Chapter Text
It was better you surmised, than the stink of fresh blood.
The ample lotus flowers in the entire temple made the place smell floral no matter where you went. Even at mealtimes, the faint scent would sneak it’s way in and caress each bite. Just so, you were grateful for it, because you knew that across the temple, there was scent far more potent and far more cloying.
Douma didn’t indulge often, usually one or two when they were ‘ready’, but tonight he’d taken no less than 5 of his followers to ‘ascend’, and if you made the mistake of heading towards the west wing, no doubt you’d pick up on the copper notes in the air.
Lotus was the better of the two scents.
A heavy sigh, you’d probably be called tomorrow night to discuss some inane musings from the cult leader, and be forced to spend yet again, another night ‘entertaining’ him. A kind word for him sparring with you, determined to toy with his food.
You sometimes hate it here, in the temple, but the outside world was not much better. In the temple, surrounded by sycophants and demons, you were unmolested, fed, bathed, clothed, kept warm and dry. Outside the temple? Who could say? It wasn’t the feudal era, but it wasn’t much kinder.
You barely recalled how you ended up here. Truck-kun memes were a little too on the nose, and while you hadn’t met the fabled white isekai bringer, you had tripped on a stairwell in the middle of a forest while on a temple tour. Your trip to japan had been planned for over a year, and you were so excited- you’d meet friends you’d had online for years, see places from shows and games, experience authentic food, go to theme parks, do a bunch of silly little tourist things. So now, sitting in the candlelight of a temple that by all stretches of the imagination shouldn’t exist, you remained aware that nothing made sense other than you had died falling down some stairs and now transmigrated into something else.
That something else being an anime.
And you hadn’t even come as a demon slayer or anything cool like that. No, you were 100% you. Which was odd given the trope of an isekai but not unheard of. No ‘system’, no special powers, no cheats or hacks. Well, maybe a bit. It wasn’t like you didn’t know the media you’d become a part of. Demon Slayer was popular after all.
You knew *of* Douma, but he wasn’t super fleshed out, as many villains aren’t beyond the basics. But what you did know you used to your advantage. He didn’t have emotions, only mimicked them. A genuine sociopath, he was far more dangerous because of his lack of feeling, and you also knew that if he thought bringing you to Muzan would be the thing to do, he’d do it.
Just why you kept your mouth firmly shut about anything and everything you knew.
Not that it was hard. You spoke English and lacked anything from your world and time other than your clothes. Your Japanese was basic and broken, knowing only phrases needed as a tourist - bits and bobs. He knew English which was slightly odd but not entirely out of place. America and the western world did trade, and so Douma, tutored as he was, knowing English wasn’t too far fetched. Thankfully, his english was very much not your modern, and, his was about as good as your Japanese. Two people barely able to understand each other made for a great way to cover up various details.
He pried, often, but he also seemed to buy the fact you were lost and had lost your family. That pain and sadness was genuine after all. You had cried about it. But it didn’t stop him from asking details. Why your clothes were so different, why you had an accent, why you wrote differently. Regionality, your middle class standing, your cover was easy enough. A child of a merchant you’d come as a way to expand your horizons, but the party seeking to make trade had been ambushed by something and you’d barely escaped.
Douma didn’t buy it, not really, but he got the hint. You didn’t belong and had in some way, lost yourself on his mountain. It was an unspoken understanding, you didn’t pry about him and the cult, and he’d leave your half lie story be.
And so, you ignored what was doubtlessly happening in the west wing, instead minding your business, trying to force yourself to enjoy the scent of lotus.
Morning came and so did your usual tasks. Not a cultist, you still were ‘part’ of it, expected to help with the daily cleaning, cooking, and all that. It was only at prayer that you would politely excuse yourself, often getting a soft reprimand for not seeking salvation, but still allowed. It gave you free time. Time you would spend trying to learn japanese, learn about the cult, about anything that would help you come when the demon would meet his end at a nichirin blade.
Days were short, as winter was slowly creeping in. The cold making things more difficult for a variety of reasons, your main issue was simply that it was cold. Your room was not heated, and heat was shared often from a communal location. It also would put a damper on any plans to leave. Less sun meant demons could strike more often, and it also made transport harder.
You had no money, so a train was out of the question, and no money also meant you’d have to rely on whatever the cult would provide and Douma? Douma was reluctant to offer anything you could use to leave.
Your breath a fine mist, you rubbed your hands together, setting the book of kanji down in an effort to become warm.
“Little bird.” His voice was light and cheerful but somehow it always set you on edge. Too fake, to artifaced. “You’ll get sick. Come to the people.” His english was understandable but not clear.
“Thank you, but I am fine.”
His face frowned, rainbow eyes fixed on you. Sometimes, you swore you saw the kanji in them.
“Not fine. You are cold.” He had no sense of personal space, entering the room he’d given you to grab your arm and, with the superhuman strength he had no qualms showing off, lifted you up and began to drag you with him. You learned that protesting only seemed to incense him, make him use more force, push harder, and smile while showing teeth. A threat, demon or no. He was in charge, and defiance would not end well for you. You were reliant on him and his good will.
A thing you guessed was by his design.
There was no time to protest his demands, pithy they may have been, and even if you did his grip and the force of his pull told you that he very much would not hear it.
“Lord Douma-”
“Douma! Only Douma!” His voice pitched- sincere in his want for you to call him by his name and without title. A familiarity you couldn’t allow. He was a demon, and you were smart enough to know he’d kill you if it suited him. Not to mention your foreigner status and ‘favored’ status put you at odds with some of cultists. In this world, it paid to have allies, and killed to have enemies.
“Douma,” you began, “I’m only cold.” He stopped his pace, turning to look at you, rainbow eyes holding something that you couldn’t place.
私のベッドであなたを暖められたらいいのに...” HIs japanese was quick and you barely caught his words, something dangerous in his gaze. He lacked emotions but he spoke often in expression, in his eyes and his intentions. This… was a gaze you didn’t know, only that it made your blood chill and your mind screamed danger, threat. But, he just smiled as he then resumed his pace, tugging you along.
[[I wish I could keep you warm in my bed…]]
You spent the rest of the cold cloudy day with the other cultists, studying as they prayed, the fire keeping everyone warm.
At night you tried to observe. To watch the cult, to watch the shifts in watches, the habits and schedules. But more importantly, you watched him. He held audiences and you often were called to watch; it was Douma's attempt to help you understand the cult and ‘japanese practice’. He was a world class actor, and people, desperate, ate up every word and hung on every whim. He was indeed, like a god to them. You, an outside observer, could admit it was impressive. But when he would linger on someone, you mentally counted. One week or two. The pattern had begun to emerge. Women had one week or two weeks if he planned to devour them. It was a smile he used, the way his eyes crinkled just a fraction as he spoke that let you know their fate.
Tonight, one woman, barely in her 20s, arm broken and in a sling from her husband. Douma smiled, rainbow eyes glittering on her lingering.
“あなたの幸せはここにあります.”
(Your happiness is here)
You doubted she would be happy for long.
A week, and then she was chosen.
That night was like others. You looked towards the west wing, the lotus mixed with copper faintly in the air and you quickly averted your eyes to where the demon no doubt was enjoying his meal. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault.. You couldn’t save her, you could only bide your time, learn all you could, and try to save yourself. You were an outsider, an observer, an interloper. You had no inkling when in the story you had landed, and if you were lucky, you’d last till the end. You could survive. You just had to bide your time. You just had to survive.
You know that he noticed the way you looked at him, almost predatory, calculating. It reminded him of someone determined. Someone who knew something they shouldn’t. But he’d made sure. You had nothing indicative of being tied to the demon slayers, and had seemed shocked when he showed you the nichirin sword he’d taken from one he’d killed. Ignorant perhaps, but not stupid. He found himself drawn to you, your mystery. You kept many things secret and rightly so. He had a hunch you were not ‘ordinary’ but going to Muzan with you and no answers would put him in a bad spot. Plus you’d be taken from him and that was just not acceptable.
Behind the shoji doors, his savored the woman’s flesh as he watched you turn and walk back inside. Five times he’d watched you do it. Each time on the nights he took his ‘meal’. Clearly, you knew something, but smartly were keeping quiet.
A pretty face, a supple body- he did want you. The sounds you made when you would be startled, when you had cried, when you whimpered over small pains-
His cock hardened at the memories.
He wanted to fuck you, which was rare. Sex wasn’t a thing he usually wanted from anyone in particular, but with you, oh, he wanted you. You were a mystery. If he opened your thighs would you open too? If he made you come on his cock would you come undone entirely? Lust-
No. Want. He didn’t feel it but he did want to.
You. He wanted you.
Hand soaked in blood, he reached down, palming himself, thinking of you crying like you had those first nights, tears running down that face and begging him to be licked away. He thought of those soft thighs plush and how he could grab and bruise them so easily. The small give of your belly, men would covet, a sign of your health and fertility. Your hips also helped that thought. Your tits too. They would fit in his hand and you were just the right height so that if you were sitting on his cock he could bite and suck them till they bled.
Douma blinked, a spike of pleasure up his spine.
White semen decorated his hand and torso. Ah, so he’d orgasm from thoughts of you? Licking his lips of the last of the blood, Douma thought it was time he began to play with you.
His little bird, who didn’t even know she was caged.
The next day you woke to Douma’s summons that night and when you went, you felt true fear.
Rainbow eyes sparkling, a smile that had a crinkle at the corner of his eyes.
“Are you ready to ascend?”