s shoulder, and the blond is just starting a hum of
satisfaction when Giriko thrusts into him.
Justin’s not sure what the difference is. It might be that Giriko didn’t take
as long opening him up to start, or maybe it’s a difference in the way they’re
angled, or the warmth of Giriko’s bare skin against him. Maybe it’s that he’s
not speaking, he can’t taunt Giriko into more or faster, or maybe it’s just the
feel of Giriko’s mouth hot and wet in a kiss against his shoulder. It doesn’t
really matter, in the end; Giriko pushes forward, and all of Justin’s skin
lights up in a wave as if Giriko is setting him on fire.
He makes a noise too incoherent to be speech, for all that it started out as
Giriko’s name, and there’s a rumble of a laugh against his shoulder. “You
really do make a good pet,” Giriko says before lifting his head, moving
sideways so Justin can see the sharp edge of his teeth when he grins. “Keep
mewling for me, kitten.”
Justin obeys. It’s easier than resisting, really, and he’s already giving in
passively by not speaking. When Giriko pulls back Justin takes a breath more of
anticipation than bracing himself, and when the chainsaw comes back forward he
makes no effort at all to resist the resonant moan that forces up from his
throat in the wake of another flush of heat.
“Ow,” Giriko says, as if considering, and Justin realizes he’s got his nails
dug in over the chainsaw’s shoulders. “That hurts.” He’s grinning, though,
leans down to set the points of his teeth against Justin’s lower lip. When
Justin drags down, deliberately hard this time, it draws a laugh from the
chainsaw’s throat rather than protest and a quick sharp thrust that makes
Justin jerk and catch his lip bloody on Giriko’s hold.
“Careful,” Giriko says as he lets him go. Justin can feel blood over his teeth,
licks over his lip to taste the iron and catch the worst of the bleeding.
“You’ll hurt yourself with claws like that.” Justin hisses but Giriko just
laughs, comes back in to kiss him and doesn’t pull away even when Justin
returns the favor, bites hard enough at the chainsaw’s lip that their blood
mingles against his tongue. When he lets go Giriko draws back, and for a moment
Justin thinks he’s going to shove him down, maybe, hold his hands or his teeth
out of danger until they’re finished. But he’s just shifting his weight so he
can reach down and curl his fingers around Justin’s cock; he doesn’t
acknowledge his bleeding lip, even when it drips hot red onto Justin’s
shoulder.
“You’re half-feral,” he says. His teeth are stained dark, Justin’s not even
sure if it’s his blood or Giriko’s own leaving the color. Then his hand shifts,
draws up hard and too-fast, and Justin jerks and gasps and grabs for traction
at Giriko’s hair for lack of anything better to hold on to.
“I’m gonna have to tame you,” Giriko purrs, like he’s relishing the idea, and
he starts to thrust in earnest, fast and hard enough that Justin slides back an
inch before his shoulder hits Giriko’s arm and braces him in place. Giriko
grunts when Justin jerks his head back by his hair but doesn’t protest, and
when Justin lifts his head to drag his teeth against the chainsaw’s throat he’s
rewarded with a half-thought stroke over his length. That drops him back to the
bed, pulls another whimper out of his throat, and Giriko’s leaning back down
over him, laughing against his mouth until Justin scratches down against his
spine again, until his laughter turns into an almost-appreciative hiss and a
tongue sliding against Justin’s mouth until he opens his lips. Giriko doesn’t
seem to be at all concerned about the blond’s teeth, and honestly he doesn’t
need to be; Justin’s concentration is going hazy just from the feel of Giriko
moving inside him, and every time he thinks to pull himself into composure
Giriko punctuates with a motion of his hand. It’s possible that he has
developed a better read on the other weapon than the blond thought, a better
sense of how to keep Justin off-balance and desperate, but just at the moment
Justin can’t find it in him to even pretend to mind. He’s breathing too fast,
gasping air from around the sliding pressure of Giriko’s mouth against his or
when the chainsaw dips down to leave red-stained kisses against Justin’s
collarbone or throat, and the hand tangled in Giriko’s hair is as much a tether
for himself now as a threat to the other man.
Justin’s just letting some of the tension in the fingers still set against
Giriko’s skin relax when the chainsaw lifts his head to look down at the blond.
His mouth is mostly clean, now, the only evidence of violence left is that in
the promise at the back of his eyes. He smiles, softer than usual for all that
it doesn’t take the edge off his gaze, and when he says, “Are
you domesticated yet?” he drags his hand up over Justin, his hold so tight it’s
actively painful, and Justin closes his eyes and groans and comes with the
taste of blood in his mouth and a thousand unsaid words lodged in his throat.
Giriko keeps stroking over him, still with too much pressure so the pleasure
veers into excess, so Justin is gasping and whimpering by the time Giriko lets
him go.
“Be good,” Giriko purrs, like a warning, and Justin gasps in what might be
taken as affirmative and relaxes against the sheets, lets the other man’s last
few thrusts pin him to the mattress with the weird almost-nausea of too much
too soon. He’s breathless and gasping, shifting with indecision as his body
says no and his mind says yes; then Giriko goes tense over him and groans
himself into shuddering orgasm as well. He drops down over the blond, like his
arms just won’t hold him up anymore, and Justin shuts his eyes and lets the
last ripples of pleasure fade while Giriko’s warmth bleeds into his skin.
He doesn’t open his eyes when he lets his fist of Giriko’s hair go in favor of
stroking his fingers through the strands in the closest thing to affection they
usually ever have, and Giriko doesn’t move even when Justin speaks.
“You’re wearing the collar, next time.”
There’s a laugh into his shoulder, a growl that could be appreciation or
protest. It doesn’t matter, either way. Justin smiles at the ceiling, traces
over the marks he left of Giriko’s back, and listens to the sound of his
breathing falling into time with the chainsaw’s.
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