˙⋆✮ pairing: fem!readerxdouma
˙⋆✮ genre: angst, smut implied (just spicy)
˙⋆✮ warnings: dv, abuse, super toxic relationship
˙⋆✮ a/n: while i write the next chapter of my sanemi fic, lemme feed yall with douma. genuinely feel like this song fits whatever relationship he could ever have cause this mf is TOXIC and we know it
The forest swallowed sound like a mouth. Each step you took was a ragged lunge through brambles and roots, your bare feet slapping against damp earth. Twigs clawed at your arms and hair, ripping tiny lines of pain across your skin. Your heartbeat thundered louder than your breath, and still behind you came the heavy crash of his boots, the slurred rage of his voice cutting through the trees.
“You think you can run from me?!” he roared. “You ungrateful little—”
Your lungs burned, your legs trembling with exhaustion and terror. You could still feel the imprint of his last blow, hot on your cheek. You didn’t know where you were running, only that you had to.
One misstep was all it took. Your foot snagged a slick root hidden under the leaves. The world tilted and you tumbled down a steep incline, rolling until you slammed hard into the earth below. A sharp pain seared through your ankle as it twisted beneath you. You choked on a sob, clawing at the dirt to crawl away, but your body felt like lead.
“Thought you were clever, huh?” His hand fisted in your hair and yanked you upright with a vicious snap. Your scalp burned. You cried out, clawing at his wrist, but he only sneered. “You’re nothing without me.”
The slap came before you could blink. Your head whipped sideways, your ears ringing with the impact. Then another, and another—open-palmed, knuckles, whatever he could reach you with. You curled inward, arms shielding your face as his words hissed down like acid.
“Pathetic. You’ll never be anything. You think someone else would even look at you?”
Tears blurred your vision; your breath came in ragged, panicked bursts. The forest spun around you in smears of black and silver. You braced yourself for another strike..
And then a sound cut through the night.
Light and bright, lilting and melodic. It didn’t belong here. It slipped into the clearing like a silver bell tolling at a funeral, a sound so out of place that for a moment even your abuser froze, his grip on your hair loosening.
“Oh my,” a voice cooed. “What an ugly little scene.”
A man—or what looked like one—stood just beyond the treeline. His robes pale and flowing like mist over water, the tips stained with snow and earth. His hair glimmered like spun ice, long and soft, framing a face almost cherubic in its beauty. His eyes—those colorful eyes—caught the moonlight like shards of crystal, glittering with something both holy and monstrous. And on his lips, a smile as sweet as temple incense.
He tilted his head, clasping his hands behind his back like a curious child. “Is that really how you treat such a lovely creature? What a shame.”
Your abuser snarled, shoving you aside to face the newcomer. “Who the hell are you?! This is none of your damn business!”
The stranger’s eyes flicked to him, then back to you. For a heartbeat his gaze softened, and then sharpened like a blade under silk.
“Oh, but everything cruel is my business,” he said brightly. “And you…” He smiled wider, teeth flashing faintly. “…you’ve already bored me.”
Your abuser’s chest heaved as he shoved you down into the dirt, eyes snapping toward the strange figure that had appeared among the trees.
“And who the hell are you supposed to be?” he barked, spit flying from his lips. “This isn’t your damn business. Back off before I—”
He took a step forward, shoulders squaring, rage rolling off him in waves.
In the space of a blink, the smiling stranger was no longer where he had been. A faint rush of cold air brushed your cheek, so quick you thought you imagined it. Something gleamed in his hand—a lacquered war fan edged like a blade—arcing gracefully through the moonlight.
By the time your abuser’s foot hit the ground again… his head was already gone.
It rolled once across the leaves, eyes still wide with rage, before coming to rest in the shadows. His body swayed upright for a grotesque moment, spurts of blood painting the night, and then it collapsed like a felled tree.
A hot spray of crimson splattered across your face. You gasped, trembling violently, your whole body locking up as the metallic tang hit your tongue. Your stomach lurched.
And then he was in front of you.
He lowered the fan delicately, not a trace of gore touching his pristine robes. His smile never faltered, cheerful as though he’d just plucked a flower instead of severed a man’s life.
“Ohhh, forgive me,” he cooed, tilting his head as his eyes sparkled in delight. “I didn’t mean to make such a mess. Did it get on you?”
You were shaking too hard to answer, tears streaking down through the blood spattered on your cheeks.
He leaned closer, almost nose-to-nose, his voice dropping to something sugar-sweet and chilling all at once.
“Don’t be frightened, little one. He can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe… with me.”
His thumb rose to brush along your face, smearing away both blood and tears in one slow stroke.
You should have run. Every instinct screamed to crawl, to flee, to put distance between you and this predator wearing a smile. But your body betrayed you, trembling not just with fear but with relief.
He tilted his head again, his fingers lingering against your cheek, smearing away a tear with the pad of his thumb. His eyes glittered with something unreadable. “From now on, I’ll take care of you. Won’t that be nice?”
Somewhere deep inside you, a warning flared. He was not safe. This was not salvation. This was fire dressed as warmth, an angel in disguise.
And yet, when he offered his hand, you took it.
Everything from the start seemed okay. His touch was gentle at first. Too gentle. Like silk wrapping around glass.
When he reached for you in those first nights—brushing the dirt from your face, coaxing you to eat, humming soft little melodies to drown out the silence—you almost believed you’d been saved.
Even though terror curled in your stomach whenever his prism eyes lingered too long, you convinced yourself he was different. He had saved you. He had held you when no one else had. He couldn’t be like the man you’d run from… right?
For a time, it was almost true. He made you laugh with his childlike wonder at the smallest things disarming you in ways you didn’t expect. He listened when you spoke, tilted his head like your every word was the most fascinating secret. Against your better judgment, you found yourself smiling again. Slowly, you began to warm to him, like frost thawing under a dangerous sun.
But Douma’s light was never meant to simply warm. It was meant to burn.
You learned that the night he leaned close, his lips brushing your skin not in affection, but in hunger. His teeth sank into your shoulder, not deep enough to kill, not even deep enough to scar, but enough to pierce flesh. You gasped, a small cry slipping past your lips, more in shock than pain.
And then his tongue swept along the wound, tasting the blood that welled up, humming like a man savoring fine wine.
“Mmm,” he sighed, his voice muffled against your skin. “Sweet little thing. I knew you’d taste divine.”
Your body trembled, torn between the jolt of fear and the terrifying rush of intimacy. His bite wasn’t lethal, but it marked you, claimed you, reminded you what he truly was.
From then on, his softness came with teeth.
His laughter sometimes cut sharper than knives.
His embraces lingered just a little too tight, his hands holding you like porcelain one moment and like shackles the next.
And yet despite it all, despite the way his “love” turned cruel and suffocating… you stayed.
Because he was still your savior. Because the warmth he gave, however tainted, was still more than the cold you had known before.
The wooden comb trembled in your hand as you dragged it through your hair. Each stroke snagged, pulling strands free, and with every tug, fresh tears blurred your reflection in the small mirror before you.
You tried to swallow the sobs, tried to keep quiet. But the walls of Douma’s temple carried sound like whispers through glass, and no matter how softly you cried, you knew someone could hear.
Your shoulders shook as the tears finally spilled over, dripping onto your lap. You pressed the comb down on the vanity to steady yourself, but the sound of your own muffled sobs filled the room.
The door slid open without warning.
Douma stumbled in, his movements oddly graceful and clumsy at once, like a child who hadn’t learned boundaries. His prism eyes caught the lamplight, reflecting a dozen colors as he tilted his head at you.
You quickly turned away, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “It’s nothing.”
“Ohhh, but it doesn’t sound like nothing,” he sing-songed, padding across the room with bare feet. He crouched beside you, resting his chin on your shoulder with a theatrical pout. His voice softened, almost too sweet. “Were you… crying?”
You stiffened under his closeness. “I just… it doesn’t matter.”
He hummed, grabbing the comb from the vanity with an easy smile, as though your trembling didn’t exist. “Silly little thing. You don’t have to cry alone. You have me, remember?”
He ran the comb through your hair himself, slow and deliberate, each stroke oddly tender. His hand lingered on your shoulder, thumb grazing the faint wound where he had bitten you days ago.
The touch made you shiver. Not entirely from fear, not entirely from comfort.
“Shhh,” he whispered, smiling at your reflection in the mirror. “No more tears. I’ll always be here to take care of you. Even if you break… I’ll put you back together.”
His words should have soothed you. Instead, they carved deeper into your chest, a reminder that you were his now—whether by choice or by cage.
Still, as his fingers threaded gently through your hair, you let yourself cry silently, knowing he would never truly let you go.
Then you felt it… his arms sliding around you from behind. Strong, unyielding, cold and yet strangely steady. Douma pulled you back into him, pressing his chest against your spine as if he could mold your trembling body into his own.
“There, there…” he murmured, his voice a soothing sing-song hum, so close the syllables brushed warm against your ear. “My poor little flower. You shouldn’t waste your pretty tears. They don’t suit you, you know?”
You drew in a shaky breath, intending to push him away. But the hands at your waist tightened just slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you he would not let go.
“Shhh,” he whispered again, his cheek lowering against your hair. “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll always keep you safe. No one will ever lay a hand on you again.”
Your eyes closed against your will. The weight of his embrace, the cadence of his words, the steady rhythm of his chest at your back.. it lulled you, quieted the storm in your head.
It was wrong. You knew it was wrong. And yet… you sank into him anyway.
Your fingers loosened their death grip on your lap, your body leaning back into his, surrendering to the only anchor you had left.
Douma’s lips curved into a smile you couldn’t see. His arms tightened just a little more, possessive in their gentleness, as he murmured into your hair, “That’s it. Just rest. You’re mine now, and I’ll take care of everything.”
For a moment, in the darkness behind your closed eyes, you let yourself believe him.
At this point it’s been about three months now.
The incense still hung thick in the air, sweet and cloying, clinging to the walls of Douma’s chambers where he received his followers. You had taken to helping tidy the place when he was done with his “meetings,” brushing away flower petals scattered across the tatami mats, wiping up the drips of wax from half-burnt candles. It kept your hands busy, kept your thoughts quiet.
Tonight was no different, except you weren’t alone with him yet.
A handful of his male devotees lingered, laughing low amongst themselves as they gathered their things to leave. You kept your head down, focusing on stacking the small plates and empty bowls near the wall, when one of them glanced your way.
“Lord Douma really knows how to pick, doesn’t he?” the man said with a smirk, voice oily. His eyes raked over you like you were another offering on the floor. “Pretty thing like that… no wonder he keeps her close. Must be a reward, eh?”
Another chuckled under his breath, adding, “Our master’s taste is flawless. He always did get the best.”
The laughter was low, conspiratorial. It made your skin crawl. You froze mid-motion, the porcelain bowl in your hand trembling just slightly.
And then the room went utterly still.
The laughter died, snuffed out as if the air itself had been strangled from the space.
Douma hadn’t said a word. He was still sitting cross-legged on his dais, hands folded loosely in his lap, smile fixed in place like painted porcelain. But his eyes…
The brilliance of them dimmed into something sharp, cold, and bottomless. His gaze locked onto the man who had spoken first, and the silence that stretched between them was so heavy it pressed against your lungs.
It wasn’t the theatrical kind of silence Douma usually wore, full of laughter and brightness. This was a dangerous, suffocating stillness, like the world itself was holding its breath.
You didn’t dare move. Even the petals scattered across the floor seemed afraid to stir.
The silence stretched until even the insects outside seemed to hush. You could feel it… the shift in the room, the way the air pressed heavy against your skin like a storm about to break.
Then, finally, Douma spoke.
“Oh…” His voice was soft, almost too soft. The porcelain mask of his face hadn’t cracked, but the warmth was gone, scraped clean from every syllable. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, prism eyes fixed on the man with an intensity that rooted him to the floor. “You’re talking about her?”
No humor. No smile. Just a question that carried weight like a blade at the throat.
The man, oblivious to the danger, grinned nervously and nodded. “Of course, Lord Douma. She’s… she’s quite the catch, isn’t she? You scored well. She must be—”
The single word cut through his babbling. Douma’s tone was low, absolute. His eyes flicked briefly to you—just for a heartbeat, just long enough to make your stomach flutter—before he turned back to the man.
“She is perfect.” The man grinned, but he didn’t stop there.
He chuckled, leaning slightly toward another member as if Douma’s approval was permission. “Perfect, yes, but imagine if she were to wear a possible skirt of some sort. Her legs would look wonderful, and maybe a different kind of top? I could only imagine how they would shape her breasts.” His words turned crude, vile, painting images you didn’t want to hear. The others shifted awkwardly, unsure whether to laugh or keep silent.
Douma didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just watched. The kind of watching that made it clear he was memorizing every syllable, every breath, every twitch of the man’s mouth.
And with each crude word, the air grew colder.
The man’s crude laughter died in his throat when he finally noticed what everyone else had… Douma hadn’t moved. Hadn’t blinked. Hadn’t even twitched.
Only those prism eyes fixed on him, cold and unblinking.
Then Douma’s lips parted, his voice still soft but carrying across the room like silk draped over a blade.
“My, my… such bold words.” He tilted his head, the smile never reaching his eyes. “Is that really how you speak of your master’s treasure? How careless.”
The man swallowed, trying to recover, forcing a chuckle. “I-I meant no disrespect, Lord Douma. I was only—”
“Only what?” Douma interrupted, his voice flat, void of his usual sing-song lilt. “Admiring her? Thinking of her in ways your feeble little mind should never dare?”
The man faltered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping on land. Douma leaned forward ever so slightly, his gaze sharpening to a needlepoint.
“She is perfect,” he said again, slower this time, savoring every syllable. “But she is mine. Every breath she takes, every tear she sheds, every drop of blood in her body belongs to me. And you…” His head cocked, smile still frozen in that hollow way. “…you’re not even worthy to look at her.”
The follower shrank back, hands trembling as he bowed his head. “Forgive me, Lord Douma, I—I didn’t mean—”
“Shhh.” Douma raised a finger, silencing him without effort. Then, without looking away from the man, he called out softly.
“Come here, little flower.”
You froze where you stood, blood running cold. His voice wasn’t cruel—it was gentle, coaxing, but threaded with a weight that gave you no choice. With hesitant steps, you moved toward him. The silence in the room was suffocating; every eye followed you, every breath seemed to hold.
You felt your pulse hammering in your throat as Douma’s arm closed around your waist. He held you there, perched on his lap like some prized ornament, his cold fingers idly tracing the line of your jaw. His voice, however, had sharpened into something entirely different from his usual lilting melody.
“See?” he murmured, eyes never leaving the man across the room. “She comes when I call. She listens. She belongs to me.”
The man swallowed hard, the color draining from his face. He shifted as though to kneel, to retreat, but Douma’s gaze pinned him in place.
“Stand up,” Douma said softly. No smile. No sing-song. Just two words, flat as ice cracking.
The man’s legs wobbled, but he obeyed. The other followers pressed themselves back against the walls, heads lowered, not daring to breathe.
“Now…” Douma’s fingers stroked idly along your arm as if you were a cat in his lap. “…make your way over here.”
The man’s steps were jerky, stiff with terror. His eyes darted from Douma’s fan to your trembling form and back again, sweat beading at his temples. Each pace closer felt like a countdown to something inevitable.
Douma tilted his head slightly as the man came to a halt a few feet away. “Closer,” he said simply. The man took another reluctant step.
When he was near enough that Douma could have reached out and touched him, the demon lord finally looked up, prism eyes glinting in the lamplight.
“Good,” he murmured, mock-praise dripping from his tongue. “Now… since you seem to have so many opinions about her…” His grip around your waist firmed just enough to make you inhale sharply. “…why don’t you tell me again. What do you think of her?”
The man’s mouth opened, closed. He glanced at you, then back at Douma, his whole body trembling. “I… I—”
Douma’s smile finally twitched at the corners, but there was no warmth in it. “Go on,” he whispered. “I’m listening.”
The silence pressed down so heavily it made your ears ring. The man stood trembling before you, lips parting and closing as he tried to form words, his terror almost tangible. Douma’s arm tightened at your waist, holding you close, his fan now resting casually in his free hand, as if this were all just some passing amusement.
Your heart lurched. You couldn’t bear the weight of the scene, the way Douma’s gaze sliced through the man like glass. Without thinking, you laid a hand lightly over Douma’s wrist and whispered, voice shaking.
“It’s okay… please, just let it go.”
The words hung fragile in the air. For a moment, you dared to hope he might listen.
But Douma only turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing against your hair, his voice low and velvet-soft at your ear.
“Hush, little flower,” he murmured. “It’s not okay.”
His prism eyes flicked back to the man, and the sweetness in his tone evaporated, replaced with something cold and absolute. “He spoke of what’s mine. He dirtied something perfect with his ugly little words.”
The man visibly flinched, hands trembling at his sides. Douma’s thumb stroked gently along your arm with such a tender gesture it made your stomach twist, because you knew it wasn’t meant for comfort. It was possession.
“Don’t worry yourself,” Douma added calmly, as if soothing a child. “I’ll take care of this. You just sit here and look pretty.”
The dangerous silence stretched again, heavier now, as the man’s face paled further under Douma’s unblinking stare.
Douma shifted beneath you, not releasing his hold on your waist. His chin rested lightly atop your shoulder, his fan tapping lazily against his knee as he regarded the trembling man before him.
“You were so eager a moment ago,” Douma said lightly, though there was no joy in his voice, only a terrifying stillness. “All those little comments about her. About how I’d… ‘scored.’ About what she must be like.”
The man’s knees quaked. “L-Lord Douma, please, I—”
“Shhh.” Douma’s hand slid higher on your waist, anchoring you in place. His eyes glittered like shards of glass. “You said she was beautiful, didn’t you? Perfect, even.”
The man nodded rapidly, swallowing hard. “Y-yes, Lord Douma. Perfect.”
“Mm. And then…” Douma leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping low, cold. “You said more than that, didn’t you? You thought of her in… other ways.”
The man’s face blanched, his lips trembling. “I-I misspoke, I—”
“Ah, no, no.” Douma’s tone was almost playful now, though his smile never came. “I want to hear it again. Every filthy little word you said about her. Out loud.”
Your stomach twisted. “Douma—” you whispered, but he pressed a finger gently to your lips without even looking at you, his gaze still locked on the man.
“Say it,” he commanded softly. “Tell me what you thought of her.”
The man shook his head violently, tears starting to rim his eyes. “Please, Lord Douma, I meant no disrespect! She—she belongs only to you! I shouldn’t have—”
Douma’s fan twitched in his hand, the edge gleaming faintly in the lamplight. The silence that followed was heavier than before, almost unbearable.
And then, with a tilt of his head, he whispered again, almost sing-song this time.
The man’s voice broke as he stammered out pieces of his earlier vulgar words, each one weaker than the last, until he choked on the shame of them. His face burned red, his body trembling so badly he nearly collapsed where he stood.
Douma didn’t even blink. He simply shifted the fan in his hand, setting it down on the floor beside him with slow, deliberate care. The sound of lacquer on wood was soft, but in the silence it cracked like thunder.
“Stick out your tongue,” Douma said quietly.
The man blinked at him, not sure he’d heard correctly. “L–Lord Douma…?”
“I said…” Douma’s eyes narrowed a fraction, the colors of his eye dimming into a single sharp hue. “…stick. Out. Your. Tongue.”
A tremor ran through the man’s entire body. He took a step back, palms out, his voice breaking. “P–please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I—”
The air dropped ten degrees. The sweetness bled out of Douma’s face all at once. His expression darkened, eyes like shards of a glacier. When he spoke again, the sing-song was gone, replaced by a voice low and venomous:
“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, each word landing like a blade. “And obey.”
The man’s breath caught. Every follower pressed farther against the walls, heads bowed, as if to become invisible. You could feel Douma’s grip tighten on your waist, anchoring you in place, his aura swelling like a predator’s shadow.
“Tongue,” Douma repeated softly, but there was no softness in it now. “Out. Now.”
The man’s eyes were wide and wet. Slowly—hands shaking—he extended his tongue, trembling like an animal caught in a snare.
Douma’s smile did not return. His face stayed dark, unreadable, the fan’s edge glinting faintly in the corner of your vision like a threat waiting to happen.
The man’s tongue barely left his mouth before Douma moved.
In a flash, his fan sliced through the air, the edge catching the candlelight as it sheared clean across flesh.
A wet, horrible sound followed. The man screamed a gurgling, choked cry, as blood poured from his mouth, splattering across the tatami. He dropped to his knees, clutching his jaw, sputtering crimson in frantic bursts.
You shrieked, covering your mouth with trembling hands. The metallic tang of blood filled the room, mixing with the sickly-sweet incense until it turned your stomach.
Douma didn’t even flinch.
Still seated, still holding you firmly across his lap, he watched with cold, unblinking boredom. His eyes followed the man writhing in agony on the floor as if the display wasn’t enough to stir even mild amusement.
“Pathetic,” he muttered darkly, lifting the fan again without a shred of haste. His prism eyes were dull, reflecting none of his usual brightness.
“No—Douma, stop!” you cried, voice breaking. “Please, it’s okay! That’s enough!”
But he didn’t listen. With a flick of his wrist, the fan arced again. Steel met flesh, tearing into the man’s shoulder with a wet crack. The scream that followed echoed against the temple walls, so loud it seemed to rattle the beams overhead.
You tried to wrench free from his hold, tried to grab at his arm, but his grip on you was iron. He kept you in place effortlessly, as though you weighed nothing, as though you were nothing more than a doll cradled against him.
Your heart pounded. Panic flooded every nerve as you realized begging wouldn’t stop him. Words weren’t enough.
So you did the only thing you could.
Twisting in his lap, you seized his face between your hands. He blinked, startled only for an instant, and then your lips pressed desperately against his.
The taste of copper lingered faintly on his mouth, the faint chill of his skin beneath your fingers. You squeezed your eyes shut, pouring every ounce of fear and desperation into that kiss, praying it would anchor him, praying it would stop him.
For a heartbeat, the world stilled.
Douma’s fan froze mid-swing. The only sound was the wet gasping of the wounded man on the floor.
And then slowly—unnervingly slow—you felt Douma smile against your lips.
The kiss lingered in the heavy silence, your fingers trembling as they held his face. For a moment, you thought it hadn’t worked, that his smile against your lips was just the prelude to more bloodshed.
But then, slowly, the pressure of his fan eased. The sharp edge lowered with a faint hiss against the tatami, and Douma’s arm curled tighter around your waist instead.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his prism eyes glittering with something unreadable. And then he laughed—soft, low, not his usual bright sing-song, but a strange, hushed sound that made your skin prickle.
“Ohhh, little flower,” he breathed, his thumb brushing your damp cheek as if you hadn’t just witnessed him torturing a man. “What a clever thing you are. You really didn’t want me to hurt him anymore, hm?”
You nodded shakily, too afraid to speak, your heart hammering in your chest.
Douma turned his gaze back to the man writhing in blood on the floor. His smile widened, bright again, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Did you hear that?” he said cheerfully, voice carrying over the follower’s groans. “You’re alive only because of her.”
The man sobbed, bowing his bloodied face to the ground, body shaking violently.
Douma tilted his head, expression gleaming with false innocence. “If not for her kiss, you’d already be in pieces. Isn’t that sweet? Isn’t she merciful?”
His grip on your waist tightened, possessive. He leaned close to your ear, voice dropping to a purr meant only for you.
“See, little flower? You saved him. Isn’t that wonderful? You’re my angel.”
But even as he spoke, his eyes never left the broken man on the floor, a warning more terrifying than any threat.
“Her grace spared you, not mine. And without it, you’d be nothing but ice and ash.”
A month had passed since that night in the temple. The memory of the man screaming on the floor still haunted you, tangled with the sensation of Douma’s lips curving into a smile against yours.
Since then, you’d learned the rhythm of life with him—his sweetness laced with cruelty, his embraces that sometimes comforted and sometimes crushed, the way he’d toy with you as though your fear was just another flavor of devotion.
But little by little, something inside you began to shift. You were still terrified of him, who wouldn’t be? But a spark of defiance had begun to burn quietly in your chest. You were tired of feeling like prey.
That night, you sat at the small vanity in your chamber, combing out your hair as you tried to prepare yourself for sleep. The silence was thick, almost comforting, until you felt him.
The weight of his presence came first, the faint rustle of robes as he drifted up behind you. His reflection appeared in the mirror, that ever-present smile soft and sweet, though his eyes glimmered with a familiar hunger.
“Such soft skin…” he murmured, his cold fingers brushing the fabric of your pajama top. He slid the cloth gently off your shoulder, baring the curve of it. His lips were already parting, his teeth flashing faintly as he lowered his mouth toward your skin.
Your stomach twisted. Not again.
“No,” you whispered, shoving his hand away, tugging your pajama back into place.
Douma chuckled lightly, as though you’d made a joke. “No?” His fingers returned, tugging the cloth down again. “But you’re so sweet. Just one little taste, hmm?”
“I said no,” you snapped louder this time, trying to push his hand off. But his grip lingered, cold and insistent, ignoring your protest as though it were nothing more than background noise.
Something in you snapped.
You whirled on him, shoving him back with both hands against his chest. The motion was so sudden, so unlike you, that it startled even him. For the first time in weeks, his expression flickered—surprise breaking through the porcelain.
“Stop it!” you cried, your voice shaking with fury and fear. “I’m not your toy, Douma! I’m not something you can just bite whenever you feel like it!”
The words echoed through the chamber. Your chest heaved with ragged breaths, your whole body trembling.
Douma blinked once. Then twice. His smile returned, faint and brittle, but there was no warmth in it.
“Ohhh…” he breathed, tilting his head in exaggerated curiosity. “My little flower has thorns after all.”
He stepped closer, not with anger, but with eerie calm. His eyes caught yours, glittering with that shimmer that always made your stomach twist.
“What,” he asked softly, almost tenderly, “have I done to deserve such treatment?”
The words weren’t mocking. They were genuine in a way that made your blood run cold. Because in his fractured mind, he truly didn’t understand.
For a moment, the room was so still you could hear the wind rattle faintly against the paper doors. Douma’s question hung in the air, delicate and poisonous, as if you were the one who had wronged him.
Your lips trembled. At first, nothing came out. Just broken breaths, the words caught in your throat. But the longer you stared at his smiling face, the more something inside you split wide open.
“You—!” Your voice cracked, thick with tears. “You don’t listen to me! You never listen! I tell you no, I tell you to stop, and you just keep going like I don’t even matter!”
Douma tilted his head, expression soft, curious, as if you were a child throwing a tantrum.
Your fists balled tight at your sides. The words kept pouring, ragged and raw.
“You say I belong to you, but you don’t care how much you hurt me! You think pulling me close, biting me, holding me down… is love? It’s not! It’s—it’s suffocating!”
Your throat burned. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring his prism gaze until he was just a smear of color and shadow.
“I thought you saved me,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “I thought you were different. But you’re just like him. You’re worse sometimes, because I can’t even tell where the comfort ends and the pain begins!”
The confession ripped itself out of you, heavy and shaking, leaving your chest heaving with sobs.
For the first time since you’d known him, Douma didn’t smile.
He stood there, silent, eyes fixed on you with something unreadable flickering in their depths. His head tilted just slightly, not with amusement, not with cruelty, but with a strange, childlike confusion, as though he couldn’t quite comprehend what he’d done wrong.
His lips parted at last. The words came soft, almost fragile.
But before you could answer, his tone shifted. The softness bled into something firmer, his hand lifting to cup your cheek as his thumb traced the damp line of a tear.
“Little flower… have you forgotten?” His voice dropped low, gentle and coaxing, but sharp underneath. “I saved you. Without me, you’d still be crawling in the dirt, being kicked and slapped and called names. He would’ve beaten you until nothing was left. I stopped that. I gave you peace.”
You stiffened, your lips parting to protest, but he didn’t let you. His prism eyes glittered as he leaned in closer, his tone calm, steady, dangerous.
“Tell me,” he murmured. “Do I ever belittle you? Do I call you ugly, useless? Do I ever smack you, bruise you, spit on you the way he did?”
Your throat tightened. The words caught, but they clawed their way out anyway. “No… but—”
“But what?” Douma’s smile twitched, almost too wide. His grip on your cheek firmed. “I don’t break you like he did. I don’t tear you down. I could have, but I don’t. I love you, don’t I? You’re my perfect little flower.”
Your tears spilled again, your voice cracking as you pushed back against him. “Sometimes you don’t have to smack me, Douma. Sometimes it’s the way you talk to me. Sometimes it’s when you don’t listen… when you bite me, or… or make me feel like I’m not really a person to you. Like I’m just something you own.”
The words shook as they left you, but they came out all the same.
Douma’s face stilled. For a long, drawn-out moment, he just stared at you, his eyes unreadable, his smile frozen in place—not playful, not cruel, but something far more dangerous… a mask that might crack any second.
And then he sighed, low and almost disappointed, like you were a child who didn’t know better.
“Ohhh, little flower,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You want to argue with me? Argue that I hurt you?”
His hand, still cupping your cheek, slid downward with glacial slowness until his fingers wrapped around your throat. The sudden pressure made you gasp, your nails instinctively clutching at his wrist. He wasn’t squeezing hard enough to cut off all your air—not yet—but enough to make his control absolute, enough to remind you how little your body weighed in his grip.
“I can hurt you,” he whispered, his face lowering until his nose brushed yours, his breath sweet and cold. “If that’s what you want. If you really, truly want me to show you what it means to be hurt.”
His prism eyes glittered in the dim light, his smile returning but warped, brittle around the edges.
“I’ve eaten so many women, you know,” he went on, his tone conversational, like he was discussing the weather. “It’s what I do. Their screams, their tears, the way they crumble in my arms.. it’s delicious.”
Your stomach turned, a choked sound breaking from your throat. His grip didn’t loosen.
“But you…” Douma’s voice softened suddenly, almost tender, though the weight of his hand never eased. “You’re different. You’re too perfect to ruin. That’s why I kept you. That’s why I don’t want to hurt you. Why I don’t want to eat you.”
He tilted his head, his smile freezing into place as his eyes bore into yours.
“Do you understand that, little flower?” he whispered, the edge of his fan glinting faintly in the corner of your vision. “Do you understand that I choose not to destroy you?”
The silence that followed was suffocating, your pulse hammering desperately against his cold palm.
Tears welled in your eyes, spilling hot down your cheeks. Your body shook, your lips trembled, and finally—broken, terrified—you nodded.
“Yes,” you whispered hoarsely, the word cracking out of you like splintered glass. “I understand.”
The second your tears slipped free, Douma’s expression changed. His smile softened, his grip vanished. He released your throat at once, hands instead sliding up to cradle your face.
“Ohhh, my little flower,” he cooed, pulling you against his chest. His arms wrapped around you tightly, cold and unyielding, but the gesture mimicked tenderness. “Don’t cry. Shhh, shhh, no tears now.”
Your sobs broke free anyway, muffled against his robes. He stroked your hair with slow, soothing motions, as though he hadn’t been choking the life from you a heartbeat ago.
“I’m sorry if I pushed too hard,” he murmured into your ear, his tone dripping with false remorse. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I only wanted to prove a point.”
His cheek rested lightly atop your head, his thumb brushing away your tears as though he hadn’t caused them. “I’d never truly hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”
The contradiction twisted inside you like a knife: the ache in your throat where his fingers had been, and the deceptively gentle warmth of his arms now holding you.
“See?” he whispered, his voice so soft it nearly lulled you despite the terror still clawing inside your chest. “You’re safe with me. Always.”
The words wrapped around you like chains disguised as silk.
You knew—deep down—you should pull away. That no embrace could erase what he had just done. But your body betrayed you, sinking into him, pressing your face into his chest where his coldness numbed the heat of your tears.
He saved me, you thought weakly. He always reminds me of that. He’s not like him. Not like the man I ran from.
Douma didn’t scream at you, didn’t spit cruel words meant to break you. He didn’t hit you until you were crawling on the floor, begging for air. No… his cruelty was quieter, wrapped in affection. His bite came with a kiss, his grip with a caress. And compared to what you had known before… wasn’t that almost better?
The realization cut you as much as it soothed you. You knew this wasn’t healthy. You knew his love was a cage, a fire that burned no matter how sweetly it crackled. And yet… in a sick, heavy way, it was comforting.
Because for once, the arms around you didn’t let go.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured again, as if reading your thoughts, as if cementing them into place. “I want to keep you. Cherish you. Isn’t that what you want, too?”
Your hands, trembling still, gripped his robes tighter. You could have pulled away. Instead, you clung harder, closing your eyes against the truth that clawed at the edges of your mind.
Maybe it wasn’t safe. Maybe it wasn’t love the way it was supposed to be. But it was yours.
And you didn’t want to let it go.
Morning light filtered pale through the shoji doors, painting soft rectangles across the tatami floor. You stirred beneath the covers, your body heavy with the remnants of last night. The ache in your throat a faint echo, the memory of tears pressed into his robes lingering like a phantom touch.
The sound of the door sliding open drew your eyes up. Douma stepped in, balancing a tray in his hands, humming quietly to himself. The scent of warm broth and fresh fruit drifted into the room.
You blinked. “What’s this?”
He set the tray gently before you, then settled onto the floor beside the bed with that ever-present smile. “An apology,” he said sweetly, tilting his head like a child confessing to stealing candy. “I don’t want my little flower to think I don’t care. So I thought… breakfast in bed might show you just how much I do.”
Your lips parted, stunned into silence. Douma… apologizing? It wasn’t the kind of apology you expected, not after last night’s suffocating grip and whispered threats. And yet, seeing him there with a tray of food—for you, only for you—something in your chest fluttered despite yourself.
You lowered your gaze, cheeks warming. “…Thank you,” you whispered, the words small but genuine.
Douma’s smile stretched wider, prism eyes sparkling with delight. He leaned closer, studying the faint blush dusting your cheeks like he’d found a treasure. His fingers reached out, cold against your skin as he lifted your chin delicately.
“Ohhh,” he breathed, laughter bubbling in his throat. “You’re blushing. How adorable.” His grin turned sharp, bright. “I love seeing you get all flustered for me.”
“Even cuter,” he whispered. His smile softened just slightly, the edge dulling as his voice dropped to something quieter, more intimate.
Before you could respond, before your breath could even steady, Douma leaned in. His lips brushed yours in a slow, deliberate kiss—sweet, lingering, filled with a tenderness so at odds with the monster you knew him to be that your heart lurched violently in your chest.
The kiss started slow and soft, tasting faintly of the fruit he’d just brought you. But the longer his lips lingered on yours, the more his hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, cold fingers splaying at the base of your skull. His tongue flicked lightly against your bottom lip; a subtle groan escaped him as he deepened the kiss.
Without realizing it, your hands had come up to his chest. His robes were loose, the fabric cool under your palms. Beneath it, his body was firm, a strange blend of strength and softness that made your fingertips tremble as you traced the lines of his muscles.
Douma’s groan deepened, vibrating against your lips. The sound startled you—a low, almost human sound of want—and your heart jumped wildly in your chest.
He pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you with that prism gaze. A grin ghosted over his lips. “Ohhh…” he murmured, eyes glinting with delight. “Your heart’s beating so fast. I can hear it.”
“Stop,” you whispered, your face burning as you tried to look away.
But Douma only laughed, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Why? It’s adorable.”
In a blink, he moved, his body shifting over you, pinning you gently to the bedding. He didn’t squeeze or hold you down hard; he simply loomed over you, the cool weight of him pressing you into the futon as his hair fell like a curtain around you both.
He lowered his face to your neck, inhaling deeply just beneath your ear. His voice dropped, velvet and intimate.
“Mmm… you smell even sweeter when you’re nervous.” His lips brushed your skin as he spoke. “But you know…”
His breath ghosted hot against your pulse. “…I’m all yours.”
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his grin softening into something that looked like devotion. “You can do whatever you want with me. Anything.”
His hand guided yours up, pressing your palm flat against his chest again, holding it there like an offering. “Take me,” he murmured. “Break me. Bite me back if you want. You have more power than you think, little flower.”
Your breath came in shaky bursts, your face hot as you stammered, “I-I don’t… I don’t know what to do.”
Douma’s grin widened beneath you, his prism eyes glittering like fractured glass. “Ohhh, that’s adorable,” he purred. “Then let me guide you, little flower.”
Before you could protest, his cold hands slid to your waist. In one fluid motion, he flipped you both. The world tilting until you found yourself straddling his hips, your knees pressed into the bedding on either side of him.
Your hands flew up in alarm, but he caught them, intertwining his fingers with yours. He slowly guided them down, pressing your palms against the planes of his chest, then lower over the taut lines of his abs. His grin softened into something more intoxicating as he looked up at you.
“See?” he murmured, his voice husky with amusement. “I’m all yours. Every part of me. You’re the one in control now.”
Your pulse thundered. You wanted to look away, but Douma’s gaze held you pinned more tightly than his body ever could. Nervously, you let your fingertips linger against him, feeling the cool firmness of his body beneath your hands. The way his muscles shifted under your touch made your heart race even harder.
A low groan slipped past his lips. “Mmm… that’s it,” he coaxed, arching his back slightly into your touch. “Touch me however you like.”
Something flickered in you then. Seeing him beneath you—the Upper Moon who could crush anyone in an instant—laying there with his arms open and his voice coaxing you on, it ignited something deep in your chest.
Before you could stop yourself, you leaned down, capturing his lips with yours in a heated kiss. It wasn’t the gentle, apologetic kiss of before. It was hungry.
Douma moaned into your mouth, delighted, his hands sliding up your back but not forcing you, letting you lead.
Your hips shifted, almost instinctively, pressing down against him. The friction made your breath catch, your body flushing hot, and you rocked again, tentative at first, then more deliberate.
The kiss grew hungrier, your lips moving against his with a need that startled even you. Every brush of his mouth against yours sent sparks shooting through your chest, making you want more. You rocked your hips harder, chasing the feeling, heat blooming low in your belly.
Douma groaned into the kiss, his voice muffled and ragged, as though he was struggling to hold something back. His cold hands slid down, settling firmly at your hips before dipping lower, gripping you hard enough that you gasped, fingers pressing into the curve of your ass as he guided your movements.
“Ahh… that’s it,” he panted between kisses, his grin curling even as his breath grew heavier. “You’re so good when you’re bold.”
Your face burned hot, your body trembling, but you didn’t stop. For once, you had him beneath you, and every moan, every shiver of his chest under your palms made you feel like you were the one in control.
Your mouths collided again and again, tongues tangling, breath hitching as the room filled with the raw sound of your desperate kisses. His grip only tightened, dragging you down against him with every roll of your hips until you could barely breathe.
Your kisses turned feverish, each one more desperate than the last, as if the both of you were afraid to stop and breathe. His hands roamed your body with chilling reverence, gliding over your waist and thighs before gripping firmly at the curve of your ass, urging you to keep rocking against him.
A soft moan escaped you before you could swallow it back, your cheeks burning hotter at the sound. Douma’s lips curled against yours in delight, his tongue brushing your lower lip as he groaned, low and rough, almost animalistic.
“Ahhh… little flower,” he murmured, his voice breaking through the kisses. “You’re going to ruin me.”
Your fingers clutched at his robes, fisting the fabric as though to anchor yourself. Without thinking, you tugged, pulling the silk open across his chest. He didn’t stop you, in fact, he laughed softly, helping shrug it off his shoulders, pale skin gleaming in the low light.
His chest was cool under your palms, hard lines of muscle flexing as he arched into your touch. He caught your wrists again, not to restrain, but to guide, pressing your hands lower, over the ridges of his abs, letting you feel every part of him.
“I’m all yours,” he whispered, breath hot against your mouth. “Touch me however you like. Break me if you want.”
Your own clothes became nothing but barriers between you, and Douma wasted no time slipping his hands beneath the loose hem of your pajama top. The fabric slid up and over your head in one swift motion, leaving you flushed and exposed beneath his hungry gaze.
“Perfect,” he breathed, eyes devouring every inch of you. His cold palms slid over your bare skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, as if he were memorizing the shape of you.
You leaned down, capturing his lips again. This time, you kissed him with everything—fear, longing, defiance, need—all of it tangled together until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
His laugh cracked into a moan, his teeth grazing your lower lip as he deepened the kiss. The way you moved against him, hips rolling with more intent now, had him gripping you harder, pulling you flush against his body until there was no space left at all.
The air grew hot, the world narrowed to nothing but his hands, his lips, his voice whispering your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“Mine,” he groaned between kisses. “All mine. And yet… look at you. Taking me apart.”
Your heart raced, your body trembling, but you didn’t stop. Neither did he.
And when the night finally swallowed you both, there was no more room for fear or thought. Only the sound of frantic breaths, tangled limbs, the fever of intimacy that blurred every line between love and destruction.
When silence returned at last, you lay tangled in his arms, his cold chest pressed against your flushed skin. He looked at you with a softness that felt dangerous, eyes gleaming like fractured glass in the dim light.
And in that stillness, the truth sank in: this wasn’t salvation. It wasn’t safety. But it was yours.
An intimacy that chained you tighter to him. A toxic kind of love that you couldn’t let go.
Weeks slipped by like petals drifting down a stream. The memory of that night—his body beneath yours, the way his voice broke with groans and laughter, the way you lost yourself in him—never truly left. It lingered in the quiet moments, in the way he brushed your hair from your face, in the way he smiled at you like you were the only thing in the room.
And now, you stood at his side as the temple bustled with his followers. They had gathered for evening devotions, the hall heavy with incense and hushed voices. You busied yourself with small tasks by lighting candles and arranging offerings, but every time you moved, you felt his eyes on you.
Douma was seated in his usual place on the dais, robes draped perfectly, fan in hand. His smile was the same as always… bright, welcoming, holy. To anyone else, he looked untouchable, radiant, divine.
But you knew better. And so did he.
As the gathering ended and the followers began to bow their way out, one woman approached Douma for a blessing. You stepped aside, lowering your gaze, but before you could move too far, Douma’s hand shot out, cold fingers curling around your wrist.
The woman paused, startled, but Douma only chuckled, his voice light.
“Don’t mind me. I just want my little flower close.”
He tugged you gently until you stood at his side, then slipped an arm around your waist in full view of the worshippers. His touch was casual, affectionate, but the possessiveness in it was unmistakable.
Gasps rippled through the hall. The woman bowed her head quickly, whispering a prayer before fleeing, her footsteps hasty against the tatami.
Douma tilted his head, grin widening as he glanced down at you. “Did you see that? They’re jealous.” His voice was a hushed laugh, meant only for you. “They can’t stand that I keep you here, with me. That you’re mine.”
Your face flushed hot, both from embarrassment at the public display and from the way his words curled deep into you. Your instinct was to pull away, but his arm tightened, keeping you pressed to his side as his prism eyes swept the hall like a predator daring anyone to look too long.
“Smile for me, little flower,” he murmured, brushing a cold fingertip against your cheek. “Show them how sweet you look when you’re at my side.”
And so you did. You smiled, nervous and small, while Douma basked in the attention, in the fear, in the envy.
The more you tried to steady your heart, the faster it beat, and he heard every thud of it. His grin turned razor-sharp, delighted.
Later, when the hall was empty, Douma leaned close, his lips grazing your ear as he whispered.
“See? You belong to me in private… and in public. Everyone knows it now.”
Your body trembled, your heart caught between dread and a strange, twisted pride. Because as wrong as it was, as terrifying as it felt, a part of you couldn’t help but cling to it.
And Douma knew. He always knew.
Time had dulled the edges of fear but sharpened the ache. The months have blurred by. What once felt like rescue had become a gilded cage. You still laughed sometimes, still let him hold you, still felt that rush when his prism eyes focused only on you. But the walls of his temple were closing in, his “affection” smothering rather than soothing.
You’d begun to see the pattern clearly now. How every sweet gesture came with a thread of control. How every “I’m all yours” still left you gasping under his grip. You no longer trembled the way you once did, but your spirit had begun to feel brittle, like cracked glass under silk.
It all snapped one evening.
You’d been arguing again, and not even about something big. Just another one of his casual touches, another sly remark from him. And you couldn’t swallow it this time.
“I can’t do this anymore!” The words tore from your throat, raw and shaking. “I’m done! Either you let me leave or you eat me, Douma, because I can’t live like this anymore!”
The room went deathly still.
For a heartbeat, you expected him to smile. To tilt his head and call you dramatic, to press you down and make you submit until your protests dissolved.
Douma’s fan slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor. He stared at you as though you’d just torn a hole in his world. The light of his eyes dimmed, flickering with something you’d never seen there before: panic.
His lips parted. “Leave?” he repeated, voice small, almost childish. “You… want to leave?”
“I’m done,” you choked out, tears streaking your cheeks. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t…”
Before you could finish, Douma moved, not with the predatory swiftness you were used to, but with a kind of desperation. He closed the space between you and pulled you into his arms, holding you tight enough that you felt his cold chest trembling against your own.
“No,” he whispered, the sound cracking, his breath cold at your ear. “No, don’t go.”
“I don’t want to eat you,” he murmured again, his voice fraying at the edges. “I don’t want to hurt you. I… I like having you here. I need you.”
His hands, normally so steady, clutched at you like a drowning man. “Please. Don’t leave me.”
For the first time since you’d met him, Douma’s mask seemed to falter. No smile. No sing-song. Just raw, quiet pleading—the monster who’d taken you, now terrified of losing you.
You stood stiffly in his embrace, tears sliding down your cheeks. Part of you wanted to melt into him, to believe him. Another part of you, deeper and quieter, whispered that this was just another thread in the web.
But his arms around you were cold and trembling, and his voice, for once, sounded like it might actually break.
And you couldn’t look away.
For a few days after his desperate plea, Douma was different.
He held you more gently, kissed your forehead instead of your throat, brushed your hair like you might break. He spoke softer, let you wander the temple halls without pulling you back instantly. For a moment, you thought maybe, just maybe, your words had sunk into him. That he’d realized he couldn’t keep you if he crushed you.
Slowly, his smile sharpened again. The way he clung to you grew heavier, more desperate. He watched you constantly, every step, every glance, every sigh. When you pulled away from his hand, his grin faltered, not into sorrow this time, but into something sharper, a tremor of fury beneath the porcelain mask.
“You’re not really going to leave me,” he’d say lightly, though his eyes never left yours. “Right, little flower? You wouldn’t do that to me. You couldn’t.”
When you didn’t answer fast enough, his laugh would ring out, brittle and too loud, like glass splintering. He’d grab you close, whispering in your ear with a tremor that was both threat and plea.
“I’d break without you. You know that, don’t you? I’d fall apart if you left me. You wouldn’t want to see me like that, hm?”
And the more you tried to reclaim little scraps of strength, the more his need twisted.
If you raised your voice at him, he’d hush you with kisses, smothering your words into silence. If you pushed his hands away, he’d grab your wrists harder, murmuring with icy sweetness. “Don’t be cruel. I can’t stand it when you’re cruel.”
Nights blurred into frantic embraces, his touch wavering between worship and punishment. He couldn’t decide whether to love you or consume you… so he did both, pressing devotion and danger into every kiss, every bite.
And the truth that chilled you most was this: he wasn’t lying when he said he needed you. You saw it in the wildness of his eyes, in the way his smile broke whenever you turned away.
But that need didn’t free you. It bound you tighter.
Because the more Douma unraveled, the more he clung. And the more he clung, the more you felt your own hope slipping, piece by piece, into his cold hands.
A toxic love. A cage disguised as arms. And you were locked deeper than ever.
That night, when Douma had clutched you with trembling arms, whispering over and over that he needed you, you’d lain awake long after his voice had gone quiet. Even when his grip slackened in sleep, you hadn’t moved. His words looped endlessly in your mind, a confession so unlike him it left you shaken.
For days after, you saw cracks in him that hadn’t been there before. His laugh sounded thinner, his smile a little too wide, his gaze clinging to you with a weight that made your chest tighten. Sometimes he was unbearably sweet, brushing your hair, pressing kisses to your hands like a worshiper at an altar. Other times, he snapped from gentleness to desperation so quickly it left you dizzy.
And then, one night, he was gone.
No explanation. No hum of his voice in the hall. Just silence.
At first, you told yourself he’d return by dawn. He always did. Upper Rank Two couldn’t be killed so easily, not by ordinary Demon Slayers. He was too strong, too clever. You repeated this like a mantra as you sat curled on the futon, staring at the empty space where he usually lay.
But dawn came and went. Then another night. And another.
The temple was too quiet without him. The incense burned down to nothing. The air felt hollow without his presence, suffocating in an entirely different way.
You should have felt relief. The absence of his touch, his suffocating embrace, his playful cruelty… this should have been freedom. This was your chance.
But instead, you paced. You wrung your hands until your skin was raw. Every creak of the wood outside made your heart jump, every flicker of shadow made you think he was back.
And when you lay down at night, you clutched the blankets and breathed deep, trying to find a trace of his scent.
Part of you screamed that this was the moment to leave. To run. To escape the cage you’d let him weave around you.
But another part—the louder part—whispered something darker.
What if you leave, and someone else finds you? What if they hurt you worse than before?
At least with Douma, you know how far he’ll go. At least with him, you’re safe from everyone else.
The thought sickened you. And yet it comforted you too.
Because deep down, you knew the truth. You didn’t just fear the world without him. You wanted him back. His arms, his laugh, his cold lips on your skin… all of it.
He wasn’t just your captor. He was your savior.
You hated that, and you loved it.
So you stayed. You waited. And with every passing day, the longing inside you grew heavier, until the words you swore you’d never say burned like fire at the back of your throat:
The temple was silent again that evening. You sat hunched over in the corner, a small bowl in your hands, half-full of water you’d been using to wash the floors. It had been another empty day, another long stretch of waiting, your chest twisting between hope and despair until you could barely think straight.
The door slid open with a soft rasp.
Douma stepped inside as if he’d only been gone a few hours. Robes immaculate, fan tucked loosely at his side, and his smile as bright as ever. Not a single scratch marred him, not a hair out of place. His kaleidoscope eyes lit up when they found you, though not with surprise. Just an easy calm, as though he’d expected you to be there waiting.
The bowl slipped from your hands, clattering to the floor as water splashed across the tatami.
“Douma—!” The word tore from your throat before you could stop it.
You stumbled forward, closing the distance in a rush. And then you were in his arms, leaping up to wrap yourself around him, your arms locking desperately around his neck. The sobs broke free before you could swallow them back, hot tears streaking down your face.
“I thought—” Your voice cracked against his shoulder. “I thought something happened to you. You were gone so long, I—”
Douma blinked, caught off guard for a single heartbeat. Then a slow, delighted grin curved his lips.
“Ohhh, little flower,” he cooed, his arms circling your waist, holding you close with effortless strength. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. “You were worried about me?”
You clutched him tighter, nodding through your tears. “I was scared,” you admitted, voice trembling. “I didn’t know if you’d ever come back.”
His chest shook with soft laughter, low and pleased. His hand stroked your back in long, soothing lines as he leaned close to your ear.
“Don’t cry, my sweet. I’m here.” His voice was velvet, calm, intoxicating. “I’ll always come back to you. No matter what, I’ll never leave you behind.”
The words sent another wave of relief through you, sinking deep into your bones. His arms were cold but unyielding, his embrace both a comfort and a prison, and you melted into it, clinging tighter because you couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.
Douma’s smile widened against your hair. He felt the way your body shook, the way your heart raced against his chest, and it delighted him. You weren’t just his possession anymore. You were his anchor.
Douma’s cold hands cradled your waist as you clung to him, his laughter rumbling low when you trembled against his chest. He leaned back just enough to see your face, his thumb brushing away your tears before curling under your chin.
Those colorful eyes flickered with delight as he tilted your face up. “My, my… so sweet when you cry for me.”
Before you could reply, his lips met yours.
The kiss wasn’t soft. It was desperate, a clash of want and relief, of fear and need. You gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer, pouring every tear, every sleepless night, every bit of longing into the press of your mouth against his. His arms crushed you to him, cold body enveloping you as though he could fuse you into himself and never let go.
When you finally broke for breath, your lips were swollen, your chest heaving. The words slipped out unguarded, raw and demanding.
“Never do that again,” you whispered fiercely. “Never be away that long. Ever.”
Douma chuckled, low and pleased, kissing your cheek, then trailing down to your neck where his lips lingered, cold and reverent. “Mmm, my little flower is so needy. Don’t worry. I won’t. I missed you too much.”
You shivered, your hands sliding down from his chest. At first, he didn’t notice. But when your fingers brushed lower, tugging at the edge of his waistband, his whole body went still.
His grin flickered, a teasing remark already forming on his lips, but you silenced him, your voice steady and sharp with need.
“Shut up,” you breathed, your eyes meeting his with burning intensity. “Show me exactly how much you missed me.”
For the first time in days, Douma’s breath caught. His grin returned, but this one was sharper, hungrier, his prism eyes glowing with delight.
“Ohhh,” he murmured, his voice breaking into a groan as he pulled you closer, lifting you effortlessly off the floor, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Douma’s grin widened, his prism eyes shimmering like fractured glass as he lifted you easily into his arms. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your lips finding his again in a kiss that was all heat and desperation. He stumbled back toward the futon, laughing breathlessly against your mouth as he lowered you both down.
The silk of his robes brushed your skin, cold fingers tracing over you with reverence and hunger all at once. Your hands clutched at him, tugging, pulling, needing him closer, until there was nothing left between you but frantic breaths and the shiver of touch.
“Mine,” he groaned into your ear, his voice unsteady, almost broken. “You’re mine. And I’ll never let you go.”
Your nails scraped lightly against his back as you kissed him harder, tears mixing with the heat of your lips. You didn’t care anymore, not about freedom, not about fear. All that mattered was the way he clung to you, the way he whispered that he needed you, the way his cold body pressed into yours like he’d fall apart if you slipped away.
Every kiss deepened the chain between you. Every touch sealed it tighter. The world outside didn’t exist, only his arms, his lips, his voice tangled with yours.
And as the night swallowed you both, you realized the truth you’d tried to deny from the beginning:
This wasn’t salvation. This wasn’t safety. It wasn’t even love, not in the way you once dreamed.
It was fire. It was poison. It was a cage made of silk and ice.
And yet, wrapped in Douma’s arms as he kissed you like he’d starve without it, you clung back just as desperately, because in this twisted, toxic bond, you had found something that terrified and comforted you all at once.
Your blush deepened instantly, heat rushing to your face as you tried to glance away, but his fingers held you there, chin tilted toward him, leaving you caught in the shimmer of his gaze.
And you were never going to let it go.
please do not copy my works.
