Mahito + "Why haven't you killed me yet?"
Hope this sparks motivation!!
note: yandere, kidnapped reader
"Aw, don't get morbid."
His arms wrap around you, and he easily pulls you flush against him, until you're trapped in his lap.
You don't struggle, because as tempting as it is sometimes to fling yourself headlong into death in the face of all the horrors you've experienced, you still want to live.
If you can call this living, this constant push and pull, between Mahito and yourself.
One of his hands comes up to pet at your head, and he coos even when you flinch.
"Why do humans always say things like that?" He puts on a little pout, and the effect is sickening, considering how well you know him. He puts on a voice, dramatic, shrill, like a damsel in distress from an old movie. "Please, just kill me! Please, I can't take it." He sighs, and his breath gives you goosebumps.
"You're all so weak. You can't even take a bit of fun. Especially the ones without jujutsu, hm?"
He ruffles your hair.
"No offense."
You don't say anything. You bite your cheek instead. Sometimes it's better to be quiet, and let him do the talking. Sometimes you just can't force yourself to play his games without worrying that this will be the day you crack open.
He pokes your cheek when you don't respond, and tilts your head back with his fingers until you can see him looming behind you, a plastic, overwrought pout on his face.
"You're not mad, are you? I couldn't stand it if you were, you know. You're my favorite human!" He seems to think, then, and his pout takes on something of a grin. "Hey, maybe that's why I haven't killed you, huh? Because you're my favorite?"
When you don't respond, he sighs, and that overdrawn pout comes back again.
"Come on, you can be honest with me. I don't mind when humans are honest. Are you mad?"
He's acting, sure, pretending to be all pouty and upset, as if you hold any control, any sway, over him. But there, right there, at the edge of his lips--something. A quirk, a tremble, maybe. Something that you've seen now and then, on his lips, in his eyes, in the hesitation of his hand. Something that is both relieving and worrying all at once. Something that's been keeping you alive, you think. But you don't know what it means or why.
His fingers flick against your cheek again, and you know you're supposed to speak up.
"No, I'm not mad," you say, voice flat. To make up for your lack of voice acting talent, you force your body to move, force yourself to slot against him in a cuddle until he lets out a satisfied little hum and wraps his arms around you again.
He never feels quite right. Never feels quite human. There is always something in the way his skin feels, the texture or the temperature, or some terrible thrumming under his skin that gives his cursed nature away.
It's best not to think about it until you have to.
