summary: he saved her just to tease her after, and when she punched his head off, he still wouldn’t stop talking—or flirting.
warnings: blood, decapitated douma
w.c: 386
douma leaned lazily against the splintered porch railing of the crumbling house, a grin playing on his lips like the blood soaking the earth around them wasn’t even real. the corpse of the demon slayer still twitched a few feet away, his blade cracked, eyes vacant.
he turned to (name), eyes gleaming. “i think you owe me a kiss,” he said sweetly.
(name) blinked at him. her fists clenched. “the only thing i owe you is a punch to the face.”
his smile only widened. “oh, come now. i saved you. you were this close” pinching his fingers “to getting your pretty little head sliced off. and i, being the gallant soul i am, stepped in like a knight in very bloody armor.”
he stepped closer, arms out like he meant to pull her into a hug.
but her fist flew faster than he could blink and it collided with his jaw with a brutal crack that echoed across the broken house, and his head went flying—detached entirely—landing with a dull thud in the tall grass.
his body stood stiffly as (name) loomed over his headless form, chest rising and falling. “try that again and i’ll throw your skull into the well.”
his severed head blinked up at her from the ground, somehow still annoyingly cheerful.
“you and akaza-dono are always mean to me,” he sighed dramatically. “i save lives, bring joy, share my beauty—and this is the thanks i get? violence?”
she rolled her eyes and turned away. “maybe if you stopped acting like a lunatic, we wouldn’t want to break your face every five minutes.”
douma’s voice followed her like a bad echo as she stalked off. “ah, but wouldn’t life be so dull without me?”
she didn’t bother to answer but his disembodied head kept talking even as she walked away because of course it did. douma never knew when to shut up.
“i mean really, (name)!” he called after her, voice slightly muffled from the dirt. “how do you expect to make friends if you keep punching them? friends don’t decapitate friends!”
she didn’t break stride and just flipped him off over her shoulder without looking back.
“rude!” he huffed, clearly offended. a beat of silence passed before he added with far too much confidence, “but she totally wants to kiss me.”
summary: they live in comfortable denial as he offers steady affection without restraint, and her refusal to see it lets him wait quietly in plain sight.
warning: ooc douma huhu
w.c: 1,453
the toothpaste cap was off again.
it sat there on the edge of the sink, tilted slightly to the side, a pale ribbon of paste drying at the opening like it had been abandoned mid-thought. the bathroom light was still on. steam lingered faintly, softening the edges of the mirror.
(name) stood in the doorway, arms crossed, staring at it.
“you know,” she said, not raising her voice, “most people learn to put that back on when they’re, like, six.”
douma leaned against the doorframe behind her, hair still damp, a towel slung loosely around his shoulders like he’d forgotten what it was for halfway through drying off. he peeked past her with exaggerated curiosity.
“oh? is that a rule?” he asked, smiling. “i must have missed that chapter in my upbringing.”
she sighed and reached for the cap herself, twisting it back on with a practiced motion. “you miss a lot of chapters.”
“that’s why i like living with you,” he said easily. “you fill in the gaps.”
she rolled her eyes and brushed past him, bumping his arm lightly with her shoulder as she went. “don’t get sentimental over toothpaste.”
“who said anything about toothpaste?” he replied.
the apartment was quiet in the comfortable, lived-in way—morning light slipping through half-open curtains, dust motes floating lazily in the air. their place wasn’t big, but it was theirs in the sense that roommates’ places were: mismatched furniture, shared shelves, boundaries drawn in invisible ink.
(name) headed into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, then leaned back against the counter. she could hear douma moving behind her, humming to himself as he wandered in barefoot, entirely unconcerned with personal space or social cues.
he reached past her to grab a mug from the cabinet, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of citrus soap and something sweet that always clung to him.
“you’re doing it again,” she said.
“doing what?” he asked, sipping from the mug.
“standing too close.”
he glanced down at the distance between them—or lack of it. “this isn’t close.”
she nudged him with her elbow. “for normal people, it is.”
he laughed, bright and unbothered. “good thing i’m not normal.”
that, at least, was something they agreed on.
they’d moved in together out of convenience, originally. same building, same work schedule, same tolerance for chaos. douma had been charming in that overwhelming way that either exhausted people or drew them in completely. (name) had assumed she’d land firmly in the first category.
she hadn’t expected him to linger.
he leaned against the counter now, watching her with open interest as she drank her water. he always watched her like that—like she was a movie he’d already seen but still found entertaining.
“you slept well?” he asked.
“fine.”
“you always say that.”
“because it’s always true.”
he tilted his head. “you don’t sound convinced.”
she set the glass down. “why are you interrogating me before coffee?”
“because it’s cute when you get defensive,” he said.
she snorted. “you say that about everything.”
“because everything you do is cute.”
she froze for half a second, then waved it off with a dismissive flick of her hand. “there it is. flirting.”
“is it flirting if i mean it?”
she raised an eyebrow. “especially then.”
douma grinned wider. “you never believe me.”
“because you say things like that to everyone.”
he gasped, mock-offended. “i do not.”
“you literally told the barista last week that her handwriting was ‘a gift to the world.’”
“and it was,” he said earnestly. “don’t you think people should hear nice things?”
“not when you don’t mean them.”
he leaned in a little closer. “i always mean them.”
she met his gaze for a brief moment, then looked away, busying herself with grabbing her bag from the chair. “sure you do.”
if douma noticed the way she avoided looking at him too long, he didn’t comment on it. he never pushed—not directly. he preferred to circle, to hover, to make his presence known without demanding acknowledgment.
they left the apartment together, as usual, locking the door behind them. the hallway smelled faintly of cleaning solution and someone else’s cooking. douma matched her pace easily, hands tucked into his pockets.
“you forgot your jacket,” he said.
she glanced down. “it’s not cold.”
“it will be later.”
“i’ll survive.”
he shrugged out of his own jacket anyway and draped it over her shoulders without asking. she stiffened.
“douma.”
“what?” he asked innocently. “roommate privileges.”
she sighed but didn’t take it off. “you’re impossible.”
“and yet,” he said lightly, “you keep me.”
they walked in companionable silence after that, the city waking up around them. she told herself not to read into it—the jacket, the proximity, the way he always seemed attuned to her movements. douma was like that with everyone, she reasoned
he didn’t do subtle. and because of that, she never considered the possibility that he might be serious.
later that evening, they were back in the apartment, the day settling into something quieter. (name) sat on the couch with her laptop balanced on her knees, scrolling through emails. douma lay sprawled on the floor, chin propped on his hands, flipping through a magazine he wasn’t actually reading.
“can i ask you something?” he said suddenly.
she didn’t look up. “you just did.”
“you know what i mean.”
“depends,” she said. “is it weird?”
he smiled to himself. “probably.”
she glanced down at him. “try me.”
“why do you pretend you don’t notice things?”
she frowned. “what things?”
“this,” he said, gesturing vaguely between them. “us.”
she laughed. “there is no ‘us.’ there’s a lease agreement and shared utilities.”
he propped himself up on one elbow, studying her. “you really believe that?”
“yes,” she said easily. “and you should too.”
“but what if i don’t want to?”
she closed her laptop slowly. “douma.”
“what? i’m just saying,” he continued, unbothered. “i like you. more than i like most people. probably more than i should.”
she stared at him, searching for the punchline. when none came, she relaxed. “you like everyone.”
“not like this.”
“you say that to everyone.”
“do i?” he asked, genuinely curious.
she hesitated, then shrugged. “it feels like it.”
he was quiet for a moment. then he lay back down, staring at the ceiling. “maybe i should say it less, then.”
“maybe,” she agreed, a little too quickly.
but he didn’t stop. not really.
over the next few weeks, the little things piled up—the way he always waited for her before leaving, the way he saved the last slice of pizza for her without comment, the way he knew her coffee order without asking. he was open about it, unashamed, treating his affection like a fact rather than a confession.
and she kept shrugging it off.
“you’re just being you,” she’d say.
“i am being me,” he’d reply. “and i like you.”
“yeah, yeah.”
it became a rhythm. his honesty, her dismissal. neither of them pushed it further.
one night, she came home late, exhausted, shoes kicked off by the door. the apartment was dim except for the kitchen light. douma was there, sleeves rolled up, stirring something on the stove.
“you’re cooking?” she asked.
“attempting,” he said. “don’t sound so shocked.”
“i am shocked.”
he laughed. “sit. i’ll feed you.”
she dropped into a chair, watching him move around the kitchen with unearned confidence. “you didn’t have to.”
“i wanted to.”
“why?”
he glanced back at her. “do i need a reason?”
she shrugged. “you usually do.”
he plated the food and set it in front of her. “eat.”
she did. it was surprisingly good.
“wow,” she said. “this is actually—”
“don’t sound so disappointed.”
she smiled despite herself. “thank you.”
he leaned against the counter, watching her eat. “you’re welcome.”
there was a softness in the moment, something unspoken hanging between them. she felt it—and deliberately ignored it.
later, when she went to brush her teeth, she found the toothpaste uncapped again.
she laughed, shaking her head, and capped it herself.
from the doorway, douma watched her, smiling.
“one day,” he said lightly, “you’re going to stop pretending i’m joking.”
she met his eyes in the mirror. “and one day,” she replied, “you’re going to admit you just like getting on my nerves.”
he chuckled. “maybe both can be true.”
she turned off the light and walked past him. he didn’t follow this time.
but he watched her go as if he had all the time in the world—and she, still shrugging it all off, never noticed how careful he was being with her heart.
