Chapter Text
The demon descends on you before you can react.
Its shadow looms over your body as you gather your senses and finally pull yourself from the sudden swoop of its attack; you take a deep breath and feel the frigid air fill your lungs, its rush as palpable as the delicate blanket of darkness in the night sky. Oxygen fills every last vessel of your veins, bringing a tight coil of energy to your movement. You raise your arm as you swing your sword, and in a single arc mirroring the slant of the crescent moon hanging above you, you cross your blade in the demon’s direction.
Clang.
With ease, the demon disarms your sword from your grasp. It takes him nothing more than a simple backhanded slap.
“Weak,” he remarks, stepping into the moonlight. Where there was pluck, fear now pumps through your body, an unnatural shiver of cold pouring down your spine. The demon is tall, male, with his long hair — black and tipped with red — tied away from his face. His kimono, purple and patterned with black tortoiseshell designs, flutters like the wings of a bat in the winter’s breeze. But what is most frightening, you realise, is his unearthly countenance: three pairs of bloodshot eyes directed unflinchingly at you, bearing the words Upper Moon One.
His six irises pin you to where you stand, as if each of them held you down to a vital mark on your body: your hands, your legs, your chest, and your neck.
He steps towards your fallen sword, and turns his gaze to the four characters carved on its blade. “And a Hashira too. What has the Demon Slayer Corps turned into?”
His tone is slow, measured, his voice deep. It resonates the fear in your heart, spreading it to the tips of your fingers and standing the hairs on your neck as he edges closer. With nothing in your hands, you take a step back, keeping yourself a distance away from him and moving into the shadows of the branches.
Your eyes glance swiftly at your sword, buried a few metres away from you in the snow – how will you get to it?
The Upper Moon will certainly block your path before you get to it; if he had so easily brushed off your attack with his arm, there is no telling what else he is capable of. How much strength did he possess? What is his Blood Demon Art? Nobody in the Corps, not even the current iteration of Hashiras, has met an Upper Moon and lived to tell the tale; there was little to no information on them. Would you be the first to slay them? Or would you go the same path as your comrades before you?
“Face me,” the demon demands, closing the distance between you once more. You turn deeper into the trees, scurrying pathetically as the snow soaks through your shoes and haori. Perhaps if you gather your strength, you can make a dash for your sword. You are not too far off; in a few steps, you can make it and defend yourself.
You spin around, and feel the shimmer of the moon on your face. Out of the shadows, you now see your assailant in full detail up close: you note the mark on his forehead and his neck, and the two fringes of hair that sweep across his face as he bounds towards you. His face is calm, unstirred, as if there is nothing more natural in the world to him than to kill another human.
Then, his eyes cast downward on your face, and you see something in him shift; his eyes, you note, dilate ever so slightly.
The demon pauses. He comes to a halt before you, making a quiet dent in the slow. This time, you arm yourself properly, and throw a slash across his face. It barely scratches him; a thin thread of blood weaves across his eyes and pools in the lower lid of the bottom pair as his flesh mends itself.
“Is that what you would call an attack?”
Despite his mocking words, you continue to fight him, throwing your blade in whichever part of him you can reach — his arm, his legs, his face. Each time, he heals himself with ease, and you find yourself running out of moves — having parried your strongest attacks, there is no time for you to recover, to take another breath. But you keep going nonetheless, slicing him with as much strength as you can summon, regardless of how futile it may seem.
Your back hits the rough face of a tree, and you curse yourself for backing into a corner. No, it will not end like this, you tell yourself . On shaking feet, you stand and hold your stance, back straightened and knuckles white on your sword. You take a deep breath once more, pushing every pulse, every nerve in your body to its limit as you swing your sword again. If this is to be your final move, let it be worth something .
The demon, however, is faster — he draws his own sword, and you see a flurry of eyes and uneven webs of flesh across its length before its blade flies towards you. The force of his attack brings a gust of wind and snow to your face, and on instinct, you close your lids, anticipating the surge of pain and fade to black. This is it, you think — this is where you die.
In the last moments of your life, you do not think about your parents, whom you found mauled and half-eaten by demons in your ancestral home; neither do you think about the days that followed, how you vowed to avenge their deaths; the faces of your comrades, the Hashiras, the Master — your life, as you remember it, does not flash before your eyes as you brace yourself for the inevitable.
Instead, a cold, cruel calm washes over you as you count the minute moments to your death. How will it feel, when the demon’s blade plunges into you? Will there be pain? Or will the rush of adrenaline that surges beneath your skin numb any and every sensation?
But it never comes. Something slices into the bark of the tree beside you, its force sending tremors up the branches and shaking them in a slow rustle. Gingerly, you open your eyes again.
The demon stands before you, hair and clothes whipping in the frigid air. Suddenly, you realise how much smaller you were, in both height and stature. In his eyes, where he held nothing but contempt, pity, and something else you cannot discern, you are nothing but prey — another pitiful human who believed they can fight the course of nature. A rabbit pouncing on the fox, a fish swimming against the tide.
“I will not dignify you with a quick death,” the demon says eventually, pulling back his sword. He sheathes it back to his side gracefully, and without a second glance, turns back into the shadow whence he came.
It takes you a full moment for his words to sink in, and you take an impatient step forward into the snow.
“No!” You yell into the night, your voice echoing back to you against its vast emptiness. “Come back and fight me!”
He does not respond; between the creeping arms of the trees above you and the soft crunch of snow falling at your feet, you cannot tell if he has already left, or if he still lingers, watching you from a place far beyond your line of sight.
A gust of cold wind sweeps through the woods, and you shiver, the soaked layers of your uniform and haori clinging to your skin.
When you return to your house at the edge of the woods, you peel off all your clothes and throw them into the basket. You fetch the boiled water from the kitchens and make yourself a bath, scrubbing away at the dirt beneath your nails and on your knees. Yet, no matter how much you tug at your skin, the cloak of shame for failing to defeat an upper moon, and letting him get away, clings onto your shoulders.
You ought to tell the Master about it, you reason. This will be valuable information. At the very least, the other Hashiras will know who and what to look out for on their patrols, and by doing so, the Corps will be one step closer to Kibutsuji Muzan.
You shut your eyes and lean back against the bathtub. The demon’s face, his unnatural gaze, and how they had shifted into something else entirely, was embedded into your mind. You replay the moments that ensued, how he had pulled back willingly, almost as if in surrender. The way he had returned into the shadows, with the promise of facing you once more.
What did it all mean?
You find your answer eight days later, on the fourteenth night of the lunar month.
The day had been one of rest and recuperation for you, after a series of missions in the city. It was put upon you at the Master’s insistence, even after you told him that you felt well and could do a bit of light work. He assured you that he would send a handful of Corps members in your stead so that you can have a good night’s rest.
As it turns out, the Master was right. You were indeed exhausted after exerting yourself on all those missions. The new electric lights in the city had been spellbinding and dazzling, but the soft muteness of the woods, where you lived, were a peaceful respite from the hustle and bustle. You set about cleaning up your abode and lighting the fire of the irori, before turning in for the night.
The stars beyond your windows tonight are numerous and quiet. In their wintry radiance, their twinkling shimmers seem almost close enough to touch. The moon, however, is nowhere to be found, tucked behind the heavy curtains of clouds. You burrow deeper into the feathery softness of your futon, press your cheek against the makura , and shut your eyes.
A few seconds pass, and you turn to lie on your back.
Though you have been granted these precious hours of rest, your mind refuses to stay still and quiet. It dwells anxiously on the well-being of your younger, less-experienced Corps members as they prowl the forest in your place, and the thought of the demon lingering in the shadows haunts you.
The demon.
In the end, you spoke nothing of your encounter to the Master. Was it fear, or perhaps shame, that compelled you to do so? It has been a while since you last saw him, and there is no need for you to hide the truth, and yet every time you finally summon the determination to reveal the events that have unfolded, you find yourself shirking away from the truth.
What did you have to hide? It isn’t as if–
A stir.
You wrench open your eyelids and sit up straight. You know you heard something — it was slight, barely a whisper, but you heard it nonetheless.
Your right hand reaches out for the sword that lies next to you, and in the next instant, you feel a hand close over your mouth.
Panic flares in sirens over your head as you thrash beneath the intruder’s vice-like grip, your screams muffled beneath their hands, while their other arm weaves around your torso to pin you to their body.
For someone to enter your house without your knowing, to enter your quarters with scarcely a sound — this is no ordinary person, but a demon.
And you know exactly who it is.
“Stop screaming, or I’ll kill you,” says Upper Moon One, his voice coming somewhere above your head. You do as he says, but your hand remains tightly coiled around your sword, prepared at any moment to attack if needed. His scent — bestial and sharp — floods your senses as his hand tightens around your face.
He does not let go of you for a few moments, until he is sure that you have settled down. You know he can feel the steady patter of your heart in his grip, the sweet rush of blood that surges in your veins as he holds you against him. Once again you find yourself at his mercy.
What are his intentions, then, if not to kill you?
“Drop your sword,” he orders, and you comply, your weapon falling onto the tatami into a soft thud.
Satisfied, he finally releases his hand over your mouth, and you let out a shuddering breath.
“I will kill you,” you declare, trying in vain to turn your head so you can meet his eyes.
“A fool’s errand,” he remarks, his breath fluttering hotly across your cheek. He does not loosen the arm that winds around your torso; instead, you feel it drift across your belly, settling into the curve of your waist. Between the thin fabric of your nightclothes, you feel the warmth of the demon’s body, the too-perfect beat of his heart.
You struggle, and he tightens his arm around you, pressing against your diaphragm and squeezing the wind from your lungs. Almost instantly, you stop, and he relaxes his grip once more.
“What do you want from me?” you ask when you catch your breath, panic lending a few decibels to your tight, pinched voice. “If you want to know the whereabouts of the Master, I will sooner die than reveal it; or if you seek the location of the other Hashiras, I will not–”
“This is not why I am here,” he says, his baritone thrumming across your back. His free hand comes up to tilt your head sidewards to him. His eyes — all six of them — fixes on your bewildered expression, though you can read nothing of his beneath its steely surface. Instead, you see your reflection in the amber depths of his eyes, wherein the words Upper Moon One are cast back at you.
You should be fighting this, and you know it. For almost all your life you have devoted yourself to the creed of the Corps — akki-messatsu, to destroy all demons — and here you are, in the arms of the strongest one next to Kibutsuji Muzan himself. Where disgust should have taken seed inside you, you feel curiosity instead blooming in your chest.
Why would he be here, then, if not to kill you? True to his word, you cannot sense any ill or murderous intent behind his actions, but you cannot think of any other reason for a demon to show up in a human’s abode other than to kill or hunt.
His layered gaze takes in your expression, studying its shift as you glide from fear to worry. His hand, poised on your chin, brushes along the slope of your cheeks, and you feel your breath hitch.
Wordlessly, he draws a line to your lips, where you inhale sharply to his touch. He traces the outline of your mouth, the dip of your cupid’s bow. And then, without warning, the demon leans in, and replaces his fingers with his lips.
You find yourself allowing him this transgression, parting your mouth slightly to let his tongue dip forward and swirls with yours. He tastes hot and metallic, like the residual tang of gunpowder in the air after a bullet has been fired. It spells of equal parts danger and temptation, and singes right to the marrow of your bones.
This is not your first kiss — it had been taken by a young man from the village you saved on one of your missions, who dressed in Western garments and wore eye glasses. He had been shy and gentle, hesitant even, as he kissed you, and it had ended before you even noticed.
The demon, however, moves laguidly and insistently, his hands wandering downward to the open collar of your nightclothes as if you were as familiar to him as all the stars painted in the night sky. To his touch, you find yourself pliant and obedient, a soft whimper escaping you as he tugs on your lip with his teeth. The calloused tips of his fingers grazes the ledge of your collarbone, and you shiver in response, warmth pooling low in your abdomen.
Then, clarity seizes you, and you wrench yourself away from his lips.
“This is wrong,” you say, though more to yourself than for his sake. “I cannot do this.”
His reply is immediate. “You cannot, or you will not?”
“Both,” you mutter. “I have given my word to my comrades; there is no greater act of dishonour than–”
“You wish to speak of honour?” he asks, and a sneer curls the ends of his lips. “You lost all of it when you chose to run away instead of fighting me.”
His fingers sink into the side of your neck and jaw, angling your head further so he can take a better look at you. Heat suffuses the high of your cheekbones, and you avert your eyes.
“I told you I will not grant you a quick death,” he says. “This is my word of honour.”
Before you can protest, he presses his lips against yours once more. He takes in your human scent: the soft notes of the bathwater you washed yourself in, the clean linen of your underclothes.
This time, he steers you back into your futon, and you let yourself fall back on its softness.
There is nothing right about this, your mind tells you again and again. Even if the demon has no plans to kill you, what can it be said of the nights that follow? As it stands, you are unarmed; should he decide to end your life on a whim, there can be no way for you to fight back. Your life will end here, and you will bring your shame with you to the grave — as a slayer who has consorted with the enemy.
And yet, the softness of his lips on yours — that must count for something, must it not? He has had so many chances to kill you, but he has chosen not to. The firm swirl of his tongue is purposeful as he tastes you fully, and with every exhale you feel his warmth breath fanning across your cheek.
This feels tangible, in some cruel, twisted way; to find some semblance of humanity behind the monster. And you are content with taking that small wreck of comfort into your conscience, telling yourself that whatever follows is entirely of your ken and permission.
“Have you ever been with a man?” he asks, when he pulls away from you so you can breathe.
In the heady cloud of confusion, you blink once, then twice, before answering in a mere whisper: “No.”
Something flits across his placid features — was it a smile, or an expression of surprise? You cannot tell. Maidenhood, for a young woman of your age, was not uncommon, though you knew friends and acquaintances of your age who had experienced otherwise.
The mysteries of the flesh and its pleasures were but a murky watercolour to you, like the yellowed pages of a shunga peeking out from the restricted sections of old bookstores. The tangled limbs of its subjects, their captured faces of euphoria — you know, theoretically, how things worked, but you never expected yourself to experience sexual intimacy in any form.
And certainly, you did not anticipate surrendering your first time to a demon, of all individuals.
The upper moon, however, makes no further comment. In a fluid motion, his fingers dive beneath the front of your hadajuban, pulling at the sash that holds the garment together. He discards the fabric with a casual flick of his wrist, and tugs at the open collar. Your hands immediately cover your front when he undresses you, a sudden wave of modesty tinting the tips of your ears in a deep scarlet.
“Wait,” you say.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know what to do,” you tell him.
He pauses, the grand height of his kneeled form towering above you. You can do nothing but peer up at him through your lashes, half-dressed and uncertain. The soft orange glow that spills from the fire in the next room over catches onto the red tips of his hair, and he appears before you as a vision from beyond this world and your ken. You cannot tell what he is thinking, as he remains still and silent, until he closes his hands over yours.
“I will teach you,” he says, peeling your hands away.
The flush staining your ears deepens and suffuses your cheeks as you are bared to him. His eyes are lit with desire as he drinks in your nude torso, and almost at once he goes for the smooth expanse of skin above your breasts. A sharp hiss falls from you when he nips the delicate flesh there, a strange sensation skittering from that spot to right in your loins. You bring your knees together almost like clockwork, startled by your body’s responses.
His hand drifts to your breasts, and he kneads one of them firmly, his open palm easily taking the flesh. You moan when he pinches your nipple, before biting your lip in embarrassment. The demon grins against your flesh, and he cajoles you further by taking your other breast in his mouth, suckling and tugging on the hardened nub.
Each masterful pinch and twist leaves a greater jolt of pleasure coursing through you, and you feel your body rapidly gaining heat. Never in your life have you ever felt like so — where your legs are crossed you are dimly aware of some wash of wetness between, seeping through your undergarments.
He senses it too, for he stops and looks up at you.
“Does it feel good?” he asks, fingers ghosting over the taut muscles of your belly. You release the breath that you did not know you have been holding in a ragged exhale, and nod slightly.
He grins, canines flashing in the moonlight. The blurred planes of light that streams through the open windows leaves half his face illuminated and the other in shadow.
“I can make it feel better,” he growls, grabbing your thigh. He fusses away the fabric that covers your legs, and pulls at the knot that holds your underwear in place. With a flourish, he tosses them away.
You lie below him, naked and trembling with fear and want. Your earlier embarrassment diminishes with each passing second as the demon drinks in your unveiled body with obvious desire; it is replaced, strangely enough, by some measure of satisfaction as you realise how you have, in a way, him at your mercy. After all, it was your body that he sought out — not for food, but for pleasure.
He is more human than you think, you realise.
For the longest time, your flesh and bone served no further purpose than another extension of the Corps. It was, just like your sword, another weapon that you used to protect and save lives. Scarcely did you think of its appearance, the feminine lines of your body — not that there is much still to be had, when you have taken so many injuries from training and missions.
In time, these scars have healed, leaving small, silvery threads that were barely perceptible except under close inspection. And you know that the demon can see it, the disfigurements left behind by his lesser relations — but he seems to care little as he places his hand on each of your thighs, parting your legs. The slick petals of your sex opens wetly to his inveiglement, a throbbing ache searing through your loins.
Eyes never leaving yours, his fingers close in on your sex. At the first caress, you feel a thrill that you have never experienced, a current of electricity that courses through your veins and leaves you feverish with need. A loud moan falls from your lips, and you bite the back of your hand to stifle yourself, your other hand digging into the blankets strewn beside you. The upper moon, pleased with your response, continues his gestures, fingers deftly stroking that swollen spot between your legs.
“You have never touched yourself before?” he asks.
You swallow thickly and shake your head.
To your surprise, he laughs, although it is without mockery. He grabs your hand and guides you to where he continues to bring you pleasure — your fingers tremble in anticipation as he directs you to the apex of your loins.
“Here,” he says, pressing your fingers down on your cl*t. You bite back another moan, but your hand takes life of its own, stroking the nub urgently as you feed the fire of arousal that burns through you. The demon leans back on his haunches as he watches you pleasure yourself, the smooth column of your neck exposed to him as you arch you back to your ministrations.
In the hazy cloud of pleasure, you see the demon make quick work of his clothes, unfastening his kimono in a matter of seconds. The planes of his body are smooth and supple, and you watch the muscles flex gracefully as he reaches for the white knot that holds his hakama in place. Untying it, he finally sheds his trousers, and you realise that he is not wearing any undergarment.
This is not your first time setting eyes on a man’s appendage either. You know how it looks from the medical textbooks that litter Butterly Mansion, but nothing could have braced you for the sight of the demon’s erection. For all it is worth, the flesh appears entirely human, though you knew his length and girth was far superior to any common man — eight inches with a pattern of criss-crossing veins.
Your mouth runs dry at the thought of him penetrating you, and a spark of arousal flutters through your loins as you imagine taking him whole.
He shuffles towards you on his knees. “Hold it,” he orders. You wrench your hands from your sex, and take his erect co*ck into your palm. It twitches when you stroke it from base to tip; truthfully, you have no idea what to do, how best to pleasure a man, but a grunt from the demon encourages you to continue.
You spot a bead of moisture that gathers at the tip of his co*ck. Recalling what he did earlier, when he brought the wetness from your sex to your cl*t, you now smear the bit of precum around the co*ckhead, returning the favour. The demon growls at this, throwing his head back and pushing his hips into your hand.
“You learn fast,” he remarks. Your heart swells in delight at his words, and you tighten your grip and hasten your strokes.
To be rewarded by his reaction, to your hands on him, left you light-headed — you understand why, now, people would tether the edge of sanity for these bodily indulgences. It is not merely for the short-lived respite of pleasure, it is also to bear witness to the unravelling of the person one is bedding — until they are nothing but a mess of groans and incoherence, weak and supine by their side.
Circling his fingers around your wrist, the upper moon stops you, panting.
“I want to feel you,” he grits. “All of you.” He braces a hand beside your face and nudges your slick seam with his co*ck. The friction brings you tantalisingly close to your peak, but it is not enough; your entrance clenches in anticipation for what you know is coming.
You look up at him. “Will it hurt?” you ask.
His face is impassive, the three pairs of eyes flicking down to survey the pink blush that spreads from your face to the rounded edge of your shoulders. You are an exquisite sight to behold, with your trembling thighs and the rise and fall of your chest.
He leans downward and whispers in your ear: “Yes.”
How painful will it be? you want to ask, as he positions the head of his co*ck near your entrance. The stories you heard from newly-wedded women all bore tales of blood-stained linen and the struggle to walk the morning after; supposed rewards of their purity for having waited to consummate their marriage.
Pain is nothing new to you, but you also know that it will always be a cousin to intimacy; neither can exist without the other. With closeness comes the inevitable pang of separation, and now there is nothing else you want more than to have him inside you, bringing two to one.
There is pain, indeed, when the demon finally pushes slowly into you, his co*ck stretching the walls of your sex. You gasp as he breaches further inward, sliding himself in as far as he can. He mumbles something you cannot hear as your ears ring with the sudden spike of pain and pleasure, and your hand reaches up to hold him at the juncture between his neck and shoulder, the red tendrils of his mark beneath your fingertips
This is the first time you have touched him of your own accord, and he tilts his head up to find you biting your lip.
“You are very tight,” the demon rasps, nuzzling against your neck. The fringes of his hair tickles your face, and you breathe deeply, his musk filling your senses.
You do not know what to say to that, and you are not sure if it is praise or not, so you remain still as your body comes around to the myriad of sensations radiating from your core.
The wetness from your sex seems to smoothen things somewhat, and eventually the pain gives way to a feeling of fullness deep in your loins. You relax the tense muscles of your thighs and exhale, before flicking your gaze up to meet his eyes.
He watches you closely, as if reading your face for any discomfort, before unsheathing his co*ck from your sex just shy of its tip. And then, he pushes back in again, faster this time now that he thinks you have gotten used to his length. You open up to him easily, spreading your legs to take him further. The supple walls of your sex swallow his co*ck greedily, and he tells you, again, how tight you are through gritted teeth.
This time, you are certain it is a good thing, and you let yourself fall into the abyss of rapture.
The wet sounds of your lovemaking fills the quiet room, the scene of falling snow outside your home drowning in its obscenity. The demon takes and takes, and you arch your back to meet him, chasing the frisson of pleasure that mounts inside your c*nt.
He grabs your thighs and tugs you closer, pistoning his hips at a different angle. When he drives in, the head of his co*ck brushes something inside you, and you cry out: “f*ck!”
“Do you like this?” he asks, bearing down at you and hitting the sensitive bundle of nerves once more.
You meet his eyes boldly. “Yes, yes, oh god –”
“Say my name, then,” he pants, holding your wrists and pinning them to the top of your head.
“Your name?” You look up at him.
“Kokushibo,” he tells you.
“Kokushibo,” you try hesitantly, struggling against his hold as he thrusts into you perfectly. He grunts, and you feel his co*ck throb inside you.
The four syllables spill from your mouth like a sacred vesper. Will you ever call any other man’s name in the way that you are doing now? Your sighs of pleasure and his name weaves as the two cords of a mizuhiki , tying your body to his, in the same manner that he is now entwined in you.
Honour, dishonour; the valley between what is right and wrong; the moon and his stars in the sky — everything melds together into a disappearing pool of black as you climb the steeple of your peak. The eyes of black death, you realise belatedly, is the meaning of his name, and now you lie prone at the altar of his body.
“Kokushibo, Kokushibo–”
Will you succumb, or will it give you a new life?
“Kokushibo,” you gasp, nails digging into his back, your voice rising in pitch. “I-”
“Yes, I know,” he rumbles, hands squeezing your breasts. “Just let go. Let it go.”
The pleasure in your loins sears to a glowing blaze, setting your body on fire; for a moment you cannot see the demon who continues to thrust into your clenching sex, his own org*sm on the horizon. In this instant, you can only sense the dizzying spiral of pleasure that scorches you from limb to limb. It is both ice and fire, as if you have been set in snow to the heart of an inferno.
The radiance of the moon, whose cold distance is matched in equal parts by its warm presence.
And you feel every inch of its light through Kokushibo’s climax as he reaches his own peak, spilling in the depths of your tightening warmth in spurts. His hips stutter as he continues to ride out his org*sm, pushing himself to burrow deeper until you whimper from the oversensitivity of his stimulation. Eventually, he slows to a stop, co*ck still buried inside you.
For a moment, the two of you enjoy the lull that passes in the wake of your pleasures. A fog descends on your consciousness as you wipe away the sweat that has gathered on your brow. You are sore, far more sore than any training has left you, although it is not unwelcome.
Kokushibo pulls himself out of you, and you feel his spent leaking from your entrance. He does not clean you up; instead, he leans right above you, holding himself up with his forearms.
The front pieces of his hair brushes on your face, and you push them aside, twirling the strands in your fingers. He lowers himself to kiss you on your neck and collar, clearly unaffected by the strain of your lovemaking as you are.
You bring your hand over his back, and smooth over the crescent marks that you have left behind in your throes of org*sm.
“Are you going to kill me now?” you ask.
Kokushibo pauses, if for a moment, but continues lavishing wet kisses on your body, stalking a steady path down to the swell of your breasts. His lips brush against your nipple when he answers you:
“What makes you think I will do that?”
“Was that not your word? That you will not grant me a quick death?”
He looks up at you. You still do not know which pairs of his eyes to look at, and the words within still strike a chord of fear in your heart. But you see, now, the human that lies therein — maybe you will never know his past, and how he came to possess this monstrous countenance, but you have seen him at his most vulnerable, you are certain there is more to him than what you thought.
“Yes, “ Kokushibo avows, now licking a wet hot stripe down your belly. He comes to a gradual stop just above your mound, where you find yourself once again tingling with the insatiable need to be touched and filled by him. The night is still young, after all, and you cannot sleep.
“And I intend to follow it to the letter.”
