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what they would do for you on valentine’s day, part 2, ft. mahito, kenjaku & naoya zenin (fluff, some light body horror with mahito, soft kenjaku, and ofc, naoya is his own warning too) • w.c: no more than 600 words each

Mahito: grand gestures —

You found Mahito all alone at first, humming to himself in your living room, which, if you were honest, should have been a warning in itself already. You cautiously sat down right beside him, still not too sure just how safe it truly was to be around someone like him.

You sighed softly as nothing happened, but then he blurted something out so loudly that you flinched.

“I made ya somethin’,” he revealed, fixing you with a smile that was far too wide for his own good.

Kissing You (JJK Men)

JJK men and where they like to kiss you

Feat. Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Shiu, Sukuna, Choso, Mahito Tags/Warnings: GN!Reader, no y/n used, sex mentions but nothing explicit, just some kisses with the men no real warnings or tags Word Count: 102 / 97 / 108 / 97 / 103 / 87 / 102 / 120

Take a look at my winter requests event

I’m so insane about mahito I love the way you write him sm…. can you write mahito fluff,, just like.. some gentle moments with him (as much as he can be) & maybe some petplay undertones if u dont mind …. thank you : )

keep u close

mahito x f!reader

warnings: he’s soft and in love, a lil yandere but he just wants to keep u safe :(

a/n: the mahito reqs ive gotten have kept me going tytyty so many kisses

w/c: 660

♡ ♡ ♡

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘♡⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘♡⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘♡⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

mahito who likes living with you because it lets him keep a more watchful eye on you. he is able to take care of you more thoroughly this way, doing everything for you even if you say it’s unnecessary.

mahito who watches and observes your day to day life and slowly integrates into it before taking over almost all of your tasks. your laundry, dishes, cleaning.

mahito who loves mornings with you. you’re so clingy and he loves the way you clasp his hand in yours. you follow him around the apartment with a small pout about still wanting to be in bed.

mahito who learns how to cook just to make you breakfast. he likes to set you on the counter so he can keep you close and in one place as he works. his hands brushing against your thighs just to see your blush.

mahito who insists on feeding you himself. he likes the little sounds you make and the smile that rests on your lips when your eyes flutter shut at a new dish.

#i love himmmmmmmmmmm #my soft mahito agenda has returned #mahito x reader #mahito x reader fluff #mahito fluff

pairing: mahito x f!reader

synopsis: your boyfriend hits you. your dreams keep whispering. and the figure that haunts your hallway finally gives you a name.

content: abusive relationship depicted, murder, comfort twisted through violence, blood, softness.

you live in an old wooden house at the far edge of tokyo, where the train tracks taper off into silence and the wind always sounds like it’s whispering something just out of earshot.

the air smells like dry grass and distant rain, even when the sky is clear. every room is small. every floorboard sighs when you step on it. your front door opens to a stone path lined with weeds, and every night when you come home from work, head low, steps quiet—you swear it feels like something’s waiting just beyond the threshold.

you’ve never seen it. but you feel it.

it’s not human. not animal. not exactly menacing, but it presses against you the way deep water does: heavy, dense, watching.

it’s in the corner of the hallway. it’s just outside the washitsu, behind the shoji screen that never quite closes right. it’s under the futon some nights.

it never touches you. but it’s there.

the first time your boyfriend hit you, you woke up in the middle of the night with your throat dry and your chest aching.

he was gone, of course. he always is after. out drinking. fucking. pretending you don’t exist.

you stayed curled in bed, knees to chest, listening to the wind rattle the thin walls.

and for the first time, you felt something else. not just presence, but warmth.

it wasn’t kind. but it was warmer than him.

he came home two hours later and called you pathetic.

you told your friend at work the next day that you think there’s something in your house. a ghost, maybe—a presence. she laughed, told you to get some sleep.

and maybe she’s right. but still, you feel it.

you start seeing things in your dreams.

not full things, not yet. just shapes. movement, slow and liquid, like long hair drifting through bathwater. something pale. something graceful. something not quite solid.

you hear it humming sometimes. or breathing. or maybe the house is just settling in its bones again.

the first dream doesn’t feel like a dream at all. you don’t even remember falling asleep.

you’re lying in the washitsu on your side, cheek pressed to your own pillow, and the moonlight makes the paper walls glow faint blue. your futon feels like it’s floating, not heavy, not grounded—and the air has weight to it, thick like fog.

there’s someone sitting behind you. you don’t know how you know, but you feel it: the pressure of knees sinking into the mat, the shift of weight, the quiet rustle of something brushing the floor.

a hand reaches toward you. you don’t flinch. it stops just before touching, then pulls back.

you wake up with tears on your face and don’t know why.

the second dream is worse. or better.

you’re standing in your hallway, but it’s not your hallway. it’s too long, too dim, the paper lanterns flicker without wind. you look over your shoulder and see him.

not all at once.

first the hair: long, silvery, soft-looking even in shadow. pulled half back, the rest tumbling past his shoulders like water.

then the eyes, except no, not just eyes. they’re too wide. too curious. one blue as moonlit snow, the other gray, framed in dark lashes, half-lidded with interest.

his face is… wrong. and beautiful.

smooth and boyish, but carved too delicately. too symmetrical. his mouth is soft, almost smiling. he tilts his head and the markings on his face catch the light, dark lines, almost like makeup, sweeping from under his lashes across the curve of his cheeks. they shimmer like something alive.

his body doesn’t move like it’s human. he steps toward you and you don’t hear his feet touch the floor. you don’t even know if he’s breathing.

but he’s looking at you like he already knows what you taste like when you cry.

“you’re so tense,” he says softly. his voice is bright. sweet. playful. like a boy asking for a secret.

you don’t respond. you can’t. he steps closer.

“he hurts you.”

he’s not asking. his gaze traces the line of your collarbone, then your jaw, then the bruise beneath your left eye. he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear like you’re a doll he’s picking up to play with.

his hand is cold. but not unpleasant.

he smiles, still too wide. “he doesn’t deserve your soul. it’s too pure. too soft. someone like that? he’ll trample it just because he can.”

you whisper, “who are you?”

he leans forward until his lips are a breath away from your ear. “you can call me mahito.”

you wake up gasping. sweating. dizzy. your pillow is damp. your throat is dry.

you roll over and find a knife tucked beneath your futon.

a kitchen knife. small. clean. the handle carved with your name.

your boyfriend doesn’t come home that night, or the next.

you don’t sleep well. but you sleep.

and the dreams only get warmer.

the night before it happens, you sleep restlessly.

your body lies still, curled toward the wall, but your mind paces, haunted by warmth, by pressure, by the whisper of a name that now clings to your spine like a second skin.

mahito.

you say it in your head even when you’re awake. you trace the syllables behind your teeth while brushing them. you write it on the condensation of your bathroom mirror with the side of your finger.

you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

you don’t know what he is. you only know he sees you, touches you, talks to you like you’re something precious and melting and nearly holy.

you see him again that night.

this time in your kitchen, except it isn’t quite your kitchen. it’s longer. stretched. dark, but candlelit. and cold. tatami mats cover the floor where linoleum should be. there’s a low table, but it’s not yours. and you’re not alone.

he sits where the window should be, backlit by moonlight that doesn’t shine through the real glass. he doesn’t blink when you look at him.

his skin is the color of something that’s never seen the sun, porcelain white, almost blue at the hollow of his throat. it glows faintly. alive, but not warm. he’s barefoot. barefoot and cross-legged, sitting with perfect posture, hands folded loosely in his lap.

his nails are long and dark. painted or dead. you can’t tell.

his arms are bare.

he’s wearing a loose black robe that dips open at the chest, deep enough to expose his collarbones, sharp and elegant like the edge of a broken cup. his body is slender, but not weak. not fragile. you can see how easily he could cut someone just by holding them too tightly.

his face is smooth. soft-featured. he almost looks your age.

his mouth, curved in amusement. his expression, unreadable. but his eyes—

one is pale blue, the color of frozen seawater. the other is grey, duller, flatter, more human. they move independently sometimes. blink slowly, then together.

there are stitches across his neck and face, pink and clean and tight. like someone sewed a secret shut just beneath his skin.

he leans forward when you don’t speak.

you still haven’t moved.

“it’s okay,” he says gently. “i’ll wait. i like watching you think.”

he tilts his head. his hair is so long, it brushes his waist when he moves. it ripples like fabric. it should look strange on him, unmanly even—but it doesn’t. it suits him. the softness. the cruelty. the contradiction.

“you’ve been so patient,” he murmurs. “so good. so quiet for so long.” his voice lilts, teases, but stays low. coaxing. kind. “i want you to have something. not just that blade. i want you to have freedom.”

you shake your head, whispering, “he’ll kill me if i—”

mahito rises, and he doesn’t walk—he glides. one second he’s sitting. the next he’s right in front of you, bending at the waist until his face is level with yours.

his smile sharpens. not cruel, just delighted. he reaches up, delicately, and touches your lip with the back of his hand. the spot your boyfriend split last week.

“he won’t. not if you kill him first.”

you breathe in too quickly. his eyes sparkle. he leans closer, forehead brushing yours.

“you know what you need to do.”

you whisper, “what if i can’t?”

he cups your cheek. his hand is cold, but it doesn’t sting. his thumb rubs your skin, just below your eye.

“then you’ll die with him,” he says sweetly. “but i don’t think you want that. not really.”

and then, softer: “besides… i’ll be there with you. the whole time.”

you don’t remember waking up. but you do, laundry basket in hand and folding clothes you don’t remember grabbing.

and he’s home.

you smell him before you hear him.

cheap cigarettes. spilled liquor. a perfume you didn’t buy and don’t wear. it clings to the hallway before he even opens the door, thick and oily, like something rotting sweet in the drain.

then the sound.

a violent rattle. metal slamming wood. the door bangs open so hard the frame shudders. something on the coat rack falls.

you freeze where you stand in the bedroom, one hand still clutching the laundry you were supposedly folding even though it’s almost midnight.

your whole body knows this rhythm. the storm that comes next.

his boots thudding across the floor. the muttering. the voice rising. the rage simmering in waves before it even takes shape in words.

“where the fuck is my charger?”

you flinch. hold your breath.

“why is the floor wet?”

a cabinet slams. your teeth click. your arms shake.

“why didn’t you answer when i texted you—”

his voice cuts off. you hear his steps pivot. then stomp. closer.

the hallway feels smaller. shorter. like the walls are pressing inward.

you’re still in the bedroom. you’re still holding the shirt you folded three minutes ago. your hands won’t move. your throat is dry.

the futon is shifted slightly off its mat. you can see the barest flash of metal beneath the edge. a blade.

you told yourself not to touch it. you told yourself it wasn’t real. you told yourself your boyfriend wasn’t coming back tonight.

you told yourself wrong.

he storms in. the door slams against the wall. his silhouette cuts through the low light like a blade. eyes red. jaw locked. shoulders tight, fists clenched, breathing hard like he’s been looking for something to hit.

“you ignoring me now, bitch?”

his voice is calm when he says it. not slurred. not loud. just… cold. like he’s already decided you’re the villain in whatever fantasy he’s built for himself tonight.

you flinch before you can stop it. your head turns instinctively—too fast. too obvious.

and that’s all it takes.

his hand comes fast, practiced, full of muscle memory.

you don’t see it. you just feel it, skin and bone and a ring you didn’t buy cracking across your cheek.

the sound is wet. the pain comes after. your neck snaps sideways. the taste hits next, blood, copper and spit, rising sharp in your mouth.

your knees buckle. you try to stay standing. you always do.

but his hands are already pushing, already gripping your arm too hard, already shoving you off balance, and your foot catches on the corner of the rug and you fall.

knees hit tatami. the laundry spills.

your hands tremble. you try to lift yourself up—try not to cry. you’re shaking from the inside out.

he’s above you now.

you don’t dare look up. his boots are inches from your fingers.

“always running your fuckin’ mouth when I’m gone. now you can’t talk? now you’re quiet?”

you can’t speak. your teeth are clenched too tight. your breath won’t come steady. your vision flickers. not from the hit, but from something else. something deeper.

the air changes.

he doesn’t notice. but you do.

a hush. a pulse. the temperature drops, just slightly, like the room’s exhaling.

and then you feel it: the weight. the presence. like fog rolling over your skin. like something pressing gently, encouragingly, at the back of your mind.

and then the voice follows.

not loud. not urgent. but close. closer than it’s ever been.

“you got this.”

your breath stutters. you shut your eyes.

“do it.”

your fingers twitch. you’re still on the ground. your body aches.

he’s pacing now, still muttering, still ranting, still dragging you through his own spiral.

but you only hear him.

“do it for me, y/n.”

the voice is brighter now. warmer. sweet. coaxing. playful.

you see the blade when you shift your weight. just a sliver of it, cold metal, glinting under the futon. your fingers curl.

you shake your head. no. not yet. not again. this isn’t you.

but his voice is right behind you now. you can feel his breath ghosting the back of your ear.

“he’ll keep doing it. you know that.”

“he’ll never stop—unless you make him.”

you press your palms flat to the floor. try to stand. your legs wobble.

he notices.

“where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

he lunges for your hair, grabs a fistful at the nape of your neck and yanks.

you cry out, not from pain, not really. from the fury. the final snap.

he drags you backward toward the dresser and you twist, fall sideways, arm flailing—and your hand closes around the hilt.

cold. perfectly fitted to your palm. your name carved into the grip.

his breath is loud now. his rage, boiling. he doesn’t see what’s in your hand.

and mahito’s laugh echoes through the hollow of your chest like a bell made of teeth.

“there you go,” mahito purrs. “i knew you’d be special.”

you rise. you turn. you don’t even aim.

you stab.

the first cut is fast. not deliberate, just desperate. your hand moves before your mind does, the knife sliding forward with a sick sort of ease, sinking between ribs like it belongs there.

you don’t even feel the resistance. just warmth. an instant bloom of blood on your wrist, on your chest, spraying up in a high arc—a splatter across your cheek, your mouth, your shirt.

it’s wet. hot. metallic. you taste it before you register the sound he makes.

a choked breath. a stuttered cough. his hand reaches for the blade—not to pull it out, but like he doesn’t understand what just happened. like he thought you were still the thing he could throw around, call names, make small.

the second cut is slower. you feel it this time. your hand shakes. the knife drags through fabric, then skin. his body jerks, and more blood spurts up, painting your neck, your jaw, soaking the front of your shirt.

and that’s when it breaks. you hear it—

mahito.

his voice. not behind you. not distant. but in you. bright. delighted. so close you swear he’s whispering directly into your skull.

“yes,” he purrs. “yes, just like that.” his voice giggles at the end, lilts, sings.

“again. again again again again—”

the third stab is harder. sharper. you don’t aim anymore. you just move.

his body hits the floor and you drop to your knees. you follow him down.

you stab the side of his neck. his stomach. his shoulder. his chest. again. again. again. until his face is no longer his.

his mouth gasps open and blood spills like water onto the tatami. into your hands.

your arms slip. your shirt clings to your skin, soaked. and still you move. still you kill. still you breathe.

your own breath is all you can hear now. loud. ragged. your mouth open wide. gasping. panting.

you’re sobbing. or laughing. or both. you don’t know.

his chest doesn’t rise anymore, his blood has stopped pulsing. it’s just a pool now. wide and silent and yours.

and still—mahito.

his laughter is everywhere. not cruel. not mocking. but joyous. like a child at a fireworks show. like someone watching a miracle.

“you did it,” he breathes. “you really did it—oh, y/n, you’re perfect.”

you drop the knife and it hits the floor with a dull clink. your fingers twitch.

your knees slip in the blood and you fall backwards, hand catching on the dresser, breath heaving, chest stuttering.

your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

the room is dead quiet.

the kind of quiet that only comes after. after the scream. after the break. after the body stops twitching.

you stare at the ceiling, and you wait for something. anything. a consequence. a punishment. a light.

but all that comes—

is him.

you feel him. behind you. beside you. above you. and when you look up, he’s there.

mahito.

real. whole. glowing with something unholy and holy all at once. kneeling beside you. head tilted. grinning.

his skin is paler than moonlight now, slicked faintly in sweat or blood. his lashes are long. his eyes, both of them, are shimmering with pride.

“you did it,” he whispers.

you choke out, “who—who are you—”

he frowns. gently. theatrically. “you don’t know me?”

you blink. tremble. whisper:

“mahito.”

his face lights up. he touches your cheek with both hands, cradling you like you’re fragile glass.

“there it is,” he breathes. “there’s my perfect little soul.”

he leans forward, and you don’t move. his lips brush your cheek. not cold now. just soft. his voice drops low, reverent.

“you were born for this, y/n. not to suffer. not to kneel. but to bloom. to bleed. to break open the world.”

you close your eyes.

and he stays with you until the blood dries.

#jjk x you #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk smut #jjk #jjk angst #jujutsu fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen angst #mahito #mahito fluff #mahito angst #jjk mahito #mahito x reader

Surprisingly, it's very possible to have soft and relaxed moments with Mahito.

It's warm in Dagon's domain, but not quite uncomfortable, a beautiful beach landscape where Mahito and his cohorts often escape for some tlc. The first few times Mahito dragged you in with him you felt awkward and out of place. Being the only human among so many curses was rough enough but being inside of one of their domains almost felt invasive. Like you weren't really meant to be there.

Not like this at least.

Mahito has taken to lounging in his chair after swimming for a bit, nearly drowning you when he decided to pretend he was a shark, and you? You're curled up on top of his muscular form. Your head is tucked under his chin and resting on his chest as you breath softly in comfortable sleep.

It almost makes him laugh.

You feel so safe with him despite knowing, seeing, what he can do in an instant if he so pleased. But that doesn't put you off. Not when he's holding you the way he is. His hand dances up your shirt and along your back in a feather light touch. A gentle reminder. To you and to him.

You're a foolish little thing, he often thinks to himself.

Yet, he never changes your soul.

A breeze rustles your hair as it passes through, shaking the trees, and even in your slumber you can smell the salt water wafting into your face from not far away. You take in a deep breath before nuzzling further into his skin. Mahito is cold, he's always got this slight chill to him, reminiscent of a corpse after rigor mortis sets in. You must not mind very much because he's never heard you complain. He chuckles at your behavior. You're like a kitten.

You are a stray that he plucked off the street one day.

A new arrival into the domain makes Mahito rise from his laid back position, jerking you up with him in a less than relaxing manner, "Geto! Welcome."

Mahito feels the way your hands pry at his torso, nails digging in as if trying to grab him like a child does their stuffed animal. You shake your head a little and he sees your face scrunch up before you bury it away in his chest.

The man in question watches in humored silence.

You let out an irritated grumble, "Mahito..."

"What's the matter, angel?" he teases.

When you don't respond, clearly trying to slip back into sleep, Mahito tsks and bounces his leg roughly. It sends you rocking on his thigh and you groan more. He does it a second time and leans over you to press his nose into your hair. You can feel his lips move against your head when he speaks.

"Be nice," he says, it's often hard to tell just what he's feeling with how eccentric he can be but you know it's an order, "Say hi."

You turn your head to the side, finally blinking the sleep away and peek up at the man in monk's robes. He's also hard to read but it seems like he may be enjoying the little show. The sooner you do what Mahito wants the sooner you can get back to sleep.

"Hi Geto."

"Hi."

And just like that he walks off to sit in his own chair.

Mahito makes no move to lay back down and tuts when you start to squirm and find a comfortable position again. You feel his icy hands press into your back, more threateningly than how they were moments before, but you know it's no cause for concern. Even if it was, there would be no time to run. He presses your chest against his and you can feel the way your muscles bend and move beneath his fingers.

A shiver rakes through you and all at once you know what he's doing.

You gasp and try to pull away but his hold is too strong. You crane your neck back and look into his eyes, multicolored and filled with childlike wonder. It's like he's reaching under your skin and grasping for something only he knows is there.

He's feeling your soul.

Not changing. Just holding. Cradling.

"I'm bored. Why don't we play for a bit?" Mahito asks.

You know that when he says such a thing it can be anything on a very wide spectrum, "I don't really feel like swimming aga- ah!"

Mahito lunges forward and the two of you topple out of the chair into the hot sand with a yelp. His hands press against your tummy as he sits over your hips, hair hanging down and tickling your face, he hovers until his nose touches yours.

"Who said anything about swimming?"

He giggles at the sight of your eyes widening.

#its mahito hours #and honestly I was feeling some soft mahito #well #as soft as he can be I suppose #mahito #mahito x reader #mahito fluff #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #redwritinghood

Bubble bath

A Mahito Drabble I think I did a pretty good job avoiding gendered language. A lil suggestive but a lime if anything. Maybe I’ll do a smutty part two eventually. Half proof read enjoy! @sdr2lovemail this doin it for you or nah?

You’ve never seen a bath this bubbly before. Mass clumps of bubbles towering over the tub and overflowing onto the floor.

After loosing games against Mahito all morning he had left you alone only briefly before returning and wordlessly hiking you over his shoulder to move you into the bathroom, yanking your clothes off and dropping you unceremoniously into the tub smiling and giggling to himself as you sputtered out confused noises before managing to spit out a “what are you doing?!”

“Oh cmon you know! Humans bathe their pets all the time! Good owners keep their pets nice and clean.”

He strips his clothes and plops in the tub in front of you. “I hear some pets don’t like baths.” Grabbing your foot out of the water and using the overflowing bubbles to suds up your leg with his hands. “But I think grooming you is gonna such a fun bonding experience for us!” His hands change texture as he scrubs your leg with a gentle abrasion placing it back into the water once he’s finished. He repeats the action with your other leg pulling your foot out of the water and working his way up your leg while quietly humming to himself. He looks so content. He smiles softly to himself while concentrating on the task in front of him. Your skin feels so soft and warm and your being so good and pliant for him! To think he’s found you, his treasured pet, among the masses of inferior humans.

You expect him to place your leg in the water but instead his hands grip down tight and yank you forward. You let out a surprise gasp as your upper body is pulled into the water. Now settled between your thighs Mahito reaches into the bubbly abyss to pull you upright against him. Your coughing and trying to wipe your face while Mahito laughs boisterously, pressing you tight against him to speak directly in your ear. “See isn’t this so much fun! We should do all our baths together!” You feel his fingers take on a more slender boney shape as he runs his one hand through your hair wrapping the other around your waist to anchor you flush against him. It’s relaxing the way he detangles your hair. He keeps running his comb like fingers over your scalp long after the last tangle has been vanquished.

Mahito washes you with a surprisingly gentle touch. Thoroughly cleaning every inch of your body. You leave your head tilted against his with your chin resting on his shoulder as his hands roam every curve and crevice of your body. Your breaths are slow and even as you relax against him. It’s strange to feel so at ease around such a fearsome curse. You’ve witnessed the those hands torment and mangle countless others with just a fleeting touch, those same hands that are now gliding across your soapy body, lulling you to shut your eyes and-

“Awww are you sleepy?”

Mahito pushes you forward to look at your face as he begins washing the front of your body. His one arm still around your waist to steady you while the other washes up your stomach slowing to a stop at your chest directly over your heart. Their heartbeat is so relaxed, the bath is working! A wide toothy grin decorating his face while stroking over your chest lightly before groping at the flesh then moving back to his more cleansing ministrations. Working his way up your shoulders and neck until his eyes dart up to meet yours and his hands cradle your face with a powerful firmness

“I could do anything I want to you right now.”

Staring down at your wide eyes and wet face he’s suddenly overcome with an overwhelming urge to…..attack you?

He dives forward to press his lips to yours in a series on forceful pecks before smashing your mouths together again to shove his tounge past your lips. You try to keep up with the aggressive pace but his tounge completely over powers yours. You surrender and allow him to explore every crevice of your mouth before he pulls away, a trail of spit connecting you. Your eyes meet for a moment before he’s pushing you back against the edge of the tub. Splashing water everywhere as he twirls around and plops back against you. His back against your chest as he beams up at you with a closed eyed smile and claps his hands enthusiastically.

“Ok your gonna wash me now!”

#finger lickin good #jjk season 2 #jjk #jujitsu kaisen #jjk thirsts #mahito x reader #mahito #mahito simp #mahito fanfiction #mahito drabbble #mahito x you #mahito jjk #jjk mahito #mahito fluff #mahito lime

While watching this scene, I keep imagining myself pulling him into a warm lil hug.

I physically cannot handle hearing him scream, I'm actually going to write a oneshot and insert the reader where we actually save him. AND. hug him. because he deserves a hug.

So just imagine he's running and screaming, and you appear, hold him and give him reassuring words "it's going to be okay, Mahito." Hell, even better, "its going to be okay, dear." Maybe even kiss his forehead. Imagine his tears of happiness and relief when he sees you, he hugs you back while Itadori is standing there, confused. I NEED to write this and I WILL write it soon

#mahito x you #mahito #mahito x reader #jjk #mahito jjk #mahito fluff

☆ — HOW THEY KISS ! • jjk edition

⋆ ࣪. ft. gojo, geto, nanami & mahito

★ — contents ! gn!reader, kissing (duh), fluff, pre-established relationships

⋆ ࣪. ☆ GOJO SATORU

passionate, electric, leaves you breathless.

“where d’ya think you’re going?”

he calls after you having dared to depart from him without a goodbye kiss. gojo pulls you back in by the wrist before strong hands settle onto the back of your neck to bring you into a kiss. his lips are soft, gliding over your own just as smooth as silk. he takes your startled gasp as an opportunity to slip his tongue through your parted lips, massaging the wet muscle against yours and pulling a soft moan from your throat. the kiss is absolutely electric, all consuming, sending sparks all over your body and kindling a fire in your loins. it’s when your eyes finally flutter closed and your hands clutch at white strands of hair that he pulls away with a smug grin, leaving a bridge of saliva connecting your swollen lips. he leaves you breathless, flustered, and desperate to the point that you had forgotten you were in public. a chuckle erupts from his chest as he brings his thumb to your lips to wipe them clean.

“you forgot this.”

#˚✧₊⁎ ares writes #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #geto suguru #geto x reader #geto fluff #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami fluff #mahito jjk #mahito x reader #mahito fluff

pairing: mahito x f!reader

synopsis: your boyfriend hits you. your dreams keep whispering. and the figure that haunts your hallway finally gives you a name.

content: abusive relationship depicted, murder, comfort twisted through violence, blood, softness.

you live in an old wooden house at the far edge of tokyo, where the train tracks taper off into silence and the wind always sounds like it’s whispering something just out of earshot.

you’ve never seen it. but you feel it.

it’s not human. not animal. not exactly menacing, but it presses against you the way deep water does: heavy, dense, watching.

it’s in the corner of the hallway. it’s just outside the washitsu, behind the shoji screen that never quite closes right. it’s under the futon some nights.

it never touches you. but it’s there.

the first time your boyfriend hit you, you woke up in the middle of the night with your throat dry and your chest aching.

he was gone, of course. he always is after. out drinking. fucking. pretending you don’t exist.

you stayed curled in bed, knees to chest, listening to the wind rattle the thin walls.

and for the first time, you felt something else. not just presence, but warmth.

it wasn’t kind. but it was warmer than him.

he came home two hours later and called you pathetic.

you told your friend at work the next day that you think there’s something in your house. a ghost, maybe—a presence. she laughed, told you to get some sleep.

and maybe she’s right. but still, you feel it.

you start seeing things in your dreams.

not full things, not yet. just shapes. movement, slow and liquid, like long hair drifting through bathwater. something pale. something graceful. something not quite solid.

you hear it humming sometimes. or breathing. or maybe the house is just settling in its bones again.

the first dream doesn’t feel like a dream at all. you don’t even remember falling asleep.

a hand reaches toward you. you don’t flinch. it stops just before touching, then pulls back.

you wake up with tears on your face and don’t know why.

the second dream is worse. or better.

you’re standing in your hallway, but it’s not your hallway. it’s too long, too dim, the paper lanterns flicker without wind. you look over your shoulder and see him.

not all at once.

first the hair: long, silvery, soft-looking even in shadow. pulled half back, the rest tumbling past his shoulders like water.

then the eyes, except no, not just eyes. they’re too wide. too curious. one blue as moonlit snow, the other gray, framed in dark lashes, half-lidded with interest.

his face is… wrong. and beautiful.

his body doesn’t move like it’s human. he steps toward you and you don’t hear his feet touch the floor. you don’t even know if he’s breathing.

but he’s looking at you like he already knows what you taste like when you cry.

“you’re so tense,” he says softly. his voice is bright. sweet. playful. like a boy asking for a secret.

you don’t respond. you can’t. he steps closer.

“he hurts you.”

his hand is cold. but not unpleasant.

he smiles, still too wide. “he doesn’t deserve your soul. it’s too pure. too soft. someone like that? he’ll trample it just because he can.”

you whisper, “who are you?”

he leans forward until his lips are a breath away from your ear. “you can call me mahito.”

you wake up gasping. sweating. dizzy. your pillow is damp. your throat is dry.

you roll over and find a knife tucked beneath your futon.

a kitchen knife. small. clean. the handle carved with your name.

your boyfriend doesn’t come home that night, or the next.

you don’t sleep well. but you sleep.

and the dreams only get warmer.

the night before it happens, you sleep restlessly.

your body lies still, curled toward the wall, but your mind paces, haunted by warmth, by pressure, by the whisper of a name that now clings to your spine like a second skin.

mahito.

you say it in your head even when you’re awake. you trace the syllables behind your teeth while brushing them. you write it on the condensation of your bathroom mirror with the side of your finger.

you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

you don’t know what he is. you only know he sees you, touches you, talks to you like you’re something precious and melting and nearly holy.

you see him again that night.

he sits where the window should be, backlit by moonlight that doesn’t shine through the real glass. he doesn’t blink when you look at him.

his nails are long and dark. painted or dead. you can’t tell.

his arms are bare.

his face is smooth. soft-featured. he almost looks your age.

his mouth, curved in amusement. his expression, unreadable. but his eyes—

one is pale blue, the color of frozen seawater. the other is grey, duller, flatter, more human. they move independently sometimes. blink slowly, then together.

there are stitches across his neck and face, pink and clean and tight. like someone sewed a secret shut just beneath his skin.

he leans forward when you don’t speak.

you still haven’t moved.

“it’s okay,” he says gently. “i’ll wait. i like watching you think.”

you shake your head, whispering, “he’ll kill me if i—”

mahito rises, and he doesn’t walk—he glides. one second he’s sitting. the next he’s right in front of you, bending at the waist until his face is level with yours.

his smile sharpens. not cruel, just delighted. he reaches up, delicately, and touches your lip with the back of his hand. the spot your boyfriend split last week.

“he won’t. not if you kill him first.”

you breathe in too quickly. his eyes sparkle. he leans closer, forehead brushing yours.

“you know what you need to do.”

you whisper, “what if i can’t?”

he cups your cheek. his hand is cold, but it doesn’t sting. his thumb rubs your skin, just below your eye.

“then you’ll die with him,” he says sweetly. “but i don’t think you want that. not really.”

and then, softer: “besides… i’ll be there with you. the whole time.”

you don’t remember waking up. but you do, laundry basket in hand and folding clothes you don’t remember grabbing.

and he’s home.

you smell him before you hear him.

cheap cigarettes. spilled liquor. a perfume you didn’t buy and don’t wear. it clings to the hallway before he even opens the door, thick and oily, like something rotting sweet in the drain.

then the sound.

a violent rattle. metal slamming wood. the door bangs open so hard the frame shudders. something on the coat rack falls.

you freeze where you stand in the bedroom, one hand still clutching the laundry you were supposedly folding even though it’s almost midnight.

your whole body knows this rhythm. the storm that comes next.

his boots thudding across the floor. the muttering. the voice rising. the rage simmering in waves before it even takes shape in words.

“where the fuck is my charger?”

you flinch. hold your breath.

“why is the floor wet?”

a cabinet slams. your teeth click. your arms shake.

“why didn’t you answer when i texted you—”

his voice cuts off. you hear his steps pivot. then stomp. closer.

the hallway feels smaller. shorter. like the walls are pressing inward.

you’re still in the bedroom. you’re still holding the shirt you folded three minutes ago. your hands won’t move. your throat is dry.

the futon is shifted slightly off its mat. you can see the barest flash of metal beneath the edge. a blade.

you told yourself not to touch it. you told yourself it wasn’t real. you told yourself your boyfriend wasn’t coming back tonight.

you told yourself wrong.

“you ignoring me now, bitch?”

his voice is calm when he says it. not slurred. not loud. just… cold. like he’s already decided you’re the villain in whatever fantasy he’s built for himself tonight.

you flinch before you can stop it. your head turns instinctively—too fast. too obvious.

and that’s all it takes.

his hand comes fast, practiced, full of muscle memory.

you don’t see it. you just feel it, skin and bone and a ring you didn’t buy cracking across your cheek.

the sound is wet. the pain comes after. your neck snaps sideways. the taste hits next, blood, copper and spit, rising sharp in your mouth.

your knees buckle. you try to stay standing. you always do.

but his hands are already pushing, already gripping your arm too hard, already shoving you off balance, and your foot catches on the corner of the rug and you fall.

knees hit tatami. the laundry spills.

your hands tremble. you try to lift yourself up—try not to cry. you’re shaking from the inside out.

he’s above you now.

you don’t dare look up. his boots are inches from your fingers.

“always running your fuckin’ mouth when I’m gone. now you can’t talk? now you’re quiet?”

you can’t speak. your teeth are clenched too tight. your breath won’t come steady. your vision flickers. not from the hit, but from something else. something deeper.

the air changes.

he doesn’t notice. but you do.

a hush. a pulse. the temperature drops, just slightly, like the room’s exhaling.

and then you feel it: the weight. the presence. like fog rolling over your skin. like something pressing gently, encouragingly, at the back of your mind.

and then the voice follows.

not loud. not urgent. but close. closer than it’s ever been.

“you got this.”

your breath stutters. you shut your eyes.

“do it.”

your fingers twitch. you’re still on the ground. your body aches.

he’s pacing now, still muttering, still ranting, still dragging you through his own spiral.

but you only hear him.

“do it for me, y/n.”

the voice is brighter now. warmer. sweet. coaxing. playful.

you see the blade when you shift your weight. just a sliver of it, cold metal, glinting under the futon. your fingers curl.

you shake your head. no. not yet. not again. this isn’t you.

but his voice is right behind you now. you can feel his breath ghosting the back of your ear.

“he’ll keep doing it. you know that.”

“he’ll never stop—unless you make him.”

you press your palms flat to the floor. try to stand. your legs wobble.

he notices.

“where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

he lunges for your hair, grabs a fistful at the nape of your neck and yanks.

you cry out, not from pain, not really. from the fury. the final snap.

he drags you backward toward the dresser and you twist, fall sideways, arm flailing—and your hand closes around the hilt.

cold. perfectly fitted to your palm. your name carved into the grip.

his breath is loud now. his rage, boiling. he doesn’t see what’s in your hand.

and mahito’s laugh echoes through the hollow of your chest like a bell made of teeth.

“there you go,” mahito purrs. “i knew you’d be special.”

you rise. you turn. you don’t even aim.

you stab.

the first cut is fast. not deliberate, just desperate. your hand moves before your mind does, the knife sliding forward with a sick sort of ease, sinking between ribs like it belongs there.

you don’t even feel the resistance. just warmth. an instant bloom of blood on your wrist, on your chest, spraying up in a high arc—a splatter across your cheek, your mouth, your shirt.

it’s wet. hot. metallic. you taste it before you register the sound he makes.

and that’s when it breaks. you hear it—

mahito.

his voice. not behind you. not distant. but in you. bright. delighted. so close you swear he’s whispering directly into your skull.

“yes,” he purrs. “yes, just like that.” his voice giggles at the end, lilts, sings.

“again. again again again again—”

the third stab is harder. sharper. you don’t aim anymore. you just move.

his body hits the floor and you drop to your knees. you follow him down.

you stab the side of his neck. his stomach. his shoulder. his chest. again. again. again. until his face is no longer his.

his mouth gasps open and blood spills like water onto the tatami. into your hands.

your arms slip. your shirt clings to your skin, soaked. and still you move. still you kill. still you breathe.

your own breath is all you can hear now. loud. ragged. your mouth open wide. gasping. panting.

you’re sobbing. or laughing. or both. you don’t know.

his chest doesn’t rise anymore, his blood has stopped pulsing. it’s just a pool now. wide and silent and yours.

and still—mahito.

his laughter is everywhere. not cruel. not mocking. but joyous. like a child at a fireworks show. like someone watching a miracle.

“you did it,” he breathes. “you really did it—oh, y/n, you’re perfect.”

you drop the knife and it hits the floor with a dull clink. your fingers twitch.

your knees slip in the blood and you fall backwards, hand catching on the dresser, breath heaving, chest stuttering.

your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

the room is dead quiet.

the kind of quiet that only comes after. after the scream. after the break. after the body stops twitching.

you stare at the ceiling, and you wait for something. anything. a consequence. a punishment. a light.

but all that comes—

is him.

you feel him. behind you. beside you. above you. and when you look up, he’s there.

mahito.

real. whole. glowing with something unholy and holy all at once. kneeling beside you. head tilted. grinning.

his skin is paler than moonlight now, slicked faintly in sweat or blood. his lashes are long. his eyes, both of them, are shimmering with pride.

“you did it,” he whispers.

you choke out, “who—who are you—”

he frowns. gently. theatrically. “you don’t know me?”

you blink. tremble. whisper:

“mahito.”

his face lights up. he touches your cheek with both hands, cradling you like you’re fragile glass.

“there it is,” he breathes. “there’s my perfect little soul.”

he leans forward, and you don’t move. his lips brush your cheek. not cold now. just soft. his voice drops low, reverent.

“you were born for this, y/n. not to suffer. not to kneel. but to bloom. to bleed. to break open the world.”

you close your eyes.

and he stays with you until the blood dries.

#mahito fluff

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