Muzan loved collecting pretty things.

This is what the twelve Kizuki kept in mind as they slaughtered yet another village, sparing the ones they claimed to be ‘enough for Muzan’s attention’.

You were forcefully ripped out from your family’s home, sent to stand in a line before the Demon King—your family quietly sobbing behind you, praying that you would be saved from this terrible fate and rejected from his view.

His presence was even frightening in person—your resolve crumbled as you reluctantly bow before him, so did the other ladies—you could see it in their eyes; they didn’t want to go.

No.

Not with him.

Muzan simply walks, eyes carefully analysing each option—dissecting their flaws and insecurities from just looking them in the eye. You feared what would happen when it would soon be your turn—would he turn away in disgust? Murder you immediately right in front of your family?

“This one.” He finally says.

Everyone straightens, eyes looking for who he chose—who he chose to bring to his hellish place he called home, the one who he’d call one of his many concubines forever. Your breath catches as you follow where his eyes landed.

You.

It’s you.

In return your mother cries out in protest, already reaching for you—but you nod slowly, stepping towards him in acceptance. “Please! Choose someone else! I beg of you!” Your family screamed, desperately reaching for you.

When you step into the carriage, you look back at your village—now slowly shrinking into the abyss, slowly, but surely, regret crawls through your veins—did you really just leave your family? Without saying goodbye? Without looking at them?

What will he do to you now?

Idiot, idiot, idiot. Why did you agree to this so easily?

When you arrived, it wasn’t surprising. A massive never ending maze which this Demon Lord called his home. It was impressive—the doors, subordinates he had. Everything overwhelmed you the more you looked around.

Everything happened in a flash, maids quickly grabbing you and dressing you up nicely—the nicest clothes you’ve ever seen, yet worn. Your lips painted in a poison red, one maid spoke up, “The Lord will like it this way.” And you didn’t complain. Not once—or it’d seal your impending doom indefinitely.

They usher you towards his throne, he quietly sat, one leg over the other as he eyed you entering, his lips plastered in a bored line.

“Lord,” A maid says, bowing before him before stepping to the side, revealing you in all your glory.

Muzan is quiet for a second before lifting his hand, a finger pointing right at you—“come closer, dear.” The nickname effortlessly rolling off his harsh tongue, and you do all you could do in that moment.

You step closer.

He grabs your chin, inspecting your features, and oh, those lips? Deadly.

“Splendid,” he says, “she will be moving to where I stay,” straightening, he fixes his clothes, disappearing into the dark.

Murmurs erupt as the other women glare at you, you assume to be the other concubines he has, and as the maids escorted you to his wing, you could feel their eyes stabbing into your back like knives.

Splendid?

Muzan never called anyone splendid.

Or was it that you were just special?