Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1045961.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Soul_Eater
  Relationship:
      Giriko/Justin_Law
  Character:
      Giriko_(Soul_Eater), Justin_Law
  Additional Tags:
      Rough_Sex, Masochism, Loss_of_Virginity, Masturbation, No_Plot/Plotless,
      Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-15 Completed: 2013-11-23 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 9433
****** The More We Are Hurt ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     “The presence of another person makes Justin feel alive, like he can
     taste the air he breathes instead of just using it to exist.” Justin
     lacks experience but has more than enough intent for himself and
     Giriko both. No plot.
***** Metal *****
Giriko is a pain to live with. He is obnoxious and messy and he sprawls,
expands to fill Justin’s apartment until the space seems far too small for one
person, much less two. There is always a leg thrown over the back of the couch
or an arm stretched over the entire countertop, cans on the coffee table and
scuff marks on the walls, idly shredded newspaper on the floor, table, chair,
dirty dishes in the sink and the sound of Giriko’s voice keeping Justin awake
at night.
Justin loves it.
The space that was so empty before, the apartment that held his body when he
didn’t have an assignment, feels like a home now. The presence of another
person makes him feel alive, like he can taste the air he breathes instead of
just using it to exist. He does things now, cleans or argues or stares instead
of quietly existing; before he would sometimes spend hours sitting still,
staring out the window or at the wall with little regard for what he was
seeing. Now all his blood is moving all the time, racing under his skin and
through his veins like Giriko is the motor Justin’s clockwork needed to become
an actual person instead of an automaton.
He spends days watching the other weapon, tracing the angle of his jawline or
the curve of his shoulders or the twist of his wrist with his eyes. Giriko has
three metal earrings through his left earlobe, one through his right, and a
flat inlay over the bridge of his nose; they are colored silver but probably
steel in actual composition. His teeth are symmetrical and sharp-pointed, like
every one is a canine, and his dark eyes are always shifting, bored after a few
seconds of watching any given subject.
Giriko has gotten bored of Justin when the priest finally approaches. He
watches the other weapon longer than most things, glaring at his eyes or
staring at the hem of his robe, but he has collapsed back on the couch and is
watching the TV, one hand playing with the chain around his neck while the
other is tucked behind his head. Justin leans over the back of the couch,
glances at the television for a moment before disregarding the show -- a soap
opera, he thinks -- in favor of watching Giriko watch it. The other weapon’s
mouth is curved down into his usual frown, eyes flickering over the images on
the screen. Justin fixes his eyes on the corner of Giriko’s mouth, the dip of
lip over teeth; he stares for several seconds, going on a minute, before the
other weapon looks up sharply.
“What the fuck do you want?” he snaps, quick with habit. His eyes flicker down
to Justin’s jaw, shoulder, back to his eyes. Justin reaches out to lay his hand
against the side of Giriko’s face, holding the other weapon still; Giriko
nearly jerks away from the contact, Justin can feel the muscles of his neck
tighten, but keeps himself still and settles for glaring instead. He opens his
mouth to say something else, almost certainly vulgar, and Justin closes the
distance to match his lips to Giriko’s.
The other weapon freezes. Justin can feel the tension under his hand, against
Giriko’s jaw and throat and lips. Justin is close enough that he would feel his
eyelashes if the chainsaw blinked, would feel his breath if he breathed. He
does neither.
Giriko tastes like rust and oil and Justin’s heart shouldn’t race like it does
at the flavor permeating the air against his lips, but it does. He blinks, his
eyes focus on the metal loop in front of his eyes, and when he slides his
tongue past Giriko’s lips he can feel the razor-edge of those impossibly sharp
teeth. The chainsaw huffs an exhale at the touch of Justin’s tongue against the
roof of his mouth; for a moment Justin thinks he might bite down but he
doesn’t, just stays impossibly still, more still than the chainsaw has ever
been that Justin has seen. Their lips catch together, stick for a moment when
the priest pulls away. His mouth is full of the taste of Giriko, his tongue
tingling with the pressure from those teeth. When he pulls his hand back his
palm is hot with borrowed heat, his skin prickling with the sensation of
stubble and the texture of unfamiliar skin.
Giriko stares at him, mouth still open, eyes wide and shocked as Justin has
never seen him and stunningly silent for the first time. Justin smiles. The
motion is strange, pulls at his face as it doesn’t usually; he can feel his
eyes turning up at the corners, like the curve of his smile is reaching his
whole face.
When he unfolds, leans up and away from the couch, Giriko follows, sitting up
as Justin retreats as if they are connected by invisible thread.
“You--” the other weapon starts. Justin waits for more but nothing is
forthcoming, vulgarity or affection both absent. After a moment Giriko huffs an
exhale, drops back down to the couch and turns away to face the television. The
chainsaw doesn’t move or speak until the episode is over. It is as quiet as
Justin has seen him since they came back to Death City.
***** Poison *****
Giriko’s retaliation takes a few days. Justin expected something immediately
following his initial approach, but after the chainsaw went utterly still and
silent he gave up on any immediate response. Still, he’s ready for something.
When he comes in from another meeting in the Death Room and Giriko is waiting
against the wall by the door, Justin’s thoughts catch up before his heartrate
does. He has a moment of clarity -- ah, this will be the follow-up -- as he
shuts the door, and then he can’t breathe and can’t look at anything but
Giriko’s mouth.
“Hello,” he says. His voice sounds very distant and very foreign, like he’s
listening to himself through headphones. “Did you need something?” That is
formal, stilted and stiff like he sounds in the Death Room, but he can’t
remember how to relax and his hand is frozen on the handle of the door.
“Yeah,” Giriko snaps. If Justin hadn’t been listening to the grate of the
chainsaw’s voice instead of sleeping for a week, he wouldn’t note the shake
under the low sound. When he swallows Justin’s eyes follow the movement of his
throat and it takes him a moment to refocus on the chainsaw’s mouth.
“Can’t let a fucking priest one-up me,” he mutters, and Justin is pretty sure
he wasn’t supposed to hear that but he doesn’t have a chance to respond. Giriko
steps in over the distance between them and Justin would back up if he had
anywhere to go or were at all inclined to move away. As it is the chainsaw is
in his personal space, breathing his air, and they are the same height, their
eyes would be entirely level if Justin could look away from the other weapon’s
mouth.
Giriko grins, a slash of teeth under tight lips. “See something you like?” That
is supposed to be teasing, clear with control, but it shakes at the end, Justin
can see his throat tremble when he swallows again. The priest looks up from
Giriko’s mouth, drags his eyes up over cheekbones to brown eyes, and he doesn’t
quite follow the sound of his voice but he recognizes fear in the dark-dilated
pupils.
Giriko brings his hands up on either side of Justin’s head, slams them against
the door. Justin is supposed to flinch. He doesn’t, doesn’t even blink. Giriko
grimaces, a frown flickering over his mouth before he reigns in his reaction.
He leans in, covering the distance until Justin can’t see his mouth, and says
something but it is too soft for the priest to hear and too close for him to
see. Justin blinks and can’t open his eyes, just sucks in air heavy with the
burn of metal. Then he takes another breath, and another, and when the expected
sensation of lips on his doesn’t come he opens his eyes.
Giriko is staring at his cheek, breathing hard against his mouth and still as
if he never expects to move again. Justin blinks and the other weapon’s eyes
flicker to his. This close he can see flecks of grey around the chainsaw’s
irises, darkening the pale brown to almost black, can see the fringe of
eyelashes framing the color.
“Fuck,” Giriko says, and it is so close that Justin can feel the harsh
consonants against his tongue, and just as he breathes in deep to fill his
lungs with metal the chainsaw crushes his lips against the priest’s. Justin’s
lip catches on tooth, pulls painful before it comes free just short of tearing.
He starts to smile, fights the motion back so he can tip his head to line up
with Giriko’s instead. He doesn’t lift his hands from his sides, but the angle
of his head brushes his hair against Giriko’s thumb and he can’t quite fight
back the movement that drags the skin under his ear against the chainsaw’s
finger.
Giriko growls and the thumb lifts up, catches around Justin’s ear so his
fingers can dig into soft blond hair. The priest angles his head against the
chainsaw’s palm and Giriko’s teeth are against his lips, catching sharp for a
moment before he lets go and slides his tongue past Justin’s lips. The priest
lets his jaw go loose, drops the weight of his head against Giriko’s palm, and
the chainsaw’s fingers are callused and his hand is far larger than Justin’s
own, fingers against his forehead while his palm lies against his chin, but
Giriko’s tongue is tracing the flat line of his teeth and Justin is making some
unintentional sound back in his throat and the fingers in his hair are going
tight, scraping fingernails over his scalp. Justin’s hands are coming up
without his intention, Giriko’s hair is soft against his fingers, and his
shoulders are coming off the door to press his body flush with the chainsaw’s
and Giriko is pulling back, breathing hard and fast against Justin’s panting
lips.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” he is hissing, hard and fast into Justin’s skin, and Justin
has lost all sense of time and space outside of Giriko’s fingers on his skin
and Giriko’s breath invading his and he would do anything right now if the
other weapon asked it of him.
Giriko’s hand slides down, grips his shoulder through his mantle, and Justin
hits the door behind him so hard the air gusts from his lungs with the impact.
“Fuck,” the chainsaw enunciates, razor-sharp, and when Justin blinks his vision
back into focus Giriko is looking at his throat instead of his eyes or his
mouth, and his mouth is open and his breath is coming fast, and for a moment
Justin doesn’t care that he’s never kissed anyone before Giriko, that he never
expected to want or need anyone else, all he wants is to be less his clothes
and under the chainsaw’s body, his mouth tangled together with Giriko’s until
he forgets who is who.
“Okay,” Giriko says, and he shoves back from the priest, drags the back of his
hand over his mouth like Justin’s lips were coated in poison. The priest’s eyes
follow the movement, stall when Giriko’s hand does, and after a long moment he
manages to look up and meet those grey-brown eyes.
Giriko swallows, drops his hand, and brings up his other to stab a finger in
Justin’s direction. “We’re even. Understand? Even.”
Justin isn’t sure what he does. He might nod, he might whimper, he might reach
for Giriko. Whatever it is, Giriko hisses and turns away, bolts out of the
hallway like Justin is trying to kill him, and Justin drops his weight back
against the door and tries to catch his breath until his legs can support his
own weight again.
***** Pain *****
Justin is out on the couch when Giriko comes out of his room, hair tangled with
sleep and eyes blurred with probably a hangover of some sort. The priest has
his headphones in, music piping directly into his brain while he idly tracks
the movement of the figures on the television and waits for the chainsaw to
emerge. He has been waiting for hours, waiting until his blood is so tight with
anticipation that he can feel the other weapon’s footfalls vibrate over the
floor even without hearing the sound of his approach.
He looks up and Giriko freezes mid-stride. The chainsaw is touching his mouth,
fingers sliding over his lips, and the movement draws Justin’s eyes like they
were always meant to focus there. Giriko locked himself in his room last night,
nearly silent behind his wall until Justin gave up waiting for him to reemerge
and went to his own, laid flat on the floor and shut his eyes and listened to
the faint shift of the other weapon carried to him on the movement of the
floorboards.
From the chainsaw’s expression, he didn’t realize Justin was still in the
apartment. Justin has been silent since he got up, turned the TV on but the
sound off, and has been motionless on the couch since then. When Giriko drops
his hand Justin pulls his eyes free, looks up to the chainsaw’s eyes instead of
his mouth. Giriko is staring at him, nearly leaning back as if he’s thinking
about running, and Justin doesn’t know how to look more nonthreatening than he
already does. He looks down, takes in the skew of the white shirt on Giriko’s
shoulders, the hang of his pants on his hips, the tendons tight across the tops
of his bare feet.
When he looks back up Giriko is talking, halfway through a sentence, and Justin
only catches the tail end of the words on his lips.
“-- better fucking stop.”
“Sorry?” he asks.
He doesn’t do anything in particular to the word, just automatically asks for
clarification now that he is paying attention, but Giriko flinches like Justin
has threatened to slap him.
Justin can feel his face twisting into confusion, opens his mouth to ask for
further detail. “What did you --”
Giriko comes forward, covering the space between them with his long strides,
and is swinging over the end of the couch before Justin has finished his
sentence. The priest twists sideways to avoid getting stepped on and Giriko
drops over him, inches from his face when seconds ago he was across the room,
and everything Justin was about to say goes out of his head.
Giriko is talking, saying something but he is too close for Justin to pick out
the individual movements of his lips. There is a pull against his ears, his
music cuts off, and then Giriko flicks his hand sideways and tosses Justin’s
headphones to skid across the floor.
Justin can feel the hum of Giriko’s voice when he speaks like it is plugged
into his skeleton, rolling warm over his bones and muscles. “Don’t want you
to miss anything,” he says, and then his mouth is against Justin’s and they are
both toppling backward into the couch cushions.
Giriko’s fingers are against Justin’s hair and his other hand is digging into
the priest’s hip through his clothes and Justin is still, frozen in shock where
he landed under Giriko, but his skin is trying to lift off his body and
Giriko’s legs are pinning him down, and when he shifts his knee to the side and
the other weapon fits between his thighs Giriko hisses into his mouth, nips
against his lower lip with those teeth so they leave an indentation of blood,
and that brings Justin’s hands into the game. They reach for hair, skin,
clothes, whatever he can reach, pulling his body against Giriko’s as if there
is any space between them to start with.
The chainsaw is cursing against his mouth, a steady stream of “fuck”s spilling
over Justin’s tongue, and the priest swallows like he can inhale the vulgarity
straight into his bloodstream. Fingers close against the soft edge of Justin’s
white t-shirt, pull upward, and then there is rough texture of skin over
Justin’s stomach and he gasps, arches his back up into the touch, feels all his
blood rush over the surface of his skin and knot low in his stomach.
There is a broken laugh against his mouth, Giriko pulls back far enough that he
can swallow but not so far that Justin can see anything but the grey flecks of
his eyes in his blurred vision.
“Did you do this on purpose?” It swings up at the end like a question, but the
words are biting and harsh like a demand. Justin whines, strains his muscles up
to press into Giriko wherever he can because he doesn’t understand the words or
the question or the request.
“Fuck,” Giriko hisses once more for good measure. “I was ready for
your fucking robes,” and the curse turns into an adjective in his throat so
Justin can’t breathe. “Not for a see-through shirt and no shoes.”
Justin hooks his leg up around Giriko’s waist and digs his toes against the
back of the chainsaw’s thigh. Giriko’s weight comes down on his hip and it
hurts but not enough to overcome the breathtaking satisfaction of being pinned
in place by the other weapon.
Giriko curses again, slides his hand hard over Justin’s hip, and when his
little finger catches under the edge of waistband Justin sucks in air and
angles his hips up into the touch without meaning to. Giriko exhales in very
nearly a laugh, brings the rest of his fingers to join the first, and Justin is
not sure he will be able to survive the whip of fire under his skin that snaps
out from the contact.
Giriko’s tongue comes past his teeth and lips, drags over Justin’s top lip like
he is lapping sugar off the edge of a glass before he pulls back so Justin can
see the faint flush of blood over his cheeks, the part to his lips, the
question in one raised eyebrow.
“Have you done this before?” The chainsaw sounds oddly calm, businesslike even
as his hand pulls sideways and free of Justin’s pants, undoes the button one-
handed.
Justin shakes his head. He can’t remember how to talk.
Giriko’s second eyebrow comes up to join the first as Justin’s zipper comes
down. “Not ever?”
Justin shakes his head again. He can’t look away from the movement of Giriko’s
mouth, the way his lips are swollen with contact and catch on each other when
he speaks, the way his tongue comes out to slide over the lower one.
“Fuck.” It sounds like an actual curse this time and a lot less like an
invitation even as his fingers curl over Justin’s erection and blow all
attention right out of the priest’s head. “You shouldn’t be starting with me.”
Giriko pulls, his loose hold counteracted by the friction of cloth between his
hand and Justin’s skin. Justin makes a strangled sound far back in his throat
and Giriko leans in, breathes in against the hair falling over Justin’s
forehead.
“You would be a virgin,” he mutters, but with his headphones out Justin is
catching every word against his eardrums and his skin both, and besides he can
feel Giriko’s own cock twitch against the inside of his thigh in spite of the
frustration under his words. He lets Giriko’s hair go, reaches down to press
his palm against the tight-pulled fabric of the chainsaw’s pants and hopes that
intent counts for more than skill in the moment.
Giriko hisses, exhales hard so Justin’s hair flutters over his forehead, and
Justin talks fast before he can forget how to speak and before Giriko moves his
hand again. “No, please, I want it to be you, please, please, don’t worry about
me.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Giriko growls, and slides his hand back
down so Justin’s lungs empty in a gasp before he can think to respond. This is
going well, Giriko is touching him and his mouth is burning with the taste of
metal and this is more than he expected or hoped for but he is talking anyway,
words spilling out in a desperate attempt to reclaim what is slipping away.
“No, I know, please, I want you to fuck me, Giriko.” The verb is harsh over his
tongue. It is odd to hear the familiar word in his own voice, especially with
the echoed purr on the vowel that Giriko infused it with, but his lips shift
satisfyingly into the consonants and all his blood fires with the sound.
The chainsaw groans, Justin can feel the tension jerk in his cock and tighten
his fingers, and when he hisses, “Say it again,” Justin knows he has won.
He sucks in air, stabilizes his voice, and drops into a register so low he can
feel it under his skin and buzzing in his throat. “Fuck me. Please.”
Giriko laughs. The sound crackles high in his mouth, and when he tightens his
fingers around Justin’s erection and pulls the friction is too much, it hurts
as much as it sings into Justin’s blood, but Justin arches into it anyway,
can’t imagine doing anything else.
And then the contact is gone, Giriko is getting up and stepping away, and
Justin is swinging up and reaching out and doesn’t care how desperate he looks,
he is desperate, he thought he had him.
“Wait,” he says, “Wait, come back.”
Giriko reaches out, grabs a fistful of Justin’s hair and holds him still while
he comes in close until all Justin can see are those sharp-edged teeth.
“I’ll be back, you want me to go in dry or what?” He throws Justin backward by
his hair, and the priest’s head smacks hard against the arm of the couch when
he falls but the bruising hurt is secondary to the difficulty he is having
breathing. His now-empty hands drop down, one sliding the edge of his pants
down and the other dipping down to replace Giriko’s fingers, and it’s not as
good as the unfamiliar touch but Justin is entirely sure he is going to die if
he doesn’t get more sensation right now.
The advantage to his own hand is that he is at least faintly familiar with his
own preferences, can pull hard and fast until his palm is aching, and he is
going so quickly that he doesn’t even blush with Giriko comes back out with a
bottle in his hand to find him panting and trembling under his own touch. The
chainsaw’s eyebrows rise to his hairline, his eyes flicker downward, and Justin
can see his convulsive swallow a moment before the chainsaw’s fingers close
over the priest’s wrist and drag his fingers free.
“Stop,” Giriko manages, although Justin can hear how dry his mouth is with the
way his tongue catches against the roof of his mouth. “It will be better if
you’re hard.” He swallows again and Justin can hear it this time. “Although
watching you jerk off to me has its own appeal.”
Justin whines and arches his back up toward Giriko as his free hand comes in to
take over. There’s no rationality left in his head, just the movement of
Giriko’s eyelashes when he blinks and the moisture on the other weapon’s lips
and the burn of blood under his own skin.
“Fuck,” Giriko spits, slaps Justin’s hand back with his occupied hand before he
pins the priest’s wrist to the couch with his knee. “Are you listening at all?”
Justin whines and Giriko’s anger snaps into a laugh.
“Guess not.” The chainsaw grabs Justin’s pinned wrist with one of the fingers
of his full hand, transfers the other wrist to the same hand so Justin’s hands
are back-to-back and tangled up in Giriko’s one. The other weapon balances on
the edge of the couch, reaches down with his free hand to grab the edge of
pants and boxers, and when Justin angles his hips up he pulls down. There is a
moment of confusion, cloth rubbing raw over the angle of hip and knee, and then
Justin’s legs are free and there is nothing on him but the thin t-shirt twisted
around his chest.
Giriko grabs his hip with one hand, jerks so fast Justin doesn’t have a chance
to resist; his body turns with the force without his decision and then he is
face-down on the couch. His shoulders are twisted painfully up and back but his
erection is down into the couch now, and when he bucks his hips forward he gets
at least a little sensation.
Giriko drops his hold on Justin’s wrists. For a minute there is no contact at
all but for the angle of Giriko’s leg against Justin’s hip and no sound but the
pant of Justin’s own breathing and the shift of Giriko moving where the priest
can’t see. Then there’s a hand on his hip, cold and slick, and Giriko’s voice
is back, harsh and raw as it was before.
“Hold still,” and there is pressure against his skin, movement slippery over
the curve of his ass, and Justin identifies the sensation as fingers a breath
before Giriko’s hand twists and one slides inside him. He chokes, exhales with
a sound that is nearly a scream, because it hurts, it is chill and invasive and
everything in his body is telling him no stop stop that shouldn’t be there but
his cock is twitching hard against the fabric of the couch and that doesn’t
make any sense, and Giriko laughs and there is almost no humor in it at all.
“I told you not to start with me,” he offers, and the invasion goes farther,
dips down and Justin didn’t know he had nerve endings there, he is whining
against the fabric and he turns his head into the couch to dampen the sound but
it does almost nothing. “It takes some getting used to.”
There’s another finger, close along the knuckle of the first, and Justin wants
to tell Giriko no, tell him to stop, but he wants more too and all that is
coming out of his throat is that high whimper.
“Unfortunately I’m not known for my patience,” Giriko says, and then the second
finger joins the first and Justin hits a new pitch, jumps an octave, and Giriko
laughs entirely without amusement this time and slides his fingers back. For a
moment Justin thinks he’s going to pull out, leave Justin where he lies, and
the possibility of that loss drops his stomach so when the chainsaw’s fingers
come back in it is almost a relief.
Then Giriko does something, moves his hand in some way Justin can’t specify,
and heat bursts along the priest’s spine so the tension drops out of his body
and he goes limp, groans into the couch, and then it is gone, there is the
sense of intrusion again, but when he sucks in air the whimper sounds a lot
more like a plea than a protest.
“Like that?” Giriko’s tone is dark and promising, now, sends aftershocks in the
wake of that heat. Justin whines in what he intends as agreement and Giriko
shifts again, hand and hips both, and when Justin’s mind clears the other
weapon’s weight is between his legs instead of beside him. “Maybe
you will enjoy this after all.”
He slides his fingers free, lets go his hold on the priest’s hip. Justin stays
where he is, panting for air into the couch without trying to make sense of the
sound of metal and cloth from behind him. Then Giriko’s hand closes on his
hair, pulls him up to his knees, and Justin squeaks in pained protest but goes
anyway, there’s no way he can fight. Giriko’s mouth breathes hot into his ear
and the chainsaw hisses, “Take your shirt off, I want to see your skin.” Justin
nods against the pull in his hair, reaches for the hem of his shirt even before
Giriko’s hand releases him. The fabric inverts, catches on his hair, an ear,
and then it’s free and Justin drops it, forgets about it before it hits the
floor. Giriko makes a sound far back in his throat, a growl like an animal, and
then his hand hits Justin’s shoulder and shoves him back down to the couch.
“Your fucking back,” he manages, like that has any meaning on its own, but his
fingers are dragging appreciative across spine and fill in all the things that
he doesn’t say aloud. Justin whines, arches his body under that touch, and then
Giriko’s free hand is against his thigh and coming up and he can’t breathe from
some combination of anticipation and dread. Fingers trail over his skin, Justin
sucks in a breath, and Giriko laughs and pulls his hand back. The priest lets
go the air, sighs in relief, and then Giriko’s cock butts against him and he
can’t breathe at all, either in or out.
The fingers along his spine come down, slide across the dip at his waist, come
back up, and close over his shoulder. Giriko leans down, exhales slow against
Justin’s ear, and Justin can hear him inhale to speak and the tension snaps
something in his throat, the wall between him and language crumbles, and he
spits, “Just do it.”
Giriko huffs in surprise, laughs sharp, and then his hips come forward and
Justin loses track entirely of the chainsaw’s mouth in favor of the signals
from his own body. Two fingers was too much, spread him apart past any sort of
comfort, and Justin doesn’t know if Giriko really is just that big or if he
just needed a third but the pressure is too much, he can’t breathe and he can’t
relax and this was a mistake, and he opens his mouth to protest and Giriko
says, “I’m barely even inside you yet,” and instead of words he makes some
awful choking sound, mostly panic but a little bit pleasure because that one
word is dripping with meaning, and then Giriko comes in farther, and Justin’s
body is trying to pull away from the invasion and the pain but there is
something gathering at the back of his skull and the base of his spine, some
part of him that is going soft and pliant under the attack, and when the
chainsaw’s cock slides in another inch everything goes white with heat, a flare
of temperature overriding the rest of the input.
Justin comes back to himself a moment later, blinking light from his eyes, and
his body is still protesting but more weakly, now, the pressure against those
understimulated nerve endings thinking about being something other than pain.
“Justin?” Giriko asks, and Justin doesn’t realize until later that it’s the
first time the other weapon has called him by his name. “Are you okay?”
He has to swallow, wet his lips before he can speak. “It hurts.”
There is a pause, the pressure of fingers gripping convulsive-tight against
Justin’s hip, and when Giriko speaks his voice is very soft. “You like it.”
Justin would protest that he doesn’t if it weren’t true, if he couldn’t feel
pain bleeding into pleasure alchemically fast with each breath. Instead he
whimpers but it sounds like a moan, and when Giriko laughs he can feel the
vibration of sound lying flat against his own spine.
“Masochist.” Giriko purrs it like an endearment, and that is all the warning
Justin gets before the chainsaw slides back and brings his hips forward again.
Giriko starts talking as he speeds up, increasing his pace until he hits what
Justin can distantly identify as a rhythm. It’s mostly cursing, a lot of
“fuck”s and “shit”s and his name, a couple times. “You’re so fucking tight,”
Justin catches just before another flush of white pleasure pours over him, and
then later “You really do like this, fuck,” and Justin doesn’t realize why the
chainsaw is saying that until Giriko’s fingers brush against the priest’s
erection and Justin realizes how hard he is. But then the meaning starts to
fade, there is just the low rumble of Giriko’s voice in Justin’s ears and the
slide of his palm against sensitive skin off-beat with his hips and the press
of his cock into the priest, and it feels like he is going farther with every
thrust but it feels better too, Justin’s body relaxing into the intrusion and
the painful pull twisting into an excess of pleasure.
“Fuck,” Giriko says, the word hot into Justin’s shoulder, “Fuck.” The letters
split apart under his tongue, the rhythm of his hips fractures apart, and his
hand on Justin’s cock goes still as the rest of his body spasms into orgasm.
Justin is panting, hurting and wanting and entirely, utterly desperate, so when
Giriko stays still for too long he tips his weight sideways, reaches down to
wrap his fingers over Giriko’s still ones and drag both their hands over his
own erection.
Giriko groans into his shoulder, sucks in air, and then his hand is moving
again, faster now than it was, and Justin has to bring his hand back to the
couch to hold himself steady against the motion. He is whimpering again, eyes
squeezed shut against the distraction of sight, and he is so close, he can feel
the pleasure of orgasm just out of reach.
“Fuck,” Giriko says, his voice slightly steadier than it was, and his
unoccupied hand digs bruising fingerprints into Justin’s hip. “Come on, Justin,
come while I’m inside you,” and something of the meaning makes it past the
rising white behind Justin’s eyes so he moans just early, and Giriko sighs in
satisfaction a moment before Justin jerks and comes against the friction of his
fingers.
***** Table *****
Giriko is having a bad day. He woke up bored, irritated and exhausted in spite
of hours of sleep, and the apartment was empty and therefore absent his best
source of entertainment in the form of the priest. The TV has been more boring
than usual, there is nothing to do in the house, and he can’t go anywhere
without his fucking escort around to hover at his shoulder. He ends up idly
watching the television, commercials and shows and infomercials alike, and he
would deny up and down that he’s thinking about Justin the whole time, but by
the time the front door opens Giriko has gotten up to check false alarms four
times.
He doesn’t move this time, just growls at the television screen before
shouting, loud so Justin will hear him over his music, “Where the fuck have you
been?”
“Working,” Justin answers, which is no kind of an answer at all and entirely
too calm to suit any part of Giriko’s mood. The priest comes around the corner
into the living room and Giriko looks away, back at the screen, because
he wasn’t watching for the other weapon’s appearance, definitely not. “I see
you’ve been expanding your horizons as usual.”
“Maybe if you left me some other options before abandoning me all day.”
If Giriko was thinking more clearly or speaking more slowly he wouldn’t hand
that to Justin; as it is he hears his own words and has just enough time to
flinch before Justin drawls out “If I had known you would miss me so much I
would have left a note, dear.”
Giriko’s skin flashes hot with anger instead of embarrassment, and he is
twisting up into a seated position on the couch before Justin even gets to the
last word. The priest is not-smirking, face entirely blank like Giriko isn’t
even a person but just a piece of furniture, and that face along with the purr
on the appropriated diminutive is the most infuriating combination Giriko can
remember experiencing in all his centuries of life.
“Fuck you,” he spits in lieu of a more elegant insult, and shoves himself up
and over the back of the couch with a hand braced against the support. He lands
on his feet and is coming forward as soon as his shoes hit home, shoulders
angled forward for maximum intimidation and teeth bared without his intention.
And the fucking priest doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t look appropriately
frightened or apologetic or aggressive, just stays where he is with his arms
hanging limp at his sides and that damn expression on his face.
Giriko is within punching distance when he stalls his advance, swings his
weight to one leg and snaps the other out in Justin’s approximate direction.
Precision isn’t his strong suit, but with a chain buzzing around his leg it
doesn’t need to be, he can hit face or shoulder or chest and it will do the
same amount of damage.
Except he doesn’t hit. Justin’s arm comes up to intercept the kick, moving
faster than Giriko thought he’d be able to from his fully relaxed position,
and nothing has changed in his pose or his face except that his arm is up, a
silver blade half-extended from his forearm so Giriko can feel the teeth of his
saw catch on the edge. Giriko growls, jackknifes his leg down and around to try
again, but Justin has two arms and blocks with his other, although at least
he’s looking a little more focused now that he has two blades out to hold off
Giriko’s attacks. The chainsaw drops his foot, transitions his weight by means
of a jump, and tries again with his other leg. This time Justin ducks, cutting
the precision so fine his hair shifts as Giriko’s leg brushes past the top of
his head to curve a gouge out of the wall behind him.
The priest comes back up at an angle, twisted around to look behind him.
“This is my apartment, I’d appreciate if you were a little gentler with it.”
Giriko hisses wordless rage and brings his leg down to take his balance, takes
another stride in. “I’ll do whatever I damn well please, you’re not my keeper!”
The chains are slower on his arms, harder to pull up, but he manages to get an
elbow swinging towards Justin’s face nonetheless.
Unfortunately Justin’s weapons are very fast at this range, and Giriko realizes
his error as soon as he feels the cuff close over his wrist.
“I think you’ll find I am,” Justin says into his face, and his damn eyes are
still calm and it is infuriating, Giriko is sure he’d do anything to
get some sort of reaction from those, and with his arm caught and too close to
use his legs he reaches out with his other hand.
He means to pull up the chains, he does, but they are slow to come and then he
has a handful of cloth instead of a spray of blood, and then he pulls hard and
he is going to bite the priest, definitely, and then his mouth crashes against
the priest’s and Justin’s eyes go wide and Giriko kisses him instead.
Justin drops his hold on Giriko’s wrist immediately, vanishes the blade along
his other forearm and reaches out to grab Giriko’s shirt. This was the plan,
yes, now his guard is down and Giriko can...seize a handful of blond hair and
pull, apparently, and Justin whines in pain and the sound should be
satisfying, should plug in direct to Giriko’s pent-up bloodlust, but instead it
goes straight to his cock instead and that is Justin’s fault too, the
damn priest has his fucking signals crossed and gets off on pain, how is Giriko
supposed to fight when every whimper is half a moan?
He pulls his mouth back, keeps his hold on Justin’s clothes and hair so he
doesn’t move. “Fuck you,” he spits, hard enough that Justin does flinch back
from the consonants. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
Justin’s ridiculous eyes are clear and blue and wide like he’s never seen
Giriko before, but when he speaks it’s still level like he’s not got his hands
fisted in Giriko’s clothes and didn’t just groan against Giriko’s mouth. “You
said it.”
Giriko blinks at him, has to take a minute to process what the priest is
talking about. “What the fuck are you --” Then it clicks, and Justin raises an
eyebrow at him and the priest’s not the only one with fucked-up kinks,
apparently, because Giriko can’t decide if the expression is more infuriating
or arousing.
Okay. Fine. He can handle that easily enough.
Justin’s already nearly against the wall, but Giriko slams him back into it for
good measure. The priest gasps for air but his expression doesn’t flicker, so
Giriko steps in closer and angles a leg between the priest’s.
“Come on, don’t I get any reaction at all?” he asks. He can feel Justin half-
hard against his thigh but the kid doesn’t show it on his face, just tips his
head and smirks and says, “Maybe you need to try harder,” and that is fury,
now, surging through his veins, and when Giriko growls and shoves Justin up
against the wall to pin him in place it’s deliberately too hard and too fast.
“How hard do you want?” he hisses against Justin’s ear, and then he sets his
teeth against the kid’s earlobe and bites, hard enough that the skin gives way
and Justin makes a little wailing sound of pain and his body flinches
involuntarily, but his cock is stiffening too, and when Giriko digs his knee up
a little too hard -- he can’t quite make that into the sharp blow he wants it
to be, not even for Justin -- the priest’s hands tighten convulsively and he
gasps out a lungful of air.
Giriko lets Justin’s ear go, licks blood off his lip, and blood is blood it
doesn’t really taste any different, but his nose is right against the back of
Justin’s neck so he can smell the unnaturally clean soapy scent of the priest
and he imagines the blood tastes different too, brighter and sharper like the
kid’s weapon form.
That’s alarmingly close to sentiment, though, and he lets his hold go from
Justin’s robes -- he’s not going anywhere right now anyway -- so he can grab
him at the juncture of throat and shoulder, dig his thumb against the pulse
point against his neck and feel his racing heartbeat even if it’s not showing
on his face.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like this,” he says against Justin’s ear, and the
priest tips his head to the side to give Giriko better access. “Not when I
can feel you fucking getting off on it.”
Justin laughs, and the sound is choked but sincere for all that, and he
can’t move anywhere but Giriko can still feel the shift in his hips as he tries
to grind for more friction. “I never said I didn’t.”
“Your face sure looks goddamn unimpressed.”
“Really,” Justin half-laughs, and when Giriko pulls back to look at his face
the priest blinks and his eyes go entirely dark, smoky and hungry, and then he
shuts his eyes and swallows and when he opens them the taunting calm is there
again. “Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough.”
Giriko opens his mouth and all that comes out is a low groan and he
absolutely needs that look on Justin’s face again, the priest looked like that
the first time when Giriko found him breathless and gasping on the couch as he
jerked himself off. He lets go of Justin’s hair, replaces the weight of his leg
with that of his palm, and now he can feel the hint of details under the more
sensitive skin of his hand but there’s not enough, it’s tempting to let Justin
grind himself to climax against his palm without ever taking his clothes off
but not enough, and instead he drops the contact and steps back.
“Off,” he hisses, gesturing vaguely to encompass everything covering Justin’s
body. “Take it off.”
Justin is leaning back against the wall like he can’t hold himself up but he
nods, starts at his clothes but Giriko doesn’t wait for more, he’s got too much
on as well, and he starts with his pants as the most important obstacle. Justin
somehow strips himself of robe and shirt and shoes in the time it takes Giriko
to get his pants open and off, and his pants are halfway undone by the time
Giriko comes back in to take over.
“You’re fast,” he growls, and that is much better, all smooth skin and narrow
shoulders and thin bones under his fingers and he can see when Justin stutters
a breath, now, can see the ripples of trembling when he touches him, all the
self-control in the world can’t cover that. Their fingers catch on each other
as they both try to shove the priest’s pants free at once, Giriko can feel the
other weapon’s fingers shaking with they touch each other, and he’s not kissing
him but Justin is tipping his face up like he’s expecting the contact, and when
none is forthcoming he whimpers in frustration.
Giriko grins. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” The pants come free and Justin
kicks out of them, grinds himself up against Giriko’s bare thigh without
waiting for any kind of additional lead-in and good fuck he’s hard, Giriko’s
own erection twitches at the feel of Justin against his skin. Then he does
close the distance, covers Justin’s mouth with his own, and
Justin groans against his lips and opens his mouth wide without waiting for any
sort of prompt. Giriko’s tongue is past his lips without any deliberation at
all, just an instinctive taking of what is offered. Justin tastes amazing like
he always fucking does, that was the problem the first time, that he tasted
like mint and heat and no actual person could possibly taste like that,
but he does it hasn’t ever changed. Someday Giriko is going to
fucking fill that fucking mouth with come and see what the priest tastes
like then, but for now he slides his tongue hard over the roof of Justin’s
mouth and swallows down the sound Justin makes in response, and when the
priest’s hands come up into his hair as if he can pull him closer Giriko
doesn’t even try to protest.
Justin is tall but thin, of a height with Giriko but maybe two-thirds his
weight, and it’s especially evident when he’s stripped of his clothes as he is
now. Giriko’s fingers wrap around his hips, just to feel the shift of skin over
the sharp-edged bone, and Justin takes advantage of his grip to let Giriko take
his weight and wrap his legs around Giriko’s waist. His legs settles just over
Giriko’s own hips, so his cock is pressed hard against the chainsaw’s stomach,
and he pulls himself forward by his legs and his hold on Giriko’s hair with a
purr back in his throat that the other weapon can feel all across his tongue
and lips and teeth. The priest sometimes moves like gravity doesn’t quite
affect him; even now he doesn’t weigh as much as he should against Giriko’s
hips and hands, and the way he is arching his back to press himself against
Giriko’s torso is positively unnatural. Giriko can’t find the words to
complain, though, isn’t sure he would if he could. Justin is radiating heat
against his skin like a fire, and every time he shifts his hips he is whining
into Giriko’s mouth and the sound tastes even better than Justin’s mouth does.
The wall is convenient, runs up against Justin’s bare shoulders, and Justin
laughs short at the impact before Giriko takes advantage of the additional
support to fit one hand down between them and get a grip on Justin’s cock.
Justin shoves back and away at the contact, gasps hard for air, and with the
distance Giriko can see his face, the glaze of pleasure seeping into the
shattered mask over his blue eyes.
“Justin,” Giriko growls, just to see the way the priest blinks into focus on
his face before the chainsaw slides his hand through another stroke and
Justin’s whole face shatters into the odd painful tension of approaching
orgasm. Usually Giriko does this one-handed while fucking Justin into the couch
or the bed or the counter, and while his own cock is demanding more soon the
broken focus in Justin’s eyes and the way his mouth falls open like he can’t
remember how to close it is really enthralling as well.
“Justin,” he says again to punctuate his next stroke, and Justin gasps for air
and blinks hard and manages to say “Giriko?” like it’s a question. The sound is
breathy, the usual calm of his voice broken apart by rising pleasure, and
Giriko groans and has to duck his face against Justin’s neck, and once he’s
there he opens his mouth to press the edge of his teeth against the fluttering
pulse in Justin’s throat. Justin tips his head away and moans against Giriko’s
hair, rocks his hips up against Giriko’s shifting hand and groans, “More,” and
Giriko jerks his hand faster and sets his teeth harder into skin, and when the
sharp edges break the surface to draw blood Justin sucks in air and groans, and
his hands go tight on Giriko’s shoulders as he comes across the chainsaw’s
hand.
Giriko barely waits until Justin stops pulsing over his fingers before he lets
go to set his hands against the priest’s hips instead. The wall is great for
getting Justin off but he needs something lower, flatter to bend the priest
over and fuck him into. The first thing Giriko sees is the kitchen table, and
while Justin has stopped him from using that before the kid is still trembling
against him in the last ripples of orgasm and doesn’t seem like he’s likely to
protest. When Giriko steps back from the wall Justin leans forward, tightens
his hold on the other weapon, and it’s relatively easy to get him over the
intervening distance.
True to Giriko’s hope, Justin doesn’t say a word about the location, lets the
chainsaw inelegantly drop him down, and he’s got a handprint of his own come
across his hip and a smear of sticky liquid on his stomach and he looks fucked
already, mouth swollen with pressure and the bite marks in his ear and against
his throat bleeding sluggishly, and then he arches his back up against the
table in a motion that is really obscene from where Giriko is standing. The
other weapon was planning on going back for lube, leaving Justin sprawled on
the table like a present to himself, but when the priest does that little lift
of his hips Giriko is reaching for him without thinking, holding his hips up
off the table with one hand and reaching to slide inside him with the other.
“Sorry,” he says without any feeling behind it. “This might hurt,” and
Justin moans like Giriko’s promised to blow him till he can’t see straight, and
when Giriko actually gets his sticky finger inside the priest the moan turns
into almost a wail. Whatever of the mask remained is gone now, entirely, and
Giriko grins even though Justin isn’t looking at him and isn’t seeing straight.
“I warned you,” he offers, again without any particular apology, and pulls his
hand free to spit over his fingers before trying again. “Better?” but he
doesn’t have to ask, Justin’s mouth is falling open and his head is canting
back against the table so his neck pulls tight over the sound he is making, and
Giriko laughs and says, “Guess so,” without waiting for any sort of coherent
response.
The first time they fucked Giriko was sure he was going to hurt Justin, kind of
relished the idea if he’s totally honest with himself. The priest had
basically seduced him with no understanding of what he was getting into or how
to proceed, and it would have been kind of darkly amusing to leave him unable
to walk for a week. But even when the kid had flinched from the pain
his face had gone uncontrolled with want, and today is no different. Giriko’s
fingers are just barely slippery enough to slide smoothly into Justin, even
with the weeks of practice they’ve been putting in, but Justin is rocking up
into it even though he hisses when Giriko adds another finger, and when the
chainsaw spreads his fingers wider the kid starts to go half-hard again.
Giriko’s reasonably distracted by this for a moment, but then he looks back up
at Justin’s glassy expression and his cock decides enough, the kid’s had
enough and he slides his fingers free, strokes himself twice for good measure,
and sets his grip back in place across the priest’s hip.
He doesn’t ask Justin if he’s ready, just pulls him back over the flat surface,
and if the table were less perfectly smooth the other weapon would be getting
some awful splinters from the slide; as it is he slips like the furniture is
glass, and then he is there right where Giriko needs him, and the chainsaw
shoves the priest’s knee up high and out of the way and slides inside the other
weapon.
Justin sighs like Giriko is stroking his hair instead of fucking his ass, and
that sets Giriko’s teeth on edge almost as much as the satisfaction over his
face.
“Fuck you, Justin,” he hisses, pulling back to thrust in again.
Justin groans far back in his throat at the sound of his name, brings his hands
up to cover his face, and Giriko almost tells him to move them but then the
priest talks, says, “Oh God Giriko it hurts, oh fuck don’t stop,” and suddenly
the chainsaw is extremely glad the priest isn’t seeing his own face because
he’s pretty sure his own expression crumbles into totally raw desire for a
second. He pulls Justin down the table another inch, thrusts in again, and
Justin stops talking and just moans, drags the fingernails one hand down over
his neck so hard Giriko can see blood rising under the surface of the scraped
skin, and he would get his own fingers around the kid’s throat if he could
remember how to loosen his grip, if there were space for anything in his head
but the feel of Justin tight and hot around him and the sound of the priest’s
moans in his ears.
It’s almost embarrassing, how fast he comes, but without the usual distraction
of trying to get Justin off and with the fucking sounds the priest makes and
the way his body is arching up against the surface under him there’s not much
of a choice, really, and it’s only a few minutes before Giriko’s body coils
tight and he groans “Justin,” as he comes into the priest.
It takes him a second to catch his breath, and another to really look at their
situation, Justin sprawled out over the table under him and the wood smeared
with sweat and come and blood. Giriko has an urge to kiss Justin’s collarbone
or to lick the sticky mess at his hip or across his stomach and doesn’t,
sternly holds it back because that’s damn close to affectionate and there
is no space for that in his life.
Justin sighs, and blinks, and Giriko can see confusion come over his features
as he realizes where they are. Giriko slides free and Justin sits up, pushing
himself up on his elbows so he can look under him, and he groans with actual
frustration instead of physical pleasure.
“Fuck. The table? Really?”
Giriko shrugs, grins. “I didn’t see you complaining a minute ago.”
“We won’t be able to use this for a week. I don’t even like takeout that much,”
Justin starts to say, so Giriko leans in to bite his lower lip, and whatever
the priest was going to say is lost in the involuntarily whine he makes at the
hurt.
It’s not until much later, when Giriko is falling asleep, that he realizes that
Justin didn’t have his earphones in at all when he came home, and that he can’t
remember when that has ever happened.
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