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

[ His head lolls to the side, allowing Aki more access to the cords of muscles in his neck as their rocking simmers down to a loose humping, then comes to a halt altogether with that final thrust — full up and sensitive to physical contact, but unwilling to extricate himself, Denji leans into the door with a sigh, his sticky forehead knocking into frame. He should be satisfied with this, his back to his heaving chest, the two of them shaded in a comfortable darkness save for the little square of light coming from the entryway, car headlights refracting through every so often. If he looked at his reflection through shelved bottles of wine, the glassware, he'd be able to see every place that Aki's touched on his body is visibly marked, a gnash of rosy and darkening skin; Aki took what he wanted, he knows, so why does it feel like he left Denji's heart untouched? And that in itself being so scathing?

His answer, his lack of one, makes Denji feel…

For a moment, there's only the steadying of their breaths. At one time, that was the single most thing Denji wanted, the focal point of his dreams, his nightmares, and his regrets: to hear Aki breathe again. To feel it. To tell Aki everything he thought there would be more time to say back then, to say sorry and mean it, really mean it, to show him how much better he's gotten at being a more complete person. He's not sure if he's achieved all of that yet, but he has a sneaking suspicion that regardless of if he did, it'd still be no closer to enough. There would always be something left to say or do differently.

Denji's hand drops between their legs, carefully wrapped around Aki's shaft to inch him out, his semen oozing out with the absence of something to plug his hole, trickling down his leg, joining the streaks he himself left behind. He turns to face him, swaying slightly on his feet, but managing to stabilize himself by pressing his back up against the door again. He doesn't let go of Aki's dick.

By now, Aki is probably as tender as he is, he thinks. Silently, his hand drags against his skin, giving one jerk upwards. ]

Can we — again?

[ This isn't the same breathless jest Denji said last night. He's begging. If this night ends, then who knows what will happen tomorrow? Between them when they're able to think straight again. Or whatever else. ]

[He wants to go again? Aki groans quietly when Denji pulls him out, the way his hand strokes over his too-sensitive dick. If they do it again, will he be able to break through to that final space? Will he be able to prove that Denji will care for him, will love him unconditionally like he does Denji? Will it show him his heart?]

[Aki sighs, reaching to tug him back from the door, then carefully guides him down to the ground, onto his back, Aki settling right at his entrance on his knees. It's a little gross to do it on the floor of a bar, both of their releases not too far away, but last night felt closer than this. He wants to replicate it. Wants to try and achieve that again. This is the devil's doing, his mind tells him, and he knows that. He's not stupid. Futility - it's the name of the game. But he doesn't care. Like when you've smoked half a pack of cigarettes in a night, what's one more?]

You... [He leans down close and kisses him, almost gentle compared to before, but the coating of Denji's blood is still fresh on his lips.] Want you to ride me. Got it?

[ 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.

[This is good, he thinks. It feels like he can reach even deeper inside of him like this, burrow into Denji's depths and feel his essence. The motion is sloppy and unpracticed and Aki can tell he'll slide out before he even does. He raises a hand to settle on his hip as if it will help him in some way, but he doesn't tug him or yank him down.]

Come on.

[A quiet little supportive sound - is what Aki intends, but it comes out hollow. He helps to re-align himself and sink back in, then props himself up on his elbows to better thrust his hips.]

[Denji wasn't alone in wanting to go again. Aki wants to stay smothered inside of him until the wick of his candle burns away. He struggles to aim as deep as he wants to and, with a final, rough huff of his own, sits up more and wraps his arms around Denji, tugging him in close.]

Here.

[It presses himself in as deep as his body can manage, brushing against his prostate and dripping come down his balls. He has to bend his knees to stay upright while his arms keep him pulled close. He's still as he sits there, face pressed into Denji's shoulder, the sensation of blood on his cheek from the wound on his neck. It's not enough, he keeps thinking, even as he holds him close. Why isn't it enough? Why can't Denji give him enough?]

Fuck. [He whispers that, shaking his head. It's the devil. But even knowing it's a devil's curse, the feeling of never being full is as painful as starvation.]

[ A tight groan pushes out of him as he sinks down, and he feels good, probably, but also something's not right. The deeper Aki nestles himself into Denji's furthest reaches, the more bereft he feels, the more like he's falling apart to prove something, like a wound coming unstitched as you keep testing the give of the sutures. What happened? Why can't he do this right for Aki? This one thing.

Swallowed around the full thickness of him, his arms encircle his shoulders, balmy against Aki's equally heated skin — the temptation is there. To just sit like that for a moment, with him, soak up the thrum of his chest, the leftover come painting his insides. But this was his idea, and the fear that, maybe, he'll get bored of him if he does nothing but hug him, leech off his body warmth, itches at the back of his mind. Denji has to be good. For better or for worse, the rhythm of his hips is still clumsy, but he manages to bounces his ass atop Aki's lap, unsure if the twisting sensation in his stomach is the return of pleasure or something else entirely. Something worse. ]

Is it — good? Is it bad?

[ The words mist into Aki's neck along with his pants, hardly audible, if it weren't for the fact that he's speaking so close to his ear. He's not looking at him. He's afraid to, like the disinterest he heard in his voice might have seeped into his eyes, and seeing that really will kill him. And, sure, he'd wanted to die a little by Aki's hands moments ago, a consummation of his desire, of his need to be sustained by him, but — not this way. It's too lonely. ]

[The more Denji moves, the more it reveals that it's not enough. No amount of his thrusting or shifting or humping is enough. He can't reach the high he's looking for and it's so frustrating, so aggravating, so - depressing. Denji speaking so close to his ear feels like a snake coiling around his throat, tempting him to flinch too hard. Like the last of his hope will be choked if he moves suddenly, quick enough to upset this balance. He clenches his eyes shut. It's a devil, he tells himself. It's a devil. This is a devil.]

[It doesn't matter. The worst kinds of devils are the ones that can scratch at your screws. Strip the threads as they pull at them. Even if they can't dislodge them, the damage is done. Aki exhales a shaky breath as Denji drops down on him again and finally clenches his arms tight around him, trying to force him still.]

No.

[Denji wanted to run away with him, he reminds himself. Denji asked him if they were friends. Denji came home like he said to. He helped him put up his hair. Helped him fold the laundry. Came to Hokkaido with him. Sat with him, staring out at the snowy abyss. It's a devil, he hisses to himself, repeating that word over and over again. Devil, devil, devil - ] Devil.

[Gun can play at him so easily when he's like this. Aki's old methods were about shutting others out, refusing to form connections, keeping his distance. Every time he got close to someone, they ended up dead, anyway. Just push them away first, Gun suggests, rolling the barrel in his hand and wrapping his fingers around the grip. Being alone sucks. Being unloved sucks. But it's all ten times better than being abandoned. Being tossed away. Being left.]

[He feels the cold metal spreading over his face before he can realize what it is, the hammer pulling from the back of his head first and splitting his hair down the center. The muzzle comes next. Carbon steel builds outward behind Denji's head, his chin still settled in his shoulder. He nudges the barrel against the back of his head, groaning when he shifts. The heat of his body feels like dipping into a hot bath after a day in the snow. His arm doesn't turn, just grips him tight. Keeps him right where he is, right where he wants him. Again Aki groans and parts his lips to bite down on Denji's shoulder, gentler than the one that broke skin as he tries to balance the feeling of knowing this won't last with the desire to force it to anyway.]

[ It's a paralysis that reminds him of how he'd felt that first night seeing Aki after so long: Denji doesn't twitch, doesn't stammer, doesn't move. He can't do anything but concentrate on regulating his breathing, pushing oxygen through his nose.

Not due to Aki’s arms stopping him, though that’s part of the reason, but because he can feel it as if it were his own skin stirring alive, the familiar manipulations of flesh and bone inflating, stretching, smithing itself into a weapon to be wielded, a trigger to be pulled. And he’s the one sitting right in front of the muzzle. Fear isn’t the right word for what rouses in his chest, claws out into the light of his eyes — this thing, this wriggling that makes the hairs of his neck stand as cold as the gun-mouth kissing the back of his head, is probably more like self-doubt compounded into panic. There are dozens of wrong decisions he could make, ways he could disappoint Nayuta, paths that close out by choosing another, and if he closes his eyes, he can envision all of his options leading to — ]

Aki…?

[ Nothing like pain shoots through his shoulder when he feels teeth diving into his skin, but the sensation is just as penetrating. Electric. It shocks him out of the tangle of his thoughts, enough for him to turn his head and…

Once, in a golden room, he asked Makima a question, and she’d answered by pressing in close, her thighs scissored between his legs, gilded in light, haloed in it, like a saintly idol erected to be worshiped by ilk lesser and greater than himself, all on their hands and knees. Yet there he was, touching something he shouldn't, something he didn't understand. When he looks at Aki's face, the shine of what must be the moon sloping his cheeks, there's a similar sense of religion as back then weighing the air, he thinks. It isn't the kind where you know you're in the presence of someone graced with the favor of some all-supreme being, no, it's the opposite — that feeling where, because you know you've been abandoned, the umbilical cord feeding your faith severed, you realize you're free to create your own sustenance. Self-genesis.

Divinity and depravity aren't such different concepts. And what else were half-humans like them made for if not to enjoy the best of both worlds?

Every time Aki’s face has changed, he’s either looked away or made sure not to look too long. Like if Denji's gaze doesn't meet the place where he knows his eyes would usually be, he can ignore his part in how fucked up things are. So when he slightly shifts his body, just enough to softly brush his lips up against the metallic barrel, his breath warming the hardened veins that groove the underside of the opening — it's with the devotion, the desperation, of a wretch seeking penance. He can’t keep averting his eyes. ]

Yours.

[ That's what he is. He says it again, but without any room for misinterpretation. It’s not something he can make him into, not something Denji can even give to him anymore. It just is what it is, as predetermined and doomed as green prickling from the branches of a tree after a long, long winter. ]

[Aki is pretty sure Gun doesn't have eyes. Seeing when the pistol covers his face is akin to seeing through pinned holes, similar to the sight of a rifle, a magnified perspective that blocks out everything else. But the smaller things that come with not having eyes have always frustrated him. The inability to shield them. To close them. So many things he took for granted that are impossible when he has Gun pulled over his face. The ability to embrace someone, to turn his face into their neck. To nuzzle. To press his forehead into theirs. These things didn't matter before, but with Denji in his lap, he wishes it would all melt faster and he could go back to that. So when he kisses that very part of him that he's been cursing, hating, despising - mourning - Aki realizes there's at least one thing he can still do with eyes covered by Gun. He can stil cry.]

[It's not really clear where the tears come from, the mottled and veiny blindfold of Gun concealing where they start. Denji says that word and Aki sets his jaw, refusal biting at his lips, but he repeats it before he can disagree verbally. Stupid, he could call him. Idiot. Brat. Devil. He can still taste his blood on his lips, feel his body warm around his cock. He has the nerve to say Yours when Aki feels so encased in him, wrapped in him. How can Denji be his when Aki doesn't even own the sheen on his lips?]

Denji.

[Like it's the only way he can respond. He can't openly reject him. He knows that will just bring back the futility that's been swamping them for the past hour. Surely this, too, is an extension of that - but Aki pushes the thought away as quickly as it forms, staring at Denji in front of him through his sights, the barrel pointed straight at his face but with no more malice than a party popper. Fine, he could tell him, you be mine, too. But who is he talking to? Denji or Gun? Will he ever really have either of them for himself? Is it okay to want them both when the reasons are so drastically different? He doesn't know. He's never been so selfish as to want something like that in the first place.]

Bite me.

[He doesn't know how to plan for the long term anymore. But in the short term, he knows what he wants, even without Future there to tell him how it will turn out. Maybe he'd been looking through sights for longer than he realized if he thinks about it that way.]

[ He's seen Aki cry before, sometimes silently, sometimes wasted with anguished breaths that wracked every major structure of his whole anatomy. But always, always, turned away from Denji — to protect him or to protect the remaining threads of his sense of esteem, his pride, he wouldn't know, and it never bothered him. Not up until the end. When he could feel there being less and less he could do to comfort him without crossing one of their unspoken boundaries, without pulling up close, forcing himself to see past his darkened under eyes, the shadows sunken into the lines of his face. Without reaching out, following the salty tracks wetting the rounds of his cheeks, drinking his tears like sap from a tree, honey from the hive. Without admitting to himself that he loves Aki.

It feels easy to do now. When you're starved, there are some things the body just knows how to do without thinking. Denji isn't as gentle about the way he speckles kisses across his face, returning to the the steel apparatus, hitting the juncture where metal and skin are one in the same, then back to his nose, the bow of upper lip, his chin. It's not in the patient way Aki had been with him last night; he's greedier, demanding, like a thrush spoiled with birdfeed and unwilling to share.

He only lifts away at the murmur of his name, reluctantly, his mouth sticking to the corner of Aki's before releasing from him. Waiting. Listening for the order, the creaking hinges of a door drawing open, wide enough for him to go sprinting through.

Bite me, he says. Denji reels in a stream of air. Exhales, shortly after, his face moving with the rush of air out of him, like a twig caught in a current, as he noses against his throat, the soft protrusion of cartilage. ]

…Okay. [ Another kiss to the patch of skin, his tongue peeking out, nudging into the bony joint, swiveling, charting the exact coordinates he'll be digging his canines into. Trepidation vibrates all the way to his core, palpable in the way Denji's walls tense and tighten, hugging the curve of Aki inside him. ] Okay, yeah.

[ His own throat bobs, swallowing the buildup of saliva in his mouth, before his jaw stretches open, taking in nearly the full width of the apple of Aki's throat. The sharps of his teeth crunch in excruciatingly slow, not wanting the pain to blind the pleasure as blood boils over the rim of the puncture marks, burgeoning like the petals of a spider lily. ]

[He used to find this sort of thing disgusting. He never got used to watching Denji drench himself in blood, in the meat and muscle of devils to replenish the motor running inside him. He remembers, once, one of the many times he sat filling out a report while standing over the mutilated corpse of a devil, telling Angel he was disgusting for how he nibbled at the edges of an appendage like biting chicken off a bone. Angel, in his non-plussed way, simply said, At least this way they serve a purpose. And what was that, filling the stomach of a glutton? Or something similar, had been Aki's response. But Angel had looked at him oddly, the perk of his brow expressing disappointment that Aki didn't understand. They can be appreciated, this way, he'd explained.]

[He didn't understand it at all, back then, but the moment Denji's teeth close around him and pierce skin, he understands it completely. It's not like Aki ever sought approval or appreciation from anyone but the very people who he felt would get him where he wanted to go. He didn't beg Himeno to complement him or work hard for the sake of Kishibe telling him he did a good job. Even now, he only works because he has to, because the alternative is too difficult to think about. But his relationship with Denji isn't so clear-cut, and so his role doesn't feel as simple as doing a job. Feeding him, making sure he gets up in time, making sure he's generally safe. The old job of warden faded long, long ago, even before he died. Feeling Denji clench his teeth around him and draw out his blood feels like finally finding some greater purpose, some sort of understanding of what he actually wants. He wants Denji. He wants him to want him. Aki groans, not in pain but in a sort of relief, like when someone suddenly grabs the weight you've been carrying, allowing you to rest for a moment. Denji flutters around him and he groans again. He can feel himself throbbing in him. Gently he shifts his hips to slide back and forth inside of him and savor the proximity, the touch. Whatever this is, he doesn't want to lose the taste.]

That's it... Keep going... [A hoarse approval as he shifts his hands and feels them around Denji's chest, sliding over his skin and over his cord and then to his nipples, searching them out when he can't look down and can barely see what's right in front of him, anyway. He can still feel wet tears sliding down his cheeks but it doesn't worry him or make him want to shy away. He continues slowly rocking up into him and enjoying the gentle push-pull of his body. The way he feels... connected.]

[ There's a stagger to how air vents out his nostrils as Aki stuffs himself into him at a leisurely tempo, a maddening one, Denji relishing the curl of heat aching up the dips in his spine. The sensation is duller now that they’ve both rut to completion once already, but he thinks that if they keep at it, they could plunge over an even steeper ledge than the one that sent them crashing into the roof of a police vehicle. His lashes, nearly the same gossamer as a moth’s wings in this lighting, quiver as he counteracts the impulse to moan outright by doubling down on his bite, the whites of teeth fully submerged in red, unwilling to let his lips break too far from the column of Aki’s neck. A territorial hound trying to hoard what he thinks is his, what he wants so much to be his, just his.

Drinking someone else's blood was never like this, never something he would prefer over a fresh meal prepared over the heat of a stove. When he was still part of Public Safety and getting accustomed to imbibing blood from both devils or injured, sometimes dying, civilians, he did it without thinking too hard; he did it to stay in motion, stay on his feet. At some point, he'd started doing it because he hoped it would make Aki stop pinning him with that worried gaze of his, that is, if he came out of battle as close to in one piece as he could. He never really managed that, though.

But now, the more he commits Aki's flavor to memory, trying to metabolize his blood, assimilate it to his own bodily systems, he thinks he could live and frolic in it. Stoke an addiction for it. His chest jumps at the weight of Aki's hands finding his nipples, the darkening skin peaking beneath his fingers. A low-pitched lilting sound rumbles from deep inside Denji's mouth, the reverb able to felt through his palate, through the teeth dragging hard against the indent of a vein. His palm slides on top of the back of one of Aki's knuckles, holding him in place against his pectoral, urging him to play with the nubs, to pay attention to him. He's so impossibly full like this, so distracted by it, he barely registers the blood skating between both their chests. But when he finally does dare a glance down, and without wasting anytime, that same hand appears at the puddle of the blood that's gathered at Aki's collar, swiping the sticky residue up. Bringing it to the sliding juncture between their bodies, already slimy with come. He doesn't care. He slicks the shaft of Aki's cock, what skin of his is visible and isn't inside him, with a layer of red — he wants to feel him everywhere. ]

[He could just turn Denji over and fuck him on the cold ground, but that would mean moving him from his perfect spot, having to dislodge him from his neck for even a moment. Why does it feel so good? Why is the sensation so perfect, so addictive? Aki raises his chin high, stretching his neck to give him the whole expanse of his skin to chew at and bite through, a longer, headier groan pulling out of him when he feels Denji's hand grasp around his cock and slather the length with blood. When he presses back in, he swears he can feel the difference. The intense heat from his own injury running down his shaft and connecting him to Denji's body.]

Denji - You're...

[He doesn't know what he wants to say. His hair falls over his shoulders as he continues tilting his head back to urge him onward. Aki rubs over his nipples with his thumbs in a constant and dragging motion, almost tugging at them as he thrusts up and into him over and over. He's never come so soon after an orgasm but it must be that devil, he tells himself - then denies that and tells himself it's Denji, it's the way he's biting him, the way his voice sounds and the noises he makes, the way he said that word twice in a row. Again he groans, but this time it's softer. More like a moan.]

You feel - perfect.

[ The impossible combination of perfect echoing in his ears, the nonstop massaging and groping making his pink chest arch into Aki's hands, the vulgar squelch of come and blood foaming from his swollen hole, his hips squirming and hopping as he meets Aki, pulse for pulse — together, these variables purge every cruddy thought that's latched to him this entire night, a persistent thorn. Nothing else is on his mind besides the angry blubbering of his cock, closing in on euphoria. He's close, fuck, fuck, he's close. He wishes he could tell Aki, tell him how good he makes him feel, how the world feels bearable with the two of them, just like this. But there isn't a single timeline where Denji lets go of him, where exchanging the coppery tendrils running down his tongue for something unnecessary like air is even an option worth considering.

And almost to prove that point, when he feels Aki batter into his prostrate so, so sweetly, though Denji's instinct is to sharply gasp, head buzzing, his teeth cinch down instead. He means to just bite a little more tightly than he had been. However, the lurch of his stomach has his jaw grinding the wrong way, too heavy on one side, and before he realizes what's happening, he's cleaved fully through the patch of his skin, of warm, fibrous tissue, leaving Aki's neck raw and open and pulpy. Suddenly, it's not just Denji's mouth that's red; blood is dripping from the tip of his nose, painting his eyelashes, and blurring his vision — but he keeps trying to lap at the stream of it, still fucking down into him, helpless to do anything else. ]

Oh — oh, fuck — [ Alarm infiltrates his voice, but there's a blissed out slur to it, too, like he's getting off on being utterly full of him, covered in him. ] Aki, I'm gonna — help me, I'm gonna —

[It feels like a dam bursts when Denji tears his throat open. The groan he lets out is intense, his entire body shuddering as blood spills from the wound and he feels the way Denji intensifies all at once. Aki startles out of the height of the sensation when he hears him ask for help and, without any hesitation, reaches down to his cock between them and starts hastily jerking him off. He can't think of anything else he would want help with right now.]

There you go, just come, come for me - [His voice is quick and warm, coaxing him with a slight gurgle in his voice thanks to the blood in his mouth. He went from feeling like he was at rock bottom to sitting on cloud nine. He's close, too, hastily fucking up into him at less and less of a rhythm as he chases the combined pleasure of the wound Denji has made and the grip of his body. He can't see him with his head tilted back so he finally drops it to look at him - but Gun is still blocking his view, still pinning his sight in a way that makes it so hard to see. His free hand grabs Denji by the hair instead, yanking him back from his throat so he can get a look at him, so he can see him when he finishes.]

[ Aki fists a hand around him, and Denji knows he's fucking done for, the head of his cock just a a fleshy bulb twitching and jerking against his fingers. Gasps rush out from his lungs in choppy heaves, constricted and high-pitched. The sound could be mistaken for whistling in any other scenario, but with Denji's waist wriggling with the unsteady movements of grinding down on his cock, misty-eyed and a cut of Aki's pale skin still juicing blood all over his tongue, there's nothing to mistranslate. He could let the sliver drop, he realizes, fall back into the place where he tore it from, and watch the wound he'd inflicted fuse together like pouring hot, incandescent metal back into its cast — but why should he? Why should he give back something he wants for himself? Just so someone else can eventually take it — the government, Public Safety, who the hell ever?

No. Denji swallows his skin down his throat, down to the pits his stomach, down where no one else can have Aki but him. Like a dog dropping a rawhide bone into a shallow hole for safekeeping. And then he wails, a seismic wave throttling his body, numbing him from his head down to his curling toes, as if his orgasm is chiseling straight down his center — ]

Yes! Fuck! Like that, just! Like! That — ah —

[ In a mirror of his spasming body, Denji's entire face squeezes down, his eyes closed as he wrenches and rolls and falls utterly apart, twisting against Aki's hands. He means to say his name at the very end, but it's too late, his next stream of words releasing in a garble, much like the seed that spits from his cock in choked spurts, driveling between both of their navels, like the last of Aki's thrusts completely punched his remaining come from his balls. Limply, he droops forward, only held up by the grasp to the back of his head. ]

[When Denji tears the flesh right off his neck Aki feels himself hit the ceiling. His eyes roll beneath their cover and he grits his jaw tight. The gush of blood from his neck is even stronger now and when Denji finally comes in his grasp he's finishing barely a moment later, spilling inside him a second time as he meets his grinding motions with rough, quick bucks of his hip as his hand continues to stroke him through the orgasm. He hisses and pants and yanks hard at Denji's hair and when he finally drops his head down it's to set it on his shoulder, blood now running down Denji's front as he shivers and shakes through his own climax.]

[The most anyone ever did during sex that was anything like this was slap him. It created a rush of excitement but he was so mortified by that rush that he never asked for it again. Now... After having his throat ripped open in the middle of things, turning into a devil halfway through, how is he supposed to ever be satisfied again?]

[He feels the melting of Gun off his face as his body settles, the mud sliding down Denji's back and onto the floor like hydrophobic gel. He stares down at it as it sizzles and melts into the floor. When it's nearly gone, he sees a flash of something like glitter, his eyes focusing enough to make it out: the bullet chunk, dropped at some point, resting beside the mixture of blood and come on the ground beside Denji.]

[Aki closes his eyes, his arms wrapping around Denji to tug him in close.]

Denji... You're a mess.

[It's half muttered into his skin. And he has the nerve to sound annoyed about it.]

[ At that, Denji purely groans in response, face nudging past the sweep of Aki's hair to press into the warm, sweaty crook of his neck. Still tingling from his release, all boneless and honeyed. Every little movement he makes alerts him to the semen slushing inside where Aki's still situated, in places he can scarcely imagine, to how they both reek with blood and grime and sex. They should gather themselves, find somewhere to wash up, but he can't find it in himself to pull away so soon. Not yet, not when there's nowhere else he'd rather be, even if it's on the ground of some bar and next to the drying mess they've both worked quite hard to make.

Impossibly enough, he thinks he could probably fall asleep like this. ]

Woof…

[ For some reason, that seems like an appropriate reaction. If he pretends to be an actual dog, he won't have to accept responsibility for trespassing and essentially vandalizing the property with their come. Denji lays a palm flat against Aki's back, testing the waters to… something. To what, he couldn't begin to explain, but after a moment, his hand begins rubbing up and down the landscape of Aki's spine. ]

You okay?

[ Which part does he mean? He'll leave that up to him to decide. ]

[Denji just makes a little bark of a sound and Aki doesn't know if he expected anything else from him. He can still feel blood running down his neck and chest. He recognizes it might get into Denji's hair if he stays too close... But pushing him off right now would be as cruel as kicking a dog.]

Yeah. [Shockingly, he is. His neck aches and he knows Denji took off an entire flap of skin, but it'll heal. Like always. He feels the trace of his fingers up his spine and raises one hand to smooth over Denji's hair, really a petting motion. He's not really sure what to do about all this. The mess on both themselves and the ground, the status of their clothes... The wound.]

[Well. That part, he has an idea for. Aki's eyes drift back to the meat chunk of Gun and he finally picks it up, clutching it in his hand. So stupid. Some perpetual motion machine they are. Biting one another to heal will just create an ouroboros of them. With the hand petting Denji's head he coaxes him toward his wound as he begins to shift his hips and pull himself out. He'll let him heal before eating the bullet.]

You can lay down, for a second. I'll find something to clean up with. [But even once he's slid out, he doesn't move to get up or push Denji to do so. If he chooses to stay pressed against him and rolling his fingers along his spine, he'll let him. At least for now.] Just take it slow.

[ Denji's thighs close together as he feels Aki remove himself, a pinkish blood-come mixture dribbling down the crevice between. It doesn't really matter to him if Aki gets soaked by it, but it feels like such a waste for it all to go draining out of him already, hollowing him. Maybe he should cup his hand under and see if he can lap up whatever falls out…?

However, he makes no move to do that. Lets himself indulge in the petting, his eyes drawing closed again as Aki shifts him closer to his neck, his lips pressing gingerly into the crusting wound. Obviously, Denji doesn't notice the glimmering bullet pass back into Aki's possession. Though if he did, he probably wouldn't have been able to do anything about his plans, not even kick up a fuss. ]

Mm…

[ In a stark contrast from the way he'd mauled his throat earlier, now he's almost no different from a kitten flicking its tongue at a bowl of water for the first time. Docile. Like if Aki decided to roll him off completely, he'd probably just lay there groaning. ]

Aki. [ He draws back a few increments, looking up at him. ] …I don't think we're gonna make it home tonight. Should we find a hotel?

[When Denji finally leans back, Aki looks down at him. The idea of going to a hotel instead of stumbling all the way home is nice, but... Well, there's one main issue he can think of.]

We look like shit, though. [Aki has a good, solid stain on his body and Denji is... missing his jacket, he supposes. That's kind of it, though, aside from the general rain and sweat that's drenched them. Suddenly, a second thing comes to mind - ] And what about the devil? [Denji said she might be around here. Is it really okay to just leave her for the night...?]

[He's kind of making excuses, though. If they clean up in the bathroom here they'll just look waterlogged, not like they've been killing stuff and fucking in public. If Denji has a way to contact the devil, then it's not an issue. His eyes drift behind him to where his hand is, the gun chunk in his palm. The knowledge that, beyond the indescribable desire to eat it, he also needs to report it. Should contact his retainers as soon as possible. That they might want it for research or to find more rather than letting Aki have it.]

[No way, his mind shoots out immediately. No way, no way, no way. Like a child refusing to give up a toy or a dog guarding its food bowl. No way is anyone else going to touch it.]

...There's probably a love hotel we can rent until morning. [No one will ask questions at a business like that. They're in Kabukicho, so there's bound to be a number of them.]

A l-love hotel…

[ Can you see the sparkle in his eyes, Aki? Because, in 1… 2… 3… ]

[ With the solemn commitment of a soldier fastening the drawstrings of his boots, readying for a military procession: ] Welp, guess we have no other choice. I bet there's a phone or something in this place. I'll check if Nayuta's back home already.

[ It's not as if he plans on having sex with Aki again so soon, but this is Denji. It'd be stranger if he didn't find any excitement in visiting a love hotel — they're like mythical castles in the sky to him! His knees begin to maneuver out from their arrangement, but a funny thought strikes in the midway, the kind that probably should have occurred to him earlier, and he pauses. Raises an arm to Aki, close enough to his mouth that all he'd need to do is arch his neck forward to bite down. ]

You need this, right?

[ Denji's better after drinking from him. The marks on his skin from where Aki spilled his blood have faded, for the most part, no more obvious than a faint bruise. Probably, underneath all the red drying around his mouth, his split lip, too, has healed. It's just Aki who needs to be taken care of. ]

There's a phone at the...

[He trails off when Denji offers his arm out, the sudden shine of skin displayed before him, obvious in its intention. He could bite him again. But then would Denji still be hurt? Aki glances from the arm to his eyes, brow going tight.]

...It's fine. [He carefully pushes at him, aiming to dislodge him from where he sits and finally stand up. He presses his palm over his neck and feels the missing skin. In his other he holds the bullet with fingers tight around it.]

You gave me plenty before. It'll patch up in a minute.

[Gathering his clothes, he helps Denji to the bathroom first, tells him to clean himself up, but he's going to look for something to clean the floor with. While he's occupied, returning to the door where their mess is spilled, he ignores that as he looks down at the pellet in his palm, the meat-textured bullet, the dark grey flesh. Almost like he's shaking himself out of a trance, he starts to push it back into his pocket before thinking better of it. The longer he holds it, the more likely he is to drop it, he tells himself. Or for Denji to talk him out of it. Or for someone else to find out. To take it away from him.]

[He swallows it like a pill, cool down his throat and smooth despite the veins and bumps. It barely gets down him when he feels his heart thump like a rifle shot. He takes in a sharp breath, clutching at his heart as he starts coughing, too much oxygen sucked in at once, not enough blood to store it. It bubbles up to meet the demand and suddenly it's all rushing through him, a tidal wave of blood, air, carnage. He presses his other hand over his eyes and feels his teeth chatter. Too much. Way too much. He can barely breathe. There's too much air in his lungs. When he can finally cough it all out, it almost makes him double over.]

[The good thing is that every wound is stitched up like new. Stumbling to his feet, he walks like he's drunk to the bar table to grab for tissues so he can wipe up the mess. And... all the drool that rolled down his chin for some reason. That, too.]

Denji? [He calls out for him. Act normal. He looks and feels buzzed, like he just took a hit of a drug, but he tells himself checking on Denji will make him actually seem totally normal right now.]

[ Once Aki leaves him to it, cleaning takes no time at all. He scrubs every corner of himself with hand soap and water, the blood stains washing from his skin and dripping into the sink until the face in the mirror is finally recognizable again. Human again. It's as natural as how it feels every time his transformation ends, the remnants of Chainsaw Man dissolving, dissipating down his jaw, like shedding dead follicles. He eventually moves on to wiping down his thighs with a damp paper towel, pressing gingerly into himself. Honestly, he's not sure how else he's supposed to clean down there. Maybe he should try squeezing down and see how much comes out? But he's still kinda tender…

Deciding that he can figure out what to do when he takes an actual bath, which is hopefully sometime soon, he disposes of the towels and starts to slip on his clothes from the pile he brought inside the restroom with him. When he hears Aki calling his name, he antes up his pace, yelling back through the door. ]

Almost done! One sec.

[ Denji darts one last look at himself in the mirror, making sure he didn't miss any specks of red, and then heads out. He clocks the corded landline right beside the register on his way back to the bar top. Noticing that the mess still looks the same as when he left, he blinks, but perhaps wisely, doesn't comment on the state of things, instead moving to Aki's side. A steadying hand laying against his wrist. He tilts his head so that neither his face nor the concern tarnishing it can be ignored once he enters his view. ]

Woah there. You… look sick. [ The back of his other hand moves up, patting gently at the side of his face. ] What happened?

[Shit. Does he look that messed up? Aki shakes his head, batting away Denji's hand as he clears his throat.]

I'm fine. Just a headrush. You know. [Nothing to worry about, he hopes is the implication that comes across. He leans down to start cleaning up the mess to avoid letting Denji examine him too close. His heart is still rushing.] You look better - Cleaner. I saw the phone, it's over there. You can give her a call.

[Something else to distract him with. He needs to clean up, himself, but that's going to be a little trickier. Not only is his clothing stained with who-knows-what, but he smells like it, too. The scent of blood is dripping off of him. He badly needs to wash off. Gathering them up once the floors and walls are clean, he heads to the bathroom to try and rinse off the gore as well, though after awhile he's more or less rubbing it into the cotton. Annoying. Maybe the love hotel will have an extra shirt he can use. Do they have merch at those...?]

[When he comes back, his face has a bit better color to it, but the clothes he pulled on are sticking to his body like a second skin.]

Let's get going. We'll get sick if we stay like this.

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