[ It's as he's attempting to ease into the new arrangement of their limbs, the velvety draw of Aki's mouth kissing him, that a soft wince colors his expression. Just a small consequence of refusing to listen to the overworked muscles protesting the slightest strain to his body; the pain isn't anything that can't be endured, same as the last dregs of that devil's influence whispering to Denji that he should give it up. That they're just scraping the bottom of the barrel for something that isn't there, mining for diamond and only hitting coal. Searching his whole life for something he only felt truly capable of while whipping up a sweet marinade for the heart of a woman who, too, didn't know how to use hers, how to let it rest in someone else's palms. But for being such a well-worked and protected muscle, it'd unfurled from her chest surprisingly tender and delicate — and by that extension, given him hope for his own.
So he has to try.
Because Denji wants to get back to that place, too. The one where he could hold Aki's gaze and look at him with the kind of trust someone might give to a friend being lent a treasured hand mirror. To not drop a fragile thing.
Lashes half-lidded, his chin bobs lightly, nodding as he sucks on his bottom lip. It's weird, he's tasted his own blood so many times that he barely recognizes it from the spit in his mouth. Aki's, though, is faintly salty, like rust, which he knows is from drinking from him, licking his skin — really, it's his own taste on Aki's lips but better. Aki has always made him better. ]
…Got it.
[ There's a catch to his breath, a concentrated furrow to his brow, as he teases the tip against his all too accepting ringlet. If he weren’t already stretched and well-oiled from earlier, he'd probably need a couple tries to take Aki in, but as he is right now, the only thing he needs to do is lower his hips, and pop goes the weasel. His head pitches backward, mouth open wide enough for Aki to see his tonsils, the fluttering gasp beating out of his chest as his cock vanishes halfway inside him. Involuntarily, his hips rise, pulling up too soon, and Aki falls out of him.
Huffing, Denji mumbles self-consciously: ] H-Hold on. I can… do this.
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So he has to try.
Because Denji wants to get back to that place, too. The one where he could hold Aki's gaze and look at him with the kind of trust someone might give to a friend being lent a treasured hand mirror. To not drop a fragile thing.
Lashes half-lidded, his chin bobs lightly, nodding as he sucks on his bottom lip. It's weird, he's tasted his own blood so many times that he barely recognizes it from the spit in his mouth. Aki's, though, is faintly salty, like rust, which he knows is from drinking from him, licking his skin — really, it's his own taste on Aki's lips but better. Aki has always made him better. ]
…Got it.
[ There's a catch to his breath, a concentrated furrow to his brow, as he teases the tip against his all too accepting ringlet. If he weren’t already stretched and well-oiled from earlier, he'd probably need a couple tries to take Aki in, but as he is right now, the only thing he needs to do is lower his hips, and pop goes the weasel. His head pitches backward, mouth open wide enough for Aki to see his tonsils, the fluttering gasp beating out of his chest as his cock vanishes halfway inside him. Involuntarily, his hips rise, pulling up too soon, and Aki falls out of him.
Huffing, Denji mumbles self-consciously: ] H-Hold on. I can… do this.