𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐞 | Douma x Reader

Chapter 9- His Orders

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THIRD-PERSON POV

“Y/n-chan, I don’t want you stepping outside—understand?.”

Douma’s fingers tightened around your wrist as he drew you back into the candle-lit chamber, sliding the paper door shut with a dull clack that echoed through the silent temple.

“Douma-san? You look… anxious. And since when have you given me permission to leave? You’ve kept me locked in here for days.”
Your eyes swept over him. Sweat dotted his brow, and the usual playful glint in his rainbow irises wavered behind a thin veil of unease.

“Nothing to worry about, Y/n-chan.” A sugar-sweet smile split his face as he produced a small clay pot. “See? A new piece for my collection—gifted by a friend.”

The vessel was cold against your palms, far heavier than its size suggested. A faint, metallic tang seeped from the sealed lid.

What kind of demons are Douma’s friends? you wondered, swallowing hard.

Douma’s gaze lingered on you, admiration mingling with a dark possessiveness. Muzan’s words drifted through his memory:

“We devour humans, destroy them, yet you intend to marry one?” Muzan’s crimson eyes flicked from his specimens to Douma. “She is… different. Intriguing.”

Moments later the Demon King had appeared behind him, whispering: “Bring her to me.”

“I won’t let anyone lay a finger on Y/n-chan,” Douma had replied, fangs glinting as he flashed a defiant grin—even at his master.

Muzan’s answer had been a taloned hand spearing straight through Douma’s abdomen.
I’ll kill her.

Blood spattered, then vanished as Douma’s regenerative flesh stitched itself closed.

Back in the present, your worried voice broke the memory. “Douma-san, there’s blood—”

He only smiled, serene as ever. Trembling, you obeyed his silent command, prising open the pot and setting the severed head of a female worshipper among his grisly trophies while Douma watched, delighted.

Behind you he lifted a lacquered comb and ran it gently through your hair. “Soft… and it smells divine.”

The door slid aside. An elderly attendant bowed low. “Gracious Founder, your followers have arrived.”

Douma rose and settled onto his velvet throne cushion. “Really? Sorry to keep them waiting.” He set his chengziguan atop his hair and crooked a finger at you. “Come here, Y/n-chan.

You knelt beside him as dozens of devotees—mostly women—filed in, faces alight with devotion.

“This is my Y/n,” Douma announced, voice suddenly resonant with authority. “Care for her whenever I’m away.”

“D-Douma-san, that’s not nec—”
A gentle finger hushed your lips.

“Yes, Gracious Founder,” the room chorused, bowing so low their foreheads brushed the floor.

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Having Douma’s followers isn’t so terrible, I guess. They cook, clean—honestly, I feel like a pampered princess. And they all seem… kind.

That afternoon Douma appeared, arms slipping around my waist from behind. His chin rested on my shoulder, voice a warm purr. “I’ll be away tonight, attending an important meeting.”
He faced the kneeling devotees, unfurling his rainbow fans like lethal petals. “Guard her. If anything happens…”