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Brightest Stars and Darkest Nights

Pairing/Relationships: Kibutsuji Muza x GN Reader, Kibutsuji Muzan x Original Character(s)

Summary: Muzan, being the grumpy brat he is, doesn’t want to leave his comfortable spot lounging in your lap for his afternoon medicines and exercises. So of course you have to wake him. Convincing him to get up and go, however, proves more challenging than just waking him. Thank goodness for your secret weapon.

Or: Bratty Human!Muzan doesn’t want to get up from a nap so Fallen Star Reader weaponizes his soft spot for them; there are other conversations as a result.

Word Count: 3,260

Genre: Friendship/Love, Romantic Friendship, Romantic Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort

Rating: T

Warnings: No triggers, but contains the following—Pre-Canon, Chronic Illness & Disability, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Disabled Character, Disabled Kibutsuji Muzan, Chronically Ill Kibutsuji Muzan, Human Kibutsuji Muzan, Soft Kibutsuji Muzan, Smitten Kibutsuji Muzan, Non-Human Reader (GN), and Manipulation (both Reader and Muzan lmao; they’re so soft for each other)

Author’s Notes: This is my first DS fic. I saw Muzan and felt an instant attraction, which somehow spurred me into writing fluff fic about him. What a strange world.

Anyway, this fic, like others in the same series, features a—at this point in time—still young and human Muzan, before he transformed. Reader is a Fallen Star like Yvaine from Stardust. That’s about as far as the “crossover” extends. In fact, it’s more like a very self-contained Stardust inspired AU.

As for Muzan himself, I found it much easier to write and justify his softer, sweeter, more smitten side if I returned to his origins, as this is both before he turned and also at the earliest part of his life. He hasn’t experienced the same things, met the same people, or undergone any other developments we might have seen from the canon timeline’s future. He also has a different influence than canon, as Reader’s presence would of course cause ripples.

Which isn’t to say he’s suddenly “fixed” or “good”, but he’s a different sort of asshole than the one before. Not so much as to be unrecognizable, but it’s clear he adores Reader and indulges them and is pleased they’re “all his” and such. They haven’t defined anything really yet, but it’s clear to anyone who looks at them that they’re close. That’s what I’m going for, anyway. Hope you enjoy it!

P.S.: All attempts at theft will result in double revoked kneecap privileges and a curse to the face. You’ve been warned. :)

On Ao3.

“Mu-chan,” you whisper, gently poking Muzan’s cheek. “It’s time to get up.”

It takes a moment, yet eventually his eyelids flutter open. His dark lashes fan out against pale skin. The constant bags underneath his eyes from his illness make him appear as if he never slept at all. Plump lips form into a cute pout.

“No. I’d rather stay here with you,” he refutes instantly, not even bothering to begin sitting up despite now clearly being awake and aware of his surroundings.

His fingers curl into the folds of your clothes where the fabric rests against your legs as if to root you in place so you won’t move. He’s always been a brat, though, you muse fondly, caressing his cheek with the same finger you used earlier to rouse him from slumber. You indulge him, delighting in the way he melts under your touch. Something in him softens at your attention, driving him to press his cheek into the heel of your hand.

“You know why you can’t,” you admonish, unafraid of the coming reaction because he always looks at you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world.

“My medications and exercises. Yes, I know,” he grumbles, huffing as he forces himself to release the piece of fabric still trapped by his fingers.

Instead of leveraging himself upwards, however, he rolls over in your lap and presses his face into your stomach. It’s not really proper since you aren't married, or at least betrothed or engaged, but with his delicate condition, the way you shower him in unconditional love and unwavering care, and the closeness of the two of you with each other silences most disapproval before anyone could voice it. By this point, everyone knows nothing will drive you apart, so no one bothers. This also means, however, that you have a secret weapon you can unleash against him when he's being particularly stubborn about something. You nibble on your lip, then lower your head and glance at him from beneath your lashes with wide, doe-like eyes and an innocent smile that would fool a devil.

“Please? For me?”

Muzan considers it, eyes narrow and calculating. He knows what you’re doing. He always does. It’s just never enough to actually prevent him from giving into you. He nuzzles your stomach, lips twitching as they war between obstinate, resistant scowling and indulgent, accepting smirking. Why a smirk of all things you couldn’t say. It’s as if this…satisfies him, somehow. It’s as bewildering as ever.

The satisfied edge melts away into the soft, sweet smile reserved only for you. Something trembles in your chest at the sight of it. Your thumb seeks out the dimple peeking out at you against Muzan’s silken cheek. You can tell he’s ludicrously pleased by this simple affection. He glories under your attention like a light-starved plant basking in the sun. It feels…good.

“Well, if it’s for you,” he murmurs, both reluctance and a hint of teasing clear in his voice even as he finally regains an upright posture. For anyone else it might come across as mocking—or even actually be mocking, depending on the person—however here, for you, it comes out as playful. You roll your eyes at him, something many would deem neither appropriate nor respectful, but if the Heir, Lord, and Lady of the house don’t care about such matters of decorum, why should you? Which of course means nothing—no social conventions or pointed stares from elderly servants—stops you from resting your forehead against his. The bridge of your nose slots in nicely alongside his as you inhale deeply, breathing in his familiar scent.

You don't kiss. You merely remain there, connected through your proximity and breathing. Muzan leans into the gesture like he needs it to avoid suffocation. You lightly touch the tip of your nose to his, rubbing gently. A moment passes, another shared breath exchanges, and then you repeat a similar action but with each cheek to both of his, before recentering and inhaling again. After a few moments of consideration, you add in an additional show of affection and trail your lips briefly along his cheekbones. His breath hitches to such a concerning degree that for a moment he sounds like he’s choking.

“This is why you’re my favorite human,” you murmur, a clear joking lilt to your voice.

A perfectly manicured brow arches as he regains his composure, his voice emergeing wry and amused rather than affronted.

“Because I cannot deny you anything and will always give into you and your desires? My, my, how manipulative of you, Star-chan,” Muzan drawls, as perceptive as ever.

“At least you are clever enough to recognize this fatal flaw,” you sniff in a false imperious tone, affecting a faux air of sagely wisdom.

“How unfortunate for everyone, then, that I shall refuse to ever view my devotion to satisfying you as a flaw, fatal or otherwise. After all, how else will I keep you at my side for now and always?”

A startlingly coy smile accompanies the frank answer. There is something speculative and questing hiding in his gaze now. You consider it as you study his features. You sense no hint of deception, but truly? At his side for now and always? That almost sounds like…

You part your lips, lick them, press them together and then part them again, unsure how to feel or what to say. Your hands come up and cradle the back of his head and neck while your eyes trace every line of his face. He maintains his lax posture within your grasp, relaxed and confident, aware you won't hurt him. Never. Something he doesn't doubt, as, if anything, this new hold makes him sink into your embrace, near boneless aside from exerting the minimum amount of effort needed to support his own weight.

“Muzan…”

“Don’t,” Muzan pleads, literally pleads, almost edging into desperation. “Don't do me the disservice of denying it. Let me dream of such perfection. A man can dream, can't he?”

“Oh, Muzan,” you sigh. “When have I ever expressed the intention of leaving you behind for anything or anyone. Of course I will stay with you.”

“Always and forever?”

In a move far bolder than the last, his arms wrap around you. He disengages from your sharing of breath and closeness so he can bury his face into your neck outright as he clutches you close. Your cheeks heat a faint, shimmering pink that looks like crepuscular sunlight. His breath ghosts along your neck, lips mere inches away from your collarbone. They never land, however, hovering nearby as if shy while he awaits your response.

“Always and forever.”

It feels like a vow, one you're not sure you can keep when they claim he will die anywhere from within five to ten year’s time, though you will certainly try to uphold it. You will stay by his side until his last dying breath, whether it be in less than five years or over twenty. This you know. The stars are eternal. They understand watching and waiting as much as rising and setting or flaring and dimming.

“Then I will execute my due diligence and perform whatever actions I deem necessary for accomplishing such a feat,” Muzan declares.

A shiver of foreboding travels down your spine.

“Be careful what you wish for, Mu-chan. Someone might be listening.”

“Then I challenge them to interfere with us. I will gladly endeavor against any obstacle barring the way between us.”

“Then don't forsake yourself, Mu-chan, because the only being in this entire world who can truly turn me away from you is you.”

“Then we are eternal, for I would never turn against you, either. After all, how can a man betray his own heart?”

How can—

This is so much. Too much. Does he know what he’s doing to you, promising you forever even while his body fails? He has already pierced your heart using words alone without knowing it, so you sit there biting your tongue as that wound aches and bleeds. He must have some concept of his own mortality. He must know what future a Fallen Star and a human together spells. The fact that it doesm’t stop him…

You deflect such musings with practiced ease, and instead of pursuing it, you allow yourself to wind your fingers into his hair.

“Are you calling me your heart, Muzan?”

Rather than becoming upset or separating himself from you, he clings to you, lips trembling against the hollow of your throat as his head tilts.

“Are you claiming you are not?”

Turning your head down, you peer down into vulnerable violet eyes.

“Then would that make you mine?”

“If I ever belonged to anyone, it would be you,” Muzan confesses. “My heart, black as it is, is yours to claim.”

“Tch,” you scoff, “the blackest thing about you is your hair, my sweet little nightingale.”

“Oh, no, my heart,” Muzan assures you, reaching out to cup your jaw. “I know who and what I am at my core. Your light illuminates that more clearly than ever, but you are the one being I will never let my darkness consume.”

“A star has no fear of the dark anyway. After all, the brightest of us shine most brilliantly amidst the blackest of nights. We were always meant to be companions of the dark.”

“Then I hope you will illuminate me from this day forth until the end of days. I could ask you for no greater gift.”

“Then so mote it be.”

Because in the depths of your soul, you know you cannot bear to part from him a moment too soon. You cannot bear to deny him this. You cannot bear to look away. So why not indulge him?

At least while you search for a solution so he can live a normal life without the burden of his debilitating illness. Whether it be caused by a disease, a curse, a toxin, or something else, you reefuse to give up on finding a solution. You won't let this distract you from that mission, or erode your resolve. You just also can't say no to him when he looks at you like this, for you are weak and soft when it comes to him.

It’s a distraction. It’s a weakness, too. It’ll hold you back. You realize that. It might even kill him, if he steals all of your attention away from your own efforts to preserve his life. Yet…

How can you not offer him this one thing? How can you not share your light? How can you deny his heart’s desire? His soul burns with it, so bright it hurts to look at its aura.

“It will be. Not even my body or my limited time in it will ever keep you from me. I will never abide by any authority except my own will.”

“You love tempting fate, don't you?”

“Don’t let it incite any jealousy in you,” Muzan warns with a second hint of his trademark biting teasing creeping through, voice smooth and serene despite the humor now shimmering in his eyes. “I would prefer tempting you by far.”

“How utterly shameless and uncouth of you,” you counter, lips curling up at the edges in fondness. “Do you make such bold statements and dramatic overtures often?”

“Only in the presence of one so beautiful and worthy of my admiration that all sense, wit, and self-preservation flee me.”

“How unfortunate for you, then, to lose all reason over gaining one person’s favor.”

“I believe you mean ‘how unfortunate for everyone else’, my star.”

“You say that now, Muzan, but…”

“And I mean it. I pity the poor, unfortunate souls who try to stand in my way.”

“Well right now you are standing in your own way. You need your next dose of medicines and exercises. Now don't fight me, and hold onto me.”

Muzan doesn't protest as you release your original hold to shift his weight around, scooping him into a bridal carry as you stand. His left arm loops around your neck, his right grips your left shoulder for purchase, and his head rests on your right shoulder against yours. Having his neck and wrists so close to yours leaves you forcing down an elated glow. His life blood pumps so close to the surface there, his scent inescapable. It wafts up to you as you turn, dropping a second kiss onto his temple. You’d smell like him for days even if did you somehow manage to avoid him that long. It’s why you never mind. You don’t think he would either if he really understood the implications.

As things stand, he only feels comfortable being carried or helped back to his rooms by you, and even then it’s rare. It makes you wonder just how bad he feels today that he refrains from insisting on at least walking himself since he usually finds this mortifying. The only reason he’s not being a major asshole right now is because it involves you and not concerned servants and attendants. Anyone else would probably get their head bitten off for their trouble since he hates exhibiting any weakness despite his frail constitution.

This entire experience grates on his pride and self-worth. That he permits anyone to see him like this without any airs or facades is as endearing and fascinating as it is worrying and terrifying. It triggers a quickening of your steps as you effortlessly dodge around anyone who might catch a glimpse of him as he is now on the return trip from the gardens where he napped while laying across your lap earlier. You sense that he notices your efforts, though he speaks again only when you reach his quarters and deposit him on a nest of cushions. He surprises you when he lashes out lightening quick, far faster than he usually moves, and catches your wrist before you can drift further away than arm’s length.

“Thank you,” he tells you with sincerity instead of throwing a tantrum like he would if the helpers assigned to him had tried the same thing.

He sounds so quiet, so faint. It hits you then that he’s just used a decent reserve of his fleeting energy to make sure his message reaches you, or more likely, to move with such force and speed. You twirl your hand around until you can hold his in your own, then you squeeze. After hesitating for a few seconds, you rub a soothing circle into the underside of his wrist that has him closing his eyes in silent enjoyment.

Such a simple gesture evokes something inside of you that you can't name, yet it doesn't bother you. Instead, you step back into his personal space, lower yourself onto the cushions next to him, and open your arms. He chuckles, eyes lighting up in smug pleasure as he resumes a similar position, somehow managing to recline like a graceful—if spoiled—lap cat. Your hands fall to his hair, gently finger-combing it as he stares up into your face. He stretches a limp hand toward the underside of your jaw, but it starts to falter, losing strength before he can make contact with you. Seeing the frustration burning within those twin violet irises prompts action on your part. You lean down until your face skims his fingertips. You feel his pulse jump when you tilt your head so your lips brush against his knuckles. He looks utterly captivated by the simple action, mesmerized by the sensation of yet another almost-kiss against his skin.

“While your thanks is appreciated, Mu-chan, you know it's not necessary. I would do it a thousand times for you to ensure your comfort.”

“Yes,” he agrees easily, “you would. That is why you are my favorite, Star-chan.”

You tip your head to the other side without dislodging him from his position.

“If I’m your favorite, does that mean you’ll do your exercises and take your medicines without complaint? Maybe even without insulting this latest doctor or making his assistant cry?”

It may perhaps seem unbecoming of a noble heir to roll their eyes, yet that hardly stops Muzan after he hears the chastisement in your tone.

“If he were not a simpleton or a fraud, perhaps I would respect him more. I’m planning on dismissing him if I show no signs of improvement after six more months. As for his assistant, however…He should rejoice over my lasting illness while he can, as if I ever find a cure, I will not be responsible for my actions. I don’t like the way he looks at you. It makes me wish I had the physical capability to gouge out his eyes so they can never catch a glimpse of you again.”

The words spill out all at once, Muzan all but ranting by the end of it. After the deluge ceases, he recedes into breathless pants for a moment, after which he begins gasping and gurgling. Recognizing the signs, you swiftly right him and position him so you can hold him steady and rub calming circles into his back. It happens like clockwork—an almost startled-sounding inhale of a last gasp transitions into a wracking cough and sucking wheeze. You hum a nonsense tune as you cradle his trembling, jerking body against yours until the fit passes. By the end of it, Muzan is panting and the sharp tang of freshly spilled blood bathes your nose and tongue. You prop him up against a stack of cushions so you can call for someone to fetch him some clean water to rinse his mouth, his favorite tea, and his medicines, then you go about cleaning him up and making him as comfortable as possible.

“You overexerted yourself and let yourself get too agitated today, Mu-chan. Rest for me now, okay? I’ll take care of you.”

And address what caused this later. Muzan was right, of course, about that creepy assistant. You just don't view it as a great cause for concern since you know you can obliterate him or any other human bold, foolish, or deluded enough to try anything. Somewhat literally as a star, as you can make your touch burn. Stars are hot, after all. They’re not just light; they’re also heat. You could incinerate him if you really wanted to, yet he’s never been worth your time because he could never pose a threat to you. To Muzan, however…

Well, if that assistant ever tries anything on him, he’ll suffer such an unpleasantness by your own hand that no one would ever find enough of the scattered pieces of him to burn or bury.

Muzan seems content to let you fuss over him, not even whining further when his medicines arrive. He ingests them dutifully despite the bitter taste, then gladly accepts his tea with a grimace, still scowling at the aftertaste. His expression smoothes out into a serene mask as he overrides the unpleasant taste with a more desirable one. You perch nearby, hovering around him in case he has another fit. Silence persists until Muzan finishes off his tea with a sigh, passing his empty cup to you. He sounds more hoarse than earlier, no doubt due to the strain on his throat from his attack.

“What would I do without you?”

“I'm sure you’d manage.”

“No,” he denies, a wry smile twisting his lips. “I don’t think I would.”

“You don't give yourself enough credit.”

“Neither do you.”

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