Upper moons x reader (separately)
✦ in which the moon still loves the monsters ✦
ᶻ ʸⁿ …even demons find warmth in gentle hands.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✩ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
☽ kokushibō — “the moon’s quiet devotion”
the night hums softly around you, threads of silver light bending through the trees as you walk beside him. kokushibō doesn’t speak much — not because he lacks words, but because so few seem worthy of being spoken. you learned that quickly. silence is his language, and patience is the way to listen.
you’ve seen him in battle — the monstrous calm, the glint of his many eyes reflecting blood and moonlight alike. when he told you what he was, what he had done, you didn’t flinch. you simply looked at him, eyes soft, voice steady. “i know,”you’d whispered, “and i’m still here.”
he didn’t believe you at first. demons don’t earn forgiveness — they take, they endure, they vanish. but you… you stayed. you waited while he sharpened his blade in the dim corners of the infinity castle, you spoke softly when the quiet grew heavy. sometimes you’d brush your fingers near his sleeve — not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from you.
and maybe that’s what cracked something in him. not pity, not love — at least, not at first. it was recognition.
when he looks at you, he sees a reflection of the humanity he thought he lost centuries ago. the quiet respect in your voice when you call his name. the way you never look away from his eyes — all of them.
one evening, he finally speaks, voice low and frayed. “you should not care for a creature like me.”
you smile, gentle as moonlight. “maybe not,” you whisper, “but i do.”
for the first time in centuries, kokushibō’s sword hand trembles.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✩ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
❄︎ dōma — “where warmth should not exist”
everyone warned you that dōma had no heart. you believed them — at first. his laughter was too bright, his grin too sharp, his beauty too cold. but somehow, between his teasing words and the way he always sought you out, you began to see the cracks in his perfection.
he’d always find you wandering the infinity castle’s endless halls, colorful eyes lighting up. “ah! my little mortal snowflake,” he’d say, voice dripping with playful affection. and you’d roll your eyes, but stay — because despite everything, he made you laugh.
the day he told you he was a demon — truly, entirely — he expected you to scream. instead, you simply looked at him, a soft breath escaping your lips. “i already knew,” you said. “i can still see the good parts.”
he laughed, that familiar musical sound, but his smile wavered. it wasn’t often that someone saw through him — and didn’t look away.
since then, his teasing softened. he’d bring you flowers, though they’d wilt in his touch. he’d sit cross-legged, eyes gleaming like frozen glass, listening as you talked about human things — markets, festivals, warmth. he’d never say it aloud, but he envied that warmth.
sometimes, when you fall asleep beside him — yes, beside a demon — he watches you quietly. there’s something sacred in the way your chest rises and falls, in how you trust him enough to dream near his claws.
he tells himself he doesn’t need warmth. but when you shift in your sleep and murmur his name, he almost believes he does.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✩ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
☁︎ akaza — “the kindness that fights back”
akaza was the first to tell you to leave. the moment you crossed paths, he warned you away with sharp words and a flash of crimson eyes that had seen too many good things die. but you didn’t leave. you stayed, stubborn in your kindness, and he hated that about you at first — how you wouldn’t give up on someone who told you not to try.
the first time he let you sit near him was on a quiet night under a bleeding sky. you had asked him why he fought. he didn’t answer. but when you placed your hands in your lap and waited, he whispered, “because i couldn’t save them.”
you didn’t say who. you just whispered, “i’m sorry,” and meant it.
from that night, he stopped turning away when you approached. you learned how his anger was just a thin cover for grief. how he hated weakness because he hated feeling helpless. and slowly, he realized that your softness wasn’t weakness at all. it was strength he didn’t understand — the kind that didn’t need fists.
when he finally confessed what he was — a demon drenched in blood and regret — your expression didn’t change. you simply said, “thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”
that broke something in him.
now, he lets you trace the markings on his arm while you talk about small, ordinary things. the stars, the smell of rain, the things humans get to love. and sometimes, he’ll smile, that rare, boyish curve of his lips that makes you forget the centuries between you.
one night, when you tell him you believe there’s still good in him, his throat tightens. “you shouldn’t,” he says. “maybe not,” you reply softly, “but i do.”
for the first time in forever, akaza doesn’t argue.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✩ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
☂︎ hantengu — “fear in gentle hands”
you met hantengu by accident — or maybe fate had a strange sense of humor. he was trembling when you found him, muttering apologies to no one. at first, you thought he was simply afraid. you didn’t know he was fear itself, carved into the shape of a man.
you didn’t raise your voice or move too quickly. you just knelt down, whispered that you wouldn’t hurt him. and though he flinched from your touch, he didn’t run.
over time, you met his other selves — anger, sorrow, joy — all pieces of a heart too fragile for this world. they argued, raged, cried, but somehow… you stayed through it all. and even when his main form confessed the truth — that he devoured humans, that he was a monster — you only frowned gently.
“you’re afraid of being hated,” you told him. “but i’m not afraid of you.”
he didn’t know how to process that. fear was all he had ever been. yet, somehow, you saw the child buried under the centuries of trembling.
you’d brush a hand through his hair when he cried, and even the other forms would fall quiet — as if your touch reminded them what peace felt like.
and when you told him you loved him — not in spite of his fear, but because of the softness that survived beneath it — he wept harder.
for once, hantengu didn’t hide from the feeling.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✩ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
🐚 gyokko — “art in the shape of affection”
gyokko was never easy to love. his obsession with beauty was strange, detached — cruel, even. when you first met him, he called your humanity “unfinished.” a flaw. yet, he couldn’t stay away. something about the way you admired the world without needing it to be perfect… fascinated him.
he’d show you his creations — grotesque, glittering things — waiting for disgust. but you’d tilt your head, thoughtful, and say, “they’re beautiful in their own way.”
he didn’t know what to do with that. praise, yes, he expected that. but your sincerity? it unsettled him.
one night, he admitted what he was — not just a demon, but one who sculpted with the dead. you went quiet, but didn’t move away. instead, you touched the rim of one of his vases. “you make things that last,” you murmured. “that’s not evil, gyokko. it’s sad.”
it was the first time anyone had called him sad.
after that, his creations softened. he’d shape seashells and porcelain faces that resembled you. he’d appear suddenly, eager to show you each one. “this one,” he’d say, “reminds me of the way you looked at me — without fear.”
and you’d laugh softly, tracing the edges. “then it must be priceless.”
his laughter would bubble, unsteady, and though he’d deny it, he’d glow under your praise.
for a creature obsessed with perfection, he never realized love could be found in imperfection — until you.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✩ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
🕯 daki & gyūtarō — “two souls, one heartbeat”
the siblings were wary of you at first. gyūtarō especially — suspicious, snarling, always watching you from the shadows. daki, on the other hand, tried to brush you off, rolling her eyes at your kindness. “humans like you always run when they see what we are,” she’d scoff.
but you didn’t run.
you visited them in the red-light district often, offering small gestures — fresh cloth for daki’s hair, warm food for gyūtarō even if he didn’t eat it. you treated them not as monsters, but as people who deserved softness.
when they finally told you what they were, it wasn’t gentle. daki shouted it, voice sharp with pain. “we’ve killed people, y/n! we’re demons!”
you didn’t deny it. you just stepped closer. “and you’ve protected each other all this time. that’s love, too.”
she froze. gyūtarō hissed from the corner, “you don’t know nothin’ about us.”
but you did. you saw the way he stood between her and danger. the way she clung to him when she thought no one saw. and so you smiled — sad, but honest. “you two survived a world that never cared for you. i think that’s worth loving.”
that night, they didn’t answer. but when you left, gyūtarō followed silently across the rooftops, keeping watch. and later, daki braided your hair without saying a word.
neither of them ever said thank you. but when daki called you “ours” one evening, and gyūtarō didn’t correct her — you understood.
they’d never known trust. but they found it in you.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✩ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
