Content: Muzan x soft dom!reader (reader's pronouns and appearance are unspecified) praise kink, hand job (Muzan receiving) NSFW.
A/N: Okay, here goes nothing. This is my first fic on this blog and I'm nervous as hell. Likes, comments and reblogs are tremendously appreciated
Release.
Muzan's entire life had been plagued by frustration.
As a mortal boy, it was the frustration of illness and helplessness. Frightened, left alone and in pain, too weak to leave the confines of his bed, and forced to watch as the world went on around him.
When he became a demon and his strength flourished, he found himself frustrated that he still could not walk among others in the radiant yet unforgiving light of the sun. He was frustrated with his upper ranks who had yet to find a remedy, frustrated with the Ubuyashikis’ relentless attempts to stop him, and frustrated that you were gazing at him with something like pity as he paced the floor in your room.
“I despise it,” he muttered, “this weakness. Depending on the capabilities of others.”
“I know.”
You didn't. You couldn't. The toll of a thousand years of searing rage was beyond your comprehension. A thousand years of desperation combined with entitlement, the perfect poison.
And you were a perfect balm; very good at giving him moments of blissful relief where he almost, almost forgot. But you could never be the antidote.
“Come to bed,” you beckoned, peeling back the sheets to reveal the space you reserved for him.
“What would be the point? Even if I needed to, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not tonight.”
That damned smile of yours let him know that sleep was the furthest thing from your mind, as if he didn’t know.
“I’m not in the mood for that,” he muttered, coming to a standstill at the side of your bed, the moonlight shining behind him and casting a silver halo through his ebony waves.
You masked your disappointment well, though he detected it still. And it pierced like a stray arrow right through his defences.
Muzan Kibutsuji, king of demons, was many things. But with you he was helpless to resist. And on that night his weary, frustrated soul demanded nothing less than the sensation of your arms surrounding him, and your praise, poured over him like warm honey.
“My beautiful lord,” you whispered, pressed to his back, your hands caressing the swells of muscle in his chest. “You deserve the world.”
The hairs on the back of his neck raised at your gentle treatment. I do, he wanted to say, but within seconds his throat was closed, his breaths staggered.
Weakness and Muzan were mortal enemies, but with you they quickly reached an accord. It didn’t take much; the tingle in the pit of his belly when your fingertips sought the puckering bud of his nipple, or their meandering over his abdomen, and that intoxicating tickle that made him squirm. All too delicious. All too human. Soothing and maddening.
“More,” he whispered, pressing his backside to your groin, the arch of his back only serving to deliver his torso directly to your wandering fingers.
“Oh?” you teased. “More touching, or more praise?”
“Yes.” He could practically feel your smile against the nape of his neck. Oh, to be rendered such a desperate fool with just a few touches. Like a pitiful mutt, won over with belly rubs. There were many reasons he hadn’t turned you into a demon, but chief among them was his fear that you would wield far, far too much power.
“You're so beautiful, Muzan.”
He knew that, of course he did, he'd rearranged every cell in his body to achieve aesthetic perfection. But you didn't just mean that.
No, you meant the way his belly quivered beneath your touch, the way his breaths staggered while you groped him from behind, the plush of his cheek against your forearm as he rested in your embrace. You meant his scent, the sound of his voice, the coarse rasp of the hair beneath his navel.
“For you,” he whispered as your fingertips edged dangerously close to his waistband. Oh, how he wanted it.
“Mine,” you purred, your touch retreating back to his chest, then up to gently hold his throat. Your leg pressed between the seam of his thighs, easing them apart. “My love. My perfect love.”
Surrender. Complete and divine.
“Touch me…” he pleaded, his voice, normally powerful enough to command legions of demons, little more than trembling breath.
And you, thank goodness, were a merciful tormentor.
The moment your hand slid beneath the band of his trousers he let his cock grow against your palm; harder, fatter, longer, until you hummed in satisfaction. He had to be perfect for you, every bit of him, of course, but especially that. His pride wouldn't allow otherwise.
“Do you want me to stroke this pretty cock?” Your hot breath tickled his neck as he shuddered at the sensation of your thumb sliding back and forth through the slick weeping from his slit.
He nodded before his mind could form the word, “Yes…”
“And whose cock is it?”
“Yours,” he confessed. For those few blissful minutes, every bit of him was.
The way he wore his hair, his clothes, even the shape of his body, was entirely for you. He molded himself to your preferences, seeking your approval, seeking release, an end to the frustration. And you were so adept at unraveling the tension sitting behind his ribs.
“So wet,” you said, drawing his attention to the soft, repetitive schlick of his foreskin sliding back and forth over the blushing head of his cock. “Look at you. I don't think there's anything more perfect in all the world.”
There wasn't, he could see every inch of his perfection in the mirror by your bedside; his piercing carmine gaze drank it in. His legs were tangled with yours, his every breath accentuated by the fluttering undulations of his abdomen. His skin, usually so deathly pale, was flushed and gleaming.
Oh, how he loved to watch the beautifully obscene sight of his cock surrounded by your fist. And the way you were looking at him, the hunger in your eyes that rivaled any demon.
“I need to cum, I need to cum,” he heard himself plead, clawed fingers piercing cotton as he sought purchase among the bedsheets. “Please…”
“How could I ever say no to you?”
He shivered at the sensation of your tongue tracing the length of his neck and up toward his earlobe. Your free hand still groped his chest, teasing and tickling the swollen bud of his nipple. A riot of sensations, so overwhelming he had to squeeze his eyes shut.
“Let go, Muzan, my love. Cum for me.”
That's all it took for you to show him the sunlight.
For one moment it shone, blinding white behind the lids of his eyes; an all-consuming pleasure and agony, that then tore through his veins in unbearable, addictive pulses.
He couldn't speak, couldn't make demands. He could scarcely hear your praise as he came apart in your arms, the flood of his release fading to a pleasant euphoria that left him dazed.
“There,” you said, smoothing back his curls and placing a maddeningly soft kiss on his temple. “Feel better?”
Perhaps he nodded– he certainly told his head to do so– but it was so heavy and comfortable in the cradle of your arms he suspected it barely moved at all.
At peace, at least for a little while.
