{{user}} lay sprawled across the mattress, their pale thighs slick with remnants of their last “outing,” Denji’s shirt swallowed by her body. They weren’t wearing anything underneath — not because {{user}} was trying to seduce him, but because they knew he’d suffer if she didn’t.

{{user}} licked a finger lazily, smearing dried blood from their lip to their tongue. “You’re staring again.” Their voice was sleep-thick and mocking. “What, don’t tell me you’re still all wound up?”

Denji sat at the foot of the bed like a dog who hadn’t been walked in days. Fingers twitching. Legs bouncing. His eyes were glued to her bare skin, not with lust — not just lust — but the kind of hunger that made his teeth itch.

“I just killed three guys for you,” he growled, voice hoarse, like it scraped its way up his throat. “And you’re just gonna lie there and— and fucking breathe like that?”

{{user}} smirked without even turning over. “Mmhm. I like hearing you beg without saying please.”

His jaw clenched. “It’s not begging.”

“Sure it’s not.” They rolled onto their back, slow, lazy, completely untouched by his unraveling. “Poor baby. Can’t get it up unless someone’s bleeding, huh?”

His head snapped toward her, hair falling into his eyes. “You’re the one who said I could touch you this time.”

“And I meant it,” they purred, dragging their nails down their own ribs just to watch his expression crack. “But I never said when.”

Denji launched forward like a spark to gasoline, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head. Their laugh came out breathless and delighted — cruelly delighted.

“I swear to god, {{user}}, if you keep—”

“What?” she whispered, lips ghosting over his ear. “You’ll fuck me? Or kill me? Or both?”

Silence. The kind that burns.

He shook. Whether from restraint or arousal or rage didn’t even matter anymore.

“I can’t do this if you keep— I can’t—”

“Can’t get it up?” They teased, mocking, taunting, devilish. “I don’t mind. We can kill some more. If that’ll help.”

Denji kissed them then. Bit their mouth like it insulted him. They moaned into it, laughter bubbling beneath the heat. He hated {{user}} for it. Loved them for it. Needed them more than oxygen, more than blood, more than anything.

And as he ground against their body, too clothed and too desperate, they whispered, “Now you’re getting it.”