By the Hearth [Douma x Reader]
In which you needed protection, and Douma needed a special person who wouldn't blatantly hate or mindlessly worship him.
Reader is female | Human | Comfort | 2.3k words
Recommended Song | Fall from Grace by Langston Francis
Warnings | Mentions of murder
It would stand to reason that if you meet someone at your worst, at least everything else from there is uphill.
At least, that’s what he told you whenever you’d question his willingness to help you escape your past. Though escape was a loose term. On the night he found you, bloodied and suffering, you had several men chasing you through the snow-crested peak of his mountain. Your past couldn’t catch up to you if the gods demanded it; Douma had slaughtered and devoured every last person that presented a problem to you that very night.
Demon, they called him. What right did they have? How was their attempt to kill you any different from his attempt to kill them?
He carried you up to where the air thinned, to a place some called ‘paradise.’ There, some girls helped tend to your wounds and clean your clothes so they were fresh for when they finished helping you wash off the bloodied dirt.
And when you next spoke to him, you were more honest than any single person who’d ever spoken to him had been.
“I’m thankful, but I can’t stay here.” You still spoke in a hushed voice, but he heard every word. You told him most of the people here were broken, suffering, and worshipping him blindly, not truly. You just wouldn’t fit in, because while you were willing to thank him for what he’d done for you, you knew he was no deity.
Everything you said was correct, which made him laugh.
Douma had ushered you over to where he sat with the wave of his hand. When you were close enough, he leaned towards you, rainbow eyes staring into your melancholic ones.
“I’m a demon; doesn’t that worry you?” His canines were longer than most, his nails dangerously sharp, his eyes written with kanji.
“No, not really.” And that was the loudest he’d heard you speak since he’d found you.
Since then, Douma made a sort of promise to himself: that he’d keep you around so long as he had enough reason to. You were so honest that it amused him, and so accepting of his origin that it made him wonder if you were quite right in the head.
You didn’t mingle well with his followers regardless, too skeptical and too intelligent to fall into their numbing routine. So you had special permission from Douma himself to leave, so long as you were somewhere nearby. He found a small house ‘abandoned’ on the peak of a shorter mountain right next to the cult, a long distance for a human, but a breezy walk for him. He proved that he could be there in an instant when he brought you, practically flying between the trees and snow while carrying you; your feet never so much as brushed the cold ground.
He got a giggle from wiping off all the snow that stuck to you, though.
The events of a single day seemed to solidify your place in his world, and where your old life had been filled with the dull monotony of working to barely get by, it was now something of a domestic daydream. You’d spend the day setting traps and gardening, weather permitting, and your nights with Douma.
You’d just finished scooping the remnants of ash from the irori, breaking through to the charcoal, which you collected into a basket. Some fresh lumber and a portion of the charcoal replaced the old fire starter, which sat below the cast iron pot that hung from its pothook. There was a spoonful of rendered tallow at the bottom, still solid from the cold temperature. It only began to melt after you’d lit the flame below. The faint trail of smoke and steam rising from the chimney pipe on your roof was a signal for a certain someone that you’d begun cooking, which you always did just after sunset.
You hadn’t heard the entryway door slide open, busy pushing the tallow along the sides of the pot to coat it evenly. Inside, you added chopped green onion you'd uprooted the morning of, breathing in the seasoned steam that rose from the mix. Once the melted tallow began to pop and bubble, you carefully poured water till it was halfway up the pot, stirring it until bubbles of oil formed on the surface.
“Ahhh…what are we cooking?” The Upper Rank’s voice startled you, nearly dropping your wooden spoon on the floor with a gasp. Despite visiting nearly every night and how vigilant you tried to be, he was simply too quiet to spot. The shoji door slid along its freshly cleaned frame, which you’d spent all of yesterday cleaning, the only sign he actually gave you that he was present. You’d learned from experience that if he wanted to, it wouldn’t make a noise at all when he used it. That, or he would throw himself in through a window, your least favourite of his entrances.
“We? I wasn’t aware I had an assistant this evening.” You teased, watchful eyes following him as he removed his shoes and closed the screen behind him, crawling forwards until he was close enough to look into the pot.
He hummed, watching you dip the spoon in and bring it to his lips. He took a sip despite its boiling temperature and followed it by sticking out his tongue with a feigned disgust. Naturally, it was only water, oil, and green onion—but it’d taste bad regardless to a demon of his status.
“Thank goodness I’m here to help!” He teased, pulling out something wrapped in cloth. His nails tugged at the bow, pulling it apart so the fabric fell over his hand. Inside were four chunks of bone with the marrow still inside, each cut went clean through the bone. He moved his arm towards you, urging you to take it. It took both your hands to hold it all, lips parted and eyes widened. He’d delivered you venison meat not long ago, and it was apparent he’d done more than just discard the remainder of the corpse.
“My followers showed me how they can turn these into broth.” Once his hand was free, he brought it under his chin to prop his head up.
“I haven’t had the opportunity to cook with something like this in a long time…” Your voice trailed, dipping the tip of the cloth into water and wiping the bones clean, though it was clear from scratch marks that someone had already smoked and dry brushed them free of all the unwanted bits. Immediately, you dropped each chunk into the pot, adjusting the fire so there was more air and the flame could grow larger. When the water came to a roil, you stuck the spoon into a jar of miso paste, pulling out more than you likely needed, and stirring it into the pot until it was fully incorporated.
His eyes traced your movements, a mindless smile on his lips and a soft hum of a made-up melody as you worked. He pondered if he would have liked food like this as a human, and then if knowing that mattered to begin with.
On a chopping board you cut through one of the pieces of venison, making thin slices and setting them near the several small piles of soba noodles you'd pre-prepared. Once you had them nicely laid out, you placed a few slices on each pile, picking the noodles and meat up with chopsticks and holding them under the boiling broth. When the venison shifted from red to brown you quickly moved the food into your mouth, enjoying the flavour of the thin broth and deer. Opening your eyes, a small plate had appeared under where you were eating, preventing the droplets of broth from hitting your clothing. A clawed hand held the bowl there, his smile growing into a grin when you spotted his act.
“I’d find it romantic if you hadn’t just insulted my cooking.” You tilted your head towards him, narrowing your eyes in pretend scrutiny.
He played along, raising his free hand to cover his mouth with his folded fan, a gasp escaping his cold lips.
“Insult? Why, I thought lying would have been a sin.” Douma moved back when you went to slap his shoulder, barely missing as he laughed. No matter how much you tried to tease him, he always seemed to come up with a witty reply. You’d be frustrated if it weren’t so amusing.
Finishing with eating, you placed the cast iron lid onto the pot, dulling the fire so it would continue to simmer overnight. While you’d originally planned to make a large batch of soup this evening, the added bones would add a lot more flavour if they cooked longer. The Upper Rank demon had his usual fun, watching you clean up after dinner and set up your futon as you had made part of your schedule since moving here. Much like a cat, the moment you made your bed, he moved to sit at the base of it.
His interest was piqued when you pulled out a wooden basin, filling it with the rest of the water you’d left in your bucket next to the fire. It steamed in the cold air, though it was not hot enough to burn you when you dipped a cloth filled with unwashed rice into it, agitating the water so it clouded up with the residue from the rice, leaving it a watered-down milky white.
This was one of Douma’s favourite things to help with, and he already got up to fetch a comb and small jar of oil from a cabinet for you. Both of you moved to the porch area, where you wouldn’t have to worry about splashing the water, and you bowed down until your head was nearly upside down, soaking your hair in the water.
“Here, let me help.” Douma spoke it as more of a demand, sitting opposite of you and cupping the water, bringing it to the base of your neck until your hair was thoroughly wet. The warm water was a pleasant sensation compared to the cold spring air, helping you relax further down toward the basin.
When he was satisfied with how wet your hair was, he began at the tips of your hair, nails carefully working through tangles and knots. Your breathing calmed, melting into the comfort of having your hair played with; likely the most relaxed you’d be around a demon.
As always with your shared ritual, he began to hum a gentle song, teasing you into a more restful state as his nails worked their way up towards your scalp. His touch was as light as he could manage, using the pads of his fingers to massage the rice water into your scalp, removing any oils and dirt. Douma loved playing with hair, but until he met you, he’d only done it with the heads of dead women. It was far more fun with someone who could respond.
When your hair was thoroughly washed, he helped you raise your head by guiding your chin, moving behind you so you could tilt your head back. Slowly, he started with both sides of the towel at your forehead, working in small circles to absorb any water on your face and guiding it along your hairline.
“Don’t fall asleep.” He reminded you, feeling your back meet his chest when you’d begun to relax too much. He didn’t mind if you did, but he liked to hear you mutter that you ‘weren’t tired’ whenever he’d tease you.
“Just hurry, Douma.” You mumbled under your breath, a yawn telling him his tricks were working. Knowing he could get you so relaxed brought him joy; he had your whole trust in the palm of his hands.
Regardless of your request, he didn’t hurry whatsoever. He kept on pushing the towel through the hair on your scalp in circular motions, pulling further back until he got to the very ends of your hair, occasionally detangling it with his fingers so it wouldn't knot again from the drying motions.
When it was no longer dripping, he had a perfect damp canvas to comb. He started by dipping his fingers into the jar of magnolia-scented oil, something he’d gifted you, and gently worked the small droplets through your hair. Once dispersed relatively well, he took the comb and started at the nape of your neck, dragging it two steps forwards and one step back over and over, pulling through every strand of hair. The grin on his face grew when he felt your weight on him increase; he could pick up the sound of your heart rate slowing with each combing motion. By the time he had evenly distributed the oil throughout your hair and scalp, you were in a deep sleep.
Gently, he set the comb aside.
His nails ghosted from your jawline up to your hairline and back through your hair, this time for nothing more than his own desire to feel you.
Douma shifted his position, pulling his sleeves back down to cover his freezing hands so the sudden cold feeling wouldn't startle you awake. Once comfortable, the demon began moving you slowly and deliberately until one of his arms hooked under your knees and the other supported your back. To keep your head from suddenly dropping, he kept you upright enough so your head could rest against his chest.
With that he stood, each candle and light source besides the embers burning below your hearth extinguishing as he passed. The only other light was the faint glow of his eyes as they admired your closed ones. He still hummed the lullaby that had drifted you asleep while he tossed your comforter open with his foot, nestling you down onto your bed until you were covered by the comfort of your sheets. The blankets had been kept warm by the fire, which was evidenced by how you seemed to curl under them.
“Sweet dreams, my lovely lotus.” Douma spoke softly, a tone of sincerity behind the words that he knew you hadn’t heard.
Authors Note | Maybe fucked up but when Douma had Shinobu in his lap during their fight I was too busy drooling at the height difference. So heres this sorta inspired fic no one requested,,,