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You’d would think a person with fucking chainsaws for hands would understand the concept of bodies not always being what they’re advertised on the packaging.
Aki thought so, at least, knowing full well he was giving Denji too much credit because Denji is Denji. Still. It’s always easier to assume indifference. The world is fucked up. Every day, people witness monstrosities, fiends with heads screwed on backwards and mouths pinched like cockroaches. In the great scope of things, what’s between Aki’s legs is between him and whoever’s between them, a list small enough to exclude anyone who’d really care.
Denji is not part of that list, but Denji being Denji figures it out for himself and decides to insert his name at the bottom.
It’s been three days since Power moved in, refusing to flush, refusing to shower, refusing to allow a shred of privacy between them, racing in rooms without the concept of knocking crossing her mind. Despite this and the state of his kitchen, Aki had blissfully forgotten because the devils were supposed to be on patrol, something time-consuming and close enough to find them should they screw it up again, and Aki was in the shower with his hand tucked somewhere it rarely has time to be these days.
So he’d come out, jelly legged, towel missing from his waist, to bump into a slack-jawed, bug-eyed Denji on his way to use the bathroom. Fresh from losing Power from the look of his bloody uniform and apologetic eyes.
Now, Denji follows him around like a starved dog looks at its master eating a piece of fried chicken.
He springs the topic in the kitchen, and from the looks of his flushed cheeks, it’s not an easy decision, though in classic Denji fashion he picks the worst way to go about it, slamming both of his palms on the counter and blurting, “Where’s your dick?”
Aki would choke on his drink if he had expected more from him. As it stands, he barely manages a bored eye roll.
“I don’t have one.”
The tea needs more sugar.
“And why not?”
“Because I don’t.”
“Yeah, but why not?” Denji won’t be shaken off, has clamped his jaw tight on the topic. He leans his body over the counter to give Aki squinted eyes, and Aki can see the wheels turning on his flawless technique of going for the testicles first when fighting men.
Never one to back down, he meets him in the middle, forehead to forehead, glare to glare. “Because,” talks in idiot, slow enough to have Denji fidgeting. “Some men don’t. Some men,” and, here, he pauses to torment him further, taking a nice, hot sip of tea. Ahhh. “have cunts.”
Using a word he expects to land somewhere dreadful for Denji who daydreams of cunts despite not knowing the word for them if ‘boobies’ is any indication. The magazines shoved under his futon say it all. As does his extended time in the shower. As does Aki’s water bill and the noises bouncing off the walls.
“I didn’t know that,” Denji mumbles like he’s not sure if he should believe it, though he’s seen for himself.
“Not interested in what you don’t know.”
And that’s that.
Or it would be if Denji could take a hint and crawl back into his room to ponder this new piece of information face down, mounting his pillow, but he’s still standing there dumbly when Aki turns around.
“Can you show me?”
“What?”
“Your boy-cunt.”
“No.”
“Okay, and why not?” Denji frowns. “You know I’ve never seen one, you know?”
“I’m guessing you’ve never seen a lot of things, but I don’t really give a shit.”
Denji frowns deeper as he thinks on this. Not long enough to see it for the insult that it is. Not that Aki’s much better in this department, but he’s at least seen a real nipple in real life, real close up, too, and he’s had offers and his pussy sucked.
“Well - yeah,” Denji finally admits, “I’d never seen boobies either until Miss Makima. ” He smiles goofily, fantasizing with his mouth open, eyes practically crossing.
It’s easier to use Denji-logic against him.
“I’ve never seen your cock, but you don’t see me asking,” Aki offers as explanation.
Not expecting to glance up from where his spoon circles the sugar around the cup and see Denji, naked from the waist down, slacks puddling around his ankles, cock long, pink, and fully erect. Aki hadn’t even heard him undressing. This is what Denji used his abilities for, to show off he has never bothered to trim the bushy, dark blond hair covering his stomach and upper thighs, frizzy curls that make him look older than his actual age.
Aki drinks his tea, regarding him, bored. “In some places, this is considered sexual harassment.”
“Sexually harass me then,” Denji grins.
“I’d rather not.”
“You asked to see!” He pouts, crossing his arms and not hurrying to pull up his pants.
His cock swings with the movement, foreskin pulled back so a glimpse of his wet tip peeks from underneath. It’s not a bad cock even if it is likely a very dirty, very overworked one. Aki won’t be made to feel bad about assessing it when it’s presented so willingly.
He considers his options. Namely, giving Denji a lesson in what’s respectful, what’s normal, what’s sane (not that Denji would ever be), what’s all of the above, especially when it comes to the person, the literal saint, hosting you, who’s three years your senior, and definitely wants you dead if it weren’t for a set of really nice, really round breasts. A painful, punchy kind of lesson.
But—he just mopped the floor, and Denji’s pesky, fast healing makes it not worth the effort. He’d be back in one piece before Aki soaked his blood off the tiles, which leaves him with option two, placing the mug on the counter, a fresh cigarette to his lips, and, essentially, giving in. Because. Denji-logic.
He hooks his thumb on the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down low enough to flash Denji (wide-eyed, wet-lipped Denji) a view of his mound, neatly-trimmed to show off his fat cock, poking proudly from between his lips.
It’s comical seeing his reaction, the throaty ‘woaaaaaah’ that leaves his mouth when he manages to pick his jaw off the floor. If his cock was hard before it’s throbbing now, swelling from the base to the cherry-red head, slick clinging off the slit, dripping messily on the floor. Aki chews on the inside of his cheek, wanting badly to deny that the sight of how turned on Denji is makes his stomach churn in excitement. This must be what Makima feels every minute of every day — desired, worshipped — why she adores Denji so much.
“Can I - touch?” Denji gulps.
Again, Aki rolls his eyes. Again, he considers his options. Again, he comes to the conclusion that he is not a good person, but he is a reasonable one. The easiest way to deal with a whining dog is to give them whatever they’re eyeing. It’s not Aki’s job to teach Denji manners; that’s on Makima who dangles the carrot in front of his face. Aki’s here to keep him quiet long enough for Denji to start chasing it. And Aki’s not Makima because Aki’s not manipulative, but he is, apparently, easy.
He sucks in a bitter, last taste of patience before snuffing the cigarette against sink. “Whatever.” But he doesn’t need Denji getting any ideas, so he grabs him by the wrist and drags him towards himself until Denji’s plastered close enough for Aki to feel every breath fan hot on the base of his neck.
It’s far from the first time they touch. They touched the moment they met, but their usual involves elbows and shoving, spitting and biting, cracking ribs and bloody noses.
Denji tenses, but he doesn’t pull away, stays put.
“Good dog,” it slips out.
Denji whimpers in response, and Aki stuffs that sweet sound somewhere convenient, next to the knowledge that Denji can be persuaded, if not outright controlled, not by fear, but affection, touch, promises of more.
“Be good,” Aki tests, “or I break your bones.”
Denji’s bangs brush on his shoulder as he nods. “Yeah, okay,” he sighs, shaking all over.
It’s pleasing having this effect on anyone, even Denji who pisses Aki off and smells like sweat and grape jelly.
Aki guides his fingers to his stomach, expecting a flinch. Denji’s shown no attraction to men, disdain, if anything. He’s obsessed with women, but when his palm meets the muscled lines of Aki’s abdomen, he doesn’t scoff, doesn’t tense, breathes heavier, pressing all five fingers on Aki’s skin. Pleasantly warm for someone who’s not exactly alive. He had heard devils were stiff and corpse-like, terrible bed partners, their low temperature a constant reminder of what they are, past saving. Denji defies everything. His cock pokes against Aki’s ass. From the weight of it, not at all softer even as Aki pushes his palm up past the long-healed scars slashing across his chest to meet the flat hardness of his breasts.
Denji takes what he’s given, feet shifting forward to close what little distance existed between them until he’s leaning, pushing himself, on Aki’s ass.
Aki shifts their hands downwards, dragging Denji’s fingers down the middle of his stomach, dipping into his bellybutton, burying through the line of dark hair leading underneath the waistband of his boxers, slipping under slowly, stopping only when Denji’s fingers have stroked down his small cock.
“Oh!” Denji gasps dramatically, the pads of his fingers circling the twitching head, flicking up and pressing down on the nub in a way that has Aki wanting to squeeze his legs, rub against the heel of his hand like he’s done with countless of older men in filthy alleys, their breaths, alcohol and cigarettes, their words egging him on furiously until he’s wetting the pavement with his release.
It sends a needy tingle down his spine, and he’s suddenly in the mood before he thinks to stop this from becoming too complicated, before reminding himself it’s Denji who’s threatening pleasure out of him, before Denji, left to his own devices, has slid his fingers lower, tracing the slit and parting his lips to find evidence of his change of heart.
“You’re wet, means nice, right?” Denji wonders in his ear, not realizing he has smushed his mouth on his shoulder, and Aki can feel every drop of drool slathered all over his t-shirt. He thrusts his cock on Aki’s ass like an animal operating on nothing but instinct, his other hand gripping Aki’s hipbone hard enough to crush bone, a grounding kind of pain. At the very least, they’re hurting each other.
“You’re wet… because of me?” He tugs Aki to himself, finding his cock again and using the wetness now on his fingers to stroke up and down its length, adapting fast to treating it like the cock that it is, pinching it between his fingers and jerking it smoothly.
It’s affirming, the pleasure electric, undeniable.
Every touch prickles, making his hips fuck forward into the tight warmth of Denji’s fist. He shivers, not knowing why he’s letting it continue. His hand has locked itself around Denji’s wrist, but isn’t stopping him. Denji suffers it without complaint, fingers pushing in his cunt and brushing against his entrance, pulling a reaction Aki had not planned to share, a moan that doesn’t make it past his throat but is obvious enough to be analyzed even by the dumbest of minds. He feels himself leaking.
“You like it like this?” Denji wastes no time piecing it together. His mind works frighteningly fast when the stakes are sex and getting it. His laugh is sweet, all exhale, no mocking, just wonder. He nuzzles his face closer, hugs him tight, mutters, “I like it, like you, like this, a lot, wow, a lot.”
Aki pulls himself away.
Denji’s hand slips out of his pants, fingers glistening in slick. It’s difficult to think straight watching him notice the strands stretching between his fingers and stick his tongue out to have a taste.
“Satisfied?” he snaps.
Denji whines, “I wanna touch you.”
It shouldn’t send a cramp of pleasure down his gut, shouldn’t make him want to grab the dirty mutt by his hair and tuck his pink tongue between his teeth, his hand down the front of his pants, help him finish what he started, teach him there are consequences to his dumb questions.
“You just did.”
“More,” Denji’s panting.
He leans towards Aki, hands outstretched not knowing where to grab, entirely clueless on how to approach him now that they’re facing each other and Aki’s glaring him down. He tries, nonetheless, pushing stubbornly in his space, and Aki keeps him at arm’s length, hand plastered to Denji’s chest, feeling where the cord hangs, a reminder of who he’s provoking. A devil. A murderer like the rest of them — isn’t that what Aki told him?
“No, Denji.” The name works like magic.
Denji stuns, stopped in his tracks. “Why?” he asks. “If you were liking it? I liked it, too. I wanted to do more. I can be good—.”
“Because I’m not in the mood to be treated like a woman.”
It’s the truth, one he hadn’t wanted to voice for fault of it being a little too sentimental, a little too real, not worthy of anyone’s ears, least of all someone like Denji, who wouldn’t get it, never cared about his body even now that he’s lost ownership of it. Aki doesn’t need him to understand that often when it gets like this, soft and fucking nice, he’s frustrated—he’s scared.
Denji pouts. “I’m not. I know you’re not, obviously,” he says, “Women are soft and pretty and smell good and have boobs, large, soft boobs that smell good like Miss Makima.” And he’s off fantasizing about Makima’s, admittedly, large, soft breasts.
“I’m not in the mood to be fetishized then,” he argues since he has set himself on this path.
“I don’t know what that means,” Denji predictably complains.
It’s aggravating having to deal with him, having to deal with himself because of him. Denji asked for this. It shouldn’t be on Aki’s conscience to stop him, to turn himself off with awful memories from a time when it wasn’t so obvious.
“It means,” he grinds his teeth, tasting the upcoming fight, the adrenaline he felt with Denji’s little, idiot sighs turning into a cocktail of violence. “why didn’t you want to touch my cock when you thought I had one?”
Denji mimics his power stance before he even hears the question. He has on his uniform, shirt and tie. It looks ridiculous with his pants down and his cock softened to a half-chub. “I didn’t know I could,” he huffs, scrunching his nose.
“What?”
“You heard! I didn’t know I could with you, that you ever wanted me to.”
“I don’t?” Aki sputters incredulously.
Now Denji looks shot, the puppy-dog eyes coming out full force, big pout slurring his words. “You dont? But you liked it when I did. Does Miss Makima know about your boy-cunt?”
She does. She guessed. He remembers vividly how she reacted when he admitted it, eyes downcast, cheeks hot. How the sweet smile she gave him has imprinted itself on his brain anytime he needs a reason to get off. Her manicured fingers lowering the zipper of his pants, slipping inside, rubbing softly, teasingly, until his legs shook to collapse and his underwear soaked in evidence of their shared secret. She’d been the first to show him how good it could still feel with the right person and the right amount of pressure.
Hell, he’s so restless.
“Have you ever fingered someone?”
Denji looks lost, and his pants are still down. His cock jumps with the question, filling instantly. Aki tries not to make eye-contact with it, or Denji, as he mimics the act with two fingers curling upwards in the air.
“Ahhh?” Denji grows tomato-faced, eyes darting frantically from Aki’s fingers to his crotch. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!” he yaps, nodding blurry fast.
“You have?” Aki’s doubtful. Makima did it to him, but that’s different. She’d never accept it for herself. He’s tried, often.
“No, but I can, for you, I know how.”
He drops to his knees inexplicably, mouth falling open.
Makima’s right. He is a dog. Looking at him sit there so obediently, Aki thinks himself an opportunist, but who in the organization hasn’t groped Denji at this point? It’s practically a right of passage to cop a feel and see him malfunction. Sad, yes, but effective. Denji makes it too easy.
“Yes, Mr. Hayakawa, sir!” Denji remembers how to respect his seniors when it had taken weeks of bribing to get him to understand why he even had to.
Aki shouldn’t fall for this very transparent and very temporary obedience, but he’s horny, and Denji looks like he’d be terrible at getting him off, which tends to be a favorite of his since he figured he could use this aspect of himself for more than self-flagellation. Perhaps, this is punishment, too, being drawn to people who don’t know how to love him, an endless tease and denial of something he could have, but why should he? He doesn’t deserve it. There’s little chance Denji out of anyone would become someone worth attaching to.
“Fine. Stand. Pull up your pants. I’m not touching that,” he orders, watching Denji scramble to lift his pants up at the same time he charges forward to corner Aki against the counter with his arms on either side.
“Fine,” he huffs in Aki’s face. Then his usual smirk returns. “I can cum without you touching me at all if I need to.”
A real gotcha moment that should be stupid, not cute. He’s dumb, real dumb, but it’d be interesting to make him finish untouched, ruin all of his orgasms, hear him sob, wet his pants. Aki wonders if he’d come loads, never tire of how often he’s made to, stay hard through the overstimulation, crying, probably whining, losing his voice until he’s nothing but broken moans. He’d enjoy punishment if done right, with commands and lots of praise.
“That’s not a good thing.”
He lifts himself on the counter. Denji stands between his thighs, falls forward with the adjustment, too short to do anything without Aki leaning down and giving it to him, which he doesn’t. It’s fun watching Denji flush in annoyance, eyes dropping to Aki’s lips. There’s confusion in his pinched brow that isn’t reflected in the way his pupils dilate in arousal. Aki keeps expecting him to realize he’s doing this with a man. It’s a man he’s quite literally fawning over.
“Why not?” Denji asks. Up on his tip-toes. Straining his neck.
“Women hate when you finish fast.”
“Yeah, but you’re not a woman. I can with you.” Denji grins as his nose brushes against Aki’s clumsily, and he overcompensates cocking his head to make himself fit, square peg in round hole, before Aki has the chance to untangle himself from the wordplay.
“I’m not trying to impress you, jerk. Just kiss you already,” Denji explains, pulling on his shirt to slam his mouth on top of Aki’s, open and wet, having no idea what he’s doing. A mess of pointy, sharp teeth and warm saliva. Short gasps that taste of desperation.
Aki grips his jaw, shoving him off, strings of spit trailing their separation. Denji’s cheeks are bright pink, his eyes a hungry black, his chin wet with drool. Behind his lips, a row of triangular teeth glints menacingly in warning.
“You couldn’t even if you tried,” he says, dragging Denji back without softening his hold on his face, using it to force Denji’s lips to follow his lead, brush, peck, part open to allow Aki’s tongue to slip between them, glide underneath Denji’s own and prod at the roof of his mouth before retreating.
Immediately, Denji seeks to mimic him. His tongue sweet with whatever gross mixture he decided to spread on his toast today, something extra sugary. He licks at anything he can reach, and when Aki closes his teeth on his tongue, Denji makes a noise like he’s choking on breath. They part, and it’s sputtering Aki’s met with.
“Was that your first kiss?” he asks.
Denji collects his breath to spit out, “Why would I want to impress an ugly jerk like you?”
Aki is above this level of idiotic banter. He’s a grownup with a mission. Denji’s just some kid - devil - thing - and, well, it’s just that, Aki needs him to know that. If he wanted to, he could have him eating other men out of his cunt.
He swipes his thumb on Denji’s mouth to clean him up, pushes down on his chin until Denji opens wide, plunges his pointer and middle finger inside to cut off whatever bullshit Denji had been planning on sharing, holding his jaw tight as he shoves his fingers deeper. Pride and desire seem to fight each other in Denji’s contorting face, and pride wins because he’s forcing his own sticky fingers in Aki’s mouth, and they’re shoving at each other’s faces, cursing and gagging.
They separate, coughing violently. Denji’s tongue falling out of his mouth as he palms his throat. His fingers are coated in spit, and it takes Aki one glance to recalibrate, drag a now-mistrusting Denji from his tie to lock his legs around Denji’s waist and shove his hand down the front of Aki’s sweatpants.
Denji’s eyes go wide, neck snapping up.
“You want this, right?” Aki gives him one last chance.
“Yes, sir!” Denji bellows, fight forgotten.
“Just.” Aki can feel himself flushing, blames it on the second-hand embarrassment. “Shut up.”
“I won’t.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll make you scream,” Denji grins.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You wish.”
Even with the limitation of having his pants and boxers on, Denji needs little help feeling around for his hole. He sinks two fingers in, two knuckles deep, spit and slick mixing loudly. Hunched over Aki’s body. Face inches away. Focusing creepily on Aki’s eyes like he’s trying to read what effect he’s having on Aki through expression alone. Desperate for affirmation. Aki makes sure to give him nothing. Holds his breath, better than gasping, letting Denji know it feels okay, nice, almost, when Denji drags his fingers out and pushes back in, harder, not stopping until his palm smacks against Aki’s hard cock, the combined pleasure making his stomach tighten.
“It’s so warm,” Denji narrates, a starstruck look on his face. “Tight, so tight, you’re sucking me in.” His eyes widen. “Are you a virgin?”
Aki doesn’t bother calling him an idiot, more focused on correcting his technique, twisting Denji’s hand so his palm is facing up and pulling his fingers out so Denji can slam them back in instantly. “Yes. Good. Like that, but faster.”
“I’ll go so fast!”
“Just - do it.”
“Will you cum?”
“If you shut up.”
Denji concentrates with the tip of his tongue peeking out the side of his mouth. In his excitement, he rocks his hips against the cabinets underneath Aki in time with his fingers fucking in, grinding and squirming. His other hand latches onto the front of Aki’s shirt, dragging him closer until he’s pulled his ass against his groin, keeping him pinned on his back, thighs falling open. Denji huddles on top of him like he’s three seconds from scaling the counter to fuck him.
Aki places a hand on his shoulder, returning the favor, grabbing just as possessively. His other fist curls around the edge of the counter, helping work his hips on Denji’s fingers, demonstrating what a proper rhythm looks like. In, out, hurried, rough, slick squirting and dripping down Denji’s hand. Denji, breathless without any kissing. Aki, tightening around his fingers, taking them as deep as they can go.
The first brush on his g-spot has Aki’s hips snapping forward. He grinds circles on Denji’s hand, and, learning quick, Denji curls his fingers to press against it again, and again, drinking any sudden twitch he can bully out of Aki’s quivering thighs.
“Fuck,” Aki snarls.
It’s been a while since someone treated him this roughly.
Denji perks up at the vocal endorsement, responds by slipping a third finger inside and meeting Aki in the middle with the same intensity he saves for their fights, disregarding all else. His palm smacks against Aki’s mound wetly, the lewd, wet sound of it driving Aki insane.
He hadn’t anticipated coming. Now, he cannot imagine not.
It’s not that Denji’s good. Far from it. One of the worst Aki’s had the pleasure of fucking. His fingers are rough, his thrusts too aggressive, fucking erratically when he remembers to focus on Aki and not his own cock, the spot growing on the front of his tented pants. Denji’s selfish, but seeing him lose control always has a spectacle to it, like danger, like remembering how a simple slip could lead to nothing short of a horror scene.
Denji’s hands have killed. The same hands fucking moans out of Aki’s lips, unbidden, and, still, Aki’s allowing it, begging for it in all but words, clawing his forearm to ride his fingers.
“Let me fuck my cock in you, please, please, please! I wanna fuck you with my cock. Aki, please,” Denji sobs against his cheek.
He seeks Aki’s mouth blindly, plants a sloppy kiss on the side of his lips, curling his fist in Aki’s shirt and tugging him closer. They collide with teeth and furious grunts, drowned underneath moans, a mixture of insults and mutual pleas.
The kitchen rattles and creaks with his violent thrusts, the way they keep going at each other even as they writhe and shudder, Aki’s knees digging into Denji’s sides as his legs shake to close in overstimulation.
“Your dirty cock,” he grunts, pressure building to a painful high Denji fumbles to push him past, holding him captive to the involuntary cramping in his lower abdomen, body thrashing for those last few, necessary touches.
“Yes, my dirty cock!” Denji’s eye-contact breaks, eyes squeezing shut as his thrusts grow vicious. He slams; something shatters. His sneakers make squeaky sounds skidding against the floor. “I’m a dirty boy,” he’s babbling.
“Yeah,” Aki snarls. His hand moves to Denji’s neck, squeezing tighter. “You’re - fucking scum.” Denji moans. “Dammit! Make me come, now!”
“Now? Right now?” Denji whines brokenly.
His three fingers are deep in Aki’s hole when he remembers, thrusting them, sending a sharp surge of pleasure to Aki’s brain.
A spasm passes through his legs. He snaps his teeth shut, squeezes tighter on Denji’s throat until Denji’s choking on his name. He comes like he’s being forced through it, a punch that cracks and lands fully, shakes your vision, bleeps your hearing.
Denji’s chin on his chest when he opens his eyes. The ceiling spins and locks in place. Blood swishes around in his ears. He has soaked through his boxers, feels it running down the insides of his thighs, making his sweatpants cling to his legs.
“Move.” He nudges.
But Denji won’t. He has his eyes shut and his mouth open. Even on his black shirt, Aki can spot the drool puddles he’s leaving on his chest. If his thighs didn’t hurt, he’d have gladly made a problem out of this, but the muscles on his ass have locked, and his body feels heavy and unyielding.
This, on second base, his brain decides to point out to his ego, bruised beyond fixing.
“You didn’t scream,” Denji pouts. He looks stupid and well-fucked. Hair sticking to his forehead in sweat, skin a glowing pink.
“Of course not,” Aki scoffs.
“Next time, I’ll fuck you with my cock, and you’ll scream,” he seems confident, stands, stretching and cracking his back. The dark stain on his pants matches the one Aki sees on himself.
“There is no next time.” This was a trick Aki shouldn’t have fallen for once, let alone twice and counting because if they do it twice, they might as well keep at it.
“What, you’re scared I’ll actually make you scream?” Denji taunts, a stupid smile on his stupid face.
Aki’s so above this. And, well, it’s just that—