[A neck rub? Does that feel relieving like that, too? ...Come to think of it, no one has ever given any part of his body a rub. Too dangerous, but - But now he's remembering that Denji did a great job at brushing out his wings. Is he good with his hands, maybe? Is that a skill related to massages? He's thinking about that so seriously and so deeply that he nearly misses the question posed.]
[Not that it's an easy question to answer. Angel wouldn't consider the relationship he had with those humans to be at all similar to the one he had with Aki Hayakawa, but then, how would he define either side of those relationships? And what was so different, anyway? He thinks on that, studying him through the curtain of his hair.]
No... Not partners.
[It wasn't so formal, for one thing.]
I worked with her before. Makima, I mean... Sometimes she'd bring other humans along, too, but I hate working, so I usually didn't do a lot. I guess she realized I wasn't going to be much help, so she asked me to make weapons instead. But I don't like making those, either.
[What even does he like. Certainly not putting effort into things he doesn't care about.]
I met some humans like that. Usually they just ignored me, though. I don't care about killing humans, and they knew that, so most of them didn't mind me being around. Some of them would forget I was there, too. I think that's why that one felt okay screaming into a pillow in front of me.
[But then she went and died, and he just sat back and watched. What was he going to do, interfere? Help out? Hell no.]
If it wasn't for Makima, I wouldn't have done this, either. Being a partner with that human. She always makes me do stuff I don't want to do. It's so exhausting.
[Yeah, he's talking to the guy who has the biggest crush on her of all the people in the universe, but Angel doesn't shy away from his honesty. Not like he cares how that impacts their relationship.]
[But then, ignoring that he might have just offended him in his free thoughts about said crush, Angel turns to look at Denji, jumping straight back to the earlier topic.]
You can rub my neck, right? [Since he can touch him.] Will you do that? I want to know what that feels like.
[ It probably should tick him off that Angel so breezily talks crap about the woman Denji's constantly singing praises for, day in and day out. But, oddly, he doesn't feel one way or another about it. In fact, listening along, this non-feeling disguised as ambivalence strikes him as similar to those moments whenever he and Power are standing in Makima's office, when he accidentally glances at his buddy, sees her sweating and trembling, and especially when he pushes aside any wonder that kicks to the surface in favor of staring straight ahead. Straddling that unsettled prickle at the edge of his awareness, just shy of making contact with the realization of something he doesn't want to know. A realization, or the remembrance that there was a flicker of a moment, once, when he didn't want to do what Makima said either?
In a way, he does this same dog trick by letting a more interesting thought occupy his mind: Angel and Makima, together — that's an unusual duo to think about. So weird. Ha ha…
It seems ill-matched at first, and yet they have a lot of superficial things in common, like how stupidly ethereal they look. Just standing there or peering out a window, the light they always seem to carry with them — Angel's golden halo, Makima's sun-lit eyes — glancing off the glass. Maybe not siblings, but they could pass as cousins, at least, with the way their hair is permanently tinted nearly the same shade as… man, he doesn't even know. Something poetic and pretty. Lobsters? Red peppers? …No, not that —
You can rub my neck, right?
What? The song binder avalanches off his knees, clattering to the ground as his focus jerks back to the present. Tightening in on Angel, mouth hanging open in genuine surprise. ]
You want me to?
[ Dumb question. If this entire day has proven anything to Denji, it's that if there's an opportunity for someone who won't immediately drop dead to touch him, of course Angel's going to go for it. And since a neck rub isn't something he's experienced before, it kind of applies to the whole reason they're out gallivanting around the city together. He taps his phone screen to check the time. Well, he already paid, so it's not as if they can get kicked out for doing something other than sing, right? ]
…Geez, you hate working but don't mind putting other folks to work? What kinda mindset is that? [ he grumbles, standing up from his seat and nudges the table slightly away to make room for them to reposition. ] Just don't complain if it doesn't feel as nice as how a girl would do it. Sit on the ground in front of me — ah, ah, ah! Wait for me to get outta the way first! Don't whack me with your wings!
[ A simpler ask would have been for Angel to turn around, but his arms always feel sore keeping them raised for too long. He found that out the last time Power nuked his sure win in Mario Kart with an untimely blue shell launch, and she ordered him to give her a three-hour long shoulder massage as a penalty for losing.
Once they're all settled in with Denji awkwardly sitting back down behind Angel, he sinks the tips of his fingers through the tangles in Angel's hair a few times. He isn't out to hurt him, but he's not nice about it, either, brushing down and down, ignoring the glimpses of smooth paleness that brushes against his hands. Only really pausing when he comes across a sliver of white that isn't skin, but a piece of popcorn twisted up in his hair. Obviously, he throws into the back of his mouth without much thought. Eventually, Angel's hair gets sectioned into an asymmetrical curtain that falls over his shoulders — and that's when it suddenly hits Denji. The right word. ]
[When Denji starts to move, Angel does as well, sitting upright as his wings flex out just before he starts getting yelled at not to hit him with them. Jeez, it's not like he's trying to smack him, what's with him? Wait, he has to sit on the floor...?]
[It's not like it's sticky like the floor of the movie theater, but it still feels yucky. As Angel settles in between Denji's legs, his knees pulled up as he leans forward, he isn't really sure what to expect. Don't complain if it doesn't feel as nice as when a girl would do it. How would he know that? What woman would do this for him? Makima? She would probably snap his neck. Has there ever been a woman who might do something like this for him?]
[No, his mind supplies, and he accepts that.]
[He's silent as Denji moves his hair aside, reaching up to pull a few strands from where they snag behind his ears. Angel stares forward at the television screen, the little jingle of music playing as the same animation plays over and over, waiting for a song number to be selected. He's silent, waiting - and then Denji speaks up, and Angel turns his head.]
Cherries?
[He stares up at him through the curtain of hair, sleek and straight until it gets to the ends where it frays and curls ever so slightly. Why is he thinking about cherries?]
...Is it really better with me on the floor? [Because even though he's making Denji do work, he can still complain about anything.]
The cant of his head uncannily brings to recall every time Meowy's given him the side-eye when she registers that he's stopped scratching a specific spot behind her ears. Come to think of it, Angel's ears are cute, too, pink and soft-shelled, peeking out from the tapering coils of his hair, curled like the cherry stems Aki's always discarding and Denji's always digging back out from the trash to eat. Sweeping just over his knuckles. Ahhh, if Denji's knees spread, just a little more, wouldn't he fall right back against his…
Without warning, his expression reels and contorts, like he'd casted the hook of his fishing rod into strange waters and when he pulled back, something unexpected had smacked him dead center in the face. ]
Dude, you're the one who asked me to show you how it's done, [ he points out, hands warming the vertical slope of his neck, only touching his skin for a brief moment before coasting along his wrinkled collar and past the peeling flap of his blazer to come to a heavy rest on his shoulders. A highly unnecessary motion; he doesn't realize it. ] It's just easier for me. If you still hate sitting like this in five minutes, we can move, but just pipe down 'til then, alright?
[ Denji tries to think about how he did it for Power back then as his fingertips tighten, his thumbs meeting in the middle of his shirt collar, feeling out the lean muscles of Angel's nape in dense, dragging strokes through the fabric. Trying to force out the resistance that pushes back against his kneading. Angel's more petite than his fiend partner, that's for sure. Probably as bony as he used to be at twelve or thirteen, but he knows that the stature of someone's body isn't always the best signature of flimsiness. When Denji was his size as a full human, he'd already gone under the knife a few times to sell off what organs he could. Not to mention, fended off some of his worst beatings. So perhaps Angel's never been terribly hurt, but he should be able to live through a little bit of pressure tamping down on his back. ]
You wanna take your jacket off? 'm not sure if it's getting in the way or not.
[Denji makes such a big stink about him staying on the ground and Angel, in turn, gives up on the complaint - but maybe it's more to say he forgets. Because suddenly the pressure and rubbing of his muscles feels...]
[It's strange. It feels odd. He's not sure he likes it at first, his body tensing as if to ward off the touch and rougher presses. But over time, as he begins to realize it's not painful and not harmful, he eases into things, relaxes a little more naturally. Denji presses between his shoulderblades and he feels his hair stand on end, a knot he didn't know existed being forced apart. ...Is this just something he's dealt with for so long without realizing it can be fixed?]
[He speaks up and Angel blinks, realizing he's curled back like a cat, exposing more of his back to Denji, wings flat and bent to open up his shoulders. His jacket? That's right. Denji can touch him directly.]
[So he doesn't ask or answer. His hands move up to his collar first, undoing the tie and pulling it off from around his neck to drop into his lap, and then there's the shift of his hands as he undoes buttons. When he reaches up to pull the jacket off, the shirt comes with it. Both pieces of clothing slide down his arms, bunching at his shoulders with his wings pulled down awkwardly around the fabric. He turns his head to look up at Denji, the hair he'd parted so neatly now tumbling over his back again.]
You can touch, right?
[Of course he can. That's why they're doing this. But when has he ever shown anyone his back like this? Let anyone see this much skin? The space where his wings sink into his skin is visible, bony, awkward. Inhuman. Yet the color is nearly uniform, the white on his wings only a few shades ligter than his unblemished skin. Who else has really gotten to see those colors side by side before?]
[Yet it feels nice. To have his skin exposed. The air in the room is cool and compared to the humid heat outside, it's nice.]
[ A friendly suggestion, that's all it was. So what if it was casually coaxed by the roll of Angel's neck? Every faint rustle and flex of his wings pulsing out through his back, the sensation dangerously close to tickling Denji's fingertips, struggling to do more damage, but not quite there yet? He'd never considered playing an instrument before, but a flit of a thought came to him, then, that this was how it must be like. To pluck a string and watch it quiver under his touch, top to bottom. Play a song and not only sit in a crowded row of seats, waiting to be moved by someone else's performance.
But when Angel said nothing in return, he figured that was that. End of conversation. Sometimes what isn't spoken is the best answ…
The hem of the devil's shirt untucks from his belted waist, dropping with his jacket in a slumped mound beside him. Angel's chin tilts up. Doesn't even need to summon a weapon from whatever depths his halo hides to saw right through Denji's inner platitudes, immolating every sensible notion in his mind. Not that there were very many to begin with. His jaw drops, tongue blistered dry before the air in the compact room can even have its shot at it. ]
B-B-B —
[ Poleaxed, Denji can't even find the words to repeat after Angel. He doesn't have any boobs, after all.
…He did say just his jacket, didn't he? He didn't let anything else slip, right? Didn't tell him to strip or… or do that suspiciously flirtatious thing with his head! No, nope, nothing that would get him into trouble came anywhere near his mouth! So why?!
Cheeks alighting in a full-fledged flush, he shoves his face into the crook of his arm, trying to stay the burning, but can't seem to look away. Can't keep his eyes from tightly trailing the longitude of his spine, the curving crook separating his wings into their respective hemispheres, land uncharted. Smooth and unfelt. He can't turn away now. How could he? He's always wondered how it actually looked, seeing his wings connected to his skin like that, not human, but — ]
…It's better. Uh, you can… [ His knees spread wide, leaving an open space for Angel to sit into. If he wants. Though his arm lowers, as do his defenses, Denji can't look him straight in the eye. ] The floor's no good. This place is so slummy a rat might crawl on you…
[Angel isn't sure he understands why. His first thought is that it's his wings - seeing where they push into his skin, meet his back and blend into the muscles below the dermis. Bone meeting bone, muscle fusing to muscle. But then, Denji has seen much worse than strange anatomy on a devil. Hell, he's seen devils without anything to call anatomy to begin with. When he scoots backwards and gives Angel the space to sit on the couch, he considers arguing because it's not really enough space... But the floor does feel sticky to his hands when he sets one down. The sleeves slide down his arms and the fabric piles beside him. Maybe the couch wouldn't be so bad.]
[So he stands up, drops the tie into the same pile, then seats himself down right between his legs. He has to press his own together to be able to fit and he can feel his thighs meeting Denji's as he tries to find the right spot, scooting back a bit as he feels the edge of the seat. His wings pull in and slide down, acting like a cape split in two to keep from choking him with feathers - and to let him touch his skin. Which still doesn't feel quite right. To let someone be this close to skin like this. Skin like his.]
[But Denji doesn't die. So it's okay. This time, it'll be okay.]
Is this okay?
[He doesn't look over his shoulder this time. Stock still, his hands seated in his lap. Thighs together, tense.]
[The last time he sat this close to someone, between their legs... Briefly he closes his eyes to will that memory back into his subconscious but the blank scene behind his lids only amplifies that moment in his mind. Cold and frigid rain and wind. Warm body. Warm arms. That warm hand.]
[Is Denji warm, too? Maybe not. He's got a chainsaw for a heart, after all, and those are metal. Metal is cold. Devils are cold, too. But that's a lie, since Angel's body is so damn warm.]
[ This was a stupid idea. That's exceedingly clear to Denji the moment Angel doesn't laugh him out of the booth, doesn't question or point out how illogical this demonstration has been at every fast and loose step. But another thought, another voice, a louder one, rings just as clear in reminder: "The only reason he isn't chained up in a cell is because he does those things. Pokes holes in bread and can't pick out a movie."
Angel doesn't know this is stupid. Doesn't know to think it or say it. Has no clue the curve of his ass doesn't need to be sitting directly at the fork between Denji's legs, that Denji changed mind about the position only when he changed out of his clothes, and, most important of all, that they're two guys who are too close.
Is that okay? Shouldn't he have the chance to figure these things out like the rest of them?
Shouldn't Denji?
If an answer exists to that question, it lives nowhere near his throat. Yeah, nope — Denji can wet his lips and try to gulp around the thick dryness in his mouth all he wants, but nothing goes down or out, in or up. He's cross-wired. He doesn't hide it very well.
But small as Angel's bare shoulders are, they're solid as any sailor's anchor under the push of his fingertips. Good enough to cling to, keep his head afloat. That's what Reze told him when she taught him to swim: It's easier to keep yourself above the water when you're holding on to someone, then one way or another, you'll both make it back to steady ground. Granted, she was the same girl who drowned his mouth in blood the very next day, but she probably wouldn't lie to him about something like this.
Man, is it hard, though. He can actually make out the imprint of his thumbs roughing into Angel's skin as he starts kneading again, measured, with the same amount of pressure as before. It isn't long, however, until he starts noticing the splotches of red leak from his pale back — maybe he's pressing too hard. ]
…Does it feel okay?
[ Maybe he should have asked this back from the very start.
His voice sounds weird to his ears, warm and too far away, too much like the uncanny feeling of listening to himself through a scratchy CD player. Without waiting for a reply, his hands start to roam down, squeezing and pressing into him until his palms are cupped right below Angel's underarms. Keeps them there, fingers stroking so deep along that slender dip of his back, it's like he could fold him in half. Each rubbing movement seeming to edge Angel just that farther back into the alignment of Denji's hips. He doesn't even notice, his brain inextricably narrowed on the repetition.
It's crazy how thin this guy is, how the full volume of his body fits so easily into his palms. It's like he could lift him, hook his leg up. Plow him straight on top of his…
He sucks a breath in, veiling his gasp with an unnatural cough as he snatches his hands back. Blinks down at the bulge protruding from his pants zipper. ]
[There are a lot of instances where Angel wishes the difference between human and devil were more clear cut. Aside from the physical differences, the lifespan, the powers, the method of creation... Aside from those things, there are just too many similarities to feel comfortable. It's like seeing yourself in a foggy reflection yet being unable to deny that you're staring into your own eyes, there. Even if the color looks different. That's still you, isn't it?]
[But the warmth - That's a difference he wasn't sure of. If it was real or not, if it was something he made up. In the moment he can remember, when that human snagged his hand and yanked him down against his body and out of the typhoon, his hand should have been cold and clammy and wet, slashed by wind and rain. But the core of it was warm, and maybe Angel supplied the logic that he was feeling his lifespan instead of something distinctly human. But lifespan doesn't even feel like anything. Or maybe it feels like how Denji described death: tastes like nothing.]
[Denji's hands are warm, though.]
[He knew this from before and could have extrapolated from there. The first initial touch, the subsequent ones. Holding his hand and pulling him out of the crowd. When he touched his forehead, it was warm, too. Not something limited to extremities or seeping through his body in defense of touch - against Angel's forehead, he had been warm. His whole body is warm, then? That would make sense - humans are warm-blooded creatures, their blood cycling through their body to keep the temperature even, keep their bodies working. Like motor oil or diesel, churning through a chainsaw to keep the metal cold and prevent it from melting. A human response mixed with a devil response. Devils aren't so simply cold- or warm-blooded creatures. It depends on need. So why is Denji so warm?]
[He doesn't realize his face is so red, that his own body is so warm now. Denji's hands slide down his arms and below his underarms and squeeze into his back and every touch is like a lick of flame. He's trying to put all this away logically, to ignore all of it, to accept it as mere fact and enjoy the simple feeling of having his muscles massaged - it was nice before, right? So direct contact to them should be better. It should be fine, like this. It should feel okay. Better than okay. So why does it keep getting warmer, to the point where it's starting to feel like flame and hot coal? And why the hell does that intensity feel so good?]
[He doesn't fully care about what's rubbing between his ass at first. He doesn't think about it at all, actually, is the better understanding of his thought process, because Denji then removes the very things he was enjoying and he cares much more about that. Angel reaches back, turning his head slightly to see what he's doing, snatches for one of his wrists - two, if he's lucky. Aims to tug them right back to where they were, but opposite this time. Instead of coasting down his back, pressing at the thick muscle right below his wings, he pulls them to the front and guides them over his chest, expectant. He wants to feel it there, now.]
Here.
[An order, not a request. He needs to feel that hot metal as much as he can before whatever is making this happen decides to pull the rug out from beneath him. Before something cools this off. The devil side takes over, runs chilling oil through him instead. He can't have that yet.]
[If it was Aki Hayakawa, his mind supplies for some reason - If it were that one, he could respond to this better, he thinks. He would be all calm and methodical. Know exactly where he wants him to touch. He wouldn't be shy. Angel could sit on his lap, face him, set his hands on his shoulers while he rubs his body and warms him up. Because devils aren't warm-blooded by choice, just by happenstance. And isn't it the greatest happenstance at all that it's the Chainsaw boy that can do this and not Aki Hayakawa, instead? And when will the happenstance timer end and normalcy return? He clenches Denji tight, intent to keep him right where he is. Still touching.]
[ Denji gets hot at night when Power clings too close, and he’s been known to work up a sweat so intense it feels like a fever passing through his body when he’s nervous. However, the heat of another person, that’s something he’s only registered in potent, yet fleeting, doses. Like when Himeno helped him out of his shirt, trailed her hand down the length of his slight torso like a sweet courtesy; when Reze sunk her teeth into his tongue and tore away, playful, mean, a love bite that couldn't be helped; when Makima snugged his hand around her full breast, and he could practically sing along to the steady rhythm of her heart, made him squeeze her the way a holy man clutches at his cross; and Aki —
When Aki stood as an obstacle to his death, to the sacrifice of his heart to a lower devil, for a stupid reason he can't even remember, how that press of their groins, the spread of his legs, had arched into forever, it seemed like, and Denji went off and died anyway, a nearly infinite amount of times, just to bring eternity to an end. When Aki carried him over a shoulder, as if it were normal and easy to hold on to a barely conscious boy, soaking his blood into his clothes, holding on to him until they could retreat into safety. When Aki's arm bumps against his in the kitchen most mornings, and he can't think about anything else.
Every time he touches someone, it always feels like a sensation that's granted to him. He's never thought about what he could be giving away.
This half-devil's hands are warm, but they're shaking.
Denji presses down into Angel's pecs — to anchor his bearings, really. Fondling's maybe the only fourth or fifth thing on his mind, even with the tightness in his pants burrowed close to his rear. But it's this very movement, watching the jiggle of his pecs from over his shoulder, that forwards that notion straight to first place. His tits remind him a little of Power's. Flat, cute. It's fascinating kneading down on Angel with an extra increment of force, thumbs rubbing at his nipples through his shirt, just for his chest to recoil back where it's meant to be, like pressing down into a spring mattress. He wonders what it'd be like to slap his whole hand against his chest, what kind of mark it'd leave, if that would make Angel whole body bounce and lurch.
The last time he was this close to him was during their sleepover, wasn't it?
…No, that's not right. A loose feather caught in Angel's collar tickles at Denji's chin. He's close enough for his shallow breaths to touch his ear with the clearness of an instrument plugged into an amp. Biting Angel's halo that time was more of a quick in-and-out experiment, not the same whatsoever, but this —
His eyes go up.
It's then the same compulsion as what had flooded him that night visits Denji again. Stepping in uninvited, knotting its claws into his spine, makes him grind into Angel, his chest crowding into his wings, tilting upward into him like a marionette tugged by its strings, as his sharp, pearly whites find the curve of his halo. The dig of his teeth happens with less force, still a bite, but he isn't trying to chew through Angel anymore. He knows what his halo's for now, how full it feels held in his mouth. He knows it's not going anywhere.
There's a sick part of him that feels good doing this, locking a hare by its neck. ]
[It's different here, he realizes after just a few presses. It doesn't feel like it did when Denji was pressing his palms into his back and kneading his muscles there. This kneading... It's not relieving, it's not... relaxing. No, it's definitely not relaxing. It's not soothing. If anything, it's making Angel feel warmer, the heat rising inside him. Denji rolls his fingers over his nipples and Angel doesn't speak but he feels the bob in his throat jolt up, then down. He's looking down, watching his hands, his own still grasped on his wrists. Not so much guiding as along for the ride.]
[He doesn't get it. Why this is so different. Why does being touched feel so...]
[Then he bites down and Angel's vision whites out. His eyes go wide and his breath catches hard and fast in his throat. He jolts once before nearly falling limp back into Denji's chest, the hands on his wrists twitching with effort to keep their hold. It's not a full bite, doesn't threaten to crack the light into shards, but it's harsher than when he simply touched it before. When he ran his fingers along the rim and Angel had briefly thought he might hum along to produce a tone. Instinct tells him to simply push him back and get away but he can't move, not when he has Denji's hands pressed into his chest, effectively pinning himself against him. As if he has to find a way to struggle against that, Angel arches his back, pressing both towards his hands while he turns his head in an attempt to dislodge his halo.]
Chain - Ah -
[He can't finish because adjusting his position adjusts something else, too. He can feel heat pressed against his ass now, hard heat that he recognizes the source of but doesn't have the brain power to create any kind of response to. Instead he turns his head again and his halo shivers in Denji's teeth, like it wants to move, too, expects to turn along with its owner. Head leaned back like this, Angel can't quite see what Denji is doing, can't see where he's biting him much like a human can't see the crown of their head.]
What - You're gonna...
[His tongue feels heavy, large in his mouth. His face is getting warm. What the hell is going on? It should hurt, it should burn, just like before. A bite to his most sensitive spot. But instead, the noise he makes is more than the song of a water glass's rim - it's a full on whine.]
[ Like a scab you can't stop thumbing over, a loose string you can't deny twirling around your finger, he can't help it. Denji's too beside himself, outside himself with satisfaction — this is how those fancy conductors feel, waving their hands and hearing the swell of a moving rhapsody, a melody coming undone, flow through a concert hall. How Makima feels behind her desk, dictating what they do, when, where, what method. It feels good. Their breaths rising out the same way blood churns from an opened stitch, too hot, too much. He wasn't supposed to be able to touch Angel like this, nor was Angel supposed to bend, keel, and croon for him, but here they are, practicing the usual proneness of humans: digging their teeth into fruits they shouldn't. And he's lapping up Angel's feeble reactions like nectar squeezed straight from an apple's core, addictive and sweet. Poisonous.
Fractured light pours from the disc he's mouthing at, joining the artificial neon still revolving around the room in a strange mandala. His previous hesitation is nowhere to be seen, washed away by his hammering heart, the mindless rocking of his hips, slow and punctuated by weak sounds creaking from his throat. He's never gone this far with anyone, even when he was laying half-naked in a bed with an older woman propositioning him.
This is different.
He can tweak at Angel through his shirt, pinch at his nipples until he can imagine they're oversensitive and bursting pink, nearly taste it on his tongue. His hands dragging in and out in a circle, filling with the spread of his little chest, pert and and soft and teeming with breakable bones. Each swallow for air strained the more he presses down his sternum, presses up into the space his bulge his carved out between his ass cheeks at the same time. But he can choose to be nice, because he has the heart to. To let up the grinding of his molars against his incandescent disc, choose to graze his teeth along his singing and shuddering edges. He can decide this on his own, and Angel is practically begging for him to. ]
You — feel good. How do you feel so good? [ Denji wetly rasps, only pulling away from his halo for a moment, before he's back on it like a moth. Tongue slicking against the inside of its glass-like rim. He's always pulling crap out from here. Maybe Denji can pull something else out.
With one last twist of his nipple, his hand slips from Angel's grip, trailing down, reaching for the crux between his legs. He doesn't squeeze him, doesn't go for the zipper, just rests his wrist at his belt buckle, fingers tapping at the shadow of his groin. He's crossing a forbidden line, another one, by doing this. It's fine. They still have time reserved in their booth walk everything back. Surely. ]
[First it was his halo. A burn that vibrated through him from the tip of his spine to the toes on his feet, following a fuse and stretching down every river to ignite his entire body. And then his chest, his nipples, the flame already there burning hotter when Denji pulls and tweaks them and makes them hurt, ache, burn - It's burning, he wants to tell him, but his throat is compacted with something, his lips parted, tongue pressing at the edges of them as his body twitches and trembles under every touch.]
[Denji says something but he isn't listening, instead briefly relieved enough to gasp at the lack of attention to his halo. His wings twitch and flit and he wants to pull himself up, get off and away from the incessant contact, but then he's right back at it, lapping his tongue along the underside and Angel groans so loudly, the sound high pitched in a way that might shatter the glass making all those noises to begin with. If the teeth was harsh enough the tongue is almost insensible, something he can't ignore. His eyes roll. And then he's moving lower.]
[Despite how overstimulated he feels, somehow Angel can still feel the way Denji's hand moves downward and settles over his belt. It finally cracks the first coherent thought through his mind - this is sex. This is what sex feels like. This is what Denji wanted. This is that stuff he talks about every time, that stuff humans need and crave. But he's not human. He's not an angel. He's a devil. So why does he want this?]
[His hand, suddenly bereft of anything to hold onto, spasms against his chest and reaches down to try and find the wrist he was grasping before, like he's afraid they'll be separated in this tidal wave. It's too much. He can't think straight. Because he's actually thinking of letting him do this. It's too hot right now, and even though one part of him knows it would be extinguished if he would just get his halo away from him, could flap his wings and push away, another part of him says, Why not - What's there to lose? It's not like he can do this with Aki Hayakawa. It's not like anyone else could ever give him this experience. And isn't that what he asked of Denji, to give him some new experiences? A whiny hum comes from his throat as he tilts his head down, watching. He tries to adjust himself further up on his lap but it just makes Denji slide along him more, plants his ass firmly on top of his erection. He's not heavy enough for something like that to hurt, but he still shifts about like he's trying to find a comfortable position for both of them, small noises continuing to leak out just like -]
Oh - [Oh, fuck, he's hard. He can see it. With his gaze turned down, he can see it now, his own erection pressing up, the small tent in his pants so obvious it's embarrassing. Devils don't get embarrassed, he'd said just a few days ago, and yet here he is, his face bright red, eyes wide. So it's not just a flame that's coarsing through his blood, he realizes, and attempts again to turn his head and look at Denji. Trying to see if he hasn't noticed yet, like a drunk making sure his inebriation isn't too noticeable as he stumbles around a bar.]
[ Denji's come a long way from groping padded bra inserts and cradling his boss's used candy to his chest. Could he stand in front of a classroom and articulate sex, what it is, the concept of what it means to a person, what it means to him, though? The answer's obvious. Carting Angel around today, he figured the easiest way for him to learn new experiences, human ones, was to immerse the both of them in it. And he figured that same exposure theory could be applied to touch. From the first graze in the theater, to the next bold snatch of his wrist, to now — it'd felt easy. Fundamental. He didn't need to explain himself. The warmth did all the talking. However, going this far with a being like Angel trembling under his fingertips, glazed eyes barely steadied on him, it's painfully clear there's a piece to this that's missing. That's so outside his realm of understanding. Angel knows as much as he does, probably even less, about what comes next. What happens when two bodies cave in to one another; the all-consuming acceptance of their own weakness. How good it feels to feed into it.
He wishes he'd stay still. Just keep facing ahead, facing away. Denji doesn't want to be trapped in the look Angel fixes on him, but there's nowhere else to turn tail, run. The red of his gaze strikes him like the end of a match. Cowed, his hands freeze above his crotch. Cowed, his mouth slips from the halo.
All of this feels good, he won't take that back. But maybe it'd feel less dissonant if someone else were in his place, someone else in Angel's. Cooler eyes, larger hands. ]
…Um, have you ever —
[ A loud rap bounces off their door, blindsiding Denji to such a degree he yelps, nearly sends a confetti of feathers dancing into the air in the process of throwing the devil off his lap.
"Ten minutes left!" comes the employee's voice, receding footsteps moving on to the next room.
There's a lot that can be done in ten minutes, but Denji's already on his feet, fluttering about the long seat. Throwing whatever belongs to the karaoke place back onto the table. ]
So that's how you do a neck rub, [ he coughs, fussing with his bag before he shoulders it. Goes for the door. ] Sorry, I gotta piss.
[He can't get that stare out of his head. How they both must look like two deer in headlights, unaware of what the hell they're doing, yet he - ]
[And now he's on the floor, surreptitiously thrown from Denji's lap and clattering to the ground with a sudden Oof! Angel reaches down and rubs his ass, raising his head to snap something at him as the buzzing in his ears keeps sounding (wait, since when was there a buzz?) but instead he watches at Denji leaps to his feet and begins cleaning up. Says something insane about a neckrub. Rushes from the room with his bag.]
[Angel looks down at his erection, still tented in his pants.]
[What the fuck.]
[When Denji returns, he's sitting on the edge of the couch, his shirt pulled back on and messily buttoned up and tie loose around his neck. He's trying to fit his wings through his jacket but he's still too oversensitive, even the feeling of the fabric on his chest making his skin tingle, nipples still hard against it and peeking through the thin white cloth. Every shift feels like too much movement. Like when you have a fever and every muscle movement burns. Well, not that he's ever had a fever.]
[Raising his head to look at Denji, he looks dour. Staring at him, knowingly. Completely aware, and more than that - What is it they call this? Blueballed.]
Chainsaw-kun.
[There's a bit of a warning tone to his voice, even if it doesn't carry in his body language. He still looks and feels touchy and anxious, can still vividly imagine the sensation of his tongue on his halo.]
[ Shoulders back. Mouth relaxed in a slight frown. Although a conspicuous redness to Denji's face remains, he seems notably subdued upon returning. Less tense. With a few pats, he dries his hands against his pants, which have mysteriously deflated in the time he's been away. Mysteriously. Ugh. All he wants to do is ignore the presence of the only other person in the room: just fetch him, pay for their time, have him silently trail after him all the way back to wherever they were planning on ending day, he can't even remember.
But then Angel speaks his name — a version of it, at least — like an accusation, and, out of habit, Denji looks up, briefly cringing as soon as his eyes are on him. The lights aren't as dim anymore. In too much detail, he can make out how ruffled his wings look, the feathers spread and puffed in some areas, pressed and scraggly in others. The same can be said for the rest of Angel, but maybe it's not too different from how unseemly he usually looks?
…Maybe, except how could he explain the sweet indents of his nipples still visible through his button-down? The fabric contortion at his fly?
Hurriedly, guiltily, he looks away. ]
Uh, you done in here yet?
[ He's half-inside the doorway, so he casts a glance over his shoulder down the hallway, as if to emphasize an employee could come skulking their way any second to kick them out. Angel is a devil; humans don't generally like those hanging around their place of business — that's the story Denji's going with, anyway. ]
Before we head out, though, you should go… pee. [ He sighs. Finally, a minor acknowledgement. Of what they did and what Denji did. ] It feels better that way. I'll show you where it is.
[Feels better...? Angel stares at him like he's stupid, clearly still frustrated by the whole situation. To get worked up all the way to a point and then surreptitiously tossed aside... He really thinks he can just piss and he'll forget all about it?]
Are you stupid?
[He mutters it under his breath before getting to his feet. It's not really meant for Denji but Angel wouldn't admit it was meant for himself, either. His wing finally shoves through the slit in his jacket and he grunts something - not quite in pain or anything, it's just... weird. His whole body feels weird. Which is weird, because he's used to it not feeling like anything at all.]
[In Denji's pocket, there's a buzz of a text message, sent from Aki - Everything going OK? But Angel either doesn't hear it or doesn't care, stepping forward with the expectation that he'll move out of the way. Show him toward this supposed magical bathroom that will give him a moment to compose himself.]
[Of all people, it had to be the Chainsaw boy who can touch him without any negative effect. There's something cruel about it, namely how he knows neither of them gives a shit about the other. Why he's doing this for him today, why he brought him to the apartment the other day... Surely it's for some reason, but not for Angel. And the same with Angel - He didn't come here for Denji's sake. His own sake, if anything. Making the work day easier to deal with when Aki Hayakawa isn't coming in after an awful evening. Experiencing something new. He knows his reasons, clearly. But his - He can't even begin to guess, but surely they aren't altruistic.]
[ He clams up, backing into the door but not moving into the hallway.
Just which does Angel mean by that question: throwing him off or touching him to begin with? Maybe he's going so far as to dig for something else, an explanation for why he planned this trip. Except that doesn't make sense. Angel asked for it. Told him to make it up to him for what he did the night before, the bite — maybe that's it. But he doesn't know why he did that back then, in front of Aki, either. Where the compulsion came from, knowing it'd make the two of them upset with him.
His phone buzzes, saving Denji from further spiraling. He doesn't go for it immediately, uncomfortable under Angel's observation. He fidgets with the device, flipping and rotating it from corner to corner, clearly itching to take a look — which only lasts a total of two seconds before he gives in entirely. ]
Gimme a sec.
[ He's hoping to concentrate his eyes on something that isn't presently glaring a hole through his head, or asking him things that make his temples tense, frontal cortex throb. But then he sees who the text is from. The veins in his neck are practically bursting with how tight his jaw is clenched. His thumbs tap at the screen. ]
not really
[ Nah, even he can tell that's stupid. Backspace, backspace, backspace. ]
kinda sorta?
[ — ah, crap, he pressed send on that. Damn it, ugh, he should just trash this thing. Don't do it, he chastises himself. Play it cool, dude, play it like a grown-up — like Aki would. That's the smart thing to do. Aki doesn't get into trouble.
Grimacing, he pockets his phone again and strides clean past Angel. Without acknowledging his question, completing his answer, or paying attention to the notes of animated cheer and singing through the windows to the other rooms. Totally stone cold. Right, that's an assholish thing he can imagine that guy doing… Acting all in charge, high and mighty. And stuff.
Denji's walking comes to a sudden stop, rounding a corner at the other end of the hallway. ]
Uh, this is it. The toilet.
[ It's small. Only fits one person at a time, but it's not like there's a line, so it's fine. ]
["Kinda sorta" is an expected answer when it comes to dealing with Angel, and Aki reads into it with that history. Probably Angel complained about the movie and didn't like it and then ate too much and was his usual morose self. Which, considering the look the devil in question is leveling at Denji, isn't exactly far off. It's just that the cause isn't one that would ever cross Aki's mind.]
[He follows him to the bathroom and is told, in no simpler terms, to jack off into the toilet, and Angel's brow finally rises from its glower into a shocked stare. He's been treated all sorts of ways due to his status as a devil in custody by a governmental organization, but not once has anyone from that framework ever told him to masturbate. And definitely not into the plumbing.]
You can't be serious. [Then again, Denji doesn't exactly represent the organization keeping him stuck here, nor does he especially think in the most sane ways. Still, he can't help this frustration, and being a devil isn't one to question his emotions, especially the negative ones. But it unfortunately leads to him speaking without thinking, curtly saying what's immediately on his mind:] Finish what you started.
[...He huffs. Looks away, glaring at the bathroom door. As if he'd ever - The very idea of it is disgusting. Especially when he compares it to... well, how it felt when Denji was touching him a moment ago. The awkward yet high intensity of it, like a bolt of lightning that couldn't fully find the ground. And why the hell does he get to expose that sensation to him and then skip off scot free while Angel deals with the emotional aftermath?]
[ Of course, he flinches at that. Cuts his words at a pivotal joint to avoid reaching for a response that'll make this situation worse. Make Denji come off as even more of an ass.
He's not trying to be heartless. He has one of those, a heart, so he knows how to be a good guy. It's not like he was anticipating Angel to jump and whoop at the suggestion, but he — he figured he'd be just as weirded out by the way things went down in their booth. That he would want to clear his head, get away, move on. It's what Denji's accustomed to at least, how he's noticed most of his colleagues and superiors deal with crap, and how he's mostly learned to follow suit.
But Angel isn't human. He's a captive to Public Safety, sort of in the same way Denji, but not really, given that he spends most of his time tucked inside a cell, doing fuck knows. Maybe that's why he's fine with Denji. Fine with settling for him. ]
You're kidding me, [ Denji squints at the spotted ceiling. Pauses long, in case Angel wants to throw out his punchline. Turns out neither one of them can tell a joke, though. ] Just get in there already — here.
[ Stepping forward, he twists the door handle, watches as it easily drifts inward with a nudge. It's one of those flimsy doors that won't stay open on its own, so he holds it wide for Angel to enter.
Inside his pocket, Denji jiggles his phone, hoping, banking on a timely buzz to shred through this moment. Knock some sense into him. ]
[He's not embarrassed, because - Well, what is there to be embarrassed about? He's the one who said it, and now Denji seems to be accepting it, and now they're moving forward. There's no reason to feel embarrassed, or ashamed, or - or anything. It's all exactly what he asked for and what he wants to know more about. This sensation. This... Weirdness.]
[Denji pushes the door open and motions him inside like a bouncer, leading the way into a dark club. Except this room is uncomfortably bright and the buzz of the fluorescent bulb is the only kind of music aside from the dim hum from the karaoke booths down the hall. Angel still wears a frown as he moves inside, watching Denji carefully, like he expects him to bolt if he takes his eyes off of him. Doing anything inside a bathroom like this isn't exactly his favorite idea, but - but he has no shame. Surely. There's nothing for him to be ashamed of. He's a devil, after all. Why would a devil feel something so human as shame?]
[Standing in the center of the small bathroom, he looks back at Denji over his shoulder.]
You've never done this.
[Said as a statement - He's well aware of his fascination with sex, his desire for it, his need for it. Yet in this moment, he recognizes he rejected it even though Angel wasn't doing anything to stop him. Is it because he has no attraction to him? Is it because he doesn't consider it possible, with a devil? Is it because there's someone else he would prefer?]
[Angel is thinking of those same things. That doing this with a human is ludicrous, even if it's a half-human. That Denji isn't attractive to him. That he would prefer someone else.]
[A creature crawls out of the well deep inside of him, brandishing that harsh truth as a whip. The shame hits him in full force then: that there's someone else he would prefer.]
[ Although his discomfort lingers as a knot in his stomach, Angel's words resurrect a few embers of that same singing in his veins as before. In the beginning, his expression is inscrutable, trailing down the devil's shoulders, his wings, but then in landing on Angel's hands, in remembering how small and warm they felt when he held him in place, it warps. Falters. A coin plunking down a well, rippling the stillness of the water. What's he supposed to say to Angel's admission that he's a virgin, and that he knows Denji is, too? How's he supposed to feel? Just because they're alike in inexperience, in social stature, one existence that shouldn't be here to another…
Standing separated from Angel by the sparest degree, off to the side, Denji touches a hand to the sink edge behind him. Either trying to anchor himself from reaching out or keep from wobbling on his feet. ]
Listen, I think, like… Erm, just — this sorta touchy-feely stuff, it's meant for —
[ He struggles with this one, visibly. His mouth freezes open. Closed, then open again. Lovers, he could say, but thinking back on his past relations, he doesn't think Himeno actually even liked him that much compared to who she was really gunning after. Reze? She claimed to be a liar, but told him the truth when she said she wouldn't show to their meeting spot. Makima, well, he still needs to earn the right to ask her out to make things official.
Every time he's thought he was close to finding the girl for him, the greater situation has always spun out of his control. And right now, he feels like he's already in the midst banging around in a washer set to the highest velocity. Dizzy with the memory of Angel's hips dragging against him, the potential to touch him again close at hand, and the possibility that he might really enjoy doing that with another guy. ]
Have you ever had a crush on anyone before?
[ The question crashes out of him with a flip of his stomach. Seemingly without warning, but the truth is, it's what he's been dying to ask ever since Angel readily sat himself in his lap. ]
I heard that touching someone like that feels the best when it's with someone you have a lot of feelings for. And who you know really well. So…
[ Face fully sore from the flush reddening his cheeks, his head ducks. ]
If you think you — l-like me a little, then maybe…
[It's two questions back to back that have Angel staring at Denji in obvious surprise. A crush - He doesn't even know what that would mean for something like him. Do devils have crushes? Probably not, that's not exactly up there on their Maslow's hierarchy of needs. That's the sensible answer, but of course combined with what he was already thinking, the uncomfortable thoughts he was just having, that he wished Denji was someone else - No, he doesn't know. He doesn't know if he'd be able to identify such a feeling. He's a devil. Devils don't do those things.]
[So maybe due to that, the second question almost acts as a salve for how easy it is to answer. Has he ever had a crush? He doesn't know. Does he like Denji in that way?]
I don't.
[Were this another situation, he might call him disgusting or remind him about how he chomped down on his halo the other night or how he constantly behaves in gross, annoying ways. But he's currently propositioning him for - for something. So he can't start insulting him.]
...But I don't think that's right. [The idea that touching someone you like feels the best. He'll slide right along from the comment about his (lack of) feelings for Denji.] Humans are always having sex. They'll even pay money for it. So it can't be something limited only to emotional feelings, I think.
[That, and he's had people think he was attractive before, come onto him before they recognized he was a devil and not simply in costume. Surely they didn't want to get to know him or something like that. But thinking about that does remind him... Didn't he say he had a dream about him in swimwear once? He leans against the wall of the bathroom, a few steps away from Denji, though the small single stalled bathroom doesn't offer much more space than that.]
[ The passage to understanding what Angel's getting at is a short one to traverse; Denji's never been the sort to need much convincing of — anything, really, given the amount of times Power's pulled one over him. But especially sex. Why people have it, pay for it, sell it by the hour. He liked the thought of that candied fantasy Makima told him before, but he gets it: You can hear a story, be touched by its message, and still not be its audience. Not the person who deserves it. ]
Uh… You say 'lotta things I don't get, but I like the look of you, kinda.
[ His bangs tilt into his eyes, brown sweeping across the bathroom floor. Looking sheepish, shame-faced. Proving Angel right in the end — that emotions don't have to play into anything they're after. He doesn't work with Angel in his day to day. They're not buddies. They hardly have anything in common. If not for their obligations to Public Safety, to other people, the two of them would barely have any reason to converse, much less stand in the same vicinity.
All Angel wants from him is a hand. Someone to stand there, like how Meowy claws her nails down a scratching post as an outlet for excess energy.
When he was last in here, he'd put the toilet seat down to be considerate of the next occupant, but now as he moves, he flips it up, careless. Waves Angel over with glancing at him, standing to the side to leave him room to slot in front of the toilet. Finish what you started, he said to him. That's not hard. Denji's done that for himself thousands of times. He's more concerned about whether Angel can aim or not. ]
So what, you just want me to feel you up? Tug on your dick?
[ As soon as the devil gets within proximity, Denji squints at his distance from the toilet, then, with an annoyed sigh, curls a finger through one of his belt loops. Yanks him a step forward. After which, he opens his palm up to Angel, like he's waiting for some change to drop in his hand or something. Of course, what he's expecting is something weightier. ]
Well? If I'm doing this, the least you can do is pull your own fly down.
[Well, that doesn't exactly surprise him, that he doesn't always know what Angel is saying... But the admission that he "likes the look" of Angel isn't expected. Sure, he'd mentioned before that he'd dreamed of him, he remembers that... And the way he'd been grabbing him in that booth, but...]
[This is exactly what he was just talking about, Angel reasons to himself - That humans have attractions to things without it necessarily being emotionally-driven. And in this situation, when Angel is just trying to get this one thing, searching out this one experience that no one else can give him, well, let him call it serendipity, that this can happen.]
[He moves forward slowly when Denji motions him, then stumbles when he's dragged into position by his belt loop.] Hey...! [He steadies himself in front of the toilet, blinking down at it as he comes to a sudden understanding: Denji intended for him to masturbate into this. Truth be told, maybe they have more in common than he wants to admit, because Denji says a lot of things Angel doesn't get, too.]
[He holds his hand out and Angel frowns, lip pressing out into something like a pout. "Tug on his dick" sounds so simple when he says it like that, but isn't that what he wanted before? He undoes his belt and then pulls his pants open, his fingers moving awkwardly about it, like he's unused to the act of undressing.]
I don't know what I want... I've never done anything like this.
[It's a white lie. He understands the notion of masturbation and it feels like he's done something like that before, but he can't remember anything specific. It's like asking if he's ever peed sitting down: probably, though he couldn't name a specific date and time.]
But you do this sort of thing all the time, right? What do you do?
[And he pulls his dick out as he speaks, still half hard but small. Along with not having much physical experience with himself, he has no comparative experience with others. He's seen nude devils and fiends but never considered their private parts. So there's no pride nor shame as he reveals himself, no discomfort aside from the simple discomfort from standing over a toilet and anticipating something that's about to happen. He pushes his pants down an inch to free himself a little more, sliding his briefs down to let his dick fall free, hanging in the air over the bowl.]
I mean, whatever you did before felt good... So just do that.
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[Not that it's an easy question to answer. Angel wouldn't consider the relationship he had with those humans to be at all similar to the one he had with Aki Hayakawa, but then, how would he define either side of those relationships? And what was so different, anyway? He thinks on that, studying him through the curtain of his hair.]
No... Not partners.
[It wasn't so formal, for one thing.]
I worked with her before. Makima, I mean... Sometimes she'd bring other humans along, too, but I hate working, so I usually didn't do a lot. I guess she realized I wasn't going to be much help, so she asked me to make weapons instead. But I don't like making those, either.
[What even does he like. Certainly not putting effort into things he doesn't care about.]
I met some humans like that. Usually they just ignored me, though. I don't care about killing humans, and they knew that, so most of them didn't mind me being around. Some of them would forget I was there, too. I think that's why that one felt okay screaming into a pillow in front of me.
[But then she went and died, and he just sat back and watched. What was he going to do, interfere? Help out? Hell no.]
If it wasn't for Makima, I wouldn't have done this, either. Being a partner with that human. She always makes me do stuff I don't want to do. It's so exhausting.
[Yeah, he's talking to the guy who has the biggest crush on her of all the people in the universe, but Angel doesn't shy away from his honesty. Not like he cares how that impacts their relationship.]
[But then, ignoring that he might have just offended him in his free thoughts about said crush, Angel turns to look at Denji, jumping straight back to the earlier topic.]
You can rub my neck, right? [Since he can touch him.] Will you do that? I want to know what that feels like.
no subject
In a way, he does this same dog trick by letting a more interesting thought occupy his mind: Angel and Makima, together — that's an unusual duo to think about. So weird. Ha ha…
It seems ill-matched at first, and yet they have a lot of superficial things in common, like how stupidly ethereal they look. Just standing there or peering out a window, the light they always seem to carry with them — Angel's golden halo, Makima's sun-lit eyes — glancing off the glass. Maybe not siblings, but they could pass as cousins, at least, with the way their hair is permanently tinted nearly the same shade as… man, he doesn't even know. Something poetic and pretty. Lobsters? Red peppers? …No, not that —
You can rub my neck, right?
What? The song binder avalanches off his knees, clattering to the ground as his focus jerks back to the present. Tightening in on Angel, mouth hanging open in genuine surprise. ]
You want me to?
[ Dumb question. If this entire day has proven anything to Denji, it's that if there's an opportunity for someone who won't immediately drop dead to touch him, of course Angel's going to go for it. And since a neck rub isn't something he's experienced before, it kind of applies to the whole reason they're out gallivanting around the city together. He taps his phone screen to check the time. Well, he already paid, so it's not as if they can get kicked out for doing something other than sing, right? ]
…Geez, you hate working but don't mind putting other folks to work? What kinda mindset is that? [ he grumbles, standing up from his seat and nudges the table slightly away to make room for them to reposition. ] Just don't complain if it doesn't feel as nice as how a girl would do it. Sit on the ground in front of me — ah, ah, ah! Wait for me to get outta the way first! Don't whack me with your wings!
[ A simpler ask would have been for Angel to turn around, but his arms always feel sore keeping them raised for too long. He found that out the last time Power nuked his sure win in Mario Kart with an untimely blue shell launch, and she ordered him to give her a three-hour long shoulder massage as a penalty for losing.
Once they're all settled in with Denji awkwardly sitting back down behind Angel, he sinks the tips of his fingers through the tangles in Angel's hair a few times. He isn't out to hurt him, but he's not nice about it, either, brushing down and down, ignoring the glimpses of smooth paleness that brushes against his hands. Only really pausing when he comes across a sliver of white that isn't skin, but a piece of popcorn twisted up in his hair. Obviously, he throws into the back of his mouth without much thought. Eventually, Angel's hair gets sectioned into an asymmetrical curtain that falls over his shoulders — and that's when it suddenly hits Denji. The right word. ]
Cherries…
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[It's not like it's sticky like the floor of the movie theater, but it still feels yucky. As Angel settles in between Denji's legs, his knees pulled up as he leans forward, he isn't really sure what to expect. Don't complain if it doesn't feel as nice as when a girl would do it. How would he know that? What woman would do this for him? Makima? She would probably snap his neck. Has there ever been a woman who might do something like this for him?]
[No, his mind supplies, and he accepts that.]
[He's silent as Denji moves his hair aside, reaching up to pull a few strands from where they snag behind his ears. Angel stares forward at the television screen, the little jingle of music playing as the same animation plays over and over, waiting for a song number to be selected. He's silent, waiting - and then Denji speaks up, and Angel turns his head.]
Cherries?
[He stares up at him through the curtain of hair, sleek and straight until it gets to the ends where it frays and curls ever so slightly. Why is he thinking about cherries?]
...Is it really better with me on the floor? [Because even though he's making Denji do work, he can still complain about anything.]
no subject
The cant of his head uncannily brings to recall every time Meowy's given him the side-eye when she registers that he's stopped scratching a specific spot behind her ears. Come to think of it, Angel's ears are cute, too, pink and soft-shelled, peeking out from the tapering coils of his hair, curled like the cherry stems Aki's always discarding and Denji's always digging back out from the trash to eat. Sweeping just over his knuckles. Ahhh, if Denji's knees spread, just a little more, wouldn't he fall right back against his…
Without warning, his expression reels and contorts, like he'd casted the hook of his fishing rod into strange waters and when he pulled back, something unexpected had smacked him dead center in the face. ]
Dude, you're the one who asked me to show you how it's done, [ he points out, hands warming the vertical slope of his neck, only touching his skin for a brief moment before coasting along his wrinkled collar and past the peeling flap of his blazer to come to a heavy rest on his shoulders. A highly unnecessary motion; he doesn't realize it. ] It's just easier for me. If you still hate sitting like this in five minutes, we can move, but just pipe down 'til then, alright?
[ Denji tries to think about how he did it for Power back then as his fingertips tighten, his thumbs meeting in the middle of his shirt collar, feeling out the lean muscles of Angel's nape in dense, dragging strokes through the fabric. Trying to force out the resistance that pushes back against his kneading. Angel's more petite than his fiend partner, that's for sure. Probably as bony as he used to be at twelve or thirteen, but he knows that the stature of someone's body isn't always the best signature of flimsiness. When Denji was his size as a full human, he'd already gone under the knife a few times to sell off what organs he could. Not to mention, fended off some of his worst beatings. So perhaps Angel's never been terribly hurt, but he should be able to live through a little bit of pressure tamping down on his back. ]
You wanna take your jacket off? 'm not sure if it's getting in the way or not.
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[It's strange. It feels odd. He's not sure he likes it at first, his body tensing as if to ward off the touch and rougher presses. But over time, as he begins to realize it's not painful and not harmful, he eases into things, relaxes a little more naturally. Denji presses between his shoulderblades and he feels his hair stand on end, a knot he didn't know existed being forced apart. ...Is this just something he's dealt with for so long without realizing it can be fixed?]
[He speaks up and Angel blinks, realizing he's curled back like a cat, exposing more of his back to Denji, wings flat and bent to open up his shoulders. His jacket? That's right. Denji can touch him directly.]
[So he doesn't ask or answer. His hands move up to his collar first, undoing the tie and pulling it off from around his neck to drop into his lap, and then there's the shift of his hands as he undoes buttons. When he reaches up to pull the jacket off, the shirt comes with it. Both pieces of clothing slide down his arms, bunching at his shoulders with his wings pulled down awkwardly around the fabric. He turns his head to look up at Denji, the hair he'd parted so neatly now tumbling over his back again.]
You can touch, right?
[Of course he can. That's why they're doing this. But when has he ever shown anyone his back like this? Let anyone see this much skin? The space where his wings sink into his skin is visible, bony, awkward. Inhuman. Yet the color is nearly uniform, the white on his wings only a few shades ligter than his unblemished skin. Who else has really gotten to see those colors side by side before?]
[Yet it feels nice. To have his skin exposed. The air in the room is cool and compared to the humid heat outside, it's nice.]
Is it better bare?
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But when Angel said nothing in return, he figured that was that. End of conversation. Sometimes what isn't spoken is the best answ…
The hem of the devil's shirt untucks from his belted waist, dropping with his jacket in a slumped mound beside him. Angel's chin tilts up. Doesn't even need to summon a weapon from whatever depths his halo hides to saw right through Denji's inner platitudes, immolating every sensible notion in his mind. Not that there were very many to begin with. His jaw drops, tongue blistered dry before the air in the compact room can even have its shot at it. ]
B-B-B —
[ Poleaxed, Denji can't even find the words to repeat after Angel. He doesn't have any boobs, after all.
…He did say just his jacket, didn't he? He didn't let anything else slip, right? Didn't tell him to strip or… or do that suspiciously flirtatious thing with his head! No, nope, nothing that would get him into trouble came anywhere near his mouth! So why?!
Cheeks alighting in a full-fledged flush, he shoves his face into the crook of his arm, trying to stay the burning, but can't seem to look away. Can't keep his eyes from tightly trailing the longitude of his spine, the curving crook separating his wings into their respective hemispheres, land uncharted. Smooth and unfelt. He can't turn away now. How could he? He's always wondered how it actually looked, seeing his wings connected to his skin like that, not human, but — ]
…It's better. Uh, you can… [ His knees spread wide, leaving an open space for Angel to sit into. If he wants. Though his arm lowers, as do his defenses, Denji can't look him straight in the eye. ] The floor's no good. This place is so slummy a rat might crawl on you…
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[Angel isn't sure he understands why. His first thought is that it's his wings - seeing where they push into his skin, meet his back and blend into the muscles below the dermis. Bone meeting bone, muscle fusing to muscle. But then, Denji has seen much worse than strange anatomy on a devil. Hell, he's seen devils without anything to call anatomy to begin with. When he scoots backwards and gives Angel the space to sit on the couch, he considers arguing because it's not really enough space... But the floor does feel sticky to his hands when he sets one down. The sleeves slide down his arms and the fabric piles beside him. Maybe the couch wouldn't be so bad.]
[So he stands up, drops the tie into the same pile, then seats himself down right between his legs. He has to press his own together to be able to fit and he can feel his thighs meeting Denji's as he tries to find the right spot, scooting back a bit as he feels the edge of the seat. His wings pull in and slide down, acting like a cape split in two to keep from choking him with feathers - and to let him touch his skin. Which still doesn't feel quite right. To let someone be this close to skin like this. Skin like his.]
[But Denji doesn't die. So it's okay. This time, it'll be okay.]
Is this okay?
[He doesn't look over his shoulder this time. Stock still, his hands seated in his lap. Thighs together, tense.]
[The last time he sat this close to someone, between their legs... Briefly he closes his eyes to will that memory back into his subconscious but the blank scene behind his lids only amplifies that moment in his mind. Cold and frigid rain and wind. Warm body. Warm arms. That warm hand.]
[Is Denji warm, too? Maybe not. He's got a chainsaw for a heart, after all, and those are metal. Metal is cold. Devils are cold, too. But that's a lie, since Angel's body is so damn warm.]
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Angel doesn't know this is stupid. Doesn't know to think it or say it. Has no clue the curve of his ass doesn't need to be sitting directly at the fork between Denji's legs, that Denji changed mind about the position only when he changed out of his clothes, and, most important of all, that they're two guys who are too close.
Is that okay? Shouldn't he have the chance to figure these things out like the rest of them?
Shouldn't Denji?
If an answer exists to that question, it lives nowhere near his throat. Yeah, nope — Denji can wet his lips and try to gulp around the thick dryness in his mouth all he wants, but nothing goes down or out, in or up. He's cross-wired. He doesn't hide it very well.
But small as Angel's bare shoulders are, they're solid as any sailor's anchor under the push of his fingertips. Good enough to cling to, keep his head afloat. That's what Reze told him when she taught him to swim: It's easier to keep yourself above the water when you're holding on to someone, then one way or another, you'll both make it back to steady ground. Granted, she was the same girl who drowned his mouth in blood the very next day, but she probably wouldn't lie to him about something like this.
Man, is it hard, though. He can actually make out the imprint of his thumbs roughing into Angel's skin as he starts kneading again, measured, with the same amount of pressure as before. It isn't long, however, until he starts noticing the splotches of red leak from his pale back — maybe he's pressing too hard. ]
…Does it feel okay?
[ Maybe he should have asked this back from the very start.
His voice sounds weird to his ears, warm and too far away, too much like the uncanny feeling of listening to himself through a scratchy CD player. Without waiting for a reply, his hands start to roam down, squeezing and pressing into him until his palms are cupped right below Angel's underarms. Keeps them there, fingers stroking so deep along that slender dip of his back, it's like he could fold him in half. Each rubbing movement seeming to edge Angel just that farther back into the alignment of Denji's hips. He doesn't even notice, his brain inextricably narrowed on the repetition.
It's crazy how thin this guy is, how the full volume of his body fits so easily into his palms. It's like he could lift him, hook his leg up. Plow him straight on top of his…
He sucks a breath in, veiling his gasp with an unnatural cough as he snatches his hands back. Blinks down at the bulge protruding from his pants zipper. ]
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[But the warmth - That's a difference he wasn't sure of. If it was real or not, if it was something he made up. In the moment he can remember, when that human snagged his hand and yanked him down against his body and out of the typhoon, his hand should have been cold and clammy and wet, slashed by wind and rain. But the core of it was warm, and maybe Angel supplied the logic that he was feeling his lifespan instead of something distinctly human. But lifespan doesn't even feel like anything. Or maybe it feels like how Denji described death: tastes like nothing.]
[Denji's hands are warm, though.]
[He knew this from before and could have extrapolated from there. The first initial touch, the subsequent ones. Holding his hand and pulling him out of the crowd. When he touched his forehead, it was warm, too. Not something limited to extremities or seeping through his body in defense of touch - against Angel's forehead, he had been warm. His whole body is warm, then? That would make sense - humans are warm-blooded creatures, their blood cycling through their body to keep the temperature even, keep their bodies working. Like motor oil or diesel, churning through a chainsaw to keep the metal cold and prevent it from melting. A human response mixed with a devil response. Devils aren't so simply cold- or warm-blooded creatures. It depends on need. So why is Denji so warm?]
[He doesn't realize his face is so red, that his own body is so warm now. Denji's hands slide down his arms and below his underarms and squeeze into his back and every touch is like a lick of flame. He's trying to put all this away logically, to ignore all of it, to accept it as mere fact and enjoy the simple feeling of having his muscles massaged - it was nice before, right? So direct contact to them should be better. It should be fine, like this. It should feel okay. Better than okay. So why does it keep getting warmer, to the point where it's starting to feel like flame and hot coal? And why the hell does that intensity feel so good?]
[He doesn't fully care about what's rubbing between his ass at first. He doesn't think about it at all, actually, is the better understanding of his thought process, because Denji then removes the very things he was enjoying and he cares much more about that. Angel reaches back, turning his head slightly to see what he's doing, snatches for one of his wrists - two, if he's lucky. Aims to tug them right back to where they were, but opposite this time. Instead of coasting down his back, pressing at the thick muscle right below his wings, he pulls them to the front and guides them over his chest, expectant. He wants to feel it there, now.]
Here.
[An order, not a request. He needs to feel that hot metal as much as he can before whatever is making this happen decides to pull the rug out from beneath him. Before something cools this off. The devil side takes over, runs chilling oil through him instead. He can't have that yet.]
[If it was Aki Hayakawa, his mind supplies for some reason - If it were that one, he could respond to this better, he thinks. He would be all calm and methodical. Know exactly where he wants him to touch. He wouldn't be shy. Angel could sit on his lap, face him, set his hands on his shoulers while he rubs his body and warms him up. Because devils aren't warm-blooded by choice, just by happenstance. And isn't it the greatest happenstance at all that it's the Chainsaw boy that can do this and not Aki Hayakawa, instead? And when will the happenstance timer end and normalcy return? He clenches Denji tight, intent to keep him right where he is. Still touching.]
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When Aki stood as an obstacle to his death, to the sacrifice of his heart to a lower devil, for a stupid reason he can't even remember, how that press of their groins, the spread of his legs, had arched into forever, it seemed like, and Denji went off and died anyway, a nearly infinite amount of times, just to bring eternity to an end. When Aki carried him over a shoulder, as if it were normal and easy to hold on to a barely conscious boy, soaking his blood into his clothes, holding on to him until they could retreat into safety. When Aki's arm bumps against his in the kitchen most mornings, and he can't think about anything else.
Every time he touches someone, it always feels like a sensation that's granted to him. He's never thought about what he could be giving away.
This half-devil's hands are warm, but they're shaking.
Denji presses down into Angel's pecs — to anchor his bearings, really. Fondling's maybe the only fourth or fifth thing on his mind, even with the tightness in his pants burrowed close to his rear. But it's this very movement, watching the jiggle of his pecs from over his shoulder, that forwards that notion straight to first place. His tits remind him a little of Power's. Flat, cute. It's fascinating kneading down on Angel with an extra increment of force, thumbs rubbing at his nipples through his shirt, just for his chest to recoil back where it's meant to be, like pressing down into a spring mattress. He wonders what it'd be like to slap his whole hand against his chest, what kind of mark it'd leave, if that would make Angel whole body bounce and lurch.
The last time he was this close to him was during their sleepover, wasn't it?
…No, that's not right. A loose feather caught in Angel's collar tickles at Denji's chin. He's close enough for his shallow breaths to touch his ear with the clearness of an instrument plugged into an amp. Biting Angel's halo that time was more of a quick in-and-out experiment, not the same whatsoever, but this —
His eyes go up.
It's then the same compulsion as what had flooded him that night visits Denji again. Stepping in uninvited, knotting its claws into his spine, makes him grind into Angel, his chest crowding into his wings, tilting upward into him like a marionette tugged by its strings, as his sharp, pearly whites find the curve of his halo. The dig of his teeth happens with less force, still a bite, but he isn't trying to chew through Angel anymore. He knows what his halo's for now, how full it feels held in his mouth. He knows it's not going anywhere.
There's a sick part of him that feels good doing this, locking a hare by its neck. ]
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[He doesn't get it. Why this is so different. Why does being touched feel so...]
[Then he bites down and Angel's vision whites out. His eyes go wide and his breath catches hard and fast in his throat. He jolts once before nearly falling limp back into Denji's chest, the hands on his wrists twitching with effort to keep their hold. It's not a full bite, doesn't threaten to crack the light into shards, but it's harsher than when he simply touched it before. When he ran his fingers along the rim and Angel had briefly thought he might hum along to produce a tone. Instinct tells him to simply push him back and get away but he can't move, not when he has Denji's hands pressed into his chest, effectively pinning himself against him. As if he has to find a way to struggle against that, Angel arches his back, pressing both towards his hands while he turns his head in an attempt to dislodge his halo.]
Chain - Ah -
[He can't finish because adjusting his position adjusts something else, too. He can feel heat pressed against his ass now, hard heat that he recognizes the source of but doesn't have the brain power to create any kind of response to. Instead he turns his head again and his halo shivers in Denji's teeth, like it wants to move, too, expects to turn along with its owner. Head leaned back like this, Angel can't quite see what Denji is doing, can't see where he's biting him much like a human can't see the crown of their head.]
What - You're gonna...
[His tongue feels heavy, large in his mouth. His face is getting warm. What the hell is going on? It should hurt, it should burn, just like before. A bite to his most sensitive spot. But instead, the noise he makes is more than the song of a water glass's rim - it's a full on whine.]
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Fractured light pours from the disc he's mouthing at, joining the artificial neon still revolving around the room in a strange mandala. His previous hesitation is nowhere to be seen, washed away by his hammering heart, the mindless rocking of his hips, slow and punctuated by weak sounds creaking from his throat. He's never gone this far with anyone, even when he was laying half-naked in a bed with an older woman propositioning him.
This is different.
He can tweak at Angel through his shirt, pinch at his nipples until he can imagine they're oversensitive and bursting pink, nearly taste it on his tongue. His hands dragging in and out in a circle, filling with the spread of his little chest, pert and and soft and teeming with breakable bones. Each swallow for air strained the more he presses down his sternum, presses up into the space his bulge his carved out between his ass cheeks at the same time. But he can choose to be nice, because he has the heart to. To let up the grinding of his molars against his incandescent disc, choose to graze his teeth along his singing and shuddering edges. He can decide this on his own, and Angel is practically begging for him to. ]
You — feel good. How do you feel so good? [ Denji wetly rasps, only pulling away from his halo for a moment, before he's back on it like a moth. Tongue slicking against the inside of its glass-like rim. He's always pulling crap out from here. Maybe Denji can pull something else out.
With one last twist of his nipple, his hand slips from Angel's grip, trailing down, reaching for the crux between his legs. He doesn't squeeze him, doesn't go for the zipper, just rests his wrist at his belt buckle, fingers tapping at the shadow of his groin. He's crossing a forbidden line, another one, by doing this. It's fine. They still have time reserved in their booth walk everything back. Surely. ]
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[Denji says something but he isn't listening, instead briefly relieved enough to gasp at the lack of attention to his halo. His wings twitch and flit and he wants to pull himself up, get off and away from the incessant contact, but then he's right back at it, lapping his tongue along the underside and Angel groans so loudly, the sound high pitched in a way that might shatter the glass making all those noises to begin with. If the teeth was harsh enough the tongue is almost insensible, something he can't ignore. His eyes roll. And then he's moving lower.]
[Despite how overstimulated he feels, somehow Angel can still feel the way Denji's hand moves downward and settles over his belt. It finally cracks the first coherent thought through his mind - this is sex. This is what sex feels like. This is what Denji wanted. This is that stuff he talks about every time, that stuff humans need and crave. But he's not human. He's not an angel. He's a devil. So why does he want this?]
[His hand, suddenly bereft of anything to hold onto, spasms against his chest and reaches down to try and find the wrist he was grasping before, like he's afraid they'll be separated in this tidal wave. It's too much. He can't think straight. Because he's actually thinking of letting him do this. It's too hot right now, and even though one part of him knows it would be extinguished if he would just get his halo away from him, could flap his wings and push away, another part of him says, Why not - What's there to lose? It's not like he can do this with Aki Hayakawa. It's not like anyone else could ever give him this experience. And isn't that what he asked of Denji, to give him some new experiences? A whiny hum comes from his throat as he tilts his head down, watching. He tries to adjust himself further up on his lap but it just makes Denji slide along him more, plants his ass firmly on top of his erection. He's not heavy enough for something like that to hurt, but he still shifts about like he's trying to find a comfortable position for both of them, small noises continuing to leak out just like -]
Oh - [Oh, fuck, he's hard. He can see it. With his gaze turned down, he can see it now, his own erection pressing up, the small tent in his pants so obvious it's embarrassing. Devils don't get embarrassed, he'd said just a few days ago, and yet here he is, his face bright red, eyes wide. So it's not just a flame that's coarsing through his blood, he realizes, and attempts again to turn his head and look at Denji. Trying to see if he hasn't noticed yet, like a drunk making sure his inebriation isn't too noticeable as he stumbles around a bar.]
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He wishes he'd stay still. Just keep facing ahead, facing away. Denji doesn't want to be trapped in the look Angel fixes on him, but there's nowhere else to turn tail, run. The red of his gaze strikes him like the end of a match. Cowed, his hands freeze above his crotch. Cowed, his mouth slips from the halo.
All of this feels good, he won't take that back. But maybe it'd feel less dissonant if someone else were in his place, someone else in Angel's. Cooler eyes, larger hands. ]
…Um, have you ever —
[ A loud rap bounces off their door, blindsiding Denji to such a degree he yelps, nearly sends a confetti of feathers dancing into the air in the process of throwing the devil off his lap.
"Ten minutes left!" comes the employee's voice, receding footsteps moving on to the next room.
There's a lot that can be done in ten minutes, but Denji's already on his feet, fluttering about the long seat. Throwing whatever belongs to the karaoke place back onto the table. ]
So that's how you do a neck rub, [ he coughs, fussing with his bag before he shoulders it. Goes for the door. ] Sorry, I gotta piss.
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[And now he's on the floor, surreptitiously thrown from Denji's lap and clattering to the ground with a sudden Oof! Angel reaches down and rubs his ass, raising his head to snap something at him as the buzzing in his ears keeps sounding (wait, since when was there a buzz?) but instead he watches at Denji leaps to his feet and begins cleaning up. Says something insane about a neckrub. Rushes from the room with his bag.]
[Angel looks down at his erection, still tented in his pants.]
[What the fuck.]
[When Denji returns, he's sitting on the edge of the couch, his shirt pulled back on and messily buttoned up and tie loose around his neck. He's trying to fit his wings through his jacket but he's still too oversensitive, even the feeling of the fabric on his chest making his skin tingle, nipples still hard against it and peeking through the thin white cloth. Every shift feels like too much movement. Like when you have a fever and every muscle movement burns. Well, not that he's ever had a fever.]
[Raising his head to look at Denji, he looks dour. Staring at him, knowingly. Completely aware, and more than that - What is it they call this? Blueballed.]
Chainsaw-kun.
[There's a bit of a warning tone to his voice, even if it doesn't carry in his body language. He still looks and feels touchy and anxious, can still vividly imagine the sensation of his tongue on his halo.]
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But then Angel speaks his name — a version of it, at least — like an accusation, and, out of habit, Denji looks up, briefly cringing as soon as his eyes are on him. The lights aren't as dim anymore. In too much detail, he can make out how ruffled his wings look, the feathers spread and puffed in some areas, pressed and scraggly in others. The same can be said for the rest of Angel, but maybe it's not too different from how unseemly he usually looks?
…Maybe, except how could he explain the sweet indents of his nipples still visible through his button-down? The fabric contortion at his fly?
Hurriedly, guiltily, he looks away. ]
Uh, you done in here yet?
[ He's half-inside the doorway, so he casts a glance over his shoulder down the hallway, as if to emphasize an employee could come skulking their way any second to kick them out. Angel is a devil; humans don't generally like those hanging around their place of business — that's the story Denji's going with, anyway. ]
Before we head out, though, you should go… pee. [ He sighs. Finally, a minor acknowledgement. Of what they did and what Denji did. ] It feels better that way. I'll show you where it is.
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Are you stupid?
[He mutters it under his breath before getting to his feet. It's not really meant for Denji but Angel wouldn't admit it was meant for himself, either. His wing finally shoves through the slit in his jacket and he grunts something - not quite in pain or anything, it's just... weird. His whole body feels weird. Which is weird, because he's used to it not feeling like anything at all.]
[In Denji's pocket, there's a buzz of a text message, sent from Aki - Everything going OK? But Angel either doesn't hear it or doesn't care, stepping forward with the expectation that he'll move out of the way. Show him toward this supposed magical bathroom that will give him a moment to compose himself.]
[Of all people, it had to be the Chainsaw boy who can touch him without any negative effect. There's something cruel about it, namely how he knows neither of them gives a shit about the other. Why he's doing this for him today, why he brought him to the apartment the other day... Surely it's for some reason, but not for Angel. And the same with Angel - He didn't come here for Denji's sake. His own sake, if anything. Making the work day easier to deal with when Aki Hayakawa isn't coming in after an awful evening. Experiencing something new. He knows his reasons, clearly. But his - He can't even begin to guess, but surely they aren't altruistic.]
Why did you do that?
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[ He clams up, backing into the door but not moving into the hallway.
Just which does Angel mean by that question: throwing him off or touching him to begin with? Maybe he's going so far as to dig for something else, an explanation for why he planned this trip. Except that doesn't make sense. Angel asked for it. Told him to make it up to him for what he did the night before, the bite — maybe that's it. But he doesn't know why he did that back then, in front of Aki, either. Where the compulsion came from, knowing it'd make the two of them upset with him.
His phone buzzes, saving Denji from further spiraling. He doesn't go for it immediately, uncomfortable under Angel's observation. He fidgets with the device, flipping and rotating it from corner to corner, clearly itching to take a look — which only lasts a total of two seconds before he gives in entirely. ]
Gimme a sec.
[ He's hoping to concentrate his eyes on something that isn't presently glaring a hole through his head, or asking him things that make his temples tense, frontal cortex throb. But then he sees who the text is from. The veins in his neck are practically bursting with how tight his jaw is clenched. His thumbs tap at the screen. ]
not really
[ Nah, even he can tell that's stupid. Backspace, backspace, backspace. ]
kinda sorta?
[ — ah, crap, he pressed send on that. Damn it, ugh, he should just trash this thing. Don't do it, he chastises himself. Play it cool, dude, play it like a grown-up — like Aki would. That's the smart thing to do. Aki doesn't get into trouble.
Grimacing, he pockets his phone again and strides clean past Angel. Without acknowledging his question, completing his answer, or paying attention to the notes of animated cheer and singing through the windows to the other rooms. Totally stone cold. Right, that's an assholish thing he can imagine that guy doing… Acting all in charge, high and mighty. And stuff.
Denji's walking comes to a sudden stop, rounding a corner at the other end of the hallway. ]
Uh, this is it. The toilet.
[ It's small. Only fits one person at a time, but it's not like there's a line, so it's fine. ]
You can go jerk off or something in there.
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[He follows him to the bathroom and is told, in no simpler terms, to jack off into the toilet, and Angel's brow finally rises from its glower into a shocked stare. He's been treated all sorts of ways due to his status as a devil in custody by a governmental organization, but not once has anyone from that framework ever told him to masturbate. And definitely not into the plumbing.]
You can't be serious. [Then again, Denji doesn't exactly represent the organization keeping him stuck here, nor does he especially think in the most sane ways. Still, he can't help this frustration, and being a devil isn't one to question his emotions, especially the negative ones. But it unfortunately leads to him speaking without thinking, curtly saying what's immediately on his mind:] Finish what you started.
[...He huffs. Looks away, glaring at the bathroom door. As if he'd ever - The very idea of it is disgusting. Especially when he compares it to... well, how it felt when Denji was touching him a moment ago. The awkward yet high intensity of it, like a bolt of lightning that couldn't fully find the ground. And why the hell does he get to expose that sensation to him and then skip off scot free while Angel deals with the emotional aftermath?]
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[ Of course, he flinches at that. Cuts his words at a pivotal joint to avoid reaching for a response that'll make this situation worse. Make Denji come off as even more of an ass.
He's not trying to be heartless. He has one of those, a heart, so he knows how to be a good guy. It's not like he was anticipating Angel to jump and whoop at the suggestion, but he — he figured he'd be just as weirded out by the way things went down in their booth. That he would want to clear his head, get away, move on. It's what Denji's accustomed to at least, how he's noticed most of his colleagues and superiors deal with crap, and how he's mostly learned to follow suit.
But Angel isn't human. He's a captive to Public Safety, sort of in the same way Denji, but not really, given that he spends most of his time tucked inside a cell, doing fuck knows. Maybe that's why he's fine with Denji. Fine with settling for him. ]
You're kidding me, [ Denji squints at the spotted ceiling. Pauses long, in case Angel wants to throw out his punchline. Turns out neither one of them can tell a joke, though. ] Just get in there already — here.
[ Stepping forward, he twists the door handle, watches as it easily drifts inward with a nudge. It's one of those flimsy doors that won't stay open on its own, so he holds it wide for Angel to enter.
Inside his pocket, Denji jiggles his phone, hoping, banking on a timely buzz to shred through this moment. Knock some sense into him. ]
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[Denji pushes the door open and motions him inside like a bouncer, leading the way into a dark club. Except this room is uncomfortably bright and the buzz of the fluorescent bulb is the only kind of music aside from the dim hum from the karaoke booths down the hall. Angel still wears a frown as he moves inside, watching Denji carefully, like he expects him to bolt if he takes his eyes off of him. Doing anything inside a bathroom like this isn't exactly his favorite idea, but - but he has no shame. Surely. There's nothing for him to be ashamed of. He's a devil, after all. Why would a devil feel something so human as shame?]
[Standing in the center of the small bathroom, he looks back at Denji over his shoulder.]
You've never done this.
[Said as a statement - He's well aware of his fascination with sex, his desire for it, his need for it. Yet in this moment, he recognizes he rejected it even though Angel wasn't doing anything to stop him. Is it because he has no attraction to him? Is it because he doesn't consider it possible, with a devil? Is it because there's someone else he would prefer?]
[Angel is thinking of those same things. That doing this with a human is ludicrous, even if it's a half-human. That Denji isn't attractive to him. That he would prefer someone else.]
[A creature crawls out of the well deep inside of him, brandishing that harsh truth as a whip. The shame hits him in full force then: that there's someone else he would prefer.]
...Neither have I.
[That's leagues easier to admit.]
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Standing separated from Angel by the sparest degree, off to the side, Denji touches a hand to the sink edge behind him. Either trying to anchor himself from reaching out or keep from wobbling on his feet. ]
Listen, I think, like… Erm, just — this sorta touchy-feely stuff, it's meant for —
[ He struggles with this one, visibly. His mouth freezes open. Closed, then open again. Lovers, he could say, but thinking back on his past relations, he doesn't think Himeno actually even liked him that much compared to who she was really gunning after. Reze? She claimed to be a liar, but told him the truth when she said she wouldn't show to their meeting spot. Makima, well, he still needs to earn the right to ask her out to make things official.
Every time he's thought he was close to finding the girl for him, the greater situation has always spun out of his control. And right now, he feels like he's already in the midst banging around in a washer set to the highest velocity. Dizzy with the memory of Angel's hips dragging against him, the potential to touch him again close at hand, and the possibility that he might really enjoy doing that with another guy. ]
Have you ever had a crush on anyone before?
[ The question crashes out of him with a flip of his stomach. Seemingly without warning, but the truth is, it's what he's been dying to ask ever since Angel readily sat himself in his lap. ]
I heard that touching someone like that feels the best when it's with someone you have a lot of feelings for. And who you know really well. So…
[ Face fully sore from the flush reddening his cheeks, his head ducks. ]
If you think you — l-like me a little, then maybe…
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[...Does he like him?]
[It's two questions back to back that have Angel staring at Denji in obvious surprise. A crush - He doesn't even know what that would mean for something like him. Do devils have crushes? Probably not, that's not exactly up there on their Maslow's hierarchy of needs. That's the sensible answer, but of course combined with what he was already thinking, the uncomfortable thoughts he was just having, that he wished Denji was someone else - No, he doesn't know. He doesn't know if he'd be able to identify such a feeling. He's a devil. Devils don't do those things.]
[So maybe due to that, the second question almost acts as a salve for how easy it is to answer. Has he ever had a crush? He doesn't know. Does he like Denji in that way?]
I don't.
[Were this another situation, he might call him disgusting or remind him about how he chomped down on his halo the other night or how he constantly behaves in gross, annoying ways. But he's currently propositioning him for - for something. So he can't start insulting him.]
...But I don't think that's right. [The idea that touching someone you like feels the best. He'll slide right along from the comment about his (lack of) feelings for Denji.] Humans are always having sex. They'll even pay money for it. So it can't be something limited only to emotional feelings, I think.
[That, and he's had people think he was attractive before, come onto him before they recognized he was a devil and not simply in costume. Surely they didn't want to get to know him or something like that. But thinking about that does remind him... Didn't he say he had a dream about him in swimwear once? He leans against the wall of the bathroom, a few steps away from Denji, though the small single stalled bathroom doesn't offer much more space than that.]
Do you like me like that?
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Uh… You say 'lotta things I don't get, but I like the look of you, kinda.
[ His bangs tilt into his eyes, brown sweeping across the bathroom floor. Looking sheepish, shame-faced. Proving Angel right in the end — that emotions don't have to play into anything they're after. He doesn't work with Angel in his day to day. They're not buddies. They hardly have anything in common. If not for their obligations to Public Safety, to other people, the two of them would barely have any reason to converse, much less stand in the same vicinity.
All Angel wants from him is a hand. Someone to stand there, like how Meowy claws her nails down a scratching post as an outlet for excess energy.
When he was last in here, he'd put the toilet seat down to be considerate of the next occupant, but now as he moves, he flips it up, careless. Waves Angel over with glancing at him, standing to the side to leave him room to slot in front of the toilet. Finish what you started, he said to him. That's not hard. Denji's done that for himself thousands of times. He's more concerned about whether Angel can aim or not. ]
So what, you just want me to feel you up? Tug on your dick?
[ As soon as the devil gets within proximity, Denji squints at his distance from the toilet, then, with an annoyed sigh, curls a finger through one of his belt loops. Yanks him a step forward. After which, he opens his palm up to Angel, like he's waiting for some change to drop in his hand or something. Of course, what he's expecting is something weightier. ]
Well? If I'm doing this, the least you can do is pull your own fly down.
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[This is exactly what he was just talking about, Angel reasons to himself - That humans have attractions to things without it necessarily being emotionally-driven. And in this situation, when Angel is just trying to get this one thing, searching out this one experience that no one else can give him, well, let him call it serendipity, that this can happen.]
[He moves forward slowly when Denji motions him, then stumbles when he's dragged into position by his belt loop.] Hey...! [He steadies himself in front of the toilet, blinking down at it as he comes to a sudden understanding: Denji intended for him to masturbate into this. Truth be told, maybe they have more in common than he wants to admit, because Denji says a lot of things Angel doesn't get, too.]
[He holds his hand out and Angel frowns, lip pressing out into something like a pout. "Tug on his dick" sounds so simple when he says it like that, but isn't that what he wanted before? He undoes his belt and then pulls his pants open, his fingers moving awkwardly about it, like he's unused to the act of undressing.]
I don't know what I want... I've never done anything like this.
[It's a white lie. He understands the notion of masturbation and it feels like he's done something like that before, but he can't remember anything specific. It's like asking if he's ever peed sitting down: probably, though he couldn't name a specific date and time.]
But you do this sort of thing all the time, right? What do you do?
[And he pulls his dick out as he speaks, still half hard but small. Along with not having much physical experience with himself, he has no comparative experience with others. He's seen nude devils and fiends but never considered their private parts. So there's no pride nor shame as he reveals himself, no discomfort aside from the simple discomfort from standing over a toilet and anticipating something that's about to happen. He pushes his pants down an inch to free himself a little more, sliding his briefs down to let his dick fall free, hanging in the air over the bowl.]
I mean, whatever you did before felt good... So just do that.
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