♡ TW: noncon, yandere, disassociation, a little angsty maybe
♡ FEM reader
♡ AN: Been thinking about Mahito and sorcerer reader lately…
You’d caught a break, finally. He’d fucked up, and now you were going to settle this once and for all. Right here, right fucking now.
It’s almost enough to make you feel a little nostalgic. You’d been chasing him for so long already, fellow sorcerers and friends dead in his wake, sacrificing so much in the pursuit. And it was all going to be made worth it now. Finally, you could visit their graves with something to show for it.
Only…
That’s not what happens.
You’re the one who fucks up. You’re the one who ends up getting caught, strung up by your wrists against the cold concrete wall of a cellar, waiting for this dance the two of you’ve been duetting to finally come to a bitter conclusion.
In the fight, he’d tossed you around quite a bit—and you him, only none of it showed now, his pale stitched skin all healed without a trace of your small victories. Meanwhile, blood runs down your temple, popped lip, scratches on your knees, uniform ripped to ribbons, hanging off your body in unsightly ways.
He doesn’t need to touch your skin directly to transfigure you, but it would seem he prefers it, running those cold grey fingertips up the exposed expanse of your stomach, way gentler than what you’d imagine, softly, nearly reverent—it would seem he intends to bask in it. Suppose, this was a big moment for him as well.
His eyes, one dark blue and the other grey like the rest of him, both look pitch black now, pupil-fat and staring.
Voice raspy with a question, “You’ ever dream about this?”
It’s an odd thing to say, but his habit of making small talk right before a kill is something you’ve witnessed before.
For an act so human to be twisted like that used to make you stomach churn, now it just leaves you wanting him to speed it along. And so, you decide against indulging him with an answer.
Still, in your head, you give it a second. Thinking yes, you have, plenty of times, imagined just this. It’s a normal thing—to think about one’s death. Only the word he uses is a little ill-fitting. Sure, you’ve thought about it many times, though you wouldn't say it’s something you’ve dreamt about.
“I have,” he answers in your stead, unbothered by your silence as his fingertips press into your skin. “So many times.”
It’s a weird feeling. Something within you or something encompassing you, you’re not sure, reacts to the touch. It’s your soul, you suppose—tremoring in suspense, in vivid dread of getting mangled into something unrecognizable.
“How I’d do it… How I’d touch you…”
It’s an awful ability. Something truly disgusting, and yet, the look on his face, he’s miles high like a child on Christmas morning, nearly innocent-looking while swallowing thickly beneath a heavy breath, eyes set on where he’s touching your soul and thinking about the possibilities of what to do with it now that it’s all his.
It makes you want to vomit. But, strangely enough, your fear of it is nowhere. Instead, there’s this oddly comforting sense of acceptance draping you, keeping you warm in the moments before the coming cold, knowing it’s inevitable. This is fine, you think, and really believe it. You gave it your all, bled for it, and now you were going to die, leaving no regrets.
You close your eyes. Ready for the light.
“I’ve been curious about it…” he continues, and you fear he’s going to drag this out whether you indulge him or not. “You know… about humans and their need to be close.”
It gives you pause—unsure what he just said, unsure what he meant. And the confusion, fed uncomfortable conspiracies by the back of your head, makes your stomach fold abruptly.
Skin going cold, your eyes peel open, looking down at the curse before you with ears drawn back. He’s closer now—still keeping a keen glare at your core, looking through your flesh to the thing within it. His breath tickles the peachfuzz found there, making it shiver, and you swallow thickly while goosebumps break out on your nape, resulting in a shiver carving a path down your spine.
“It made me think about you…” he says, his voice low and unlike him with his hand flat, keeping calm on your stomach. “If you ever let someone close.”
Your skin prickles with a strange warmth—energetic—not entirely unlike the type you’ve felt when treated by Shoko.
He’s healing you, you notice. Stitching your body back together with your soul as a conduit.
“I got a confession to make.” His gaze breaks from your torso as he looks up at you, still with his hand kept in place, now rubbing patterns into the fully healed flesh—eyes big. “I wanna be the one. The one you let close.”
You whimper then as a fear you’ve never felt the likes of festers in your chest, right beneath his godawful touch, and spreads with your beating heart in a rapid haste into every corner of your body.
And yet, despite your clear aversive dread, feeling you squirm before him, he presses on with his horrifying speech, “I wanna make you feel good.” Getting closer as his voice drops lower, just shy of frenzied. “I wanna hear you moan my name and beg me for more with pretty please on your tongue as I give your soul everything only I know it needs.” Rust shivering, he looks at your lips, then your neck, then the fast shutter of your winded chest. “Wanna make you need me… wanna make you incomplete without me.”
His other hand ascends—pointerfinger sharpening into something knifelike and used to slip under the remaining paths keeping your attire together before cutting them loose.
Your shirt falls to the floor once he’s done, leaving your upper body in your binder and your breath in your throat.
“I guess what I’m saying is… I’ve realized something new about my true nature.”
He presses his head against your chest, ear over your heart, listening to it patter with the shifty rise and fall of your lungs lulling him as he feels your soul swish about within you—such a reactive little thing. He can’t put his finger on when he started thinking it was cute.
He holds your waist and nuzzles against you, mumbling under his breath that, “Hate and fear aren’t all that different from love.” Breath hot and dewy against your breast, he sighs—sinking further into you. “And I wanna know what yours will feel like.”
You’re trembling now, fully, violently. Feeling your chest cave at the weight of his head as the grim and dire distress leaves you mute, making you unable to form any other feelings except fear of the unthinkable.
“I can see it, you know?” His words are smeared against the fat of your tit, paying no regard to your struggle. “It’s all right here.” His cheek drags against your skin, turning his head until his lips are at your sternum, kissing the space with his words. “You haven’t had someone in a long time.”
He looks up at you, now with a smile, saying, “And how could you?” Making you whimper and shake your head, feeling his fingertips grace the skin of your midriff and slip beneath the band of your skirt. “When you’ve been so busy chasing me.”
He drags it down your hips, letting it drop atop your abandoned shirt.
“Don’t–” escapes from your lips. “Just–just kill me–”
“Don't start with that now,” he shakes his head. “We've done so much already. Don't tell me this is where you draw the line?”
His tongue rolls out, laying itself flat against your collar. You squeal through grit teeth, veering your head away from the assault, and cringing as you feel it drag itself up along your neck until finding your ear.
“Isn’t this natural, though?” he whispers. “All this time spent tussling with each other—don’t tell me you aren’t a little curious about me too?”
Again, his hands move—gently, trailing the brim of your boxers.
“About what it would feel like…” he murmurs, the words hot inside your ear, inside your head as his fingers dip beyond the band and rake past it, and with the touch, drags them down. “To touch me…”
You whimper, barring your thighs together, trying to keep it from happening, but your underwear is removed regardless of the effort, and he continues, almost sweetly, “Be touched by me…”
The article drops down atop the other two before it, and although featherlight, you feel as though the crash creates an earthquake, making your head spin like a storm, only further spurred by his voice, “Feel me...”
His breath gets heavier as yours gets wilder, and he gives your earlobe a soft wet bite. “Be one together.”
It all puts your brain on ice. Or rather, pushes it out and replaces it with soaked cotton. Surreal, it no longer feels like your body hanging there. Overfull with all sorts of emotions, you don’t have the capacity to feel any one of them. You can’t think, can’t talk, can’t even move, can only wait—with a distant sense of being out of place, leaving you to hang there like dead meat as the coming events dawn on you like the happenings of someone far away, unrelated and unconcerning you.
Meanwhile, Mahito’s hand’s between your thighs with fingers tracing the lips found there, giving the slit tentative strokes.
“I've never done this before…” His voice shudders now—and caught in the dissociation, your troubled head is convinced this is all normal, as though you’re having drunk sex with someone you’ve known for a long time. “But I think I get the gist of it…”
The reality of the situation lurks just behind the fantasy. Your mind suppresses it, protects you from it, and succeeds, even letting you moan when his finger pushes inside you.
“Is that right?” he asks, sinking it in, down to the knuckle, before pulling it out to the tip again. “It’s wet…”
Voice in awe, he repeats the motion upon the discovery, moving quicker now—eagerly chasing your reactions as he collects them, feeling your insides, gummy and warm, tremoring just like your soul. It’s like nothing he’s ever done before.
“I get why you humans like this so much…”
Something in his pants wants the same attention. Something thick and equally warm, growing in size until it strains against it confines. He moans, almost whines at the feeling, rubbing it against your thigh for comfort as his hand reaches up to grab your face, cupping your chin.
“Look at me” he very nearly begs, lips on your cheek, staring at you through halfmast eyes.
But your eyes remain shut. Knowing that if you open them now, you can no longer ignore what’s happening, no longer imagine something else, something more stomachable.
“Come on, I’m bearing my soul here…” A light laugh escapes him at the sight of your face so close—not loud like his usual cackling, but airy, maybe even a little giddy, beholding the pretty dew on your cheeks as he insists, almost with a please, “Look at me.”
When you open your eyes, the tears slip free. Trekking down in thick rivers, reaching his mouth and tongue.
“Oh… you're breaking my heart,” he says—somewhat as a joke, and somewhat as something more honest as he sucks the salt of your cheek before humming with something ragged in his throat, “But that’s okay… As I said…”
Another finger joins the first down below as he angles your face towards his, ghosting your lips with his, speaking against them.
“There isn’t much difference between love and hate, anyway.”
