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Red is Denji's colour.
Red, like the strawberry jam spread liberally on his morning bread. Red, like the collar Yoshida sometimes wraps around his neck. Red, like violence, rage, like passion and lust.
Deep crimson, like the splatters and leftovers of his carnage dousing his blades and bare skin. His skin, decorated in gashes from stray hits, blood slowly sliding down every nook and cranny, staining it as he screams.
That's when Denji looks the most beautiful.
That's what Yoshida thought, until he saw Denji's head get separated from the rest of his body in one swift cut. It rolls on the ground and his body follows, dropping down with a thump as Yoshida's favourite shade of crimson squirts out of the open wound.
The devil they had been fighting had sneaked a lethal hit on Denji just before Yoshida managed to finish it off by strangulating it with his own devil's tentacles. It was no small fry by any means but the two of them were considered skilled enough to take it down on their own. Though Denji, reckless as ever and definitely not a strategist, lunged in with the intent to kill without thinking about any possible follow-ups. Or consequences.
Which led to him lying there, decapitated, his angry expression now permanently frozen on his face. Yoshida gasped in initial shock—he is Denji’s bodyguard after all. His safety is in Yoshida’s hands so when Denji insisted he’ll go tear some devil guts, Yoshida had no other option than to follow suit and keep an eye on him, or in the worst-case scenario like in this case, make sure he can be brought back to life.
Yoshida kneels down before the sprawled, bloody mess and calmly turns the body over. Denji’s skin already looks paler and blood is still gushing out of the cut neck, lightly spraying red onto the pavement below. His colour, he notes, so pretty, even like this. He leisurely trails his fingers over Denji’s chest, his lips curving into an eerily soft smile that gradually grows more twisted once he confirms that the boy’s heart is intact. Good.
You see, he was wrong. This is when Denji looks ravishing. When he is kissed by death, bruised and pale and draped in crimson. His Denji, scrawny and rigid and vulnerable. His sweet Denji, having him in a chokehold, even in death.
His touch descends, smearing blood on the way and it stops only when it reaches Denji's exposed groin. Denji's pants hang low on his hips, showing the thin line of blond hairs trailing up to his bellybutton. Yoshida's breaths grow heavy, air coming in slow inhales through his nose as if he's fighting urges.
And he does—the macabre sight before him, the metallic stench overpowering his senses, it all makes Yoshida palm himself. Absent-mindedly, but firmly enough to draw a gasp upon realising how hard he suddenly got.
He really is the lowest of the low. He should be helping Denji, but instead he carefully observes the boy's corpse as it bleeds out and emits the smallest twitches of muscle.
Denji being bratty and resisting his affection has its fun, but there's something fascinating about him being reduced to a ragdoll that cannot fight back or wake up no matter what's happening to it.
Yoshida is not into dead people, that much is certain. But he is into Denji, in any form or state and into whatever he has to offer. Just Denji being so beautiful, so easy to savour.
Perhaps he has lost it. And perhaps it happened the moment he decided to let Denji invade his thoughts, infecting every part of his mind and daily life with his presence. It was a constant descent to madness; what was supposed to be nothing but another job, just another person to protect, soon became an obsession. He is always ready to maim and kill for Denji’s safety. Ready to pay and cover all his needs. Willing to stop breathing if Denji wanted him to.
His world consists of blond shaggy hair and a skinny frame, the fractured simplicity that is Denji and the feral violence that comes with it.
Sweat rolls down his temples and sticks his bangs to his forehead.
I need to feel you.
He’s never felt so alive.
There’s a noticeable tremble in his breath, his hands, though it is not one of fear or anxiety. Yoshida gets overwhelmed by sheer sick desire and the need to act upon it, manifested as that familiar itch scratching up the back of his brain. He seems satisfied, enthralled by the thought of Denji being disgusted by him after finding out what he’s about to do. Oh, Denji, too bad that you never will.
Yoshida’s hands pause at Denji’s belt, only for the former to raise his gaze and scan the area around them. It’s dark, gritty and completely deserted, as expected, filled with nothing but destroyed property and mangled bodies of people that didn’t flee in time. Perfect, Yoshida chuckles, it’s just us, Denji-kun.
He begins tampering with Denji's belt and zipper and lowers his pants down to his knees, without a hint of hesitation. Nothing can stop him now. There's nothing but uncontained excitement in his gleaming black eyes when he shoots a glance towards Denji's severed head, just to smile at him with an idea popping up in his mind as a result.
He makes quick work of his own pants, a pleasured sigh escaping him once he frees his cock from the uncomfortable confines of his clothing, only to envelop it in his palm. He gives himself a few slow strokes as his gaze wanders over Denji's thin body, down his flaccid little cock, the porcelain thighs, the sprawled legs, before he realises that he's leaking already.
Shit. It's nearly painful; how desperately he needs to feel Denji's insides squeeze around him, even like this. For if there's anything that could describe Yoshida it would be a mix of insatiable lust and curiosity for the forbidden. He can't help but ponder—how would it feel to fuck Denji's dead body? And would he enjoy it? Would he seize the opportunity again?
These thoughts race inside Yoshida's mind so fast that he can't seem to recall when exactly he pressed a digit into Denji's rim. He tilts his head, licks his lips in pleasant surprise at how easily it had slipped inside, all the way up to the knuckle. Denji’s ass feels loose, at least looser than what Yoshida is used to, with death having relaxed his muscles completely and Yoshida knows that this is his turning point. If he doesn’t back out now, it will be too late, fuck, he might never want to stop.
But when has he ever resisted his Denji? Maybe it’s already too late, he realises, a twisted expression distorting his features as he guides his tip on Denji's pale little hole before entering, slowly. It's almost as good as the real thing, he notes. Tight, colder, yet missing Denji's cries as he's being split open. Lacks the entertainment that comes with forcing the boy into submission, but for now, it will do.
"Denji…" Yoshida moans out loud for the first time as he rocks his hips, as if Denji can hear him.
It's not enough.
A dark cloud begins to manifest behind his head and from within it, out of thin air, a single tentacle slithers its way out on Yoshida's command.
"Bring him to me," he demands, his voice stern yet overflowing with pure need, and the devil obeys. It wraps its tentacle under Denji's chin and lifts the head, carefully bringing it before Yoshida and holding it there, just mere inches away from his face.
He barely manages to catch a glimpse of his own reflection in Denji’s blank, cloudy eyes. They lack the spark that Yoshida is so used to but the deep golden hue that makes them so distinctly Denji remains. It makes Yoshida’s lips twist into a grin, again, it drives him to reach out and cup the boy’s cheek. Ever so attentive, he runs a thumb over the ghostly, somewhat blotchy skin, tracing the tiny pretty specks of colour littering its surface—Denji’s freckles stand out like this. It’s endearing. It's beautiful.
He's beautiful.
Yoshida becomes so lost in his musings that he nearly forgets he's still sheathed deep inside Denji’s body. He snaps out of it only when he feels something warm and liquid dribbling right onto his cock, a sensation that makes him throb. His gaze curiously travels downwards—it’s blood. Blood that comes in a fresh, thin sanguine stream that seeps out of the base of Denji’s head in tiny droplets. It makes Yoshida’s breath quiver in the most perverted manner and sends his body into a frenzy, making his hips move almost on their own accord. Such a small amount surely isn’t enough to lube him up, but in spite of that, Yoshida adores the splattered mess of red spreading on his skin and clothes as he pumps in and out of Denji.
His thrusts become violent, his pace relentless and for the first time in what feels like forever he is liberated. He’s so free to let go and express himself now that Denji cannot listen or react to whatever he has to offer. He raises his attention back to the head and leans closer to it, lapping up the drool off Denji’s chin before invading his gaping mouth.
Yoshida’s noises are throaty, harsh, they rumble in his chest before they spill onto the dead boy's lips as he licks them messily and nips his tongue on sharp, crooked teeth. When he speaks, it’s tortured, his voice croaks like it’s been choking on these words for so long and now, finally, they spring themselves out of the depths of his chest.
“I love you.”
So simple, yet so complicated, left unspoken for too long simply because Denji wouldn’t want to hear it. Not from him, at least.
But it doesn’t matter anymore. Yoshida is the only one who can truly see the beauty in him and maybe soon enough, he will come to understand.
He clenches his teeth if only for a moment, losing himself in Denji’s tightness as he rams his cock deep, again and again, chasing his release and fighting as to not get swept away by the tides of emotion flooding over him.
“Mine, Denji, you’re mine—” A drawn out groan slips out of Yoshida followed by shudders rushing down his body, feeling his heart beat in his ear and his climax oh so fucking close.
He barely manages to remind himself to pull out in time and take his bloodied up cock in his fist, cursing as he pumps himself fervorously. He comes with a sharp gasp, spilling some into his hand and onto the concrete, just so that Denji won't question it once he recovers.
Yoshida can feel all tension abandoning his body, letting exhaustion kick in and with it, whatever control he had over his devil slowly slips out of his grasp. The tentacles begin retracting into the void behind his back before vanishing, letting Denji's head drop down right beside Yoshida's leg.
Reality begins to settle inside his mind—and a quick glance at the filth all around his lower body is enough to make him huff out a demented laugh.
Denji would be horrified .
And for that reason alone, Yoshida would have to clean himself up and leave no evidence behind, except perhaps the blood. He could always come up with the perfect fabricated lie if he really needed to and Denji, being his gullible self, would believe it. Yoshida loves that about him.
Just like he loves being reminded that Denji's life is in his hands now—it's his to keep or return. It’s in Yoshida’s fingers tangling into the cord on Denji’s chest and revving up his heart. It's the red flowing in Yoshida's veins, the cutting of flesh and what follows; the river of red that pours from his forearm onto Denji's tongue and rejuvenates him, forcing his body to reassemble itself.
It’s a mesmerising ritual that Yoshida is tasked with repeating whenever it’s necessary.
For every time that Denji drenches himself in his colour, Yoshida will be there to relish in it.