𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃 ✓ | Muzan X Reader X Giyuu

7. Save Me

(A/N: Another beautiful Muzan picture, I CAN'T! UGH.)

You were debating between crying, screaming, and jumping off the nearest cliff.

You had mindlessly followed Muzan without knowing your destination, like an old cow brainlessly following its herder to the slaughterhouse. You had been so blinded by frustration that you didn't even think about where you were going tonight.

You stubbornly decided not to answer, still refusing to look at the man.

Noticing your silence, and perhaps sensing your discomfort, Muzan answered. "Tokyo Gardens."

Tokyo Gardens? The historic park was essentially your equivalent of Disneyland, teeming with some of the most exotic greenery you've ever heard of.

You, a plant nerd, had always dreamed of going but never had the chance to because you were a good daughter and would help your mother at the store or at home.

But how did this man know...?

"Your mother told me about it," Muzan replied as if the sly fox had read your mind. Although you had expected him to sneer at you instead, there was no distinguishable emotion from his calming voice. "She said that you've really wanted to go there."

Your mind drifted to your mother, who had been jolly all day since you had told her about tonight's plans.

No wonder. 

She's still holding out hope that you and your husband could be best buds.

You turned to Muzan, whose cherry-colored eyes returned your gaze. Flushed, you instantly looked away with a "hmph," folding your arms across your chest.

The road turned bumpy as the wheels started rolling over poorly maintained cobblestone. Outside, the streets got narrower as the carriage left the residential villas to enter central Tokyo.

You were worried for the few passersby who wandered the dimly lit streets, where flickering gaslights provided the only source of luminescence.

Your mother had constantly recited stories about the nighttime dangers of Tokyo: drunkards, prostitutes, yakuza members, all who combed the streets looking for prey.

As the carriage took an unexpected sharp turn, you suddenly lurched forward. It was too late to grip the side railings to stop yourself, and you closed your eyes, ready to hit face first with the seat in front of you.

Rather than a bruised nose, you felt a pair of slim, sturdy arms wrap around your waist, its muscles strained and tightened as they wrapped securely around you, pulling you back onto your seat until you landed with a thud.

Your eyes fluttered open to see you, not on the ground, but on your husband's chest.

Muzan, sitting upright, didn't appear to have moved at all. He looked away as if nothing had happened and as if his strong arms were not still coiled around you.

"You're not hurt, right?" Muzan finally uttered in his usual, monotonous tone.

As he spoke, his paper-cutting jawline moved with his words. You felt the slow and calm rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed quietly, up and down and up and down.

Releasing his arms, he rested an elbow on his seat railing, placing his nimble, unblemished fingers to his lips.

You felt so embarrassed. After telling Muzan that he could not touch you mere minutes ago, here he was saving your life and indirectly prodding at your vulnerabilities.

You looked at Muzan carefully, but his expression portrayed nothing. 

You felt no obligation to tell him anything about your thoughts. If you chose to stay silent, to do nothing more than grumble and look away, there wasn't a thing he could do in response.