Douma Harem + Douma Oneshots

ʕ•̫͡•ʔDoumax Kotoha ʕ•̫͡•ʔ

A/N: requested by my older sibling. So yeah, I better write it. Enjoy ig? They told me to write Douma angst, I used a ship generator, and here we are! Italics=past

Douma, for all his life, had been what one might consider an outcast.

He was never allowed to be around anyone as an equal, and in the Uppermoons, he wasn't even acknowledged.

He'd thought about trying to break free of Muzan's grasp, and live somewhere with no demons where he could live peacefully for eternity. Well, not quite peacefully, because he'd still have to kill humans to live, but you get the gist.

But those were fickle dreams, dreams that didn't come true. That couldn't come true.

Neither the Infinity Castle nor the cult felt like a home to him, his chest still a gaping cavity where a heart should be.

He didn't know his purpose anymore. He'd become strong. He'd beaten Akaza. The very ground he stood on was worshipped by the humans who followed him around like lost puppies.

And yet, even after all his accomplishments, he still didn't feel whole. As if something was missing from his extended life, something that he'd once had and yearned for again. And still, though he tried to think what it had been that was so special about the thing, so special that he could remember it, he could not remember. What was it like? It was as if the memory of the person - Douma had concluded it was a person, since he could remember a beautiful singing voice and bright green eyes - had been erased.

He wondered if the person still lived. When was it? Definitely more than a decade ago. Could human live that long, however long it'd been? Did he eat them?

Warm blood trickled down his hands, her screams reduced to whimpers as her heart slowed. Her vibrant eyes dulled, once vivid green now a pale emerald. Her breathing halted, and as Douma ripped out her heart, she let out a choked sob, then fell still.

She was dead. Death wasn't a stranger to the Uppermoon Two, having had his first experience of it as a seven year old boy. And yet, it still seemed so strange to him at the same time. The way creatures stiffened, then went cold.

He hated it when they went cold. He was always cold, his only moments of warmth the heat of a corpse, before the same heat abandoned the dead body. Heat, for him, was a fleeting thing that was followed by grief and sobs of relatives.

He held the heart in his hands. It was still warm. Humans always told him that the emotions came from the heart, but he always laughed it off. How a thing like that produced all feelings was a stupid and uneducated guess, in his opinion. But he could never help but look at the hearts of his victims, wondering if he didn't have one. He would eat the organ, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the heart would give him the emotions he so longed for.

It never did.

He sat at the top of the hill, the darkness closing around him. There was no moon that night. The stars had retreated, the sky an inky void of nothingness. Her body was cooling. He felt tears going down his face. Why?

Had he cared for her? Was that the impulse that always emerged when she was around?

It didn't matter anymore, as she was dead, he concluded, biting chunks out of her fleshy arm. He'd done what Muzan had asked.

Muzan had said he was slacking, and to remove whatever it was that was distracting him. He could already feel his strength growing. Maybe it was for the best? He felt something uncomfortable gnawing at his stomach. Did the uncomfortable sensation cause the tears that continued to run down his cheeks in rivulets?

He'd gone to Muzan after, who'd smiled at him, congratulating him. It was the only time Muzan ever did that. Afterwards, his Master had driven a finger into his skull, and the rest of the meeting had been a blur.

He reached the temple, already thinking of an excuse to where she'd gone. The servants opened the oak panelled doors for him, treating him as a god, just like they'd been told to. He reached his meeting room, and shooed the cleaner out, asking for some time for himself.

He'd sat on a bean bags that made up his elevated throne, trying to force down the feeling inside him. He opened a book, one of many on human emotions, and found the text described it as guilt.

Why would he be guilty? He did something for the good of his demonised life.

He went to Muzan again later, asking him to make him forget about her. Muzan complied, splitting his head open, pouring blood into his open brain. 

She was gone then, from his mind, his life. Forgotten.

But if he tried, tried hard enough, a brief smile would come to mind. A gentle laugh, a melodic voice. A name on the wind, petals on the ground.

Kotoha.