Chapter Text
Muzan heard the sound of the door to the hotel's conference hall opening and closing, but refused to look up from his work. His eyes were fixated on the blue light of a computer screen rather than the way you sauntered forward in his direction.
He was married to his work, not you.
“What do you need, my darling?” He pinched his brow before locking eyes with you, instantly noticing the babydoll Santa lingerie you donned. The bust hugged your curves in opaque red lace. The rest of the bodice was sheer, allowing him a full view of your lacey, white thong. “My, what a gorgeous outfit you've put together!” He leaned back in his leather chair, hands folded behind his head as he drank in the sight of you. “Did Nakime help you pick that out?”
Nakime was his assistant, and as the title suggested, she knew all of his preferences right down to the more sordid details.
You nodded slowly with a faint grin. “Yes, Daddy.”
Muzan lived to endlessly spoil you, keeping you at the lap of luxury by sending you out with Nakime and his black card. He reveled in the way a much younger woman called him Daddy, knowing your own father could never give you even a fifth of what he had. You'd never know the struggles of menial labor ever again. As far as Muzan was concerned, he was your Daddy now, so long as his babygirl kept spreading her pretty legs for him.
“None of the staff members saw you in this, right?” He raised a brow, watching you nearly close the gap between you. Had any of the male staff members seen you, he'd have to maim their corneas and fire them. All footage of you waltzing the hotel halls wearing this would be promptly destroyed. Only he deserved to see you so intimately, with very few exceptions.
Perhaps fucking you in front of an audience would be the only one. Asserting his claim over your body by showing you off as his pretty plaything was a tantalizing thought.
Although, you could be more than a plaything in hindsight. You did move into his home months ago. Muzan claimed it was so you didn't have to worry about things like rent, but he could've just bought you your own place by that logic. You also accompanied him consistently on business trips. He would even go so far as to introduce you as his girlfriend should anyone question the nature of your relationship. It was Muzan's way of ensuring he had easy access to you, keeping you trapped in a gilded cage.
A wife in all but title.
Straddling him with your arms laced around his neck, you hummed, “I think a male servant might've seen. I'm not entirely sure though.” Your fingertips glossed over his pulse as it ran cold, holding in a giggle as he firmly gripped you by your hips, digging his blunt nails into your skin.
Nobody had seen you; you just enjoyed riling him up. Jealousy and possessiveness still got his cock hard whenever a certain prescription ran out. You were quite courteous towards your confectionery father given his age. He was still gorgeous, making your knees grow weak should you happen to stare at him too long. But sometimes, men past their prime needed a little boost, and you were happy to oblige. It wasn't like you knew just how deep his possession ran. Whomever the blame was laid on would be terminated from their position, and they would subsequently struggle to find further work. Muzan would ensure that.
You were for his eyes only.
“Why are you dressed so provocatively anyway, my darling? You know I have a meeting soon.” Muzan relaxed his knuckles. Sure, it was Christmas Eve. But he was a practical man. If his subordinates had a problem with working on a holiday, they could happily walk out and face the consequences.
You, however, were less practical — kind of. You more or less wanted to tease the man, making it your endless mission. “I added some things to my Christmas list.”
He wanted to groan. Of course you just had to make his life more difficult. Sliding his hands lower to squeeze your ass, he sighed, “Tell Daddy what you want.”
You scooted in closer, scantily clad pussy rubbing against his clothed semi-erection. “I want a custom sweater made out of rabbit fur. I saw this video on T-”
“You wish for me to have rabbits skinned for you?” Muzan found the request odd, not that he was opposed to it. If a few rabbits had to die to keep you happy, so what?
“No!” You shook your head, half tempted to laugh at his presumption. “There's a breed of rabbit that's constantly shedding. I want yarn made from their fur, and to meet the rabbits.”
“You'll have yarn samples in the morning,” he agreed, making a mental note to put Nakime on fiber farm detail, “Are there any other last minute surprises?”
You tapped your chin three times and a mischievous grin curled at your lips. “Could you finally put me in your will?” If not for the way you were grinding on his lap, Muzan would've considered shoving you off. He wondered where you found the audacity to make such a bold, brazen request.
His eyes darkened. “You will not speak to me like that again. Got it?”
“Yes Daddy,” you retreated, burying your head in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of floral cologne on his pulse as you instinctively press closer to him.
One of his hands moved, stroking over your hair. “I have something even better planned for later.”
A diamond engagement ring in a velvet box.
That was the entire purpose of this company trip. He needed his closest subordinates readily available for such an elaborate endeavor. You had served him well as a readily available toy — better than any of those before you — so you had earned the ultimate promotion. Something far better than your name in his will: his own name.
Cradling the back of your head, hand tangled in your hair at the scalp, he pulled you in for a kiss, gliding his other hand from your hip to the small of your back to pull you closer. Your breaths mingled as your jaw went slack, allowing his tongue to slide into your mouth. Your lips brushing together in a heated, sordid dance, hips grinding against his. Your panties grew damp with each rub of friction against his throbbing erection.
As you unfastened one of his suit buttons, you were interrupted by a knock, breaking the kiss with a trail of saliva keeping you connected. He quickly readjusted his tie, exhaling to resume his more rigid, outward demeanor. But now he was faced with another dilemma.
“Under the table!” He raised the tablecloth, ordering for you to hide to not allow his subordinates aside from Nakime from seeing you in such vulnerable clothing. Such an act would never be permitted. So this was the logical next step, concealing your from covetous men.
Biting back a mischievous grin, you complied, sliding between his legs beneath the table. “Yes Daddy.”
Kokushibo was the first to enter the meeting, immediately clocking the discretion going on. His conjecture based on Muzan's button was only proven by the way your heel poked out from beneath the curtain. Disgust stirred in his stomach, but he swallowed the acidic bile along with his pride. He refused to be the one to point out how the boss was obviously deriving sexual pleasure from whatever kind of humiliation ritual this was. It wasn't like it was the first time he had witnessed Muzan enjoying sexual favors at incorporate times, and it was far from the last.
He sat down, trying his best to ignore the scenario unfolding before him. It wasn't as though he could really contact human resources about blatant sexual harassment, not when Muzan was involved. Besides, the company was a facade for organized crime; they didn't have an HR department.
You pawed at Muzan's leather belt, the sound of metal clinking beneath the table. The sound was covered up by the sound of what you assumed was Nakime's heels clacking against the wooden floor. Muzan shifted in his seat, further parting his legs to allow easy access to his body.
The zipper felt cool on your fingertips as you lowered it, mouth practically watering as your pinky brushed against his staining erection. Your teeth graze along your bottom lip as you repressed a faint smirk, heart racing at the compromising position he had put you in as though it were the first.
Carefully freeing his semi hard cock, you give it a few tugs to bring it back to life, ignoring the sound of footsteps shuffling it as you swirl your tongue around his tip. Salty precum held your senses hostage as you lowered your head, feeling Muzan's palm push it lower until your throat enveloped his length. You could feel it expand in your mouth as he held you in place to keep his cock warm, but not to properly satiate his needs.
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, filling with salty pools of water as you struggled to breath. You began breathing slowly through your nose, ignoring the meeting that had just begun. Your fingers began clenching around the fine material of Muzan's trousers, knuckles locking and unlocking as you took in shallow breaths.
Laughter cut through the air. “Sorry, but sir?” Douma's charming voice invaded your ear drums. “We all can see Y/n down there.”
Muzan's fingers curled in your hair, tugging at the scalp as a scowl was drawn on his face. “Do not interrupt with such nonsense.”
Normally, Kokushibo was not one to disrupt a meaning with petty drivel. But this was an extenuating circumstance. “Sir, her foot is poking out from beneath the table cloth.”
You nearly slammed your head into the table, startled by Muzan tearing you from his cock. “You were rather incompetent, my darling. I will not tolerate mistakes from you.” Beneath the cool authority in his voice was something warm reserved only for you, a flicker of kindness in a vast void of emptiness and loathing. He snapped up to face a group of subordinates, glowering at them. “And I will not tolerate my private moments with my darling being interrupted.”
You crawled up from beneath the table, scanning the room. Everyone was in full attendance, from Kokushibo to Kaigaku and even that peculiar family Muzan kept around, taking advantage of their clear mental illnesses, save for the demented patriarch.
Perching your chin on Muzan's thigh, you swerve your head back at him to flutter your lashes and push him to his breaking point. “But daddy, I was having fun down there.”
He cupped both of your cheeks, lifting your face from his lap. “Perhaps it's fitting to punish them for interrupting us. Don't you agree, my darling?”
You nodded, melting into his touch while nuzzling your face into his thumb. “Yes daddy.”
“Good girl. Now bend over.”
Akaza groaned to himself, unable to fully curb his passive aggression. “Ugh, not this shit again,” he whispered, ignoring the look Kokushibo shot at him, reminding him that it was not their place to comment on such things.
If anything, the biggest shock for your confectionary father's subordinates was your attire. Muzan nearly popped a blood vessel noticing the way Aizetsu’s eyes lingered a little too long at your barely concealed breasts. Fueled by aggressive possession, he slammed you into the conference table, effectively hiding your upper body from his staff.
Yes, they were his one exception. Brutally fucking you in front of them as some kind of twisted power move stoked his fragile ego.
As you waited, you propped your head up, resting your chin in your hand and elbow against the cloth. You smiled at the group before you, only to be ignored by all with the exception of Douma, who smiled back before returning his focus to Muzan.
Between your legs, you felt his swollen tip glide along your folds, gathering wetness as he nudged against your hole. “Zohakuten, how is the tree coming along?”
Zohakuten wanted to rage, feeling incredibly belittled by how his boss had asked a serious question only to follow it up with a satisfaction smirk as he pressed into your walls. But he swallowed his pride for his own sake. “We have acquired a four hundred and fifty centimeter tall tree, currently being decorated to specifications as requested.”
“It's shorter than I requested.” Muzan's hips snapped punishingly forward, sending an electric jolt up the curve of your spine as he kisses your cervix. Your hand nearly slips from your face as you cry out softly in a mix of pain and pleasure.
“Sir, size doesn't matter. It's how you use it!” Douma chuckled into his fingertips. “Right, Akaza?”
Before Akaza could retaliate, his face grew red, cut off by a series of soft moans slipping from your lips. He was unsure if anger or embarrassment flushed his face; not that it ultimately mattered.
“It is shorter to accommodate the topper.” Zohakuten's nose twitched, disturbed by the display in front of him. It was a slap in the face of professionalism. Personal cocksleeves were to stay just that — personal. Locked away in the hotel room for private free use, not a grand possessive display. His brows knitted together. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why Muzan was proposing to you, believing marriage to be a ceremony to deflower girls, not another midnight romp with a paid whore.
Muzan's blunt fingernails dug into your hips, marking your flesh with his grasp. He would force the ski hotel to remove the roof if it brought a smile to your pretty face. Muzan was not very gifted with declarations of love, not sincere ones anyway. He had a far easier time showering you with gifts. Anything you could ever possibly desire was now yours. Becoming the future Mrs. Kibutsuji sure did come with an immense amount of perks.
His hips piston into you at a brutal yet steady pace, balls smacking against your ass with each thrust. The sound of your hushed, wanton moaning blended into the background of the meeting like a beautiful harmony. One that was far superior to the melody, but ignored nonetheless.
“Someone still needs to monitor the actual tree decoration, sir.” Nakime was truly unfazed by what was unfolding, wholly neutral to the lewd display, unable to possibly care less.
You felt Muzan's cock twitch in anger. “Why was this not already assigned? It's such a simple task.”
“I'll do it!” Douma offered, maintaining full eye contact with Muzan.
“No,” Muzan grunted, fingertips painting contusions into your skin like watercolor, “You're impeccably incompetent. Have Mukago handle this immediately.”
“Awe, I could've handled it,” Douma pouted, leaning back in his seat with a melancholic pout.
“Very well sir.”
The dark tablecloth bunched up as your fingers curled around the smooth fabric, holding on for dear life as he effortlessly fucked into your silken sweet spot. Your tight cunt practically sucked him in, clenching around his cock as though it were made for him. As though you were more than an expensive vice.
“Sir, did you still want poinsettia petals over rose petals?” Sekido cringed, despising that he was in charge of such a simple, feminine task. He had taken lives before; planning a Christmas proposal was beneath him.
Pressure built up like a coil within your lower abdomen, your thighs trembling and knees buckling as your body began giving into his ministrations. You could feel your mind growing hazy as each squelch of your weeping pussy faded into the background.
“Ngh!” Your jaw clenched as Muzan crashed into protective tissue, abusing your poor cervix.
“You incompetent hack! Poinsettia and rose petals! Nothing but the best f-” Muzan had to stop himself before referring to you as his wife. Sure, you couldn't reasonably decline his offer. But he wanted to at least provide the illusion of choice.
“Yes s-”
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” Sekido was cut off by your high pitched mewl. Your body crescendoed with bliss, taking over the meeting as your orgasm crested through your nerves. You didn't even bother to attempt to contain your euphoria, stroking Muzan's ego with each throaty moan.
Karaku nudged his elbow into Sekido's side. “It really is the most wonderful time of the year, eh Sekido?”
Sekido's Adam's Apple bobbed as he swallowed nothing, more disturbed by the way Urogi cackled, “No kidding! Look at her face! She loves being the boss's little whore!”
Aizetsu glared at him, lowering his already soft spoken voice until it was barely audible. "You might not want to speak that way about Mr. Kibutsuji's wife…”
A thick ring of cream formed at the base of Muzan's cock, drenching the dark hairs surrounding it. Honey dripping down, staining his suit pants in your essence, drowning the fibers in glossy, carnal desire.
Muzan had heard Urogi's demeaning terminology thrown your way. So as he achieved his own high, he pulled away from you, leaving your crying cunt to clench around nothing. The ground was painted in thick, milky white paint, glaring at Urogi as his orgasm died.
“You are to clean this up,” he ordered, establishing dominance in one of the most exploitative ways.
Urogi repressed his laughter. “Should I clean you up as well, sir?”
Muzan looked to his lap, quickly adjusting his trousers to conceal his softening dick. “That won't be necessary.” He ran a hand through his dampened curls, sparing you a look. “Kokushibo, Nakime, I'm placing you in charge of this event. Urami, get the girl something more appropriate to wear.”
“My assistant is already on it,” Urami noted, not once looking up from his phone. His lips curve as he receives another text from his faithful assistant.
“Dismissed.”