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The balance of power between them has always been tenuous.
Unfortunately, this sentiment proves only viable when one is speaking exclusively from Kokushibo’s position. Perhaps it is a form of coping to entertain this train of thought; to dwell in the sacrilege of believing that he might ever be equal to Muzan Kibutsuji. They are as apart as heaven and earth, but if the demon king thinks anything amiss, he does nothing to castigate him outright.
Then again, Muzan Kibutsuji has not survived centuries on the back of outright brutality alone. He is as much the snake that strikes as the serpent coiled beneath the flowers, and Kokushibo has been waylaid by his cunning too many times to count.
Whether out of courtesy or pity, Muzan does not make a habit of openly degrading him. He is far too aware of the intricacies within the mental realm of his favored servant, knowing exactly where to place the scalpel blade and understanding the exact amount of force to apply to disable him. He is frighteningly adept at undoing, and Kokushibo, abandoned even by the good graces of fate and fortune, has somehow become his preferred mode of entertainment in application.
“Nakime.”
The shoji claps shut at his heels, smooth on oiled tracks. The gaze which perceives him is as impassive as its voice. There are few things which inspire trepidation in Kokushibo. Even here- with some four hundred years of history between them and with his attention already flicking back to a sheaf of documents held aloft- Muzan Kibutsuji does not fail to incite his unease.
“Muzan-sama.” His frame folds with the elegance of a raven’s wings to its back, his obi pooling like pale ichor over his lap. The wooden floor of the Infinity Castle is frigid through the cloth of his hakama and the chill climbs his spine. “I have disposed of… a slew of Hashira since our last… correspondence.”
“And the Ubuyashiki? What of the blue amaryllis?”
“I have not… made headway in either… endeavor…”
Kokushibo does not need to see him to imagine the way his lips grow taut and bloodless with dissatisfaction. He waits like a man before a guillotine, his head bowed, poised to brace the blow to fall.
“Kokushibo.”
To his surprise, there is no pain, no blistering shockwave, no crushing impact; he becomes privy only to the pristine tap of footsteps- clipped heels against lacquered floorboards in approach, like the rhythmic procession of the minute hand across the clock-face. He stops where the points of his shoes align with the graceful incline of Kokushibo’s dipped head. Even with his gaze averted there is no escape; wine-red eyes manifest and stare up at him from his master’s reflection with maddening intensity. Kokushibo swallows, feeling each molecule of his being dissected and scrutinized.
“Michikatsu.” Muzan drawls, and then the toe of one of his shoes lifts to embed itself in the tender junction between his chin and throat, forcing the angle open with deceptive tenderness. Their eyes meet and his heartbeat shudders in formless anticipation. Muzan Kibutsuji is and has always been a creature of a higher realm. There is no creature alive in the present day that might compare, and his very presence inspires inadequacy.
Kokushibo is to him as a deer is to a wolf. No amount of perfidious reassurance, nor title will ever be sufficient to obscure the truth of the matter; no internalized deception will distract him from the teeth at his neck and the heat of his unwavering pursuit at his heels.
His lips part in mute acknowledgement. That identity remains largely a secret shared between the two of them, and those who might have once vouched for its truthfulness are all dead- slaughtered, their blood coating the flat of his blade and saturating the hands which now replace the touch of cold leather.
Muzan lowers himself onto his heels at a placid and leisurely pace. One hand remains at his chin while the other threads itself through his hair and ends its trajectory cupping the angle of his jaw, his fingers curling to bracket the delicate corner of a fluttering eye.
“Michikatsu.” He repeats in a resonant purr, dangerously low. Kokushibo shivers imperceptibly, feeling it stoke the embers of a fire he’d long forgotten, stirring that abandoned passion which he’d deemed unnecessary and since forfeit.
“You make it so very difficult for me to decide between whether I ought to be pleased or disappointed.”
He rocks forward and leans in, close- too close, his lips trace the line of his cheekbone and his breath warms the shell of his ear. His chuckle is rich and velvet. The jaws of death are closing around him and Kokushibo knows nothing but to wait, unflinching and helpless.
“What do you think?”
“If you… desire something of me, master…” It is a feat to manage even so little and he is weak at the knees from the effort. Though an offer made to the King of Demons cannot be rescinded, it would be of the utmost rudeness to leave it unfinished and irresolute. “Then you need… only ask.”
“Good.” Civility dissipates in an instant. His hands are brusque and careless as he tugs at him and his fingers dig in, carving lines which drip and weep in dark fluid tracks. He drags his head up with unyielding sincerity, knots a hand in his hair to hold him still, and shucks the hem of his trousers downwards.
Here he pauses, returning his attention to Kokushibo’s face, held ajar and tilted. He teases at the crease of his lips with a thumb, digging the point of his claw between his teeth and coaxing them apart.
“Open.” It is a command more than it is a request, just as the pad of the finger running along the points of his fangs is a show of cruelty and dominance more than a lover’s caress. Kokushibo makes no objection even in the face of such humiliation. After all, it is his place to obey and please where, and however Muzan should desire his compliance.
This obedience he seems to find agreeable, for it is not long before his prodding fingers draw away and are replaced with the stiff bulge of his cock. Obedience and habit inform his reaction. Kokushibo mutely closes his lips around the intrusion, growing accustomed to the weight and heat of it on his tongue, then hollows his cheeks and begins to suck.
This alone is a messy affair. He is careful- excruciatingly so as to keep his fangs from grazing the tender skin, the flesh shifting and soft with the gentle ministrations of his mouth. There is a faint taste of salt which coats the flat of his tongue and the hollow of his throat, and his lower lip and chin are quickly wet with saliva.
Both his hands have subsequently found their places nestled in his hair, the points of his claws forming a veritable crown of thorns. Muzan groans softly; Kokushibo knows better than to look up.
There is a species of tranquility that can be found only in these liminal fractions of time. Peace is a scarce resource and not something that he will ever take for granted, and the only appropriate course of action is to relish it when it becomes available. Kokushibo stays yielding and quiet even as the shaft grows firmer, bumping up against the back of his throat as Muzan rocks his hips into the soft and inviting warmth. His grip is similarly hard and unyielding, and the heady smell of blood thickens with each gash he carves into him, with each cut which further mats his hair with blood.
“Delicious.” His voice lowers into a pleased rumble. He jerks his head towards him and snaps his hips forwards with brute force; it is only practice that keeps the tears from springing to his eyes. “Who would have thought that a descendant of the Tsugikuni clan would be so eager to kneel at my feet and take my cock like some common whore? I wonder what your brother would have said, hm?”
He cannot answer, nor does he want to answer. His cock is inescapably heavy across his tongue like the shame and revulsion perched upon his shoulders. Something like denial and aversion combined snakes and curls within him like whipping flames catching across a bed of dry leaves. Muzan chuckles darkly in response and rewards him with yet another uncaring jolt of his hips to bruise the tender back of his throat.
“Poor thing.”
He feels him twitch, and then Muzan is roughly pushing at him and pulling out.
“Up.” He motions, turning on his heel even as Kokushibo sputters and wipes his mouth with the pale length of his wrist. His intentions become clear as he leads him to the back of the room and away from his desk, already pulling himself free of his pressed trousers.
Kokushibo rises and follows, then stalls just a little too long as he watches his hands go through the graceful motion of folding and setting the garment aside. Muzan raises an eyebrow and considers him with an air of hooded amusement, his eyes glittering with hunger and alight with a warning preamble of danger.
“Something the matter?”
“No, master.” A brief incline of his head, then he strikes himself from his trance and undoes his obi. Centuries of correspondence serve as a guide and blessing. After all, Muzan’s tastes are unchanging and his routines are largely predictable. Kokushibo folds his hakama neatly and drops the coiled obi sash on top- black and white in sharp dichotomy. No sooner and hands are suddenly brushing back the folds of his kimono, allowing the fine cloth to slip down and off his shoulders, the dusky purple of evening giving way to the moonlight shade of bare skin.
Muzan hums with gentle appreciation. His wandering gaze is a living thing, and Kokushibo feels an uncomfortable prickling left in the wake of his scrutiny. Then he lunges abruptly, sinking his teeth into his throat and raking his claws down his shoulders and gouging deep; marking flesh that parts like butter, dragging out bloody furrows across his forearms and ribs with the unhindered ease of an overzealous butcher wielding a carving knife.
Kokushibo winces and makes a guttural noise; already their roles are made clear, and he is little more than wounded prey in the grasp of a merciless hunter with no intention of granting him the mercy of a quick end. Muzan’s breath is hot against the side of his neck, and his tongue laves hungrily at the blood spurting from the chasm of a puncture. It is half an eon before he pulls away licking his lips. He takes on an exceedingly savage appearance with the blood smeared across the lower half of his face, and the air catches in Kokushibo’s throat at the sight.
The moment does not last. He delivers a harsh shove in the next heartbeat and he lets himself topple, hitting the ground with an impact that is made all the more poignant with the weight of his master knelt atop him.
Muzan handles him without consideration given to either comfort or dignity. He feels the length of his torso, strokes the indentations between his ribs, then pushes his legs apart, entirely unaffected by the blood still pumping freely from the vast array of cuts he has seen fit to inflict. He is thorough- if wholly inattentive towards his condition- for he approaches him not with a modicum of compliment and admiration, but the clinical assessment of a knackerman presented with a carcass.
It’s better this way. Kokushibo does not know how he might in any capacity handle the awkward mortification of a genuine romantic pursuit.
One of his legs is promptly hoisted over a shoulder, and then there is something sharp prodding at his entrance. It’s enough to warrant a sharp intake of breath as a set of fingers breach and force themselves in with juvenile impatience.
“Oh, relax.” Comes the mutter in tones of exasperation. He presses in deeper, stretching him with careless and business-like exigency. His claws are sharp and the ensuing sensation is a searing thing that makes him squirm with discomfort, each forceful motion sending stabbing pain arcing through his gut and loins.
It’s painful. It’s uncomfortable. It’s agony. Kokushibo tilts his head back, gritting his teeth and collecting his hisses and grunts into the back of his throat in a bid to stifle them. When he retracts his fingers- slick with blood- they leave imprints across his thighs as Muzan holds his legs apart and positions himself at his entrance.
Something blunt and hot nudges at the fresh wound of his entrance; he arches and shudders as he thrusts in.
There is no pleasure to be derived from this manner of copulation. Muzan edges closer, curling over him like ivy and driving himself deep, pushing into him inch by gradual inch. The distance of the passage is eased only by the slippery glide of blood and raw flesh, and the stretch in itself is a horrendous thing as the pain flares and fails to subside. It hurts- like his nether regions have abruptly made an unhappy acquaintance with a firebrand, like his bones are creaking and splitting from the pressure of a hammer and chisel applied to fracture them.
Kokushibo exhales in a pain-wracked stutter. He clenches and relaxes in succession, finding neither option to bring any more relief than the other. His fangs click together and cinch around a gasp as a plea dies on his lips-
“What was that now?” Muzan leers, his hair hanging in tresses to frame a face that belies neither pleasure nor fury. “Please what? ”
“N-Nothing.” Kokushibo hisses. He has long since become accustomed to having his mind read at the most inopportune of moments. “N-Nothing… that matters.”
“Correct.” Then he chuckles. “Have you always been this good of a whore or is it only me who coaxes this side out of you? You know, any brothel-house would pay well for a nice obedient fuck like you. So tight, not a toe out of line and with such a pretty face to boot.”
This he says as he bottoms out, fully sheathing himself within him with a low hum of pleasure. Kokushibo spasms, tense and shaking within his tightening grip. He is more flayed skin than intact flesh, more pain than any entity of equanimity. Muzan’s fangs are bared an inch from his nose, sharp and gaping as the face of death itself.
Synchronicity lends itself to the moment, and both of them are left heaving and breathing harshly in a moment protracted mostly out of necessity.
There is no warning and forbearance has no place here. Kokushibo feels the shaft within him drag itself out and replace itself with agonizing slowness. They begin at a sedate pace, more in favor of Muzan’s acclimation than Kokushibo’s relief, though his deliverance is present all the same with this momentary lapse in an otherwise upwards scaling of pain. The rhythm of his hips is an unhurried one and the pain dulls marginally to a throb- in and out, in and out, it’s easy to let himself slip briefly into complacency.
As ever, Muzan has little tolerance for laxity. He scores his cheek and neck with his claws, embedding his hold in curving fish-hooks, then picks up the rhythm. Kokushibo groans in weak protest, clawing at the varnished floorboards, the muscles in his legs and core drawing taut as the bowstring of an archer who has sighted his target.
Then Muzan nonchalantly plunges a digit into one of his eyes.
Kokushibo jerks instantly with a hoarse shout, only to be forced down by the hand which closes around the angle of his jaw and slams him headfirst and sidelong, downwards with enough force to splinter the flooring.
“Know your place, Michikatsu.”
He blinks rapidly, tearing profusely and feeling the digit between his fluttering eyelids. Fresh blood trickles freely and pools in the hollows of his face, streaking into his eyes, painting his cheeks and splattering across the floor. A lesser being might have cried or turned to begging and pleading. Instead, Kokushibo stills, his voice a pale and lifeless whisper.
“Yes, master.”
There is a sound like tearing flesh, and then something slick and corrugated is wrapping itself around his throat and squeezing, creeping upward to replace the hand that draws away, holding him in place as the cock slips free. He is maneuvered, lifted up- the fleshy manifestation of Muzan’s Blood Demon art seizes one of his ankles in another unforgiving coil, and then there are hands hoisting at his hips. His torso remains twisted in a most uncomfortable position and he cannot lift his head.
Then he is slipping into him again with all the blazing agony from before; all the while, his own cock remains neglected, pressed up against the inside of his thigh and unattended. Muzan shifts the angle and plunges impossibly deep, setting up a fast and ruthless rhythm that leaves Kokushibo clutching and biting at thin air, hopelessly short of breath.
There is an obscene sound as blood and precum mix and glide, the lubrication easing the pain just enough that he begins to register the head of his cock bumping up against a discrete spot with just enough intensity to make him quiver. It’s a different sensation, not pain but too mild to be any form of proper pleasure, and Kokushibo finds himself split between it and the ruthless drag of his cock against his clenching walls, feeling each excruciating inch of it carving into him, tugging out and catching at his rim before driving back through with ruthless abandon.
His own arousal tingles in the pit of his gut, barely more than the sparking embers of a doused fire. In the end, he knows he will always be an afterthought. It is better this way. Besides, the very notion of being of use is enough to inspire some degree of satisfaction.
In due time his breaths begin to come shorter, his rhythm stutters, and then he is sinking in with his hips flush with Kokushibo’s groin to flood his insides with his searing release. The sensation in itself feels like a violation and he feels uncomfortably full, suspended in a limbo of neither wanting his cock to recede and wanting nothing more than to be elsewhere. They stay motionless and mute, the only sound between them the strident duality of their ragged breathing. Kokushibo feels the cock within him soften and registers the way cum oozes sluggishly from his entrance as Muzan rolls his hips experimentally before finally, finally pulling out.
His restraints dissipate and he is dropped unceremoniously to the ground, hips and legs thudding painfully into the floor in a tangled heap. He feels like a dirty and unwanted thing and he trembles as he picks himself up, his naked flesh scored and cut in the manner of a discarded piece of meat, his body disheveled and oozing blood and fluid. In stark contrast, Muzan stands aside, a picture of poise and grace as he cleans himself and promptly redresses.
“You have your orders.” He does not look over at him, having already turned to the mirror in the corner in order to rearrange himself.
Kokushibo rises to his feet and forces the shaking from his hands as he begins to dress in turn, hiding his shame in the dark folds of his hakama and obscuring his regret in the enveloping creases of his kimono. All of sudden Muzan is beside him, lifting the silvered sash of his obi and pulling it neatly around his waist. His hands are deft in their execution as he forms a bow and ties it.
“Though I suppose there’s no harm in a break. Let the other Kizuki perform their intended roles for once.” His smile is charismatic and disarming. Dangerous. Kokushibo stills in soft alarm.
“Join me, Kokushibo. There are alternative routes of pleasure that we might pursue.”