[The specification of the instruction isn't unwanted, but still surprising. Angel is drawn to the idea of being annoying about this - Does it have to be a girl? Wouldn't it be better to imagine someone naked rather than dressed? - but reason shuts that down quickly. He does understand some ideas about human sexuality, being that he's human-shaped, himself. No other reason, though. Yet when Denji grabs his wrist, pulls him toward his shaft to coax his hand around it, he wants to be obstinant. Wants to insist this is silly, that he doesn't get it. Is this like counting sheep? he could ask stupidly, acting aloof about the idea of fantasization. As if there's nothing an angel has to do with the act of fantasizing, much less a devil.]
[But he's the one who put him up to this, reason reminds him. He coaxed Denji into this, and he's the one who told him to finish what he started. Fingers twitching and unsteady, he wraps his hand around himself and - strokes. Just once. Following the guiding drag of Denji's hand, he tells himself he's simply playing along, trying to understand this sensation. There are no women for him to think of, thanks to not knowing any to fantasize about (Makima has no sense of allure to him and he's not sure Power can be anything but a destructive, annoying terror... And he doesn't even know who that crybaby human woman is), but when he broadens the approach to think of men, well... Denji is an immediate rejection. He's boorish, odd, and rude. Beam, just as much. Violence - No, he has no sense of connection to the fiend. Kishibe? His lip twitches in slight disgust. Absolutely not, the drunk - Last time Angel saw him he smelled like rotten eggs. Which only leaves...]
[Well. He's seen that human nude before. With his hair down, dripping down his back as he wrapped a bandage around his thigh. Ignoring Angel's comments about exposed skin. Looking at him sidelong over his shoulder when he asked him if it hurt that bad. Then a vague shrug, as if to say, What's it matter. That solitary wrapping covering his skin, shielding it and protecting it - it's not as if he hadn't imagined running his fingers over the layers, feeling the warmth of blood seeping into the gauze.]
[He swallows. Releases his grip on himself before he can allow anything more. Too disturbed by the images his mind supplies.]
Feels... [He mumbles it, shifting his weight between his feet, his free hand grabbing at the waist of his pants. Angel stares down into the toilet bowl, frown deeply etched into his face, just like that rippling scar he saw a few days later still racing over his thigh. Now exposed and vulnerable.] I don't get it.
[ What's he thinking about? His chin nearly brushes against Angel, tilting in, paying more attention to Angel's reaction than the loosening pressure of his hold on his wrist. Past the soft waves of hair curtaining the side profile of his face, Denji can't parse much of his expression. Just that he looks to be genuinely focused, staring down at his cock and barely twitching brow at that initial tug. Did that feel like anything? Nothing? For Denji, learning to touch himself didn't change or save his life — it just gave him an outlet from living, helped him imagine a heat on his skin unlike any other, a scenario in which he could be eye-to-eye with someone and could know this feeling, this body warmth, was something being transmitted both ways. Maybe that's only a piece to sex, but he's been chasing it ever since.
He's only curious about Angel's feelings because it's what he wanted, wasn't it, it's why he's tolerating having Denji cooped up next to him like a tin fish. He doesn't convey a hint of impatience with his poor attempts to tutor him, at least. Which could be a sign that he's taking his advice to heart, or could also mean Denji's the farthest thing from Angel's mind. Forget that he's the one standing closest to him, less than a hair's breadths away. ]
Don't get what?
[ Denji presses, fingers tightening, not allowing Angel's hand to drop after releasing himself. ]
Try again until you do, then. You barely moved. [ His palm slides over his back knuckles, gently trying to steer him back to his cock. ] You sure you're imagining the right person?
[Angel can't lower his hand but he also can't squeeze himself like this. He can't understand this whole thing - this whole situation. A second ago he was so turned on he couldn't even think straight and now he has to imagine a specific person - and when Denji questions if he's thinking of the right person he wants to snap at him. How can he think of anyone? Devil, human, it doesn't matter. They'll die if they were ever in this situation. How can he fantasize about such a thing when the end result is death? How can he picture himself opening up like this to anyone without them dropping dead after foreplay is only chaste touches and kisses?]
[He turns his head, away from where Denji is leaning over his shoulder. Frustrated, annoyed. Pointless, he wants to argue. You wouldn't get it. This boy, he's spent his life being rejected, But Angel has never even been allowed to ask.]
I can't imagine anyone, because they'd just die.
[His blunt, unkind answer is all he says for a moment. Staring at the wall beside the toilet, at the spot where it meets the floor, the moulding peeling at one point, he finally pulls his hand from Denji's grip, attempting to turn the situation - Grab Denji's hand instead, pull it toward him, clumsily drag it into the same position. A moody, petulant demand is next.]
[ His lips tug into a frown as Angel rejects his urging. Increasingly, he wonders — what's the point?
Fed up, he could drop both their hands, clean himself of this confusing venture. He'd lead them out of this back alley place, returning them to the main roads where the traffic lights flicker red, yellow, green, pedestrians wait for their turn to cross, and everything makes the same amount of sense it did before. No more questions. No more mythic stories, just the same boulder they edge forward day in day out. But maybe it's better that way, has Angel ever thought of that? When there's an obstacle so large you can't see over the top, you don't have to anticipate the end to begin with. Angel would head back into Public Safety without looking back at him. He'd take the train in a daze, miss his stop, then have to shamble the long way back. He'd open the door to Power laid up on the couch, balancing the cat on her hands and feet. He'd say, "I'm home." Would Aki be setting up the table as he walked in? Would he ask him how things went? Reach for his head, tell him good job, if Denji told him the partial truth? The whole of it?
No, probably not.
He nearly jerks out of his skin at the sudden pull, Angel's hand small but insistent about wrapping Denji's palm around his cock. His full fist nearly envelops him in a single curl of his fingers. ]
What the — me? Are you crazy?!
[ And yet for his snarling, he doesn't let go. Angel looks put off enough Denji can't tell which he resents more: him, for being the only one who can do this without going cold and limp, or the fact that he has to make the demand. He struggles to react, mouth agape; after a moment, a sharp sound of disdain cuts out of his throat. ]
Just because you can feel it and I can't die, doesn't mean you're gonna get off. You — have to like it.
[ With that hanging in the air, Denji's gaze tilts over Angel's shoulder, expression flurrying with a motley of mixed emotions. He'd tried to remove himself from the equation by just holding on to his wrist, but now that he can't anymore…
Hesitantly, he scoots in. His hand roams, tugging up, burying Angel's head into the curve of his palm. He didn't notice him leaking yet — it'll make things easier if he can work some precome out of him. He knows this because he's great at masturbating. And because he's great at masturbating, he doesn't need to marvel at how hot and firm a cock can get just from fitting through a fist. How another guy's skin feels this silky, this pliable. Doesn't need to at all. ]
[He doesn't get it, at first. Denji shouts at him and groans and sounds utterly annoyed by this whole situation and Angel can't help but think - Me, too. But when he says that, says, "You have to like it," Angel doesn't get it. His fingers curl around him and the head of his cock seats nicely into his palm and it's warm there, like it was before, he remembers. How warm he felt, and how warm Angel felt. So why is it different now compared to then? He was touching him before, had his hands on his shoulders and stroking his back, and that all felt nice. Like when he was brushing out his wings, running through the sensitive areas... That felt nice, too. He was touching him in ways that felt nice, and this should be sorted right alongside those. So why doesn't it feel like anything?]
[Because it wasn't what brought out that feeling. The heat, he remembers suddenly and vividly. The heat that made his body go limp and his brain go white. He hadn't been thinking about Denji being Denji at all during that, didn't care that it was him and, truthfully, barely thought about him at all. Whether that was because it felt so good he didn't have to think or because he couldn't, he doesn't know, but those kinds of things aren't important. It all lines up yet, when Angel opens his mouth, his lips feel dry. Cheeks red.]
[He'd kicked Denji for that the first time. Felt like he was going to die. What if he does it like that again, suddenly and in a way that hurts and stings and feels terrible? Will he up and ditch him, tell him to jerk off on his own again? Ugh, relying on others is such a pain. He huffs out a long breath before pressing himself back into Denji, tilting his head back to look at him, using the angle he's turned at to his advantage so he can stare at him directly. If he asks it nice enough, maybe he'll do it nicely, too.]
Do what you did before.
[...That doesn't sound nice, actually. He quickly flits through a couple memories, trying to rememebr what the nicest way to ask for something is. A hand holding out a plastic-wrapped cone, staring at him expectantly but not releasing it until he says the right word.]
[ Angel doesn't get it, but Denji's starting to. The only meaningful thing he did before was sink into the warm tilts and sharp slants of Angel's back, rub into any crevice he could trace out in his figure, even the feathery tips of his wings a pleasant brush on his skin. Hump him like a dog in heat, biting, kissing his halo… It'd felt good, to forget. Touch and be touched, and really feel his impact. Where they clash is, of course, at Denji's own selfishness, his own stupid longing for something Angel can't yet fathom, that probably isn't for him to offer and Denji to be on the receiving end of. ]
Only since you said please.
[ At his doe-eyed imploring, which he can more or less recognize as a means to an end, one he can't judge him for — there's a mute sigh, Denji's mouth shifting, hiding away inside Angel's wrinkled collar. His weight could frankly bowl him over if he wanted to, but he only crams up into him enough to make his torso hunch, slightly tip him over the toilet. Taking aim for him. Doing the nice thing — he doesn't want to think about what would happen if he left Angel to his own devices for this. He doesn't know what he would resort to, who he would reach his hand out to instead, like before with the human girl. He doesn't want to think about what he'd be missing out on, either, but that's a secret just for Denji. Besides, if Angel's partner, or anyone in Public Safety for that matter, catches wind of their mischief today, he has a feeling he knows who the fall guy is going to be. He'd rather not add an extra foot to his grave. ]
Pay attention. [ Fingers curved into a claw, his touch draws down the length of Angel in a continuous stroke, he ring of his fist presses up his crown, scrunching the wet skin there and squeezing pre out the top — not satisfied until he sees him brimming, the drops pooling together in a thick and mucusy dot that oozes down his sides. Then he lets his palm slip over his sticky top, dragging back down to coat his shaft. ] So you don't gotta ask me to do it for you next time.
[Angel closes his eyes, expecting the sensation. Waiting for it. But when Denji tells him to pay attention, his eyes blink open, confused. And then he's stroking him again, running up and down his shaft, playing at the head of his cock and making his hips jerk in that sudden, unexpected shock of - sensation. No, not this one. His wings flinch and he starts to shake his head, agitated. That's not what he wanted, he wants to snap, annoyed and frustrated and moody. Forced over the edge of the toilet, he finally sets a hand out to balance himself, grasping the wall to his right as his legs threaten to wobble.]
I don't - I said...
[Do what you did before. Doesn't he know what he means? Does he not recognize how different it was? That this time, it was okay? He wraps his fingers around Denji's wrist to not quite stop him but to try and make it clear that no, this wasn't what he said.]
What you did before. I can't... do that.
[He can figure out masturbation. He can brute force his way through that, if he cared. But this is different - this is something he needs a second fiddle for. As if to put too-fine a point on it, his halo brightens for a moment, as if trying to hide how his cheeks do the same. Or maybe guide his attention.]
Just don't bite, or - whatever you did the other night, just do what you did before. You know...
[Somehow, it feels dirtier to talk about it this way. Like it's something sexual that needs to be covered up, even though it's the thing that makes most people look at him in fear or disgust.]
[ The sharp shake of his feathers stunts Denji's actions, his curled grip on Angel slipping. What am I doing wrong? buzzes to mind like the hot singe of touching your thumb too close to a lighter flame, and he considers chucking the question out there in the open, needs to get it off him, out of him, before it burns too deep.
But then, without prompting, and without putting it into plain terms, he's being told exactly what's wrong — that it isn't what Denji's doing, it's what he isn't. Apparently. At least according to what he's able to decipher from Angel's strained direction, from the light shuddering off his halo like a glittering crown, like a sun he can't escape the shadow of. In reaction, he can only muster a complicated stare, confusion clearly conveyed by the uncertain sound weakly droning from his throat, the notes of his voice filling into the space above Angel's head. ]
…This seriously feel better than having your junk squeezed? Stay still.
[ — said, right as a few of his fingers drum at the rounded top of the disc. Just a few gentle beats, as if it might knock it off-center, but nope, it's still as solid and stable as when he last touched him there. He digs his hand into Angel's shoulder, leveraging his height to keep him bent over the toilet seat, bringing his face closer to the exterior of his halo, his breath fogging up the edges. It's not the type of golden material he can see himself reflected in; if he were to describe it, the substance of Angel's halo has a presence more like light and lightness, and it makes him think that if he kisses it, really kisses the ring like it might kiss him back, he could almost taste the warmth of something unknowable, unreachable, pressing against his lips. So that's what Denji does: slides his mouth along the luster of him. ]
This? [ he asks again, but the question feels posed inward. Not something Angel can answer. ]
[Yes, he thinks about insisting. Yes, it feels a lifetime better than having his junk squeezed. It feels a million times better than the electric, unknown sensation of someone else's skin right against his, the buzz with no release, no spark or visible reaction. But Angel doesn't say anything because not even a syllable can escape his throat when Denji's fingers slip under his halo and tap against it, and then he's being pressed further down and his breath catches at the expectation and this time, thank God, it happens. His lips go against it and the electric spark snaps heavy and sudden through him in a way that has a definitive reaction created from that action. Angel's hand fists against the wall and he nods.]
Uh-huh.
[His voice is shaky and a little - giddy. His skin is molten hot. Like it could melt off his frame and sink into a puddle of magma at his feet. Part of him wishes he had gotten him closer to the mirror over the sink but as they are, standing over the toilet, all he can really see is the offshoot of light coming from his halo's reflection off the metal faucet.]
Like before - In there. [If this is how he's going to "forgive" Denji, then that's fine with him. Devils are all about that give-and-take stuff, always scratching someone's back to later get one in return, offering out some kind of peace offering instead of getting bloody for no reason. That's how devils are, and Angel is a devil, after all, so this is a natural progression. His fist skids against the wall as he tries to find support but there's no bar to hold onto and only the toilet basin in front of him. He can't lean too far forward or Denji can't reach him, and he can't move too much because then he's going to stop and ask what he wants or something. How many times does he have to say what he wants?]
Keep - Keep going. [Any shame or embarrassment is washed out for now. Not that he had any to begin with - Devils don't have that. But he's not thinking about that anymore, now that the first spark of true pleasure is racing through his body in a fervent loop. And how much amperage can be pumped into that, he wonders?]
[ For once… For once, the linchpin determination for Denji to keep going, keep his hands in motion, his thoughts braked, has no link to some command shoved at him. Honest to god curiosity is what propels his tongue to circle the full shape of his halo in one long salivating swish, twisting inside Angel like a key turn. It's just so unheard of. Nobody would willingly offer themselves up as a bone for a mutt to gnaw on, maul to pieces, yet here's his shivering form, barely holding himself up on two feet, leaning into him. Spoiled rotten off of it, looking like he might just disappear inside the sensation any second, the way hard candy melts inside an unquenchable mouth.
It's the most unreserved he's ever seen him. The most animated. ]
You're really warming up. [ Strands of Angel's hair lace and tangle through Denji's fingers, tugging the back of his skull with a jerk, trying to pull his halo closer. If that were possible. ] Look, your dick's almost as red as your head. [ Even with his lips wrapped around the curve of his halo, sucking down on it, light illuminating from inside Denji's cheeks as he rolls his tongue from end to end — Denji can still see him. The pre dribbling from him, looking no better than the drops of toilet water coating the seat from all their sloshing about.
Denji breathes out, shakily. ]
Say, what's it — feel like? When I do this. Is it… good enough for you — to wanna touch me back?
[ The last question emerges from the phosphorescent ring with a point so fine, so quietly earnest, it could have risen from the very dwellings playing host to all of Angel's weapons. Could have taken years off Denji's life just to bring the words out into the open. He briefly pauses to rest his tingling lips against the rim, knowing full well that the only thing Angel wants and expects from him is this alone: to act like tonguing him is his only ministry, his life's vocation.
But Denji's always been terrible at compromising his own wants. He's never even kissed anyone with this kind of fervor before. ]
[Angel's knees wobble and clack against each other, his fist skidding against the wall, a desperate search for something to hold him upright in the midst of this assault on every nerve in his body - and then Denji yanks him back by the hair and Angel tilts his head back, blinking up at the sight above him. Even like this he can only barely see it and the sight should be disturbing all the same. Denji, the chainsaw boy, a pervert and a half breed. His lips around his halo, a symbol both of what he is and what he can do. The end point of all the life he's stolen away over how many years of existence - and he's running his tongue along the lip of it like it's the rim of a soda bottle, fizzling with carbonation. He can't comprehend it.]
[This must be what he's after, he thinks, surprisingly sane for the moment as Denji speaks and gives him that temporary break, enough time for synapses to fire successfully before his thoughts are swallowed away again. That nebulous concept of "sex" that he's always talking about, that thing they experienced in that room just a little while ago. And here he is, giving it to Angel. Just because he asked? He even told him he didn't like him.]
[Then his tongue rolls from side to side along the entire length and Angel chokes, his eyes rolling. He stumbles fully backward into him, grasping wildly for some way to stay upright. There's drool on his lips, a single drop sliding down his chin, but he doesn't have the wherewithal to care. It feels like he's getting his brain blended into a smoothie, fried in that air flyer thing. It feels like he's going to explode. He's going to go insane, here. What the hell did he just say?]
[It's a blessing that he stops for Angel to comprehend the words. What does it feel like - He can't answer that. There isn't a phrase that humans have invented yet to summarize this sensation. Does he want to touch Denji back - That, he doesn't fully understand at first. Denji has nothing even comparable to this, unless his chainsaws are even slightly similar and he's been ejaculating over all his enemies this whole time. But he focused so much on touching Angel's cock, and Angel felt his own erection hard against his ass before, grinding into him for that one brief moment, and is that what he means?]
[He must. Angel bobs his head with a nod. Yeah, sure, he'd say if he had the ability to use his tongue, to form a sound from his throat. He likes the idea of touching something that won't die. He wonders if this halo counts as skin. His wings don't feel anything like this, but what if that human can touch this? What if he could sit over him and drag his fingers along the rim, kiss against the edge and - and tell him to lean against him, and to rub his ass against his clothed front, press against him so he can grind against him, just like the Chainsaw boy had done... Could he do that? Is that even possible? Wouldn't he just die? From one wrong move, wouldn't that kill him?]
[He doesn't know. But right now, no one is dead and his breathing is too heavy, too labored to manage more than another nod. He fumbles to reach behind himself with shaky hands and attempts to guide Denji closer, tugging him against him, guiding his clothed body toward his bare rear. Again he gives a third nod, this time with an aborted, short sound to urge him on. He gets it, right? Just rub against him, just like before. Copy the image now cycling cruelly in his mind.]
[ It had been so hard to get him here, drag Angel from wondrous place to place and convince him to see any meaning in it. And now he just won't stay still. His brows knit — the squirming isn't a bad thing in itself, Denji likes it, Denji's body really likes it. But that wayward instinct vibrating in his palms, threatening to turn the curve of his fingers into claw tips, a weapon he doesn't know how to wield? There's something dark and predatory lurking within arm's reach, throwing him off-balance, when Angel rolls his little ass against him. Denji isn't sure if he wants to take its hand.
Devils by and large prefer human gore and fear as a form of sustenance, sure, that's dummy math. The sun rises in the north and sets south. But they've been equally as known to hunt, corner, cannibalize their own for sport, to say nothing of survival. There's no differentiation when you're trying to assert your existence, be remembered by anyone, anything, with a memory. Even if you love steak, every once in a while you'll get a hearty craving for edamame. Neither he nor Pochita have ever been picky with their food.
Maybe that's part of what has his transplanted heart thumping like the wing-beat of a morning bird.
Certainly that's why Denji's breath itches from inside his throat, his handle on Angel's scalp slinking closer to his nape, squeezing him at the hump of his vertebrae. With just enough intention and pressure to displace him from the toilet, he forcibly steers them — straight into the wall, rough, clumsy, stars in his eyes. At least he's got wits available to keep the cleft of Angel's ass anchored to him, rubbed up around his tented crotch while he slides him forward, staggers them both over the side of the sink at a heavy slant.
The mirror's spread as wide as a fancy television screen. If Denji were to tilt his half-lidded gaze just a bit, he'd catch a glimpse of his reflection: gnawing at Angel's neck, swirling a tongue behind the shell of his ear on his way back to revisit his halo with his mouth. The thing baptized in his slobber. But he doesn't want to see it, refuses to look. Tells himself he's satisfied alone off of just feeling it from Angel's every shiver and gasp. Feel that, for his meager understanding of intimacy, he still managed to turn him into this, still managed to teach him something all on his own. Even if the lesson is incomplete. ]
Nnnngh — ugh, hah —
[ Sounds torch his throat, a familiar need flaming his bloodstream. He massages into one of his butt cheeks, the wattage of his brain dimmed, perfectly stupid with easily Angel absorbs the contact of skin to skin, the soft remold and cling of his body to his touch. He could seriously just…
The slap rings loud. Looks loud, too, by the red welting from the imprint of his hand. Did he just do that?
Denji does it again. Harder. Holy freakin' cow sweeps through his mind, but he can't even take a second to look surprised at himself. And he is. He definitely is. It's just he's too hopped up on the motion of his hips, selfishly carrying on humping Angel's backside in spite of the spanking.
Would he be gentler with someone else? Would he know how? Would someone else want that from Denji, ever? Want him pressed to the sink, legs spread in an upside down victory sign. Feeding him a mean hand, then nursing the pain away with a merciful one; atonement, then grace. Who could be on the other side of something like that — that person, too, Denji can't bear to look in the face of. ]
[This all started because of a single kernel of popcorn. Or maybe it was before that - From that night when that human was crying and he reached out to Angel to solve the issue. What if he had said no? If he'd told Denji to deal with this himself, that crying is a human function similar to laughter, to your heart racing. He remembers when Makima brought him here that he had wondered if every day would blend into each other. Killing his own kind, chewing on their remains to satiate some sort of empty feeling inside of him. Using their corpses to feel a sensation that was otherwise forbidden.]
[Then he jumped out that window. Had pants wrapped around his neck. Helped disguise a human as another to buy alcohol - Played card games, told stories. All of those experiences are firsts when he's only used to repetition. Nightmares, killing, eating. Walking, working, sighing. The few firsts he has had are things like touching the hand of someone for so brief a moment that he doesn't even remember what his skin felt like. Just what the lifespan felt like when it spread through his core.]
[When Denji releases his halo, it should mean that he can think a little clearer, but in truth his brain is too far gone for that. He pulls him into the side of the sink and Angel gratefully grabs the edge of it, now fully pushing himself back against Denji, recognizing that the friction is making him act more - touchy. Violent, even. Running his mouth and tongue along different parts, and that, too, feels different from skin on skin. He shivers when it curls around his ear and his grip on his nape makes his hair stand on end and listening to Denji get off, it's actually good. It actually feels really good. It doesn't matter that it's someone he doesn't like - he was right. Humans will pay for sex with strangers, just like how this is a trade. Right? They're both getting something out of -]
Ah!
[Angel's head jolts back, shock and pain in his voice when Denji hits him. He blinks rapidly and for the first time sees himself in the mirror, how Denji stands behind him, the way his body shakes and jerks with each forward push of his hips. The next hit comes and he's not at all prepared for it.]
Ow, oww...
[He hangs his head down into the basin, fingers slipping against cold porcelain as his legs buckle and shiver. His own movements, temporarily paused thanks to the shock of each smack, shakily regain their flow as Angel raises his head again to try and look at him in the mirror, tries to make eye contact even though he isn't looking at him at all. Is just watching him, hovering over him like a vulture watching a rat writhe in its death throes.]
Take - Take off your pants... Hurry up.
[He has the nerve to sound annoyed about this, despite everything that's happened, despite how much more mussed his hair is than usual, how his red face nearly matches the color of his eyes, how his bottom lip is equally blood red from the tension of his teeth. Like he's annoyed Denji got to the bureau late today and they're only just now able to get down to business.]
[He doesn't entirely understand what he's asking for - Just that Denji is getting too into this, too violent, too rough. And this might egg that on more.]
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[But he's the one who put him up to this, reason reminds him. He coaxed Denji into this, and he's the one who told him to finish what he started. Fingers twitching and unsteady, he wraps his hand around himself and - strokes. Just once. Following the guiding drag of Denji's hand, he tells himself he's simply playing along, trying to understand this sensation. There are no women for him to think of, thanks to not knowing any to fantasize about (Makima has no sense of allure to him and he's not sure Power can be anything but a destructive, annoying terror... And he doesn't even know who that crybaby human woman is), but when he broadens the approach to think of men, well... Denji is an immediate rejection. He's boorish, odd, and rude. Beam, just as much. Violence - No, he has no sense of connection to the fiend. Kishibe? His lip twitches in slight disgust. Absolutely not, the drunk - Last time Angel saw him he smelled like rotten eggs. Which only leaves...]
[Well. He's seen that human nude before. With his hair down, dripping down his back as he wrapped a bandage around his thigh. Ignoring Angel's comments about exposed skin. Looking at him sidelong over his shoulder when he asked him if it hurt that bad. Then a vague shrug, as if to say, What's it matter. That solitary wrapping covering his skin, shielding it and protecting it - it's not as if he hadn't imagined running his fingers over the layers, feeling the warmth of blood seeping into the gauze.]
[He swallows. Releases his grip on himself before he can allow anything more. Too disturbed by the images his mind supplies.]
Feels... [He mumbles it, shifting his weight between his feet, his free hand grabbing at the waist of his pants. Angel stares down into the toilet bowl, frown deeply etched into his face, just like that rippling scar he saw a few days later still racing over his thigh. Now exposed and vulnerable.] I don't get it.
[He should have just imagined Spider.]
no subject
He's only curious about Angel's feelings because it's what he wanted, wasn't it, it's why he's tolerating having Denji cooped up next to him like a tin fish. He doesn't convey a hint of impatience with his poor attempts to tutor him, at least. Which could be a sign that he's taking his advice to heart, or could also mean Denji's the farthest thing from Angel's mind. Forget that he's the one standing closest to him, less than a hair's breadths away. ]
Don't get what?
[ Denji presses, fingers tightening, not allowing Angel's hand to drop after releasing himself. ]
Try again until you do, then. You barely moved. [ His palm slides over his back knuckles, gently trying to steer him back to his cock. ] You sure you're imagining the right person?
no subject
[He turns his head, away from where Denji is leaning over his shoulder. Frustrated, annoyed. Pointless, he wants to argue. You wouldn't get it. This boy, he's spent his life being rejected, But Angel has never even been allowed to ask.]
I can't imagine anyone, because they'd just die.
[His blunt, unkind answer is all he says for a moment. Staring at the wall beside the toilet, at the spot where it meets the floor, the moulding peeling at one point, he finally pulls his hand from Denji's grip, attempting to turn the situation - Grab Denji's hand instead, pull it toward him, clumsily drag it into the same position. A moody, petulant demand is next.]
You do it.
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[ His lips tug into a frown as Angel rejects his urging. Increasingly, he wonders — what's the point?
Fed up, he could drop both their hands, clean himself of this confusing venture. He'd lead them out of this back alley place, returning them to the main roads where the traffic lights flicker red, yellow, green, pedestrians wait for their turn to cross, and everything makes the same amount of sense it did before. No more questions. No more mythic stories, just the same boulder they edge forward day in day out. But maybe it's better that way, has Angel ever thought of that? When there's an obstacle so large you can't see over the top, you don't have to anticipate the end to begin with. Angel would head back into Public Safety without looking back at him. He'd take the train in a daze, miss his stop, then have to shamble the long way back. He'd open the door to Power laid up on the couch, balancing the cat on her hands and feet. He'd say, "I'm home." Would Aki be setting up the table as he walked in? Would he ask him how things went? Reach for his head, tell him good job, if Denji told him the partial truth? The whole of it?
No, probably not.
He nearly jerks out of his skin at the sudden pull, Angel's hand small but insistent about wrapping Denji's palm around his cock. His full fist nearly envelops him in a single curl of his fingers. ]
What the — me? Are you crazy?!
[ And yet for his snarling, he doesn't let go. Angel looks put off enough Denji can't tell which he resents more: him, for being the only one who can do this without going cold and limp, or the fact that he has to make the demand. He struggles to react, mouth agape; after a moment, a sharp sound of disdain cuts out of his throat. ]
Just because you can feel it and I can't die, doesn't mean you're gonna get off. You — have to like it.
[ With that hanging in the air, Denji's gaze tilts over Angel's shoulder, expression flurrying with a motley of mixed emotions. He'd tried to remove himself from the equation by just holding on to his wrist, but now that he can't anymore…
Hesitantly, he scoots in. His hand roams, tugging up, burying Angel's head into the curve of his palm. He didn't notice him leaking yet — it'll make things easier if he can work some precome out of him. He knows this because he's great at masturbating. And because he's great at masturbating, he doesn't need to marvel at how hot and firm a cock can get just from fitting through a fist. How another guy's skin feels this silky, this pliable. Doesn't need to at all. ]
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[Because it wasn't what brought out that feeling. The heat, he remembers suddenly and vividly. The heat that made his body go limp and his brain go white. He hadn't been thinking about Denji being Denji at all during that, didn't care that it was him and, truthfully, barely thought about him at all. Whether that was because it felt so good he didn't have to think or because he couldn't, he doesn't know, but those kinds of things aren't important. It all lines up yet, when Angel opens his mouth, his lips feel dry. Cheeks red.]
[He'd kicked Denji for that the first time. Felt like he was going to die. What if he does it like that again, suddenly and in a way that hurts and stings and feels terrible? Will he up and ditch him, tell him to jerk off on his own again? Ugh, relying on others is such a pain. He huffs out a long breath before pressing himself back into Denji, tilting his head back to look at him, using the angle he's turned at to his advantage so he can stare at him directly. If he asks it nice enough, maybe he'll do it nicely, too.]
Do what you did before.
[...That doesn't sound nice, actually. He quickly flits through a couple memories, trying to rememebr what the nicest way to ask for something is. A hand holding out a plastic-wrapped cone, staring at him expectantly but not releasing it until he says the right word.]
...Please?
[Something like that.]
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Only since you said please.
[ At his doe-eyed imploring, which he can more or less recognize as a means to an end, one he can't judge him for — there's a mute sigh, Denji's mouth shifting, hiding away inside Angel's wrinkled collar. His weight could frankly bowl him over if he wanted to, but he only crams up into him enough to make his torso hunch, slightly tip him over the toilet. Taking aim for him. Doing the nice thing — he doesn't want to think about what would happen if he left Angel to his own devices for this. He doesn't know what he would resort to, who he would reach his hand out to instead, like before with the human girl. He doesn't want to think about what he'd be missing out on, either, but that's a secret just for Denji. Besides, if Angel's partner, or anyone in Public Safety for that matter, catches wind of their mischief today, he has a feeling he knows who the fall guy is going to be. He'd rather not add an extra foot to his grave. ]
Pay attention. [ Fingers curved into a claw, his touch draws down the length of Angel in a continuous stroke, he ring of his fist presses up his crown, scrunching the wet skin there and squeezing pre out the top — not satisfied until he sees him brimming, the drops pooling together in a thick and mucusy dot that oozes down his sides. Then he lets his palm slip over his sticky top, dragging back down to coat his shaft. ] So you don't gotta ask me to do it for you next time.
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I don't - I said...
[Do what you did before. Doesn't he know what he means? Does he not recognize how different it was? That this time, it was okay? He wraps his fingers around Denji's wrist to not quite stop him but to try and make it clear that no, this wasn't what he said.]
What you did before. I can't... do that.
[He can figure out masturbation. He can brute force his way through that, if he cared. But this is different - this is something he needs a second fiddle for. As if to put too-fine a point on it, his halo brightens for a moment, as if trying to hide how his cheeks do the same. Or maybe guide his attention.]
Just don't bite, or - whatever you did the other night, just do what you did before. You know...
[Somehow, it feels dirtier to talk about it this way. Like it's something sexual that needs to be covered up, even though it's the thing that makes most people look at him in fear or disgust.]
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But then, without prompting, and without putting it into plain terms, he's being told exactly what's wrong — that it isn't what Denji's doing, it's what he isn't. Apparently. At least according to what he's able to decipher from Angel's strained direction, from the light shuddering off his halo like a glittering crown, like a sun he can't escape the shadow of. In reaction, he can only muster a complicated stare, confusion clearly conveyed by the uncertain sound weakly droning from his throat, the notes of his voice filling into the space above Angel's head. ]
…This seriously feel better than having your junk squeezed? Stay still.
[ — said, right as a few of his fingers drum at the rounded top of the disc. Just a few gentle beats, as if it might knock it off-center, but nope, it's still as solid and stable as when he last touched him there. He digs his hand into Angel's shoulder, leveraging his height to keep him bent over the toilet seat, bringing his face closer to the exterior of his halo, his breath fogging up the edges. It's not the type of golden material he can see himself reflected in; if he were to describe it, the substance of Angel's halo has a presence more like light and lightness, and it makes him think that if he kisses it, really kisses the ring like it might kiss him back, he could almost taste the warmth of something unknowable, unreachable, pressing against his lips. So that's what Denji does: slides his mouth along the luster of him. ]
This? [ he asks again, but the question feels posed inward. Not something Angel can answer. ]
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Uh-huh.
[His voice is shaky and a little - giddy. His skin is molten hot. Like it could melt off his frame and sink into a puddle of magma at his feet. Part of him wishes he had gotten him closer to the mirror over the sink but as they are, standing over the toilet, all he can really see is the offshoot of light coming from his halo's reflection off the metal faucet.]
Like before - In there. [If this is how he's going to "forgive" Denji, then that's fine with him. Devils are all about that give-and-take stuff, always scratching someone's back to later get one in return, offering out some kind of peace offering instead of getting bloody for no reason. That's how devils are, and Angel is a devil, after all, so this is a natural progression. His fist skids against the wall as he tries to find support but there's no bar to hold onto and only the toilet basin in front of him. He can't lean too far forward or Denji can't reach him, and he can't move too much because then he's going to stop and ask what he wants or something. How many times does he have to say what he wants?]
Keep - Keep going. [Any shame or embarrassment is washed out for now. Not that he had any to begin with - Devils don't have that. But he's not thinking about that anymore, now that the first spark of true pleasure is racing through his body in a fervent loop. And how much amperage can be pumped into that, he wonders?]
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It's the most unreserved he's ever seen him. The most animated. ]
You're really warming up. [ Strands of Angel's hair lace and tangle through Denji's fingers, tugging the back of his skull with a jerk, trying to pull his halo closer. If that were possible. ] Look, your dick's almost as red as your head. [ Even with his lips wrapped around the curve of his halo, sucking down on it, light illuminating from inside Denji's cheeks as he rolls his tongue from end to end — Denji can still see him. The pre dribbling from him, looking no better than the drops of toilet water coating the seat from all their sloshing about.
Denji breathes out, shakily. ]
Say, what's it — feel like? When I do this. Is it… good enough for you — to wanna touch me back?
[ The last question emerges from the phosphorescent ring with a point so fine, so quietly earnest, it could have risen from the very dwellings playing host to all of Angel's weapons. Could have taken years off Denji's life just to bring the words out into the open. He briefly pauses to rest his tingling lips against the rim, knowing full well that the only thing Angel wants and expects from him is this alone: to act like tonguing him is his only ministry, his life's vocation.
But Denji's always been terrible at compromising his own wants. He's never even kissed anyone with this kind of fervor before. ]
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[This must be what he's after, he thinks, surprisingly sane for the moment as Denji speaks and gives him that temporary break, enough time for synapses to fire successfully before his thoughts are swallowed away again. That nebulous concept of "sex" that he's always talking about, that thing they experienced in that room just a little while ago. And here he is, giving it to Angel. Just because he asked? He even told him he didn't like him.]
[Then his tongue rolls from side to side along the entire length and Angel chokes, his eyes rolling. He stumbles fully backward into him, grasping wildly for some way to stay upright. There's drool on his lips, a single drop sliding down his chin, but he doesn't have the wherewithal to care. It feels like he's getting his brain blended into a smoothie, fried in that air flyer thing. It feels like he's going to explode. He's going to go insane, here. What the hell did he just say?]
[It's a blessing that he stops for Angel to comprehend the words. What does it feel like - He can't answer that. There isn't a phrase that humans have invented yet to summarize this sensation. Does he want to touch Denji back - That, he doesn't fully understand at first. Denji has nothing even comparable to this, unless his chainsaws are even slightly similar and he's been ejaculating over all his enemies this whole time. But he focused so much on touching Angel's cock, and Angel felt his own erection hard against his ass before, grinding into him for that one brief moment, and is that what he means?]
[He must. Angel bobs his head with a nod. Yeah, sure, he'd say if he had the ability to use his tongue, to form a sound from his throat. He likes the idea of touching something that won't die. He wonders if this halo counts as skin. His wings don't feel anything like this, but what if that human can touch this? What if he could sit over him and drag his fingers along the rim, kiss against the edge and - and tell him to lean against him, and to rub his ass against his clothed front, press against him so he can grind against him, just like the Chainsaw boy had done... Could he do that? Is that even possible? Wouldn't he just die? From one wrong move, wouldn't that kill him?]
[He doesn't know. But right now, no one is dead and his breathing is too heavy, too labored to manage more than another nod. He fumbles to reach behind himself with shaky hands and attempts to guide Denji closer, tugging him against him, guiding his clothed body toward his bare rear. Again he gives a third nod, this time with an aborted, short sound to urge him on. He gets it, right? Just rub against him, just like before. Copy the image now cycling cruelly in his mind.]
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Devils by and large prefer human gore and fear as a form of sustenance, sure, that's dummy math. The sun rises in the north and sets south. But they've been equally as known to hunt, corner, cannibalize their own for sport, to say nothing of survival. There's no differentiation when you're trying to assert your existence, be remembered by anyone, anything, with a memory. Even if you love steak, every once in a while you'll get a hearty craving for edamame. Neither he nor Pochita have ever been picky with their food.
Maybe that's part of what has his transplanted heart thumping like the wing-beat of a morning bird.
Certainly that's why Denji's breath itches from inside his throat, his handle on Angel's scalp slinking closer to his nape, squeezing him at the hump of his vertebrae. With just enough intention and pressure to displace him from the toilet, he forcibly steers them — straight into the wall, rough, clumsy, stars in his eyes. At least he's got wits available to keep the cleft of Angel's ass anchored to him, rubbed up around his tented crotch while he slides him forward, staggers them both over the side of the sink at a heavy slant.
The mirror's spread as wide as a fancy television screen. If Denji were to tilt his half-lidded gaze just a bit, he'd catch a glimpse of his reflection: gnawing at Angel's neck, swirling a tongue behind the shell of his ear on his way back to revisit his halo with his mouth. The thing baptized in his slobber. But he doesn't want to see it, refuses to look. Tells himself he's satisfied alone off of just feeling it from Angel's every shiver and gasp. Feel that, for his meager understanding of intimacy, he still managed to turn him into this, still managed to teach him something all on his own. Even if the lesson is incomplete. ]
Nnnngh — ugh, hah —
[ Sounds torch his throat, a familiar need flaming his bloodstream. He massages into one of his butt cheeks, the wattage of his brain dimmed, perfectly stupid with easily Angel absorbs the contact of skin to skin, the soft remold and cling of his body to his touch. He could seriously just…
The slap rings loud. Looks loud, too, by the red welting from the imprint of his hand. Did he just do that?
Denji does it again. Harder. Holy freakin' cow sweeps through his mind, but he can't even take a second to look surprised at himself. And he is. He definitely is. It's just he's too hopped up on the motion of his hips, selfishly carrying on humping Angel's backside in spite of the spanking.
Would he be gentler with someone else? Would he know how? Would someone else want that from Denji, ever? Want him pressed to the sink, legs spread in an upside down victory sign. Feeding him a mean hand, then nursing the pain away with a merciful one; atonement, then grace. Who could be on the other side of something like that — that person, too, Denji can't bear to look in the face of. ]
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[Then he jumped out that window. Had pants wrapped around his neck. Helped disguise a human as another to buy alcohol - Played card games, told stories. All of those experiences are firsts when he's only used to repetition. Nightmares, killing, eating. Walking, working, sighing. The few firsts he has had are things like touching the hand of someone for so brief a moment that he doesn't even remember what his skin felt like. Just what the lifespan felt like when it spread through his core.]
[When Denji releases his halo, it should mean that he can think a little clearer, but in truth his brain is too far gone for that. He pulls him into the side of the sink and Angel gratefully grabs the edge of it, now fully pushing himself back against Denji, recognizing that the friction is making him act more - touchy. Violent, even. Running his mouth and tongue along different parts, and that, too, feels different from skin on skin. He shivers when it curls around his ear and his grip on his nape makes his hair stand on end and listening to Denji get off, it's actually good. It actually feels really good. It doesn't matter that it's someone he doesn't like - he was right. Humans will pay for sex with strangers, just like how this is a trade. Right? They're both getting something out of -]
Ah!
[Angel's head jolts back, shock and pain in his voice when Denji hits him. He blinks rapidly and for the first time sees himself in the mirror, how Denji stands behind him, the way his body shakes and jerks with each forward push of his hips. The next hit comes and he's not at all prepared for it.]
Ow, oww...
[He hangs his head down into the basin, fingers slipping against cold porcelain as his legs buckle and shiver. His own movements, temporarily paused thanks to the shock of each smack, shakily regain their flow as Angel raises his head again to try and look at him in the mirror, tries to make eye contact even though he isn't looking at him at all. Is just watching him, hovering over him like a vulture watching a rat writhe in its death throes.]
Take - Take off your pants... Hurry up.
[He has the nerve to sound annoyed about this, despite everything that's happened, despite how much more mussed his hair is than usual, how his red face nearly matches the color of his eyes, how his bottom lip is equally blood red from the tension of his teeth. Like he's annoyed Denji got to the bureau late today and they're only just now able to get down to business.]
[He doesn't entirely understand what he's asking for - Just that Denji is getting too into this, too violent, too rough. And this might egg that on more.]