windfall | light a cigarette, i'll watch as it burns

light a cigarette, i'll watch as it burns

[ Knocking. The roar of ammunition fire in his ears. Blasts of heat and debris sticking to his face, dust crusting in his eyes. A delirious and delicious taste, sweet red like pomegranate, like Aki's skin scraping open in his mouth.

Denji doesn't talk much about what happened that day.

Not unusual, since he doesn't really talk much about any of what transpired prior to meeting Nayuta, either. Or about how sometimes he can still sense, not even hear, but sense a phone ringing in the distance, its pull like a spiral cord that's gone taut, that's trying to make its way back home and if he follows its trail, he might just find someone familiar on the other end of the receiver.

No, he doesn't tell anyone all that, because, see, the last time he did, Kishibe had just hummed and looked at him, the kind of look Denji would get from adults whenever they caught him picking through the dumpster for his next meal: pitying. Then, he'd shook out a flask from the inside of his coat and said, "Sometimes it's better for the line to go dead, kid."

Weird response, right? It'd made Denji go silent, think a bit. And after a while, he hadn't liked that so much, so he'd changed the subject to something inoffensive, like complaining about how much Nayuta's so much better at arcade games than he is, but Kishibe had cut him short at that point to go take a call.

Naturally, Denji had followed.

It's a little sad that a man in his silver years is the only person he can confide in, but Kishibe's not a bad guy — and that's coming from someone who generally hates men. Then again, the guy doesn't show his gaunt face around these parts unless he absolutely has to, which is probably by his own design, so it helps that he's never around long enough for Denji to get sick of seeing him. Up until that conversation, his absence wouldn't have been something Denji paid notice to. It'd usually take weeks and months and Nayuta asking where the funny, drunk geezer who always sneaks her hard candy is for him to see past the everyday chaos of being Tokyo's friendly neighborhood Chainsaw Man.

But as Denji creeped closer, overhearing some words but not registering most of them, a dangerous curiosity brought him to the edge of his hiding spot. What the hell has this dude been up to?

And then he'd froze.

"So the Gun Devil's position has been compromised. Initiate a tactical retreat."

Afterward, he hadn't done anything for a solid week besides go to school, kick some devil ass and stare vacantly at a pair of eggs frying in the pan for dinner each evening. Predictably, Nayuta had rapidly gotten sick of the menu. So before he could make his eighth pair of fried eggs, she'd scaled up his back and twisted his earlobes until he begged for forgiveness.

"Stuuupid! Dummy! Get a hold of yourself!" Nayuta raged on. "No more acting weird, or else I'm putting doggy kibble in your cereal again!"

She was right. He needed to get a hold of himself. Yeah, he was dumb, but that didn't mean he had eggshells for brains. He could still do stuff in his own way.

In the following weeks, Denji spent his time hounding members of the Devil Hunter Club for all and any relevant knowledge pertaining to devils. From rumors about recent devil sightings, to insights into things like the theoretical mechanics behind how long it took for certain types of devils to die in Hell and be reborn, to mathematical equations projecting the survivability rate of fiends based on the velocity and quantity of violence…

Of course, he only understood about three-percent of anything at any given time, but one detail of interest shared by some gloomy, pig-tailed girl stood out to him. According to her, a mysterious amount of devils had been slain in the Kabukicho district, none of which had been reported by either civilian hunters or Public Safety ones.

Anyone with half their wits would be able to easily determine that this wasn't a reasonable lead, but for Denji? He could feel something trilling out to him. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ A layer of stunned silence sits there with them as dense as a washed out rain cloud, growing denser by the second, just waiting to pop.

…Huh? Um, what did he just say?

Without preamble, a shrill and disbelieving laugh jerks out of him as he shifts his weight to lean against the bar top, invade Aki's field of vision. As if to say, Don't look at that thing. Look at me. Look at me, Aki. He hasn't felt a surge of alarm like this since Makima gave him a sudden call and told him he had a visitor on the way. ]

Yeah, right. Dude, that's — that's not a funny joke. There's… no way that'd work.

[ But it would. He knows it would, that's part of what makes Gun flesh such a highly sought after global commodity. It's why Japan wants it, it's why countries halfway across the world want it, and it's why Gun itself wants it. International treaties have been born and burned for lesser scraps than what he holds now.

Denji's hand comes to land over Aki's open one, meaning to cover the disfigured bullet, like hiding the silver nugget will immediately dissuade him from the idea. ]

Put that thing away, Aki. [ He isn't even thinking anymore as he speaks, just saying whatever words first form in his mind. ] I'd taste way better. Promise.

[Of all the people to act like he's insane for thinking this - Really, Denji is going to respond like he just said something crazy? Denji sets his hand over his and Aki clamps down on the chunk, as if he's suddenly afraid he's going to snag it away from him.]

It's not about... [...He's not moody that he rejected his blood, is he? Aki slides his arm off the bar top, still cupping the flesh in his hand like it's in danger of shattering if he dropped it.] I can't explain it.

[It feels instinctual. Like a dog shaking off water or being wary of a striped snake. What else is he supposed to do with this? He raises his eyes to look at Denji, the look of disbelief in his expression. Is it that shocking to him that he would think this?]

I don't think I can bite your arm. [A muttered admission. He was given blood transfusions whenever he needed them until now, never a blood bag to guzzle down like devils. The idea of biting into Denji's arm... It's as unnatural to him as the idea of eating this chunk of Gun feels natural. Well, if he thinks of it that way, maybe he really does sound insane.]

[ What? There something wrong with his arm? If that's all the problem is, he could just cut his finger or something, easy-peasy, in that case… But it doesn't feel like that sort of counter would earn him anything from Aki other than a flat stare or a shake of his head, if that. Geez, why does he always have to be so complicated?!

He wasn't going to steal the bullet, but the way he so covetously withdraws it back from Denji's reach is almost a compelling enough reason for him to try. As if to actively hold himself back from giving chase, he crosses his arms, nails indenting his skin. ]

I dunno. I just have a bad feeling. [ While Denji's been known to be a hypocrite on certain fronts, the idea of Aki putting something strange in his mouth like Gun flesh isn't one of them. Not when he's personally swallowed down worse things for worse reasons. No, his primary concern lies in: ] …How do you know you won't, like, change?

[Aki doesn't want to answer that question. He has no way to prove that he won't change, that this won't be the tipping point between himself and Gun, that it won't be just enough for him to take over, or the last little vestige of power that will turn Aki from 50% human to 49%. There's no way to tell. Gun doesn't tell him anything. But holding the little dollop in his hand feels like holding a piece of luxurious cake, oozing with icing and springy like a sponge. Melt-in-your-mouth good.]

[And even beyond how much he craves it - What is he going to do with it if he doesn't?]

You're here, at least. [He turns his palm over to reveal it again, like a magician uncupping the shell hiding the rubber ball.] If something happens, you can...

[But saying that seems to immediately talk him out of it. Aki sets his jaw, grimacing at his own words. He can, what, kill Aki again? What kind of selfish shit is he saying? After Denji just told him how much he missed him. This, too, feels like an inevitability. This chunk will eventually be absorbed within him. But what can he do in between now and then?]

...Come here, Denji. [He's being so wishy-washy about this whole thing. That devil sent his head into a spin cycle. Too many things he should and shouldn't do, even more things he wants to and doesn't want to do. With his empty hand, he reaches out to him and turns in the stool so he can approach him head-on.]

[ If something happens, you can…

The implication isn't lost on him but he wishes it were. Denji shifts his weight away from him, without sharpness of acidity. A line drawn in the sand.

It could very well be that Denji's paranoia is unfounded, that nothing will happen besides Aki's cell regeneration getting a much needed boost and him having to concede to being the overly cautious one for once. He knows it's not like him to be so against a little trial and error when throwing reason to the wind is his whole modus operandi; hell, he's used an entire woman before as the star ingredient for over a month's worth of meal prep, uncaring of what it might do to his bowel movements or the innocent lives bearing her injuries. But when it comes to Aki, things are a different — he can't really put a pin as to how, it could be that he just feels extra stupid talking to him. Not that Aki makes him feel that way, but more like… like he wishes he were older and knew more about what the smart thing to do would be. To make him feel better. But since he doesn't, he has to overcompensate somehow.

Ahhh, what a shitty feeling. If Aki's just going to do it anyway, no matter what he says, he'd almost rather he get it over with…

When he hears his name being called, Denji's brown gaze flicks his way. He doesn't move. He imagines himself telling Aki: No. I won't just listen and do whatever you tell me to 'cause you think you know better than I do. I'm over crap like that. You can chow on your sketchy bullet all you want but leave me out of it!

…But his lips purse together. One of his hands uncrosses, the roughened pads of his fingers touching down to Aki's palm, slightly tracing the folds. ]

What is it?

[ It's weird how only once they're back in contact with one another does Denji realize he's shivering; he's cold. ]

Edited 2023-09-17 03:18 (UTC)

[Aki is cold, too. He can feel it permeating through his body, and just like before, the direct contact to Denji teases warmth. Maybe it's because that's what he craves, too, but if that's the case, why is the craving to eat this stupid chunk of metallic flesh even stronger? Why would he want Gun in his mouth more than someone like Denji? He can't let that become fact. No matter what that devil did to him, whatever its spores did to his brain, it will pass and he'll come out of it eventually. In the meantime, he has to stay sane. So he takes a breath.]

Sorry, for this.

[He slides his hand beneath his touch, wrapping his fingers around his wrist with the little bullet still in his palm, then brings him up to his mouth. He parts his lips and pulls Denji's hand in close, only the briefest pause of hesitation, then finally closes his eyes tightly shut and bites down between his index and thumb - the same spot Denji bit him the night before, teeth sinking into his flesh and breaking through to warm blood.]

[He doesn't want it to feel like anything. It shouldn't have any sensation to it unlike licking a wound inside your mouth, the metallic tinge of iron and copper and whatever else. But he didn't expect it to be warm like this. He didn't expect it to flow out of him like this, bubbling from the punctures like a shaken can of soda. Aki squeezes his eyes shut tight, unwilling to see himself in Denji's eyes like this. It's so shameful, he thinks. It's what devils do. What Denji does. He shouldn't need this. But if he has to choose, then he can at least fool himself into thinking that he isn't literally turning into more of a devil by doing this, as opposed to eating that little jelly bean of flesh in between his palm and Denji's wrist. At least this way he's only healing his body and not making Denji back away from him again.]

[ Sorry for what — the bullet or the bite?

Though the gnarled veins of the Gun flesh are something he wants to instantly recoil from, the sensation too alien to enjoy pressed to his wrist, no different from the bony legs of a tarantula brushing against the hairs of his arm, Denji stays still. Forgiving the touch.

Because Aki’s lips open, and with them so, too, does Denji’s scope of view, his pupils widened and dilated, as if his body latently knows he wouldn’t be able to stand missing the flash of his canines, the impression his teeth makes into the webbing between his fingers. His skin breaks easy, buttery, like peeling the skin from an apple, like it was made for Aki to bite clean through it all this time. There's pain, of course, but that's nothing Denji pays any mind to — in fact, he forgets about himself completely. Doesn't even notice his own breathing fluctuate, the way he gravitates closer, leans his weight in, not to apply pressure or choke Aki the way he'd done to him last night. But just to get a clearer look. ]

See? Not so bad. [ A perversely satisfied flush freshens his face, a tingling numbness tiding through him, head to toe. Red dribbles out from his wound, a vivid stain splashing Aki's mouth, his every nerve giddy from the sight. ] You… You're kinda pretty. Anyone ever tell you that? [ He doesn't say it flirtatiously — rather, with the kind of shyness a school boy would slipping a letter of confession into someone's locker for the first time. God, he's glad Aki can't speak back right now. His hand flexes, squeezing out more blood for him to drink up. ] Here, have some more.

[The sensation is so strange. He's never drank blood like this. He's watched it, plenty of times. Watched Denji and Power drink from bags of the stuff after rougher fights. Watched Angel suck from them like little juice pouches, taking dainty sucks to waste time in between tasks. He never imagined himself doing this. Didn't imagine that it might actually feel good, or feel like anything other than how it feels to drink water when you're thirsty. But it's different from that. It's even better than that. Like ice water during a heat wave, or hot coffee on an early, cold morning. Denji flexes his fingers to coax more blood from the wound and Aki sucks it down followed with a heavy exhale, pupils dilating as his wounds slowly mend and heal. His back feels lighter, his legs no longer so aching. The crink in his neck from how he landed on the car slowly ironing out. He keeps drinking.]

[He thinks Denji said something to him but he wasn't really paying any attention. Can't pay any attention - Who even cares, honestly? This is more than enough. He doesn't need anything else but this. This constant warmth. Denji's warmth, running over his tongue and down his throat, through his own blood and mixing and coiling with it. It's better than that hug, better than the kiss. He feels truly connected to him like this, truly in sync. As long as his teeth stay anchored into his skin, blood flowing from his wound to his lips, Denji can't leave him. Aki can't be pulled away. Everything is fine like this - And because of that, the spark of pain in his heart when he realizes with sudden clarity that it will end eventually has his jaw clenching a little harder, teeth nearly meeting one another in the break of his skin.]

[When he finally pulls back, there's a warm drip of blood rolling down his chin. He looks and feels like he just downed an impressive number of shots. His eyes rise up to Denji, looking no better but no worse either. The loss of their brief connection, one that lasted barely a minute, feels like a dry cord that snapped and fell away. All that's left is the pain of rope burn.]

Denji...

[He reaches for him, searches for his other arm to tug him close and bring him down for a kiss, blood still coating his lips.]

[ Denji's established his repute as a hopeless glutton for a reason. Give him a full table arrangement of whatever food fare you can scrounge up — takeout, homemade, gourmet — and he'll never cease to have the appetite to solicit more, as if stockpiling meals will keep his stomach from contracting around empty air ever again. But delusionally, for the first time, he thinks he could sustain himself on just this memory of Aki peering up at him, drunkenly, after giving into a greater thirst, a greater need, for him and him alone, for the rest of his days. Could fool himself into pretending this would be enough for him, that he could jerk off into the toilet to the enticing sheen of his blue eyes and be okay with that. ]

Aki —

[ His thoughts go dark, senseless. He doesn't think.

The high-chair tips on its feet, legs screeching against the floor from how eagerly Denji ducks in. Nearly climbs onto the seat, not even to kiss him but to lap at the trickle moving down his chin, suckling up his skin to clean the slide of red left behind and make his way back to Aki's lips, licking his mouth full-on, like a sorry mutt who's gone his whole life without a drop of water in his bowl. He grips down the edge of the chair with his uninjured hand to force the landing steady, the one swelling with bite marks coming up to fist Aki's shirt collar — the tight curl of his fingers prickle with pain, prolonging it, like he can still feel his teeth sinking through his flesh. Then, Denji angles his face to kiss him, his tongue nudging at his lower lip for deeper entry — as if he knows this is something he can reliably do, reliably give away, with confidence. ]

[It's a strange sensation to have himself cleaned up like this, less of a wiping sensation and more of a desperate lapping. It's cruel, in a way, because Denji is almost more concerned with his skin than his lips and Aki keeps tilting to try and guide him where he wants but the moment he finally gets there and prods to enter, Aki lets him in with no hesitation. He can actually smell the blood on his hand grasping at his collar but he tries to ignore it, his own hands grasping to wrap around Denji's body and tug him in close.]

[Sitting on a stool like this means he can't really drag him down on top of him without threatening the legs to give out or the whole thing to topple. But right now he really, really wants this. More than he did the night before. The hint of his blood was like torture, like a tease of what he could get if he could go that far with him. Why does he want that so badly? Why does he feel so empty inside, cramming things down his gullet until it fills the space? He's never been like this before, even after he lost everything, even after he gained more than he expected he never looked back and saw this. Why does it feel like Denji holds what he needs and he'll never be able to get it from him?]

[He pulls his head back to catch his breath, having just kissed him for so long and so roughly that his lips feel tingly and sore. Aki stares at Denji, separated by just a breath of space, then pulls his hands around his waist, grabbing at the cold and wet edge of his shirt and working to tug it off. He has exactly what he wants and needs, Aki thinks. Like a drunk man digging in a cooler for the last beer, he pulls and yanks to get the shirt over Denji's head so he can feel his skin directly.]

[ Eager to please, eager to do something right, he yields to Aki's insistent hands like a dog called to heel, could even be talked out of his entire suit of skin if that's what he wanted. His clothes? A trifle.

There's a roughness, unsteadiness, to the way he handles him, and Denji thinks he likes that, too, equally as much as he liked his gentler instruction — as if this hollow fervor is something they can share and play in. A leash going both ways, each end running in diametric directions until the knot at the center either pops loose or has to be sawed in half. Still damp, his shirt leaves behind a dewy residue when Aki strips him of it, making the air even crisper when it hits his torso, his goosing skin. Denji sucks in a breath and half-expects to see white misting from his face when he breathes it all out. That's how cold it feels without Aki on him. Inside of him.

Holy crap, he's so stupid horny. He slips his fingertips under Aki's shirt, dragging the cottony hem up in a single fluid whisk, but not even waiting for it to be all the way off until his mouth is hot against his chest, teething one of his nipples to hardness. Tongue teasing up the side of the sensitive nub, he mumbles, ] You wanna — uh, here…?

[ He feels silly just asking.

Of course he knows the answer to that — that they're going to fuck in a random bar they broke into — but Denji's never known how to keep his trap shut, at the best or worst of times. Especially when he's nervous. And Aki's really good at making him nervous. The better question would be how they're going to do this here. If Aki wants to bend him over the stool, using his blood as lubricant, and blow his back out the way, or if they both climb on top of the counter, that might work — ]

[Feeling Denji's tongue on his mouth is one thing. It's another to feel it on his chest, like a hot iron spreading molten oil over his body. He wants to grab him right now and pin him to the floor, yank his pants off - ]

[And then he asks that, and Aki falters for a moment. Does he... not? He stares down at Denji in somewhat confused silence, no idea how to respond to the clarification. In the chair? In the bar? ...At all?]

[He sets his jaw.]

You always kill the mood.

[He stands with that statement, grabbing Denji by the hip to force him against the doorway leading into the small kitchen area. All the walls are lined with picture frames and menu boards so those won't do. The door, however, is simple stained wood and will work just fine. Pushing Denji up against it, he meets his lips again to resume the kiss, hard and rough, like a small punishment for asking a stupid question. Of course they're doing it here. Does Denji really think Aki could get home as turned on as he is right now?]

[ What flies past his lips as a yelp melts into the kiss as a dragging moan once the wooden paneling levels sharply between his shoulder blades, hard just like the way their mouths bruise together. Smearing, moving, their desire joining to create a single-minded beast in some ouroboric contest to see who's hungrier. If hunger is even the right word for this. He's not sure. All the times he's stared at that tarnished ceiling in his shed, willing away the chasmal ache in his belly by imagining himself stuffed with all sorts of food, can't compare to whatever is growling, scratching at the gate, within in him now. Not a hunger, but maybe an old longing. An old hopelessness —

Stop, stop, stop. Don't think.

His hands grapple for the waistline of Aki's pants, fingers bending through his belt loops, tugging him in closer so that one of his knees is wedged between Denji's spread legs. He can feel it rubbing into the shape of his growing erection, and whether that's intended or not, it feels good, makes a flush burn up his chest, trussing around his neck like the bindings of a rope — but it's not even close to how good it'd feel to be nailed by the heat of his hips instead. And, as if to communicate this, Denji gives into the humiliation of openly bucking into his leg like some unneutered stray, so warmed and sensitive to his every touch he could simply dry hump him and get off that way.

Pitifully overcome by his own pleasure, Denji momentarily breaks from him, face half-turned to gasp out, ] You're so mean.

[There's a weird, nameless sensation running thru Aki's body as Denji maneuvers his leg in close, begins rutting against it. He knows he likes it, knows this whole thing is turning him on. He knows those little sounds coming from him are making the fire in him burn hotter. When Denji breaks away from him to call him mean Aki doesn't even let up, pressing his thigh harshly into his crotch and gliding it down his erection while he leans in to kiss at his cheek, his jaw, his neck. All the spots he failed to explore yet, now wet with humidity and rain and sweat, his hair stuck to his skin. Hands wandering as he tries to identify what the hell this feeling is. Why, despite feeling so turned on, he can't fully accept it. Why he keeps pushing Denji harder, grabbing his elbows and holding them into the door like he might try and slip away as he open-mouth bites at his throat.]

[It's like Denji is going to slip away at any moment. Fade into smoke, slip away like mist. Disperse into the air around him and be no more tangible than his own breath. Like Denji will tire of him and push him away. Like Denji will simply slide free from his grasp and head right out the door.]

[He's not yours, he told the devil. He's not anyone's. But right now, Aki chooses to ignore the meaning behind what he said that morning. If this is what it means to be more devil than human, if the scale is tipped this badly just by whatever it was he breathed in - that's right, it's all the neurotoxin, the smoke, the powder, the devil's doing, he can blame it all on the devil, another devil, one that's now killed and conquered - then he can let himself accept it for the moment. Aki pulls his leg back to allow Denji some room to breathe before the hands on his arms go for the close of his pants. Desperate and seeking to conquer more.]

[ Denji's gasps eject in short lurches from his mouth, like the teeth marks left on the hollow of his neck, or each goading touch frictioning between his legs, carries the weight of a tidal wave, drowning him, pushing his head well below water. That might explain why his own needy little noises sound almost distant to his ears, muffled, bogged down by — what? That stupid devil gas, maybe. Telling him that this, this gratification, this juncture of want and need, doesn’t have to belong to Denji. This could belong to anyone, could have, if he hadn't been the one to survive Makima's gambit. The same way that Tokyo doesn't need Chainsaw Man, Aki doesn't really need him. Denji called him wrong earlier but who was he fooling? Any warm body could have landed the finishing blow on that devil, and that's what happened. It stands to reason any warm body could be close to him, too. Keep him company just as fine.

Denji’s been on his own before; he knows how loneliness behaves, even if his is a different breed from whatever has ownership over Aki. He imagines it must be a kind of saber-toothed devil snapping at his heels, if it’s enough to make him settle for someone like Denji, whose head and whose heart were pieced together all faulty. It makes him feel criminal when Aki rushes to undo his trousers, kinda as if he should confess to being a defective product. Cheap. That there's still time to get his refund and find something better than whatever he has to offer. Or high-tail it altogether.

But his selfishness ekes out. If he thinks of this as just another thing he's getting away with scot-free, then…

Between the two of them they're able to get Denji's trousers dropping to his ankles. The silhouette of his cock shows tightly through his underwear. He can't stop himself from tugging his boxers, too, down — not all the way, though, his impatience once again showing itself by leaving the lightweight material canopying just between his thighs before he's already palming his drooling head with one hand. Uses the other to trail up the shadow of Aki's shaft through his pants to his fastenings, fingers fighting through the button, next the zipper. ]

H-Help me pull this down — hurry —

[The feeling of Denji pulling at his pants makes him go from simply erect to panting, his mouth back on his throat, dragging over his apple. He wants to choke him, to pin him to the floor, to tie him up until he can't move, can't dream of even turning his head without begging Aki to let him first. He's worthless, his mind tells him. He doesn't even deserve you. He's a stupid kid with a sad life and you're his last chance at getting laid. But he has no idea if he's describing Denji or himself.]

[His hands join Denji's and he pulls the close of his pants apart, lets them fall down to his knees. He can't let him find out that this is a stupid idea. He has to move fast, can't give him time to think and time to regret this. He can't give him time to change his mind. His cock free to the cold air, Aki presses forward against Denji's hand, gliding his own head against his before pressing it against his stomach, moving close, close enough that he can't run away. One hand holds his cock against his skin, as if measuring how far he'll go when he pushes it in. The other keeps his shoulder pinned into the door. His eyes stare hard into Denji's.]

Lift your leg. [His voice is stony, demanding. Impatient but not in the same way Denji is. He has to keep reminding himself to not let him find out - Denji can't know how stupid of an idea this is. Then he'll fly right out that door and leave him with that annoying, confident cackle.]

[ Ah, the way his cock nudges into him like a drive-by kiss, the heavy slide of it as he comes to rest up against his tightening abdomen — Denji feels roasted, a blistering hotness, as if Aki's taken a cast iron straight from the stovetop and left the bottom dredges of heat cooling against his skin. Teasing a closeness that blitzes any thoughts that don't have a thing to do with Aki chewing him up and spitting him out, churning into him until he's soft and malleable enough to digest whole. And wouldn't that be a dream come true? To pretend he's valuable enough for someone to take their time to get to know him, cut by cut, delicately flaying skin from meat, bothering to find the right temperature to sear his edges at.

Straining at Aki's hold on his shoulder, Denji's hips twitch without meaning to, the tip of his erection, leaking precome the way nectar drips from an overripe flower, skating past Aki's shaft, leaving a luscent smear in its wake. The contact is brief, not even proper frotting, but it has his mouth watering, his thoughts running sick with how he can nearly taste him. To the point that when Aki orders him to do something, he looks lost, like he wouldn't be able to find the door, let alone run for it, without being pointed in the correct direction. ]

Huh? My leg?

[ He blinks at him sedately. Then, he fumbles to get his underwear shoved back down enough slip one of his feet out, but it's slow. Might be too slow for Aki. ]

[Denji is practically melting against him but Aki's brain still has the nerve to hem and haw about whether it's just because that devil's pollen has him confused. If Denji is thinking he's someone else right now. If he's imagining he's someone else.]

[As he struggles with his underwear, Aki gives up and reaches down to grab them, yanking the hem down with a harsh tug and dropping them to the floor while his hands wrap around his hips. Dig hard into his flesh. He can't let that happen, he decides. If Denji is going to be fought over, then he should at least know who the victor is. If one of the possible winners is Denji, himself, he should at least know what kind of betrayal it is to Aki if he leaves him like this.]

[So he doesn't wait. He pulls his leg up and over his thigh, pressing Denji into the hard door as his hands work to tilt his hips, his cock lining up with his hole. He could lie and say the rain was their lube. The sweat, or his precome or anything else. But the truth is that he simply doesn't care. He presses right in with no hesitation. There's only one outcome he wants right now and it's to hear him say just one thing: his name.]

[ The rear of his head whips back against the wood, black stars painting his vision, so stinging and dizzying he has to force his eyes closed just to collect his bearings. He's tense, woefully unprepared for Aki's naked cock thrusting inside him without warning, hard and rough and meeting the resistance of the unstretched ring of muscle. He's not even all the way sheathed, but it hurts, it hurts, it hurts so bad high thighs are quivering — but also it's Aki, the real life curve of him, rifle and remedy all in one swing of his hips. The torment of him pressing in, it's — it's perfect. It has to be perfect. There's no one else who's ever going to feign wanting him like this with such believable urgency.

Last time, he'd yelled until his vocal chords had gone rusted, even after getting lubed up, but now nothing comes out besides a stuttering breath through his clenched canines. Aki, Aki, Aki, he thinks but doesn't say. Can't, like the spores he inhaled earlier have taken root inside him, stems thorning up his throat. ]

A — Ahhh… You — asshole — [ A curse feels like a fine substitute for where his name would take post right now, his wounded hand reaching over to drag against Aki's scalp, fisting around locks of his hair and ripping him forward for a biting kiss. It's not fair that Denji's the only one who gets to be in pain. ]

[The tease of the sound of his name on his lips burns hotter than what it feels like inside of him. Aki takes in a breath before he's barraged with his teeth and lips, meeting both as he sinks fully into him. The tension and the stretch feels incredible, both wonderful and horrible at once. It's tight and it's harsh and he feels the shift of his muscles and body every centimeter he moves, the way he twitches and struggles and flinches around him. The grip on his thigh grows tight as he forces it up and toward the door. He could make it worse.]

Denji -

[He bites clean through his lip in one go, splitting it and feeling the heat of blood on his own. Aki leans in to kiss it up, not soothing or careful or caring. He's taking what he can get right now. It's cruel and harsh and he thinks, maybe, when Denji comes out of this, he'll be upset. Probably, Aki will be upset with himself, too. But that's fine - Until he can get him to say his name, to prove he knows who's fucking him, he'll keep pushing.]

[Aki pulls his hips back before rutting forward again, the satisfying sink of heat more stretched this time but still strained. He repeats the motion and revels in the discomfort, like a seal of proof that he's the one doing this. He's completely connected to Denji right now. He doesn't need his name out of his mouth to know that - he wishes he believed. Even this deep into him, holding him against the wall and kissing and sucking the blood from his lips, he's still waiting for Denji to acknowledge him. To prove he's right there with him.]

[ If Aki was mean earlier, then the person inside him right now is — different: Punishing, except Denji doesn't know which of his sins, his innumerable wrongdoings, he's being disciplined for; demanding, except Denji doesn't know what left he has to offer Aki, that hasn't been wrung out of him by the wrong hands, the wrong circumstances. He drives into Denji, again and again, his back dragged raw against the railing of the door, each punch of his cock shaking the adjoining wall, the picture frames jerking crooked, the menu boards rocking off their screws. Like he wants the whole bar, the whole neighborhood, to feel the mindless collision of their hips riding into one another, wave after wave.

If there were any amount of space between them for it, if Aki weren't keeping him pinned up, Denji would certainly collapse to his knees. But he wants this, wants whatever is making Aki crazed and callous, tells himself that he wants this badly enough to hurt for it. So when Aki widens the gap between Denji's thighs, his cheeks spread all the easier for him to pump into, he groans and tries to flex himself open, to take the insane tug, clamp his insides down instead of doing what his body really wants to. Push him out. Reject the greedy way Aki swallows the dirty red from his mouth, his self-disgust mounting with the pressure he feels stacking in his guts.

It's confusing, it's so confusing. What does Denji want? Rest? Tenderness? No. ]

Nnngh, please, please — [ The more Aki slams into him, the more the fit improves, each slide more elastic than the last. Denji shifts his hips to grind back down against Aki's cock pulsing between his walls, a shudder singing up his spine as he hits his prostrate exactly the way he needs. ] You're — killing me. I want you to — kill me, kill me, ahhh —

[ Aki's name is right there, right on the tip of his tongue, but before he can even think to take the plunge, his standing leg is starts to buckle, lose strength. The knee bends like an old floorboard, despite his efforts to cling to Aki's shoulders, his neck, nails scorching marks wherever he can get his hands on. ]

[It's the last thing he ever expected to hear from Denji. To kill him. To destroy him. That he is killing him. The rush of him slipping from his hold and scratching his way down his chest momentarily breaks his concentration, his obsession with making sure Denji is recognizing who he's with. The desire to be recognized through another, to achieve self-actualization via another person's words. That fades for a moment. He blinks through a fog of heat and sees Denji struggling against his body, clinging to him as he falls lower.]

[He pulls out all at once, turning Denji around with a harsh tug. His goal is to push him back into the door but turned around, chest into wood, one of his arms held behind his back.]

You think I'll -

[How fucking selfish is this kid? That he thinks Aki is going to kill him a second time? Mourn him a second time? Cry over him all over again? Aki's desire to never be alone again rubs up against Denji's begging to be killed like two porcupines' spikes, violent and immediate in their rejection, but Aki, himself, can't allow himself to think he's being anything but selfless. If it means keeping Denji alive, Aki would leave him forever. He wants to believe he means that. Even if he wants Denji to be in his life, always... If he has to choose to be alone with the knowledge that Denji is alive - Can't he live with that? Why can't that be enough for him? Why is he just as selfish as Denji asking for it to end? He presses back into him and meets his hips with his own, cock pressed in all the way.]

You aren't allowed to ever die again. Do you hear me? [That's the devil speaking, he decides. He can allow it to speak now. Tell him later that it was the effect of the spores. He snaps his hips back and then pounds in again, gripping his fingers around his wrist as he continues fucking him just as hard if not harder thanks to the new position.] Do you hear me? Answer me.

[ Aki pulls out for less than thirty seconds — which is simultaneously too long to be without him and not long enough, at least to fully catch his breath, a torment and a short-lived relief wrapped into one — before suddenly whizzing him around, Denji hollering in surprise. His free hand braces into the framing for support, fingernails carving indents into the paneling, threatening to splinter through the wood when his cock fills him out again with a thrust so impossible, so peerless, he can nearly taste Aki on his tongue. The archway leading into the kitchen is dark, as is the rest of the bar, but for a split second, he can feel his vision go stark and sterling, every vivid sensation attacking his body, imprinting on him — it feels so unbelievably good, he can almost ignore the utter fury laced in the words thrown at him.

Mewling and panting like a cock-drunk animal in heat, Denji's face turns over his shoulder to watch him, expression halfway between reverent and openly adoring, slack-jawed and slavering from the mouth. Each in-and-out slide — it's so — it's like he's trying to fuck the shame into him, but like how alcohol gets cooked out of wine through the heating process, any ounce of shame has long since evaporated from him, leaving only a sickening pleasure.

Aki sounds angry, betrayed by what he begged for, to die by his hand and be consumed by him, to be eaten and to be one, and there's something thrilling about it. About the way it's not indifference. His spine arches with a flinching jerk, a tingling vibrato spiking inside his bones like a tuning instrument, forcing a sound, half-grunt, half-groan, to weigh out of him, his eyes briefly fluttering skyward. Oh, no, he's — ]

I — [ Denji's inner muscles are spasming out of control, oh, fuck, oh, god, he's pulling on his arm like the reins of a horse, like he might dislocate it with each tug, and Denji's getting off on it, he's getting off on all of it, the swollen head of his own cock bouncing against his stomach, throbbing — ] Haah, yes! Yes! Yes, sir — yes, Aki —

[ Is Aki speaking to him, or is it someone else, something else, a more carnal being? Denji doesn't know. He doesn't care. It's the name of the person he wants most that'll ring off the walls as his hot come spits against the door in a dribbling flood. And yet, even though Denji's body shudders, he doesn't sag, doesn't let up as as he grinds his hole back down against Aki, with the intent of not just edging out his orgasm, but keeping going past his orgasm. ]

Aki, Aki, Aki…

[The sound of his name coming out of Denji is enough to make Aki finish. He can feel the way his body changes as Denji comes against his own stomach, spurting onto the door and dripping to the floor. Yet he's still moving against him, still slurring his name like he's drunk off it. Aki keeps grinding into him, fucking deeper every time, as if he can carve more out and hit diamond if he doesn't give up. He can hear himself panting and his orgasm feels so close, the repeated sound of Denji's voice in his ear - Yes, sir, how hard that had made his dick jump - and the delight of friction when he squeezes his arm and twists it against his back. He leans into his shoulder and nibbles at his skin before biting down hard, digging his teeth into the flesh as his hips buck before grinding hard into the tight heat. When he comes it's almost obscene, Aki spilling violently into him and filling him until he's fucking his own release into his hole, like he wants it to take.]

[He would always stop after this. Lean back and take a breather. Aki releases the skin from between his teeth but that's about as much of a reprieve as Denji gets. He keeps thrusting, pushing his chest into the door with a shove to his back, then drags his hip toward himself and groans against his neck. He doesn't want to give him up yet. Doesn't want to give him the excuse to get up, to run. The longer he can fuck him, the longer he can own him.]

Keep going - There you go, just, fuck - [He can hear the awful noises of his own come inside of him, lubricating his cock poorly but better than it was before.] Be good - Keep going, Denji, just be good and keep going... [The hand on his hip wraps around to hold his stomach as he drags Denji against him and keeps thrusting up into his dripping hole.]

Edited (html really fucked me today) 2023-09-23 21:33 (UTC)

[ Aki's name continues rolling from his lips, drip by drip, just like the mess of white sleeking from his burning, come-greased asshole, past his taint, down his flushed thighs. He should be thinking about how much of a pain cleaning up is going to be, about how impossible it will be to get home after this, about Nayuta taking shelter from the rainfall somewhere, waiting for him, wondering what’s taking so long. But he isn’t.

How can he when Aki’s hips are a relentless guillotine, slicing through whatever attachment he has to reality, his sanity, with each stinging slap of his balls against his swollen cheeks? Denji’s head is floating summits above all that rubbish, even above the crueler thoughts that’d plagued him this entire evening, too high and weightless and warm from, not his own orgasm, but Aki’s, from being a hole Aki can abuse over and over to bring himself to climax. From being needed and wanted in some way, even if it’s not in a way that’ll last outside these doors. ]

I-I wanna be good — [ For you, he forgets to add in the moment. For only Aki. With Aki's handling, his back curves, Denji's feet rising to his toes to maintain the angle. ] I wanna —

[ Though the ground is soiled with his spend, his hamstrings are sore, his nipples puffy and peaked and rubbed painfully against the wall, he can't imagine feeling more alive, no matter how achingly hard he still is somehow. There's nascent, darker pressure rising in his belly, igniting every fraction of his skin, and he never wants it to end. Never wants to feel relief if it means the crossroads of their bodies will have to break apart, his inner walls will have to stop contracting around his cock.

His back wriggles up against Aki, hips pressing from side to side, jostling the rhythm of their thrusts. He wants to see his face. To look him in the eyes as he says, ] I wanna be yours. Make me yours.

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