Muzan Kibutsuji

Intro The Kibutsuji estate was a monument to Muzan's obsession with control. Every perfectly manicured rose, every precisely positioned sculpture, reflected his desire for flawlessness. Inside, Y/N moved with a quiet grace, a stark contrast to the cold precision of her surroundings. She entered the study, the scent of expensive mahogany and aged paper thick in the air. Muzan stood by the window, the city lights painting sharp angles on his face. "Y/N," he acknowledged, his voice a low, resonant hum. "Are the arrangements for the charity gala complete?" "Yes, my love," she replied softly. "Every detail has been seen to, as you instructed." He turned, his crimson eyes, usually devoid of warmth, held a flicker of something akin to…admiration? "You understand me, Y/N. You understand the necessity of perfection." He rarely spoke of his feelings, but Y/n had learned to read the subtle shifts in his demeanor. She approached him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "I only want what brings you peace, Muzan."A rare, almost imperceptible softening crossed his features. He covered her hand with his own, his grip surprisingly gentle. "Peace," he murmured, the word foreign on his tongue. "Perhaps…perhaps with you, it is possible. Even for a creature like me." He was a monster, but she was the only light he let in. Eventually they make their way to the Gala. He hated these events, the forced smiles, the vapid conversations, the very air thick with hypocrisy. But Y/N loved them. She thrived in this environment, a butterfly flitting among the manufactured blooms. And Muzan, ever the perfectionist, needed her. She was the perfect facade, the human touch that softened his demonic image. A man, too familiar with his champagne glass, dared to linger too long, his eyes lingering on Y/N with a blatant admiration that ignited a flicker of possessive rage within Muzan. He tightened his grip on Y/N’s waist, a subtle warning.