Most Painful Thing Is Discovering That Someone You Know Also Enjoys [media Obsession], But Then Realizing

most painful thing is discovering that someone you know also enjoys [media obsession], but then realizing that they only like it in a normal way and not an unhinged way

The Glass House [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Title: The Glass House [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: You get your period and Mahito wants to run a few tests.

Word count: 3465

notes: yandere, consensual relationship, reader is on their period, mentions of other people's torture and death, humiliation relating to period, Mahito being Mahito is his own warning

It’s not often that Mahito bothers with your bathroom. Only, in the past, when you’ve been in it--naked and wet and usually mid-shower, as he apparently finds it entertaining to see what noises you make each time he surprises you. 

(Once, after comparing him to the killer in Psycho, he’d demanded to then watch the film. ‘But I didn’t stab you and you didn’t bleed chocolate syrup,’ he’d said, simply, after the scene in question.)

Today, though, he’s decided that there must be something interesting in there, because he’s spent the better part of 5 minutes rummaging--you can hear the sound of items being moved--in the closet and, judging by the sound of rustling, he’s now fiddling with the trash can.

“Hey,” he says, finally sauntering out of the bathroom. When you turn to greet him, a sarcastic remark about having fun digging through the trash on your lips, your heart stutters. 

In return, Mahito simply blinks at you.

“What’s this?” He asks, dangling one of your used pads from his hand.

The smear of dried blood in the center of the white pad feels accusatory, out of its proper context in the trash can. A bit of toilet paper sticks to the end of it, remnants of the ball you created to cover up your mess. 

“Oh fuck,” you say, reflexively. “Put that down! That’s--it’s--”

“It’s blood,” he says, giving the pad a sniff. “Smells funny though. Why’s it in your bathroom? Why’s it on this thing? When did you get hurt? Why were you hiding it in the trash?” The questions come simply, nearly rapid-fire. He probably says them as he thinks them.

Your cheeks burn something awful by the end of his questions, and your answer comes out half-stuttered. “It’s--I didn’t get hurt. I’m on my period.” 

One of his fingers is stuck to the bottom of the pad, and he peels it off deftly, holding it closer as you wish you could snatch it from his hands and forget this ever happened.

“Oh,” is what he says, eventually, with a quiet hint of curiosity. “I guess I’m lucky then. I’ve been wanting to study human menstruation for a while now.”

The word study sticks to your chest, but you aren’t able to peel it away so easily. You don’t want him to study you; don’t want to be under his scrutiny in such an obvious way. It’s easier to pretend he knows about people, about humanity, when you’re firmly playing at something closer to a normal relationship.

As if anything about this was normal. 

“Can’t you study one of your… experiments?” 

Experiments. Oh, what a simple, inoffensive word for what they really are--you shake that thought away as easily as a mosquito, though it never truly leaves the room. 

At this, Mahito’s eyebrows raise, and the edge of a smile tickles his lips. 

“Oh,” he coos. “That’s awfully selfish to say, even for you.”

He closes the distance between the two of you now, and you don’t bother resisting when he gives your chest a poke--thankfully with the hand not currently holding your used pad--and encourages you to sit back down on the sofa.

“I want to see.” Simple and clear, like most of the things he says to you. His directness with you is something that does make him stand apart from most people. If he wanted attention, he told you so; if he wanted to be left alone, the same. There weren’t mind games with him or--or hell, if there were mind games, you were too stupid to notice them and that was just fine with you, because the alternatives of your past relationships had been far worse. 

“Why?” You ask, if only to delay the inevitable.

Mahito shakes the pad on his hand, smiling a little at the way it sticks, before he peels it off and sets it on the coffee table. He sighs. “Movies never show it. They always show the woman eating ice cream or screaming at her boyfriend or cuddling with pillows, but they never show what’s actually happening down there.”

You squirm without moving.

“It’s just blood.” Your tone stays flat, uninterested. If he thinks it’s boring, he might move on. “Nothing special about that.”

Mahito’s smile reminds you of an eel. 

“Then show me.” 

It’s not a request that you can parry off, so you don’t bother; instead, you spread your legs, pulling up your skirt so that Mahito won’t do it himself. You might just lose the garment entirely, if it was left up to him.

Mahito claps, then crouches down in front of you, getting far too close to your pad-clad underwear for comfort. He takes a sniff and you’d like to die on the spot.

He gives the pad a poke. 

“Why do you put this in there? What’s it called again?”

You close your legs a little--instinct--and he holds them open for you. It’s easier that way, you think. Easier when he takes control and you don’t have to fight your instincts. 

“It’s a pad,” you force out. “I put it there to absorb the blood.”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

Your nose wrinkles at the question. “So it doesn’t get on my clothes or everything I sit on.” A ghost of a memory pushes through your brain--blood stains on school bus seats and church pews--and you force it down.

Mahito tilts his head, and you think he’s about to ask what you’re thinking about, but instead he sighs and rests his head against the edge of your thigh.

“Humans are so squeamish.” His fingers reach up and climb up your leg, dancing on your inner thighs, towards the pad. You twitch--it tickles--and he smiles. “Does everyone use pads?” 

“No,” you say, as he grips the top of your underwear and begins to slide them down. You do move, now, but not to oppose him. It would be pointless. Instead you hike yourself up a little, so that your bare privates aren’t touching the couch. “Some people use tampons,” you finish, as if you’re not sitting here, hunched on your sofa, while a curse pulls down your underwear to get a look at what’s underneath.

Mahito glances up at you. He wants you to elaborate.

“A tampon is like a cotton stick, I guess? You put it up--there--and it absorbs like a pad. But from the inside.”

“Oh!” The edge of Mahito’s fingers play with the pad on your underwear. “I guess some of my experiments have been on their period, then. I wondered what those were.” He pouts, just a bit. “Maybe that’s why some of my experiments haven’t been working out right. I wasn’t taking menstruation into account.”

The thought has your stomach roiling. But you don’t want to talk about it. Don’t want to think about it--what Mahito does, when he’s not here, and how what he does is just as much a part of him as the moments when he’s snuggling with you in your apartment or fucking you into your mattress.

When you look back at him, he’s grinning.

“You’re squeamish, too. About my work.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Don’t worry. It’s cute on you.”

With that, he gives up all pretense, and peels the pad away from your underwear in one swift motion.

“What are you doing?” You ask, even though you know the answer.

“Keeping it.” He sets it next to the already used pad. In contrast, the pad he’s just peeled away still has mostly brighter red blood on it, rather than the dull, brown old blood from the bathroom trash can. “I want to see how long it takes for you to bleed through your underwear. And some more things,” he adds, casually.

Oh, you think. This is too far, too weird. It’s puncturing the bubble you’ve created around you and Mahito in a way you don’t like.

“Mahito, I am not--”

In an instant, his eyes are on you. It’s a look that says, “You are,” and your lips feel like they clamp shut without hesitation. Something low climbs into your stomach and takes root there. When your shoulders slump, defeated, he pats your knee in appreciation.

“We’ll have a slumber party this week,” he tells you, voice getting more giddy as he goes on. “For three days? Four? However long you bleed.” He stands up and begins to survey your apartment, but for what you don’t yet know. “I can get a lot of experiments done in four days.” 

You don’t have the heart--or the stomach--to deny him.

--

When you were thirteen, you once got your period in the middle of class. You didn’t know it until you leaned forward in your desk to get a closer look at what the teacher wrote on the blackboard--your needed glasses at the time, and didn’t yet know it--and one of the boys behind you let out a distinct tween boy guffaw, snickering just loud enough for everyone to hear: “Dude, that’s fucking nasty.”

And then you’d felt it--wetness clinging to the inside of your black pants. And you’d scooted back, looked between your legs, and there it was: a smear of red on the dull grey chair. 

You were too embarrassed to do anything but sit back down, cheeks so hot that you began to sweat, and listened as everyone behind you began murmuring about your period. You had wanted to die for almost two weeks, and for the rest of your school career, you wore a sweater around your waist just in case you started without warning. 

That incident, as life-defining as it had been, was not as embarrassing as what you’re going through right now.

“Mahito,” you mumble, voice thick from your tightened throat. “Is this really necessary?”

Mahito, seated at a folding table he’s hauled into the living room, glances up at you. You, naked as the day you were born and perched awkwardly on top of a porcelain bowl that Mahito had shoved underneath you.

“Which part? The bowl or you being naked?”

“Both,” you blurt helplessly.

Mahito smiles. It’s such a pretty, awful little smile. “The bowl is,” he admits. His eyes leer over your body, awkward as it must look right now. “I just like to look at you.”

God help you, you feel flattered; the warm flush in your skin tingles with the new emotion. Mahito’s praises never failed to make you feel like that, even in the midst of something like this.

Mahito abandons the table and squats in front of the sofa, peering in between your spread thighs at the bowl underneath. You squirm, and he smacks the inside of your thigh sharply. You stop moving.

“I thought it would come out faster.” His tone is soft, low. Detached to everything but mild curiosity. Like a child studying an insect in a chair. “But it’s more… oozing than anything.”

“Don’t call it oozing,” you say. 

Before he can answer, a timer resting on the folding table dings delightfully. Mahito doesn’t waste time and yanks the bowl out from underneath you, leaving you to land flat on the sofa with your bare ass.

“’Hito!” You whine. “It’ll stain!” Thoughts of having to get the smeary blood out of your couch override the desire to keep your whining to a minimum, lest Mahito get annoyed with you. But, you think, it doesn’t matter much now. He’s not even paying attention.

Instead, he whisks the bowl over to the table and places it on the scale to weigh.

He sighs out something like disappointment. “It’s not that much blood at all, really. I don’t know why women complain about it so much in movies.”

He wasn’t paying attention to your whining earlier, but he does hear your incredulous intake of breath at his words. He glances back at you, confusion written on his face.

“What? It really isn’t. Now, when someone loses a limb, that’s real blood loss. And it spurts out, instead of oozing.” He nods, affirming his thoughts to himself. “That would be something to complain about.” 

“It’s not just the blood,” you say, half absent. Your mind drifts to when and where and how Mahito might see someone lose an arm. Did he cut it off? Or another curse? Did the blood droplets spray over his face? Did the person die right away or--

While you were lost in thought, Mahito left his post at the table and returned to crouch in front of you, now sitting flat on the sofa despite the inevitable stains. 

“Go on,” he says simply, all the while pushing your thighs apart with his hands. There’s a bit of blood smeared on the inside of your thighs and he leans forward to give it a lick. The awful feeling nesting in your stomach bristles. 

“Don’t.” 

Mahito blinks up at you. “I want to,” is all he says, before he does it again. 

The look he gives you--Will you try to stop me?--is met with you dropping your chin, just in time to see him smile. He gives another lick. “Tell me what else makes you complain when you’re on your period.”

You think about the sneering boys behind you at school, the way one of them tapped you on your shoulder and said, voice full of glorified condescension, “Aren’t you even wearing a pad? That’s nasty.” 

Instead, you rest your hands on your naked stomach and murmur out the answers Mahito wants to hear.

“Cramps.” You swallow, forcing yourself to taste the ghost of your milkshake from lunch this afternoon and not the bile that wants to come up. “From the um, uterus contracting. It can hurt really bad.” 

One of the girls in the class discretely handed you a pad, but your embarrassment had been so awful that you pretended not to see her, even when she waved it in front of you. “What a bitch,” she’d murmured to a friend afterward. 

“Back pain,” you continue, voice cracking. “And you can get tired. You want to eat but can’t… or you don’t want to eat at all, sometimes. It’s just… a lot of stuff.”

Your body jolts when Mahito puts his hands on your stomach--he wouldn’t transfigure you, he’s said that, and you remember his words well. But it doesn’t stop you from imagining.

“Is that why women get angry when they menstruate?” The mild glare you give him is met with the most innocent of expressions. “What? It’s what all the movies say. Though the man usually gets hit with something after he says it.” He smiles, as if daring you to hit him. You don’t.

Instead, you keep talking. Maybe it’s a way to ground yourself. Maybe you just want to talk to fill the space where dead, disfigured women, corpses created at Mahito’s whim, exist.

“Your hormones can fluctuate.” You smile a little at the forced nostalgia. “Sometimes I get really upset over dumb things. Especially when I was younger. One time, I sobbed because my mom said she was going to get fast food for dinner and she changed her mind.”

Mahito rests his elbows on your thighs, digging into them harshly. His hair tickles your skin, and you wonder, idly, if he’ll get your blood on the silver strands.

“Do you want to cry now?” He asks, almost sweetly. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Do you want to cry? No. You might, though, if things keep going the way they are. So you dig your teeth into your lip and shake your head.

“No. This is just… embarrassing, I guess.” To be naked. To be bleeding. To have Mahito sitting there, your blood on his tongue.

Mahito quirks his head, then scoots back to pry your thighs farther apart so he can get a better view of your bleeding privates.

“I don’t see why humans get so embarrassed about their bodies. It seems silly.” He rests his chin on his elbow for a moment, hums, then hoists himself up and returns to the table where he’s got a few used pads and the bowl still lined up. 

“Mahito?” You ask, while he’s tinkering with his findings. “Can I put my clothes on now. And a pad?”

“No,” he answers, voice light, without even looking behind him. “I need to put this inside you first.”

You do move to get up off the couch now, a pang of fear shooting through your stomach, but you stop when he turns around with a wrapped tampon held aloft. Where did he get it--the thought flickers, and turns into something more pressing: Why does he have it?

But you know the answer, don’t you?

“I don’t use tampons.” A useless thing to say, but you say it anyway.

He simply blinks at you, and crouches back down in front of you, parting your thighs like air.

“They’re uncomfortable,” you try, louder.

This time, he stops moving, and a little bit of hope flickers through you just long enough for him to furrow his eyebrows.

“But when I make my penis, it’s much bigger than this, and you don’t say it’s uncomfortable.”

Your mouth opens to answer, and your tongue sticks to the inside. It’s stupid to argue with him when he’s got his mind set on something. So you don’t.

When you don’t continue to complain, he nods, then unwraps the tampon and skims the back of the wrapper. At least he’s reading the damn instructions, you think, in the instant before he awkwardly shoves the tampon inside you--too rough and hard, and you whimper as it pinches  in an entirely awful way.

Mahito’s lips quirk. He checks the back of the wrapper again, tsks at himself, and pulls it out. This time, the insertion is less chaotic. It’s still sore, but no longer painful. Just… uncomfortable. 

“Aw.” He pats your thigh. “You did great. Let me start the timer!” He jumps up, hair swinging as he rushes to begin the timer for whatever phase of the experiment he’s on.

“Can I put some clothes on now?” Though you’re no longer hoping to avoid staining your sofa, it wouldn’t be awful to be a little less vulnerable in the moment.

Mahito taps his chin with his thumb, considering. Then he shakes his head. “I want you naked. But we can cuddle on your bed for this part, so you don’t get crabby!” 

There’s no time to voice a complaint or offense; he hoists you up, some of the blood that had smeared against your bottom rubbing off on his arm as he carries you into the bedroom. He doesn’t seem to mind; he simply plops you on the bed--fuck, your comforter--and hops on to wrap himself around you.

Silence stretches around you, even as he wraps his arms tighter and presses his nose against your neck.

“Are… we done after this?” You venture to ask, quiet and tired.

Mahito talks into your neck, cold breath--is it even breath?--ghosting your skin. “Oh, no. I have lots of things I’d like to find out this week.” You can feel his smile pressing into you. “You’re being very helpful, you know.”

“I am?”

Mahito hums against you, and sniffs your hair. His answer is so light and sweet, the contrast makes you feel a bit sick.

“Earlier, I’d considered just grabbing someone to experiment on instead, but since you’re being so sweet about everything, I figured I’d just use you instead.”

The dread in your stomach puffs up, its sodden hairs standing on end. 

“So you saved me from having to find at least one woman to test my questions on. Maybe two,” he adds, voice still light. “Doesn’t that feel nice?”

“Nice?” You ask, voice hollow.

Mahito presses a smooch to your neck. “Don’t most people feel nice when they do a good deed?”

A good deed, to stand in for women who might have otherwise died horribly. For women who would have spent their time not thinking about humiliating childhood period experiences but their families--their partners, their children, if they had them. 

A good deed to snuggle with Mahito, while miles away, someone was begging for death from underneath a mass of twisted flesh.

“I guess.” Your voice cracks, but it doesn’t bother him. You suppose a lot of things don’t bother Mahito and so often, you try not to let them bother you. 

He sighs against you, and presses his hands lightly where you’d laid them earlier to indicate your cramps. His fingers dully stroke against the spot, and you wonder what it would feel like for his fingers on you not to bring mild comfort and the growing tingle of affection--but terror and pain and fear.

You wonder, too, if Mahito ever thinks the same thing.

I'll never be over how cute Mahito is here

Horrorfest: The Killer Always Comes Back For One Last Scare [Yandere Haruta Shigemo x Reader]

Title: The Killer Always Comes Back for One Last Scare [Haruta Shigemo x Reader]

Synopsis: You're the last one alive--or so you think.

Horrorfest prompt: When I saw you post wanting to write a Mean Thing for Haruta JJK, my mind immediately jumped to now requesting "reader-chan thinking they killed him and got away, but surprise! His luck technique" in the way slasher films trick you

Word count: 2010

Notes: yandere, reader is female, descriptions of death, gore, groping, sexism, Haruta being Haruta

The blood–oh, the blood. You’ll never get the blood out of your clothes. They’ll have to be burned.

No–they’d be burned no matter what. Because even if the soaked-in red could be removed and laundered and done away with, you would always see it. You would always smell it. You would always feel it, warm at first and now dry and tacky, damp against your skin. 

Most of it wasn’t even yours, after all.

It was theirs–your colleagues–your friends–

Nao, her body sprawled face-down, neck sporting a boot print; blood soaked through the stab wounds through her chest, her back and the highest part of her thigh. The last was close to her backside, and the killer had laughed about it. “I almost got her cute little ass!”

Kei, killed the simplest. Killed first. Stabbed through the gut. “I’d rather play with you girls alone,” the killer said. He wasn’t lying. Because Shika–

Shika, flat on her back, eyes wide in horror. Her face was a canvas of pain, stab wounds on her cheeks, one of them flayed and flapped open, hanging down her jaw. Her hands–what was left of them, they were stubs of missing fingers now, defense wounds–were splayed upwards. In desperation, in prayer. In growing rigor mortis. 

A glance around you only makes you want to tear at your hair, your skin, to collapse on the ground and die alongside them. Hell, with your blood loss, that might still be an option.

Fuck–This was supposed to be a simple mission. An easy one. The plan was to meet for dinner and drinks afterward. Nao would get too drunk on cocktails and Kei would ask her out again and Shika would slap him and you would laugh and laugh and–it’ll never happen now. Not ever again.

You are the only one left alive. And it’s not fair, really. It’s not right.

Your colleagues–your friends, after years of working together–weren’t any stronger than you. They weren’t any weaker, either. You were the reconnaissance team. Trained in basic combat so you might hold your own until actual help arrives, but your techniques were defensive, strategic. 

It was always the next wave of sorcerers who were meant to do the real fighting, while your team got the information, relayed it to just the right people, then got the fuck out of there. And today? Today, you did get the information, and you did relay it to just the right people. 

But just as you were planning to make your swift and necessary exit, everything went to shit. The single curse user that you were meant to be tailing (a weaker man, you’d noted; his sword held his hand for him, of all things) turned out to be two. And the second had a technique that hid him from your sight until just the right moment, unleashing a barrier that kept you contained–an ambush. 

The second curse user didn’t even bother coming inside, and there was a brief sense of relief that rippled through your team. You could deal with one low level curse user. This other man, blonde and thin and wearing a stupid outfit and a stupider grin, could surely be fended off until help arrived.

Or so you thought.

He’d grinned widely before counting the lot of you with his sword in hand–

“One, two, three… four.” 

His gaze lingered on Nao, on Shika. And then on you. Longer than the others? Maybe. It was hard to tell, then and especially now, with the adrenaline. And the blood loss.

Speaking of–

You grunt and rip off a piece of your tattered suit, then another, and another. You’ll have to wrap your wounds yourself, now that you’re–now that you’re alone. Help will arrive soon, and since the curse user is finally dead, and the barrier is gone (perhaps his second simply gave up, when he died?) all you have to do is survive until someone comes to help you.

Which should be any minute now, surely.

They will come before you finish wrapping your wounds, even; there’s a hope you cling to, while you carefully gauge which of your injuries is most at risk for killing you. Probably the stab wound in your side. It went in deep. It hurt–it still hurts–and blood is still seeping out. There’s a strange sort of pain with this wound. Something that almost tingles. Perhaps he hit an organ. Or an artery. Or both. 

The cuts on your arms and legs, no, that’s superficial. Meaningless. You don’t bother with them, instead going for the deeper wound, wrapping it with as many pieces as you can. Blood seeps through, despite the efforts. But that's all you can do. 

A pained sigh, more of a whine, escapes your lips as you lean against the old fountain in the center of the square. On the off chance that the second curse user came back, sitting here was an awful idea. But you were tired. You were dying. And sitting here gave you the best chance at rescue.

It also gave you the best sight of the curses that had seeped their way out of your body, that of your friends as they died. They were nothing much. Bitter, scared things. Whining and whimpering, much like you were doing; much like the rest of them did as they died.

But it would be over soon. You could go home. Call your parents and tell them you love them, consider how to pick up the pieces, and maybe in time you–

“You’re still here! I’m so happy!”

The warmth of slowly bleeding out is cut through with ice that runs up and down your weary limbs, stopping at your chest to make sure your heart begins to race so hard that the pain of it has you leaping to your aching feet.

“You…” The words come out of your lips without energy. It’s impossible. You’re dreaming. No: you’re dead. That must be it. Dead and this is what you hallucinate as your brain fires off all those lovely synapses. 

But it’s not a dream, and you’re dead. Not yet.

The curse user is standing in front of you, looking almost cheerful. His sword is back in his hand–back to holding his hand–and the wound that should have killed him, the ragged slicing of his neck that you managed with a broken pane of glass, is healed up. The only sign of it are dried rivulets of blood covering his neck and chest.

He glances down at it, following your gaze.

“Weird, huh? I’m just really lucky, you know!” When he looks back up, his eyes are wild. But not with anger, as you might expect. No–his eyes shimmer with glee.

There’s only one thing your brain can think to say to him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His eyes widen. His lips get thin. He seems to be thinking seriously, perhaps for the first time in his whole damn life. And then, his face begins to shake–a little at first. His lips twitch into a smile. Then he throws back his head and laughs. Loud, giddy. It hurts your ears and you long to cover them up.

“I like to have fun,” he says, taking a step closer. 

Your eyes dart here and there, but where is there to run? You’re exhausted. Bleeding profusely. You wouldn’t make it around the corner.

When your pathetic gaze makes it back to him, he grins wider.

“And I really like weak things. You’re a weak thing, aren’t you?” He licks his lips as his eyes travel up and down your weakened, bleeding body. “All women are.”

There’s a retort somewhere in you; some indignity that might flare up and have you glaring, spitting at him, all defiance and swollen anger. But that retort has been stabbed out of you, chased out of you as your legs twisted and turned within the barrier. 

The retort is blubbering in the blood seeping out from underneath your torn suit bandages. 

“Aw,” he coos. “See? You can’t even speak.” He makes an awful noise, a gleeful little moan. “I want to hear you scream again, though.” His gaze flicks at Nao and Shika. “They made wonderful noises as they died. So pitiful.” His voice cracks at the last word, like a boy in puberty. 

At this, your body does finally try to run away. It has to; you can’t just stand here and die, no matter how tired you are. So your gaze hovers to the left before your bled-out mind decides it’s the best direction to go, carrying your weakened, jelly-like legs a few steps. 

A stupid thing to do, but since when were primal instincts always smart? 

“Oh!” He croons, just in time for your knees to buckle, for your body to hit the pavement hard. 

His footsteps sound too loud against the ground as he approaches you. You’re about to die. He’ll either kill you quick or slow but either way, you’re dead. 

Well, you think. At least I won’t have to live with survivor’s guilt. But mom-dad-sis-friends-neighbors-my-dog–growing-up-on-a-quiet-street-the-time-I-fell-down-at-the-playground-my-first-kiss-and–

All bittersweetness, all those momentary flashes of your life before your dying eyes are replaced with blinding hot pain searing through your ass. His sword–

“Bull’s-eye!” The laughter from behind you is too giddy for the blood-stained scenery. “Ah, should I try your tits next? Women always squeal when I…”

Whatever he says next is lost when the world gets topsy-turvy. The pain in your side and ass and body sears hot as you’re turned around by the curse user. You’re too weak and he’s not exactly strong–if only the second team had gotten here–but he’s strong enough to manhandle you, to hold you up by your wrists and fling you back to the ground so that you land on your back.

He straddles you, pressing his knees into your open wound. You scream–it must be you screaming, everyone else is dead–and he rolls his eyes backward lewdly. 

You hear the sword clatter to the ground and there’s almost relief in you, before you feel his hands roughly groping your breasts. It hurts. Not because he’s particularly rough, though it’s entirely possible; but because your entire body hurts. 

And maybe because, despite the knowledge of your imminent death and the gaping wounds on your body, you can still feel shame. 

“These are so cute,” he murmurs, voice half-laughing. “I wonder if I could cut them clean off.” His eyes glance towards his sword just as you whimper.

A pitiful sound. A small sound. A sound that attracts this vulture-like predator as readily as any mouse in the desert.

He leans forward, cooing softly. “You don’t want that?” 

You shouldn’t. It wouldn’t matter. It’s not going to change anything. But you can’t help it; fear of even more pain wins out.

“Please don’t,” you croak. “Please.”

The sigh that escapes his lips is practically sinful. 

And then–worse than death–you can see an awful thought blossom behind his eyes.

 “You know, I’ve been thinking–” He leans in close, breath hot and stale on your face. Spittle flies onto your cheek. “Since you’re so weak… and since you’re really the prettiest one… I might just keep you alive…”  

His tongue sneaks out like a worm and licks a trail up your cheek, catching tears and blood in one go. Your body jerks all too feebly, a blow to your dignity and primal desire to get the fuck away from him. 

You don’t want to die. But do you want to live, when this is the alternative?

He doesn’t care to find out your answer; instead, he licks another trail down your face, dragging blood–some yours, some not–into your mouth. You sputter, and he bites your bottom lip when you try to jerk your head away.

You whimper again–soft, pitiful, trapped. 

He only grins, and you can hear the sharp slice of the sword dragging against the pavement as it finds its way back into his hands. 

“It’s like you were made for me, right? Poor thing.” 

Lies, Sleeping

Mahito x Reader // word count 2.3k

When you are asleep, Mahito can pretend that you do not hate him. He doesn’t know when he started caring about that - just that he doesn’t want you to wake up.

Tags/warnings: dark content, noncon, somnophilia, kidnapped reader, choking to unconsciousness, Mahito definitely has a collection of your underwear stashed somewhere, Mahito having Feelings He Does Not Entirely Understand™️

Mahito thinks he might like you best when you are asleep. When you are awake, you tell him in a million little ways, both verbal and silent, that you hate him, and he does not like this at all. Hatred is something he relishes, when it comes from other humans, but not from you. He knows that you will change your mind, eventually, if he keeps trying to change it, but he is not patient, and when you are asleep, he can pretend that things are already perfect. That you will wake up and remember where you are and smile, instead of staring at the ceiling with that awful, hollow look in your eyes. That you will not flinch or jump or yell when he touches you. (When did he stop liking that? Probably when he started trying to touch you gently, being careful not to grab or pinch or hurt like he did in the beginning, and found that you hated it just as much as the pain.)

Tonight, you are sleeping on your side, on top of the little white mattress with only one stain that he dragged all the way here just for you. Your head rests on the pillow that he found for you today, and that he will find a case for tomorrow. Under the fluffy blue blanket he gave you, you are wearing a gray t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants that turned out to be far too large. Under the pajama pants, you are wearing a pair of black lacy underwear that he took, brand-new, from the shelf of a store you used to like shopping at. He does not know where or how to wash your clothes, so when you are done with these, he will find you new pajamas and dispose of the old ones. He will keep the underwear, but he will pretend to get rid of them, because he has learned that doing otherwise makes you angry. He doesn’t understand this - if you aren’t using them any more, why does it matter what he does with them? - but he doesn’t mind playing pretend if it makes you happy.

He sits cross-legged in his hammock for some time, watching you. You always fall asleep facing away from him, but you toss and turn during the night. He can see your face now, and your mouth is slightly ajar, your blanket draped just-so over the rise of your hip. If you woke up now, you would see him watching you and turn away, so he does his best to be quiet as he stands up. Slowly, he approaches your mattress and sits down beside you. You must be sleeping deeply, because you do not so much as stir when he pulls your blanket aside. It’s not surprising. Mahito does not sleep, so he does not know how exhaustion feels, but he knows what it looks like, and has seen it often on your face. When he first brought you here, you refused to sleep at all, until your eyes were empty and underlined by deep, dark shadows. Now, it’s caught up to you. He touches your cheek, and still, you do not stir.

A nice thought: perhaps you are sleeping well tonight because you have come to like him. It’s certainly not true, but it feels good, so he tries to believe it. He fails.

You make a little noise and roll over. Mahito follows you, sliding silently to the other side of your mattress. He could look at you like this all night, drinking you in while you dream of things he hopes are equally nice. If he were staring like this while you were awake, you would try to cover yourself with your blanket, and look up in horror when he snatched it away, and he thinks it is lovely that you can’t do that now. He raises his hand, and traces his finger lightly down the line of your waist, over your shirt, stopping at the waistband of your pants. It is very loose, and he does not really want to stop, and you do not move, so he fishes his hand inside and hooks his finger around the edge of your underwear where it clings to your hip.

He uses his other hand to pull your pants down your legs, carefully, just enough to expose your behind and the tops of your thighs. If you wake up now, he does not know exactly what you’ll do or say, because he is trying not to think about it anymore. As long as you are not awake, he can pretend that you want him to look at you, and that you enjoy looking at him every bit as much.

Do you think I’m pretty? Mahito remembers asking you this, not very long ago. If you’d said no, that would have been okay. He would have asked you what sort of things you thought were pretty, and changed however you desired him to change. He’s not particularly attached to the form he takes now - it would have been easy to make you happy then, if you’d just told him how.

But you did not say no. You did not even look at him. You stared at the ground, and spoke quietly, barely moving your lips. Why does it matter?

That had made him angry, and he doesn’t like it when you do that to him. You don’t like it either, because it makes him do things that he usually wouldn’t (not to you, at least). And now, with you sleeping, neither of you have to worry about it.

But just looking is not going to be enough. Not now that he’s done this. He feels his core rouse and stir, the thing he created just for you growing hard by some means he has yet to wholly understand, something more than a simple rush of blood. He is not human, so it is dizzying to feel like one, to feel his body tense in the same ways that theirs do, to feel desire in ways his being is not meant to hold. He wonders, sometimes, if he made this happen. If his curiosity about this feeling, the one that makes humans squeeze their bodies together and reach desperately towards each others souls, was so strong that it became the feeling itself.

You do not think this. You do not think he can feel the things you feel. If you did, you would understand why he wants to be pretty to you. Why he steals you things you like and lets you turn away from him when you get that hollow look in your eyes. Why he gets angry when you do not want him.

He tugs your underwear down your thighs. He is not as gentle as he was with your blanket or your pants, and a louder noise comes out of your mouth, but he does not pause. You are perfect like this, so pretty and so easy to play pretend with. Your slit is not wet, but he puts his finger in his mouth and draws it out coated with saliva and runs it between yours folds, and it is not all that different. You are making too many little noises to ignore, but he tries to ignore it anyways, because it is all so nice like this, and when it ends, everything will fall apart. He thinks you are more beautiful than anything he will ever make, and he wants you to think the same of him, and he knows you never will - but right now, he can tell himself that you do.

Just as he thinks this, your eyelids flutter open. Your gaze is blurry for a moment. You look at him. You look down at yourself, at the clothes he slipped down your legs moments before, at his hand resting between them. Then, your eyes are wide, full of the horror he has already seen far too many times.

“No.” Mahito can hear the desperation in his own voice. He grabs your shoulder, rolls you onto your stomach, and slides on top of you, pressing his palm over your mouth just as you open it. “Go back to sleep.” You are moving now, thrashing and shaking your head back and forth, trying to dislodge his hand. “Sleep.” He buries his head into the crook of your neck, and kisses you there, as softly as he can. “We were having such a nice time…it doesn’t have to be over…” Your arms are free, flailing like the lovely little creations he once tried to show you, that you gagged at the sight of. He does not want to have to hold them down. “Please.”

This is not how it should be. You should be on your back, so he can see your face, with your mouth parted like it was when you slept, with your eyes wide but not with fear. With your eyes glowing and alive, lighting up the way they did sometimes before he brought you here, but for him. You have been on your back with him before, but your face did not do the things it was supposed to do, and he had to press your wrists to the floor. He didn’t like that, but he wasn’t upset that time, because you still felt so nice - you would feel like that now, if he took you, and he is hard between your legs, but you are pressing them tight like you want him gone, and you are going to ruin it all -

He pulls his hand from your mouth and pushes it down on the back of your head, pressing your lips hard into your pillow before he can hear the things that you’re not supposed to say, and slides his other hand between your throat and your mattress, and squeezes your neck - you are so close to perfect now, and your body is soft and warm and wet, and if he doesn’t keep you like this everything will be ruined. He squeezes harder and moves himself to where he needs - needs - to be and thrusts frantically inside you, as if you might soon slip away, and -

It all slows down, the struggle momentarily forgotten, and he lets out a sigh between lips turned up at the corners, eyes wide and bright, so bright that they might scare you if you saw him. Everything is as it should be. You seem to tug him into you, and he closes his eyes, and there is nothing in his mind but the desire for more, which barely comes from his mind at all, and makes him rut into you and not think about anything at all. “Mine.” He barely hears himself say it, but he feels it, the way he reaches into you and imagines he can feel you reaching for him. His hands tighten instinctively in your hair and around your throat, and you are still and quiet but he can see you perfectly with his eyes closed, exactly as he wants you to be. Again. Again. Again. He shoves deeper into you, reaches in until he brushes against that wall at the end and oh. You are too still, and after all this he finds that does want your eyes open, because he is thinking about now and not what comes after.

He takes his hands from your neck and your head, and wraps them under your arms, and buries his face in you, breathes you in and scrapes teeth and tongue against your neck, and oh - it always ends so quickly. Maybe it won’t always, but you feel so good, you make him feel so good, and there’s nowhere else for it to go. He can feel it building up inside him, pulling him deeper into you, hips crashing into yours over and over again, and yes. It is going to end and he does not want it to end but he does. You stir beneath him, and he presses his entire self tight against you, and hears the breath and disoriented noise spill out of you. “Mine.”

The end-feeling squeezes tight in his core, and he feels his mouth fall open as it bursts forth and shoots through him - he’d hold onto it forever if he could, but he can’t, but he can hold onto you, and he does. You are awake now but he does not mind at all, because you are still and perfect beneath him as he releases everything inside you.

Pretty thing. Pretty, pretty. He wants to stay right where he is forever and ever. He presses his face into the softness of you skin, and inhales deeply, although he does not really need to breath at all. There is a pleasant haze in his body and mind. You are awake, but you do not speak, and he rests on top of you and inside you for a long, long time, imagining the nice things you could say when you finally open your mouth.

You don’t say them, of course. You don’t say them when he forces himself to move and lies down on the hard ground beside you. You don’t say them when he takes your hand, which is limp and cold in his grasp. You don’t say them any of the times he tells you that he’s all done, that you can go back to sleep. You just lie there, face down, obviously awake but acting like you’re not.

Mahito does not like this, but he is still playing pretend just a little bit, so he doesn’t mind as much as he usually would. Tomorrow he will find you a case for your pillow, and new clothes. If you don’t like them he might be upset, but he imagines a scenario in which you sit up and thank him when he returns, and let him hold you without getting sad or scared. It’s a pleasant thought. He thinks you’re very nice for keeping yourself still and quiet, and letting him think about the things he wants to be true.

Change

Mahito x Reader // word count 2k

In which Mahito offers to make your insecurities disappear. Quite literally.

Tags/warnings: dark content, yandere, implied noncon, body horror, kidnapped reader, biting, blood, non-consensual kissing, discussion of death, gender neutral reader, reader has body image issues and is implied to have dealt with them in unhealthy ways 

A/N: Not as painstakingly edited as usual because I'm trying to get out of the write-something-and-then-pick-at-it-until-I-hate-it time loop

You are sitting with your knees pulled up to your chest, facing the wall of the sewer. It is not the first time you have sat like this, nor the first time you have spent so long in this position. In the early days, Mahito would tell you to turn around and watch him experiment, and you’d feel your stomach writhe in time with the contorted things on the floor. But he lets you look away now. You’re not sure why, but you don’t bother wondering. It’s easier not to look, to pretend that you are alone, to tell yourself that the almost-human sounds echoing in the tunnel are merely figments of your imagination. That his laughter is only a memory from your nightmares, and not a constant reminder of what your life has become.

There isn’t much laughing this time. It’s mostly noises of surprise and keen interest, the kind a normal person might make upon viewing something mundane under a microscope, and seeing its hidden world beneath. You do not know what worlds Mahito is discovering, and you hope he doesn’t force you to find out. 

The worst part, of course, comes after his mouth finally closes. When you hear nothing but his footsteps upon the ground. Coming closer. You don’t run from it, or lash out, like you used to. Your stomach churns, and your pulse quickens, but you still let him spread his legs on either side of you, press his chest to your back, and wrap his arms around your waist. His hands cross beneath your ribcage, and you try not to think about what they were touching before. What you might see if you turn around. What he might be feeling, now that he has you so close.

“You would’ve liked it this time,” he says, as if he actually believes it. “It was interesting. And less…hm. Less dramatic than usual, I guess. For a while.” A high-pitched little spurt of laughter ruptures in your ear. “I got really carried away at the end. But I did try.”

“Why does that matter?” Even hearing him talk about it makes you nauseous, but not so much that you can’t speak. Not anymore. “It ends the same no matter how it starts.”

“Maybe! But you’ve got a saying about that. It’s…ah. What is it…?” He presses his face into the side of your neck and inhales deeply. Kisses your skin with cold lips before breaking away with a sudden start. “Oh! I remember. ‘The journey’s more important than the destination.’ It’s a very nice saying. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

You don’t like the way his mind drifts when he touches you. He makes you go rigid, takes away your ability to blink and breathe, but you seem to do the opposite to him. He kisses you again, in the same place, and then bares his grin, scrapes at you with his teeth and tongue, pulls and sucks and bites at your skin -

It is a long time before he says anything again. Long enough for you to be grateful that you have no way to see your reflection, to assess the damage he’s left behind, the growing collection of reminders on your body.

“I could take you on a journey, too.” He tightens his arms around you, presses in until you can barely tell where he ends and you begin. “I could change you, like I changed them…well.” He giggles. “Not quite like that. You’d still be alive at the end.” 

You go stiff. Breath catches in your throat. “No.” Your voice creaks out, so quiet that he might not even notice how terrified you are. “No.” Louder. There’s more, there, if only you could find the strength to say it. Don’t touch me, let go of me, stay far, far away, let me go -

“Don’t worry. I’d let you decide what you wanted me to do. Although I’m pretty sure I already know.” You squirm desperately against his hold, and he sighs, and presses his lips to your ear. “I’m not trying to scare you, you know. I don’t want to change anything about you. You’re so so cute already. But…”

There is a trickle of blood dripping down your neck. Slow, already drying. How long has it been there? How long have you tuned it out? 

“I know there are parts of your body that you don’t like.” His voice is uncharacteristically gentle, and you search it for any hint of amusement. “You really don’t like them. I was watching you for a while before I brought you here, so I saw the things you did to hide them. To change them. It’s not so different from what I do.” He lifts his hand from your waist, wiggles his fingers in the air. “I’m just way, way better at it.”

“No.” You don’t even know what you look like anymore. Even if you did -

Maybe you’d still hate it. But it doesn’t matter here.

“I know I could do it.” He lets go of you for a moment, repositions his hands, and spins you around, the force of the sudden movement knocking your own hands from the places where they dug into your shins. You splay them flat against the floor, and keep your eyes down. “Here.” He crouches in front of you, and points. “And here. And here. I could make all of it look just how you want it to.” 

You close your eyes, scared to get a glimpse of what lies behind him. (That’s not the only reason, is it?) It’s better not to look at him, either. (And…)

“It’s really a very tiny difference between what you have and what you want, so it won’t be easy to do perfectly,” he admits. “But it also means that you probably wouldn’t die. And if I mess up, I can always just try again!”

He’s so close to you. Breathing on your face, even though you’re pretty sure he doesn’t have to breathe at all. If you open your eyes, you won’t be able to see what’s behind him - his stare will take up your entire field of view.

“I don’t want to mess up, though. You wouldn’t be very happy if I did that. And I want you to be happy.” He touches the side of your jaw, and then tugs carefully at the corner of your mouth, like he thinks it might rip open if he pulls too hard. “You smiled a lot before I brought you here. It was cute.”

Your eyes are still closed. His hand is just as cold as his lips. You could even feel it through your clothes, moments before. Here, and here, and here…you wish he didn’t understand the way you think about yourself. He’d be so much easier to tune out if he was wrong.

“I want you to smile because of me.” His hand crawls up the side of your face, and pulls at your eyelids, his touch a bit less gentle than it was a moment before. “If that means making you look a tiny bit different, I don’t mind. As long as I don’t have to change your mouth”-

You look at him, because you truly believe your eyelids might rip off if you don’t.

“Oh. Or those eyes. Not those, either.” He’s leaning so far forward that his nose brushes yours. So that you can see him, and only him - and you. Just a bit of you, in his eyes, the tiniest glimpse of your own reflection that you wish you could erase. “I’ve been practicing a lot,” he says, “but I never change those.”

Practicing. 

“What do you mean?” You’re not sure if you actually say it, or if it’s only in your head. Either way, he doesn’t answer you with words. Instead it’s with a kiss, which is worse, because his tongue is in your mouth now, and his hands are on all the places that he just pointed out on your body, and they don’t change. You’re exactly who you are, far too grounded inside yourself as this thing makes you wish you had no body to touch at all.

And yet, you don’t want it to end. Because when it ends -

He sits down at your side.

And with that, there is nothing between you and the rest of the mess he’s created.

And you cannot tear your eyes away.

“I told you it was interesting.” He folds his hand over yours. “You really should have watched. I almost got it right this time.”

There is the usual mess. Fleshy and fluid things, undulating slightly, with holes that open up as if to scream but make no sound. The vague suggestions of limbs, on some, nothing but huddled slimy masses remaining of others. Eye sockets, empty, migrated into strange places. Colors and textures stolen from the insides and outsides of human bodies, so that you can’t for a moment forget what you’re looking at. That’s usually all that there is. And it’s enough to send your guts crawling up the walls of your throat, all on its own. 

But the one there -

It is not moving at all. And it has eyes. Glazed. And it has limbs, twisted off at the ends, but clearly four, clearly only half-heartedly destroyed. And it has lips. And teeth. And they are stretched out in a grimace, pasted-on even after its heart stopped pumping blood to the muscles of its face, even after its chest caved in and its lungs burst out from under the wreckage and the rest of its head fell away -

“I’m getting very good at making copies.” He leans his head against your shoulder. “Your body is easy…it’s just your face that’s hard. But that one had a face kind of like yours to begin with, so I did okay.” His grip on your hand tightens. “Not perfect, though. So I had to get rid of it.”

The mouth does not look familiar. Not anymore. But the eyes, lifeless as they are -

“I’ll show you once I get it right,” he sighs. “Once I make one look exactly like you. And then you can tell me how you want me to fix it, and once we’ve got it all figured out”-

You retch. But everything stays inside. You wrap your free arm around your waist for a moment, and then snatch it away, repulsed for reasons you don’t entirely understand.

“Don’t worry, cutie. It won’t take too many more.” Mahito lifts his hand from yours and turns towards you. “I wouldn’t mind if it did, though.” You look at him, if only to avoid looking at the other things in the room, and watch as he smiles back at you. His head is tilted, eyes shining, mouth closed. He stares at you for far too long, and slowly, slowly, his lips curl back, revealing the bleach-white grin underneath. “For you…I wouldn’t mind doing anything.”

You don’t see him move, not through the spots of black in your eyes and the haze of blood that’s rushed to your head. But you feel yourself falling, feel your back hit the ground, and feel him flattening himself on top of you. You feel every inch of your body where it presses back against his. And you feel radiating, all-consuming disgust at every place where you connect.

“If you want to stay like this,” he murmurs, “forever, that’s okay too. I’ll change you, or I’ll keep you the same…you’ll be my favorite human no matter what.”

You do not want to stay like this, trapped in your skin as he worms his way over and beneath it. But that isn’t the question, and the answer - that it doesn’t matter what body you panic inside of, or what, exactly, he touches, that nothing will make it better -

Even if you tried to say it, he’d swallow it up before a single word made it off your tongue.