Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1914090.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Soul_Eater
  Relationship:
      Giriko/Justin_Law
  Character:
      Giriko_(Soul_Eater), Justin_Law
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Minor_Violence, Dom/sub, Orgasm_Delay, No_Plot/
      Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-19 Words: 2941
****** Nostalgia ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "'I get so damn hung up on not hurting you that I start to lose track
     of who you are, and who I am.'" Justin finds Giriko in a nostalgic
     mood.
For once, Justin has no idea what he did.
It doesn’t even have to be his fault. It’s just that usually when Giriko gets
like this it’s because Justin drove him to it, even if the chainsaw doesn’t
realize he’s being led. And the blond’s not opposed to it, by any means. But
Giriko was on him as soon as the front door was open, before Justin’s shoes
were off, before the door was even closed, and when Justin gets free long
enough to start, “Why --” Giriko cuts him off with a growl.
“Get your pants off if you want them intact.”
This time that’s enough to override the desire to see what Giriko will do if he
doesn’t. The chainsaw doesn’t let him go while he works his feet free and pulls
his fly open; Giriko’s hands stay too-tight at his waist, the chainsaw’s teeth
clip Justin’s neck until the blond is sure there will be marks to cover
tomorrow, and Justin is barely stepping free of his pants before Giriko lifts
him bodily off his feet to move him towards the bedroom.
Justin hisses in surprise more than anger, but Giriko takes the sound as more
resistance than he intends and shifts his mouth, bites down hard enough on the
priest’s skin that Justin jerks and they nearly both fall as Giriko continues
down the hallway.
“Hold still,” the chainsaw hisses, kicking the bedroom door open in lieu of
actually putting Justin down.
“I think I’m bleeding,” Justin says by way of response, lifting a hand from
where he was bracing himself on Giriko’s shoulder to touch the ache at his
neck.
“Blood looks good on you,” Giriko says, and then he shoves Justin back so the
blond goes stumbling in a desperate attempt to catch his balance. He doesn’t,
but he doesn’t need to; he slams into the bed hard enough to knock the air out
of his lungs, but it’s better than falling.
“Get down on the floor,” Giriko says from the doorway. He’s standing in front
of the entrance, staring at Justin with his eyes gone dark and shadowy, and
Justin’s still not sure if he’s angry or aroused or both -- it’s always hard to
tell, with Giriko -- but even his rarely-used sense of self-preservation is
kicking in, now, buckling his knees for him so he hits the wood floor hard
enough to bruise even before he starts to collect his remaining clothing in his
hands so he can pull it off over his head in anticipation of Giriko’s next
order.
The chainsaw isn’t even looking as Justin strips off his robes and undershirt
and rocks back to sit on his heels. He’s crossing the room to the dresser to
retrieve the lube and come back; he’s even still got his boots on. Usually
Justin huffs and complains about the other man wearing shoes in the house, but
just at the moment the fact that he’s entirely exposed while Giriko hasn’t even
taken his shoes off is of enough interest that the idea of complaining never
crosses his mind.
Giriko growls as he steps in alongside Justin -- it could be in protest, though
Justin is confident he’s done exactly what the chainsaw asked so it’s probably
due instead to whatever aggressive want prompted this in the first place.
There’s not much point in complaining, not when his current state of undress
makes his interest perfectly clear, but he is curious, starts to restate his
original question as he watches Giriko move behind him.
“What brought this --” is as far as he gets before there’s a shove between his
shoulderblades, hard enough that he barely gets his hands out to save himself
from hitting the floor with him face.
“Shut up,” Giriko hisses, dragging his nails back down along Justin’s spine so
the blond can feel red welts rising in their wake. “Stay down, and stay
quiet, Justin.” He’s making the word a hiss, firing it with the irritation
lacing through the rest of his voice, and that tone wrapped around his name
goes straight to Justin’s cock, as if he wasn’t already going hard with
alarming rapidity.
There’s the sound of the bottle opening, a pause while Giriko presumably pours
the liquid over his fingers. Then a hand closes on Justin’s hip, pulls him up a
little higher over his knees while Giriko shoves a knee between his to angle
him wider, and cool fingers slide against his skin as the chainsaw starts
talking.
“I got to thinking.” Justin has several retorts to that on the tip of his
tongue but he refrains from voicing them, focuses on breathing instead in
anticipation of the threat and the promise of that chill touch. “Seeing as
we’ve got something of a commitment here.”
There’s a push, sharp and forceful so Justin doesn’t have time to react before
two of Giriko’s fingers at once slide into him. He rocks forward involuntarily,
whines without meaning to at the intrusion, but Giriko doesn’t slow and doesn’t
apologize, just keeps pushing in deeper as he keeps talking. “And look, it’s
not the commitment I’m worried about. It’s that I get so damn hung up on
not hurting you that I start to lose track of who you are, and who I am.”
His fingers stop moving. It takes Justin a minute to realize it’s because
Giriko’s got them all the way inside the priest, another breath to recognize
that the chainsaw’s not moving right away and to be immensely grateful for
that. “And I thought I’d see how you liked it like this, the way we used to
be.”
The hand at Justin’s hip drops, slides down and around until the chainsaw’s
fingers close hard on the blond’s length. Justin’s still focusing on breathing,
trying to get his body to relax around Giriko’s fingers before the chainsaw
starts moving, and he doesn’t realize that he’s rock-hard until there’s sudden
pressure against the flushed skin.
“See,” Giriko voice comes from a long way away, like Justin’s ears are ringing
instead of his nerve endings. “I thought you’d be interested.” Then his hand
pulls, and Justin jerks involuntarily, the motion rocking him against the
chainsaw’s fingers so he shudders at the excess of sensation that hits him.
It’s still too much, still flashing burning hot and not quite pleasant, but his
heartrate is speeding as if to catch up and if Giriko just gives him another
few seconds…
He doesn’t, of course, and Justin isn’t even surprised when the hand tight
around his length goes still and the fingers inside him draw back. He’s
prepared for the motion, expecting the thrust forward, but it’s still a shock,
still sends heat ricocheting under his skin until he’s moaning, dropping down
to the floor with no chance to restrain or change his reaction.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Giriko says. It takes Justin a moment to realize his
fingers are digging into his palms, that he’s made desperate fists for lack of
anything better to do with his hands, and then another breath before he can get
his hold to relax. “This is still easier than the first time, I thought I was
never gonna fit inside you.”
Justin remembers as well as Giriko does, probably better in general if the
specifics are lost in the haze of intense physicality. He remembers the pain
just from Giriko’s fingers, the way it felt when the chainsaw pushed his way in
too soon and too hard, the fact that he didn’t even realize he was grinding
himself down against the couch until Giriko laughed and reached around to
stroke over him. The memory is even better than now, better than the almost-
pain of the present because Justin can remember the sharp burn of the past, the
reality of too-much that went right past rational judgment and into some deeper
part of himself.
He must rock forward, or maybe it’s just the rush of blood to his cock that
tips Giriko off. Either way the chainsaw chuckles behind him, sets his grip on
Justin’s length steady and unmoving, and says, “I forgot how into this you
are.” There’s pressure at Justin’s shoulder, lips or teeth or both, and Giriko
purrs, “Go ahead, Justin, you know you want to.”
Justin does know. Reason is telling him to stop but his blood is demanding
more, more, more, and when he takes a breath he knows perfectly well which one
will win out even before he rocks his hips forward into Giriko’s hold and then
back onto the chainsaw’s fingers. It’s an awkward movement, the angle isn’t
quite right so Justin can’t get the right friction or the pressure where he
wants it, but it’s better than holding still and from how flushed his skin
feels he doesn’t need right, just some. So he keeps going, finds an almost-
rhythm that might be enough, and he’s starting to think he’s got it when Giriko
lets his cock go entirely.
Justin huffs in irritation and desperation both, drops his weight down onto one
elbow so he can take over himself. Sometimes that makes Giriko hiss, sometimes
it makes the chainsaw shove him down to the floor and jerk him off himself;
today it just makes him laugh as he slides his hand back.
“Getting desperate?” he asks, and Justin would try to deny it except that when
he hears the sound of Giriko’s zipper pulling open he whimpers before he
realizes that’s the sound he’s going to make, shifts his knees wider in
unspoken invitation, and after that it seems somewhat pointless to make any
protest. He gets contact for his efforts, at least, the touch of Giriko’s hand
against the back of his leg though nowhere near where he wants it while there’s
the shift of denim from behind the blond. “I won’t keep you waiting.”
Justin knows he won’t -- he knows that, at least, about the other man -- but
that one point of contact from Giriko’s hand is starting to go hot, his
breathing is coming faster now that he’s got his grip where it needs to be
instead of deliberately off-kilter, and when he slides his thumb up over
himself he shudders and gives up entirely on restraint.
“Hey.” That’s Giriko again, sounding faintly irritated now. “Slow the fuck
down, kid.”
Justin ignores him. That, right there; that’s the right angle, the right pace,
he’s too far gone now to make himself stop, he doesn’t care about Giriko’s hiss
of frustration or whether the chainsaw’s going to make it inside him before he
comes or anything, really, except that --
Fingers close on his wrist, jerk his hand away, and Justin wails in wordless
protest and tries to get his other hand down instead, even if he’s less skilled
with his non-dominant hand it doesn’t matter, he just needs something. But
Giriko’s grabbing at his other wrist too, pinning his hands flat to the floor
and keeping him there even as the chainsaw’s weight rocks forward heavy over
Justin.
“Fucking hell, you’re desperate,” Giriko growls. He’s pressing up against the
blond, his cock is slippery against Justin’s skin, and when Justin tries to
wiggle free he hisses and shoves harder against him. “Hold the fuck still and
I’ll fuck you, that’s what you want, right?”
Justin goes still, shuts his eyes and tries to breathe past the raw want in his
blood. There’s a chuckle over him, a purr of “Good boy,” and then Giriko’s
leaning back, lining himself up without the assistance of the hands still
holding Justin’s wrists to the floor. It’s trickier, there’s a couple false
starts, but Justin does hold still, stops wiggling and stops trying to rock
backwards, and then Giriko’s got it, lines himself up and starts to push
forward, and Justin is groaning with satisfaction even before the other’s
entirely inside him.
Giriko sighs, the exhale loud with relief, and his grip on Justin’s wrists goes
a little more gentle, slides up to press against his fingers instead of his
joints. Justin lets his head fall forward, takes a deep breath at at least the
promise of sensation, and then Giriko slides back and thrusts forward again and
Justin’s fingers jerk to scratch uselessly at the floor.
“Fuck,” Justin gasps. “How the fuck did you know where--”
“As if I don’t know how you like it.” Giriko cuts him off, demonstrates by
rocking forward so the pressure of his cock sends another wash of heat over
Justin’s skin. “Give me some fucking credit, it’s not like you don’t like being
used.”
That is true. There’s no point in denying it, not when Justin’s so hard he’s
pretty sure he’d come from the brush of Giriko’s fingers on him, not when the
feel of Giriko’s zipper digging into the back of his legs is flushing his skin
with arousal as much as self-consciousness. He tips his head down farther, lets
his shoulders slump until he can press his forehead against the cool floor, and
Giriko leans in to match him, rocks forward until his weight is pressing the
blond’s hands flat to the floor and he can find an easy rhythm to his thrusts.
It’s enough, if not yet as much as Justin wants; at least he can breathe around
the want, now, can shut his eyes and let the sensation flood in waves through
his blood.
“I love that you love this,” Giriko says, sounding breathless and rough but
sincere. Justin is certain that if he turned his head the chainsaw would be
flushing with self-consciousness at this unprecedented declaration of
affection, however layered he’s managed to make it. So he doesn’t turn, and he
doesn’t speak except to let his exhales pick up an undercurrent of moaning as
Giriko pushes into him, and after a moment the chainsaw keeps talking, a little
more easily this time. “I love that you could stop me and you don’t. I love how
fucking hard this gets you, until you’re crying for me to touch you or me to
fuck you or just me, somehow, anyway you can get me.” He takes a breath. “I
love that you want me so fucking bad.”
Justin can’t breathe. This is new, this is novel in a way that is prickling his
skin chill with shock to counteract the rising heat from the raw physical
sensation, and he doesn’t know what to say and isn’t sure he can say anything
without shattering whatever bizarre circumstances have led to this. So he keeps
his head down and his eyes shut, and he doesn’t try to speak, just twists his
wrist sharply so his hand turns palm-up under Giriko’s.
For a moment there’s silence. Even the rhythm of the chainsaw’s thrusts stalls
for a breath as Justin can feel all his attention focus on the press of their
palms together. Then Justin curls his fingers to fit between Giriko’s, rocks
slightly backwards to remind the other man of what they’re doing, and Giriko
growls and closes his hand on Justin’s as if he can make up for the gesture by
sheer force.
Justin doesn’t care. Giriko’s fingers are laced into his, Giriko’s words
thrumming in his mind, and he’s still lost in the warmth of the gesture when
the chainsaw comes forward at just the right angle, triggering a rush of heat
Justin doesn’t see coming.
“Oh,” he says, “fuck--” His throat closes, turns the words into a groan, his
fingers jerk into a desperate hold, and he’s coming all over the floor while
his mind plays back over I love I love I love in Giriko’s voice.
“Jesus,” Giriko is says when the first wave of pleasure has passed. “I didn’t
even touch you.”
Justin chokes on a laugh, deliberately tightens his hold on Giriko’s hand until
the chainsaw hisses. “Shut the fuck up,Giriko.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Giriko snaps back, but it’s more teasing than
anything, and he doesn’t pull his hand free. Justin can hear the ragged shake
under even the habitual viciousness in his voice, can feel the tension rising
in the other’s fingers without even looking. It’s like he’s plugged into the
chainsaw’s reactions directly, like he’s fitting just under the other man’s
skin to borrow his responses secondhand. So he knows what’s coming, is smiling
against the floor even before Giriko growls and lets his other wrist go to grab
Justin’s hip, and when the chainsaw shoves forward and groans Justin can feel
the satisfaction in his fingertips as much as hear it in the sound.
Justin lets go first. It seems safer, in the end, to extricate his fingers
while Giriko is still panting in the aftershocks of orgasm and before he’s had
a chance to think too hard about the affection of the gesture. The priest gets
to his feet before Giriko too, stands looking down at the other man with all
the dignity he can muster with bruised knees and sticky skin.
Giriko looks up at him through his hair, bares the sharp edges of his teeth in
warning. “Don’t say a fucking word.”
Justin doesn’t speak. He doesn’t laugh, either, and he doesn’t reach out to
touch Giriko’s face like he wants to. But he does let his eyes drop to Giriko’s
mouth, lets his lips frame out the shape of the words he wants to say -- I love
you too. Then he turns, makes for the bathroom before he’s seen more than the
first tinge of embarrassed pink in Giriko’s cheeks.
He doesn’t need to see, any more than he needs to say it. He’s pretty sure they
both know anyway.
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