kimetsu no yaiba | | random texts

85

douma was a man of simple mindedness and commitment.

definitely.

he scaled mountains and swam from shore to shore, travelled across the land, searching far and wide, in order to find the person who understands his absolutely nasty preferences when it came to things that aroused him.

douma loved seeing people cry. he relished in the sound of people sobbing, at the sight of their faces flushing, which they desperately try to hide, as if trying to preserve their remaining dignity.

hah.

as if human beings were any more dignified than rats that feed on the waste of other living creatures.

that was what made them so absolutely tasty and scrumptious, the harmony of flavors in vulnerable bodies never a bore to his fine palate. the array of sensations always had surprises in store for him, one combination of seasoning rarely, if not never, reoccuring in a diversity of delicacies to choose from.

the tears they've shed drain them of their bitterness, of the raw strength of their aroma, of the--

not wishing to turn this into a food commentary which may or may not summon a human gourmet that went by the name of g*rdo* ram*a*, douma shook his head clear of his earthly desires to fill his belly with the juicy, tender flesh of the young girl who had passed by, behind him, as he settled down on the riverside.

"... i wonder how g*rdo* ram*a* would taste?"

he endured the demands of his growling stomach as he got up, picked up his luggage consisting of cheese and bread, two things that were shoved into the bag in order to have other travellers believe he was normal, and began once more to walk his million foot journey (no copyright please).

some evenings when he would stop by a clearing of sorts, he would sometimes hear the sobbing of a human being behind a tree, perhaps mourning for the loss of their family, and would relish in the sorowful, painful sobs as he drifted off to sleep.

pretending demons even sleep.

whatever else he did during the night is not something we should be discussing.

morning came. he set off very carefully, not even knowing why he didn't travel in the evening instead. but hey, it was the thrill of nearly getting burnt to oblivion and toasted by some stupid star that kept him going. he also was kind of a masochist after all.

he followed the scent of a degenerate, the odor of unacceptable carnality and strange attraction, to things that were 'supposed to be' a part of daily life and appeared dull to other people who were not enlightened in the culture of beauty. his eyes never once left the wisps of mystery and excitement that led him to where someone who finally understood him had lay.

it was a man.

contrary to popular belief, douma was not the least bit disappointed. he did swing both ways after all. it's 2020. get over it.

at the sight of a tall, drunk, silver-haired flamboyant existence wearing a casual yukata, the demon felt his heart race; he finally found someone who would accept him for who he was, unlike akaza, who only liked him when he was putting up an act made especially for the said demon.

he loved akaza... but it was about time he stepped forward and began to defend himself against the toxicity of such relationships. please listen to my advice and leave your toxic partners.

as the silver-haired man walked right into him in his drowsiness, the two of them collapsed onto the ground, and in that moment, douma knew he had found his dream in this man, for the moment he got up, he had complimented douma's hands rather than his facial features or his overall looks.

"your hands are really nice, you know..."

douma swallowed thickly, his cold dead heart beating faster against his ribcage, as if it was pleading to be let out of its prison. it's been such a long time since i've used that line in writing oh my god.

"you..." as soon as douma opened his mouth, the silver-haired man began to cry, his drunkenness getting to the rational part of his brain. his tears, the way his neck contorted, taking his collarbones and exposed shoulder muscles along with it; the sound of such a seemingly self-confident being break into sobs and the sight of him attempting to conceal his helplessness behind the sleeve of his yukata...

"something is rising... and it's not the sun."

douma sat there, frozen, the silver-haired man apologizing for his seemingly unanticipated burst of emotion after a good while. he stood up groggily, offering his hand to the demon who was still dumbfounded by the human's blinding beauty, a beauty one can only experience during the phase of despair, logical or absolutely abstract. it was like an artwork. not everyone could see the truest meaning behind the brush strokes, yet when one could get past the shallow mentality society has shackled him in, he would very surely be able to breathe in the new sensations that emanated from the painting; a communication that needed no words.

douma reached out, and the silver-haired human observed his fingers before helping him back on his feet.

"as i've said... you really have such nice hands."

douma could feel it.

"is that so? i'm glad they were to your liking."

the human nodded. "i'm sorry about earlier. name's uzui. you?"

"i..." the demon inhaled slowly, devouring the scent of uzui's salty tears and his musk of alcohol and perfume, planting the seeds of these blessings onto the top of his consciousness, and as he felt the vines of wonder creep into the crevices of his mind, he exhaled his own name with a satisfied smile, a real one, and one he had for after so many hundreds of years, procured out of true passion and love.

"i'm douma."

"do you want to come over?"

"i'm all for it."

"i have wives, though, so if you're not okay with, uh, not really private, well..."

douma was getting even more excited, and he chuckled as uzui took his hand and led him through the streets of the red light district, his drunk steps stable in the face of his newfound no homo companion.

"it's even better if we have an audience, don't you think?"

and thus the hornies found buddies.

the end.