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I wrote half of a thing last night and it must be finished. Being at work rn has me chomping at the fucking bit

It got better and I am now going to stop broadcasting my thoughts because ohhh there is FAR too much going on in my head right now

mmm we are like 6 minutes into ep 5 and I am already hyperventilating

y’all don’t even understand I have just been sitting here processing unable to go on

mmm we are like 6 minutes into ep 5 and I am already hyperventilating

mmm we are like 6 minutes into ep 5 and I am already hyperventilating

Hear me out guys 👀

oh alastor would hate my blog title so much WHOOPS

Hazbin Hotel yandere Alastor imagine

note: discussions of sexual abuse, physical abuse, afab reader, misogny

Oh, to be in Hell and working for Valentino, who uses and abuses you, who goes from hot to cold depending on his moods, whims, and whatever might be pissing him off or propping him up at the moment.

It's not the living you wanted to be making. It's not the life--or afterlife--that you envisioned for yourself. But you owe him so much money (he fed you, and clothed you, and kept a roof over your ungrateful head, didn't he?) and you don't know how else you could pay him back.

But one day you happen to catch someone whispering about this new Hotel where you might be able to get better? Where life might be able to get better? Where you might get, and the word refuses to even catch on your tongue despite it dancing in your ears, redeemed?

You want that. All of it. Even it means risking getting the (after) life beaten out of you.

And on a rare free morning you sneak out and make your way to the front door and a tiny (cute, but, horrifying) little maid answers but before she can get a word in edgewise, a blonde woman--the literal princess of Hell, you realize--jumps into the doorway and grabs your hand to shake it vigorously and welcome you in with the biggest smile you've ever seen that isn't (for once) tinged with something awful behind it.

You practically trip inside as she excitedly pulls you into the foyer where a gaggle of people are sitting on a velvet couch and oh, shit, you know one of them.

Angel. You knew he was here--Val would not stop bitching about it--but it's different hearing about him being involved in this little project and actually seeing him out of the studio.

When Angel sees you, he freezes, his eyebrows shoot practically to the sky. And you're about to beg him not to tell Val, please-please-please, Angel might get away with being here but you don't have that kind of sway, when someone slides in front of you.

Red hair, pointy teeth, a fantastically red coat.

Alastor, of course.

You're not supposed to talk to him. Val and Vox made it clear to everyone in the studio. The Radio Demon is an "old timey fuck" who needs to fuck off and any one caught fraternizing with him might as well be fucking dead (or they'd wish they were) so stay away.

And his reputation wasn't any better with what you'd heard on the street.

But... he doesn't seem all that bad. And you were already taking a Big Fucking Risk by coming here, it's not like Val would go easier on you if you pleaded that sure, you snuck out, sure you came here when you knew you shouldn't, but you clamped your mouth shut and didn't talk to Alastor, you swear!

"Greetings," he says, and you want to smile a little. Because he really does sound like a radio, the kind your mom used to listen to when you were young, even though they were going out of style. Sometimes you missed that, sitting around the table while the radio played, tinny voices and music playing.

"Hi," you manage, voice quiet. "I mean, greetings," you say, stupidly, really.

But he doesn't call you a moron (like Val might) or ignore you (like Vox might)--instead he dips and picks up your wrist gently and he actually kisses your hand, a perfunctory gentlemanly peck of a greeting, instead of licking a slimy trail up your arm like Val is prone to do.

Can you help the little "oh!" that escapes your lips? No. Can you help the heated flush that creeps up your chest? No.

And if he, to everyone's surprise, winds up taking you under his wing--can you complain? No.

He doesn't tell you, like Val did, that you'll pay him back every red cent when he conjures up a closet full of clothes to replace your scant wardrobe. The clothes are modest and lovely and again, your mom springs to mind. The stuff she'd pull out of her closet and hold to her chest sometimes, because they no longer fit.

You wish you'd worn those clothes, when you got old enough to fit into them. But they were moth eaten and out of style and you'd look at her aghast when she asked if you wanted them when you were moving out.

So you didn't. But now... well, they don't fit so bad, do they? You even look nice in them. Alastor says "you're a vision of loveliness, dear," when you wear one of the outfits he's picked out. And you're not sure if it's a pun on his name or a genuine compliment, but you thank him all the same.

Charlie agrees to set up a room for you and Alastor helps with that, too. Although his help mostly involved changing out the standard linens for something nicer, stocking your closet and dresser with old fashioned clothes, and removing the TV.

You almost protested, but he reminded you that "your old friend Vox just might pop in and see you" and ah, it all made sense.

Alastor was looking out for you. Like he did with the clothes. Like he does with the way he helps you navigate the vague, ever-changing lessons that Charlie tries to teach.

Everyone here is nice, all things considered, for Hell.

It's not perfect.

Sometimes you would like to wear something more flashy and stylish, but what outfits Charlie manages to procure never seem to make it into your wardrobe.

Angel always looks like he's going to vomit when Val calls because at this point you are considered "missing" and Val does not like it when his "whores try to ghost him," as you'd once heard him screeching on Angel's phone.

Angel always denies that you're here, denies that he's seen you, and for once, you're glad he can act well when it really matters.

And if Alastor gets a little too clingy... if he gets a little too controlling? If sometimes he reminds you of Val, pushing and pulling you in the directions he wants, you just remind yourself that he's not as bad.

He doesn't ever, ever hit you. He doesn't yell at you or even raise his voice, really!

He corrects, that's all.

Steers you to the right outfits, reminds you how to act like a lady (something he never seems to do with anyone else, to your embarrassment); gently grabs your wrist and brings you along with him around the Hotel, into the shadows of the streets where you won't be seen when he thinks you need some good old fashioned exercised or fresh air. (If the air in hell could be considered "fresh" is another thing entirely.)

So yes.

He might be a little controlling. You can admit that. Even if he has your best interest in mind.

But every time that little thought creeps into your head, you just remind yourself. He's not as bad as Val.

And when you're in Hell, "he's not as bad" might as well mean that he's good.

I feel silly making posts where I’m just talking bc my account is small enough that I just feel like I’m shouting into a void.

But - the fact that I am simultaneously becoming all-consumingly obsessed with HxH (Hunter x Hunter) and HH (Hazbin Hotel) is very funny to me and I think the void deserves to know

some blog housekeeping

1. we are definitely not gonna be jjk only anymore. I’m slow with writing for new characters/fandoms but. Oo I am planning on it

2. I have fully Embraced the Darkness in terms of the kind of stuff I write, and have kicked some things off my masterlist that don’t really match the vibe of this blog anymore. As a result the masterlist is small atm. Hopefully not for long. Depends how fast I can wrangle my brain

3. If you didn’t follow me for dark content and for some reason are still here ehhh perhaps consider departing

I am a whore

Pairing: Illumi x Fem!Reader

NSFW

Word Count: 946

Warnings: Noncon, Implied past noncon, Overstimulation, Implied kidnapping, Forced relationship, Punishments, Broken bone mention (past, brief)

You could count on a single hand the amount of times you’d seen Illumi angry.

Some would argue you could say the same for any other emotion, but you would say differently.

He was incredibly reserved, and admittedly his stone mask of complete nothingness still frightened you to some degree, but you noticed - in the few times he would allow you around other people - that he seemed more… relaxed when it was just the two of you; if you could call it that. While you didn’t allow that to give you a false sense of security, the moments where it seemed like his guard was down were the times you either tried to learn as much from his micro-expressions as possible, or to use those moments to your advantage.

Keep reading

Outside

Mahito x Reader // Word Count ~6k

Synopsis: Sometimes, Mahito actually tries to make you happy. This latest attempt comes closer to the mark than any other. You missed being outside, and you feel just a little bit less trapped once you’re out beneath the night sky. For a few minutes, anyways. Before it all goes wrong. If only this stranger on the street was able to keep his mouth shut – and if only Mahito wasn’t there to hear him.

Content Warnings and Tags: Dark content. Noncon, forced relationship, kidnapped reader, extreme possessiveness, choking, hair pulling, dacryphillia, throat fucking, rough sex, discussion of drinking and depiction of drunkenness (not reader), catcalling, non-gory description of physical violence, discussion of past violence and killing, off-screen murder (also not reader but boy is it traumatizing for them). In summation: the dove is dead, do not eat it.

A/N: I - don't even know how I feel about this one. Sometimes a concept pops into your head and you just have to see it through. As always, proceed with caution <3

He wakes you up with a rough grip, shaking you until your eyes flutter open. It’s an unpleasant way to be ripped from sleep, but compared to some of the other ways he’s tried in the past weeks, it’s not so bad. His hands are on your shoulders, this time, and it’s only his hands touching you – it could be worse. Still, you feel the familiar curl of despair in your stomach, the familiar urge to turn away from the face that hovers over yours, to run away from it. But you don’t do so much as close your eyes. It’s not worth it. You know he’ll only pry them back open.

“You’re cute when you wake up.” He grins broadly, giggling at the sight of your eyes struggling to remain open. “You always look a little bit confused for a second. And your voice changes when you’re sleepy. It’s adorable.” When he leans down to kiss you, you accept it, lying still and parting your mouth to allow his tongue inside. Your eyelids feel heavy. There’s no view of the sky in this wretched sewer – you haven’t seen it since the day he dragged you down here – but you can tell that it’s still the depths of night, that you were asleep for a few hours at most. This isn’t unusual. You’ve learned that when he gets a new idea, he doesn’t like to wait.

His kiss is long, and slow. It drags the breath from your mouth until at last, after what feels like an eternity, he’s satisfied. Then, he pulls you to your feet, and holds you tight in his arms, face pressed down into your neck. “I have a surprise for you.” His voice is low, but shaking, barely containing his excitement.

You stiffen involuntarily, just enough that you’re sure he notices. You can’t help it. You think you’ve spent about three weeks here, although you can’t be entirely sure, and none of the several “surprises” he’s sprung on you in that time have been anything short of horrific.

“I’ve decided…” He pulls back, and grins into your face, still far too close for any sort of comfort, his breath falling oddly cold on your cheek. “That you deserve something extra special. You’ve been so much fun, and I want to do something nice for you. Like a reward. I thought about it for a while, and I think I came up with something good.” He tilts his head, sizing up your expression. “Ask me what it is.”

You don’t want to know. But you will, soon enough, no matter what. “What is it?”

“I’ve decided…that I’m going to let you go outside!”

Your brain churns, trying to make sense of what he’s said. “Outside?”

“Mhm! Aren’t you excited?” His smile falls as you stare blankly back at him. “You should be excited,” he says petulantly. “It’s a good surprise. Humans like a change of scenery, right? You like fresh air?”

“Yes, but”- Surely, he’s not offering you what you really want. To you, outside means freedom. And there’s nothing he wants to give you less than that.

“Oh. I get it.” He laughs, and shakes his head. “No. I’m not letting you go by yourself. I’ll be right beside you the whole time. Wouldn’t want you getting lost on your way back!”

Right. Lost. As if you wouldn’t run as fast as you could as soon as you made it to the mouth of the sewer. In any direction, to anywhere at all. If he ever gave you the chance, you would take it in an instant.

“I’ll hold your hand and everything.” As he says this, he interlocks his fingers with yours, and squeezes. “It’ll be very romantic. You’ll like it.”

His grip on your hand will be tight – even if it wasn’t, you know how quick he is, how powerful. As long as he’s beside you, you’ll never have a hope of escape. Still, as his surprises go, this is the best one so far. It’s a very low bar, to be fair, but still…

“Let’s go,” he insists, tugging at your arm.

 “Now?”

“Of course!” He laughs again, like you've said something absolutely ridiculous. “You really are cute when you wake up. You get confused…”

You pause for a beat, trying to smooth out the consternation on your face. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Mhm. And it’s nice out! Very quiet. The streets are almost all empty...no one around to get in the way of the view.”

“The streets are empty because it’s the middle of the night.”

“Yes.”

You look down at your clothes. They’re an odd ensemble, a blue, mid-thigh pleated skirt and a large black t-shirt he brought back yesterday from who-knows-where. Only the third change of clothes he’s given you in the weeks since he found you. Certainly a step up from the tattered, indecent remains of the dress you’d had on that first night, and even from the other ensembles he’s collected in the intervening time – but still not anything you’d choose to wear in public. It’s a small detail to get hung up on, but you’ve found yourself latching onto small details quite often in the past few weeks. If you think about the big picture for too long, you start to feel like your brain is going to break.

“You should be excited,” he says stubbornly. “But if you really don’t want to… I can find something else for us to do. I’ve got other ideas!”

There’s nothing threatening about the way he says it. It’s matter of fact, almost genial. But that doesn’t matter. You know that you don’t want to experience any of his backup plans – your imagination is already going into overdrive, picturing what he might have in store if you refuse his offer. “No. I…I want to go outside.” You realize, as you say it, that it’s true, and not only because your fear the alternatives. Still, your voice comes out small, and it shrinks even more as you force out your final sentence. “Thank you.”

“Aw. You’re very welcome.” He kisses you on the forehead, and starts leading you away. As you follow, slightly behind him, you rediscover another one of those small details you latch onto when everything is too much: the sewer itself is oddly warm, but the floor is always cold on your bare feet. It doesn’t make sense. Sometimes, such minute observations are comforting distractions, but right now, this particular one is only adding to your unease.

After a few begrudging steps, you manage to spit out: “I need shoes.”

“Oh…of course! You should have said something before.” He releases your hand and darts away, faster than humanly possible, returning to your side moments later with a pair of black high heels you recognize as your own. “You were wearing these with your dress the night I found you, remember? I decided to keep them.”

Of course you remember. You’d kicked them off inside your apartment, minutes before he’d shown up. Had he really stopped to pick them up when he’d carried you away? The details of that night are…well. Most of them are hazy. A few are painfully clear.

“I kept the dress, too,” he sighs, as he places the shoes in front of you. “It’s too bad you can’t wear it anymore. I still have it, just in case you change your mind.”

You step into the heels, and reluctantly take his hand, wobbling slightly as you follow him through the tunnel. “I was wearing it for days,” you say timidly. “It smells.”

“It smells like you.” In the periphery of your vision, you can see his head turn in your direction. You keep your eyes glued to the floor. “The longer you wore it, the more like you it smelled. It got stronger.” His nails scratch at the back of your hand, long and harsh against your dry skin. “I guess human scents linger for a while, because it still smells like you.”

You stay quiet, as you usually do. How are you supposed to respond to something like that? There was a time when you thought he said things like this to upset you. Now, though, you think he’s just frightfully honest. He doesn’t say things to provoke you – he says things because they appear in his head, and he has no qualms about letting you hear them. Does he know that they make you uncomfortable? He must – but clearly, he doesn’t mind.

For several minutes, you walk through twisted passages. Although you can still feel his eyes lapping at your face, at your body, at the hem of your skirt, he’s silent for once, giving you the gift of uninterrupted time in your own head. You wonder how long it’ll be before he feels inclined to get you a new bundle of clothes. A set of underwear, at least, would be nice. Maybe if you ask, he’ll do it. He does seem to like providing for you, even to take pride in it, although he certainly doesn’t know how to do it properly. When he presented your most recent outfit to you, he stared at you like he was expecting something more than numb acceptance. Like he was expecting you to jump for joy, or to thank him for giving you the dignity of wearing clothes that didn’t stink. These little moments – where he seems to truly believe he's being kind to you - have been happening frequently in the past week or so, and you’re not sure how you feel about it. On the one hand, it probably means that he’s getting even more attached to you. That doesn’t bode well for your future. Then again, your future was more or less wiped away the moment he discovered your existence. You might as well appreciate the little comforts you’re provided.

“Do you feel the air yet?” He smiles, much more gently than you’re accustomed to – inviting, rather than forcing you, to smile in return. “It’s changing.”

As soon as he points it out, you feel it. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel – a stir in the dense, cloying air that gives you a faint sense of comfort. As you move forward, that light becomes physical – he leads you up a ladder, briefly letting go of your hand to allow you to climb. You scrabble up towards the light, almost losing your shoes in the process. As you poke your head over the street line, you can’t help but feel free, just for a moment. When you look up, you can see the stars above you. There aren’t as many as you’d like – the city lights render all but the brightest invisible – but it’s something. Despite everything, you’re grateful for it.

“You like it! I can tell…I knew you would.” He smiles broadly, and grasps your wrist, pulling you onto the street above the sewer. The assistance is unnecessary – but under the circumstances, you don’t mind. You don’t flinch, as you usually do at his touch. He grabs your hand, and you walk along the street together in strange silence. He’s watching you intently, as always, but he’s not talking, and that’s enough. If you didn’t look, you could almost pretend that you were alone, staring out at the open city streets and up at the sky above. What time is it, exactly? 3? 4? One of those times where no one is awake except for you. When you were alone in your home - your real home - you used to cherish being awake at such times, cherish the strange, powerful sense of isolation. Even now, stumbling along the sidewalk with this demon at your side, you can’t help but cherish it again. At least you’re outside. At least you have the stars to keep you company, and not just him.

“Thank you.” When you say it this time, you mean it, although it’s not really directed at him. He’s barely there, in your mind. You’re thanking the night air, and the sky, and the empty, open streets for the strange comfort they provide. Only now do you realize how claustrophobic you’ve been for all this time. The dim light of the sewer, the imposing walls trapping you inside – those little oppressive details have been adding to your misery. Now that they’re gone…you still hate everything about your situation, but it’s easier for you to ignore it. Easier for you to pretend, for a moment, that everything is going to be okay.

“I knew you’d like it,” he repeats. You’re sure his eyes are glowing, that he’s got some version of his crazed smile splattered across his face, but you don’t have to look. There are so many better things to look at right now.

Just as you have this thought, a shadow emerges from the intersection in front of you, perhaps twenty paces away. Under the streetlights, the shadow takes the form of a man. He’s tall, maybe twenty years older than you, dressed simply in jeans and a grey t-shirt. And, as he gets closer, you see that he’s stumbling. He pauses to lean against a battered storefront, right beside the mouth of a shadowy alley. He’s swaying slightly, and you think you see his mouth moving, as if he’s muttering something under his breath.

“I’ve seen ones like him before!” Mahito’s hand tightens over yours, voice full of excitement, as he pulls you to a halt. “It’s almost always at night…and their breath always smells the same way.” His free hand comes out of nowhere to turn your face toward him. His eyes fix intently on yours, and his finger strokes gently over your mouth. “Your breath smelled a little like that, the night I found you, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as theirs. And you weren’t walking so strangely, either.”

You don’t ask why he was close enough to smell their breath. You already know. The horrors you’ve witnessed in the past weeks have been enough to bring you to tears – both out of pity for the bodies beneath him, and fear for your own.

“The things you humans do to yourselves…” He tugs your forward by your hand, and kisses you on the forehead, his fingers slipping into your hair. Even when he pulls back, he doesn’t let go. “You’re lucky you’re done with all that now. You can’t do anything to yourself…and no other humans can do anything to you, either. The only one who can do anything is me!”

Desperate to shake his gaze away, you cast your eyes upwards, but the expanse of the sky does nothing to dispel the claustrophobic dread churning in your stomach. Perhaps it was never about the sewer itself, after all.

He releases your hair and grips your hand tightly. “You can keep walking now. I want to get a closer look.”

You walk slightly behind him this time, your other hand clenched at your side. Usually, you’d worry about how strange you might look to passersby, holding onto what seems to be empty air, stumbling awkwardly as if pulled by some invisible force. But you doubt that the man before you will notice. You can see Mahito’s neck crane as the pair of you approach. As you draw even with the man you think he’s about to let go of your hand, and run up close for a better view.

But before that can happen, the man grins at you, his burnt-out eyes suddenly finding their focus. He doesn’t meet your gaze. In fact, he seems to look everywhere but your face, in the space of a few seconds. His mouth falls open. And the inevitable words tumble from his mouth, their edges blurred. “Hey…sweetheart. Whatcha doin all alone?”

Your stomach churns. If you were truly alone, at this time of night, this would be more than enough to set off every alarm in your head, to send you rushing down the street. But right now – right now, the fingernails tightening against the back of your hand are screaming for all of your attention.

“I didn’t like that.” You turn, giving into the sudden sense of dread that commands you to look. Mahito has never sounded like this before. He’s never looked like this either. There’s no hint of a smile, no glow in his eyes. “I didn’t like that.” You quickly realize what’s wrong with the picture: he’s serious. Not the inquisitive kind of serious – the deathly kind. He’s squeezing your hand tight enough to leave crescent moons in your skin. His eyes latch onto yours, clinging so tightly that you can’t bear to look away. You gasp as, in two places, the skin on the back of your hand gives way, sliced open by his viselike grip. To your surprise, he lets go at the sound of your voice. He holds his hand up to the side of your face, only glancing at the smudge of blood on his nails before capturing your gaze once more. “You’re…you’re not his sweetheart. You’re mine. He doesn’t get to say that. He can’t…” In the periphery of your vision, his hand is shaking.

You stumble as he turns you aside, nearly crashing onto the sidewalk beneath your feet, scrabbling for purchase on his arm. For once, he doesn’t try to catch you – he barely seems aware of your grasp on him at all. The man against the wall is staring blearily, deeply confused, no doubt, by the nothing that appears to be tossing you around.

Mahito’s hand finds the back of your shirt and drags you across the sidewalk, practically hurling you deep into the mouth of the alley beside the storefront. He disappears for a moment – not nearly long enough for you to process your new surroundings, never mind attempt to escape them. In the split-second it takes for your eyes to adjust to the looming walls on either side of you, the dustbins gathered in shadowed clumps along the alleyway, and the crumbled brick inexplicably lying at the edges, your view is interrupted by a flash of movement, unintelligible, faster even than the one that carried you here, followed by the sharp thud of a body on pavement And beneath that, a sickening sort of crack. You think you heard a similar sound or two in the moment before this violent flurry, but you're too frightened to process it entirely. Mahito stands before you, facing the dark, indistinct end of the passageway. Several yards in front of him lies a huddled mass, flung across the alley and into the pavement beneath with a force magnitudes greater than the one that carried you into these shadows. It whimpers in pain, face down, seemingly unable to move.

Your mouth falls open – but even if you could speak, what would you say? Would you tell him to stop? From the half of his face that you can see, you know this would be a futile effort.

When he hears the rasp of your breath, Mahito turns, slowly. One of his hands is in a fist at his side, the other still raised in the aftermath of a brutal throw. This hand slowly falls.

You’ve seen him kill before. Three times, in real life, and several times in the nightmares that have haunted you nearly every night since. What disturbed you most was the way he reveled in it, the grin that spread wider across his face with every movement, with every pitiful sound that echoed into the night, with every deafening spatter of indistinct human mass that forced you to your knees in terror. And his laughter – that was the most hideous sound of all. That’s the one you always hear in your dreams, the one that still echoes in your ears when you wake up.

But somehow, seeing him without that smile, standing in complete silence, is a thousand times more terrifying. You blink rapidly, trying to fend off the wave of tears you can feel building behind your eyes.

He takes a step towards you. Another. One more. It’s a narrow alley – three steps is all it takes to pin you against the brick wall that stretches up to the sky behind you. His hand rises to stroke along the side of your face, to brush over your trembling lips. “You shouldn’t be crying.” He’s far too calm, the pitch of his voice lower than what you’ve grown to expect. “You can’t cry. Not for him.” Here, his voices quivers, enough to remind you that under this strangely cold exterior, he’s just as volatile as ever.

To your horror, a stray tear escapes from between your lashes. As soon as he sees it, he swipes it away, the ragged edge of his nail dragging threateningly along your cheek. “Don’t.”

You would choke out an apology, if you thought you could speak without releasing the rest of the flood. Instead, you find yourself staring silently, helplessly, as his hand closes around your throat. “You’re the most pretty when you cry,” he sighs, soft voice contrasting horribly with the roughness of his grip. His face falls into your hair, and he inhales deeply, fingers tightening against the sides of your neck. “And you’re mine. When you’re this pretty – it has to be for me. Not for anyone else.”

How lovely it would be to look up and see the stars just one more time. To pretend that you were alone for one more moment. You’re suffocating, in all senses of the word, the combination of a lack of oxygen and pure terror sending a violent, vision-blurring rush to your head. The kind of rush that makes you feel like your mind is being violently expelled through the top of your skull, forced to watch helplessly as it floats over the hollow body it’s left behind.

He kisses you slowly, almost tenderly, staring desperately into your deadened eyes all the while. Starving for some response, even as he drains the air from your lungs. When it ends what seems like eons later, he at last drops his hand, and the pressure on your neck disappears. You gulp at the night air, eyelids flickering with the exhaustion and relief of your sudden release. You tilt your head back for another mighty inhale, but it’s cut short by cold hands sliding down your neck, onto your shoulders, guiding you gently but firmly to the ground.

For a moment, the only thing you let yourself process is the rough scrape of pavement on your knees. It’s not smooth. It’s not comfortable. But you can make it slightly better, because there’s a bit of rubble beneath your left knee, or perhaps a small stone - with all too much effort, you manage to shift the weight of your body, to move your hand and swipe the pebble away. The motion leaves you staring at the ground, eyes sweeping desperately for some other small bit of something to latch onto. You don’t want to look up, because you’re all too aware of what lies between you and the sky. It’s been watching you adjust your posture. Watching you make your futile attempts to stave it off.

Mahito slides two fingers just beneath the line of your jaw, and digs in until you have no choice but to raise your face. “You’re doing better. You’re doing good…I didn’t see any more tears. And when they do come back…they’ll be all for me. Soon. I'll know...I'll know that they're mine.”

You think you hear a sound from back in the alley, where his victim still lies alive, and motionless. But when you turn instinctively, he catches you, pressing his thumb firmly into the skin over your molars and scrapping you hard with nails beneath your jaw. “Don’t!” He practically yelps, and the high-pitched sound yanks your eyes all the way up to his face. “He – he wanted to take you.”

You took me. The thought comes to your mind, unbidden, not for the first time. It will never leave your mouth.

His eyes are wild, and his chest heaves, his face an overflowing blend of overwrought emotion, anger and confusion and urgency. “You’re mine. Mine.” He shoves his fingers into your hair, and grips hard, nails scratching mindlessly at your scalp. “No one else can have you. Ever.”

From your mouth comes a terrified whimper, not unlike the sound you heard from the shadows moments before. You follow it with words, and they come out nearly inaudible, caked in the phlegm of tears soon to come. “I want to go back.”

“We can’t.” For a tense, still-aired moment, his eyes fall closed. Without their vengeful glow, he looks more dejected than anything else. He takes a slow breath. You’ve never known whether he needed to breathe, or whether he did it for some sort of effect, but in the moment, it’s serving him, somehow. The hand loose at his side closes into a fist as he exhales, and when his eyes snap open, they’re brighter than ever. The confusion is gone, and the anger has retreated to the background – only a hauntingly familiar hunger remains. “We can’t go back. I'm not done yet.” His voice steadies, and he stares mercilessly, ravenously, into your captive gaze. “I need to - make it better. Make it right."

He yanks you forward. The tension on your scalp becomes painful as you fall gracelessly into his thigh, but he rights you, pulling you into his crotch and holding you steady. The fist at his side unclenches, and falls heavily, almost clumsily onto the back of your head, pressing you firmly into the outline of his cock.

He’s already hard. You’re hit with a nauseating wave of revulsion as you feel the stiffness beneath the cloth against your face, as he drags your lips over the length of his shaft. He holds you there, drawing out the moment, as if daring you to pull away. When you look up, there’s the ghost of a familiar smile on his face – enough to send your gaze plummeting down. His hands drop from your hair, and stretch, in their distorted, unnatural fashion, all the down way to your wrists, dragging them up his thighs before placing them on the waistband of his trousers.

There’s a moment where you do nothing, holding your hands utterly still, inches from his cock. As if your inaction might be enough for him to change his mind. He’s used these moments to toy with you before, letting you draw out your resistance, enjoying the anticipation, enjoying the anger and despair in your eyes. But he has no patience tonight. His hands fold over yours, pressing them down into his waistband, and a third arm juts out from his stomach, rending through the cloth of his shirt to grasp your face, squeezing your cheeks and prodding harshly at your jaw until your mouth is forced open.

His cock springs free, and you let out a choked sob. He’s experimented with many shapes and sizes, and tonight, it’s clearly designed to make you struggle. His third hand retracts back from whence it came, leaving nothing between you and your fate.

Both remaining hands depart from your wrists and land firmly on the back of your head. He tugs you forward, forcing the tip of his cock into your still-open mouth.

You make the mistake of allowing your eyes to flick upwards. And, for the first time since that fateful moment minutes ago, you see his grin spread over his face. “All mine,” he sighs, hands relaxing where they rest upon your scalp. “All mine.” He presses forward slowly, but firmly, easing himself into your mouth, savoring each scrape against your tongue, each time you’re forced to breathe through your nose. He doesn’t stop at the limit of your comfort – he never does. He presses past the edge of your throat, lodging himself inside you, until he’s nearly cut off your breath for the second time tonight. Your eyelids feel heavy, and your eyes themselves water uncontrollably, threatening to spill over at any moment.

Just when you think he’s too much for you to take, he pulls back. But he lets you enjoy your freedom for just a moment before thrusting deep into your throat, pressing his palms so roughly against your head that you know you have no chance of escape. You sputter uncontrollably, and narrow trails of drool escape from the sides of your mouth. Your entire body shudders, gasping for breath, for a break, for a way out. But your suffering, as usual, does nothing to slow him down. If anything, it spurs him on. He thrusts into you again, and again, gradually working himself up, speed increasing with every indecent noise that manages to escape from around his cock. Your survival instincts take over, and you desperately try to pull away, desperate for a single deep, clean breath; he pushes you down, his hands a hundred times stronger than the force your body can muster.

“So pretty.” He sighs – not with pleasure, but with relief. Like doing this to you has finally set his mind at ease. “You can cry now.”

You couldn't stop yourself if you wanted to - tears drip down your cheek as he pulls you in close. So close that you choke disgustingly loudly – so close that even if you dared to look up, you wouldn’t get a clear picture of his face. So close that you feel the bile churning in your stomach, threatening to give way. For several seconds, he keeps you here, staring down at you, crushing your every attempt to struggle.

There’s another whimper from the recesses of the alley – louder, this time - but your empathy seems to have disappeared. You only wish you had enough freedom of body and mind to make such a sound.

He thrusts once more, revels in the way you gag and balk at his size. When he frees you, several seconds later, yanking you back by the base of your hair, you feel no relief. You barely have time to take that one deep breath you’ve been craving before a sharp shove to your shoulders sends you crashing onto your back, knocking the air from your lungs. He drops to the ground and crawls on top of you, pinning you to the ground as his swelling cock drags up your thigh.

”You’re too pretty for humans…and feel too good...” The tip of his cock presses hard at the lips of your cunt, and you use the strength you have to squirm away – until your shoulders hit the wall behind you. “They don’t deserve to have you.” He drags you towards him, and you don’t resist, if only because you don’t want to know how it feels to have your skull slam against solid brick. Your lips, recently sealed shut, part once again as his cock forces you open. For as long as you can, you keep quiet, trying to deny him the satisfaction of hearing the reaction he can already see. But you can only hold out for so long. In real time – the earthly time separate from the years that pass in your mind – it’s barely seconds. He’s molded himself to stretch you open, to stretch you beyond your limits. And he knows those limits well enough not to fail.

His entire body seems to shudder with anticipation. "Come on. I know you can sound pretty, too. Don't hold it back."

You obey, a fresh thrust of his cock forcing a sob from your mouth. His growing smile warps into a full, overbearing grin, a grin that you don’t dare shut out by closing your eyes.

He fucks into you recklessly, sloppily, again and again, and his hand falls upon your neck once more, threatening to tighten to the point of no return. “See? It’s – it’s so nice when you cry for me.” He squeezes – whether it’s intentional or a sign of his failing control, you truly don’t know. “Isn’t it? Isn’t it nice?”

“Yes.” It’s a rasp, hissing out between sobs, and it’s the most painful lie you’ve ever told – but between his hand at your throat and his cock buried deep inside you, what choice do you have? Your mind floats fuzzily above your head once more, abandoning your body to hang on for dear life.

“Good.” He exhales blissfully, innocently, his pure, all-consuming pleasure at odds with the cries of pain and despair you hear emanate from your mouth. “I knew it…still like to hear you say it…”

He’s babbling – and, you realize, with a fresh wave of despair, so are you. “I can’t…please…”

“Soon.” His hand inexplicably releases your throat, and furls into the shadows, arm extending far longer than it should, to the point where you wouldn’t be able to see the tips of his fingers, even if you dared to look away from his face to watch them. “Almost…”

When you finally allow your eyes to close, he doesn’t notice – his head is already thrown back, and somewhere in the alley, yards away, his fist tightens. Hard.

The bile rises in your stomach all over again. For just a moment, you’re lucid enough to realize what he’s doing. And you can’t stop him.

He falls over you and gasps heavily in your ear. His cock pulses, and your eyes snap open against your will, mouth parting instinctually as you feel the all-too familiar shock of his release.

It aligns cleanly with a sickening splatter, exactly where his hand fell into the shadows.

“There.” He buries his face in your neck, and his arm retracts back into view. His hand, oddly slick, brushes up your forehead and through your hair. “All done. All better.” He doesn’t seem to notice the dry heaving of your breath, the uncontrollable shaking of your arms and legs. Or perhaps he does. Perhaps he’s enjoying it. Perhaps he thinks it’s a good thing. “A happy ending…you humans love those, don’t you?”

You’re beyond words. Lacking the strength to speak, the will to move. The only thing that’s working is your mind, and you wish it wasn’t. You wish it would abandon you again, instead of shoving its way back into your head. You don’t dare look back into the depths of the alley, but you know what you’d see if you did. Something transfigured, ruined, mangled – dead. It’s not your fault. It’s Mahito. All him, all him, all this suffering at his hands…and yet, you’re the only one who’s falling apart. Of the three who came into this alley, he’s the only one who hasn’t been destroyed.

“Don’t worry.” He raises his face, smiling gently into the ravages of your expression, carefully wiping a tear from your cheek. “We’re never gonna do this again. We’ll never hear anyone talk like that again." He laughs - laughs. "Not him...but not anyone else, either. I’ll keep you…I’ll keep you away from it all. Keep you all to myself.”

Your back is still pressed to the ground, skull resting uncomfortably upon the hard surface below you. There are still stars in the sky – just a few bright ones, strong enough to penetrate the city lights around you, but they blur before your eyes. Far away, they fade into nothing, pinpricks compared to the blinding glow of the manic gaze bearing down upon you.

Mahito rolls you onto your side, and you stare numbly into the street as he wraps his arms tightly around your waist. Your arm is trapped beneath you, pressing harshly into the asphalt, but it doesn’t matter. You barely notice at all. All you can feel is him. All you can hear is his breath, unsettlingly even and quiet, and his occasional hums and sighs in your ear.  

You know this won’t last long. That once he decides he’s done, you’ll be dragged back to his home, perhaps never to emerge. It’s horrifying, but you’re too numb to feel that horror just yet. You can’t bring yourself to mourn for the outside, the world you’re about to be torn away from. Not yet. Not now. And perhaps not ever. Perhaps it’s best if you never see the stars again. Best for Mahito, best for you – and best for anyone who stumbles into your path.

AU where L wins and instead of sending Light to prison or his execution he lets Light go but ruins any potential promising career prospect he has for shits and giggles. Nobody knows Light is Kira, but he'll never be able to work in any career path that interests him bc L's petty ass keeps getting him fired. Light is stuck working shitty customer service jobs and he's one bad day away from strangling someone. L thinks this is a great punishment for an egomaniac and that it might humble his god complex and Ryuk finds this sooo entertaining he ends up sticking around for the rest of Light's miserable life.

Outside

Mahito x Reader // Word Count ~6k

Synopsis: Sometimes, Mahito actually tries to make you happy. This latest attempt comes closer to the mark than any other. You missed being outside, and you feel just a little bit less trapped once you’re out beneath the night sky. For a few minutes, anyways. Before it all goes wrong. If only this stranger on the street was able to keep his mouth shut – and if only Mahito wasn’t there to hear him.

Content Warnings and Tags: Dark content. Noncon, forced relationship, kidnapped reader, extreme possessiveness, choking, hair pulling, dacryphillia, throat fucking, rough sex, discussion of drinking and depiction of drunkenness (not reader), catcalling, non-gory description of physical violence, discussion of past violence and killing, off-screen murder (also not reader but boy is it traumatizing for them). In summation: the dove is dead, do not eat it.

A/N: I - don't even know how I feel about this one. Sometimes a concept pops into your head and you just have to see it through. As always, proceed with caution <3

He wakes you up with a rough grip, shaking you until your eyes flutter open. It’s an unpleasant way to be ripped from sleep, but compared to some of the other ways he’s tried in the past weeks, it’s not so bad. His hands are on your shoulders, this time, and it’s only his hands touching you – it could be worse. Still, you feel the familiar curl of despair in your stomach, the familiar urge to turn away from the face that hovers over yours, to run away from it. But you don’t do so much as close your eyes. It’s not worth it. You know he’ll only pry them back open.

“You’re cute when you wake up.” He grins broadly, giggling at the sight of your eyes struggling to remain open. “You always look a little bit confused for a second. And your voice changes when you’re sleepy. It’s adorable.” When he leans down to kiss you, you accept it, lying still and parting your mouth to allow his tongue inside. Your eyelids feel heavy. There’s no view of the sky in this wretched sewer – you haven’t seen it since the day he dragged you down here – but you can tell that it’s still the depths of night, that you were asleep for a few hours at most. This isn’t unusual. You’ve learned that when he gets a new idea, he doesn’t like to wait.

His kiss is long, and slow. It drags the breath from your mouth until at last, after what feels like an eternity, he’s satisfied. Then, he pulls you to your feet, and holds you tight in his arms, face pressed down into your neck. “I have a surprise for you.” His voice is low, but shaking, barely containing his excitement.

You stiffen involuntarily, just enough that you’re sure he notices. You can’t help it. You think you’ve spent about three weeks here, although you can’t be entirely sure, and none of the several “surprises” he’s sprung on you in that time have been anything short of horrific.

“I’ve decided…” He pulls back, and grins into your face, still far too close for any sort of comfort, his breath falling oddly cold on your cheek. “That you deserve something extra special. You’ve been so much fun, and I want to do something nice for you. Like a reward. I thought about it for a while, and I think I came up with something good.” He tilts his head, sizing up your expression. “Ask me what it is.”

You don’t want to know. But you will, soon enough, no matter what. “What is it?”

“I’ve decided…that I’m going to let you go outside!”

Your brain churns, trying to make sense of what he’s said. “Outside?”

“Mhm! Aren’t you excited?” His smile falls as you stare blankly back at him. “You should be excited,” he says petulantly. “It’s a good surprise. Humans like a change of scenery, right? You like fresh air?”

“Yes, but”- Surely, he’s not offering you what you really want. To you, outside means freedom. And there’s nothing he wants to give you less than that.

“Oh. I get it.” He laughs, and shakes his head. “No. I’m not letting you go by yourself. I’ll be right beside you the whole time. Wouldn’t want you getting lost on your way back!”

Right. Lost. As if you wouldn’t run as fast as you could as soon as you made it to the mouth of the sewer. In any direction, to anywhere at all. If he ever gave you the chance, you would take it in an instant.

“I’ll hold your hand and everything.” As he says this, he interlocks his fingers with yours, and squeezes. “It’ll be very romantic. You’ll like it.”

His grip on your hand will be tight – even if it wasn’t, you know how quick he is, how powerful. As long as he’s beside you, you’ll never have a hope of escape. Still, as his surprises go, this is the best one so far. It’s a very low bar, to be fair, but still…

“Let’s go,” he insists, tugging at your arm.

 “Now?”

“Of course!” He laughs again, like you've said something absolutely ridiculous. “You really are cute when you wake up. You get confused…”

You pause for a beat, trying to smooth out the consternation on your face. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Mhm. And it’s nice out! Very quiet. The streets are almost all empty...no one around to get in the way of the view.”

“The streets are empty because it’s the middle of the night.”

“Yes.”

You look down at your clothes. They’re an odd ensemble, a blue, mid-thigh pleated skirt and a large black t-shirt he brought back yesterday from who-knows-where. Only the third change of clothes he’s given you in the weeks since he found you. Certainly a step up from the tattered, indecent remains of the dress you’d had on that first night, and even from the other ensembles he’s collected in the intervening time – but still not anything you’d choose to wear in public. It’s a small detail to get hung up on, but you’ve found yourself latching onto small details quite often in the past few weeks. If you think about the big picture for too long, you start to feel like your brain is going to break.

“You should be excited,” he says stubbornly. “But if you really don’t want to… I can find something else for us to do. I’ve got other ideas!”

There’s nothing threatening about the way he says it. It’s matter of fact, almost genial. But that doesn’t matter. You know that you don’t want to experience any of his backup plans – your imagination is already going into overdrive, picturing what he might have in store if you refuse his offer. “No. I…I want to go outside.” You realize, as you say it, that it’s true, and not only because your fear the alternatives. Still, your voice comes out small, and it shrinks even more as you force out your final sentence. “Thank you.”

“Aw. You’re very welcome.” He kisses you on the forehead, and starts leading you away. As you follow, slightly behind him, you rediscover another one of those small details you latch onto when everything is too much: the sewer itself is oddly warm, but the floor is always cold on your bare feet. It doesn’t make sense. Sometimes, such minute observations are comforting distractions, but right now, this particular one is only adding to your unease.

After a few begrudging steps, you manage to spit out: “I need shoes.”

“Oh…of course! You should have said something before.” He releases your hand and darts away, faster than humanly possible, returning to your side moments later with a pair of black high heels you recognize as your own. “You were wearing these with your dress the night I found you, remember? I decided to keep them.”

Of course you remember. You’d kicked them off inside your apartment, minutes before he’d shown up. Had he really stopped to pick them up when he’d carried you away? The details of that night are…well. Most of them are hazy. A few are painfully clear.

“I kept the dress, too,” he sighs, as he places the shoes in front of you. “It’s too bad you can’t wear it anymore. I still have it, just in case you change your mind.”

You step into the heels, and reluctantly take his hand, wobbling slightly as you follow him through the tunnel. “I was wearing it for days,” you say timidly. “It smells.”

“It smells like you.” In the periphery of your vision, you can see his head turn in your direction. You keep your eyes glued to the floor. “The longer you wore it, the more like you it smelled. It got stronger.” His nails scratch at the back of your hand, long and harsh against your dry skin. “I guess human scents linger for a while, because it still smells like you.”

You stay quiet, as you usually do. How are you supposed to respond to something like that? There was a time when you thought he said things like this to upset you. Now, though, you think he’s just frightfully honest. He doesn’t say things to provoke you – he says things because they appear in his head, and he has no qualms about letting you hear them. Does he know that they make you uncomfortable? He must – but clearly, he doesn’t mind.

For several minutes, you walk through twisted passages. Although you can still feel his eyes lapping at your face, at your body, at the hem of your skirt, he’s silent for once, giving you the gift of uninterrupted time in your own head. You wonder how long it’ll be before he feels inclined to get you a new bundle of clothes. A set of underwear, at least, would be nice. Maybe if you ask, he’ll do it. He does seem to like providing for you, even to take pride in it, although he certainly doesn’t know how to do it properly. When he presented your most recent outfit to you, he stared at you like he was expecting something more than numb acceptance. Like he was expecting you to jump for joy, or to thank him for giving you the dignity of wearing clothes that didn’t stink. These little moments – where he seems to truly believe he's being kind to you - have been happening frequently in the past week or so, and you’re not sure how you feel about it. On the one hand, it probably means that he’s getting even more attached to you. That doesn’t bode well for your future. Then again, your future was more or less wiped away the moment he discovered your existence. You might as well appreciate the little comforts you’re provided.

“Do you feel the air yet?” He smiles, much more gently than you’re accustomed to – inviting, rather than forcing you, to smile in return. “It’s changing.”

As soon as he points it out, you feel it. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel – a stir in the dense, cloying air that gives you a faint sense of comfort. As you move forward, that light becomes physical – he leads you up a ladder, briefly letting go of your hand to allow you to climb. You scrabble up towards the light, almost losing your shoes in the process. As you poke your head over the street line, you can’t help but feel free, just for a moment. When you look up, you can see the stars above you. There aren’t as many as you’d like – the city lights render all but the brightest invisible – but it’s something. Despite everything, you’re grateful for it.

“You like it! I can tell…I knew you would.” He smiles broadly, and grasps your wrist, pulling you onto the street above the sewer. The assistance is unnecessary – but under the circumstances, you don’t mind. You don’t flinch, as you usually do at his touch. He grabs your hand, and you walk along the street together in strange silence. He’s watching you intently, as always, but he’s not talking, and that’s enough. If you didn’t look, you could almost pretend that you were alone, staring out at the open city streets and up at the sky above. What time is it, exactly? 3? 4? One of those times where no one is awake except for you. When you were alone in your home - your real home - you used to cherish being awake at such times, cherish the strange, powerful sense of isolation. Even now, stumbling along the sidewalk with this demon at your side, you can’t help but cherish it again. At least you’re outside. At least you have the stars to keep you company, and not just him.

“Thank you.” When you say it this time, you mean it, although it’s not really directed at him. He’s barely there, in your mind. You’re thanking the night air, and the sky, and the empty, open streets for the strange comfort they provide. Only now do you realize how claustrophobic you’ve been for all this time. The dim light of the sewer, the imposing walls trapping you inside – those little oppressive details have been adding to your misery. Now that they’re gone…you still hate everything about your situation, but it’s easier for you to ignore it. Easier for you to pretend, for a moment, that everything is going to be okay.

“I knew you’d like it,” he repeats. You’re sure his eyes are glowing, that he’s got some version of his crazed smile splattered across his face, but you don’t have to look. There are so many better things to look at right now.

Just as you have this thought, a shadow emerges from the intersection in front of you, perhaps twenty paces away. Under the streetlights, the shadow takes the form of a man. He’s tall, maybe twenty years older than you, dressed simply in jeans and a grey t-shirt. And, as he gets closer, you see that he’s stumbling. He pauses to lean against a battered storefront, right beside the mouth of a shadowy alley. He’s swaying slightly, and you think you see his mouth moving, as if he’s muttering something under his breath.

“I’ve seen ones like him before!” Mahito’s hand tightens over yours, voice full of excitement, as he pulls you to a halt. “It’s almost always at night…and their breath always smells the same way.” His free hand comes out of nowhere to turn your face toward him. His eyes fix intently on yours, and his finger strokes gently over your mouth. “Your breath smelled a little like that, the night I found you, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as theirs. And you weren’t walking so strangely, either.”

You don’t ask why he was close enough to smell their breath. You already know. The horrors you’ve witnessed in the past weeks have been enough to bring you to tears – both out of pity for the bodies beneath him, and fear for your own.

“The things you humans do to yourselves…” He tugs your forward by your hand, and kisses you on the forehead, his fingers slipping into your hair. Even when he pulls back, he doesn’t let go. “You’re lucky you’re done with all that now. You can’t do anything to yourself…and no other humans can do anything to you, either. The only one who can do anything is me!”

Desperate to shake his gaze away, you cast your eyes upwards, but the expanse of the sky does nothing to dispel the claustrophobic dread churning in your stomach. Perhaps it was never about the sewer itself, after all.

He releases your hair and grips your hand tightly. “You can keep walking now. I want to get a closer look.”

You walk slightly behind him this time, your other hand clenched at your side. Usually, you’d worry about how strange you might look to passersby, holding onto what seems to be empty air, stumbling awkwardly as if pulled by some invisible force. But you doubt that the man before you will notice. You can see Mahito’s neck crane as the pair of you approach. As you draw even with the man you think he’s about to let go of your hand, and run up close for a better view.

But before that can happen, the man grins at you, his burnt-out eyes suddenly finding their focus. He doesn’t meet your gaze. In fact, he seems to look everywhere but your face, in the space of a few seconds. His mouth falls open. And the inevitable words tumble from his mouth, their edges blurred. “Hey…sweetheart. Whatcha doin all alone?”

Your stomach churns. If you were truly alone, at this time of night, this would be more than enough to set off every alarm in your head, to send you rushing down the street. But right now – right now, the fingernails tightening against the back of your hand are screaming for all of your attention.

“I didn’t like that.” You turn, giving into the sudden sense of dread that commands you to look. Mahito has never sounded like this before. He’s never looked like this either. There’s no hint of a smile, no glow in his eyes. “I didn’t like that.” You quickly realize what’s wrong with the picture: he’s serious. Not the inquisitive kind of serious – the deathly kind. He’s squeezing your hand tight enough to leave crescent moons in your skin. His eyes latch onto yours, clinging so tightly that you can’t bear to look away. You gasp as, in two places, the skin on the back of your hand gives way, sliced open by his viselike grip. To your surprise, he lets go at the sound of your voice. He holds his hand up to the side of your face, only glancing at the smudge of blood on his nails before capturing your gaze once more. “You’re…you’re not his sweetheart. You’re mine. He doesn’t get to say that. He can’t…” In the periphery of your vision, his hand is shaking.

You stumble as he turns you aside, nearly crashing onto the sidewalk beneath your feet, scrabbling for purchase on his arm. For once, he doesn’t try to catch you – he barely seems aware of your grasp on him at all. The man against the wall is staring blearily, deeply confused, no doubt, by the nothing that appears to be tossing you around.

Mahito’s hand finds the back of your shirt and drags you across the sidewalk, practically hurling you deep into the mouth of the alley beside the storefront. He disappears for a moment – not nearly long enough for you to process your new surroundings, never mind attempt to escape them. In the split-second it takes for your eyes to adjust to the looming walls on either side of you, the dustbins gathered in shadowed clumps along the alleyway, and the crumbled brick inexplicably lying at the edges, your view is interrupted by a flash of movement, unintelligible, faster even than the one that carried you here, followed by the sharp thud of a body on pavement And beneath that, a sickening sort of crack. You think you heard a similar sound or two in the moment before this violent flurry, but you're too frightened to process it entirely. Mahito stands before you, facing the dark, indistinct end of the passageway. Several yards in front of him lies a huddled mass, flung across the alley and into the pavement beneath with a force magnitudes greater than the one that carried you into these shadows. It whimpers in pain, face down, seemingly unable to move.

Your mouth falls open – but even if you could speak, what would you say? Would you tell him to stop? From the half of his face that you can see, you know this would be a futile effort.

When he hears the rasp of your breath, Mahito turns, slowly. One of his hands is in a fist at his side, the other still raised in the aftermath of a brutal throw. This hand slowly falls.

You’ve seen him kill before. Three times, in real life, and several times in the nightmares that have haunted you nearly every night since. What disturbed you most was the way he reveled in it, the grin that spread wider across his face with every movement, with every pitiful sound that echoed into the night, with every deafening spatter of indistinct human mass that forced you to your knees in terror. And his laughter – that was the most hideous sound of all. That’s the one you always hear in your dreams, the one that still echoes in your ears when you wake up.

But somehow, seeing him without that smile, standing in complete silence, is a thousand times more terrifying. You blink rapidly, trying to fend off the wave of tears you can feel building behind your eyes.

He takes a step towards you. Another. One more. It’s a narrow alley – three steps is all it takes to pin you against the brick wall that stretches up to the sky behind you. His hand rises to stroke along the side of your face, to brush over your trembling lips. “You shouldn’t be crying.” He’s far too calm, the pitch of his voice lower than what you’ve grown to expect. “You can’t cry. Not for him.” Here, his voices quivers, enough to remind you that under this strangely cold exterior, he’s just as volatile as ever.

To your horror, a stray tear escapes from between your lashes. As soon as he sees it, he swipes it away, the ragged edge of his nail dragging threateningly along your cheek. “Don’t.”

You would choke out an apology, if you thought you could speak without releasing the rest of the flood. Instead, you find yourself staring silently, helplessly, as his hand closes around your throat. “You’re the most pretty when you cry,” he sighs, soft voice contrasting horribly with the roughness of his grip. His face falls into your hair, and he inhales deeply, fingers tightening against the sides of your neck. “And you’re mine. When you’re this pretty – it has to be for me. Not for anyone else.”

How lovely it would be to look up and see the stars just one more time. To pretend that you were alone for one more moment. You’re suffocating, in all senses of the word, the combination of a lack of oxygen and pure terror sending a violent, vision-blurring rush to your head. The kind of rush that makes you feel like your mind is being violently expelled through the top of your skull, forced to watch helplessly as it floats over the hollow body it’s left behind.

He kisses you slowly, almost tenderly, staring desperately into your deadened eyes all the while. Starving for some response, even as he drains the air from your lungs. When it ends what seems like eons later, he at last drops his hand, and the pressure on your neck disappears. You gulp at the night air, eyelids flickering with the exhaustion and relief of your sudden release. You tilt your head back for another mighty inhale, but it’s cut short by cold hands sliding down your neck, onto your shoulders, guiding you gently but firmly to the ground.

For a moment, the only thing you let yourself process is the rough scrape of pavement on your knees. It’s not smooth. It’s not comfortable. But you can make it slightly better, because there’s a bit of rubble beneath your left knee, or perhaps a small stone - with all too much effort, you manage to shift the weight of your body, to move your hand and swipe the pebble away. The motion leaves you staring at the ground, eyes sweeping desperately for some other small bit of something to latch onto. You don’t want to look up, because you’re all too aware of what lies between you and the sky. It’s been watching you adjust your posture. Watching you make your futile attempts to stave it off.

Mahito slides two fingers just beneath the line of your jaw, and digs in until you have no choice but to raise your face. “You’re doing better. You’re doing good…I didn’t see any more tears. And when they do come back…they’ll be all for me. Soon. I'll know...I'll know that they're mine.”

You think you hear a sound from back in the alley, where his victim still lies alive, and motionless. But when you turn instinctively, he catches you, pressing his thumb firmly into the skin over your molars and scrapping you hard with nails beneath your jaw. “Don’t!” He practically yelps, and the high-pitched sound yanks your eyes all the way up to his face. “He – he wanted to take you.”

You took me. The thought comes to your mind, unbidden, not for the first time. It will never leave your mouth.

His eyes are wild, and his chest heaves, his face an overflowing blend of overwrought emotion, anger and confusion and urgency. “You’re mine. Mine.” He shoves his fingers into your hair, and grips hard, nails scratching mindlessly at your scalp. “No one else can have you. Ever.”

From your mouth comes a terrified whimper, not unlike the sound you heard from the shadows moments before. You follow it with words, and they come out nearly inaudible, caked in the phlegm of tears soon to come. “I want to go back.”

“We can’t.” For a tense, still-aired moment, his eyes fall closed. Without their vengeful glow, he looks more dejected than anything else. He takes a slow breath. You’ve never known whether he needed to breathe, or whether he did it for some sort of effect, but in the moment, it’s serving him, somehow. The hand loose at his side closes into a fist as he exhales, and when his eyes snap open, they’re brighter than ever. The confusion is gone, and the anger has retreated to the background – only a hauntingly familiar hunger remains. “We can’t go back. I'm not done yet.” His voice steadies, and he stares mercilessly, ravenously, into your captive gaze. “I need to - make it better. Make it right."

He yanks you forward. The tension on your scalp becomes painful as you fall gracelessly into his thigh, but he rights you, pulling you into his crotch and holding you steady. The fist at his side unclenches, and falls heavily, almost clumsily onto the back of your head, pressing you firmly into the outline of his cock.

He’s already hard. You’re hit with a nauseating wave of revulsion as you feel the stiffness beneath the cloth against your face, as he drags your lips over the length of his shaft. He holds you there, drawing out the moment, as if daring you to pull away. When you look up, there’s the ghost of a familiar smile on his face – enough to send your gaze plummeting down. His hands drop from your hair, and stretch, in their distorted, unnatural fashion, all the down way to your wrists, dragging them up his thighs before placing them on the waistband of his trousers.

There’s a moment where you do nothing, holding your hands utterly still, inches from his cock. As if your inaction might be enough for him to change his mind. He’s used these moments to toy with you before, letting you draw out your resistance, enjoying the anticipation, enjoying the anger and despair in your eyes. But he has no patience tonight. His hands fold over yours, pressing them down into his waistband, and a third arm juts out from his stomach, rending through the cloth of his shirt to grasp your face, squeezing your cheeks and prodding harshly at your jaw until your mouth is forced open.

His cock springs free, and you let out a choked sob. He’s experimented with many shapes and sizes, and tonight, it’s clearly designed to make you struggle. His third hand retracts back from whence it came, leaving nothing between you and your fate.

Both remaining hands depart from your wrists and land firmly on the back of your head. He tugs you forward, forcing the tip of his cock into your still-open mouth.

You make the mistake of allowing your eyes to flick upwards. And, for the first time since that fateful moment minutes ago, you see his grin spread over his face. “All mine,” he sighs, hands relaxing where they rest upon your scalp. “All mine.” He presses forward slowly, but firmly, easing himself into your mouth, savoring each scrape against your tongue, each time you’re forced to breathe through your nose. He doesn’t stop at the limit of your comfort – he never does. He presses past the edge of your throat, lodging himself inside you, until he’s nearly cut off your breath for the second time tonight. Your eyelids feel heavy, and your eyes themselves water uncontrollably, threatening to spill over at any moment.

Just when you think he’s too much for you to take, he pulls back. But he lets you enjoy your freedom for just a moment before thrusting deep into your throat, pressing his palms so roughly against your head that you know you have no chance of escape. You sputter uncontrollably, and narrow trails of drool escape from the sides of your mouth. Your entire body shudders, gasping for breath, for a break, for a way out. But your suffering, as usual, does nothing to slow him down. If anything, it spurs him on. He thrusts into you again, and again, gradually working himself up, speed increasing with every indecent noise that manages to escape from around his cock. Your survival instincts take over, and you desperately try to pull away, desperate for a single deep, clean breath; he pushes you down, his hands a hundred times stronger than the force your body can muster.

“So pretty.” He sighs – not with pleasure, but with relief. Like doing this to you has finally set his mind at ease. “You can cry now.”

You couldn't stop yourself if you wanted to - tears drip down your cheek as he pulls you in close. So close that you choke disgustingly loudly – so close that even if you dared to look up, you wouldn’t get a clear picture of his face. So close that you feel the bile churning in your stomach, threatening to give way. For several seconds, he keeps you here, staring down at you, crushing your every attempt to struggle.

There’s another whimper from the recesses of the alley – louder, this time - but your empathy seems to have disappeared. You only wish you had enough freedom of body and mind to make such a sound.

He thrusts once more, revels in the way you gag and balk at his size. When he frees you, several seconds later, yanking you back by the base of your hair, you feel no relief. You barely have time to take that one deep breath you’ve been craving before a sharp shove to your shoulders sends you crashing onto your back, knocking the air from your lungs. He drops to the ground and crawls on top of you, pinning you to the ground as his swelling cock drags up your thigh.

”You’re too pretty for humans…and feel too good...” The tip of his cock presses hard at the lips of your cunt, and you use the strength you have to squirm away – until your shoulders hit the wall behind you. “They don’t deserve to have you.” He drags you towards him, and you don’t resist, if only because you don’t want to know how it feels to have your skull slam against solid brick. Your lips, recently sealed shut, part once again as his cock forces you open. For as long as you can, you keep quiet, trying to deny him the satisfaction of hearing the reaction he can already see. But you can only hold out for so long. In real time – the earthly time separate from the years that pass in your mind – it’s barely seconds. He’s molded himself to stretch you open, to stretch you beyond your limits. And he knows those limits well enough not to fail.

His entire body seems to shudder with anticipation. "Come on. I know you can sound pretty, too. Don't hold it back."

You obey, a fresh thrust of his cock forcing a sob from your mouth. His growing smile warps into a full, overbearing grin, a grin that you don’t dare shut out by closing your eyes.

He fucks into you recklessly, sloppily, again and again, and his hand falls upon your neck once more, threatening to tighten to the point of no return. “See? It’s – it’s so nice when you cry for me.” He squeezes – whether it’s intentional or a sign of his failing control, you truly don’t know. “Isn’t it? Isn’t it nice?”

“Yes.” It’s a rasp, hissing out between sobs, and it’s the most painful lie you’ve ever told – but between his hand at your throat and his cock buried deep inside you, what choice do you have? Your mind floats fuzzily above your head once more, abandoning your body to hang on for dear life.

“Good.” He exhales blissfully, innocently, his pure, all-consuming pleasure at odds with the cries of pain and despair you hear emanate from your mouth. “I knew it…still like to hear you say it…”

He’s babbling – and, you realize, with a fresh wave of despair, so are you. “I can’t…please…”

“Soon.” His hand inexplicably releases your throat, and furls into the shadows, arm extending far longer than it should, to the point where you wouldn’t be able to see the tips of his fingers, even if you dared to look away from his face to watch them. “Almost…”

When you finally allow your eyes to close, he doesn’t notice – his head is already thrown back, and somewhere in the alley, yards away, his fist tightens. Hard.

The bile rises in your stomach all over again. For just a moment, you’re lucid enough to realize what he’s doing. And you can’t stop him.

He falls over you and gasps heavily in your ear. His cock pulses, and your eyes snap open against your will, mouth parting instinctually as you feel the all-too familiar shock of his release.

It aligns cleanly with a sickening splatter, exactly where his hand fell into the shadows.

“There.” He buries his face in your neck, and his arm retracts back into view. His hand, oddly slick, brushes up your forehead and through your hair. “All done. All better.” He doesn’t seem to notice the dry heaving of your breath, the uncontrollable shaking of your arms and legs. Or perhaps he does. Perhaps he’s enjoying it. Perhaps he thinks it’s a good thing. “A happy ending…you humans love those, don’t you?”

You’re beyond words. Lacking the strength to speak, the will to move. The only thing that’s working is your mind, and you wish it wasn’t. You wish it would abandon you again, instead of shoving its way back into your head. You don’t dare look back into the depths of the alley, but you know what you’d see if you did. Something transfigured, ruined, mangled – dead. It’s not your fault. It’s Mahito. All him, all him, all this suffering at his hands…and yet, you’re the only one who’s falling apart. Of the three who came into this alley, he’s the only one who hasn’t been destroyed.

“Don’t worry.” He raises his face, smiling gently into the ravages of your expression, carefully wiping a tear from your cheek. “We’re never gonna do this again. We’ll never hear anyone talk like that again." He laughs - laughs. "Not him...but not anyone else, either. I’ll keep you…I’ll keep you away from it all. Keep you all to myself.”

Your back is still pressed to the ground, skull resting uncomfortably upon the hard surface below you. There are still stars in the sky – just a few bright ones, strong enough to penetrate the city lights around you, but they blur before your eyes. Far away, they fade into nothing, pinpricks compared to the blinding glow of the manic gaze bearing down upon you.

Mahito rolls you onto your side, and you stare numbly into the street as he wraps his arms tightly around your waist. Your arm is trapped beneath you, pressing harshly into the asphalt, but it doesn’t matter. You barely notice at all. All you can feel is him. All you can hear is his breath, unsettlingly even and quiet, and his occasional hums and sighs in your ear.  

You know this won’t last long. That once he decides he’s done, you’ll be dragged back to his home, perhaps never to emerge. It’s horrifying, but you’re too numb to feel that horror just yet. You can’t bring yourself to mourn for the outside, the world you’re about to be torn away from. Not yet. Not now. And perhaps not ever. Perhaps it’s best if you never see the stars again. Best for Mahito, best for you – and best for anyone who stumbles into your path.

Thinking about: Mahito becoming obsessed with you not because your soul is particularly bright or pure, but because it’s a little bit…tarnished. He’s seen ones like yours before, and he’s not sure what exactly is wrong with them, but he can tell - some humans’ souls are not what they used to be. They’ve sustained damage, although certainly not the kind of damage that he’s used to inflicting.

At the beginning, he was frustrated to realize that there were ways to alter a soul besides his own methods. But frustration has given way to curiosity over time. So he takes you into his home, despite your violent protests, and cajoles you, by any means necessary, into answering his questions.

You’re confused, at first, when he talks about souls, when he asks what happened to yours - but before long, he’ll learn to translate his questions in ways you understand. He’ll prod at the details of your life - were there things that hurt? A lot? Too much to forget about? So much that something changed forever?

When you give way to his pressure and answer him, he’ll grin morbidly the entire time. Any person with a shred of empathy would look at your face and say “I know this must be hard to talk about” - but your hesitance only sharpens his craving for your story. He tugs at every loose string, until he’s sure he’s unraveled the mystery of not only your soul, but every single one like it.

They’ve been hurt, indeed. But not by curses. Quite the opposite.

And he’s satisfied, at last, because although it’s frustrating to see such destruction caused by someone other than him, it’s beautiful in a way, too. The things humans do to each other, and to themselves…they’re fascinating. It makes him almost proud to keep one at his side.

Dark Mahito Thoughts™️ of the day:

There are a few things humans can do that Mahito can’t - because he can’t experience them for himself, he’s fascinated by them. His favorite is the concept of intoxication. This strange thing that humans do to themselves, voluntarily, purely because of the pleasure they find in it.

It only takes one night of lurking under neon signs for him to realize that humans act differently when their tongues are coated in a specific kind of drink. They lower their inhibitions, talk to strangers, stumble into the streets, make decisions they’re sure to regret. And they enjoy it. More than that - they revel in it. It’s a silly thing, and although he cackles at the sight, he’s also deeply curious about it. Aren’t they scared to be so vulnerable? Don’t they know that there might be consequences if they stray too far from familiar faces?

Surely, they do. And it must be worth it to them, anyways. It must be a wonderful experience for them, to be so detached from reality that they forget to be wary. They usually have their guards up. It’s fascinating to see them fall.

Humans do make stupid decisions sometimes. And he revels in those moments, too, although he can’t experience them for himself. He’s very good at living vicariously. It’s easy, when one is invisible. He can get close enough to smell the drink on their breaths, to feel the heat radiating from their bodies - and even closer than that, if he wants.

He tests the limits. Will this human, dancing in a crowd under flashing lights, notice a hand slide over her shoulder? If not - what if it falls briefly to her waist, or her thigh? And if she notices - will it scare her? Will she bother to look back at him? Will she think it was another human? Will she assume it was an accident?

Will she see him? It’s not out of the question - human perception changes under the influence. Their eyes change, and their souls along with them.

She’ll know something’s wrong once she leaves the crowd, and topples out into the street, directly into his arms. She’ll wake up from the haze - her eyes will widen, and she’ll put up a faint, confused struggle. He’ll try to reassure her, to tell her that he’s only curious, that she’ll be just fine, that she’ll enjoy his company, but she won’t understand, as hard as he tries.

Then again - humans don’t grasp much at all when they’re in this state. It’s one of the most entertaining things about it: the strange vacancy on their faces, the unintelligibility of their conversations, their ridiculous, futile attempts at comprehension.

But she won’t be like this forever. In the morning, she’ll understand. And if she doesn’t, he’ll try again. Humans are slow to accept, but they can’t hold out forever. Eventually, they all fall back into reality.

They should invent Jstor wrapped

Happy belated New Year to all !!

My New Year’s resolution is this: Just Write. By which I mean - I want to let go of all the mental things that stop me from putting my all into my writing. No insecurity, no shame, no worrying about what will get the most attention. No giving up completely due to temporary frustrations. And definitely no self-critical comparisons to other works or creators. Just Writing for the pure enjoyment of it, and hoping that others find enjoyment in my work as well <3

Imagine Dating L and rolling over in the middle of the night to ask him who orchestrated the Kennedy assassination.

1 AD didn’t work out the way I hoped but 2 AD will be my year

New Year’s Day

Mahito x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Synopsis: This particular holiday - it’s another one of those human concepts that he doesn’t quite get. And of course, he wants you to explain it. Out of all the questions he’s asked you, it’s certainly not the worst…right?

Content tags/warnings: kidnapped reader, forced relationship, implied noncon

A/N: a bit angsty, a bit philosophical, a bit dreadful. Because I cannot be normal about any holiday and neither can He

You’re lying on the concrete floor of the sewer, staring up at the ceiling. Hands layered under your head, providing just enough cushion to make your posture sustainable, if not necessarily comfortable. You’ve got a pile of blankets nearby, and yet at the moment, you prefer the floor. It’s something different, a hard, harsh sensation that nevertheless breaks up the oppressive same-ness of your surroundings. You’ve been here a long time, long enough that all sense of days and weeks passing has abandoned you. Staring at this same ceiling, these same walls. It’s quiet, too, except for the occasional drip of water. You barely even register that sound anymore, so accustomed have you become to your surroundings. You’ve counted every crack on the ceiling at one point or another, sung every song you remember in your head, silently recited snippets of conversations, old jokes - anything comforting. Anything to pass the time.

Right now, your mind is playing a lyric from a song whose title you don’t remember. Something from the early 80s, you think. It’s infuriating, in a very mild way, this incomplete memory, the way you can place the lyrics in time, but not in the song they’re from. You grapple with it for minutes on end, but you can’t seem to get beyond the few lines you remember, and the haunting string of melody between them. I will begin again. I will be with you again.

You’ve been experiencing frustration like this more and more often. You’re scraping the bottom of your memory, running out of new things with which to occupy yourself. And still - you’re still grateful for these times. The monotonous times. The moments when you can fix your eyes on a particular spot above you, and almost forget that you share this space with another. It’s strange, how these moments can stretch on for so long, and still seem not-long-enough once they come to an end. Even if it’s been hours, even if Mahito has been wrapped up in a book all afternoon - once he comes back to your side, the memory of those boring hours becomes fond, for a moment. Then, it seems to disappear, as if it were merely a mirage.

This particular reprieve is drawing to a close. Even now, you can hear the faint creak of him rising from his hammock, the fall of his feet upon the ground. You savor your last moments of isolation, tracing a crack in the ceiling with your eyes until, far too quickly, it’s obstructed by his hand waving an enthusiastic greeting - or perhaps, merely attempting to shake you from your trance.

He crouches down beside you, already reaching for your hand, and you quickly sit up. You prefer not to be lying down when he’s close. Of course, you know you’re equally vulnerable regardless of your position, but it makes you feel slightly - very slightly - better. Makes you feel like you have a bit more time before something inevitably goes wrong.

But it doesn’t last. He takes your shoulders, and eases you back down to the concrete. Tucks one of your hands carefully behind your head. Presses his palms to your knees until you give in, and straighten your legs. “I like this better,” he says simply. “I see you sitting up all the time. And standing, and curled up in a ball, and lying on your side…even lying on your back with your knees up, in the middle of all your blankets. But this doesn’t happen nearly as often. You kept pulling me out of my book this afternoon. The floor is hard. Not fun to lie on. But you still looked so…” he cocks his head, thinking through his next words. “Comfy! That’s what it is. You were even smiling for a while. I liked it.” He grins broadly, and takes your free hand. Squeezes. “And now I get to see it up close.”

You don’t smile. This doesn’t feel comfortable anymore. It feels exposed. It’s incredible, how quickly he can steal so much away from you. How he can make even the time you spend alone feel like his.

“I have a question,” he says, and you feel the pit in your stomach deepen. These conversations never end quickly. Especially not when he’s staring at you as intently as he is right now, eyes unblinking, a smile already playing at the corner of his lips.

You’ve been watching his face in silence for too long, apparently. With his free hand, he pokes you on the shoulder, the nail of his index finger carelessly stabbing you. Twice. “Cutie. Wake up.”

You release a long breath, doing your best to keep it steady. To not betray your discomfort. “What is it?”

“Celebrating the change from one year to another…why do humans do that?” His face hovers over yours, falling closer by the second, an almost suspicious expression written across his face. “You don’t celebrate the change from Saturday to Sunday, or November to December…so why does this one matter so much to you?”

Despite the precariousness of your situation, you can’t help but feel a slight bit of relief. As his questions go, this one isn’t bad. It’s not horrifically personal, or hinting at any sort of bloodshed. In fact, you’re sure that you’ve heard people ask similar things before. “I…never really thought about it.”

He jabs a finger at your brow. “Think! You’re a human…you can figure it out, if you try.”

“Well…” You could think better if his nose wasn’t brushing your face, but you don’t dare tell him that. “For one thing, it happens less often than a new week or a new month.”

“Hm.” His eyes slide upwards as he considers this, before landing once more upon your face, latching on a with renewed intensity. “Does that mean it matters more?”

“Maybe. But also, I think there’s something sort of…symbolic about it. It means something to people that months and weeks just don’t.”

He swells forward to plant a kiss on your forehead, leaving behind a splotch of saliva that you don’t dare wipe away. “See? You’re thinking! I knew you couldn’t do it. I can see those little gears turning in your head right now.” His grin is broad, eyes bright with curiosity. “What does it symbolize, then? What does it mean?”

It’s all you can do not to shut your eyes. All you can do to stop yourself from shuddering, from attempting to squirm out from underneath him. But this isn’t that hard of a question. You’ll answer it, and then he’ll be satisfied. Maybe he’ll even be happy enough to leave you alone for a bit longer. Although if he does…you won’t stay lying down. Not like this. You’ll probably never do it again, now that you know how it draws his eyes. “It means…a new start, for a lot of people.” He’s still staring at you, breathing shallowly against your cheek, waiting for more. You do your best. “Some people make New Year’s resolutions. Things they want to do in the new year that they didn’t last year. Exercising more, eating healthier, reading more books - that kind of thing. Not everyone sticks to them, but some do. For them, a new year is…a clean slate. A chance to do things differently than they did the year before.”

“Oh.” His grin slips a bit. As he thinks, his fingers tap absentmindedly against your shoulder, creeping slowly towards your neck. “So…it’s made up! The whole thing…you made it up, just to help yourselves feel better. To help yourselves change.”

“I mean…yes. In a way…”

He keeps speaking, as if he hasn’t registered the hesitance of your answer. “Humans do that a lot, don’t they? You take days, and decide that they’re special, because it makes you happy.”

You don’t like the fervor building up in his voice. The widening glow of his eyes. When he talks to you about humans, as if you’re merely something to be studied - it makes you feel like a specimen on the plate of a microscope. You try to remember the relative comfort of a few minutes ago, the song that was playing in your head moments before he crouched down beside you. But you can’t pull out the memory. With his face so close, you can barely even see the ceiling. He has this habit of taking up your entire field of vision, and the entire space between your ears. It’s suffocating.

You need him to stop talking. Need him to let you remember. Need to give him something new to ponder, just to buy yourself a few moments in your own head. A few seconds of your own time. “It’s made up…but for some people,” you manage, “it feels real. And thinking that it’s real…it helps them.”

He sighs, an almost melancholic sound that your body seems to echo as his finger traces up your neck, as his hand settles on your face, palming your cheek. “The lies you tell yourselves are beautiful, sometimes. But they’re still lies.” Slowly, inevitably, he lets himself fall on top you, the length of his body pinning your already motionless form to the floor. “You should understand that better than anyone.”

He’s looking up at you from your chest, and you press your head up from the floor to look back at him. You want to look up at the ceiling, to forget about him entirely, but right now, you know what a mistake that would be. Instead, you give in, and provide him the answer he’s looking for. “Why?”

“Because nothing changed for you,” he says simply. “You were here yesterday, and you were mine. And today - New Year’s Day - you’re still mine! And next year, too, and the year after that…for you, nothing is going to change. Ever.” He pulls himself along the length of your body, slithering up to draw his face even with yours. Aligning your mouths. Your eyes. “Don’t frown. It’s better this way. You’re free! No more silly little human lies for you.” He tugs at the corners of your mouth, pulling it up into a grotesque, unwilling smile. “That’s better!”

He kisses you, and his arms loop beneath your shoulders, holding you tight, fingernails digging through your shirt into the soft skin beneath. His hips press into yours, grinding slowly as you struggle to hold yourself still. His teeth sink into your bottom lip. And you think that despite what he’s said, there must be a part of you that still believes in your silly little lies. Because out of all the things that should be hurting you right now, all the thoughts you should be having - the only one you hear is: he didn’t tell me about New Year’s Eve.

Mahito and his inability to put that weapon away

Gum Line [Yandere Mahito x Reader[

Title: Gum Line [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: You need to get your teeth cleaned and Mahito wants to watch.

Word count: 1740

notes: yandere, mentions of death and violence, mentions of past injury on reader, reader is getting their teeth cleaned, Mahito

“You really don’t need to come,” you hissed lowly. “It’s fine. Really. It’s just a quick cleaning.”

Mahito puffed out his cheeks and peered through the glass door into the waiting room. “But I want to come. I’ve never been to a dentist. I want to see what they do to you.”

The receptionist was, at this point, staring at you and made a come-in gesture with her hands. You were standing out there too long for it to be normal. So you sighed and put your hand on the knob.

“Fine.” You bit out the words and regretted them as soon as they left your lips, but there was no taking it back. It didn’t matter, anyway. He was going to come in with or without your agreement.

“You can watch, just… just try to stay out of the way, okay? Please? I really need this cleaning.”

“Yay!” His cheer was too loud and too close, but he never cared about that, did he? Mahito wrapped his arm around yours and flung the door open with his other, only to pull you into the office with a giddy delight. To everyone else, it must have looked like you accidentally almost-tripped over the threshold after entering too quickly. 

“S-Sorry,” you said, breathless, smiling, to the receptionist. “I’m a bit clumsy today.”

She smiled back, all prim and professional. But you wondered what she must be thinking.  You were standing up far too straight, sweat on your forehead, and you’d just been standing there at the door muttering to yourself before you stumbled inside like a drunkard. 

“You know,” Mahito said, as you signed your name on the sign-in sheet, “you’ve gotten really good at making up lies on the spot!” 

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, and gritted your teeth instead. 

Why did Mahito make even the most everyday things in your life so complicated?

—

He pouted. Honest-to-goodness pouted. 

“You never open your mouth so nicely like that for me.” He rested his chin in his hand and furrowed his eyebrows. “I always gotta fight you for it." He pointed an accusatory finger at your chin. And you’re not even trying to bite her! No fair!” 

You choked a little on your spit. Couldn’t he just shut up–

“Are you doing all right?” She asked, pulling the tools out of your mouth for the moment. 

You closed your mouth and smiled tightly. “Mm-hmm. Sorry, I just have um, some dental anxiety, so…”

She wiped the scaler on your bib and moved the light up a little. Mahito followed the movement and began poking the bulbs.

“Do you think she’d mind if I broke this?” You almost said something, but he shrugged. “Ah, but the pieces would get into your mouth, and we’d be stuck here longer.”

The hygienist continued, not knowing that a curse which could end her life in a moment was hovering over her shoulder, pouting like a damn child.

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry. Just raise your hand if you need me to take a break, okay?”

“Thank you,” you said, and opened your mouth wide to encourage her to continue. She did, returning to examine your teeth with the little mirror, poke here and there, get a good idea of what she needed to tackle first.

Good. The faster she worked, the sooner you could get out of here. The sooner you got out of here, the less likely it was that Mahito would act up.

Act up. Hah. As if his acts of violence were a toddler throwing a tantrum in the grocery store, chubby fists hitting the hard floor as he wailed because he was tired, bored, hungry, didn’t get the toy he wanted, did get the toy he wanted but now it wasn’t fun, the sky was blue and he wanted it green…

No, no, the comparison wasn’t entirely off, was it? Sure, he wasn’t throwing a fit because the store was out of strawberry milk (but he might, you thought, if he took a liking to it) but he might kill someone waiting in the congested line at the grocery store because he was tired of you running errands and wanted you back in your apartment.

And he might kill this hygienist, to have you fleeing home, away from the blood, the carnage, the screams. And because it would be amusing to him, even if you weren’t around. 

But the notion went beyond his tendency to pout, to be impulsive, to want what he wants when he wants it, didn’t it? He was always learning, always eager to learn. What he did know often felt instinctive and unfulfilled, and he was using you to stuff the gaps. Watching what you did and said.

Testing you, teasing you, seeing what he could take away from your ordinary personhood. Like someone who’d never lived among people finally making it to the big city, taking in the sights and sounds and world with eagerness. 

He was just so damn new. Sometimes you felt like he should be covered in a thin, slimy caul. Only you didn’t know if he would be better or worse if he lost it. 

Mahito waved one of his hands.

“You look like you’re thinking really hard. What are you thinking about?”

“Nuffing,” you said, with a mouthful of dental tools.

The hygienist pulled them out again.

“Sorry, you needed a break?”

Oops.

“Sorry,” you said. “I forgot to raise my hand. It’s okay now, I just got a little tense because my back tooth is a bit sore.”

“Oh, I’ll be more careful.” And the sharp tools went back inside your mouth.

Mahito was quiet for a while, which was both wonderful and terrifying. He was simply watching the hygienist work now. His eyes were intent on the repetitive movements of the scaler, the way she scraped your gum. You saw him look down at your hands–clenching the straps of your purse, as you always did at the dentist but especially so today–and back at your face.

He weaved around to the other side of the chair so that he could get in close to your face without risking knocking into the hygienist or the light fixture above your head.

“You’re bleeding a lot,” he said. “Is that normal? Is that why she keeps squirting water in your mouth? Why don't you just swallow it?” 

He ran a finger along your cheek, and you made a soft, high sound in your throat. The hygienist paused, but when you didn’t raise your hand or try to talk, she kept going. A small mercy.

“How much does it hurt? A lot? A little? Less or more than the time I broke your finger?” His pinky traced the beginning of a tear in the corner of your eye. You didn’t know if it was from the sharp pain in your gums or from the terror coursing through your veins. At his words, sure, but the very nature of this awful scenario was simply too much for you. 

In a moment, the woman who was simply doing her job to clean your teeth might be dead. The receptionist who probably gossiped with you to a coworker the second you were out of earshot might be dead. The people in the waiting room, the old man with an audiobook on tape and the little girl playing with the germ-ridden toys tucked in the corner–dead, dead, dead. Piles of pus and blood and bloated flesh.

You could be that, too. If he decided he wanted it. 

Mahito let his pinky slide delicately from your eye to your mouth. He touched the edge of your stretched lip, and when he brought it up to the light, you could see a smear of gum-blood.

A small tear finally made its way out of your eye. From the pain, that’s what the hygienist would tell herself. Maybe she would stop again, or maybe she’d be glad you were toughing it out, so she could move on to her next appointment quicker.

Mahito saw the tear and frowned. 

“Hey. Are you upset because I brought up the finger? You can’t be mad at me about that anymore, remember? It wasn’t on purpose–well, I didn’t mean to break it, anyway. And I fixed it, so...” He gazed down at your hands, clenched so hard around the strap of your purse that you had to reflexively relax them to keep them from aching. 

He looked so serious, so suddenly. It made your stomach do awful flips. 

“You’re the first person I’ve fixed, did you know that?”

You didn’t. 

“Normally I just play with humans. Take them apart. Turn them into something new. Experiment, experiment, experiment.” He sighed, almost dreamily. “It’s fun. Really! I’ve learned a lot. But with you–” 

He didn’t finish whatever thought he had. Instead, he sat down on the unused stool next to the dental chair, then, and took hold of your hands. It was nothing for him to pry your fingers away from your purse.

You hoped the hygienist wouldn’t look down–how strange would it look for your hands to be hovering in midair, like they were being held by nothing at all? 

If only he was nothing.

He squeezed your fingers.

“You don’t need to hold a bag, see?”

You raised your eyebrows.. You couldn’t ask the questions tumbling in your mind, and you’re not sure that you wanted to know the answers, anyway. 

Then the hygienist poked a particularly sensitive area behind your front teeth, and you flinched in the chair. You squeezed his hands tight. Reflexively, you told yourself. Reflexively.

Mahito glanced down at your intertwined hands. He looked serious again. Somber. Even soft, maybe? Or was that your imagination, pathetic, frightened as it was? You half-expected him to pat your hands and tell you that he was here, not to worry. Like your mom did when you were a kid and needed a root canal.

Then his gaze lifted suddenly and he grinned side enough to show you his gum line. He stuck his tongue out and poked one of his teeth, then spoke–you realized, with a bubble of sickness in your chest, that he’d given himself a second tongue. 

“I was thinking… if she has to pull out one of your teeth, do you get to keep it? Can I have it?” 

You groaned out a whimper, but the hygienist continued working.

Mahito didn’t let go of your hands.

I’ve been so dead on here. my deepest apologies, have been struck with twin ailments of brainrot for a non-jjk character and severe writer’s block

Pairing: Yandere!Mahito x Reader

SFW

Word Count: 1'745

Warnings: Yandere, Kidnapped Reader, Captive Reader, Implied death and torture (not reader), Brief descriptions of blood, Possessiveness, Implied abusive behaviour.

Additional Notes: Ya girl gets chronic nightmares, so I'm being self-indulgent here.

Nights like these were always rough.

It was cold. Cold enough that you could see your breath every time you exhaled, and you wrapped your arms around yourself for an additional layer of protection against the frigid air.

The sound of the hammock’s ropes resonated throughout the empty chamber of the sewer, creaking as you rocked it back and forth. The hamstrings in your calf had begun to burn over an hour ago from the repetitive motion of pushing from the heel of your foot to the ball, but that didn’t stop you from doing it. Back and forth. Back and forth. Each motion accompanied by the sound of rope straining under weight.

At times you swore the weight of sleeplessness added onto your actual biomass.

He wasn’t there. Mahito usually wasn’t when you woke up like this. Cold. Tired. Achy. It almost made you miss him, but the sane part of you that remained was thankful for the absence.

He had already seen far too many sides of you for your liking. Him seeing another would be… well. Gut-wrenching was always a good way to describe it, but violating came closer.

Back and forth.

Part of you wondered where he went in the evenings. Curses didn’t sleep, and he typically got his fill of you during the daylight hours, so - as far as you knew - once you drifted off he was gone in favor of unleashing whatever horrors he desired to inflict that night. Sometimes you’d hear distant screams echoing along the vast expanse of the sewers, and you knew he wasn’t far.

Those nights you folded the single pillow in the hammock over your ears and muffled the sounds of suffering to the best of your ability.

But there were no screams tonight. Just the creaking of the ropes and the distant drip of water from a leaky pipe.

“Trouble sleeping?”

Mahito’s sudden voice from behind startled you so badly that you over-calculated the rocking motion of the hammock and sent yourself spiraling onto the concrete floor.

A new sound filled the air - his degrading, overzealous cackle bouncing off the walls while he held an arm over his stomach, doubling over at the sight of you.

“Look at you, you should see your face!”

The tired glare you sent him only earned another round of laughter and you sat up with most of your weight supported behind you on the palms of your hands.

“I thought you went out.”

“I did~.” He said, reaching out and pulling you back up to a standing position by your upper arm once he was finished with his laughing fit. “And now I’m back.”

You hummed lowly in acknowledgement, brushing bits of idle debris off your clothes using your free hand but stopped when his grip tightened on your bicep.

He leered closer to you, the hot rot of his breath hitting you directly in the face.

“Well?”

You swallowed. “Welcome back.”

He grinned, teeth flashing in the dim lighting before he pulled you with him, falling backward into the hammock with you between his legs, back resting against his chest.

It was deceptively domestic, especially when he ran his fingers up and down your arm absentmindedly. The additional warmth of what little body heat he provided did not help in the delusion, either.

“Why are you awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“I know that.” He poked your cheek, the nail of his finger digging into the soft skin and leaving a crescent moon shape. “I asked why.”

You shrugged, not giving a verbal answer outright, but the sigh that followed gave away far more than you intended to.

Mahito clicked his tongue and put his hand under your chin, forcing your head to tilt back so you had no choice but to look at him. It was a little awkward with the semi-upside-down positioning, but things like that were never of any concern to him.

“Details, sweetheart, stop stalling.”

You made a face at the pet name he had chosen for this week. It was tacky and tasteless, but in your opinion anything he picked was. That being said, it was better than what he had chosen the week before.

“I have nightmares, okay?”

His face filled with child-like wonderment and he let go of your chin. A small grunt of relief left you and you rubbed the back of your neck while Mahito repositioned the both of you so he could look at you better - slotting you beside him.

“Poor little thing gets nightmares…” He cooed mockingly, running a hand through your hair. “Am I in them?”

It took everything not to sneer at him. Of course, that would be the first thing he would ask. Not that you were surprised, but that didn’t lessen the near-overwhelming desire to kick him in the teeth.

You forced your feelings down and shook your head. “Not all of them.”

His smile returned, eyes gleaming at the subtext of your words. “But I have been.”

You cringed and went to look away from him, but his cool fingers wrapped around your jaw and brought your gaze back to his.

“What happens in these dreams?”

“A lot.” Your answer was clipped, not wanting to offer more, but his grip didn’t waver. Your jaw clenched. “I can’t remember all of them.”

“But you remember some.”

“Some are hard to forget.”

He pulled you closer - wrapping his arms around you so you were completely trapped against him in an embrace that made your skin crawl.

“I’m all ears~.”

Your lips formed a thin line, the silence and tension between you growing ever palpable with each second you remained quiet.

Mahito sighed, tracing patterns along your back, but his amusement never wavered. “Do I kill you, is that it?” He let his fingers slide up along the upper half of your spine, dragging them across your shoulder blade and back down again before repeating the motion. “Do you beg me for your life like you’ve heard so many do before you?”

He giggled and ran his other hand along your jaw, “You can tell me~.”

A shiver went through you, from the cold you reasoned, but you still stayed quiet - not willing to confirm the small yet horrifically accurate details of his guesses. 

Anything you feared him doing to you in the waking world, he’d done in your dreams. Killing you. Maiming you. Making you wish you were never born, but really that one was a constant even when you weren’t asleep.

He chuckled again at the silence and patted your cheek, “So predictable, I wonder if that’s what you dreamed about tonight for you to be so mousey…”

The near-hopeful curiosity of his tone had your stomach in knots and you swallowed bile.

“It wasn’t.”

“Hmm?” His expression fell, a bit of disappointment shifting onto his face but it was quickly overtaken by interest and the patterns being traced along your back came to a stop. “What was it then?”

You made a face. “Does it matter?”

“Oh, sweetheart, yes it does.” Mahito squeezed you tighter, the look on his face a little… manic. “I want to know what’s going on in that little mind of yours.”

He tapped his fingers twice against your temple in emphasis, each time making you flinch a little bit. “Spill.”

Your tongue darted out to moisten your lips, the skin already chapped and dry before you had even begun.

“It’s a reoccurring one, and it’s always the same.” You started. “I’m in a building that has endless halls and endless rooms. There’s no light coming from an obvious source, and it doesn’t illuminate everything - leaving some parts in complete black.”

Mahito raised an eyebrow, seemingly not very impressed so far, but you continued.

“There’s no exit. No way of getting out. Any emergency exit leads to another hall, and any stairs that would lead to the roof are sealed off by a wall that shouldn’t be there.

“None of the rooms are the same. Some are harder to get into than others and they don’t have a door. I have to crawl on my belly or shimmy my way between two panels that are so close together that I can’t even breathe as I move through them…”

Even the memories of the claustrophobia made you shiver.

“Sometimes the rooms are… coated. Absolutely coated in blood, but there are never any bodies. It’s thick and hot, like it had just been spilled…”

Mahito huffed, toying with a strand of your hair. “Doesn’t seem that bad, I thought you’d have thicker skin after all I’ve done to you.”

That made you both flinch and cringe, but it was quickly overtaken by a wave of anger and you shot him a look. “You asked.”

The words were bitter - doing nothing to mask the sickeningly real sting of hurt you felt.

“Now, now, don’t be like that.” He cooed, holding your chin between his thumb and index finger. “Go on.”

Your frown deepened and you shook your head. “That’s essentially all there is to it.”

Mahito sucked on his teeth and tsk’d. “‘Essentially’ isn’t everything, what are you leaving out?”

The look on his face was still one of morbid interest, but you could see the impatience starting to build behind his eyes.

Impatience meant boredom, and boredom was never good.

“...As I move through the rooms, I sometimes feel like I’m being followed by something, but when I look back there is nothing there.”

Something more serious replaced the look in his eyes in the time it took to blink. “By something or someone?”

“I don’t know!” The frustration fully bled into your tone for a moment and you cleared your throat after a beat. “I just know I can feel whatever it is watching me, sometimes so closely I can feel them breathing down my neck…”

You rubbed your neck in discomfort as if you could still feel it. “It stays that way until I wake up…”

Mahito was silent for a bit, his expression not changing and he gripped you to the point it was painful. Controlling.

Possessive.

Eventually, his grip loosened, but only enough so he could slide his hand down along your neck, the touch lingering.

“Sounds like you need different dreams, then.” He said, cold fingers wrapping around your throat, but not squeezing just yet. Goosebumps blossomed over the flesh and this time you knew it wasn’t from the cold.

“I can help with that~.”

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