#doukaza

The mission had been brutal. Not because the opponents were strong—nothing of the sort. It was the mess of it that soured Akaza’s temper. Weak humans clawing for survival, children screaming, blood soaking the wooden floors of their shrine.

He’d tried to make it quick. Efficient. He didn’t enjoy carnage. Not like some of the others.

Not like Douma.

The other Upper Moon had arrived late. As always. Glittering fan in hand, robes untouched by filth, a too-wide smile plastered across his perfect face. He made a spectacle of it—twirling through the chaos, laughing as he cleaved flesh from bone like a dancer pirouetting on a stage built of corpses.

Akaza had said nothing at the time. He’d simply turned his back once the deed was done, muttering something about Muzan’s commands, and vanished into the churning corridors of the Infinity Castle.

But the fury had followed him. Gnawed at him. It wasn’t just Douma’s cruelty—it was the mockery. The way he’d winked at Akaza as he dipped his hands into the bloodied altar. The way he whispered, “You missed a spot, Akaza-dono,” as if they were sharing some private joke. As if this—death, filth, demonhood—was something worth smiling over.

Akaza’s footsteps echoed now as he stalked down one of the empty wings of the castle, fists clenched, teeth grinding. He needed solitude. Space. Time to remind himself why he endured this—why he still held some fragile tether to control.

But he wasn’t alone. Of course he wasn’t.

The halls of the Infinity Castle were always shifting, but tonight, they seemed to bend around Akaza’s rage—doors slamming closed without cause, lights flickering, floors stretching long and lonely beneath his bare feet. His blood still hummed with battle, but it wasn’t the satisfying high of a clean kill. It was tainted. Polluted by the echo of laughter. His laughter.

Akaza came to a stop in a narrow corridor lined with paper doors and endless shadows. One hand braced against the wall, the other curling into a tight fist at his side. The scent of blood still lingered—iron-rich, cloying, wrong. Not from his own hands, but from the trail Douma had carved like an artist painting with viscera. And still, Akaza had said nothing. Just clenched his jaw and walked away. Again.

A soft rustle of silk broke the quiet. He didn’t have to look to know.

“You followed me,” he growled, not turning.

Behind him, Douma clicked his tongue. “Mmm, not quite. I simply appeared. The castle likes me better, you know.”

Akaza spun, sharp and sudden. “Get out.”

But Douma only smiled—lazily, almost bored. He leaned against the doorframe like he’d wandered into a conversation, not a confrontation. His robes were spotless, as always, and his fan fluttered idly in one hand like it held no weight at all.

“Come now,” he purred, tilting his head. “You seem upset. Did I do something to offend you, Akaza-dono?”

The mockery was barely veiled, laced with that eternal, infuriating sweetness. As if he wasn’t standing ankle-deep in the blood of innocents just an hour ago. As if he didn’t wear that hollow smile like armour.

Akaza’s fists trembled. “You—” He cut himself off. Words would do nothing. Not with him.

But Douma stepped closer, fan closing with a crisp snap. His eyes—those eerie, crystalline eyes—never left Akaza’s face.

“I saw the way you looked at me,” he murmured. “After I tore the priest’s spine out. You were practically burning, my dear Upper Three. Was it anger? Or…” His voice dropped lower. “Was it something else?”

Akaza’s control snapped like glass underfoot. In a blink, he closed the distance, seizing Douma by the collar and slamming him back into the nearest wall. The plaster cracked, but Douma didn’t flinch. Didn’t resist. He only laughed, breathless and delighted.

“There it is,” he whispered. “There’s the fire I wanted.”

“Shut up,” Akaza snarled, his face inches away, breath ragged. “Don’t speak to me like you know me. You don’t know anything.”

Douma’s smile softened. Just a little. “But I do. I’ve watched you for over a century, Akaza-dono. I know what makes you tick. What makes you ache.”

His fingers grazed Akaza’s wrist, featherlight.

“And I know,” he whispered, “that there’s more than hatred in the way you look at me.”

Silence.

For a moment, neither moved. The castle around them fell still, holding its breath.

Then—

Akaza shoved him harder, as if he could crush the words out of existence. But his hands didn’t leave Douma’s robes. His grip was tight. Desperate. Like a man holding back a flood.

“You’re sick,” Akaza spat. “You play at love and meaning, but you feel nothing.”

Douma’s smile faded, and that was new. Rare, even. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“Perhaps. But that’s never stopped you from looking at me like you want something.”

Akaza’s chest rose and fell too fast. He could smell the cold sweetness of Douma’s skin—too close, too cloying. His fingers curled tighter in silk.

“Say one more word,” he warned, voice hoarse, “and I swear I’ll—”

“What?” Douma’s gaze dropped to Akaza’s mouth. “Kiss me? Kill me? I’ve been waiting over a century to find out.”

That was it. The final fraying thread of Akaza’s restraint snapped. He let go of Douma’s robes like they’d burned him, stumbling a step back, chest heaving. His hands hovered in the air as if they weren’t his own, as if he no longer trusted them.

“Don’t—” he choked, voice rough and jagged. “Don’t do that.”

Douma tilted his head, mask slipping back into place. “Do what, my dear?”

“Don’t pretend you understand me,” Akaza spat, each word like broken glass in his throat. “Don’t talk like this isn’t a game. Like you feel anything.”

He turned, running a hand through his hair, trying to claw his way back to clarity. But everything was too loud. Too close. The scent of blood, the lingering warmth of Douma’s body against his hands, the echo of that damnable smile behind his closed eyes.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

Douma’s voice drifted from behind him, featherlight but sharpened at the edges. “Oh, Akaza. You’ve never been good at hiding yourself. You act like I disgust you, like you can’t stand to be near me. But you never leave for long, do you?”

Akaza turned sharply, fury blooming in his chest like a second heartbeat. “You want the truth?” he growled. “Fine.”

He crossed the space between them again, not touching, but close enough to suffocate.

“You make me sick,” he snarled, eyes blazing. “I see you and I feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin. You twist everything—every word, every glance, like it’s some kind of performance. And I hate you for it. I hate you because…”

His voice faltered. Because the truth was a blade he’d never dared unsheathe. Douma watched him, quiet now. Unblinking. Waiting. Akaza’s fists clenched at his sides. When he spoke again, his voice was low. Raw.

“Get out of my sight.”

Douma blinked. Slowly. “Oh?”

“Now,” Akaza barked, every muscle in his body wound tight, as if he was holding back something far more dangerous than a punch. “Before I do something I can’t take back. Before I kill you. Because if you stay here—if you say one more word—I swear to Muzan, I will.”

He meant it… Or maybe he didn’t. He didn’t know anymore. The lines were blurring too fast. All he knew was that if Douma touched him, spoke to him, looked at him like that again, something would snap, and not even centuries of hatred could stop what would follow.

Douma’s eyes glittered in the dark. But for once, he didn’t smile. He bowed his head slightly, as if in mock deference—or maybe something else.

“I see,” he murmured, voice quieter than usual. “How tragic. You feel so much… and still think it’s only hate.”

Then he turned, fan fluttering open once more, and disappeared into the shadows without another word. Leaving Akaza alone in the corridor, fists trembling, breath ragged, heart racing with something far more dangerous than anger.

He didn’t know how long he walked.

The corridors stretched endlessly, rooms folding in on themselves, but Akaza barely noticed. His feet moved of their own accord—silent, sharp—like a hunter stalking prey. Only there was no one left to kill. Not really.

He slammed his fist into a wooden pillar as he passed. The impact splintered it, sent shards clattering to the floor, but it did nothing to dull the ache in his chest. His head was a storm. A mess of fragments he couldn’t string together—expressions, touches, words that burrowed under his skin like splinters.

“Perhaps… but that’s never stopped you from looking at me like you want something.”

“You never leave for long, do you?”

“How tragic. You feel so much… and still think it’s only hate.”

He hated him. He hated him.

Didn’t he?

Akaza dragged a hand through his hair, claws digging into his scalp. It was easier to focus on the sting of that than the chaos inside him.

He’d spent countless decades hating Douma. No, more than that—despising him. Everything about him. His cruelty. His emptiness. The way he wore charm like a mask and dismemberment like an art form. Douma didn’t feel. He didn’t mourn, didn’t care, didn’t understand. He was hollow. A mockery of existence.

So why the fuck did Akaza still remember the exact pitch of his voice from moments ago? Why could he still feel the silk of his robes between his fingers, the frozen scent of him clinging to the air like fog? What was different about tonight?

He’d seen Douma kill before. Hundreds of times. Thousands. He’d been called to missions alongside him, listened to his sugarcoated nonsense, brushed him off like a nuisance. But this time—this time he couldn’t brush it off.

Because Douma hadn’t just been toying with him tonight. Not really. There’d been something in his voice—beneath the teasing, under the smirk. A flicker of something real. A break in the mask. A line crossed not for sport, but because something inside him had shifted, too. And that terrified Akaza more than anything.

Because it meant Douma might’ve been telling the truth. It meant this wasn’t one-sided anymore.

“Fuck,” he whispered, punching the stone wall hard enough to split the skin of his knuckles. Blood dripped down his wrist, but it was already healing. Always healing. The body repaired. The mind rotted. He sank to a crouch, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes burning. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t stand up. Couldn’t breathe.

For the first time in a century, Akaza wasn’t sure if what he felt for Douma was hatred or something else entirely. That was the difference. Tonight, Douma hadn’t just gotten under his skin. He’d gotten in.

The summons came in their usual way; sudden, wordless, and impossible to ignore.

Akaza didn’t hesitate. He could feel Muzan’s presence like a nail in the base of his skull—pulling, commanding. It always made his stomach twist, even after all these years.

By the time he arrived in the audience chamber, the other Upper Moons had already gathered. Kokushibo stood at the base of the steps, silent and unmoving. Hantengu’s echoes trembled in the shadows. Nakime plucked softly at her biwa in the corner, expression blank.

And Douma—

Akaza’s jaw tensed.

Douma was lounging at the far end of the chamber, golden eyes flicking toward him the moment he entered. No smirk this time. Just a subtle tilt of the head, a glint of something unreadable in his gaze. Akaza didn’t look twice. Didn’t speak. He took his place near the centre, eyes fixed forward.

Then Muzan appeared. The air turned colder, thicker. As though time itself held its breath. He materialised like mist congealing into flesh—flawless, inhuman, magnificent in his loathing.

“You disappoint me,” Muzan said, and his voice was quieter than a whisper—but it filled the room like a scream. “You bask in your ranks as if they are gifts. But you are weapons. Blades. Tools. And tools that rust are broken and replaced.”

None of them spoke.

“You will prove yourselves,” he continued, eyes cutting across each face. “Or you will suffer. That is all.”

Nakime plucked a final chord. A doorway opened in the air.

Muzan turned his gaze toward Akaza. “Upper Three.”

Akaza stepped forward without hesitation. “Yes, Muzan-sama.”

“You and Upper Two will go north. There is a slayer faction building beyond the mountain village of Kirisawa. Wipe it clean.”

The silence cracked like lightning. Akaza felt it like a blow to the chest.

You and Upper Two.

Behind him, Douma made a soft sound of delight. Akaza didn’t turn, didn’t flinch. Only bowed his head lower.

“Yes, Muzan-sama.”

Muzan’s voice dropped colder. “Fail, and I will make eternity a prison you cannot escape.”

Then he was gone. Just like that. The weight of his presence lifted, but the air didn’t ease. The tension remained, thick and blood-slicked, as Nakime’s biwa strings echoed into nothing. Akaza turned on his heel, already heading for the portal.

“Akaza-dono,” Douma called sweetly. “No congratulations? We’re partners again! I do so love our bonding missions.”

Akaza didn’t stop walking. “Touch me,” he growled, “and I’ll rip your arm off.”

Douma giggled. “You already tried that once. Maybe this time, I’ll let you succeed.”

They disappeared into the portal side by side. Bound by command, driven by violence, and stalked by something far more dangerous than hatred.

The air in Kirisawa was sharp with winter. A village tucked into the mountains, cloaked in snowfall and silence. The portal dissolved behind them as Akaza stepped out into the forest’s edge. Pines bowed under the weight of snow, branches creaking softly in the stillness. The moon cut through the trees in slivers, casting ghost-pale light across the frost-covered ground.

Douma followed leisurely, exhaling a dramatic sigh as his geta crunched against the snow. “Mmm, what a charming little place. So quaint.”

Akaza didn’t respond. He was already scanning the terrain—eyes narrowed, senses stretched wide. The scent of human fear hung faint in the air, trailing from the direction of the village below. Then came another scent. Stronger. Familiar.

Blood. Fresh. Not far.

Akaza turned sharply, boots cutting deep into the snow. He broke into a run, Douma trailing behind at a skip.

They found them just beyond the treeline: three humans, two of them barely adults. A man lay crumpled on the ground, throat torn. Beside him, a young girl sobbed into the chest of her sister—both wide-eyed, trembling, frozen in place.

Douma landed lightly on a nearby rock, crouching like a cat. “Ah. A family reunion gone terribly wrong, I see.”

Akaza was silent, jaw clenched. The younger girl couldn’t be more than fifteen. She stared at them both like she already knew death had come.

Douma tilted his head. “Shall I?” he asked, eyes gleaming.

Akaza glared. “Do what you want. Just don’t drag it out.”

He turned, already moving away—but Douma’s voice stopped him.

“You know,” he called, tone too light to be casual, “I’ve always found it fascinating how beautiful women bother you so much more than anyone else.”

Akaza froze.

Slowly, he turned back. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Douma stepped down from the rock, fanning himself lazily. “You always get that tight, angry little look whenever I touch one. Like your teeth hurt. Like you’re about to vomit. Is it guilt, I wonder? A sliver of humanity left?” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Or is it because they’re women?”

Akaza’s fists curled. “Don’t push me.”

“But I must,” Douma sang, taking another step closer to the terrified girls. “Because I can’t tell if it’s a moral compass rattling around in there—or if it’s the ghost of your mortal life whispering that women are sacred, untouchable. Something to protect.”

Akaza said nothing. His silence was answer enough.

Douma looked back at the girls. The older one had stepped in front of the younger now, arms outstretched, eyes wide with defiance despite the tremor in her hands. He studied her for a long moment.

Then turned away.

Akaza blinked. “You’re not going to kill them?”

Douma smiled over his shoulder. Not his usual grin. Something smaller. More deliberate. “No.”

“You never leave survivors.”

“True,” Douma mused. “But tonight, I’ve already had my fun.”

He wandered back toward Akaza, brushing past him with a whisper of silk. “Besides,” he murmured, “I’m far more curious about what you’ll do next.”

The sound of the girls’ footsteps had long since vanished into the trees, swallowed by snow and silence. Akaza remained where he stood, jaw tight, breath leaving him in slow, heavy clouds. The cold bit at the back of his neck, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He’d just watched Douma let humans live. Two girls, no less. The Douma he knew—Upper Rank Two, devourer of beauty, collector of pretty little things until they broke—would have killed them simply for breathing too loud. But tonight? He hadn’t even raised a hand.

A few paces ahead, Douma adjusted his robes with a hum, unbothered by the blood drying at his collar. Then, without looking back, he spoke.

“Are you coming?” he called over his shoulder. “Muzan-sama would be dreadfully unhappy if we didn’t carry out his little task.”

Akaza’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“You think this is a joke, don’t you?” he muttered.

Douma turned just enough to glance back, a slow smile spreading across his lips. “No. I think it’s fascinating.”

“Fascinating?”

“Yes,” he said lightly. “You. Me. This.” He gestured vaguely between them. “There’s something so thrilling about the unknown. You’ve never been predictable, Akaza-dono. But tonight?”

He took a few steps closer.

“You watched me let them go. And you didn’t stop me. You didn’t threaten me. You didn’t even snarl.”

Akaza’s teeth ground together. “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

“I don’t need to,” Douma said, almost gently. “You’re already unravelling on your own.”

He was too close again. Not touching—but close enough that Akaza could smell him. Cold lotus and blood and something else. Something he’d never wanted to identify before.

“You’re wrong about me,” Akaza said, voice low and dangerous. “I’m not like you.”

“I know,” Douma murmured. “That’s why I like you.”

For a long moment, they just stood there. Two monsters, centuries old, staring across a chasm that had always existed between them—until tonight. Then Douma turned again, this time more softly, his voice lighter once more.

“Come now,” he said, stepping back into the trees. “There’s still a village to burn. I promise I’ll leave the women untouched, if it makes you feel better.”

Akaza didn’t answer. But after a few seconds, he followed. Not because of Muzan. Not because of duty. But because he needed to know. What the hell was Douma doing? And worse—why did it feel like part of him wanted to understand?

They found the slayers just past the main road—huddled in the ruins of an abandoned shrine, armed with rusted blades and righteous delusion.

There were maybe ten of them. Young. Too young. Not a single Hashira among them. Not even a ranked slayer, from the looks of it. They didn’t even see them coming. One moment, the wind whistled gently through the broken beams of the temple.

The next—screams.

Akaza didn’t even bother activating his technique. There was no need. These boys hadn’t faced anything beyond the occasional feral, low-rank demon—and even then, half of them probably missed their strikes more than they landed them.

The first to fall tried to shout a command. His neck snapped before the word left his throat. The second aimed for Douma, blade trembling in both hands. He didn’t even flinch when it pierced his robe—just laughed softly and crushed the boy’s ribcage with one elegant motion.

From there, it was nothing but blood and silence. Two minutes. Maybe less. When the last one dropped to the snow, twitching in a widening pool of red, Douma exhaled a soft sigh.

“Well,” he said, shaking crimson from his fingers, “that was anticlimactic.”

Akaza said nothing. He stood near the edge of the clearing, breathing steady, arms slick to the elbow with blood. One of the hunters had tried to run—he’d caught him by the throat and slammed him into the shrine wall so hard the wood cracked like dry bone.

Douma stepped over a severed arm, hands clasped behind his back like he was admiring a painting.

“I almost feel bad,” he mused. “They were children, really. Not a drop of decent technique between them.”

Akaza’s voice was cold. “Then you should’ve left them.”

Douma raised a brow. “You didn’t.”

“They were slayers,” Akaza snapped. “That’s different.”

Douma gave a soft hum, unreadable. “If you say so.”

He knelt beside one of the bodies, brushing dark hair from a bloodied face. “No mastery of their breathing style at all,” he murmured. “Poor thing. They should have stayed home.”

Akaza turned away, jaw tight. There was no glory in this. No challenge. No reason for his heart to be pounding like this—but it was. Not from the fight. From him. From the way Douma moved through carnage like it was choreography. From the way he looked at Akaza afterward, all amusement and something else—something still.

“Are you satisfied now?” Akaza asked sharply, voice low.

Douma stood slowly, eyes meeting his. “Not even close.”

Snow still drifted lazily from the sky, each flake catching the faint glow of the moon. The scent of blood was beginning to thicken, turning metallic in the cold air—bodies already stiffening where they’d fallen. But Akaza didn’t look at them. He stood just outside the ruins of the shrine, gaze pinned to the treeline. Still. Sharp. Watching.

There was a gnawing sensation at the base of his spine, low and cold and steady.

This was too easy.

Ten untrained boys. No Hashira. No breathing forms worth naming. Not even a competent strategist among them. It hadn’t been a battle. It had been a clean-up. And Muzan didn’t send Upper Moons for clean-up. He knew that.

Muzan knew everything. So why? What was the purpose of this mission?

Beside him, Douma dipped one talon into the pooling blood at his feet, swirling it with an idle hum like he was drawing a sigil in the snow.

“Wondering why we were sent here?” he said without looking up.

Akaza didn’t answer.

Douma smiled. “You always get that look when something doesn’t make sense. Like you’re trying to solve a puzzle that hasn’t even been handed to you yet.”

Akaza said nothing. His shoulders were tense, muscles coiled like wire.

Douma’s voice dropped lower. “I admit, I was curious too. Surely even Muzan-sama wouldn’t waste both of us on such a pitiful little task.”

Still, Akaza remained silent. Peering into the darkness. Waiting. Because he wasn’t convinced they were alone, not yet.

Douma stood, brushing his hands together delicately. “Perhaps it’s a test,” he mused. “Of our… cooperation.”

Akaza’s head snapped toward him, eyes sharp.

Douma grinned. “We have been a little dysfunctional lately, haven’t we?”

Akaza’s silence stretched thinner. He didn’t trust this—any of it. Not Muzan’s orders, not the dead-end mission, and certainly not the way Douma was still watching him when there was nothing left to kill.

His eyes returned to the forest.

“Do you sense anything else?” he asked, low.

Douma tilted his head. “No. But then again, I’m not the one whose instincts are currently screaming.”

Akaza’s jaw tensed. The gnawing feeling hadn’t gone away, and Douma wouldn’t stop talking. The blood was still steaming in the snow, the moon high above casting silver shadows across the carnage, and he just kept talking. Casual. Cheerful. Cruel.

“…And really,” he mused, idly tossing a severed blade into a pile of limbs, “if we’re being honest, they were never going to survive. Poor little darlings. All that bravery, wasted. But I suppose it’s so fitting that you and I were the ones to end it. A poetic duo—death and frost, flesh and—”

“Enough.”

The word cut through the night like a blade.

Douma turned, still smiling. “Hm?”

“I said enough.”

Akaza’s voice was a growl now, low and ragged and rising with every breath. Douma made an amused sound, then opened his mouth to retort.

Enough.

With a blur of motion, Akaza was on him—shoulder crashing into Douma’s chest, driving them both down into the snow with a force that cracked the earth beneath them. But he should have never been able to land the blow. Although it pained him deeply to admit, Douma was faster. Stronger. He always had been.

But he let it happen.

Now Akaza hovered above him, breathing hard, his thighs straddling Douma’s hips, forearm braced against his collarbone. His other hand fisted in Douma’s robes, half-torn from the fall.

And Douma? He was smiling. Smiling like he’d just won something. Snowflakes melted on his cheeks, blood streaked beneath his eyes—and his tongue swept slowly across his lower lip.

“Well,” he purred, “this is new.”

Akaza’s heart was a war drum. His body a contradiction of instinct and shame and something darker, something clawing its way up his throat like hunger. He looked down and realised just how compromising their position was—bodies flush, Douma pinned beneath him, his own breathing laboured in the space between them.

Akaza flinched back, fury and confusion flaring in his chest. He moved to rise—but Douma’s hands snapped up around his biceps like iron shackles, fingers digging in hard enough to pierce his flesh. The pressure sent a jolt through his bones.

“Get off,” Akaza snarled, twisting.

Douma’s grin widened. “Funny,” he whispered, voice a silk-covered knife. “You were the instigator here.”

And in the blink of an eye—it changed. Akaza didn’t even have time to breathe.

Douma rolled, a sudden, fluid twist of motion, and Akaza’s world flipped upside down. His back hit the snow with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, and now he was the one pinned, arms splayed, Douma straddling him like a throne. The shift was effortless. Humiliating. Intimate. Akaza bared his teeth, but Douma only tilted his head.

“See?” he murmured, leaning in just enough that his hair brushed Akaza’s cheek. “You play at control, but your body betrays you every time.”

Akaza thrashed, but Douma’s grip was unyielding. And still, beneath the tension, the hatred, the heat—something quivered in the air between them. A breath too long. A heartbeat too loud.

Neither of them moved, not yet. But then Douma leaned in. Closer. Closer still. His breath ghosted over Akaza’s cheek, warm and sweet, tinged faintly with blood and winter frost. His laugh followed—light and airy, like musical notes spun into the breeze.

“I can hear your heart thundering in your chest,” he whispered. “How delightful.”

Akaza scowled, thrashing beneath him, but Douma’s grip only tightened, fingers digging in like shackles made of ice.

“You’re imagining things,” Akaza growled, voice ragged.

Douma tilted his head. “Am I?”

Slowly. With deliberate grace. His mouth dipped to Akaza’s neck, hovering just above the racing artery beneath his skin. His lips didn’t touch—not at first. Just a whisper of presence. A promise.

Akaza went still. Not from fear, from something far more dangerous.

Then—he bit. Fangs sank into flesh with cruel precision, piercing deep, and Akaza’s breath hitched—a strangled, involuntary sound breaking from his throat as hot blood erupted against Douma’s tongue. His hips bucked beneath him, body jerking, betraying him in the worst possible way.

Douma moaned, low and soft, as if Akaza’s blood was wine and sin all at once. He drank slowly. Leisurely. Not out of hunger—but for pleasure. Akaza groaned again, this time through gritted teeth, eyes squeezing shut as pain mingled with something else—something he didn’t want to name.

He could feel Douma’s smile against his skin.

When the wound began to close, regenerating like all demon flesh does, Douma drew back. Blood stained his lips, his chin, the delicate white of his collar. And his eyes—those cursed, beautiful eyes—blazed. With mischief. With hunger. With something that looked dangerously close to desire.

In one smooth motion, he dragged a single claw along the fresh seam of skin—just enough to reopen it, to collect another bead of blood. Then, with maddening slowness, he smeared it across Akaza’s cheek—his mark, red against pale skin. He dipped the same finger into his mouth. Sucked. Lingered.

“Delicious,” he purred, lips wet. “I knew you’d taste like battle and heartbreak.”

Akaza snapped. He surged upward, teeth bared, forcing Douma back an inch—but still trapped. Still pinned. Still seething with something tangled between fury and heat.

“I will kill you,” he snarled, voice shaking. “I swear I’ll tear you apart.”

Douma’s smile softened—not mocking, but knowing.

“No,” he murmured. “You won’t.”

He leaned in once more, foreheads nearly touching.

“Because if you meant it, Akaza-dono… you wouldn’t be trembling.”

It happened in an instant. Akaza, panting, furious, humiliated, aroused, reached up with trembling hands then seized Douma by the back of the head and ripped him forward. His teeth sank into the pale column of Douma’s throat—deep, brutal, tearing—not like a demon feeding but like a beast claiming. Douma gasped, a sharp, high sound of pain-turned-pleasure as blood gushed into Akaza’s mouth. His claws responded instinctively, raking through Akaza’s scalp and tearing skin as they curled into his skull. Flesh peeled. Blood spattered. Neither of them stopped.

Akaza spat a thick chunk of flesh to the ground beside them, jaw slick, teeth red, breath trembling. And Douma… Douma moaned. Face slack, eyes fluttered shut, ecstasy etched into every line of him. He opened them slowly and stared back at Akaza like he’d been reborn.

Akaza’s chest was heaving. His mouth smeared with blood. His pride shattered.

Douma’s smile returned—fanged, feral. And then—with enough force to pulverise a mortal body into pulp—he shoved. Akaza’s back slammed into the earth with a force that cracked rock, creating a crater beneath his spine. His collarbone shattered, a sickening crack echoing through the forest. White-hot pain bloomed through his chest.

His hands flew upward, out of instinct, reaching for Douma’s throat. But Douma moved first. He dipped his head, slow and deliberate, and licked the blood from Akaza’s lips.

Akaza froze, and for one suspended moment, time fractured. In that brief flicker of hesitation, Douma struck. His lips parted, and he sucked Akaza’s bottom lip into his mouth. Bit down—hard. Blood welled again.

Akaza’s eyes rolled back. A strangled, broken sound tore from his throat—half snarl, half moan—and before he could even register it, his hands weren’t attacking anymore. They were pulling. Gripping.

Fingers curling around Douma’s waist, dragging him closer. His body betrayed him, and Douma didn’t let up. He kissed him like a predator—messy, possessive, tongue tracing the wound he’d just created, lips parting over Akaza’s with heat and hunger.

“You’re mine,” Douma breathed between kisses, voice hoarse, no longer sweet. “You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

Akaza’s claws dug into his back, but he didn’t push him away. He couldn’t. He didn’t know how to anymore. So, he kissed him back. Hard.

Akaza surged up, lips crashing into Douma’s with brutal force, hands tightening around his waist as if he could tear him apart or keep him close—he didn’t know which. Their mouths moved with frantic violence—biting, tasting, panting between kisses. The snow beneath them melted from body heat alone, steam rising between growls and gasps.

It felt wrong. So wrong it burned. So wrong, it felt right.

Akaza moaned low in his throat, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and Douma responded with a growl of satisfaction, grinding down into his lap like he wanted to fuse their bodies together. Fangs scraped lips. Nails clawed flesh. They were losing themselves.

Neither noticed the air splitting behind them. Neither felt the pull of space warping, a presence reaching through dimensions like a hand through silk. Not until the ground vanished beneath them.

And then—they were falling. Akaza tore from Douma’s grasp mid-descent, the cold suddenly replaced with dizzying, oppressive heat.

By the time they landed, the air was thick with power. Akaza hit the stone floor hard, knees digging into polished obsidian tile. He barely caught himself on his hands. Douma landed opposite, graceful as ever, spine perfectly straight, not a hair out of place.

The silence that followed was crushing. Then—a voice. Low. Terrifying. Patient. Deadly.

“So this,” Muzan said, “is what becomes of two of my most trusted creations.”

Akaza froze. Douma’s smile flickered, just for a second.

Muzan stood atop the stairs of the audience chamber, his gaze colder than the void beyond life itself. Unblinking. Unforgiving. Watching them both.

“You were sent to destroy a threat,” he continued. “Instead, you debased yourselves in the snow like rutting animals.”

Akaza’s breathing was still erratic, chest rising and falling far too fast. He tried to speak—but no words came.

Douma chuckled, softly. “You called us back so soon, Muzan-sama. We were in the middle of—”

Muzan was in front of him before he could finish. Douma’s face snapped sideways, blood spraying across the tile from a blow too fast to see.

“You forget your place,” Muzan said, voice like crushed bone.

Then he turned his gaze to Akaza, and it was worse. Because he said nothing at all. He just stared. Piercing, knowing.

Akaza dropped his eyes to the floor. His lips still burned, his hands still trembled. And inside, where no one could see, a terrifying truth pulsed like a second heartbeat. He’d wanted it. And he’d want it again.

The silence after Muzan’s blow was suffocating. Douma still knelt where he’d been struck, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth, staining the pristine white of his collar. His head was bowed, golden hair veiling his expression—but the corners of his lips twitched upward. He was smiling.

Akaza hadn’t lifted his head once. He remained where he’d landed—on his knees, back rigid, hands pressed to the cold obsidian floor. His throat was tight. His breathing forced through clenched teeth. The taste of Douma still lingered on his tongue.

The echo of Muzan’s presence crushed against his spine.

“If you hadn’t carried out the task set, you would cease to exist.”

His words fell like ash.

“Get out of my sight.”

Akaza’s nails dug into his palms. He forced himself upright, head still bowed, and turned without a word, disappearing into the shifting hallways of the Infinity Castle. His feet were silent. His pride was in ruins.

Douma rose more leisurely, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand. He spared a glance toward Muzan—but didn’t meet his eyes. That would’ve been foolish. Still smiling, he bowed. Deep, elegant. And then followed Akaza into the dark.

Akaza sat on the stone floor, legs folded, hands resting on his knees. His breathing was controlled—but just barely. The edges of his vision pulsed with every heartbeat. He was still bleeding, somewhere beneath the skin. Not from wounds. From memory.

He kept seeing it. The glint in Douma’s eyes. The bite. The sound he made when their lips finally collided. The way his body had responded, traitorous and desperate.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. This wasn’t him, this wasn’t who he was. He was a warrior. A demon. A weapon forged by loss, hate, pain. He wasn’t someone who let his enemies crawl into his blood like a virus.

He wasn’t someone who liked it.

You’re mine. You just don’t want to admit it yet.

He inhaled sharply, deeper this time, grounding himself. Trying to remember who he was before tonight. The castle was silent around him. Endless stone, still air. A cocoon. A cage.

Until—

Tap.

A soft sound above.

Tap.

Something shifted in the darkness above the high ceiling. Barely audible. Like breath. Akaza’s eyes snapped open.

Douma dropped from above, silent as snowfall, landing in a crouch just a few feet away. Like a cursed bat, or a spectre summoned by desire and denial. Like he’d never left his side at all.

Akaza was on his feet in an instant, blood roaring back to life in his veins.

“You’re not welcome here,” he spat, voice low and cracked.

Douma rose slowly, fluid and feline, robes still stained from the mission, his hair tousled from the fall. He smiled, soft and dangerous.

“You say that,” he purred, “but your body said something very different earlier.”

Akaza’s fists clenched. “Get out.”

Douma stepped closer, unbothered. “You look shaken. Poor thing. Are you… meditating?”

He gestured lazily to the circle Akaza had left in the dust on the floor. “You were centring yourself, weren’t you? How precious.”

Akaza didn’t speak. His chest was rising too fast. His hands trembled.

“You can pretend this was nothing,” Douma continued, voice silken and slow. “That it was just blood. Just instinct. But we both know it wasn’t.”

He took another step forward.

“Come here.”

Douma stood in the low light of the chamber, robes darkened with old blood, his hair tousled from the fall, but his expression—his eyes—were crystalline control. His gaze pinned Akaza like prey. Still. Unmoving.

“I’m waiting.”

The silence between them stretched thin. Too thin. Akaza’s pulse was thundering again. Just like before. His body tensed—not in defense. Not yet. In something that tasted too much like anticipation.

He should say no. Should snarl, rage, lunge. But his feet didn’t move.

Douma tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward—not quite a smile. Not yet. Just the hint of one. As if he already knew Akaza was about to betray himself.

“I let you pin me earlier,” he said softly. “Do you want to see what it feels like when I don’t hold back?”

Akaza didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was dry, his fists still clenched. But his legs—

He took a step forward. Douma’s eyes flashed. Like a star refracting through broken glass.

“Good,” he murmured. “Again.”

Akaza’s jaw locked tight.

“I said,” Douma’s voice cracked like a whip, slicing clean through the stillness,

“Come here.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command dressed in silk and steel.

Akaza moved before he could think—before reason could catch up to instinct. One step, then another, until there was no space left between them. They stood chest to chest, breath mingling, heat coiling between their bodies like smoke.

Then—snap. Douma’s arm shot out, his fingers wrapping around Akaza’s throat with crushing precision. Not enough to cut off air—just enough to remind him who held control. Akaza let out a low, strangled sound—half-snarl, half-moan—his hands twitching at his sides, unsure whether to strike or cling.

Douma leaned in, breath brushing over Akaza’s cheek, his smile a blade sheathed in pleasure.

“You want me to show you, don’t you?” he whispered, eyes gleaming. “Oh, what a delicious turn of events.”

His grip tightened, just slightly, thumb tracing the rapid pulse at Akaza’s throat.

“Akaza,” he purred, “the proud, untouchable Upper Moon Three… now willingly and completely—” He dipped closer, lips nearly brushing his ear. “—at my mercy.”

“Please.” The word tore itself from Akaza’s throat—raw, rasping, broken. Crushed between Douma’s fingers, it barely made it out.

But it was there. Real, undeniable. And it was all Douma needed.

He froze for half a second, stunned into stillness—then let out a laugh so violent, so unhinged, it ricocheted off the stone walls like thunder cracking bone. His head snapped back, neck arched, muscles straining as the sound tore through him. Not delight. Not amusement. Euphoria.

“You begged,” he hissed through laughter. “Oh, Akaza, you begged.”

His smile returned, sharp as ever—wider now, feral, eyes glowing like fractured gemstones.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he purred, voice dripping with glee.

Then he crashed forward. His lips smashed into Akaza’s with bruising force—teeth clashing, blood spilling anew between mouths already split from violence.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was possession.

Akaza gasped against him, choking on breath and heat and shame, but his hands moved again—grabbing Douma’s sleeves, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away. Douma moaned into his mouth, delight blooming in every fibre of him as he deepened the kiss—tongue slick with blood, claiming every part of Akaza’s resistance and swallowing it whole.

The kiss shattered whatever was left of Akaza’s self-control. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t loving. It was violent, fuelled by over a century of rage, repression and something else neither of them had ever dared name. And Douma drank it all in. He pressed harder, teeth grazing split lips, tongue curling past Akaza’s as if to stake a claim. His hands—once so delicate, so composed—were everywhere now. One tangled in Akaza’s hair, yanking hard enough to draw another strained gasp. The other slipped beneath torn fabric, dragging claws down his spine, slicing through muscle with practiced care.

Akaza groaned, the sound low, guttural, desperate. He should have thrown Douma off. Should have fought, snarled, escaped. But instead—he leaned in.

His hands gripped Douma’s hips, claws biting through silk and skin alike, and pulled him flush. Their bodies collided—blood-warm, battle-scarred, trembling with hunger not fed by flesh alone.

Douma laughed against his mouth, breathless and electric. “There you are,” he whispered, voice a reverent curse.

He kissed him again—deeper now, less violent, but no less consuming. His hips rolled against Akaza’s with slow, devastating rhythm, and the groan it tore from the demon beneath him was involuntary.

Akaza arched up into him, neck bared without thought—offering. And Douma didn’t waste the chance. He dipped low, fangs grazing the already-healed wound at Akaza’s throat, then bit down again. Blood surged into his mouth, and he moaned, obscene and trembling, as if this—this—was the moment he’d waited 137 years for.

Because it was.

Akaza gasped, hands flexing against Douma’s back. Every nerve ending in his body was on fire, flooded with sensation, heat, shame, need. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to want this. But now, with Douma above him—on him—smiling like the monster he was, Akaza couldn’t remember why he’d resisted for so long.

“Say it,” Douma murmured against his throat. “Say you want this.”

Akaza’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Say you want me.”

A pause. A moment of silence. Then—

“…I want you,” he rasped. Barely audible. Broken.

But Douma heard it, and he lit up.

“Oh, Akaza-dono,” he purred, licking blood from his lips. “You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed.”

And he dove back in.

Clothing shredded under clawed hands, torn from skin like it had no right to be there. Akaza barely registered the fabric scattering to the floor—his mind was fog, his body fire.

Douma was everywhere. Mouth against his throat, his collarbone, the curve of his chest—biting, licking, marking. Each scrape of fang pulled a new sound from Akaza’s lips; a gasp, a grunt, a helpless moan he’d never made in his existence as a demon.

He was on his back, legs parted by Douma’s knee, body writhing beneath him, and not once did he try to stop it.

“Look at you,” Douma whispered, dragging his tongue along the ridges of Akaza’s ribs, blood-slicked and gleaming. “The mighty Upper Moon Three… trembling like prey.”

He grinned, baring bloody teeth.

“And you love it.”

Akaza didn’t speak. His voice had been reduced to ragged breathing and curses slurred through gritted teeth. But when Douma dipped lower—tongue flicking, claws digging into his hips—Akaza arched, back lifting off the stone floor as his hands flew into Douma’s hair.

Douma groaned in return, delighted by the reaction, and shifted between his thighs—grinding down, slow and intentional. Flesh to flesh. Nothing between them now but heat and blood.

“Beg for it again,” Douma murmured against his stomach. “Say it like you did before. Say please.”

Akaza growled, twisting in frustration, but it wasn’t rage. It was desperation. It was need.

“Please,” he hissed, clawing at Douma’s shoulders. “Do something—”

Douma sank his teeth into the inside of Akaza’s thigh in response.

Akaza cried out, head snapping back, his body jolting under the sudden surge of pain and pleasure. The wound healed instantly, but Douma only laughed again, licking the blood from his lips as he moved back up.

“You’re exquisite like this,” he whispered. “All mine.”

Then he lined himself up, dragged the tip of himself along the crease of Akaza’s body—and thrust in.

Akaza howled.

There was no other word for the sound he made—raw and guttural, ripped from the deepest part of him as Douma seated himself fully, forcing Akaza’s body open with no pause, no mercy. His claws scraped the floor. His eyes rolled back. His lips parted in a snarl that dissolved into a moan.

Douma didn’t wait. He set a pace that was punishing, relentless, perfect. Each thrust sent Akaza’s body sliding against the stone, each drag of Douma’s hips angled to strike that one spot deep inside him that made his thighs twitch and his hands clench into fists. The pain was exquisite. The pleasure was worse.

“Say it again,” Douma demanded, voice breaking with lust as he leaned down, mouths inches apart. “Say you want me.”

Akaza stared at him, eyes glassy, lips bloodied—and said nothing. So Douma bit his lip—hard.

“Say it.”

Akaza gasped, bucking up to meet him, finally snapping—

“I want you,” he growled. “Fuck, I—need you.”

Douma snapped his hips forward at that, harder than before, and they both shuddered. Their bodies moved in perfect violence—matching rhythms, trading sounds, both monsters reduced to something primal and ruinous and so painfully alive. Blood smeared across skin. Teeth marked shoulders. Hands gripped hips and hair and anything they could anchor to while the world narrowed to nothing but this.

When Akaza came—loud, breathless, writhing—it was with Douma’s name on his lips. Douma followed with a moan that vibrated against his throat, fangs sunk into Akaza’s shoulder as he spilled inside him, shaking, lost.

The stillness afterward was worse than the storm.

Akaza lay beneath him, chest rising in jagged bursts, body twitching with the aftershocks of release. Douma didn’t move. He simply smiled—genuinely, for once—then licked the blood from Akaza’s cheek like it was the final touch on a masterpiece.

“Mine,” he whispered.