☔content: nsfw, mdni, mahito x f!reader, mentions of somnophilia, mentions of non-con and dub-con, oral (m! receiving), piv sex, food, death, naive reader, wc:1882
Mahito was glad. He was pleased with his patience at that time, so many months ago now, when you had held out your umbrella for him to seek shelter with you, that he had not disfigured you. The way your eyes peered down at him as you leaned down to where he sat on the cold wet pavement, your eyes so full of warmth and concern, it had been so tempting. To see that silly, naive look on your face, that bright smile of yours contort into that delicious fear he loved so much. So, so tempting to reach out and touch your soul, to taste it, to mold it to whatever he wanted.
He had so many opportunities to toy with you and reshape you after you asked him so sweetly to stay with you, to live with you. Your eyes were full of worry, and cute little tears gathered in your eyes when you reached the conclusion that he had no place to go, that he was all alone in the world, and needed to be cared for, needed a friend.
It had been so entertaining, so foolish how you couldn’t see what he was, how you couldn’t recognize the way his smile stretched too wide, too cheerful, how dark and predatory his eyes were when they stared at your soft face, that Mahito decided to go along with it.
He decided to leave that damp, dark sewer, where he thrived, where he could feel and taste the constant delicious hatred that dripped down from the unsuspecting crowds that roamed above. He left his little toys down in that damp sewer and instead opted to play with the little trinkets you kept in your tiny apartment, read all the books that nearly burst out of your cluttered bookshelves, and just lay on your sun-drenched couch as he watched whatever program was airing on tv.
You made food for him. Human food. Something that he had no use for, that would do nothing to satiate him. It annoyed him a bit at first, how you had set that bowl of stew down in front of him as if he was a human. As if he was on the same level as you. So weak and pathetic.
He debated grabbing you right then, as you sat across from him with your own bowl of stew, that silly smile on your face. He wondered what to do with you, perhaps he would make you into a large crescent, like that smile that graced your face too often, or perhaps he should make you so tiny that you would look like nothing more than a pebble. Yes, he would make you into a cute perfectly shaped pebble, toss you onto the sidewalk for you to be carelessly, ignorantly trampled on.
But then you mentioned how the stew was a recipe from a cookbook that you had inherited from your mother, how your goal was to create each and every recipe that she had left in that messy, sticky note-ridden, old book. That little bit of hope he saw grow in your eyes as you shyly said you’d like him to taste them all as well, if he wanted to of course.
He decided he could wait, and he tried his best to mirror that little smile that graced your face (his smile always ended up being too wide, too cold, but you never seemed to notice), as he adjusted the grip on your hand to replicate a friendly touch. He would let that hope grow bigger in your eyes until it overflowed into the warmth of your cheeks and the curve of your smile. His smile became toothy and childlike, almost genuine as he imagined the day he’d get to drain that overflowing warmth from your eyes. He’d patiently wait until you reached that very last page of that cookbook, it’d be so worth it.
He had intended to play with you, toy with you like he was used to doing with humans. Those first few nights he lay awake on the futon you set up for him in your small living room, mismatched eyes glowing like that of a predator as he heard every breath and movement you made behind the closed door of your bedroom. That soft futon was full of too many fuzzy blankets, too many soft pillows due to your worry of Mahito getting too cold.
He contemplated transforming into something large and shadowy when you sleepily, barely awake, made your way to the bathroom for a quick pee late at night. Or perhaps he would slink into your room, and squeeze and touch your body in whatever way he pleased under the cold moonlight. He planned on haunting you so well, a ghost of touch here, a little shadow in the corner of your eye there, that you would come to him with pathetic tears and beg him to hold you. You had already told him you were afraid of the dark after all, all you needed was a push.
But he had not even lifted a finger on that night you had creakily opened your bedroom door, calling his name so delicately. He could already see the tremble of your soft figure, the fear that consumed your eyes even before you turned the hallway light on. You had reached out on your own to shakily take his hand, wishing for his company, to make sure that he was there.
All he had to do was firmly hold your fragile hand and whisper a few words of hollow comfort as he let you slowly walk him to your bed. Your bed was soon his bed too, your warm soft body becoming his most comfortable pillow all because of that absurd nightmare you had of something bad happening to him.
He had wanted to call you his doll, his cute little doll. And he did at first, enjoying the way your cheeks would flush as he nuzzled against you like an overgrown cat and asked what his little doll was up to. But you were not a doll, that warm look in your eye, the gentleness of your touch as you dried his wet hair after his baths were not things that he had to twist out of you.
There were no strings he had to pull to have you on your knees for him as you lovingly suckled on his cock, swallowing every last drop. No need to force your legs open for him to drown in the delicious taste of your pussy. Every thought that danced in that silly head of yours, every movement of your tempting lips was your own to create.
Occasionally he will see other curses when he is out, roaming the city because you are not home and he’s already finished whatever mundane chore you had sweetly asked him to do. Some curses gravitate to him, aware of his strength, wanting to follow him in creating utter delicious mayhem on the oblivious humans that walk past. He’s tempted, of course, he was made to indulge in the terror, sorrow, and hatred that he can so easily cause.
A simple touch of his hand and he can have this city drown in delicious chaos for him to drink up. But he never does. Instead, he sneaks a bag of pastries from that bakery you have been talking about, the one with the too-long line that is always entirely sold out by the time you are done with work.
Because this was so much better. The feeling of his large hands digging into your soft plush thighs, leaving more deep marks on that delicate skin of yours. The way your hot tight pussy clamped down on his cock, the cock he shaped so perfectly just for you, as he filled you up in the way you so sweetly asked for.
You could do nothing more but mewl and babble in pleasure and latch onto him as if he was the only thing tethering you to this world. His name was the only sound that left your puffy, kiss-bruised lips, and your cute tear-filled eyes only looked at him, so full of pleasure, trust, and love. He knows it’s love because you tell him so every morning and every night, paired with a little kiss on his patchwork cheek. You murmur those three words over and over again as you sink into the mattress as he presses himself against you. He could so easily lie and say it back, even though he knows that love is impossible for him, he was not created with that in mind. But he doesn’t say it back, because he doesn’t have to lie to make you smile so brightly for him.
He doesn’t have to concoct ways to get you to talk to him, to kiss him, to hold his hand in that soft way you always do. So instead he calls you cutie, pretty, beautiful, and he means it. He calls you his favorite human, his forever favorite, and he tells you that you are his and you always will be. Because that is true. You can feel it in how he nips at your skin, his teeth sharp and always present yet oh so gentle as he leaves countless marks all over your body. You can feel it when he refuses to let his tongue and lips leave your puffy clit, despite how much liquid already trickles out of your pussy. You can feel it when he pouts and holds you close against him when you have to leave for work before letting you go with a noisy smooch, knowing you’ll return home later, return to him later. He’ll always make sure of that.
You can feel what you mean to him when he picks you up and twirls you around once you’ve cooked that last meal from your mother’s old cookbook, and it is just as delicious as you remember, perhaps even better. How he tickles your little tears away into sweet giggles. He shows you the brand new cookbook that he “found”, the one that you had been debating on buying. He pouts and rolls his eyes when you try and tell him yet again how stealing is bad. You can never stay mad at him for long though, especially when he points out the recipes he’s already marked with sticky notes, the recipes he wants you to make for him, and even a few he wants to make for you (he swears he won’t cause a fire this time).
His mismatched eyes are full of excitement, mainly because of that warm bubbly look on your face, that soft smile he craves to see every day. But also because of the whole stack of cookbooks he has hidden away deep within your closet, and he can’t wait to see your reaction to that revelation once you are finished with this one, excited to see if you will pout so cutely as you try to scold him and hide that twinkling look that always overflows out of your eyes and into every crevice of your face. But he can wait as long as it will take for you to get through this cookbook. It’ll be so worth it.
