Douma Harem + Douma Oneshots

ʕ•̫͡•ʔ

(A/N: my life has become more shitty than before and I forgot about this. Sorry. TW for a brief description of SA, but it's super brief and not described in full. You can skip over. Sorry for such a long wait. Just had to short shit out, and fuuuck idk. My therapist bailed on me too. Low-key this chapter is a vent for some shit I'm going through rn. I should clarify this chapter is an au where douma doesn't remember his human life.)

Douma didn't know what to say. To do.

He breathed in slowly. He breathed out. Closed his rainbow eyes. Opened them again, to watch the rise and fall of his chest.

His pupils darted around, flicking from the many pieces of useless decor on the shelves.

He closed his eyes again.

His mind was flooded with his long forgotten memory. Memories of when he was human. Muzan had given it to him, as a reward for killing the Hashira he had been ordered to.

It didn't feel like a reward now.

The way he would describe these memories was an itch. It was just there, but not quite. He was starting to remember fragments. Hear voices.

He'd been under the assumption his human life was some sort of bliss. He couldn't remember anything from it previously - the images were hazy and blurry, a faint and distant flicker of a voice now and again. But before the voices never said anything bad, per se, only fawning over him and telling him his name.

Douma, Douma, Lord Douma. Blessing. Disciple. God.

He opened his eyes, breathing evening out.

The cult had seemed like a blessing as a demon. A place where desperate people had come, feverishly thanked him, and then been consumed by him. He was determined to be powerful. To be unstoppable. If Douma couldn't have emotions, surely he could have power?

How could he never have thought of how it got there? Of how he got here?

Of course he knew he was the son of the founders. He'd been told that a long time ago. Carved it into the walls of his room, drilled it into his brain, so he would never forget who or where he came from.

He shut his eyes. It was almost like meditation. This slow, relaxed pace of breathing and moving his eyelids up and down. He was reflecting too. It was meditation, wasn't it?

The voices in his head always spoke. The voices of those he had killed, eaten, devoured. But their cries were now accompanied by new voices. New people. New sounds. He didn't know who these people in his head were.

They were from his past, obviously. Who had they been? Family? Friends? Lovers?

Douma scoffed. As if.

Family? He'd been told it was just him and his parents. He'd had a sibling, but they'd died. Sickness. He could remember that now. Memories coming back. He could almost see his mother, his father. His mother... she seemed kind. He reached out, clawed hand brushing the air softly. His hand fell back down to his side. He'd never be able to remember what she felt like, her maternal warmth. His instincts told him not even to try to remember his father.

Friends? People could never be around him without demanding something. And what need was there for friends? Power. That was all that mattered. Power, and filling the insatiable, demonic hunger he'd always had. He could remember now, how his parents hated it. He could see in his mind, how his father had hit him when he ate more than what was deemed necessary.

Lovers? Who could ever love someone like him? Douma was aware he was a monster. He took pride in it. And he could never love.

It must be family. Douma cared little for family bonds, seeing them as breakable, weak things. Yawning, he rubbed at his forehead. The voices wouldn't stop.

Douma. Stop. Help me. Help us. Please. You can save me. Us. You can save all of us.

Gritting his teeth, he sighed. The voices weren't upsetting him, with their pleas, they just didn't mean anything to him. He had no need for them at all. No need for anyone. Anything.

Another memory drifted through his mind. They kept coming, and he couldn't stop them. They were out of his control. And for someone like Douma, whose very existence relied on control on everything around him, it was disruptive.

A memory of a woman - was it his mother? - sobbing. Asking him for forgiveness. Saying she'd done something wrong, that she didn't want to go to hell. That she'd be good forever, if he just forgave her for what she'd done.

A memory of a man, his father, sending him flying. He could see the head of child him hit the wall, and his tiny body going limp and unconscious. He didn't ask for forgiveness.

A memory of his father again, drunk and vomiting, as child Douma just stared. His father retching blood, glaring at Douma, saying it was his fault.

A memory of him waiting alone, as his parents forgot about him. They'd let him out of the temple. They didn't return for two days.

A memory of people, desperate, pathetic people wailing, tugging at his clothes, begging him to save them.

A memory of a man, looking over him, grabbing him and dragging him from his room. He could see the man taking the child Douma to his room, slamming the door. He could hear pleading, himself pleading, fabric tearing-

Douma slammed his head into a wall. The top of it went flying, brains and shards of his cranium flying. Blood splattered. It hurt, and Douma didn't care. The voices, his mind, his memories, his feelings were gone and he didn't care.

He'd been hurt enough as a human.

He wasn't going to let anything hurt him now.