Soul Eater: press this and feel it crack
So this is the fic that was started ages ago and would not go anywhere and then the other day just went off on one. It did originally start off quite plotty, as in it had one, then the smut entered and yeah...
Title: Press This And Feel It Crack
Character/Pairing: Giriko centric, GirikoxJustin, Girikoxanyone
Rating: To be safe I'm gonna say NC-17
Notes: This is otherwise known as the fic where I mess with everything, because I don't believe for a second that Giriko went to Shibusen with the rest, and therefore I've probably messed with ages as well.
Press This And Feel It Crack
He thinks there might be blood in his mouth, a tooth or two wobbling, his skin bruising blue underneath - and it’s definitely all the bastards fault. That much he knows.
_
It goes like this:
He might remember a skinny boy with blond hair and too delicate fingers.
Remember the kid sitting in the corner, tune on his lips and thumbing through a book; the quiet type, kept himself to himself and that was the end of it - would be anyway, except he also might remember rushed moments in a closet, stolen heat of the moment and quick gropes as time ticked down the seconds till class began.
_
“Justin,” he’d said a pause and then, “Law.” His voice cracked in between.
Giriko just shook his head and laughed quietly. He didn’t care for names and pleasantries had never been his thing, not when he could let his fingers do all the talking and introductions for themselves.
“Do you-” And the boy paused, his teeth grazing the flesh of his bottom lip. First timers always talked too much, like they had to dance and date before they got down to the good stuff. Mind you, it’s as good as any seduction he’s ever witnessed, even if the boy doesn’t have the experience to realise, his lips reddening as they’re worried and his eyes lowering their lashes; all coy and blush and innocence.
Giriko furls his lips into a grin and he has to stop himself, fingers twitching, from pushing the kid back against the wall and biting down on the good stuff himself.
He threads their fingers together and shoves the door closed with one foot. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, his head dipping down to the curve of his neck and his lips brushing the skin right where his pulse beats, like he can taste it thumping right in the middle of his tongue.
“But-” Giriko moves up and captures his lips, swallowing the words before they have a chance to escape.
It’s not like he’ll remember it anyway.
_
He likes the feeling when his fists hit soft flesh. The way the skin beneath him caves for that split second or two; bruises and bloodies and tears. He scrapes his hand across his face and bites down on a hiss, chains retracting, blood trickling down his chin.
_
He’s a little more rough around the edges the second time.
Just through with weapons practice and his hair is damp with sweat, his clothes already rumpled and sticking to his skin. He’s sat on a table and his hands dig into Giriko’s hair and scalp, his tongue hot as it travels just below his earlobe and follows the curve of his chin.
He hisses as Giriko slides his hand around his waist, pulling back and whispering into Giriko’s ear, “Careful.” As if Giriko wants an explanation or cares to hear one. “Weapon caught me in training.”
He grunts when Giriko bites down on his shoulder, skin tasting like salt on the tip of his tongue. “Bruise easily?” He asks, voice gruff as he pushes himself closer into the table and nearer him, a snicker pushing out and brushing against his collarbone.
This could be fun.
_
“You could use someone to keep you in line.”
There’s a line of photographs in front of him, hard card in his hand and promises of order and containment tucked in his cheek; bitter tasting.
He scatters them with his fingers. He doesn’t need anybody else.
-
There are too many people around for them to notice each other.
Giriko slides into a corner and makes eyes at some girl with an up for it play of her mouth. Somebody new to taste and waste away some time with, play about in the arts cupboard or down in the library.
He spends his hours like this, between fighting and sleeping, living and killing. He imagines that she’ll spread her fingers, scratch nails through his shirt and into his back; she’s probably a weapon, maybe, she has that sort of spark of danger humming around her.
She twists, fingers dancing against her waist and sliding to the left, and just behind her; ignoring everyone sits him. He’s wearing navy blue and his hair looks too blond and his eyes seem to be laughing under their lashes.
“Justin,” some meister says into his ear. Giriko grants him a quick glance and shrugs like he isn’t interested, it doesn’t at all seem fake. “Bit like you,” he carries on, “refuses to work with anyone. A weapon with his own body, says he’s going to be a death scythe, thinks it anyway.” Shaking his head, the guy huffs, as if trying to attempt anything without a meister in control is impossible.
Giriko sniffs and feels a snarl want to curl itself out of his mouth. He holds it back, watches Justin as a girl with blonde hair leans over him, hand dancing onto his shoulder, says something into his hair as he pushes his mouth into a laugh; skin stretching tight across his cheekbones.
Giriko thinks he can taste him on his lips and wants to taste him in his mouth. He brings his hand to his lips and can smell him thick on his fingertips.
He isn’t ever the one that’s left watching in the shadows, craving over someone and feeling his insides squirm.
It’s easy to walk up to the girl, brush his hip up against hers and leave the room with some eyes watching, his hand wrapped around her wrist.
_
He doesn’t take the souls, not at first anyway.
Blood is sticky against his fists and there’s that constant companion of a whir still going static in his ears. There’s dirt on his pants and he thinks the road might be slick with something, has to watch his feet, doesn’t want to fall. The thing’s arm is bent at an odd angle and he thinks he might remember an odd snapping noise at some point followed by a rough, wet gasp.
He brings out the chains on his knuckles, laughs when there’s no protest from the dead eyes beneath him.
The soul lies twisting inside of him.
_
There are others in between.
They’re too fast or too slow, mouths sloppy against his own like they’re not sure which way to turn or how to co-ordinate with their tongues, fingers too frantic and scratching, hips heavy and stumbling.
He comes away with bruises that really don’t feel worth it in the end. He probably scratches too hard himself.
He wonders why he keeps thinking of him.
_
His fingers click against the table and Shinigami just stares at him while others do the talking.
too violent, self control - heard them all before. sadistic - that’s a new one, said with a twist of lips and a scrunch of the nose.
Giriko licks dry lips and wonders how long it would take him to erase the room and walk out with a smile on his face, how much he’d enjoy it. If he could.
_
His head feels swollen and heavy and his mouth tastes like cotton wool.
He tries to work the buttons of Justin’s shirt, his fingers fumbling and pulling and he half wonders if he should just rip the damn things off and just be done with them. There’s cool silver in his mouth and it takes his addled brain a second to catch up and spit out the necklace; a cross into his hand.
“What’s this?” His lips feel a little numb and the words catch against his teeth as they fall out. Alcohol never brings about elegance. “Religion?”
Justin shrugs, but looks like he could go into detail if he thought Giriko would actually be capable of listening, the bloodshot eyes and hovering smell of liquor might be what stops him, or the fact that he’s always claimed he doesn’t want to know about anything in detail, always a loner to a fault. Hell, he still won’t say his name.
“What should I call you, Father?” He laughs and it stutters out dry, “here to save me or strike me down?”
Justin doesn’t answer in words for a few minutes, but his mouth is warm tracing Giriko’s skin, his nose pressed along his cheekbone.
“It might be something to consider.”
Giriko laughs and it goes on a little too long and is just a little too high pitched. He couldn’t possibly be saved, not when he’s already fallen. “Maybe I’m your corruption?”
Justin’s shirt is on the floor, buttons still intact, Giriko wonders if he might be a miracle worker after all.
_
Giriko has a bruise painting his cheek blue and if he runs his tongue across his teeth, he swears he can still taste blood. His ribs ache and he can feel his pulse beating harsh in nineteen different places of his body.
Half the reason he’s in this state (the others are probably sat in a quiet room somewhere drinking spiked coffee and discussing how successful practice went), sits across from him, back slouched against the wall, eyes closed and knees bent inward like a ragdoll. Justin’s knuckles are scraped raw and his temple is bruised; scratched with tiny dots and slashes that healed up an hour or so ago.
His lips part slightly when he breathes in, Giriko wishes he could stop watching.
_
There’s a day when he’s flat on his back on the tiled floor and it’s not of his own making.
Truth be told, he would be up in a split second - rage hot in his veins - if he wasn’t taken aback just a little and busy trying to crack his jaw back into place.
Justin grabs shirt collars and his fingers bunch into cotton and there’s the cool slide of silver as a guillotine sits inches from the skin of a bare neck.
There’s nothing deadlier than silence and then the sound of running, falling feet slapping against the floor.
Justin’s hand is in his face; fingers outstretched and waiting. Giriko grunts, slaps his hand away and makes his own way to his feet.
He leaves with empty words, “Don’t think this means we’re dating.” He doesn’t look at Justin, he can’t.
_
He gets last warnings a week later.
Too many words are thrown out into the conversation; expelled, kicked out, self-destructive, violent, demon weapon.
He hears one sentence above all else and understands that they all wonder why he can’t be more like Justin. All golden child of God, prayer upon his tongue.
Oh, what they would think if they knew.
He gives himself a week before he’s long gone.
-
Justin is listening to music, words echoing out of his ears and whispering against his lips, when he finds him. He’s wearing a smile and Giriko wants to rip it right off.
Later, there won’t be soft sheets or an i’m sorry or i love you. His hands are tight on his hips and their teeth clash when they kiss and there is no sensitivity here. Giriko bites his tongue against the grunts and Justin bangs his head back against the wall.
Giriko thinks he wants to ask him why he doesn’t save him, wants to, wants to; his mouth opens and he just moans.
After, they sit next to each other; backs slouched against the wall, muscles aching and arms three inches apart. Their hands are even closer and Giriko could easily slide his fingers through Justin’s, maybe learn something along the way. He doesn’t of course, but the thought was there, just like the taste of Justin in the crook of his skin.
_
He is kicked out of Shibusen the next day.
There are angry words, but it isn’t like none of them saw this coming a mile away.
He leaves, escorted of course, his feet hitting the ground and crunching gravel with each twist of his step. He laughs with every foot forward, harsh and gritty against his throat, his fingers tucked tight into the pockets of his jeans.
He knows of course that Justin isn’t in the crowd behind him, watching. He doesn’t turn back to check.
He walks forward with a purpose, his steps are not heavy. Not at all.
-
In reality, it goes like this:
Of course he remembers the golden child, all skin and bone until he built some muscle on his frame. Pink lips that turned red if you just pressed them for a second.
He remembers the kid that would sit next to him, hum into his neck and press his fingers tight into Giriko’s wrist; the type that didn’t say too many words but looked at you and spoke a thousand. He remembers grabbing the moments whenever he could and shoving him hard against a wall, a table, or hell, anything in the vicinity.
He remembers it was because he wanted to, not just because he could.
-
It takes him a minute or five because he’s never been the best with faces and it’s been a while since the last time, but even he would be hard pressed to forget this one.
Justin looks older, like he’s grown completely into his body and filled out all the extra space with muscle and strength, and he still somehow looks the exact same; like time really hasn’t passed between them, though the priestly get up might just be going overboard.
His fist though is harder than it used to be and it catches him off guard, enough to shatter a cheekbone or eye socket or chest or heart; the latter of course isn’t possible because love was never involved in the first place. The second he’s expecting and he catches it smooth along his jaw line, feels something crack or chip and he’d smile if he could attempt it.
Giriko’s knuckles pop and the familiar whir of his chains rise into place.
“What should I call you, Father?”
Justin tilts his head slightly but doesn’t blink, his blades look sharper than they used to. He says one word, “Sorry.”
Giriko laughs, he thinks he might enjoy killing the bastard.
End.
Comments and crit are loved upon.
Hopefully no letters are missing, my typing has been utter fail at that lately.
Title: Press This And Feel It Crack
Character/Pairing: Giriko centric, GirikoxJustin, Girikoxanyone
Rating: To be safe I'm gonna say NC-17
Notes: This is otherwise known as the fic where I mess with everything, because I don't believe for a second that Giriko went to Shibusen with the rest, and therefore I've probably messed with ages as well.
Press This And Feel It Crack
He thinks there might be blood in his mouth, a tooth or two wobbling, his skin bruising blue underneath - and it’s definitely all the bastards fault. That much he knows.
_
It goes like this:
He might remember a skinny boy with blond hair and too delicate fingers.
Remember the kid sitting in the corner, tune on his lips and thumbing through a book; the quiet type, kept himself to himself and that was the end of it - would be anyway, except he also might remember rushed moments in a closet, stolen heat of the moment and quick gropes as time ticked down the seconds till class began.
_
“Justin,” he’d said a pause and then, “Law.” His voice cracked in between.
Giriko just shook his head and laughed quietly. He didn’t care for names and pleasantries had never been his thing, not when he could let his fingers do all the talking and introductions for themselves.
“Do you-” And the boy paused, his teeth grazing the flesh of his bottom lip. First timers always talked too much, like they had to dance and date before they got down to the good stuff. Mind you, it’s as good as any seduction he’s ever witnessed, even if the boy doesn’t have the experience to realise, his lips reddening as they’re worried and his eyes lowering their lashes; all coy and blush and innocence.
Giriko furls his lips into a grin and he has to stop himself, fingers twitching, from pushing the kid back against the wall and biting down on the good stuff himself.
He threads their fingers together and shoves the door closed with one foot. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, his head dipping down to the curve of his neck and his lips brushing the skin right where his pulse beats, like he can taste it thumping right in the middle of his tongue.
“But-” Giriko moves up and captures his lips, swallowing the words before they have a chance to escape.
It’s not like he’ll remember it anyway.
_
He likes the feeling when his fists hit soft flesh. The way the skin beneath him caves for that split second or two; bruises and bloodies and tears. He scrapes his hand across his face and bites down on a hiss, chains retracting, blood trickling down his chin.
_
He’s a little more rough around the edges the second time.
Just through with weapons practice and his hair is damp with sweat, his clothes already rumpled and sticking to his skin. He’s sat on a table and his hands dig into Giriko’s hair and scalp, his tongue hot as it travels just below his earlobe and follows the curve of his chin.
He hisses as Giriko slides his hand around his waist, pulling back and whispering into Giriko’s ear, “Careful.” As if Giriko wants an explanation or cares to hear one. “Weapon caught me in training.”
He grunts when Giriko bites down on his shoulder, skin tasting like salt on the tip of his tongue. “Bruise easily?” He asks, voice gruff as he pushes himself closer into the table and nearer him, a snicker pushing out and brushing against his collarbone.
This could be fun.
_
“You could use someone to keep you in line.”
There’s a line of photographs in front of him, hard card in his hand and promises of order and containment tucked in his cheek; bitter tasting.
He scatters them with his fingers. He doesn’t need anybody else.
-
There are too many people around for them to notice each other.
Giriko slides into a corner and makes eyes at some girl with an up for it play of her mouth. Somebody new to taste and waste away some time with, play about in the arts cupboard or down in the library.
He spends his hours like this, between fighting and sleeping, living and killing. He imagines that she’ll spread her fingers, scratch nails through his shirt and into his back; she’s probably a weapon, maybe, she has that sort of spark of danger humming around her.
She twists, fingers dancing against her waist and sliding to the left, and just behind her; ignoring everyone sits him. He’s wearing navy blue and his hair looks too blond and his eyes seem to be laughing under their lashes.
“Justin,” some meister says into his ear. Giriko grants him a quick glance and shrugs like he isn’t interested, it doesn’t at all seem fake. “Bit like you,” he carries on, “refuses to work with anyone. A weapon with his own body, says he’s going to be a death scythe, thinks it anyway.” Shaking his head, the guy huffs, as if trying to attempt anything without a meister in control is impossible.
Giriko sniffs and feels a snarl want to curl itself out of his mouth. He holds it back, watches Justin as a girl with blonde hair leans over him, hand dancing onto his shoulder, says something into his hair as he pushes his mouth into a laugh; skin stretching tight across his cheekbones.
Giriko thinks he can taste him on his lips and wants to taste him in his mouth. He brings his hand to his lips and can smell him thick on his fingertips.
He isn’t ever the one that’s left watching in the shadows, craving over someone and feeling his insides squirm.
It’s easy to walk up to the girl, brush his hip up against hers and leave the room with some eyes watching, his hand wrapped around her wrist.
_
He doesn’t take the souls, not at first anyway.
Blood is sticky against his fists and there’s that constant companion of a whir still going static in his ears. There’s dirt on his pants and he thinks the road might be slick with something, has to watch his feet, doesn’t want to fall. The thing’s arm is bent at an odd angle and he thinks he might remember an odd snapping noise at some point followed by a rough, wet gasp.
He brings out the chains on his knuckles, laughs when there’s no protest from the dead eyes beneath him.
The soul lies twisting inside of him.
_
There are others in between.
They’re too fast or too slow, mouths sloppy against his own like they’re not sure which way to turn or how to co-ordinate with their tongues, fingers too frantic and scratching, hips heavy and stumbling.
He comes away with bruises that really don’t feel worth it in the end. He probably scratches too hard himself.
He wonders why he keeps thinking of him.
_
His fingers click against the table and Shinigami just stares at him while others do the talking.
too violent, self control - heard them all before. sadistic - that’s a new one, said with a twist of lips and a scrunch of the nose.
Giriko licks dry lips and wonders how long it would take him to erase the room and walk out with a smile on his face, how much he’d enjoy it. If he could.
_
His head feels swollen and heavy and his mouth tastes like cotton wool.
He tries to work the buttons of Justin’s shirt, his fingers fumbling and pulling and he half wonders if he should just rip the damn things off and just be done with them. There’s cool silver in his mouth and it takes his addled brain a second to catch up and spit out the necklace; a cross into his hand.
“What’s this?” His lips feel a little numb and the words catch against his teeth as they fall out. Alcohol never brings about elegance. “Religion?”
Justin shrugs, but looks like he could go into detail if he thought Giriko would actually be capable of listening, the bloodshot eyes and hovering smell of liquor might be what stops him, or the fact that he’s always claimed he doesn’t want to know about anything in detail, always a loner to a fault. Hell, he still won’t say his name.
“What should I call you, Father?” He laughs and it stutters out dry, “here to save me or strike me down?”
Justin doesn’t answer in words for a few minutes, but his mouth is warm tracing Giriko’s skin, his nose pressed along his cheekbone.
“It might be something to consider.”
Giriko laughs and it goes on a little too long and is just a little too high pitched. He couldn’t possibly be saved, not when he’s already fallen. “Maybe I’m your corruption?”
Justin’s shirt is on the floor, buttons still intact, Giriko wonders if he might be a miracle worker after all.
_
Giriko has a bruise painting his cheek blue and if he runs his tongue across his teeth, he swears he can still taste blood. His ribs ache and he can feel his pulse beating harsh in nineteen different places of his body.
Half the reason he’s in this state (the others are probably sat in a quiet room somewhere drinking spiked coffee and discussing how successful practice went), sits across from him, back slouched against the wall, eyes closed and knees bent inward like a ragdoll. Justin’s knuckles are scraped raw and his temple is bruised; scratched with tiny dots and slashes that healed up an hour or so ago.
His lips part slightly when he breathes in, Giriko wishes he could stop watching.
_
There’s a day when he’s flat on his back on the tiled floor and it’s not of his own making.
Truth be told, he would be up in a split second - rage hot in his veins - if he wasn’t taken aback just a little and busy trying to crack his jaw back into place.
Justin grabs shirt collars and his fingers bunch into cotton and there’s the cool slide of silver as a guillotine sits inches from the skin of a bare neck.
There’s nothing deadlier than silence and then the sound of running, falling feet slapping against the floor.
Justin’s hand is in his face; fingers outstretched and waiting. Giriko grunts, slaps his hand away and makes his own way to his feet.
He leaves with empty words, “Don’t think this means we’re dating.” He doesn’t look at Justin, he can’t.
_
He gets last warnings a week later.
Too many words are thrown out into the conversation; expelled, kicked out, self-destructive, violent, demon weapon.
He hears one sentence above all else and understands that they all wonder why he can’t be more like Justin. All golden child of God, prayer upon his tongue.
Oh, what they would think if they knew.
He gives himself a week before he’s long gone.
-
Justin is listening to music, words echoing out of his ears and whispering against his lips, when he finds him. He’s wearing a smile and Giriko wants to rip it right off.
Later, there won’t be soft sheets or an i’m sorry or i love you. His hands are tight on his hips and their teeth clash when they kiss and there is no sensitivity here. Giriko bites his tongue against the grunts and Justin bangs his head back against the wall.
Giriko thinks he wants to ask him why he doesn’t save him, wants to, wants to; his mouth opens and he just moans.
After, they sit next to each other; backs slouched against the wall, muscles aching and arms three inches apart. Their hands are even closer and Giriko could easily slide his fingers through Justin’s, maybe learn something along the way. He doesn’t of course, but the thought was there, just like the taste of Justin in the crook of his skin.
_
He is kicked out of Shibusen the next day.
There are angry words, but it isn’t like none of them saw this coming a mile away.
He leaves, escorted of course, his feet hitting the ground and crunching gravel with each twist of his step. He laughs with every foot forward, harsh and gritty against his throat, his fingers tucked tight into the pockets of his jeans.
He knows of course that Justin isn’t in the crowd behind him, watching. He doesn’t turn back to check.
He walks forward with a purpose, his steps are not heavy. Not at all.
-
In reality, it goes like this:
Of course he remembers the golden child, all skin and bone until he built some muscle on his frame. Pink lips that turned red if you just pressed them for a second.
He remembers the kid that would sit next to him, hum into his neck and press his fingers tight into Giriko’s wrist; the type that didn’t say too many words but looked at you and spoke a thousand. He remembers grabbing the moments whenever he could and shoving him hard against a wall, a table, or hell, anything in the vicinity.
He remembers it was because he wanted to, not just because he could.
-
It takes him a minute or five because he’s never been the best with faces and it’s been a while since the last time, but even he would be hard pressed to forget this one.
Justin looks older, like he’s grown completely into his body and filled out all the extra space with muscle and strength, and he still somehow looks the exact same; like time really hasn’t passed between them, though the priestly get up might just be going overboard.
His fist though is harder than it used to be and it catches him off guard, enough to shatter a cheekbone or eye socket or chest or heart; the latter of course isn’t possible because love was never involved in the first place. The second he’s expecting and he catches it smooth along his jaw line, feels something crack or chip and he’d smile if he could attempt it.
Giriko’s knuckles pop and the familiar whir of his chains rise into place.
“What should I call you, Father?”
Justin tilts his head slightly but doesn’t blink, his blades look sharper than they used to. He says one word, “Sorry.”
Giriko laughs, he thinks he might enjoy killing the bastard.
End.
Comments and crit are loved upon.
Hopefully no letters are missing, my typing has been utter fail at that lately.