devotion (douma x f!reader)
summary: His pet watched as the metal was heated. Douma held the poker like it was precious; watching in delight. Black steel turning dangerously red was quite the show. Certainly, his excitement was sweetened by… her. Even now, Douma was sure she regarded him with disinterest. She would learn this was to her benefit.
"Are you excited, little one?" Douma mused.
She simply nodded, words unable to form. Her savior finally saw her bare. Heat bloomed across her face. She wanted his hands to roam her body and learn every curve. Waiting for his touch left an ache in her chest. Her breathing came out in spurts. The room felt too hot -- too humid.
warnings: blood and injury, mild gore, vaginal fingering, cults, public humiliation, branding, yandere elements, dismemberment, loss of fingers, smut, etc. etc.
word count: 3.3k
shoutout to @calslaundry for the beta read
a/n: hello friends, apologies for the lack of content! i haven't written in a while + this my first kny fic 😭
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She came to him in a miserable state -- her delicate body broken. Blood, like ribbons, flowed from her stomach. The wound was deep and hideous. Yet, the woman before him wore a serene expression, as if unaware of her current state. The sight brought amusement to Douma. His thin lips pulled into the phantom of a grin. Rainbow eyes dilated and focused on her pitiful form.
Behind her bounded a man; his skin filthy and caked in dried crimson. He looked disheveled, as if the listless woman struggled. Sweat kept his hair slick across his forehead. In his hand, his shaky little human hand, was a butcher knife.
"Stay out of this! She's…" The man trails off, waiting for the words to materialize, "My wife." The word sounds slimy, uncomfortable, coming from him. To punctuate his love, a calloused hand gripped the woman.
No sound came from her. Perhaps, she was his wife. Douma continued to observe the dramatic affair; fingers laced together. His expression was nothing less than curious. A carnal morbidity he wanted to see through.
Suddenly, the woman collapsed. Her skin lacked the rosy pigment so beloved by mortals. The man stumbled and instinctively cradled her wound. Disgust formed onto his features -- the man seemingly unaware of her state.
Douma felt blood drumming in his ears. This tiny, injured woman came to him near death, but didn't utter a single grievance. She had remained stoic despite her hideous wound. "Leave her."
Without a second thought, the man abandoned his would-be wife. His rapid footfalls echoed down the hall as Douma examined his pet. He noted how elegant her kimono was -- its silk now reddened and ruined. Douma believed the blood complimented her, and brought out her softness. Softness Douma wanted to destroy.
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Her eyes adjusted to the darkness slowly. The room was unlike her little hovel. Innate gold and rubies were encrusted within every aspect; nothing less of excess. A room fit for a god. Perhaps this was her afterlife. Delicate fingers prodded her stomach -- the flesh swollen and blemished. Her fingertips brushed against the barb of wire. Lifting the simple Yukata, the woman noticed how intricate the stitching was. Black wire woven into itself to mimic the intricate shape of a flower.
"You're awake, my dear friend!" The voice was cheerful and deep. The sound not unlike the rumble in a summer storm.
Silence marked their conversation.
Floorboards creaked; a sign her mysterious caretaker was advancing. "Is my dear friend deaf?" This time, the man's voice held annoyance. A blatant disregard for his kind words left a rotten taste in the demon's mouth.
"I apologize for the trouble I caused you," she confessed, head level with the floor. The newly stitched woman was bowing before him. Had she hoped to mimic his congregation?
Unlike his devotees, her body didn't shake. No, her insignificant form stayed rigid. The slender curve of her back was straight, eyes still regarding the floor. Truthfully, Douma found himself savoring the view of this mortal. She seemed so obedient -- so unafraid of him.
The damned sentence stumbled last Douma's lips, "Stay with us; with me." Suddenly, the woman sensed a large hand atop her head, "You need to heal, my friend."
Tears began to foam at her eyes -- this man's kindness was unfamiliar. This rainbow eyed stranger not only stitched up her broken body, but offered sanctuary.
"Thank you." Douma noted the monotonousness of her voice. Here this pitiful woman was, her briny tears reeking, and yet she remained stoic. The scent was pleasant; as if crushed roses and salt had been mixed. Douma had noticed her blood carried a similar scent.
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The days that followed were… familiar. Her days fell into structure. First, worship in the morning. Then, chores and her first meal followed by more chores. Finally, as dusk settled, her makeshift family gathered within the main hall for a special dinner. However, the dinner wasn't any fundamentally different. The menu still consisted of rich meats and exotic fruits, but their meal was special because of him.
At the end of their long, gold flecked table sat the rainbow eyed Douma. His face carried his typical jubilant expression. A soft smile graced his face -- leaving his eyes bright and lively. He watched his flock with interest, his eyes all too often falling upon his wounded pet. 'Pet' seemed to fit this woman far more than any word; she was compliant. The woman finished every task created for her. Her devotion to him -- only him -- brought a budding flush to his cheeks.
It was true the women of his cult would die for him. Their single-minded loyalty was stereotypical, expected. They chose to bleed for him, but once faced with their own mortality, his devotees lost steam. And yet this harpy had bled at his feet -- asked for his forgiveness.
Douma watched as the woman carefully gripped her chopsticks. Her hands were slender, and as soft as blooming flowers. In another world, Douma would have described her as delicate, but all the demon could feel was disdain. There was something so innocent about her fingers. Douma's eyes continued to flick between her face and hands. Such soft things devoid of callouses -- devoid of humanity.
His mind didn't typically race like this. Images of this woman seemed to plague him during dinner. She was a sickness that he couldn't shake. Her body had infiltrated him -- illustrating fantasies of him breaking her fingers and laughing as he ate them. Would she finally scream, finally allow herself emotion? Or would she succumb to him?
Douma's thin lips curled into a grin.
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"I don't want to ruin the elaborate textiles, sir." It was a habit to call him sir as her eyes bore into the floor. The woman acted like she was… unworthy to even glance at the demon. She seemed to make herself scarce when Douma was around. But now, she was forced ⁸to meet his face. Forced to tailor his clothing, despite the woman having no seamstress experience.
Douma didn't mind if his clothes were ruined. He merely wanted to observe his pet create with her hands.
A large hand rested atop her head, "Do not worry, my dear friend! I picked you for this. Do you not trust my judgement?" His question was more of a test than anything. He wanted to see more of her sickened devotion to him.
"I trust you," the woman replied, her hands buried in rich fabric. His clothes made her hands itch. Yet, she hid any discomfort. This was a task bestowed upon her -- it was the least she could do. This man had saved her life.
In the corner of his view, Douma saw it, the phantom of a smile. His emotionless pet still held humanity. However, the happiness stopped at her lips. Nothing seemed to reach her eyes.
"That expression suits you," his breath tickled her ear, "little one." The sensation of him -- his warmth was enough to quicken her pulse. A blush rose to her cheeks.
Before she could thank him, Douma vanished. She wanted to glance into his chromatic eyes. They held a light she hadn't noticed before. Something so spectacular and light.
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Darkness naturally crept into Douma's eyes. The demon couldn't pinpoint a moment of emotion. It was as if he was born void of humanity. Perhaps that was his reason for being so disgustingly soft upon this woman.
She was in a tangled mess before him; eyes perpetually to the floor. The more he saw her like this -- the more Douma longed for her gaze. He was the only one worthy of her.
"This little runt broke the vase, my lord." Beside his little pet stood a woman; one of his most devoted. Yet, her very voice annoyed him.
Douma shifted in his throne, "What of it?" His face was contorted into happiness, but there was a callousness to him. A viper waiting in the grass.
The woman's expression hardened.
"Shouldn't she be punished, my lord?" Her question wasn't more than a whisper. This was common for his most loyal of followers; cowardly mortals that were afraid of him.
Douma leaned forward, his rainbow eyes lacking any compassion, "Are you telling me what to do?"
"N-no! I'd never, my lord! Please -- please forgive me, Lord Douma!" Her pleas flowed like a river; excuse upon excuse. Douma used to take pleasure in a maiden's distress. Now, he simply felt bored -- empty.
Certainly punishing his pet and maiming her would bring relief. Mortals were for his enjoyment, after all.
"Stand up," Douma commanded.
His voice sounded of the gods; nectar too sweet for human ears. His wounded pet felt heat rise to her cheeks. Gently, she assumed a knelt position, hands folded in her lap. They looked so delicate, so perfect for him. Saliva pooled in his mouth. His fantasy of her seemed unending.
"Sit," the demon motioned to his feet. "You are to stay until I find a suitable punishment, my dear friend." Without hesitation, his pet assumed her position. Her hands were now clear in Douma's view, tiny things clasped together.
As if satisfied, his devotee blended back into the crowd.
Even his presence was warmth; she could feel his radiance. Lord Douma was the opposite of her husband -- his chromatic eyes held nothing but comfort. He had opened his home to her, and allowed her to join his congregation. He was the sun; bright and nourishing.
His pet felt as if her heart would burst. Being this close to him -- to Lord Douma was almost overwhelming. He practically dwarfed her; his frame tall and muscular. Lord Douma's presence was suffocating above her. Lewd flashes of her savior played on loop. Silver hair slicked back, his bare chest on display, muscles flexing.
Quickly, she looked away from the demon with a silent curse on her lips.
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Several days pass. Douma's pet had yet to leave his side. Her punishment was decided the second day she sat at his feet, but Douma found her presence… human. Slowly, she brought forth an emotion; serenity. Her very breathing seemed to lull him. In another life, she would have made a man very happy.
The demon's eyes shifted to his maiden. Her face was stoic as ever. She looked… Miserable? The thought made Douma's blood burn; sitting between his feet was a privilege. No other woman of the cult had been so close to him before.
Douma's thick brows knitted together in annoyance, "We should prepare for your punishment, shouldn't we?" Plastered on his face was the smile she yearned for.
"Yes, my lord."
Douma clapped his hands. Suddenly, his harem of women began to spill into the room. They looked to him like god; eyes wide and wanting. He cherished his cult for their devotion, something that would benefit him today.
He tilted his head and pointed, "Strip her." Douma's instruction was materialized before him. Her body laid in the brood of his women. Bruises marked her body like bee stings; his most devoted had such vicious means. Her exquisite yukata was ruined. Shreds hung to her trembling form.
She made him sick.
"Hold her down, my dear friends~!" Douma's feigned happiness crinkled at his eyes. To any nonbeliever, he looked human, yet his followers knew better. They knew behind the facade was a monster; a man bent on misery. "Bring me the brand."
His pet watched as the metal was heated. Douma held the poker like it was precious; watching in delight. Black steel turning dangerously red was quite the show. Certainly, his excitement was sweetened by… her. Even now, Douma was sure she regarded him with disinterest. She would learn this was to her benefit.
"Are you excited, little one?" Douma mused.
She simply nodded, words unable to form. Her savior finally saw her bare. Heat bloomed across her face. She wanted his hands to roam her body and learn every curve. Waiting for his touch left an ache in her chest. Her breathing came out in spurts. The room felt too hot -- too humid.
The demon sauntered over to his pet, the brand now smoking. "Stay still," he murmured. It was her shred of justice before Douma plunged the brand between her breasts. First there was silence. Then came a cry unlike any before. Loud. Anguished. Heart wrenching. It was the sound of his pet bearing her soul. Something so private, meant only for him.
He pressed the metal further into her flesh. Burnt skin reached his nostrils; her scent wasn't unlike roasted boar. Rich, gamey. His mind painted her nude and covered in sake. Underneath his regalia, Douma felt blood rush to his cock. Douma looked at her, waiting for another cry. Yet, she regained composure. Her skin was balmy and she trembled.
Finally, her eyes met his. Douma sees the hint of relief -- as if she wanted this. "L-lord Douma," she slurred. His gaze shifted to her lips; anticipating her speech. Nothing left her except a heave. A soft little noise before she passed out, limp and vulnerable. Somehow, Douma felt sorry for her.
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The woman woke with a jolt; air burning her lungs. Gasping, she took inventory of the dimly lit room. The space was more of the caricature of a room. It was a bedroom, but looked almost unlived in. Everything was too perfect. The realization came as she touched her chest. This was Lord Douma's private quarters. A place reserved for his most devoted.
...and here she was, laying in his bed.
Her chest was tender. The skin was charred and bandaged. She wondered if Lord Douma himself had treated her. The fantasy brought a flush to her cheeks. She fingered the wound; gentle to trace its shape. Between her breasts was a delicate lotus; her body marked forever.
"I can hear you, my dearest friend," his voice sounded like rainfall after a drought. "Come. Bring me more sake."
Beside the futon was a gourd. The object was heavy; enough for two hands if not more. Truthfully, his pet struggled to lift it. The liquid inside sloshed around like the sea. It carried a sweet smell. Fruity. Radiant. The scent reminded the woman of Lord Douma.
Soft humming filtered into the room, the source not far. Practically dragging the sake, his pet ventured towards the sound. Towards him.
With the push of a door came humidity and steam. The atmosphere was sticky and too warm. Lord Douma had created a swamp instead of a bath.
His booming tone shook the room, "Come closer, little one." The phrase sent goosebumps up her spine.
She continued to drag the gourd across slick tile. His pet didn't want to make a fool of herself. However, with each step came unequal footing. She wobbled, trying to keep her grace and sake intact. One particularly heavy footfall was miscalculated. She fell onto the porous ground with a sharp bang; the gourd in pieces at her feet.
"Clumsy, aren't we, little one?" His tone is lousy with arousal. The sentence vibrated from his chest.
"I'm sor--"
Douma only uttered a simple phrase, "Join me, my pet."
Her legs moved without authority. Douma had complete agency over her; bewitching his prey. It was the kindness she deserved, after all. She was his most devoted -- his most prized slab of meat. Partially, Douma believed she was plagued with bad luck. First the damned woman is stabbed, then she falls desperately into his lap. She was a fawn -- clumsy and aching for attention.
Muscles were the first thing she noticed, followed shortly by ashen hair. Somehow, his chromatic eyes still shined within the haze. He had to be a deity -- someone special.
Quickly, she averted her eyes. This sight wasn't meant for a mortal like her. Crimson hung to her cheeks like warpaint, the woman more blush than skin. His pet removed her yukata without ceremony. The elaborate fabric crumpled at her feet. Douma felt air pitch in his chest and blood rush to his cock.
"Sit in my lap."
His lover looked at him; her eyes curious and wanting and wide, pupils dilated. She shuffled into the bath, like a babe taking its first steps. Gingerly, she sat beside him. A hiss escaped her lips as the hot water meets her burn. Mortals -- as Douma knew -- were devoted to a fault.
A cold arm encompassed her waist. Douma pulled the mortal closer, her smell mixing with the bath. Saliva dotted at the corners of his mouth. His polite aurora seemed to drop -- the predator now before her. "It's okay, little one," his breath tickled her neck, "you can relax. You're safe."
Safe. He was safe. Her body untensed in his grip. The woman leaned into him, her bare back pressed into his chest. Her rapid heartbeat echoed into Douma; his body rang with her life force. It hurt to hold her like this. His instincts demanded he tear her apart, her blood diluting the water. Yet, he resisted. Instead, he took inventory of her hands. They were tender -- fragile. His broad hands engulfed hers as he rubbed circles into her palms.
Douma -- with grace -- lifted her fore and middle finger into his mouth. His fawn exhaled a gasp. The sudden movement caused her to wobble atop his knee. A hand rubbed her stomach, as if to provide comfort. Slobber leaked down her hand. Lord Douma's saliva. She wanted to bring the spit covered hand to her chest -- to feel a part of him. Douma sucked at her fingers. His tongue rolled over her knuckles and savored her.
"Lord Douma --"
Her words hung in muggy air. Only one sound penetrated through the room; a sob. The woman's blood mixed with unholy drool. In Douma's mouth were two delicate fingers -- her fingers. The sudden pang subsided, yet her heart continued to race. She was stuck; fear had collapsed in her veins. Her weak, mortal body shook. The sensation was uncontrollable.
"Stay still, my pet," Douma mused, his voice obstructed by gore. He refused to relent; his tone still cheery. Her body demanded she move, but her mind screamed for him. Torn between heart and brain, she quaked in his lap. Her hand fell limp into the bath water. Red blossomed beside her.
Douma's hands trailed down her body, as if to memorize her shape. His cockhead ached for stimulation -- for her. Without the air of a lord, Douma shifted his pet, her cunt now exposed to the heat. Carefully, he removed her disembodied fingers from his mouth. "Let me take care of you." His words were little more than a command -- no -- a threat.
Harshly, the demon shoved a finger into her cunt; the very finger he bit off. Disgust and lust bubbled together in her stomach. Naive eyes looked down as Douma pumped into her. A bloodied chin rested on his pet's shoulder. His humming vibrated into her bones. Thunderous. Awful.
Heat bloomed between her thighs. Lewd sounds of her core bounced off the walls. She bit her lip, stubborn and refusing to give into the demon.
Rainbow eyes drifted to her face, "Are you not satisfied, little one?" His tone faltered before a second finger jams into her soaking cunt. The woman's mouth betrayed her. Out came a wanton moan. Loud and squealing. Douma's face contorted into a grin, his breath beating upon her. "What's that? You want me to go faster~?" His pace burst into an almost hellish speed. The fingers hit her walls, scissoring her entrance. Douma acted as if he knew her very body. Roughly, he tweaked her nipple. Another cry pierced the air; his reward for her devotion.
"Come for me," Douma commanded, heavy humming now vibrating her jaw. "Show me your devotion." His voice wasn't more than a whisper, yet she felt the warmth between her thighs explode. The bundle in her stomach dissipated into bliss; eyes closed and breathing even.
Douma rubbed her cheek. This was perhaps his only action of humanity -- of charity. As his most devoted, she was worthy.
