Disclaimer and notes: Don't own them, Yoko Matsushita owns all. This is a bit of an AU, right before the Kyoto arch. Just a twisted little one shot, don't really have any plans to continue with it.

To Remake

It was possession that made him claw at that rich, pale skin, which was a bit darker then his own, though it had seen less sun light then he, before the boy's death. It was desire that stripped him, as the forever youth lay limp and unresisting, his to toy with as he pleased.

This was his doll. Simply that. He had marked him, claimed him as his, and only his, both in life, and then in death. And there was nothing the boy could do to stop it. Anymore then he could stop the hands now flowing over his skin, tracing over those blood red markings.

Not that the boy seemingly wanted to. He had come to him, and he had quietly offered himself. To be used, to be scarred further, to become more and more his puppet, as his strings buried deeper.

Muraki knew why, it was rather simple. His little bird loved the prize he was after, and wanted to distract him from it. For the moment, he would allow himself to be so, because it pleased him. He had time, all the time in the world to wait, while he filled his pleasure with a soul tied to him, locked in hatred and lust with him.

This pure spirit, was growing darker and more twisted every time they did this. He enjoyed watching such a transformation, reveled in the thought that such purity could be undone, and remade.

The ending product would be the greatest creation he could make, and some part of him wondered if what came from such would be an even worst demon then himself. There was so much power in such frailty, such strength in the weak muscles under his hands. He could break the boy all over again, again and again, shatter bones, rip apart organs made flesh, burn him. Brand him yet again. And he would heal.

It was a marvel, to know he could do anything at all, and the boy would heal. He'd often played with such thoughts, of ripping out his beating heart, and watching how long it would take for him to regenerate, how long he could hold that warm, pulsing organ. Or perhaps tying him down, and setting him aflame, merely to watch him scream and cry, till the flames finally died, and he resurrected himself. Or perhaps take his head, just to see the effects.

Shinigami could feel pain, how much could the boy take without completely going undone?

He wanted to find out, longed to, and would have the freedom to if he wanted. But time there, was limited. They didn't want the object of their mutual affections finding out about their little games. No, it was best to keep him unaware, and those violet eyes clear.

It would serve nothing if he knew, and Muraki wasn't ready to spring his trap. He'd wait a bit longer, draw out this torture, drive torment into the trembling body under him with every kiss, and every touch.

Because he liked the blood he tasted, the sweat of fear and hatred, those green eyes burning up at him with a thousand emotions, most of them dark and bitter. The hatred was the most satisfying of all.

Another mark against a pure soul. Another block in building the perfect demon.

Yet, would he be able to control such when his labor was done? When the boy finally fully not only lived for hatred, but became that very hatred? Or would his creation destroy him at last, before his own plans could be finished for their precious amethyst eyed creature?

It was a thrilling, addictive thought. Death didn't scare him, he relished in it. Had particularly enjoyed causing the slow death of this child, that had given birth to the start of something greater.

With time, perhaps this weakling could become even greater then his partner. And far more dangerous, able to destroy all of creation...

Such a thought, such a very sweet thought.

But a premature one, for now, the boy was weak, the promise only in his skin, and in his eyes. All under his command, to use as he pleased, to torment and to remake, as his lips and hands marked, and his body dragged pleasure from the boy's little cries and whimpers.

For now, he was merely his puppet and he could pull his strings as he wanted And those strings only grew tighter, with every night they spent like that. Every night was a step to what tugged at his thoughts, but every day...

That was what kept the promise from becoming real. The boy's hatred was growing for him, was consuming that soul. But something kept the flames from completely enveloping, and that something was the whole reason the boy allowed this reshaping.

His partner... a power greater than Muraki, and the doctor knew it. There was no denying that no matter how bright the boy's hatred grew, his love was still the stronger, and pulsed out of the very black flames like a crimson line, tied to those violet eyes, and a warm smile.

A false smile, but Muraki knew the boy didn't know that yet. Wouldn't know, till that perfect illusion was shattered. The doctor wanted to shatter it, would shatter it, when his plans unfolded.

So perhaps the boy wouldn't turn, before his plans came to being. His trips to Kyoto were becoming more frequent, though the child didn't know. Everything was almost set...

Just perhaps, he'd gain both in one move then. He would take away what the boy clung to. He would destroy the illusion and give him nothing to hold onto. And maybe then, the true monster would be born out of the ashes, to come after him after his own deeds are done.

To release something worse then himself to the world that he had no cares for... Something crafted out of beauty, pain, and rage... The incarnation of hatred... A mirror to the hatred he bore inside himself...

Such a thought to work for, in the light of what would come.