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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. ]
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. ]
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There’s something he’s after, Denji can tell that much. And sometimes happiness, whether you're human, a devil, or neither, is just bringing that incomprehensible feeling to another being. ]
…Nn, augh, wait, wait, Aki — [ Denji weeps out his name, back bowing outward, trying once again to push up. But not away this time, this attempt mostly to garner his attention. When that doesn't get him anywhere, he slumps. ] Okay. Alright. [ He presses his mouth into the skin of Aki’s ear, nearly has the shell slid between his lips as he whispers to him, the words sticky. No better than a drunken slur. ] N'here… 'yuta… [ A sniff. He throat clicks as he clears the muck backing up against his tonsils. ] Nayuta, she’s gonna —
[ Hear? That hadn’t been Denji's concern this morning, but he'd been confident then. Big-headed and excited by the prospect that Aki was letting him in on a secret, a new experience. This is new, too, technically, but Denji feels smaller. Insignificant. Like a squirming insect tacked to a display case with no way out. ]
She’s not in a good way. If she wakes up, that'll be real bad. Real bad. And I gotta take care of her, gotta be good — so can't we go finda 'nother place?
[ With Aki's nails sewn into his back, crushing him in from all sides, he can barely wriggle, forget about breathe normally. Just speaking is a huge exertion. But it's his only means of leverage right now. That, and his body. ]
C'mon. Aki, it's me. I wanna help you out. [ He feels Aki up with the knob of his knee, at first stuffing it against him, then clumsily tracing the outline of his hard-on through his trousers. Aki may not understand what he wants right now, may only know the fundamentals of desire, but — desire is desire. It's a feeling that can be fed. Denji can teach him this time. ] Les'go somewhere else…
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[It feels - good.]
[His soft, pleading whispers right into the shell of his ear, the whine to his voice, the slight reverberation when he breathes a little loud. The give of his skin, the smell of his blood. Sweat, drool. He's growling, maybe. Some kind of punishing sound, like a threat to keep doing that or else. A childish demand to keep having fun, or an animalistic one demanding you keep petting. It's overstimulating and understimulating at the same thing. And what the hell is he even saying?]
[...mewhere else.]
Some... Else... [He repeats the words, without fully understanding what they mean, just like the ones that triggered this sensation. Echoes and repetition, seeing which words correctly receive the intended response. Gun lets go and there's a moment when he sits up that it might seem like he's intending to go somewhere else, but instead he's ripping his pants off, yanking them off and away to reveal his erection. And it's not just his arm and head that have changed - his cock is larger, darker at the tip, drooling already as he frees it from the confines of the fabric. Now with the agitating feeling let out into the air, he can freely rub it against Denji, sliding the length against his leg and trying to search for the right spot, the perfect location where it feels best. It's not that he has short term memory, more like a one-track mind. He's aware of what he wants and little else. Right now, that's relief, in the form of pleasure. The human inside of him accessed it through this thing below him, so Gun will, as well.]
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Denji's face lights up, anyway, hearing anything from him. The oppressive tension holding down his body disappears, briefly, and he lets go a breath. Starts to rise up, stalwartly ignoring the urge to rub at the marks etched behind in his skin, because he can't let Aki know that shit hurt, felt like a dozen needles poking around for the worst place to burrow inside. He doesn't want him to feel bad, if that's an emotion he can still connect to.
But then Aki's stripping himself. And then his brain activity's flatlining, like someone's pulled the plug on someone barely hanging on as it is. Denji lays there, a numbness seeped into the very pit of his stomach as he stares blankly at the monstrously hung penis between Aki's naked thighs, fleshy and angry and aching. A hundred steps too far behind to even jerk back or raise his arms to obstruct whatever warpath is about to be sown below his waist. His underwear, laughably thin and drafty standing atop the rooftop not too long ago, feels uncomfortable and constrictive now with Aki's hot tip crimping up and dragging into the fabric, into Denji's much smaller bulge, colorless fluid kissed all over the front. His fist blindly seizes the edge of Aki's shirt, tugging it, trying to rein him. ]
S-Stupid, that's not gonna…
[ Fit. But his lips are quivering at the thought of it. At the mere thought of wrapping his dry and sticky mouth around something like that, only being able to bob down halfway before choking on him. Fuck, that's so wrong. There's something messed up in Denji's head. He shouldn't be this horny, shouldn't be able to look down and see his cock filling in against his underwear, twitching alive. He should be horrified, shocked, panicked, confused, not sensitive and warm just from being subjected to a little rough fumbling around. Wasn't he saying something before? About wanting to be good for Nayuta?
But the hand that's pushing him upright and the hand rolling up Aki's shirt until it's pinned above his chest can't seem to remember. Neither can the boy that's notching close against him, tilting in to suck and gnaw on a nipple, a kittenish tongue flicking up at it. He peers up, hoping one last time to see a flash of Aki that isn't cut from steel and ash. ]
I'll show you where to put that.
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Put 'dat. [He repeats the words with sticky, drool-covered lips, like a wolf leaning over its prey, unable to contain the excitement about the meal he's about to devour. Gun slides his cock along the inseam of his boxers but he can't figure out how to get it to the right place, can't fully grasp why it's only slightly as good as those other times. Denji uses his hand to grab his shirt and his other to lift himself up and something clicks when Gun raises his rifle-arm up, that he's missing something. There's something different about what he has and what the other one has.]
[He licks his lips, the blood from before still permeating his gums, then pulls back from his touch and stretches his arm out. In an instant, his hand slices through the seam of his shoulder, spitting the rifle off in one fell swoop, like filleting away the spine of a fish. The rifle rolls away and blood sprays in one quick splash before slowing to a drip down the side of his body. If it's painful, he doesn't seem to feel it, though, as Gun only makes a briefly consternated expression before a human arm bursts forth from the wound, filling in the skin and stretching taut with thick muscle and dark, almost grey skin. It's cold to the touch and doesn't feel human, but it has more dexterity than a rifle and that's what he's after. That's what he needs right now. Blood still drooling down the side of his body, his hands reach messily together to grab for Denji, aiming to wrap around him and search his body for some kind of relief.]
[The dexterity is barely there with this carbonite hand, but the grip is strong. Leaning forward to exhale hot, bloody- and drool-slick breaths near his ear, he growls out again,] Put.
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[ Fresh blood spritzes all over Denji from the open wound, causing him to turn his face uselessly to the side, squirming, as if he'd been spurted instead by a hose of freezing water. It's not the blood itself that takes him aback; he's hurt Aki before, slit his soft stomach from end to end to peel back the deepest shade of red he's ever seen, watched him come apart like an overstuffed sausage casing. Despised every second of it, despised himself for every second after — but he did it. He did all of it. So no, that's not the reason. Simply put, it's the ease of which he discards a limb that was so essential to Aki, to completing his dream, to being a devil hunter, that when he lived without it those last few months, his presence seemed to flicker in and out. Like what was there walking past him into the kitchen was just a vague imprint, a ghost reliving its rituals until the time came for his form to give away, smoke particles diluting out into the air. Every time he stood too close to the balcony railing, Denji's back would straighten and he'd watch. Wonder.
The shock of seeing it suddenly gone returns him to that place of anxiety. The shock of seeing something like an arm, but not, sprout immediately after sends him somewhere entirely different. But no less perplexing, uncharted.
Perspiration drips from his brow, stinging the inner corner of his eye — jolts him back to the present. He endures Aki's suffocating, mismatched hands grabbing him, lust-stoked breaths burning his temple, the best he can, sore knees digging into the grass to keep from being toppled over once again. He feels — confused, still grappling with everything, his spine simultaneously overheated and icy-cold. Sick with the stimulation. ]
N-No. Down, boy, [ he says, unconsciously treating Aki like one of his dogs when they decide to get too rowdy. ] No put, not yet. First…
[ Wedging an arm between them, his palm sheathes over the top of Aki's flushed head, rubbing it, spreading the sticky residue that's already there across the hood of his glans. He keeps the contact up, but does no more than that, warily observing Aki. Wresting himself away isn't an option, not without pulling his cord, risking bodily harm to the one person he's tired of seeing cry. It was always going to end in Denji giving Aki what he wants. ]
Good, right?
[ His wrist twists fast in a wrenching motion at that singular point, only pumping down his head the barest increment to reveal the sheen of his cock. He squeezes as he drags up, the rim of his forefinger and thumb biting in to really make his glans bulge out, even more of his pre to bubble from that tiny opening. ]
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[His hips jolt forward, following the notes of pleasure already playing. He groans quietly and turns his head, ducks it down, tries to visually see what's happening but his sight isn't good at this sort of distance, at something that he can't pinpoint directly. The sensation is crawling up his spine and he can feel something dripping from his cock but can't really put two and two together yet. That it's not simply the desire for more contact he's after but a specific kind of contact. Not a hug, but a stroke. Not a stroke, but a plunge. His mind is spinning.]
Den - ji - [He repeats his name again, like it will urge him further on. The human hand moves down to yank off the fabric constricting his legs, kicking and pushing at it where it gets caught around his ankles. Instinct tells him to pin, to rub, to rut. Urge him further on - Forget that, he wants to take it for himself. That's how he's supposed to be. Enough of this waiting for orders, waiting for command. He wants to take it for himself. He grapples with his carbonite arm in search of Denji's elbow, yanking it down, coaxing him onward. Thanks to the pistol coming out of his face he can't actually kiss (and probably wouldn't understand the idea of it) but his lips are still dripping with drool and blood and he wants some more. As his hips rut forward, one hand gripped around Denji's elbow, he leans into his neck and growls as he sucks at his skin, teasing at the marrow hidden right below. Not biting this time, just suckling, like when you enjoy the chicken skin before ripping into the flesh.]
[The more dexterous human arm gropes and fondles around in its attempt to find something else. This can't be the peak, he knows. There must be something else, and that's why his nails drag down his back and press into his spine. Like he can press one of his vertibrae like a button and out will pop the right prescription, the correct answer for this craving. His cockhead presses up against Denji's stomach as he pushes his back inward and he recognizes that as pleasurable, too, grinding against the skin with little worry for Denji's comfort in this.]
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The mercilessly close press of their cocks together takes him back to the dark of that morning, how he'd tried to slip in and make it up to Aki just like this. For all the things he did and failed to do. In a way, he's still there, still trapped in that mindset that he's sorry that he couldn't keep Aki from straying into this guise. Couldn't protect him. The way Aki is now is something Denji has to take accountability for — possibly all his life. That's fine. That's expected.
Denji momentarily pushes a rift between them. He drags his underwear off, kicking it aside so that it lands with the rest of Aki's clothes. His penis has thickened up, stands at attention, but it's nowhere near the fullness and girth as what Aki pressed into him just now.
Panting heavily, Denji takes his face in hand, angling it up from his shoulder to deposit a kiss to his cheek, sinful for how chaste it is. He has to tilt his own head to achieve this, to establish a connection with him that isn't just that of a vulture and the bleeding remains he's decided to feed from. ]
Just wait. Getting to it.
[ His mouth roots itself to the drooling wet corner of Aki's lips, licks up the blood and slobber pouring from his chin until he's spotless again. He pauses once he's done, hanging back uncertainly, before then extending his neck to kiss the black pistol topping his forehead, tip of his tongue edging the chamber. Reaching the opening of his barrel, he pokes inside the inner ridges of the gun, a lattice of spit covering the hole, strung to his teeth as he inches away. Staring up at Aki with a look that borders on bashful.
Swallowing down his embarrassment, he shoves his gaze downward, hands wrapped around Aki's erection again, one stacked on top of the other, this time pulsing all the way down to wear his shaft meets his nut sack, his fingernail nudged against a hard vein, following its track from end to end. ]
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[Denji leans back and stares up at him and Gun tilts his head, trying to see him through the narrow sights. Maybe this is a signal he should say something, maybe there's something he's meant to do, but all he can really feel is the leftover warmth from Denji's lips on his skin, the exposed part he shares with the human, the part that came from him that seems to impart so much importance to the thing seated in his circle.]
[Hmm. But why?]
[And then he's touching his dick again and the thoughts go out the window again. He doesn't care. That's not what he's searching for right now. This might not be a part of himself, might not house a fragment of himself, a chunk of his body he's lost, but it's something else that he needs to have. Gun thrusts toward the touch, selfish and taking, not even considering offering the same thing in return. His hands resume their exploration, searching, knowing there's something in here for him to take, but when he grabs the meat of Denji's ass and isn't met with soft cotton he has a feeling like, I know this. For some reason, he knows he wants this part. Or the one before wanted this part. He fumbles and fondles as Denji continues to stroke him, his erection only getting harder and thicker, precome drooling down his shaft and following each push-pull of Denji's hands.]
[It's getting annoying, he thinks, licking his lips. Cocking the gun, releasing the safety. Decocking, replacing it. Over and over, with each tug, that's what it feels like. Gun grunts something low and begins to push forward, aiming to push Denji down on the ground, push him over and move over him, grab him like he had him before. His metallic fingers wrap around his shoulder and push, trying to roll him to expose his ass, bring it closer to his leaking cock, which he tries to blindly press against the softer skin and stroke through the meat of. Because this - This feels more familiar. This is what he's aiming at. This is where he's trying to get to. For what - He doesn't care. Just that it's what he wants.]
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Despite this, Denji assumes he was well on his way. Until Aki capsizes him. ]
Hey!
[ Genuine surprise widens his eyes, chin scraping against the gritty soil to turn, gawk at him with his ass raised in the air. Sun dapples against Aki's half-obscured face. The other hybrid can't see it, but that's all Denji does, his chest thumping. They've only fucked in private corners and crannies; when it's dark, he can close his eyes and not think so hard about what's going where, imagine what Aki must have a front row view of. It's different in broad daylight. Too much detail to take in. Maybe that's why he tries to scramble forward on his knees, panicked as a mouse with its tail caught under a cat's paw. ]
You don't even know where you're putting that! You need me to show you —
[ In the middle of his sentence, he gasps, eyes crossing, disturbed by the cock pushing into his perineum, so close to his puckered rim, to where he could vanish inside completely. Shivering, his forehead hits the ground, grated in like he has a foot sitting at the base of his neck, but he's bending into it. ]
No — no. [ They don't even have any lube. Denji made sure Aki was wet, but he's… ] Fingers, use your fingers beforeee… [ Denji whimpers, fingertips twitching toward his asshole, intending to stretch himself out. ]
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[When he moves back again, fumbling around blindly with his cock, it's only natural that he follows where Denji's fingers are going. He slides down between his cheeks and over his hole, brushing against his hand and then humming a curious, almost metallic sound when the head of his cock finds the edge of his hole, just barely stretched by probably no more than a single joint. And maybe devils don't have anything to truly call "nature" when it comes to this, but maybe he can rely on that human's nature for the moment in telling him that this is the right path. He shifts himself against it and his cock slides up the edge of Denji's hole, not pushing in at all. Gun reaches back to grapple for the spot, blindly feeling and searching, equally like a drunk fiddling with a bottle opener and a pervert with a bra strap: sloppy and desperate. He finally pushes his thumbs in on either side, pulling him apart like there's something he could see past the stretch, could peer through to the other side, just enough room for himself to begin to slip into - but even once he does it's not wide enough, it's too small and too tight and he thinks, maybe this isn't right? No, it has to be, he decides, and pushes forward roughly, forcibly slamming the rest of the head of his cock into his ass.]
[Gun's hands slide down Denji's hips and to his thighs, grasping him with cold, wet fingers as he feels around like he can find whatever it is that's blocking him from pushing in more - unable to recognize it's simply the limits of "nature," the result of shoving a ten foot-wide square peg into a one foot-wide round hole. He gurgles something with clenched teeth. Not exactly annoyed as curious. He pulls back just a bit, the head of his cock tugging cruelly at the ring of muscle sealing him inside, then juts forward again. Another inch pushes in and he hums a delighted growl of a noise: the recognition of progress.]
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Dirt mingles on his palate, his face rolling on its side into the ground, a tiny huff here and there parting from his lips. But he's managing. This is fine. He can live through this — was Denji's original thought. But if he thought the first thrust was bad, the second tug and push is outright intolerable. The stretch — it should feel good to be full of Aki, thick with him, and in a way it does, but it burns, it burns so bad he can taste acid coming up his throat. His head hangs down, limp, which is a mistake, because the viewpoint affords him a sight that shoves him to the precipice of derangement.
Aki isn't even halfway inside. ]
Aki, I can't, stop — stop it! Stop!
[ Denji shouts, seizes up, his cock shuddering with a single bob, then spurts out a heavy drizzle of hot come onto the earth under him. His head's confused, but his body's still reacting the same, may even be more oversensitive than usual. Fuck, he can't tell whether the wetness thinly streaming into his mouth, past the edge of his chin, is sweat, tears, drool, snot — it doesn't really matter. It all hurts the same, like being seared on a grill and split into easy to chew pieces for the party platter. ]
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[This is what he missed out on, then? This is completely different than anything he's ever experienced. He's a devil meant to destroy, to conquer, and to terrify. Below him, all three of those things appear to be happening, but in a process he's never before seen. Never before attempted - never before could attempt. But now...]
[He grins. Can't help it, the delight at this. The delight that he's doing something that feels so natural and correct. Denji isn't trying to get away anymore and that means Gun can grab hold of him and keep him in place as he pulls back again, turns his hips a bit, tries to find the right angle... and then his cock falls out, not held in thanks to the stretch. One hand lets go of his target and grabs his dick, stroking it up and down just like he rememebrs Denji doing, the same sensation yet different since this hand is cold and metal. He leans forward to again feel around for his hole, searching for the right angle, searching based on touch instead of sight, and when he finally finds it and it sucks his cock in just that small bit, he doesn't hesitate. He slams forward and nearly fits his entire length into him in one go.]
[How did the human inside him manage this so easily, he has to wonder, because this truly does feel like shooting tank ammunition through a yet-to-bloom flower. But that's just fine, because that's part of his duty. Shoot, destroy, conquer. Gun tugs back and brings Denji with that tug, not fully understanding the movement at first, but when he finally begins to feel the kind of pleasure he was searching for, he grins with an exhaled sound, a laugh by any other being. It's disturbingly tight and feels too much like shoving a fist through a honey hive, destroying the whole thing in the process, but even if it breaks, he'll still get something sweet out of it.]
DEN-JI, [he sings loudly, pleased with himself for figuring this out. Too happy that he's discovered how to use this body in a new, destructive way.]
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Is it over? Is whatever that's possessing Aki right now satiated? A shard of hope muscles itself through the blankness miring his head, surfacing above the the sheer amount of sensation wracking his body, but the thought is far too premature. It doesn't stand a chance versus the warm press of him hooking back in. He has enough time to suck another breath in, but not enough to truly brace for what comes next — the plunge of his rock-hard cock sinking into his depths isn't unlike stabbing a fork, no, a lightning rod into an outlet, the electricity cooking, sizzling, every nerve in his body. Aki's thighs slap against the back of his legs, Denji's head swaying along with the painful grind, the sound of his voice chiming, his hands scrunching at his sides, using him, dragging him down, deep, deeper. Cockhead jammed into his prostrate, Denji cries and cries, feeling something give — mentally, yes, but at his rim, too. Something breaking, thin rivulets of blood coating Aki's cock, frothing with each thrust inside Denji.
He's been cut up, forced to starve, forced to eat, forced to be consumed, digested, thrown away. Denji knows from experience that cruelty, human or devil, has no known bounds. That so long as humans live, and that devils take their strength from humans, the possibilities of hurting one another are endless. But this — why does this feel so bad? Why does it feel like there's a foot on chest, a second one on his throat, and he's running out of oxygen the longer Aki keeps fucking him into the ground?
…It's because of that, isn't it? Because Aki is someone he… ]
A-ki, [ he rasps, the last syllable of his name rising. Denji can't see or make out anything that isn't purely squelch and slick pumping in his guts, his walls constricting around him. Because, somehow, even though he wants him to stop, to slow and be gentle with him, he still doesn't want to let go. ]
I — [ His teeth chatters, stained with dirty brown specks. He isn't even capable of pushing himself up, his cheek dragging back and forth, drool pooling down the corner of his mouth. Vision blurred. ] Love you. Love you, Aki. So please…
[ Does he mean it? Does he understand it? Does he have the capacity for it? He doesn't know, he's not sure, but that's an excuse, isn't it? Everything, excuses. Everything, his fault. He's risking lying to Aki, and for what? To save his own ass? Does he deserve to say something that should mean so much, but is so utterly worthless coming from him? No. But he's Denji. He's selfish. Always, always. Fucking selfish. What he has isn't enough for anyone. Not Makima. Not the world. Not enough to save Power, bring Aki's dead friends back, or to compel him to live his life with him and Nayuta in this nonsense city, or want him, just him.
His crusty lashes squeeze shut, picking up dust and tears. Maybe if Denji could really die, really give him everything, it'd be a different story.
Like the body of a snake, slithering, wriggling in a stacked pile, his intestines almost move within his stomach, excited, restless, like they might just shoot out from his belly button at any second. ]
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[He could keep going for eternity. He'll never run out of ammunition, not with something like this. His cock flinches and twitches with delight and the ultimate spray of carnage is so close, he can taste it. Drool coats his lips like a starving dog. Yes, he thinks, even if he isn't whole right now, even if he isn't as strong as he should be - right now he's strong and right now he's in the perfect place: the pit of destruction, the pit of ruin and death. It's perfect. He never wants to leave it.]
[Except there's that little voice, far in the back, getting louder and pulling his attention to the sounds he was just celebrating over. The sound of teeth clicking against each other over and over, the thick and harsh sound of words struggling to form. The shadow of the human inside this body that was gone for awhile, now that his target was safe. It crawls forward out of him like coming out of a fort of pillows and blankets, observing the mess left in the wake of the snowstorm overnight that he was so warm in spite of, was protected from: piles of fresh powder covering everything, from roofs to toys to cars to windows. Everything is gone and yet it all is there, simply destroyed beneath it, frozen in hard, stagnant ice. Except he can see something in the blinding white and recognizes it's something that wasn't supposed to stay out for so long, something he thought was safe in the fort. Gun's motions stop and his mouth opens, but no sound comes out - only an echo in his mind.]
["How come you're crying? I've never..."]
[Gun lurches backwards, startled and gagging like he was just grabbed by the collar, yanked by the leash. His throat feels hot and like he's being suffocated, like hot lead is being forced down his windpipe and he can't breathe. Someone is stomping on him, shoving him aside, kicking and fighting and yanking him until he finally pops free from Denji, falling backwards on his ass before he rolls over to try and get to his feet. Retreat, his instinct says, retreat, but his body has other ideas, the right hand lurching upward and pointing its finger at him, thumb up, gun cocked. A threat or an order, he doesn't know, and doesn't have time to decide before it fires and he splatters backwards, clattering to the ground in a splash of blood. His body crumples and he gags before finally falling flat. Slowly, but gradually, the pistol protruding from his head and the carbonite arm he replaced the rifle with begin to fade into mud and gunk, sinking into the earth below him and leaving a human in its wake.]
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[Laying on a carpet of dirt, blood, and gore, Aki opens his eyes slowly, staring up in bleary-eyed confusion at the canopy of trees.]
[This is definitely not Public Safety.]
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He can close his eyes. He can, so he does.
He gulps down the build-up of saliva in his mouth and even tries to arch for him, because he can take this. He can, so he does. He takes this Aki. He loves this Aki. Loves Aki. Loves that his stomach and his heart feels like they're being ground together, pumping in unison, like they'll drop out at any second with the pull back of Aki's hips. If not this thrust, the next one, the next one after. He'll sit, stay, and wait for it if Aki wants him to; Denji knows that good things come to those who know their place. His is right here.
It's only as he's coming to terms with this, a weak groan strains from his throat, dull and stupefied, as he's shoved forward by the force of Aki flying away from him, fast as a ricocheting silver bullet. Denji drops fully on his side, another wounded groan rumbling out. Though the sex had felt more like a glock feeling around in him, cocked and scorching his insides, his abdomen still flares out and shudders from the emptiness, the soreness, the void Aki leaves behind. He misses him. Denji's neck manages to incline just in time to catch the feud between Aki and his metal prosthetic — it feels like a scene from a dream or a one-man stage performance. Whatever attempts at calling out to him end only in voice giving out to fit of wheezes midway, so he can only helplessly watch as something, someone, apparently comes out on top of the struggle, and the carbon parts discharge from Aki's body.
He's tired, wants nothing more than let his head fall into the dirt, but an anxious thought chews at his spine. Drags him stumbling up on his palms and knees, then to his feet. His hand's a sorry filler for actual gauze and bandages, but he uses it to cover his bloody shoulder whilst standing over him. Brown and red spots littering his body, eyes red-rimmed.
He doesn't say anything or reach for him. Doesn't ask if he's okay — he notices his eyes are open, his chest is moving. That's all Denji needs before his ass hits the dirt, legs stretched out in front of him as he stares vacantly outward. ]
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[Without any context for where they are, what just happened, or if anyone else is here, Aki can only think back to what happened before to give him any guidance for the present. He was back at Public Safety. The Control Devil came into his room - or rather, they dumped her there, and she told him that Denji had been kidnapped. Then... Then what? He had planned to go after Denji, surely - but what followed that specific meeting? What did they even talk about...? Where even is -]
[And then Denji is suddenly in his line of sight, coated in dirt and blood, splattered with it, his hair messed up more than usual. His face looks bruised or like it's been rubbed raw. As Denji leans back away from him only to plop onto the ground, Aki sits up suddenly, reaches out as he opens his mouth to say something - and then realizes his arm isn't there.]
[The same phantom sensation that he dealt with in between going to Hell and the first time he died come rushing back when he reaches out with a limb that isn't there. Aki looks down at his shoulder, reaches up with his other hand to feel and - Good, he still has that one - but the wound is cauterized, sealed over as if it had never been replaced with skin that wasn't his own before. It looks just like it did when he woke up in the hospital after coming back from Hell. Except this time he's covered in blood and dirt and... and his pants are gone. His penis, normal-sized and flaccid, hangs limp between his legs and immediately he covers himself out of instinct before remembering, right, Denji - What the hell happened to Denji??]
Denji - [He pulls his shirt down to cover his crotch as he raises up on his knees, confused and embarrassed at once. Why does Denji look empty, why is he pantsless, and why are they both bloody and dirty and... Ugh, shit, he can't focus on all the unknowns right now. Crawling forward to him, he sets a hand on his shoulder, squeezing him as if to make sure his body is still warm. From what he can tell, it is.] Hey, are you - alright? Denji? [His voice sounds crackly, like he's been screaming or yelling for awhile and his throat is sore, but nothing feels wrong there. He rubs at a scuff of dirt on his cheek with his thumb, trying to gauge him for injuries since he doesn't feel any on himself. All he feels is a numb lack of a limb.] Where are we, Denji?
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Why does his shoulder weigh so much.
Belatedly, he registers Aki's touch: familiar, comforting, seeking him. But it's — cloying. His thighs stick together like he's been drenched in tree sap; his arm itches with dried blood where Aki bit him before. It's too much sensation right now. Too sweet, when his body's braced for bitterness, for survival. So like a dozing animal that's only just realized a strange entity is raking through its fur, scratching at its chin, Denji screws away from him, eyes flashed wide, arm raised to slap Aki off. But he pulls the instinct back just in time, forces his hand to stop in midair, fingers curled and shaking. His gaze takes a moment to steady on Aki, but once it does his stare couldn't be harder. Wilder. ]
Stop.
[ The seconds move like they're made from heavy-duty metal. A silence passes over them, and then, slowly, his claws retract. His hand settles on the side of his face, dragging through his crumpled expression. The skin at his forehead flickers. ]
…Th'woods. That's where we are. Other than that, I dunno. Some broken mirror transported us here when we were tryin' to make a break for it, and… and Nayuta got hurt. But I think she's alright.
[ Devils are hardy creatures. Even when they're next to dead, chunks blasted from their heads, guts spilling out, they still keep attacking him usually. But Nayuta's not just any devil. She's a kid. She needs her brain for important stuff when she grows up. He should check on her.
He should, but… ]
Is your arm gonna grow back…?
[ As Denji poses his question, he still isn't looking Aki's way. ]
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[Denji jolts away from him, winds back like he'll slap him, and it's then that the smell hits him. It smells like jizz. It smells like sex. It smells like...]
[The look in Denji's eyes is like the kind a devil makes right when you pin it, right when it's trapped in the jaws of something larger, milliseconds before it's snapped in two. Recognizing and not recognizing its foe. Aki kneels with his hand half-reached out, hovering in the air, a smear of dirt on his thumb. His eyes slowly travel downward as Denji speaks, over his neck, his throat, his chest, down to -]
[His eyes flick up. Before he can look too low, he raises his gaze to look at him again, triggered by the word he used. Mirror.]
[Aki settles back on his ankles, finally lowering his hand. It's only then that he sees the helicopter, crashed and broken against a tree, like a child's toy tossed away at dinnertime. Denji tells him Nayuta is here, too, but he doesn't tell him how the two of them got right here and half-nude and smelling like spunk and sex and -]
[He spots them, then: pants, laying on the ground a few feet away. Another set not too far away, bunched up in a pile and tossed in a heap. Shoes. Footprints, signs of a struggle. Marks where mud and dirt was dragged - or rather, someone was dragged over them. Analyizing the scene, like this is a mission, like he's trying to tell which way it went. Where the devil went.]
[The only issue is that all of these paths lead right to himself.]
I don't know.
[About his arm. He turns to look at him.]
The Mirror Devil... He has a contract with it. The guy you...
[What the hell is he saying? Denji isn't even looking at him, looks like a cornered rabbit in a cage with a wolf. Aki manages to pull himself to his feet and walks with jittery steps to the clothing, grabbing one pair of pants and picking it up - These look like his, he thinks, so he grabs the other pair with his other arm and... Right. He stands still for a second, staring down at them, at a long rip down one leg. Blood on the waistband. Leaning down, he pulls the pants he's holding on, nearly stumbling as he shoves each leg through, then reaches down to snag the other set and makes his way back to him.]
Here. We - I think we should try and get out of here. Is... That kid, she's, where is she? [He sounds unsteady, uncertain, like he's walking on eggshells. He doesn't want to vocalize his guesses about what got them here. He doesn't want to think about it. Denji isn't looking at him and Aki is doing his damndest to keep his eyes on some non-difficult part of him. His foot, his hand. The cord coming out of his chest. The back of his head. His eyes keep darting around, anxious enough that his heart is thumping loud in his chest.]
[He's never seen Denji like this. He's seen him at his worst, he believed. Bloodied, cut in two, torn to shreds and unmoving. Yet this - This is worse. This isn't like any of that. This time, the blood and the wounds are the least of his concerns. It's that he won't even look at him, won't say his name. It's that he looks...]
[No, he's not going to think it. Not even going to allow the thought. Not helpful right now. Because right now, they have to get out of here. Away from that helicopter.]
Come on. Let's go.
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Rather, every stupid habit and idiosyncrasy of his shelves back inside him. Denji looks fixedly into his lap, pressing his fist into his other hand, as if feeling for the truth, trying to comfort himself with it. That's right… No gash marks, no stinging redness. He didn't do anything bad to Aki, so why can he picture it with perfect clarity? His eyes squeeze, again trying to absolve the cold ache harbored in his head, his chest. Guilt, wretched guilt, expands and compresses and takes a life of its own where his belly button should be, but instead exists a black hole.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, his eyes snap open. Rising just an inch to watch the long stretch of Aki's shadow, moving, spilling into his own. One ink blot nourishing the other, as if they could drown out the whole canvas that way. Denji stares and he stares, and then looks at the outstretched garment, not understanding its purpose — until he does, his brow instantly furrowing with discomfort. The underwear offered to him is stained and tattered, not that its current state is what makes him reluctant — it's just the reminder of how it was torn from him. But that doesn't change the fact that it's all he has to wear. He quickly and quietly retrieves it from Aki's hand with such care, one would presume he wasn't simply avoiding his touch, but afraid of instigating it.
Picking himself gingerly up from the ground, the waistband of his boxers cinches around his hips. He's assessing the tear down the side of his thigh with a frown when Aki starts directing them the opposite direction of where Nayuta is. That's a typical thing for him to do: taking point, trying to lead and establish order where there's none to be found. He can't agree. His head shakes. ]
…Not yet.
[ Denji doesn't walk with much stability, teetering here and there, but heads for the helicopter, briefly disappearing inside, before reappearing with a little girl strung up on his back. Her chin's resting on his uninjured shoulder. Which doesn't really do much for him, seeing as his shoulder is pouring red, straining back the way he is so that he can maintain hooking her legs up. He doesn't wince once returning to Aki. ]
Can ya take a look at her?
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[Perhaps stupidly, maybe Aki had thought it was an old wound. Something freshly bothered but created days ago. He follows a few steps behind Denji, standing outside the helicopter (why were they even...?) and watches him climb down with the devil. And it's seeing his body flex and shift, sending fresh rivers and bubbles of blood out, that cues him to realize that he's not just hurt, but hurt. Actively injured, not simply rattled. Aki stands still, lips parted as if to speak, tell him to stop, to put her down and let him help him... But at his request, his eyes fall down to the devil, studying her with a look of trepidation.]
Set her down, on the ground. Lay her flat. [Since Aki can't reach out and take her, this is the next best thing. He squats down, motioning for Denji to stay close.] You need to - You're... bleeding. [An uncomfortably pregnant pause follows. What can he do about that? Chagrined, he turns his attention to Nayuta, feeling her wrist for a pulse before gently shaking her shoulder, attempting to wake her with a quiet but clear call of her name. Not "devil" and certainly not "Control" - he says her name, then one more time, then sits back on his heels and looks around their crash site. There's got to be something...]
I'll see if there's a first aid kit. Stay here with her. [He stands and heads toward the body of the helicopter, hesitant to enter thanks to the way it leans - but, he figures, he's already lost an arm and apparently traumatized Denji today. It can't get much worse.]
[Digging around in the cockpit, he finally locates the small box, not finding much but a few rolls of bandages and disinfectant, but it's better than nothing. As he grabs the kit, he recognizes he's doing this more for Denji's sake than the devil's, but does that even matter right now? He's injured and the devil will heal with some blood. Hell, Aki would cut his palm open for her if he had a hand to do it with. Making his way back over to them, he offers out the kit and can't help but feel ashamed of the relief he has in doing so. Like it somehow patches a small portion of the gaping wound he seems to have caused.]
[With Control so close, he'd expected Gun to do his usual rolling and grumbling, but it's quiet. His stomach doesn't hurt, no indigestion. He can't say for sure why, but for the moment, he won't look a gift horse in the mouth.]
Wrap that up first, then I'll help you carry her. We should get moving, try to figure out where we are... Look, there are less trees that way. [He nods in one direction. Growing up in the woods did, at least, help him with navigating them.]
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Denji moves in concert with all of the above, doing as Aki tells him to, no questions asked. Perhaps not perfectly: His wrists cramp and his hands come away with the compulsion to reach back out to sweep the trickle of blood from her eyes, but he does what he can with as much sensitivity to her well-being as he can muster at the moment. The effort isn't worth any medals, but it does ground the pacing wolf inside him — to care for her. He's only seen Nayuta this still at night, legs kicked out from under the covers, mumbling about dogs in space in her sleep. She isn't saying a word now, though. ]
Yeah… Those Public Safety guys are probably trackin' us down right this second. Don't wanna get caught up with them…
[ But he doesn't sound that anxious about it. If he thinks about too much stuff at once, what's going to happen, how Aki is doing, he'll get distracted; he can't afford that right now. Aki says to look a certain direction, but Denji's gaze barely lifts away from Nayuta before returning back to the ground where she's laid.
He reaches for a roll of bandages from the first aid kit and patch of gauze, stretching out the former a wide enough length to begin wrapping around Nayuta's head, passing it under her chin and behind her ear. Maybe Aki was ordering him to treat himself, but he should know already where Denji's priorities are. Once that's done, he turns his attention to himself, looping a round of bandages over his shoulder and through his armpit with not nearly the same amount of care or interest.
Whatever, it's tight enough to keep him from dripping a blood trail while they're on the go. ]
Done.
[ Adjusting Nayuta so that she's halfway lifted up by the time he trades her over into Aki's care, Denji halts suddenly when they're within reaching distance of one another. His gaze fixes down on Nayuta's peaceful expression for an extended moment, one corner of his mouth tensed, like he's trying to force down a wince, before he flicks his eyes up toward Aki for the first time since he changed back to normal. ]
You — You don't need anything from the first aid kit? [ Denji saw him feel for his left arm earlier, not a hint of red speckling his palm. But he can't discount the possibility that he's injured elsewhere. ] If she's too heavy, I'll just carry her.
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[Even though Aki had meant for Denji to care for himself first, he doesn't stop or scold him for doling out care to Nayuta first. He waits as he bandages himself after, passing a glance around the area, over the helicopter again. He wants to ask more questions and get the full story but he doesn't want to waste the time. They're both bloody but only Denji and Nayuta are truly injured. Which means Gun was out. Which means...]
[He doesn't want to think about it. The very thought makes his head go woozy. Denji barely looking at him, the obvious damage to his body, the bite in his skin... Because that is a bite, isn't it? When he looks over to watch him swipe a piece of gauze over the wound before covering it he sees the indents for that brief moment and tries to tell if they're his teeth. If he did this. If he did this.]
[But Denji isn't saying anything about it. Denji won't look at him. Aki takes in a breath as he leans forward to accept Nayuta, but stops when Denji does, raises his eyes to look at him when he does. And their eyes finally meet.]
[He can't get over how different he looks. Both from one year ago and one day ago.]
No... I'm not bleeding. [Even though the splotches of blood and the wet pool of it under his shoulder tell another story, there's no actual opening in his skin. He doesn't look for it, but the spot where Gun hurled his rifle to is empty now, only a small remnant of gunk and blood left.] I can carry her. You shouldn't aggravate your injuries.
[He offers his back for him to lean Nayuta onto, then wraps his arm around one of her legs, making sure her arms are draped over his shoulders for balance. It would be easier if he had a second arm, sure, but she's light enough that it doesn't matter. Nodding at Denji as he steadies himself, he does what he does best: Ignores the emotions of the situation and looks for a straightforward solution.]
Let's try and find a road.
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What he thought were his hands itching to hide behind a cigarette, a lighter, may have been looking to flick the trigger release of something else.
For a moment, Denji stays crouched, eyes heavy. Chest tight. Suddenly feeling wasted on fatigue. He wishes he could be less emotional, less bothered by what happened, more like…
He holds Aki's name in his head like it's a breath he's unwilling to let go — before sighing, hard.
Pushing up off his knees, he nabs the first aid kit by the handle and starts off after Aki, leaves crunching underfoot. They don't have time for his stupid ass feelings. He's better off stringing that crap around one of these tree branches and leaving it to die.
Where they're at is lush with both living and decaying vegetation. There's a path forward, though, because there always is, even if it involves navigating through mossy deadwood and tree roots veining out from the ground, enlarged like a cancerous growth. Just a few days ago, they slew a nasty devil who looked just like this. They didn't really get out of that one unscathed, but, whatever, what matters is that they got out of it. They'll get out of this just the same.
For a while, they're just walking in total deafening quiet, escorted by the chirp of insects. He doesn't know where they're going. When Denji was first assigned to under Aki's watch it was like this. All the skyscrapers hanging overhead, cars and city folk and storefronts to his left, right, everywhere; a jungle to wade through, and Aki leading the charge as Denji took in the sights. Couldn't stop pointing and talking about every last thing he saw. Now, no one's talking. No one's looking at each other.
How long they've been trekking eludes him, but at some point in their journey, Denji's head perks up at a close by sound. ]
…Water?
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[It's awkward and uncomfortable to travel like this, in heavy and burdensome silence that Aki doesn't feel qualified to break. Or more like, if he tries to break it, it'll shatter, pieces flying everywhere and slicing through skin with incorrect words or misplaced intentions. Every now and then he glances over his empty shoulder at Denji, like to check if he's still there, if he's gone off in another direction, but every time he does he also makes an excuse out of it, using it as an opportunity to take a wide look around, like he's trying to locate something familiar.]
[His parents never let him explore the woods near their home when he was younger, telling him it was too dangerous for a boy on his own. Aki had obeyed this. Shuffled to an orphanage in an urban city after that, then Tokyo after that, he'd never had a chance to explore nature or learn outdoorsman skills. He probably couldn't read a compass or start a fire easily. Wouldn't know how to spot animal tracks or signs of a trail. So, as they make their way through the forest blind and unaware, he has nothing to focus on like a skill he can remember or something specific to search for. Instead he just has to think about Denji and what must have happened to leave him like that. Leave both of them like that.]
[It's a circular thought process and coupled with the overbearing feeling of carrying the devil on his back, her right leg swinging free as he keeps his arm under her rear, it feels as if he's wearing blinders that keep him focused on that image: Denji, sitting on the ground, not dead, fully alive, but eyes empty. Face blank. Body - ravished, attacked. Rifled through like a purse snatched off someone's shoulder, pens and bottles of lip gloss thrown across the ground in search of something more valuable.]
[Denji speaks up and Aki blinks out of the sight. He slows to a stop, listening, then continues forward, his head turned to the sound before he finally sees it: below a small drop crowded by trees is a river, not to wide but flowing steadily in an obvious direction. Aki looks toward it - but of course, all there is to see are more trees.]
We should follow it. There's more likely to be people at the end of a river.
[He trails off, turning his gaze to look upward, then all the way around. Most of the sky is blocked by the canopy of trees, so Aki moves around a bit, trying to find a good vantage point, before finally raising his elbow in an effort to point, trying to keep from dislodging Nayuta.]
That must be a mountain. We should keep heading down the slope - maybe find a hiking outpost or something.
[And with that, he turns, heading to the edge of the small ridge and carefully making his way down, grip still tight on Nayuta as he slides down. The last thing he wants is another thing to feel guilty about, and sending her crashing into a body of water would do that.]
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