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kaorif · 6 months

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✿・hashiras como maridos.

com Giyu, Rengoku, Tengen, Sanemi e Tokito.

sobre: headcanon sobre como alguns pilares homens agiriam casados. pronome: ela/dela. como o Tokito é um bebêzinho, nesse cenário, ele não está casado, mas sim, tem uma namorada.

TOMIOKA GIYU.

esse homem *suspira*

ele não é exatamente o tipo último romântico, mas ele tenta

marido quietão material

atos de serviço e dar presentes, com certeza essas são as linguagens do amor dele

toda vez que sai numa missão muito longe, trás presentes pra você

sejam flores, acessórios, kimonos, qualquer coisa

chama você pra fazer caminhadas todo santo dia

terrível com demonstrações de afeto em público

no máximo segura sua mão, ou fica parado atrás de você como se fosse um segurança

o menino é tímido, deixa ele

mas quando estão sozinhos...... *suspira de novo*

"querida", "linda", "seu apelido-chan"

prepara banhos pra você

faz comida pra você

faz massagem nos seus ombros

mesmo que você diga que ele acabou de voltar de uma missão e ele que precisa de massagem

silêncio, mulher, apenas aceite o amor dele

gosta de dormir de conchinha

ou quando você cai no sono deitada no peito dele

simplesmente AMA quando você diz que se sente segura com ele

porque na minha cabeça, Giyu é um marido bem tradicional e tem em mente que deve ser o chefe da família, aquele que defende os seus

você falou "eu te amo" primeiro

CALMA

ele queria dizer desde que vocês se aproximaram

mas sempre que ele achava que era o momento certo de dizer, ele ficava nervoso de desistia

depois do primeiro "eu te amo", ele passou a dizer muito mais que você

diz sempre que vai se ausentar

ciumento mas nunca admitiria

gosta de te dar beijos na testa e nas costas das mãos

te amo vida

KYOJURO RENGOKU.

"querida!!!"

"sim, Kyo?"

"você é linda!!"

ele é adorável

maridão golden retriever

sorri toda vez que pensa em você

sorri toda vez que está na sua presença

sorri toda vez que você fala com ele

esse homem sorri muito

segue você por aí como um cachorrinho

a verdade é que ele só quer estar com você o tempo todo

quer a sua aprovação em tudo meu bebê sofreu nessa vida viu

está sempre esperando você dizer coisas como "adorei a comida que você fez", "gostei muito do acessório que você me deu", "você se saiu muito bem nessa missão"

o coração dele DERRETE de amor

se gaba de você pra todo mundo

sempre dá um jeito de falar de você em qualquer conversa

"esse restaurante é ótimo mas a comida da minha esposa é deliciosa!"

super poético falando de sentimentos

"você mantém meu coração em chamas" *gritinhos de fangirl*

pega você e sai rodopiando pela casa quando está muito feliz

adora roubar selinhos de surpresa

prefere dormir com você deitada no peito dele, ele sente que te protege melhor assim

memória perfeita, ele memorizou TODOS os seus gostos

o quê?? você disse que gosta de azaléias??? no outro dia tem um buquê enorme de azaléias na cozinha

você achou bonito o haori daquela moça? ele compra um igual pra você

AMA que você e o irmão dele, Senjuro, se dão bem, significa muito para ele

é tímido para demonstrações de afeto em público, mas faz do mesmo jeito para te fazer feliz

PROTEJA ESSE NENEM A TODO CUSTO

TENGEN UZUI.

meu anjo, ele não é homem de brincadeirinhas

assim que ele conheceu você, ele não quis saber de namoro

ele a quis como sua quarta esposa

e o Uzui não descansou até conseguir

SUPER protetor

lembra daquele discurso que ele fez pra esposas se priorizarem em missão? pois então

se você não é exterminadora de demônios, ele é ainda mais protetor

"prometa que não vai abrir a porta para estranhos enquanto nós quatro estivermos fora!! PROMETA!!!"

apelidos carinhosos, ele adora

"princesa", "linda", "querida", "meu amor"

imune ás piadas da Shinobu, do Sanemi e do Obanai

vai dizer sempre com muito orgulho o quanto ama você

demonstrar amor é extravagante, ué

não importa o quão alta você é

ele é mais alto

nunca deixa você pegar coisas de lugares altos ou fazer tarefas que exigem muito esforço

você é a esposa troféu

pra que vai precisar fazer tarefas????

muito embora o coração dele derreta quando você cozinha pra ele

admira o quão rápido você se deu bem com as outras esposas dele

dá risada quando você expressa verbalmente seus sentimentos por ele

porque ele a acha fofa demais

o casamento foi bombástico, super extravagante, do jeitinho que ele gosta

PRESENTES!!!

kimonos, jóias, acessórios de cabelo, utensílios de maquiagem

"eu não sabia qual cor você gostaria mais, então eu trouxe todas as opções de cores que eles tinham"

mas mãe eu quero casar com ele :(

SHINAZUGAWA SANEMI.

ele definitivamente é um homem intenso

Sanemi não sabe sentir emoções de forma rasa, tudo é borbulhante dentro dele

quando ele sente raiva, ele sente muita raiva

quando ele está triste, ele está muito triste

ou muito feliz, e assim vai

a mesma coisa sobre o amor que ele sente por você te amo amor

ele sente uma atração tão forte, uma paixão tão forte, um apego tão forte

que ele não sabe lidar

pediu você em casamento mas mais parecia que queria te bater

"você vai casar comigo ou não!?"

gosta de apelidos carinhosos mas nunca vai assumir isso em voz alta

pelo menos, não na frente dos outros Hashiras

"princesinha", "minha garotinha"

tudo no diminutivo, porque ele gosta de ser o maior

extremamente competitivo

não aposte nada com esse homem

ele não vai ser cavalheiro e deixar você ganhar

ele vai ganhar e jogar na sua cara

logo depois vai te abraçar e dizer que você foi bem

odeia ficar longe de você

ama contato físico

quando vocês estão à sós ele se transforma num gatinho carente

"ei! por que você parou de fazer carinho no meu cabelo!?"

gosta quando você limpa as feridas dele

é como se fosse um momento íntimo de vocês, enquanto ele te conta como foi a missão

assim como meu amante Kyojuro, Sanemi só quer sua aprovação em tudo

CIUMENTO AGRESSIVO

pobre da pessoa que encostar um dedo em você

péssimo em ter conversas calmas e pacíficas sobre sentimentos

ele nunca sabe o que falar e acaba berrando declarações de amor pela casa

MUICHIRO TOKITO.

QUANDO EU DIGO QUE ELE É O MEU BEBÊ-

quando vê você pela primeira vez, fica tão espantado com sua beleza, que esquece o que estava fazendo

ok, ele tem plena consciência de que tem uma memória ruim

mas ele também tem consciência de que a ama de verdade e faria de tudo por você

pegou cartõezinhos, escreveu coisas sobre você neles e os espalhou pela casa inteira

e toda vez que você diz algo novo sobre si mesmo, ele fica repetindo a informação na cabeça, até chegar em casa e anotar

quando ele está em missão, ele pega seus cartões, os lê e fica pensando sobre você para passar o tempo

colhe flores pra você

ele espera muito que você não seja alérgica porque ele não vai se lembrar disso também

seus encontros consistem em deitar na grama para olhar as nuvens

piqueniques, caminhadas sob o luar

"não fale sobre a S/N" secamente e imediatamente se algum colega Pilar tenta zombar do seu relacionamento

ciúme severo, de fazer careta emburrada pra você

gosta de ir comprar roupas contigo, ele se sente e assiste você experimentar os kimonos

tudo que ele consegue pensar é no quanto sua namorada é linda

sem apelidos carinhosos, não é a praia dele

"S/N-chan" já está de bom tamanho

ser a conchinha menor é o jeito preferido dele de dormir

#kny x reader #kny #hashiras #demon slayer #kny imagine #kny fanfic #kny reacts #kny headcanons #demon slayer reacts #tomioka giyu #kyojuro rengoku #uzui tengen #shinazugawa sanemi #muichiro tokito #kny pt br #demon slayer pt br #pilares

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cachocabraa · 9 months

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#tengen uzui #uzui #kny uzui #kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #illustration #digital art #fanart #i think im probably just throwing these to the abyssm for the weird time im posting these...#but currently no energy to br thoughtful abt it #Big tiddy 4!!

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seu-leitor · 2 years

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Só passando aqui pra ensinar os antonimos de personagens:

#memes #she ra #peter pan #the owl house #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #luz noceda #steve universe #lapis lazuli #memes br #memes de personagens #br

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yoyuuko · 1 year

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My little demon

#br #brasil #radom oc #arte #artedigital #desenho #vermelho #red #demon #demon slayer #my art

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carollshiro · 1 year

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Desafio que fiz com uma amiga para o Instagram 💞

#BR #brazilian arts #brazilian artists #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #uzui tengen #tengen uzui #uzui #arte digital #digital art #my drawing #fanart #anime

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novinha-amador · 1 year

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Mitsuri de Demons Slayer - Veja este lindo Cosplay

Mitsuri é uma das personagens principais do anime e mangá Demon Slayer (Kimetsu no Yaiba). Ela é uma Hashira, ou seja, uma das melhores guerreiras da organização que caça demônios. Mitsuri é conhecida por sua personalidade doce e gentil, além de ser bastante emotiva e sentimental. Ela tem uma forte paixão pelo amor e acredita que é a chave para derrotar os demônios. Seu estilo de luta envolve o…

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bones4thecats · 4 months

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Hello! If request aren't closed yet, could I request Giyuu, Tengen, and Sanemi with an s/o who's the opposite of them in every way? From their breathing technique, to their weapon choice, and personality.

Type of Writing: Request Characters: Giyuu Tomioka, Tengen Uzui, and Sanemi Shinazugawa Name: {Character} a Slayer! S/O who is their polar opposite Requester: Anonymous

A/N: My first ever Demon Slayer piece, I hope this is good for my first one, Anon! This was also very fun, I can actually see these three falling for someone that was kinda opposite from them!

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

🌊 Giyuu is a very distant person, so, when you noticed how closed-off and lonely he seemed, you just had to approach him

🌊 You were known for your happy personality and how amazing you were to talk to, since you would offer amazing advice and how you would give everyone the biggest boost of energy just by smiling at them

🌊 When you guys first revealed your relationship to your fellow Hashira, they were surprised for sure, and if their faces weren't enough proof, Sanemi and Obanai's objections definitely told you

🌊 He has water breathing while you have flame breathing, and you got your fun-loving personality from your mentor and best friend Rengoku Kyojuro

🌊 Giyuu loves to listen to you ramble, hearing about your stories of slaying demons to hearing about how you got Genya, Sanemi's brother, to crack a smile on your last mission together

🌊 The Water Hashira adores to watch as you train with Tanjiro, Zenitsu, and Inosuke, the flames enveloping the four of you as you laugh at their reactions

🌊 Your personalities may clash, but, you guys do work well together when it comes to your jobs, your many kunai getting coated in flames as his swords waters left a burning sensation on the demon you were fighting with

🌊 Shinobu loves teasing him about how you guys are different, but, he just looks over at you talking to Mitsuri and smiles on the inside, you may be polar opposites, but, he loves that about you

🔊 Uzui is very flamboyant and out there while you are far more reserved and down-to-earth

🔊 He first noticed you as Mitsuri dragged you to a meeting, as the newest Hashira you weren't very familiar with any of them, and they all could sense your nervousness

🔊 This guy definitely tried to woo you at first, giving you small actions of affection by patting you on the back or leaning his body weight on your head to make you stumble

🔊 Uzui teases you for ages until his wives meet you, he may want to marry you, but he always wants to know if his wives get along with you, it's a package deal

🔊 When they give him the thumbs up, you all spend time together, and they're whipped when they see you protect a bunch of children by releasing your breathing style, Breath of Water

🔊 Water muffles sound, so

🔊 Your new relationship baffles everyone, since his normal type, at least to outsiders, is one of the more flamboyant personality carrying people

🔊 But, he likes that you're more quiet, it makes him remember to slow things down and take a rest whenever needed

🔊 Uzui also loves to help you with your whip-sword, which you started learning about with Mitsuri, and watching you swing your waves around to cancel out his breaths makes him laugh

🍃 Sanemi is an aggressive person by nature, and you were a far kinder person, killing demons gently while he did so painfully and without a care in the world

🍃 When he first met you, Sanemi was definitely put off by how kind you were with the Kamaboko Squad, your job was to kill demons, and you were braiding the hair of a demon

🍃 You and him were on rocky ground at first, due to your clashing personalities, but, once you guys got used to one another, it was funny for the others to watch as you would pat his head when he finished training

🍃 Whenever you guys are on missions with each other, he devotes himself to protecting you

🍃 From sending blasts of wind to send the demon flying away from you as you protected a small group of children who lost their parents from said demon, to even kicking a demon away, he was ready to sacrifice himself to keep you safe

🍃 Sanemi isn't fond of public displays of affection, he has a reputation of being aggressive and hard to approach, and he'd prefer to keep that reputation strong until retirement

🍃 He loves watching you tease Obanai, just watching you be yourself while pissing someone off makes his day for some weird reason

🍃 He and Genya aren't very close, and watching as you try getting them closer despite his protests makes him chuckle on the inside

🍃 And whenever he hears about your progress in training his younger brother with your old sensei, Gyomei Himekima, who taught you Stone Breathing, he pretends to not be listening, despite others knowing he is

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ravneski · 1 year

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Desecration

Kokushibo x Fem!Reader

They take what they can't have and bathe in the sacrilege.

this has also been uploaded to ao3 (kudos and comments there would be appreciated <3) link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46981597

warnings: smut, cunnilingus, fingering, menstrual sex, dubcon nearing the second half of the fic, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding kink, religious imagery, sexual violence, strangling/choking, fisting

word count: 5.4k

Fate was a cruel thing.

Dragging her eyes from the floor, she cursed herself for not staying alert, for not paying attention to which room she had mindlessly entered. The Upper Moon One’s aura pervaded, thick as well-trained metal. She stared and he stared back, six eyes unreadable but nostrils flared, shark in water detecting what slicked her fukusa.

“One day.”

Since she had started bleeding. She tensed. “What of it?”

“It will… be painful.” Kokushibo’s golden gaze bored into her.

“There are worse pains,” she dismissed, face blank. She made to turn.

“Are you going to Doma?”

She graced him a near unnoticeable nod.

“Will you… spread your legs for him?”

Centimetres away from him in a flash too quick to be perceived, her veins frosted. “Doma tells me you opened your own for Daki.”

Their gazes swept one another, rising and falling as the moon did, but nothing as renewing as moonlight enveloped either. “Mourning her?” she drawled.

“I utilised her for… what her job dictated she do…”

Her upper lip curled in disdain.

“And you,” Kokushibo continued, knuckles white from the clasp on his sword’s tsuka, “are no different… from me. Go… to your whore.”

She laughed at that, but the mirth was dry sand, rigid as though hardened by unremitting waves. “Doma isn’t my whore.”

“Then what… is he? Your lover?” he replied, derisiveness worn like armour.

“You tell me,” she said after a moment, gathering herself. “You know his body as well as I, do you not, fornicator?”

A vein throbbed at the side of his neck. “You never hesitated… to run to me when you were bleeding… yet now you spare… time for aimless ambling…”

“Say what you mean.”

Even in the gentle light of the Infinity Castle, Kokushibo was but a shadow. The dark side of the sun, she thought. He knew only his shadows, and she found herself drawn to be engulfed by the same fate. His expression held solemnity it was never without, but by now she saw the veneer. As he inched closer, the fractures in his mask seemed ardent.

“Can Doma not taste… your flow?” he asked, interest sincere. “The one that follows the moon’s cycle… is it beyond his reach?”

“He likens it to wisteria,” she admitted, reluctant as she was, “and talks of the mere touch burning him.”

“One man’s bane… is another man’s ichor.” The suggestion in his voice rang sharper than any demon slayer’s blade. She made up for his mishap, his nerve to close their distance and his barely veiled want, by widening the space between them again.

“It’ll be such ichor to him if I allow him to draw blood from my womb,” she pointed out.

“Will you?”

“Will our lord let me?”

“Mutinous thing,” sneered Kokushibo. “When have you cared… for our lord’s boundaries and laws?”

“No more than you.”

His hand, wrapped around his sword’s tsuka, twitched. “I remain constant.”

“Then leave.”

After a second of hesitation, one he tried with fervour to conceal but seeped through to his countenance, the constriction of his pupils and the scorch in his irises, Kokushibo stayed where he was. “You bleed heavier than… last time,” he noted.

“Do you observe through your Transparent World every time I shed?”

He shook his head. “You misunderstand… I smell it. It permeates.”

And he was the only one who could detect her moonblood. Besides herself, and their master, but Kibutsuji Muzan was swamped in more crimson than she could ever spill.

She pivoted, but Kokushibo grabbed her wrist, iron and impetuous. “He’s angry,” she said as her excuse to leave, searching the old samurai’s face. “The boy who bears your brother’s mark and wears your brother’s earrings is making mincemeat of the lesser Moons.”

The mention of his twin left him cold. “That person will… not miss you,” he wagered. “You have time spare.”

He melded, still, to her wrist, unyielding; the shock of his skin pressing hers reignited what she had long assumed abandoned, a stinging ache that rippled between them as waves in storms devastated ships, naked and exposed. Ghosting the pallid paper of her flesh, his nails were a parody of humanity, short and plates plain. Kokushibo coveted what he could not have. For one to receive, one had to give. The human body had to be sacrificed to exceed its feeble limits, its brittle mortality. His façade was flimsy, and with the right amount of force it would shatter and out would come the demon that he had sold his soul to become.

His gaze drifted to her abdomen, which she had clutched in fruitless instinct, before once more locking with her. “Let me,” he said.

It took little time to think over her answer, as much as the sour wrath in her stirred. She acquiesced, and his hands wandered beneath the silk of her clothes.

She was undignified in this bestial position, but Kokushibo lacked the temerity to penetrate her through his cock. She could not bear to meet his face; ignoble though the stance of coitus more ferarum was, it provided sanctity, a way to avoid the intense blaze of those six unblinking eyes. Wooden floor scraped and pricked at her elbows as she used them to support herself. She focused on the crevices of the floorboards, the cracks resembling abysses with their infinite black hollows, wondering how much hot red had rolled into them and festered over the centuries.

Her robes were hoisted up, impudently close to the tender swell of her breasts but secure enough to not reveal them, welcoming him, exposing more than flesh when her heart jumped from the warmth of his invasively close breath. Kokushibo explored her, parting her like petals; when her folds had become so wet she didn’t know, nor wanted to, but his fingers trailed them, tentative as though she were made of glass and he feared breaking her. Sticky with her flow, his digits climbed up to the flushed bud and grazed it with their course tips. Betraying her, her hips gave an involuntary buck. This was decadence, she mused. For the both of them. They would consume the other in every way but literal, the same way he had. Muzan was a blight impossible to efface and stained them even now.

His tongue skimmed the plush of her inner thighs, scraping at the dark cardinal smearing them. The organ roused an acute jolt from deep inside her as it slid in, blood and arousal mixing and gliding to form an easy lubricant. The electric reaction of her body wasn’t quite arisen from satisfaction, but neither was it spawned from pain; it curled and coiled as an endless serpent, a visceral sensation of a latent guilt and a repressed thrill.

Heat unfurled within her, a spark of life, but it wasn’t enough. Grinding her teeth together, she turned herself around, lying on her back. Their gazes tangled, a flash of resentment shared between them; overwhelming the cramps of her womb convulsed something keener, a wretched desire too close to impalement. She raised her thighs for him anyway, as easily as the gates of hell would open for them both, and let the mongrel feast.

The flat of his tongue pressed against the nub at the top of her sex. Long fingers, svelte and elegant enough that they seemed unfitting for a sword-wielder, moved inside her in a focused rhythm, the squelch of sloughed tissue and blood resonating as her body relaxed, sucking him in deeper. Kokushibo’s tongue carded the lips of her quim, dragging down to near his fingers then slithering back to her clitoris, which rose like the opening flowers under sunlight’s grace. Her hips played and rutted to the tempo he dipped in and out of her with, stomach crawling as much as it flipped as she thought of how he had arrogated her with such facileness. Raking the tatami, she searched for a modicum of anchorage over herself, some dose of stability.

She was pitiful, but so was he, and equally deviant. They were deformed, her kind. Demons were death, but they dreaded finality so. She was no exception. Was that widespread fear, lurking in the caliginous heart of every demon, an innate one? Did each of them know there was no salvation in death for their forsaken souls, but only the expecting flames, searing and everlasting?

Once, she had encountered a god, beautiful and bright and unequalled, and underneath layers of false flesh the scars from the conflict, eternal in their retribution, still burned like the sun. If the fires of hell were real, she had felt their touch already, and her cells had never forgotten it.

They were monsters unspeakably damned. Hideous and acrimonious, most couldn’t give reason for why they continued to live other than base instinct, that primal hunger that gnawed and gnawed, impossible to sate. They were greedy to their finest fibre. It was why they were territorial beasts. Sometimes they mated, the odd few, those who dared, foolish and tainted, but it never lasted. Eventually they cannibalised each other, skewing bones and mangling flesh until there was nothing left. The hunger grew too great, too indomitable. Demons could not kill demons through any other means. She summoned the guts to look down at the one on his knees, submerged betwixt her thighs, lapping at nutrition, lifeblood, that which symbolised renewal and viability, and thought there was something poetic about fucking functioning as death.

“He’ll never find the amaryllis,” for those six eyes saw so much, what others could not; she waited to see who those eyes belonged to, the samurai or his lord. “He—” then she stumbled, his two fingers pressed against a hard edge inside her. Drowned into silence by the waves of venereal indulgence.

“A woman’s hatred… is a sort of devotion,” mused Kokushibo from between her legs.

She lowered her gaze to him, gripping his dark mane to lift his head away from the hot throb of her cunt, though his fingers stayed encased. Pliable, he made a pretty picture painted in her. “Devoted to you?” she ridiculed.

“To him.” His tone was dull.

“I would rather kneel to Ubuyashiki’s Pillars,” she growled. “Your nonsense is bovine. Hold your tongue.”

“Many of our kind would sacrifice themselves to… see our lord live, but you would… throw away your life to see him die.” When Kokushibo tilted his head, the thick, ropelike tendrils of his hair swayed, midnight black percolating into glossy crimson. Strands stuck to the viscous gore around his mouth and he pulled them back. “Do you not… think that is a form of devotion?”

Her jaw clenched in indignant ire.

“Your enmity for him will never… be enough for him to kill you.”

“Does this come from one traitor to another?” The gumption of him to look inquisitive, as though he understood nothing, persuaded her to continue, treading on dangerous grounds. “He was your enemy. And I know you became a slayer to imitate your brother, not out of integrity or duty, but did you never once feel the slightest antagonism towards that person? How can you serve a remorseless man who has slaughtered and devoured thousands after once claiming you would put an end to him?”

“Do you revile him for… his carnage?”

Kokushibo was a mess of slick red, a deceitful embodiment of the rivers of Sanzu. Besmirched by her, flaunting thick fluids and stringy sombre clumps, with the gleam of something darkly holy when her blood caught in the fortress’ ochre illumination, but his features were peeled back into a snarl, teeth whetted and splenetic. Claret dressed between them dribbled past his mouth and down the strong, arrogant angle of his jaw; he was too monstrous to be divine, the beast vespers was sung to ward against than to revere, closer to a wolf than a deity as half a dozen eyes narrowed in synchrony and she recalled the time when he had been her sword, and wondered if this blood was of a wound from where he had turned his weapon on her.

“It’s pointless to wage war against a calamity,” she conceded, then groaned as he stroked that spongy bump at the top of her wall in repeated, lazy beckons, the flick of his wrist and the hook of his fingers.

Grotesquely prurient, ichor in the tiny cracks of them, his lips flitted upwards. “Have you… capitulated to him?”

The question gave her pause. Did she submit? After a millennium chained to her lord, she knew she would never be free of him, that his grasp was indefinite and all-consuming, larger than she could fathom. The gods, if any existed, had surely abandoned her long ago, deserted her to his clemency. But Kibutsuji Muzan was not merciful. Cruelty was in his very appellation and thrived in his every word and action; under his dominance, even those who escaped him through his noxious curse perished in agony, humiliating and revolting, when they uttered his name.

“No.” Her finger smudged scarlet as it traced his jaw.

Riled by her answer, Kokushibo tasted the watery flow that clung to his own fingers. “So learn your place,” he chastised. “Besides, where was your… guilt when you feasted on the defenceless child that… carried rare blood in its body, which now… rests in your gut?”

She smiled, despite his nerve. If she was wilful, she was not alone.

“You bleed a constant rage…”

Waning as the moon did, jilted by the inimitable sun, the smile faltered.

“It ebbs and flows… endlessly in your veins. Are you… not weary?”

His bones trembled as her nail lengthened and sliced into his gristle-coated skin, which split with the proficiency of soft carcass under the butcher’s carving knife. Close to his left bottom eye that it seemed like a rose tear trickling, his blood mixed with hers, finer and more lurid. She lifted a rouge fingertip to her lips and gave a languid lick. With the thorn and bristle of marechi, he withered her, but he lacked its lure. She swallowed him, “And you taste of the storm,” and his fury mingled with hers.

Eyes dark, Kokushibo pulled back. “Your contumacy will not… kill you,” he warned, as if he hoped repeating his admonition would cause her to change. Though he was not a man to indulge in delusions.

Her hand snared in his hair. “Then what do I do with this anger?”

“He is your master,” and she loathed the reprimand of his tone, smooth and ugly.

“He is yours,” she corrected, defiant against his caution anyway, claws pricking at his scalp as her lips thinned. “Is there fulfilment for you in being his lapdog?”

“Akaza retains… that responsibility,” he responded dryly.

“Then what are you?”

“His servant.” The kanji in his eyes, indurated sable that whispered of unfaltering centuries of loyalty, fealty cut regal by the blade, gleamed in the flickering flaxen light of the lanterns. So are you, it rebuked.

She shifted, threading his locks between her fingers. “His ever-faithful Upper Moon One. The strongest of his subordinates, staunchly dutiful to our master,” the word was spat, but eased as she continued with a malicious lilt, “spread for him. Taken by him. Ravaged by him.”

Kokushibo’s eyes flashed. “Why does he allow a creature like you… to roam untethered?”

Oozing furrows were dragged out across his roots. “When did questioning that person become your position?”

“I... am his associate.”

“Is that what you tell yourself when he’s wedging his cock down your throat?”

Rivulets of red ran from his scalp where his hair lay matted, his beautiful strands spoiled by the knots they were weaved into. She reached out, a hand around the thick trunk of his neck, and wrenched him forward until their noses were near touching. Releasing its tight grip around his oesophagus, her hand crawled upwards, spiderlike, stopping its pilgrimage at a flame which befouled his pale flesh. The mark stretched from the right of his sharp jaw, down the side of that strong neck to his collarbone, her fingers descending beneath the white rim of his relic kimono. She brought her lips to his ear, fingertips dancing over the crimson crest as she felt his pulse, faster than it ought to be for a being of tenacious stoicism. Against the shell of his ear, as all his eyes shifted right to follow her, she crooned in a whisper, “Samurai-sama.”

Kokushibo turned to stone, scarlet trickling down his chin and splashing her naked calves. Then he recoiled, swift as a blade sheathed, pulse spiking further and noble face hardening. Her gaze dropped to between his legs, to where the carnal ache of him protruded through the obsidian layers of his hakama.

“Your tongue ought to be cut,” he snapped.

“Well,” as she began to play with herself, Kokushibo traced every movement with captivated attentiveness, the arch of her back, the heave of her breasts under her robes—with his Transparent World her clothing could be no obstacle, but, whether principle or that men like him preferred the notion of undressing those they lay with, unwrapping their prize, he never indulged in perversion of that kind—the glisten of arousal garnishing her, the cruor dripping out to nestle in the creases of her lips, “I’m certainly glad your tongue is intact.”

While he regarded her with contempt under long lashes, the heat of his groin did not dissipate, a rapt need to slide between her. His breaths were heavy, chest she knew was bedecked with fierce muscle rising under the affluent fabric of his clothing. She paused. “Doma…” she started.

The moment that name was out of her mouth, her curiosity, storm’s gale she had never been able to overcome, was assuaged as his expression soured like fruit gone grossly rotten. Nobody in the Moons would pull out the false diviner from under the sun if he were to be struck by it.

Kokushibo rested his chin atop her imbrued mons. “What kind of slut lies with… a man and speaks of another… male she’s bedded?”

“Don’t insult me if you lack virility where your subordinate doesn’t,” she hummed. “At least I’ve never been reamed open by our master. How much honour did you have, mighty swordsman, when he sodomised you against your will?”

Tapered teeth glistened as Kokushibo glowered.

“You’ve always been undeserving of what I gave you.”

“Perhaps, but… our blood still call to each other.”

Such was devastation’s path. In fleeting wonder, she pondered how many had died to their hands over the distorting centuries. “Then you defile me. We are contaminated by the other. We are filth.”

Kokushibo healed, each gash she had carved into him during irascible delectation repaired by regenerating skin, his hair smoothing out the knots from heady red.

“Filth resonates with filth,” she told him as he pushed her to the floor and tore apart the rest of her kimono with insolent dare, for though her womb had quietened it was not yet silent. “Our blood endure a murky stream,” as he left cochineal fingerprints across her breasts, exposed to him as he lowered his lips to one and suckled with neither care nor violence, but with a rhythm that had her racked in a feverish shiver.

“In a just world, I’d see you… swell and distend with… the weight of my seed,” Kokushibo murmured against her teat, flicking his tongue against it and watching it erect. She blanched.

When his fingers entered her this time, they were not kind, but curled with purpose. They buried deep within her, pumped in and out in time to how he toyed with her nipples, one clasped between the serrated ends of his canine teeth and the other caressed by the hand not thrust within her, rolling it as he kneaded the fullness of her breast on his palm. Stuttered breaths seeped from her open mouth as she smarted from him, yearned in earthquake-like shaking, the coil in her stomach tightening as she clenched around him.

“We bleed sacrilege,” she gasped, and soaked him in her exhilaration.

Sudden warmth ensconced her as he withdrew from her breast, a string of vermilion saliva snapping, and hid his face in the crook of her neck in a jarring imitation of affection, but it came not from the abrupt facet of affinity and nor was it born of the gratification that had just flown through her, a gentle current now turbulent with terror. Her gaze sidled over the steel thew of Kokushibo to the figure in the corner of the small room. His aura was as weak as it had been when their paths had first met, devoid of killing intent or bloodlust. A chilling resemblance to the Upper Moon demon marked him, but he was distinctly human—and distinctly dead, she reminded herself; yet here he was, defying the laws of the universe once again, and that scared her more than those sixty years after coming across him—with his hanafuda earrings and his soft maroon eyes, connecting with her own.

Cold terror dredged upwards like the pull of limbs from seaweed’s shackles, a fear that had never been conquered despite the centuries separating that night and now. Kokushibo took notice of her stiffened limbs, but in his fatalistic arrogance assumed it was his doing and continued rubbing at her clit in concentrated circles, still resting at her neck.

The Sun Breather stepped forward, face resolute in its emptiness. Vacant gaze, hollow expression. In life, he had never smiled, so Kokushibo had told her. She wondered if a person like Tsugikuni Yoriichi had ever had anything to smile about.

“Leave now,” she whispered to the apparition’s brother. “You’ve fulfilled your purpose.”

Kokushibo’s fangs left her neck and he frowned down at her, bemused. “Stay,” he said, moving his hands up to the slope of her shoulders as if in preparation to hold her in place.

“Stay?” Humouring the lingering note in his request.

“Beneath me.”

“Would you have me like that?”

His hakama rustled with his movement, the grind of his hips, the hardness of him taut and desperate to break free as it rubbed against swollen lips hidden under a thatch of raven hair. “How many men have… had that pleasure?”

“Not Doma,” she confessed.

“Not Doma,” he agreed in pride, then, embittered, “feminised by your wiles… Let me take you as… you should be taken. Under me.”

“Will he kill me then?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Yoriichi ventured another step, only a centimetre but enough to make her skin smoulder with memory. No, she would not die. Not to her master’s cells, not to the Sun Breather’s ruby sword. Across a thousand years, a single opportunity had come to her, a scalding escape, but Yoriichi had failed to take her head.

Years upon years later, here she lay, a man aneled in her blood looming over her with hungry eyes and hungrier cock while a universe beyond her comprehension played games with her.

Although the unworldly dimension of the Infinity Castle protected them from day’s influence, she and the other demon suddenly tensed in unison nonetheless. All Kibutsuji’s mutant creations felt the surface of dawn, a knell within the fibre of their bones to warn them of their only predator. It came with a hounding instinct to run, even if one was safe from the sun’s culling reach. To run and run until the blest recitals of matins was inundated with unfolding nightlight.

As daybreak erupted in another realm, Amaterasu’s sacred child faded, though not before his lips opened and moved with the motion of talk. Nothing audible departed from him. Her heart pounded against the confinement of her chest. Kokushibo finally realised she was glaring past him and turned to follow, greeted by a void corner. When he looked back at her, he discovered no one under him and muttered her name beneath a churlish breath.

“What reason have you to remain? Leave,” she repeated, by the fusuma. Sweat mellowed her body, throbbing from the aftermath of multiple climaxes, but a darker heat piqued within her as she scrutinised his ensanguined form, the wet mess of his face and hands. “You won’t send me to the gallows, Kokushibo, but something worse. Go.”

He towered over her in the blink of an eye. “I don’t… understand you. Women—”

“You don’t need to.”

Bold, he outstretched his hand and splayed his palm in the valley between her breasts, feeling the hammer of her heart. “Do not think me cunt-struck,” the fingers there decayed from paramour’s caress to the scuttling perfidy of insect legs, straining for prey as they made way down a breast and sullied it shimmering cardinal. He groped at her, the roughness men didn’t care enough to reign in. Their teeth nipped and nails scratched. Always squeezing and grabbing. “You will not treat me… like one of your whores, disregarded… once I’ve made you come,” and he placed emphasis on those final words, conceit blatant.

Kokushibo was an animal. The closest of the Moons to Kibutsuji in terms of power. It was only natural, in all the unnaturalness of demons, that he should be so mutant and repulsive, so it puzzled her that she found him beautiful. It, she supposed, was the beauty of a thing ethereal, or perhaps transient; a sacrificed animal, immolated by an unknown force. He was the bleeding lamb, the shot and limping cur, that which was so harrowing it could not be turned away from, the morbid fascination that stirred delight in the sickest minds.

Still, as the lamb bolted from the hand that reached to console it, and bodies withered and mortified from the undertaker’s embrace, his beauty spilled into evanescence. Butterfly wings broke when touched. He mouldered and came to fester a violent, disturbing darkness. While she dwelled on this, he made his move. Pushing her down, mounted above her with the full weight of his strapping form, shoving three virulent fingers inside her.

She pelted him with a livid glare. “I’ll defer when that man dies.” For she would not submit now. That went unspoken, but he heard it. Perhaps his samurai teachings to adhere to greater strength was the only reason his cock remained clothed.

“Do you… crave death so badly?” Covering her body with his own, he slotted a fourth finger in. The delicate lining of her womanhood stung, his nails nicking as they danced inside her.

“Are you killing me?” she mused. Viridian claws slashed at his violet-ebony kimono, finding purchase in his broad shoulders. Mordancy dripped from her tone like how blood trickled down the hard ridges of his torso.

“Death will not give you peace.”

Perhaps it wouldn’t, but this life was far from pleasant. Though she shook her head at him, Kokushibo drove into her with vigour, the scourge of a whip. She shoved at his chest, his moonlight skin sickly pale, but he did not budge and, in some irreligious depth of her where she ached for this, the intemperate madness of sinners who trod the thin line of destruction and endurance, she was glad for it.

“Stop this,” but her words sounded empty to even herself. He didn’t, because he was a man who took what he wanted and obeyed the whims of only one other beside himself. Audacious, apathetic, awful, he inserted his thumb, then pushed the entirety of his fist inside her. A snarl tore from her throat, and his other hand came to close around that. He did not squeeze, but the mere presence of him around her neck was the potent pressure of a noose. Wet slaps rebounded in her ears as he twisted his fist, drawing his knuckles against her. She burned as if ablaze as she stretched to accommodate the violation.

Why was he here? What had he come for beside the sweet, metallic taste of cunt and the clench of red insides? It was something born of a selfish motivation, she figured that. No different or better than her. Though someone of his station should not act on self-serving wants.

Farther Kokushibo breached. To her unease, her body did little to prevent him. “I thought this was altruism?” she hissed.

His thumb pressed against her jugular, some vile punishment for opening her mouth. It marked her with a hue of cerise, an eager bruise blossoming under the skin. “This is not amity.” By the drag of a craven’s fingertips, veneration was rescinded. “It is… contrition. Yours.”

Bellicose blood smeared her, slewed down the inside of her thigh, not her moonblood, but thinner, of a greater, brighter constitution. Venous, drawn from a wounded and maimed creature, dismal and writhing like a worm on a hook. The hardness of her cervix turned friable. There was a knife—or a sword, she thought wryly, and wondered if he would fuck her with his disgusting katana if he could—in her cunt and it stabbed its way to where no foreign intrusion should have. She spasmed, wrenched out the arm of the hand clasping her smarting neck and suddenly they were both bathed in sticky red, tepid as it gushed from Kokushibo’s socket. It reeked. Not of them, but of him, the laden scent of Kibutsuji. Vessels for his violence, clawing at each other like rabid dogs, fuelled by the instinct to tarnish and impair, the need to rip apart with teeth and talons. They were nothing if not that man’s vestigial reflection; as Kokushibo hollowed her out and the sordid point of his nails pricked at the firm, barred organ of her cervix, it was not the samurai that penetrated, but his lord. A maggot burrowing away, carrying a corrosive disease. There was sin in their veins and it ate at them.

“Warm my bed,” said Kokushibo, too frustrated to be a growl, too stark to be a plead. A demand, one which she spat at him for, all noble airs abandoned. He flinched as if her saliva cauterised. She hoped it did, hoped that his patience was a manacle and not frangible thread. She had seen what monstrosities cultivated within sullied wombs; the devils seized out of broken hellmouths in downpours of black ichor; the thousand deaths endured in pregnancy, in childbirth, in motherhood. That was not a desirable end. It was not true death, but something beyond it, worse and unending, and men were baleful enough to inflict it on any wench they deemed deserving.

Depraved in the way ruby tainted rare moons, Kokushibo gouged her in repeated blows, battering the closed pale-pink neck of her uterus. She wept as his cursed touch shed more of her flesh than her own body could. A malevolent torrent of something she couldn’t put a name to raged within the leaking fissures of her. Here, raising a hand that trembled as it pressed his cool cheek, she was close enough to delve out his awful eyes, to slit his neck, to divaricate his limbs. Close enough to devour him.

But she wouldn’t. An insidious weakness.

When she yanked his savage fist out of her, she freed herself of her cage as well as gaoler. Torn from her insides, the pear shape of her womb, hot and rosy, and aperture of her cervix. Arteries and veins fell like tears, burst like shattered mosaic. She threw the poison in her system to the floor, where it soaked the wood with her diseased red, and relished the surprise on his face.

Kokushibo scanned the consecrated blood daubing him, then his gaze scraped her, fibrous sclera and aureate irises glowing, pupils blown. All they were was blood. They rotted with it, congealed and decayed until there was no trace of who they had been, only the stench of who they had slaughtered. They were their victims’ legacies, harbouring so many ghosts.

Crucifying agony dulled with each passing second. Already her body was repairing itself, working against her as it always had, cancer regenerating within her. Kokushibo rose and she stepped back, bare before him like an offering, though she was not sure what virgin oblation she could be when she had already been eaten; she could not consume him when he had consumed her, and from that she knew he was desecration. Vitiated in the spoils of him, she fled to ensconce herself within the umbrage of endless slanting corridors, praying they would guttle her too.

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