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[mist1e]

Don't ask me how or why, but here's Mahito as Monsieur George — a character from Anton Chekhov's Kashtanka. A short story, and one I highly recommend.

But she thought of nothing, she simply whined. When her head and back were entirely plastered over with the soft feathery snow, and she had sunk into a painful doze of exhaustion, all at once the door of the entrance clicked, creaked, and struck her on the side. She jumped up. A man belonging to the class of customers came out. As Kashtanka whined and got under his feet, he could not help noticing her. He bent down to her and asked: “Doggy, where do you come from? Have I hurt you? O, poor thing, poor thing. . . . Come, don’t be cross, don’t be cross. . . . I am sorry.” Kashtanka looked at the stranger through the snow-flakes that hung on her eyelashes, and saw before her a short, fat little man, with a plump, shaven face wearing a top hat and a fur coat that swung open. “What are you whining for?” he went on, knocking the snow off her back with his fingers. “Where is your master? I suppose you are lost? Ah, poor doggy! What are we going to do now?” Catching in the stranger’s voice a warm, cordial note, Kashtanka licked his hand, and whined still more pitifully.

[mist1e]

Recently got back into my purple era 💜

Had to imagine Mahito's reaction — of course he'd go, “What is that?! I want it too!”

[mist1e]

THE SECOND MONTH OF SPRING

𝓜𝓪𝓱𝓲𝓽𝓸 & 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

Can human and yōkai share one heart? That's not for me to know. But I do love a good tale.

Tags: Comfort No Hurt, Drabble, No Smut, Soft Mahito

☙ 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓸𝓷 𝓐𝓞3 ❧ ☙ 3052 words ❧

The warm rays of the afternoon sun seeped through the young foliage, dripping down the tree trunks like molten honey. Glints of light scattered along the paths like golden coins, flickering over the glittering facets of granite chips. Nature celebrated its awakening, lavishing people with its treasures: the aquamarine purity of the endless sky, the pearly velvet of sakura petals, the emerald needles of fresh grass chiming in the breeze.

Despite the beauty, Mikamine Park was nearly empty. A handful of passersby strolled the paths, their laughter sparkling in the sunlight, carried aloft by the warm midday wind.

You tilted your face toward the light and closed your eyes. Unlike summer’s scorching heat, the spring sun only grazed your cheeks and nose with silken fingers, a gentle reunion after winter’s long absence. The cat curled in your lap shared your mood wholeheartedly. He stretched and twisted, presenting his fluffy belly to your hand. Smiling at his effortless mastery of leisure, you ran your fingers through his warm fur, watching them disappear into the thick, plush grey-blue strands. He responded with a contented rumble — his version of a purr. The fact that he didn’t know how to purr properly was endearingly amusing.

“Grandma, look! A kitty cat!”

A little girl in a puff-sleeved pink dress wrenched free from her hunched, gray-haired grandmother and bounded toward your bench. She halted just a step away, staring at the cat sprawled across your thighs.

The old lady shuffled closer, squinting blindly.

“Oh, how marvellous!” she exclaimed with a smile. Her voice creaked like a rocking chair, warm as baked apples. “He won't run away, will he?”

“No, he's tame.”

The cat’s eyes narrowed at your words, his muzzle twisting into an expression of aristocratic disdain. He yawned, then fixed his gaze on the girl. She stood frozen, a wax doll with unblinking black-brown eyes. Her stare was detached, devoid of childish curiosity — unnervingly hollow. You watched her, puzzled. The sunny idyll in your mind fractured with a resounding crack.

Without breaking eye contact with the cat, the girl reached toward him with a small, chubby hand. His claws dug into your knees.

Sensing his tension and driven by the sudden, inexplicable anxiety flaring in your chest, you held up a hand, stopping the girl with a polite gesture.

“Careful — he doesn’t like to be petted. He might scratch you.”

The girl flashed a sharp look at you. Her cold, intense eyes glistened like the backs of two black beetles, stirring an unease deep in your chest. Her grandmother smiled and laid a knotted, parchment-skinned hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry. She just adores kitties. Right, Akane-chan?” The old woman’s voice softened further, syrupy with patience. “Not all animals are trusting, dear. There are evil people in this world — ones who hurt the weak, or those they don’t understand. Some creatures have met such people. Now they’re wary.”

You hesitated, your hand drifting unconsciously to the cat’s head. He sat unnervingly still, ears pricked as if parsing every word. Your thumb stroked the short fur of his forehead, pausing at the base of his warm ear.

The old woman turned to you again.

“He’s lucky to have you. He's been through a lot,” she murmured, nodding at the scars striping his muzzle. “If a cat like that opens its heart to a human, it must have chosen you for a reason. When a soul, human or not, follows you through the storms of life, it is no accident. The gods have tied your threads of fate together.”

Her eyes, watery from old age, lingered on the cat. He held her gaze with a poise that was too human for an animal — patient and understanding, as if curiously waiting for her to continue. The woman’s wrinkled face stilled, her cheer melting into something ancient. The expression of carefree good-naturedness evaporated, and her faded eyes became thoughtful and bottomless, like ice over dark water.

“He has the «odd eyes», your cat,” she whispered. “Could it be that a bakeneko [1]  loves you? If so, if you are protected by a spirit — a yōkai — you will be spared any misfortune. But remember, yōkai’s love is fierce. It doesn't fade with time, nor does it forgive betrayal. Not even in death.”

The seriousness of her frail voice made you freeze. Then — just as suddenly — the intensity shattered. The wrinkles around the old woman's eyes came alive again, her lips curling into a harmless smile. The mysterious icy brooding disappeared without a trace, and before you once again stood an ordinary hearty old woman.

“The moon and sun. Water and fire. Shadow and light. «Itai dōshin» [2]… Can human and yōkai share one heart? That's not for me to know. But I do love a good tale.”

She took the girl’s hand and gave a gentle tug.

“Oh, look at me! I talked your ear off. Let's go, Akane-chan.”

After a few steps down the path, the woman turned back and offered you a slight bow, a cryptic smile lingering on her benevolent face.

Soon, their figures melted into the distance.

“Interesting old lady.”

The quiet, melodious voice pulled your attention away from the distant point where the park path blended into the horizon.

“Yes,” you agreed, smiling as you patted the cat's head. His ears flattened in that funny way they always did when you ruffled his fur. “She figured you out, huh?”

“Many people can sense cursed energy,” the cat drawled thoughtfully, though the twitching tip of his tail gave away his slight irritation. “That woman sees and knows much — but she's wrong about one thing.”

“What's that?”

“The girl doesn't like cats at all.”

Your eyes drifted back to the distance again, to the empty path where the strange black-eyed girl and her grandmother had disappeared.

A sudden gust of wind rippled through the trees lining the walkway. Branches heavy with tufts of velvet flowers swayed drunkenly, sending rose-pearl petals spiraling upward in streams of warm air. Like a flock of restless butterflies, they shimmered in the sunlight before fluttering back to earth, coating the path in a silken carpet of pink.

You sighed and hugged the cat protectively, cuddling him tighter.

“I didn't like how she looked at you,” you admitted. “I didn't want her touching you at all.”

“What a heartwarming concern! I can take care of myself, you know,” the cat grinned, stretching luxuriously before draping one soft paw around your arm. You felt the faintest prick of claws. “But you're right. She has a rather unusual soul.”

“How so?”

The cat didn't answer immediately. How do you put into words something as convoluted, as bizarre, as intricately woven as the human soul? It seemed pointless, like trying to explain colours to someone born blind. But he loved searching for these metaphors, loved finding images that could mirror the visions only he could see. Most of all, he loved the way your eyes widened when he painted them for you.

“It's harsh and lifeless,” he said at last, his quiet voice taking on that urgent, agitated tone it always did when he spoke about the things that fascinated him. “Imagine an abandoned hive — a frail crypt full of dead wasps, with a hole torn right through its centre, as if someone had smashed it with a stick. Except it is gnawed from the inside, as if something had eaten its way out. The edges of the hole are ragged — tattered shreds of withered honeycomb. They quiver like some monstrous maw, sucking in air. And inside…” His tail lashed once. “Inside, in its bottomless womb, there's nothing but suffocating murk.”

He paused, then added softly, almost to himself:

“I wonder what she keeps in that darkness.”

Despite the spring warmth, icy goosebumps crept up your spine. You suddenly felt the urge to scrub your hands raw, as if you'd plunged them into that rotten hive — as if crumbling fragments of dead honeycomb clung to your fingers like decayed parchment.

“I have no idea, and I don't want to know,” you said sharply, shaking your head as if to dislodge the girl's beetle-black eyes and the grotesque vision of her soul. Exhaling slowly, you asked, quieter now, “Do you think she harms animals?”

“I don't think, I know.”

“Why?”

“Because she's a human.”

You understood him better than you wished to. The bitter taste flooding your mouth — the same one that rose whenever you remembered your own scars. The hundreds of little stab wounds pockmarking your soul. But admitting he was right meant accepting the world as it was: filthy, cruel, irredeemable. And you… You still weren't strong enough to live in a world like that without illusions.

“Not all people are animal abusers,” you muttered darkly.

“Not all. But all people are human.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the cat leapt from your lap, arching his back in a stretch. His whiskers twitched adorably, eyes squeezing shut in feline bliss. When he turned to face you, his expression had soured.

“Let's go deeper into the park,” he grumbled. “Away from prying eyes. Staying a cat for too long makes my skin itch.”

He landed soundlessly on the petal-strewn path, tail held high like a plume of smoke, and began padding forward with liquid grace. Smiling, you followed.

“Mahito, you make a very good cat,” you teased, catching up to him. “Maybe you really are a bakeneko.”

“Keep talking, and I'll transform you into a worm.”

The two of you walked on — a human and a cursed spirit masquerading as a cat — beneath a canopy of sakura branches that hung like cirrus clouds of cream and pink peach. Between the riot of flowers, the occasional unopened bud glowed like a ruby, waiting to erupt at the first warm gust. Everything around you breathed with the light, and the powdery sweetness of blossoming. Even the silence between your footsteps hummed with that floral whisper. You inhaled deeply, letting spring saturate your lungs. Sunlight filtered through the lacework of leaves, painting shifting gold patterns on your shoulders and the cat's fluffy back. Every few steps, his tail brushed your leg, leaving little ticklish traces of warmth on your skin.

Passersby grew scarcer as you strayed from the park's heart, their curious glances lingering on your odd pairing. Then, guided by some inscrutable instinct, Mahito veered off the path. You followed him through grass that sighed underfoot, past the curved tree trunks. After a couple of minutes, he stopped.

“That's it. No one here.”

You sank to the ground, leaning your back against the gnarled trunk of an ancient sakura tree, your eyes locked on Mahito. To some, his transformations might seem grotesque — even disgusting — but you were endlessly fascinated by the liquid grace of his body. There was something mesmerizing about watching him playfully command form and substance, reshaping himself with a magician's effortless flair.

The cat arched his back and rose onto his hind legs. His claws extended, gleaming briefly before retracting into pink pads that elongated into slender, graceful fingers. Tendons crunched quietly as paws reshaped into hands. Smoke-like fur rippled, stiffened, then dissolved into pale skin as shadows coiled around him. The darkness twisted and flowed, wrapping his form: a black shawl draped over his shoulders, while rustling satin trousers materialized around his long legs. His patterned muzzle stretched, flattening into a face framed by cascading gray-blue strands that shimmered in the sunlight as they spilled down his back. The scars crisscrossing his cheeks and forehead deepened, blooming into vivid crimson. His curved tail coiled into a ring before retracting as if yanked by an invisible string. Last were his eyes — one storm-cloud gray, the other sky-blue — as the slit pupils rounded, becoming ordinary human. Almost human.

A gasp escaped your lips. Only then did you realize you'd been holding your breath, utterly spellbound by the impossible metamorphosis.

Mahito scratched his scalp impatiently, tousling his hair.

“I'm all itchy!” he whined, flopping onto the grass beside you with the petulance of a spoiled child who had been denied an ice-cream, which was awfully cute. Without ceremony, he dropped his head into your lap, pouting up at you through his lashes. “Scratch me now,” he demanded, closing his eyes.

You grinned, threading your fingers through the silk of his hair that pooled across your knees. Your nails traced light paths over his scalp, and the weight of his head pressed warm and comforting against your thighs. Mahito emitted a satisfied hum — infinitely better than his attempted purrs in feline form. His hair slipped through your fingers like quick, cool streams.

Behind you, the tree's rough bark scraped faintly through your shirt. The leaves rustled overhead, and through their shivering whisper, golden sunlight streamed in, scattering shimmering glints across the grass. The wind ruffled the petals, tossing them into the air, only for them to drift down reluctantly, clinging sleepily to the sharp tips of the grass blades.

“Mahito?”

“Hmm?” He cracked one eye open, lazy as a sun-drunk cat.

“Why don't you ever tell me what my soul is like?”

A sigh escaped him, barely audible. Your soul… He saw it as clearly as your eyes — the dark amber that froze a cautious hope. As clearly as the timid arch of your brows, the charming wrinkle they pressed above the bridge of your nose. Like the curve of your lips, whose subtle shifts had taught him to read the words you never spoke aloud.

Oh, he could tell you volumes about your soul.

He could say it resembled an old teacup — its once-cheerful pattern of wildflowers now faded against porcelain sides. Abandoned, it still retained the warmth from the last sip of summer herb tea, long since drunk. Countless cracks webbed across its white surface. It had been broken many, many times. Here and there he saw unhealed chips exposing porous edges dulled by time. Somewhere a small piece was missing, a shard lost forever. But every fracture glowed with the golden sap of lacquer tree that flowed along the jagged lines like liquid sunshine. He could spend hours tracing those magnificent scars with his fingers. They were beautiful, like all things that shouldn't have survived — yet somehow did.

He could try to describe its iridescence — shifting from blue to purple, to red, to yellow, to green and back to blue, as if someone spilled oil into a puddle left on the wet asphalt after a rainstorm. Colours bled into one another, cutting patterns with razor-edged clarity, transforming with every swing of your mood. You were azure in surprise, peachy in laughter, emerald bordering on jade in contemplation. But Mahito's favourite hue was the rarest of all: dirty pomegranate. Dark, nearly black bubbles swelled and burst like plague buboes, splattering blood-red across the other shades. When he touched those spots, he heard you crying. Old tears, long dried and forgotten, yet their echo still resonated through your soul — a ghostly wail that no longer remembered its origin, lingering only as a phantom ache.

He could reveal its most intimate core — a heavy bud on a fragile suede stem, swaying helplessly in the wind, straining for sunlight or rain. When Mahito first touched your soul, he’d been certain the slender stalk would snap under the slightest pressure. Yet instead of recoiling, it reached for him. He felt a prick. Then another. And another. What he had mistaken for a curious weed was in fact a thorned flower, its spikes digging greedily into his emptiness. Enthralled, he collected those thorns like jewels, embedding them in his flesh. Poisonous shoots took root in his burning veins, turning his blood thick and heavy, like honey laced with arsenic. Your tenderness was a toxin he couldn't purge now without tearing his body in half. Every touch left kiss-shaped burns; he studied them with admiration and wore them with pride. Your love flooded his throat like a thick mass of black water — dense, suffocating, saline. He thrashed, choking on its weight. The worst part? He adored drowning in it.

He could have told you about your soul. But how would you understand? You were only human.

“Look,” Mahito squinted, raising a hand to point skyward, “see that cloud?”

“What cloud?” You twisted to follow his gaze. “The blotchy one?”

“No, to the left. The one like a jumping llama.” He tsked impatiently, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “There's the ear — you can't see the other one — and there's the snout, reaching up. See?”

Tilting your head sideways, you squinted, trying to see the jumping llama in the fluffy marshmallow of shapeless clouds.

“Well…” you hedged. “There is something to it…”

“That's your soul. It's like this cloud.”

“Mahito!..”

You swatted his hand and furrowed your eyebrows in annoyance. Mahito laughed — bright as a glass bell — then, impulsively, braced on one elbow and pressed his lips to yours.

You froze in surprise. Time stuttered, and the floral spring air around you thickened like syrup. Sakura petals danced like pink snowflakes, forgetting gravity as they swirled in place, hesitant to fall. Velvet warmth spilled through your chest, liquefying your limbs with each heartbeat until you sagged against him, surrendering. Eyes closed, you drowned in that kiss as if in a dream.

After a small eternity, your lips parted, but he didn't pull away. His breath burned warm against your skin, his mocking face so close his nose nearly brushed yours. Mahito arched an eyebrow as he studied your expression — the peachy blush spreading across your cheeks betraying you completely.

“You won't escape my questions that easily, you know,” you mumbled, flustered.

“Of course not,” he grinned, settling back into your lap. “Remember what old woman said? You’re under a yōkai’s protection. Until death!” His voice dropped to a playful growl. “And mark me — I'm a vindictive bakeneko. Run away from me, and I'll hunt you down and torture you even in the afterlife.”

To emphasize his point, he contorted his face into a mock-menacing glare: eyebrows knotted threateningly, nose wrinkled, lips pursed in exaggerated sternness. The act crumbled when you laughed, throwing your head back. His face broke into a sly grin, and soon his laughter — boyishly tinkling — twined with yours, spilling carefree into the warm, honeyed air.

It was the second month of spring. The whole summer still waited ahead.

────────────────────────

[1] Bakeneko — 化け猫 — A shapeshifting yōkai that takes the form of a cat and possesses magical abilities. [2] Itai Dōshin — 異体同心 — "Different bodies, one mind." A phrase symbolizing harmony in diversity: even if people appear different, their hearts and goals can be united.

[mist1e]

I have been dreaming about Mahito in traditional clothing for far too long.

Some dreams just have to come true.

[mist1e]

Something possessed me and I went insane with my neglected markers. Just pure, creative chaos. Somehow, Mahito seems happy with the result.

[mist1e]

Mahito is a summer child with a soft spot for little critters.

[mist1e]

Something About The Curses

Two threads about the nature of Curses and about Mahito's seiyu talking about the character made me want to share some thought of my own.

I see a lot of hatred towards Curses, especially Mahito, and I have a few things to add to all the deep thought that is already in those inretersting threads.

Reality is relative, and people forget that.

If a wolf eats a hare, is it evil? If the hare escapes the wolf, and its cubs starve, is the hare evil?

People kill Curses, and Curses kill people. Chicken and egg.

Two species sharing a planet, unable to coexist — one will inevitably devour the other.

Even when Yuji, a human, ate Sukuna's finger, his own kind condemned him to death, cowardly plotting his assassination. That's how deeply humans resent and reject what isn't like them.

It's so convenient to forget that Curses are born from people. Humans create Curses. And then decimate them. This is the hypocrisy that Mahito and Jogo despise wholeheartedly.

For Mahito and the others, it's been a war since birth — a fight for their very existence. I don’t see Curses as villains. Humans and Curses are like yin and yang: two interlocking realms with opposing laws and perspectives, both equally right.

About Mahito, I'll say this: his hatred is justified. The way he treats people, toying with their lives — that’s justified too. He was born from humanity's hatred — or so HE SAYS. But there’s a reason "ragebait" exists. People thrive on negativity, spark fandom wars, ideology clashes, feeding on hatred. Hatred is easy, impulsive, and addictive. It’s a simple carb — no emotional labour required.

I firmly believe Mahito was born from humanity, PERIOD. Hatred is just the most accessible emotion, and as a young Curse, it’s all he knows. And, wouldn’t you be spiteful if you were born into a world that hates you, denying you the basic right to exist? It’s only rational to return that hate in full, to despise your "collective parents" who rejected you at birth. You declare, "I deserve to live more than you."

If anything, I am amazed Mahito has so much curiosity, admiration and childish wonder in him still.

He’s young, and these feelings are natural for a youngling. They birthed you, they rejected you, and now they hide behind masks, fake smiles, and disgusting play-pretend. At least you’re honest with yourself, and thus you are better than them. You deserve better.

Mahito's name translates as "true human". I think it says everything. I think he has all the other human emotions and feelings in him, it is evident throughout the events of the seasons.

It's a shame he didn't have neither chance nor time to actually experience them.

[mist1e]

Сделала тип группку в телеге, посвященную Махито и смежно�� тематике.

Хочется собрать всех вас, классных ребят, чтобы разделить нашу совершенно здоровую обсессию.

[mist1e]

Roses are red, violets are blue Your soul is mine, and so are you

Mahito is my knight in shining armour, saving me from Valentine's depression.

[mist1e]

My favourite scene from the 2nd season opening.

I love seeing Mahito happy.

[mist1e]

SICK

𝓜𝓪𝓱𝓲𝓽𝓸 & 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

Mahito doesn’t do kindness. But when he finds you sick and helpless, he decides to make an exception — in his own twisted way.

☙ 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓸𝓷 𝓐𝓞3 ❧ ☙ 1900 words ❧

The troubled slumber crawled into your mind on its sticky paws, lulled you to sleep, and then jerked you awake with a treacherous poke, preventing you from truly resting. You sank deeper into the black cosmos of nothingness, only to surface again, like a buoy bobbing up and down at the whim of restless waves.

Somewhere in the depths of the flat, the front door slammed.

You opened your fever-red eyes and sat up in bed, listening intently. You heard the sound of a shoe flying off to the side, followed by a second one, which smacked against the half-closed wardrobe door.

Ah. Of course. It was him.

Mahito.

“Oh, I'm going to cheer you up real good!” A childishly joyful voice shattered the dusty silence of the slumbering flat, cutting through its stiff flesh. “I thought the hardest part would be twisting the shapes, but it turns out that inflating them is an enterprise of its own!”

His voice, sparkling with mirth, flowed like a brook, drawing closer and closer to your bedroom. Soon, Mahito's head appeared in the doorway. An impatient smile played on his slightly pinched lips, the kind of smile that barely contained laughter. His mismatched eyes twinkled with mischief as he tilted his head to the side, a stray strand of ash-blue hair falling over his face.

Eagerly, he stepped into the room. The bedroom seemed to shrink around his tall, slender figure clad in a floating black shawl.

“Ta-dam!” Mahito exclaimed, pulling the object of his pride from behind his back.

Something that resembling a poorly twisted balloon dog uncoiled like a spring in his thin, long fingers. Squinting your watery eyes, you leaned forward, taking a closer look. The ‘dog’ silently gasped for air, its empty eye sockets staring blankly into space. It fidgeted incessantly, as if trying to untie the tight knots Mahito had made. The sight was both mesmerising and utterly grotesque.

“I burst nearly twenty of them before I could reshape a human right enough to inflate it,” Mahito said, his voice tinged with unmistakable pride.

He looked at you expectantly, waiting for your praise. You had known Mahito for a long time, but the contrast between his murderous cruelty and his childlike directness never ceased to amaze you.

“It looks... Interesting.”

Your throat felt as if it had been scraped with sandpaper, and you broke into a fit of dry coughing. With your back hunched, you arched forward, a hand pressed to your chest as if trying to soothe the pain tearing through your lungs.

The smile slid off Mahito's face. Displeased that his trick had failed to make the proper impression, he irritably tossed the mutilated, reshaped human-dog into the corner of the room, where it squeaked pitifully and went silent.

“What’s the matter with you?” he muttered, eyeing your twisted, shuddering figure. Mahito folded his arms across his chest. Once your coughing subsided, he added, “It’s noon already. Why are you still in bed?”

“I’m sick.”

Mahito raised one eyebrow in surprise, tilting his head curiously to the side, studying you like an odd specimen.

“Is that so? Interesting. And why would you be sick?”

Despite your miserable condition — the chills racking your body and the pain pounding in your temples — you forced out a smile at his innocent question. You looked up at him, meeting his scrutinising gaze.

“When it happens, there’s nothing you can do, Mahito. You just... get sick,” you began to explain patiently, trying not to speak too much so as not to irritate your sore throat further. “All you can do is take some pills and wait for it to go away.”

“For what to go away?”

You suddenly felt incredibly embarrassed by your weakness, by your stuffy bedroom, your unkempt hair, and the pathetic sight you made. You lowered your eyes again. The last thing you wanted was to let Mahito in on the details and become the object of his ridicule, but you knew that if you didn't give in, he wouldn’t leave you alone.

“When you’re sick, you feel incredibly weak. Every bone in your body aches as if you’re being stretched on a rack. Your throat hurts, your eyes water as if they’re filled with sand. Your head swells from the inside out, a dull pain throbbing in your temples. The simplest actions you’ve always taken for granted become a struggle.

Every word slashed painfully into your mind, lashing you like a red-hot whip, making you feel more and more wretched in your own eyes. You always felt lonely and abandoned, when you were sick. The vile feebleness of it all drenched your soul in sorrow and self-pity. Your fever-stricken brain plunged you into a state of hopeless longing that made your shoulders slump from powerlessness.

“I can’t do anything; I'm completely useless. I'm trapped in a sick body that’s rebelled against me and taken away my control. I can't even get out of bed. All I can do is lie alone in the dark, tormented by nightmares and crappy thoughts.”

You fell silent, staring at the patterns on the blanket, waiting to hear the ringing of Mahito’s mocking laughter.

Instead, you heard soft footsteps, followed by the creak of the mattress.

“You’d better stay away, I don’t want to get you sick,” you said uncertainly, instinctively backing away from Mahito as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, please. What do you take me for? Your human nonsense doesn’t affect me. Now, scoot over.”

You hesitantly moved to the side with an effort, making room for Mahito. He climbed onto the bed and sat down, his back resting against the soft headboard, still warm from the heat of your body. With a deft movement, he pulled you to him, his long fingers wrapping around your trembling shoulder. You tensed at the suddenness of his touch, icy compared to your feverish skin. You flinched, then melted against his chest with a sigh.

Silence stretched between you two, growing more and more comfortable with each passing moment. The room around you seemed to recover from Mahito’s sudden intrusion and slipped back into its oblivious slumber. It was so quiet that you could almost hear the rustle of dust motes swirling in the sunlight filtering through the curtains. The measured rise and fall of Mahito’s chest slowed your heartbeat, making it match his deep, steady breathing.

You wanted to ask, wanted to know, wanted to understand. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. More than anything, you were afraid of ruining this fragile, elusive moment.

Feeling the anxious ripples on the surface of your soul, Mahito hummed softly and spoke up.

“When I transfigure a human being, they go through immense agony,” his quiet, purring voice crept through the still twilight. “But one thing is constant. I stay with them until the very end. Our souls touch for a moment, and I feel the echo of their harrowed being. The anger, the hatred, and the fear that spawned me return to me like a falling raindrop that dissolves on the surface of a bottomless lake. This is the price of my Cursed Technique.”

Mahito fell silent, seemingly lost in thought. His fingers brushed over your shoulder, mindlessly tracing invisible patterns. Suddenly, he turned his head and touched his lips to your forehead, inhaling your scent deeply. His lips lingered, leaving an icy seal on your inflamed skin. You froze, eyes wide, afraid to breathe as Mahito revelled in this moment of unexpected intimacy.

His distinctive scent — ozone with a medicinal edge, layered with burnt sugar and sweet amber — tickled your nose, seeping deeper and deeper. It was as if it were coating your insides with an indelible, cursed membrane, forever binding Mahito to your innermost being. This new sensation exploded in your chest, eclipsing the pain and fever for a moment. You hadn't realised how much you needed this small act of intimacy. Greedily, you reached for the unnatural fusion, inhaling deeply as if you could soak the poisoned drops of tenderness and affection into your very skin. The seconds stretched on unbearably, and just as you felt yourself dissolving in the intoxicating sweetness, Mahito broke the kiss and pulled back to look into your eyes. His gaze was calm and soft, but something lurked behind the warmth of his stare — something you couldn’t quite name.

“You know I will kill you in the end, don’t you, little one?” he whispered.

His whisper coiled around your heart, filling it with a weird sense of trepidation. His hand touched your cheek, brushing aside a stray strand of hair. Gentle fingers slid over your face, stroking, caressing, as if he wanted to imprint every contour and curve into his memory.

“That’s why I can afford a bit of candour,” he continued. “You know, little one, my birth was quite unpleasant and painful. Hate flowed through my swollen veins, rage roiled in my burning chest, disgust twisted my muscles into crackling knots. I have so much loathing in me that I lavish that feeling on the humans I transfigure. But they give it back to me again. Ironic, isn't it? The circle is complete — Ouroboros sinking its teeth into its own tail.”

His fingers moved lower, and his graceful hand rested on the centre of your chest, right over your fluttering heart. You continued to stare at him, unable to utter a word, completely enchanted by his hypnotising voice and the tenderness of his touch.

“Weakness, helplessness, powerlessness — I felt it too when the void spewed me into this world. That feeling still flares in my chest when I reshape human souls.” Mahito’s lips stretched into a smile that was at once affectionate and ominous. “Someday, little one, when your time comes, we’ll share it, and the drop of your soul will return home. But not today.”

Mahito closed his eyes, and you felt the space around you crackle with the energy filling it.

“Mui Tenpen.”

The words of his Cursed Technique escaped his lips, and in the same instant, your body arched up, torn by the unstoppable streams of energy bubbling through your veins like molten metal. A shriek froze in your throat, and your eyes rolled back. You thought you were about to be torn to pieces, and only Mahito’s firm, yet gentle embrace held you together. The air around you quivered, throbbed, and buzzed like a swarm of angry wasps.

It ended as abruptly as it had begun. The buzzing reached its peak and then collapsed into silence. With a swift tidal wave, the Cursed Energy drained from your body. White spots still danced before your eyes as you struggled to focus your gaze on Mahito. He slowly opened his eyes, observing you with a content smile. Your skin hummed with the ghost of his Cursed Energy, a faint echo of his power that shot through you. His hand remained on your chest, spreading warmth where it rested — a lingering connection, a shared secret. The weakness and malaise were gone. The searing pain clawing at your windpipe had dissolved. You involuntarily put a hand to your chest, where a lump of sticky heaviness had vanished.

You were perfectly healthy.

“Mahito... You…”

“Yes, yes,” he waved it away impatiently. His seriousness vanished without a trace, replaced by the usual carefree and childish grin. “Don’t get all mushy. And don’t take this as some sort of kindness. I just need a playmate.” His smile tightened briefly, and his eyes flashed to the side before returning back to you.

He moved away, putting distance between you, but there was a sense of reluctance in his hand, that lingered on your shoulder for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

Or did you imagine it?

“Get out of bed and get dressed. I need you to help me figure out how to twist a rabbit.”

[mist1e]

A creature of grace, Mahito is.

Listening to Ben Howard's 'In Dreams', I think it fits him nicely.

Inspired by Annie Leibovitz photo

[mist1e]

A soul so radiant it blossoms outward.

[mist1e]

And he would, if he had me to keep him safe.

[mist1e]

I don't like the idea of rabbits being an omen of death. Let's break the cycle. He has a friend now.

[mist1e]

Yes, sometimes he does look a bit insane, and we love him for that.

[mist1e]

A shot from JJK FP opening :3