Douma Harem + Douma Oneshots

ʕ•̫͡•ʔIf only....ʕ•̫͡•ʔ

A/N: sooooo I had a bad day, and wanted to vent, but instead wrote someone else having a bad day. ALSO THIS STORY NOW HAS 1K VIEWS! I want to thank all of you that have read it. Quick note: this is an AU. Douma was not emotionless as a human, and in the majority of this story, he is human. Anyways, let's begin! Tw: religious trauma

The last follower left the room, and Douma's smile dropped almost instantly. His rainbow eyes clouded over, and he stood up and turned so he no longer could see the door. It was too much at times, all of this. People begging for help. People screaming in anger. And worst of all, people touching him. 

Grabbing at his clothes, trying to hold his hand, kissing his shoes and his clothes and his skin.

A silent tear rolled down his cheek, and he dimly registered it falling to the floor. If only someone could help him, if only someone cared. 

He'd cried so many tears, but would anyone cry for him?

He let out another sniffle, tears running freely down his cheeks now. He lifted his arm to wipe them away, cursing his emotions in every way he knew. Although having been raised as a child to perform these 'duties', they still drained him, both mentally and physically. Sitting still for hours was not good for his health, and he was rarely allowed outside. Before his parents had died, they had told him never to leave the perimeter of the temple.

"Son. I need you to remember something for me," his dad had said, grimacing at his son. "Can you do that?"

"Anything to please you, Father!" He had cried out, eager for his parents to recognise him as their son, not a God.

"Never leave this place. People will want to steal you and hurt you, and that would make me sad. You don't want to make your Dad sad, right?"

And as Douma recalled, he had unfortunately agreed. Now that his parents were gone, burning  in hell - if such a place existed -, he should have been allowed to go outside. 

Wrong. Other believers restrained him now, bringing up his parents.

"But your Mother wouldn't want you to go out, remember?"

He hated those ones, the ones still fixated on the memories and preachings of his Mother and Father. He hated them all, he loathed them, despised them. Not one of them genuinely cared for him, no matter how hard they tried to not show it. 

He knew. He saw. And he heard, through the cracks and fractures in his perfect life. 

"He's weird." One would whisper, and the others would murmur in agreement.

"I bet he made his parents kill themselves!" Hissed a lady once to her friend, who tutted and nodded her head.

"Mummy, I don't like him!" Declared a little girl, pointing at Douma, who maintained his blissful smile, while inside he was steadily falling apart. 

Tears were pouring down now, pent up emotion finally releasing itself. Douma collapsed into the pillows, muffled sobs echoing around the room. He wanted to just let it out, to cry and cry until he couldn't anymore, until he could feel happiness again. Then, a knock at the door resonated around the room. Douma lifted up his head exhaustedly. He just wanted to sleep, to rest.

"The followers want to speak with you, Gracious Founder. Shall I open the door?" Called out a voice, unmistakably male and harsh. 

"O-one minute, then I'll be out!" Yelled Douma, already dabbing at his eyes and scrambling to look for his hat.

The followers wanted to speak with him? Douma wanted to relax, maybe curl up with a good book and a herbal tea. But no, as the 'founder' of the Eternal Paradise Cult - stupid name in Douma's opinion, Paradise was nonexistent, a fleeting belief one was in bliss - it was his duty to attend to and help the, in his late fathers words, 'poor wandering souls' to 'find the comfort they seek for'. 

Another rap on the door, and the same male voice called again, telling Douma to hurry up, in a rather sharp tone. Douma fixed his hat on his head, and plastered his trademark smile on his face. 

Time to play this game again. This dollhouse of people and a God.

The dark had settled, and a certain coolness had descended on the grounds the temple lay on. Douma stood out on his balcony, taking in the fresh night air as the weak winds played with his hair. He took a deep breath and turned back around, sighed as he exhaled. What he wouldn't give for a sliver of freedom; a choice. That's when it occurred to him. 

He could always run from here, away, to someone quiet, somewhere where he could finally be alone, where people wouldn't grab him and pray for him. 

Somewhere where he was human, not a divinity.

But such things could never happen, he scolded himself. And so he walked further into the temple, in the pretty cage that had grabbed him from childbirth and refused to release him, to open up and let him fly.

And when, years later, he was given the opportunity to fly, to be free, he would be a fool to not take it. And so he allowed himself to consume the blood; to transform into something that was not human. 

Uppermoon Two was born on a moonlight night from the empty husk of a soul, from someone who had nowhere to call home, nothing to call his. And there he was created, a sharp and dangerous creature that felt no remorse, no pity for the mortals he consumed.

For in a cruel land, you will either learn to laugh at cruelty, or spend the rest of your life weeping in self sorrow.