Kny Douma - Blog Posts

The guy

!!TW/CW GORE!!

love and hate drawing this man (*TーT)b (reference from @ bengoetxearobert on Pinterest) Also if anyone knows if gore is a cw or a tw please do tell me idk so I just put both :’)

The Psychopath Ever :D

Also very slight gore on second image

Semi recently did a redraw of some old art. Redrew the (right) piece of Douma. (hate that guy but boy does his design tickle my brain)

also first post Yippie!! ~(≧ω≦)~

This is kind of a weird request, but can we get the upper moon's (all except Muzan) reactions to suddenly being human again? I dunno if they woke up one day and they were human or if it happened slowly over time, but I just think their reactions would be hilarious :]

I don't think Akaza notice. I imagine he'd just be walking around the infinite castle and everyone would be staring and Akaza would be like. 'Wtf is wrong with them'

I feel like Douma wouldn't care. He'd just be content doing anything. He would be sad because he wouldn't have his demon art any more tho.

Kokushibo would be scared he is going to die. He was turned into a demon after he got his mark (pretty sure he was already in his twenties)

Daki/Gyutaro would look at each other like the mom in home alone and scream each other's name

Everytime I read a KNY fanfic of certain demon x reader, there will always be Douma that just decided to ruin the relationship.

It's funny how we all look at him and agree that he's such a menace.

Yes, you are, Douma.

Yes, you are.

I kinda dislike him but it's so fun to draw him 👀✨

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕋𝕠𝕡 𝟛 𝕌𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕠𝕠𝕟𝕤 𝕆𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕥 𝔸𝕌 (𝔼𝕕𝕚𝕥𝕖𝕕)

𝔸𝕌 :

𝘏𝘰𝘨𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘈𝘜

𝘊𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘈𝘜

𝘙𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺 𝘈𝘜

𝘔𝘢𝘧𝘪𝘢 𝘈𝘜

𝘏𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘭/𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘈𝘜

𝘔𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘈𝘜

𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘈𝘜

𝘙𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘈𝘜

𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 𝘈𝘜

𝘠𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘈𝘜

𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘈𝘜

𝘚𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘈𝘜

𝘉𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘈𝘜

𝘍𝘰𝘭𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦/𝘍𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘈𝘜

𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘈𝘜

𝘚𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘈𝘜

( 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘈𝘜 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 )

ℝ𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕤 :

• 𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩, 𝙧@𝙥𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙧 𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙩

• 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙨𝙤 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙩 𝙡𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙡 𝙖𝙜𝙚

• 𝙍𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝘼𝙐 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙞𝙣𝙗𝙤𝙭 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚

• 𝙀𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝘼𝙐 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙙𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤𝙥 𝟯 𝙐𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙨

• 𝙄 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙝𝙚/𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜

• 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙫𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙆𝙤𝙠𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙗𝙤𝙪, 𝘿𝙤𝙪𝙢𝙖 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝘼𝙠𝙖𝙯𝙖 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮

• 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙁𝙤𝙡𝙠𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙚/𝙁𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝘼𝙐, 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩

Fumiko is lucky its Kokushibo of all the upper moons she fell for lol. If it was Douma, Muzan would not be able to control himself (Akaza silently cheers in the background)

Fumiko is lucky indeed

Jay and Douma fanart✨

Original manga scene

Jay belongs to @crazedfanofrandomthings

I got confused of Douma hair so I just did both of those hair colors.

"If hell isn't real then I'll create it for you" is the most raw line in history and it came from INOSUKA HASHIBIRA

Reblogs and comments are appreciated

PROVE ME WRONG I DARE YOU

Hi hiiii!!

I saw your post that you’re looking for KNY requests so I got one that I’ve been thinking abt for a while.

So, a Douma x reader where the reader is Muzan’s only daughter (or offspring if you’d prefer it to be gn) and Michael Jack- *ahem* I mean, Muzan doesn’t really pay that much attention to her so they don’t talk often. She’s also only half demon so she can walk in the sun (but he doesn’t know that for obvious reasons).

However, after Gyutaro and Daki were killed and all the upper moons were summoned, Muzan’s daughter joins them bc he always summons her regardless if she cares or not.

Low and behold, the other upper moons see her for the first time, except for Kokushibo who’s pretty much known her all her life since he’s the first. While they’re waiting for Muzan to arrive, she begins to have a conversation with the upper moons.

Her and Akaza feel neutral about each other, she gets along with Gyokko pretty well and Hantengu… is scared of making even eye contact with her since she’s Muzan’s daughter.

When Douma sees her, oh boy, head over heels is an understatement. Instead of wanting to be worshipped by her, he WANTS to worship the ground she walks on. When she sees his unique eyes and compliments them, he melts to the ground instantly, asking Gyokko if he’s in some kind of dream.

If you don’t want to do this or you don’t feel comfortable, then skip. Also, sorry that was long, I had to get it all out 😅

𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭! 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬 (𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭) 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐮𝐦𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐧, 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 😭

@warringwarrioridiot

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐍𝐨𝐧𝐞

𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩: (𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐚) 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜

𝐓𝐲𝐩𝐞: 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭(?) 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

"𝐌𝐲, 𝐦𝐲.."

𝐃𝐨𝐮𝐦𝐚

𝐀 𝐡𝐮𝐟𝐟 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲... 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐮𝐠, 𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐥 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬. "𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐞! 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐞!" 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐲. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞, 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐚𝐰𝐟𝐮𝐥. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧, 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐊𝐨𝐤𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐛𝐨'𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐄𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐲, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐔𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐬.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐤𝐚𝐳𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭, 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐆𝐲𝐨𝐤𝐤𝐨, 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐮, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐬.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐮𝐦𝐚 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬. 𝐇𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐀𝐤𝐚𝐳𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. "𝐌𝐲, 𝐦𝐲.. 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐛𝐞?" 𝐃𝐨𝐮𝐦𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬.

"𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬.." 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲, 𝐚 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝. 𝐀 𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐲. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬. 𝐖𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞? ..𝐘𝐞𝐬. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞? 𝐀𝐥𝐬𝐨.. 𝐲𝐞𝐬. 𝐖𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞, 𝐟𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬? 𝐀𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐲𝐞𝐬.

𝐀𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐝. 𝐃𝐨𝐮𝐦𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐬𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝-𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭? 𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝, 𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐲, 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐆𝐲𝐨𝐤𝐤𝐨.

"𝐆𝐲𝐨𝐤𝐤𝐨. 𝐈𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦?" 𝐇𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞. 𝐀𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞. "𝐌𝐲, 𝐦𝐲..."

frostbites /// Douma x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: [Mermaid AU] An ecologist studying a deserted island stumbles across a creature straight out of a fairytale…or a nightmare.

✧ open season thirsts but this one turned into a full fic so fuck my life [7–8/?] ✧

Request 1: Ooh can you write yandere mermaid AU’s?

Request 2: Oh my gosh. Okay, this is so exciting. Since I realized you write for Demon Slayer I've been itching for the opportunity to see anything from you about Doma. He's just. So awful and terrible. I'm trash, I love him. He's an actual monster with a saccharine smile. I'd love to see ANYTHING from you about him. Headcanons. A scenario of him with a demon slayer, or a demon, or just some pathetic human. Even just your thoughts on him would be a blessing, your choice. I’d just love to hear anything you have to say about him. Your writing is so beautifully unsettling, (your Oikawa piece Fanatic. That left me thinking about him for weeks.) So anything about Doma would be fantastic. But no pressure, if Doma isn't your cup of tea please don't force yourself. Honestly I'm just excited to see what you write from any of your requests. Thank you for being so lovely!

A/N: Combined these requests bc I feel like Douma was honestly perfect for this, and I’ve been holding off writing him until he gets animated but who knows how long that’ll take. Thank you so much, btw—I’m also Douma trash and I’ll absolutely be writing more for him in the future!

Is this yandere? It’s more like an origin story of Douma going yandere for cute ecology RA!reader. I haven’t written a scene like this in ages and it was really fun! I know I’m cursing myself by saying this, but maybe one day I’ll write more in this AU…no promises though ♡

Tags/warnings: yandere, mermaid AU but more on the spooky side (shoutout to @yandere-daydreams, the og yan mermaid fucker & a huge inspiration—thanks!!), fear, action, blood kink (?), mild violence, horror/beauty paradigm, size difference, animalistic, HEAVY predator/prey dynamic, one-sided sexual implications (reader is oblivious), ‘it’/‘the creature’ , hand kink, OSHA violations, there are many benefits to being a marine biologist, unfinished business…

You’ve never slept well in the cold.

Maybe you should’ve kept that in mind when you applied for a research assistant position on a tiny, uninhabited island off the Russian coast, but you thought you’d get used to it. You were sure—you were so sure, cocky little past-you—that you’d adapt to the below-freezing temperatures, that the worst part about the 2-month long field study would be the boredom of spending your days taking water samples and tagging birds with no cell service. But it’s not. The worst part is the cold.

So technically, one could argue that there’s a decent reason for you to be out of your bed tonight, yes? You couldn’t sleep from the stiff pain lancing through your sore muscles and the cold, so you made the (undeniably stupid, you’re now realizing) decision to leave camp and wander through the forest looking for…something. But by now you’re starting to regret it. You don’t think you’re far from camp, but everything feels sharper and stranger when you’re alone like this—the collar of your heavy jacket chafing against your throat, the crunch of hoarfrost under your boots, the thin beam of your flashlight catching the steam of your breath here and there before glancing over the surface of the water. God, you should have stayed in bed.

Even so many hours past sunset, the river that cuts through the center of the island is darker than the night and twice as cold. You haven’t forgotten the cautionary words the team leader imparted on your group before you came to the island: how easy it would be to get caught under the current, how quickly the icy water would seep into your limbs and your blood and your heart. You’ve been following the river because there are no paths and no markers, but you keep a safe distance—that is, until you see it.

A flash of light reflecting back from something under the surface. A rippling tongue of silver cutting through the black water. You start, shiver. You look again for the fish (how could it be a fish, though? nothing that big lives in the water here) but the churning waters are dark again. Just to prove to yourself that you’re being silly, you take a few slow steps closer to the bank—crouching low to keep your balance, shining your flashlight into the river, straining your vision to stare into the depths.

And someone—something—looks back.

You know about the fight or flight instinct, how the nervous system kicks into gear with the right stimulus; that reminder that humans are prey animals too. But you don’t run, and you don’t fight. Every muscle in your body stills, locks into place. You freeze. The thing in the river places its hands on the bank to rise half out of the water and tilts its head to the side; stares into your face. And you stare back at it. Behind it, in the river, you see hints of what caught your eye earlier: a silvery tail, like a fishtail but impossibly long, winding effortlessly through the water and keeping the creature’s torso afloat.

Your knees and the heels of your palms press into the ground. The ice underneath stings through each layer of clothing that was supposed to protect you from the elements, biting a little deeper with every second you spend sitting rigid and looking at the creature in front of you. Run. Run. Run, you think.

It blinks slowly, pale lashes shuttering down over kaleidoscopic eyes that your mind can’t seem to categorize into human or inhuman. You’re so focused on its face that you don’t see its hand move, don’t even know it’s reaching for you until you feel the icy weight of it against your cheek. Its lips part—those teeth, oh god, oh god—and it speaks something in a low, eerie voice that you know by instinct wasn’t built for human language.

(You don’t understand then—the version of Japanese he learned so many decades ago was too archaic and too heavily inflected by his unnatural manner of speaking for you to comprehend. Later, when you’re able to understand him, he’ll repeat what he said that first time he saw you kneel down by the edge of the water like a frightened doe: he’ll tell you he laid his hand on your bare skin and felt the beat of your heart and did his best to remember the human word for warm.)

But you hear different.

You hear the whispered, slithering curse of a monster from a nightmare—a beautiful one, but still. Your prey instinct thrills into pure terror, and finally a thought rips its way to the surface. You know—your brain knows, the logical part of you that you’re supposed to rely on—you know what you need to do. You have to get away. Heave your shivering body off of the muddy snow and force it into motion. You know this, you should know this, and yet the fear radiating through your body is concentrated not on your legs, but on the point where the—

—the what? the mermaid? the monster?—

—this thing is touching you, its fingertips resting delicately on your cheek. The body below the human torso resembles something between a shining fish and an eel, but the skin touching yours would almost feel human if it weren’t so cold. (Like a dead man. Like a dead thing, your mind tells you, and if every hair on your body wasn’t already pricked up in goosebumps, it would be now.)

The nails, too—not like a person’s nails you’ve ever seen—thick and long, tapering into points that could tear your flesh open like paper if the thing in the water decides to move them just a fraction of an inch down into the delicate tissue of your cheek—and because you can’t stop yourself, you don’t do the sensible thing. You don’t run. You release something that sounds like a choked scream (you can see the steam of it staining the frigid air white more than you actually hear it) and you force your stiff muscles to take hold of the creature’s wrist and try to drag his hand somewhere, anywhere it isn’t touching your face.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You’re going to die here, aren’t you?

The terrible, beautiful form before you flexes, rippling like a current’s passing down from where your covered fingers are feebly trying to pull at the cold, thick mass of its arm; in an instant, it’s lifting itself out of the black water to tower over you, and it—

Not it. Him.

The thing, the monster in front of you isn’t human, but from the waist up you can’t help categorizing it—him—as male in your head. Even without considering the dozen feet of his tail, it’s a body with power threaded into every centimeter of flesh: muscular, serpentine almost, and larger than a human man’s but unmistakably male, even if the slick contours of his abdomen, his pectorals, the V-shaped muscles framing his hips and disappearing into scales below would be better suited to a stone carving of a pagan god than any man you’ve ever seen in real life.

The wrist you naively thought you could move is so large that despite the added bulk of the mitten you’re wearing, your fingers aren’t even close to meeting around it; when he bows his head toward yours, forcing you to arch your own neck back to avoid another unwelcome touch, the pristine architecture of his face fills your field of vision. In the periphery, you see a few wet strands of silver-gold hair slip over his shoulder and onto the surface of your puffer jacket, dripping frigid river water into the nylon and the fill until it soaks through to your collarbone.

More important than that, though, is the way he’s looking at you. He’s surprised, or you’d think so if this were a human and you could trust your interpretation of his wide eyes and his head cocked to the side, the slight part of his mouth and the way it curls up at the corners—some mixture of shock and delight, like a child who’s managed to catch a bird in his hands and can’t really believe his good luck.

You feel the muscles in his arm contract and then the grip you had on him is inverted—it’s him squeezing long, agile fingers around your wrist, easily spanning the width of it even over the thick sleeve of your jacket, nails stroking over the fabric like he’s deciding whether or not to shred it to get at your skin.

After a moment of deliberation, where you scrunch your eyes closed and grimace away from the cold seeping off him in waves, you feel the synthetic texture of your insulated mitt slipping over your hand—he’s taking your mitten off? You chance a quick look over, and he’s already tearing through the thick wrist strap with a single swipe of his claw to pull the mitt over your hand and drop it limply to your side. It’s too cold here for bare hands—you instinctively try to draw your hand back, curl your fingers into a fist, but the creature doesn’t let you—a short hiss escapes his mouth, and then his own hand is flattening against yours, forcing your fingers straight so he can—

—it’s strange. Almost like he’s comparing the size of his hand to yours. But that wouldn’t make sense, would it?

With the damp cold of his palm aligned against the warm softness of yours, you can tell that his hand is enormous—each fingertip outstretches easily five, six centimeters past yours, even without the added length of his sharpened nails. The stillness, the strangeness of the comparison quiets the part of your mind that’s curled in on itself with sheer terror enough that the researcher in you can start making notes—skin resembles human’s but slightly…smoother? glossier? could be something covering the surface along with water—abnormally large hands but seem to correspond with body size—small amount of transparent webbing between the fingers…

The massive hand pressed into yours shifts by a few degrees, fingers finding the gaps between yours, lacing your hands together and applying pressure until, until—

You flinch, trying without success to yank your hand away from the source of the pain and you speak without thinking. “—stop—stop, that hurts!”

He stops, easing the pressure on your delicate hand, but only by a little. Curious eyes move back to you, lingering over the movement of your mouth when you speak. His own mouth opens, and you force your gaze back up to his multicolored eyes so you don’t have to look at his teeth.

“h—ur—hur—ts?”

You frown through the persistent ache in your wrist—did he just—? Is he trying to imitate you?

“hur—ts?” the creature says again in that low, slithering voice that still feels wrong somehow. “it—hurts?”

“Can you understand me?” you gasp, the words leaving your mouth so quickly that your breath in the cold air clouds his beautiful face for a moment.

His head dips into a fluid nod. “—can— un—under—stand.”

You’re marveling at the discovery—not only can this creature sort of…mimic human speech, it seems like there’s a chance he actually understands what you’re saying. Does that mean he’s met humans before? Is he part human—some kind of human hybrid, a species never before believed possible until you stumbled across it on a completely unrelated research project? What does this mean—for your team, for your career, for the world? Never mind that he’s still gripping your hand so hard that the bones are starting to throb with pain—for the first time since you spotted his tail moving through the water, your fear moves to the back burner. Instead, your mind is humming with the possibilities of this finding.

Which is why you don’t notice him leaning in closer until it’s too late.

“sm—ell— g—ood. smells—good,” he repeats breathily, the air exhaled from those unearthly lungs washing like a cold rain over the side of your cheek. His face—so much larger than yours—is nudging up against the place where your jaw meets your throat, breathing in your scent. You can feel the brush of his pale eyelashes against your sensitive skin.

“want to— t—taste—want to—eat—”

You’re so numb from the cold that you barely feel the razor-like edge of his claw slice through your bared skin, drawing a shallow cut from your thumb down the back of your hand to the bulge of the carpal bones in your wrist. It’s not deep—the pain isn’t even as noticeable as the strangeness of the heat you feel seeping from the injury a second later—which you realize, as the creature pulls back just enough to lick over it—is blood.

Your blood.

He’s lapping at your blood.

You try to scramble to your feet, boots scraping haphazardly against the slippery coating of snow on the ground only to pull him closer by his grip on your hand when you stumble back almost flat to the earth. You prop yourself up on your elbows and then he’s looming over you, nose almost touching yours, the bulk of his broad chest gleaming white like the snow underneath you.

He’s smiling—beaming down at you, eyes wide with joy, such an angelic kind of beauty that for a second, despite everything, your heart seizes up with longing—ribbons of metallic hair curl around his face as they dry or drip down over his chiseled shoulders like rivers of gold—his eyes shimmer in a million colors you couldn’t put names to, almost luminescent even in the scattered halo from the flashlight you discarded a few feet away without thinking—this monster, your angel of death staring you in the face, so beautiful it hurts to look at him—

Stop freezing. You have to run. You have to do something. Your adrenaline isn’t working right, it’s pinning you into the frozen earth just as surely as the creature on top of you. The weight of his body—the juncture between his human abdomen and the tail—settles between your knees, forcing your legs wider to accommodate the mass between them. His mouth moves and again you’re transfixed piecing together his fractured speech.

“you—taste good—soft— sw—sweet. want to—touch—feel. inside.” His low, raspy voice is laced with something besides pleasure—hunger? you can’t tell, you’re not sure, but it has to be—and his eyes drift closed happily as he speaks, one thick arm curling underneath your rigid body to draw it up against his. “let me—inside—? let me feel inside—”

“Get off me!” Do something. Now. You don’t know what he’s talking about (‘feel inside’? what the fuck?), but considering common sense is telling you that there’s a decent chance you’re about to be wolfed down like Christmas dinner, it can’t be anything good.

You struggle awkwardly against the pressure of his arm, but you’re nowhere near worming your way away from him when your bare hand scrapes roughly into the dirt near your leg searching out the pocketknife you keep zipped into one of your chest pockets. Somehow you have a hard time believing the 6cm blade you use to clean under your fingernails is going to do a whole lot of good against the literal monster that’s wrestling you into the snow at the moment, but maybe a decent slash over the face could distract him enough for you to get away?

It doesn’t matter, though—as soon as the back of your thumb makes contact with the rough fragments of ice littering the ground, your escape attempt is thrust to the side in deference to the line of fire screaming out from the cut on your hand. A mixture of clean and dried blood smears out over the dirty snow and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from whimpering like an animal.

The pressure against your chest lets up as the monster…sits up, or whatever the anatomically-correct equivalent position is, staring down at you with patronizing concern over his face. “it hurts?” he asks slowly, almost mockingly, but your eyes are fixed on the newly-reopened injury spilling a few final drops of scarlet into the white canvas underneath. So red, like…

The flare.

The fucking flare you were given, for emergencies only.

You’re an idiot.

Before the creature can resume its attack, your abused hand shoots to the thigh pocket where the flare is resting parallel to your leg—you can barely get your cold fingers to move to the right position but you force the stiff digits to grip the zipper and yank it open, bending a few of the metal teeth in the process. He notices you moving, but just cocks his head to the side again, waiting patiently to bat aside whatever pathetic resistance attempt you’ll mount this time—and then you have it—the long rod of the flare is resting in your hand and you slide it out of the pocket to point it out to the side as far from your body as possible—

his eyes narrow a little and he makes to reach out for you again, probably wondering what you’re holding—

your team leader taught you how to use these flares on the first day of the boat trip: hold it downwind remove the cap strike the lid like a match—and in the chaos you barely remember to turn your face away and close your eyes but you do and then—

Heat explodes through the icy air as the black behind your eyelids blooms scarlet from the light of the flare. You can hear it hissing and spitting—or is that the monster?—but more importantly you can feel it, the fiery warmth roasting through the darkness at the end of your arm. You thrust the flare upward blindly (careful not to let it anywhere near you but so desperate at this point that you’d take a nasty burn over being eaten alive) and an instant later you feel the weight of his body lift off you. You don’t have any time to waste—it’ll only burn for a minute, and with the frost still biting through your lungs you’re not going to be running as fast as you’d like—but hey, he’s part fish, right? So all you have to do is get away from the water. At least…you hope.

56 seconds left. You toss the still-burning flare to the side and roll in the other direction, squinting through the all-encompassing red glow to make out the plastic glint of your flashlight. You spot it, dive for it, and wrap your undamaged hand around the familiar grip, tucking the other into the pocket of your jacket for warmth. 49 seconds left. You can hear him behind you—growling or something in that creeping voice—but you can’t look back. Can’t look into those eyes, or you’ll be trapped again, pinned and licked and taken. You haul yourself to your feet and pick a direction—doesn’t matter where, as long as it’s away from the scarlet fire of the flare and the river and him. 43 seconds left.

Behind you, the growling has started to sound like laughter.

Run. Run. Run.

///

In the morning, you wake up cold.

You’re nested in your bedroll, but icy sweat is soaking through the fleece lining of your undershirt and your whole body is shaking trying to get you warm again. What a horrible dream, you tell yourself. Just a bad dream. You’re still wearing your outdoor jacket but that must be because you were so tired after the job you were assigned yesterday that you forgot to change into your nightclothes, so silly. One of your hands feels prickly and achy and it stings but that must be because you scraped it on something while taking samples. So careless of you. What a horrible dream, you tell yourself.

The morning light filtering through the tent is silver-grey, almost gold at some angles. You stare into the perfectly normal light, straight up into the place where the sun should be behind the fabric. There’s condensation collecting on the ceiling of the tent; when it drips down onto your bare face, you have this strange idea—that the sudden shock of cold water spilling down your cheek feels almost like…

…almost like the echo of a touch.

Douma siendo douma

douma is done! keychains coming soon!!

Get car seats for my kids first.

Im just leaving this here. Im crying please 🤣😭

KIMETSU NO YAIBA SPOILERS

my only contribution for this fandom. Is too soon?? lol.