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

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

you're so off-putting i need you

i experienced a bad emotion so i won't be functioning for at least 5 business days. hope you understand

in this baeutiful world. straight up "enjoing it". and by "it". haha. well. let's justr say. My frands

Easier

Feitan x Reader // word count 4.3k

If you drink with him tonight, you’ll still be trapped. Things will not get better, and they’ll likely get worse. You know that. But it’s so hard to resist a chance to feel good.

Tags/warnings: dark content, kidnapped reader, noncon (both parties are intoxicated, it’s implied that reader is more so), drinking, coping through drinking, unsexy smut, drunk sex, outdoor sex, reference to previous threats of violence, attempted knifeplay

Feitan has a habit of bringing you things that you do not want. He does not hand them to you - instead, he deposits them on your bed or your floor and then looks at you expectantly, in much the same way that a cat might deposit a dead mouse on your doorstep. It happens often, so when you hear the rattle and click of the lock on your door, you are not surprised to see him enter with something in his hand.

“Here.” He doesn’t make eye-contact - not until he yanks the door shut behind him, forcing it to scrape against the warped wooden frame, and pulls the chain that dangles from the bare, yellowed bulb in the center of the ceiling. Then, he brandishes his offering, raising it up with an awkward jerk of his wrist. “For you.” A bottle of clear liquor, with his knuckles white around its neck, and a single glass tucked under his arm. It’s a regular one, and not a shot glass (not surprising - you’re shocked that he even owns any cups that aren’t made out of plastic), and the bottle is cheap, but neither of those little details are really the problem.

You shift your weight backwards slightly, bracing your hands against your bare mattress. “I don’t want it.”

Feitan crosses the room, somehow managing to avoid a single creak in the rotting floorboards, and sits on the ground directly beside your bed. He looks at the place on the floor beside him, and then stares at you without blinking until you give in, sliding cautiously from your bed and pulling your knees up to your chest as you sit.

You eye the dubious gift with apprehension.

“I didn’t put anything in it.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” you say, before you can really think about your answer.

He tilts his head. “Really?”

“…not just that.”

“Smart.” He nods curtly, as if he expected this response, although his gaze drops for a moment and his hand twitches anxiously at his side. “I show you.” He pours out about a shot. The cowl over his face comes down with a sharp tug, and he wrinkles his nose at the contents of the glass before downing it with a straight face.

You’ve never seen him drink before, or smelled it on his breath, so you are almost inclined to be impressed.

“What else are you worried about?”

His breath usually just smells like he doesn’t own a toothbrush. You pointed this out once, and ended up with a pair of pliers in your mouth. He didn’t actually remove any of your teeth, and the corners of his eyes were creased as his face hovered over yours, like the whole thing was good fun, you teasing him and him paying it back in kind. His breath was fresh the next time you saw him, washed out with a sickly-sweet-something that repulsed you even more than the rot it replaced.

“What else?” he prompts.

“I don’t like your presents.”

He pauses for a moment, as if he finds what you’re saying baffling. “You like this one.”

“No, I don’t.” There are plenty of reasons not to like it. For one, the fact that it is different from all the others. He usually gives you harmless things. Some of them have been truly undesirable, like the half-wilted flower with strangely shaped leaves and an even stranger smell, or the scuffed silver ring for which the previous owner, he assured you, had no further use. Others, you tried to reject only because they came from him, and took advantage of in the moments when you were too tired to care about your pride. Soap of the exact same kind that you used to stock in your home. A soft pair of socks that very nearly matched and were very nearly clean. They were all unsettling in their own way, of course. But this one is different.

Why is it different? You do not like the answer, but it is creeping up on you, getting stronger by the second. If you drink, you will stop thinking, if only for a few hours. You will stop caring about his breath, and picturing his face hovering over you, and wondering when it will stop merely hovering and do the things he wants it to do.

Why is it different? Simple. Because you want it, for once.

He tilts his head. Waiting.

“I don’t like it,” you repeat, all too aware of the way he’s sizing you up, wondering what little movement or twitch of your facial muscles might give you away. “I want it gone.” You are still picturing exactly what those eyes look like when they’re so close that they make yours go blurry and crossed. He didn’t kiss you then - he still hasn’t. But that’s only another thing to fear. It will happen, and everything else along with it. It’s only a matter of time. “Go away.”

“No.” He pushes the glass towards you, and the bottle along with it. He doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t leave.

You should pour it down the sink, or throw it out the window. He’d probably let you. He never forces you to accept anything he gives you, although the look of genuine disappointment in his eyes when you refuse is so unsettling that you usually play along. “Why…” You drop your gaze along with the rest of the sentence. It’s obvious, isn’t it?

He shrugs. “Why not?”

You ask yourself the same thing, and come up with a multitude of reasons, and an answer to them all. You are already here, in this room, in this house, with no way out, and nothing to think about except the things he will do, and when. There is no good choice here. And there is an easier one. You bite your tongue, and then your lip, but it does nothing to stop you. “Okay.”

You hold the bottle parallel to the ground, and count one-two-three like someone once told you to do when measuring out a shot, but it’s full and it comes out fast and maybe just maybe you let your handle tilt a little too far in the wrong direction. It doesn’t go down easy, either. You’ve got nothing to follow it with, or to add to cut through the bitter taste. It wouldn’t be hard to stand up and get water, but you don’t feel like moving at the moment. The usual warm, pleasant sensation that you experience when you down the first drink of the night is absent, drowned out by the face staring back at you.

He smiles, and drops his gaze, and his cheeks are flushed, and you don’t know if it’s just from the liquor -

This was a mistake, of course. Of course. You knew that going in. But it’s too late to correct now, and there’s only one way left to go: down, and down, and down. You splash another helping into the glass - one-two-three-four-five - and close your eyes as you choke your way through it.

As soon as you’re done, before you can set the glass down, he takes it out of your hand, fingers brushing cautiously against the back of your hand before easily prying it loose. “I go now.”

You think, for a moment, that he means he’s going to leave, and take his gift along with him (a twinge of disappointment, or maybe something closer to panic, comes along with this, and you hate yourself for it). Instead, he matches the portions you’ve drank with his own. From his face, you would think that it was only water in his cup, although you think you see that faint look of disgust appear once again in the moment before he drinks. When he’s done, he fidgets with the bottle cap, flipping it effortlessly between his fingers. It’s a repetitive motion, one that might be soothing to watch if it wasn’t for the dark stains beneath his nails. He is focused, almost meditative, not even glancing up at you as he toys with the small plastic round, but there is a tension in his shoulders and the way he sits.

You feel it too. It will be a relief, you think, when the waiting is over.

He offers the bottle cap to you. Silently, another little gift in the same night, perfectly centered in his palm. A part of you wants it. But your hands are not elegant - not now, not ever - and you have accepted too much from him already.

Too much, and not enough. You watch him for several more minutes, and will the bottle to remain on the floor, instead of making its way into your hand.

Outside, a slight wind has picked up, the noise dulled by the metal slats fastened across your window. You turn away from Feitan, towards the sound, and slump forward, holding your face in your hands. It’s peaceful, for what feels like a long time. Peaceful enough that you can concentrate on the presence of your body, and the pace of your thoughts, and imagine the alcohol slowly creeping up through your veins and covering up all the things you don’t want to have in your head.

Feitan comes to crouch in the periphery of your vision. You did not hear him move, but that is nothing new. You would not have heard him, you’re sure, even if you had had nothing at all to drink. But now that he is here, you are imagining how you will feel once the warmth has peaked and faded away, and you are still alone with him, and nothing has changed at all. He passes you the bottle, and you drink straight from its mouth, barely registering the taste, too much, too fast. He snatches it back, and matches your swig -

You have an amusing thought that you know he wouldn’t like. It expresses itself on your face before you can snatch it back.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” You arrange your features carefully, and shut your mouth. “It’s nothing.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t look at you with suspicion, like he normally would. He just shrugs, and follows your gaze to the slit of starlight that pokes out from an unobstructed section of the window. “No moon tonight.”

“I wouldn’t know.” It comes out bitter, and you are only slightly surprised to realize that you no longer care how you sound.

“You know now.” He does something you’ve never seen him do before: takes off the cowl entirely and discards it on the floor. “If I take you outside, will you be happy?”

“No.” Your tongue is starting to feel heavy in your mouth, fuzzy around the edges. “I’ll still hate you.”

“Okay.” He looks away from you, reaches again for the bottle, then seems to think better of it. “We still go.”

“Now?” You don’t think you want to stand up, but you do it anyways, before he can even tell you what to do. You’re proud to note that the movement comes easily to you; if you were asked to walk in a straight line, you think that you could. Maybe you could run, too. Maybe faster than him, in your current states.

“Now.” He stands up beside you, surefooted, and grabs your hand. His fingers do not interlock with yours - instead, he wraps them around the back of your palm, and presses his thumb hard against the other side of it. His grip is stronger than it has any right to be, but it does not hurt.

“Why?”

“Why not?” He actually grins, and it’s so jarring that it brings you back down to earth for a moment. “You won’t run away.”

“You don’t know that.” You can see his teeth. By some miracle, they are white enough, and straight enough, but you are still disgusted by them. “I’ll probably try.”

“Okay.” He tugs you towards the door by your hand. “You try.”

You hesitate for a moment, and he pauses, allowing you to pick up the bottle from the floor. It is still open, but the smell of it has become far less offensive, and you grip it as tightly as he does to your hand. Then, you are out - out of the room, first, then past the staircase that he has not yet forced you to descend, where he comes up at the end of the day or night - past that, and then you are past the front door, and the wind that you listened to for so many minutes is howling in your ear. It occurs to you that you do not even know what the house looks like from the outside, but you do not bother turning around.

“This way.” Trees surround the house on every side, and he takes you into them, guiding you through the most spacious paths between the trunks. “I show you something.”

The last time he showed you something, it was not nice - you think about this, and clutch the bottle tighter to your chest, and try not to picture the bones beneath the skin of your hand, small and coated in blood and easy to break. He has similar bones in his possession, not all of them in one piece, belonging to bodies that were once people, with names he told you he had forgotten.

What are you doing? You tip the mouth of the bottle up to your lips, but he jerks you sharply in a new direction, and you only manage to catch a bit of what sloshes out. You vaguely register, moments later, that there is a clearing in front of you, and that it might be pretty in the daytime, and that there are weed-flowers at your feet, the color of which you cannot make out. More lucidly, you observe that the collar of your shirt is wet, and that Feitan’s grip on your hand is tight enough to hurt after all.

“We sit down now.” He sits, and takes you down with him, and more of the contents of the bottle slips away as you struggle to keep it in your grasp. The grass is wet, too. His face is very close to yours. His head tilts to a bizarre angle, his face seeming to blur in front of you, the curve of his smile higher on one side than the other. He laughs - it’s a raspy, quiet sound that is completely unfamiliar to you. Unfamiliar to him, too, you think. “You’re drunk.”

“So are you,” you say, although you do not know if it is true (it probably is - you don’t think he would laugh otherwise). The amusing thought comes back, and this time, you do not filter it away from your mouth. “You shouldn’t have drank as much as I did. We’re not the same size.”

“We’re not.” He blinks unnaturally slowly - or maybe he’s consciously closing his eyes, or maybe it’s just that everything seems a little slower, even the wind yanking his hair away from his face. “Closer sitting down.”

You snort. “Barely.”

“Then lie down.”

You realize that you have been wanting to laugh for a long time, and you do it wildly and bitterly, a grinning scream that you cut short with another swig of the thing which is starting to taste more like water than anything else. “I’m not stupid.”

“No.” He sways forward and puts his hand over yours, and you - after a moment, a stupid, stupid moment - snatch it away.

“‘m not stupid, and I hate you.” Your head feels light and heavy at the same time, scared and free, and neither feeling really matters, and you don’t want to think about it.

“I know.” He looks disappointed, you think, although he might just be tired. How late is it? Late enough that before he arrived - how long ago? - you were scared of falling asleep - you have bad dreams, every night - but you feel okay now -

“Why’d you bring me here?” Your words are not coming out the way you want them to. You don’t mean this clearing - you mean here, with him, forever, or however long he wants you -

“I wanted to.” He gets what you mean, you think. “Might change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.” He slips his hand into his pocket, and fidgets with something inside, and you do not think to wonder what it is.

“You should let me go.”

“No.”

“I should run away.” You laugh, because the idea of running right now is ridiculous, just like every other idea that passes through your head. All of this is awful, and stupid. Better to be stupid. “That way.” You raise your hand, and point to a place where the trees are less dense, where you think you could run without falling, if you really tried. “I’ll live in the woods. Hunt squirrels.” Oh, how nice it would be right now to talk to someone who wasn’t him. But it is good not to be alone. You think you would cry if you were alone. “You’d never find me.”

He coughs out another rusty laugh (but it’s mean this time, or it feels mean, anyways) and sticks his hand into his pocket. “Then go.” His eyes narrow, and he does not look disappointed anymore, but you’re not really thinking about how he feels to begin with. “I give you ten seconds.”

“Really?” You swing backwards where you sit, then straighten, then shake your head. Make it clear. Do you bring the bottle with you? It will slow you down, but you want it. If you do not have it (oh, god) you will have to wake up and think about all of this, and you don’t want that. It scares you. You can’t.

“Ten.”

You blink. “Now?”

He nods. “Nine.”

“Fuck.” You rise clumsily to your feet, stumble on your first step, and take off straight ahead, with what’s left of your liquor held tight to your chest. The trees are dense, your footing unstable, and suddenly you are going sideways when you mean to go straight - a branch scratches your face, and you grab it, as if to tear it straight off the tree. What number is he on? He was not talking loudly, and you cannot hear it except in your own head, where you are trying to keep track. Three, two?

You hear the crackle of dead leaves somewhere close. Closer. Then his hand is on yours, and you have fallen, and you have no idea which one of these things happened first, and your hands are empty, and the ground is wet on your back. You open your mouth. At the same moment, you feel something hard and sharp against your neck, but you don’t register that in time to stop yourself from speaking - or attempting to. You don’t know what you’re trying to say.

“You stop talking now.” The blade that appeared from nowhere (his pocket?) presses down, just shy of breaking the skin, and does not move for what feels like a very long time. But time is strange at the moment. You are not as scared as you are confused. You do not talk, and he takes it away, and it is such a relief that you do not think much about the other things. He is warm on top of you (he is lying on top of you) but not very heavy (but blurry) and his face is close and you can feel his breath on your face and it does not smell bad. Just like yours. The rest of that smell is pouring out on the ground (you heard the bottle crack when you dropped it, you think).

He kisses you before you can laugh about it, or cry about it, and his tongue is strange and slow and thick. Your hands come up, and push, but they fall down before long, and he kisses your neck. Bites. Doesn’t hurt very much at all. Knife catches at the neckline of your shirt, cuts -

Not far. His hand is not steady. Slips. Prick. You don’t think you’re bleeding but you wouldn’t know if you were. Nothing hurts. You think you hear him curse. Heavy metal leaves you and thuds in the pretty wet grass. There’s a strange expression on his face which makes you think that he might be close to laughing or crying too, and you don’t like it. Your shirt is still wet and noticing it again is a relief - you can think about that, and nothing else.

“You want to?” He tugs at the waist of your pants and pulls them down before you really answer. Your legs are apart now, and you do not want it to be him between them, but it feels good to be touched there - there - and you cannot make yourself hate it. You can’t hate anything. You can’t feel much besides him. There is a warm haze, and beneath that, there is shame and fear and loathing that you do not have to feel right now, that would make everything worse if you did feel it.

You do feel it, for a second too long, and your legs slide closer together, but not close enough to make it stop.

“You don’t want to?” His two fingers slide inside you (too easy, easier than it should be) and curl up like they’re trying to push an answer out of you, and your mouth opens and something comes out, but not words. His eyes narrow and he smiles and the darkness or something else makes it all look different than it did before. “I want to.”

Your hips move in the wrong direction, into him, and the thing you should and want to say does not come out, because he makes you feel good when you try. If he was not doing that he would be making you feel scared instead. This is better. This is the best it could ever be.

The smile drops, all at once. “Answer.”

You close your eyes so you don’t have to see it. Now, it doesn’t have to be him. Could be anyone. Could be no one at all. “Feels good,” you mumble.

“Good.”

The hand slips out of you and lands on the side of your face, slick, and you are kissed and you do not kiss back. “Good.” He says it into your mouth between kisses. His other hand is somewhere else. Down. “Good.” You try not to hear it. The wind whips up around you and you listen to that, and feel it hard against your cheek, and him hard against your stomach. Wind scrapes over your skin. He scrapes over your skin. Finds your entrance and holds himself there for too long. “You want to.” Not a question. Maybe he believes it and maybe you do too.

“Mm.” You’ll fall asleep as soon as it is over. It will be easy. Like taking a drink.

His breath shudders as he presses inside you. His whole body goes along with it, tightens against your skin, face shoved into your neck. Your eyes snap open and you fight their lids back down. When you let yourself think about it, the good feeling starts to go away. But it doesn’t hurt. It would’ve hurt, if it happened a different night, when you had to think…

He looks up and you somehow raise your head just enough to see his eyes. Wide. “Talk.”

“Feels good,” you mumble, and it must be enough, because his nails scrape your scalp and snag firmly into your hair and he is going and going but you can barely feel anything at all anymore. You lied, you guess.

It ends quickly. He says something that you can’t hear and then he is out of you and there is wet on your thigh that has nothing to do with the grass. And still, he is not done with you. His weight stays. His arms hook under your shoulders and hold tight.

One final time, you force your mouth and eyes open, because you cannot sleep like this. He’s staring at you, waiting, and you barely recognize his face at all. If you did, you would hate it.

You manage to say it. Exactly what you want to say. “Get off.”

His gaze drops to the grass. It’s quiet, for a long time.

You close your eyes. “Get off.”

“Okay.” His hand flutters against your cheek, and you feel his hot breath over your face, close enough to kiss you one final time.

He doesn’t. His weight lifts, and you can breathe.

And you can sleep.

***

There is a moment when you wake up before you feel any pain. Your head does not hurt, your stomach does not churn, your eyes do not flinch at the sunlight that pokes them through the trees.

But you would take all of those little kinds of suffering over the feeling that overrides them all. It strangles your chest and your throat and keeps you from rising or moving even an inch to look around. You hear his breathing. You hear his body shift in the grass, and know that he knows you are awake.

And yet, he doesn’t say a thing. Not yet. When he does, all the things you half-remember will flood your brain, and you will have no defense, except to hope that he has another bottle stashed away somewhere, and that he will be kind enough to give it to you.

Not yet. You feel the dampness of the shirt on your back, and taste the foulness of your own breath and the rot rising up from your throat, and smell the bitter stench of the night before. And you pretend, for as long as you can, that not yet means never again.

Lies, Sleeping

Mahito x Reader // word count 2.3k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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