#_douma

It's sweet, in their eyes - a little reminder of each moment they've spent with you, though it's not like they truly need it. The memories of you are permanently imprinted onto the back of their eyes, burning into the skin as he eagerly replays them over and over again in the dark quietness of his far too lonely bedroom.

But still, the idea's nice, isn't it? And for the most part, it really is meant to be that innocent - he's keeping reciepts of the grocery trips you go on. (Of course, one could make the argument that he's not really going with you - following ten feet behind you with a gray hoodie pulled up to his ears is hardly condusive to the domestic fantasy of shopping together, but it's close enough.)

He's snapping small photos of you as he watches the way you lounge about on your bed, phone clutched in your hands and eyes glued to the screen. (Internally he's cringing - you know better than to hold the phone so close to your face, or to spend hours scrolling through it in the dark. You're so careless with taking care of yourself - something that won't be a problem for much longer, of course.)

Each slip of paper, photo, and item of memorabilia gets carefully sorted away into a drawer, catalogued with exactly what the object is, when it was taken, and a few notes jotted down about what he was thinking, how you looked.

It's sweet, in some fucked-up, twisted way. But of course, not everything in their collection is so sweet - oh no.

The first time it happens, you'll be confused but won't know how to even bring up the question. What are you doing? You're panting too hard to even get the words out, spit dribbling down your chin and your throat feeling hoarse and tired.

The scissors glint in the dim lighting of the room, his own breath ragged as he carefully caresses your head, fingerpads brushing against your scalp, before picking out a small collection of hairstrands. The snip snip noise happens before you can even react, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

So pretty... He murmurs as he thumbs at the pieces, his cock bobbing in front of you slightly. You're still on your knees, looking up at him with confusion and a small prick of anger settling in.

What are you-

He interrupts you with a boyish, too-wide smile, bringing the bits of hair up to his lips and inhaling deeply. It's not long before he settles them against his tongue, lips closing and exaggerated sucking sounds filling the room and making you squirm in discomfort and disgust.

You watch as he slowly grows hard again, mere inches from your eyes.

Eventually he pulls the pieces out of his mouth, the strands wet with saliva and clumping together, a shiver running up his spine.

His free hand comes down to cup your cheek as he looks down at you, his own face flushed a rather rosy pink.

You did so well for me, he starts, thumb toying with your bottom lip. Made me feel so good, didn't you?

His words make you want to bite at his finger, to cut it clean off, but the memory of your last 'bought of misbehavior' is still fresh in your mind, the phantom stomach pain from no food making you nearly wince.

Unwilling to give him a verbal answer you only shakily nod, still eyeing the bundle of your spit-soaked hair. He looks down at you thoughtuflly, as if pondering, before sighing softly.

With a final tap of his still-wet tip against your lips with his free hand, he turns around, digging thorugh the nearby drawer to find the clear plastic bag.

Just as you're rising to your feet, knees feeling stiff and jaw aching, he puts down the marker he'd been scribbling with. Inside the plastic bag lays your hair, the bag sealed and stripped of extra air. Your eyes catch on the label, and for a moment you're frozen in disgust.

June 25, 2026. Eight minutes, twenty-three seconds. Deep-throated, finished inside her mouth. Swallowed, minimal gagging.

He turns to face you with that same almost shy grin on his face, holding up the baggie and pressing a soft kiss over your hair.

For safe-keeping, he starts, pressing a matching kiss against your cheek. It lingers, wet and hot.

He leaves you standing there as he walks to the other side of the house you've been trapped in for weeks, pressing a fast code into the cabinet lock that you can't quite catch and setting the baggie on one of the shelves.

With a small sense of horror you see the depth of the shelf - at least a foot deep and two wide, with the seams of some twenty other plastic bags visible.

What - what is that? You whisper, but he closes the door before you can move forward to get a better look.

He turns to face you, one hand idly returning down to his navel. Calloused fingers wrap firmly around his base, giving himself a long stroke as he holds eye contact with you.

Ways to remember this by. Us, I mean.

His flush grows slightly redder, and he licks his lips.

It's my collection. Of you.

He kisses you before you can respond to that, tongue pushing inside your mouth and silencing any protests of yours. A hand finds its way between your legs, pinching and groping. He parts for air for a brief moment, licking at your lips along the way.

And you're the star piece.

The first thing you’ll notice when you first see him nude is how perfectly and pristinely groomed he is. There’s not a hair out of place; his skin is perfectly smooth along his navel, happy trail meticulously waxed on a regular basis to keep himself clean and presentable. (Presentable for you, of course, though he’d never admit it, because although you don’t really have the option of rejecting him, it still makes him feel better to know that he looks as good as possible.) He’s even anal about shaving his balls, too – making sure that everything is as perfect as possible. His navel and v-line are absolutely drool-worthy; muscle sharp enough to be defined under your fingertip when you touch him, lines seeming to point directly towards the pale, slender cock hanging between them. He’s thoroughly average in size – a solid five or so inches with moderate girth, his tip rather bulbous and a rich, flush pink color. He has a tendency to produce a lot of precum, beads practically oozing out as he watches you with those sharp, intense eyes. The only sign you’ll get that he’s even remotely aroused by you is just how painfully swollen his tip becomes, just how wet and sticky his slacks become as he watches you touch yourself, thighs squirming and your face feeling warm because he’s just staring, not even bothering to touch himself.

He's not very physically sensitive, but Muzan becomes extremely engrossed into whatever scenario or dynamic he’s forced you into during sex. He’s always in charge, of course, the dominant figure, but he finds himself becoming monumentally more sensitive and effected by your touch when you’re in physically submissive positions; on your knees while he stands before you, all your clothing stripped off to reveal your bare form while he’s only unzipped his slacks and his cock’s pulled out, a hand already buried into your hair as he forces you to lick and drool along his length. When you’re on your knees with your ass poised in the air, face pressed against the mattress as he smacks at you, watching your cheeks bounce with ever harsh thrust as he degrades you and calls you just a toy to fuck. There’s something about being able to see his cock physically entering you and seeing the way you react to it that makes him hurtle closer to his orgasm, the pleasure making his head spin a bit and his composure wane ever so slightly, enough so that if you were to listen hard, you’d hear him very, very quietly mutter your name in pleasure. It takes him a moderate amount of time to reach his orgasm, though he prefers to prolong the experience for as long as possible and will intentionally edge himself so that he can keep watching you slobber on his cock, so that he can keep fucking into you, so that he can keep feeling you you you. His cum is runny and an off-white, creamy color. He doesn’t produce a huge amount, but it’s always hot, the heat feeling uncomfortable on your skin. (And reminding you that he’s not human, because what human could produce cum that warm?) He’s not especially vocal when he’s orgasming, but you’ll notice that he always lets out a signature grunt right as he lets go, his teeth bared and his eyes fluttering shut, hips bucking seemingly without his control as he pushes himself into you deeper, harder, further.

His favorite way for you to touch his cock is when you’re worshipping it. His ego absolutely must be stroked during sex – he wants you to recognize that you’re inferior to him, and having you praise him and give him such lewd attention gets his head and cock swelling. He likes when you get particularly depraved with the worship – the more dehumanizing, the better. He wants you to rub his tip along the outline of your lips as you kneel for him, his fist tucked under his chin as he sits back in the leather chair, watching you with eyes like a hawk as you try to please him. He wants you to kiss the tip, then drag it along your cheekbones. Nudge it with your nose, let your tongue loll out and lick at him, even trace down your jugular and around a nipple. He wants his precum smeared absolutely everywhere on your body, and he wants you to thank him for it, your voice airy and light, admiring and loving. He wants you to kitten lick him and suckle at his tip, big doe eyes flicking up to meet his gaze and immediately averting it, bashfulness written across your face that makes Muzan’s lip curl up and his hips twitch. He wants you to stay still and play with your clit while he grasps himself right at the base, smacking his shaft against your cheek and sneering down at you, going on about how you’re really just a little whore, aren’t you? You enjoy being treated like dirt, don’t you? He wants you to drool on him as you take him down your throat, sucking hard enough to hollow your cheeks and moaning around him, the vibrations making his eyes flutter closed. He wants you to lick and suck at his balls, telling him how good he tastes, thanking him over and over for letting you touch him. He wants you to show him that you know your place – and when he makes you close your eyes and open your mouth wide while he fists his cock and holds your head in place, you’d better tell him thank you, sir as rope after rope of hot, runny cum splatter onto your face. Maybe then he’ll consider fucking you – only if you’ve behaved.

Kokushibou’s cock is long, with hardly any veins decorating the length. When he’s hard it curves ever so slightly upwards, allowing him the perfect angle to brush against the spongy spot that makes you scream when he’s got you pinned underneath him. He’s on the skinnier side, your fingers very comfortably wrapping around his girth, but what he lacks in width he makes up for with just how deeply he can reach inside of you. It’s nearly painful, really, because when he presses in as far as your cunt will let him, tears sting at your eyes and you’re gasping because it feels like he’s splitting you in two, the pressure too much and  the feeling of being full nearly overwhelming. His balls droop a bit, looking heavy to the touch and a much deeper red color than the rest of him, always drawing your attention. The color is so rich that in certain lights, namely moonlight, they almost look purple. When he’s hard, they’ll oftentimes throb and pulse, particularly when his patience begins running out and the desperation to fuck you becomes too strong to ignore. And even when he’s fucking you, if you pay attention you’ll feel the way they sporadically clench against you, his balls indicating exactly what he’s feeling and how close to his orgasm he is. His cock is genuinely hard – there’s hardly any give when you squeeze at it, feeling so solid and firm that when he slaps it lightly against your clit before he pushes inside it nearly hurts. And once it’s inside, it bullies its way past your walls, muscles being parted and molded to his shape because he views your cunt as his. (Just as he views his own cock as partially yours, as well.)

Kokushibou is moderately sensitive, though he’s particularly weak to the feeling of your walls. He enjoys the sensation of your hand, mouth, breasts, thighs, and everything else you offer to him, but he’ll always preference your pussy over anything else. It’s partially based in traditional ideas about what sex is for and a weakness for seeing the way you respond to his cock. He loves the way you go dumb the moment he starts thrusting into you – your mouth parts into a permanent gasp, fingers grasping at the sheets underneath you, back arching up off the ground and your nipples perking into hard little buds that he can’t help but stare at. It doesn’t take him too terribly long to orgasm, and the moment you start clenching down on him with any sort of regularity, you’ll notice the way his thrusts start to get sloppy and uncoordinated, the rhythm faltering and his hair covering his upper eyes as he tries to regain his composure, unable to let the moment end quite yet. You’ll always be able to tell when he’s orgasming because his hips momentarily freeze up and a very small, slight shiver wracks his whole body before he’s letting rope after rope spurt from his tip. He prefers to finish inside you, but on the rare occasion when you’re using your hands on him, you’ll see the way his cum shoots out in perfect little arches, landing in puddles against your chest or fist and drying fairly quickly. His cum is oddly fragrant – it doesn’t smell good or bad necessarily, but the scent is extremely masculine and you’ll quickly learn to associate it with him. (This is the primary way you learn that he’s grown a penchant for humping at your sleeping pillow, the same familiar scent imbued into the fabric that you lay your head on each night.) His refraction period is rather long, so it’s unlikely you’ll get more than a single round out of him on any given sexual encounter, but after a long while of being stuck by his side, you’ll learn that if you request it of him, he’ll gladly bring you to your high a few times over with his fingers and mouth even after he’s finished himself. He won’t explicitly offer it for fear of both rejection and his own pride, but you’ll notice the way his semi-flaccid, rather pathetic looking cock twitches at your request, an obvious sign that he very much wants to please you.

His more traditional views of sex and intimacy are showcased in the way that he prefers to fuck you in simple missionary style. He likes the simplicity of the position, and the way you feel in his position makes him quietly grunt under his breath and throw one of your legs up over his shoulder. The new angle makes your walls feel incredibly tight, the sensation making his fingertips grip onto your thighs just a hair too tight, leaving finger shaped bruises behind. He’ll pin you down, spitting onto his hand and giving himself a few good pumps, before lining himself and pushing inside slowly, all six eyes intently watching your face and seeing the way your eyes roll to the back of your head. Kokushibou, despite coming off as rather cold and indifferent in most aspects of your relationship, is actually extremely in touch and sensitive to your perception of him – he wants you to like him, maybe even love him, and to see the way you respond so quickly and easily to his cock makes him giddy with pride. The way you clench down on him spurs him to fuck into you with fuller, deeper strokes, the constant stimulation against his sensitive skin making his fight back the orgasm that’s steadily building in his navel. Sometimes he’ll even throw both of your legs over his shoulders, your cunt feeling even more tight with the new angle, loving the way you gasp and claw at him, his name a mantra on your lips as his thrusts get a little more animalistic. Having you underneath him like that helps quell his possessiveness – the knowledge that no one else will ever get to touch you like this brings him hurtling towards his orgasm, and although it’s very slight, as the first few ropes of cum flood into your cunt, you’ll be able to hear him lowly growl an almost unintelligible mine under his breath.

He’s solidly average in nearly every way – average length with an average girth, just a truly utilitarian cock. It’s mostly pale, with the tip being a softer pink color that grows darker by the second when he’s hard. What makes him thoroughly not average, however, is that his length is almost always extremely cold to the touch. The skin is always cool, not quite feeling like ice but certainly unnatural against your fingertips. It’s an odd sensation – when he’s fucking you, the shivers that run up and down your spine aren’t just from the way he’s expertly rolling his hips and managing to hammer into that one spot that makes you see stars. Rather, it’s the temperature difference, how the sensation of something so hard and cold inside of you gets your toes curling and the softest gasp slipping off your tongue because it all just feels so very strange. But Douma absolutely loves the way it catches you so off guard, knowing that even if you’ve slept with men before him (a thought that makes something ugly stir in his gut), surely no one else had made you feel quite like this. He’s not the best with matinence, preferring to occasionally trim when he has the time, but he doesn’t expect you to be hairless either. He likes the buildup of hair, actually, because Douma loves to see the way your combined slick and cum settles against the hair, clumping it together and leaving a mark of the two of you together. (Often times, he’ll delay showering or cleaning himself after sleeping with you simply so that he can keep the scent of you on him with easy access. He’ll dip a finger down and swipe it through his pubic hair, bringing the finger up to smell and letting his eyes close and a rather boyish smile settle onto his lips, other palm already cupping at and rubbing the bulge forming in his pants.)

Douma isn’t sensitive. Once his obsession with you develops, he stops sleeping with other cult-followers, but the damage is already done. He’s slept with dozens of human women and men, and as a result his body has grown used to constant stimulation and pleasure by many different hands. It takes a long while for him to orgasm, the combination of his stamina and experience combining together to make your job much more difficult when Douma simply orders you to get him off. The one thing that consistently helps bring him closer to the edge, however, is when you use a significant amount of pressure against his cock. When you’re pumping your fist up and down his length, squeeze just a bit tighter than what seems correct and he’ll hiss, those eyes of his shining as he tells you to keep going, his hips bucking and thrusting up in time. When you’ve got him against your tongue, suck as hard as you can while you run the tip of your tongue along the underside of the shaft and you’ll feel his whole body sag in pleasure, the small little giggle-lick sigh he lets out letting you know that your actions have effected him. And when he’s fucking you, clench down on him sporadically and you’ll notice the way his cool, unbothered tone and expression grow just a hair darker, his voice getting a bit gruffer and his eyebrows drawing tight as he fucks into you meanly, like he’s got something to prove. It’ll still take him a long while to get off, but once he finally reaches his high, you’ll be rewarded with a very copious amount of thick, glue-like cum that will plug you so full that you’ll be leaking it around his length. It’s oddly sweet, the consistency smooth against your tongue. This is particularly lucky because Douma absolutely loves to finish on your face, loving the way you look all tainted and ruined and pathetic with his cum smeared across your cheeks and lips, clumped up in your eyelashes, even staining your hair. Cute.

His favorite way for you to touch his cock is when you simply open your mouth as wide as you can go and let him use you. Fucking you face is one of his favorite past times – there’s something about the power trip that drives Douma wild, the visual of you on your knees for him while his nails dig against your scalp and he physically moves your head up and down his length like you’re some kind of human fleshlight gets blood rushing straight between his legs. He can be rather unassuming in bed at times, but Douma absolutely hates to give up control, and having you so willingly let him do as he pleases with your mouth makes him giddy over both the sensation of your tongue and throat against his skin but also at your complete and utter submission to him. He likes watching the way your lips pucker around his girth, the way his cock disappears and reappears as he keeps up the motions. He likes the sight of your spit against his skin, reflecting the candlelight as he thrusts his hips forward to meet the motions of your head. He likes when you gag, the way your throat closes up making him moan lowly and only push deeper, wanting to hear more of the choking sound you let out. He likes knowing that he has an effect on you, enjoying the way your body responds to him. He likes how you desperately try to control yourself, to stop yourself from choking and pulling back, watching you fight your instincts because you don’t want to displease him. It strokes his ego and has his cock swelling inside your throat, and when he finally, finally reaches his orgasm, he’ll pull back without warning, your lips releasing his tip with a wet, lewd pop noise. He'll smack his tip against your cheeks a few times, eyes fluttering closed as his fist pumps up and down his fist so quickly that it’s a blur, until suddenly you feel slightly cold cum spraying across your face, Douma’s airy moans and laughter ringing in your ears as he strokes and strokes and strokes so that every last drop lands on your pretty, human face. Afterwards, as you’re still on your knees and he’s standing before you, he’ll tell you to kiss it, dear, insisting you press your lips against his tip in one final thank-you for giving you his cum, a commodity you should be truly grateful for.

He’s a solid five inches with moderate girth. The base is thicker, tapering down near the tip but still significant enough to feel when he slips inside of you. The thick, bold lines decorating his body continue down between his legs, with a single line running the length of his cock on either side. A single vein follows each line, sensitive to the touch and making Akaza grunt when you run your tongue along them. It’s pale, and even his tip is rather pale – the softest, baby pink that only grows to a darker red color right on the brink of his orgasm. He keeps himself neatly trimmed, the pink hairs standing out against pale skin and dark lines, tickling your nose when he’s pushing himself down your throat. His balls are low-set, nearly swinging with every step he takes, and though not terribly sensitive, Akaza loves when you pay attention to them and squeeze them a bit harshly. It takes a bit to arouse him, and you can actually watch and feel in real time as he grows hard, the process a bit slow but entertaining to watch because it’s like you can see him start to grow restless, his entire body starting to grow flushed and hot because he needs you. He’s already clingy and constantly trying to be in your space, but once he’s turned on and aroused this only increases, his hands in constant motion as he touches every spot he can reach, groping and squeezing and kneading because wants every part of you in his palm.

He's not terribly sensitive, taking a while to reach his high. His orgasms are long, though, lasting easily twenty or more seconds – once the pleasure peaks, his jaw drops and his lips part, eyes squeezed shut and his eyebrows scrunched together as he gasps each breath. He loses control of his hips in the moment, fucking into your cunt, ass, mouth, or wherever else like a madman, too lost in his pleasure to register your gags or pleas for him to slow down. And for the entirety of his orgasm, cum drools from his tip – it’s a constant flow, thick pearls forming and landing in big, fat splats against your skin or inside you. If given the preference, Akaza always picks finishing inside of you – he knows he can’t actually get you pregnant, but the prospect of breeding you is attractive nonetheless, and so he’ll try to finish every time plugging you up, letting out that half-gasp half-moan as he rides out his high. He’s so insistent on finishing inside that when you’re using your mouth or hand on him, he’ll pull away at the last moment, hands moving faster than you can keep up with as he pins you down, spreading your legs and nudging his tip into you, letting out a shuddering groan as he lets go just in time, cum flooding your cunt while you stare in shock at just how quickly he’d manhandled you. It’s a preference, sure, but with the way he start muttering under his breath ‘m gonna come inside, let me come inside, need to come inside over and over, it feels more like some sort of carnal need rather than a mere enjoyment.

Akaza’s favorite way for you to touch his cock is when he’s got you folded in half, pretty body bent into the tightest mating press you’ve ever experienced. He likes the intimacy of the position; he can press every inch of his body against yours, making sure that he’s the only thing you can feel, see, hear, and taste.  And god, the way your cunt feels makes him lose his fucking mind. You’re so tight like this – the angle making your walls clamp down on him even harder than normal, his tip brushing against that sensitive spot inside you again and again, the way your walls clench onto him like a vice only serving to push his hips faster, his thrusts getting harder and more animalistic. He likes that he can get as deep as possible in this position – he can press in so tightly that his balls are flush with the curve of your ass, every inch of himself buried inside of you, the feeling of your warmth and wetness surrounding him and making him grit his teeth in pleasure. He has a penchant for watching himself in this position – watching the way his cock appears and disappears inside of you, the ring of white sitting at the base making his balls clench. Seeing the way your cunt stretches for him makes him giddy, the sense of possessiveness he feels over you only growing with each thrust. He just likes the way you feel in this position – and how incredibly responsive you are when he finds that perfect angle, feeling you clench down and beg for him, almost as if you love him.

It’s just the slightest bit crooked, like it somehow got broken and didn’t quite heal right. It’s something that Gyutaro is initially embarrassed about, worried that you’ll think it’s strange or unappealing or – worst of all – painful, but he’ relieved to find out that it actually managed to fit inside of you perfectly, snugly rubbing against the sensitive parts of your cunt that leave you gasping his name and begging for more. The same spotted birthmarks decorate the length, sitting so prettily against his tan skin. The spots are more sensitive than the skin around them, and if you run a finger along them he’ll shiver a bit, teeth gnawing together as he stops himself from whining out again, please please please! It’s long, too – long enough to smack against his thigh a bit as he walks, the length sizable even when he’s completely flaccid. His tip is a dark, deep red-pink color, always swelling up to the size of a walnut, the skin wrinkled and sensitive and absolutely dripping in pre-cum. He produces enough that the inside of his pants have countless stains, wet splotches and patches always appearing on them every time he sees you and watches you go about your business. He’s not particularly good at keeping himself groomed, finding that the hair grows back much too quickly and unruly for shaving to be of any use, and although he’s self-concious about it at first, he eventually grows to not mind showing you his naked pelvis. The hair is dark and curly, and because there’s so much of it, the bottom half of his shaft and flushed tip are the only visible parts of him underneath the hair. His balls are extremely sensitive – any pressure or the slightest touch makes something akin to a whine fall from his lips, his hips immediately and uncontrollably jerking forward, his cock visibly throbbing in response because god, he needs to touch you so badly and won’t you just please let him fuck you? He promises he’ll be good, he’ll make you feel so good he promises he promises he promises…

He's almost comically sensitive. Having had no experience in his human years, Gyutaro finds himself painfully effected every time your fingertips brush against his skin. Even outside of his cock, he’s able to get shivers and grow aroused just from you touching his hands, brushing past his side, even feeling your breath against his cheek as you kiss him. He gets hard embaressingly easily, and he absolutely cannot hide it. The obvious tent in his pants is already difficult enough to conceal, but the way his entire body flushes red and he starts panting like some sort of dog makes it obvious what’s going on. And once you’ve got him nude before you, that sensitivity doesn’t go away – he’s shuddering the first time you wrap your fist around him, licking at his lips in nerves and excitement because god you feel better than his own bony hand. He’s like putty in your hands every time you touch his cock, really – he gets hazy, like a fog’s lifted over his brain, and all he can do is mindlessly reach out and grope you, to fuck into you and kiss and lick at you like a man possessed. Consequently, he doesn’t last very long – his orgasms are quick, and he has very little warning before they’re suddenly upon them. He has the decency to warn you, at least, a slurred and rushed ‘m c-coming falling past his lips as his eyes go wide, your name like a mantra as he shakes and spasms. He’s loud when he’s orgasming, nearly incoherent as the pleasure overwhelms him, but you’ll always be able to make out the vague sound of your name and what sounds like ‘thank you’. His cum is thin, almost watery, making it an absolute nightmare to clean up because it gets everywhere. Luckily, Gyutaro has a penchant for coming inside of you and down your throat -  although the taste is rather bitter and makes you gag. But every time he pulls out and sees the white ooze out of your pretty, clenching hole, he can only gulp, already growing hard again and practically begging you to give him another round.

DARLING PROFILE:

Stubborn

In general, Douma needs a darling who isn’t a pushover. He’s used to his followers blindly following his orders, nodding eagerly at his words and allowing him to do whatever he pleases with them. He’s used to lesser demons being petrified of his power, either entirely avoiding him or pleading for him to spare them, something that admittedly strokes his ego but grows boring at a certain point.

And so, while Douma is pleased that the people and creatures surrounding him so obviously understand his superiority, he yearns for something different – for something new, exciting, challenging. A darling that’s more stubborn and doesn’t blindly obey him would pique his interest, his mind reeling with all the possible ways he can get them to submit to him.

He’s giddy at the prospect of breaking down his darling, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet because oh, they’re just so very contrary to what he’s used to. He likes the idea of a darling who’s easy to fluster and embarrass, and a darling that will cling onto their beliefs and opinions presents Douma with an irresistible opportunity to slowly mold his darling into the perfect, responsive, sweet little human that he can tease and study, someone he can keep by his side like some sort of loyal pet.

(Though, as Douma’s obsession festers and only grows stronger and harder to control, he finds that he no longer thinks of his darling as some sort of glorified pet – they’re his, a possession, someone he feels strangely connected to, the barest hint of emotions dancing at the edge of his subconscious. The feeling is addictive, and with every denial of his charms and scoffed, irritated roll of their eyes, he only finds himself growing more desperate to be around them, fascination and intrigue and desire in more than a carnal way spurring him to spend every waking moment with them.)

Opinionated

Similarly, Douma enjoys a darling who has strong feelings. He understands the allure of a meeker woman – they’re easy to control and even easier to manipulate, making them the perfect follower and food supply. But for his darling, the woman he thinks he feels some sort of love for, they need to be someone with a little more backbone.

It excites him when his darling stands up to him – the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, his shoulders tensing up and his breathing getting a bit heavy because yes, tell him again why he’s wrong – tell him again, now that he’s merely a foot away from you, close enough that you can feel his breath against the shell of your ear and his body – much stronger than you remember – is mere inches from yours.

He finds his darling to be an endless source of entertainment, and so they need to have strong opinions covering a wide variety of topics.

He likes surprising his darling with random questions: what are their thoughts on the afterlife and death? Should the weak have any sort of rights, and do they believe in nature’s power structure that puts demons unequivocally at the top?

Do they enjoy traditional human romantic customs, like kissing or holding hands?

Or do they prefer more intense displays of passion and devotion – would his darling enjoy it if he returned to them with the severed head of a man who’d spared them a passing glance, just as a show of how much he cares for them?

He wants to know the answers to each and every question, and one of the biggest aspects of him obsessing over his darling is the non-stop talking – always prompting them with a new question that’s almost as insane as the last, his eyes glittering and sparkling as he asks them what they think the most painful way to die is.

(If they were to answer being eaten alive, Douma would merely cock his head, blinking widely at them, before bursting into laughter, his eyes holding a glimmer of something that makes his darling freeze up in fear, a primitive instinct in them screaming to run away from this monster. Ah yes, I’d imagine it would be quite painful indeed, he’ll tell them, curling a sharp fingernail around their chin.)

Paranoid

This trait is less of a necessity and more of a perk – in general, Douma will absolutely destroy his darling. He cares for them in some twisted, strange way, but he’s not afraid to completely break his darling before rebuilding them just as he so desires.

Of course, he still wants the basic bones of their personality to remain intact, but having a darling with a propensity for anxiety and paranoia would make that job much, much simpler. He can instead divert his time and attention towards effectively corrupting them and slowly breaking them down rather than bothering with the initial stages of forcing them to doubt themselves.

The combination of his darling’s kidnapping and being held captive by a man-eating demon would force this character trait to become even more heightened, putting them in a position intensifying Douma’s poking and prodding and overwhelming them. And so, he can spend his time carefully choosing how he wants to approach them – which new insecurity should he prod at today?

He knows they’re a bit sensitive about their weight – something he doesn’t understand, really, because he absolutely loves their figure.

 He’ll lightly comment about their weight, making some remark with sugar-coated words and watching as his darling tenses up, their face twisting into that wonderful expression of hurt and sadness, the mere sight of their face changing because of him making a small, high sigh slip past his lips.

Once he thinks his darling has had enough, he’ll end the conversation with a small compliment, telling them that they’re too sensitive, we’re just having a bit of fun, aren’t we?

And really, watching the way his darling just shakily nods and tries to compose themselves leaves him feeling vindictive, satisfied, seen.

It’s selfish and horrible, but Douma is a selfish and horrible creature – so really, a paranoid darling would be absolutely perfect.

Talkative

However, despite Douma’s hobby of irritating his darling and embarrassing them, he still wants a darling who will actively engage with him. Of course, it’s very easy to force his darling into speaking with him, as just a flash of those nails, fangs, or a dismembered limb will often get them blubbering and frantically rambling and doing absolutely anything Douma requests of them.

But it’s different when his darling actively chooses to speak with him – perhaps it’s still out of fear, but at least this way Douma can indulge himself in the idea that they want to speak with him.

He can pretend that they actually enjoy hearing his voice, that they like the long, drawn-out conversations he frequently holds with them, that they actually like him – a concept that simultaneously displeases him and leaves something warm and scratchy and good settle in his chest.

Because really, while Douma’s feelings for his darling are questionable at best, he really does truly want them to like him – he craves a kind of connection that isn’t superficial and one-sided, and although it’s entirely new territory he wants them to fulfill this desire.

And so, while he annoys his darling and forces them into conversations because he likes to interact with them and study their reactions, there’s a deeper sense of desperation and neediness underlying his words and actions. A darling that is naturally more talkative will give him this desired connection, making it easier for him to feel wanted, needed, liked in a way that’s entirely foreign to him.

It’s just attractive, really, because while shy, quiet humans have their purposes, a life partner (as Douma thinks of his darling) needs to be someone who won’t shy away from his words, who will retain their voice around him. It’s just attractive, really – so please keep talking to him.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Clingy

In general, Douma is overwhelming. He’s chatty, touchy, and has absolutely no respect for your boundaries.

You’re his sweet little human – weak and naïve and perfect to play with, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t enjoy having you around. And enjoying you means teasing you, pushing your buttons, irritating you until your face twists up into that scowl or grimace that he absolutely loves to see.

He’s always doing things just to see your reaction – he’ll place things on shelves you can’t reach just to watch you bite your lip and contemplate whether you want to ask him for help, internally swooning because aw, aren’t you just the cutest when you’re embarrassed?

He’ll make you say ‘please’ in order to eat the food he’s offering you, a smirk sitting on his lips as he tells that he didn’t quite hear that, could you say that again please?

(Of course, the food isn’t the food you think it is – it’s edible, sure, and it’s high quality, but as time passes Douma finds himself toying with the idea of turning you into a demon, knowing he could probably persuade Muzan into doing this because it makes the Upper Rank Two more productive. And so, while he’d fed you mostly animal meat when he’d initially stolen you away, he very slowly begins integrating less common meats, opting to mix the smallest amount of human flesh in with the beef he serves you, just a hair of a finger or a small bit of thigh. Just to get you familiar with the taste – and to watch your face freeze up and hear you gag as he tells that you’d just eaten the man who brought you afternoon tea yesterday. He loves the way you look at him with your eyes wide and your jaw dropped, shock and disgust and fear swimming in those pretty eyes of yours and making shivers erupt over his whole body, the sight absolutely delicious.)

He’ll lay his hand on your shoulder at random times, seeing your whole body jerk and jump as you whip your head back, surprise written all over your face because you hadn’t heard him enter the room.

(Silently, he’ll marvel at the warmth of your skin through your clothing – you feel soft, too, and Douma idly wonders if the rest of you is this warm and soft. If everything is this lovely, or if certain parts of you are warmer, more sensitive, wetter -)

His favorite way to bug you, however, is to fluster you. Douma is aware that by human standards he’s very attractive – perfectly clear skin, wavy and thick hair, a sharp jawline and a smile that makes most human women – and men – crumble instantly. And while you seem to be largely immune to his charms (much to his delight and chagrin), Douma makes it his mission to get you flustered at nearly every opportunity he can. There’s something about the way your face crinkles up, your brows growing taut and your eyes looking everywhere except him that makes him only want to push further, to say more provocative things, to get closer, to hear your sharp intake of breath again and again.

He’ll have you sit near him, your thighs just barely brushing, his inhuman hearing able to pick up your slightly increased heartbeat, his own heart racing in his chest as it does every time you get so close to him. He’ll be telling you something inconsequential, narrating what he’d done that day, and nonchalantly let his hand rest on the expanse of your thigh, not even pausing his words to acknowledge his action.

And hearing your heart begin beating even faster and smell the distinct smell of fear and even just the slightest, smallest twinge of arousal gets his nostrils flaring, excitement bleeding into his voice because oh, you like this, do you?

And he’ll capitalize on your well-hidden attraction – scotting closer to you so that you can smell him better (he’d tried a new cologne that morning – one he’d seen you eyeing in a shop many months before), increasing the pressure of his fingers so that he’s gripping your thigh (and trying not to lose his composure at just how squishy you are, your human flesh so pliable and pretty and the perfect thing to feel under the pads of his fingers), and asking you with the same tease in his voice (though it’s just a tad huskier, not even intentionally) if you’re enjoying yourself, hmm? If you tell me you like this I can give you more, you know.

He’ll lean in closely to your ear, tongue lolling out to lick up the shell while he finishes with a whispered I’m no stranger to the human female body…

He’ll listen for your breath to hitch, feeling your muscles tense underneath his grip, the audible rush of blood through your veins, letting the tension build and build before laughing and leaning back. He’ll take his hand off your thigh and shoot you that same smile that his followers gush over, telling you that you’re so cute when you’re flustered, bunny, you should’ve seen your face! He likes how you try to hide your face, your fists clenched as embarrassment eats you alive because god, he’s infuriating, and god, you hate that you’d almost wanted to take him up on his offer.

And really, that’s the way Douma will slowly break you down – he’s fascinated with you, like you’re some sort of pet project of his that he wants to study and understand, and as a result he needs to spend as much time around you as possible. You’ll hardly ever get a moment to yourself as his darling – he’s always lurking, invading your personal space and inserting himself into situations where he’s not wanted.

He’ll slip under the covers of the futon right beside you, those strangely colored eyes wide and bright as he tells you that you just looked too cute for him to not want to join you – and of course he has to be laying close enough to be sharing breaths. The futon’s not that big, so what did you expect? He’ll trail behind you as you walk into the restroom, smiling brightly at you as you ask him to leave so you can bathe in peace. He has the audacity to tilt his head to the side, that same smile on his face but seeming a little wider now as he asks you why should I do that? You can shower just fine with me right here, can’t you?

(He often joins you on your trips to relieve yourself, too, standing beside you and holding full conversations with you as you hesitantly seat yourself onto the toilet, trying to avoid the eye contact he’s very, very eager to maintain. It’s quality time, he says when you bring up how uncomfortable it makes you, and you’re really just too weak and irresponsible to be trusted alone in the bathroom – what if you slip and fall? What if you accidentally rub your skin raw with your towel? Douma wouldn’t want you to be hurt, now would he? The condescending tone of his voice will often leave you angry enough to not further the conversation, making Douma smug and giddy because oh, aren’t you adorable when you’re angry!)

He’s just needy, really, because the sick, twisted version of love that he feels for you is rooted in fascination, in wanting to see how you react to the things he does to you. He wants to see every emotion you’re capable of, and he wants to be the reason for all of them. Really, he just wants you to be looking at him, paying him attention, reacting to him and the things he does – just keep your eyes on him, and let him bother you every moment of every day.

Eventually you’ll grow to tolerate the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on your body, the embarrassment that eats you alive nearly every time you interact with him. It’ll get easier, really – or perhaps you’ll just grow more complacent, and Douma will seem less like a thorn in your side and more like the only other person you ever interact with.

Just how he wants it.

Dependent

Douma is a creature that has lived for a very long time and has known only total and utter control – serving Muzan and letting everyone else serve him. He’s used to being the one in control, needing to feel the power and sense of total dominance over others in order to function correctly, to feel good.

And in most ways this applies to his obsession with you, too – he’s very aware that he’s stronger than you. He’s both physically and mentally stronger, smarter, faster, more capable, more powerful, just generally more. And in the beginning of his obsession, noticing this obvious difference in your strength and having you blatantly ignore it was enough to pique his interest.

Too many decades had passed by with humans cowering in fear and kneeling before him (as it should be), but it’s left him bored, aching for more, wanting something new and entertaining. And so once he meets you and sees that you aren’t one to submit quite as easily, Douma is immediately hooked, wanting to push you as far as he can just to see how much you can take before you crack.

And really, this is how the majority of his infatuation is presented to you – he’s an annoying, terrifying creature who metaphorically clings onto your every word and action, those colorful eyes of his always watching and staring and wanting.

You think he wants to kill you, really, and you’ll be left constantly on edge around him, terrified that he’ll hurt you or your loved ones for even a single step out of line. And in the beginning, Douma does nothing to dissolve this perception you have of him simply because it’s true. He doesn’t know if he wants to hurt you or not, if he wants to kill you, what he wants with you. You’re an enigma to him, and he’d kept you around because you intrigued him.

With every passing day, this interest and intrigue only seems to grow deeper, stronger, more difficult to disentangle himself out of. But his pride and staunch view that he’s better than all humans bars him from really realizing this early into his infatuation, firmly telling himself that it’s just curiosity that compels him to not sink his teeth into the fleshy expanse of your thigh. It’s just innocent fun that’s stopping him from ripping you apart limb by limb, feasting on what he’s absolutely sure is soft, supple flesh that would have the sweetest taste.

Though, as time passes, even Douma must admit that his feelings for his darling begin venturing into unknown, dangerous territory – no longer is it simply amusement, entertainment, and mild physical attraction that draws him to you. Instead, there’s something more – he’s desperate to see you at all times, growing addicted to having your attention, his body yearning for you in a way that simply fucking another female follower can’t satisfy.

He needs you – he’s grown too charmed by your stubbornness, your continued resistance to simply appeasing him making him more desperate to crush you and have you under his thumb. No longer is his obsession simply a desire to have you around to mess with and satisfy his boredom – no, now it’s about you and your place at his side. You’re certainly not his equal, but he sees you as a companion, a partner not in equalness but in terms of needing you.

Because really, as soon as Douma realizes that he’s toeing the line between mild interest and honest desperation, he panics a bit. This is totally new – something unknown and scary and something he can’t control, so he tries to pull back, forcing himself to give you distance because he simply can’t be allowing you to have such control over him.

You plague his every thought – when you’re apart, he’s imagining what you’re doing. Are you relaxing, enjoying the serenity that being away from your kidnapper brings you?

Are you lonely, wishing he was there to keep you company, even if the way he touches you makes your skin crawl?

Are you sleeping, hopefully dreaming about people with his face and eyes and hair?

Or perhaps you’re eating, maybe even finding yourself wishing that Douma was there to sit beside you, that sick grin on his face while he lifts the chopsticks, tells you to say ‘ah’ and places the sushi delicately on your tongue, something dark in his expression as he tells you to chew and swallow, don’t let it go to waste.

He’d only fed you once, and you’d fought it the whole time, trying to squirm away from him and being thoroughly difficult. It’d entertained Douma in the moment, the way you were so desperate to get away from him, but now, thinking back on it as he patiently waits for Gyokko to get to the meeting site for the joint mission Muzan had assigned them, he’s starting to wonder if perhaps the experience would be even more enjoyable if you obediently let him feed you, looking at him with those pretty eyes of yours and even thanking him, telling him how delicious the food is, how nice his company is, how you’re so very glad that he’s returned to you…

It’s sappy and stupid and ridiculous, and it makes Douma scowl to know that you’ve managed to snag such a hold on him, but every time he considers killing you, something sharp wedges its way into his heart and he finds himself dismissing the thought.

Because really, as pathetic as being obsessed with a weak human female like you is, the alternative is worse – returning to a life of monotony and apathy, seeking his thrills through the momentary high of a slaughter, desperately chasing after more power and more entertainment, trying to fill in the empty void in his chest where his heart should be.

You fix all of that – and so he decides to embrace these new feelings, deciding that if he feels so strongly for you, then he must keep you by his side. You aren’t allowed to ever leave – he would be a shell of a demon if you did, every ounce of joy and happiness stolen from him, and he’s simply too selfish to allow that to happen.

So you’d better prepare for Douma’s constant attention, the frantic way he looks to you, the way his fingers always grip onto you, his voice ringing in your ears over and over and over. He’s overwhelming you, his presence and the constant demands of your attention draining you and leaving you attached to him in a way that makes him sick, but Douma frankly doesn’t care.

How can he? Every moment he spends with you not only quells the constant ache to be around you and feel your eyes on him, but it also deepens your dependence on him, too. Because really, Douma is the only person you ever see with any real consistency – he’s incredibly strict on allowing his followers to come into contact with you, only allowing a small handful of his most devoted servants to drop off meals or change your bath water when he can’t be there to do it himself.

(Both of these activities he loathes missing, if only because you’re so cute when you’re eating, and bathing you? God, Douma likes to think he has decent self-control, but the way he pounces at you and bares his teeth, his eyes darkening and his voice getting noticeably deeper makes it obvious that his hold on himself is slipping, the sight of your nude body with water only barely covering your nipples and below your torso making him genuinely feral.)

 It’s in moments like these that Douma can only laugh at himself, embarrassed for having allowed himself to fall so strongly for a weak, pathetic thing like you. And yet, as time passes he finds himself not caring – after all, when he forces you to turn into a demon, some of that self-loathing will disappear, and then he can be as rough as he wants with you – an idea that makes him literally tremble with anticipation.

Possessive

Unlike his fellow demons, Douma is actually a bit sneaky with this aspect of his obsession – at least, in the beginning.

He’s not obviously possessive or territorial of you, or at least not more so than you’d expect. Frankly, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s kidnapped you and flirts with you just to fluster you, you’d have no idea that Douma is interested in you romantically. He’s touchy and pushy, sure, but he never showcases any traits of the traditional jealous partner. He doesn’t rant and rave about how you’re his, nor does he leave possessive bites or marks along your body to physically mark you as his.

He’s not that uncivilized – at least, he likes to think so. He’s not that terribly obsessed with you, he likes to believe, and by not being verbally territorial over your time, space, and attention, he feels that he’s maintaining this boundary between you where you can’t see just how truly dependent on you he’s become.

But the issue, really, is that while Douma thinks he isn’t easily jealous or possessive over you, it couldn’t be further from the truth. Really, he absolutely needs you to be looking at him and only him – he’s used to being revered and worshipped, both by his followers and many of his fellow demons, but there’s just something different about your attention.

There’s something warmer, something better, something that makes his fingers twitch and his neck feel hot because god, you look good when you’re looking at him, and when you say his name with that slight tremble of fear in your voice he wants to press you so tightly against him that you can’t breath.

You’re just different, really, and so Douma struggles with this internal dilemma. Particularly in the beginning of his obsession and your captivity, he doesn’t allow any signs of his true feelings to be seen – sure he’s flirting with you and teasing you just to see you squirm and get all embarrassed, but it’s just for fun. It’s all a big game, of course – you’re just so weak and endearing and strangely cute that Douma can’t help but belittle you and see that flustered, embarrassed expression on that pretty face of yours.

But then he notices you smiling and laughing at something else one day – something small, something stupid.

A small squirrel had managed to weasel its through the high window into the room he keeps you locked away in, the little brown animal curiously staring at you. On its hind legs, dark, beady eyes fixed on you while you lightly giggle and marvel at the bushiness of its tail, the liveliness of its presence – suddenly not feeling so horribly, horribly lonely.

And Douma’s immediately seeing red – your pretty face is all twisted up in a smile and your eyes are fucking sparkling – why the hell don’t you look like that when he’s talking to you? You’ve never looked this happy with him even once – you flustered and embarrassed is great, but this?

His hands are shaking, an ugly snarl ripping across his face, blond hair bristling as he sprints to grab the squirrel. Everything happens too fast for you to really comprehend – the squirrel is a few feet away from you one second, squeezed between his pale finger the next, something maniacal and scary and horrifying flicking through those rainbow eyes of his as he stares down at the small creature.

You’re immediately scrambling to your feet, begging him to not hurt the animal, and his head snaps to yours almost robotically, that look morphing into some deranged excuse of a smile as he tells you that you’re not allowed to be making friends, remember? I told you what would happen if you did. Do you remember what I told you?

And as you start sobbing, begging him to not kill the animal, Douma will only sigh wistfully, deciding that although he wants to see you smiling and laughing and loving him like the way you loved this squirrel, this is nice too. You, with tears streaming down your cheeks, snot dribbling from your nose, your eyes all glassy and red – you’re cute like this, really, and it makes him smile gleefully, squeezing at the squirrel just a hair tighter and oh god –

You’re still crying when he has the follower on their hands and knees scrubbing the blood from the pretty white flooring, your body wrapped in Douma’s arms while he coos at you and plays with your hair.

It’s only then that you’ll really begin to see just how truly devoted Douma is to you – his hands are all over you, those eyes staring holes through you, arms tugging you closer and closer to him, not leaving an inch of space between your bodies. He’ll grab your chin and force you to look at him, that same sick smile on his face while he tells you that you’re very pretty, you know, I like when you look like this. Now won’t you smile for me? C’mon, I deserve a smile, don’t I?

If you don’t, his grip tightens, surely leaving bruises against your dainty skin, pressing tighter until you shakily quirk up your lips, the smile pained and strained and absolutely divine in his eyes. It’s then that the possessiveness will start to rear its ugly head – he’s telling you in that same sing-song, fake voice that you’re so much better when you’re smiling… Hey, you know to only smile at me, right? You know what’ll happen to anyone or anything else you smile at and talk to. I’m the only one you need to look at – I’ll slaughter anything that dares to steal your attention from me, do you understand?

Meanwhile, he’s stroking your cheek, unblinking as he stares, his breath ice cold and making you shiver. After that incident, Douma doesn’t hold back on making it absolutely clear that you are not to speak with anyone else in the compound – you’d already been studiously avoided by all his followers, only coming into contact with someone when they were forced to bring you food or attend to your washroom needs. But now, everyone was actively afraid of you – running at the sight of you, one poor girl even shaking and breathing so heavily as she heated your bathwater that it hurt just to look at her.

And you know it’s all Douma’s doing, too – you’ve heard him telling his followers that you’re strictly off-limits, that you’re something that isn’t to be touched or looked at, that you’re a sin, that to interact with you without just cause would be an irrevocable offense worthy of death. And there’s something about his voice when he says it that makes you bite your lip, fear dancing through your chest because you’ve never heard him be so serious before, the rumble of his words and the way you can practically see the dead-eyed, apathetic face making something in your gut twist.

From then on, he’s even more clingy – constantly demanding your attention, touching you seemingly without restraint, his voice constantly ringing in your head as he bothers you day and night, never letting you go more than a few minutes without his presence at your side and rudely commanding your attention and time.

Really, he’s just awfully needy – you’re his. His favorite human, toy, thing, and he'll be damned if he lets anyone – or any thing – take that away from him. He’s a powerful demon, and you’re nothing compared to him. So just accept your place as his personal whore, really – because there’s nothing you can do about it. He’s needy and jealous and will become the only person you’ll see with any sort of remote consistency, and it’s all by design.

You’re not to speak with, look at, or think of anyone else – you really, really wouldn’t to see anyone get hurt over that rule, now would you?

Because as much as he likes your positive attention, seeing you scream and cry and hate him is almost as good – delicious in a way that makes him lick his teeth and giggle because ah, you’re just so adorable.

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Quite honestly, despite Douma’s more possessive feelings over you, he doesn’t get jealous that often.

This is mostly due to the fact that he severely limits who he allows to interact with you – all your attendants must be female, and ideally rather weak-willed and soft-spoken. He wants you to be interacting with the most mild people he can, just so that you don’t grow too attached to anyone.

He’ll keep the attendants rotating, just so that you don’t develop any sort of comradery with anyone, and so that no one becomes hopelessly enthralled by you or becomes inspired to set you free from your obvious captivity. It’s all selfish and very, very purposefully orchestrated, because while Douma may be occasionally relaxed and not as rigid with his followers, anything involving you is meticulously thought out, planned with such a degree of obsessiveness that it nearly drives him crazy.

And so, you hardly ever get the chance to interact with a man, much less glance at him – which is very, very good news for the people of the compound, because otherwise all of their blood would be spilled and he’d  be touching your sweet body over their corpses.

Douma simply doesn’t get the opportunity to become jealous often – and even before all of his obsession has fully festered and established itself, this stands true. He kidnaps you very early on, and fully with the intention of killing you once his interest in you dries up.

As a result, there’s simply not much time between the formation of his obsession and your eventual relocation to his temple, seriously limiting his opportunities to grow jealous over you. And this pleases Douma – once he decides that he wants to keep you, the thought of you being unable to interact with anyone significant aside from himself is calming, a sense of possessiveness and ownership over you swimming through him that makes his smile almost real.

And so, for the first few weeks of your captivity, you’ll genuinely think that Douma won’t grow jealous over you, simply because the very, very few people you meet are nearly silent, only interacting with you when absolutely necessary and practically running out of the room before you even finish talking.

 But of course, not everything goes to plan – it only takes a single encounter for you to realize that your previous assumptions about him not growing jealous were painfully mistaken.

The new attendant is more talkative than the previous one. The last one had been mousy, a quiet little creature of a girl who couldn’t be older than fourteen, setting down your meal tray and immediately darting out of the room, the lock clicking loudly behind her. You hadn’t gotten much of a chance to speak with her, let alone ask her name or details about your location.

But this newer girl was a little bolder. Her gaze, while still averted, would occasionally dart back to you. And while the pity in her eyes made something ugly simmer in your chest, the acknowledgement of your poor situation by anyone other than him was still welcome.

She was still rather quiet, but you noticed that she stayed just a hair longer, and would even manage to crack the smallest of smiles in your presence.

But during one sunny afternoon, while Douma longues on your bed with an arm propped under his head and those eyes of his stuck on your figure, she comes by to drop off the food.

It’s a familiar knock at your door, and you perk up at the sound, something that Douma notices with a slight twitch of his eyebrow.

Come in, you call, watching as the locks click and the wooden door creaks open. The girl is there, and you watch as her eyes meet yours and she gives you a small nod of recognition. You smile ever so slightly back, on edge with Douma’s hawk eyes monitoring the entire interaction.

The girl sets the tray onto the ground before shuffling away, glancing up one more time only to suddenly notice Douma’s presence on the bed. She gasps, eyes blowing wide, before bowing her head against the ground, stuttering out a M-Master Douma!

He’s quiet, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly, before an easy smile settles onto his lips. Slowly he gets up, steps light and airy as he approaches the doorway. You’re still standing on the other side of the room, watching the interaction with every hair on your body standing at attention. There’s something about the way he feels, the predatory sense of dread hanging in the air that makes your every muscle desperate to run away, to get out before something terrible happens.

He squats down to her kneeling height once he reaches her, his eyes closing as he keeps up that smile. Do you know her?

The girl shakes her head quickly, her voice merely a whisper as she tells him no, I only serve her meals occasionally.

He nods, humming. So why are you looking at her then?

The girl parts her lips slightly, gaze wide as she stares at him. I – um, I don’t what you mean, Master. I’m sorry.

His eyes open, lids closing half-way and pupils fixed on her. Why are you staring at her so familiarly? Did I not explicitly tell you to avoid looking at what’s mine?

She gulps, her hands starting to shake. I – I’m  terribly sorry, I did not mean to –

Douma sighs, but his shoulders stay tight and tensed, the muscles in his arm visibly flexing underneath his shirt as he clenches his fist. Ah-ah-ah, don’t you know? I don’t care what you have to say. No one is to look at or speak to her. You knew this. And yet you went and did it anyways. Do you know what that makes you?

She’s crying now, tears slipping down her cheeks and her lip wobbling. You’re too frozen with fear to move, but you can hardly breath.

Douma smiles, tilting her chin up ever so slightly. He leans in closer, bunch hunched in a way that doesn’t look human.

Dead. He breathes out.

It happens too quickly for you to follow – his fist is plunging into her chest, her scream cut short by him ripping his hand back out, something red and wet and moving clutched in his palm. The sight makes you sick, bile rising up in the back of your throat and making you heave, forcing you to the ground.

Her body goes limp and slumps to the side, blood pouring around her body and leaving the pretty, wooden floors stained red.

Douma’s giggling, you hear, as he squeezes at her dismembered heart, clutching down tighter and tighter and tighter – until it explodes in a spray of red, getting all over his face and chest, staining the floor even more and making a fresh wave of nausea pass through you.

Your entire body is shaking, gaze unable to stop staring at her lifeless body, terror coursing through you and making it impossible to breath, to move, to think.

All too soon Douma’s standing up, wiping the blood staining his hand onto the already ruined white fabric of his pants, gaze settling on you and sighing once more. What a mess, he laments, but your gaze is still stuck on the girl.

He pouts at that, moving forward and physically blocking your view, getting close enough to you that you can smell the blood on him, see the little bits of tissue and muscle decorating the tight fabric of his shirt.

He’s smiling again, and you flinch as he clasps a strand of your hair between two fingers, rubbing it between them and smearing red all over.

Did you like that? His question makes your lips part, your gaze slowly moving to meet his, something in your gut screaming at you to hurt him, to hurt this creature that so cruelly ruins and steals the lives of others.

But as Douma presses in further, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as his eyes get wider, his voice a bit higher, excitement oozing off of him in waves, he only asks again did you like seeing that? Doesn’t it feel good to see her get what she deserves?

You have nothing to say to that, so you only stare, your own tears pooling down your cheeks.

Douma’s eyes sparkle at that, and he leans forward, tongue lolling out and licking a long strike up your cheek, the salty taste making him shiver.

He rests his forehead against yours, licking his lips and pressing wet, bloody hands against your arms. Hey, let’s go to bed. You’ll be good for me, right? You wouldn’t want to anger me, you know.

And really, what other choice do you have but to say yes, to let him drag you to the mattress and hold you, all the while you stare at the girl’s body? There’s blood staining every inch of your skin and smearing across the sheets, but you try to ignore the now cold, viscous feeling.

And does it make you a bad person for being grateful that it’s not you laying lifeless on the cold, hard ground?

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

It’s inevitable, and it happens fast. Douma is simply a stranger to you at first – a friend of yours had been converted into the Paradise Cult, and at Douma’s urging, each follower had been required to drag in a new member.

You weren’t especially receptive to the idea, but your friend had tricked you into visiting the compound by telling you it was simply an alternative living community, leaving you unsure and suspicious but not wanting to doubt the friend who’d suddenly re-emerged into your life.

And after stepping foot into the compound, you immediately had a sense of what was happening – something was very, very wrong, and your friend seemed entirely dismissive and unaware of it. You’d stayed out of politeness (and your friend’s very thinly veiled threats of what would happen if you were to run), promising to meet the Master as your friend had begged, and upon meeting Douma (alongside a large group of people who seemed to be in varying states of fear and confusion, like yourself), you’d immediately wanted to turn-tail and leave.

He’d gone through each individual recruit, shaking their hand and whispering sweet words to them, and when he’d approached you, expecting the same kindness and reverence that all the other recruits were told to exhibit, he was sorely mistaken. After grabbing your hands (his hands were ice cold, freezing, and perfectly smooth), you’d smiled at him, trying to mirror the expression on his face.

Welcome to Paradise, won’t you join us? His voice had been smooth, calming, and layered with a sense of confidence that had your smile turning sour.

No, thank you, I’ll be leaving now. You’d ripped your hands out of his grasp and promptly turned on your heel, not sparing Douma a glance as he gaped at you, genuinely too stunned to make a move and follow you.

He’d meant to follow after you, anger at your disrespect making his eye twitch, but the other recruits had to be brought in before he could bother with a single disgruntled woman. You’d managed to leave the compound, ignoring your friend’s hysteria and desperate pleas to apologize to the Master, instead storming all the way back to your own home and vowing to never set foot on that property again. There was just something unnerving about the place, and that man – he’d made some primal sense of fear edge up into your throat, your body feeling feather light and your reflexes heightened.

But as you tried to adjust back into your life and essentially mourn the loss of your friend, Douma hadn’t forgotten about you. He’d tried to – you were inconsequential, a dirty, lowly human woman, utterly nothing. And yet, the days began to blend together, images of your naively brave face dancing behind his eyelids, thinking of the absolute gall you had to blatantly disrespect what your body could clearly sense was an apex predator.

(He’d been able to smell the fear wafting off of you in waves, hear the rapid pounding of your heart, see the tremor of your hands. You’d been petrified, truly, and yet you’d still been stupid enough to run away. It would be impressive, if it didn’t leave such a sour taste in his mouth.)

The anger prompted him to call in your friend, asking with a sickly sweet smile what your name was, where you lived, and to tell him a bit about you. Your friend was more than happy to oblige his request, apologizing profusely on your behalf and spilling every detail about you that they could. Douma had nodded at the end, flashing them one last smile before slicing their head off, licking a bloody finger afterwards and humming.

Immediately heading off towards the location of your home, Douma ran through all the possible ways he could punish you for your blatant disrespect – perhaps rip your toes and fingers off one by one, then devour you, or maybe even slice open your belly and let you suffer before death?

Deeply pondering, he’d stopped outside your home, staring into the windows and feeling his eyes brighten at the sight of you simply seated in your living area, reading out of a book. You were nothing special, truly – no particularly beautiful features, nothing that would catch his eye out of the hundreds of humans he’s met and devoured. You were utterly unremarkable, and weak, too; unable to fight, unable to defend yourself, just utterly, utterly pathetic.

And as he slips into your home, internally scoffing at how you don’t even notice his presence, Douma suddenly stops. You’re looking at him now, panic eating away at your features as you cling to the wall behind you, your voice shaking and rather thin as you scream at him that you’ll hurt you, don’t – don’t come any closer!

And really, it almost makes him laugh when you grab at the candlestick on the nearby table, pointing the stubby, wax bar at him with eyes wide enough to make him giggle.

It’s quiet for a long moment, before Douma’s lips quirk up into something vaguely resembling a smile, something in his eyes growing brighter as he realizes that oh, you might be a bit of fun.

And as he moves forward and has a hand striking against the pressure point in your neck before you can even blink, Douma finds himself nonchalantly leaning down to smell along the curve of your jaw.

You’re not wholly unappealing, now that he looks at you up close. You smell nice enough – a bit floral, a bit earthy, and he can hear the beating of your heart from this close. That same twisted smile sits on his lips as he brings you back to the compound, rainbow eyes dull as he unceremoniously drops you onto the rackety, spare mattress of a fellow cult member, ignoring their questions as he slices at their throat and hums.

You could be entertaining enough, at least for a day or two – it’s not often that people resist him, and he wants to know how long it’ll take before you break.

Despite Douma’s rather spontaneous kidnapping of you, it doesn’t take him long to fall into a rhythm with you. What he feels for you at first is slow-going and barely even there, but it’s something – and as time passes and he becomes aware that you’re inspiring an unknown emotion – any emotion, aside from a dull pleasure in seeing others suffering - inside of his chest, he becomes more and more attached.

And this is obvious in the way that he treats you – he’s absolutely suffocating, choosing to take up your every moment of the day because absolutely nothing compares to the sight of you scowling at him, or the way you flinch and scramble to get away from him every time he reaches out to touch you. It’s cute, even, the way you ardently try to escape him when you’re both painfully aware that it isn’t possible. It’s endearing, but even with your stubborn nature, you’ll eventually grow complacent in the lifestyle he’s forced upon you.

You’re kept in a set of bedchambers that very clearly belonged to another person before you – the bed is larger than you’d expected, with crisp white sheets and red silks hanging from the frame on all sides. The dark, mahogany wood is engraved with all sorts of geometric and floral patterns, and during the rare stretches of solitude that you’re afforded, you find yourself running your fingers over the shapes and committing them to memory.

The bed had actually not belonged to the room’s previous occupant – instead, the bed had been the one Douma designated as his own, before your arrival. It’d been the bed he’d lounge about in during the day, bedding nearly every woman and man in the compound between those very sheets. He’d had it moved into the room he keeps you in a week or so after your arrival, deciding that if he was to spend so much time in your space, he might as well be comfortable while doing so.

(And though it hadn’t been his intention, there’s something oddly pleasing about seeing the way you visibly sink into the mattress most evenings, your constant fearful expression and scowl slowly melting away at the sheer luxury of the bed. Pleasing, and satisfying, really, because something that almost resembles pride eats away at him when he thinks of how he’s the one providing you with such comforts, and is thus the reason for your joy.)

The room itself is rather small, with four plain white walls and a few decorations and trinkets left behind by the previous occupant. A select few photographs and letters had been left behind, and you’d placed them all in a small corner of the room, taking care to not damage them but unable to look at them without feeling ill.

You hardly ever leave the room – Douma doesn’t allow you to freely roam the compound, and you are strictly forbidden from having any visitors aside from himself and a select few trust cultists that he keeps very, very careful tabs on.

(There’s the small, ever-present sense of worry that you’ll find comradery or friendship among one of the attendees, so he’s careful to keep them uncomfortably aware of their purpose, of how they aren’t to speak to you unless absolutely necessary, how they aren’t to spend any time at all in your space unless ordered by Douma himself, how your life is much, much more precious than theirs.)

But truth be told, you’ll be grateful for any and every attendant that spends even a few seconds with you – because Douma will be an always present, unwavering presence in your life once you’re stolen away. He finds you fascinating, and there’s something addicting about the responses you give to him. It’s addictive enough that he finds himself by your side every moment he can spare, always staring at you with that odd, small smile that never seems to reach his eyes, his voice always chipper and cheery even as he tells you the most gut-wrenching, revolting things.

And as time passes, Douma becomes not only clingy, but touchy. His hands are freezing cold when they touch you, skin like ice as he cups your cheek or grasps your wrist or places his hand on the small of your back.

He has no concept of personal space; his breath (cold just like his fingers) fans against your skin as he stands behind you, your back pressed snugly against his chest as he murmurs in your ear that you’re shaking, are you afraid? Probably a good choice, considering how weak you are.

He’s making you sit in his lap as he forces you to tell him about your old life, listening to the shaky intake and exhale of your breath and tut-tutting at you, telling you to stop lying, pretty thing, I can hear your heartbeat soaring. We wouldn’t want poor Mimiko outside to pay for your deceptions, would we?

And once he begins getting truly needy for your time and attention, Douma is absolutely not afraid to escalate your relationship to something more physical, something more intimate. He absolutely will force himself onto you, that same devoid smile on his lips while his eyes shine with something that you can’t – and won’t – put a finger on.

He views you as his personal play thing, his personal human, and his clinginess and inability to leave you alone for more than an hour at a time is proof of it. And as he grows more and more attached, the desperation to be around you starting to cloud his mind and make him angry, irritable, enraged when something keeps him away from you, he’ll only become more suffocating, more desperate for your every thought, look, and feeling to revolve solely around him him him.

It’s the least you could do, really, considering he’s been kind enough to spare you.

(Though there’s always the lingering question of how sweet your blood tastes, if you’re as soft and tender as he expects, if when he sinks those teeth of his down into the sensitive flesh of your thigh you’d squeal his name like he hopes you would…)

PUNISHMENTS:

If you don’t count his constant, overwhelming presence, Douma doesn’t really punish you. He’s actually fairly lenient – he certainly doesn’t allow you to roam around the compound on your own, nor does he allow you to speak with anyone aside from himself, but you’re allowed to choose what clothing you wear, how you style your hair, when you wake up and when you go to bed.

And really, Douma likes to point out just how much freedom he gives you – when you’ve got an attitude, anger and irritation welling up in your chest and bubbling over, Douma will simply pout at you, telling you that you don’t get to be mean, you got breakfast this morning. And while he doesn’t explicitly say it, the tone of his voice and the way he’s looking at you are reminders that yes, he’s keeping you here against your wall, but he’s oh so generous and feeding you well. He’s giving you food, shelter, and attention from a being much superior to yourself – and frankly, you’re a spoiled little brat for not realizing exactly what a gift he’s giving you.

He’s not the biggest fan of actually saying those words to you though, if only because he likes to keep up the charade of being a happy-go-lucky man, wanting you to feel and acknowledge that yes, he's powerful, but he also treats you with kindness and a level of care and adoration that you should really be beyond grateful to be receiving.

It’s a matter of pride, more than anything else – and your ‘punishments’ are also a matter of pride. It takes quite a bit to anger Douma. This is because he lives for your responses – he’s teasing you and pushing you right to the edge on a constant basis, loving the way you grit your teeth or yell at him or try to ignore him. Though, he admittedly likes that last option significantly less. It’s entertaining for the first few minutes watching you clench your jaw and pretend like he’s not poking your stomach or kissing over the shell of your ear or threatening your family members, but if you hold out and remain silent and unresponsive, he’ll eventually just pout and give up, sighing dramatically and telling you fine, have it your way.

You won’t ever actually get your way, of course, but Douma will manage to finagle some variation of your request with his own touch to it.

You’re asking for your freedom? Absolutely not, but he will get you a pretty pair of binoculars so you can see outside the laughably small, iron-barred window in your room!

You want supplies for your hobbies because you’re going insane with boredom? A bit harsh considering he’s always keeping you company, but he’ll buy you whatever your little heart desires, no matter how expensive or difficult to find. You just have to teach him how to use them, okay? You’ll do your little hobbies with him, or not at all.

And so, Douma doesn’t automatically see you lashing out or being rude as a negative. Instead, it often only endears him more to you, enjoying the way you’re so very human in your inability to control your emotions.

But while he doesn’t respond negatively to your bad behavior, there are two things which truly do upset him.

The first upset is predictable – your attempts at escape. You talking about running away is one thing; lofty plans and ideals you talk about in front of him while he nods along and coos at you, pointing out each and every flaw in your thinking and explaining in detail the many ways he could stop you.

It’s mildly amusing when you’re just putting on a face and acting like you want to leave, but the moment you actually attempt it, that amusement is shifting to irritation, his eye twitching slightly because oh, how stupid could you really be? You obviously don’t realize that you’re stuck square in the center of a rather large compound filled with people who would absolutely kill for Douma, and would do anything he so desired even if it meant ignoring your screams and cries to return you back to their leader.

It’s frustrating to him, if only because it’s a mess he has to clean up, and there’s always the repercussions of having to figure out who helped you orchestrate the whole endeavor, because he knows you can’t escape out of this room on your own. And while killing the sympathizer is fun and leaves him stained in blood and shivering in delight, it’s precious time that he could be spending with you.

But really, the one thing that truly upsets him is when you hurt yourself. He can hurt you – he can drag his nails down your pretty skin and leave beads of blood in their wake. He can pull at your hair until you’re tearing up, the look on your face pained and sending blood directly between his legs, your expression delicious and oh so arousing. He can even bend you over and smack his hand against the smell of your ass over and over and over until your bruised, welts decorating the pretty skin and your eyes barely open.

He can do all that, but why the fuck do you think you can? You’re his toy – his. You aren’t your own person anymore; you’re his plaything, and as a result your body belongs to him. Injuring yourself is equivalent to damaging his personal property, and if there’s one thing Douma can’t stand, it’s others taking what’s his.

And so, to truly see him mad, you must purposefully injure yourself in some capacity – though you have to get creative, considering how little time you have for yourself.

It's late at night when you decide to do it. It’s one of the rare evenings where Douma isn’t caging you in his arms while he commands you to sleep, eyes wide open and staring straight at you as he patiently waits for you to fall into unconsciousness. He’d said he had business to attend to tonight – whatever that meant, though you had a good feeling you’d rather not know.

It’s strange without him, even as loathed as you are to admit it. The room – not your room, never your room – is oddly quiet without him, missing the ominous, overwhelming presence that he brings with him with every visit. Some part of you almost finds it lonely, though you can’t exactly say that you miss him. Just the contact with another person – if you can even call him that.

Shaking your head from the thoughts, you stand up and slowly pad your way over to the window. It’s high, too high for you to reach just on your own. Grabbing the chair sitting at the small, never-used desk in the corner of the room, you’re quick to place it under the window and climb up.

The view isn’t anything particularly special – just looking out onto the courtyard in what you’re guessing is the center of the complex, the array of traditional style houses sitting in even, neat rows along the sides. It’s pretty, in a suburban, monotonous way, and it makes you frown. This place feels like death, and the sight only resolves your desire to escape.

Sitting outside the hole cut into the wall as the window are iron bars, surely placed there to limit anything from coming inside. And, of course, to limit anything from going outside, too. With a small breath, you reached up and carefully clasped your fingers around the bar second from the right.

You’d noticed the last time you’d done this that the metal was incredibly loose – wiggling in its joint easily, and likely unsecure enough to complete pull off of its hinges. Biting your lip, you slowly increased shaking the metal, trying to dislodge it and create a space large enough for you to squeeze through.

You paused every so often, worried that the slight clanging noise would draw attention to your room and alert anyone outside of what you were doing. That wouldn’t do – this escape plan hinged entirely on your ability to get out undetected, as you had no doubts every follower would immediately report to Douma and you could kiss your chances of escape goodbye.

It’s difficult to hold back the small exclamation of relief when you finally feel the iron break free, the weight of it in your hand making you swallow thickly. Okay, now to just push myself through…

The opening looked just big enough, but it would still be a tight fit.

Pushing off with one leg, you manage to get your knee on the sill. Scrunching your brows, you shift your weight to push off the back leg, wobbling slightly as you find your balance on both knees. Now, for the difficult part.

Come on, you murmur as you inch forward, gingerly pushing your head through the opening and glancing around, eyes squinting in the darkness but not seeing anyone outside. With a deep breath, you pushed further, one hand coming up to reach through the railing, managing to get your shoulder outside, pushing yourself forward and letting the smallest smile grace your lips because oh god, you might actually make it-

You barely feel the cold hand wrapping around your ankle until it’s yanking you back. Harshly.

You fly backwards with a small scream, the iron of the next bar over scratching at your arm and warm, wet blood immediately trickling down your forearm. Your back hits the mattress and knocks the air out of you, making your vision dizzy for a moment before you see it. Him.

Normally Douma sports a small, rather nonchalant smile around you. It’s chilling because there’s so little emotion in his eyes, almost looking like two pretty voids in the center of his face. It’s disturbing, but if you don’t look at it it’s not too terrible.

This, though? The way he’s looking at you right now? It’s enough to have you scrambling to the back of the mattress, your lips parting and closing like a fish, fear and adrenaline coursing through your veins so quickly that it hurts.

He’s not smiling. No, instead his lips are completely, utterly flat – a straight line that has tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He doesn’t even look angry, really – just utterly emotionless, not a shred of anything on his face for you to read.

What are you doing? Even his voice is eerily neutral, completely monotone.

I-I was just – I – um, you can’t even think of a plausible excuse, the situation and Douma’s reaction leaving you too fried and afraid to form a coherent thought.

He’s not having that, though. He walks closer to the bed, each step sounding like a clap of thunder. His expression is still that same flat line, even as he crawls onto the bed, that hand once again wrapping around your ankle.

What are you doing? Say it, or I’ll slit your throat.

And you believe him – enough to start stuttering out apologies and slurred, panicked admissions of trying to escape. Your voice is raising an octave, fear palpable in the air, but it doesn’t slow Douma down as he drags your body closer to him by the ankle, seeming to have absolutely no difficult even as you claw at the sheets and writhe in his grasp.

Please, ‘m sorry, I just want to go home, I can’t – You’re scaring me Douma, please stop – You’re babbling, and apparently he’s decided he’s had enough as his grip moves from your ankle to your neck faster than you can see.

You’re pressed against the wall before you know it, strong, cold fingers pressing against your windpipe as he stares at you. He’s uncomfortably close, his body only an inch or so away from yours, those damn eyes of his the only thing you can see. He’s still expressionless, even as you gasp for air and claw at his fingers. He doesn’t budge though, seeming to not even notice your attempts at escape.

You must think I’m stupid, he starts, those eyes never looking away from yours. They don’t even seem to blink, even as you wheeze out his name.

You must think I’m an imbecile if you think you can escape me. I’m insulted.

His grip tightens.

You will never escape me. There is nowhere that you can go that I cannot follow.

His grip moves higher up, cutting off even more air.

There is nowhere that you can hide that I cannot find you.

Now the left side of his lip quirks up, ever so slightly.

There is no one who can help you that I cannot kill.

Suddenly he’s leaning in, head traveling down to your right arm, his inhale audible even though you can’t see his face.

Something wet and cold pokes at the still fresh scratch on your arm, and it makes you wince. You can’t feel much of anything now, though, as small dark spots in your vision form, desperation truly starting to take over.

Something akin to a groan fills your ears as Douma’s lips latch onto your skin, tongue poking and prodding at the cut, nudging its way inside and making the last bit of your air rush out of your throat as a scream, the pain starting to register even as the dots fill your entire vision, unconsciousness taking a hold of you as you go limp under his hand.

Douma pauses at the feeling of you passing out, eyes slowly looking up to your face, before removing his hand and letting you fall to the hard floor. Your body hits the ground with a deciding slump, and Douma pokes at your shin with the tip of his shoe.

Humming, he licks the remaining blood off of your lips. You’d been stupid, really, to think that he didn’t know about this escape plan of yours. You’re not nearly as good at pretending as you think you are, nor are you as subtle at glancing at the window as you seem to think. All those nights spent with you on his chest or spooned against him, the smell of your hair filling his nostrils again and again as he rutted against your ass, his breath tickling your neck, and you still thought he couldn’t tell that you kept glancing to the window, obviously wishing to crawl out and never return.

His fists clench, and he kicks, hard. Narrowly avoiding your leg and instead decimating the wooden nightstand next to it.

Stupid human, he growls out, swallowing the last bit of your blood.

And the next morning, when you awake with a splitting headache and bruises blossoming along your neck, Douma will be right there waiting for you. That fake, plastered-on smile sits on his lips again, and the hand he rests of your arm grows tighter.

Good morning, he starts, voice the usual chipper, overly saccharine tone. Thank me for not killing you. Go on.

And as you look towards the window – with fresh, gridlocking bars newly placed on both the inside and outside, you can only feel your eyes water, lips parting into the shape of thank you.

Douma’s smile grows for just a moment, something dancing behind his eyes.

Ah, there you go.

OVERALL DANGER:

9/10

As Douma’s darling, your biggest concern is really to keep Douma entertained and appeased. His obsession hinges on his amusement surrounding you, and although something that resembles the closest thing to love he can manage does form for you, there’s something deeply wrong with him.

He views you as an object – something he can possess and own, and the idea of having you all completely to himself is something that makes him giddy, eyes closing and something settling in the base of his gut because god, he wants you.

Your time with him will be characterized by his constant presence, those eyes of his always locked on you and you only. He can’t be away from you for long periods of time – he grows restless, his knee bouncing and his fingers fidgeting as he idly thinks of seeing you, missing the way you always look so sour when he pulls on your hair, how your eyes get all big and wide when he compliments you, the bashfulness obvious on your face even as you try to hide it. You’re endearing, really, a pet project of his that he slowly begins to feel more for, a creature that he finds himself holding in disturbingly high regard, despite your lowly status as a mere human.

But really, what makes Douma so dangerous is the fact that he is so detached from normal love and affection. This leads to him having no qualms about kidnapping you, isolating you, toying with you, and even hurting you when he sees fit.

Your existence becomes solely dictated by his whims – you’ll be what he wants you to be, and if you don’t, he doesn’t mind pushes and molding you into what he wants. Even if it means breaking a few bones, biting off a few chunks of flesh, or even turning you into a blood-thirsty demon, if he so desires.

Your life is no longer yours – it’s his, and the sooner you learn that, the better. After all, Douma can be almost sweet when he’s trying – so really, just let yourself be deluded into believing that this is what’s best for you.

GIYUU TOMIOKA

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GYOMEI HIMEJIMA

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KOCHO SHINOBU

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KYOJURO RENGOKU

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MITSURI KANROJI

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OBANAI IGURO

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SANEMI SHINAZUGAWA

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TENGEN UZUI

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AKAZA

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DOUMA

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GYUTARO

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KOKUSHIBO

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MUZAN KIBUTSUJI

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First of all, you're right - almost all of the Hashiras have marriage on the mind once their obsession forms. They're dreaming of you in pretty white gowns, boquets of flowers everywhere, and a pretty, glittering ring on your finger. There's something comfortable and good about knowing that you're safe, that you're protected, that you're theirs, both in the eyes of the law and of each other.

The demons, on the other hand, are more of a mixed bag - none of them really remember their time as a human, but some are more connected with their human sides than others - and thus, some of them are much, much more desperate to make you theirs in a way that satiates their remaining scraps of humanity. (Plus, this is a way to bind you to them that the demons know you'll recognize the weight of - after all, it's not like divorcing them is really an option; you can't even run two feet without them immediately catching and immobilizing you. What makes you think you could ever truly escape them?)

But of course, let's start with the beloved, oh-so-righteous Hashira. They each have a different level of motivation for getting you to share their last name - personal trauma, dependency, and their awareness of your feelings for them make each individual approach in asking for your hand very unique.

(Though each is laced with just a hair of hesitance, their vulnerability coming to light when they pop the question, because even if they've already stolen you away, even if Stockholm Syndrome has already bent and warped you, there's still the possibility of rejection. There's still the possibility that you don't want them as badly as they do, that you don't need them like they need you. You'll say yes, they'll make sure of it, but you need to mean it - you need to love them, too.)

Kochou Shinobu wants to marry you, and while she won't force you to, she's not too shy to drop hints. In general, she's not too terribly controlling, aside from her extreme overprotectiveness, and this extends to her plans of marriage with you.

She wants to bind you to her permanently, to get you officially and legally tied to her in a way you can't deny no matter how badly you may want to, but she won't force it. After all, while she does force you into all sorts of things in the name of protection and your wellbeing (forcing you to eat certain foods, keeping you inside the Butterfly mansion with scheduled times for you to sit outside in the garden, and a whole variety of other things that make you bristle with indignation and shame), she wants big steps in your relationship to be consensual.

(Aside from your kidnapping, of course - though she sees your captivity less as a step and more of a necessity, more of something she's doing to make sure you aren't the victim of some horrible, disgusting demon. And, of course, so that you're alive and well and she can see you and hear you and smell you and touch you.)

She'll pop the question once she thinks Stockholm Syndrome has set in, and even then, the moment is actually quite nice. She'd set up a nice meal for you (with foods you actually like, not the overly healthy, bland slog she always forces down your throat), with a few candles glowing and nice, fluffy blankets surrounding where you both sit on the floor.

Her voice is strangely soft and sweet when she asks you, this odd look in her eye that almost looks scared, as if she's genuinely afraid of how you'll respond to her slightly wobbly will you marry me? She wants you to say yes, needs it, really, but if you say no she'll respect that.

She won't let you go, of course, but she won't force it onto you. She'll be more distant, a little more snappy, and she'll spend noticeably less time physically close to you, but once she's recovered a bit (meaning she's slaughtered enough demons that her anger is slightly quelled, though the hurt is still very much present), she'll return to you, working even harder than before to make you happy and want her.

Perhaps you'll change your mind if she's more accommodating, if she's sweeter, if she's just better.

Giyuu Tomioka, for one, probably won't ever ask you to marry him.

It's not that he doesn't want to, but rather that it seems like this unnecessary step that doesn't need to happen for your relationship to be stable and happy and loving. He's a bit of an odd duck as a yandere - he's emotionally stunted and difficult at communicating his feelings, and because of this, he often worries that you're feeling things that he's unaware of.

He's paranoid that you secretly hate him, that you're lying every time you say something even remotely nice to him, that you wish he was dead or being tormented by a demon. (And frankly, this isn't entirely false - he does eventually kidnap you, once his hand is forced, and of fucking course you hate him after that - you're terrified of him, and it nearly breaks Giyuu, sending him into a spiral that'll take months of you eagerly convincing him otherwise to move past.)

And because of these fears, Giyuu is hesitant to really do anything romantic at all with you - anything from calling you pet names to cuddling you takes a long time for him to feel comfortable with, and so marriage?

It's unlikely that he'll ask, but not impossible - after all, he does harbor strong feelings for you, finding you on his mind constantly, his hands always twitching and itching to reach out to you, his eyes always seeming to wander back to your figure, his entire body just yearning for you you you.

Giyuu does genuinely want to marry you - he likes the idea of you having his last name, and the idea of being tied to you in a real, tangible way. It makes some of the paranoia quell, because would you really leave him if you were married?

Widows don't survive easily in this world - you'd find it extremely hard to remarry. (That thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth, though he does like that it means you're less likely to leave him.)

So while Giyuu probably won't ever ask, just know that when he's staring at you so longingly, gazing at you with those wide eyes that never seem to blink, he's imagining the way you'd look in lace, how your pretty face would look at him from under a veil, how your voice would caress his name when you say your vows.

It's a sweet thought that he harbors, and it's only many, many years into the future that he'll admit this to you. (And even then, it's only in passing, only when he's in your arms, on the brink of sleep and feeling the most calm and vulnerable and safe he's felt in his whole life - you'll hear a small would you want to be a wife? He won't elaborate if you ask him to repeat himself, instead pretending it never happened, but that's probably the closest you'll get to admittance.)

Kyojuro Rengoku knows marriage is in his future from a young age. He's always dreamed of having a loving family, of having another family for Senjuro to grow close to.

And really, you just make it so easy - it's disturbing how quickly he's fantasizing about dropping to one knee, imagining your face - in detail - when he pops the question; he's sure your jaw will drop, your eyes going wide, maybe you'd even cover your mouth with your hand because you can hardly contain yourself with excitement.

And then you'll say yes - over and over again, crushing him into a hug that he eagerly returns, burying his nose into your hair and smelling and breathing and yearning -

Nights he spends fantasizing about your future normally end with flushed cheeks and sweat coating his body, his chest heaving and dried cum splattered along his navel.

He expects marriage, really, simply because he's a traditional man and he wants to become your protector and provider - he's lenient on most things involving the wedding, however. He's daydreaming about you in your dress, of course, but he'll be delighted with whatever style or color you choose, tears of joy in his eyes when he sees you walking down the aisle towards him, towards your future.

He'll let you decide the flowers and how you style your hair, and he'll even let you choose his own clothing - he will be incorporating the flame somehow, however, and that goes for more than just his clothing. Your ring will have a large, somewhat gaudy opal jewel in it, along with a flame engraved on the inside of the ring, so that you're close to him always, even when he's away on missions.

Kyojuro is so very sure that you'll become his wife one day that even before you're aware of his obsession with you, he's referring to you as my flame and my spouse and my lovely wife both in private and public. It's off-putting and strange, but no amount of explaining or pleading will get him to stop.

He's genuinely dead set on becoming your husband, and he'll even allow you to invite a select group of your family and friends to the event - after all, it's not like they could stop it. What could they do? He's the Flame Hashira, responsible for saving more lives than you could count - he can have whatever he wants, and that includes you.

(At least Shinobu will be on your side at the wedding - she'll watch with sad eyes, sad for you but happy for her comrade, though ultimately she can do nothing as well - even when she sees the way he looks at you, the way his eyes absolutely devour you.)

Marriage isn't exactly necessary for Gyomei Himejima, but it's still certainly a thought that lingers in the far corners of his mind, dancing behind closed eyelids on the rare night he's laying in his own bed, the blankets feeling cold and empty.

He normally wills away any sort of fantasizing about you at night - both on principle and because once he starts thinking of you, you don't leave his thoughts for hours, making sleep - something already a bit difficult for him - even harder to come by. But on the few nights where his self-control wavers ever so slightly, he allows himself to imagine the way your hands would feel with a pretty, smooth ring adorning your finger, standing out against the softness of your skin.

He'll move his own fingers against the fabric of his futon, pretending the lackluster linen is you instead, moving up to cup your face, brush over your hair, let his fingers trace the curve and juts of your collarbone.

He'll let himself imagine coming home to you, how the smell of you would fill his nostrils the moment he opens the door, how your voice would sound calling his name, telling him I'm so glad you're home, my love, it's lonely to be a wife without her other half by her side...

It's a desire he nurses, slowly letting it fester and grow and rot in his heart, and so when the day finally comes that you've given up on fighting him, that you've reluctantly accepted that he is your future now (and after months of him calmly and simply stating that I'm doing what is best for you, you are weak and you need protection, helpless creatures like yourself cannot be left to the wolves), he'll swallow and ask you, with a voice that's just slightly uneven, if you'd do him the honor of becoming his wife, if you'd share yourself with me, both in life and death?

It's not like you really have a choice, but he can't help the tears that slip down his cheeks when you answer him, those big, scarred hands of his slowly slipping down to your hips, excitement brewing in his chest that makes him feel both elated and sinful because married couples show love in much more intimate ways, and he's been holding himself back for so long, far longer than any other man could endure...

Sanemi Shinazugawa is, even to you - the love of his life, the woman he finds himself so ardently and frustratingly obsessed with - difficult to understand. He never explicitly tells you about his past nor childhood, only dropping small, hardly-there hints once in a blue moon.

All you've managed to gather is that something horrible happened to him, and that despite seeming rough and callous and cruel, he's significantly softer at heart than you'd expected.

And so, when Sanemi bites his lip a few months into your kidnapping, his fingers tapping together in his lap and his eyes struggling to stay fixed on you while you quietly and calmly folded the pretty, new kimono he'd just returned from a recent mission with, you're completely floored by his question.

Will you marry me?

It's rushed, nearly slurred, full of doubt and sounding more like a statement rather than a question, but when you freeze and flick your eyes to him, he only furrows his brows and looks angry. Truthfully, he'd been planning on asking you for months - marriage was on his mind embarrassingly early into his infatuation with you, though he'd never made any action to make you believe so.

He has a cold exterior and is outwardly brash and rude to those around him, but he's still the young, caring, gentle boy he once was - and when he's with you, ever protective instinct long buried from his childhood comes back in full force, urging and begging him to wrap his arms around you and protect you from each and every horrible thing in this world.

(And, of course, so that he can feel you - your heart beating against his chest, your breaths tickling his hair, your soft body pressing flush against his own, so opposite to his own scarred, calloused skin.)

And so, when you eventually tell him yes after a very, very long period of silence, Sanemi can only nod and chance a glance at you, a small pink rising to his cheeks because fuck, somehow you're even prettier now, like you're practically glowing, like you're practically his - and now, you are.

He's a lot more gentle to you after you accept his proposal - he's always treated you like you're made of glass, but his touches are even more feather-light now, his voice noticeably softer, his eyes noticeably wider when they follow your every move, this shy, boyish smile slotting onto his lips when he sees you humming to yourself or reaching for something on a high shelf or sleeping soundly in what is now your shared bed.

Marriage domesticates him, and while he's still obsessively checking your health and forcing you to report what you did every moment he's not at home with you, he's different. Softer, happier, needier.

Tengen Uzui pops the question early. Extremely early. The idea of marriage is no foreign concept to him - and as his darling, you are also, by default, his wives' darling. And so, while Tengen alone is overwhelming with his flirtations and overprotectiveness, it's something else entirely to have three other people also doting on you, keeping a careful eye on you and making sure you're always, always out of danger's way and never having a moment of privacy to yourself.

And so, while Tengen is the one who actually asks for your hand, all of the wives are dropping hints and not-so-subtly mentioning how things will be once you're an official wife, too. It's always when you're their wife, not if - and they're not shy about it.

Hinatsuru will be standing behind you while you sit at the vanity, brushing her fingers over your hair and smiling down at you, pink sitting high on her cheeks while she tells you that Master Tengen will buy you the most lovely dress for the ceremony, Makio and I have already picked it out. You'll look so very beautiful, though you always do.

Suma will clutch onto your arm and beg you to do her vows first, to tell her that she's pretty and sweet and beautiful and perfect and exactly your type.

Makio will swat your hand away from sweets when she thinks you've had enough, telling you with a pout that you must stay healthy and not grow a stomachache, I saw the ring in Master Tengen's room early this morning and the whole moment will be ruined if you've eaten yourself into illness!

(Of course, you're allowed to have more sweets if she feeds them to you, but this is just a technicality.)

And Tengen himself is even not particularly subtle about the whole ordeal - he'll wrap an arm around you and plant a kiss to the crown of your head, telling you that the proposal will be quite extravagant, I can't wait to see your face!

Marriage has always been an assumed milestone that you will complete with the Uzuis - it's only a matter of time, and even if you say no over and over again, you will end up their spouse, one way or another.

(It's been such an ingrained concept in their minds, of course, that even before they stole you away, more than one night was spent with all four in bed, each imagining you on your wedding night, laying in silk fabrics with four wedding rings glistening on your fingers and your face all twisted up in ecstasy and their names tumbling form your lips like some sort of prayer...)

Mitsuri Kanroji and Obanai Iguro are both partial to the idea of marrying you, but Mitsuri is considerably more likely to make it a reality.

Obanai wants to wed you, to call you both his wives, to share your bed every night and to know that you're his. But there's still lingering fear and self-resentment that bars him from ever actually asking you simply because he thinks he doesn't deserve someone like you. You're utterly perfect - divine in a way that's hard to stomach, as if the air is being sucked out of his lungs every time he so much as glances at you. He's shy, frankly, and afraid to confront his own feelings, and so it's left to Mitsuri to make your marriage a reality.

And oh, she doesn't mind this responsibility at all - marriage plans are happening early on, her brain filled to the brim with ideas of different color schemes, which flowers to use, which songs to play, even which undergarments to have you wear to make undressing you even sweeter.

She's daydreaming about it near constantly, and similarly to Uzui, she's not particularly great at keeping it a secret. She doesn't purposefully blurt out how good you'd look in a particular dress style, but when she sees you, her brain turns to mush and it's like she has no control of her words.

(Or her actions, it seems, because she'll always, always greet you with a hug that's just a bit too long, your body pressed flush and tight against her own in a way that feels too purposeful to be innocent.)

So as their darling, marriage is likely in the cards - but contrary to others on this list, Obanai will persuade Mitsuri to actually take your wishes into considerations as far as decorations or style goes - you get to choose your wedding dress and the food that's served (Mitsuri's only stipulation is that there is a lot), along with most other personal items you wear/interact with.

So from that aspect, marriage actually doesn't sound too bad with them - the only unfortunate portion is that you're marrying your captors, of course, and the vows. They're long and sappy and extremely detailed, sharing facts you weren't previously aware of but really shouldn't surprise you - admittance of stalking you, stealing some of your clothing or personal items, even to sometimes tampering with your food just to make things 'taste better'.

It's hard to stomach and it's things you really already knew in your heart, but it's hard to hear it nonetheless - especially when it's spun in such a way as to sound romantic, as if it's some testament to their love for you - pretend to be wooed, or things will get ugly. And you wouldn't want your wedding night to be forceful and rough, now would you?

And then of course there's the demons, who have a very, very wide variety of opinions regarding the topic of marriage.

For Muzan Kibutsuji, the context in which his obsession developed is extremely key to how he feels about marrying you.

Most likely, you were some human he came into contact with frequently during one of his many false human aliases. He finds you annoying at first, of course, deeming you as horribly pathetic and someone literally not even worthy of his time to consider, but then one day something changes - some small act of kindness or defiance that piques his interest, and suddenly he's finding himself idly thinking of you, noticing you amongst the crowd, recognizing your scent even in crowded spaces.

And he doesn't like it. At all.

It takes him a very long time to navigate his feelings for you - he's intrigued and feels this strange, carnal urge to be around you, but he's also disgusted and angry and irritated that you have this control over him. And so, it's most likely that he won't marry you - the anger and possessiveness he feels for you will likely overwhelm him and lead to him kidnapping you, and once you're stuck with him, under his thumb, what's the point of marrying you?

You're his, the possession of the Demon King - what are you going to do? Run away? Try to fight him? (Some part of him wishes you would, just so he could punish you, just so he could pin you down and see those pretty tears roll down your cheeks, just so that for one solitary moment, you're looking at only him and thinking of only him and seeing only him.)

He doesn't see the point in marrying you if this is the route his obsession takes - the only benefit is making you more complacent, which isn't too much of an issue anyways because Muzan makes it clear from the very beginning that he's in charge.

If you were to catch his attention in another way (say, if he'd chosen to get close to you for a strategic reason - perhaps you're the daughter of some important figure or a powerful merchant), then he'd intend to marry you. It'd been the plan from the beginning, but once he gets to know you and decides that you aren't absolutely abhorrant, the marriage becomes less of a chore and more something that pleases him, because now you're his.

Tied to him, irrevocably his property that no man will ever touch. It quells his possessiveness and strokes his ego, all the while he'll tell that it's your duty to provide your husband with your heart, body, and soul - the smirk that curls onto his lip when he pins you down is hard to miss, as is the way he sneers out show me how devoted you are to your husband.)

Kokushibo is traditional. He's a fan of power structures and order, and while he doesn't necessarily believe that women are weaker (he doesn't respect Daki, but he can admit that she isn't horribly weak), he does believe that women are incomplete without a male partner. It's a sexist view and a product of his left-over human morals from many centuries earlier, but it stands strong in his relationship with you.

Similarly to most other demons, he doesn't really view you as a partner - you're his, his possession, a human that he finds himself oddly fascinated with despite himself. And so, he doesn't really care about your opinion in the matter of marriage - you're his woman, and he'll marry you.

It's about possession, not romance - he's certainly not bound by any laws, but marrying you might get you to realize the extent to which he owns you, the extent to which he's in charge of every aspect of your life. And the traditional values don't simply stop at the idea of marriage - they bleed into marriage as a concept, too.

He has strong opinions about what you should be wearing, how you should be acting, how the ceremony itself should be run. He's a bit domineering, and while he does hold a feeling as close to love as demons can have, it manifests itself mostly as controlling behavior.

He's running the ceremony, essentially, and it's extremely small - you're both in attendance of course, as are his fellow Upper Moons, but that's the extent. It's small, quick, and seamless, and before you know it you'll be back in the small, remote cabin he keeps you in, his form standing in the doorway and the room entirely silent.

He's controlling and doesn't fully view you as a person, but it's in moments of intimacy that just a sliver of his humanity comes crawling through, because no matter how badly he wishes to, he simply can't allow himself to touch you without your approval. He doesn't enjoy the sight of you crying, and he's internally conflicted about what the wedding night should look like. He should be fucking you, claiming you as his in the most primal and natural way a husband can, but you'll start sobbing again, and he doesn't want that. And so, instead, he compromises by simply holding you, his voice monotone as he tells you we can make love, if you'd wish.

It's awfully open-ended, and if you were to take him up on the opportunity, he'd be overjoyed - you'll find yourself waking up the next morning with a new kimono laid out on the bed, a small note written in extremely neat, near-perfect handwriting: a gift for my wife.

He's a bit of a sap, though it's hard to see - he'd never admit, either.

Douma doesn't have any particular desire to marry you, but he is admittedly intrigued by the idea.

It doesn't even cross his mind until one of his followers mentions something offhandedly about when the leader will marry his clearly favorite follower, and it gets him thinking. Marriage seems pointless, really, but humans do seem to like it, and he does like it when you smile and when you look at him all shocked and flustered.

And so, he considers the idea and decides that maybe he should do it - it'll force you to be closer to him, which is never a bad thing, and perhaps it will finally deter all other cult members from getting close to you in any way.

(Not that any of them are currently - they all know that you're Douma's, that you're staunchly off-limits. They know that everyone who approaches you disappears, and while Douma writes it off as a coincidence, it still leaves most people wary of your presence. But still - Douma likes the idea, his possessiveness quelling and his excitement sky-rocketing because it means he'll be all you have, and therefore you'll have to give him all the attention he craves from you.)

He pops the question in a not-at-all romantic setting, but he does gently cup your chin, tilting your head to look at him, those flashy eyes of his sparkling as he asks you whether you'd like to be my wife? He can't help the sigh he lets out at your bashful expression, the sound seeming much, much too high pitched to be normal (mimicking something more akin to a moan), and when you stutter out a y-yes, I would like to, Douma is pleased beyond words. It strokes his ego that you said yes, that you clearly want him, and he's quick to get the preparations rolling.

The wedding is extravagant and honestly way too much, but Douma wants everything to be over the top. The entire cult is in attendance, your dress has a train that drags a few feet behind you, and the flowers are such a vibrant red that it almost looks like they're stained with blood. The ring is simple, surprisingly, and the look in his eye is borderline psychotic as he slips the ring onto your finger.

And when he dips you for your first kiss as a married couple, he'll linger at your ear, sharp teeth grazing the shell as he whispers that you're mine, pretty, so don't run.

Akaza doesn't feel any need to marry you, surprisingly. He's another who has a difficult time rationalizing his feelings for you, simply because his view of humans being weak is difficult to move past.

He does, however, respect women significantly more than the other demons discussed in this post - and not only does he respect you, but he's genuinely the closest to being an absolute simp that a flesh-eating creature can be.

He's a bit rough around the edges and a bit abrasive, but he absolutely spoils you. You're getting high-end clothing and accessories, the best foods he can find in the local villages he slaughters, all kinds of trinkets and things that caught his eye and made him think of you.

He lives to see your smile, feeling this weird sense of accomplishment and self-satisfaction when you're pleased. And so, if you expressed some desire in getting married, Akaza would happily oblige, feeling only the tiniest bit of embarrassment. He's a bit clueless, however, so if you were serious about marriage you'd need to do all the planning. He'll let you dress however you want, whatever decorations and color themes, and he'll even let you choose which forest clearing the ceremony happens in.

(He won't allow you in any human establishments, even if you beg - he can't stand the thought of another person looking at you, and even if the entire village was killed before the ceremony, he's not willing to risk anything ruining the day he wants to be absolutely perfect for you.)

His vows are a bit choppy, the raw emotion on his face difficult to miss, though the words are more disturbing than sweet. There's talk of how he'd kill for you, proclamations of the extent to which he'd go for you - even detailing the murder of a man he'd noticed wash staring at you in a derogatory and objectifying way early on into his obsession when he was stalking you one day.

And when the infamous kiss occurs, he kisses you hard - his tongue is in your mouth and he's dipping you so deeply that your back is fully arched, and he keeps pressing into you harder and harder and harder, as if trying to bridge any little bit of space between you.

He wants you to be happy, and while he's not willing to let you go, he'll (somewhat) accommodate to your desires - so if you want something, just tell him.

(Especially when it comes to your pleasure - your wedding night will be much, much smoother if you guide him through your pleasure. After all, he'll do absolutely anything you want if it means seeing you pretty face when you come for him.)

Gyuutaro harbors a surprising amount of romantic fantasies between you and him. Of course, he'd never admit it, but he's frequently daydreamed about marrying you. Even during his human years, marriage wasn't too prevalent in the area he grew up.

(He's very familiar with sex and companionship work, but marriage? Not so much.)

Even so, he understands that marriage is the ultimate sign of love in the human world, and as his obsession with you grows deeper and stronger, so too do his fantasies of living through every human milestone of a happy relationship. He wants it so very badly; he wants you to want him, to love him and cherish him in a way that makes him scratch at his neck and warble on about how he's too ugly to be loved.

He wants you to want him - and so, after a few years of being stuck under his thumb, slowly letting the Stockholm Syndrome build and shatter your concept of reality, he'll pop the question. It's harsh and defensive, as if he's absolutely convinced you'll say no even before he's asked - his voice is sharp and whiny as he asks you if you'd like to marry a monster like me? What do you say, eh? Could you stomach marrying something so disgusting and ugly as me?

It's disguised as a self-deprecating comment, but the way he waits on edge for your response will tell you that he's very, very interested in your answer. Every muscle in his body is taut and tight, tension eating away at his stomach because oh god he's nervous, even as embarrassing as it is to admit.

If you say no he'll close himself off, berating you and telling you that you're judgmental, that you're no different from the hundreds of humans who only care about looks and beauty. His words are cruel and harsh and they hurt, but he doesn't mean them - he's just lashing out because he's hurt and doesn't know how else to express his pain.

But oh, if you say yes? Well, Gyuutaro's suddenly scratching himself hard, finding it difficult to maintain eye contact with you, a flustered feeling rising up his throat and nearly making him sick because god, is this what acceptance and love feel like?

The wedding itself is a bit half-assed, though he tried it best - his tastes are built upon the very little he knows about human weddings. But despite the fact that everything is a little dirty and the dress you're wearing doesn't fit you correctly, there's something about the way Gyutaro's hands are shaking as he hands you the ring that's almost, almost endearing - he resembles a shy, awkward boy rather than the man-eating captor he actually is.

And that night, he'll spend hours worshipping your body, pouring over every detail and scar and mole and committing it all to memory - committing you to memory, though he really doesn't need to because he'll be turning you into a demon soon so that you never leave him.

But still, it's the principle - and when he fucks you, with a voice that's especially high and a pace that's sloppy at best, you'll be able to feel what your marriage means to him - the way he moans when he sees the ring on your finger tells you as much.

So anon, long story short: they all feel a little different, but most are happy to marry you. It's a product of the time, yes, but also just another way to bind you to them - something they will not pass up.