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

[ If Denji had any cognizance leftover, he'd wonder at it: how he could possibly go this distance without collapsing inward, without mindlessly fuck his cock into Aki's long fingers, and, hey, isn't it funny how familiar this position is, just like that night where Aki'd yanked his pants over his knees and Denji'd offered to swallow his cock down his throat in return. But no, he traded in being able to think around the part where Aki had wickedly commandeered everything, and he'd let him. Was it due to him anticipating something positive in return? Partially. The inkling had seeded, sprouted in his mind the moment his back hit the ground, but that wasn't all. It was because Denji had realized this was one way, too. To making them both happy.

Dogs are so capable of being domesticated for a number of reasons, most of them having to do with breeding, with the fact that their motivations are so easily determined. What's often overlooked, though, is their attachment to others. A glimpse at a small and curved sliver of a smile, not even showing teeth, will get even the boniest of tails swaying back-and-forth.

Or maybe that's just Denji.

Good boy kisses his lips, just a breath carrying words, but it soaks straight through his chest like a spongy cake bathing in sweet rum. He knows he's close, he knows he's hit his upper limit, but it's what Aki says next that makes his heel slam into the back of Aki's knee, back arched.

Pinks of his gums shining with spit fully visible from how yawned open his mouth is, Denji's body gives a single short jolt, then spasms as if he were having a seizure, every one of his limbs flailing, his hole clenching and unclenching around nothing, as he loses all sense of control under Aki. He pushes up, tries to kiss him, really he does, but his orgasm pulses out in waves, like a shock from an electric collar that keeps sending his aim askew, and he can only crash his lips into Aki's bottom one as light flashes in his vision. The sensation of thick come sludging down his stomach and his half-rolled up shirt in a slew of squirts, torrid and dirty. ]

Mmph — Aki —

[Denji loses control of himself so much that it isn't even funny. He's like a rubber band, wound back and suddenly snapped in an unexpected direction, wherever the tension led it. But for once, Aki feels like he knew exactly which direction he would snap towards, how his body would quiver and shake and at what moment. He didn't expect the force of the snap, is all.]

[The hit of his heel, the fight for a kiss - Aki leans down into him as he continues stroking him, fisting over his cock with quick, tight strokes that grow even slicker with how sullied with come his hand gets. He can't help it - he's a little proud. Of what - Denji? No, he doesn't think so. No, not about this, exactly. He was a little proud that he held back, but that part is over. It might just be pride in himself, he realizes slowly, grabbing hold of Denji's lower lip between his teeth and nipping at the skin gently. How embarrassing. But it feels good.]

Keep going - That's it. [He intends to keep going, milk him fully dry. See how far his own hand can push him. Is that selfish? Wanting to see his own affect and how far it can push him. How far he can make him go.] Knew you'd like that. You horny brat. [Because he's still hard, he realizes with delay again, still wanting something more out of this. That must be why he feels so selfishly like continuing to shove Denji along.]

[ Signal as spotty as a busted TV set, he's blinking in and out of awareness, crude groans he thinks may be originating from one of the dogs in the bedroom are whistling and thrumming deep from his very own chest. Vaguely, he can feel his come hitting the underside of his chin. That’s new. Shit, he didn’t think he could shoot that far, could keep squirming like this, each pump of Aki's hand proving that no matter how spent he is, how much his cock reddens and twitches in Aki's grip from oversensitivity he's still got seed to spare. And he can feel it: Aki's intent on spreading him out and thin, jam on a bed of toast. Or like those pin-up posters Denji would painstakingly smooth out on the floor, then jerk it to back when they lived together and he knew Aki could hear him. ]

I like it — too much. [ Lip stretching where Aki's nipping him, Denji shifts to lick his tongue up his mouth, tasting salt. The friction's still good, but the acute pulpiness in his limbs, in the weight of himself in Aki's hands, the feeling of being beaten thoroughly — it's all so much better than he could have imagined. ] N'enough… Rgh, please, Aki, more, make me — more — wanna come more —

[ He pleads in what pockets of air he can get in the kiss, his back undulates with abandon, like a strumming bowstring that can't sit still after being flexed and released from its rigid form. ]

[He wants to keep insulting him, dragging him down as he pulls him high at the same time. He's just so pitiful to look at, begging for a little more pleasure, trying to chase his lips and rolling his stomach like Aki is scratching the perfect spot for him. He did fine last time he fucked him with nothing but spit, he reasons, and then immediately decides against it, an iron door slamming shut. Denji came to him, tried to give something to him. But that's not what he wants from him right now. If he's going to give him anything, he wants it to be himself, not his body. And surely he can't get that through the latter.]

Not gonna fuck you.

[It's really like he's edging himself on top of this, refusing to touch himself, focusing solely on Denji and the way he looks so blissed out of his mind. He could feel that, too. Shove his head down on his cock and choke him while he comes down his throat. But no, he insists again. No, he wants Denji, not his body. It's not the same. He can't accomplish it through sex. Can he even accomplish this selfish desire through anything?]

You're making... such a mess. [He swipes two fingers through the come that shot under his chin, feeling the same sticky residue on his front but he only gathers that small string and shoves his fingers into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue and fucking his mouth open. All the while, through every motion, he keeps stroking him. His hand doesn't stop once in its up-down drag.] You're such a nasty brat. You're going to smell like your own dried come when you're done. Look at you... [Because Aki is, his eyes trained on Denji's as he watches him, hooded and dark.] Now, bite.

[ There's no more gas in his tank, the last of his come weeping straight on to Aki's sliding hand; the only thing his strokes are deftly pulling out from him now are strangled whines, like what might be heard from an injured animal on its last legs. Still erect somehow, his cock strains under the perennial pressure wringing him, a good kind of hurt searing into him, wax on flesh. They could keep going. He wants to keep going. Aki's the only one he trusts not to cheat him —

Huh? What'd he say?

Denji stares at him in bleary-eyed confusion, the feeling slowly tipping into outrage by the way his face is tellingly cringed, a weak protest one foot out the front entrance before Aki's plugged his wet digits down his windpipe, silencing whatever he's got to say. His first instinct isn't to recoil, isn't to cry out, no, it's to melt around his fingers, punctuated by the sound of a heady moan. Tears instantly pilled at the corners of his eyes, unfalling, blinked away as he pitches slowly downward until his lips touch his knuckles, then pulling back. In the same indulgent sweep, the tip of his tongue teases the slit between his fingers, gathering — what is this? It's rich and viscous, is this spunk? His spunk? Oh, who cares — the semen, letting a puddle collect on his tongue and each drop slide against his tonsils. Down his throat.

And when Aki tells him to bite? He doesn't wait to be coddled, doesn't teethe and test how much force to apply. His own hands twist around Aki's wrist before he can think twice, nails digging as his head bobs down once again, and his incisors stab through succulent skin, iron and come mixing into a sweet and savory bloody mary in his mouth, not for the first time. But he drinks it in like it is, like he's never been fed a single day in his life, like his taste buds have yet to discover water, so this, whatever Aki has for him, whatever he wants to ply him with, will do as suitable substitution for proper nutrition. ]

[He's so noisy that Aki thinks that devil is going to wake up any moment now. But the thought comes and goes like a breath of wind, quick and painless. He presses his fingers down Denji's throat and imagines for a sweet second that it's his own cock, choking him until he can't breathe, overflowing his mouth with his come. And then he bites, and Aki hisses with pure pleasure, leaning his head down into his shoulder as his hand mercilessly beats him off. Doesn't matter that nothing else comes out - he just wants to touch.]

[It feels so good and he doesn't think anyone's explanation as to why would be satisfying. It's just incredible. Like a hot shower that burns when it hits your skin, a massage that nearly pulls your bones from their sockets. It feels great. Intense heat followed by a rush of cool, his body trying furtively to cool itself down from the volcanic high. When he finally leans back to look at him, watch the way his blood coats his lips like some macabre makeup, it's only then that he finally lets go of Denji's cock and reaches up to grasp for one of his hands.]

Here.

[He drags it down to his own, squeezes his fingers around his shaft and pushes up into it to instruct him. His own hand is sticky with come but it's alright - Now Denji's is similarly messy and it'll surely get messier soon.]

[ The whip-pulse of Aki’s hand on him rages in his ears like the din of an izakaya at peak hours, drowning out everything in his head. Not just his own wrecked groans, but things like how much he cares about Nayuta waking up. Whether his neighbors hate him, whether the landlord knocks on his door at the morning with an eviction notice in hand. Addict's thinking, he knows. Pleasure blooming in the sting. To hurt and be hurt and to keep going whatever the cost. That Denji can lose himself freely and feel good about it, that he doesn't even need to be slobbering over cock to have Aki heaving close, breathing in the same pain Denji's inflicting on him. Aki could have sheathed a dagger through his front teeth, and he’d still be suckling on it like a mother’s tit, if it gave them what they both wanted.

Denji almost resists when Aki pries a hand away, cheeks suctioned tight around the raw puncture marks in his fingers in case he might wrench his mouth off next, heedless of the saliva seeping from the corner of his lips, looking as if they share a wound. Like if Aki really wants to be rid of him, he better be ready for Denji to swallow down the skin and meat off his bones, too. Take something to remember him by.

But then his hand is back around the length of him, and he barely even needs Aki's instruction to keep going, twisting up — starting slow, just like he asked him to do earlier, but continuous, head to root. ]

That still how you like it?

[ He asks it like any other question, but there's almost a flicker of a taunt in his brown gaze, rising up to meet his. ]

[It feels good, immediately. The slow rub is perfect, even moreso when combined with the sting from his fingers, the drizzle of blood lapped by his tongue. Aki leans his head down with a groan, resting his chin on Denji's shoulder, his hips shifting towards Denji's tugs to urge him a little faster.]

Just like that. Good.

[If he's trying to taunt him, to mock him for this, it goes over his head as the pleasure builds. It's good. The combination of pain and pleasure - it's always been good. A slap across the cheek at the height of orgasm. The rush of striking the killing blow, wounds seeping blood and limbs screaming in pain as things go still. It's always been that combination for him, an ebb and flow, push and pull. Can't have one without the other.]

Keep going. I told you to bite.

[At first, it really was all about Denji. So what does it say about him that now he wants it to be all about himself? Maybe he really is selfish. Maybe he really can't handle being given something - he always has to take it for himself, instead.]

[ A fleeting thought commutes through his brain, temptation's whisper: It'd be so easy to go even slower, to stop altogether. Throw someone else for a loop for once instead of the other way around. But the thought leaves as quickly as it forms. Denji's no good at playing coy — or at least, he needs more practice at it before he can start playing games like that. For right now, with his teeth stained with red, sinking wet fissures and cracks between Aki's finger joints, enough to feel the creak of cartilage, blood swimming down the lifelines in his palm, all he cares about is giving him what he wants. To feel like he's able to provide something, and be needed and desired for it. Maybe something else, someday.

Denji's breath speeds up with his pace, his stomach flexing as his hand squeezes down and up Aki in a rough drag, as if he can imagine the friction and filth sliding in an endless heat as though it were humming through his own dick. He wants him. He wants him to feel good so bad, feel so good it aches in his spine for longer than they'll be apart. A memory laced so tight around his neck, he feels it like the leather-burn of a harness. ]

What about this?

[ The words fight for audibility against the swathe of squelches between their abdomens and the slurp of Denji's mouth, but he doesn't wait to hear for acknowledgement, reaching under Aki to caress his testicles, lightly massaging and pinching the skin to create a contrast in sensation. ]

[It's hard to make out what he's saying when he has his fingers in his throat and he can feel the very edge of his orgasm. Aki wouldn't last long, anyway, the sweet sensation constant and wonderful and perfect, the pain in his fingers aching and burning and stinging with Denji's spit, but the moment he goes for his balls, he's done for. Aki jerks hard at the touch. He didn't expect it at all. Didn't think he would even try it. But it barely takes a brush for his whole body to jut forward in eager acceptance of the touch and Aki groans quietly in his neck, against his ear, tilting his head up and back. Good, good, he would groan if he had the ability to speak. But instead he ruts forward and presses down on Denji's abdomen with his cock, streaking his stomach with come as he finishes. His thumb digs into his chin as he chokes out a sound like a final breath.]

[Damn it, he can't let him get to his this easily.]

Fuck, Denji, fuck. [His head is dizzy from being woken, from sleeping fitfully, from - everything. The smell of Denji laying under him, the way his fingers feel, how his tongue feels pressing against his wounds. The slight suction of his lips. The way his throat pulses when he swallows. Aki pulls the fingers from his mouth and instead presses them into the side of his face to forcibly turn his head, meet his lips with his own. A messy, hurried kiss to keep him from saying anything else.]

[ He keeps pulling and playing with his nuts all the way through his release, like trying to wring out the good pulp and juice from a citrus fruit. His leg's carelessly thrown over Aki's to hold them that much closer during it, so close their cocks are trapped flush between them and his come can't land anywhere else but his bare stomach. So close they can only collide into each other, his fingers so far inside his mouth, the back of his throat convulses around the wide stretch of the appendages. It's funny, Aki told him before that he wasn't needy, but he what else could he be called when he can't even handle the thought, the notion, of sharing Aki's come with the bed sheets.

He doesn't want to think about what he's going to do, sharing him with an institution he can't understand. Good thing he doesn't have to right now.

Not only does his name sound like a death rattle from Aki's lips, it tastes what he imagines one would, too. Metallic and overbearing and airless — what it must feel like to enjoy something for the last time, or know that any time can be the very last. Without waiting for invitation, Denji's tongue rushes heavily into his, as if to say, Here. Taste this. It's you and it's me, together. Isn't it good? Because that's what the kiss is to him, not just prolonging their contact to one another, but a breaking off a piece from your favorite meal to add to someone else's dish. ]

Like you, I like you —

[ Strands of his hair wound around his fingers, Denji's knee nudges into his side at first, then jams demandingly to get him to bend as he clambers on top of Aki like an overeager dog trying to drag someone down to his level, to forget the snow and Gun, and come play out here in the mud with him instead. ]

[Why is it so intense with him? Aki can remember this kind of intensity, not long after he lost his virginity. The intense desire to do it again, do it more, do it better. Is that what this is? But then why does he feel it, too? It's like the food thing he told him - Denji isn't plain soba. Far from it. Maybe that's why his hands are running down to grab and fondle his ass when he climbs over him, kissing messily against his haphazard movements. What did he just say...?]

[He thinks he said something. Something like I like you. But Aki knew that. Is that all he means?]

Yeah? [He can feel the dangle of his cord on his chest. If he pulled it, he might just die right here. What would that be like?] Yeah - Obviously. [Since he's basically devouring him right now, tongue halfway down his throat, humping him like a dog in heat. God, it would be so easy to slip right in, watch him ride his cock and bounce on his hips. He bite down on his lower lip and releases it with a tug before moving back in to deepen the kiss again.] But you just want it.

Yeah.

[ He's not disagreeing, because, well, look at him. He's plainly tipsy off helping him orgasm, his ass hoisting up of its own accord, lifting and thrusting back into Aki's kneading palms. Pressing against him like he wants it to hurt. When whatever sounds he makes isn't getting swallowed down Aki's throat like a cartridge sinking into a gun barrel, he's pulling away to smother his lips into his jugular, voice hampered by how his teeth saw back-and-forth against a bulging vein. Denji isn't shy about how much he aches for it; it's all he's been fantasizing about since he can remember — to hold somebody, to be held by somebody. A mutual devouring.

But there's a strange cant to how he words that last part, one that forms a pocket of confusion — doubt — anxiety in Denji's chest. That feeling he gets when he can tell he's missing something important. He'd usually be able to ignore it, carry on doing whatever he pleases, but, face drawn in concentration, his lips worry at his tacky skin, refusing to let up even as a mottled mark flowers and pricks up at Aki's neck. ]

But I want it like — you want it, right?

[As usual, maybe, he misunderstands. Aki believes he understands Denji, can see what it is he wants and what he's asking for. He wants sex, he wants him to fuck him again, pull him down on his length and fill him full. But he adds that confirmation and that picture of Denji cracks a bit. You want it like I want it, right?]

[Aki would say, no. He doesn't want it like Denji wants it. He wants to be the one in control, moving as he pleases, grabbing him tight by the hips and thrusting in. But why does Denji think that's what he wants? Logic tells him he must not be understanding. Instinct tells him Denji is simply wrong.]

[Denji is lonely and childish. A brute and narrow-minded. Wants sex, but more than that, wants connection.]

[How much of that applies to Aki?]

You think you can?

[When he's more sober, less high off this heat, the friction of their bodies, he'd probably look at that question and recognize it as misdirection, a purposeful pull toward what's easier to stomach right now. But in this moment it's something easy to fall back on. Easier to trick him with a treat than with a real conversation, his head tilting back to allow access to his throat. Throwing him a bone. Laying back to avoid a fight. Maybe the old Aki would never do this, sink to this low. Why does it feel like a low with him?]

You can - on top?

[ He can — on top, under him, facing away. It always feels good when it's with Aki, because it's Aki, because he can believe he's doing something that he likes and that he wants and that his neck will readily bow into the crowns of his canines.

Unbidden, an old superstition the farmers and ranchers out in the countryside would tell comes to mind. Something about how a hare will sometimes jump into predator's mouth when there's no way out. Sort of a weird analogy, one he'd always related back to affection, closeness; in his head, it'd always felt like hunting a skittish thing down through a dense forest. But he doesn't think that really applies here, because Aki wants him back. He's half-sure that it's not with the same intensity or all the time, but when he looks straight up at him like this, he can talk himself into thinking that the person he's looking at isn't Chainsaw Man or some brat he got stuck with. It's Denji.

And when he lifts his head to look back down at him, Denji can trust it's not the Gun or the fiend open firing at him, wickedly hot metal converging on flesh. Not a bullet casing of a person holding unignited gunpowder. It's Aki.

Denji nods, earnestly. Slicking a hand up Aki's shaft, he guides him, pacing himself as he drags his hole over his head, rubbing against his rim — knowing full well that he should stretch himself out first, but figuring that it hasn't been that long since they last had sex, so maybe it doesn't really matter, maybe it's all the same. He wasn't good at it the last time, and he still has trouble with the angling, but he's quicker at least with the downward press, groaning with the sink and the ache rooting up his very core as he pulls Aki in to the hilt.

He's so gullible, so stupid, he can't see the difference between a treat and a trick even as it's watching his every move. ]

[He moves on him so eagerly, pulling him inside before Aki can even blink. Is this right...? He doesn't know. Sex has always been a transaction in his life, an excuse to feel good while making the other feel good as an equal trade. After a rough day, decompressing in the arms of another. That's the same right now. It's not about closeness or respect or - love. It's about feeling good. That's all Denji is ever after, of course.]

[He thinks back, his hands sliding down to hold his hips as he adjusts himself before him, feels the heavy weight of his body seated on him. The flutter of his muscles and the tightness weaved around him. Even without stretching he fits him so well. Yeah, that's where he can start. That's what Denji likes, he's pretty sure.]

You fit me so good.

[He's staring up at him, eyes locked on his. Watching for his reactions, watching to see if this is an improvement. He isn't just taking, he wants to assure himself. This is giving, too.]

Spread your legs open... You take it so well. [Denji likes being praised. It's the easiest way to manipulate him. Tell him he's doing something right and he'll puff up like a peacock. He slides his hand down to his abdomen and feels where he is below the skin, how deep he's sunk. Presses down with the pad of his thumb.] Such a good boy.

[ It doesn't matter how many times Aki says it, the effect is the same: A jolt belts it straight from his spine to his soaked hole. Thighs jumping apart, his hips instinctively rabbit hop, then crash back forward again with a squelch of the come he'd used to grease himself up. ]

A-Ahhh…

[ He garbles out, air staggering out from his chest, drunk and sloppy, as if he'd just gotten punched in the face. Aki's hands on him are steadying, but not enough to stop his heart from quivering like a familiar chord strummed from a harp — Makima used to play this tune like a natural-born musician. Reze, too, once. Denji has always wanted to be good in someone's eyes, something you think twice about before discarding. When you're good, you're allowed certain privileges: adoration, independence, a home to come back to, and someone to welcome you in at the door. And he thinks, for the most part, he's done a good job at being good.

Except when he hasn't. Except when he's been bad.

Aki whispered the same two words to him to earlier, and that'd been easy to accept, a folded up note slipped under the gap of a door. But this? Looking at him head on after what he did? ]

I —

[ Denji's throat moves with the glob of spit he's swallowing. He pulls himself off of him, chin tucked to his chest. ]

Sorry. Can't do it.

[The brief light of thinking he got through in some way, that this night won't end like the previous night, is snuffed out faster than the toe of a shoe crushing a cigarette. Denji pulls off him all at once and his cock limps down, half-hard. Aki watches him pull his chin in tight, avoiding him when he was trying so hard to keep his eyes on him. Something hit him, just then. And he doesn't know what it was. If it's the same thing that brought him here in the first place.]

Denji.

[Coaxing, he reaches for him, slides his hands up his sides and to his shoulders. Tugs him to move over him again.]

You want to be on top?

[Top-top. The thing he asked for once, or assumed he could have, and Aki shot him down like he was asking for candy before dinner. An obvious no. But the situation has changed now. He's trying to make this less about himself. Denji was the one who crawled in here, who fisted his hand around him and started trying to jerk him off. And for what? What was he looking for, in that moment? Whatever it is, Aki can't give it to him if he doesn't tell him what he wants. So maybe offering a higher tier reward will change his tune. Make him forget whatever it is that's made him so guilty. Like he's pacing in front of a mess that he wasn't even around to cause. He told him he would let him get it out of his system. What better way than this?]

Press a finger in. You can do it. [He whispers that to him, heart thrumming loud in his ears. Because it's been awhile since he did this, and he refused to let Denji do it for a specific reason: he's a wildcard. But who better to take that than Aki?]

I thought you didn't trust me.

[ The statement races from him — a hint of accusation bungling its way to the surface for a moment, but its his undisguised confusion that wins out. Aki'd said that his trust in him wasn't what was being questioned, back when Denji first got on his back about giving it a try, but he'd known better deep down. Hadn't taken it to heart, really. Didn't even see it as a slight at the time, because Denji wouldn't trust a guy like him, either. However, now that the opportunity's re-presented itself, he eyes him with a shimmering keenness, like a pickpocket zeroing in on a newly minted fortune he can get away with, simply by brushing his fingers near the right place. ]

I mean — yeah. [ His voice draws soft as he dips back in to give Aki's neck one last suck, his hand rubbing a wet spot at the jut of Aki's hip, thumbing their juices over his fingers until there's an equal spread. A little cold by now, but it should work. Unless he's been taking it up the ass the entire time he's been a military asset, he's probably going to be really tight, right? ] I want to.

[ If that's what Aki wants.

He breathes out slow as he shifts slightly more upright, using one hand to force up Aki's leg into a fold to easily duck a hand under his scrotum, tracing slowly down his taint to find that telltale ring of skin. When he feels the ridges come under his fingertips, Denji pauses — then taps at it, like he's testing for a reaction to see if he's got the right place. And no matter if Aki confirms it to him or not, he'll makes a satisfied noise. Pulling away from his neck to watch Aki's face up close, transfixed, as the point of his first finger pushes aside pinched skin to disappear inside him, joint by joint, until his knuckle hits the rim. ]

More?

[...Doesn't trust him? Well... To be honest, he kind of doesn't. Kind of expects him to jackrabbit inside him for a minute, bust his load, and then pull out. But did he say that much out loud?]

[He's trying to remember when Denji seems to forego the issue, himself, dropping down and sucking on his neck, and it's that motion that makes him wonder if he has a hickey. If he can even have a hickey. Can Denji...? He doesn't know. Maybe not after what he told him to do. He gives him a nod when he sits up, then another with a furrowed brow when he taps on him like that. Exactly what did he think it would do, open like an automatic door?]

[But even though it's been awhile - going on two years, he thinks - the sensation is oddly familiar. Not like riding a bike, or anything so coded in his muscle memory, but more like tasting something he hasn't had in years. The recipe didn't change, but maybe the chef did. Or something like that. And this chef is staring at him with those big, brown eyes.]

Yeah.

[Who did he last do it with...? Himeno, probably, since she would finger him when sucking him off. But who before that? Another dead person, he assumes. Someone long gone who Denji wouldn't even know. Couldn't even say Oh, that guy, if Aki brought him up. Who else remembers them? As his thoughts go toward that dark space he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to rid them, forget about them. At least for now.]

Hook them up. Like I did. [It probably looks like he's grimacing. He's not, but he does his best to open his eyes again, stare back at Denji without looking totally miserable. Now he's the one killing the mood.]

[ Abruptly, two more fingers pile inside of Aki, joining the one he already has opening him — hooked and pushing in, far as he can go.

In the same movement, he pulls his face away, leaving behind a mark at his neck, one that'll have paled out of existence by morning. But it's fine. What matters is getting a better angle, a better look at what he's got to work with, which he quickly realizes isn't anything new. Just skin: warm and moist as it rings around his clustered digits, welcoming him in, despite the fit; it shouldn't make his head spin the way it does, but it's — so weird and soft, softer than he ever imagined. It's almost as if he's feeling up the vulnerable underside of a dog's belly. ]

Stretchy…

[ It isn't long until his fingertips pass over a squishy bulb, a dead ringer for the one Aki always hits inside of him. Merciless. Mean. Leaning forward, Denji squeezes his other hand tight around his thigh, forcing it up against his stomach. His thinking is that by spreading him wide, he'll have easier access to the thing. And he does, because shortly after, his fingers are lifting, wriggling against his walls, massaging hard into his prostate. ]

Aki?

[ He looks up, bright-eyed, hoping to see him dumbed out the way Denji always is when he feels too good, but that pained expression… His hand slows. What's he thinking about? Is it how bad he's doing? Or is it that it's him and not someone else? Confusion scrawled all over his expression, his voice rises again, questioningly. ]

What's wrong? I did it like you told me to.

[Immediately being jabbed with three fingers is painful, but Aki doesn't voice this or tell him to stop. It's the good kind of pain. He knows it is. He can't see Denji backing up to look at him but he can imagine it and the brief sensatin of shame coupled with frustration at these stupid memories keeps his eyes shut. At least, until he starts jabbing at his prostate.]

[His muscles spasm under the attack, breath catching, but he can't focus on it. Can't clear his mind enough for that. "Aw, there you go. That's where you like it." Her fucking voice is in his ear, her eye, her smirk. The thicker fingers of a man, the difference in pressure. Chewing into his forearm to try and keep his voice down. The part he was never good at. He only realizes how badly he's cringing, teeth clenched and eyes shut tight, when Denji says his name.]

[His eyes blink open and one stupid, pointless tear runs down the side of his face, but when he blinks again they're gone and he's staring up at Denji, confused, questioning - worried. If not for Aki, then for himself. It hits him then, that this isn't fair to him. That he must have denied him this for a more subconscious reason.]

No - It's good.

[It obviously isn't. It is and it isn't. Is he just not ready for this? Is this what happens to someone who doesn't try to recover normally? How is he meant to recover from all of this normally? What would be left if he was able to move on from them? Gun squeezes the pistol in his grip, shows him where to put his fingers. Just go it alone.]

...I told you. It's been awhile. [Ignoring that. Ignoring anything to do with that.] Just keep going, that - felt good. [It did, kind of, but he sounds about as convincing as a mother praising her son's crayon-made family portrait. Encouragement based on something other than truth.]

[ When it hurts, when the flight from heaven nose-dives into a purgatorial anguish so hot and searing he can imagine his cerebral cortex sizzling like pancake batter from receiving too much sensory input, that always feels good to Denji. Because it works the same way as pleasure, darking out his thoughts until all that's left is blankness. The total absorption of light; a protective barrier. That's half the joy of becoming Chainsaw Man, all the cognition in his already clunky head simplified into ignition. Gears, cogs, and pumping metal. He has no one else to think about, just himself.

By association, it should feel good to be able to give that to Aki. To help him be just as selfish. It should be a green flag that he can feel the clench set in around his fingers, the good shake. So why doesn't it? Why does he feel scummy and awful and responsible for the teardrop streaking down his face?

Why does it feel like he should stop? ]

Okay.

[ But he doesn't. He only knows how to follow after someone else's lead, opening the doors Pochita warns him against looking inside. Hurt the people who invite him in. Overstay his welcome.

Maintaining the same speed, Denji considers reducing his fingers down to two, but he opts for adjusting his wrist to keep away from Aki's prostrate instead. The hand crushed around his thigh then slides slow, down to take in the length of him, lightly stroking up and down, trying to temper out the ache with something that he's more certain feels better, at least. It's probably too soon to be touching his cock again, but what are his other options? He doesn't know how to make Aki feel good any more than he knows how to make him happy. ]

[It's too sudden, too much touch, when Denji starts stroking up his length and releasing his thigh. He reaches down all too quickly and grabs him by the wrist, halting him immediately, though the fingers inside him aren't an issue right now. No, it's that Denji is overthinking this. He isn't supposed to be the one thinking. He's infamous for not thinking. If he's thinking, he'll ask questions. So Aki reaches for him to drag him back over, coax him close. Kissing is safer.]

Just like that. [Another repeated praise. Hollow, but it's there. He bends his leg at the knee and spreads it out more, allowing him to press in as far as he likes.] Just been awhile. Takes a minute. [He shifts his hips to guide him toward his prostate again, unsure if he's simply missing it or avoiding it, and his other hand pulls him around the neck to keep him close. He doesn't want him to back up, ask more questions. He just wants him to do it.]

[Little sounds of pleasure curl from his lips if he does it like he's guiding him. But otherwise he's trying to stay neutral. No grimaces, no groans. Keep him on the right track.]

[ Dirt in the dustpan. That's how simple he should be to sweep up, outmaneuver. Anything can be a meal for Denji, whether its a wonton shell without any filling or empty-calorie words Aki doesn't mean — that's part of how Makima got to him. Don't think, just do; don't pause at the door, don't check the peephole for who's standing on the other side, just open it. Not that Aki's at that level, it's just ever since that day, and all the days after, the one thing Denji's wanted to do is make it up to him and Power. He doesn't think he's even gotten close.

His heady breaths shudder into the kiss, like he's imagining his own hole getting fucked open right now. Fueled by the mirror fantasy of Aki beating into his prostrate, Denji pounds his fingers in, palm slapping into his ass cheeks, can feel it ripple out in his skin. Presses in so roughly he could leave a permanent dent inside him. God, he hopes so. ]

Want you bad. Want you — right now.

[ For a moment, his face draws back, and Denji unwittingly does what Aki doesn't want him to do. He asks a question. ]

You want me, too, right?

[ It may be worded differently from his question earlier, but he's essentially asking the same thing. What do you want, Aki? ]

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