𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃 ✓ | Muzan X Reader X Giyuu

12. Temptations

"My blood?"

You gave a puzzled look to your husband, whose dark mop of hair hid his hungry, red eyes. 

An unsettling tension built up in the room when Muzan stared at the red droplets that continued to paint the tiled floor.

Drip. Drip.

"I just got hurt," you nonchalantly continued, trying to take your attention off your pain.

Your pain was indeed replaced by something else. 

Something unexpected, though.

For the first time, you harbored a hint of worry for your husband. 

As you eyed Muzan, you realized that his breath had hitched and that his hands were frozen in midair. He appeared to be stuck in a trance, unable to snap back to reality.

Was there something wrong?

Of course, there was.

Muzan's fingers curled towards his palms, balling his hands into tightened fists. He was trying so, so hard to battle his (literal) inner demon that told him to kill and to feast.

Every ounce of Muzan's body knew that restraining his savage self was so wrong. He had slain many people before: men, women, and children. All without mercy. 

Yet, he couldn't bring himself to lay the wrong finger on you.

Because you had everything that he was looking for.

The pesky voice inside his head continued to screech, telling Muzan that his potential reward was not worth the wait. How could he expect that you would ever let him in on what he wanted to know?

Not to mention that the Upper Moons already seemed tired of waiting. . .

After a quiet moment of debate with himself, Muzan ultimately ripped his gaze off the scene. "I-I can't look at this."

You, a mere human, could not understand the man's feral struggle.

Rather, you felt a wave of guilt. As much as you didn't appreciate being stuck with Muzan, you still felt horrible for placing Muzan in this difficult situation.

So much for ever being a good wife. Those dreams were now long gone.

You shamefully lowered your gaze, mentally cursing at yourself.

"I'm so sorry," you said with your hand still on your bloodied wound. "You don't have to stay. I can clean after myself."

"Where is the first aid kit?"

Immediately swinging your head back up, you raised an eyebrow at Muzan's sudden question. His eyes looked away, and he had not moved from his original appearance at the kitchen doorway.

You didn't want to be anyone's damsel in distress, though. 

"I can get it mys—"

"I hate having to repeat myself," Muzan warned, cutting you off in a dangerous tone. "Where is the first aid kit?"

You gulped. "I couldn't find them."

Your husband let out a sigh of frustration. "Where are they usually?"

Reluctantly, you motioned your head to the side. "In the cupboards. I checked all the bottom ones, and it's not there. I've only checked half of the top ones, though."

Eyes now off the ground, Muzan turned his attention to the kitchen cabinets. 

At a speed that doubled yours, Muzan's towering figure hurriedly rummaged through the shelved items, throwing spatulas, spice jars, and expired pills in your direction.