Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1587653.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Soul_Eater
  Relationship:
      Giriko/Justin_Law
  Character:
      Giriko_(Soul_Eater), Justin_Law
  Additional Tags:
      Hand_Jobs, Drunkenness, Drunk_Sex, Drunken_Confessions, Established
      Relationship, Fluff
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-12 Words: 2677
****** Inhibitions ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Justin’s looking at an empty bottle of rum; he doesn’t often drink
     it himself, but he’s fairly certain there were multiple inches of
     liquid left in it when he left this morning, to say nothing of the
     straggling row of empty bottles on the coffee table." Giriko gets
     drunk and Justin gains some insight.
The apartment is eerily quiet when Justin gets the front door open. After
leaving Giriko to amuse himself for nearly twelve hours, the absence of
policemen and noise complaints is a surprise, albeit a pleasant one, but that
doesn’t mean the chainsaw hasn’t silently devastated the interior of the
apartment. At a glance everything appears to be in order, though, which is
something of a surprise, enough that Justin has the sudden chilling fear that
maybe Giriko’s not here at all, maybe he let himself out in spite of the strict
orders the priest gave to the contrary. It’s not like the thought of
disobedience has ever stopped Giriko doing exactly what he wanted in the past.
“Giriko?” Justin’s voice is more hesitant than he intended, edged with the
flutter of panic now lacing his heartrate. The relief that floods him at the
shout of acknowledgment from the living room would be embarrassing if he
weren’t so confused. He barely pauses to pull his boots free, doesn’t take the
time to take off even his outer robes before he makes his way down the
remarkably undamaged hallway to the living room.
That’s intact, too, everything unbroken and even unmoved. The television is on,
but the volume is so low Justin can barely hear more than a murmur of
unintelligible sound and Giriko’s not watching the show at all, choosing
instead to occupy himself in peeling the label off the bottle in his hand.
There’s something more of a mess in here, but even so it only extends to a row
of bottles on the coffee table and a layer of damp bits of paper across the
hardwood floor, nothing unusual for the chainsaw.
Justin pauses in the doorway, trying very hard to process the normalcy of the
scene in front of him, and while he’s still frowning at the paper on the floor
Giriko tips his head up and grins. The light catches off the piercings in his
ears and sparkles in his eyes until he looks happy, legitimately pleased as
Justin’s never, ever seen him.
“Hi,” he offers without looking away. “You’re home.”
“I am.” Justin takes a step into the room, edging towards the table like utter
devastation might descend around him at any moment. “You’re...cheerful.”
Giriko grunts. “Guess so.”
Justin looks away from the downright eerie smile on the chainsaw’s face,
reaches out to touch the empty bottles arrayed on the table. “You’ve been
drinking?”
“Yep.” The chipper tone in that one word is starting to suggest an explanation
in Justin’s mind. Then his fingers land on a bottle heretofore tipped sideways,
lost in the forest of sticky glass, and when he gets it upright the explanation
comes into full clarity.
“You’re drunk.”
There’s a growl that sounds refreshingly like Giriko. “Am not.”
“You are.” Justin’s looking at an empty bottle of rum; he doesn’t often drink
it himself, but he’s fairly certain there were multiple inches of liquid left
in it when he left this morning, to say nothing of the straggling row of empty
bottles on the surface.
He glances back at Giriko. The chainsaw’s sprawled over the couch, limbs taking
up so much space the furniture looks too small to hold him. That’s normal, in
itself, but his wrist is falling at an awkward angle, and his eyes are not
quite in focus, and his free hand is tugging at the loops of metal in his ears.
Justin’s never seen Giriko fidget before.
“Oh my god.” There’s a laugh at the back of that, although Justin is aware he
should probably be somewhat concerned regarding the sheer quantity of alcohol
the other weapon has consumed. “You are very drunk.”
“Said I wasn’t,” Giriko says. He swings himself half-upright, drops his
earrings in favor of grabbing at Justin’s hip. “C’mere, missed you.”
“You’re even less intelligible with this much alcohol in you,” Justin
complains, but he drops the bottle back on the table and comes forward in
response to the tug anyway. He’s grinning, more honestly amused than he can
remember ever being and with none of the destructive itch his amusement usually
comes with. Giriko’s fingers on his hip are steady but not painful; the
chainsaw’s pushing up at his clothes with the hand still barely holding the
half-empty bottle, leaning in to bump his forehead against Justin’s stomach
before he’s even got the clothes out of the way.
“Shuddup,” he mumbles. “You wear too many clothes, what the fuck is this?”
“You say that every time,” Justin points out, but he collects a handful of
cloth to pull off the top layer of his robes. He’s still got the cloth tangled
around his head when Giriko’s head bumps against his stomach, fingers sliding
up under his shirt to stroke warm against his hip. Giriko’s purring when Justin
gets his top layer entirely off, eyes shut and mouth open so his breath comes
warm and wet against the blond’s undershirt. The hand against his hip comes up,
skates over Justin’s ribs and hitches up his shirt with it, and when Giriko
licks against Justin’s stomach the priest shudders a laugh and lets himself
drop down to the couch to settle his weight half atop the chainsaw. An arm
hooks around his back, drags him down until he falls over Giriko; Justin’s
laughing, can’t stop the half-shocked delight of the sound, but Giriko’s
grinning too, lifting his head to press their lips together. He tastes like
alcohol, bitter from his beer and faintly sweet from the tail end of the rum,
but mostly he tastes like heat and damp and himself, and when his tongue drags
over the roof of Justin’s mouth the priest’s laughter smooths over into the
leading edge of a groan.
There are still fingers against his back, pushing his shirt up over his chest
and around his shoulder, and Justin realizes the danger just as the bottle
Giriko’s still holding tips too far and a trickle of liquid runs down his
spine.
“Ah, stop,” he says, sitting up fast. Giriko whines in protest but Justin
ignores him, pries the bottle free of his questionable hold and sets it safely
on the coffee table. “You’re pouring beer down my back.”
“You worry too damn much about being clean,” Giriko grumbles, reaching out to
replace his hands where they had been.
“Because I don’t fancy the idea of a beer shower?” Justin asks, responding to
the touch by coming back in over Giriko’s body in spite of the eyebrow he’s
raising. “Yes, very unreasonable.”
“It is.” Giriko is speaking very slowly, carefully pausing between each word
with the careful consideration of the self-aware drunk. “Cause.” His fingers
settle in against Justin’s hip, push the blond towards the back of the couch
and twist him at the same time so he goes face-first. Giriko shifts, wiggles
with a total lack of grace but effectively nonetheless until he’s on the
outside of the cushions and has Justin pressed in against the inside edge. When
he shifts down Justin starts to catch on, so he’s at least mentally prepared
for the slow drag of Giriko’s tongue up over the sticky spill of beer over his
shoulder. It doesn’t prevent his hiss of response, though, doesn’t offset the
instinctive reaction of Justin’s body to the feel of Giriko’s tongue on him, so
by the time Giriko pulls away Justin’s less sticky but significantly more
flushed than he was previously.
Justin’s breathing harder than he wants to admit; it takes him a moment to pick
up the conversation, another to steady his inhales so he can speak relatively
clearly. “Because?”
“Hmm?” Giriko’s got his mouth up against his shoulder, now, just breathing
open-mouthed over his skin while his other hand curls around Justin’s waist to
splay his fingers over the blond’s stomach.
“Me not wanting to be covered in beer is unreasonable, you were saying?”
“Oh.” Another lick. Justin shivers, almost misses Giriko’s response. “Yeah.
Cause reasons.”
“Reasons.” Justin is grinning, right up on the verge of laughter; only biting
his lip is holding the response back. “That is a truly stellar argument.”
“Hey.” Giriko’s retort only has a hint of its usual fire, and his hand is
sliding lower inexorably, if not very steadily. “I’m doin’ good. Didja see that
rum?”
“I did,” Justin admits. Giriko’s fingers bump against the top of his pants.
“There was a lot left earlier.” Giriko slides up Justin’s spine, kisses the
back of the blond’s neck. Justin shuts his eyes, shivers soundlessly. “‘M
doing good, y’know.”
“You are,” Justin agrees. “Do you want some help with that button?”
Giriko growls. “No.” His fingers catch at Justin’s hipbone, shove in forcibly
past the top of the blond’s slacks. “Fuck if I care if your pants are on or
not.” His fingertips skim over the blond’s length; it’s an awkward angle in
spite of his statement, and Justin manages to laugh instead of groaning at the
not-enough contact.
“Hang on, hang on,” he says, rocking back against Giriko’s body; the chainsaw
growls, grinds up against his ass so Justin can feel that he’s just as hard as
the blond is, but the movement demands all his inebriated attention and stalls
the motion of his hand so Justin can reach down to fumble the button and zipper
of his pants open. “There, okay, go on.” Giriko forces one hand between
Justin’s waist and the couch cushions, grips at his hip and purrs into his neck
so Justin’s shivering before the chainsaw has worked his wrist past the elastic
of Justin’s boxers and closed his fingers around the blond’s length.
Giriko’s coordination is entirely gone, and judging from the way his mouth
against Justin’s neck goes perfectly still as his hand starts moving, jerking
the blond off is taking all of his deliberate concentration. But his grip is a
lot tighter than it usually is, his self-awareness of his own strength fraying
away, and the lack of rhythm is maybe better than a steadier pattern would be;
at any rate, Justin’s breathing hard faster than he expects, rocking back to
press against Giriko’s hips and thrust up into the chainsaw’s hold before he
realizes what he’s doing. Giriko’s humming against the back of his neck, the
fingers at his waist coming up higher to steady Justin via a hand pressed
against his stomach.
“You’re ‘mazing,” the chainsaw mumbles. The movement of his mouth against
Justin’s skin feels a little like a kiss; his strokes stutter almost to a stop,
so Justin hisses in protest before Giriko remembers himself and starts again,
harder and faster than he was to start. “Mm. I like you.”
Justin has to shut his eyes, laughs weakly in spite of the heat ebbing into his
blood as a prelude to the wave of pleasure he can see on the horizon. “You get
sweet when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not sweet,” Giriko growls. The hand against Justin’s stomach digs in until
the scrape of fingernails over his skin makes Justin gasp, the grip on his cock
jerks fast and hard, and all he can manage is to choke on gasping moans while
the chainsaw keeps talking, his mouth resting just under the blond’s ear. “I
like you. ‘S not the same.” The edge of a laugh, underlining Justin’s awareness
as it starts to splinter apart into just friction and heat. “You’re just real
pretty when you --”
Justin’s vision goes. He cries out a wordless sound, something of encouragement
and something that sounds almost like pain, and the last thing he hears before
pleasure whites everything into a singularity of satisfaction is Giriko’s
rumbling laugh.
The chainsaw’s licking his neck again when Justin shivers his way back to into
his present context. His grip has loosened, but he’s tracing idle sticky
patterns over the priest’s skin and Justin can’t even find it in him to
protest, not in the face of the other’s unusual affection.
“How drunk are you?” he asks instead without turning.
“Not as drunk as you think I am,” Giriko retorts in utter denial of the facts
at hand.
Justin twists, reaches up to fit his pinky finger through the loop of one of
Giriko’s earrings. The chainsaw rumbles in what sounds like appreciation,
angles his head towards the touch even before Justin tugs gently on the
piercing.
“You’re exactly as drunk as I think you are,” he says, and Giriko doesn’t
protest that at all. When Justin angles his head to look at the chainsaw the
other’s eyes are shut, his usual frown or sneer or glare relaxed into oddly
human pleasure. “I mean mostly whether you want reciprocation.”
Giriko grins without opening his eyes, rocks forward to press himself against
Justin’s hip. “You trying to dodge your turn?”
“I’m questioning whether you’re capable of letting me reciprocate,” Justin
clarifies.
Even with the booze in his system, that’s enough to earn a frown, the chainsaw
opening his eyes so he can properly glare. “Look, kid, I’ve got centuries of
experience jerking off drunk.”
“Yes,” Justin smiles. When he twists to fully face Giriko the chainsaw rocks
forward to press in against him, hissing in wordless irritation. “I’m sure you
do.” His hands are smaller than Giriko’s, and the chainsaw’s jeans are looser
than the blond’s pants, and the difficult angle of fitting his hand past the
waistband is well worth it for the shock that washes over Giriko’s face when
Justin’s fingers brush over him, sudden pleasure wiping out the anger settling
into his features.
“You’ll have to tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” Justin purrs, although he
doesn’t need the reassurance. He can hear the way the chainsaw’s breathing is
speeding up, can feel the larger man rock up into his touch when he slides his
thumb sideways and up. Giriko’s eyes have fallen shut again; when Justin leans
in to bump his nose against the band of metal set into the chainsaw’s nose,
Giriko grins and huffs a laugh of pleasure but doesn’t speak, just curls his
fingers against Justin’s hip and slides his free hand slow and appreciative
over the blond’s chest.
It does take longer than Justin expects, especially from how fast Giriko goes
to groaning and rocking up into the blond’s strokes, but the chainsaw hits what
sure looks like the edge and then hovers there so long Justin ends up working
his jeans open just for the improved angle for the movement of his hand. But
the fingers at the blond’s hip are sliding gently over his skin, and Giriko’s
smiling faintly, probably unintentionally, and Justin’s smiling too without
realizing it just watching him. The only time Giriko’s hold goes into painful
is just before he comes; it’s actually the dig of fingers against his skin that
tips Justin off, that pushes his movements faster. Even then the moment draws
breathlessly long, until Justin groans, “Fuck Giriko,” and Giriko jerks and
groans and comes, like Justin’s dragging it out of him by force.
The chainsaw tips in after, his whole body doubly-heavy with alcohol and post-
coital exhaustion together, and Justin’s pretty sure he’d pass out on top of
him except that the blond resists, shoves at his shoulder and says, “No, no, I
want a shower and you should be in bed.” Giriko groans in protest but rolls
away, and Justin doesn’t think of the edge of the couch until the chainsaw
drops entirely off it with a grunt of surprise, and he really doesn’t think of
the coffee table and the half-full beer on its edge until one of the chainsaw’s
flailing legs hits it and the whole thing goes over in the slow-motion fall of
a truly spectacular mess. For a moment they both just stare at the toppled
bottles, the slowly spilling liquid; then Giriko grins, and reaches out for the
half-full bottle, lifts it upright and brings it to his lips, tips his head
back and swallows the last of it in one fluid motion.
There’s really nothing Justin can do, after that, but laugh.
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