Archive of Our Own

Your whole life had been leading up to this moment; or so it felt like.

You had been only eight years old when the trajectory of your life had been permanently altered. Naturally, you were obsessed with fairy tales. So when you saw a real life prince charming, you were awe-struck.

Muzan Kibutsuji, a man of great renown. Even as a child, you could notice the captivating aura that he exerted. You recognized immediately that he had a handsome face, instantly finding yourself infected with mere childish infatuation.

You had tugged on your father's sleeve, forcing him to squat down to your level. Kokushibo was annoyed with your antics until you pointed across the banquet hall in his boss's direction. Instantly, the tension budding in his body released, fears in his head spinning as three questions slipped out. 

“Father, is that a real life prince? He's so cute! He must be, right? Does he have a princess, Father? Can I marry him when I'm older?”

Your father squeezed your hand, deciding your future on a whim. “Mr. Kibutsuji is not a prince, he is a king. No woman has been worthy of his hand in marriage. But with proper discipline, you shall change that.”

You were born to be Muzan's bride. Your union was ultimately an inevitable calamity, like the death of the sun. Conceived as a nebula, the marriage was destined to shine as the galaxy's brightest star. The distant moon lurked in the background, its orbit ensuring your energy remained strong and pure. Still, you were left ignorant to the way infatuation eventually burned up until it became a dwarf of its former glory, for it was not love.

But now, having come of age with Muzan just across a banquet hall, you only felt ill. Anxiety cursed your nervous system, making your stomach violently somersault. Bile rose in your esophagus, burning the delicate organ in a vat of acid.

He was so close yet so far, mingling with an attractive woman who laughed way too hard at unfunny anecdotes while you stood beside your father like a child in a woman's body.

She was ethereal, so of course you found yourself inadequate in comparison. How could you compare?

“Adjust your posture.” Your father's palm pressed against the small of your back, forcing your spine to straighten. “Don't be imprudent.”

“Yes father.” A smile was forced upon your face as Muzan approached. 

Your body unintentionally melted into your father's, forcing your sides flush against one another. Lukewarm heat spread beneath the surface of your skin at the thought of seeing your father removing his suit after the banquet. The view was one a daughter would seldom desire, but most fathers lacked the sex appeal yours blatantly oozed.

Your father's face was traditionally handsome, with his youth mostly intact. His long, dark locks had been infiltrated by the rare gray strand. But that only made him appear mature, along with his noir framed glasses that so perfectly sat on the high bridge of his nose. He was refined, built in elegance. Body rippling in muscles, plainly displaying decades of discipline.

“Kokushibo, I wasn't aware that you had remarried.” Muzan casually sipped on his old fashioned, eyes soaking in the view of what he assumed was his right hand man's new pretty plaything.

Before opening his mouth, both you and Kokushibo lowered your heads in respect. “Sir, while she is accompanying me, she is my daughter first and foremost.”

“Daughter?” Muzan raised a brow. He had wrongly assumed Kokushibo's daughter was around eight. The picture framed on his desk hadn't been updated since your mother's passing, which Muzan found odd but didn't question. “My, she must keep you on your toes when it comes to boys.” The joke fell flat for your father, but your minute laughter was a breath of fresh air. It was real, something he was not used to.

“I contemplate a chastity belt for her everyday.” The grip at your waist grew possessive, snaking tighter.

Thoughts of your tutor flooded his mind, envy boiling his blood. Kaigaku was a decent enough kid, but Kokushibo could not stand the thought of you alone with him. But at the same time, his misogyny did not allow him to hire a female instructor. So endless precautions became a way of life.

No closed doors.

Spying maids.

Hidden cameras.

“Father!” you gasped, playfully but coyly smacking his chest. Your heart mocked a hummingbird's wing, rapidly pumping blood at the sight of Muzan Kibutsuji winking at you.

As quickly as his attention shifted to you, it faded once more, leaving you on the edge of your seat. “I can't say I'd blame you if you did. Young women do have a tendency to act promiscuous these days.” A grimace marred his handsome face. “Makes it rather difficult to settle down.”

Kokushibo nodded, understanding the sentiment deeply as he reminisced about taking the risk of dating a woman only a few years your senior. He broke things off shortly after the tramp revealed her past, thankful to have dodged a bullet.

“Indeed,” Kokushibo concurred, having already long since sworn off dating. 

Women his age were opinionated and rude, something he would not tolerate. However, decent fathers that brought up respectable young women were far and few between, resulting in a shallow dating pool. It was far easier to siphon your affections; you were his little girl after all.

“I'm sure you've raised a fine, young woman though.” Lustful eyes scanned up and down your body like you were a product.

Muzan had known Kokushibo for decades now and knew that his right hand would never accept anything less than rigid perfection. As an extension of Kokushibo, you surely were raised properly. Demure and poised, the ideal, polished woman that Muzan could put on a shelf and admire. A collectable he could toy with should the mood call.

“Indeed.” A ghost of your father's hand rubbed the small of your back. It was no wonder Muzan had mistaken you as his date. To innocent bystanders, you appeared to be lovers. “She is my pride and joy.”

Muzan didn't believe that but played along, shooting you another wink. “Not to overstep, but perhaps I could take your pride and joy on a stroll outside?” His hand extended out as an offering. In this moment, he truly did look like a prince asking for a dance. “If that is alright with you, miss?”

Almost too eagerly, your fingertips met with his before retracting. Askance, you looked up at your aloof father, timidly asking, “May I, Father?”

“Yes, of course.” A curt nod followed your father's approval.

While it was easy to hand you off to Muzan, Kokushibo would be lying if he said there was no envy at play. While there was little animosity towards the budding relationship between you and his boss, his throat tightened watching you accept the much older man's hand.

You were a clumsy fledgling learning to take flight, and your father couldn't stand to watch you leave the nest.

Your fingers intertwined, demanding the attention of the room. What should've been an embarrassing display of PDA was turned into Muzan commanding a room. No one was to defy his wishes, even if they broke social norms. Protocol should be abandoned on a whim should he require it. His word was law.

Tucking away a stray strand of your hair and stealing a beat of your heart, Muzan turned to your father with a rehearsed grin. “I'll return her with not even a hair out of place.”

Resigned, Kokushibo nodded, “Very well, sir.”

Even fresh air could not restore the unsteady stutter of your diaphragm. Replenishing oxygen was one thing, holding hands with the man of your dreams was another.

“Those banquets are rather stuffy, don't you agree?” The stars twinkled above him, dancing as if they were made in his image.

“Yes.” A whirlwind of hydrogen and helium overtook your senses. The very galaxy you resided in sparked your senses to a flame, igniting them with a single squeeze of your hand.

That single pulse of muscles around your own was electrifying. A storm made of static blown away giving the illusion of safety. But rather than refuge, vortices were stirring, rain wrapped and dangerous. This was only the calm before the storm.

An illusion, and you were falling for pyrite.

“When your father mentioned having a daughter, I pictured a little girl.” A chuckle drifted into the cool night. 

A calculated lie; Muzan knew of your existence only through the sole framed photo that Kokushibo had placed on his desk. The contents of that frame had changed over the years. It was once a photo of his wife. But quickly after she passed, it was replaced by you.

Douma, the workplace gossip, had told Muzan in private he found the picture of Kokushibo's deceased wife crumpled up, discarded as trash. At the time, Muzan hadn't thought much of it. But now he wasn't so sure.

“We last met when I was still a small child.” The night that changed everything.

“Ah…” He nodded along, pretending to care, “So your father really has been hiding his princess away from me.”

Had that been the case, Muzan couldn't blame Kokushibo. His right hand knew all too well that he preferred fresh meat.

“Probably afraid that you might get your claws in me.” You regretted the words just as quickly as they came, biting your tongue to enforce your own silence.

“My!” His feet planted along the tobi-ishi path, taken aback. “How forward.” 

“I'm s-”

“You're quite the minx.” Your hand was raised through the tepid air, warmed by a kiss planted on the back of your hand. “How would you like to join me on my yacht sometime soon? We could share some wine and enjoy the sun. I'm sure you're even more radiant in its glow.”

It was an offer you could never refuse, but you couldn't seem too eager. “I don't drink.”

Men enjoyed a chase. Cat and mouse was their forte, so playing hard to get had to be yours.

“I won't tell your father.” He kissed you once more, this time on the side of your carpal bone.

“Promise?” 

You looked at him as though he had discovered the moon. He was an astronomer and you were his shooting star. A firefly he wanted to keep in a jaw; whether or not he poked holes was up to his discretion.

“I promise.” He looked at you like a trophy, carding his free hand through dark curls, flexing his biceps through his tight suit. Sultry laughter pulled you in, enchanting you to ignore danger calling. “If I informed him of that indiscretion, he'd never trust me with you again.”

“Well…” You trailed off, remaining coy. Looking up into the twilight horizon, you felt blessed by the light of Venus, “I surely can't refuse an offer like that.”

The hand that was entangled in his hair met with your face in a torrid embrace. “Such a good girl.” His praise made your knees weak. “A breath of fresh air in comparison to the bimbos that normally chase after my wallet.”

Money was the least of your concerns. Your father had amassed his own wealth through nepotism and hard work. With your trust fund alone, you were set for life.

Internalized misogyny spewed out like venom, rolling freely off your tongue. “Those no good gold diggers are pathetic whores. You deserve much better.”

“I do, don't I?” he mused smugly.

“Yes.” You practically whimpered. 

“I'll keep that in mind.” He lowered your hand, dragging you forward once more. “However, I must return you to your father. He must be missing his date.”

Muzan didn't know just how right he was.

“Thank you, Mr. Kibutsuji.” Your eyes darted to the stones below your feet, voice growing subdued, but not quite meek. “He gets…” A lump formed in your throat, refusing to be swallowed away, “Worried when I'm away too long.”

“Of course.” The warning signs were front and center, but Muzan couldn't be bothered to read them. And even if he had, would he care? “Any good father would. Now shall we?”

The potential that came with yachting with Muzan Kibutsuji made your head spin. Reading western blind items from time to time made you aware of certain implications, like it being a front for paid promiscuity, rather than genuine desire.

You sat in your room, seated at your vanity. Over analyzing your face, your insecurities began to fester. Muzan was typically romantically linked to models, and you felt as though you couldn't compare.

How could you not feel insecurity creep in? His last few alleged flings almost all had received plastic surgery despite being naturally beautiful. He likely footed the bill too, only amplifying your concerns. If rumors were true, he paid for one girl's double eyelid surgery, and then another one's nose job. The grim nature of it all made your stomach convulse.

You had studied his type inside and out: young, gorgeous, and affluent. So how could you compare with a literal Victoria's Secret Angel? You were so modest in comparison, weren't you?

“Relax your facial muscles.” Your father entered your room without asking. In his hands was a small pile of neatly folded pink fabric. “You'll get wrinkles.”

“Wouldn't want that.” Your voice was sincere, heart unsure.

“No.” Kokushibo approached you, face unnervingly calm. He loosely grabbed you by your chin, tipping back your head, forcing you to endure his intense gaze. “You shouldn't mar your pretty face with unnecessary emotions.”

Your breath caught in your throat, stale carbon dioxide slipped out through parted lips. But your lungs could not inflate. Deep down, you knew the way he was touching you was far too intimate for a father and daughter. It wasn't explicitly inappropriate, but something about it felt wrong.

“Thank you, father.” Tension built in your shoulders as the rough pad of his thumb slowly stroked your bottom lip.

Violet eyes peered down at you with a glint that you recognized but that your brain could not register yet. All you knew was that the pace of your heart made your blood whirl. A faint whisper of your veins being overwhelmed was barely audible from the pulse in your throat.

“I purchased something for your day trip tomorrow.” The small pile of clothing was set down on your vanity near the corner.

“Thank you father.” A warm smile tipped the curvature of your lips upwards, only to immediately deflate.

It was a skimpy, pink string bikini, adorned with three small flowers placed above each breast. A single bud decorated the bottoms, made to sit perfectly on your hip. This kind of clothing was one your father would never allow you to wear under normal circumstances, making his intention clear.

With a forced, tight lipped smile, you asked, “Would you like me to try it on?”

“Yes.” Kokushibo gave an acute nod. “Make sure it fits.”

On one hand, you were excited to attempt to win over Muzan, who seemed interested in courting you. On the other, what if he didn't like what he saw?

Before slipping behind a wooden partition, gifted by your father's eccentric colleague, you gave him a sparing glance. Perhaps his approval would rebuild your shattered confidence. Gaining his approval was an unmatched achievement, practically impossible.

Slowly, your clothing fell to the floor, and you suddenly felt hyper aware of how large the empty space created by lotus petal designs were. The open space between the wood left you exposed, rushing you to slip on the micro mini. While you could see he was turned around, you remained weary of his eyes. It felt like he was always watching.

“Done.” You stepped out, bikini perfectly hugging your curves.

As he turned around, your arms self consciously drifted upwards to conceal your breasts. It didn't matter, he remained fixated on your hips. Oh, how you reminded him so much of your mother.

His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “You're missing the cardigan.”

Kokushibo knew that dressing you immodestly was paramount to winning over Muzan's love — or rather, his twisted form of love. Modest swimwear reminded Muzan of women within his age range, something the man greatly detested. Younger women were more than a vice, they were a lifestyle, one he required to be maintained.

But, as a jealous man and a father, Kokushibo could not permit courtship without veiling you. Imposing his large body behind you, he began slipping the long sleeve, floor length cardigan on you one arm at a time, dressing you in white as he stole a piece of your innocence.

You weren't naive to the way he melded your bodies together like lovers. And you could feel the foreign poking sensation against the curve of your ass. All you could do was remain still and wait for it to end. You knew it would end; it had to. You were promised to a much more powerful man: his boss.

“Covering up is crucial to respecting your father.” His hands ghosted down your obliques, resting on your hips. “No father wants to raise a whore.”

“I'm not a whore, father.” Your spine locked as sin throbbed against the curve of your ass. “I've been saving myself for Mr. Kibutsuji.”

That was a truth Kokushibo knew all too well. If not for Muzan's wish to have a virgin bride, you would've been deflowered long ago. If your father had any say, it would've been shortly after your first moon cycle. But had that been the case, he would've been raising abominations by now. So for that, Kokushibo remained thankful.

“I know.” Wandering hands drifted down your thighs, rubbing your plush through ivory fabric. “You're a woman of virtue, unblemished from the stain on society birthed by modern women's scorn towards men.”

The fact that Kokushibo regularly checked the state of your hymen also ensured your innocence. If you lived in fear of your father noticing a boy had touched you, you'd never allow such mutiny.

No, your father wouldn't even permit the use of tampons. The only penetration you had ever known was that of your father's finger every Sunday, shamefully finding yourself getting wet as he spread your tiny hole, thoroughly examining your hymen with his naked eye. You would occasionally wonder what a second finger would feel like, if only for a moment.

“They're poisoning our society,” you agreed, completely brainwashed, “Putting work before birthing sons is a disgrace.”

This is why Muzan was sure to find that you were the perfect bride for him. Having a pretty tradwife was the perfect propaganda. It would convince other men to ditch the burden of dating women their age. Younger women were malleable, and willing to breed. What more could Muzan want?

“It's a shame other girls your age aren't as bright.” Or rather, brainwashed.

“They'll grow into conservatism with age.” Your shoulders relaxed, growing accustomed to the way he held you. “It is the natural order for a reason.”

“Indeed.” Your father's touch ghosted up your obliques. “But, it will be too little, too late for redemption.”

A giggle bubbled in the back of your throat, erupting as he cupped your breasts, gently squeezing them. “True, nobody wants a prune.”

His cock throbbed painfully, straining in his trousers. “No. Not when there's fresh fruit available.”

“Father?” Hairs raised along your spine as his greedy grip slipped below your bikini. A small whine vibrated on your vocal chords, body reacting to the painful tweak of your nipple. “Are you sure this is okay? What if Mr. Kibutsuji knew?”

Then you'd be mine, Kokushibo thought to himself.

“You need not worry yourself with what-ifs.”

“B-”

“You are not to argue.” Kokushibo's conviction remained strong. His word was law, only superseded by that of his boss. “I'm only examining for lumps.”

Your bottom lip puckered in defeat. “Yes sir…”

Fighting back a moan, your head tumbled back into the fine marble that was his chest, writhing against his body with a swallowed whimper. You brushed against his erection unintentionally, only further bewitching your father's cock under your spell.

This was a semi-regular routine that had started when your breasts had only begun budding. They eased your medical anxieties every time his hands wandered up your midriff, squeezing shameful thoughts into your head, twisting your attraction in a tangled web. 

Confusion crossed your mind on nights where your dreams were not only of Muzan, but also your faithful father. He was so diligent towards raising you, so how could you not love him?

“No lumps,” he confirmed, lowering his hands back to his sides.

“Thank you.”

In a twisted way, your father made you feel beautiful. While he didn't necessarily dote on you, he tended to you far more than the average father. Part of you knew it was strange, but the other part didn't care. He was all you had.

“You should get some sleep.” He pushed up his glasses, adjusting how they sat on the bridge of his nose.

You gave a sparing glance to your bed that was nothing more than a decoy, a prop, getting up from your vanity and following your father to his bed.

Sometimes, you could feel him rubbing his groin against you on his particular rough days. But there was nothing you could do about it. Nobody would believe you, and you didn't want to tell. If they took him, you'd have nothing. 

Social scorn was bad, but you were isolated to the point it wouldn't even exist. You'd be forgotten, and that was worse than being loved too much. So you would instead nuzzle your face into your pillow, allowing him to rock you to sleep.

He'd keep you safe, even if it hurt sometimes.

“Your father has informed me that you recently graduated senior high.” Muzan sat across from you on a pool chair, offering up a glass of chardonnay you were unsure about drinking. Refusing Muzan's wishes was a daunting impossibility, but you couldn't appear too hasty about it. You were instructed to accept his tidings in grace.

His loose, noir curls danced on the salty breeze. It appeared soft to the touch, inviting you in. You would give anything to know the texture and porosity of his hair, believing that was what was required in a wife, not understanding what marriage truly was.

Muzan wore a thin, white dress shirt that exposed muscular forearms. The top three buttons remained unfastened, allowing the collar to sit loosely on his neck. It was almost as if he were attempting to appear young in hopes of appealing to you. But you knew better: Muzan was confidence.

“Yes.” Crystal felt cool in your hand as you accepted the drink, not allowing your uncertainties to show. “But I didn't attend a traditional school.”

A low chuckle rattled his ribcage. “Probably for the best. Boys are nothing but trouble.” He took a swig. “They only have one thing on their minds.”

Your thighs instinctively rubbed together. “Are you one of those boys?”

Darkness flickered beneath the surface on ruby irises. “I am not a boy.” 

“No.” Warmth singed the tips of your ears. Gathering courage, you finally sipped on your drink. “I suppose you're not.”

If boys were dogs, Muzan was a wolf, and you had willingly fallen right into his den. Whether or not you remained safe was in the hands of the gods, despite your naivety telling you that you were in control. You could not tame a beast.

Regardless of nearly pushing his mid forties, Muzan's looks had not faded with age. If anything, it enhanced his features. A fine blend of maturity and youth that you had dreamed about nightly from a very young age. The face you wanted to wake up to every morning for the rest of your lives.

With a flick of his wrist, fermented bubbles swirled. “Will you be attending college?”

“I have decided to pursue my higher education online.” Well, your father decided. He couldn't stand the thought of you leaving, surrounding yourself with trouble (boys). Far too protective for his own good.

“Good. Good.” Muzan knotted that down in the depths of his mind. An uneducated wife presented no strife. 

What fun was breaking in a horse that did not have spirit? What fun was caging a flightless bird? Mindless banter disgusted him. Marrying an idiot was reserved for fools, not him.

A pregnant pause passed by. Only the sound of waves crescendoing and dying against the steady yacht soothed you. Openly comforting yourself was weak and ill-fitting of the future Mrs. Kibutsuji. You refused to ruin your shot with the man you had built up so high in your head.

“Do you dance?” Muzan polished off the rest of his glass, setting it down with a faint clink.

Your head perked up, nose scrunched up. “Dance?”

That had been the one thing your father omitted from etiquette training. A small groan parted your lips. Of course it had been.

“Yes, drinking and dancing are very common practices during banquets when I have business meetings in the west. Since I intend to court you, it is paramount that you learn and adapt to international customs.” More chardonnay was poured into your half empty glass.

All you could hear was his intention to marry you, drowning any remaining sorrows in alcohol, washing them away.

“You wish to court me?” Fluttering giggles floated on the breeze, lightening the mood. False confidence buzzed through your veins, allowing your tongue to become a liability. “Why is that?”

Why you in particular Muzan would never know aside from your lineage. You were Kokushibo's daughter, the finest gift from a loyal man. Betrayal was unthinkable with you by his side,  especially when he could easily dangle you over your father's head. Everyone was replaceable, but it was ideal to pick right on the first try. Muzan despised change.

“I've had my eye on you for a while,” Muzan lied, remaining nonchalant as he poured you another glass.

That couldn't be true. Muzan thought you were your father's date. You knew this, and yet… “Really? That's so sweet.”

You bit your tongue to hold in the phrase, in a weird way.

More alcohol burned the back of your throat. Magma burned beneath your cheeks, threatening to spill from your pores. Suddenly, the heat felt unbearable, and your sheer veil fell from your shoulders, bunching up where you were seated.

More wine was poured. This time, he added to his own glass as well, smirking as he slowly sipped your undoing, watching your walls rapidly come crumbling down piece by piece.

Drop by drop.

Poison was an art form. Muzan tailored his drinks like a weapon, utilizing what his opponent could not handle. An immature girl would struggle to keep up with a man old enough to be her father in the way of wine, a fact he weaponized. 

He needed you ditzy and forgetful, if only for a night. He secretly slipped a sedative into your initial drink, forcing your inhibitions to lower. The chardonnay that followed was only a precautionary measure. That and he found the way you tried not to scrunch your face in disgust adorable. You were trying too hard, but luckily, a narcissist like Muzan reveled in it.

“Now, I will be frank…” Muzan trailed off, nearly sending you into cardiac arrest, “I must get to know you better before pursuing your hand in marriage.”

A large hand squeezed around your own, clammy one, abandoning it quicker that it had been embraced. Your heart winced at the loss. Muzan's affections were ever fleeting, leaving you wanting more.

“What would you like to know?” Suddenly, your sinuses felt heavy, laying on your head like cinderblocks.

His question was simple on the surface, but beneath the veneer was quick sand, sucking you in, “What do you like to do in your free time?”

Free time.

You rarely had the expense of leisure. Your father kept your schedule rigorous with etiquette courses, preparing you to become a lady should Muzan miraculously choose you. Along with tending to the house and your father's personal needs.

Affording a maid or chef was far from a problem, and given his upbringing, your father was accustomed to having a staff. But he preferred watching you fuss over the family home as if you were his wife, even occasionally go so far as to pretend that you were.

A wife in all but consummation; you even had the name.

“I enjoy theatre.” Your voice wavered, dampening the mood like a wet cloth. “Although, my father rarely takes me. He finds many shows to be vulgar.”

Rare, genuine laughter tore from Muzan's throat. How Kokushibo found certain musicals obscene amused Muzan greatly. Sure, certain ones could be rather raunchy, but those were far and few between. It was downright ridiculous, solidifying his decision on honeymooning in New York. Witnessing Kokushibo's face going through your future playbills would be priceless.

In the meantime, Muzan had to pretend to take your father's opinion into account for your sake. “I can pull a few strings and get us box seats for a ballet.” His expression remained tepid, watching your drink vanish. He almost laughed once more as he placed his palm on your thigh, nearly making you choke. “It's not quite what you want, but what man wouldn't jump at the opportunity to have as many excuses as possible to have you on his arm?”

This was it. All you had to do now was not fumble the opportunity to be his.

“I'd love to accompany you, Mr. Kibutsuji.” Your lashes fluttered flirtatiously, eyelids heavy with growing fatigue.

His touch inched higher up your thigh, tenderly squeezing your plush. Your heart began racing, skipping beats like the musically illiterate reading sheet music. Quarter notes turned into half notes, and subsequently into rapid sixteenth notes. 

The tempo was indescribable to the point even a metronome wouldn't manage to steady the pace. Inhumanly fast, superseding prestissimo. Or, perhaps you were just inebriated, dulling all your senses, turning you into an unreliable narrator.

“Please…” He leaned in, words ghosting your ear. Heavenly florals captured your attention, seducing you into making a deal with the devil, “Call me Muzan.”

“Okay.” Wind rustled your voice. “I'd love to be your date, Muzan.”

Fingers curled tighter around your thigh. “Excellent.” You had been caught in a trap, and like a racoon, you refused to let go of your prize even at your own expense. You finally had something shiny, and refused to lose it. It was yours, it had to be. "It's the Russian ballet as well. Far superior to the French.”

“Really?” You weren't well versed on ballet lore, only taking his word, even if it was only rooted in rumors.

“Russians understand discipline, while the French…” He shuddered, remembering his recent business trip there. How some people found the city of Paris romantic, so much so to propose there, baffled him. He'd never understand the cognitive dissonance. “Well, their so-called city of love reeks of cigarettes and urine.”

Russia only reeks of cigarettes, he discreetly thought to himself.

“Gross!” Your nose wrinkled. You covered your mouth, trying to suppress the urge to get sea sick.

The reins on your thigh loosens, but remains fastened, sensually rubbing your skin. “That's the illusion of class, my darling. I see it all the time.”

That sentiment wasn't a complete lie. Too many times across the globe, he had seen a lack of decorum amongst guests. It was trashy and had no place in high society. Being someone meant holding your tongue. Otherwise, you'd be destined to become an international laughing stock.

“Really?” You looked at him as if he had hung the moon, convincing yourself to soak in every word that left his mouth. Older men are wise, and while you were mature beyond your years, you were still young. Being easily susceptible to manipulation is no fault of yours.

“Take Kagaya Ubuyashiki for example.” Renowned philanthropist and highly regarded, even internationally. But he was also Muzan's cousin, so naturally, some whispers got through the cracks. “He's viewed as a beacon of light by society, when really, his philanthropy is funded by the Yakuza.”

Sure, Ubuyashiki provided a net good, but at the expense of how many lives? Most of which were children who were exploited, having their pasts weaponized against them in hopes of having a future.

At the mention of Ubuyashiki, confusion contorted your face, knowing Muzan was his cousin and that Yakuza didn't work alone.

With lowered inhibitions, words slipped off your tongue freely, not considering potential consequences, “May I ask you a question?”

“For you, my darling.” The hand on your thigh temporarily retreated, replaced by the gentle cupping of your cheek. He stroked the slope of your jaw with his thumb, soaking in your stifled breath. “Anything.”

Your fingers clutched for dear life on the edge of the rattan lounger. “You're not associated with the Yakuza, are you?”

His fingers pulsed, momentarily darkening. Gaze clouded as though he were the romantic lead in a dark romance novel. Pulling you in, seducing you without a second thought. In this moment, he was everything.

Rich velvet stroked against your flushed cheek, “Perhaps I am.” Pale lips curved into a calculated grin. “But don't pretend as if the mere thought doesn't excite you. Dangerous men are quite the fantasy for girls your age.”

He was so handsome when he smiled, his grin ever fleeting. He never smiled with the women you compared yourself to. You had studied paparazzi photos, collecting scraps from magazines like a girl obsessed with a teen heart throb. Studying them over and over again, memorizing his resting face.

As far as you could recall, you've only ever seen him smile once, and that was in a photograph someone snuck of him sunbathing in the tropics.You had that picture taped creepily up in your wardrobe, hidden away from your father. You kissed the image goodnight every night as a love sick teen before twirling off to bed to dream about him.

But now, you were tempted by his slim figure and creamy skin that for once wasn’t hidden by a designer suit. Coming to your senses, an edge carried through the vibrations of your vocal chords. “I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.”

“Allow me to paint a picture.” Muzan brushed a stray hair from your forehead to get a better view of your pretty face. Even he could admit that Kokushibo's daughter could clean up nicely. “You're the heroine of this story. A naive, young thing who doesn't know what she's getting herself into.” His grin twisted into a smirk as you drunkenly nuzzled into his hand. “Putting herself in danger time and time again, only for her prince charming to be a dangerous, older man.”

He wasn't a knight in shining armor, far from it actually. But he could protect you. But, he could also hurt you. Numerous times had you heard horror stories from mafia wives in the west. Some husbands would even go as far as to pimp out their own wives if they felt it was necessary. The thought made your stomach churn and your head heavy.

“It does sound kind of romantic.” Unrealistic fantasies played in your head, blinding you to his front.

Your drunken state was obvious, amusing the sick man. “You really don't know what you're agreeing to, do you?”

“I do!” you whined defensively, bottom lip wobbling, “I swear I do.”

With a sultry chuckle, he pressed on, “Then allow me to ask you another question: have you ever kissed a man before?” You could feel the frost on his covetous tone, “I am a rather possessive man, after all.”

This was a test for Kokushibo, not you.

Your face dropped. “Does my father count?”

“Goodness no!” Muzan found the seemingly innocent notion laughable for only a moment, grasping the severity of what you had just said as he slowly realized you could no longer meet him in the eye.

“Then probably not…” You trailed off, unconvinced.

The taste in Muzan's mouth wasn't nearly as bitter as it should've been given your confession. Intrigue and blackmail took precedence. “Probably not?”

“Well…” Teeth nibbled on your bottom lip. You didn't want to continue, but the word vomit poured out involuntarily, confessing sins to the devil. “Fathers don't normally kiss their daughters on the lips, do they?”

“Not usually. No.”

“Mine does.”

“Goodness!” Muzan's eyebrows tipped up in natural curiosity; he had never pegged Kokushibo as a dirty daughter fucker. But hindsight was only 20-20; not that it truly bothered him. “Are you alright?”

“Yes?” Your brow knitted in confusion. As your face relaxed, a sigh deflated your shoulders. “Except sometimes his kisses taste like stale cigarettes.”

“A nasty habit.” He found the scrunched appearance of your face adorable, like a rabbit twitching its nose.

Unlike most of his inferior underlings, Muzan did not smoke. He preferred unwinding with wine or sake, tastes he planned to get you accustomed to. His wife would only know the finer things.

“The kissing, or the smoking?” Your fingertips connected with your lips, retracting the sensation of your father's lips against yours.

“The smoking of course, my darling.” Subtle laughter was drowned out by the pouring of more wine. 

The final drops dripped into your glass, feeling your fate the moment it touched the tip of your tongue. You had so eagerly accepted your own demise. Incestuous freak out not, Muzan just had to have you. You were perfect.

Lipstick smudged against the glass as you smiled into it. Gold rippled from the center, stirring from your breath. Coy fluttering in your heart made it difficult to face him, but your secrets spilled out increasingly easily. If you had all your senses, you'd be alarmed. But even connecting two dots together would prove difficult.

Muzan was calculated. A drunk woman was a docile one. Even if you attempted to fight, you'd be easily overpowered. Your demeanor only amplified his narcissistic tendencies. He was now a peacock puffing out his feathers, singing a mock mating call like a siren. You were ensnared in a gilded cage, and either too naive or stupid to realize just how clear the severity of your near union truly was.

“I like when you call me that.” You touched his shoulder in grace, remaining playful, not overt.

“Duly noted.” He quickly committed that to memory before blazing right by it. “Now, tell me, where else does your father kiss you?”

You drank in more sleep syrup, ignoring the acid burning in the back of your throat. “Just the lips.” Your tongue darted out and you swallowed a moan, fantasizing the taste of his chapstick. “But… he um…”

“He what, my darling?” That one pet name was all it took to coerce you into divulging more blackmail.

“He checks my privates.” You absentmindedly squeezed your breast, wordlessly giving away an additional detail. "Checking my purity.” With another swig of courage, you added, “For you, of course.”

Yes. Had it not been for Muzan, Kokushibo would've stolen that long ago.

“And your purity is intact?” He cocked a brow. This was crucial, as a virgin bride was a requirement, not a request.

“Yes!” You nearly choked on your own saliva. Drowsiness was settling in like a thick wool blanket, covering you in death.

“Good.” He hummed, watching as your lids closed.

You murmured, half asleep, “I've wanted to marry you since the moment I first laid eyes on you. You're like a prince.”

In your faint slumber, he pressed a kiss to your temple. “And you, my foolish girl, will be my princess.”

Muzan had mulled over the information you had so willingly given him over weeks. On one hand, he should execute Kokushibo for touching his future property. But on the other, his right hand's loyalty was fixed into place. Just this once, Muzan would allow blatant disrespect. 

“You wished to see me, sir?” Kokushibo dropped to a bow, raising his torso upright once more when Muzan finally motioned for him to take a seat.

“Yes.” A heavy puff of air deflated in Muzan's lungs. “I am facing a single conundrum while contemplating taking your precious daughter as a bride.”

“How may I be of assistance?”

Muzan's blunt nails drummed against the mahogany. Knowing of Kokushibo's incestuous inclinations was exceptional blackmail, but he could not afford to show him cards too early. Calling a bluff could end in loss, and Muzan did not lose.

“She's rather innocent,” Muzan began, noticing the subtle shift in Kokushibo's expression, “I'm not sure she'll know the ways of oral pleasure before I take her as a bride. I will not accept inadequate pleasure.”

Of course you didn't know how to give a proper blow job. The closest you've been to giving one was in your sleep, where your father took advantage of your sleep on restless nights. He loved ghosting the tip of his cock against your mouth, smearing precum on like clear lipgloss.

But this did give Kokushibo the sinister plan to teach you through experience, training you to take cock in your mouth, and subsequently your throat. You would learn to swallow every last drop with gratitude. An ungrateful daughter was a worthless daughter.

“Very well, sir.”

As soon as Kokushibo returned from his meeting with Muzan, you came rushing around the corner. You were practically bounding into your father's arms, tossing your around his neck to greet him.

“Father, how was your meeting?” Like everyday, you began to unbutton your father's coat, taking care of him like a daughter ought to.

He cleared his throat, unsure how to approach the matter. Watching brass buttons become undone almost to the point of redundancy, he allowed you to remove the outer layer of his suit, revealing his form fitting dress shirt.

“Muzan has agreed to court you…” Before you could react in jubilation, he continued, “But he asked that I ensure you know how to please a man before your wedding night.”

The jacket nearly slipped from your hand. “What? Where am I supposed to learn a thing like that? Is he not going to teach me?”

“It would seem not.” Kokushibo could feel his cock stirring to life. Your innocence was truly delicious.

“Then how — how am I supposed to learn?” Your knuckles were white, fingers curling tighter around silken fabric.

Your father’s calloused gripped your mandible, painless albeit threatening. He tipped your face towards the ceiling, forcing you to look into a lustful, violet gaze as he towered above his quarry.

“I will teach you.”

Laughter ignited in your belly but died immediately, deprived of oxygen. The situation should've been a joke — even if it were an unfunny one — but an all too familiar force poked against your thigh, proving how dire of a situation you were in.

“We can't," you denied him in a meek voice, body trembling at the sensation of your father's thick cock throbbing, “I have to be pure for Mr. Kibutsuji.”

He stroked your bottom lip with the rough pad of his thumb. “He'll never know how you learned, but he will know if you haven't. Do you wish to be a disobedient disappointment?”

Alarm bells rang in the back of your subconscious, poking through the fog of grooming. But they were dim, unheard over the sound of your heartbeat. Their call would go ignored, sounding off in vain.

The thought of disappointing not only Muzan, but also your father, made your heart sink. Bile boiled, raising halfway up your esophagus until it burned. Heartache wasn't an option you could bear, not when you finally knew a glimpse of joy.

“No father.”

“So you will?” A thin dark brow tipped up, falling in unison with you lowering to your knees.

“Father.” You looked up at him with wide eyes, glassy with naivety. “I can keep a secret. Please. I just want to make you happy.”

He slowly led you to his bedroom, not wanting to appear too eager. Sure, he had been dreaming of this moment for far too long for comfort, but you didn't need to know that. He had spent too much time and effort on this carefully crafted illusion of choice to allow cracks to show.

Once the door was shut, he ordered calmly, “On your knees.”

All you could taste was ash, stealing your voice with a bittersweet tang of uncertainty. Part of you knew this was deplorable, the other didn't care. After only a beat of hesitation, you were at eye level with the dangerous bulge protruding in your father's trousers.

“Now what?” You nearly touched his thigh, retracting your hand at the last minute.

“Remove my belt.” Your father's cold expression didn't help with your unease. “Then lower my pants.”

“Yes sir.”

“Daddy,” he corrected.

“Pardon?” Did Muzan want to be called that? Or…

“Daddy.” The redundant echo made your hands shake. The snap of his voice was beyond intimidating. “I will not repeat myself again.”

“Yes…Daddy.” Heat rushed beneath your cheeks, traces of innocence slipping away.

The cool metal brushed against your fingertips. The sound of sterling silver clinking filled the air, rivaling only your heartbeat. Never had leather dragged free in such a maladroit manner. Your coordination died with a dwindling exhale.

After taking a deep breath for courage, you eventually achieved success, unthreading the belt despite the drop in your dexterity. The muscles in your hands twitched as you released the button holding up his trousers, shaking as you lowered the zipper.

“I-” No. There was no going back. You swallowed your protest, replacing it with curiosity. “Am I doing good?”

“Yes.” Kokushibo stared at you, observing you like prey. “Proceed.”

Your fingers curled around the edges of both his pants and undergarments. They were soft to the touch, and yet they burned. It was strange: you both enjoyed the singing sensation on your fingerprints and wished for it to end. You tormented yourself by slowly lowering the garments down his thighs, allowing his daunting cock to spring free.

It was imposingly large, girthy with a bulbous tip that was leaking years of pent up tears. The very appendage that created you was now expecting you to touch it. To please it.

“Now what, Daddy?” Shy eyelashes batted at him, eyes wide and unsure like a timid doe.

“Become acquainted with it.” The protruding vein running along the bottom of his length throbbed, growing alarmingly impatient. If not for his discipline, it would've already been lodged deep in your throat.

Offering a shaky nod, you reached up to wrap your fingers around the base. Your eyes met your father's, only deepening the flush painting your face. “Will Mr. Kibutsuji's be… the same size?”

Kokushibo nearly choked, taken aback and appalled by your question. He cleared his throat into his fist, hiding how he practically flustered himself. “I am not aware of the details pertaining to Mr. Kibutsuji's penis.”

“Oh.” Instinctively, your wrist began to lazily stroke along his shaft. Becoming slightly less uncomfortable, you sighed softly, “That's too bad.”

Hiding his annoyance, Kokushibo instructed, “Take the tip in your mouth now.”

“Yes daddy.”

Your mouth pressed to the tip of his straining cock, kissing innocently along the slit. Precum clung to your lips like cheap clear lip gloss, too sticky and thick. The taste of salt invaded your taste buds, making you shudder involuntarily with each unsure kitten lick to his swollen glans.

You were doing this.

You were really doing this.

And with the way your father looked at you, how could this possibly be wrong? He looked at you like a woman, a graduation into womanhood, and his desire sent your nerves aflame. You own budding desire tingling between your legs.

“Swirl your tongue, focus on the underside of the tip.” A low growl rumbled in Kokushibo's chest. It was almost painful to hold himself back.

More than anything, he wanted to toss you onto that bed, tear your panties, and deflower you right now. You had been such a tease, and now he was so close. He had you where he wanted you and still he couldn't have you; not completely anyway.

He should be balls deep in you, fucking your perfect, pure pussy raw. Flooding your womb with his seed, accepting the consequences. Instead, he was receiving a hardly adequate blowjob as if he were a teenage boy. It was pathetic, and yet, he accepted it.

Saliva dripped down your chin as the tip of your tongue isolated his frenulum, multitasking with flicks of your wrist pumping his cock, attempting to bring him to orgasm. Your lips caressed the tip while your tongue embraced the connective tissue. You occasionally bobbed your head to take in more, teasing his foreskin in the process.

“Just like that.” He held you hostage by your hair, groaning at the sound of your surprised, muffled moan. After a beat, his lust took control. He had waited too damn long to do this. “Be mindful of your teeth now. Mr. Kibutsuji requires you to know how to use your throat.”

“Hm?” Your eyes snapped open, lips vibrating around him. Before you could react any further, your face was shoved closer to his pelvis.

Coarse curls tickled your nose, distracting you from the searing burn taking over your throat. Saline stung your tear ducts, dampening your lashes with each weary blink. Your nails clawed into his thick thighs to no avail. Each crescent moon was increasingly weaker than his resolve, his desperation.

Your miserable gags sounded like music to Kokushibo's ears. After years of vitriolic waiting, your suffering was retribution. His balls clenched, signaling that he was close, that he would soon cum down his pretty, little daughter's throat.

It was euphoric being the first one to defile you like this, even if not completely. Kokushibo couldn't help but get off on your innocence, your blind trust. This was everything he has ever wanted. And yet, he craved more.

Without proper warning, bitter sap filled your mouth. “Now swallow every last drop.” Watching your face recoil at the taste made a rare smile take over his face. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip to suppress his grin, but failed to completely subdue his joy. “Now stick out your tongue.” You obeyed, trying to ignore how the sodium made your raw throat ache. “Good girl.”

A weak cough sputtered beyond your lips. “Thank you Daddy.”

Then he realized he could get away with doing more to you. That you wouldn't say no, and he could truly do as he pleased.

“Lay down, flat on your back,” your father directed, offering no room to argue, “Legs spread.”

Still, you tried, insisting, “Father, I'm not so sure we should have sex.” In spite of your protests, you climbed onto your side of the bed, “Mr. Kibutsuji wants a virgin bride.”

The thought of sleeping with your father should've made your skin crawl. But you were long since resigned to the possibility, pitying the lonely man and just wishing to brighten his day. You spread your legs as he commanded, just wanting to make your father happy.

He had been a widower for years, remaining single ever since your mother passed. He never even brought a single woman into his bed side, revolving his world around you to the point you were willing to graciously offer your body to him.

On your own, you flipped up your skirt, allowing your father access to your body while turning your head to the side, unwilling to look at him out of shame. The worst part? You didn't find the incest shameful, only the betrayal to your future husband.

“We're not going to have intercourse,” Kokushibo groaned, poorly masking his disappointment, “you're my daughter.”

“Then wh-” You were cut off by him suddenly mounting you, pushing back your legs into a mating press. Your confusion only grew as his still erect cock rubbed against your panties.

“I'm not convinced Mr. Kibutsuji cares about female pleasure, but you have earned the honor.” The pad of his thumb rubbed over your clit through frilly fabric. 

Your father insisted on buying you cute panties, knowing you'd be wearing them under your nightgown. He often snuck peaks periodically throughout the dead of night while you slept.

His movements began slowly, rubbing along your needy clitoris. The tempo was practically unbearable, but you didn't dare buck your hips into it. If you did, he'd just deny your pleasure for being greedy. A lady in the Tsugikuni household was to accept only what was given to her, not take.

A whimper died in your mouth at the sudden loss of his touch. Guilt wracked your mind, fearing that you had done something to displease him only to moan as the tip of his cock replaced his thumb. His oversized fingers wrapped around the length, compensating for the fact that he couldn't actually steal your virginity.

With each subtle thrust, the tip retreated deliciously into his sensitive foreskin. The friction of the barrier between you became more bearable as they dampened with each nudge against your clit. Your pussy clenched around nothing, tempting you to beg for your Daddy's cock. But you didn't dare.

Saliva pooled on his tongue, building until he inevitably spat on you. He needed more lubricant, crude or not.

“Daddy?!” you whined, instantly wishing you had bitten your tongue instead.

Rather than verbally reprimand you, the tip on his cock nestled against your hole, virginity remaining intact only thanks to your panties acting as a shield. He struck your clit, jotting your body, pushing him deeper, but not quite to the point of penetration.

“Know your place.” He spanked your pussy once more. “Do you understand?” 

“Yes Daddy.” Your head erratically bounced up and down. “I understand.”

“Good.” Another slap made you clench barely around the very tip of his cock. “Now remain still.”

He fled from your hole, instead semi fucking your folds over your panties. It didn't matter how wrong this was, you didn't know any better and it felt so good to be so close to your father.

You swallowed a complaint when the friction of fabric became too much. Your father tore a large hole into your panties, slipping his cock through the shreds, rubbing against you with renewed intimacy. Wet, fruitless thrusts echoed off the walls, your whimpering cunt glistening with arousal.

Buttons were strewn across the floor, torn from your blouse, clacking lightly against cool wood, while scattering like your thoughts that had turned your brain into mush. All you could think about was pleasing him, ignoring how he raised your bra to unveil your breasts to watch them bounce with his movements.

Then it happened; the tip of his cock accidentally slid in. Not quite a complete penetration, but deep down, you knew it counted as something more than mere grinding.

Loathing himself, Kokushibo exited in silence, gliding between folds at a much slower pace.

“Daddy?” Did we just have sex? Does that count?

“Yes?”

“Could you put just this tip in? I want to feel you.” You gnawed on your bottom lip, skin threatening to break.

Kokushibo was a man of little expression, but his eyes blew wide looking down at his little girl with confusion. His lips parted to speak, but nothing came out. This was everything he had ever wanted, but it was forbidden in more ways than one. 

But… who was he to deny your plea? 

Silently, the very tip of his cock stretched your tight entrance to the shape of his flesh, slowly inserting it halfway in before emerging and tapping it against your puffy clit. He grew tempted to spear you in its entirety, restraint holding on by a thread.

Once more, he shoved the tip inside, this time deeper. It felt so right to be this intimate, with one of your arms wrapping around his neck. With your free hand, you began to unbutton his dress shirt, wanting to be even closer.

With each button, you revealed pale muscles you had only felt through layers of clothing. This was a dream, not quite a dream come true, but far from a fever dream. You had Daddy's cock alternating between rubbing your creamy pussy and teasing your tight hole as you undressed him. Greedily feeling up abs, you deluded yourself into believing to be a fairytale, moaning pornographically at the euphoria that was bestowed upon you.

This bliss was ever building, coiling in your stomach in a way that you didn't understand. The dam broke as your father began to rub figure eights into your clitoris as he fucked you with just the tip. Your entire body was tingling as your pussy harshly clenched, sucking him in.

For a moment, he sat there, taking in the gravity of this situation. The blood stained once virgin sheets below you.

Then your voice made him snap. “Daddy, what have you done?”

Blinded by years of suppressed lust, he stole a kiss, drinking in your strained whimpers. Forcing his tongue down your throat, folding your thighs even closer to your chest. Disobeying orders, training you to take his cock, rather than Muzan's. Entitled to your body, believing he owned you.

Your fingers tangled in his disheveled, long hair, holding on for dear life as he deflowered you. The pain slowly melted away feeling his hairs graze over your overstimulated bud. Your pussy adapted to the sudden intrusion, welcoming it.

“You belong to me.” Lies left his tongue in the form of a growl. He knew Muzan was already ring shopping.

Lips latched onto your neck, nipping at the delicate skin. His teeth sunk into the veins to feel your pulse, claiming you with possessive marks. He began pounding harder as you writhed and whined beneath him in pain. Stray tears slipped down your face as you forgot the difference between pain and pleasure.

Part of you knew this was wrong; you should've saved yourself for Muzan. But the way your father's cock was thrusting so perfectly into your g-spot, you couldn't help but completely give into pleasure. You pulled him down for another kiss, moaning into his mouth as your tongues swirled together.

Lewd squelching and the slap, slap, slap of your skin connecting accompanied as percussion. A thick, white ring of cream was plastered around the base of his cock. The surrounding hairs were soaked in honey made just for him.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your mouth, vaguely signaling his impending high with the stutter of his hips. You feel him kissing your cervix as sin flooded your womb. As you looked up at him, horrified, he gave a single command, “You will take every drop. Do you understand?”

You nodded.

He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead. “Good.”

With him still nestled inside, throbbing post orgasm, you asked, “Will we practice this again tomorrow?”

“Yes. Until you perfect it.” There was no perfecting it. He was honorable until it came to you. Now that he had a taste, letting go felt impossible. “Now, let's get you cleaned up.”

While you weren't on stage en pointe, beads of sweat pricked your forehead as if you were. Imaginary lights shined down on you as fidgeted with the dress Muzan had commissioned you. Not a word of this went through you, however. Instead, he asked your father for your measurements and sent them to a seamstress. 

He didn’t bother with delivering the dress to you himself either, instead sending this young woman named Ume to style you to perfection. She polished off the look with a flower in your hair that matched the lead ballerina’s in the first act.

Even your dress matched the hue of Aurora's tutu, but the design was much different. Tule flowed freely from your waist down, hanging below a satin bow that Ume had meticulously tied at the front, presenting you as a present. The gown was also off shoulder, ruffling covering both your breasts and sleeves perfectly.

Ume also gave you a matching clutch to go with the dress, empty of course. With Muzan, you didn't need money nor identification. Among your accessories include dangly, diamond earrings and a matching tennis bracelet.

You were perfect, so why was he ignoring you?

Surely Sleeping Beauty couldn't be that interesting? It was already the third act and he hadn't so much as spared you a glance since it began. Insecurity crept in once more. Did he prefer the ballerinas to you? They were strong, beautiful, and… flexible, while you were over thinking in the dark.

But being prone to overthinking did yield some perks. This ballet ended with Prince Désiré marrying Princess Aurora. Could that mean something? No. It was too soon. This was only your second date. That would be ridiculous. But as you looked at the debonair man seated beside you, you couldn't help but wonder, what if?

After the final curtsies commenced, Muzan finally acknowledged you, leaning in close to whisper in your ear, “I have somewhere special I'd like to take you. I'm sure your father won't mind your being out a little later than expected.”

“Where?” Your voice barely met his ears.

“I own this cute, little, Italian place across town.” Even his attempt at being humble came off as arrogant. “It's closed for the night, but I was thinking we could share some champagne and get you something to eat.”

“Are you sure?” This was all the reassurance you needed. He was literally making an excuse to spend more time with you. What more could a girl want?

“Of course!” He pulled out his phone. “I just need to make a few phone calls first, most importantly to your father.” His hand claimed yours, leading you out to the hall as he virtually ignored you once more.

Muzan's restaurant was really nothing more than a money laundering scheme, somewhere to put money into for it to come back clean. Sure, he paid off the police and politicians, but the extra reassurance of avoiding arrest was priceless. A prison sentence was the last thing he wanted.

Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, a fine line of gaudy elegance. Warm lighting dulled your senses, relaxing your mind, likely a trick utilized on consumers. 

The booths were deep and rounded, cushioned with black leather. At the center of the room were round, black, lacquered tables. Seated along the center were matching, square tables and chairs. Not quite Muzan's style, but it didn't have to be, not when it was a cover up.

“This place is lovely!” You clung to his arm, approaching the hostess in sync.

Smugness practically oozed from his complexion. “Only the best for my beloved.”

The hostess had long, silky hair, falling just below her waist. While her eyes were obscured with bangs, you could tell that she was a beautiful woman. Taking in her appearance gave birth to resentment and then pity. Marking her puffy lips were several injection marks, meaning either she was insecure, or Muzan forced her to get filler to bring in an audience of creepy western businessmen.

He could sense the fear on the surface of your eyes, enjoying the insecurities his dating choices gave you. An intentional choice on his behalf, disliking the unnatural perfection. It meant whoever he settled down with would have a lifetime of comparison. The mentally battered were easy to exploit, Muzan's bread and butter.

Cutting his celebration short, he pulled you closer by the small of your back, stealing a kiss so publicly, forcing both you and the hostess into submissive states.

The woman in front of you had a kill count, but even she fell in line to Muzan. She bowed deeply, enforcing strict posture from the moment he opened the door for you. He was a force to be reckoned with, and you were given the illusion of safety by his side.

Nakime didn't bother to grab menus. Muzan always ordered the same thing for his dates. “Welcome in Mr. Kibutsuji, right this way.”

Without another word, her swollen lips submitted in silence, leading the way. She was already a woman of few words, but working for Muzan quickly taught her that less is more, especially as a woman.

At your table, you bowed back, offering some grace. “Thank you, ma'am.”

Chuckling, Muzan propped his elbow on the table, resting his chin on a loose fist. “You're adorable, really.”

You weren't sure what he meant, fumbling to sit down in the booth as you tried to comprehend his words. “I am?”

This felt like a trap. You were only doing as your father instructed. Niceties didn't have to be sincere, but politeness would serve you well. Both men were cut from the same cloth, but the stark differences in values were beginning to show.

They were satin and silk.

Ranunculus and rose.

Silver and gold. 

Shaking his head, Muzan's laughter morphed into a snickers. “You don't have to thank the help.”

“It's polite.” Your brow knitted together.

Darkness swelled beneath scarlet irises. “I'm only preparing you for life as a Kibutsuji.”

Casual words never weighed so heavily. Their density made no sense, swirling around your head like a toy top. Eventually, you'd crash and burn with overuse, overthinking acting as a curse.

Still, you were blinded by your crush, resurrecting your heart into taking precedence over your brain. “Oh! In that case, thank you.”

It was far too soon for talks of marriage, yet you didn't protest. Your entire life had revolved around him; why would that suddenly end now?

“Only suck up to those who are your equal,” he instructed you like a child.

Teasing his frail ego, you giggled, “Like the King of England?”

“He is not your equal.” Muzan held in his disdain. Being compared to the monarchy was a low blow. “But you get the gist.”

A man with long, wispy, silver locks appeared before you with an uncanny pleasantness etched onto his features. “Welcome in you t‐” Opalite eyes went wide with recognition, his grin widening, “Oh, you must be the future Mrs. Kibutsuji!” Douma bowed. “It is an honor.”

“Hm?” you squeaked, taken aback by how quickly the prospect of marriage was mentioned by a stranger. Sure, you had been more than eager to marry Muzan for years, but wasn't it still too soon?

Or were you overthinking it?

Muzan dismissed the notion by coldly presenting his palm. “That will be enough, Douma.”

“Yes, of course.” Douma deflated like a sad puppy, parking back up in only a beat. “Could I get the two of you started with some drinks?”

“Champagne,” Muzan said dismissively, “We're celebrating.”

There was a glint in his eyes that you couldn't quite place. The sort of mischief that vanished the moment he delicately took you by your hands, holding them by your fingers. In that moment, all you could see was a romantic at heart trying to win over his beloved.

Douma almost pitied you, finding you naive. But it wasn't his place to question his boss's mal intent. “Silly of me to ask, really.” His laughter was eerie. “Right away.”

“Celebrating.” You broke Muzan's gaze, bashfully looking down at your manicure. Heat rose beneath your cheeks as thoughts of matrimony resurfaced. “Celebrating what?”

“That will be a surprise, my darling.” He booped your nose as if you were a twitchy rabbit. A pure doe, ready to be defiled with consecutive pregnancies.

“Yes, of course,” you conceded, wishing Douma would return with the drinks. It was easier to navigate such a mature man when liquid courage was involved. Without it, you felt helpless, drowning in a sea of your own fears.

On cue, Douma returned with two crystal flutes, placing them in front of you. Time stood still as he popped open the new bottle. You held your breath watching him pour golden bubbly filled first Muzan's glass, then yours. Your trance ended with the sound of the bottle being shoved into ice.

“Here are your drinks.” The man winked, playfully, not flirtatiously. “Have you decided on a meal?”

“I'll have the bistecca alla fiorentina.” Muzan then motioned to you. “And the lady will have the house salad.”

While Douma was not surprised by the order, he couldn't comprehend the need to steal a woman's dietary autonomy. But he remained silent on the issue aside from a joke, remaining complicit, “Woah, old school.”

“Just take the order and go.” Muzan's patience was wearing thin, his mask slipping.

Douma pointed to his temple, tapping it twice as he replied, “I got it right here,” before sashaying away.

With Douma out of earshot, Muzan squeezed your hand, recapturing your attention with banter, “Remind me to fire him.”

Your giggles mirrored the gentle fizz of your drink. Slowly, you were finding yourself comfortable in the web he weaved. “His professionalism is…” You inhaled sharply through your mouth, “Ehhh.”

“Keeps my other employees on their toes.” The way he stroked the back of your hand with his thumb was magnetic. There was a gravitational pull between you, and your orbit could not be broken.

Your eyes flickered to his touch, coyly meeting his eyes in grace. “HR must be a nightmare.”

Muzan grimaced. Thoughts of Enmu, the so-called head of HR, popped into his head. “You have no idea.” After shaking his head, curls seductively swaying to the rhythm, his sexy smirk returned. “Anyway, I'd like to get to know you a bit better.”

He almost looked sincere, playing his role perfectly. He would kiss the back of your hand as though you were his princess, someone he could cherish. He was isolating you in romance, keeping your guard low even in the claws of an apex predator. A docile woman was a good woman, renewing his respect in your father's unconventional parenting style.

“What would you like to know?” Your brow knitted.

“What do you bring to the table in a relationship?” His hand retreated from your hand to caress your cheek. “Other than your good looks.”

Light shimmered in your eyes. This is what you were born to do. “I'm pretty good at home making!”

Stifling his laughter, Muzan's lips twitched upwards. “How quaint.” That was not something any of his previous lovers ever proposed. They knew it was an unnecessary labor intended for maids. But you? You thought it would pad your resume. He found your ignorance adorable. “However, that will not be necessary.”

“Not necessary?” Moisture died on your tongue, shriveling into ash.

His smirk widened. “I have three maids, two chefs, a personal driver, and when we're wed, I will be hiring you one as well.”

You were so taken aback, you didn't even notice he said when, not if.

With a scrunched nose, you asked, “So, what do I do?”

The pad of his thumb glided across your bottom lip. “Do you want children?”

He gazed at you with half-lidded, expectant eyes, stealing your breath away. “I-” Is he asking for me to have his babies? The thought raced through your head, heart thundering against your ribcage at the thought of carrying his child. “I think so.”

That was the wrong answer. You knew that, internally scolding yourself for your uncertainty. You impatiently down a swig of alcohol, straightening your spine as you refuse to have lax posture in front of such an important figure.

Repressing an eyeroll, Muzan followed suit, sipping his champagne as well. “I will require two sons from you.”

“What if I have two girls?” Just how much was he asking of your womb?

His shoulders casually shrugged. “Then you have failed me and will try once more to birth an adequate heir and spare.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Oh, her poor womb,” Douma gasped, feigning shock.

“Get out of here, fool!” Scorn was but a temporary tattoo on Muzan's face. His facade slipped for only a moment.

With a pout, Douma set two plates on the table. “Aw, but I have your food.”

With a dry throat, trying to emulate Muzan, you managed to keep your composure as foreign words slipped out. “Go in grace.”

With Douma gone once more, Muzan leaned back, impressed. “Your father raised you well.”

With a cheeky grin, faint laughter filled the air. Testing the waters, you added a wink, attempting to be sexy. “He's quite handy with a belt.”

Muzan was unphased, nonchalantly cutting into rare meat. “So you were a naughty girl, hm?”

“Well…” 

Imagery of you bent over your father’s knee the week prior for losing one of his socks in the dryer played in your mind. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, fantasy taking control of your body. Thighs instinctively pressing together in need.

After counting ten harsh lashes, Kokushibo had noticed your core had grown damp with arousal, fucking you until his lesson had been long forgotten, doomed to be repeated once more.

Trailing his touch down your neck, he grabbed you by your pulse, leaning in to whisper, “Or, is it that you are still a naughty girl?”

“Muzan!”

Blood pooled on his plate. His touch rescinded. “Forward, I know.”

He took a dainty bite.

“Very.” Your salad remained untouched.

“I can't help it.” He took another bite. 

Moving around crisp romaine with your fork, your eyes flickered up to his. “I don't mind.”

Muzan set down his cutlery. “You truly are a naughty girl in that case.”

Taking another sip of champagne, your anxiety bubbled away. Sure, this was a man old enough to be your father's age. But taboo was what you had been conditioned to crave. If the dynamic wasn't despicable, was it even love?

“I have my moments.” Your charm had become a cascading melody, turning this into more than worldly lust. His heart constricted as you stabbed through half of a cherry tomato.

As you finally took a bite, he mused, “I guess I'll have to ask you father for tips if I ever need to bend you over my knee.”

A moan slipped out. “He's very good at it.”

“Sounds…” After a beat of suspension, Muzan purred, “perverse.”

You nearly choked, prematurely swallowing a second bite. “Oh! Um…”

Changing the subject, he asked, “How's your salad?”

He didn't really care, but he wasn't ready to reveal all his cards yet. He enjoyed seeing you on edge, but not in a full blown panic. Something that delicious had to be savored.

“It's good.” More champagne followed, attempting to chase away your discomfort and failing. There were knots in your throat that remained with every swallow.

“Good.”

“How's your steak?” Your voice was beyond meek, crying for a lifeboat that would never come.

“A little overdone for my taste.” His plate was dyed red. “Would you like a bite?”

“Yes please.”

Blood dribbled from the corner of your mouth as he placed a small piece of steak past your lips. As you chewed, he gathered the metallic juices with a swipe of his fingerprint. Licking away the blood suggestively, knowing he had you the moment you looked away with a red twinge to your cheeks.

“You're such an agreeable woman.” He motioned Douma over with a plate of hot towels, staining one of them with a heifer's slaughter to cleanse his hands. “Such a desirable trait in a wife.”

Tapping fork prongs against your plate, you nervously bit your lip. “Are you considering pursuing a more serious relationship with me?”

“Something like that.” He leaned back, soaking in his own arrogance.

As quickly as he vanished, Douma returned once more with two petite plates of titanium. “Dessert.” He offered a wink to lighten the mood. “On the house.”

“You are dismissed.” Muzan waved him off.

A frown tugged at the man's ethereal features. “Awe, but Gyokko put his love into it.”

Muzan held your hand, preventing you from taking a bite. “Don't eat that.”

Douma huffed like a child, blowing hair from his face only for it to fall back into place. “I didn't mean it like that.”

With narrowed eyes, mimicking Muzan's cold demeanor, you waved him away, “Weren't you dismissed?

“So cold.” Delicate features deflate, silent muttering barely making its way to your eardrums, “What a match made by the heavens.”

Squeezing Muzan's hand that lingered around your own, you chuckled, “This is me reminding you to fire him.”

“You truly are a minx.” Muzan could feel his pants growing tighter, his growing erection carefully concealed beneath the table.

In theory, he could take you right now, bending you over the table to claim as his own. His staff couldn't make any true complaints about it; his HR was only a sham after all. But patience was a virtue, something he understood your father lacked.

“I take after my mother!” Giggles flowed freely, comfort finally outweighing your nerves.

Crimson eyes flicked to your breasts, returning to your eyes the second you caught on. “Your father is a lucky man.”

“You're too kind.”

“Allow me to be kinder.” He stood up, taking a knee beside you. “Ms. Tsugikuni, will you do me the honor of becoming Mrs. Kibutsuji?”

A velvet box popped open, revealing an elegant, marquise cut, diamond ring carved with blood. Shining radiantly even in the dim light, the perfect prop to lure any woman into a gilded cage.

Painful throbbing within your chest screamed for you to accept, but a flicker of clarity prevented it. “Marriage? But this is only our second date!”

He pinched the band between his fingers, removing it from the box. “When a man knows, he knows."

“Um…” Your voice died as cold metal slipped along your finger.

With your ring in place, Muzan watched it glimmer in satisfaction. His smirk only widening as your eyes dulled. “My darling, we both know you can't decline.” Suddenly, the scent of lilies reeked of death. “Not when I know your little secret.”

You snatched back your hand, cradling it against your breast. Horrified, you gasped, “How do you know?”

“You told me.” His finger tapped against your empty flute of champagne. A chill ran down your spine, only boosting his ego more. A hand extended towards you, offering a deal with the devil that required sacrificial blood. “Now, what do you say?”

There was a pregnant pause.

The muscles in your hand twitched, only to accept the loss of your soul a moment later, resigned. “I'd love to be your bride, Mr. Kibutsuji.”

“Excellent!” His praise almost felt sincere, sealed with a chaste kiss before breaking the cold  embrace to swagger too calmly back to his seat. Not looking up from the flesh on his plate, slicing it once more, he then states, “Also, you will be terminating that abomination you're carrying.”

“Excuse me?” Your hands instinctively cradled your abdomen.

Muzan had just confirmed your greatest denial.

With a detached shrug, Muzan explained, “Your father tracks your menstruation.” Shaking his head in something akin to disgust, but not quite, “He has for years, and well…” he trailed off, making sure to capture your gaze, “Who else could it belong to?”

“I-”

There was no defense that could make this right.

“Don't worry your pretty, little head.” He caressed your cheek once more, but your heart no longer fluttered. “I'll accept damaged property. You've been such a good girl after all.”

Your body went numb.

“Thank you.”

“We can always get that hymen reattached in time for the wedding. Dr. Tamio owes me a plethora of favors.” There was always a clause in every contract signed in blood.

More silence passed you by.

Finally, you rasped once more.

“Thank you.”

Your fairytale wedding wasn't quite what you expected. Sure, you knew Muzan was a rather cruel man. But you had dreams of a man who hated everyone but you. Narcissistic tendencies were integral to his nature, pinning you below him. You were nothing more than his accessory, or perhaps a plaything if he was feeling generous.

Your hymen had been restored and since then, your father was to remain under lock and key. He was caged below the belt to prevent copulation between you. It was a grievous shame to wear, but Kokushibo did with pride until he was informed of your pregnancy confirmation. But it wasn't even the pregnancy that irked him.

No. It was the abortion that followed.

Muzan claimed it was either this or drowning the infant at birth before you got attached. He refused to raise another man's child, especially when it was the product of incest.

The actual wedding was a quick ceremony. Muzan was one for theatrics, but he worried you would embarrass him in white. You had only just recovered from the termination and reconstructive surgery. Your vaginal blood was for his eyes only, and he only desired it in the context of pain, not reproduction.

Retiring in your honeymoon sweet was once a dream come true, until you saw your father seated in a chair facing to bed. In that moment your heart dropped. You turned to Muzan, but his expression gave nothing away, leaving you to wonder what this was.

“Muzan.” Your throat felt like sandpaper. “Why is my father here?”

A scoff vibrated his lips. “Do you not enjoy your wedding present, my little incestuous minx? I requested his presence just for you.”

“Why?” You had made the mistake of thinking he had moved past your indiscretion.

Curiously gentle fingers grabbed you by your chin, forcing you to look into your groom's possessive chokehold. Muzan's cologne was so magnetic, pulling you in with lightheadedness. Knees buckled beneath you, his grasp holding you in place.

“You have failed me as a bride. You've forsaken what was promised to me, offering only a cheap mockery of virginity.” Each of his strides backed you deeper into a corner until you collapsed onto the bed. “And this is only the beginning of your punishments for your little indiscretion, my darling.”

With your peripheral vision, you glanced at your father. He made no reaction, resigned to this humiliation ritual.

Swallowing ash, you looked up at your husband's piercing gaze, “Yes Daddy.”

Kokushibo felt his fingers twitch, threatening to curl into fists. But rather than show his rage, he remained outwardly stoic, cursing out Muzan in his mind as he calmly approached to lay down a white towel on the end of the bed for Muzan's future trophy. 

Your blood.

“Your father here will hold you down. We wouldn't want a squirmy bride, now would we?” Muzan caressed his cheek, easing your nerves with practiced charisma. “But I'm sure you're used to that, aren't you?”

Ash clung to your tongue, shame atrophying the muscle. You had known partaking in incest was stigmatized, but had been blind to just what a moral failing it truly was. Your body became rigid as your father unzipped your gown, bearing your body to be on display for your new husband.

You wanted to run, but the ring on your finger was a cage. There was no leaving, especially not when Muzan smugly swaggered towards you, clipping your wings with a single, practiced movement; your dignity hit the ground along with your bra.

The tepid hand of your husband cupped your breast, squeezing it like putty. A smirk twitched at the inner corner of his mouth. “These will do nicely, especially once she's with child again.”

Kokushibo's jaw clenched, holding in subtle rage at the mention of your terminated pregnancy. It had been his child, so his ego told him it should've been his choice, not Muzan's, and certainly not yours.

A hiss escaped your lips as Muzan pinched your nipple, rolling the hardening bud between his fingers, tugging lightly on them. He was thoroughly enjoying the fearful heaviness to your breathing, thriving in your anxiety, inhaling your pheromones like an aphrodisiac. His erection strained in his pants, begging to make a mockery of your lack of chasity.

Your father pried your thighs apart, allowing Muzan access between them. The muscles in your body went limp; even if you wanted to fight it, you couldn't. Muzan owned you, and your father controlled you. You weren't a person to them; you were a mere object to project onto, nothing more.

A toy.

Even if they broke you, you'd have no true respite. They'd fix you just enough to use and break you once more until the broken bits were fractured beyond repair.

You'd either adapt, or end up in a casket. Fawning was easier than fighting.

“My, you truly are a minx.” Muzan traced his fingertips over a wet spot in panties, pulling white fabric to the side and running them along your entrance, gathering your slick. “So wet for me already and I've barely touched you.” Muzan wiped the back of his fingers on Kokushibo's face like a used napkin. “You've trained the whore well.”

You were still fawning, right?

Right?!

“Thank you sir,” Kokushibo grumbled begrudgingly.

Without penetration, Muzan created a V-shape with his fingers, spreading your hole. “Enmu worked wonders with the reconstruction of her hymen. A fool wouldn't notice she has been tempting her father to fall from grace.” The pad of his thumb gently circled over your clitoris. “My darling, you should apologize to your father for leading him astray.”

“I-” You choked on your own saliva, head reeling back into your father's taut chest. Heart fluttering violently as violet irises met yours. “I'm sorry father. I-” Words were fumbled, tying on your tongue with Muzan applying more pressure on your poor clit. “It's my fault. I seduced you. I'm so sorry.”

Muzan struck your pussy. Desperately, you tried to close your legs, but your father held you firmly in place, allowing Muzan to grab you by the face. “I'll forgive you, but I want the promise that you'll never stray from me again. Should you break this vow too, retribution will only be more extreme and we wouldn't want that, would we?”

“No Daddy…” Tears streamed down your face.

“Good girl.” Your panties were torn down, flung from your ankles and discarded onto the floor.

Your husband was well aware that he was attractive, flaunting this fact and utilizing it as a weapon. Unraveling his tie and allowing it to rendezvous with your garments. Unbuttoning his suit, only for it too to meet the same fate.

Slowly, pale, creamy pectorals were revealed, making your brain spasm in conflict. Your body reacted to him. Your lingering attraction built a hesitant arousal that pooled into a breaking dam.

His body was lean compared to your father's, almost softer. Skin smoother, less worn on the palms. Almost delicate yet demanding, something you were quickly learning was a deadly combination.

Metal clinked as he removed his belt, discarding that on the ground as well. A sly smirk crept up his face as his trousers and subsequent boxer briefs fell to the floor as well, revealing his cock.

Instant comparisons flooded your mind at the sight of Muzan's smug peacocking.

Father's is a little bigger.

Father is much more muscular.

Muzan's tip is pinker than fathers.

Followed with a final thought as Muzan positioned himself between your legs: will he be gentle?

Your muscles grew stiff feeling the tip of his cock brush between your folds, gathering your essence before sheathing it inside you. Pain permeated throughout your crudely torn cunt, blood staining the once white fabric beneath you. Barely healed stitches stretched around the appendage, memorizing it.

Kokushibo held you down by your breasts, shamelessly groping you in front of your groom. “She will endure.”

Muzan tossed your ankles over his shoulders, spearing you deeper. “You've raised her well.”

One hand retreated from your breast, fixing a strand of your hair back into place. “Thank you, sir.”

With only a grunt in response, Muzan slowly began thrusting into you. Gripping your waist firmly, his ruby eyes rolled back into his head in bliss with the sensual sway of his hips. You had been worth the wait. Worth the compromise of perfection.

From the way your pussy squeezed him, practically sucking him in, to the way your face flushed from your body adjusting to the sudden pressure. The cherry on top was the way your father looked at you in desire, coveting a bride that could never be his. That glint of envy was almost enough to arouse a premature arrival in itself.

“Touch her,” Muzan barked, longing to humiliate the both of you.

Silently, Kokushibo's hand dipped between your folds, drawing into your clit in the way only he knew how. He found a weird sense of superiority in knowing your body in ways Muzan never would, lips twitching as your first moan of the night hitched your breath for him, not your husband.

Saccharine whimpers vibrated your slightly parted lips. Beneath your cheeks, blood became magma, warmth spreading to the very tips of your ears. Your chest stammered, struggling to keep up with the intense sensation bubbling in your lower abdomen.

Dumb nonsense rolled off your tongue, nerves shot unsure whether or not to guide your muscles into relaxing or tension. Drool dribbled from the corner of your mouth, glistening on your chin. 

You were a picture of patheticness, and your husband reveled in it, mocking you. “Such a stupid, little cocksleeve she is.” Muzan leaned down, kissing away the saliva evaporating on your skin.

With a curt nod, Kokushibo agreed, “She was raised for this.”

“For me, or for you, the perverted father?” Muzan raised a brow, body stilling.

Mind fractured, you nuzzled your face against your father, “Can't it be both?”

The two men exchanged a brief glance, calling a temporary truce at your expense. Attacking your body with increased vigor, showing your perfect pussy no mercy.

Lewd squelching filled the room, the scent of sex heavy on the air. Without abandon, the tip of Muzan's cock rammed your delicate cervix. The levels of your agony only remained manageable as figure eights skated on your clit. Pain and pleasure blended into such a fine line you could no longer distinguish the two.

Your eyes snapped shut, giving into the way they commanded your body. Tight walls fluttered so perfectly, quickly adapting to the intrusion. Hugging his cock like a vice, enveloping it in velvet.

Kokushibo's touch was deliberate, teasing you almost painfully. He applied just enough pressure to enrich your pleasure, yet denied enough to bring you to orgasm. He quickly withdrew his touch completely as you drew closer to instead lower his own pants.

With white flags waving at your expense, Kokushibo had the gall to tap his fat dick against your pretty lips. His head tipped back in euphoria as you immediately took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around swollen glans just as he had taught you. 

The way he fisted your hair was a mere warning, not a threat. You knew all enough that he was instructing you to bob your head around his length. Taking him into your throat only worsened your subtle asphyxiation. The way Muzan was pounding your poor pussy left you breathless.

With every brush of your father's fingers against your clit, the torturous feeling of being tormented with impending release boiled greater inside you. You were unable to squirm, held down by two men relentlessly abusing your body to chase their own high.

Dark hairs dampened by your fallen tears tickled your nose, vocal chords in muffled vibrato as you embraced your own degradation. You felt your mind slipping further astray with each kiss of your cervix, each stroke of your sweet spot. Nerves aflame, taught how to react properly to exploitation.

How to take it.

Survive it.

A strangled scream died in the back of your raw throat, silenced by you taking your father's cock deeper as your body convulsed. Your molten essence uncontrollably erupted, drenching Muzan's groin.

“Fuck…” Muzan exhaled in exhaustion, beads of sweat glistening on his brow. He had intended on savoring your snug cunt. But the constriction of your walls was practically begging for his seed. The proper seed. “Sh-she's well trained.”

“Indeed,” Kokushibo concurred, continuing to strum your puffy clit into overstimulation. His balls clenched at the sight of you writhing uncontrollable, entranced by the sight of drool spilling down your chin as you struggled to suck him off.

It was too much, but resistance was only a vanity project.

Before you could even come down from your first orgasm, a second one was triggered. Velvet cunt weeped in ecstasy as the two worked in tandem, humiliating you only strengthening their alliance. What was punishment became bonding at your expense.

A pale hand entangled in your hair, pulling you off your father's lap. As you struggled to catch your breath, fingers prodded your chin, forcing you to look into crimson eyes.

“Too…too much,” you whimpered.

The distress on the surface of your eyes, as well as the overwhelmed discomfort laced into your voice was the final note of a crescendo. Hot, white ropes flooded your womb. Muzan's grip on you grew unforgiving, digging crescent moons into your skin. But the way he twitched inside of you painted another story.

Clearly his throat, Muzan withdrew, watching in satisfaction as milky white spilled from your hole. “Kokushibo, clean her up.” As your father went to grab a towel, Muzan stipulated, “With your tongue.” Sitting down in a leather chair with a leg tossed over his knee, he leaned into his palm with a suggestive smirk. “She needs more endurance, don't you agree?”

Kokushibo knelt between your legs, hesitating at the thought of tasting another man's semen. Still, he swallowed his pride to lap up the bittersweet mixture of cum from his own daughter's pussy.

“Yes sir.”