Chapter Text
The fight was over before it even began.
A part of Muichirou had known, as soon as he saw the number carved into the demon’s eyes, that there had never been any other outcome. It didn’t matter. He had to try.
He didn’t know how he’d gotten here. It was late, he was walking home- a break from Hashira training, waving goodbye after another late-night spar with Sanemi and Obanai, spacing out on the way home. Ginkgo shrieking above him, flying in angry circles. She'd been angry about something, but he wasn't paying attention. There had been a sound, musical, and then the floor was gone, and he was falling-
And then there was Upper One.
He’d barely had time to draw his sword before the demon had the upper hand, its speed lightning fast, impossible to track as it bore down on him in a whirlwind of crescent strikes. He tried. And he lasted longer than either of them expected.
“You should be proud.”
It spoke without a trace of mockery. The sincerity stung worse than the wounds littering his body.
“Your skill is exceptional. I have been eager to see it myself. How fortunate Nakime has finally brought you to me.” Who was Nakime? Was that how he had gotten here? He couldn’t remember anymore.
Pain scalded his mind, the severed stump of his arm throbbing with pain even with the bleeding slowed. The room spun, its nonsensical pillars and walls blending together into a muted slurry through his blurred vision. He closed his eyes, tired, head pounding from the swirling colors.
Was this what Yui felt like that night? When he died?
Guess he could ask him soon enough.
The blade pulled free of his shoulder, letting his body crash to the floor, slumped face first into the tatami before he even realized he was falling. The reeds scratched rough against his cheek. Then footsteps, each one as loud as Genya’s gunshots as they approached from across the room in steady strides. He expected dying to be cold, but this felt like his skin was on fire.
“You will not die here. It would be a waste.”’
It took great effort to open even one eye again. He could just see the demon’s socked feet, its shadow bearing down on him and blocking the lights.
The words meant nothing, when he could feel his life slipping away by the minute. Every word of it was a lie. Demons always lied.
Muichirou had fought alongside his friends, fought for his family, for his brother and for the Master, for every other slayer that had picked up a sword and thrown themselves against impossible odds just so others may live in peace. He was the youngest to pass Final Selection. The youngest Hashira. The only person to have ever slain an Upper Moon on their own, and he’d lived to tell the tale.
If his efforts saved a single life, avenged another loss, none of it was a waste. Muichirou would die fighting, and he would die with no regrets. His family would be waiting for him.
Yui would be waiting for him.
Upper One had other ideas.
“I will not say I have missed you. I have progressed much since we last shared a night together, and what I have gained was worth everything I left and more. You may be upset by this, but it is merely the way of things.” He spoke as if they knew each other. Muichirou couldn’t remember- even with his spotty memory, he was certain he’d remember those red, red eyes. “You, too, have improved yourself immensely. I say again, you should be proud.”
Nonsense. It was nonsense. He wished the demon would just shut up and let him die in peace. He'd lost, it was over.
Let it be over.
When he failed to respond, the demon nudged him onto his back with a kick, leaning over to stare down at him from above, an imposing shadow against the bright lights lining the ceiling. Even with the room swimming, six glowing eyes shone crystal clear and demanded his attention. “But now that fate has returned you to me, I see no reason not to keep you. It has been many years since I have indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, and you are strong in this life. Perhaps you may even prove a worthy sparring partner in due time. I will share Lord Muzan’s gifts with you, and you will remain by my side.”
Insane. This demon was completely insane. Wonderful.
There was only one important bit in his ramblings, one Muichirou heard all too well despite the painful ringing in his ears. Muzan’s gifts. Upper One wanted to turn him. He bit his lip and shook his head, as if refusal alone could spare him that fate worse than death.
“No?” The demon knelt, red hair falling to frame its bare neck as if mocking him. If only he had his sword, or any sword, anything- “You are young to have such a deathwish. Such resolve is unlike you.”
Muichirou tried to talk, but his mouth was filled with blood. It dribbled from his lips as he forced the words out. “You- you know nothing-” He cut off coughing, unable to draw enough air.
“It does not matter. As your husband, your fate is mine to decide. I will remind you of your place in time.”
…
What.
Husband? What sort of delusional was this guy?
Muichirou dropped his head and spat up more blood, his lungs wheezing with the effort of breathing. He was delirious, he must have misheard. Or the demon was fucking with him. It didn’t matter much when his vision was fading to black.
Hands rolled him over, a razor sharp claw tracing down the length of his spine sent him shivering, but it did not pierce his skin. The demon was strong enough to shred the bone if he wanted, and Muichirou was powerless to stop him. Instead, it hooked into the belt tie of his hakama and slit the fabric in one clean motion. The baggy fabric of his pants went next, the cold bite of air on bare skin dragging him back to consciousness, horror bubbling through his veins. Of all the ways to die…
He must have lost too much blood already. He must be hallucinating. That was it. There was no way this could be happening. That was impossible, demons didn’t-
Claws bit into his ankle as his leg was dragged up, leaving his lower half bare and dangling beneath the Upper Moon, all six of his eyes raking over the pale flesh of his thighs.
Somehow the look made him feel… inadequate. Like he’d failed some unknown test.
“Too small. Unfortunate.” The demon hummed. “Your clothes conceal you well. Clever girl.”
Girl? The demon was either blind or stupid. Too stupid to let him die in peace.
“I had hoped to have you once as a human, before I turned you. But you are too small, taking you now would risk shattering your pelvis. As a demon such injuries will be meaningless, but until then such a slip could prove fatal. You do not have permission to die yet.” The serious, matter-of-fact way that the demon spoke made his blood run cold. As if he was stating the inevitable.
His body hit the ground with a thunk as the demon dropped him. The stump of his arm caught under his chest at the impact, sending a surge of raw pain thrumming through to his bones. Everything was blurry- a glint of metal caught his eye through the haze. Muichirou’s eyes darted to the broken blade of his sword, resting in shards just a few feet away. Regret burned. He should’ve slit his own throat when he had the chance.
He reached for it with his remaining hand, only for the demon’s foot to catch his wrist, pinning him to the ground as if it was nothing.
“Now drink. Do not be afraid, I will watch over your change.”
The demon’s wrist was above his mouth. Dark, rancid blood bubbled from a fresh gash across its palm, trailing over pale skin to drip on his face. No. He refused. He wouldn’t- He shook his head, but even that small motion sent his head throbbing, needles lancing through his skull. The demon’s other land latched to his face, pressed harder, forced his lips open.
A drop touched his tongue. It burned.
The world went black.
“Have you regained yourself?”
A deep voice called from somewhere in the dark. It was authoritarian, demanding his attention, pulling at his mind itself as Muichirou forced his eyes open.
The room was pitch black. Heavy darkness fogged the periphery of his vision. He shouldn’t be able to see, but he could. He counted the lines on the ceiling panels and marveled at their clarity. His stomach growled.
He was hungry. A deep, gnawing, painful hunger that twisted his belly into knots. The kind that made him want to bend over and paw at his own stomach and beg for scraps, made him want to rip the reed mats from the floorboard just to give him something to chew on.
Before he realized he’d moved his own fingers were in his mouth, pressing at his teeth, lips sucking at the skin to try and fool his own mind into stopping the pain.
Hunger. He needed food, something to ease his stomach before he wasted away to nothing. He’d die without food. He’d die-
But Muichirou had felt hunger like this once before, and he grounded himself in that memory; freezing cold, food stores decimated by rats, a tiny body clinging to his own beneath piled blankets. A quiet voice promising him everything would be okay, even if they both knew it wouldn’t. A soft kiss in his hair.
He was so, so hungry.
Everything is going to be okay.
“I see. Not yet, then.”
It’s okay. It’ll all be okay.
Someone stood above him, but their face was blurry. Too much red, all blended together. He couldn’t focus.
He was dying.
Just let go. Don’t listen to him. It’s okay.
There was a scent, the most wonderful thing he’d ever smelled, rich and metallic and close. He pawed for it, blindly reaching across the tatami, gouging lines in the flooring as he searched. Food. Someone had brought him food. He was starving, and someone had brought him food.
Don’t, please don’t Mui-
Drool oozed from his lips. The food was so close, and it was for him. Why shouldn’t he? It was for him. He needed it. Didn’t the voice know he needed it?
No!
“Eat.”
The voice in his head meant nothing. It was wrong before, wasn’t it? So it could be wrong now. The one in the room with him was so much louder, anyway.
He ate.
The hunger was still there when he woke next. It never lessened, never left. But now he could recognize the horror of it.
Beneath the pain of starvation was strength. He groped at the sheets, wiggling his fingers one at a time, ten where there should be five now. Claws caught on the silk as they moved. The fangs in his mouth nicked his lips.
He was a demon. He’d been turned into one of the monsters he was sworn to destroy, no better than the thing that had taken Yui from him. The hunger gnawing at his belly was one that no food would satiate. Muichirou was a demon slayer, a hashira, he didn’t want this. He never wanted this. It was unforgivable.
The sun would take him. It was the only honor left. Before he lost the will to choose.
His head lolled to the side, half-buried in the layers of blankets, scanning the walls of the room for a way out. Nothing. Not even a door- just a room of solid walls, no windows, no way for him to get out or sunlight to get in. It made no sense. The demon must have brought him here somehow, a hidden passage?
Muichirou forced his numb limbs to move, sitting up in the haphazard bedding. The rattle of chains drew his attention- he was shackled, shiny steel locked around his wrists, a matching collar at his throat. He turned his wrist and watched the chain slide over his skin. It felt like the metal weighed nothing, he hadn’t even noticed its presence until he moved. His eyes traced the chain to a metal ring sunk into the wall.
The room itself was sparse. The bedding he laid on was a pile of futons, each one plusher and softer than even the ones at the Mist estate, topped with silky sheets and down quilts. Despite the quality, they were thrown together in a heap, thicknesses all out of order and stacked together randomly, as if arranged by someone who had forgotten what a bed was supposed to look like. He sat in the middle, with fabric sprawled out in every direction, covering near a third of the room.
There was nothing else. Plain walls, tatami mats. Repetitive ink artwork decorated the shoji. No closets, no cabinets, no doors or windows or any furniture at all. Not even a table.
A part of him was grateful that there was no mirror.
The chains were long enough for him to walk around. His legs wobbled like a newborn fawns’, but he forced himself to move. Muichirou ran his hands over the seams of the walls, the space between the floorboards, and found nothing but solid wood. He punched through the shoji paper with his claws, and found yet another solid wall. It was as if he was imprisoned in a sealed box. Was this hell?
He returned to the bedding and stared at the wall. Nothing changed. Time passed.
An eternity later a note was struck, and a door appeared as if it had never been missing. The monster that walked through was strangely familiar.
“You are aware. This is good.”
Upper One. This was the demon that had ambushed him. Turned him into a monster as well. Rage burned beneath his sternum. “Why didn’t you kill me?”
“Why would I?” The demon tilted his head, as if he was being ridiculous. “It would have been a great waste. You are more now than you were before. Be grateful.”
“So what, you’ll keep me here like a pet?” The word made his nose crinkle, as if it was a slur. It was like the man was just trying to piss him off with nonsense. “You should have just killed me. I lost. I won’t tell you anything about the Corps, either, so you’re wasting your time.”
“The Corps do not interest me. It is a shell of the Corps of my time, weak and flailing in its death throes. Lord Muzan will have them wiped out within your generation.”
Muichirou tossed a pillow at him. It smacked into his front, and fell slumped to the ground at the demon’s feet. The man didn’t even flinch, only looked curiously between the lumpy pillow and the angry boy on the bed.
“Does this upset you? As my wife you have been spared that fate, and returned to your proper place at my side.”
Yes, it upsets me. It must be hard for you to understand, but people can like each other sometimes. It’s called ‘friends’.
That’s what he meant to say. Instead, the retort died on his tongue as the rest of that statement caught up. “As your what. Ha. Funny. I didn’t think demons had a sense of humor.”
The Upper Moon said nothing, his face blank and neutral, painfully hard to read. Then he shifted the tray, and a mouthwatering scent wafted across the room, shattering Muichirou's focus in one lethal blow.
The world had narrowed to the platter the demon held. Even with the cover, the smell was undeniable. A siren call. Water in the desert. His stomach growled.
“I have brought you dinner. Finish it before it goes cold, and then we will speak.” The demon set the platter on the low table and lifted the lid away. Steaming chunks of meat were arranged in a neat row, as if he was being served takoyaki instead of something unspeakable.
Muichirou moved toward it as if in a trance, the aroma calling for him, his stomach leaping at the sight of the meal. He was still so hungry.
No. No.
His own claws stabbed into the meat of his thigh without permission, startling him out of the daze. It took immense effort, but he turned away, focusing on the pain as an anchor, digging his fingers in further to prevent the wound closing.
No no no no no.
He refused- he would not eat flesh, would not even think of it. Tried not to think about how much he must have already consumed while feral and out of his mind. About who he ate. He hadn’t taken a life. He was certain. The fact that they were already dead, just meat brought on a plate, made it a little better in some sick, twisted way. Blood dripped a red trail down the side of the ceramic, making saliva pool in his mouth.
The urge to lick it was overwhelming. He forced his eyes away and tried to stop breathing.
“Do you intend to waste it? Or are you being difficult only to spite me, wife?”
Muichirou gagged, and it had nothing to do with the plate of viscera sitting in front of him. The anger made it easier to resist the hunger, at least, and he glared up at the other demon in contempt. “Stop calling me that.”
The demon tilted his head, long ponytail falling to the side as he stared, looking deep in thought. “It is what you are. There is no other way to address you.”
“I have a name, you could try using that.”
The man didn’t respond. He’d kidnapped him, almost killed him, changed him against his will and locked him up in a glorified prison cell and couldn’t be bothered to even call him by name. The monster hadn’t volunteered his own, either. Unless it was literally ‘Upper One’, in which case Muichirou was extremely unimpressed.
“Perhaps you need more time to settle yet. I had hoped to begin your training soon, but I will have patience, even if you insist upon testing it.” The demon reached for him, and Muichirou ducked away. He was surprised that the demon let him dodge. “Women are meant to be obedient to their husbands. I have ordered you to eat.”
It was like talking to a brick wall. Or Giyuu.
“I’m not a woman. I’m not your wife. How are you blind when you have six eyes?”
“I see her in you. You have her face.” Razor claws gripped his jaw, the man’s hands large enough to cover lower face in one palm. The sharp point of his thumb dug into the skin beneath his eye, forcing him to stare up at the older demon or risk slicing his cheek open. “And her eyes. Her soft, hazy blue.”
“Go to hell.”
The words were muffled in the man’s palm where his face was smushed. The demon’s face went slack, as if caught in a memory, before he nodded and let Muichirou go.
“And that spirit. It took much to train it out of you before. But in the end you were the ideal wife, and I have confidence you will be so again.”
Muichirou rubbed at his face, a manic laugh caught in his throat. If he stopped laughing, he would start sobbing. This was all some sick joke. It had to be. “You’re mad. I’m not your wife.”
“You were.”
With that the demon lifted the bloody plate, carrying it over without so much as a flinch while Muichirou clamped a hand over his nose and scrabbled back against the wall, shaking his head. Upper One didn’t stop until he was looming over the boy, then kneeled, propping the meal tray on one knee as he waited. “I have provided for you. You will eat.”
He could smell it through his fingers. Rich, savory, like the warm stew Lady Amane made in the wintertime. A scent that called to something ingrained into every fiber of his new body.
Hunger pangs wracked through him, muscles clenching with the pain.
Nezuko. She’d resisted. He could be like her, would be like her. Had to be. If he resorted to eating human then he was truly no better than the scum he hunted.
He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his head in his knees, it was easier if he didn’t look at it, didn’t see it-
“Why do you resist?” Upper One didn’t sound angry. Genuine, curious if anything, as if working through a puzzle.
That had been a person on that plate. Someone with a home and family, with memories and friends and a life that didn’t deserve to be cut short.
“It’s wrong.”
A hand pet at his hair, soothing over the top of his head and carding through the strands.
“There is no such thing. The slayers have poisoned you with their petty ideas of morality. It is food, no different than any game beast brought down on the hunt. A predator must eat to survive, and you must eat to grow stronger. That alone is reason enough. Now eat.”
Muichirou shook his head, eyes closed tight, an involuntary whimper slipping free. Tears were soaking the fabric of his yukata.
He wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t be like them.
The demon didn’t care.
The world blurred between hands crushing his neck, squeezing his jaw open, long slender fingers forcing chunks of meat down his throat until his gag reflex went haywire and he was choking around the digits. The fingers in his hair turned cruel, pulling to keep him upright, to prevent him wrenching away as he fought back.
It tasted good. He tried to fight, but his body wouldn’t listen. The hand forced his mouth open again.
It tasted so good.
By the third time the fingers returned his resistance shattered. The flavor was indescribable. He needed it. His body needed it. He needed more-
A moan tore from his throat, tongue chasing the blood between the older demons fingers, lapping at them as they pulled back. The next time they came back he grabbed the wrist, holding it still to chase the taste into his palm, fangs gnawing at the skin but unable to pierce. The hand in his hair turned gentler, petting him as if he were an obedient dog.
He was rewarded with more meat. More food. A warm body to snuggle against.
He didn’t remember why it was bad, how could it be bad when it was so so good?
Later, when Muichirou was alone and his mind was his own again, he’d sob in the corner and shove his own fingers down his throat to try and vomit it back up. He’d ask himself if he would have resisted if he hadn’t been forced, if his resolve would have been strong enough- if he’d be able to resist next time, and cried himself to sleep at the answer.
Time blurred. The room never changed, the same plain walls, the same artwork scrawled on shoji, the same lanternlight that never, ever went out even if he dumped the oil over the tatami and smothered the flame with his palm.
Each time he woke he was back in the nest of bedding, regardless of where he’d fallen asleep. His sleepwear changed, too, sometimes a plain yukata, sometimes soft sleep pants and flowy robes. If he thought too closely about the implications of that he’d drive himself mad, and so it was pushed aside in favor of ripping the room to absolute pieces.
There had to be a way out, a secret, something. He spent his time tearing each square of shoji out of its frame, shredding the tatami from the floor, gouging claw marks into every inch of wood he could reach. The demonic strength flowing through him made it trivial.
The same strength let him snap the chains from his wrists, the metal giving way as if it were putty. It took some angling to break the collar, but eventually it joined the rest shoved in the pile of broken floorboards.
He grew hungrier as time passed, and Upper One failed to reappear. Sleep started to feel optional, but after a while of rampaging he always forced himself down- Nezuko had gained strength from sleep, had staved away the hunger with it. He remembered the little girl curled up in her brother’s lap as he visited the Mist estate, Tanjirou smiling sweetly and playing with her hair. Tanjirou’s smile turning to him, calloused hands brushing Muichirou’s own hair from his face with a shy giggle.
What he’d give to see that smile again.
The memories helped him sleep.
Each time he woke, the room never changed. Reset, as if nothing had happened at all. Perfect, plain walls, with perfect, plain flooring. Ugly, boring art on the shoji. A fresh set of sleepwear. A new set of chains.
It almost surprised him when his captor finally returned. Muichirou was starting to think he’d been forgotten.
And then he was just there, waiting when he awoke one day. The scent of blood dragged him back from slumber, sent his senses reeling as he bolted upright in the bed. Upper One sat in seiza near the edge, watching him with those six glowing eyes, a low table set at the side holding an ornate carafe and two matching glasses. The red stain at the vessel's lip betrayed its contents.
His hand caught on something softer as he sat up- a beautiful, delicate kimono, pale blue silk, embroidered with clouds and flowers was laid out on the bed next to him. A matching obi waited next to it.
“That is for you. I tire of watching you rot in sleep clothing.”
“Then you shouldn’t watch me sleep. Freak.” Muichirou muttered. He wrinkled his nose as he examined the garment. It was nice, soft and expensive… and feminine. No chance. He was not playing this game. “I hate it.”
“Do not be difficult. It will fit you-” The demon cut off, eyes twitching as Muichirou sliced through the silk with his claws, tearing the pretty paneling to strips.
“Oops.”
It was childish, but he stuck his tongue out. Upper One did not rise to the bait.
“Nakime tells me you have been destructive.”
“Destructive? Why would I be destructive? There’s so much else to do in here.” Muichirou punctuated that by snapping the chains apart again so his arms could move freely. The demon in front of him did not even spare a glance at the broken metal. The collar followed suit. “Those are annoying. It’s not like I can leave the room anyway.”
“Their purpose is not physical. I will replace them when you rest next.”
Muichirou swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. There was nothing to say to that. Upper One fell silent, reaching for the carafe and glasses. Viscous, red liquid oozed into the cups, the metallic tang of iron filling the air as he poured. Muichirou found himself licking his lips before his mind caught up.
“Kokushibo.”
“Excuse you.” Muichirou blinked, too distracted by the sweet aroma of blood.
“It is my name. You may refer to me as Kokushibo. Upper One and my Lord are also acceptable.”
Managing to shake off the bloodlust, Muichirou sat up, tilting his head to the side and humming as he pretended to think about it, before giving the demon his best, cheesiest smile. “Mmmm, I think I’ll call you shithead instead. It suits you.”
An almost imperceptible frown marred the demon’s face, vanishing back into neutrality an instant later. It still felt like a victory, however small.
The glass of blood was pushed into his trembling hands. If he didn’t look down, didn’t breathe in the scent, he could pretend it wasn’t there. He wasn’t strong enough to let it go. “Why- why am I here? What now? Are you planning on keeping me locked in this room forever?”
“You will resume your duties as my wife soon. Your body required time to adjust to its new form.” Muichirou couldn’t resist the call anymore. He downed the glass, even if the thought alone made him want to retch, and Kokushibo gave him an approving nod. “Once your behavior is corrected, you may begin relearning the necessary skills. You are here because you are mine. The Corps do not deserve you. No other man will have you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Muichirou shook his head, confused. That sounded like an accusation, which was ridiculous. He’d never been with anyone. Hell, he’d never even kissed another person, what on Earth did this demon expect from him?
Not that he hadn’t imagined it. He had imagined it… he’d imagined it a lot recently, since Swordsmith, with one redhead in particular taking center stage in his fantasies.
Kokushibo’s eyes narrowed, gleaming in the light, as if he’d somehow read his mind.
“I saw him, in Muzan’s visions, in his memories and the warnings he gave. My twin brother, reincarnated, returned to life to mock me. Centuries later and he is no longer a ghost, but flesh and blood once more. And still his soul rages against Muzan as if his futile whining will bear fruit.” Anger simmered in his voice, a barely contained rage completely unlike the demon’s usual uncanny calm. “He is a master of the sun no longer. He will not live long enough in this life to wield a fraction of the power he did in our time. And he will steal nothing else from me.”
The sun. He couldn’t mean- “Tanjirou? Are you talking about Tanjirou?”
“Do not speak that name. It has become as foul to me as the one given at our birth.”
“He’s not your brother, you lunatic.” Then again, Muichirou had to admit he could see the resemblance. If you managed to look past his grossly distorted face, the demon had the same pointed chin, the same fiery red hair as his bright-eyed crush. He forced the thought away because that was impossible so it didn’t matter. “You two have never met. What is- what are you even talking about. Tanjirou-”
The demon's hand cracked across his cheek, cutting his words off with a yelp. Muichirou felt the delicate bone in the arch snap and reform in a heartbeat, and turned to glare up at Upper One. Fury poured off the older demon in waves. “You are not to speak that name.”
Muichirou wanted to throw it right back at him, wax poetic about how wonderful and perfect Tanjirou was just to piss him off, but something in the man’s gaze made the words die in his throat. Red eyes pinned him in place, freezing his body halfway between fight or flight, like an insect tied by a spiderweb with the creature bearing down.
Upper One did not pounce, or strike him again. Instead his eerie calm returned, and he returned to seiza as he poured another glass from the flask as if nothing had happened. The scent of blood was heavy, Muichirou’s eyes followed the cup as he raised it to his lips and drank, his own mouth watering at the sight of the red liquid. The demon watched his reaction with consideration before he spoke again.
“And then I saw you, through Gyokko’s eyes. You were magnificent. Unparalleled, and unmistakable. Yoriichi was not the only soul reincarnated in this time. You have returned to me as well, the woman I left when I accepted Muzan’s blessing. It was surprising, even more to see you fight. I have rarely seen someone more fluid, more born for the sword. Such potential. Magnificent, and mine by right.”
Was he supposed to know who Gyokko was? He couldn’t remember the name. Muichirou was certain he’d never seen Upper One before, and the idea that the demon had been spying on him, on the Corps, made him shiver.
And if he had been spying, he should know damn well that Muichirou was a boy and they were not married. The absurdity of it all was enough to overcome his prior fear and let him speak.
“What the fuck are you on about. I-”
Kokushibo’s eyes snapped to his face and he set his glass down on the table with a thunk, the sound cracking through the conversation and making Muichirou flinch. “Be silent. Listen when I am speaking. I may have abandoned you, true, but I never permitted a divorce. You died as mine, and so now you are reborn as mine again.”
Last he checked, that wasn’t how weddings worked. He couldn’t deal with this. The man was delusional. His mind was gone.
There was no point in arguing. Nothing he said was going to stick in Kokushibo’s stupid, dense head. Muichirou forced himself to look away from the blood even as his stomach rolled in renewed hunger and flopped back on the bed, head spinning, staring blankly up at the smooth panels of the ceiling. The fragmented chains clinked together with the movement. “Just kill me already.”
“Silence, wife. I have never cared for your sharp tongue, but now you once again lack discipline to temper it.”
And Muichirou couldn’t help it anymore. Anger boiled over as he slammed his hands against the covers, chains rattling, snarl ripping from his throat. Another pillow went flying. “I’m not your damn-”
The pillow vanished. Kokushibo was on him before his mind could follow the movement, hand clamped over his mouth, strong enough to grind his teeth together.
“Wives are meant to be seen, not heard. I did not ask you to speak, only listen, and yet you disobey me at every turn. I bring you gifts, and you squander them. Now, you will drink another glass. I will not abide weakness.”
The demon didn’t retreat, but allowed him to sit upright once more, far too close for comfort. Muichirou swallowed past his fear and forced the second glass of blood down. His tongue darted out to lick the stray drops from his lips, and all six of Kokushibo’s eyes traced the movement.
“I saw you with him. That boy.” Clawed fingers gripped his chin, deceivingly gentle. Then they tightened, piercing in and drawing blood, making him whimper against his will. “I saw how he looked at you. You are not his. You are mine.”
So that was it. The reason his life was turned upside down. Muichirou didn’t know whether to laugh in his face or cry.
“You’re jealous.” He hissed, lips curled into a bloody grin, regardless of the way it made sharp nails dig into tender flesh. “Not even of Tanjirou. You’re jealous of a dead man.”
“Silence.”
The grip left his jaw to close around his throat, cutting off his air in a brutal hold. He was thrown onto his back on the bedding, pinned under Kokushibo, the man’s knees forcing his one apart as the demon crawled on top of him, six burning eyes demanding every ounce of his attention on him and him alone.
The man loomed over him, so much larger, broader than his small frame. The hand left his throat to trail down his chest, immense strength keeping him pinned to the bed as he peeled open the collar of his sleeping yukata. Muichirou wiggled, trying to bat him away, but Kokushibo did not let him as he flattened his palm over the strong muscles of Muichirou's chest, nails tickling the skin. He traced the line of an old scar with a thoughtful hum.
Things were happening too fast. Muichirou’s mind struggled to keep up, dulled by hunger and fear. He needed to get away from this maniac before… the thought alone made him shudder, shaking his head in denial.
“Of all paths you could have chosen, to be a slayer… did you miss me so much you were drawn to follow in my footsteps? I chose the blade over our family, and I do not regret it. Did you long for me, for my attention so much that you trained to raise a sword to me yourself, little one? Well you have it now. You have made yourself irresistible.”
“Shut up.” Muichirou wouldn’t cry. Not yet. He wouldn’t give this monster the pleasure of seeing his tears. He bucked and wiggled until he was facing away, staring at the wall, refusing to look at the man a moment longer. “I don’t care. I don’t even know who you are.”
Pain shot through his skull as a fist gripped his hair and yanked, slamming him face first into the bedding. “I am your husband, and it is clear you have forgotten the respect owed to me. I will be patient with you, but I tire of this insolence.”
Fabric tore. Cold terror churned his stomach as yukata was ripped open, leaving him in nothing but shredded fabric and his fundoshi. The terror turned to outright panic at the feeling of a hand on his ass, and he thrashed until the claws bit into his skin, and then his underwear was gone as well, leaving him bare from the waist down.
He growled into the futon, prying at the hand fisted in his hair; but the demon was too powerful, Muichirou found his new claws were not strong enough to even draw blood. The man let go of his ass and reached for something off the bed, and Muichirou managed to get his knees up and flip over onto his back, yowling as the motion yanked his hair at the root but gave him more leverage to wiggle.
The hand let go of his hair and snapped to his wrists, grabbing them both in an instant and pinning his arms to the bed over his head.
Dread settled in his bones, and he snarled and thrashed against the hold, horribly aware of his nudity in the new position. The demon watched him with cold indifference.
“See? I’m not a woman. So I can’t be your wife, dumbass.”
He kicked out, smacking the demon’s chest with his foot, trying to push him away. The man paid him no mind until his foot caught his chin, then grabbed his ankle and wrenched his leg back to his shoulder, shuffling until he sat between Muichirou’s legs, still fully clothed. Red eyes caught his and they stared at each other in the dim light.
Any hope of the demon seeing sense died when he chuckled, long and low.
“You are infuriating.”
Fingers caught his soft dick, toying with the limp flesh, tugging at his foreskin in steady, smooth strokes. Muichirou watched, eyes wide, unable to look away. The demon’s hand dwarfed him. No one had ever touched him like this, he’d barely touched himself, and now this monster was playing with him like it was some game. It was like he was floating, watching it happen to someone else. The sensation was foreign, awful, horrid. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want any of this.
The pad of the creature’s thumb caught on his tip and a moan ripped from his mouth at the jolt of pleasure. His cock twitched and the man let go, let his cock fall plump against his thigh while his palm slid lower.
Panic built in his chest, choking his lungs. Tears burned in his eyes. He couldn’t move. His body wouldn’t listen anymore. Muichirou hated the way his voice wavered and then broke, he should be stronger than this. “Get- get off of me.”
A finger pushed over his rim, rubbing deep circles into the tight muscle. Kokushibo leaned over, until their faces were inches apart, carved red eyes ripping into his mind.
“I see your soul, not your body, and your soul is mine. It will only mean you must work harder to prepare yourself for me. You have always been my wife. What I expect of you remains unchanged.”
Then he was free, sucking in air and scrambling back to the wall, dragging the blankets over his body to cover it from the demon’s monstrous gaze. The man shook his head, amused, then tossed a bag on the bed next to him. It landed in the sheets with a dull thud, an unassuming red pouch, smaller than the first aid kit he’d carried as a slayer.
Muichirou stared at it for a moment as the full weight of the demon’s words sunk in. He fought the urge to kick it away like a child.
“Those are yours. Use them. Or don’t, I will take you tonight either way.”
And with that he was gone, moving towards the door with his back turned, red hair swaying like a lion’s mane in the sickly light of the lanterns.
Muichirou wanted to yell- yell and scream and fight and rip him apart with his bare hands. Sink his new fangs into the monster's throat and shred it. Wanted to curl up into a little ball and hide under the covers where Kokushibo would never find him again. Wanted to wake up and go home to his estate and his own futons and Ginkgo where things like drinking blood and hands on his skin would be nothing but horrible nightmares that would be gone with the morning light.
Another realization hit, cold as ice and sharp as a knife in the ribs.
“You don’t even know my name, do you.”
Upper One paused at the threshold but did not turn to face him, brutal indifference set in his shoulders. A biwa struck, and the world beyond the door changed shape.
“It does not matter. I do not remember hers either.”
The door slammed shut, and Muichirou was alone.