Douma Harem + Douma Oneshots

?Douma Hanahaki? (Part One)

(A/N: to all of y'all who have requested smut: I'm sorry. I can't write it. Anyways take this oneshot as an apology.)

Douma coughed again, blood dripping out of his mouth. The usually sweet liquid tasted metallic against his tongue.

He was hunched over the traditionally carved bowl, hands loosely wrapped around his own throat. He retched again, feeling the small shape come out of his mouth again. Douma hurriedly stretched out a hand, catching it as it fell.

His polychromatic eyes glared at the small chrysanthemum in his hand. He straightened his back, still holding the flower. Douma tightened his fist, crushing the delicate petals as if that would stop the disease from spreading.

He wiped the blood stains surrounding his mouth, dropping the broken and torn petals on the floor.

Douma turned around, ignoring the scratching feeling in his throat that meant another flower was going to come up. He placed the bowl down on the floor. With a sudden surge of energy, he kicked it harshly. It hit the wall and shattered, blood pooling from the under the various fragments. He glanced at his elevated throne, but chose not to sit.

The demon pulled off his turtleneck, exposing the skin underneath. Douma dug his sharp nails into his chest, opening a gaping wound.

He forced his regeneration to slow down, reaching into his rib cage with a hiss of pain. His slender fingers clenched around a lung, and with a forceful tug, he yanked it out. Douma turned the organ around in his hand, inspecting the fleshy tissue dotted with flowers and vines.

The Uppermoon Two looked at it with no expression, before he threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a sickening squelch, blood splattering across the white paintwork.

The other lung, also infested with flowers, followed soon after.

Douma walked across the room, turning to face a mirror. He could already see his lungs regenerate. Douma scrutinised his reflection sternly.

"Pathetic," he said, his voice flat. He touched his new lungs. "You better behave."

A new layer of skin blossomed over the wound, hiding Douma's internal organs again. The demon turned away from the mirror, unable to look at himself anymore. He'd failed. He was meant to be emotionless. He was meant to be a psychopathic killing machine, unable to feel. That was his one purpose. And he'd failed.

He could already feel vines contracting around his new lungs.

Douma pulled his turtleneck over his bloody body.

He couldn't remember when it had started, but he knows it was recently. He'd researched the symptoms, after all, the cult had a library.

His disease was incurable. It was Hanahaki.

He'd never heard of a demon getting ill before, let alone with this specific disease. Perhaps there was some way to remove the flowers from his body?

Should he tell Muzan?

Should he tell the priest?

Douma didn't even know who it was he'd fallen for. He wasn't able to tell emotions apart.

He lifted his fan, hiding the blood around his expressionless mouth. He coughed again. Blood splattered on the golden metal in front of him.

Douma knew he was going to die. According to the countless books he'd read, a cure was being developed - a surgery of some sort - but wouldn't be ready for a few years. Douma had a few weeks at most.

He lowered his fan and rubbed at his neck with his other hand, feeling with his fingers for the flowers that had begun to bloom on his skin. His nails brushed across a small lump under his ear, and Douma didn't have to look at the mirror to know what it was.