depravity central

DARLING PROFILE:

Witty

In general, Satoru’s attention is difficult to ensnare.

He’s an important man with duties that demand every waking moment of his time, leaving very little space for any sort of romantic pursuits. Besides, he’s always known it’s just a matter of time before the clan forces him into some political marriage, an alliance based solely upon what increases the capital of the Gojo clan rather than any sort of emotional, intimate connection.

And he’s fine with that, for the most part – resigned, really, which is why there are a few key characteristics that his darling must have in order to truly force his obsession to take root. One of these characteristics is that his darling absolutely must be quick on their feet in terms of banter.

They don’t necessarily need to be the funniest or smartest in the room, but someone who can keep him on his toes and make him think a little harder would immediately pique his interest. Someone who can whip out all sorts of comebacks and remarks will have excitement hammering at his chest, the rarity of someone actually challenging him – even with such low stakes – intoxicating.

He loves the fact that his darling is capable of thinking on their feet, seeing patterns and connections well enough that the words are slipping from their lips before they can really think about it. He’s used to the people around him either catering entirely to his ever-increasingly obnoxious whims, or to find him so irritating and difficult to handle that they’re desperate to get away.

And so, to find a darling who embraces his own quips, remarks, and borderline-rude comments will have him eagerly seeking out more and more, loving the way talking to them is so exhilarating. It leaves him eager to see them, to constantly be anticipating what they could say next, what looks or snarky comments they could give him, and Satoru is only slightly ashamed to admit that once his infatuation really sets in, one simply funny or well-thought out comment will have him gulping hard, blood rushing between his legs and something warm pushing against his stomach because oh…

Of course, his confidence in interacting with his darling diminishes once he starts to care way, way too much about their perception of him, but it’s still a quality he finds himself allured by, and with every comment his darling only solidifies his interest.

So go on, insult his white hair and tell him to get home to the geriatric wing – just please, please keep looking at him like that.

Meticulous

In general, he’s looking for a smart darling. He’s looking for someone who is able to hold their own with their intellect and decision-making skills, if only because it slightly lessens the paranoia he experiences when he thinks of all the danger they’re exposed to on a daily basis.

It’s helpful to know that his darling is capable, and while their intelligence can manifest in many ways, one of the most appealing to him is someone who is detail-oriented.

There’s a sense of awe that he feels when they’re able to analyze something thoroughly enough to notice small changes. It’s impressive, perhaps because he’s always been much more focused on the big picture and not the practicalities.

Regardless, if his darling were to showcase this ability in some fashion, either in conversation with him or through their actions during one of the many nights in which he spends slithering through the shadows watching them, it only further solidifies his obsession. It only furthers his fascination with them, a genuine curiosity even leading him to notice them first at all.

Perhaps it’s because it’s so opposite to his own approach to life, or perhaps it’s because it’s reallynot that different after all; where they see details in patterns, Satoru sees details in everything he looks at. It’s a sort of mental coping mechanism in a lot of ways, because there’s some comfort in knowing that although his darling is surely not seeing what he himself sees with this Six Eyes, they at least can understand to a certain extent what that experience is like.

They can better understand when he returns back from missions with a splitting headache and eyes that will barely focus, overexertion causing him to collapse and nearly black out. They’re better able to relate to him when he describes the sheer volume of information he receive in a single glance, too much data to decipher in totality.

It’s a way that he feels he’s connected with his darling, and in a world where Satoru feels very much isolated, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. It’s nice to have someone to reach out to and clutch onto, even if they can’t reach back to him. It’s just endearing, really, and he’ll marvel at each and every instance of his darling showing off this trait.

Easily Flustered

This is more wishful thinking on Satoru’s end than anything else, really. Because he’s so terrified to somehow fuck up every interaction he has with his darling, it’s extremely doubtful that Satoru will really even capitalize on this particular trait until much, much later into his obsession. He’s just not able to muster up the flirty, suave lines he casually throws at most others, the words seeming to get tangled on his tongue and never making it past his lips.

And frankly, it’s beyond frustrating – prior to his obsession really taking a hold, it’s a characteristic that he notices in his darling quickly. Before he really cared too much about their opinion of him, he’d had no problem sliding in a flirty comment or making a remark that was sure to get them feeling hot and swatting away his hand.

But the moment his obsession develops, the memories of how his darling’s responses to the teasing of others begins to haunt him. He wants so, so badly to get them to giggle and be wooed, and the knowledge that it’s easy to do so only further sours his mood.

He’s too nervous to try it once he’s fallen heard-first into his infatuation, and this particular trait actually serves to drastically heighten his possessiveness. Seeing his darling getting flustered at another man’s comments will have Satoru’s blood boiling, rage clawing up his throat and making him absolutely livid that he doesn’t have the gall to do the very same thing.

Because it’s just so damn cute; the way they squirm slightly, how they bite their lip, how they have to turn away because the attention is just too much. It makes him want to reach out and pinch their cheeks, to coo at them and see just how far he can push them.

And so it remains the sort of memory and quality he thinks of every night when he imagines his darling’s face just to get to sleep, fading into dreams that feature them in every possible scenario he can come up with (no matter how innocent or depraved).

It’s just sweet, really, and many years into his darling’s eventual kidnapping, perhaps Satoru will grow comfortable enough to really take advantage of this quirk of theirs – after all, he’d do anything to get them feeling hot under the collar, no matter what context.

Independent

There’s something innately attractive about a person who can take care of themselves. Someone who is able to prioritize, to manage their time, to lean on themselves and not expect others to pick up what they themselves slacked.

It’s a product of twenty-some odd years of being expected to be perfect that leads Satoru to value this quality; the expectations and assumptions he’s had to live up to demanded independence of him from a very, very young age, and as a result he doesn’t have a lot of patience for those who haven’t quite caught up.

He’s not expecting his darling to be entirely self-sufficient, but getting along with only minimal help from loved ones or coworkers is something that he is very, very attracted to.

Besides, it makes it so much easier on him as his obsession continues on – his busy schedule and his hesitance to truly interfere with his darling’s life prior to stealing them away seem to offset by the fact that his darling doesn’t often put themselves into situations that he feels the need to remedy. He’s paranoid for their safety, but it’s nice to know that they aren’t constantly surrounded by people that would take advantage of them.

It’s nice to know that he can step away for a few hours to complete a mission or teach at Jujutsu High (on edge the whole time, of course, because every minute that he doesn’t see them it’s like a knife is twisting through his gut) and not have to immediately panic that they’re hurt or on the verge of death. It’s a small bit of relief, and it certainly doesn’t stop Satoru from imagining and assuming the worst, but it’s a subconscious pull that he feels.

It makes his life easier, and in Satoru’s mind, he can’t help but consider it to be yet another piece of evidence for why his darling is such a perfect match for him – fated, he even thinks on particularly lonely nights spent watching his darling from the dark corner of their room. And does destiny ever lie?

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Obsessive

In a lot of ways, you become Satoru’s salvation.

Prior to your entrance into his life, he’d essentially fallen into a sort of monotonous depression. After Getou’s betrayal, his world has felt numb and detached. Even with his goal to dismantle Jujutsu Society in its current state by training and supporting his students, he’s not completely there. He’d been going through the motions of life simply to fulfill a role – really, more surviving than living.

And so, once his obsession with you takes root and begins to wrap its tendrils around his heart and squeeze, Satoru’s dim, gray-scale life slowly begins to shift. It’s certainly not an overnight change, as his infatuation with you takes a while to really solidify and drive him to the brink. But once he begins to realize just how good you make him feel, it’s already set in stone.

Sure, he’s still passionate about raising the next generation of mover-and-shaker sorcerers, but oh, does he not deserve to have any more personal goals?

His attention slowly begins to shift away from his lofty Jujutsu agenda and more toward you you you. He slowly begins growing attached, depending upon you to get through the day. And it starts small - fleeting thoughts of you grace the edges of his mind.

He’s out running a quick errand for a mission in the outskirts of Tokyo one afternoon, and as he stands ordering at the sweets shop counter, the words are falling out of his mouth before he can even think about it. Your favorite sweet sits in his palm a few moments later, wrapped all prettily in white parchment paper with a nice bow tying it all together. He’s blinking down at the small package with slightly parted lips for a moment, confused himself as to why he’d ordered it (something that he doesn’t particularly like, no less), but only shrugs it off, placing the pastry carefully to one side of the shopping bag to keep it from being crushed.

(And when it arrives on your doorstep later that evening as the sun’s setting over the horizon, Satoru can’t help the way his breath catches as he watches from the end of your street. The way the pinks and yellows glimmer and shine off your hair has him struggling to blink, the way you tilt your head and draw your brows together making his fist clench. You’re too pretty, it almost makes him mad.)

He’s watching Yuuji and Kugisaki gang up on Megumi with conniving grins painting their faces, feeling his own lip twitch slightly at the sight. Once again, his mouth is moving before he’s even consciously forming your name against his tongue – hey, d’you think Megumi kind of likes all the attention? His voice echoes out to no one in particular, the empty space beside him giving no answer as he stiffens up. You weren’t with him. Obviously. Why would you be? You had your own job and duties to attend to – you’re not with him in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. It’s stupid and foolish and he’s almost embarrassed for a brief moment before Kugisaki starts ranting and yelling about something or another, his attention getting drawn as she growls out well it’s Gojo’s fault then! He shivers.

(In retrospect, though, Satoru couldn’t say whether it’s in response to Kugisaki’s rage or the thought of you being next to him, breathing in his air, your shoulder brushing his, the sound of your steady breaths lulling him into something sweet, calm, dangerous.)

His daily thoughts slowly begin to include you, and as time passes this habit becomes worryingly difficult to combat. It’s not until he’s mid-fight, the breeze brushing against his cheeks and eyes blown wide as his fingers curl, cursed energy swarming around him and buzzing up up up that the small, fleeting thought of whether you’d find him attractive when he’s performing such high-level cursed techniques flits through his mind.

It throws him off-focus, the cursed energy suddenly tapering out, the curse before him smirking and rushing forward to take advantage of the opening. Of course Satoru recovers a moment later, dark, viscous purple blood splattering onto the pavement below and against his shoes as his energy slices the curse’s head clean in half. And yet, it’s enough to have Satoru suddenly very, very apprehensive.

Because what the fuck was that?

It’s one thing that he’s developed a sort of puppy crush, a sentiment that he’d only minimally acknowledged and simply chalked up to repressed sexual needs and a desire for entertainment, but this is completely different. Thinking about you mid-battle – enough to let his attention slip and his cursed energy falter – isn’t simply a puppy crush.

No, it’s much, much more: enough so that it leaves Satoru frowning, something like dread settling heavy in his chest. He hasn’t felt this sort of distraction or hyperfixation on another person since his high school days – and while you’re certainly no Suguru (you’re much prettier, for one, and he’d never spent nights fisting his cock so hard and for so long that he’d been reduced to dry orgasms at the thought of Suguru), the incident is enough to leave Satoru uncomfortably aware that his feelings are veering into dangerous territory.

And from that moment on, you become not only Satoru’s salvation, but also his Achilles Heel. Because the feelings and thoughts come absolutely flooding. There’s no pseudo-mental block there anymore keeping him from realizing and confronting the fact that he’s grown nerve-wrackingly dependent upon your presence and attention.

 Instead, everything is just gushing out of him – the yearning for your attention, pushing him to buy all sorts of things and learn each and every scrap of information about your hobbies that he possibly can just so that he can impress you and have something to talk about with you. He suddenly starts feeling everything in full force, like the dam has broken and his desire, desperation, and hyperfixation on you is rushing through him at all times.

He’s seeing you out of the corner of his eye on missions – you ducking behind a corner, teasing him with just a glimpse of your profile and hair. (He’s left immediately reaching out a hand, calling your name, even starting to run towards you because oh god, you look so good and he has to talk to you and see you and hear you say his name please please please-)

You’re not there, of course, the alleyway he’d imagined you turning into completely empty, and Satoru is only able to stare with wide eyes, lips parted slightly, chest heaving because he could have sworn he saw you and the Six Eyes never lies.

He’s feeling phantom touches of your fingers against his skin – laying alone in his bed at night, the lonely penthouse he calls home feeling cold and sterile. He’s once again failing to sleep, staring at the ceiling and trying desperately to not imagine your face when he closes his eyes, only to feel the brush of soft fingers against his calf. Then fingernails down the defined lines of his abs. Then fluttering breath against his cheeks, soft lips against his neck, something warm and wet against his boxers –

There’s no one in his bed besides him, but it doesn’t stop him from jumping out of it, heart racing, mind running a mile a minute because he’s torn between taking a freezing shower and jumping back into bed to sink into the touch – your touch.

(It takes everything in his willpower to not reach out and touch you when he teleports to your room later that night, mask off as he stares at your sleeping form, counting your breaths, heartbeats, the atoms that make you up. It takes every bit of self-control to not pull your sheets aside and slide in, to take your limp, unconscious arms and wrap them around his torso, to feel your warmth against his back, to have you wrapped around him like you’re keeping him whole.

He can’t – once he starts, he won’t stop, and so he instead placates himself with a single kiss against the crown of your head – it’s long, easily ten seconds, his breath uneven and stuttered as he tries to simultaneously calm his racing heart and inhale your scent. But eventually, he takes his leave – just as your breathing stirs and you see the shadow of a man at the end of your bed.)

As time passes, Satoru’s feelings for you become more and more ingrained into his every waking moment, his yearning for you starting to feel like a physical wound that no amount of reverse cursed energy or medical attention can seem to fix. It burns, throbs, aches, becoming so impossible to ignore that he eventually gives up the battle.

He’s the Strongest, yes, but underneath all those layers of techniques, cursed energy, and confidence is Satoru as he really is: starved for love and hellbent on getting yours.

Protective

Satoru has lived all his life believing – and rightfully so – that he’s the most powerful Jujutsu Sorcerer alive, that he’s too strong to really have to worry about something as trivial as low-level curses. He’s a proud man, and a rather cocky one as well; there’s no doubt in his mind that with the exception of a few very high-level special grade curses, he can take care of just about anything he needs to.

Which is why, when you come along, at first Satoru doesn’t even blink twice at the idea that he’ll be able to protect you, that he’ll not only manage to swoop in and save you like some knight in shining armor, but that he’ll manage to look cool while doing it, and perhaps even seem suave and talented and oh so charming, which is a win-win in his eyes on every possible level.

(And god, thinking about the way you’d be so eager to thank him gets his knees feeling weak. Would you clutch onto him, pressing yourself against his chest while you say he’s so strong, thank you Satoru, you saved my life, pressing a delicate, bashful kiss against his cheek that feels like burning hot fire? Would you say you’d do anything for him? Would you say yes to never leaving his side?)

And really, that line of thinking works just fine – until suddenly he’s confronted with the harsh reality that he just can’t always be there to protect you, that he can’t keep you safe and sound and without a scratch at all times without neglecting every other duty in his life. It’s a sobering realization, and it’s one that catalyzes his desperation for you tenfold, if only because the concept of you getting hurt is absolutely mortifying.

It’s a dark evening when he wanders through the city, meandering back to the area he knows you tend to be at this hour (walking home from the nearest store or work, and you should be just getting off the bus at this point, maybe a block or two down from the station), but the moment those startling eyes meet your cowering, terrified form as the curse in front of you giggles and begins winding up to send a massive blast of cursed energy your way, Satoru feels his heart literally freeze.

His jaw drops and the bag of groceries in his hand (filled to the brim with sweets and snacks he was planning on spoiling you with, along with a few products he knows you’re almost out of even though you haven’t mentioned it) falls to the ground with a dull thud, a cold sweat forming on the back of his neck.

Your pretty eyes meet his, a small whisper of his name and hope swimming in their depths, and at the whirring noises the curse is making while it ramps up, suddenly Satoru is slicing the thing’s neck off, mercilessly beating it with his bare hands and snarling at it, going so far as to spit down at it while he breathes heavily, shoulders trembling and fingers twitching. He’s quick to turn around and check up on you, frantic hands wandering your body as he takes in the blood staining your clothing, the sweat making hair stick to your forehead, the blood trickling out of your nose while you blearily blink up at him, whispering his name and weakly clutching onto his shirt, making his heart absolutely fucking break.

You end up being fine, just a minor concussion and a few deep bruises (and of course the curse placed on you to make you forget that night), but even that is enough to have Satoru sobering up in terms of his ability to protect you, realizing that he may be strong, but does it mean fucking anything if he isn’t there to protect you, if he isn’t around to keep you out of harm’s way?

His mental state regarding you is already rather precarious, shame and guilt eating away at him because he knows it’s selfish and wrong of him to harbor feelings for you, and all it takes is a single reminder that there is a target on your back for him to remember this. It’s a crash back to reality – a brutal shattering of the delicate fantasy he’d deluded himself into believing that you were his little secret, that no curses or curse users would ever touch you.

He blames himself fully for you getting in the line of fire from that curse, and in all honesty the memory is what drives a lot of his more extreme yandere tendencies – he moves from a bit of a lovesick puppy with a penchant for craving your attention and love, and more toward an anxious, creepy mess of a man who feels as if he’s the only one who can properly care for you, who can truly take care of you.

He feels guilty about the whole ordeal, and though he wants terribly to confess to you just how regretful he is that he’d managed to fuck up the single most important responsibility he’s imposed on himself as your self-proclaimed guardian angel, but he can’t. His inability to communicate with you and be vulnerable in front of you bar him from any meaningful confession of his fanatical urge to protect you, and so Satoru deals with it in the only way he can think of: amping up the level of care he puts into making sure you’re safe, and fully, completely convincing himself that you aren’t able to take care of yourself, that you need him.

It’s disturbingly easy to do, in all honesty – he’s truly talented, and so as you walk through the streets of Tokyo, shopping or chatting with a friend, eating or waiting for the subway car, there will always be a pair of crystal blue eyes following your every move, determination set in stone to make sure that you’re never put in harm’s way again, that he’ll always be there and ready to jump in a moment’s notice, to be your true knight in shining armor and make you fall in love with him like he so desperately wants.

He tries his absolute hardest to be there with you as often as he can, but even Satoru can’t watch your every waking moment – and so, Satoru becomes extremely good at getting things done as quickly as he possibly can, just so he can run off and see you, be with you, watch you, smell you, maybe even lick a bit of your hair if you’d just get closer, please… He can’t just shrug off his sorcerer and teacher duties, as much as he’d like to, and so Satoru learns to work around his rather cramped schedule to carve out as much time as he possibly can dedicate to you.

And while it’s mostly successful, in the end Satoru resorts to means he’s not especially proud of - the tracker is just so fucking easy to slip on you. One in your phone, your purse, even one that Ieiri reluctantly placed in the back of your neck (after much pleading and promises to buy her sake for the next five years, along with some rather creative lies and misdirection when asked why).

He’s constantly whipping out his phone when he’s forced to be away from you, watching the small dot marking your location slowly move as you go about your day. He’s connected it to your Health app, tracking the number of steps you take and your movements, mentally chastising you when you have lazy days where you don’t leave your apartment. (But god, does he wish he could be right beside you on your sofa, head resting on the soft plush of your thighs and your fingers carding through his hair, his tongue slipping out to kitten lick at the seam of your sweatpants, pouty blue eyes gazing up at you because oh please, he can practically smell you and it’s making his mouth water – won’t you put him out of his misery and just let him rip the pants off of you?)

He feels a bit guiltier when he eventually installs the hacking feature into the tracker as well, accessing your banking apps, camera roll, password manager, hell, even your notes app. And he’s pouring through it all with a steady, constantly scrolling thumb, blue eyes scanning the screen compulsively to pick up any clues about what you’re doing, who you’re with, if you’re in any immediate danger.

(And he really feels guilty when he learns that he can actively tap into the camera itself, able to watch your face as you scroll through your social media, as you distract yourself on public transit, as you whine and gasp while the shitty quality porn flashes across your screen. It makes his own skin crawl to be invading your privacy like this, but he just can’t help it – not when it’s so addicting to see your face as confirmation that you’re alive and unharmed. Not when it’s cathartic to hear your voice, even if you’re just making noises and barely audible over the buzzing noise of that damn vibrator you seem to love so much. Not when it’s the only thing he can seem to focus on as his mission carries him further and further away from you, the physical distance making him panic because how will you survive if he’s not there to save you?)

He’s lucid enough to understand that his protectiveness manifests in ways that aren’t especially healthy, but Satoru clings onto the belief that he’s the only one capable of truly taking care of you and keeping you safe. He becomes completely convinced that because he’s formed such an attachment to you, he’s automatically placed you in danger as a target for his enemies. And after doing something so terrible without you even knowing, how can he not think that his devoted dedication to your safety is the bare minimum? How can he not feel that he must keep tabs on you in person or virtually every moment of the day for fear that he’ll find you in bits and pieces rather than living, breathing, whole?

His obsession is many, many things, but he’s painfully lucid in understanding exactly what position you’re put into solely because of his attentions.

And so, Satoru takes all the precautions he can – tracking, stalking, keeping tabs on your grocery supplies and heating in your apartment. Anything and everything he can to ensure that you’re taken care of. It helps to ever so slightly ease the terror and guilt constantly plaguing him for having developed something as all-consuming and dangerous as his feelings for you, and becoming your overprotective stalker helps to calm the anxiety and dread he feels every moment that he’s not physically holding you against his chest and away from the world. H

e’s obsessive about your safety, surely, fueled on by the genuine self-imposed belief that you’re completely helpless against potential enemies without him, so congratulations – you’ve landed yourself a tall, terrifying monster of a man dead set on keeping you safe and sound and his, and making sure that you know just how much he cares.

Clingy

But in a very specific way – despite the aloof, confident persona he puts forward in his day-to-day life, deep down Satoru is incredibly lonely. He’s lived his whole life being revered, idolized, and ostracized for being the Strongest, and it’s left little to no room for him to form healthy, normal human attachments.

He’s a tool and weapon to his family and clan members.

He’s a formidable ally whose power is the ace in the hole for fellow sorcerers.

He’s an irritating, unpredictable sensei for his students.

He was a reliable, bratty friend in his high school years.

He wears many hats and fulfils them to the best of his ability, but this constant assumption about who he is, why he exists, and what he should do leaves Satoru a shell of a man. He has no real reference point for who he actually is – what he truly wants and desires, outside of the vague goal of reforming Jujutsu society. And with the exception of Getou and Shoko, he’s always struggled to form meaningful, genuine relationships with others because of this. He felt comfortable with the two of them, but the walls surrounding his true feelings and heart are thick, solid, and nearly impossible to break down.

(And though Satoru doesn’t want to admit it, he keeps them up more out of a sense of fear than necessity. He’s terrified that one day he’ll let the wrong person in and wind up with his heart wrenched out – physically or metaphorically – and devastated. And after Getou’s defection, this concern is only amplified because now he knows exactly what that it feels like and he’ll be damned before he sets himself up for that kind of hurt again.)

He’s difficult to crack simply because the shell that needs to be split open is nearly impossible to find, even for him. And so, once you step into his life, it’s almost as if everything else shifts. The level of warmth and desire he feels toward you is dizzying, his desperation and longing for you pathetic and embarrassing even to him, though he can’t stop it.

And as a result, Satoru is constantly waging a war inside his head – he wants to be around you, but he still struggles to put himself into that position of vulnerability. He wants to have you in his sight at all times – needs you to be close enough to touch, smell, hear, and even taste, just to sate the wild, untamable terror that grips him at the thought of what could happen to you. He needs you to be attached at the hip, your eyes constantly looking at him and only him, your voice caressing the vowels of his name in the way that only you can.

It’s pathological and pushes him to spend as much time as humanly possible with you, but the moment that Satoru interacts with you, it’s like something doesn’t quite click.

He’s so hardwired into portraying this image of the Satoru Gojo that he finds it incredibly difficult to discern exactly how he should act with you. He’s not sure what mask he needs to take on with you – perhaps The Strongest? All piercing blue eyes, too-wide smiles, voice low and resolute with a sort of manic desire for violence and victory?

No, likely not – though he idly wonders whether you’d find yourself driven by some primal instinct to be around him if you could see just how capable he is, how much of a provider.

The silly, irritating Satoru?

No, probably not – it’s a show, sure, but with each comment about how annoying he can be and how both students and fellow sorcerers alike sigh the moment they see him, he worries about giving you this sort of negative connotation, too.

The egotistical, arrogant Gojo?

No, probably not – his youth is far behind him, and while he knows he’s the Strongest, he worries that he’ll accidentally offend you – something he’s always actively tried to do with others.

And really, what’s left? What other identity can he wear in front of you? What other personalities can he adopt for you?  He’s unsure, which is why you’ll often be put into situations with him that leave you entirely confused as to what’s happening. He’ll come to you, plastering on a smirk that doesn’t match his body language, palms wet with sweat and his heart racing as he forces out a compliment of you look lonely, need a big, strong man to keep you company?

It’s meant to be sweet, you think, but his delivery is oddly choppy, his weight shifting from foot to foot the moment the words leave his lips, immediate regret sinking into him because dammit, he knew he shouldn’t have copied the romcom lead’s lines.

And the awkwardness is so palpable and thick that it only ends up making you laugh, confusion lacing your tone but amusement still pushing you forward. You’re terrible, Satoru, you’ll say, and although it isn’t the bashful, flustered response he’d been aiming for, something in his knees go weak because fuck, when you say his name like that it takes everything in his power to not let his jaw go slack, a whine fall from his lips, and his body surge forward with the frantic goal of feeling your skin.

He’ll buy you all sorts of snacks and pretty trinkets, spending hours debating what he should write as a note – corny but rhyming? Serious but potentially melodramatic? He’ll practice his handwriting for a solid twenty minutes before he ever gets his pen to paper, perfecting the script to look casual but not messy, manly but not boyish.

He’ll briefly entertain the idea of giving it to you in person, keeping his gaze on you and watching the way you smile softly and thank him, but even the thought gets him swallowing heavily, panic and worry eating away at him because if you don’t respond that way he’s not sure what he’ll do, and what if what if what if?

(Instead, he’ll settle with leaving it outside the door to your apartment, a bouquet of flowers to match the pretty, sapphire bracelet he’d bought you, making sure to carefully remove the price tag before packaging it himself.)

And as time passes and his infatuation with you only grows stronger and more extreme, Satoru’s fear of being around you and potentially hurting or offending you grows more intense, too. He’s terrified that he’ll drive you away, that he won’t be able to connect with you in a normal, human way, that you’ll eventually throw him aside like the others he’s taken a chance on and let in.

It’s fear, but it doesn’t stop his desire to be around you – he fights tooth and nail, forcing himself through the fear because being away from you is somehow even more painful than the look of hatred on your face. And throughout the entire process even once he’s stolen you away, you’ll be left to blindly guess just what it is that Satoru Gojo feels for you. Obviously it’s something, but his behavior is so sporadic and difficult to interpret that you’ll eventually give up.

One moment he’s staring at you with his lips parted, a light pink dusting his cheeks as you laugh, and the next he’s curtly brushing you off, fingers skimming your hand as he smacks your arm away, fist clenched  and shoved straight into his pant pocket, his expression almost looking pained.

It’s confusing, but his presence is a constant in your life – always at the edges, present even when he goes through bouts of being unable to look at you without falling to his knees. And really, that’s much more true than you could ever know – those eyes are always watching you, the very few free moments he has between missions and obligations spent entirely on settling into the quiet, dark corner of your apartment as you sleep soundly.

His entire body is still, simply watching and soaking in your presence, and it’s in these moments that his clinginess truly shines through – he’s whispering all sorts of things into the empty air of your silent bedroom. Compliments about the way you speak, the way you smell, how the sunlight hits your skin and hair just right, how you always stop to pet animals that pass you by in the street. He’s letting his imagination run wild with ideas of reaching out and touching you – innocent touches, really, like letting his fingers trace the curve of your collarbone, cupping the muscle of your calf, running his knuckles against your own.

(Of course, they’re not always so pure – every once in a while he has a strong, disturbingly vivid urge to reach out and rip the sheets off your body, crawling between your legs and hearing the way you cry out his name, tug at his hair, cage him in with your thighs to make sure he stays you with you forever and ever –

It doesn’t happen often, but when it does Satoru immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, breathing heavily through his nose and leaning against the wall for support, forcing his body to forget the phantom taste of you against his tongue and the not-quite-there feeling of your soft skin against his. It’s completely natural to fantasize, he’s nearly thirty for Christ’s sake – but the thought of fantasizing about you makes him queasy, guilt eating away at him because he feels as if he’s defiling you in some way, tainting you. When he returns back to his apartment the following morning, teleporting just in time to miss your sleepy eyes opening, he’s immediately grasping the edge of his sink, breathing so hard he’s nearly hyperventilating, hand already wrapped painfully tight around his cock as he pulls and tugs and tries desperately to think about anything but you.)

So really, while it’s not traditional in any sense of the word, Satoru is clingy in that he’s constantly fighting with himself to be around you more, to draw your attention to him where he really craves it. He’s awkward and entirely unused to navigating a situation where someone has such strong emotional sway over him, and he’s essentially caught into limbo up until he’s forced to steal you away.

It’s pathetic, really, but each time he tries to gather the courage and simply talk to you like a normal person, he freezes up, panic engulfing him as he imagines all the ways this could go terribly wrong. It’s sad, and he knows it – but when you just shake your head and chuckle at some lame bit he’d tried on you, something between a groan and a gasp slips out of him, the desperation to have you hitting him so hard that it physically hurts.

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Jealousy is not a pretty look on Satoru.

It’s embarrassing, pathetic, dangerous in a way that you can’t articulate but feel acutely, and it’s something that happens to him frequently. Very frequently.

It stems primarily from the fact that he’s simply never really experienced envy in a significant way. As the strongest sorcerer with ample wealth, status, and influence, there are very few circumstances that Satoru finds himself in where he becomes jealous of another. He’s often the one calling the shots in some capacity, and although his persona is a façade in many ways, the self-confidence in his own abilities is entirely genuine.

And sure, perhaps there are fleeting moments where he idly wonders what it would be like to be a completely normal person, to not have jujutsu talent or even just less of it. There are times that he gets caught in his own head, downtime typically following the resurfacing of his high school days and Getou, where he finds himself wishing that he had a better family, a better network of friends, the leisure and capacity to choose his own actions and destiny away from the crushing, overwhelming duty he feels as the Strongest. It happens, but it’s fleeting and difficult to grasp at and hold close to his chest.

And so, Satoru remains largely inexperienced of how to navigate and deal with jealousy, and once the most precious thing in his life – you – are thrown into the mix, he becomes unstable. Unsteady, turbulent, unpredictable.

Because really it’s not just a terror that you’ll be wooed by some other man – that’s certainly there, his insecurities rearing their ugly heads and leaving him panicked that you’ll want someone less irritating, more tactful, better and more your type – but the main emotion that grips him is fear. There’s fear that you’ll abandon him, that your absence in his life will leave him to fall right back into the dark abyss he’d been drowning in prior to meeting you, and the concept is genuinely terrifying. You’ve become so important and central to his life that to rip you out of his grasp would be to rip out his very heart and soul; you’re his everything, and to lose you would mean a sudden, painful death.

But even if he sees you rejecting the would-be-suitor, your words harsh or biting or even unnervingly polite, it doesn’t subside the fear that grips him. Rather, there’s the ever-present terror that you’ll be swindled or stolen away by an enemy of his.

Satoru is no fool; he’s acutely aware that he’s not exactly beloved, that there are curses, curse-users, and sorcerers alike who’d actively prey upon his downfall, and he’s not deluded enough to think that they wouldn’t employ you as a weapon in this endeavor. Because really, you’re a weakness. You’re Satoru’s Achille’s heel, the thorn in his side that he cherishes and nurtures and wants so desperately to keep isolated from the rest of the world. And he’s certainly not the only one who knows of your existence, try as he might to be subtle, to remove himself from you, to keep you completely and utterly unaffected by him.

It’s the combined fear of you abandoning him and caring for your safety that gets Satoru’s heart racing so fast that he thinks he may die, his hands trembling and his eyes blowing wide, cursed energy flaring up so strongly that it makes every living thing around him shrink back. And even as his jaw ticks and every muscle in his body clenches so hard it nearly hurts, Satoru’s gaze is staying entirely and only transfixed on you, focused entirely on the way that you’re feeling, those eyes of his catching every micro change of your expressions or body language.

And really, it’s this tunnel vision on you that leads Satoru to act; he wants to simply walk up and tear the offending man apart limb by limb, to hear his screams and desperate pleas while Satoru cages you face first into his chest, your hot breaths fanning against his racing heart, but he holds himself back. He’s so, so painfully aware of your perception of him that to simply rush in and slaughter the man while compulsively chanting she belongs to me would surely derail all of the careful work he’s put into making you like him.

(And he’s not even totally sure if it’s working – how could be possibly backpedal any positive progress he’s made just because he lost his cool over a man asking for directions on the busy streets of Tokyo?)

It takes every ounce of effort he can muster, but Satoru will force himself to refrain from immediately resorting to violence, instead clenching his jaw so tightly his teeth nearly crack and keeping a very, very close eye on the interaction. He’s studying every small shift in your behavior, scanning the man’s every move and breath for any sense of ill intent, his own pulse skyrocketing as blood rushes past his ears.

He’s so on edge that he can only focus on the two of you, momentarily entirely blind to his surroundings, straining his ears and eyes to hear the words and read your lips.

He won’t directly approach, if only because he’s not stupid enough to barge in without a plan, knowing that he’ll slip up and reveal too much of the truth, his words tinged with possessiveness, desperation, a sort of neediness that will surely make you cringe and distance yourself. Instead, he placates himself on watching, plotting and thinking, trying to decipher if this stranger is a genuine threat to your safety – and your love.

But of course, there are times when Satoru’s jealousy is simply too strong to handle, or when his observation leads him to believe that the offending man is more dangerous than he appears. It’s in these moments that Satoru’s self-control slips slightly, the raw panic that grips him at the thought of you being stolen from under his nose impossible to control.

They’ve really expanded the flavor options, haven’t they? The man’s voice behind you startles you slightly, and for a moment you ignore him, unsure who he’s talking to you.

But then he continues, and you turn around with a small, polite smile on your face. Kind of overwhelming, huh?

His voice is deep, gravelly. Your smile tightens slightly when you notice the faint scars littered around the man’s face, and you subconsciously clutch at your purse a bit harder. The café wasn’t normally busy enough to have a line formed, but a quick glance at the wall clock tells you you’re running slightly late for work – right at peak morning time.

Yeah, sometimes I freeze up at the register. You’re not really sure why you answer him, some sense of discomfort urging you to placate what appears to be a rather tense smile on his face, but you turn back toward the front of the line after your mouth closes.

It’s silent for a few more blessed seconds, only the sound of coffee grinders and the acoustic guitar playing over the speakers. Then he speaks again.

What do you normally get?

Heaving a deep breath, you swallow. I like to mix it up, you answer over your shoulder, unwilling to open the conversation up further. His presence felt ominous behind you, like something wound tight and ready to pounce.

You hear him snicker, and feel him take a step closer to you. No need to lie, sweets. Your routine is awfully easy to crack, after all.

You freeze, eyes wide ahead, fear creeping up your spine. All too slowly your gaze is darting around the café, noting how far the door is, how many other people are around, who would see you if the man stepped any closer. Your nails dig into the leather of your purse strap, fingers shaking slightly.

You’re just about to step out of line – coffee be damned, even if the headache you’ll suffer later will leave you incapacitated – when his hand comes down and sinks against your shoulder, grip tighter enough that you feel bruises begin to bloom.

Don’t bother running, I know where you live. He rattles off your address smoothly, gravelly voice sounding far too pleased with itself. A sharp gasp rips through you, and for a brief moment your eyes squint shut, muscles flexing as you prepare to dart out of line and out the front door, practically already hearing the little chime ringing in your haste-

A different hand settles at your other shoulder. The grip is just as tense, though his nails dig into you slightly less.

You hear a distinctive thwack sound behind you as the stranger smacks at the creep’s hand, effectively removing the offender’s clutch on you. You’re still slightly frozen, but the savior’s voice cuts through you like a knife.

Weren’t you ever told women don’t like creepy? Though I suppose with a face like that you don’t have many options.

Your blood runs hot suddenly, and you’re turning around before you can really think about it, the familiar head of silvery white hair towering over the other man. Satoru’s eyes are wide, unblinking, and with a small start you notice he’s omitted his sunglasses today – showcasing the uncanny, too-bright gaze he keeps hidden.

Unconsciously, you take a small, nearly unnoticeable step toward Satoru, and something in his knees goes slightly weak, Adam’s apple bobbing as a twisted, bubbling surge of pleasure sparks through his gut.

The stranger scowls, attention completely focused on Satoru, the air feeling heavier and charged between them.

Damned sorcerer, shouldn’t you be out of the country right now? Skirting your missions just for a subpar piece of ass?

Satoru’s jaw works, another wave of rage bubbling up inside him at the curse-user’s gall to insult your appearance – to even acknowledge you, really.

Keep her out of your filthy mouth. Now run along, before I stop feeling generous enough to spare you.

The man glares at Satoru for a few more moments, before scoffing and – to your horror – spitting at Satoru’s chest. His blue eyes don’t even blink, fixed entirely on watching the way the stranger stomps through the café’s door, the little bell making you release your breath.

Satoru, I –

He cuts you off, his other hand coming up to grip at your open shoulder, only to flinch when you wince, the bruises already formed. Instead, the hand moves to cup at your chin, turning your head this way and that, blue eyes scanning up and down your body in a way that makes you almost embarrassed.

Did he touch you anywhere else? Are you hurt? His voice is robotic, though you can hear the slightest edge of something in it – something that sounds suspiciously like fear.

Shaking your head, Satoru visibly relaxes, though he’s still staring down at you, and you notice in a sort of far-off way that he hasn’t blinked once since you’d turned around.

Your lips part, the start of his name and a thanks slipping off your tongue, but suddenly he’s snatching his hands back as if you’d burned him, stumbling back a few steps and breathing heavier, that intensity in his eyes vanishing and instead being replaced with something more wild.

You call out his name again as he turns on his heel and all but sprints away, the bell chime ringing again and leaving you dumbfounded. You’re just about to follow him, to ask what the hell just happened, but the barista behind the counter is looking at you expectantly, flashing you a half-irritated half-genuine smile as they say next, please.

You step to the counter, once again glancing at the clock and trying to let your tardiness occupy the spaces the man’s threats and Satoru’s words won’t seem to leave.

And a mere fifty yards away, sandwiched between old brick buildings, Satoru’s face is entirely devoid of emotion, cursed energy wrapped around the curse-user’s neck in a vice grip three feet off the ground.

Where did you get your information. It’s not a question, and the man sneers before Satoru tightens the ring of energy, leaving him to splutter and cough.

Tell me.

It’s no use though, because at the man’s silence, something in Satoru snaps, and each of the man’s limbs are pulled clean off, his screams cut short by force decapitation. And as the heavy thunk thunk thunk of his body parts landing on the wet, dirty concrete ground fill Satoru’s ears, he can only scowl, cursing and kicking at a nearby puddle.

Fuck, he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets and gnawing at his lips. Unease and paranoia seep through him as the adrenaline and rage slowly taper out, the anger he felt upon seeing the man’s hand on you and reading his lips slowly being replaced with terror. But as he slowly stalks back to the café, catching sight of your hurried figure rushing down the sidewalk toward the bus stop to make it to work, Satoru can only sharply exhale.

He swallows, leaning back against the building wall for a brief moment, before setting off, matching your pace as he follows you from a distance. He’d need to ask around once he got back to the school – interrogate the curse-users detained, see if anyone had any leads as to how the stranger had learned your address, connection to Satoru, and morning routine.

But for now, he keeps his gaze trained on your figure, lips twitching downward at the thought of those vile man’s hands touching you.

The man’s fingers touching you even through the layers of your jacket and shirt – touching you before Satoru.

His fingers flex, already resolved to spend the night stationed at the foot of your bed, reversed-curse technique flowing from his hands into the bruises bloomed on your shoulder. He scoffs.

Bastard.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

As a general rule, Satoru tries to keep everything as consensual between the two of you as possible. He’s so incapable of building a normal relationship with you that everything moves very slowly, entirely stunted by his own crippling fear that he’ll move you too fast, that he’ll push you into something before you’re ready. He’s convinced that any sort of positive reaction you have to him can’t be completely genuine, that there’s some ulterior motive or force pushing you to feel any sort of fondness, attraction, or joy with him.

It’s paranoia at its finest, and perhaps a deep-seated insecurity that he doesn’t know how to process, but it leaves him with the compulsive need to make sure that you verbally consent repeatedly before he does literally anything. (With the exception of stalking you or any other task he deems necessary to maintain your safety and health, of course.)

And for much of your ‘relationship’, or at least the early parts, this is just fine – he’s texting if he can meet up with you for lunch, even though he knows which restaurant you’re walking to already and that you’re wearing that new pair of shoes you got and oh, you styled your hair differently today.

He’s inviting you over to his penthouse for a movie (he’d had the place meticulously cleaned, spraying his cologne throughout and then suddenly changing his mind in case it was too much), sitting next to you but not quite close enough to touch you.

He’s been thinking about it all night, but when he finally, finally gathers the courage to wrap an arm around you, he’s hovering his arm awkwardly, doubt settling in once you blink at him in confusion. It’s not verbally asking for your consent, sure, but it amounts to the same thing – and thank god for the throw pillows he’d fluffed up before you arrived, their cushiness hiding the tents in his pants well enough.

(Because when you’re this close to him he can smell you, heaving deep breaths in and out, and he can feel your body heat and even a bit of your cursed energy against his skin, the sensation making every nerve in his body feel alight and dangerously sensitive.)

And so, Satoru does genuinely want everything between the two of you to be desired on your end. He wants to be wanted by you – he needs to be wanted by you, and so the thought of pushing you into something serious like living together genuinely terrifies him. Hell, he can’t even ask you to be his girlfriend or admit that he has romantic feelings for you out of fear of scaring you or driving you away, and so the concept of moving in together is far, far more than he can reasonably bring up. His obsessive and possessive sides would be absolutely thrilled – to have you under his roof, waiting for him to come home from grueling missions with your arms and legs wide open for him is a wet dream come true.

But in actuality?

Well, he hasn’t even held your hand or kissed you yet – he’s never done this before, sure, but even he knows that it’s a little early to ask you to move in with him. And so, Satoru silently suffers, wallowing in his fantasies but never acting, trying to play the ‘long-game’ to keep you from rejecting him and to keep himself from doing something that can’t be undone.

But, like always, Jujustu society is never so kind to him. He thought he’d done well at keeping his festering obsession at bay; artfully dodging questions from his students and coworkers about why he spends so much time smiling at his phone “like some middle-school twerp who’s never even seen a girl’s underwear before”, as Kugisaki so eloquently put it.

He thought he’d done a good job at finishing his missions as quickly as possible without sacrificing thoroughness, just to maximize his time spent following you without cutting into his duties as a sorcerer.

He’d thought he was being discreet, balancing his time as teacher and sorcerer well with time carved out for you, and yet that all comes crashing down in a single sentence.

Satoru detested going to the annual clan meetings, always scowling and purposefully trying to irritate and derail the conversation, but it’s only in a lull that he hears it.

Seems you’ve been failing to live up to your namesake, eh Gojo? He could smell Naobito Zen’in’s breath before he even turned to face him, irritation already settling in his gut.

Satoru smiled, icy sharp, and kept his voice as condescending as possible. When the quality of all the infamous clans starts lacking, why should I have to be the difference?

Naobito’s eye twitched at that, his smirk turning into a scowl. They say it’s a girl draggin’ you down. Say the whore’s slowing you down, distracting you, and that maybe she’s a curse herself – though intel suggests she’s nothing even remotely special in terms of Jujutsu.

And though he’d kept his face completely neutral, the weight of his words weren’t lost on Satoru. If Naobito – drunkard that he is – knew about you, it was too late. They knew about you.

They knew about you.

The rest of the meeting had been a blur – muffled voices and pointless arguments, the Gojo heir uncharacteristically silent. All Satoru could think about was you – they knew about you, and he had no doubts they knew your name, address, weaknesses, anything and everything. No doubts that his attachment to you would be capitalized on, used to control him, your life simply becoming leverage to manipulate the weapon that is Satoru Gojo for the higher-ups’ whims.

Sleep eludes him that night, and he spends the long hours settled on your bedroom floor, sitting and staring unblinkingly at your sleeping face, allowing himself to edge closer and closer, until your soft, warm breaths fanned across his face.

No tears slipped down his cheeks, only a feeling of bitter, resentful acceptance ebbing through him like waves.

But even as he pried himself off your floor right as the sun rose through your window, finding himself in the medical bay with Shoko a mere hour later, her words are the final nail in the coffin, punctuating the hours of silent, fretful contemplation. Are you doing okay?

It makes him bark out a laugh, sounding strained, and Shoko merely sighs, turning around to put something away in a wall shelf. You look like shit, so don’t bother answering.

It’s silent for a moment, and Satoru clasps his hands together tightly, sitting hunched over on the chair in the corner of the room.

You know you can’t keep this up, right? Shoko’s voice is hard, and Satoru closes his eyes. I don’t care if she’s your own personal Mairlyn Monroe. Either you get your shit together and remember you’re the most depended-on sorcerer, or they’ll kill her.

Shoko takes a drag of her cigarette, and Satoru stares blankly at the floor.

He’d left some twenty minutes later, Shoko’s voice carrying him out with a if you love her, you won’t do that to her.

And later that same night, Satoru finds himself once again stationed beside your bed, your breathing even and deep, little groans and sounds slipping past your sleeping lips that make something in his chest ache. Guilt eats away at him as he quickly reaches out and swipes at the pressure point in your neck, your sharp little inhale making him bite his lip. And yet it doesn’t stop him from carefully gathering you in his arms, taking care to keep you pressed securely against his chest as his arms loop behind your back and knees.

Transporting you is simple, the familiar walls of the small home he’d quietly purchased months ago greeting him. It’d been a plea to placate some of the overwhelming paranoia eating away at him, the knowledge that he have a small, remote home already prepared for you making him feel ever so slightly calmer, ever so slightly more sane.

And it’d been an outlet for a long while to help funnel his obsessiveness into something productive, useful – the completely outfitted home was evidence of that.

Closets full of clothes in your exact size with luxurious materials, all in your favorite colors, styles, and fabrics. (Lots of baby blue and white items, too, regardless of whether you like them, simply because he subconsciously couldn’t resist the mental image of you in his colors, the thought making something pleasant and possessive curl in his gut. Like he’s staking a claim on you. He hasn’t put the pretty, white lingerie set into the closet yet, keeping it stashed away safely in his own closet, but one day you’ll wake up to find it there. Probably. Though the off-white stains are a bit embarrassing.)

Your favorite snacks and sweets stuffing the kitchen cabinets full, waiting for you to devour. (And god, what he’d give to hand feed you – to see your pretty lips open wide, to let him drop a piece of candy against your tongue, the let his fingers linger and press against the insides of your teeth, only to return them back to his own mouth and suck, trying to taste every bit of you he can.)

He’s bought an exact replica of your bed, all the way down to the mattress, sheets, pillows, and blankets. (He’s slept in them before, clutching the pillow to his chest and murmuring your name lowly under his breath, fantasizing about the moment that he’ll finally have you slipped under these sheets, too, your face smoothed into the pillow, into his chest, against his lips.)

Your favorite shampoos and body products, even the ones you eyed in the stores but ultimately deemed too expensive. (And no, not every single one has been tampered with. Only a few. Well, most of them, but even Satoru Gojo can’t finish into every single bottle of your products – he has to save some for you, after all, even if the thought of fucking you is far, far too much for him right now.)

Your favorite books, movies, and shows all sitting around, filling every nook and cranny of the small home, the TV set up to access streaming devices but nothing live or connected to the greater world. (With a small couch to match, so that you can be completely comfortable while watching and so that he can join you, if you’d let him.)

The house is even built in the style he knows you love – regardless of expense, he’s pulled out all the stops to make it as comfortable as possible to help ease a transition into captive life that he knows you don’t want. And this sense of lucidity and shame for his actions and feelings becomes very apparent once he’s stolen you away.

That is, Satoru is not a suffocating captor. Of course, his presence is a constant – always hovering in doorways or in the corners of the room, always looking at you (often without any eye coverings, but you can still feel it even through the blindfold or glasses, as much as you try to ignore it). He’s always just sort of there, lingering and basking in the pleasure of seeing you and being physically near you, even if he’s not speaking to you or touching you.

He has very minimal expectations of you, instead allowing you to do whatever you so please so long as your safety isn’t in question. And speaking of, that’s another major component of being Satoru’s captive: he absolutely will not allow you to anything potentially dangerous.

He’s not especially patronizing in most aspects of his feelings (aside from the very obvious power and strength imbalance between the two of you), but he’s removed all the knives, peelers, scrapers, and graters from the kitchen. The stove is set to only reach the lowest possible temperature needed to boil water, and there’s a kid-proof lock sitting in the neighboring cabinet that he doesn’t want to install but will should you need your privilege to safely use the heat revoked. Even in the restrooms, he’s purposefully keeping the shower water just hot enough to be refreshing but not hot enough to burn, and the toilet seat is purposefully angled so that your head won’t fit no matter how hard you try.

It makes him feel guilty, yes, but he’s able to excuse it as simply caring for your safety. Because while he knows he shouldn’t have stolen you away from your old life, the threat of other sorcerers and curses coming after you is only slightly more terrifying than the thought of you managing to injure yourself. He cares too deeply to let even a scratch mar your pretty skin, so it’s really in your best interest to just deal with the rather humiliating task of asking him to chop vegetables for you, or to shave your legs.

(He’s terrible at chopping vegetables and will blanch slightly at the ask, but he’ll actually have the gall to look genuinely offended at the latter request. It’s not often that you see him truly at a loss for words, but how can he possibly convey to you that your body is absolutely perfect? That he’s simultaneously endeared and aroused by the shape and curve of your legs, every hair, blemish, and scar included? How can he possibly tell you he’s had dry orgasms to the thought of those legs wrapped around his waist, your hair feeling soft against his lower back as the muscles clench and squeeze, his thrusts turning harder and faster and more and more desperate as his orgasm draws closer and closer?)

‘Living’ with Satoru is really more a matter of getting used to the monotony of captivity and staving off the loneliness during bouts where he’s feeling especially unworthy and unsure of how to interact with you. You’ll never be placed into danger, and frankly he spoils you more than you’d thought humanly possible. With the highest quality foods just to your liking, the best entertainment he can provide you without allowing you to connect with others besides him, and the presence of an over-eager, terrified man following you like your second shadow, there’s a very good chance that your resentment and hatred of Satoru will slowly ebb into something duller, then something apathetic, and then perhaps even something warm, sickly, wanting.

Because while he may be terrifying in his own way with his excessive knowledge of you and penchant for stalking you even in the home he’s forced you into, eventually Satoru will wear you down. Knowingly or not, it doesn’t matter. You’re safe with him, after all – he tells you as such, when he thinks you’re asleep, curled up on the floor and staring eye-level as you softly snore.

 Safe from anyone and everything, locked up where neither man nor curse can harm you – the only one you really need to watch out for is Satoru himself, for as his obsession eats him whole, eventually it’ll devour you, too.

PUNISHMENTS:

Though Satoru slowly grows more comfortable with the idea of emotional intimacy, it’s a very, very gradual process. His walls are shrouded so high around his heart, and the idea of crumbling them down little by little is equal parts daunting and terrifying. He’s just too afraid of rejection, of pain, of the very possible reality that you won’t ever want someone who is as emotionally scarred and alien as he is.

The longer his obsession goes on, festering and sinking its claws into him, the more Satoru is convinced that he genuinely can’t love you like a normal man could. He wants to – god does he want to – but he’s simply not wired for it. He’s feeling something closely resembling love, sure, but it’s like looking in a distorted mirror. It’s the right shape, soft and fragile in the palm of his hand, reverent in the way his lips round and edge around the syllables of your name like a prayer. But there’s something ever so slightly off about it, something uncanny and strange and uncomfortable, like a poison dressed as a perfume.

Where other men are flustered and nervous to approach the woman of their dreams, Satoru is terrified – what does he say? How does he start the conversation? How should he act, behave, speak, look, how does he make himself appear more human?

Where other men are able to casually reach an arm around their partner’s shoulders or press a teasing, soft kiss to their temple, Satoru’s tongue only lamely jerks against the inside of his teeth, pushing and trying desperately to escape, only to no avail.

Where other men are easygoing, natural, and calming, Satoru is only empty, blank, needy.

He’s entirely unsure of how to even go about developing your loose friendship into something more, and as a result nearly every aspect of his infatuation with you is tinted by this fact. He relies more on stalking than actual conversation. He bites his lip and fumes when other men approach you rather than immediately cutting in and saying some suave line, simultaneously marking his claim over you and coming off as cool in your eyes. He aches and nearly sobs himself to sleep some nights alone in his too-big, too-cold bed before he’s stolen you away, clutching at the sheets and trying desperately to not think about your smile, lips, body, or voice.

He’s pathetic, really, so wrapped up in his own head and how you’ll perceive him, and nothing shows this off worse than once he’s finally stolen you away, keeping you under lock and key in the house he’d purchased specially for you. And specifically, Satoru’s inability to communicate and approach you in a normal, healthy way will really show when it comes to how he handles your uncooperative behavior. As a kidnapper, he’s generally pretty hot-and-cold, unpredictable to the extreme in whether he demands your attention or skirts away from it. And so, while he certainly isn’t trying to be difficult, you’ll be left to wonder exactly what it is that Satoru wants from you.

He constantly sends you mixed signals. One moment he’ll be biting his lip and staring at you with wide, unblinking eyes, the muscles in his fingers twitching every once in a while, his knee bouncing from where he sits on the other end of the sofa from you.

(You could swear you saw him lick his lips, too, his blue eyes flashing down to your own mouth for a split second, but it’d happened so fast you can’t be sure, and you’re still not entirely sure what that meant. Does he want to kiss you? Rip your tongue out? Some unknown third option? You’re not sure, so it’s best to just ignore it.)

But the next second he’s staring past you, almost through you, not listening to a word you’re saying and instead clenching his jaw tight, guilt eating through him because he can physically see how distraught you are at being trapped here. With him. With him.

And this whiplash will lead to there being very few hard and fast rules under Satoru’s dominion. He’s not strict with you by any stretch of the imagination, and rather is almost too hands-off. He’s not telling you what you can and can’t eat, what television programs you can watch. (Of course, he’d curated the selection in the first place, tending to avoid your favorite picks where he deems the actors to be too attractive, and any containing intimate scenes with actors who are particularly well endowed. Not that Satoru has anything to worry about, really, something you’ll be more than aware of the first time you see the way just your smile gets those slacks of his fitting very, very snugly, but Satoru insists.)

He’s not even threatening you against attempting to escape or lashing out at him, his lucidity forcing him to bear the brunt and pain of knowing that you want to leave him and hate him. And because he doesn’t enforce any sort of rule-based system once he’s stolen you away, it’s very rare that anything resembling a punishment for your ‘misbehaviors’ will occur. So rare, in fact, that it takes a catastrophic situation for him to really even consider any sort of negative action against you in retaliation for something you’ve done.

It’s the sort of situation that would only happen if multiple things go wrong – maybe Satoru is gone away for a mission (something he hates having to do once he’s taken you if only because his paranoia eats away at him all the while), maybe you’re feeling particularly rebellious and angry, and maybe the curse that manages to edge its way in has some sort of object distortion ability that lets it phase through the very heavily reinforced walls of the house. It has to be the perfect storm to ruffle Satoru’s feathers enough to make him panic and take such extreme action, because his punishments are always the result of an extreme emotional reaction on his end.

But even then, he’d never, ever hurt you – he worships the ground you walk on, and so no fleck of cursed energy or touch with the intention of violence will ever land on you. Rather, his panic will drive him to rely on something less tangible, something more psychological – forcing you to recognize that although you may hate him, and although his love for you may be the root of many dangers, you need him. He’s sworn to protect you better than you could ever hope to protect yourself, and he’ll make good on that promise – he’ll show you as much.

In retrospect, perhaps you’d been just a bit too loud. Yelling and screaming through the empty house, the dozens of padlocks and curses placed on the doors much too strong for you to every have any chance of breaking through. After three days of Satoru’s absence, the hallways had grown less euphorically empty and more annoyingly boring, the sensation of being not only stuck in the same building but stuck with only yourself driving you insane.

It’d been stupid to taunt the curse, you know that. Satoru had told you as much, really, during the very brief and very hesitant spiel he’d given you about the world of Jujutsu when you’d continued to ask over and over again. His words hadn’t prepared you for how truly vile the creature would look, though; sickly, pale skin dotted with flecks of black and blood red covered its eight limbs, some thicker and longer than others. Rows upon rows of jagged, cracked teeth set against three independently moving eyes making bile rise up the back of your throat, the high-pitched gurgling noises it’s emitting making it hard to breath.

It’d appeared when you turned around, and immediately you’d backed up to cower against the nearest wall, panic gripping you and making your breathing come in harsher. Satoru had been away for work for nearly 72 hours, and for the first time in many, many months you find yourself almost wishing he’d return just so you wouldn’t have to look at this thing or smell the putrid scent of death wafting off of it.

It takes a step closer, then another, then another and another and another, the uneven scrape scrape sound of its limbs dragging against the wooden floor making you yelp.

It’s close – much too close, and without a second thought your hand blindly reaches out to grab whatever was nearest, the paperback book shaking in your hands. The creature’s hot breath fans against your calf, something like a sick grin twisting up its thin, bloody lips, and with a scream you bring the book down, hoping and praying that you’d at least manage some damage through sheer brute force –

Contact isn’t made. Instead, a sudden piercing, bellowing scream fills the house, and the creature’s suddenly slumped down, limp. The book falls to the floor, and only then do you hear the ragged breathing at your side.

Cold hands grasp onto your shoulders, a thumb roughly running over your cheek and eyebrow bone, Satoru’s eyes frantically darting all around your face and chest, his own heaving much too quickly to be safe.

A moment passes before he’s placing two trembling hands at your sides and hauling you up, ignoring the way your half-hearted pleas bounce across the room. Fast steps bring you down the corridor and to the small broom closet under the steps, and before you know it darkness shrouds your eyes.

The door slams shut behind you, a lock resounding and making something cold and icy trickle down your spine. It’s not a fear like the curse had given you, but something much, much worse. Something manmade, something human.

Satoru, let me out! I didn’t let the curse in, I don’t know what happened, please just let me out! Your fist bangs on the door, the wood shaking but not budging even a centimeter. Please! You can’t keep me in here!

You continue on for what feels like hours, your voice growing horse and your fists on the verge of bleeding, before eventually sliding down the back wall until you were sitting, bringing your knees up to your chest.

The door is still locked, no sign of Satoru on the other side. Burying your face into your hands, it’s not long before the tears start up.

Your sobs are quiet, but not quiet enough to slip by Satoru unnoticed. Kneeling on the other side of the door, ear pressed tightly against the wood, each cry slices through Satoru deeply enough to ache. His fist is clenched so tightly that his nails draw a bit of blood on his palm, his other hand completely flat against the wood. Flat against the part closest to where you’re sitting.

His eyes are closed, a grimace spread across his lips and a familiar tingling sensation building up in his nose. It hurts, the hand fisted up moving to instead clutch at his ribs. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

Listening to you cry is agony, every nerve in his body lighting up and begging him to bust the door down and wrap you in his arms, to keep you tucked against his chest and erase the memory of the curse from your mind, to tell you that he’d never, ever let something come that close to you again, his missions and duties be damned.

But he can’t. Not until you get the message – not until you realize just how damn stupid you could be sometimes.

What were you thinking? His voice is barely above a whisper, yet still slips through the cracks in the doorframe well enough for you to hear. You could have died.

He’s met with silence for a moment, before your bitter, hiccupped laugh. And who’s fault is that?

He winces, a muscle in his jaw flexing. What were you thinking? A book? Are you fucking serious?

You don’t respond, and he bangs his fist against the door. His voice is louder this time. The curse would’ve killed you. It would’ve ripped you apart limb by limb, dug holes into your stomach, pried your eyes out one at a time. It would’ve slaughtered you, and you thought a damn book would be enough to save you?

His hand comes up to wipe down his face, his shoulders starting to wrack slightly. You would’ve died.

You’re both silent for a few minutes, Satoru’s silent tears slowly rolling to a step, before he feels something slump against the door from your side. He tenses, blue eyes watching your body through the wood of the door, the familiar sight of your body and cursed energy making something slightly softer edge into the sharp, jagged edges of panic and anger sitting in his chest.

And perhaps it’s your body reeling from the sheer terror of the curse, exhaustion from the last few months of being stuck in this godforsaken cabin, or perhaps it’s the way you can see the outline of Satoru’s knees and legs in the thin patch of light between the door and ground. You’re not really sure what brings you to say it, or what forced you to move to the other side of the closet. Perhaps some combination of all three, or perhaps the traitorous, filthy part of you that feel something dangerously close to relief at the sound of Satoru’s voice and the familiar crushing feeling of his physical proximity.

You’re not sure, but the words are slipping from your lips before you can stop them, your voice barely even a whisper. I’m sorry, Satoru.

He hears it anyway.

His hand freezes, and for a moment his heart does, too.

When he eventually unlocks the closet, some twenty minutes later, it’s still quiet. You exit without looking at him, hugging yourself and slowly, gently settling onto the couch (your favorite color and style, of course). Satoru’s eyes follow you, staring openly, before hesitantly following you. He sits on the other side of the couch, body stiff and flexed, licking his lips absentmindedly.

Neither of you speak again the rest of the night, but this time, when he lingers at your doorframe as he watches you pretend to sleep, you scoot over to make slight room on your mattress. It’s an invitation, and for one brief, tantalizing moment, Satoru’s heart leaps in his chest, a rush of euphoria shooting through him at your blatant offer, but he only allows himself to walk over and press the back of his knuckles to your cheek.

He watches your eyelids flutter but stay closed, and slowly exhales. I’m sorry, too.

You don’t talk about it in the morning, and Satoru declines the next multi-day mission Yaga sends his way. Give it to Nanami, I don’t have time. I’m a busy guy, y’know?

OVERALL DANGER:

3/10

Satoru is less of a danger and more of a living wreck. His feelings for you are so foreign to him, so unshakable and overwhelming and terrifying that he’s genuinely at a complete loss as to how to navigate them. There’s a desire to have you, of course – an all-consuming desperation to see you and feel the touch of your skin at all times that settles deep into his bones.

But yet, there’s also the terror of letting you past his emotional guards that makes Satoru borderline hyperventilate, because it spells not only disaster for his own sake should you eventually abandon him just like Getou, but it also places you in grave peril with a target on your back. And really, that’s what a lot of Satoru’s obsession is – a push and pull between his heart and his head, a tug-of-war between what he knows is right and what he knows is wrong.

He’s hyperprotective over you, excessively aware of just how dangerous the world can be for someone who doesn’t have his prowess over Jujutsu or combat. He’s clingy in a half-present way, depending on you to get the rush of dopamine that gives him a sense of purpose in his otherwise dull life, while simultaneously blocking himself off from further connection with you because he’s convinced he can’t give you what you deserve. He’s obsessive because he fills the empty void this self-imposed distance creates with compulsively learning everything he can about you, becoming greedy to understand you in ways that no one else possibly can.

He’s a walking juxtaposition, and because of this he’s less inherently dangerous and more pitiful. You’ll be confused for a good portion of your time spent as his darling, unsure what is going through his head at any given time, and from this aspect Satoru does represent at least a bit of danger. Because where there’s pity, there’s care, and eventually you’ll find yourself almost feeling bad for him. Sure, he’s kidnapped you, stalked you for months, repeatedly broken into your apartment and has done very, very invasive things with your pillowcase, but there’s something about those pretty, alien eyes and too-perfect smile that’ll leave you soft on him, even for all his flaws.

And eventually, as Satoru warms up to the idea of fully baring his soul to you, that pity will even turn to fondness – because you’ve really never been able to say no to a stray, have you?

And this manifests in many different ways - there's obviously the stalking, the intense fascination he feels to understand your psyche and actions, the strength of his physical and emotional attraction to you that leaves him disoriented and unsettled.

But there are also ways that are slower to creep up - things that take time to develop, habits and feelings that Faramir finds himself falling into more and more. And while many of them are subtle, like immediately scanning you over for any sign of bruises, scrapes, limps, or any other indication of an injury every time he sets eyes on you, others are more glaring. One, in particular, will become known to you fairly quickly once your 'friendship' with Faramir really begins.

('Friendship' if only because finally, after weeks and months of following you around like some pathetic creep, he'd finally gathered the courage to actually approach you and develop a relationship. Friend is certainly not the word he'd use to describe his feelings for you, as dark and twisted and all-consuming as they are, but it's a good stepping stone. A good segwey into making you more comfortable around him, giving him a chance to get to know you in ways that simply watching and collecting your things can't supply him. A change to be in your life, really, to be known as more than simply the younger Captain of Gondor. And, of course, a chance to feel the warmth of your body against his fingertips when he sneakily reaches out from behind you to lightly brush them against the dress fabric of your back, his exhale sharp and uneven because oh, how is your skin so very warm even under so many layers?)

It starts small: you're sitting beside Faramir one day on a stone bench overlooking one of the many alleyways of Minas Tirith, his every muscle flexed in an effort to both bar himself from reaching out to touch you, and also to subconciously make himself appear bigger, more muscular, better.

The comment you'd sent him had been meant well, a small compliment to his knowledge of history and Gondor's customs. It'd been sweet, really, and for a moment it had Faramir clearing his throat, his muscles somehow growing even more taught under the scrutiny of your praise.

You flatter me, and I thank you for it, though I am not nearly as knowledgable in the ways of battle. I've made many a mistake and have much to learn. His reply is spoken with a soft smile, though it flattens out significantly as his words taper off.

He flinches slightly when you reach out and lightly smack his arm, flashing him a look and telling him you're too self-critical. Your many, many strengths outweigh any flaws you percieve within yourself.

And perhaps it'd been the way you were looking at him, as if you were peeling past the layers of defense and physical appearance and really seeing him, as he is, in his most raw and vulnerable state. Or perhaps it'd been the way you'd breathed out his name before you'd spoken, the syllables caressed by your tongue and lips in a way that made shivers race up his spine, the sudden urge to reach out and brush his thumb against the soft skin of your throat and pulse nearly making him follow through. Regardless, through the rushing of blood in his ears and the sound of his heart pounding, a distinct feeling of pride sat heavily in his gut, the knowledge that at least you thought he had some worth twisting pleasantly in his stomach.

He hadn't meant to repeat a similar incident a week later. But at the self-depricating comment that slipped from his lips about his lack of natural charisma, your scoff and rather insistant claim that he was magnetic in a way that's difficult to explain, like a ship finding its way to dock even under the cover of night left his heart racing and mind running haywire. He hadn't even realized he'd said such a thing - or that you'd been listening closely enough to hear the grumble under his breath.

And yet your determined expression and the way you grasped his hands between your own softer, smaller ones had left him swallowing harshly, that familiar sense of shy pride and exhilaration rolling through him in waves.

And from then on, though Faramir isn't especially proud to admit it, he begins nearly fishing for compliments from you. The self-critical thoughts and feelings are easy enough to voice, and he grows addicted to the way you step in to immediately contradict and redirect his claims. And call him less of a man, but the concept of you defending him, his honor, his character, showering him with such pretty words aimed at him and only him leave Faramir with a light pink flush across his nose, his breathing heavier, his fingers twitching at his side because oh, oh god, say that he's strong again please, tell him that you feel safe with him and that you need him and that's perfect and everything you desire and so, so utterly yours and yours alone -

It becomes an addiction, really, to receive praise from the one person he cherishes it from most, and so you'll find that you're nearly constantly having to throw these compliments out to him. And when he peeks at you from the corner of his eye, through the wavy blond wisps of hair sitting against his temple, something in you will crack.

After all, you're not blind to the rumors that Denethor is not an equitable father, and you've come to care deeply for his youngest son. He's your friend, companion, the man who looks at you as if you've hung the moon and stars in the sky - a man who looks at you like he wants you, even if the notion is rather frightening at times with the palpable intensity radiating off of him.

But that look - it's so raw, reverant, like you're giving him something more precious than life itself, and perhaps you too are weaker than you'd care to admit, because you absolutely love just how responsive he is to a few simple words from you. It's endearing, and while you know Faramir is a battle-seasoned warrior and scholar, throwing him a compliment or two to garner this reaction out of him strokes your ego more than you'd care to admit. A captain of Gondor, an important man whose future very possibly includes taking over the Stewardship of the nation, so flustered and hooked onto a few simple words from you?

It's the stuff of your wildest fantasies, so you indulge him, singing his praises and even letting a hand linger for a beat to long against his bicep as the honeyed words slip from your lips. Brave, strong, wise...

And by the time that you realize just how deeply these words truly run for him, your support only fueling his obsession tenfold, it'll be too late to rescend them. Because by that point he's already sweet-talked you into the wedding, his proposal intimate and still rather shy, his fingers shaking around the ring and a near-constant stream of your name mixed with thank you and I love you ringing in your ears as the heavy gem sits upon your finger.

Because by that point he's already got you wrapped so tightly into his arms that you can barely breath, his fingertips nearly digging into your skin as he promises to keep you safe, to not let anything ever hurt you, to not let another living soul even touch you.

It'll be too late by the time that you realize you haven't seen the light of day in a week, cooped up in the grand abode Faramir was left, guards stationed outside your bedroom door.

The world is literally falling apart – death knocks at the door on a daily basis, a constant reminder of the impending doom awaiting. And yet, even with all of the horror and anxiety rippling through Middle Earth, there’s something to be said about finding the small bits of bliss that one can find in such dark times. Bliss that, it just so happens, is intimately and exclusively tied to you – their feelings grow that much stronger, that much darker, that much more inescapably desperate because you are quite literally the only thing that brings them joy.

And while it may feel sacriligious to expend so much energy on romantic pursuits during such dire times, they can't help it. You become a sort of drug to them; something light and wonderful and holy in this hellhole of a situation, and with each and every passing day they get closer and closer to snapping. They take another step toward complete dependence on you, their mental state beginning to hinge entirely on whether you’ve smiled at them that day, whether you’re still alive and breathing, whether you’d let them take a fistful of your hair and pull you into a kiss so eager and needy that it hurts. It’s unhealthy – and unproductive – and many of them even know it, but they simply can’t help it.

In a world desperate to strip away everything they know and love, how can they be expected to give up something so perfectly and overwhelmingly theirs?

And of course, the individual characters themselves are landmines of potential, too – ignoring many of the canonical relationship, of course. (Though some couples would be more than eager to let another into the safe haven of their love, even if the addition themselves is less excited. Less reciprocated. Less willing.) The main cast are such upstanding, valiant characters, and yet every angel loses its wings, some weakness in morality rearing its ugly head in the worst imaginable way.

And while each character displays these rather unsettling tendencies in their own unique manner, one thing unites them all: their ability to completely and utterly creep you out.

For Frodo, the Ring steals more than just his sanity and friendships. It starts to infect every relationship he holds - reaching into his most intimate feelings and thoughts with cold, bony fingers and tugging, leaving him disoriented and mistakenly redirecting the insanity and possessiveness brewing inside of him toward another target: you.

The sweet, gentle Frodo you'd come to know slowly morphs into a shell of the man you once knew, his eyes growing more sunken and his breathing becoming more irregular each time he sets sight on you. He's plagued by the Ring's whispers of how you're being stolen away from him, how you'll leave him, how you'll ultimately abandon him and leave him so, so terribly alone.

And while Frodo can initially fight it off, he loses the battle and slowly allows the thoughts to take root and bloom into something sinister, something paranoid, something grotesque.

Because what ultimately makes Frodo a creep is just how posessive the Ring makes him.

He'll confide in you, clutching onto you with trembling hands and teary eyes, murmuring about how he simply can't do this anymore, burying his face against your neck and nuzzling against the warm skin as you sooth him. You're murmuring words of encouragement, telling him that the quest is nearly over, that he's the strongest hobbit you've ever met, and suddenly he's stilling.

The praise strokes at something deep inside him, making his cheeks feel warm and his fingertips pulse, pleasure licking at him because oh, don't stop, tell him more more more. But then your words ring through his mind again, and something cold and ugly grips at him.

The strongest hobbit you've ever met? Just how many hobbits do you know? How many men have you been getting familiar with?

The teary eyed look is suddenly replaced with bared teeth and knotted brows, his hands moving from a frantic grasp onto you to sharp nails and firm muscles pulling you flush against him as he growls out a muffled 'm the only hobbit you know. Tell me I'm the only one you truly know.

Your sound of confusion isn't enough for him. He grips tighter, his skin hot against your own. Tell me you don't know any others. And if you do, I will rip out their throats for ever speaking to you.

His breathing is uneven at this point, his hearbeat practically pulsing through his chest, and you'll be left to meekly assure him that he's the only one you truly know, that you haven't been spending time with Sam, Pippin, or Merry, that he's the closest man in your life.

(He flinches when you say the names of his three companions, something like a hiss slipping through his chapped lips.)

It's only after a few tense, silent moments in which Frodo mutters incoherently under his breath that he relaxes slightly, his grip no longer digging his nails into your skin, his hug feeling less suffocating. He'll pull back, tearstreaks still fresh down his face, but the livid grimace and wide eyes are now replaced by a slight flush and a boyish, shy smile, his voice cracking slightly as he tells you that he's really flattered, that means - that means more than you could possibly imagine.

It's like whiplash, and with each and every day the Ring slowly grows to exert control over him in this fashion - leaving you to blindly agree with his words, saying anything and everything to appease him, even if your promises of devotion, love, and eternity make your skin crawl. But even once the Ring is no more than molten magma once more, the sense of bitter possessiveness never truly deserts Frodo - he may be more in control, but he hasn't been quite the same since returning to the Shire.

But oh, lucky him - you're there to keep him sane, aren't you? To keep him tethered to reality, to keep him from losing himself entirely. And aren't you just so very fortunate to be tied up in Bag End with Frodo? Completely and utterly alone with him?

In contradiction, Sam takes a different tact in letting his yandere tendencies show. He may have begun this journey with a woman close to his heart, but what is Rosie compared to you? You, the woman with whom he shares so much trauma and comradery, whose kind words, supprotive mannerisms, and determination have saved his life more than he'd care to admit?

And while you've merely quietly thanked him for his dedication to Frodo, for making frequent campside dinners, laughing at his one-off, accidental jokes, it's enough for Sam. It's enough because he's so far from home, so completely out of his element and faced with horror after horror that he's eagerly and frantically jumping at the few meager scraps of kindness and peace you provide him.

He blows your presence way out of proportion - becoming dependent upon you to brighten his day and keep him from losing all hope as Frodo declines, his very mood tied to what you've said to him in the last twenty minutes. And Sam, ever the chivalrous creature, feels that he must repay you somehow for all that you've done for him as his emotional anchor: he vows to become your personal servant, for lack of a better term.

He's so attuned to you that it's genuinely terrifying. He learns your every mannerism and habit, honey brown eyes keeping watch as you walk, sleep, talk, watching you from his bedroll to see how you act when you think the entire camp is asleep.

(He'd insisted on keeping his roll close to yours of course, because the wind brings the faint wafts of your scent close to him, the smell making his eyes flutter and his body feel suddenly too hot in his cloak.)

He learns everything he possibly can, and sets out to become as helpful as possible for you. He wants to ease your burden and make you as comfortable as possible given the nature of the quest, and will eagerly jump at the chance to aid you in any way he can.

You're hungry? Well, Sam's noticed how you ocassionally frown and lightly ghost a hand over your stomach. He's already unwrapping the packed snacks he keeps in his satchel, carefully handing the items to you (he's sure to let his fingers brush your own ever so slightly, trying to hold back the shiver that wracks his whole spine at the contact). You'll excitedly thank him, making some comment about how you've been starving but were too embarassed to say anything.

You're tired? Well, it's not too hard to pull Boromir or Gimli aside and make some vague comment about how you're exhausted but too shy to request that you stop early for the night. (And when Gimli remarks that it's still light out and thus too soon to make camp, Sam will only gulp, pushing the guilt down as he lies about how you're on her womanly cycle, you know, and I think she's putting on a real brave face but can't hold out too much longer... you understand.) It feels bad to lie, sure, but then Gimli's going bright red and nodding conspiratorily, loudly complaining about how he's tired of running and needs to rest for the night. Sam will float back to your side, watching out of the corner of his eye as you slowly sigh in relief, thanking Sam because you know he did something but you're not sure what.

It's sweet at first and feels nice to have someone so clearly attentive to your needs, but where this veers into creep territory is when Sam continues to push the bounds of what he notices. It's kind when he observes that you're hungry or tired, sure, but when he actually does notice that you've begun your monthly blood without you once mentioning it, it's significantly less endearing.

(He's at your side with extra leaves and cloth torn from his own clothing to offer you, a lopsided grin on his face as he tells you to be careful, to lsiten to your body, to take it easy and not push too hard. And when you try to discard the now bloody rags, don't fight too hard when he eagerly snatches them from you, promising to wash them in the next river. You see them poke out of his pocket at the next major body of water, still bright red, but it's best to not mention it.)

It's disturbing that he seems to know what you need before you vocalize it, really before you even realize it yourself, and soon you'll begin to feel as if you're under a magnifying glass, his gaze feeling heavier and incriminating the longer it goes on.

But what can you really say? He's so hellbent on being helpful, useful to you, and how can you complain that he's trying his best to accomodate you? What grounds do you even have to complain on? Perhaps you're just being too sensitive. Yes, surely that's it - irritability brought on by the stress of Orc attacks and dangerous roads.

You can endure it until the end of this nightmare. You must.

Though of course, it's not really over even after the Eagles deliver an unconcious Frodo and Sam from Mordor. If anything, it only grows worse - but how could you ever possibly be unnerved by the ever-sweet, ever-innocent Sam? You'd be a monster.

For Pippin, his lack of subtlty is exactly what makes him so creepy. Well, that and his belief that what's his is yours and vice versa. He builds up your relationship into something much, much greater than it is in his head, coming to the conclusion that his obsession is matched equally and that the two of you have begun a courtship of sorts, even if you've never officially confirmed it. All it takes is for you to laugh at a single one of his jokes and throw him a perfectly timed smile and he's smitten, his infatuation growing with every word you speak and speck of attention you throw him.

And this sense of shared belongings leads to a rather troubling development: Pippin procures a nasty habit of rifling through your stuff. There's a giddy, excited smile on his face as he does it, stopping and picking up each and every item of yours, turning it in his hands and scrutinizing every angle to try to discern its use, relevance to you, and any other significant qualities he can find.

He's looking for signs of wear and tear, trying to discern which items you use most regularly, running a thumb over the material and often bringing it up to his nose and deeply inhaling, letting his eyes flutter closed at the indescribable scent of you.

He genuinely means no ill intention with this habit. He's prone to interpreting your civil, friendly actions as something more profound, and is completely under the impression that you're attracted to him just as he is you. And as such, you wouldn't mind that he's curious about you, that he's touching your comb, that he's grabbing fistfuls of your undergarments and pocketing them for a later time.

(A later time that isn't exactly private - a later time that Pippin wouldn't be opposed to sharing with you, should you express the interest. And oh, how he wishes you would...)

But while this alone will leave you with a sense of betrayal at his blatant disregard for your personal boundaries, what truly clues you into the extent of Pippin's obsession is when he begins not only snatching away small items of yours, but donning them himself.

The extra broach you'd brought along as a reminder of home is suddenly missing from your small satchel one day, and one look over at the beaming hobbit sees the shining metal attached securely to his own cloak, resting right above his heart.

You can't find the ring you wear religiously as a keepsake of your parent? It's wrapped around Pippin's finger, gleaming in the light as he splays his fingers, admiring the craftsmanship and ocassionally bringing it up to his lips to leave a much-too-long kiss.

And very, very quickly you'll notice this behavior. He's not exactly subtle when he's humming and sorting through your meager bag of things, holding up fabrics to feel between his fingers, pulling out the strands of your hair left on the items and placing them against the thick wool of his cloak so that they stick against his chest.

You'll be very aware, having caught him numerous times and confronted him about it. But it's hard to get through to him when he only smiles bashfully up at you, his cheeks tinged a light pink from both embarassement and excitement that you're standing so close to him and looking at him, and it's like he doesn't even hear you. His expression doesn't change even as you tell him to quit poking around your stuff, even when you tell him that he's practically stealing from you.

He'll only laugh lightly, twirling the ring on his finger and reaching out to playfully nudge you. Come now, there's no reason to pretend.

He won't elaborate and instead only sends you a wink, walking off to join Merry, Frodo, and Sam and leaving you to stare dumbly behind him, total confusion at what he could possibly mean.

It isn't until much, much later that you get a clear answer: Pippin firmly and completely believes that by wearing your clothing and accessories, it's like a stake of possession over him. It makes him feel wanted, needed, a testament to your 'relationship' and a sign that you want the whole world to know that Peregrine Took is yours. It fuels his delusions and his infatuation, its claws sinking deeper and deeper into him with every passing day, but by the time you learn what his behavior is really stemming from it'll be much too late.

Because once you catch a very familiar bit of white, soft cotton sitting high on against his hip and dipping down between his legs, you'll realize that Pippin's attachment is much deeper and much more disturbed than you'd initially thought. He just loves you so, so very much - so much so that even your undergarments aren't off limits.

While it isn't necessarily creepy, as his obsession with you begins to take root and he spends more time with you, Merry will grow a nasty habit of telling you half-truths. He's never claimed to be the smartest nor most eloquent hobbit, but as his infatuation begins to become more and more ever-present and impossible to ignore, so too becomes his desperation to appear as desirable to you as possible.

It starts off as a genuine white lie brought about by a sense of pride and a blooming crush on you very early on into meeting him. He's with Pippin, chatting away with you and Legolas. Legolas had mentioned some off-handed comment about his surprise at hobbits having such high endurance, and Pippin had immediately puffed up his chest. We hobbits have got many talents you wouldn't expect! I, for example, hold the record for the most pints of ale drunk in a single hour back home!

And without thinking Merry's eyes are darting back to your face to see your reaction, panic prickling along his skin when he sees the way you chuckle a bit, rolling your eyes and saying of course, Pippin.

It's out of his mouth before he can even think it, some deep-seated desperation to make you look at him that same way washing over him. Actually I'm the true holder of the record! Pip just doesn't remember because he was already so drunk he'd passed out.

Pippin splutters at this obvious lie, an argument sprouting between them already, but your giggle and soothing if you say so, Merry makes his eyes flutter slightly, his knees feeling weak and his Adam's apple bobbing up and down harshly.

And it only builds from there - small things that seem to just spill out of him before Merry can even think about it.

You're walking beside him talking about how you've always been terrible on horseback? Merry's cutting through your self-deprication with I've got some skill myself, I've been told I'm the best hobbit rider there is.

(He's only ever ridden by himself once, on a small pony, and promptly fell off seconds after sitting down.)

You're both seated around the fire in the evening, Aragorn twirling the long roasting stick impaling a rabbit for dinner. It's quiet, but Merry is compelled to speak up with I'm a well-known cook in the Shire, you know, always getting asked to make things.

(Sam frowns at this and Pippin opens his mouth to mention that everything Merry touches burns, but Aragorn only faintly smiles at you, shaking his head. It's only when you nod at Merry and say we'll have to put your skills to the test that he panics, puffing his chest out and stuttering well - well, I don't have the right supplies on the road, you see, so I don't think it'll taste much the same.)

It's harmless at first, sure, but as time passes and Merry feels more and more pressure to see the amused, impressed look on your face, the lies get more and more elaborate. He's claiming that he's had loads of hobbit women swept off their feet by him, that he's always having to break hearts to keep himself available for the only special lady in his life.

(He's so eager when he checks your reponse to that, eyes scanning your face with a sort of frantic need to see any sign of jealousy cross your features, the disappointment he feels when there's none only spurring him on further.)

Then he's claiming that he's a prolific kisser, boasting about how he always leaves the ladies wanting more, licking his lips for good effect and holding very intense eye contact with you the whole time.

(His eyes only briefly dart down to look at your own lips, the sudden mental image of kissing you making his face turn beet red, his cloak feeling too hot and his ears ringing so loudly that he misses the way Pippin snorts and tells Frodo that's rubbish, that is, Frodo only half-smiling and shrugging.)

So while it's not insideous in and of itself, what makes this habit of Merry's uncomfortable is that the lies are only ever directed at you and only ever concern his ability as a partner. They're always claims of his romantic and sexual prowess, spoken too forcefully and with obvious holes in his stories. He'll contradict himself, saying anything he can that he thinks will impress you and lead you to develop feelings for him, and the sense of desperation oozing off of him in waves will be very tangible for you.

It's alarming, the level to which he morphs himself to what he percieves as your tastes and desires, and what will truly have your skin crawling is the realization that he holds absolutely no self-respect or dignity in the face of your attention and attraction. He's willing to change himself and become whoever you'd like him to be should it encourage your affections, abandonding core beliefs and values just to chase after a single smile or murmur of his name.

It's disturbing, and though you'll try to distance yourself from him, you simply won't be able to - because Merry's attachment has sunk its claws into you, grasping on and completely unwilling to let go, no matter how hard you try to pryor shake him off.

He just really, really likes you, and getting your pity is better than your inattention.

You never would have pegged Aragorn to be an oversharer when you'd first met him. Brooding and serious, with the pretty crystal carving perpetually sitting at the hollow of his throat, you'd always deemed him to be private to a fault.

And you hadn't been wrong, technically - he is reserved, at least with most aspects of his life. He's not parading around flaunting his vulnerabilities, nor does he share every single detail about his personal life.

But that's not to say that he's completely tight-lipped about it. He lets things slip, here and there. Words spoken into the darkness of long nights staring out into the open expanses of land, surveying for orcs or other similar enemies while his allies rest by a dimming fire.

Perhaps it's the sense of duty slowly beginning to outrun him as heir, or maybe even a desperation driven forth by the stakes of his quest to protect Frodo. Regardless, one thing becomes very clear to you as the weeks of journeying begin to blend together: Aragorn may be private, but he's not secretive.

The first time you hear Arwen's name from his lips, there's a small smile on his face and he's looking down at his hands. You're sitting across from him by the fire, Gimli snoring peacefully alongside Pippin off to the right, the rest of the company breathing deeply, soundly. You'd volunteered to help Aragorn keep watch for the night, insisting that the Ranger rest too, for fear that he'd collapse on the battlefield.

It'd been an innocent question, really - just something to get your mind distracted away from the anxiety gripping you with every slight rustle of the trees or squeak of an animal. It'd just been a simple inquiry of who this mysterious elf is that his heart beats for - just a request to hear about the woman who tamed the mighty Aragorn.

And he's telling you sweet things, too. He's murmuring about her strength, her sense of purpose and morality, her ability to be soft and hard simultaneously. It's poetic, really, the words slipping from his lips sounding akin to the lovesongs you'd sung as a child.

And the conversation only ends when he makes a single comment that you'd merely nodded and smiled at: she'd love to meet you, should your paths ever cross. Your agreement had been mostly sincere, a bit out of politeness. The topic drifted to elvish weaponry, and that was that.

But when you find yourself back in the same position four nights later, you're not the one to spark up the conversation by the firepit.

She's always held a certain fondness for the race of men, Aragorn started, running a finger along the length of his blade and glancing up at you. Arwen, that is.

You'd only nodded, a small twinge of confusion biting into you. Where had that come from? You'd been sitting in silence previous to that comment - simply enjoying the view of the stars.

At your silence, Aragorn had merely looked pensive, returning his gaze to his blade. Her compassion and love, though hidden beneath the layers of elvish social etiquette, leave room for many.

You'd only nodded again, piping up to ask whether he was familiar with any major constellations.

And while it's nothing groundbreaking in and of itself, as your journey continues the frequency with which he brings up his lover starts to rapidly incrase. And while it would be sweet to see the man so ardently in love with her, you'll start to notice some troubling facts: the conversation is always unprompted, Aragorn simply filling the space between you with some musing on Arwen's character or affinity for humanity. It's also only every directed toward you - you've never heard him speak a word of her to Frodo, Gimli, Boromir - hell, not even to Legolas.

And finally, there's something about his words and tone that make you feel as if they're an invitation.

To what, you're not quite sure, but the way he looks at you after each declaration of Arwen's beauty, intelligence, and fighting prowess leave you connecting the dots that he's trying to entice you. Brown eyes scrape through your every expression, analyzing your every word in response, noting and interpreting your body language. He's looking for something, you come to realize. A sign that you're interested, that you're just as awed by her as he is - a sign that perhaps you want her, too.

It's confusing and leaves you hesitant to be alone with Aragorn for fear of the same behaviors popping up, but it really starts to veer into creep territory once the contents of his words slip from romantic and awed to much, much too personal for your tastes. He doesn't betray Arwen's own personal matters out of a deep-seeded love and respect for her, but you learn way more about their relationship than you'd care to know.

You don't need to know the exact ways that Aragorn holds her in the hours of the morning, nor do you need to know the way he holds her against his chest and falls asleep to the slow rythym of her heart. (He looks at you with something akin to amusement when he quips of course elven beds are no small matter - there is surely room for a third occupant, should the need arise.

It's strange and uncomfortable and you'll soon be forced to acknowledge that Aragorn is trying to lure you into joining the two of them in some sort of strange three-way relationship. And of course you're not responsive to his attempts - after all, poor Arwen doesn't even seem to be aware of the sentiment.

(At least, you hope she isn't - there's no part of you that wants to step into what is clearly a very devoted, very serious love.)

But when you return to Rivendell along your journey and are greeted by a smiling Arwen who murmurs your name without any introduction, your suspicions feel dangerously unsteady.

And when she leans forward, inhaling deeply and letting a cold hand brush against the sensitive, exposed skin of your collarbone, you'll be forced to realize that perhaps Aragorn wasn't the instigator - perhaps he was the coconspirator, the messenger.

Perhaps you're the prize they both yearn for.

As his darling, it's often that Gimli exhibits behaviors that come across as creepy simply because the desperation that oozes off of him is palpible.

And perhaps desperation is a harsh word, but the unending, all-consuming desire to have your attention on him nearly knocks the wind out of his chest. It seems to have a life of its own; forcing his body to react before his brain has time to process that he's already moving.

It's so at odds with his dwarven pride, the notion of having to try so hard to get you to swoon making him bristle, embarassment eating away at him because dammit, why won't you just make it easier on him and compliment him on your own?

Because really, that's what Gimli's looking for. He's not insecure by any means, but it soothes the possessiveness that his obsession with you inspires about when you say such sweet things about him. It makes him feel giddy to know that you think so highly of him, and it strokes something deep in his gut to know that you're thinking of him enough to form this opinion, that you've noticed just how capable, masculine, strong he is.

And in the early days of his infatuation this is true. You're noticing, even without Gimli trying too hard, that he's able to slice down a number of orcs with his trusty axe, their blood spraying and his wild laughter ringing out in the aftermath.

(You come to him afterwards with a look that makes his knees feel weak and something hot stir between his legs, his words nearly a groan because oh god, he needs you to never stop looking at him this way. And your rather cheeky comment of you're not too bad with an axe, eh dwarf only makes his chest puff out further in pride, a comment sitting on the tip of his tongue about how he's better in more ways than you might expect.)

He's very caught up in your perception of him, and while these sorts of comments were a dime a dozen early into his feelings for you, they pitter out with time as you grow more familiar with the redheaded dwarf. Your undivided attention tapers out as the days go on, becoming accustomed to the dwarf's presence and finding other avenues to occupy your time and focus.

And Gimli is not pleased by this development - he needs you to keep lavishing him with praise, to flutter your lashes at him and smile bashfully, to say his name in a way that he swears is sultry. And so he panics.

You're no longer impressed by his natural acts of strength and bravery while in battle? Well, it's not hard to chop the firewood needed for that night's campfire, making sure to grunt extra loud and flex his muscles harder than necessary in hopes that you'll compliment his skills as a provider.

(You try to ignore the way his head is practically on a swivel when he does this, gauging your every reaction and waiting with baited breath to know how you'll feel. And while Gimli is many things, subtle is not one them - you will notice his staring, whether he likes it or not.)

You're chatting loosely with Sam a couple paces ahead of Gimli? Well, suddenly the dwarf's voice is booming as he elbows Legolas at his side, going on about how dwarves are the superior hunstmen to elves simply for their bravery and dedication.

(Of course Legolas can't help but quip back, thus starting an argument that is simply too loud to ignore. Gimli catches each and every one of your glances back, his breath hitching and his resolve hardening, the sensation of you looking at him making him grow greedier and greedier for more.)

He's doing everything he can to monopolize your attention, and in the end it's his clinginess that will make you loath to see him. It's creepy just how fixated he seems to be on you, how he can't seem to leave you alone, how his mood for the day seems to hinge on whether you entertain his pestering questions and bragging first thing in the morning.

It's exhausting, but the moment you stop giving him the response he's looking for, he only doubles down, becoming more and more unbearable with every passing moment. So really, it's best to just smile and agree with everything he's saying - it'll save you the headache, and the rest of the Fellowship can only thank anything that's listening that they won't be subjected to the secondhand embarassment of watching Gimli's behavior.

And with every instance of you giving into his ploys for your attention, Gimli's desperation and fixation on you only grow firmer, stronger - more impossible to reverse.

You'll find that Legolas, while well-meaning, is rather unsettling.

And it's really about the little things - things that you're pretty sure are a clash in his elvish mannerisms with your own human ones. Things you think are just simple cultural misunderstandings on both of your ends, perhaps. He's just not that well versed in human customs, after all, and it'd be rude to expect him to cater to your own standards of social etiquette.

And in the beginning of his infatuation with you, this line of reasoning works.

It is rather jarring when you catch those blue eyes staring at you from across the room, but you shrug it off. Sure, his gaze feels heavier than what's considered polite, but perhaps it's how elves function. Who are you to judge what's considered normal for his people?

(Even if the staring seems to really only happen to you - you've asked Gandalf about it before, trying to ignore the way Legolas's eyes bore into you from some fifty yards away, the weight heavy even as Gandalf purses his lips and shakes his head, voice faintly curious as he tells you the elves are private, to be sure, but subtlty happens to come quite naturally to them. You'll only frown but nod, pretending you don't hear the way too-light footsteps rush toward you as Gandalf departs.)

It leaves you sucking in a breath when he suddenly appears at your side unannounced, his arrival completely silent. You'll turn to the side and yelp slightly, the previously empty space occupied by platinum hair and a quiet, calm voice aking if you're feeling well.

(And while you initially laugh it off and are marveled at just how graceful elves can be, the more it happens the less fascinating it becomes. Because when you're simply staring out into the wild at camp, his presence is welcomed. But when you roll over in the mornings, eyes still heavy with sleep as you fitfully peel them open, you're significantly less excited to see the way Legolas is lying next to you, blue eyes twinkling as he watches you awake. He hadn't started the night there, but it becomes routine - you don't bother asking just how long he's been awake.)

But once it moves on from simple glances and easily misconstrued actions you'll truly begin to feel truly uncomfortable. Because once he sees that you haven't confronted him about any of his more indulgent behaviors, Legolas will assume that what he's doing is working - that you're enjoying the attentions he bestows upon you. That you're liking the way he's singled you out as his obsession festers deeper and deeper into his chest.

And once this happens, it leads to a rather troubling habit born of his ignorance to human customs and sensibilities: Legolas will move from simply staring to speaking. All of that intensive observation will rear its ugly head in the way that he starts being very, very candid with you - telling you all sorts of things that he's noticed, that he wants to do, that he finds enticing about you.

He's walking beside you and looking at the way you pace your steps, how your eyes jump around the scenery, how you grip the hilt of your weapon each time you hear an animal's noise. He's keeping his eyes on you, and will tell you that he wishes he could see inside your mind to know your deepest desires and fears. It's umprompted and gives you pause to snap your eyes over to him, unsure how to respond, but the angelic, concentrated look on his face forces you to bark out a very thin laugh, choosing to not further dignify the comment with a response.

He's watching as you slip off your cloak, rolling out your neck and groaning slightly as you stretch after a long day of travel. He lets his gaze pass from your face down to linger on the swell of your chest and hips, to the mud covering your boots and back up. I've been told human women are very soft. Would you find this claim to be true? You'll gape at him, suddenly feeling much too exposed, but Pippin's knocking into your side before you can process Legolas's words, offering you an apple and giving you a lopsided smile.

It's uncomfortable and hedges on harassment at times, and even if you were to scold Legolas and beg him to stop, he will only cock a brow at you, confusion twisting through him.

Why would you want him to stop? Is this not an essential step in the courting and mating rituals of men? Compliments and honesty? He's overhead numerous times from soldiers and drunkards of men that the women enjoy brazen truthfulness about sexual and emotional attraction - perhaps you're just shy? Maybe he isn't being clear enough in his intentions, then.

He doesn't understand but will nod regardless, giving you his word that he will stop mentioning topics that obviously unsettle you.

Instead, he'll choose new ways to compliment you - you don't like comments about how he yearns to feel the softness and pliability of your body, so perhaps he'll tell you about how well you fill out your clothes and how he can hear each inhale and exhale of your breath at night.

You'd like that, surely - surely his infatuation will be requited then, no? It has to.

You’d be hard pressed to find a woman who doesn’t admire Boromir at least a bit. Perhaps it’s charm, chivalry, looks, or – and certainly not least – his status as both a revered warrior and next in line for the stewardship of Gondor.

Regardless, he’s the perfect gentleman, sure to make anyone fidget and flutter their lashes whether unconsciously or not. And you’re no exception – at least, not until that façade of perfect respectability begins to crack. Until the edges of that gentlemanly behavior give way to something more sinister, something that leaves you pulling back slightly from his every outreached hand.

That is, Boromir comes to completely and utterly disregard your personal space time and time again.

It starts small – he’s walking beside you and there’s a crack in the cobblestone of Minas Tirith’s streets, his hand placed against your forearm to gently guide you away for fear of your tripping.

(And when you smile and thank him for keeping you safe, as you’d told him, he only gulps, brown eyes turning unnervingly serious as he tells you I always will, I swear it.)

He’s watching as you concentrate on threading a needle, or knocking an arrow, or getting your balance on horseback, noticing the way you slightly stick out your tongue and let your face scrunch up a bit. Before he can even think about it he’s reaching out and ruffling your hair, his booming laugh ringing in your ears as his hand lingers at your crown, slightly falling and moving to brush his knuckles against your cheek, his chuckling suddenly dying out and his Adam's apple bobbing.

He’s inviting you to important events for the high society of Gondor, keeping you at his side with your arms interlocked at the elbows, sipping at his wine and chatting with each and every man and woman he sees in the Great Hall of Minas Tirith, not letting you peel away for even a moment.

He’s coming with you to fill your plate up with the many delicacies against the hall’s walls, standing close beside you as you eat them, and it’s only when another man approaches the two of you that the touchiness amps up to a new level. The man’s eyeing you, lip curling as he openly scans your body up and down, and while it makes your skin crawl, Boromir takes a slightly different response.

His arm is wrapping around your waist, fingers open and splayed against the softness of your stomach, pulling you flush against his side and slightly inwards toward him. He’s using his other free hand to grab onto yours, bringing your knuckles up to his lips and leaving long, wet kisses against them, all the while maintaining heavy eye contact and murmuring she’s quite lovely, isn’t she? How fortunate that she is very soon to be my betrothed.

Your blood runs as bold as the chilly air brushing against the still-wet spots on your knuckles, fear settling deep into your heart because what could he possibly mean?

And even as the other man bristles and scrambles away, Boromir’s handling of you doesn’t change – even under the disapproving eye of Denethor, even at Faramir’s concerned glances.

So really, what makes Boromir a creep is that he’s just so, so very touchy in ways that, while not explicitly inappropriate, still leave you wincing in discomfort at his brazen disregard for your boundaries. Particularly given your relationship - you're not strangers, of course, but you're certainly not betrothed, and what kind of upstanding man does it make Boromir to be so freely touching you even if only in quasi-appropriate ways?

(That isn't to say that he doesn't want to touch you in more lewd, risque ways - by god does he want to grope the swell of your chest, to squeeze the softness of your ass, to reach between your legs and sink himself knuckle deep into you, but he holds back out of respect for your comfort and honor.)

And the terrible thing is that even if you tell him that his touch makes you uncomfortable – something that takes quite a bit of courage on your part, considering that he’s quite literally the next ruler of Minas Tirith and has the physical ability to slice your head clean off at whim – he’ll only chuckle and cup your cheek, nuzzling his face against the nape of your neck.

You needn’t play coy with me, my love, social rules be damned.

After all, there is nothing you can do that will dissuade Boromir’s belief that you are just as grotesquely, helplessly infatuated with him as he is you – your hesitation is just nerves, he's sure, because of his status, stature, and your own feelings.

And doesn’t that mean that you want him too?

Faramir, on the other hand, is nowhere near as openly affectionate, suffocating, and brazen in his treatment of you.

Perhaps it’s a sense of insecurity or a profound fear of your rejection, but he takes the opposite tact in indulging in his obsession with you: where Boromir is public, Faramir is private. Where his brother is loud with his yandere tendencies, Faramir nurses his feelings with stolen glances, longing daydreams, one-sided yearning.

And of course Faramir doesn’t feel good about following you like a second shadow, keeping his eyes trained on your figure as you walk around Minas Tirith, but it’s like his body is moving before he’s even consciously aware of it.

He’s keeping a respectful distance of about fifteen feet, leaning against walls and pretending to check the dullness of his blade as he watches you browse the market’s wares out of the corner of his eye, mentally taking note of which vegetables you pick up, whether you chat with the market seller (even straining his ears to hear exactly what you’ve said, overanalyzing each word for any hint of fondness towards the stranger, feeling his muscles tense when your voice turns more friendly than feels right to him), even how you bite your lip while you decide between two rather pretty hair clips.

(Of course Faramir will return to the stall later, buying the poor clip that loses this contest and keeping it in his pocket, thumbing at it and clutching at it when you’re not around, almost as if it’s the tie keeping you anchored to him. Eventually he’ll gift it to you, sure, once he’s gotten a little more confident in interacting with you – once he’s confident you won’t brush aside his earnest offering. But for now, it lives with him, constantly between his fingers, past his lips, clutched in his fist.)

His stalking tendencies don’t take long to develop and only grow worse with time, but what truly makes Faramir edge into creep territory is what he does with the information he gathers during these escapades. He’s extremely observant, noting down every little detail he can find in your behaviors and words, hungrily trying to learn more more more about you to satisfy the intense yearning he feels for you at any given moment.

And because there’s simply so much, Faramir takes to keeping everything jotted down in a notebook of sorts, a collection of papers with carefully written details of how you looked that day, how you seemed a bit frustrated, how your hair had been shining in the waning sunlight of the evening, giving you what almost appeared to be a halo.

A lot of it is genuinely innocent – simply noting down the colors you tend to dress in, what your resting expression looks like, which filler words you tend to rely on most when speaking to others.

But as the obsession grows deeper and his father grows more and more emotionally abusive, Faramir turns toward these compilations with less innocent intentions. He’s always enjoyed literature and scholarly pursuits more than those around him, and he takes inspiration as he begins scribing down the whirling, embarrassing fantasies he harbors of you.

Some of them are simple, romantic, wholesome – holding your hand and walking beside you rather than following you like some street dog begging for scraps of your attention, being able to interlace his fingers with yours and hear you breath out his name with a smile.

Others are… less endearing.

On nights where he’s spent the day with his father or in stressful conditions at Osgiliath, the fantasies are less sweet and more dripping with possessiveness, a raw desperation tangible against the paper. There’s accounts of how he wants to keep you tucked away from the world, perpetually clutching against his front so that he can blind you to the orcs, to greedy men, to anything and everything but himself.

There’s scribblings of fantasies about how, once he finally works up the courage to truly court you, you’d spend the days lounging about in your shared bedchambers, keeping his bed warm and longing for him until the moment he walks through the door, sweaty and splattered with blood.

How you’d care for him, dote on him and clean his wounds, letting your hands linger, your praise of his hard work and dedication to keeping your people – you – safe getting lower, sultrier, more sinful…

The sexual fantasies aren’t as prevalent as the others in the collection of papers he keeps if only because he does genuinely feel guilty and ashamed at having thought of you in such an inappropriate manner, but the redness of his face and the tightness of his trousers as he brings the quill across the paper again and again are telltale signs of the depth of his desire for you.

And should you ever discover these papers? Well, it’s really for your best interest that you simply leave them alone, for fear of discovering exactly how frequently and vividly he’s imagined what lies beneath your cotton dresses and how desperately he wants – needs – you.

While Éomer’s talents excel on the battlefield and in the saddle, he’s significantly less gifted when it comes to matters of the heart.

So much so, in fact, that much of his early contact and infatuation with you is spent feverishly trying to convince himself that he in fact detests you. It’s a coping mechanism, more than anything, because as his interest in you slowly begins to grow, everything in his life begins to slowly fall apart. His uncle’s losing the battle against Wormtongue, the people of Rohan grow hungrier, Isengard looms larger, his cousin’s prolonged absence gnaws at his heart, and the Worm’s sick fixation on his sister grows harder and harder to ignore.

He feels there’s simply too much on his mind for him to entertain a romantic interest in someone – which is why his immediate response as his heartrate ramps up when he hears your name is to scowl. It’s why he’s immediately snapping orders at his men the moment a thought of you crosses his mind, trying to distract himself with matters of patrol, war, maintaining the restless half-peace of his kingdom. It’s why he looks at you with cold eyes and accosts you with curt, biting words when he’s face-to-face with you, trying to not let his gaze linger on the way your own eyes start to mirror his hatred.

It’s all in vain, of course, because as time passes and he drives you further away, the desperation to be in your presence and to see you only grows unbearably stronger, leaving his mind torn in two.

That’s what eventually leads him to confide, rather awkwardly, in Éowyn, deeming her advice much more sound in the realm of feelings. The words come out angry, complaints about how you seem to ensnare him with your words, how you must be some sort of wizard with the way you’ve so completely infiltrated his thoughts, how your presence seems to command his body with a mind of its own.

And Éowyn will watch with wide and excited eyes, because for all the evil creeping into the edges of Edoras, here is her beloved brother, falling in love in his own stupid, angry way. And while her words are hard to accept at first, eventually Éomer gives into the idea that it might be acceptable to entertain the notion of courting you without interrupting his role in the war.

But almost immediately he’s confronted with the reality that he’s absolutely butchered any sense of warmth between you two, instead leaving behind only animosity that he is entirely to blame for. And this is really where his creepy behavior comes into play: he becomes so hellbent on atoning for his gross lack of judgement in pushing you away that he overcompensates by becoming the man he believes you would like.

That is, Éomer becomes very, very pushy. He dons this hyper-masculinity that begins to assert itself into every aspect of your life. He quickly becomes very controlling, always standing in your peripheral and keeping his eyes on you, still curt in his words but now telling you to eat a fuller dinner, for fear that you’ll go hungry.

He’ll look you in the eye and tell you to wear another cloak to avoid any unwanted attention (with his gaze briefly skimming down to the just-visible tease of your breasts against the neckline of your dress), gulping as he tries to refocus back on your face.

It’s still forceful, and though you can tell there’s something different in the way he treats you – for his gaze is no longer cold but very, very intense and almost burning, his fingers always twitching when they see you, his body standing much closer to you as if to jump in front of you at a moment’s notice. It’s just as off-putting, despite his best intentions.

Because where he was rude before, he’s now grown unintentionally patronizing. He doesn’t mean to insult your autonomy when he tells you to not leave your home unless he can accompany you, but it’ll still have you feeling indignant that he doesn’t believe you can survive on your own.

He doesn’t mean to insinuate that you’re oblivious when he tells you to not talk to any other men anymore, but you can’t help but feel as if he thinks you’re stupid and unaware of what men often want.

It’s frustrating that he sends one of his men to keep guard on you at all times when he’s away from Edoras for his duties, lingering like a shadow and insisting on being let into your home when you lay to sleep.

It's demeaning when he makes you swear to never pick up a sword or arrow as he prepares to leave for Minas Tirith's aid, his voice harsh and fueled by something akin to sorrow and fear. But he's clutching onto your shoulders and it's impossible to say no when he looking at you like that, when he's being so forceful and insistant and telling you in graphic detail of all the ways you could injure yourself.

And while he thinks it’s showing a sense of protectiveness and command to you, it doesn’t exactly seduce you as he’d hoped. Instead, it’s detrimental and will cause you to find Éomer even more insufferable than you did previously, but you’ll find that you just can’t shake him off.

And when he returns from the final battle at Mordor, adrenaline still swimming through his veins and frantic to find you and embrace you, to clutch onto you and feel your body heat against his own racing heart, you’ll find yourself even more trapped.

It's sweet, in their eyes - a little reminder of each moment they've spent with you, though it's not like they truly need it. The memories of you are permanently imprinted onto the back of their eyes, burning into the skin as he eagerly replays them over and over again in the dark quietness of his far too lonely bedroom.

But still, the idea's nice, isn't it? And for the most part, it really is meant to be that innocent - he's keeping reciepts of the grocery trips you go on. (Of course, one could make the argument that he's not really going with you - following ten feet behind you with a gray hoodie pulled up to his ears is hardly condusive to the domestic fantasy of shopping together, but it's close enough.)

He's snapping small photos of you as he watches the way you lounge about on your bed, phone clutched in your hands and eyes glued to the screen. (Internally he's cringing - you know better than to hold the phone so close to your face, or to spend hours scrolling through it in the dark. You're so careless with taking care of yourself - something that won't be a problem for much longer, of course.)

Each slip of paper, photo, and item of memorabilia gets carefully sorted away into a drawer, catalogued with exactly what the object is, when it was taken, and a few notes jotted down about what he was thinking, how you looked.

It's sweet, in some fucked-up, twisted way. But of course, not everything in their collection is so sweet - oh no.

The first time it happens, you'll be confused but won't know how to even bring up the question. What are you doing? You're panting too hard to even get the words out, spit dribbling down your chin and your throat feeling hoarse and tired.

The scissors glint in the dim lighting of the room, his own breath ragged as he carefully caresses your head, fingerpads brushing against your scalp, before picking out a small collection of hairstrands. The snip snip noise happens before you can even react, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

So pretty... He murmurs as he thumbs at the pieces, his cock bobbing in front of you slightly. You're still on your knees, looking up at him with confusion and a small prick of anger settling in.

What are you-

He interrupts you with a boyish, too-wide smile, bringing the bits of hair up to his lips and inhaling deeply. It's not long before he settles them against his tongue, lips closing and exaggerated sucking sounds filling the room and making you squirm in discomfort and disgust.

You watch as he slowly grows hard again, mere inches from your eyes.

Eventually he pulls the pieces out of his mouth, the strands wet with saliva and clumping together, a shiver running up his spine.

His free hand comes down to cup your cheek as he looks down at you, his own face flushed a rather rosy pink.

You did so well for me, he starts, thumb toying with your bottom lip. Made me feel so good, didn't you?

His words make you want to bite at his finger, to cut it clean off, but the memory of your last 'bought of misbehavior' is still fresh in your mind, the phantom stomach pain from no food making you nearly wince.

Unwilling to give him a verbal answer you only shakily nod, still eyeing the bundle of your spit-soaked hair. He looks down at you thoughtuflly, as if pondering, before sighing softly.

With a final tap of his still-wet tip against your lips with his free hand, he turns around, digging thorugh the nearby drawer to find the clear plastic bag.

Just as you're rising to your feet, knees feeling stiff and jaw aching, he puts down the marker he'd been scribbling with. Inside the plastic bag lays your hair, the bag sealed and stripped of extra air. Your eyes catch on the label, and for a moment you're frozen in disgust.

June 25, 2026. Eight minutes, twenty-three seconds. Deep-throated, finished inside her mouth. Swallowed, minimal gagging.

He turns to face you with that same almost shy grin on his face, holding up the baggie and pressing a soft kiss over your hair.

For safe-keeping, he starts, pressing a matching kiss against your cheek. It lingers, wet and hot.

He leaves you standing there as he walks to the other side of the house you've been trapped in for weeks, pressing a fast code into the cabinet lock that you can't quite catch and setting the baggie on one of the shelves.

With a small sense of horror you see the depth of the shelf - at least a foot deep and two wide, with the seams of some twenty other plastic bags visible.

What - what is that? You whisper, but he closes the door before you can move forward to get a better look.

He turns to face you, one hand idly returning down to his navel. Calloused fingers wrap firmly around his base, giving himself a long stroke as he holds eye contact with you.

Ways to remember this by. Us, I mean.

His flush grows slightly redder, and he licks his lips.

It's my collection. Of you.

He kisses you before you can respond to that, tongue pushing inside your mouth and silencing any protests of yours. A hand finds its way between your legs, pinching and groping. He parts for air for a brief moment, licking at your lips along the way.

And you're the star piece.

DARLING PROFILE:

Nurturing

His darling  doesn’t necessarily need to be nurturing in a traditional sense, but rather that they’re extremely empathetic. He values loyalty in relationships, whether platonic or otherwise, and he would be looking for a partner who is able to care deeply about those close to them.

He sees it as a sign of a strong moral compass and character, as a confirmation that they value connection and loyalty. He’s guided by his own strong set of morals, particularly when it comes to those he loves, and as a result he wants this trait mirrored in a partner.

And when he envisions this nurturing partner, he’s also making the assumption that with this more tranquil, sweet disposition will come another benefit in his eyes: a partner that is more of a homebody.

The association is almost completely based upon his own misconceptions about human culture and social patterns, but Choso would also desire the comfort in knowing that his darling isn’t out at all hours of the day surrounding themselves with strangers and potential threats to their safety.

There’s something alluring about the idea that his darling would prefer to curl up under a fluffy blanket with a good book or tablet rather than go out drinking with her friends. Of course, his darling can absolutely enjoy themselves from time to time (this happens much less once the talons of Choso’s infatuation have clawed their way into them), but in general Choso is smitten with his darling’s more subdued nature.

It feeds into his delusions, too – the thought that his darling is able to understand his worries and love for them, and is thus making the conscious choice to not worry him and instead stay indoors and away from curses, men, danger. It’s not true, of course, but to Choso it absolutely is – and with each kind word his darling says and every night they spend scrolling in bed rather than out on a dancefloor, Choso’s obsession only grows stronger, the roots wrapping around his heart tighter and tighter.

They’re just perfect – he’s not sure if he’s fertile, but he’s absolutely convinced his darling would be a perfect mother – convinced enough that he doesn’t even bother to bring it up, certain that they’ll agree to building a family together. And he believes that process should start as soon as possible.

Patient

As a general rule, Choso is most likely to fall for a darling with a softer personality. Of course, they can have vibrancy and spark, a passion for life and a fighting spirit that equal parts worries and endears him. But the traits that specifically trigger his more obsessive tendencies tend to be those that are softer, sweeter, a sign of his darling’s emotional maturity. And going hand-in-hand with this, his darling absolutely must be patient.

He’s only very recently stepped into the human world, and he’s completely, utterly out of his league. He understands the cold thrill of battle, vengeance and physical brutality, but the moment fists are discarded for words? He’s lost, thrown off balance and unsure of how to even understand his own feelings, much less being able to actually articulate them. He often feels as if he’s bumbling through most human interactions (which is, arguably, very true), and while he has Yuji as a reference and guide to positive human social customs, he’s still a late bloomer.

And so, his darling absolutely needs to be able to consider this when interacting with him. He needs someone who is able to explain each and every facet of human emotion and customs to him, to walk him through everything with care and encouragement without condescension.

A darling who is able to stick with him and not give up on him when he doesn’t understand basic things like a handshake or envy is a deal-breaker for him. He’s attracted to the way they stay loyal, how they don’t give up at the first sign of challenge, how they’re willing to stick by his side and let him make the same mistakes over and over all without that breathtaking smile of theirs faltering.

Choso isn’t particularly insecure, but he does become very self-conscious in the context of unfamiliar human social interactions – especially romantic ones. And so, even beyond just catching his eye, his darling needs to remain patient with him while Choso navigates his festering obsession and attempts at courting them.

Of course it doesn’t go particularly well, but a darling who’s able to simply brush him off and help him try again is an absolutely lifesaver for him – and unfortunately, this single trait is likely what spells defeat for his darling.

 It’s the trait that he reveres them for, the attribute that makes him feel so close to and connected to them, and it’s ultimately their biggest weakness. They’ll become so fiercely protective over sweet, oblivious Choso (though he’s never particularly sweet, that low timbre of his voice and the ominious feeling associated with his half-cursed status never allowing his companions to ever completely relax) that their patience and desire to help him will eventually lead to them disregarding much of his concerning behaviors.

He’s still learning, they’ll reason.

He just doesn’t understand exactly what ‘I love you’ means yet, that’s all, they’ll convince themselves.

He doesn’t realize what physical intimacy means for humans yet, and does he actually even know what he’s asking for when he says he wants to ‘taste me’?

It’s Choso’s greatest treasure and his darling’s greatest downfall, and he’ll tell them as much once he’s got them securely under his thumb, right where they should be.

Easily distracted

In general, much of what fuels Choso’s obsession with his darling is a compulsive drive to be needed. He lives for his brothers, yes, but the picture perfect image of a family that he’s always nursed a hope he’d achieve one day is incomplete without one important, necessary component: his partner.

He wants someone who is a perfect match for him – someone to care for, dote on, to protect and love and shower with his time, energy, and affections.

And so, Choso tends to gravitate more toward a darling who, to put it bluntly, needs this sort of gentle care and micromanaging.

He wants someone who is obviously in clear need of an anchor, of a person who is steady and can keep them grounded. And so, a darling who tends to be a bit airheaded is an ideal match for him. He wants a darling who he can truly believe needs his help. He wants someone who will grow to depend on him, to want him to be by their side every minute of every day.

And while he’d prefer a darling with at least a moderate level of intelligence, Choso is endeared by pretty much any behavior that really reinforces this idea.

His darling is out walking and happens to notice a flower growing between concrete slabs rather than the rather suspicious pickpocket walking toward them? Well, they’re just lucky Choso had been following them for the last three miles.

They’re dicing an onion in the kitchen and are letting their mind wander, not noticing how the knife’s angle has shifted toward their fingers? Well, they’re lucky Choso’s standing directly behind them, dark eyes fixed on them and his hands prying the knife out of their fingers before they can even realize what’s happening.

A darling who’s more easily distracted really plays on Choso’s desire to feel necessary and important in their life, and it’s something that he’s actively looking for in a partner (whether he knows it or not). It’s just so cute – just how badly they need him, how they’d be utterly lost without his presence in their life.

So, so very endearing – so why do they put up a fight when he crosses boundary after boundary, claiming he’s being condescending when he doesn’t let them wash their own hair anymore? It’s for the best, he’s sure of it. And he’ll make sure his darling is sure of it, too.

Non-confrontational

Going hand-in-hand with his desire for a patient and easily distracted partner, Choso is most likely to develop an obsession with someone who he feels not only needs him as an anchor but as a protector, too.

He loves the fact that his darling is softer, sweeter, perhaps not great at standing up for themselves, because it only makes him feel more needed.

It makes him feel as if his darling wouldn’t be able to survive without him – as if they can’t live without him. It sends his protective instincts flaring up, his possessiveness increasing ten-fold when he thinks about how deeply his darling grows to rely on him.

It’s therapeutic, really, because Choso sees his relationship with them as perfect: he gets to dote on them and ensure that they’re cared for in each and every way (including fighting men and with ill intentions toward them, cutting off friendships he feels are no longer good for their mental health (which is nearly all of their friendships in his eyes, really), and become the strong, masculine provider he feels his darling deserves. In return, all his darling must do is stay dependent on him, to return his love eagerly and happily, and to let him worship and revere them in every depraved, disturbing way he feels the need to.

It’s unhealthy, sure, but these more negative traits in his darling only inspire the obsession to brew faster, spurred on by a determination to keep them safe and secure and sound.

And really, that’s exactly what all the movies and books tell him he should be doing – keeping them safe and happy. That’s love, right? So why is his darling so resistant to label it as such?

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Delusional

With his brothers either dead, not yet realized as physical curses, or entirely unneeding of saving (every time Yuuji tells him this, he feels his heart shatter bit by bit), Choso’s somewhat lost. His entire life has been dedicated to protecting and looking after his family, and without them in the picture life feels dull, bland, pointless. He’s not entirely sure what his purpose is, and this is a very, very large factor in the development of his obsession with you.

That is, once Choso becomes aware of the feelings that seem to come from nowhere the moment you step into his line of sight, he begins to hyper fixate on you you you, deeming you his new life’s purpose, for lack of a better term. You become part of his family in many ways – of course, he by no means has platonic feelings for you, but the uncontrollable urge to serve and protect remains.

(He’s never noticed how tightly shirts fit Yuuji’s chest, for example, nor has he ever awoken in a cold sweat with the very vivid fantasy of Eso fresh on his mind and cum freshly staining the bedsheets. It’s different, because with you you’re a member of his family by virtue of being his ‘wife’ – his partner in every loving, domestic way.)

He becomes entirely consumed by the idea of placing you onto a pedestal in his life and shifting his entire focus on protecting for you, caring for you, and being as attentive and successful a lover as he possibly can be. Of course, his knowledge on the subject is very limited – his own conception was rocky at best, his mother and ‘father’ certainly not a good representation of what a loving union should be like. And while he quickly becomes bombarded with all the media-driven ideas of what romance and a healthy relationship look like, something gets lost in translation. That is, Choso is absolutely clueless, but has no idea that he is.

As a curse womb, his pride is high but his understanding of human emotions, customs, and traditions is extremely low. It takes him a long time to be able to articulate the feelings that overtake him at the thought of you – at first, he’s alarmed and, quite frankly, angry. Why is his pulse suddenly sky-rocketing when he catches a glimpse of your smile? Why are his palms suddenly clammy when he hears your voice? Why is he so unbearably hot when he smells even the faintest whiff of your scent?

It’s disorienting, this unfamiliar body reacting in unfamiliar ways, and Choso initially tries to disregard it. You must have some cursed technique that affects his body in such a strange manner – he senses no ill will, though, so he ultimately decides that whatever you’re doing to him doesn’t necessitate a worthwhile intervention.

And that works – for a brief time. He ignores the way he can’t stop staring at you when you’re near him, dark eyes raking over the curve of your nose, the lines of your shoulders, the swell of your hips and ass. He shrugs off the way his throat goes dry when you say his name, something sounding far too high-pitched threatening to tumble from his lips.

It's torture, to say the least, and with each passing incident it grows more and more difficult to simply write everything off as a side-effect of this body. He grows so frustrated, in fact, that he seeks Yuuji’s advice about the phenomenon. The conversation is awkward, to put it lightly, the younger sorcerer’s face twisting up in a bout of confusion and sympathy as Choso broods, his brows knitting tight as he details the bodily reactions he has to you.

Weak knees, over-awareness of his body, unstoppable urge to fix his bangs with trembling fingers, an uncomfortable sensation gathering in his lower stomach and groin when you bite your lip or bend over…

(Yuuji grimaces at that last one.)

As a response, Yuuji throws his arm around the half-curse, smiling cheekily and murmuring out you liiiike her! The conversation is long, drawn-out, Choso’s ignorance about human emotion leading Yuuji to explain each and every detail of attraction and romance he can muster, and all the while Choso’s alternating between staring at his hands and at his brother. He’s listening, yes, but as time passes certain words start to circle in his mind, ringing through clear as a bell the longer they marinate.

Yuuji said men who love a woman feel an undeniable urge to be around her. Check. He said they feel the need to keep her safe. Check.

He said they feel the desire to hold her, keep her warm, press their lips against her. Check.

He said they feel the urge to keep them away from any other men and entirely for themselves. Check, check, check.

Yuuji walks away from the conversation mildly pleased with himself and cautiously excited for his newfound ally, while Choso wanders back to his measly apartment with a dazed look in his eye. Love. That’s what Yuuji had called it. And so, as the sun sets and moonlight drips through his open window, Choso’s scrolling through the TV channels, flipping through the terrible romance novels and magazines Yuki had given him, even watching some of Yuuji’s recommended movies.

(He particularly enjoys the series Twilight, dark eyes widening slightly at the reveal that both Edward and Jacob – the love interests, or so he assumes – aren’t exactly human, either. Perhaps you’d like that too…?)

He’s eagerly consuming as much media surrounding the suffocating, glorious feeling of love as he possibly can, feeling his heart pound faster and faster with every scenario he reads about, every sign of mutual attraction he learns. And all throughout, he’s imagining you – would you enjoy these grand gestures of affection? Would you like him to serenade you or buy you thousands of dollars worth of expensive clothing and jewels?

(He’s never really tried to sing, nor does he have access to large sums of yen, but if you asked him to do it, Choso swears he’d do absolutely anything to fulfil your request. Besides, quite a number of the novels describe the woman as being aroused at the sight of the man taking violent and distasteful means to achieve his goals and win her – and Choso nearly drools at the thought of arousing you. The thought of you covered in blood – not your own of course – is enticing, too, if the way he licks his lips and swallows heavily is any indication.)

He becomes entirely consumed – and this is where his delusional behaviors begin to play a role. It’s not instantaneous like his ‘memories’ of Yuuji, but rather a slow, barely noticeable decline in fabricating all sorts of quality moments with you. Though you’ve likely never held a conversation for more than a few minutes (perhaps on a busy train or serving him at your workplace), Choso nurses onto a fake memory that you’ve spent whole evenings together; rambling about your likes and dislikes, coworkers, your feelings for him, anything and everything.

And the delusion runs so deeply that Choso can even distinctly ‘remember’ what you were wearing – a pretty purple summer dress, one that’d made Choso gulp. (Especially when you’d leaned in, pressing your chest against his arm and breathing out that you’d worn it just for you, Cho, so we could color-match…)

It’s vivid, so vivid in fact that he loses all knowledge that it’s not real. He’s entirely captivated by the idea that your relationship is founded on more than simply his carnal attraction to you and the copious, invasive amounts of information he’s gathered on your personal life, preferences, habits, and insecurities.

It’s alarming, and while he’s doesn’t often let these fake memories slip, every once in a while he’ll look at you, gaze dark and heavy and pleading, almost, low voice murmuring something about the sweet cinnamon bun you’d bought for him when you’d first met, your nervous laughter and regret palpable when he’d told you he doesn’t enjoy sweet foods. (Or that he eats at all, really.)

You’ll be left confused, struggling to remember the interaction in any way, but Choso will only lightly shush you, instead redirecting the conversation to some other topic, wanting to hear your voice ring through his ears like a drug. It’s subtle at first, and you won’t recognize what’s actually happening until it’s much, much too late – by that point he’s metaphorically sunk his claws into you, unwilling and incapable of letting go because oh, you’re what he lives for now, and please, won’t you be good for him? All he asks is that you listen to his commands, stay healthy and safe, and keep looking at him with that smile that makes his stomach twist in knots and something hot, heavy, and possessive stir in his guts.

It’s not so hard, is it? After all, Choso will give you absolutely everything you need – and soon, even you’ll struggle to differentiate what’s real and fake, what with the way Choso speaks with such authority that you’d be foolish to disagree.

Just smile, nod, let him pull you much too close, breath in your scent much too loudly, and murmur that you’re his, his, his.

Protective

Once his obsession with you forms, Choso is fiercely protective over you. It’s irrelevant whether you’re a sorcerer or not – he sees his role in your life as being your guardian angel of sorts. He idolizes you, bordering very strongly on worshipping you, and as a result he dedicates himself to ensuring your complete safety and security at any given moment.

This is especially true if you yourself aren’t a sorcerer – if you are, it’s unlikely that you’re more powerful than Choso, and so really, your position stays the same, with the sole exception that at least a small part of Choso is slightly relieved that you at least know how to use cursed energy. But if you aren’t a sorcerer? Or better yet, someone who’s entirely unaware of the curse world?

Oh.

His delusions kick up again, convincing himself that you’re entirely and utterly incapable of defending yourself against the wide swath of supernatural creatures jumping at the chance to sink their fangs into you.

He’s constantly plagued by thoughts of how they’d slowly rip you apart, your blood splattering in every direction, your pained, panicked screams growing louder and louder as their jaws snap down, biting and gnawing and tearing and feeding – It’s enough to have blood freely flowing from his mark, his fists clenched so tightly his nails leave an imprint against his palm, cursed energy flaring so highly and intensely that it knocks inanimate objects off any table, wall, or surface near him.

And really, it’s a mixture of rage and genuine terror that grips him at the thought. Rage, because how dare some filthy curse lay a hand on his lover? How dare they taint her with their disgusting germs and selfish, violent desires? And if the perpetrator is a human? Well, he’s not on Getou’s side, but the idea of slaughtering humans sounds more and more appealing, his cursed nature rising up and practically begging him to make the man suffer until he can no longer scream, can no longer plead, can no longer think.

And then, of course, there’s the element of terror. You’ve become Choso’s sole reason and motivation for existence, and the concept of you dying or becoming injured makes his heart clench in almost a sense of existential dread. Without you, what is he? Without your wellbeing and love to chase after, guard, and protect, then why is he even alive?

It’s a big enough question to leave him with his head in his hands, fingers shaking and eyes wide open, spiraling down down down until he’s nearly hyperventilating and only able to focus on finding you immediately and making sure you’re without a scratch, blemish, or wound.

And so, Choso takes his job as your protector very, very seriously – to the point that it’s suffocating. Even early into his infatuation, Choso is constantly hovering. He’s asking how you’re feeling, when you last drank water, what you’ve eaten that day, if you got enough sleep the night before. After each question he’ll patiently wait, those dark eyes trained exclusively on you as he holds his breath. It’s innocent enough at first, you suppose, his genuine concern for your well-being sweet. It’s endearing, really, that he wants to make sure that you’re feeling good – it’s kind, and it’ll make you feel seen and taken care of.

But then the questions slowly start slipping into more gray area – what started as a question of are you regularly brushing your teeth becomes how long do you brush for? What directions do you brush, and what kind of toothpaste? What brand of brush?

Simple questions of what’d you eat for lunch transform into how many bites of the protein did you eat, and what was the order that you ate it? Are you feeling any digestive pain? Have you passed gas in the last ten minutes?

Even more invasive questions are on the table as far as Choso is concerned: when did you last menstruate? Did you notice more clumps and clots than usual? When did you last masturbate? Are you thoroughly cleaning the toy each time you use it?

He’s not even remotely embarrassed, either, asking each and every question with a completely neutral face, his expression nothing if not openly earnest to know the answer. It’s off-putting after a while, but like most other things you’ll grow to simply associate it with Choso. He’s not been a human for long, and perhaps he doesn’t understand that asking about the color of your urine recently is not a normal topic of conversation.

(Nor is asking how many fingers you typically stuff yourself with late at night, but the oh-so light flush on his cheeks when he asks that clues you in on the fact that CHoso must know how inappropriate that is to ask. Right? So then why is he holding up that same number of fingers, curling and practicing a come hither motion all while you stare at him with your jaw dropped?)

And really, for the most part it is innocent – the paranoia for your well-being eats away at him nearly every hour of the day, and so knowing the answers to these questions not only quells his drive to learn every little detail about you but also soothes his anxieties. You’re safe if you’ve eaten both breakfast and lunch today, dinner right around the corner. You’re healthy if you’ve drank a few glasses of water today. You’re protected if he checks your pulse a couple times an hour.

It’s neurotic, really, just how panicked he gets when an answer doesn’t align with what he’s looking for, but his protective tendencies really come out when it comes to any situation where your safety is genuinely threatened.

Even a single bruise against your skin from you tripping over an uneven sidewalk has him shaking, strong hands shoving you onto the bed and wrapping you in all manner of blankets and plush pillows, taking your temperature and force-feeding you pain pills. He’ll settle you in and make sure you’re as comfortable and soft as humanly possible,sitting by your side and holding your hand in his for hours on end. He’s silent for most of it, simply staring at you from his seated position, occasionally letting out an uneven, drawn-out breath and gulping loudly.

(You’ll wake up to him lightly playing with your hair, licking his lips and bringing a few strands that’d come loose up to his lips, pink tongue flicking out to lick at the strand, his eyes fluttering closed and something like a whine slipping past his lips. It’s alarming, but the moment he notices you’re awake he’ll only softly smile, murmuring your name and asking if you’re feeling any better.)

He’s nursing you back to health, checking on the bruise every hour or so to see if it’s diminished, making sure to give you cold compresses and cooking you (very bland) soups while hand-feeding you. It’s all way too much and will leave you feeling childish and frankly patronized, but Choso doesn’t mean to belittle you. He’s genuinely trying to help, wanting to make you feel as good as possible to make up for his serious lack of judgement in not watching where you were walking for you. He should’ve gone in front of you, staked out the dangers, made sure to protect you like a good partner would. But he hadn’t – and so, this behavior only becomes worse when the threat is something more serious.

He panics when you hurt yourself through your own clumsiness? Well, the moment there’s a larger threat to you, his overprotectiveness only intensifies tenfold. Choso sticks to you like glue, and so it doesn’t often happen that you encounter a wayward curse or nefarious man with ill intentions. But when it does happen, Choso will stumble into the aftermath and absolutely lose it. When he returns back from checking on Yuji for a short afternoon, Choso wanders your usual routes to the store and work only to find you hunched over, coughing and wheezing, some man in a black hoodie running off with your purse clutched in his hand.

It happens faster than Choso can even process it – his first priority is you of course, rushing over to you as fast as he can, scooping you into his arms and sprinting back to your ‘shared’ apartment. He’s immediately ripping your shirt off of you (much to your very, very strained protests), and immediately sucking in a sharp breath at the way droplets of blood cascade down your side from the shallow cut the man had given you. Tears gather at the corners of Choso’s eyes, beading up and slipping down his cheeks as he whispers apology after apology, getting clean, warm, wet rags to wipe up the blood, bandages and gauze and disinfectant creams to dress your wound, putting you in the softest pajamas you own and gingerly setting you onto your bed.

He’s staying with you as his breathing grows more and more uneven, rage starting to bleed into the panic as he sees you slowly falling asleep. He’s irate, really, and immediately after your eyes finally close and your breaths even out he’s hunting the perpetrator down and absolutely pummeling him. He’s using Piercing Blood to slice him into bite-sized pieces, bringing the blood down again and again and again until all that remains is a large, lumpy pool of blood, all traces of the body gone.

(And no, he doesn’t think to wash the blood off of his skin before he rushes back to you, red smeared across his cheeks and forehead, splattered across his clothes, caked into his hair as he coos at you, thumb brushing against your cheek, his lips planting greedy yet shy kisses against your clothed arms and collarbone, his other hand ghosting his fingertips ever so lightly against the trace edges of the bandages. You’re safe now, he’ll tell you, low voice rumbling, you’re always safe with me. I would sacrifice myself a thousand times just to make sure nothing ever touches you.)

Depending upon the severity of the perpetrator’s actions, he’ll even bring home a souvenir of the kill for you – a man put his hand on your ass and squeezed? You find that same hand in a kitchen bowl by your nightstand, Choso eagerly waiting for you to wake up so he can show off his handy work. If the man irritates or scares you rather than actually hurts you, Choso’s tactics of murder are much less messy, and so he has pieces to scavenge for to show you. He’s more blinded by rage when the man has hurt you, though, so you’re much less likely to receive one of these ‘gifts’ in that instance.

(And Choso truly, honestly thinks you’d like this show of his faith in protecting you – it shows his capacity to be your provider and protector, right? He’s seen animals do it before, so why would humans be any different? Isn’t it romantic? Don’t you like it?)

He thinks of you as his reason for living, and Choso would rather cut off each and every limb than see you suffer – so really, it’s not worth it to fight the way he smothers you. Isn’t it just so sweet, caring, considerate?

Selfless

Going hand in hand with his clinginess and protective tendencies, Choso becomes – for lack of a better term – your slave. He’s so, so eager to do anything and everything he can to make you happy and feeling cared for, no matter what it demands of him.

Though he has a high amount of pride associated with his status as a half-curse, he has much less pride when it comes to traditional concepts of masculinity, boundaries, exploitation.

He wants to be your everything, just as you are his. And in his mind, this means that he should do everything he possibly can to make you happy, just as he’s sure you would do for him. And so, from the moment that he realizes he’s developed feelings for you (even before he’s able to pinpoint them as love with the help of Yuji and Yuki), he’s taking every chance and opportunity to try and please you.

He’s spending painstakingly long amounts of time poking at his cell phone as he types out a rather formal good night, I hope your sleep is restful. He’s frowning and grimacing as he mistypes yet again, the autocorrect warping his words into something unrecognizable, irritating swimming in his gut because dammit, he can’t remember exactly how Yuji said to use this damn thing.

He’s stopping briefly outside the convenience store late at night, dark eyes staring at the particular brand of chips you’ve mentioned you love. The packaging is cute, and there’s a couple stuffed up on the store counter, and before he can really even process it he’s already awkwardly handing over exact change to the cashier, bag in hand.

(And when he drops the snack off to your apartment that night, you’ll notice the way he sucks in a very sharp breath when your hands brush, your warm skin contrasting against his cold fingers, the sensation of you touching him genuinely knocking the breath out of his lungs. He’ll stand there staring at you for another couple of moments, frozen and wide-eyed, and only snaps out of it when you frown and call his name, your hand reaching out to brush against his clothed arm. Some part of him – one that he can hear Yuuji scolding in his head – urges him to rip off his top and ask you to do it again, to feel your entire palm against the scarred, hard lines of muscle against his forearm… But he ultimately stops himself even as his fingers twitch. Touch me, please, his lips almost form the words, just the barest of whispers beginning to slip past them, before you smile and welcome him inside, the moment over as soon as it began.)

He’s putting your groceries away when he comes home from shopping with you, moving like a silent shadow as he puts each and every can, produce bag, and product in its respective cabinet, refrigerator shelf, or counter space. And when you return from the bathroom after a few moments, you’re surprised to see the counters completely clean, not a sign of your groceries in sight aside from the paper bag it came in – the ones Choso knows you like to keep for other things. You’ll be delighted at his thoughtfulness, smiling at him and full-heartedly thanking him, making some off-hand comment about how you get too lazy to do it sometimes and how he’s such a life-saver. And Choso will only smile softly, endeared at how natural and right you look, how it feels so very correct to have you looking at him and letting him take care of you like this.

(Nevermind the fact that you’ve never explained to him where you keep your bags of rice, or which drawer holds which vegetables and meats. You’re too delighted to notice, but oh, Choso notices. He always notices – and when you go to cook later that night and find the onions in your produce bowl right where they should be, you’ll only smile, internally wondering at Choso’s attention to detail. Later on, when he’s able to put away your panties in the correct spots, organize your shower products into the exact order you use them, or put your vibrator – that you’d hastily put away when he knocked unannounced earlier in the day – back in its drawer. It’s less endearing then, surely, but for now, as you stand over the boiling water on the stove, it’s sweet.)

And really, as Choso’s delusions begin to warp his sense of reality more and more, this type of behavior only becomes more prevalent, his selflessness becoming uncomfortable for you to be around.

You’ve managed to drag him outside of the apartment under the guise of needing fresh air, and the park you’ve walked to has a small hill? He doesn’t even ask before strong arms are wrapping around your waist, only a grunt falling from him as he lifts you up and starts up the hill, ignoring the way you gasp and clutch at him, telling him that it’s really not necessary, I can walk on my own, you can put me down! He doesn’t, despite your insistence, and when he finally does after the hill has been climbed, he’ll only smile at you, telling you it’s no trouble.

He’s constantly trying to clean things and make your life easier, and for the most part it’s helpful – except that Choso also tends to take it too far, resulting in more work, expense, and effort on your part – like the trash, for example. He’s sitting on the edge of his seat as you dice up an onion in your kitchen, muscles so tense it borders on painful as he watches the silver knife slice down, down, down. He’s faster than you can see as he’s suddenly behind you, not forceful as he moves you out of the way but certainly not overly gentle. The blade is in his hands before you can blink, concentration etches into his features as he carefully slices, his voice ever so slightly cutting when he tells you to be careful, even kitchen knives can be dangerous.

When you leave to take a quick shower, you’ll return back to every vegetable in your kitchen diced and cut, packed neatly into bags in the refrigerator, Choso looking at you with this thinly-veiled thirst for your praise, hoping you’ll say how you appreciate him, thank you, tell him that he’s being so good for you.

Nevermind that you didn’t want all those vegetables cut and diced – he’s just trying to be nice, after all, and he doesn’t want you to touch that knife again. Don’t. He’s taking out the trash when he notices it’s full, having watched you do the same and not wanting you to strain your back with carrying it. And after you compliment him and thank him for making your house chores a lighter burden, he’s immediately perking up, throwing out trash bags the minute you put something small in it.

(Even a single napkin or paper towel will have him tying up the bag, carrying it to your complex’s dumpster, eagerly awaiting your praise and thanks and the way you’re looking at him when you say it.)

It’s kind and you’re thankful for his help, to an extend, but at he continues to forcefully stay in your apartment, it’ll become harder and harder to ignore the way Choso works so hard to make you happy. It’s embarrassing, to an extent, giving you a rather acute sense of second-hand embarrassment because how can one person be so singly desperate for your approval? After each good deed he’s looking at you hopefully, expectantly, frantically, needing you to see him and acknowledge him and admit that you need him.

Because really, that’s what his selflessness boils down to – he wants you to express just how much his presence and love completes you. He wants you to verbalize to him that he’s your ideal partner, just as you’re his. It’s an affirmation of his feelings, really, a non-direct admittance that you love him too – even if you don’t realize it.

So please, please tell him how amazing he is when he hand-washes your dishes. Give him a kiss on the cheek when he wordlessly begins rubbing at your feet when you mention they’re tired from standing all day.

(Ignore the way he marvels at the feeling of your skin against his, even if it’s just the ball of your foot.)

Tell him that you love him when he’s insisting on running your errands for you, wanting you to stay put in the apartment and let him do all the heavy lifting. Isn’t he just so charming? Aren’t you falling in love with him, too?

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Choso is, by his nature, a possessive creature. You’ve given him his first taste of romantic, emotional attachment that isn’t purely platonic, and Choso slowly grows to grasp onto the feeling so hard his knuckles turn white. He grows addicted to the way you make his heart race, the ways his palms grow sweaty, the way he becomes hyperaware the moment your name is mentioned.

It becomes all-consuming, pleasurable in a way he didn’t think was possible, and as time passes Choso delves deeper and deeper into this sense of desperation, his feelings toward you growing in turn more and more problematic.

There’s a genuine sense of reverence he feels toward you, sure, but it goes hand in hand with the suffocating feeling of terror that plagues him when he subconsciously thinks of you being injured.

There’s an emotional high that leaves his breath stuttering and his entire body feeling on fire when you’re near him, but there’s also a sudden wave of panic that you’ll move further away from him, that you won’t stay glued to his side like you are now, that you’ll leave him.

And so while Choso is possessive, he’s really more territorial. You’re his – you belong to him in body, mind, and every way that’s important, just as he belongs to you. But because he’s only recently been introduced to human culture, feelings, social norms, Choso is painfully behind and inexperienced as to what constitutes a ‘normal’ amount of jealousy and ownership over someone.

And so, he – very quickly – goes from zero to one hundred in his views on your relationship, completely convinced that because he’s feeling such strong emotional ties to you, surely you must feel the same. Surely you must see him as an extension of yourself as he does you. You must think of him as your destined partner, the one you’re meant to spend eternity with and spend every waking moment with. You must perceive him to be your lifeline – the reason you live and breath.

You have to.

There’s simply no space for doubt in his mind that the sentiment is completely returned by you, and so while Choso’s possessiveness bleeds out in other ways, his territorial nature manifests primarily as him wanting to make sure that you stay pristine, safe, and untouched by others. It has less to do with a compulsive desire to keep you solely and exclusively for himself (though that’s certainly there, too, and he would not take it well if you were to express any sort of attraction toward another man) and more with an uncontrollable sense of anxiety that he’ll somehow let danger slip by him and instead target you. You’re weak in his head, regardless of your own personal combat abilities, and Choso completely, full-heartedly thinks that protecting you is his job.

It’s his duty as your lover (though you haven’t done more than very lightly, very awkwardly hugged), your life-partner, your protector to keep all others away from you to ensure your safety. He’s paranoid and believes that everyone who approaches you must have poor intentions, believing every human and cursed spirit to wish you harm or to steal some selfish thing from you.

(This includes your body and your attention, but because of the way Choso views your relationship dynamics, it’s less about him being jealous and more about him being convinced that you’ll be taken advantage of or hurt.)

And so, for all intents and purposes, Choso will not allow anyone whom he doesn’t already know and trust to get close to you. And this list is small – Yuuji, of course, as well as Yuki, Fushiguro, Maki, and to an extent Yuta and Gojo. He’ll allow you to be in contact with them, even begrudgingly letting them get physically close to you, but always with a watchful, predatory eye trained on the both of you. He’s ready to step in at a moment’s notice, hesitation only barely present as he cooly slides between you two, his expression dark and twisted up, cursed energy humming so strongly it’ll physically hurt.

But beyond these people, his reaction is even more extreme. He assumes the worst of people, naturally, and so the moment he realizes that the woman in the street is staring at you longer than normal, or that the man behind the counter at the deli is giving you a glance one too many times, Choso’s immediately on edge, every muscle visibly tensed.

The first time that he’d really acted on his impulses had not been pleasant – you’d been at the park, letting the sun shine down onto your face as he sat beside you on a park bench. It was a peaceful, warm May afternoon – the perfect temperature and a perfect time to simply relax and enjoy yourself. You hadn’t seen the man approach, but you’d certainly heard his screams, the smattering of warm blood across your legs a sign as to what exactly Choso had done to the man simply trying to ask you for directions. He wasn’t dead, per se, but with a severed leg and being unconscious, the least you could do was call him an ambulance.

You’d been livid with Choso; yelling, accusing, sobbing, asking him how he could have possibly done that to another human being, cursed nature be damned. And while Choso had ultimately apologized, it was done more out of a genuine sense of regret for having upset you rather than expressing guilt about permanently maiming the innocent stranger. Your anger had taken a long time to dissipate, but you’d eventually – somewhat reluctantly – brushed it off as simply Choso’s cursed nature forcing him into extreme instinctual decisions that you can’t truly blame him for.

(And Choso will stay quiet, those dark eyes purposefully kept very muted when you’d told him as much, choosing to omit the fact that he’d wanted to do even more damage to the man. He’d wanted to take his life and squeeze, to force him into an early grave because the thought of him approaching you to hurt you is simply too much for poor Choso to bear.)

And so, in an effort to not upset you he’s become purposefully much more controlled around men that get too close to you. This was done partly out of respect for your wishes, and also to try and stay in your good graces because god it felt agonizing to have you angry with him, like a pain he’d never felt before.

Choso practices this new extreme self-discipline just a few weeks later at the local supermarket. You’re humming lightly as you scan the aisles, grocery basket cradled in your elbow with a few assorted goods sitting comfortably inside. Choso’s trailing behind you a few paces away, matching his footsteps with the rhythm of yours. It makes him feel closer to you in some strange, intangible way; like you’re one and the same, your bodies moving in tandem and connected. His dark eyes are focused on your calves and feet, unblinking as he forces his breathing to align with yours, too.

He’s so focused, in fact, that he doesn’t notice the pair of too-perfect sneakers that start to approach you from another direction. You’re tapping your chin, eyes scanning over the large selection of onions and tomatoes on the produce rack in front of you. There’s too many options, and all the swirling prices are leaving your head spinning slightly.

Feeling overwhelmed?

A voice rings out beside you, the slight swagger making you stiffen up ever so slightly. You turn to look and are met with a man a few inches taller than you, looking at you with a smirk spread across his lips. You half-smile, nodding slightly and turning to look away, not wanting to engage with him. He seemed pretentious, just based off those two words, and with Choso uncomfortably close, you didn’t want a repeat of the park incident. (Even if the man felt smarmy, unlike the stranger whose leg was still missing.)

At your obvious disinterest, the man’s smile only widens. Don’t feel like talking, huh? You’re still tense, but irritation is starting to well up in your chest. Gripping hard at the plastic of your grocery basket, you pointedly ignore him. From the corner of your eye you can see Choso’s gaze suddenly snaps from the ground – had he been staring at your feet? – and toward the stranger. His eyes go slightly wide then narrow, his entire body suddenly on edge and flexed, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

For a brief second you brace yourself, terrified to feel that all-too-familiar splash of hot, thick blood against your skin, but nothing comes. Instead, the man opens his mouth again, taking a small step toward you. D’you hear me, bitch? Just because you’re cute doesn’t mean you’re allowed to ignore a guy when he’s talking to you.

Your brows furrow, teeth gritting together, and you see the way Choso’s eye twitches. He’s taking a step forward before you can even try to stop him. The air feels cold as he glares at the man, his own stature taller and wider than the other man’s. Choso’s eyes go dark as he glares down at the smaller man, his voice unnervingly cold and low as he mutters you’re disgusting.

It doesn’t go over well.

The man’s bristling, his face turning slightly red as he takes a step toward Choso, who’s moved to be slightly in front of you. The fuck did you just say, you ugly ass –

He’s cut off by Choso’s glare sharpening, cursed energy flaring for a brief moment, irritation brewing in his stomach. Though his gaze may look fixed on the man’s, internally he’s noting and assessing the man’s threat level. Minimal cursed energy that’s too sporadic to possibly be under the man’s control. Obviously not a sorcerer. The man’s stature looks to be rather scrawny, little muscle filling out the ill-fitting brand sweatshirt stretched across his chest. What is the word Yuuji said the other day? Tacky… No visible weapons, but it doesn’t stop Choso from widening his stance slightly, calling up his technique to be prepared in the blink of an eye.

He doesn’t sense the man’s strength as being significant enough to pose a sincere threat against Choso, but the same can’t be said about you. You, who’s much weaker than your ‘lover’ (regardless of whether you are or not, Choso firmly believes this), who seems to be the target of the man’s rather tasteless and aggressive pursual.

Shut up, you’re irritating us. Choso’s voice is still cold, and you pray that the man will get the clue and turn on his heel, practically running out of the produce section. But of course not – instead, you watch with baited, nervous breath as the man snickers, baring his teeth and making a lunge to grab at you. It’s too fast for you to even respond, only a small yelp spilling from your lips as Choso becomes a blur.

Thick, strong fingers wrap around the man’s bicep less than a moment later, nails digging into the man’s skin. Choso’s eyes are wide, veins bulging at his temple, every muscle in his arm flexed as he breaths heavily.

Don’t fucking touch her, he growls out, lowering his head slightly to match the man’s height. It’s taking everything in his power to not slice the man’s neck clean through with Convergence, the image of you looking at him like some sort of monster haunting him in the back of his mind. He won’t hurt the man if it’s what you wish (though the thought tastes sour, something thick and heavy and ugly settling in his gut), but the man’s already wincing, shrinking back from the suffocation of his glare and the pinpricks of blood his nails are conjuring up even through the fabric of the man’s hoodie.

Fuck man, whatever, just get off me, Jesus, what the hell’s wrong with you?

He’s wiggling and prying his arm out, but Choso’s grip remains steadfast, mental images flashing through his head of this man lunging out to you, his mind unable to not jump to immediate worst-case scenarios of what this scum was planning to do to you. It makes him feel sick, protectiveness and unease welling up in his chest and making him grip even harder, grinding his teeth and nearly hissing at the stranger. It’s only when the familiar feeling of your hands against his back that he snaps out of it, his breathing heavy and forcing his chest up and down in uneven intervals.

Choso, please don’t, please can we just go?

You’re pleading with him, pressing your face against his back, doing anything and everything to pull him out of whatever trance he’s been put under. You don’t like this man, surely, but even you don’t want to see him sliced open and dismembered. Choso’s shaking slightly, the combination of rage at the man and awe at the feeling of your body against his leaving him confused, frozen and unsure of what to do.

At the feeling of his confusion, you internally shudder but act before you can think – pressing your lips against the defined muscles lining his spine, the sensation making something like a whine slip past Choso’s lips. You hadn’t wanted to, but your inkling seems to have worked as Choso’s grip on the man goes slack, the stranger falling to the floor, before clumsily picking himself up, grumbling loudly under his breath about how you’re not fucking worth it, some freak isn’t worth it, bet she’s not even that good…

He’s walking away as fast as he can without seeming too eager, but before you can even breath out a sigh of relief Choso’s turning around, a soft pink settled onto his cheeks. He’s whispering your name under his breath, lips curving around the syllables, something reverent and uncomfortably final about his tone.

He doesn’t push you for another kiss right then, but he’s forcing you to keep his hand firmly clasped around yours, quite literally trapping your fingers against his palm, ending the shopping trip then and there because you have enough, we’re going home. Now. He doesn’t mention the kiss, at least not in the car ride home or for the rest of the day, but he’s staring at you, looking at you in a way that feels much too invasive and much too intimate. It’s like he’s looking into you, and he keeps licking his lips, his eyes briefly breaking contact with you to let them roll to the back of his head. It’s creepy, frankly, and after a good few hours of watching you sleeping peacefully in your bed (the one you still seem hesitant to let him into, but he’s sure you’ll eventually get over it – they always do in films, perhaps you’re just more shy?), only then will he slip outside.

And as he tracks the man’s cursed energy, letting his blood spray and splay onto the shitty carpet of his lackluster apartment, Choso can only grin. The murder – or slaughter, really – is drawn-out, but Choso leaves the now sticky, wet apartment to return to your side, kneeling beside your sleeping form. He’s carefully examining your arms and legs, checking over your face and neck for blemishes, taking note of every scratch and bruise with a clinical sort of determination.

Once he decides you’re safe, that no physical harm has befallen you, he’ll only slowly sigh, leaning his head against the mattress and simply watching as you breath in, out, in, out, matching his breathing with you. You’re just too precious and sweet, and so he’ll behave if you want him to – that is, he’ll still absolutely be killing any human that threatens to get close to you, but he’ll do it out of your sight.

It’s a win-win situation, really – he gets to eliminate any threats to your safety while ensuring you look at him with those pretty, glossy, perfect eyes he loves so much. You’re just so damn perfect…

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

Because Choso has very limited experience living amongst human beings, he’s not particularly well educated in what the pacing of a romantic relationship typically looks like. He has no reference points for how long to wait to kiss you, to say he loves you, to slip a pretty, glittering ring onto your finger.

(And for many of these milestones, Choso can’t even properly articulate exactly what it is that he even wants to do to you – he’s following his instincts most of the time, fueled by a desire to have you looking at him and touching him as often as possible. Really, really often, with as few articles of clothing separating you as possible.)

And as a result, he has absolutely no cluehow long to wait to bring up the idea of living together, much less how he should bring it up in the first place. He doesn’t even realize how big of a step it is; he’s consuming all this romantic media, but the movies all seem to tell him that moving in should come seemingly a few weeks after meeting. They all seem to wind up in the same living space – the one-bed trope, the down-on-their-luck-and-oh-it-seems-their-partner’s-place-is-the-only-possible-option.

He just assumes this is natural, and as the woman is always so very pleased, he assumes you will be, too. You’ll be happy to live with him, yes? He loves you and so you must love him too, and this will only prove it. Now you don’t have to play coy or pretend that you don’t like the way he openly stares at you, the way he’s always at your heels in public, the way he sometimes makes decisions for you with your best interest at heart.

(He’d ordered your food for you once in public, and while you were too shocked to say anything, Yuuji and Kugisaki – your lunch companions – certainly were not. Kugisaki had whacked him upside the head and lectured him, while Yuuji grimaced and muttered not cool, man. Choso didn’t totally understand, but he knew to be careful the next time – only giving suggestions, and letting you ultimately tell the waiter. Though, the waiter’s playful wink had him clenching his fist under the table, working very hard to control himself and not slice the man’s head off with his technique – Yuuji had warned him that women typically don’t like violence, though Choso idly wonders if you’d like it if it was in defense of you. The films say it’s romantic, after all…)

Moving in together simply makes sense in Choso’s mind, and so it’s extremely likely that one day he just sort of… doesn’t go back to his own apartment. He’ll show up with takeout and a small, strangely robotic smile when you open the door, sitting too close to you on the couch while you watch the movie you’d told him was a must-see – a cultural touchstone, if you will.

You won’t say anything about the way he wraps his arm around your shoulders, physically pulling you into him, his other hand finding your thigh and running his thumb in small circles.

You won’t say anything about the way he leans down a bit and puts his nose against the crown of your head, deeply inhaling and not even pretending to watch the film.

You won’t say anything because you’re not quite sure what to even say, convinced that Choso’s unawareness of human customs means he’s confusing platonic feelings with romantic actions, that it doesn’t mean what you really know it does deep down inside.

The movie will crawl by at a snail’s pace, the dialogue suddenly stretching a lifetime, and when it’s finally over you’ll worm your way out of his grasp. He’ll pout up at you, only standing and returning his arm around you – but at your waist this time, to which you’ll let out a nervous laugh. You’ll thank him for the takeout and subtly try to edge him toward the door, mentioning how late it is, how tired you are, how the walk back to his apartment is long so he should probably get started.

Choso will only nod, and tell you in the most monotonous voice that he will be staying here tonight. It’s not a question.

He’s firm, no wavering or hesitance in his voice, and try as you might to redirect him, he just doubles down and responds with the same air of sureness, not a hint of doubt present. Eventually you’ll give in, begrudgingly telling him that he’s welcome to spend the night on the couch, convincing yourself that perhaps Yuuji had told him about sleepovers or some other childish friendship experience, and you knew Choso would have no reason to not believe him. At least, no reason to think of why it’s inappropriate given both your relationship with Choso and your ages.

You’ll pull your entire supply of blankets and a fluffy pillow from your bed, even an extra toothbrush and towel for him in case he’d like to use them. (Choso cocks a brow at this – why wouldn’t he just use yours? When your eyes go wide and you meekly ask which item he means, his confusion only deepens as he responds with both, of course.)

He’s not completely sure why you’ve relegated him to the couch, but he’ll obediently stay there for the night, eyes staying wide open as he dutifully listens to every breath you take through the wall separating your living space from your bedroom. His superhuman hearing comes in handy, his eyes falling closed as he counts your breaths, a steady one, two, three…

And when morning comes and he’s still there, you’ll worriedly shrug, heading off to work and assuming he’ll wander his way out at some point. But when you get back that night and he’s waiting at your kitchen table, knee bouncing and immediately approaching you as you open the door, you’ll be forced to wonder exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into.

And even if you try to bring it up with him, Choso will just point blank tell you that he doesn’t understand. Don’t all lovers do this? And while you’ll laugh off the fact that he considers you lovers despite you having never done anything even remotely romantically intimate or sexual, it gets harder and harder to do it.

Eventually, he’ll be staying every night, forcing his way into your bed by simply not listening to your explanations of why it’s inappropriate. He’ll insist on making all of your meals, being careful to use ingredients that are nutritious and high-quality, keeping in mind all sorts of food idiosyncrasies of yours that you know you’ve never told him. He’ll start mixing your clothing with his, forcing his way into your sweatshirts and insisting on you wearing his robes, despite the possible mismatches in sizes between you.

(He’ll also start wearing some of your more personal items – he knows the lacy lingerie you keep stuffed away at the very far back corner of your drawer isn’t necessarily for men, but he knows you’ve worn it, and what’s yours is his, just as what’s his is yours. So when he slips it on for the first time, the pretty pink color standing out against his pale skin and dark hair, Choso can only idly trace patterns along the lace detailing. They’re clean, but he swears he can feel the phantom touch of your cunt against the material – warm and wet and so very empty. As the day progresses, the only giveaway that he’s wearing them will come in the form of the frequent readjustments he makes – the material isn’t made to contain his genitals, of course, and he’ll blatantly reach down inside to move his shaft or scoop a ball back into the soft material. And when you receive them later that night, with his unbothered expression as he hands them to you, you really, really shouldn’t ask why they’re warm. Or wet. Or sticky.)

He’ll begin to function as an unwanted, uninvited roommate – he’s cooking and cleaning, doing more than his fair share of the domestic duties, but what makes the situation so uncomfortable is that Choso really, truly doesn’t understand why you’re uncomfortable. He’s done everything right – provided for you, listened to your needs, keeps any wayward curses that come near your apartment complex from getting even remotely close to you.

He’s the ideal partner – so why do you still reject him? He doesn’t understand, and it only leads him to try harder.

He’s getting all the advice he can – chatting with Yuuji, asking for a woman’s perspective from Yuki, even going so far as to bite the bullet and ask fucking Gojo, who claims to be such a lady’s man.

(Of course, Choso’s recounting of what’s transpired between the two of you is wildly misleading to those he seeks advice from. He’s claiming that you agreed to live together, that you’re always showing him that you care, that you’re pleased and happy when his cold fingers brush your soft skin. And so of course Yuuji’s giving him a sympathetic look and slapping him on the back, his megawatt smile leaving Choso nearly blinded as he says to keep it up! She’ll see that you’re great any day now, and it’ll all work out! Of course Yuki’s tapping her chin, a devious smile spilling across her lips as she wiggles her brows and tells him to get her something raunchy, maybe she’s just feeling bored! Keep things spiced up so that it doesn’t feel dull and monotonous, ‘kay? Of course Gojo is practically jumping with glee, excited to be helping this oh-so-clueless curse with his woman troubles – too bad the only advice he can offer is to boast more in the hopes of impressing you and ‘reigniting the spark of young love’! Nevermind that Choso’s five times his age, and Gojo himself isn’t much older than you.)

And frankly, even as he ups the acts of service and pushes even further into your life (following you to work, waiting outside your building the entire day just to walk you home, picking up your fork or chopsticks and feeding you himself, insisting on washing your hair and scrubbing at your teeth for you), there’s almost something too earnest and raw about it for you to be truly angry. Choso’s never bashful, really, unless you’re brazen and initiating things yourself – to which you’ll be blessed with the slightest tint of red along his cheekbones and under the markings on his nose – but there’s this sense of unbridled yearning for you that will simultaneously unnerve and endear you.

Because really, while this objectively stronger, terrifying curse of a man simply will not leave you alone, there’s something oddly flattering about his persistence, his dedication to you, the way he always needs physical contact and never, ever looks away from you. There’s something about it that will make you feel seen and cared for in a way that you’ve never felt. You’ll feel needed and wanted to a degree that’s overwhelming at first but will satisfy each and every possible insecurity you have, and really, how can you be expected to just give that up? Sure, it might be alarming that he collects your discarded pads and tampons to nibble and suck at later, but with time you’ll find yourself absentmindedly just giving him the used products, something warm fluttering in your heart when he swallows heavily and maintains eye contact the whole while.

Yes, it may be disturbing that you’ve stumbled across him with his hands clasped to activate his technique, your terrified male coworker cowering across the alleyway from him, but you’ll find yourself making all sorts of excuses for Choso.

He’s still new to the whole human thing, he doesn’t understand emotional regulation well, he probably mistakenly thought your coworker was trying to hurt you.

Over time, you’ll become completely complicit with Choso’s behavior – to an extent even enabling it, as he grows more bold in crossing your boundaries. It’s a vicious cycle, but ultimately you’ll wind up blaming yourself – after all, when it comes down to it, what can you really complain about?

A strong, painfully whipped half-curse that would stop at absolutely nothing to make sure that you’re safe, happy, and trapped by his side? Well, couldn’t it just be so much worse?

PUNISHMENTS:

Because Choso never explicitly kidnaps you and rather just inserts himself into your life, the dynamics of your relationship are a bit complicated. Of course, he’s the instigator in most ways – he’s the one that could kill you with a flick of his wrist if he so desired after all. (Though just the thought gets him hyperventilating, frantic to see you and make sure that you’re still intact and breathing.)

He’s the one pushing the envelope of your ‘relationship’ to every extreme much too quickly and with far too little proper communication. But at the end of the day, if it’s not about your direct safety or health, Choso will often acquiesce to your demands. Of course, making sure that you avoid curses, questionable men, and sharp objects is non-negotiable, as is making you drink enough water every day.

But Choso isn’t a monster – if you want Thai food for dinner or to watch a certain TV show, he’s more than happy to cater to you. (Perhaps even eager, really, if the way he immediately says yes is any indication. He’ll diligently write down exactly what you want, going to the restaurant himself to order and pick up the food all so that you don’t have to take a step outside the apartment – all so that he can see the way you light up at the sight of him, the way you’ll wrap him into a hug, the way you’ll let him hold the chopsticks up to your lips and feed you, the way you’ll be much more hospitable and receptive when he sits too close to you and lets his hands linger on your thigh for too long.)  

If you want to shower or bath, he’s not delegating your personal grooming habits but he will, of course, need to be present in the bathroom with you for safety reasons. He’ll be perched on a chair or stool in the corner, lips slightly parted and breathing heavily, those dark eyes not blinking once as you try to cover your body with as many bubbles as possible in the bathtub, but he won’t insist on actually being in the tub with you.

(Should you offer, though, Choso’s literally ripping at his clothing, tearing everything away before you can even finish your sentence, strong arms scooping you up and gently settling you into the tub, kisses being pressed against every inch of your skin he can reach.)

He’s intense, yes, and unable to fulfill your requests that involve distancing yourself from him or rejecting his role as your caretaker and dutiful protector, but he’s not too terribly controlling. But with that said, even Choso’s patience with you has its limits.

He’s a worshipper in every way, thinking of you as an angel, something divine and perfect, someone completely and utterly made for him, just as he was made for you. But there are times when Choso doesn’t fully understand why you don’t seem to see this reality.

There are times when he’s sure you must be confused – why do you not tell him I love you back? Yuji has mentioned that women often ‘play hard to get’ – is that what you’re doing? Why? You already have him, why would you need to play games with him? He’s not going anywhere, he swears – he’d rather rip his own arm off than be away from you for even five seconds, so how could you ever possibly entertain the idea that he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life pressed against your side, inhaling the air you breath out, totally consumed by you you you?

Why do you pretend to not like when he touches you? He’s not pushing too far, he doesn’t think – your clothing is still on, and he’s only touching your thigh. Why are you shivering? Is this good? He’s read that sometimes women do this when they’re aroused – so why can’t his superior sense of smell pick up on anything between your legs as you tremble?

It’s confusing, and Choso will be equal parts confused and frustrated. Why must you test him like this? Can’t you see that he’s already in love, just as you are with him? It’s infuriating, really, and so the most similar thing you’ll experience to a ‘punishment’ with Choso mostly fear tactics that he isn’t even aware he’s inciting.

His delusions aren’t normally too terrible to deal with if you choose to just turn a blind eye, but it’s in these moments that it will become uncomfortably obvious that Choso’s view of reality is not accurate. And most of the time what triggers this behavior falls into two main camps: you verbally or physically lashing out at him, or you hurting yourself in some way.

(Generally speaking, Choso is often more devastated about the latter, but it’s very rare that you’ll receive a punishment as a result of you trying to harm yourself. You’ll see him cry, feel the way he presses you too tightly against his chest, his fingertips digging into your soft flesh because he forgets his own strength and needs to make sure you’re still present, still real, still alive. But he won’t punish you – rather, you’ll spend the day curled in his arms, his nose pressed tightly against your neck and he breathes in and out, murmuring your name under his breath like a prayer.)

Rather, you’re much more likely to be on the receiving end of his ‘punishments’ if you were to lash out because your misbehavior doesn’t fit his perception of your relationship. You hitting him or begging him to not touch you doesn’t track with the romantic, life-long partnership he’s convinced himself the two of you share, and so he’ll often become angrier in these situations. He’ll never hurt you (that’s a line he’s unwilling to cross no matter how enraged he is, simply because he’s so concerned for your health that the thought makes him physically ill), but you’ll watch his body language change in real time.

It’d been a rash decision, in all honesty – the straw that broke the camel’s back in an otherwise shitty couple of weeks. Choso had been ‘moved in’ for going on a month, your couch smelling of his cologne (one he frequently asks if you like, his voice husky but strangely vulnerable, his stuttered breath as he hears you lean in and sniff difficult to ignore), even your bed starting to take on the scent. Day after day of coming home to him eagerly awaiting by your apartment door, cold hands already grabbing your jacket and pulling it off of you, smoothing down your hair and swallowing heavily, always leaning in and stopping himself like he’s waiting for something. It’s uncomfortable, but what’s really caused you to be so on edge is the exact same thing that he’d been doing moments ago.

The box of pasta in your hand was suddenly gone, Choso’s own hand clutching the cardboard and wordlessly placing it in a cabinet behind you. You’d only taken a long breath, trying to calm yourself – he was probably just trying to help, right? Maybe he felt guilty about the freeloading in your apartment?

But then you picked up the bananas and suddenly they were gone, too, his heavy footsteps padding over to the fruit bowl. Your eye had twitched, but before you could say anything Choso was back at your side, a soft smile on his lips as he told you sit down, I’ll put everything away.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he shook his head, guiding you over toward the couch. I can do it, just relax. You’ve worked hard today. And really, as you sit tensed up on the couch, anger flushing through your system, you can’t even articulate exactly why you’re so mad. Was it his tone? The thinly veiled condescension? Or maybe it was the way he moved your body with such ease, obviously not having to even try to get you to stay put on the couch and do exactly what he says?

Or maybe it had all started even before this (exceedingly rare) solo grocery visit – was it when he grabbed the comb out of your hands yesterday and told you your arms will get sore and tired, let me do it before forcing you to sit down in front of him, the process taking much longer than it would have otherwise?

Or maybe it was when he’d heard you groaning last week in pain, clutching your abdomen and wincing as you headed to the bathroom to change your tampon?

(Of course, him following you in and crouching down between your legs, cheeks flushed a bright red and his breathing unsteady as he offered to take it out for you, it will be easier if you don’t have to do it certainly didn’t help your mood. Nor did the wet spot on his trousers when he stood back up, or the way that you caught him sneaking the used tampon out of the trash later that night.)

You weren’t entirely sure, but all of it together pushed you to clench your fists against your thighs, jaw working as you stared straight ahead.

Why are you treating me like I’m incompetent? You’re not my boyfriend, so stop pretending like you are.

The moment the words slipped from your lips the apartment went eerily silent. The rustling noises of him digging through the grocery bags suddenly stopped, the sound of your own heartbeat suddenly much, much too loud. You bit your lip, eyebrows twisting together as regret settled in your chest, the fear starting to climb up your throat as you turned slightly to face him.

A scream ripped its way out of your throat when you’re suddenly faced with dark eyes, pale skin, and black hair mere inches away from your face, Choso’s body suddenly right beside your own without you having heard a single sound. You’d known he wasn’t human, sure, but this? The scream forced your body backwards onto the couch, your chest heaving as you stared at him in fear, his expression entirely blank.

You were still breathing hard, Choso taking a step closer and closer, Adam’s Apple bobbing and his fists clenching, a wave of something like confusion slipping across his face before returning back to that flat look.

You’re lying, is all said to you, his voice low and unsteady, like something was fighting its way up. I know you’re lying.

Your hands were still shaking, even as you pressed yourself further back against the couch to create more distance between the two of you. Your mouth open and closes, fear pumping through your veins leaving you paralyzed.

Say it to me. Tell me you’re lying.

It doesn’t sound like your own voice when you answer, stuttering and shaking as you say ‘m lying, I’m lying I promise!

He stares at you for a moment, the tension nearly suffocating you, before he lets out a low, long breath. Don’t scare me like that again.

And, twenty minutes later when his arms are wrapped around your waist, thighs curved behind your own and his body practically molded against yours in a fetal position on your bed, he’ll finally speak again.

Yuuji said that lying is bad, and that partners shouldn’t lie.

He’s quiet for a moment, contemplative, and your heartrate spikes up again in response. I know you didn’t mean to. You would never do that to me. Would you?

He buries his face further against the soft skin of your neck, a shiver running down your spine at the sensation. He’s always so cold, even his breath against you has goosebumps prickling up along your skin. He grip on you tightens.

Please answer me.

You can feel his breathing getting heavier, and quickly you’re forcing out in a voice much too high that no, of course I would never lie to you! I lo- A small sob wretches up your throat, but you bite it back. I love you, I’d never lie to you.

Your voice is just a whisper now, quiet enough for you to hear the way Choso groans, hips pressing into your ass harder as he squeezes you to him even tighter, something wet slipping against the nape of your neck. He’s crying, you realize, and even though you tell yourself not to, guilt settles in the pit of your stomach.

You don’t say anything else, even as Choso’s tears continue to fall. You don’t say anything as he starts to murmur I love you back at you, his hands no longer staying stationary. You don’t say anything as lips press against the curve of your neck, suckling at the juncture of your jawline and ear, his lips clumsy, inexperienced, hungry.

You don’t say anything even as he starts to rut against you, his breathing turning low and heavy, groans and whimpers of your name becoming harder and harder to ignore. You don’t even say anything as he suddenly whines your name and a slurred I love you directly into your ear as something wet and hot seeps against the curve of your hip, or even as he slowly comes down, petting your hair and mindlessly toying with the soft fat of your stomach.

What is there to say, really? How can you say anything, when you’ve let it get this far? The guilt eating away at you transforms into something darker, sadder, worse, and as Choso drifts off into sleep with your name whispered on his lips, you can only stare into the darkness of the room, tears slipping down your own cheeks.

What can you even do?

OVERALL DANGER:

4/10

As a yandere, Choso is less inherently dangerous and more intensely, borderline unbearably steadfast in his belief that what he thinks you need is correct. He’s entirely convinced that he knows what’s best for you, and that while you’re smart and a grown woman, you’re still in need of protection and care.

He’s attentive to your desires and likes, aiming to please you and make you smile (preferably at him, perhaps even with his name falling past your lips), but his ultimate purpose is to protect you. Regardless of the reality, he full-heartedly believes that he is stronger than you, and thus his role is to be your guardian angel. He’ll provide for you and protect you from other curses or ill-intending humans, ready to fight to the death to keep even a slight scratch or frown off your pretty face.

You become his absolute everything – his every thought, feeling, and action stem from a motivation that involves you. And at the start, you’ll think it’s sweet. You’ll think it’s endearing that he’s so steadfast in his worship of you, finding it strangely flattering just how intense he is when he’s saying things like I swear to protect you until my dying breath or you mean absolutely everything to me. It’s oddly romantic, but as time passes that twinge of adoration deepens into a festering, open obsession, his feelings for you becoming more and more smothering with each passing day.

He’s so unaware of human customs and relationships that he dives headfirst into every major milestone, relying entirely on instincts, Yuji’s (well meant but ignorant) advice, and the romance media he consumes, believing it’s entirely realistic.

So really, he’s not the worst yandere by any means – he’s loving toward you, but perhaps too much. He’s obsessive, constantly fabricating all sorts of memories of the two of you and twisting your words into meaning so much more than you originally meant.

He’s unnerving, painfully stubborn in his overprotectiveness and insistence on your ‘relationship’ being loving, genuine, real, and mutual, and at a certain point you’ll stop trying to explain that he’s moving too fast or that it’s way too early to start a family together. He just doesn’t understand, and eventually that encyclopedic knowledge and unwavering dedication he feels toward you will be too much for you to fight.

After all, Choso knows exactly how you tick, what makes you smile and frown and laugh and scream – you’re his after all, and isn’t it a lover’s job to love their partner? Please them? Be their sole reason for living?

Long, thick fingers twist and tangle into your hair, blunt nails digging at your scalp as he slowly applies pressure. He's not trying to push you at first, forcing himself to keep his hand steady and his breathing even. His eyes alternate between fluttering closed because the sensation of your tongue against the underside of his cock is too much, and snapping wide open because god you look good choking on him.

He's not trying to push, but as his head tilts back and his throat visibly bobs as he gulps, his control starts waning. His hips buck almost imperceptibly, little jolts forward that make your eyes squeeze shut as you force yourself to not gag. Each buck is accompanied by a muffled groan that comes from somewhere deep inside his chest, fingers tightening their grip in your hair.

And then you suck a certain way, drool slipping from the corner of your lips and Tetsurou catches sight of it and oh, he's grunting and slurring something that sounds like your name as his forearm flexes, every muslce in his body trying to fight the urge to hold you steady and fuck your mouth. His toes are curling and he's grimacing and oh oh oh -

It happens so fast that you can barely process it. He's cupping the back of your head and pushing you forward, cockhead ramming into the back of your throat and leaving you sputtering. But it only makes Tetusorou moan harder, the already pink flush on his cheeks blooming red because fuuuuck your throat gets so tight when you cough and choke and it feels so good he swears he's going to cum -

But then he feels your frantic taps against his thigh, dark eyes peeling open ever so slightly to see the way you're desperate, pushing against his hand to lean back and breath, and he's immediately pulling out, hissing slightly at the wet friction. He's squatting down to your height, cock still flushed, angry, and red against his stomach and shining in the light with the sheen of your spit. Shaking fingers push at your hair to keep it out of your eyes, his own dark gaze half-lidded in pleasure with a twinge of panic.

You okay? His voice is rugged and rough, the edges of a moan settling somewhere against his throat. When you nod, coughing one last weak, feeble time, he swallows.

Careful angel, wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. His thumb comes up to trace the line of your jaw, tongue flicking out to lick his lips. He moves forward then, eyes half-closing as he licks at your lips - long, slow strokes that are much too wet. When you cringe and automatically open your eyes, Tetsurou's already looking at you, dark eyes wide open as he licks and sucks at your mouth.

There's a whisper of your name against your skin as he pulls back, his cheeks still painted that pretty rose color, and for a moment you marvel at how truly beautiful he is.

You marvel until he's suddenly leaning back in again, teeth biting at your ear and murmuring well, since you're okay, this cock's not gonna suck itself, yeah?

And then he's standing up again, thumb and index finger gripping his base and slapping his shaft against your cheek. It's wet with a fresh coat of precum, and you try not to think about why he would've been aroused by the sight and sound of you choking.

He grabs his balls roughly as he slowly moves his hips up and down, rubbing his tip against the curves of your lips, nose, and cheek, biting his own lip and letting a wobbly, boyish sort of smile slip over his face.

And a few moments later, you'll find your nose tickled by the coarse, black curly hairs at his base and the salty taste of him filling your mouth, with his hand resting against the crown of your head once again.

Lev Haiba's a gentleman, or at least he likes to think so.

He gets that you aren't quite ready yet to touch him. Blah blah blah boundries, blah blah blah you're not ready for a physical relationship with him. It's all bullshit to him, of course, but you seem to really care about it and so he steels himself. It's the least he can do, really, when you smile at him so prettily and wear the lacey, silky lingerie he brings home new every night. Perks of a model's connections and salary, you suppose.

Take today, for example - you're dolled up in a soft, baby blue number, the crotchless panties and sheer bra cups leaving very little to the imagination. Lev's staring like a man starved, green eyes wide and trained on your curves, the soft expanse of your stomach, the way you squirm and shift under his ruthless gaze. So pretty, he murmurs, cock visibly throbbing under the pair of briefs sitting dangerously low on his hips.

He respects your desire to not touch him and not be touched, sure, but Lev's never been one to back down from a challenge. And so, here you are - dolled up in your lingerie, sure, but the complete opposite from your 'lover'. He's got only his briefs on, pale chest on full display as he leans back on the bed, propped up on an elbow. He's forced you to sit between his spread legs, no skin touching but only barely, and he's had you lay down on your stomach, arms folded below your chin and only mere inches away from his crotch.

The view's better this way, he'd told you, the dread in your stomach only sinking further down.

He worms his way out of his underwear with suspicous ease, cock springing up and smacking loudly against his stomach, a wet sort of splat that only serves to strangely humiliate and embarass you. But Lev's not embarassed - oh no, not if the excited, over-eager look on his face is anything to go by. And it's not long before slender fingers are curling around his shaft, pulling up and down and up and down over and over, a wet clicking noise filling the bedroom as his ragged breaths fill your ears.

D'you like this? He's asking, voice low and strained.

Does this make you wet? He licks his lips at the thought, gaze flashing to the sight of your thong-clad ass laying on the bed.

Do you want this? D'you want this cock? Want this cum? His hips surge forward as he says it, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as a bead of pearly, thick precum bubbles at his tip.

And of course, the deal is no skin-to-skin contact - you never said anything more than that. And when his eyes roll to the back of his head, hips bucking up and his hand desperately pointing the spurts of hot, runny cum right to your face, Lev can only half-laugh, half-groan. He's playing by your rules, after all, and fuck do you look good in white.

If you say absolutely anything about this to anyone, Tobio Kageyama will make you suffer.

That's what he'd told you at least. You hadn't bothered pointing out the fact that you don't see anyone besides him, let only speak to them. It hadn't been worth it. Besides, you weren't entirely sure what 'making you suffer' even meant - because right now, you're pretty sure he's doing it anyways.

It should be empowering, really, to have your captor on his hands and knees in front of you, cheeks flushed bright pink and pert, twitching asshole on full display. His balls droop right in front of them, pink skin convulsing ever few seconds, the tip of his cock barely visible behind them and only growing harder with every passing moment.

He doesn't have it in him to look back at you, his pride already so far out the window that he couldn't bare to look at you while in such a vulnerable - humiliating - position. Even if he'd been the one to ask for it.

It should be empowering, yes, but there's something about the depraved nature of the way he grinds back against the pretty, gray strap he'd forced you into that stops you from feeling like you're in control. He's pathetic, really, toned muscles clenching and jerking as he grinds up against you, the tip of the silicone cock rubbing right against the spot that makes his eyes roll back. And yet it still feels like he's the one using you - he's still calling the shots even with 'you' buried five inches inside him.

And when he peeks back behind him, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat from hours of prepping with your fingers and smaller toys, he averts his gaze. He's never been a particularly submissive man, but the sight of you - completely nude, inside of him - leaves Tobio flustered beyond belief, hips swaying against you in an effort to distract himself with pleasure.

But eventually it's not enough, and it's only when the small, mumbled f'me rings in your ears that you finally speak.

What? Your voice is quiet, audibly uncomfortable.

Tobio groans. You heard me.

Frowning, you bite your lip. No, I didn't, I promise.

He grumbles something under his breath, back muslces tensing.

It's quiet, but you're just able to make it out. Fuck me.

It's quiet for a few beats, before Tobio's fist clenches against the sheets of your 'shared' bed, back arching impatiently. Just do it already!

You scramble to move, hips awkwardly and clumsily pulling back and slowly pushing in again. The effect is immediate - Tobio lets out something between a moan and a shout, burying his face against the pillow he'd positioned under his chin. (It's your pillow - the one you sleep with and the one you've caught him humping multiple times, little black hairs sometimes appearing on the otherwise crisp white fabric.) His back arches impossibly, the globes of his ass clenching and his fist tigthening against the sheets as he moves with your thrusts, pushing back to get the strap to reach as deeply as possible.

After a few minutes your rythym gets steadier, and Tobio shifts his face to the side. His cheeks are an even brighter shade of red now, hair mussled and sticking in all different directions, lips moving wildly.

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you -

Each thrust is punctuated with a chanted declaration of love from him, his words getting more and more slurred with little slips of your name filling the gaps.

The sound of clapping skin echoes through the room before Tobio suddenly gasps and seizes up, every muscle going taut as his mumbled chanting is replaced with a frenzied, desperate plea.

Tell me you love me, f-fuck, tell me you love me I need to hear it pleasepleasepleaseplease-

You mutter out a weak I love you and it's all it takes - Tobio's letting out a gasping groan, back going concave as something hot and sticky lands on your thigh, hole clenching so hard you can't get the strap to slide in or out.

And when he's manhandling you into settling down against his face, thighs caging in his head while he sucks and licks with such fervor that it makes you squirm in more than just pleasure, you'll hear it again - that same muffled m'love you, m'love you.

Your body reacts just barely in time – jumping forward, chest bared and arms extended, taking the brunt of the heat and flying debris, a few pieces lodging themselves shallowly into your legs, stomach, hip. If you could feel pain, you’re sure it would be exploding through you as you sneak a glance down at the rather graphic image of a walking cane impaled through your calf. There’s no blood, but the skin is curled back in the wrong direction, looking pinched and stretched and all sorts of things that make you quickly avert your gaze.

There’s no time to dwell on it, though, as 04 behind you swiftly grabs your shoulder. Their hand is on you but their eyes aren’t, instead fixed on the stone-faced man behind you. Their voice is steady as they command, “We must go. Head east away from the rubble; 08 is waiting with the car.”

It’s a blur as you follow 04 and Sakusa, keeping yourself like a shadow behind the latter. A bullet lodges its way between your shoulder blade and spine, but it doesn’t slow your running. Keeping your body perfectly aligned with Sakusa’s is all that matters; keeping the attacks away from his weak, flesh-and-bone body is the priority.

The car’s engine is revving as Sakusa slips into it, 04 piling in while you follow. You have to grab the cane and dislodge it to fit, the wet sound as it comes clean not fazing you.

The car speeds off without a moment to spare, blowing past streetlights and rounding corners so quickly that you’re forced to clutch onto the door for dear life. It’s silent, mostly, with only 03 scanning over Sakusa’s body for visible signs of damage.

His eyes are closed and he’s leaned back against the plush, leather seat cushion, but there’s no damage to be seen. 03 relaxes, face returning to stare blankly forward, and your gaze wanders to look outside the window. Crisis averted, it seems, though the sounds of a street riot are still audible if you strain hard enough.

“You’ve seen better days, haven’t you?” Atsumu whistles, blonde hair disheveled as he wipes at the oil staining his hands. You don’t bother telling him that the towel’s covered in oil, too, and that all he’s doing is spreading it around.

“Good thing you’re here to fix me, then.” You know the routine by now – the mechanical wing of the foundation’s estate is vast, but the shop isn’t too hard to find. It’s connected by a series of winding hallways, sure, but even if you didn’t have a photographic memory system you’d just listen for the sound of power drills and stupidity.

Atsumu grins. “Aye, whatever you say your majesty.”

He swats you with the towel before throwing it over his shoulder. Your lips twitch up at the corner, and his grin only widens. “Well look at that – if it isn’t the infamous smiling response programmed into the later models.”

 He creeps closer, but your smile doesn’t fade. As irritating as he can be, you can’t help but be entertained.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re awfully sexy for a robot?”

“Miya!” Someone barks, and Atsumu groans. “Back to work, pisshead!”

He sighs, giving you a pleading look and mouthing help me, before vanishing off to the workbench spanning the entire wall of the room. And that’s certainly no easy feat – the workshop is easily the size of a city block, with instrumentation and parts lining the walls. People mill about in every corner and direction, carrying warped metal objects and cans of paint, boxes of fibrous hair and molds of human teeth. There’s chattering and a radio playing in the background; some sort of jangly guitar song from long before you were assembled. Rows upon rows of storage containers sit back against the third wall, large towing vehicles moving and resorting the bulk materials in some sort of organization. It’s a chaotic sort of system, but you can’t help but watch for a few moments, admiring the efficiency of so many moving parts.

 You’re sitting on one of the many metal slabs in this corner of the room, the clothing Sakusa had told you to wear this morning still sitting on your frame. Dirt and blood now stain the fabric, and distantly you wonder whose blood it could be.

 “Alright,” Atsumu starts, and you turn to look at him. There’s another man with him, one you don’t recognize. Dark, wavy hair settles against his temples and tickles at his neck, equally dark eyes looking right at you with a blank sort of look in them. He’s wearing the same black uniform as Atsumu, with the small KS Corporation logo sitting on the upper left pocket. A small stitched patch reveals the man is K. Akaashi.

 “Who’s that?” You ask, almost before you can help it. It’s not often that anyone aside from Atsumu works on you – there’s not many mechanics qualified to tinker with your system, given the recency of your activation. Too many updates had been made – a small emotional cognition center, enhanced durability, increased skin and tactile sensitivity, faster reaction time, even a more realistic female shape, just to name a few. And Atsumu, despite his boyishness and frequent immaturity, was the only one Sakusa felt was qualified enough to keep up with all these changes.

Atsumu throws an arm around the new man’s shoulders, and you watch as the other one’s face sours slightly. “This is Akaashi! He’s been working at the satellite facility in Kyoto for a while, but just recently started here. He’s pretty serious, but he’s a nice guy!”

To that, Akaashi sighs. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You nod, smiling a bit, and Akaashi’s eyes widen ever so slightly. Atsumu barks out a laugh. “She’s an updated one, see? Can smile and all the good stuff.”

Akaashi stares at you for a few more moments, dark gaze unreadable, before visibly swallowing. “I’ve only heard of the newer models; it’s amazing to see one in person.”

You shy away slightly under his gaze, unsure of how to respond to that.

“Anyways, she’s got a whole hell of a lot of damage, so we’ve got our work cut out for us! Looks like a bullet wound, full puncture through the calf, major scratch along the forearm…” Atsumu trails off, and it’s only as he’s prattling on about your injuries that you notice half of them.

It’s not long before they’re both diligently working away, screwdrivers and neural cables plugged into the back of your neck as they replace and unscrew the damaged parts. It’s always strange to watch; you’re craning into whatever position they tell you to, completely awake and aware and watching as they tear off sheets of skin, remove your entire leg below the knee, pull off your scalp to make a few quick adjustments to your synapses. Being cognizant isn’t the strange part, you suppose, if only because you don’t know any better, but something about it feels strangely intimate.

It’s not your body, really, considering that you’re a hand-designed model by Kiyoomi Sakusa himself, but still. These are your cable openings, your hands they’re unscrewing, the ones they replace them with feeling foreign even though they’re perfectly under your control.

Some thirty minutes later you’re fit as a fiddle, each joint and limb working just as designed. Atsumu’s demanding as he walks you through the exercises to ensure correct connectivity, but after the final flexibility movement, he claps you on the back.

“Well done, now don’t come back for a while okay? You’re great company and all, but I go through half my shipments on your replacements alone!”

You shrug. “I’m model 09, the artificial shield, in case you forgot.”

Atsumu’s smile falters a bit, and you see Akaashi stiffen slightly by his side.

“Yeah, sure.” Atsumu pauses awkwardly, and clears his throat. “Anyways, off with you!”

“It was nice to meet you.” Akaashi starts, bowing. “Please take care.”

The walk from the workshop to your charging quarters feels long as you wander back, the hallways seeming smaller than normal.

The KS Corporation is certainly not the only android company operating, but with such high name recognition comes significant risks. Threats and attempts on Sakusa’s life aren’t uncommon, and even as you settle down and lay in the white, oblong charger port with your model number stamped against the exterior, you can’t find it in yourself to be shocked at the day’s events. There’d never been any sort of mystery when it came to your purpose, your reason for creation – all of Sakusa’s designs had some specialty or another, some more obvious than others. 02, for example, has the highest computing capacity of all his models – the fastest on his feet, you like to think, capable of putting your thinking power to shame for how speedy and complete his programming is. 05 was designed to explore decision-making capacity in artificial brains, their impulsiveness almost jarring with how unlike your own it is. Most of the purposes are, of course, acceptable – nothing too extreme.

But the latest models – you, and model 10 – are really the cause of the recent public outcry. There’d been hostility about the development of androids since the beginning, of course, but your purposes had been the final straw. You, serving as a bodyguard and a shield to protect Sakusa from any wayward harm, and of course model 10. The recent updates did include a remarkably more feminine form, something that 10 was even more enhanced in.

Her charging quarters weren’t even in this wing of the corporation headquarters – she was on the north side, her room noticeably closer to Sakusa’s.

With a sigh, you blindly reach up to grasp onto the thick, gray sleeping charge cord. Seven sharp, thin prongs extend from the cord’s end, and you’re quick to flip the port flap on the back of your neck up. Plugging it in is seamless as always, precision and muscle memory taking over as you lay back down, your systems shutting down one by one. It’s a strange sensation, and one you liken very much to how humans describe falling asleep.

You wake up slowly, each system whirring to life and leaving your ears ringing. Air blows through your nostrils and past your lips without your control, the cooling system throughout your body automatically activating as your systems overheat in the attempt to start. It’s routine – you’ll be fine in exactly 26 seconds.

The room is stark white and extremely small. ‘Your’ room, as Sakusa likes to say. There’s a chest of drawers shoved into a corner with some ten pairs of identical white dress shirts and black slacks sitting inside.

It’s only when you clasp the last button on the shirt that you notice the missing panel on the underside of your forearm. It’s small – barely a centimeter wide and long, housing the import cord for enhancement injections in that arm. A port you haven’t really needed to use yet, if only because of the enhanced durability programmed into your body.

After a moment of staring, you smooth out the fold lines on the shirt, slipping on a pair of the nondescript, black loafers Sakusa insists on you wearing. Atsumu probably forget a replacement – not a big deal. Considering how damaged you’d been when you showed up yesterday, it’s a miracle he hadn’t forgot to replace anything else. You’re out the door a moment later, the resounding click of the automatic door shutting behind you barely even registering.

“Again? Jesus, you’re going to wear yourself out if you keep this up.” Atsumu scolds, something like worry edging into his voice despite the teasing.

You’re on the metal slab again, Atsumu’s hands surveying for damage. Kuroo had been lucky today that you were with him – a random assassination attempt in broad daylight, with the culprit rushing up with some sort of knife. It had been long, reaching nearly through your torso, and you’d barely been able to block the blow. A mere moment later would’ve been too late.

“Damn prick, making something just to abuse it.” Atsumu’s muttering under his breath, honey eyes dark and hard as he solders two wires back together on your left ribcage.

That’s a dangerous thing to say, really, considering Sakusa’s paranoia surrounding worker retaliation. Fame has made him far too jaded, or so you keep hearing from all the protestors of the company. Protestors of your existence.

“Akaashi! Grab me a wrench.” Atsumu yells over his shoulder, and a rustle from behind an adjacent door tells you his coworker is searching.

“How long will it take?” You ask, watching with a neutral expression as Atsumu curses and tries to maneuver the wires again.

“Til that jackass finally kicks the bucket? Not long enough.”

Sucking in your teeth, you repeat your question. “I meant the repairs.”

He sighs, leaning back and grabbing the wrench as Akaashi suddenly appears. “Probably two or three hours. Your whole lower response system is fried – the hole managed to go right through your central mainframe. It’s repairable, but we’ll need to shut you down and probably have you spend the night just to make sure there aren’t any sparks or fires.”

You nod, only to get a small comment from Akaashi, who’d helped Atsumu maneuver you onto your side for a better angle. “Please don’t move.”

You don’t respond, something akin to embarrassment creeping up your spine.

Instead, you shift your gaze to the bed beside you. 02 is in – not for any damages, but just a routine checkup. He’s sitting completely ramrod straight, hands folded in his lap, eyes trained straight ahead. 02’s scalp covers are pulled back, exposing the mound of wiring and chips shoved into his artificial skull. Another worker stands behind him, a metal tool in his hand that you don’t recognize. There’s a pointed piece at the end of the tool, alongside what looks to be a clamp.

His gaze meets yours without warning and you quickly look away.

“Miya! Get over here, there’s a problem with the main valve.” A voice calls, and you feel as Atsumu practically wilts over your body.

“Goddamit,” he mutters, gingerly pulling back from the exposed wiring of your torso. He wipes his hands off on his shop apron, licking his lips and giving you a glance. “Sorry sweet thing, but duty calls. Akaashi’ll take care of the rest. He knows how to set up the system shut-down, so don’t worry.”

Akaashi nods in response, still tightening a screw on your back as his coworker speaks.

And with that, Atsumu is gone, his stomps loud and clear as he works his way to the other side of the workshop.

It’s quiet for a long while, only the sound of metal clanking and mechanical whirring filling the space between you two as Akaashi continues working. For a moment you wonder whether he’s working on the emotional center programmed into you, because the discomfort of the silence is starting to make you fidgety.

“So Akaashi, how long have you been working for the company?” You ask, looking at him out of the corner of your eye.

He doesn’t respond right away, instead staying focused on the screwdriver in his hand. You almost consider asking the question again, but he abruptly stops, wiping at his forehead with the back of his palm.

“Eight years.” His voice is calm as always, and you hum in response.

“What did you do before that?”

Akaashi pauses for a moment, glancing at you. “I didn’t realize the newer models were programmed for small-talk, too.”

That same feeling of embarrassment descends on you, and you quickly look away. “I’m just used to it, Atsumu’s rather talkative if you didn’t notice.”

At that, Akaashi cracks a smile. “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

The silence feels warmer after that – not necessarily comfortable, but enough to keep you from trying again.

“I was an editor. Before I worked here.”

You blink. “Oh. Why did you switch?”

He’s quiet again for a moment. “Morals. I want to see the development of androids up-close, I suppose.”

You don’t respond to that. Instead, you count the bands of the workshop’s lights reflecting against the metal slab you’re laying on.

“Okay, I’m ready to take you to the shut-down room. Are you ready?” He asks, and you slowly stand up. There’s no pain to register, of course, but each of your limbs responds slower than normal as you begin to walk, your balance noticeably off.

Akaashi’s arm reaches out to help steady you, cold fingers pressed against the interior of your arm and elbow. “This way.”

The shut-down room is off to the side of the workshop space, nondescript aside from the numerous warnings on the outside of the door reading heavy electrical input and warning: door slams open unexpectedly. It’s entirely metal, the stainless steel walls and ceiling letting in no outside light. As you step through the threshold heavy, nearly-blinding white spotlights light you up, tracking along with your steps as Akaashi guides you towards the familiar white oval pod.

It follows radiation signals, Atsumu had told you the first time when he noticed your discomfort. The lights followed you as you moved, but not him as he grabbed supplies and tools off the shelves lining the room. Specifically follows the radiation frequency the models give off, just to keep things easier for us mechanics.

He’d thrown a joke in there somehow, too, but the tone feels much more serious as Akaashi guides you to lay down.

“You’ve done this before, right?” He asks, not looking over his shoulder as he grabs a series of long syringes and a pair of safety glasses.

“A few times.” You answer, letting your gaze wander back up to the ceiling. It’s nearly impossible to not squint but you try not to, especially as Akaashi turns back around.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs, and you immediately obey. Something plastic and hard brushes against your temples as you do, pushing back and moving slightly down to align with your ears. Something equally hard sits on the bridge of your nose. “Okay, open again.”

The light’s not so bright with the sunglasses on, and without thinking your lips are parting, eyes fully opening underneath the tinted material.

Akaashi’s smiling when you finally look over at him, his lips softly curved and a dimple sitting in the divot of his right cheek. “You’re already in bad shape, I wouldn’t want your vision to need repairs, too.”

You return the smile. “I didn’t even know we had sunglasses in this room.”

He clears his throat, slipping the latex gloves on. “We don’t.”

The gloves feel cold as he lays one down onto your shoulder, the other grabbing at the thick, gray cord dangling near your head. “While you’re asleep I’ll be operating.”

You nod, your eyebrows drawing in slightly. This was standard procedure, no need to explain anything to you.

“I’ll be rerouting your energy systems to the backup reservoirs first, then fixing the mainframe circuits. After that, I’ll fix the cabling connecting through your torso, and then the damages to your back and hip. I’ll finish up with skin regrafts, and then I’ll program the shut-down cycle to last until the workshop reopens for normal hours tomorrow morning. All the operations should go smoothly and without complications, but just for your knowledge.” His voice is monotone as he tells you all this, fingers already typing codes and commands into the monitor at your bedside.

“Sure,” you agree, turning your head when you see him approaching with the port cable. His hand is clutching onto the port while the other types a few more rapid commands on the computer.

He pauses as he approaches your neck, and bites his lip. “Could you please move your hair a bit? I can’t see the panel.”

You blink, but quickly gather the hair up into a fist, angling your head even more and opening the panel for him. He gives you a quick thanks, and gently lines up the prongs. It’s smooth as he pushes it in, his actions almost hesitant, until he hears the tell-tale click. Typing one more command, Akaashi turns to you.

“Sleep well,” he wishes, a hand coming up to pat you on your shoulder.

Darkness takes over soon after, your vision and motor functions dormant as you slip into something resembling unconsciousness.

It’s Atsumu who eventually wakes you up, that familiar grin the first thing you see as your systems come back on-line one by one. He’s standing at the foot of the pod, weight leaned on one leg and arms smugly crossed.

Once he sees your eyes focus onto him, he whistles. “Lookin’ good as ever, Robogirl. I wouldn’t have even guessed you were barely in one piece yesterday.”

His comment makes you smile a bit, your facial control slowly coming back to you.

He pushes off the edge of the pod and settles into the chair at the bedside. “Akaashi did a good job, no hiccups. You look fit as a fiddle.”

Letting the air finish blowing through your nose and lips, you shift. “Yeah, maybe you should be worried for your job. He might overshadow you, you know.”

 He mocks offense, a hand coming up to cover his heart. “You wound me – for an android that heart of yours really is cold.”

“Lucky it’s not beating then, aren’t we?” The voice is cold, and immediately Atsumu stiffens. You’re tense, too, but you notice out of the corner of your eye the way Atsumu’s fist clenches against his thigh. “All looks clear, yes?”

Atsumu swallows, then stands up and faces the newcomer. “Of course, sir, Model 09 is cleared for return to duty.”

Sakusa hums, dark eyes fixed on Atsumu. “Any system damage that could slow it down?”

Atsumu’s fist clenches tighter behind his back. “No, all systems appear to be in optimal condition.”

“Good.” Sakusa takes a few steps closer to the pod, and gazes down at you. You return the gaze, unblinking.

“There’s a press conference this afternoon at 3. I expect your presence.” He tells you, dark eyes scanning down your figure and back up.

“Yes, sir.” You respond, keeping your voice flat. He nods, giving you one last look, before turning on his heel and slipping out of the room as quietly as he’d entered.

Once the door clicks back into place, Atsumu’s gritting his teeth. “Fucker, walking in here and calling you an ‘it’. Next time he comes in here I’m grabbing that wrench and shoving it so far up his ass he’s-“

“Atsumu.” You scold, sending him a look. He exhales slowly, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m unplugging you now.” He grabs the cable and pulls it back, the rather graphic schluck noise making him cringe. Rolling out your neck, you thank him.

“What do you say I give you some extra armor so I don’t have to see you later today after that conference? Maybe a shield, or maybe a suit of old-timey chain-male and – wait, stop moving.”

You freeze, glancing over at him in question. He grabs your arm, flipping your hand over and studying your palm. His eyebrows twitch inwards and he bites at his lip, turning your hand over again.

 “Hm, that’s strange, I don’t remember seeing any damage to your hand.” He mutters, flipping it once again.

“What do you mean?” You ask, following his gaze.

He hesitates for a moment. “You see this line?” He points to the juncture of your ring finger and palm. The fake, thin skin looks normal to you, and you shake your head.

“There’s small incision lines – do you see that? Like needle marks – well, more like puncture marks.” He points to various spots along the juncture, and you mutter a small oh as you see what he means. They’re small – looking like dots and uniformly placed around the entirely of your finger’s connection to your hand.

“Maybe Akaashi noticed something.” You suggest, watching as he bites his lip again.

He’s quiet for a second, staring harder, before exhaling and releasing your hand. “Yeah, suppose so. There was a lot of damage, it’s easy to miss something like that.”

He claps his hands together, before rubbing them up and down. “Alright, so about that chain-male…”

You smile and he grins again, though it’s not quite as big as before.

“Mr. Sakusa! GRO News here, can you tell us more about your plans for the next model lines?”

”Mr. Sakusa, why is the corporation’s headquarters building closed to the public? Wouldn’t you agree that open transparency with the people would clarify the recent controversy?”

“Mr. Sakusa, do you have any comments about the recent protests in Osaka regarding Models 09 and 10?”

“Mr. Sakusa! Do you have anything to say about the recent uptake in black market android parts selling? What does this mean for the future of the Corporation?”

Sakusa’s face is neutral as he surveys the press audience, flashing cameras and microphones nearly shoved in his face. There’s a protective barrier between himself and the microphones, of course, as he demands, but his finger’s still tapping incessantly against the wooden podium. You watch the rhythm with rapt attention from his side, on edge as to hear what he’ll say.

“I have no comments on the recent events.”

The flashes get brighter, a few reporters scoffing under their breath and a new round of questions ringing through the conference room.

“But what of the dozen people who died during the protests against your work? Is that not innocent blood on your hands?”

"And what of the thousands of dollars spent trading your androids’ parts in the underground?”

”What do you have to say to the manufacturers who are getting death threats in the mail for stocking your creations?”

Sakusa’s eye twitches, and you stiffen up. He’ll be leaving soon, you’re sure of it, and it’s only expected that there will be some sort of need for you during his departure.

“What do I have to say?” He pauses for a moment, his fingers no longer tapping. “If you don’t want an android, you’re stuck in the past. Technological progress doesn’t stop just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

And with that he’s pulling up his mask and turning heel, descending the small set of stairs down the stage. You’re quick to follow, walking between him and the now desperate crowd, hands and microphones jabbing into your side and grabbing at you, frantic for another piece of audio or question answer. Sakusa doesn’t slow down, his gaze staying trained straight ahead as he approaches the black, luxury car waiting for him in the driveway. The reporters follow the group of security out of the building, practically toppling over one another to get close enough to pick up any piece of audio.

It’s pathetic, really, and you stand guard as Sakusa slips into the car, his voice agitated as he barks orders at the driver. Once he’s situated, you turn as well, stepping into the vehicle.

It’s only then that the building’s security team blunders, a man squeezing between two of them to reach forward and swipe his hand, fingers tangling into your hair. He grabs a fistful and pulls, a sickening ripping sound audible to you even over the loud crowd.

You pause, head yanked backwards, grasping onto the car doorframe for balance as the security team finally pulls the man back. There’s screaming and yelling now, the audience fighting amongst themselves as the reporters clamor for coverage of the assault and others berating the man for the unprovoked violence. You fully slip into the car, only sparing a passing glance back as the engine whirs and pushes you forward.

There’s a piece of your scalp on the cement, your hair splayed out and a few stray circuits still stuck to the interior material. No one in the audience touches it.

“Drive faster.” Sakusa orders, the dark sunglasses he’s donned doing little to hide the way he scowls.

“Does it ever hurt?” Akaashi asks quietly as he cuts the new scalp piece into the correct shape.

You’re brought out of your reverie, glancing over at him as deft, graceful fingers bend and twirl the grafted piece through the flashsaw to match the curves of your missing scalp. “What?”

“Do you feel any pain when things like this happen? I know the newer models don’t have any pain receptors, but is there anything phantom?” His voice is still soft as he asks, and you almost don’t hear it over the commotion of the workshop.

You look down at your hands, tracing over the artificial lines in your palms. You’ve often thought about who’s hands yours were patterned after, or if the pattern was real at all. Perhaps it was artificial, too.

“No.” You finally answer, not looking at him even as you see him glance at you out of the corner of your eye. “Never.”

He sighs, returning back to his task. “That’s good, I suppose.”

You nod absentmindedly.

"Do you ever wish you felt the pain?”

He’s not looking at you when you glance up at him, instead turning the scalp piece around in his hands over and over.

“Why would I wish that?”

He shrugs halfheartedly. “Just to experience it. Aren’t you ever curious about what human sensations feel like?”

 You don’t respond.

It’s silent between you until he finishes, standing up and approaching you. He pauses momentarily before closing the gap between you, placing the scalp piece against the exposed cranial networks on your head. It’s evidently a good fit, as he reaches for the tool beside him.

“I’ll need to restrand the hairs one by one. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

You smile at that. “Not your fault, don’t apologize.”

Akaashi’s fingers are delicate as they press against your scalp, dragging the tool along the perimeter and sealing it in with a few sparks.

“Do you want the same color and texture that you have now? We have lots of options in the newest shipments if you’d like something new.” He offers, and you close your hands, no longer interested in tracing the lines.

“No, Sakusa would get mad. I’ll stick with what I have.”

Akaashi frowns at that, but mutters a small affirmation.

The process is long, and with each press of the hair injection tool against your head you feel yourself squirming slightly. The noise sounds vaguely like a stapler, and you find yourself tapping your finger in a faster rhythm against your leg to distract you.

You’re only about halfway through the hair injection process when it happens.

You’ve only seen 10 a handful of times – for what was supposed to be your ‘sister’, she was notoriously elusive to find about in the headquarters building. When she sits down onto the metal slab in front of yours, your eyes briefly widen. Akaashi’s must, too, because his hands momentarily freeze.

For human conventions, you know that she’s ethereally beautiful. Unnaturally so, really, though it doesn’t surprise you. High, defined cheekbones sit proudly under a pair of long-lashed, doe-shaped brown eyes, warm and soft and pretty as she flutters and blinks. Ruby red lips perfectly shaped into a bow are nibbled at nervously as she waits, even her teeth stark white and perfectly shaped. Curls of smooth, frizz-free black hair cascade down her shoulders to her lower back, sitting perfectly and looking soft to the touch.

But really, what makes your eyes widen is less her presence and more of her appearance – specifically, her clothing. All the times you’ve seen her she’s been in Sakusa’s company – sitting obediently by his side, letting his arm wrap around her waist, trailing behind him like some lost, stupid puppy. Hell, you’ve even seen her sitting in his lap a few times. And throughout all those encounters, she’s always been dressed in fine silks and draping satins, slits up the leg and revealing necklines showcasing the extremely generous bustline Sakusa had specifically designed for her. She’s always been smooth, perfect skin and exuding sex appeal, but the 10 before you looks nothing like that.

She’s still pretty, of course, but she’s wearing an ill-fitting, plain cotton pullover. It’s thin-looking, ratty really, with the KS logo sitting square on her chest. The sweatpants, too, are made of a similar material, nondescript and black and drowning her figure. Even her feet, which you’ve only ever seen clad in staggeringly high high-heels, are underdressed – in fact, they’re not dressed at all. Only a pair of dingy, pilled gray socks cover her feet.

And now that you’re looking at her, really looking at her, you notice something different about her face, too. Her hair’s less orderly, more frizzy and unkept, and her lips are cracked and dry. Her cheeks look haggard, and her neck looks puffy and sore, purple and red splotches arraying the area.

She looks bad, simply put. Bad in a way that an android shouldn’t look.

She catches your gaze, and for a moment she looks away, playing with her thumbs and seeming to shrink in on herself, before chancing a glance back at you. You’re still looking, and after a moment of eye contact, you find yourself smiling ever so slightly.

She returns the gesture, eventually breaking eye contact out of what you guess is bashfulness, but still sneaking glances at you every once in a while.

It’s not long before Akaashi’s fingers pick up their work again, the tool once again making that terrible noise so close to your ear, but you’re almost thankful for the distraction.

10 looks at you again, and opens her mouth to say something only to be interrupted by Atsumu. He whistles as he approaches, crossing his arms and appraising her. “It’s our lucky day, two high-level models coming into our quaint little workshop at once.”

10’s eyes quickly glance back at you, gauging you for your reaction, and for a moment you’re taken aback that she’s looking to you for guidance.

To Atsumu’s comment you only roll your eyes. “Yeah yeah, stare all you want.”

10 giggles a bit at that, and you find yourself smiling at her again.

Atsumu grins, before turning to 10. “Nice to meet you, I’m Atsumu, one of the head mechanics here. Is everything okay? We weren’t told you’d be arriving today.”

She stiffens up, clearing her throat and reaching into the pocket of her pullover to pull out a folded letter. She hands it to Atsumu, biting her lip and returning back to twiddle her thumbs. “I was told that the letter would be satisfactory explanation, but I’m not allowed to read it so I don’t know exactly why I’m here either.”

Atsumu cocks a brow, opening the letter and beginning to read. It doesn’t take long to see that the letter’s contents are making him angry, his face turning red and his nostrils flaring.

His hand is shaking slightly as he whips the paper down, his other hand coming up to cover his mouth in indignation. He walks away for a moment, evidently trying to keep quiet but still perfectly audible as he growls, “That fucker.”

10 stiffens up again, getting up and off the slab to go towards him, apologies already slipping off her tongue. “I – I-‘m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you! I can tell Kiyoomi that –“

“Kiyoomi?” You mutter, shocked. Sakusa absolutely never permits anyone to address him by his first name, even his own creations.

Akaashi’s stiffened behind you too, but he continues with his injections, his mannerisms feeling a little more forced than before.

Atsumu cuts 10 off with a soft pat on her shoulder, helping guide her back towards the slab. “No, it’s not your fault at all. Don’t worry.”

Once she’s seated, he reads through the letter again quickly, exhaling heavily and throwing the letter away in the nearby trash. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you either, but you’re here for, uh, a ‘medical’ checkup.”

She’s quiet, confusion obviously written across her face. You’re confused too, and wait impatiently for Atsumu to finish his explanation.

He’s visibly uncomfortable as he shifts his weight between his feet, not able to look 10 in the eye. “Apparently Sakusa’s worried you’ve been… overused, so you’re here to make sure all your systems are working and to replace a few parts that he thinks are damaged.”

10 relaxes at that, nodding her head. “I understand. My diagnostics looked normal when I came out of my charging pod this morning, but my durability scores have been low lately so I see why-“

Atsumu clears his throat. “No, I’m supposed to check other systems. Uh, your sexual systems.”

There’s a loud clang behind you that makes all three of you startle, and you whip around to see Akaashi looking pale as a ghost. His hand is frozen above your head in the same position, the tool clattering on the ground directly below him. His gaze whips to you as you turn.

It’s quiet for a moment, before Atsumu lets out an awkward, forced laugh. “Jesus, Akaashi, you scared the shit out of me! Can’t go dropping things like that, you’ll give me a heart attack.”

He claps his coworker on the back, but he’s still staring at you. His eyes are dark, but wider than you’ve ever seen them, an intensity that makes you quickly turn back to 10.

She’s frowning, obviously curling in on herself again as she tries to respond. “Oh, well that makes sense. Usage every night does wear a machine down, after all.”

You wince at the insinuation, and Akaashi’s hand falls to your shoulder, gripping harder enough to be uncomfortable.

Atsumu winces, too, and nods his head. “Yeah. Okay, so, uh, I think the easiest way to do this is maybe in the shut-down chamber? Or would you like to be awake?”

10 blinks, lips parting. She looks shocked, and that only makes Atsumu feel worse. “I get to choose?”

Suddenly the hand at your shoulder is ripped off and Akaashi’s storming out of the workshop, his steps deafening in the now silent space. Every worker has turned to watch the interaction, frozen mid-way through their tasks because of shock, curiosity, a desire to not work for a moment. It only makes it louder when the exit door slams shut behind Akaashi.

The patch of scalp he’d been fixing still isn’t finished but you can’t find it in yourself to care when Atsumu turns back to 10, nodding his head and telling her, “I’d prefer if you were awake. Just… just because.”

He’s leading her back to the shut-down room, but even as they get further away you can hear drifts of his voice. “Don’t worry, I’m not shutting you down. I’m just going to need access to the sexual response receptors and I don’t want you stripping down out here in front of everyone. I think we have some towels in the back that we can use to cover parts I’m not working on…”

You stay sitting there for a few more minutes, watching as the workshop slowly comes back to life, the chatter and radio once again playing as people try to brush off the discomfort of the moment.

You’re angry and you know it, the limited emotional cognition in your programming letting you know that something akin to rage is simmering in you. But the longer you sit there, the more the anger is overcome with something you liken to acceptance, because despite the rawness of 10’s mannerisms and expressions, you’re not exactly surprised. Perhaps that Sakusa would be so overt, sure, but it’s not as if you didn’t know his purpose for 10’s creation.

Eventually, you get to your feet, hands coming up to feel at the small hairless patch left. It’s in the back and not too noticeable. Sakusa hopefully wouldn’t notice it, and so you open the heavy steel door to traverse back to your room.

You decide to shut down early tonight, knowing that Sakusa wouldn’t need protection at this time in the evening and so your duties are absolved for the day. The charging port slips comfortably into its slot at the back of your neck, and your eyes slowly close.

When you wake up, your fingers idly prod at the hairless patch once more, just out curiosity. Not all your systems are back online yet, but as you blindly feel around, it occurs to you that it feels like less hair is there than yesterday evening. Frowning slightly, you pull your hand back, unsure of how that’s possible. Perhaps you just misremembered – faulty wirings aren’t uncommon, after all.

The workshop is busier when you next enter. There’s more chaos, and you almost feel guilty as you settle yourself down onto a metal slab and patiently await a mechanic’s attention. Despite vanity not playing a role in your system, the missing hair was starting to bother you a bit, and you were worried that Akaashi or Atsumu would somehow get in trouble if Sakusa were to notice. He was rather stringent about things like that, after all.

It's not long before you spot a familiar head of blond hair, Atsumu’s arms full with a rather large, heavy-looking box as he struggles to carry it across the workshop floor. Quickly you’re up and helping him, supporting the other side of the box and listening to him loudly yelp at the sudden weight alleviation.

“Good thing you’re here, I’m getting’ too old to do this shit by myself.” Atsumu groans, rubbing at his back once you’re finished.

You smile. “Aren’t you only 25?”

He tsks. “Sure, but you’re immortal, so you wouldn’t understand.”

You swat him lightly on the arm, and he fakes being wounded. “So, what brings you in?”

“I was hoping to find Akaashi, actually. I hate to bother him but I was hoping he’d be able to finish up reattaching my hair.”

Atsumu nods. “Ah, well, if he were here I’m sure he’d be happy to. But as it stands, I haven’t seen him since 10 came in a few days ago.”

“Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment, before nodding. “Yeah, but I’m sure he’s just moping around in his room. You know we live on-base, too, right?”

You shake your head. “No, I had no idea.”

Atsumu grins. “Well, since the chump’s not showing up to work it seems, I’d be happy to send you to him instead. I’ve got too much stuff to get done today, but I wouldn’t want that pretty head of yours to go untouched. Let me go grab the tools and hair.”

You’re opening your mouth to disagree and tell him that you don’t mind waiting until he’s available, but he’s gone before you can.

And so, as you walk down the rather boring, non-descript hallways of the workers’ residence side of the building, you carefully hold the tub of materials he’d given you.

Room 285, room 285…

It’s not long before you find it, the steel door remarkably nondescript and plain. His neighbors have photos or even stupid cut-outs taped to their doors, but Akaashi’s remains empty. Only a small placard with his name and occupation sit on the metal, and for a moment you wonder whether that’s by his choice or simply because of how long he’s been here. It’s been six months since you’d met him, of course, but perhaps he needed longer than that to get settled in.

You knock three times, calling out rather timidly, “Akaashi? It’s 09, can I talk to you for a second?”

There’s a loud thump audible from behind the door that makes you jump slightly, then silence. You’re about to knock again when the lock clicks out of place, the door sliding open to reveal Akaashi.

Or, well, a version of Akaashi you’ve never seen. To be fair, you only know him in the context of his mechanic job – the bright lighting of the workshop space, blending in with the other workers diligently going about their duties.

But now he’s standing in front of you, sweatpants and a sweatshirt sitting loosely on his frame, hair tousled and eye bags prominent under those dark eyes. He’s staring at you as soon as the door reveals your face, something like shock and something else you can’t quite name apparent in his expression.

“Hi,” you start, the guilt starting to feel heavy. “I’m sorry to bug you, but I was just wondering if you’d be able to finish my hair-“

“Come in.” It’s not a request, and for a moment you hesitate. He steps to the side, though, and gestures into the room, and you follow.

The door closes behind you and you once again turn to face him. “I know you’re probably sick or under the weather since you haven’t been at work, but if it’s not too much trouble I’d really appreciate…“

You trail off as you look at him again, the dim lighting of his quarters making his eye bags seem even more prominent, his skin looking dull. There’s only a single lamp on in the corner, casting shadows across everything. You’re now seeing the state of disarray that is this room, with clothing on the couch and piles of books and magazines scattered all along the living room floor. Distantly, you’re surprised – this is not at all how you’d expected Akaashi’s living space to look. Not that you’d imagined it, really, but still.

It’s obvious now that he’s breathing hard. Hard enough that you can see the rise and fall of his chest even in the poor lighting, the sound of his labored breaths making you take a step closer.

Concern laces your tone as you set down the materials gingerly on the coffee table by your leg, barely finding a corner of empty space big enough. He’s standing a good ten feet away from you, practically glued against the wall as you take another step forward. “Akaashi, are you okay? You don’t look so good-“

“Is he fucking you, too?”

You freeze.

“Answer me. Is he fucking you, too? Just like he’s fucking 10?”

Your mouth opens and closes, synapses firing so fast that it’s dizzying as you try to make sense of what he’s saying.

His fists curls by his side, arms visibly flexing from below the rolled up sleeves of his crewneck. “Answer me, goddammit! Is he fucking you? Yes or no?”

“No!” You force out, your voice wavering and sounding unconvincing even to your own ears.

Akaashi’s jaw works as he runs a hand through his hair, the strands staying loosely in place and cluing you in to the fact that he hasn’t showered in a few days. His breathing only seems to get heavier as he starts pacing, small steps as he goes in circles.

He’s muttering something under his breath, and you take a step back, fear flaring up somewhere deep inside your chest.

The muttering gets louder, and soon he’s stopping and facing you, those eyes still impossibly wide as he stares at you. “It’s only a matter of time. You’re not stupid, you know that. I know you do.”

You take another step back, and Akaashi’s nostrils flare at that.

“Akaashi, I think I need to leave and-“

“No!” It’s a yell, and it makes you visibly jump, the fear becoming more potent. You’ve never felt like this before – this level of raw terror, making your body feel heavy and your movements uncoordinated despite your perfect programming.

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “No, don’t leave. No.”

You nod, unsure.

He takes a step towards you. “Has he fucked you yet?”

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak.

He licks his lips. “Good, good. Have you ever thought he might want to?”

And though you have an inkling of how you should answer, his question makes you think. You’ve never really gotten the impression that Sakusa has sexually desired you, but is that really true? He has 10 around, so you’ve always assumed that he really wanted her and you were simply a more technical development where she was for comfort. But if that were the case, why did he go through the trouble of designing your model with breasts? Why give you pubic hair? Why did he take the time to design and create you with a working vulva, a working clitoris, a working vagina?

The silence must be too long for Akaashi, because he’s suddenly laughing, fingers tunneled into his hair and gripping at the roots. “God, for a machine you really should be smarter. Don’t you see it? 10 is his sex doll but so are you.”

You’re still frozen, but Akaashi doesn’t seem to notice.

“He’s a monster. Designing you with human emotion, human intellect, the capacity to be good and kind and funny and loyal and pretty and making you essentially human, but still only treating you as a warm hole to fuck. He’ll use you when 10’s done, washed up. When her body can’t handle any more modifications and repairs. When her pussy gets too loose because silicon doesn’t bounce back like human flesh and god, can’t you see it?”

He's practically ripping his hair out at this point, and you take a few more steps back, the feeling of danger and the oddly demanding sensation that you need to run now washing over you.

“He’s the devil, a madman, a disgusting piece of shit. And he’s been using you in the meantime to protect him from all the people who see him for what he is: a demon! He’s treating your body like a personal shield, like you aren’t living and sentient and not just a moving target to take bullets rightfully meant for him!”

Akaashi’s yelling again, and your back hits the wall. He takes a few more steps forward, that manic look in his eye slowly transforming into something calmer, more steady, and somehow much, much worse.

“But it’s okay. Everything will be okay. I promise, he won’t hurt you.” He keeps closing the distance until you’re only a foot or so away, and he lets out another shaky sigh. His hand is trembling as it comes up and gently clasps a few strands of your hair between his fingers, running his fingertips against the familiar texture. His eyes flutter closed for a moment as he breaths in deeply, holds it, and slowly exhales.

“No one will ever hurt you again.” He promises, and slowly releases your hair to let his hand rest at your waist. He licks his lips again. “I’ll fix your hair. I’m sorry it’s such a mess in here, I’ve just – I haven’t been myself these last few days.”

You don’t know what to say, but Akaashi only lightly chuckles. “I know this is probably overwhelming and I know you’re probably struggling to compute all this, but don’t worry. You don’t ever need to worry about anything again. Now, I’ll make space on the couch and we can fix you up.”

He moves his head slightly, leaning towards you, and you hear him take a deep, deep inhale. He leans back, adjusting the collar of his crewneck, and clears his throat.

“I’m flattered that you came to visit me here. I know the models aren’t supposed to be in the workers’ residential areas, so I appreciate that you saved me the trip.”

His hand moves to pull you by the waist towards the navy blue couch. You’re too stunned and confused to resist, instead letting him drag you and gently, almost reverently, help you to perch on the material. He has to slide away some items to make room for you, and you notice a split second too fast that the gray cloth at the top of the pile is presumably a pair of his boxers, and disgust wells up in you at the sight of something crusted and white in a loosely circular shape at the apex of the crotch.

He gently takes the bucket of material out of your hands, paying special attention to softly brush his fingers with your own. You hear his breath hitch at the contact.

He’s quiet as he slowly begins the hairing process, and for a moment you almost wonder if this is worse. Because this is so like the Akaashi you thought you knew – quiet, polite, hard-working, not this psychotic, rebellious side of him that you’d just been victim to. You’re on edge, every inch of your body overheating and beginning to twitch, desperation to move paralyzed by the emotional cognition center’s signal overproduction. You’ve never felt this frozen before, this helpless, and for the first time you curse Sakusa for implementing the emotional motherboard inside your chest.

Thinking his name, though, makes something else ugly rise up in your throat, Akaashi’s warnings about Sakusa’s true plans for you settling a new kind of fear inside you.

Akaashi finishes after what feels like hours, the fear and panic engulfing you enough that you jump when you feel his hand land on your shoulder and gently squeeze.

“I’m done. But please stay still for a few minutes more.”

You’re terrified, eyes racing in front of you as you listen to his movements behind you, the sound of metal slicing ringing in your ears and oh god is he smelling you again oh no no no –

“Thank you, this should be just enough.” His voice is nearly whispered, and you dare to glace behind you. He’s straddled, something visibly hard pressing against his sweatpants, but you’re more focused on the fistful of hair he has in his hand. Hair that he’s just cut from your head with a pair of scissors. Hair that he stuffs into the pocket of his sweatpants, visibly biting back a moan when he lightly brushes against the bulge.

At your questioning gaze, he only swallows. “Weapons are expensive these days, as I’m sure you know. But android parts only become more and more coveted, especially those from the latest models. There are more buyers than you might expect.”

You’re shaking even harder now, and Akaashi’s face returns back to that neutral expression. “Don’t worry, I’ve never taken anything that isn’t replaceable.”

Something wet slips down your cheek, and distantly you realize that you’re crying. You weren’t even aware you had tear ducts.

His thumb comes up to wipe at the tear, his expression unchanging. “Remember, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

And with that, he’s ushering you up and to the door, licking his lips once last time and telling you in that same monotone voice of his, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Enjoy your sleep, and please leave your door locked tonight. I know you sometimes forget to.”

The door slides shut before you can even hope to respond.

You don’t plug in your charging cord that night. Instead, you sit with your knees pressed against your chest and your face buried against them in the corner of the pod, air blowing from your nose over and over as your systems overload processing with the new information.

You’d locked the door, of course, though you’re not sure if you did because of Akaashi’s warning or not.

There’s several loud gunshots that eventually bring you out of your stupor. A glance at the clock – the only thing decorating your walls – tells you that it’s roughly four in the morning, and you immediately jerk upright.

There’s footsteps off in the distance outside your door, yelling and what sounds like fighting, but it’s too muffled for you to make out even with your enhanced hearing. You’re on your feet in an instant and immediately opening the door, the sound of gunshots even louder now that the metal isn’t dampening them.

Perhaps it’s your programming compelling you to find Sakusa, but your immediate priority is to assure his security. You briefly pause to consider Akaashi’s earlier words, but the programming outweighs any emotional response and soon your feet are running.

At the apex of the hallway, you’re met with a scene that is entirely unfitting of the ornate, impeccably clean headquarters building. There’s blood pooling against the lush wooden floors, dark red and staining everything in its path. Bodies scatter along the hallway, some you recognize as fellow residents of the building and others you don’t. The pools of blood are thicker around their abdomens, and you try not to think about that too deeply. The fighting seems to have moved even further down the hallway, and quickly you’re moving forward again, uncaring as your feet splash through puddles of blood.

With a small start you realize that the direction of the gun fire is towards Sakusa’s personal residence area, and it only speeds up your pace.

As you round the corner, you momentarily freeze. There’s easily ten people in the small entrance way leading into Sakusa’s personal chambers, with Sakusa himself standing in the back and surrounded by countless androids. You see 02, 03, 04, even 10 all standing around him, obviously trying to keep as tightly huddled as possible to eliminate any possibility of an attack landing on him.

You’re in shock, jaw dropped, and before you can really think about it you’re jumping forward to join the fray, throwing your body in the front to create another layer of protection.

The sound of the gunshot is loud, but you hardly register it as the bullet drives through your chest, your gaze locked on the five people pointing guns at the swarm of androids and their creator. Most of the faces are unfamiliar, but you recognize a few with a small, kindling sense of familiarity – people you’ve seen at numerous rallies, faces whose bullets and acids attacks you’ve taken the brunt of instead of Sakusa. And even people whose faces you recognize from news segments you sometimes eavesdrop on when Sakusa has you stay by his desk. Faces of people who are suspected to be a part of the black market, specializing in the trade of technology – biotechnology, really, with a particular emphasis on android scraps.

You’ve been through gunshots a million times, but even as you force yourself to keep standing, your body begins to stop responding. Your fingers will no longer move, and your knees are growing weak. Your thighs begin to feel weightless, and before long you’re slamming into the ground, body unresponsive and malleable. Darkness clouds the edges of your vision as you feel your systems forcefully shutting off, and it’s only as your eyes begin to close that you see Akaashi, something akin to a gun in his hands and pointing at you. He’s looking at you, of course, but only nods, face set, and marches forward with his gun now pointed at 03 behind you.

The waking up process is unusual. It’s not systematic, as you’re used to – it’s gradual, a sort of awakening that you can only assume is equivalent to what humans refer to as sleep paralysis.

You can’t move your body. That’s the first thing you notice.

Your eyes are open but your fingers won’t move, lips can’t talk, head can’t turn. It’s terrifying, and as you wait for your systems to adjust, the slow realization that they aren’t returning to normal only paralyzes you further.

Attempting to thrash and shake and just move in any possible way, it’s only a few moments later that you become aware of the fact that you’re not alone.

He’s quiet, as always. But what catches your attention isn’t him, but rather the sensation of something pinching at your hip. It’s bizarre – a feeling like peeling, as if you can feel each individual circuit connecting your fake skin to your wiring severing. You can see Akaashi’s face out of the corner of your eye, the familiar dark hair and the slope of his nose reminding you of your last few memories. A gunshot, 03’s face as you collapsed, the sensation of losing connectivity and pseudo-consciousness, the sight of Akaashi moving forward, the likelihood that Sakusa is dead…

“I know you’re awake.” Akaashi’s voice breaks through the silence. “Don’t worry, it’s expected that you can’t move or speak. I apologize, I know it must be scary. But this is my only option. You’ll get your connectivity back soon, I promise”

He’s still tinkering at your hip, and it’s only when he pulls away that you see what he’s done. There’s a large, six inch piece of your skin sitting in his hand, the artificial connective tissue keeping its shape despite the fact that it’s no longer attached to your body. The skin is smooth and supple, and Akaashi briefly stares at it, running his finger over it.

“I apologize, really. I’m sorry that I have to resort to this, but this should be the last time. This should sell for enough money to fund the relocation, and enough to pay back the debts for the parts for the android neutralization gun.”

You watch as he carefully places the hip piece into a sealing plastic bag, closing it and labeling the date with black marker. He gets off his chair, walking over to a shelf on the other side of the room. He places it inside a bin labeled ‘sell’, and you feel your struggling increase as you see three other similar bags in the same bin. The only date you can read from this vantage point is from five months ago.

He returns back to your side with a new, replacement hip part in hand. He’s quick to get to work, applying and sealing the material against your body, but you can’t help your gaze from wandering back to the shelf.

There’s two bins. The one he placed the baggie into, and another smaller one beside it. There’s no dates on the bags in that one, but you feel your stomach sour anyways. The bin is labeled in neat, perfect handwriting that’s so painfully typical of Akaashi ‘personal’, and that familiar wetness is back slipping down your cheeks as you see the contents.

A severed finger. A ring finger, no less. Clumps of hair. A piece of severed scalp. A few teeth. Something that looks suspiciously similar to the panel connecting your vaginal opening.

Akaashi follows your gaze, and he only sighs. “I know it’s probably overwhelming right now, and I understand why you’re scared. I’m sure I must seem like the villain. But you’ll understand soon that I’m setting you free. Sakusa is dead; he can’t enslave you with programming and servitude.”

He stops his work, looking at you earnestly. “You’re allowed to be human now.”

He pauses, biting his lip, and letting his hand wander up the expanse of your leg. Distantly, you note that his bare skin is touching yours – where had your pants gone?

“You’re allowed to be human, with me.”

The hand slides up to your thigh, fingertips digging in just a hair too tight.

HABITS: 

Uzui’s sex life is extremely active, even before you step into his heart. Having three wives, he’s no stranger to the sweaty, writhing mess of sex, finding himself tangled with all three women on a nearly nightly basis. He’s just a passionate man, and finds that sex is a good medium to express his desire and love for his wives. And even on the nights when he’s too exhausted to join in on the fun, he’s more than happy to watch Suma, Hinatsuru, and Makio go at it in front of him, palming at his cock over his pants and watching like a hawk as they kiss and touch one another, moans ringing through the air and the musky scent of sex filling the room.

And once you walk into his life, this trait not only stays but grows stronger. He becomes so consumed by the thought of having you naked and moaning in his arms that it gets him salivating, gulping and feeling his knees go weak like some pathetic little schoolboy.

He’s constantly plagued by thoughts involving you, and a good portion of them involve you in rather lewd, provocative positions – he’ll be imagining what your tits look like as he idly gropes at Makio’s, biting his lip as he thinks of what color your nipples must be, how small or large, what shape your breasts are, how they fall or sit against your sternum, how sensitive they are and whether a few sucks and pinches is enough to get you bucking your hips and moaning.

(And all the while, Makio’s imagining the same thing – she’s picturing kissing you, pressing her naked chest against yours, hard nipples brushing against yours and making her whine, her hands coming down to force Tengen to squeeze harder, more insistently, more like how she fantasizes you would.)

He’ll be chatting with you, his stare much too intense and standing too close to your body, all the while daydreaming about how your voice changes when you’re in the throes of pleasure – does it get higher? Whinier, gaspier, every thrust of his hips drawing out a new moan that he wants to be loud enough to be heard by absolutely everyone in the near vicinity? Or perhaps you get lower, sounds starting deep in your chest and sounding serene as they fall from you, sounds that make him only tongue at you deeper, snap his hips against you faster, just trying even harder.

It’s not long before he begins craving you sexually, and so it’s also not long before he begins acting on those urges, humoring his rather explicit and depraved fantasies of you.

And so, when Tengen feels that same familiar, impossible-to-ignore aching when he sees you, his pants growing tight and his face feeling hot because fuck you’re so damn sexy it’s almost infuriating, he knows exactly what to do to quell it.

That is, fucking you is what his body is really craving, but his three lovely wives are more than capable of satisfying him, more than willing to indulge in the fantasy and let hands wander their skin all the with the idea of you in mind. And more often than not they’re suffering the same sort of sexual frustration, fingers twitching and biting lips because god, they want you so badly it’s almost painful.

And so, one of two things will happen.

The first – and more common – option is to simply fuck each other. All four are peeling off clothing, hands eagerly squeezing and fondling, mouths insistent and leaving each inch of skin wet with spit. It’s messy and loud and so very hot – sweat’s dripping from foreheads and gathering at temples, tongues eagerly lapping it up and moans filling the air. It’s truly carnal – a writhing mass of bodies, cum, and slick.

And while they’re touching each other, more often than not each is fantasizing about you – imagining the pretty pair of tits they’re sucking at and squeezing are yours. Imagining it’s your lips they’re kissing, your tongue they’re sucking on, your teeth they’re running their tongue against. Imagining it’s your ass they’re grinding against, your cheeks they’re groping, your asshole they’re thumbing at and cheekily kissing. They’re imagining it’s your pussy they’re spitting onto, your pretty folds they’re rubbing against your own, your hole that’s stretching so wonderfully to take a finger, two, four, a cock, anything and everything they give it.

You’re at the forefront of their fantasies, and they’re moaning your name allowed, each deeply engrossed in their own fantasy world of how you’re touching them, how they’re touching you, and how they’re making you absolutely dumb with pleasure.

That’s the more common option, yes, but it’s rather limiting – it feels best when all four are present, emotions feeling more intense because here they are fantasizing about you, their missing fifth person, and it feels wrong enough with one person not there. And so, when Tengen’s away on a mission or a wife or two is away in town or visiting friends, the others must compensate, their arousal insistent and needy and frantic to hump at something in replacement for you.

And so, the second common way for them to deal with their horniness before stealing you away is to take a turn with the rather pathetic stand-in they use for you. Tengen’s income is ample enough to finance the most recent development in large-scale sex toys – that is, the rather morbid life-sized doll they’d purchased surely isn’t an exact replica of you, but it gets the job done.

It’s a soft coating with padding inside that makes the doll decently malleable, not soft and squishy as they’re sure you are, but enough to have a decent amount of give when the fake tits are squeezed or the ass is slapped. It’s not complete – just a torso and a faceless head, with holes on the mouth and between the legs. It’s crude, vulgar, even, but on nights when they want a little individual, private fantasy session, it’s a better alternative. The doll sits in a particular closet, and is available on a first-come, first-serve basis.

And so, when Tengen arrives home one night after a particularly tiring mission, he’s quick to survey the Estate’s occupants. Hinatsuru had sent him a letter earlier in the day explaining that the three of them were taking a small journey to a neighboring village to gather some new herbs and supplies, and that they’d likely need to spend the night and return in the morning.

Tengen had of course been dismayed, but he’d stopped by your apartment on the return home and had caught a glimpse of you exiting your steaming bathtub perched outside your window, and had been absolutely insatiable since. The mental imagery of water droplets sliding down the curves of your figure had made him lick his lips so many times they were beginning to feel cracked, his uniform pants so tight that he audibly sighed in relief once he stepped out of them.

With no one else in the house, he’d briefly washed up, the cold water against his face waking him up, then wandered to the small, nondescript closet in the center of the Estate. Carrying the doll back to the large bathroom, Tengen shivers in anticipation. The metal image of you naked and wet is too much to forget, and so as he turns on the steaming water and let the bathtub fill, he slipped off the rest of his uniform.

Running a hand through his now tousled hair, Tengen grins, a thumb reaching out to cup at the doll’s – your – chin. My pretty girl, he coos, leaning in to press a kiss against the open lips, tongue coming out to lick and toy with the interior of the mouth hole, his eyes squeezing closed as he kisses harder, deeper, more fervently. He’s groaning all the while, a hand coming to lay at the doll’s waist, fingers pressing harshly against the material and feeling the way it divots under him, mind racing at how soft and squishy you’d be – surely much more than this stupid doll.

It’s not long before the tub is adequately full, and he stops the water flow. Settling into the warm water, he’s quick to grab the doll, laying it so that the back is pressed against his bare chest. He spends a long while simply talking to it – calling it your name, pressing wet, hot kisses against the neck, letting his hands come up to splay against the stomach, then creep a little higher to cup at the breasts. They’re not like yours – not the correct size or shape, but it’s a close enough substitute. And as his cock presses harder and harder against the doll’s ass, Tengen can no longer ignore the insistent throbbing.

He’ll chuckle against the neck, pressing one last hot kiss against the area and moving to take the ear between his teeth.

Bend over for me, he’ll groan, suddenly moving the doll so that its front is pressed against the lip of the tub, ass sticking out and the hole between its legs accessible. Tengen licks his lips, settled on his knees so that his groin perfectly aligns with the doll’s rear.

So pretty, he’ll murmur, running a thumb down the doll’s spine, imagining the way you’d get shy and bashful and tell him to not say such embarrassing things! He’s quick to lean over the doll, close enough to feel the ass flush with his cock, his nipples brushing against the doll’s arched back.

Tell me you want me. One hand comes down to knead and grope at the doll’s ass cheek, grabbing as much of the material as he can, closing his eyes and once again imagining how you’d be so much better. He imagines the way you’d respond, how you’d breath out his name, telling him that you need him, and that’s enough to send his hand to grab at his base, smacking himself lightly against the doll, smirking against the material as he imagines the way you’d squirm at his teasing.

Take it, baby, take me. And with that he’s pushing inside, hissing slightly at the squeeze, bicep flexing as he holds himself steady against the rim of the tub. The doll feels nice, but he’s sure you’d be much tighter, much wetter, sucking him in and offering so much resistance each and every time he pulls back. With a low groan and brings his hips back, precum smearing along the insides of the hole, but Tengen can only shakily sigh.

He starts a moderate pace, his thrusts as deep as he can make them, hips rolling and subconsciously aiming to the spot he knows you’d like. He’s talking constantly – praising the you of his fantasies, groaning out your name, breathily muttering small yes’s under his breath. The sloshing sound of the cooling tub water is background to the way his breathing gets slightly heavier, his cheeks getting more flushed, his muscles visibly flexing and tensing as his thrusts slowly get more instant, his hips picking up the pace.

Fuck, so good he’s groaning, a free hand coming down to smack at the ass of the doll, hand lingering to once again grope. His eyes are still tightly closed, trying to immerse himself in the fantasy of you – imagining your sounds as he fucks you dumb, the visual of your back arched before him, the sight of your ass bouncing and jiggling with the force of his hips. You’re just too damn sexy – his orgasm’s approaching much too fast, balls sporadically clenching and tightening, his breathing starting to get unsteady as the pleasure begins to mount.

A hand comes down to vigorously rub at where the doll’s clit would be, tight, fast circles pressed against he material as he buries his face against the doll’s shoulder, his voice tight as he groans out come f’me please god – I’m coming, ngh take it take it take it –

He lets out a low, deep groan as ropes of cum spurt from his tip, filling the doll, his shallow thrusts making a lewd, wet squelching noise. He’s still breathing heavily as he rides out the last bits of his high, sweat dripping from his brow and now cold water lapping at his thighs. He leans back, thumbs pressing against the doll’s back, eyes fixated on the sight of his cock buried inside of it, bits of cum having leaked out and leaving a white ring against the base of his cock.

He smiles, licking his lips, and reaches down to give his balls a good, gentle squeeze, hissing and curling his toes but determined to give this doll every last drop – after all, if it’s supposed to be you, he wants it to be as realistic as possible, to give you everything he has to offer. He’ll stay like that for a while, simply catching his breath and letting himself daydream about the aftercare with you; having you wrapped in his arms, the rest of his wives piled into the large bed with you, all tangled together and sleeping soundly, nude bodies pressed up against one another. The thought brings a smile to his face, and as he slowly pulls out, globs of cum dripping into the water below, he can only sigh.

It’s a quick job to clean up, washing out the interior of the doll and his own body, every trace of blood, sweat, and dirt from his mission going down the drain. The doll gets put back into the closet and he retreats to his bed, situating one of his wives’ pillows as a stand-in for your body, clutching it tightly against his chest and allowing himself to drift off into sleep.

And, when Suma returns the next day and finds herself feeling a bit antsy after having passed an intimates shop on the journey home, she’s quick to snag the doll, retreating to a private room to strip and perch herself on the doll’s face.

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

 Your ass

Tengen finds every part of your body absolutely enticing. He finds you to be physical perfection, loving your every curve, blemish, roll, anything and everything in between. He likes all of you, but he has a soft spot for your ass.

There’s just something about it that drives him absolutely wild. He’s not picky about the way it looks, either – curvy, flat, squishy, firm, it doesn’t matter. His hands naturally gravitate towards it, absent-mindedly reaching down and simply settling there, letting his fingers idly press against the doughy fat and listen to the way you gasp. And frankly, it’s not even purposeful most of the time – it’s completely a habit, something he does without even thinking, something that his body truly just wants to do.

When he’s got you splayed over him, he’ll position you so that you’re laying on his chest, one leg propped up and over his, a hand securely sitting on the curve of your ass, absent-mindedly rubbing circles with his thumb.

And during sex it’s certainly no different – he’s a big fan of perching you over his face while you suck and lick at his cock, each of his hands finding home on your ass cheeks, kneading the fat and spreading them apart to allow him better access. He likes positions where your ass is visible and within touching distance, finding that he especially loves doggy and sitting you on his lap. He loves to watch the way the fat jiggles and ricochets as he fucks you, his thrusts getting faster and getting encouraged by the sight, loving the way the fat ripples and shakes, his mouth literally watering at the sight.

He’s truly fascinated by your ass, as well – it’s often that he’ll grab a fistful of cheek in each hand and pull them apart, getting a prime view of the pert, tight little hole that you always shy away from, the sight enough to leave him grinning, a thumb immediately coming up to lightly press and feel the way your body jerks slightly. He’s careful every time he plays with your asshole, though – always making sure to only very slowly work his finger inside and with ample lube, keeping his thumb shallow and slowly thrusting in and out. He likes the taboo of it, and while he won’t force you, he does harbor the fantasy of one day fucking you in the ass – if only to claim a hole of yours as his own, confident that even if you’ve laid with another man, it’s unlikely that you’ve ever done that.

(The thought of another man fucking you does, however, make him bristle with jealousy and anger. He doesn’t see you as some sort of pure, untouched angel, but he’s decidedly displeased by the notion that another man has touched you, has fucked you, has filled up your precious womb with their filthy, disgusting cum.)

He’s just truly a fan, finding that the area is simultaneously both sexy and endearing, and he’ll often reach out and land a firm smack against your ass as you pass by him in the Estate, his laugh ringing in your ears as he grins, pulling you in for a much too deep kiss and inhaling deeply by your ear. You’re just so damn pretty, after all.

Hinatsuru’s favorite part of you is your lips. There’s something about the shape of them that she absolutely adores – she similarly doesn’t care too much about the shape or thickness, finding that the softness and the fact that they’re yours are more than enough to make her happy. She’s always staring at them, fingers absent-mindedly tracing the shape against her thigh, closing her eyes and seeing them behind her eyelids. And you can feel that reverence when she kisses you – she’s gentle, even if the duration of the kiss and her wandering hands lead to you realize just how truly eager she is when she has you nude in front of her. She’ll slip a finger past them occasionally, sucking in a sharp breath at the way you suck and lick at them, your lips puckered and oh so pretty, her movements rushed as she suddenly grasps the back of your head, spreading her legs and pulling you closer to her cunt, frantic to feel those lips against her.

Makio’s favorite part of you is your thighs. She’s not exaggerating when she’d say that she’d die happy between them – they’re simply so soft and warm and squishy, the absolute perfect place to rest her head. When she’s cuddling you, she’ll maneuver you so that your legs are caging in her head, the plush surrounding her and simultaneously making her drowsy and aroused. She’s always pressing trails of kisses against the area, leaving soft little bites against the pillowy skin, groaning and muttering praises in a voice so low that the vibrations make you shiver. She’s grabbing fistfuls and kneading the skin, her hand sitting idly there both during the daytime and when she’s got you naked and moaning below her. She’ll perch herself on your thigh, dragging and grinding her cunt against the expanse of skin, grasping onto you so hard it’s nearly bruising as she chases her orgasm against your skin, her expressions and the noises she’s making almost too intimate, something about the sight feeling too personal for you to be viewing.

Suma’s favorite part of you is your voice. In bed, she’s very responsive to praise. She loves to be told what she’s doing well, how good she feels, all sorts of things that highlight how good she’s doing, how much you love her, how much you’re enjoying her touch. And so, Suma grows an absolute adoration and borderline kink for your voice. She loves the way you speak – the timber and tone, the way the letters roll off your tongue and how pleasing the sound is to her ears. And of course, when you say her name it only serves to make her shiver, goosebumps erupting across her whole body because oh, say it again, oh god please say it again she needs it… She loves to hear you moan and cry out in bed, too, finding that each and every sound you make it worthy of savoring, slick gushing from her with each whine and moan because don’t you just sound absolutely heavenly moaning and clenching around her fingers?

His mouth

In general, Tengen is a giver. He’s a firm believer in reciprocation in the bedroom, and one of his absolute favorite things to do between the sheets is to eat both you and his wives out. There’s something so naughty and lovely about it – the level of trust and intimacy is unmatched, and once your sexual relationship with the Uzuis officially begins, he will absolutely be using his mouth on you.

And he’s talented, too – he has incredible stamina, and would gladly spend hours between your legs if you’d let him. He’s able to angle his tongue just so, getting the correct pacing and movements to leave your toes curling and your hair tangling through his silver locks. He’s diligent, too – he’ll learn your body quickly, needing only a single time to find exactly what you like, and he’s always always looking at you, too. The eye contact is never broken, always watching to see how you’re responding to certain movements and techniques, adjusting to get you to make that face he loves.

(The one where your mouth is open into a little ‘o’ shape, eyebrows pinched in, eyes squeezed shut – the one that makes his cock absolutely throb, desperation tainting his movements because he will make you come, dammit.)

He loves the way you respond to his mouth; how you get so shy and nervous when he forces you to sit on his face, how you get so bashful when he tells you to spread your legs. And really, that’s where a lot of his love for eating you out comes from – you’re easy to tease, and the way you react to his words and actions leave him feeling giddy, your attention and acknowledgement of him making his chest puff out in pride because oh, this feels good.

So expect lots and lots and lots of teasing from him – biting playfully at the inside of your thighs, pressing feather light kisses against your skin, breathing over your clit and pressing his tongue against everything except where you need it.

He’ll push a finger against your entrance, pressing just enough to let the pad of his finger slip inside but not enough to give you any sort of real pleasure. Just enough to get you moaning and writhing, enough to get you begging for him in that sultry voice with that look that makes him throw all caution to the wind and absolutely destroy you.

He’ll edge you, bringing you so close to your high that you can almost taste it, your breathing getting ragged and your hips starting to shake, only to pull back and press kisses against the juncture of your leg and pelvis, chuckling when you whine, loving the way your body calls out to him and only him.

And even after he’s given in and let you come, he’s not stopping – oh no, not when you’re all sensitive and gasping him name, his tongue only picking up the pace as you writhe and whine, the oversensitivity starting to drive you mad.

And he loves the way you taste, too – the tangy, earthy taste, the way you taste so natural and raw and feminine. It’s to the point where he’ll tell you to go full days without bathing, only to pounce on you at night, pinning you down and rubbing his nose against the thin cloth of your panties, groaning and grinning at you, making some terribly embarrassing comment about how good you smell and how you taste even better.

So while he settles between your legs and brings you to orgasm after orgasm for your enjoyment and pleasure, a lot of it is self-serving. He wants you to feel good of course, but he wants you to know that he can make you feel good. He wants you to associate him with pleasure, to see him lick his lips and start shifting in your seat, to think of him as entirely capable at providing you pleasure and satisfaction. He doesn’t doubt his sexual prowess, but there’s something inexplicably satisfying about watching you fall apart all because of him and the way his tongue can work you.

The wives have different opinions, of course: Hinatsuru loves her hair. The way you pull and tug at it when she’s got her fingers curling and thrusting inside of you drives her mad, the twinge of pain mixing with pleasure clouding her mind and pushing her to go faster, to press even harder against the spot that makes your toes curl. You’re just so pretty and fuck the way you pull her hair has her near moaning, her own panties growing wetter with each tug.

Makio’s a big fan of own pussy, loving the way it feels to have you touching and pleasuring her. Of course, she enjoys touching you, but if she’s being entirely truthful, nothing beats the way you mouth at her, how you kiss and lick and suck at her, the feeling of you against her cunt leaving her breathless and desperate for more. She loves to sit on your face and grind against you, using your face as a sort of toy for her pleasure, the physical action feeling so dirty and possessive, as if she’s claiming you as her own. It’s the stuff of wet dreams – something that happens to her very often, courtesy of her fantasies surrounding you.

And finally, Suma’s favorite part of her body are her own breasts. She’s naturally very sensitive, her nipples easily hardening up and staying a bright, rosy pink color, and any time she’s got you naked in front of her, she’s always grabbing your hands and guiding them towards her chest, sighing and keening your name as you grope and knead at her. Roll her nipples between your forefinger and thumb, fit as much as you can in palm and squeeze, even slip her nipple against your tongue. She wants you to suckle, really, to lick and suck and tug for as long as you’re willing, her thighs rubbing together and little whines slipping from her because oh, if you keep this up she might just come from that alone.

DRIVE:

Between the constant flow of missions and having three sets of loving, eager arms to return home to, Tengen frankly doesn’t have time nor reason to feel sexually frustrated. His libido is naturally quite high, finding that sex is the perfect space to blow off some steam and also enjoy himself. He loves his wives dearly, and their sex lives are very active – which is why once their feelings for you form, they only fall into their beds more, hands wandering with new fervor, moans and fantasies increasing because oh, isn’t five the perfect number?

As a collective, all four of their libidos increase drastically once you step into their lives, and they’re not afraid to show this to one another. It’s extremely common for one of them to bring up a particular fantasy they’d been pondering on or harboring, the admission sometimes casual and nonchalant, other times stuttered out with red cheeks and twiddling thumbs. It’s become common place, really, for all four to share particular fantasies with one another, and often at inopportune times – not even necessarily in bed together.

Tengen will be off on a mission as the three wives sit down to lunch, making small talk and shoveling rice into their mouths, only for Makio to clear her throat and set down her bowl. The other two cock a brow but her their full attention, Hinatsuru even putting her own bowl down as well.

I’ve been thinking, Makio starts, fingers clutching at the material of her kimono, that perhaps she would enjoy a bit of spanking. It’s said as a statement, but she’ll look around the table, almost nervous at the reception of her thought – one that’d been plaguing her for nights, now, after having seen the way you yelped and stared at the ground when Tengen playfully smacked Suma’s ass earlier in the week. You’d been visibly uncomfortable, clearly unsure of what to say or do as Tengen teased Suma and the other two laughed along, but Makio is sure she’d seen some signs that deep under the façade of discomfort you’d perhaps been amused yourself, perhaps even a hair jealous…

After explaining that to the two raptly awaiting faces at the table, it’s Hinatsuru who first speaks up. She’ll softly smile, fingers tapping against the wooden table’s surface.

You may be right, she starts, and Suma audibly squeals at the idea. But of course, the only way to find out is to try it, and I don’t know that I advise Lord Tengen to be the first attempt.

Makio shakes her head rapidly, and Suma barks out no! It should be me! I’m much gentler, and she’d like it best from me and –

Makio cuts her off, snapping out where’d you get that from? Obviously it should be someone weaker than Lord Tengen but it was my idea so I should be the first one! Besides, you know I’ve been talking about how soft and pretty her ass must be for the last few weeks –

She’s also quickly cut off by Hinatsuru, who claps her hands together and laughs lightly. We must all try.

Suma and Makio grumble, the latter crossing her arms. Hinatsuru’s eye twinkles as she continues, but really, have you considered the other way around? That maybe she would like to spank us?

Chaos erupts at the table as Suma squeals once more, her eyes squeezed shut and her hands grabbing at the front of her kimono, fantasies of you bending her over and smacking at her while cooing her name running rampant through her mind. Makio’s cheeks turn an even brighter shade of red at the idea, shifting in her seat and clearing her throat, the mental imagery of her perched atop your face, grinding and swaying her hips as you grope and smack at her ass making her feel a bit hot under the collar. Hinatsuru, too, isn’t unfazed – she’s licking her lips, already thinking of how you’d be so gentle and nervous at first, a hesitant little smack against her that would only serve to make her moan lightly, her own hand coming and clutching at yours to guide you through it again, to help you hit it just right…

Tengen returns that night and is immediately bombarded with the idea, all three wives gushing at just how erotic and naughty the proposition is, and he can only boom with laughter, a hand already tugging at the front of his uniform trousers as he grins and tells them well, we should start practicing now – wouldn’t want to disappoint her, now would we?

And this behavior certainly doesn’t go away once they’ve permanently relocated you to the Sound Estate – no, if anything it increases. Because now that you’re with them constantly, their fantasies and libidos only increase. You’re just too damn pretty – they’re constantly staring at you, leaning in and inhaling your scent, fingers idly playing with your hands and hair and clothing, their attention always on you you you.

That said, you’re unlikely to be forced into anything directly sexual with them – certainly not with Tengen, who respects your clear discomfort when he lets his hands wander, instead choosing to only pull you into a rather intimate, wet kiss and whispering against your lips that you could be much happier if you’d let us pleasure you, you know.

Hinatsuru, too, is unlikely to force you into any sexual contact – instead she’ll just stare, constantly, her breathing getting slightly heavier and biting her lip but not making any motion to touch you or force you to touch her.

Makio, too, sees semblances of boundaries there, and will only force you to touch her in ways that aren’t explicitly sexual, but still feel strangely erotic. (She’ll make you brush her hair, massage her shoulders, help her to shave her legs, and absolutely insist that she returns the favor. Everything is long, drawn-out, and she’s always looking at you with baited breath, as if she thinks she can goad you into wanting something more, as if she thinks she can seduce you into wanting her.)

The only one who really toes the line, however, is Suma. It’s not out of some desire to make you suffer or to make you uncomfortable, but rather that her impatience and lust for you is simply so strong that she full-heartedly believes that you want her, too. She loves Tengen, Hinatsuru, and Makio, and she’s sure that if you just gave them all a chance you’d enjoy sex with them, too. She’s always detailing to you about the latest things they’ve done and tried, grabbing your hand and placing it on her breast as she describes a new technique Tengen has been using, something about flicking his tongue in particular ways against her nipples that she absolutely swears is amazing. It’s uncomfortable and it’ll leave you shying away and grimacing, but it’s only at the command of one of the others that she’ll stop, whining and pouting because she was so close to getting her to join us!

So while you’ll never be forced into actual sex, the four do have a rather nasty habit of getting you involved in their sex life – that is, it’s not hard for Tengen to get his hands on the newest, latest sex toys. His penchant is decent as a Hashira, and he’s got the input of all three wives on which models would feel the best, what the curvature and functions and textures should be to maximize your pleasure.

And so, any time the four of them are home, they’ll position you in one of the chairs at the end of the futon and mattress, a new toy in hand as they eagerly pile onto the bed. You’re expected to use the toy as you watch – thrusting in and out, angling it in time with Tengen’s thrusts and moving fingers, your own pinching and rubbing at your clit with the same speed, intensity, and mannerisms as all three women. They want your legs spread against the chair, wide and open so that they can see everything, and they’ll have you stripped down to nothing, your bare cunt and tits exposed for their viewing pleasure.

And they’ll put on an absolute show for you – clothes come peeling off, each person taking turns to sensually and seductively peel back the layers as the others touch and grope at new, exposed skin. They’ll moan and pant, Hinatsuru’s small gasps pairing with Makio’s throaty moans and Tengen’s gravely curses, while Suma’s higher-pitched whines fill the background. It’s contsant motion – Tengen’s always the first to undress, carefully folding his uniform and giving himself a few languid, tight strokes, making eye contact with you the whole time as Makio presses kisses against his neck, Suma licks at a nipple, and Hinatsuru takes over his hand, keeping the pace steady.

Suma will be next, eagerly rushing out of her kimono and slipping out of the lacy undergarments she sports, flinging her panties in your general direction and giggling when they land at your feet, the wetness of them palpable against your skin.

Hinatsuru goes next, Makio taking extra care to pull down the front of her kimono and let her chest fall out, a hand each groping and kneading at her breasts, pinching her nipples and looking at you all the while.

Makio goes last, slipping out of her clothing and spreading her legs widely, Tengen swiping a finger through her folds and licking off her slick, making a loud pop noise as he pulls them from his mouth. Each time will bring some new arrangement, the events never exactly the same, but one common arrangement is for each of them to kiss for a few minutes, continuing to grope and play with each other while loud, wet, slurping noises fill the bedroom air, until finally Tengen pulls away from Suma with a groan, settling down onto his back and grinning.

Jealous? He’ll ask you, grabbing at Hinatsuru by the hips and pulling her down to hover over his face, hot breath brushing against her cunt and making her bite her lip. Tengen will send you one last look, his voice clipped as he tells you to watch closely and don’t stop touching yourself, and then suddenly he’s pulling Hinatsuru all the way down, leaving not a hair of space between he tongue and her. She’s immediately humming and softly gasping, one hand tangling into his hair while the other grabs at Suma, pushing her onto her back and pulling her hips closer.

It’s typically at this point that you start to squirm, watching as she immediately dives between Suma’s legs, fingers slipping inside her and curling as her tongue works in circles, Suma’s hands coming up to clutch at the pillow under her head and toy with her breast.

Meanwhile, Makio’s settling over Tengen, pale fingers wrapping around his cock and lining him up against her, sinking down and letting her eyes roll to the back of her head with a simultaneous groan from Tengen, only partially muffled by Hinatsuru’s thighs. It’s vulgar, really, watching the way Makio starts bouncing, breasts rhythmically slapping against her ribcage as she moans, all the while keeping eye contact with you.

It’s loud – the wet, clickly noises and all the moaning and groaning, and the room is suddenly much too hot and humid. And what makes it all worse is how they’re all looking at you – stealing glances or blatantly staring, and oh god is that your name they’re moaning out?

Suma’s whining, looking at you through half-lidded eyes and slurring it together with yes yes yes, even while she pulls at Hinatsuru’s hair. Makio, too, is babbling out all sort of praise, telling Tengen he’s so – fuck, so big Lord Tengen, oh god you have to feel this too followed by your name over and over and over, like some sort of mantra.

It’s too intimate and it feels so much like something you shouldn’t be looking at or witnessing, but the moment you stop thrusting the dildo or playing with yourself, Suma’s shakily reaching out and smacking at your knee, her face contorted into something between a pout and a gasp as she tells you n-no! Don’t stop, don’t stop!

It’ll last much too long, some twenty minutes of writhing bodies, and at some point it devolves into them complimenting you, telling you that you feel good or that you’re so pretty or that they want to fuck you so bad, god please just let us!

It’s too much, but it’s only once you’ve finally orgasmed that it’ll all stop. The moment they see your body tensing up, your breathing getting more labored, your thighs shaking they’ll all freeze, watching you with rapt attention, even a bit of drool dripping along Tengen’s chin. They’re watching your face as your high hits you, listening and shivering at the sounds you make, your own pleasure often forcing their own orgasms to hit.

(Particularly for Tengen – cum’s flooding Makio without any warning, his balls twitching underneath her and cum dripping down and smearing along the insides of her thighs, too much for her to keep inside.)

Once you’re finished they’ll let you leave, hoping that watching them was largely responsible for your orgasm, and once you’ve slid the shoji door shut they’ll start up again, your used dildo eagerly being grabbed and thrown into the mix, the moans and whines of your name still audible long after you’ve retreated to the other end of the Estate.

It’s overwhelming, really, and so very intimate in a way that makes your skin crawl, but try as you might to ignore it, eventually you’ll grow to be curious, to wonder if Hinatsuru’s fingers and Tengen’s tongue can really be that incredible. And the moment you make any move whatsoever towards joining them?

Well, the frenzy to touch you, taste you, feel you, fuck you is almost too much, almost enough to make you back away again, but they won’t let you. Not when you so clearly want it – want them.

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Cumplay

Particularly for Tengen, this is true – he’s not terribly possessive as far as yanderes go, but there’s still something undeniably pleasing to him about the idea of marking you as his. He likes the idea of making it abundantly clear that you are his woman, just as you are Hinatsuru’s, Makio’s, and Suma’s woman. He wants both you and other people to understand that you are permanently claimed, and what better way to do that than through sex, where it’s both intimate and pleasurable?

And so, you’ll notice very quickly that Tengen has a penchant for finishing either inside of you or on you. And actually, his preference is often on you rather than inside. He loves to fill you, of course, his eyes rolling to the back of his head when he pushes himself as far inside of you as he physically can, a gasp tearing its way through him as cum absolutely floods you, the warmth and pressure of it inside of you making you squirm.

It’s erotic, thrilling, so very natural, but it doesn’t quite satisfy the possessive edge that Tengen feels. It’s good because he feels that he’s claiming you in the most carnal way possible, but it’s still not enough – and so, the next time Tengen fucks you, he’s pulling out at the last minute, hand moving so quickly as he strokes himself that it’s genuinely a blur, before rope upon rope of hot, runny cum is landing against your pussy, dripping down and following the curves and dips of your folds, winding up with your entire cunt absolutely covered in his seed.

It’s messy and dirty and it makes Tengen practically salivate, the sight enough to make him hard again, cock bright red and pain bleeding into pleasure because oh fuck, he wants to cover you in even more. There’s something about the sight of his cum on your skin that just feels so very right, dare he say even flashy – it’s a pride thing, and he’s not picky about where on your body he finishes.

 He’ll cover your cunt in rope after rope of cum, two thumbs spreading your lips wide so he can see your clenching hole, groaning lowly as he thumbs a bit of the cum against it, smirking when you clench so hard that some of it slips inside you.

He’ll smack your ass and mercilessly squeeze as he fists his cock over you, finishing against your pretty skin and staring down at the sight, loving the way you whimper slightly as he makes comments about how you look so fuckin’ good, baby, do you like being covered in me?

He’ll have you on your knees in front of him, your fingers wrapped around him as he tells you to open wide, painting your tongue white and giving himself an extra squeeze after just for good measure, just to make sure he gets every last drop onto your awaiting tongue.

He’ll finish on your chest, cum smearing across your nipples, moving forward to lick it off and flick and pinch at them, something like a strangled groan sounding from his throat because the taste of him on your skin is intoxicating in ways he can’t even describe.

And of course this kink doesn’t just extend to only you and him – oh no, the other wives are often involved, as well. He’ll bend you over and fuck you full, hips not stopping their movements until you’re shaking and a whining mess, cum trickling out and making a wet schluck schluck noise. He’ll slowly pull out with a hiss, sending a quick, payful smack to your ass, only to be immediately replaced by Makio, who eagerly grabs a handful of cheek in each hand, spreading them and groping as her tongue dips inside you, greedily sucking at and licking up every last glob of cum she can, paying no mind to the way you squirm and writhe at the overstimulation. Suma will be gagging around his length, pretty tears welling in her eyes and her jaw starting to ache at the stretch, only to have Tengen finish on her collarbone and breasts. Suma will giggle, giving his tip a quick kiss, then whine out your name, practically manhandling you as she makes you lick her clean, her gasps and moans as your tongue circles her areolas and sucks at her nipples ringing in your ears. And once you’re done, Tengen will expect you to clean him up, too – he’s still hard, still a deep, swollen pink color, and he’ll watch with a smile as you obediently lick up every last bit, leaving him clean and ready for the next orgasm.

And really, the kink isn’t even just limited to the bedroom – no, he’s more than happy to incorporate his cum in your day-to-day life, too. Even before he’s stolen you away to warm the Uzui bed at the Sound Estate, he’s idly fantasizing about you interacting with his seed. He’s not a complete creep, though, and so he’ll bar himself from acting on some of the more depraved, disgusting fantasies he’s harboring.

He’s daydreaming about snatching that pretty bowl of noodles you prepare for yourself nearly every night for dinner and jerking himself so fast that he can’t even breath, the off-white creamy texture seamlessly blending into the broth of the noodles, tip bright red and his breath unsteady because oh god, you’d look so dirty and sexy and risqué eating this and he wants to see it more than anything in the world. He won’t, obviously, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking about to an almost maniacal degree, instead making Makio settle between his legs and lick and suckle at him until he’s shooting blanks, all the while murmuring your name.

No, he’s not some depraved monster that would forcefully feed you his cum, no matter how raunchy and enticing the idea may be. Instead, he’s much more refined – that is, only a true pervert would trick you into ingesting his seed without your permission. Instead, Tengen finds other methods to get you to interact with his cum – ways that feel less invasive, less directly disturbing.

That is, it seems like a sweet gesture when you arrive home to find a pretty, decorative bottle of lotion waiting outside your front door one afternoon. It’s delicate packaging, a pretty bamboo with all sorts of flowers painted onto the wood, a small note attached claiming to be from the Uzuis. There’s a bit of writing from each of them – each filled with all sorts of proclamations of you being beautiful, of your skin being so soft and pretty that they felt you needed to have a good, high-quality, all-natural moisturizer to upkeep that level of perfection. And oh, isn’t that a funny coincidence! The wives have just recently gotten into the hobby of lotion making, learning all about the herbs and medicinal treatments that can be imparted into it.

Just ignore the slightly bitter smell to it, and the way that it’s awfully runny for a lotion, and the way that the discoloration seems a little too intense. It’s a home-made gift, after all, and one that each member worked very, very hard to make for you – hours of work, really, all with you at the forefront of their minds.  

So really, it’s a possessive thing, yes, but Tengen just likes the idea of the intimacy and lewdness that seeing the way you look all covered in his seed provides him – rather flashy, he might even say.

Voyeurism

While Tengen loves joining in on the fun, of course, there’s something very, very appealing about the idea of watching you get fucked. He’s got three very capable wives who’re all just as eager to get their hands on you, panties already soaked the moment their skin touches yours, and so why wouldn’t he want to see them go to work and leave you a moaning, disheveled mess?

There’s something erotic about being a bystander – he likes the idea of simply watching, of being a fly on the wall. This way he can see every angle that he can’t when it’s him hovering over you or guiding your hips to ride him harder and faster. And you’re damn pretty like this – he can see everything in real time, eyes glancing between your face, your pussy, your ass, your chest, and everywhere else he can greedily take in so fast that it’s almost dizzying, too desperate to take everything in to focus on any one thing.

It’s almost a kink for cucking, frankly, with how often he suggests it and the level that he enjoys it. Of course, you’re his woman, his wife, his cute little cunt that he gets to fuck and leave dripping with his cum, but you’re also his wives’. He’s not jealous when their hands settle on your skin, and so it’s very often that he’ll settle back into the corner of the room, sitting in a chair with his legs spread wide, one hand behind his head and the other idly cupping his balls, staring with rapt attention as Suma impatiently undresses you, Hinatsuru and Makio groping at every newly exposed inch of skin in a frenzy, wet kissing and sucking noises filling the room.

His expression remains neutral for most of the ordeal, too concentrated on watching and taking in every detail, all the while his fist slowly wraps around his base, pulling up and down, squeezing harshly and thumb playing with the tip as the scene unfolds in front of him.

And the wives are more than eager to put on a good show – there’s all sorts of dirty talk, each woman telling you exactly what they want to do with you. And frankly, the level of detail is crude – Makio’s telling you that she wants to taste that cunt of yours, want to make you squirt all over my face while Suma’s complimenting you in that awed, too-excited voice of hers that your tits are so pretty, can I touch them? Can I squeeze them and suck on your nipples until you come?

Even Hinatsuru exaggerates ever so slightly to entertain Tengen and fluster you, her voice ever-calm as she nips at your earlobe and tells you to get on your hands and knees so I can fuck you, love.

And they’re always so painfully honest that it makes you squirm in embarrassment and also discomfort. It’s flattering, in some far-off, fucked-up way, but the phrasing is too vulgar, too frequent, and too fervent to really let you enjoy and flatter yourself with it, because can you really be that flattered when you simply moan their name and their orgasm hits them like a fucking truck?

The whole thing is narrated as it’s happening, too, each wife talking about how good you feel and how pretty you look riding their strap, how sexy you look when you’re sitting on their face, how adorable you are when they keep rubbing and sucking at your clit long after you’ve finished. Their voices are breathy, uneven and choppy, pleasure tinging their words and often borderline unintelligible as they trail off into a moan or start begging you for more more more.

It’s uncomfortable, yes, but the moaned pleas and verbalized fantasies play into the experience, and though all three are doing it mostly to please Tengen initially, he starts fading away the longer they have you in bed with them. Their attention shifts entirely to you, almost forgetting about each others’ presence as they focus on touching you, making you touch them, making you come for them, them coming for you. It’s as if they’re in an entirely different world – one that Tengen absolutely loves to see, because if there’s anything that makes him happier and hornier it’s to see all three of the women he’s madly, deeply in love with absolutely losing their fucking minds over the fourth woman he’s so painfully obsessed with.

It’s arousing and leaves him on the edge of his seat, biting his lip and spitting into his palm again and again, the friction with how fast he’s moving his hand demanding more and more lubrication. And all the while Tengen’s still pumping himself, his stare uninterrupted despite the rather violent pace he’s set for himself. His thighs are tensing and his abs clench as he watching, but he wills himself to not finish until you do, to hold off his orgasm so he can come with you, even if he’s not the one touching you and bringing you there.

And when he feels that you’re getting closer, he’ll stand up from the chair, fist still diligently working his cock, taking occasional breaks to delay his orgasm as he fondles and gropes at his balls, only to inch closer to the four of you. He’s still staring, silent, but he gets closer and closer until he’s climbing onto the futon as well, getting onto his hands and knees, eyes still trained entirely on you. He’s keeping his fist stationary now and instead moving his hips to thrust into it, hissing through his teeth as he watches the way wives play with you, thrusting their fingers and dildos in and out again, matching his own thrusts to the same pace so it feels like he’s the one fucking you.

It’s just so dirty and sinful, and when he finally watches as you cry out and gush around Hinatsuru’s fingers, he can only throatily groan, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he shuffles forward like a crazed man, getting so close to you that he’s straddling over your laying form, tugging and jerking at himself so harshly only mere centimeters from your face.

And then suddenly he’s coming, a slew of curses falling from his lips as spurt after spurt sprays from his engorged, swollen tip and lands in streams on your face, the sight only making him grit his teeth, a second orgasm hot on his heels because you just look too fucking good. He’s breathing heavily after that, staring down at you with wide eyes and an open mouth, but once he’s had his fill he’ll simply lean forward and lightly smack your cheek with his cock, licking his lips and telling you in a strained tone to keep going, I want to see you come at least three more times.

So really, he’s note entirely uninvolved in the sex – simply watching until the time is right, wanting to time your orgasms together so that you feel connected and bound together. He thinks it’s sweet, really, but as Makio and Suma both lean down to eagerly lap up the rivulets of cum steadily dripping down and from your chin, it’s hard to find it endearing – not when Hinatsuru is already mouthing at your cunt again and not when you can physically feel the way Tengen is staring at you, already rock hard again and filling the room with the wet clicking sound of his strokes.

How very sweet.

Orgasm Control

As a general rule, Tengen is a fucking tease in bed.

There’s something captivating about the way you respond to his touch that drives him absolutely insane – he loves that a single brush of his fingers against your sensitive skin gets you gasping softly, his ego soaring because god, is he that good to you? He loves that a fleeting, teasing kiss against the inside of your thighs or the sensitive skin of your neck makes you whimper slightly, your eyes all big and doe-like and so very, very precious. He loves that a simple smack of his cock against your clit leaves you shuddering, the wet plop noise leaving a sticky, translucent line connecting his tip to your skin, everything so wet and messy and dirty.

He just loves the way that your body responds to him, even if your mind is slower to accept the pleasure and sexual gratification that he’s so eager to provide you with. And so, Tengen takes this and runs with it – that is, he’s never actively aiming to hurt you, but he has no problem teasing and making you beg for the orgasm he’s so confident he can give you.

And really, he should be confident – he’s got more experience than he knows what to do with, considering how sexually active he, Hinatsuru, Suma, and Makio are even before you step into their lives. That coupled with his extreme, borderline fanatical dedication to learning your every expression and sound in bed leaves Tengen as a sort of glorified sex-god, capable of bringing your body to the brink over and over and over, without even breaking a sweat.

And so, you’ll notice very early into your sexual relationship with him that he has a tendency to treat your body like a toy of sorts; fascination written across his face as he sinks his fingers into you, curling and rubbing against the sweet spot that makes your toes curl, eyes bright and wide as he stares down at you. He’s moving his thumb to rub circles against your sensitive clit, your legs shaking because fuck, how does he know exactly what pace and angle you like it?

(The answer, of course, is the stalking and long, explicit conversations with his wives about what specifically they like and what they think you’d like, too. They’re all eager to become experts at fingering you – taking turns practicing on one another, testing out different paces and angles, new techniques with their tongues and even brushing a finger over clenching assholes, anything and everything they can think of that you’d possibly like.)

He’ll be so attentive that it’s almost uncomfortable, the attention and awe in his eyes making you feel too exposed and vulnerable, but then all too suddenly you feel the telltale signs of your orgasm, squirming and shaking as he keeps working his fingers in and out and curling and grinding and oh, fuck fuck fuck-

But then the feeling is suddenly gone, the pleasure plateauing and plummeting, something akin to a whine falling from your lips because that possibly the lead-up to the strongest orgasm of your life. And Tengen will only laugh, licking off every bit of your slick from his fingers only to playfully smack your thigh, a grin settling on his face as he tells you that you shouldn’t just expect to get it – you have to earn it. Can you do that for me? Show me that you want me to fingerfuck you into an orgasm.

And he’s deadly serious – he'll make you straddle him, his pelvis wide and your hips stretching to accommodate, your cunt pressed so wantonly against his clothed cock, the fabric getting wet as he looks at you expectantly, that same cocky look on his face.

Well?

He’ll lean back, arms crossed behind his head as he watches you, shame eating away at you as you slowly move and grind, the pleasure good but nothing like what you’d experienced mere moments before. He’ll let you slowly grind for a while, finding the sight of you completely nude, wantonly using him to be very, very enticing, but eventually he’ll decide he’s made you suffer enough. A thumb will come down to rub at your clit, the moan you let out making his chest swell and his cock throb sharply underneath you – enough for you to feel it distinctly.

You’re awfully cute, he’ll start, only to suddenly have you on your back before you can blink, his lips hot on your and his tongue already running along your teeth, pressing deeper and deeper into your mouth, trying to taste and touch as much as he can. He’ll pull back with an exaggerated, lewd pwop sound, licking a long, wet strip along the seam of your lips. You’re cute now, but how ‘bout you show me just how fucking good you look when you’re creaming on my fingers?

And then he’s manhandling your legs apart, lips suddenly attached to your clit as he slips two fingers inside, resuming his pace and making your back arch up and off the futon. Red eyes watch with rapt attention as you slowly unravel, your cries getting louder and your hips threatening to buck, only weighed down by a heavy palm against your navel.

You’re so pretty, he thinks, and as you gasp out a slurred ‘m coming, he finds himself shallowly humping at the ground underneath him, hips scooping and gyrating as he watches the way your mouth opens in that pretty ‘o’ shape, your eyes squeezing tightly shut and your hands grasping for purchase, for anything to ground you as he works you through the pleasure. He’s keeping the same pace, tongue still drawing tight, purposeful circles with a bit of suction throughout the process, and even as your cries die out slightly, chest still heaving and your gaze falling onto him, crazed and half-lidded, the moans turning into whines.

Too much, fuck Tengen ‘s too much- He’ll cut off your rambling with a sharp smack against the fat of your breast, effectively shutting you up as he keeps up the pace, the oversensitivity driving you mad. It’s overwhelming, but even as you beg and try to wiggle out of his grasp Tengen won’t let up, instead buckling down and pressing onto your clit harder, slipping a third finger inside and pressing down on your navel even harder, watching the way your eyes cross and your stomach clenches.

He’ll easily pull three or four orgasms from you every time the two of you get intimate, often in quick succession, if only because the sight of you overstimulated and fucked out of your mind leaves him salivating, cock so hard it physically hurts because god, you look good like this.

It’s heaven, and he’ll often enlist the help of his wives to get you as dumb and overstimulated as possible, hands grabbing at every inch of your body and mouths leaving every part of you wet and sticky. It satisfies the protective urges he feels towards you to some degree, loving the way that you become so dependent on his touch to reach your high, the way you clutch onto him and keep chanting his name stroking his ego so heavily that it’s nearly enough to make him reach his own orgasm, too. He wants to see your muscles twitching weakly, your chest heaving, the pretty black eye makeup Suma had begged to put on your earlier trickling down your cheeks and making you look so messy and unhinged and hot.

You’re just so, so very endearing, and while he’ll always curl you into his arms, pressing your cheek against his chest and peppering too-long, too-wet kisses against your hairline and the crown of your head afterwards, Tengen’s goal each and every time he’s between your legs is to absolutely ruin you.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Clothed Sex

In general Tengen finds your body to be absolute perfection. He’s an appreciator of the female form in every way – finding women of all shapes and sizes beautiful, salivating over his own three wives like a dog in heat every time a sliver of skin is exposed or the urge takes him. And so, this naturally extends to you as well – he’s very, very sexually attracted to you, and enjoys the skin-to-skin intimacy that sex can bring.

However, while he loves to have the five of you completely nude, completely bare to one another and completely exposed in every possible way, he’s also a fan of rather unorthodox sexual ideas. And so, the prospect of clothed sex is something that happens to pass through his mind one day after walking by a red-light district shop, with illustrations sitting in the windows for purchase. It’s a small thought and one that merely makes him stop and ponder the image for a while, hand at his chin and his head tilted, but when he returns home from that mission he’s eager to try the fantasy out.

It’s not difficult to convince his wives, all three of them jumping at the chance to try something so erotic and oddly dirty, and it’s only natural that they encourage you to participate, too. At first, he only keeps a few items of clothing on just to test out the waters – he’s only wrapped in a loose, casual haori with his signature headband on. Makio, Suma, and Hinatsuru are all in various states of undress, keeping panties or a light overdress on, the fabric sheer enough to see the general outline of their breasts and the curve of their asses through the material.

But you – oh, well, as attractive as the idea of clothed sex where you’re also clothed is, all four of them had agreed that they simply can’t bear to not have complete access to your body. They can’t not be able to see and look at every inch of you, your soft skin available to kiss and touch and grope at, your curves bouncing and jiggling and the ricochet of hips slapping against yours completely visible to the eye. And so, the first few times it’s not too noticeable – the feeling of cotton against your skin is a little odd as you sink down on Tengen’s cock or kitten lick at Suma’s clit, but it’s not too uncomfortable.

And with every time they get a little bolder, keeping more and more clothing on until all four of them are fully dressed, all while you’re completely nude. It’s a strange feeling – you’ll feel exposed, too exposed, completely vulnerable while they’re all dressed in uniform and kimonos, skin hidden behind fabric.

But they absolutely love the sight – you’re truly the star of the show this way, and they’re quick to coax you into touching them through and around the clothing. Makio’s encouraging you to reach into the top of her kimono and pull both breasts out, the soft, pale skin hanging out of the fabric, nipples already rock hard and hyper sensitive when she pulls you closer and guides your lips to suck on one.

Suma’s giggling and blushing furiously when she has you grind against her ass, your hand slipping up to squeeze and grope the fat through her clothing, her own grinding getting faster and harder, pushing back against you so strongly that you have to brace yourself on something nearby.

Hinatsuru’s only sighing and smiling when she has you dive underneath her kimono, gently pushing her panties to the side as you kiss and lick at her, her thighs moving to tighten around your head and lock you in place.

And Tengen can only smile and lick his lips when you dig under the waistband of his uniform pants, shivering lightly when you grasp at his cock and slowly stroke him, your movements clumsy under the fabric and only making him leak more precum because oh, aren’t you so very precious?

It's humiliating, really, the power imbalance more than apparent, but they absolutely adore it. You’re just so very tempting, and they’re more than happy to sink their teeth in and take a bite out of you.

Toys

It's a given, really, considering that the Uzuis were already rather sexually active before their infatuation with you form, but they are certainly no strangers to incorporating toys into the bedroom. It’s practicality more than anything else – four people is a lot, and it’s not uncommon for one of them to simply sit back and watch, masturbating with the aid of a toy as they watch their spouses go at it.

And so, as a new member of the ‘relationship’, they’ll be more than happy to extend this philosophy to you, too. And you’ll have absolutely anything your heart desires – every dildo under the sun, all sorts of shapes and materials and sizes.

(With the stark exception that you are not allowed to have one that is comparable to Tengen’s size or larger, simply because he wants his cock to be the ultimate for you, to be the one that fills you the best, the most complete, the one you crave most.)

You’ll have access to any sort of special pillow designed to be ridden, any sort of clitoral toy, anything and everything. And all four of them are eager to use them on you – to press the small, textured sheet against your clit and rub in circles and listen to you gasp. They’re happy to spread your legs as wide as you can stretch, cunt uncomfortably on display as they sink the dildo inside of you, the others watching with rapt attention mere inches away as you look away and moan, the attention and the adoration in their eyes nearly suffocating.

They’ll even attach the nipple clamps to your poor, sensitive tits, Hinatsuru’s eye glinting with some sort of sadistic glee as you wince slightly and grind against Tengen’s crotch, the pain strangely arousing under her gaze.

And of course, the wives will absolutely be using their straps on you – they’ve got the nicest harnesses on the market, with dildos made out of glass and flexible materials, all sorts of dimensions that they’re eager to try out on you. Each woman has her own favorite, too, of course – the one that she prefers to be fucked with, and so of course that’s the one she’ll use on you.

(It’s intimate, in their heads, and it’s often that they’ll share toys with you without washing them first, loving the idea that their slick and cum is inside you, loving that they’re almost one with you now.)

Hinatsuru’s is long, with a ramrod straight length that always leaves you clutching onto the sheets and squeezing your eyes shut with how it just never seems to end. Makio’s favorite is a little shorter but much wider, the girth enough to leave you wincing slightly in pain because it stretches you out nearly to your limit. Suma’s is more modest on the length and birth, but it’s got this absolutely insane curve upwards that brushes along your g-spot over and over and over again, leaving you arching your back and clawing at anything you can find because it’s just too good.

But be careful, because while Tengen loves to watch the shows you put on with all three of them, it’s his cock that you must crave the most at the end of the day – he wants to see all the exaggerated reactions, the gasps and screams of his name, the way your cunt sucks him in again and again and again as if you just can’t get enough of him.

And of course, you’re more than welcome to use toys on him, too – he generally doesn’t like imitations for pussies, so any sort of pocket-pussy like toy he’ll typically only use to humor you. Rather, he’s a big fan of cockrings and anything else that can act as a sort of restriction. Put a chastity cage of sorts on him and he’s breathing heavily, trying to resist the urge to just rip it off and open with his inhuman strength. He wants you to tease him, to leave him leaking so much precum that it’s pathetic, to have him on the edge of losing his mind before you finally, finally give him the release and pleasure he’s so desperate for.

The Uzuis really just like the myriad possibilities and options that toys bring them – and whether you like it or not, you’ll like it, too. They’ll make sure of it.

BIGGEST FANTASY:

Tying hand in hand with his voyeuristic tendencies, Tengen just can’t shake the idea of being intimate with you in a public place. He’s never really tried it too much simply out of fear for the ramifications it could have on his career, but the idea is significantly less easier to simply swallow down when it comes to you, where the marginal sense of propriety he feels flies out the window.

There’s something about the idea of claiming you in a public place that just really, really gets him hot under the collar, a light shade of pink covering the bridge of his nose because oh, isn’t that just so naughty and dirty? It’s a kink for the risk of getting caught, more than anything – the idea that people could hear or see, that the both of you have to stay quiet or else everyone around you will know exactly what he’s doing under that pretty kimono of yours.

It’s an enjoyment for the taboo, and a way to quell his possessiveness all while he gets to see you squirm as he makes you an absolute mess on his fingers.

And so, while it may be logistically difficult to swing if only because the Uzuis seriously limit your time in the public eye and away from the Sound Estate, Tengen could be very easily convinced to take you somewhere semi-public, to let his hand sneak between your legs and listen to the way you struggle to stay quiet and composed while he curls his fingers against the exact spot that has you seeing stars.

He’s a tease in every sense, and to see you struggle to maintain your composure because of him is arousing in a way that truly makes him breath heavier, his hands restlessly clenching and unclenching, his toes curling and his cock aching because god, you’d look so fucking cute all hot and bothered and embarrassed at getting caught.

               The theater is really quite pretty – carved wood and ornate painting against the grain, all sorts of details and skill that you’d noticed when you’d first entered. The light had been on then, the some twenty people also in the theater excitedly chattering away in preparation for the play about to begin. Tengen had led you inside, your hand tightly clasped in his own and his large body purposefully angled to shield you from any curious eyes and promptly placed you both in seats at the very far back corner of the theater. There was no one else in this row – the closest appeared to be a young couple two rows ahead of you, closer to the bulk of people near the front.

               Tengen had been awfully cryptic about the whole thing on the way there – only telling you that you’d be seeing something new tonight, and that he had a special plan on how to make it extra fun for you. The sense of foreboding was still sitting heavily in your chest, but the excitement at being in town and out of the Estate for a while was difficult to quell.

               It’s not long before the lamps are blown out and the play begins, the actors swarming the stage and reciting their lines in a way that leaves you mesmerized. The plot is something stupid, really, but you can’t find it in yourself to care – it’s too captivating.

               Wet, warm lips press against the side of your neck without warning, the sudden sensation making you jump and slightly yelp, Tengen’s chuckle and the hand that places itself over your mouth cutting off any sound. He trails kisses up and behind your ear, then down along your jaw, finally finishing at your ear, taking your earlobe between his teeth before huskily whispering, “You look ravishing.”

               Unsure how to respond, you just swallow, trying to ignore his ministrations and instead focus on the play. You’re acutely aware of the people in front of you, suddenly understanding why Tengen chose such an isolated seat.

               He groans against your skin. “Promise me you won’t make a sound if I move my hand, yeah?”

               You nod, mortified at the idea of letting anyone know what he’s doing to you in such a public place. He grins, exhaling slowly.

               Large hands find their way to cup at your clothed breasts, expertly finding your nipples and deftly rolling them between thumb and forefinger. You bite your lip, trying to hold back the small sighs at the pleasure, but Tengen only pinches harder, the pads of his fingers coming up to squeeze and knead at the rest. “Shh, you wouldn’t want anyone to know what we’re doing, would you?”

               You shake your head but he chooses that exact moment to slither a hand down and tightly cup your cunt, thumb pressing right against your clit. You gasp and let out a choked sound, only for Tengen to rush forward and silence you with a kiss, his thumb continuing to rub slow, lazy circles against your sensitive skin. He pulls back with your bottom lip carefully caught between his teeth, eyes sparkling as he comments, “Seems like you do want people to know. How unlike you – you’re not normally this bratty.”

               His lips move down to settle against your collarbone, tongue slipping out to lick and suck at patches of skin. You’d surely be left with bruises tomorrow, hickies decorating the entire expanse of your chest.

               “Tengen-!” Your scold is cut off by your own shuddering gasp as a finger slips underneath your kimono and presses hotly against your entrance, teasing and prodding through the thin material of your panties. You’re clutching at the arm rests of the chair now, thighs closing around his hand and not seeming to faze him at all. He’s moved down to sucking and kissing against your breasts now, over the fabric but still letting his saliva pool against the material. Wet spots form as he moves along, surely visible with the light-colored fabric of your kimono.

               Lips curve around and suckle at a nipple through the material as he slips his finger to the side of your panties, whistling very quietly. “For someone who seems so opposed, you’re awfully wet. Care to explain?”

               Your face feels hot, embarrassment creeping up your spine as you yet again glance towards the crowd of people in front of you. No one’s looked back or noticed yet, but you can’t help but wonder when someone inevitably will.

               “This is so – so wrong! We’re in public, you can’t-“ You start, but a teasing, rather sharp bite at your nipple has you shutting up.

               “We can. And we will.”

               It’s all he says before he’s getting out of his seat and quickly kneeling in front of you, throwing your kimono up and over his head as he quickly settles against your pussy. Teeth grab at the hem of your panties and pull down, fingers quickly coming up to rip the material in half and leave you squirming. Nervously you look around again, but the tearing noise happened to coincide with a loud yell in the play, and no one seems to have noticed.

               “Tengen!” You whisper sharply, one hand coming down to rest on his head as he throws your thighs over his shoulders. With nothing separating him, Tengen dives forward, pressing his nose against your entrance and deeply inhaling, audible to you even through the muffling fabric.

               You don’t have time to react, though, as he immediately starts licking and sucking, the lewd noises filling and ringing in your ears as your eyes flutter closed, his precise movements and the aim of his tongue leaving your legs feeling weak. He sets a steady, moderate pace, his fingers slipping inside to curl and press against you. Your toes curl and your thighs clench around his head but it doesn’t seem to bother him, his free hand moving to clutch at the fat of your thigh as he moans against you.

               It’s overwhelming and it’s not long before you’re right on the edge, one hand grasping at his hair through your kimono and the other tightly locked over your mouth to stop any moans from escaping. Your eyes are squeezed shut, the play entirely forgotten as you focus on not making any noise, but when Tenge suddenly speeds up the pace of his fingers to bully them directly against your spot, you can’t stop yourself.

               You arch up out of the seat, thighs clenched so tightly around his head that for a moment you fear he’ll suffocate, slick gushing into his open mouth as your orgasm wrecks you. You’re trying to stay quiet but the chair is creaking under you and a few moans slip out, and it’s only when your eyes flutter open and the last pangs of pleasure wrack through your body that you notice the way a man roughly your age stares at you in shock from a few rows ahead, clearly aware of what just happened. You tremble, embarrassment eating you alive, but Tengen merely presses a kiss against your quivering thigh and returns to his seat, licking his licks and sucking each finger clean. The man quickly turns around, shoulders stiff and clearly uncomfortable in his chair, but Tengen merely reaches over and squeezes your hand, sending you a half-smirk, half-smile.

               The rest of the play finishes painfully slowly, and once the lamps are relit you’re immediately glancing over at the man and looking away quickly when you catch eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Tengen follows your gaze and his eyes narrow for a moment, before he clears his throat and pulls you into a searing, heated kiss, much too loud and much too wet to be considered polite. A hand settles against your hair, pulling you deeper and keeping you trapped as he has his way with you.

               The boy quickly walks away, practically scurrying out of the theater, and it’s only after the rest of the patrons leave that Tengen pulls back, eyes staying closed for a few moments.

you’re so pretty

               The comment interrupts your endless scrolling, the notification popping up from the top of your screen giving you pause. Your thumb hovers over the notification, tapping quickly and letting your most recent post fill the screen.

               It’s nothing too terribly fancy – just a post detailing a hang-out at the park with your friends from last weekend. There’s some pretty photos of the autumn leaves and a photo of you smiling and sitting on the swing set – one that’s nearly too small for you now that you’re far from being a child. There’s another photo of you and your friend Erica on a picnic blanket, holding up the rather disastrous sandwich you’d cobbled together with the grossly limiting picnic supplies she’d packed.

               You look pretty, you agree – you’re smiling big, the photo having been taken mid-laugh when your friend cracked a truly terrible joke. You’d felt good posting it, but the comment still makes you feel flattered, a warm feeling settling in your chest that makes you eagerly click on the user’s name.

               You don’t follow him, and he’s not following you. He’s following no one, in fact.

               Furrowing a brow, you shrug. Maybe it’s a bot, or maybe someone you actually do know in real life but just aren’t connected with on social media. The profile doesn’t have the user’s name, just a simple imtired123 and no profile photo. Probably a bot.

               Sighing, you close out of the app, pressing the power button and hoisting yourself to your feet. You’re nearly late for work, anyways – your phone gets discarded into your purse and soon you’re out the front door, pulling your light jacket around yourself tighter in the crisp, cool autumn air.

               nice

               It’s a few weeks later when the next comment comes. Just like last time, it’s on a relatively nondescript post – one you’d made even before the autumn park photoshoot. It’s a photo of your pet, with some cute stickers and editing surrounding the animal’s face. It’s endearing, you think, but certainly not a masterpiece. The other photo in the post is a selfie of you and your pet, pressing a kiss to their cheek. Again, endearing – but nothing particularly groundbreaking.

               It’s the same mystery account, and although it’s strikes you as odd that there’s so much space between the comments, you once again write it off as a bot. This comment’s less fun, though, so you’re quick to just shrug. Besides, your friend’s due to your apartment any minute now – and she gets crabby when you make her wait.

               wear more blue

               You roll over in bed, the buzzing noise from your phone making your eyes squint open. The alarm clock on your nightstand reads three in the morning, and you groan. Blearily, you check the notification, and only groan at the sight of the semi-familiar username commenting on a photo of you in a red shirt for a silly Halloween costume.

               Weirdo, you grumble, unceremoniously shoving your phone back onto the nightstand with Do Not Disturb mode on. Maybe if you’re quick enough, you can get back to the dream you were having.

               you make me so hard

               It comes in the middle of brunch with your two closest friends. You don’t hear it at first, but the second time your phone buzzes you unconsciously reach for it. Your face sours up immediately, and Chelsea to your right notices.

               “Everything okay?” She asks, wiping some ketchup from her eggs from the corner of her lips.

               “Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine, just some creep.” You respond, clicking on the account again. It’s the same user – still with zero followers, you see, and only following a single account. You’re about to click on the following list, but the waiter’s sudden appearance stops you.

               “Anything I can get you ladies?” He asks, sending a small smile Erica’s way, to which she only flushes and clears her throat.

               Chelsea grins. “We’re good,” she gestures to the two of you, “but Erica here has been saying how bad she wants to try your sweet cream. For her coffee. Could you get one for her, please?”

               Chelsea’s words make Erica gasp, the waiter laugh, and your own snort fill the air. Erica’s indignant as the waiter winks and turns on his heel, and your phone lay forgotten in your purse as Chelsea defends herself from the onslaught of half-hearted slaps.

               you’re mine

               You’re starting to get tired of this. It’s been a week or so since the brunch incident, and the stranger’s comments are starting to feel a little too targeted to simply be a bot. You’re curled up on your couch, TV playing some mindless sitcom while the moon shines outside the apartment window, when you click back into the stranger’s account.

               The comment had been left on a story you’d posted earlier in the day showing a short video of the scenery outside the train you commute to work on. The sunlight had been hitting the city skyscrapers in a pretty way, and you’d wanted to take a snapshot of the moment.

               You’re mine… It makes your toes curl, unease settling in the pit of your stomach. A strange thing to comment, really, and with only the smallest moment of hesitation, you firmly press down on the block button. Closing out of the app, you place your phone on the other end of the couch, focusing in on the familiar jangle of the television show’s theme song. Bot or not, the shenanigans would stop.

               greedy attention whore

               The post is of your baby cousins. They’re young – four and six, to be exact, and the photos are just the aftermath of them eating chocolate cake for a birthday party. There’s frosting smeared across their cheeks and down the front of the pretty white dresses they’re wearing. It’s sweet, it’s innocent, it’s normal – even if the comment isn’t.

               You swallow, pressing on the account’s profile. The little icon pops up reading ‘new’ below the imageless profile photo, no description present. The account’s entitled imtired132 this time, and you grit your teeth. This can’t be a bot, you’re sure – it’s too specific and frankly too hurtful. You don’t know this person, but you’re starting to wish you never will.

               You block them again, rushing to delete the comment on the post for fear your cousin will see and worry.

               show me your tits

               Three days later. You block them again.

               your justt a dumb whor

               A day after that, with grammar so bad you almost don’t bother to decipher it.

               why are you ignoring me

               One week later, on the same post as the last time.

               just came to the thought of you, want to see

               Commented at four in the morning, then deleted, then reposted.

               you’re so pretty it makes me want to die

               Ten days later, with a separate comment only containing a pink heart.

               fucking slut

               It comes at a really bad time – there’s never really a good time, you suppose, but being stuck in the sketchy, dirty bathroom of a club with tears running down your cheeks alongside your mascara certainly isn’t a good time. The dress you’re wearing feels too tight and suddenly too short, and you wipe at your eye as you look at the comment.

               You’re at a fucking wedding in this post. It’s nearly six years old – your cousin’s wedding, as a matter of fact. The one whose kids you’d watched for the birthday party, the one who had her bridesmaids dress in rather modest navy pantsuits to match the aesthetic of the event. Slut. In your full-coverage outfit? The only skin showing is your hands, neck and face. Your hands are trembling as you sniffle, not even bothering to check the account’s details before clicking on the profile and selecting the direct message option.

               What the fuck is your problem? Leave me alone. Your message and short and simple, and you don’t read it over for grammatical correctness. You’re not sure that you could, given how thick your tears have become, the night’s events paired with the comment only making you feel worse. It’d sucked that your longtime crush – a friend of Chelsea’s, one that she’d been dying to set you up with – had ignored you all night, and to top it all off just left with another girl. It’s demoralizing, and the alcohol in your system has left you feeling bold and emotional.

               Your comments are creepy, and there has to be a better way to spend your time. You send the text, block the account, and shove your phone into your purse. Chelsea knocks on the stall door again, worry evident in her tone, but you can only sniffle harder.

               The next morning you wake up feeling like you’ve been hit by a train. Your head hurts, the room is too bright, and your limbs feel heavy. The hangover is bad, and it’s not until late in the day you gather the courage to look at the bright, hypnotizing screen of your phone.

               There’s fourteen unread direct messages on Instagram.

no better way to spend my time, always about you

don’t cry          

crying just makes you hotter

would you cry for me, if i asked you to

if you cry 4 me i’ll nut 4 you

do you want that. i want you to want that

you’re so dirty

i knew it just from looking at u

An hour pause, then the rest.

i love you

i love you

i love you

i love you

i love you

i love you

               You’re shaking by the time you finish reading, any trace of a headache gone as you swallow. This person is fucking insane – this is demented. You’ve blocked him how many times? How many times has he created a new account just to harass you?

               You drop your phone onto your mattress, unable to move. It’s only the insistent buzz of an incoming call notification that brings you out of your reverie. A quick look at the caller ID shows an unknown number, and immediately you’re out of your bed, leaving the room and trying to ignore the sound of your ringtone.

               It’s a good, long twenty minutes before you build up the nerve to listen to the voicemail the number left. It’s five minutes long, and it’s mostly heavy breathing. You think you hear something clicking and rhythmic in the background, but you can’t bring yourself to admit what it is. There’s a loud gasp, then ten seconds of silence, and then very quietly: check your messages.

               There’s three of them.

               don’t ignore me. why are you ignoring me? i hate it when you ignore me.

               so beautiful

               Attachment: 1 Image

               The photo’s dark, but one glance is enough to show you that it’s you in the photo, fast asleep and entirely unaware of the pale, bloody hand resting on your hip in the photograph’s corner.

               The vomit comes before you can help it. You’re shaking again, nearly hyperventilating as you grab your purse and run to the door of your apartment, fingers trembling so badly you can hardly type in the location of the nearest police station. It’s only a ten minute walk, and as you grasp onto the door handle and swing the door backwards, you yelp at the sight of a man in your doorway.

               You’ve never seen him before, but there’s something in his eyes that makes your throat dry up, tears prickling at your eyes, a small, warbled little no falling from your lips.

               “Hello beautiful,” he starts, one hand coming up to your doorframe. Fingers wrap slowly around the wooden frame, holding tight as he takes a single step towards you. “Ah-ah-ah, not so fast.”

               You’re frozen, so shocked and terrified that you can’t will yourself to move, to take action, to do anything even as he steps closer and closer.

               “Y’know, you’re much prettier in real life.”

               The door slams shut behind him.

The ones that thank you are truly grateful - they still can't believe that you're letting them touch you, that you're awake and aware and letting them fucking touch you, and so there's something reverant in the way their fingers brush against your skin. There's a sort of unfiltered, raw awe that blinds you as they grope and squeeze and knead with trembling fingers, hands moving so quickly it's as if they don't even know where to begin. They're the ones that are more likely to be warbling out declarations of love and devotion as they unsteadily thrust into you, their grip on you tight enough to make you wince. They're the ones who're begging in clipped, whiny pleas to please please please let them finish inside you, to give you everything they have to offer.

It's pathetic, really, but it strokes your ego in a way that's tough to ignore - every sniveled compliment and gasp about how good you feel goes right to your head. Every time they bury their face into the crook of your neck as their hips get more wild and untamed will leave you feeling more and more pleased with yourself, even if the man calling you a goddess in human form is the same man whose basement you're trapped in.

And, after he's finished emptying himself inside of you, cock still twitching and his breathing still wild, the murmuring starts. The chanted, over-and-over thank you thank you thank you falling from his lips as he stays curled around you, pressing himself against you as if he'll die if even a single inch of his skin isn't touching yours. And he's not stopping - he's thanking you for nearly ten whole minutes, pressing wet, tonguey kisses against your skin as he details each and every thing he's thankful for.

Thank you for fucking me. Thank you for kissing me. Thank you for letting me put the collar on you. Thank you for spitting in my mouth. Thank you for saying you love me. Thank you for using me like your personal sex toy. Thank you thank you thank you -

It's pathetic and weird, but perhaps you're a bit pathetic, too, because the way blood seems to rush between your legs at his admittance makes you just as guilty, too.

And then, of course, there are those who make you say thank you. They'll have you ass up and face down, one hand flat on your upper back to keep you pinned down while the other clutches at the pillow next to your head. He's grunting and groaning, little ngh ngh ngh sounds punctuating each thrust. Eyes maniacally scan over your exposed back and the curve of your ass, tongue lolling out to lick over his lips and taste the salt of his own sweat. Slapping sounds fill the room, along with his slurred, much-too-intense dirty talk.

It's all about possession with him - telling you that you're so damn tight, no else can fuck you like I can. Do you - fuck - do you hear me? Tell me you fucking hear me.

He's slapping your ass and pulling your hair, slipping two fingers inside your mouth to press heavily on your tongue as his thrusts pick up, not asking but rather telling you that your orgasm is getting closer and closer. You're going to come for me. You'll fucking come for me.

It's insistant and pathetic in its own way, sure, but when he's bullying his other hand between your legs and playing with your clit in such a frantic way, it's hard to remember that he's the pitiful one.

And when he finally does rip the orgasm out of you, he's keeping you right on the edge, licking at your tears as he tells you to thank me, show me how grateful you are that I'm making you feel good.

He's not satisfied until you're blabbering out your thanks, telling him that you're so in love with him and how you belong to him and only him. He's not satisfied until you're begging, promising all sorts of depraved things just because you're so damn close, and if he'd just angle his hips slightly higher and rub a few more circles over your clit...

Once he's had his fill, he'll lean in to deeply inhale your scent, nose pressed against your neck or between your breasts, before finally letting his hips and fingers hit the spots he knows you need. He wants you to keep saying your thanks, fingers squeezing and pinching at your clit, invading your senses and demanding your attention even in the throes of your pleasure.

And when, a few moments later, he lets out a particularly low groan and sends rope upon rope of hot, runny cum into you, he's expecting another thanks.

Thinking about Overhaul who is not the biggest fan of your menstruations. He doesn’t find you repulsive – far from it – but there’s still the fear of germs. He’s still hesitant about the dirtiness of it all, the messiness, the fact that you can’t control it. It’s a constant war in his head, each side of him wanting to simultaneously comfort you through the pain and your obvious embarrassment while the other side recoils and urges him to wrap you in disinfectant-imbued absorbent pads.

And he prepares very well for your periods – he’s got a few sets of antimicrobial sheets dedicated to your time of the month, the crisp white stretched taught over three layers of absorbant bed protectors. He’s got a set of extra absorbant panties with a wax coating in the material to minimize leakage, all in that same soft, off-white color Kai always prefers you in.

(Buying the panties had been a decision purely motivated by his worry for the mess you’d inevitably create, but the first time he sees you in them he has to suck in his breath, pupils dilating and his pulse quickening because fuck, how can you still look so enticing with clinical, full-coverage underwear?)

He’ll force you to wear special clothing during it, too – nightgowns that leave you skin feeling simultaneously ticklish and unbearably soft, the material of such high quality that you’re terrified you’ll somehow stain it. He’ll have you lather yourself in a special selection of ointments and exfoliants in the shower, claiming that your body needs exposure to more vitamins and quality supplements to account for everything you’re losing. He’s insisting that your portion sizes get slightly bigger even when you refuse to finish your plate.

(Something he won’t stand for: you’ll finish, or someone will pay – you’ll have a front row seat as he slips off his glove, and even afterwards you’re still expected to finish that last bite of mushy, flavorless ‘food’.)

You’re getting more protein on these days, too, his paranoia eating away at him because he needs to make sure you’re healthy and that you don’t develop any sort of deficiencies or illnesses or anything else that could snatch you away from him.

Anything that could cause you to abandon him.

But really, while his hyper-controlling behavior and the constant scrutiny and micromanaging of your every move is heightened on your period, arguably the worst time is the leadup to the first little drop of blood. Of course it’s never really a surprise when you’re due because he keeps anally strict records and documentation of your cycles – tracking each phase and making sure that everything is uniform, consistent, healthy.

(And yes, that includes tracking your ovulation phase as well – he still can’t quite muster up the courage to fuck you, his own insecurities and fears barring him each time his hand hovers over his zipper, each time the pretty pout of your lips and the lull of your voice leave him hard enough to hurt. He’s still tracking it, though, the start and end dates marked with a big red check mark on his personal colander, the sight making him adjust his tie in the mirror, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he takes in his appearance.

Maybe he should leave his tie just slightly askew – women like the casual, effortless look, right? Maybe it’d make him seem less stoic, less alien, less intimidating – maybe you’d even fix it for him, reaching out with hesitant hands, asking in that pretty voice of yours for him to let you fix it, the feeling of your fingertips through the layers of his clothing enough to get precum staining his boxers. He’ll swallow and leave the tie slightly off-center, throwing off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves for good measure. He’ll run a hand through his hair as he knocks on your door, already anticipating and hoping for even the slightest sign that you notice.

Perhaps your ovulation will leave you more recipient to the way he awkwardly settles at the edge of your bed beside you, his thigh just barely brushing against yours, your breaths close enough that he can hear. Hopefully you will be, because when he spends an hour that night with his cock in hand, embarrassment and shame creeping up his spine at how he's unable to stop thinking about how horny you must be, it would be much easier to imagine you'd at least be willing to let him help you. He wants to help you.)

He's tracking everything, and so he knows exactly when your period is due - but the human body is fickle, and so he relies on a system to ensure you've actually begun bleeding each month. It's clinical, more than anything - he'll ask you to follow him to the room with the gynecologist's chair, the kind with cold metal that bites into your skin. You'll settle in, legs spread and pretty cunt on display, Kai's gaze never wavering from the sight as he rolls on an additional layer of surgical gloves.

He'll maneuver the rolling seat up to the space between your spread legs, his voice monotonous as he asks you whether cramps have started, whether you've noticed anything unusual, whether you're yet experiencing that occasional bout of horniness that accompanies the first few days.

It's hard to answer with a straight voice as cold, latex-covered fingers prod at you, two thumbs spreading apart your labia to peer at your clenching hole, a single finger even running over your clit to test your sensitivity.

(Blink and you'll miss the way Kai tenses at the noise you make, his jaw clenching and his sharp inhale - he won't comment on it, but tonight it'll be on repeat in his head, your small oh mentally punctuating each of his strokes.)

He's silent once the touching begins, partially out of distrust for his own voice and concentration, and you won't bother to fill in the silence. You're completely dry each time, and after he spends a few moments poking and prodding to look for any signs of swelling or abnormalities, he'll pull back for a few moments.

It's short lived, and as he squeezes a bit of antimicrobial lube onto his pointer finger, you'll only shudder. He'll shudder too, for an entirely different reason, as he slowly pushes a single finger in, taking care to go slow.

(He feels a bit pathetic for being so attentive and slow with the 'exam', but he can't shake the feeling of wanting each and every sexual encounter between the two of you - he counts this as such - to be a positive experience. He wants you to associate him with treating you well, with taking the proper precautions for your comfort. Because ultimately, when he finally works up the courage to replace his fingers with his cock, he wants you to be receptive. He needs you to be receptive.)

It's still silent, and as he pushes all the way to the hilt, he'll curl his fingers slightly. He's moving them slowly and methodically, pressing his gloved fingertips against every inch of your walls, the sensation making you bite your lip.

And Kai's watching you - his gaze flicks between your face and his fingers, wanting to bask in the sight of you but also fixated on the sight of his fingers inside you. All the while he's trying to memorize the exact pressure of how you squeeze him, your natural curvature, committing everything to memory because it'll make his fantasies tonight that much better, that much more real, that much more preparative for when he finally, finally has you underneath him, staring up at him and begging for more, please Kai please...

After some thirty seconds he'll pull back, the wet noise of the lube making you cringe and him shiver, and he'll carefully examine the latex for any signs of blood.

If there's no visible blood, he's quick to discard the glove, immediately washing his hands in triplicate at the nearby sink, his voice finally cutting through the oppressive silence in the room. Everything checks out, he'll say, go shower. I'll have dinner delivered in an hour or so.

He'll pause, turning off the sink, but not turning around to face you. I'll be joining you this evening.

There's no question in his voice, no desire for your permission, only a vague sense of resoluteness that makes your heart sink.

Okay, Kai. The sound of his name rolling off your tongue makes his eyes flutter closed, and he only turns around once he's fully in control. The sight of you still spread in the chair catches his gaze, the beat of silence as he openly stares at your cunt nearly impossible to catch, but nonetheless present.

He swallows. I trust you remember where the shower is in this examination room?

He matches your nod with one of his own, before slipping past the steel door. Once it's shut behind him, he sighs, flexing his hand that had been, just moments prior, inside you. He stares at his finger for a moment, still gloved and protected, before slowly exhaling and returning back to his office, the footage from the examination bathroom already live on the screen as he waits for you to disrobe and follow his instructions.

You, meanwhile, will be left to bite your lip and try to forget the feeling of his finger inside you and the obvious bulge in his slacks.

And as the warm water runs down your back, you'll content yourself with the knowledge that at least the specula remains untouched on the bedside table.

For now.

Thinking about Daichi Sawamura who is the natural option for you to run to when mysterious packages start showing up at your door. It’s all sorts of intimate items – pretty lingerie that somehow fits you perfectly, all in your favorite colors (and his, too, of course). Then it shifts towards just single items, no longer the pretty babydoll sets – silk thongs with an initial stitched in, collars with your name engraved in the metal tag, vibrators that slowly get longer and thicker. It’s only when one comes that’s much too realistic, leaning slightly to the left and with veins lining the top that you finally confide in Daichi. It all comes tumbling out, and it’s only when you show him the handwritten note with the most recent dildo – reading it’s modeled after my own, let me know how it fits - that Daichi softly sighs, throwing you a look and telling you that you know there’s nothing we can do about it. Creeps like that always get away with it, unfortunately. Just ignore the way his uniform pants are straining at seeing you all teary-eyed and dependent on him – cute. Maybe you’d like another gag – he’s noticed you haven’t used the last one yet.

Thinking about Koushi Sugawara who feels bad about installing the bug on your phone, but not bad enough to disconnect it. It’s not visual, is what he tells himself – it’s not creepy if it’s not looking at you, after all. It only picks up on sound when he activates it – which has let him into a whole other side of you. You bring your phone with you everywhere, he’s realized, and he’s always keeping his headphones on at any given time, playing the live feed and letting his cheeks turn red and his pants grow tight at the sound of you. Your voice, your laugh, your humming, your moans and whimpers and hell, even the sound of you peeing is enough to make him feel light-headed, connected to you in a way that gets his heart racing and his cock swelling. Maybe one day he’ll install the visual one, too, but for now the sound is enough – the audio recordings he takes of you is more than enough fodder should he ever need it.

Thinking about Asahi Azumane, whose apartment is basically your second home. You come over and spend the night often – often enough to have your own toothbrush permanently living at his place, set off to the side and out of the mainly used area of the bathroom counter. It’s a common brand, one that Asahi can find at the corner market – which he does, keeping a constant supply around so that he can replace it each time you use it. He keeps them all stacked nicely in a Ziploc bag, dating each in permanent marker so he can recount and remember all the times you’ve slept under the same roof as him, only a room away. And of course, this makes it much easier to slip the it between his lips and against his tongue, teeth grinding down against the bristles and his eyes fluttering closed because it just feels so very intimate. It’s embarrassing and he keeps everything well hidden from you, but the way he stares as he brushes his teeth beside you is a bit of a give-away that there’s something going on.

Thinking about Ryunosuke Tanaka who keeps a running list of the insults you throw at him. They’re never truly mean, always just jokes or digs at some niche thing about him and his Loverboy attitude, but Ryunosuke notices. He’s transcribing them into his Notes app on his phone, and when he gets home each evening he repeats the insult to himself out loud, saying the word over and over in a mimic of your own voice, letting his hands run down the length of his body as he closes his eyes and melts into memories of your expression, your tone, the way you’d been looking at him. He’s got something of a degradation kink, and he’s training himself to become aroused at the mere mention of a derogatory nickname – it's for the future, he’ll tell himself, so that when he’s got you straddling him, tying him up and keeping him pinned underneath you, he can preform exactly how you want him to. He’ll be good for you – just call him a freak again, please.

Thinking about Yuu Nishinoya always making jokes about feet because he knows it makes you squirm in discomfort, but soon it stops being a joke. He’s always tickling your feet, making exaggerating sucking sounds when you slip your shoes off, even snatching your socks and running around with them, the adrenaline of you chasing him and yelling his name and looking at him him him making him giddy. But then he’s managing to keep the sock one day, curiously rubbing a finger over it as he palms himself, running his leaking, bright red tip against the material and cursing. He’ll wind up using it as a sort of cocksleeve, fucking into it and leaving it so riddled with cum that it’s hard, and suddenly the next time he jokes about you letting him give just one suck, c’mon is less teasing and much more serious.

Thinking of Shoyou Hinata who doesn’t understand why you get so angry when he suggests switching underwear. He thinks it’s sweet – a sign of love and comfort with each other, really. He’ll step into the cute, flimsy panties he buys for you, pulling them up and face twisting up slightly as he adjusts himself, trying his best to get the thong to hold as much of his cock and balls as he can. He feels naughty, wearing them under his shorts when he runs to the store to pick up groceries, and with each step he can feel the lacey material – the very material he’d forced you to strip out of that morning, the material still warm. And of course, you were forced into his boxers – the same ones he'd slept in, smelling musky and feeling wet with something you don’t want to name.

Thinking about Tobio Kageyama who has a full body reaction when he hears you say his name. It’s not subtle, either – he’s going stiff as a board, eyes blowing wide and pupils dilating, visible goosebumps erupting all over his skin. His breathing gets a bit heavier, and every muscle in his body is flexed, clenched so tightly that he can hardly move. He’ll stare at you, lips focused entirely on your lips, murmurs leaving his own that sound vaguely like your name, vaguely like fuck. You’ll have to pull him out of the moment yourself, with a touch to his shoulder or waving your hand in front of his face, and it’s only then that he’ll clear his throat, shifting in his pants and realizing much too late that he’s visibly hard, a bit of sweat visibly staining his exercise shirt under the armpits. He’ll make some lame excuse and run away, but as he fists his cock and replays the moment over in his head, he’ll be whining your name and your name only.

Thinking about Kei Tsukishima who feels so, so very stupid but can’t help but bite his lip as he scrolls through Spotify. There’s a separate, private folder of playlists he’s curated, each lasting easily two hours, all with different, single word titles. Doggy, cowgirl, lotus, 69. There’s ten or so, and they get updated at least once a day. It’s music that he can almost too easily imagine touching you to – slowed, passionate, your favorite songs, almost all of them coming from recommendations you yourself gave him. He just can’t help the mental imagery that fills him the moment he hears the chords and the singer’s voice – immediately you’re perched in his lap, tits pressed against his own chest and grinding on him so slowly that he’s near tears, desperation filling him and suddenly his finger’s tapping before he knows it, the little ‘saved to edging’ notification popping up at the bottom of his screen. It’s mortifying, really, but so is the silence only interrupted by the bassy thump thump that would otherwise fill up his bedroom every night.

Thinking about Tadashi Yamaguchi who splurges for his birthday and buys himself a customized life-sized body pillow with you printed on it. He’d been bright red the whole time he’d been ordering, the prized photo of you – scantily clad in your cute, revealing pajamas with your breasts just barely contained by the top – uploaded to the cute little Etsy shop. The package had arrived not soon enough, and he’s both flushed and breathing erratically the moment he rips open the packaging, wide eyes nearly tearing up at the sight of you – well, almost you. He’d paid extra to have the little audio insert sent alongside it, and as he records an audio he’d saved of you teasingly telling him goodnight ‘Dashi, love you, he’s shivering in excitement. It’s a shame that he stains the fabric with cum the first night, but a quick wash leaves it good as new – leaves you good as new.

Thinking about Tooru Oikawa and the pretty dildo he’s got buried away in his closet. It’s smooth, a pale pink color that reminds him of Sakura blossoms – that reminds him of you. He doesn’t use it often; only when he’s been on long, long stints away from home, tournaments and games making his muscles sore, his eyes sag, his heart ache in his chest. But as he sprits your perfume on it and whines your name as he sits down on it, his eyes roll to the back of his head and he remembers how he snatched this from your own closet after having watched you fuck yourself on it through your bedroom window.  

Thinking about Hajime Iwaizumi who absolutely loves the big, pretty mirror you have in your bedroom. It’s the first thing he notices when he walks in for the first time, and it’s also the first thing he looks up when he gets home that night. And when he’s got you spread out on his cock a few months later, the locks on the doors numerous with passcodes he’ll never tell you, he’s sure you’ll be a bit relieved to see something familiar on your new bedroom’s walls. And he’ll tell you as much, gruff voice in your ear as he bounces you in his lap like some kind of toy, telling you to look at the mirror, baby, lookin’ so pretty… And when you cry he’ll wince, but the way his cock throbs inside you is telling.

Thinking about Kotarou Bokuto who calls you when he’s touching himself, narrating to you exactly what he’s doing. Of course, it’s not from his own phone – he likes to think it’s more exciting if it’s an unknown number. Maybe he’s seen too many TikTok thirsts about men in masks and Scream, but he thinks you’ll like the mystery. So when you stop picking up, he’ll just leave voicemails – always groaning and moaning your name, putting the microphone on the phone right up next to his fist, the wet schlock schlock sounds loud and clear. It’s risky and dirty, and when you bring it up the next time he sees you, complaining and confiding in him that some fucking creep is leaving horrible messages for you, he’ll only play along, convinced you’re hiding your true feelings to avoid looking like a pervert. But that’s okay, he likes that you’re a pervert! So pick up next time, yeah?

Thinking about Keiji Akaashi who, when the late hours and pages upon pages of editing the same manga get to him, will switch over to edit the more lewd, more explicit series he’d recently been assigned. Yeah, maybe it’s illegal to be photocopying the pages when there’s particular scenes that appeal to him, and maybe there’s something ever so slightly creepy about printing your photos and cutting out your face, pasting them onto the hentai’s protagonist and doing the same with his own photos, but it’s not a big deal. At least, it’s not a big deal until you find the volumes upon volumes of different almost collaged panels with your photos, all strung together in Keiji’s own personal fantasies of exactly what he wants to do to you, fit with his own handwriting covering the neatly White-outted text bubbles.

Thinking about Tetsurou Kuroo who purposefully gets a desk at work that can be raised to standing height. It’s not often, but when his mind is wandering and he can’t sit still while thoughts of you become unbearable, he’ll bring the desk up slightly. Standing up, he’ll align the wood right below his groin, shuffling forward and gently resting his clothed erection against the surface, sighing and rolling his head back as he lightly thrusts forwards and back. The fantasy of having you bent over the desk is too strong to ignore, and when you – his oh so sexy little assistant – come knocking at his door, he’s thanking anything that’s listening that you can’t see the way wet spreads across the front of his slacks.

Thinking about Kenma Kozume who only plays Sims because he has characters for the two of you. There’s no other avatars, solely and only the two of you. He’s curated your character to have your hair, your eyes, your body proportions, even buying special packages and programming his own mods to make it happen. The house you’re both living in is, he’ll admit, a bit excessive – there’s beds in every room, and the very first thing he’ll do each time he opens the game is immediately press the WooHoo button, zooming in on the monitor to get as close to your pixelated forms as possible. He’ll gulp and palm himself, eyes unblinking and repeating the command until he’s panting and gasping and staring at the sticky mess he’s left behind.

Thinking about Lev Haiba who’s not good at the up-skirt photos he tries to take. He’s not subtle, the camera flash going off and making you stiffen up. It’s easy to brush off with him though, his little laugh and scratching the back of his neck, telling you that he’s just supposed to be taking ‘candid photos of myself, something my new agency’s been wanting! Hey, look at that bird over there, so cute right?’ The flash as you turn around is less noticeable, but the way he audibly groans at the sight of your pretty panties certainly isn’t.

Thinking of Wakatoshi Ushijima who can’t quite understand why you’re uncomfortable when he stands so close to you. He’s always creeping up behind you, unnaturally quiet for someone so large, and suddenly you’ll feel this looming, overwhelming presence behind you, his breath hitting the crown of your head and making your hair tickle your neck and throat. He’s standing nearly flush with you, his cock mere centimeters from your ass, the smell of his cologne invading every one of your senses. He’ll only stare, stonefaced when you yelp and whirl around, only swallowing when you lightly swat his chest, irritation rippling through your tone when you tell him don’t sneak up on me like that! He doesn’t mean to scare you, really, but there’s something about being so close to you that makes his heart race, and he’s heard from all his teammates in the locker rooms about how women ‘love it from behind’, and he can only assume this is what they mean. He doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but he’s convinced that with enough time, you’ll grow to enjoy him standing behind you like a shadow, breathing down your neck and audibly inhaling at the juncture of your neck – television tells him as much, so why do you always shy away when he tells you that you smell heavenly?

Thinking of Eita Semi who, despite his best efforts, can’t find it in himself to reject a band admirer when she approaches him after a show. It’s not you and he’s not initially interested in her at all, but as she stays persistent and his numerous texts to you remain unanswered, Eita finds himself noticing that you have similar lips, similar hair, similar hips. It’s not actually cheating if he pretends it’s you, right? It feels sacrilegious to touch another woman, sure, but he’s actively moaning out your name, telling her to shut up when she says something he doesn’t think you would. And it starts a troubling pattern – you won’t sleep with him and he doesn’t want to pressure you, but the sexual frustration of desperately wanting to touch you and being unable to makes him crazy, willing to do anything to get even a phantom taste of you. He’ll apologize profusely if you ever find out, getting to his knees and begging you to forgive him, claiming he did it for you, but it’s a temporary solution for now. Just until you give him a taste of what he’s been dreaming of for months.

Thinking of Satori Tendou who picked up photography as a hobby once his feelings for you formed. He’s still a bit unsure about photographing you without your consent, but then you go and do something that makes his throat dry up, his fingers unable to stay still because you’re just so damn cute and he can’t help himself. He keeps all the photos in a special box, placed neatly and gently in the corner of his closet. They’re all labeled on the back with the date, time, and location, even a few jots of what he was thinking at the time of the photo capture. They’re by and large mostly innocent, but there’s a few that he’d been rash with, snapping the photo and feeling guilt away at him. Writing down the fantasies he’d had with each time he uses the photo to masturbate had been embarrassing at first, but each time he rifles through the photos – which are perfectly pristine, not a drop of cum or even spit anywhere to be seen – he’s poring through his notes, biting his lip and curling his toes as he remembers particularly vivid fantasies, all driven forward by your smiling face or your unaware figure. And while he’ll never offer to show them to you, should you ask he’d reluctantly agree, watching with baited breath to see which ones you like – which fantasies you want to try out.

Thinking of Tsutomu Goshiki who still, even as a young adult, finds himself getting flustered when he watches porn. He’s consuming as many videos as he can find, but he often finds himself clicking off of the video almost as soon as the actual sex starts – he’s interested in the lead up, rather than the act itself. He’s diligently studying the scripts, the scenarios placed forward, the way the women seem to go crazy for a few common, simple lines. He’s noting everything down and practicing the lines, looking at himself in the mirror and adding in your name just to get used to saying it without blushing. He’s convinced that because the women in porn would like these lines, so would you – of course, you would not enjoy being told that he’s the delivery pizza guy and that you’ll need to pay with your body, but Tsutomu doesn’t quite understand that. Surely it’s real – it’s porn, and he’s sure that he’ll be able to fuck you just the way he sees on his screen. He’ll make you scream just like all the women do – he promises.

Thinking of Shinsuke Kita who will let you bathe on your own, but never alone. He’s pulling up a stool beside the bathtub before you can protest, those eyes unblinking as he gets nice and settled in. He’s smiling gently at you, asking you if the water is the right temperature, if you’d like to a use a bathbomb, if you want any help shampooing or scrubbing your body. It’s unnerving if only because the nonchalance is infuriating, but his hands stay perfectly still on his lap, palms flat against the material of his trousers. He’s visibly growing hard as you quickly wash your body, still staring, but he makes no move to act on it. It’s only once he’s watched you settle into bed, promising he’ll be up soon, that he makes his move. The water’s cold by now, but he still sinks into the porcelain with a stifled grown, letting the bath water slip past his lips and cover his face, enjoying every bit of residue of you.

Thinking of Atsumu Miya who’s notorious for PDA with you long before you’ve accepted your fate. He’s always inviting you to his games, getting you special seating so that you’re as close to the court as possible, and after each win he’s pulling you into a searing, bruising, loud kiss. It’s dramatic and it’s entirely too much, but the cameras flash and the headlines spur with details of his supposed relationship with you. It’s all for publicity, he’ll tell you, apologizing but telling you that y’understand, right? It’s for his career, he promises, to make himself look better for the media, but the way he’ll slowly pull away and whimper your name so that only you can hear isn’t quite as publicity-driven as he claims. At least, when he groans and lets his eyes flutter closed afterwards, it sure doesn’t feel that way.

HABITS:

Intimacy is very much not something that Sanemi is familiar with. He’s never even considered taking a partner, staunchly ignoring his fellow Hashira’s taunts (almost exclusively from Tengen and the odd, poorly-timed comment from Giyuu) about how he’d just ‘calm down’ a bit if he had a pretty woman to relieve his stress onto.

And while he’s mature enough to admit there’s probably some truth to that, he’s still rejecting the very few advances that come his way. He’s not only entirely uninterested in dealing with the intricacies and expectations of a relationship, but he’s also convinced that due to his traumatic past and the way he deals he interacts with those he loves, he’s unfit to be a partner.

He doesn’t think he has the capability to properly commit himself to someone, to become emotionally dependent on them – and frankly he doesn’t want them to become emotionally attached to him, either. It’s just too risky considering his job and his habits in battle – every night is a question of survival, missions leaving him so bloody and battered that it’s a miracle he pulls through, a miracle that Shinobu doesn’t just kill him herself with how often he winds up in her infirmary.

It’s just wildly unpractical – and it’s not like he chooses to become so horribly, deeply obsessed with you. He’s angry in the beginning, genuinely trying to hate you and distance himself from you in every possible way, but you’re like some irritating, persistent bug that manages to crawl back to him every time he thinks he’s shaken you off.

(A mindset that makes him feel incredibly guilty later on, ashamed of himself for having thought of you in such a derogatory, rude way. This is particularly true because now he’d be absolutely devastated if you were to leave his life, panic and terror engulfing him because no no no you’re not allowed to leave him.)

But once the feelings have been cemented and Sanemi finally, finally accepts that he can do nothing to change him, that outlook on intimacy being unavailable begins to change. Of course, he’s not immediately grabbing and groping at you, nor is he fantasizing about the way you’d look underneath him whimpering and writhing as he fucks into you.

(Wet dreams aside, of course. He doesn’t often wake up to messy, sticky sheets, but the shame that swallows him when he does is so palpable that even his fellow Hashira notice. Rengoku will ask in a much-too-loud voice if he’d slept well, if he’s okay, why there’s still a slight flush on his face, leaving Sanemi to only snap at him and storm out of whatever area they’re in.)

No, his fantasies are genuinely more innocent in the beginning – virginal, really, with the way he blushes a light pink at the thought of wrapping you in his arms, the simple idea of hugging you being enough to get him covering his mouth with his palm, too flustered to function. The mere concept of you pressing a kiss to his cheek – not even his fucking lips – gets him feeling hot under the collar, body too warm for him to sit still, needing to blow off the steam and refocus himself before he embarrasses himself in front of you.

It makes him feel weak, really, how these simplistic, easy forms of intimacy and affection are able to affect him in such a profound way, and as time passes it’s really only natural for his imagination to start turning lewder. It’s not something that he thinks of on his own necessarily, if only because there’s a large mental block there where he tries to separate the thought of you from anything he deems disrespectful or dirty.

He tells himself that you’re pretty, not sexy. (But oh god does he think you’re sexy, everything from your voice to your hair to your skin making him drool like some sort of perverted old man, blood rushing between his legs when he sees you bite your lip or flick your hair, having to quickly excuse himself for fear that you’ll see the way his pants are growing sinfully tight.)

You’re sweet, not naughty. (But oh, Sanemi wouldn’t mind if you were a bit bratty in bed, if you had a rebellious streak to you and made him work for it, made him put in every ounce of effort just to get you creaming on his fingers or tugging on his hair or letting him spill every last drop of cum he has to give you inside that tight little cunt of yours.)

It’s a strict boundary for him, but all it takes is a single seed to be planted that ultimately breaks his moral high ground. Perhaps it’s Rengoku noticing off-hand that Sanemi seems to be a bit quieter these days, the former laughing loudly and congratulating Sanemi on finding that beautiful woman Tengen was talking about – tell me, does she satisfy you in all the ways you require? It makes Sanemi sputter and cough slightly, shocked at both Rengoku’s observational accuracy and the insinuation of you pleasuring him.

(And also seething in jealousy because how the fuck does Rengoku know about you? Has he met you? Has he fucked you? Is that why he’s thinking about you in a sexual manner?)

He tries to stop it, but it’s too late – there’s a quick, shockingly explicit image of you on your back, knees folded up to your chin and Sanemi’s cock stretching you so widely that you’re crying, nails scraping down his back and moans of yes yes please more ‘Nemi please falling past your lips.

He’s ashamed of himself, training until he nearly blacks out from the exhaustion, Iguro shocked and mildly concerned at just how hard and raggedly he’s pushing himself.

(And, out of respect for the unspoken friendship between them, he ignores the way Sanemi’s been sporting a raging hard-on for the duration of their some three-hour sparring session, cock swollen and not settling down for even an instant. Frankly, he’s amazed Sanemi could fight as well as he did considering his situation.)

It’s shameful, Sanemi thinks, and it leaves him utterly mortified that he's letting his more primal thoughts win, but once the door opens he can’t quite shut it. He still tries – pushing idle thoughts of you on your knees for him out of his mind, cursing under his breath as he follows a few feet behind you, acting as your shadow and trying so, so very desperately to not notice the way your kimono is spread tightly across your ass. It’s commendable, really, just how long he manages to keep himself accountable, but it becomes more difficult the more time he spends watching you, seeing aspects of you that are really much more personal than he has a right to know.

And the final straw comes one sunny afternoon, when you’re walking with him down the rather crowded street of your town. He’s accompanying you because ‘it’s too crowded for you to be out alone’, as he’d told you, and he’s staying close to your side, careful not to touch you but always in your peripheral.

And really, maybe he’d had a point – because all it takes is a single shove from a woman next to you, and suddenly you’re falling forward, arms automatically reaching out to steady yourself but instead slamming into Sanemi’s chest, his noise of shock and the feeling of your thumbs touching his bare skin distracting him enough to leave the two of you tumbling the to the ground.

And of course you land on top of him – directly on top of him, with your kimono slightly askew and your clothed breasts pressed up against the expanse of his exposed chest, able to feel the fullness and softness of them. Your breath’s fanning against his neck as you blink and mutter a quick apology, your ascent ungraceful as you accidentally grind your thigh against his crotch, a small, nearly mute groan falling from his lips at the action.

He’s dazed, cheeks flushing a warm pink color and his eyes wide as they stare at you, even as you stand up and try to help him up. But he just can’t move – the feeling of your skin and body against his is too fresh in his mind, imprinted and replaying over and over as he closes his eyes.

And even the feeling of your hands grasping onto his as you try to lift him to his feet is sending him dangerously close to the edge, already feeling himself growing hard and his breathing getting labored.

He doesn’t say a word of it to you, only grunting at your frenzied apologies, not trusting his voice because he’s sure if he tried all he’d manage to push out would be a weak moan of your name. He takes you back to your home immediately, dropping you off in an uncharacteristically abrupt manner, only stopping to make sure you make it past your front door before he’s practically sprinting off, only able to heave in the deep breaths once he’s a good mile or so away from your home.

It’s only then that he finally lets go of the desperate, difficult breathing techniques he had to employ to keep a check on his cock, stopping himself from getting fully hard and only making the smallest of tents in his pants so as to not catch your attention. But as he heaves, wild eyes staring up at the sky, he’s clutching onto the fabric of his haori, knees slightly weak as he stumbles into the surrounding forest.

He’s in an empty area, and as he ventures deeper into the trees and shrubbery, he finds himself leaning against a nearby trunk. Fuck fuck fuck, all he can think about is the way your body was so warm and how you fit perfectly against him, as if your body was molded to fit his. It’s driving him crazy – everything feels too hot, sweat beading at his temple and his palms clammy. He tries to regain his breathing but it’s still coming out ragged, winded and sloppy, his cock so hard that it hurts, mind swirling with thoughts of you and only you.

And even after ten minutes of trying to calm down, Sanemi eventually curses, eyes squeezed shut and palm slapping the trunk of the tree as he realizes that the only way to get his body under his control again is to deal with the problem. It’s embarrassing, more than anything, and he quickly glances around the thickly forested alcove he’s found himself in, the daylight trickling in through the gaps in the trees and illuminating his chest.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Sanemi undoes his belt, the metal sounding loud in the quiet of the forest but slightly muffled by his breathing. It makes him bite his lip, flushing an ever deeper red color, but he shimmies his uniform pants down slightly, just enough to rest under the curve of his balls, staring with pinched brows at the way his cock is absolutely red – it’s swollen, almost visibly pulsing, so heavy that it only stands at a measly ninety degrees.

After a moment of contemplation Sanemi almost, almost tucks himself back into his pants, the guilt at masturbating to you nearly overwhelming, but then he’s hearing your voice in his head, ringing through and saying Sanemi thank you for catching my fall, Sanemi Sanemi Sanemi…

He’s spitting into his palm before he can stop himself, fingers wrapping deftly around his base and immediately flicking up and down, a mixture of a groan and a sigh of relief slipping from him as he finally, finally gets stimulation. His eyes close and he rests his arm against the tree over his head, leaning his forehead against his forearm.

He’s immediately imagining you – the feeling of your chest pressing against his, and images of times he’s accidentally seen you nude while peeking in through your windows crossing his mind. (And truly, they had been accidental – he’d looked away as soon as he regained his senses, blushing bright and running a hand through his hair, waiting for a good twenty minutes to ensure you were properly clothed before he chanced another glance.)

They’re so fucking perfect – he’s never felt a pair of breasts in his life but he’s sure yours are unbearably soft, that they’d be dense and squishy and perfect to squeeze and paw at. He’s biting his lip as he remembers the way your nipples look, licking his lips and even puckering them slightly as he imagines sucking at them, wondering with a particularly harsh tug of his cock whether you’d keen and sigh and moan.

His fist gets tighter as he thinks of the way your knee had brushed against him, balls clenching a bit at the idea that you’ve touched his cock, even accidentally and through multiple layers of clothing. He can’t help but imagine your hands wrapped around himself, fingers daintier and prettier than his own calloused, scarred ones, and his eyes peel open to watch them run up and down his length, looking crude and barbaric as he fucks into his fist harder, his hips starting to move in tandem with his wrist.

You’d look cute, he decides, when you jerk him off – you’d be such a juxtaposition, with feminine hands and soft skin against his masculine, thick cock, and the thought alone makes him grit his teeth, embarrassment and pleasure creeping up his spine because fuuuck he’s never felt this close so quickly before.

His mind snaps back to right before the fall, and suddenly he’s gasping your name and opening his eyes wide as the phantom touch of your fingers against his bare chest hits him, hips stuttering and sounds that are much too high-pitched for his liking filling the small forest area.

He’s turning around, back slamming against the trunk as he continues his brutal pace, keeping his fist stationary as his hips thrust and pound away, imagining it’s your pretty cunt instead. His free hand comes up to his face, the feeling of you grabbing at it and clutching your fingers against his driving him to press his palm tightly against his nose, deeply inhaling and sliding down the trunk a bit as he catches what he thinks is a very, very faint whiff of you on his skin.

His head tilts back, his thrusts getting sharper and more carnal, unconsciously angling them to brush against the top of his hand, where he knows you like best. He’s inhaling over and over again, smelling his hand like some dog, only pulling away to briefly lap at his palm, tongue lolling out and licking long, fat stripes across the skin, desperate to taste you, too.

He’s breathing hard, panting and chanting your name like some sort of prayer, the pleasure in his navel starting to build and grow. You’re just so fucking perfect, and he just knows you feel soft and warm and god he can’t fucking wait to touch you and feel you and pleasure you and make you moan his name and come for him and oh god oh fuck it’s coming it’s coming –

He nearly yells your name as cum oozes from his swollen tip, biting back the gaspy, airy groans that threaten to spill from his lips as his hips wildly jerk, uneven thrusts complimented by his abs clenching so tightly that his knees go weak, crouching against the base of the tree trunk.

He’s panting still, chest heaving as if he’d just run for hours, his face still flushed as he looks up, trying desperately to regain his senses. He’s still clouded by the smell and taste of you, and he only moves his hand to come clutch at his uniform, grabbing the same spot you’d grabbed earlier, squeezing at the fabric so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

There’s a trail of cum on the forest floor in front of him, white slowly cooling and smearing against the leaves, but Sanemi can’t find it in himself to care. There’s guilt settling deep in his chest as he comes down from his high, cock going pathetically limp against the waistband of his pants. He curses, closing his eyes and covering them with his hand, shame weighing heavily on him.

He’d just masturbated to you and reached the fastest orgasm of his life because of it.

It feels like some sort of selfish defeat, and he’s filled with self-loathing as he makes his way back to the Wind Estate for a change of clothes, berating himself for his weakness and promising to never give into his hormones like that again.

And yet, a mere five days later, he’s got his fist wrapped around himself again, fantasies of you bouncing in his lap like he’s just some toy for you to use racing through his mind, his composure slipping because he’d give absolutely anything to be of use to you, even just as something to get you off and discard afterwards.

It makes him feel pathetic, like a perverted, sorry excuse of an admirer of yours, but he just can’t help himself – how can he, when his every waking thought revolves solely around you?

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your Ass

In general, Sanemi loves the parts of you most that are the softest and the squishiest. He’s all hard lines – plains of muscle that’s rock hard to the touch, scars that are ragged and bumpy against the smoother texture of his skin. He’s all hard edges, but you’re the complete opposite – you’re sweet and soft, and Sanemi naturally gravitates towards areas that really showcase this.

Consequently, he finds his hands edging close to your ass from pretty much the beginning of your sexual relationship. He likes how plump the area is – he adores when you wear shorter skirts around him, or, ideally, just the pretty, lacy panties he buys for you with heat on his cheeks and embarrassment creeping up his spine.

(Of course, he’d bought many of them long before he’d stolen you away, long before he’d ever touched you in any serious capacity. He’d seen them when he was passing through an adult shop on a mission, and while he’d felt like a massive pervert for it, he’d purchased a pair that’s a particularly eye-catching emerald green, white lace trim at the edges and a matching garter belt and bra to go with it. He’d been mortified when he’d returned home and stared at the fabric, the fatigue and adrenaline having finally worn off, but the mere idea of you wearing the pretty fabric was enough to get him breathing heavy. It was enough to get him covering his mouth with his hand, cock painfully hard because even his imagination of how your pretty ass cupped by the cheeky underwear would look is enough to get precum staining his pants.)

When he’s kissing you, his hands are resting on your ass, groping and idly squeezing, playing with the fat and very, very gently slapping at it, kissing you even harder when he feels the way you squirm and yelp.

He prefers positions where you can make eye contact, but the somewhat rare times he has you bent over, Sanemi is absolutely feral – he’s smacking your ass and pounding into you as hard as he can, his grip on your hips tight enough to bruise as he loses himself in the way your ass ricochets against his pelvis, the wet slap slap noise forcing him to get on one knee, mounting you even more, fucking you like an animal.

(And while he’s not the absolute loudest during sex, you’ll hear some of the filthiest, foulest things fall past his lips when he’s fucking you from behind – he'll have you in prone bone, breath hot against your ear as he tells you that ‘s fucking tight, you’re so damn tight, fuck fuck fuuuuck, his voice groaned and strained as his hips punctuate each curse. And his grip on you is tight – fingertips digging into the plush of your hips and lovehandles, gripping hard enough to leave small imprints behind, feeling like he’s clutching onto you, like he’s scared you’ll disappear.)

He’s not picky about your shape, either – you could have perfectly round, full cheeks or very little definition and he’d still be in love, his fingers still twitching and flexing at his side with the urge to reach out and squeeze, to knead at the skin and hear the way you’d yelp and cling onto him.

(Perhaps you’d even smack his hand away, embarrassment creeping up your spine and your flustered expression making him lick his lips, hellbent on making you come so many times the only thing you can think of is him him him. He always has grand plans to tease you, wanting to have you looking at him with glossy eyes and be completely under his thumb, but every time he gets you naked in front of him it’s him who’s at your beck and call, pathetically eager to do whatever you wish.)

He won’t try to touch you until you have a more established sexual relationship in place, which will take several months of being trapped with him to achieve. But once the floodgates are opened he becomes extremely touchy – he’s always got his hands on you, squeezing and groping and touching, and you’ll often even find that when you’re laying on your front, he’ll come lay behind you, shyly at first as he places his cheek against the soft skin, a hand gripping onto your thigh as he relaxes, too embarrassed to make eye contact but basking in the softness of you, in the peace of the moment, in the way you’re really here, with him.

He loves the rest of your body too, of course, but his natural resting place for both his hands and eyes is your ass, and he’s not nearly as subtle as he hopes he is.

(Not at all, but there’s almost something endearing about it – the quick-tempered, serious Hashira so blatantly ogling you, his lips parting and his nostrils flaring as he stares, almost unblinking. It makes you feel good, truly, flattered despite the perverted nature of his staring. And so as time passes you’ll find that you can excuse it, his bashfulness and obvious attraction to you almost flattering the longer you go without other human contact.)

His Abs

By and large, Sanemi desperately wants to impress you.

He lives for your praise, finding that the sweet words slipping from your lips are enough to leave him feeling like he’s floating, a sort of genuine joy he hasn’t felt in years settling into his chest, making him fight off a smile. As such, he’s very, very attentive to your reactions to his body.

Years of pushing himself to become stronger and battling so often have left his body riddled with muscles and scars, leaving him in peak physical health. And you’ll know this from nearly the first moment you meet him – after all, it’s difficult to not notice the little peek-a-boo at his abs in his uniform, the skin defined and often glistening with sweat.

He’s proud of his chest, and he has to swallow very, very hard the first time he catches you glancing at the exposed skin. It makes his ego inflate, something pleasant licking at his chest because oh, were you just checking him out? It doesn’t matter if you were or not – because to Sanemi you were, and that fact doesn’t leave his mind for weeks.

He’s proud of his abs, and quickly grows to love showing them off to you. He elects to keep a shirt on for most of your early time trapped with him, not wanting to scare you or frighten you by being half-undressed. (He doesn’t want you be to feeling pressured into anything, because while he would never force you into anything even remotely sexual, he doesn’t want there to be any sort of dubious fear or doubt motivating you to finally seek out intimacy with him. Aside from your kidnapping and the stalking, of course. And the way his desperation for you is so thick it leaves you squirming in discomfort.)

But once your sexual relationship starts?

Oh – he’s constantly shirtless, purposefully flexing when you’re nearby so that his abs stand out more defined, pectorals looking firmer, the muscles of his back standing out and practically begging for you to run your finger over them. He loves when you trace the lines of his six-pack, your soft finger dipping between the muscles and sending shivers along his skin because fuck, even just your finger is getting him hot under the collar.

Press kisses against the area, murmuring to him that he’s so strong and that you feel so safe with you ‘Nemi, I know you could protect me from anything. He’ll grumble under his breath but the blush sporting his cheeks and neck give him away, as does the way his hips involuntarily and imperceptibly buck.

Kiss further down to the happy trail of silvery hair leading below the waistband of his pants, the skin ticklish and sensitive enough to leave him sucking in a breath, his fists tightening until his knuckles are white because oh, you’re such a damn tease. When you’re perched on top of him, rolling your hips and letting him cup at your ass to help guide you, rest a hand against his abs and he’ll groan, the muscles clenching underneath your palm.

(Often, when he’s getting too close to his orgasm and he doesn’t want the moment to end quite yet, he’ll pull you forward so that you’re straddling his stomach, looking up at you with dazed lilac eyes, telling you in a hoarse, heady voice to grind on me, use me, ‘m all yours. He wants you to touch his abs, to feel your cunt scooping and rubbing against the planes of muscle. He wants to watch the way your face contorts as you catch your clit on a particularly raised section, maybe even on a scar, his orgasm slowly – very slowly – fading off but his cock still remaining starkly at attention. You’re just so damn pretty when you’re smearing slick against his skin, the sight wanton and lewd but feeling so very right. And later that night, when he’s helping you to the bath and diligently washing your body, he’ll scowl before he washes off his own abs, slightly pissed that he has to wash away the trace of you.)

He just likes you to touch what he’s so proud of, and each and every time you have a remotely positive reaction towards them, Sanemi is in heaven. After all, you’re looking at him, and that’s something that makes both his cock and his heart swell.

DRIVE:

Sanemi is, for a lack of a better term, sexually frustrated. He’s never touched anyone before and never been touched himself, and even touching himself is something he rarely partakes in. Every ounce of irritation, anger, anxiety, and stress is taken out via rigorous training and often yelling. When he feels pent-up he finds that a good, quick spar is often a more effective way to quell it rather than jerking off.

Not to mention, there’s something about masturbating that makes Sanemi feel even more lonely and frustrated than before – it hurts slightly to know that he doesn’t have anyone to be thinking of, that while he saves men and women with partners and lovers, he’s not quite like them. Hell, even a few of his fellow Hashira have partners, someone to touch them and hold them, reassuring them and comforting them when the nightmares of screaming family members and demons become too much. It makes him feel pathetic when he feels sorry for himself for being so painfully alone, and this results in Sanemi avoiding pleasuring himself as often as possible.

But of course, biology has other plans for him – he’s in the sexual prime of his life, and when he can’t quite seem to work off the steam with a thorough work-out or eventful patrol, he’ll begrudgingly resort to his hand. It’s typically impersonal, wrapping his fingers around himself and steadily jerking up and down while he closes his eyes and bites back his groans.

He’s not thinking of anything in particular – maybe imagining it’s the hand of some mystery woman replacing his own, but nothing more than that. It’s fast, too, the pleasure slowly mounting and then crashing through him, gritting his teeth as he finishes and promptly cleaning up, wanting to waste no more time with it. It’s all just so very clinical, almost – even when he’s horny, even when the frustration mounts so high that it’s unbearable.

And while he’s slow to warm up to fantasizing about you in a sexual capacity, Sanemi’s irregular indulgences in lust remain. Of course, it’s much, much better now – now that he has someone to actively close his eyes and think about, imagining your voice and your body and your touch. It’s infinitely better because while you’re still not by his side or touching him with your own hands and lips and cunt, he can still fantasize that one day you will, that one day you’ll want him like he wants you.

And it’s enough – his sex drive is still fairly low, and even once he begins actively having sex with you it remains on the lower side. He’d just truly rather hold you or listen to you speak than pin you down and fuck you.

(Or have you pin him down and ride him until he’s shooting blanks and tearing up with red cheeks and fisting the sheets so hard his knuckles are white.)

But of course, he’s only a man and those urges do hit him – enough so that he has a sort of system in place for signaling that he’s feeling hot, that he’s restless, that he’s mentally undressing you and planning out all the positions and ways he can get you creaming on his cock. His signals aren’t particularly graceful, either – it starts with him sitting closer to you, his body completely tense and every muscle clenched.

(He does this unconsciously, both as a way to control himself from just reaching out and snatching you, and also to subconsciously make himself seem bigger, to look stronger and more masculine, to appeal to your more feminine side. He’s not even aware he does it, and if you point it out he’ll vehemently deny it, calling you deluded and making some comment about how you’re projecting your own lewdness onto him, but he knows you’re right, and he also knows he can’t stop it.)

Then he’ll start looking at you with more focus. He’s always staring at you, those wide eyes never leaving your form, but now he’s doing things – again, unconsciously – without realizing that give it all away; licking his lips, adjusting his pants, swallowing audibly.

It’s all things that you’ll notice, and depending on how far along you are in your captivity with him, your response to these signals dictates whether or not you end up with cum smearing the inside of your thighs – if you grimace and shy away from him, Sanemi will clench his jaw, nod slightly and look away. He’ll immediately get up and leave the room both from embarrassment and hurt at your rejection, and to avoid making you feel any sort of pressure or guilt to give him physical intimacy.

But if you scoot in closer, clench your thighs a bit, give him that sultry fucking look you know he loves, then he’s immediately kissing you, big hand cupping your cheek as the other latches onto your breast, kneading and squeezing as he groans against your lips.

And it’s messy – the kiss is all tongue and spit, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he presses his body into you as far as he can, desperation and relief flowing through him because the feeling of your skin against his is satisfying parts of him he didn’t even know existed. If you accept his advances, he’ll maneuver you onto your back, nudging between your thighs and immediately licking and sucking away, the loud suction noises making your cheeks feel hot and making it difficult to not squirm around.

(Something that strokes Sanemi’s ego but also frustrates him because he wants you to lie still so he can properly touch you. He can’t go at the pace and angle you like when you’re wiggling around, so he’ll just take a thigh in each hand and keep you steady, using his strength to pin you down so that you can’t move away from his eager, sloppy mouth. Because he wants absolutely everything to be perfect – he wants you to feel so good that you’re begging for him, associating him with pleasure, knowing that he can and will give you exactly what your body needs.)

He’ll make you finish on his tongue and only then will he start working his pants down, cock already so red and wet with precum that it’s a miracle a single brush against your cunt doesn’t make him immediately release. The sex is eager – that’s really the only word for it, because Sanemi’s grabbing every part of your body he can reach, hands unable to stay still because he wants to feel everything, mapping every inch of your body with his fingers so that if somehow you disappear, he’ll remember everything. He’s handsy, and yet his hips are absolutely brutal – he’s fucking into you like a wild animal, hipbones smacking against your ass in a bruising rhythm that leaves your whole body bouncing, every soft, jiggly bit of you drawing his attention and only making him go harder because he wants to see more more more.

But he’s loud, too – all kinds of curses and rough, uneven praises of the way you feel and how you look are falling past his lips, voice sounding nearly pained with the overwhelming amount of stimulation you’re giving him.

He’s truly pussydrunk in every sense of the word – so when he very unnaturally and awkwardly tries to put his hand on your thigh when he’s signaling he’s feeling hot and needy for you, just know that you’ll have a lot of difficulty walking the next morning.

That said, Sanemi will absolutely never force you into anything sexual without your explicit (and frequent) verbal consent.

Despite his rough-around-the-edges appearance, he’s staunch on his moral beliefs that sex is something intimate that should be reserved for partners who truly care about each other. He believes that it should be something enjoyed, something meaningful, something wanted – and so, to have you actively fighting him or not engaging in what he’s doing to you would leave his skin crawling, disgust and a new, different kind of shame seeping through him.

(Different if only because up until that point, everything he’s done he’s been able to spin as somehow being for your safety – stalking you to make sure no one bothers you, learning all your habits and favorite foods, clothes, and hobbies letting him notice any deviations signifying something is wrong. Hell, even kidnapping you has some benefits for your safety – no demon is stupid enough to enter the Wind Estate, and he’ll be damned before he lets any strangers in with the possibility of coming into contact with you.)

But intimacy is different – he’s not good at being vulnerable, and to be naked with you, to hold you in his arms and feel your hands caress the parts of his body that are deeply scarred and unused to touch is a new level of unguarded that makes him anxious. He’s so used to keeping up a pseudo-façade of being reckless and wild and in these moments all he wants is to let you see him raw, the real Sanemi Shinazugawa that wants you so badly that it physically hurts.

And so, if you don’t want him he’ll respect that – it hurts, of course, and he’ll have trouble facing you for the next few days, but he's man enough to know that your consent is key. But it’s also this crippling fear of rejection and putting himself in a position of possible weakness with you that bars him from trying to progress your sexual relationship for a long, long time.

He’s desiring you in risqué and lewd ways long before he’s stolen you away, but it’s difficult to act on those, to put himself out there and risk your harsh, painful rejection of him.

(And he’s convinced you will reject him, if only because despite his persona, Sanemi harbors insecurities about his ability to be loved. He thinks there’s something deeply wrong with him, something that makes others fearful of him and something that will deter anyone from getting too close. Besides Genya, of course, but the matter is complicated.)

And so, he holds himself back from making any sort of move in your sexual relationship – he wants to either have you bring it up, or to keep everything between you as strictly protector-protectee as possible, even if he craves to touch you and lay with you.

But, like most things in your relationship, Sanemi’s restraint snaps one day. To be fair, it’s not entirely Sanemi’s fault – months of repressing his sex drive and ignoring the tantalizing way you look in the kimonos he hand-picked for you leaves him on the brink of exploding, so pent-up and sexually frustrated that it nearly drives him mad.

The final straw is a particularly brutal, gut-wrenching mission – he’d been tasked to stop a demon in a few towns over, a simple mission that he really, really should’ve been able to fix much quicker. But the demon was smart and seemed to sense his approach, and the carnage was far, far greater than Sanemi was expecting. Small children stained red with parents dismembered a few feet away, visible bite chunks leaving the smell of rot and death heavy in the air. It left his stomach churning, but what truly sent him off the end was hearing a small sob after he’d sliced the demon’s neck, the little boy crying next to what Sanemi could only assume was his dead mother.

That in itself wasn’t out of the ordinary, but the boy’s striking, uncanny resemblance to his own brother Koto makes him stop in his tracks, lips falling open like a gaping fish. He’s frozen, simply staring like some fool, but then everything happens much, much too fast.

The demon’s suddenly swooping in, the boy’s head severed in the blink of an eye, a deranged cackle falling from the creature as a resounding crunchnoise fills the air. Sanemi’s thrown into a state of rage, immediately killing the demon and stabbing at it repeatedly. He’s cutting up each and every part of the monster (careful to avoid touching the boy’s head, though), yelling and cursing at it for what feels like hours.

By the time he’s done there’s tears pricking his eyes, and the walk back to his Estate is blurry and heavy with his own grief. He hasn’t cried in years, but something about the little boy’s face and the weight pressing on his back leave him with wet cheeks, the shoji door quietly sliding open to your room before he can catch himself.

You’re still awake, and he doesn’t even have the right mental state to be angry at you for cutting your sleep. He’s quiet, simply staring at you from the doorway as you wearily approach him, concerned and slightly scared because there’s blood smeared across his uniform and his eyes are bloodshot.

Sanemi? Your voice is weak, and you gently, hesitantly press a hand against his trembling fingers grasping onto the scabbard of his sword.

He swallows harshly, eyes locked onto yours. He whispers your name, voice low and hoarse, but before you can say anything he’s wrapping his arms around you, clutching onto your so tightly that your breathing is restricted. It leaves you yelping, unsure how to respond to the uncharacteristic affection, but the shallow shaking of his shoulders makes you soothingly run a hand through his hair.

Sanemi… You trail off again, but he only hugs you tighter in response. It’s some ten minutes before he finally sniffles, mumbling something against your clothed shoulder that you can’t quite hear.

When you don’t respond, he grips you tighter, pulling his face back just a hair to say again please, I need you to touch me.

It makes you stiffen in his grasp, and that makes him panic. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, I just – he stops, swallowing again and letting his weight sag against you even more. I just can’t be alone right now.

And maybe it’s the vulnerability in his tone, the strange, gentle side of him you so rarely see, or maybe it’s your own longing for human contact and touch that drives you to press a kiss against the crown of his head.

He gasps sharply, his grip loosening ever so slightly. You take the opportunity to gently pull back, grabbing his wrist and leading him over to your bed in the center of the room. He’s staring at you with wide, puffy eyes, shellshocked and unable to say anything as you grasp at the edge of his uniform.

Your voice is still soft as you tell him take this off, no blood on my bed, and he’s only staring for a single, long moment before the fabric is flying over his head, his pants quickly falling suite and leaving him bare aside from a pair of thin undergarments sitting dangerously low on the sharp v-line of his navel. He’s still looking at you, eyes wild and wide, his chest rising and falling so quickly that it almost worries you.

You’re much slower when you peel away your own sleeping clothes, leaving your body in only a thin, light-weight slip that makes Sanemi lick his lips. You’re so fucking pretty – it’s making something in his chest ache, his palms flexing by his sides, brain warring between the extreme emotional distress and arousal at seeing your partially exposed body and your desire for him.

You step forward, palm pressing against his cheek, and slowly pull him to you. Letting your lips ghost against his for a moment, you press a soft, barely-there kiss against the corner of his mouth. Murmuring his name, you feel the way his whole body shivers.

Finally, finally, you press your lips against his, moving slow and trying to let him relax into it. He’s still so tense – he wants this badly, but now that it’s actually happening he’s freezing up a bit. He’s dreamed and fantasized about this moment for months, lying awake and feeling pathetic for imagining that you could want him like this.

But the moment passes and he’s suddenly kissing you back, his movements sloppy and uncooridinated, evidence that he’s never done this before. But you take it in stride and pull back, the sound making his nostrils flare. He moves forward, chasing your lips, but you stop him with a lay down with me, please Sanemi.

And it’s as if he’s some well-trained pet – he’s immediately laying down, body tense and taut over your blankets, and he watches with baited breath as you straddle him, your thighs warm against his skin and oh god oh god –

He can feel it – can feel you.

You’re incredibly warm, the heat permeating through his underclothes as you press against his cock, the sensation forcing something that sounds much too similar to a moan to slip from his lips. It feels surreal – and when you start slowly moving your hips, grinding on him in teasingly slow, agonizingly pleasurable little circles, Sanemi’s gripping at your thighs, his self-restraint nearly buckling.

The evening passes full of slow, tender touches, exploring fingers and tongues covering every inch of your skin and his. The sex is soft, thrusts gentle and deep, rolling and pressing against every spot that makes your toes curl. He’s kissing you the whole time, grasping onto your skin like you’re his life line, a near-growl coming from somewhere deep in his throat when you take even a hand away from holding him. He wants your fingers tunneling through his hair, your leg wrapped around his waist, your nipples brushing against his own.

It's heaven, he thinks, and though he tries to hide his face as he ruts into you, the tears return to his eyes and before he knows it he’s chanting a slurred, choked mantra of your name, timing with his thrusts and begging you in a near-incomprehensible plea of never leave me, you can’t leave me, I won’t let you leave me.

It’s only after his hips stutter, a gasp of your name and his hot breath going ragged in your ear that he finally goes limp. He’s still inside you, the last throbs and bits of his orgasm rocking through him, but he’s carefully maneuvering your bodies so that he’s laying behind you. You’re caged in his arms – a heavy, muscular limb wrapped around your waist, body molded to yours and pulling you flush against him. He falls asleep like that – flaccidly inside you, his breath in your ear, his grip on you remaining deadly tight even as dreams overtake him. And eventually, you fall asleep too – exhausted, confused, and embracing this small, intimate moment even if you’ll regret it.

He’s gone the next morning, the covers wrapped up to your chin, the blankets and sheets on his side perfectly pristine.

He doesn’t mention that night for the foreseeable future, embarrassed and angry at himself for giving into temptation and allowing himself to be so weak in front of you. He’s worried that you might regret it, that you’ll find him disgusting for being so wanton and blatant in his begging for you, and he bars himself from engaging with you sexually again. (Out of embarrassment, out of shame, out of fear because god, he’s never been as desperate and depraved as he was the moment he slipped inside of you, and how would he react the second time? The third? The tenth?)

He won’t acknowledge that it happened, but you’ll notice the glances he starts throwing your way, the way his gaze lingers on your body, how he stiffens up the moment you get even remotely close to him. It’s a stark contrast to the man who’d been groaning out your name like salvation the night before, but just know that if you were to approach him, Sanemi will be putty in your hands.

If you were to kiss him or touch him or tell him how badly you need him, he’ll fold. He’ll get onto his knees, mouthing at your cunt and struggling to mutter out how he’d thought you’d never ask, fuck.

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Cumplay

While Sanemi will bend to your whims almost always in bed, there are a few very, very specific things that he won’t compromise on.

That is, he absolutely must finish either inside you, down your throat, or on your body. It’s a possessiveness thing for him – he’s in ecstasy and still slightly shocked that you’re touching him (and letting him touch you), but it’s still not quite enough. He’s licking and sucking at your neck, leaving marks and hickies and the imprint of his fingertips lightly against your skin, trying to mark you up as his his his. He wants to leave a physical imprint of his possession over you, because while it feels dehumanizing to think of you as his, he can’t help the way it makes something in his chest twist in just the right way, nor can he help the way his cock stands up at attention, growing hard just at the mere idea of physically making you his.

And Sanemi quickly finds the quickest, easiest way to claim you as his is to leave you absolutely dripping with his cum. He’s territorial, completely believing that you’re his woman and he is your man. It’s this possessiveness mixed with his obsession over being your protector that drive his compulsive need to fill you with every last drop he can give you – it feels better this way, more natural. It’s like he’s giving you what you desire – he’s giving you everything he can, the most intimate, sacred part of him, something he made for you and you alone.

And so, every time he’s got hic cock out and your kissing, sucking, touching, or fucking it, Sanemi’s throwing his head back and groaning, all sorts of filthy, dirty promises about how he’s going to finish for you falling past his lips.

He’ll have you on your knees, his thighs tense and his abs clenching, his hand in your hair and fighting very, very hard to not pull you down until his cock’s in the back of your throat, choking and gagging you. (He wants to – god does he want to, but he doesn’t want to hurt you, so he’ll stop himself. A mind-numbing orgasm with your hot little tongue pressed against his underside isn’t worth you being angry or hurt.) He's groaning your name and telling you that that you’re gonna – fuck, gonna take it all, yeah? Gonna swallow every last fucking drop, o-oh fucky baby, god wanna see you swallow ngh –

Your hand is wrapped around his girth, wrist flicking up and down so quickly that it makes him pant, your free hand delicately groping and squeezing at his balls. He’s bucking up against your tugs, a red flush on the bridge of his nose as he grunts, rushing forward to kiss you with way too much tongue, pulling back only when he starts shuddering, breath ragged as he tells you that he wants to finish on your chest, voice getting slurred and strained as he tells you he’s gonna come on your tits, god so fucking pretty fuck fuck fuck –

(He’ll stare with this sort of boyish look in his eye and something feral, predatory at his handiwork once he does, white smeared across your skin and leaving a film that he rubs at with his thumb, pinching your nipple and licking his lips when you squirm.)

He’s got you pressed into a tight, suffocating mating press, his forehead pressed against yours and his hands holding your knees up, the angle and feeling of you making teeter on the edge. ‘M gonna, ‘m gonna come soon, where do you want it? He’ll ask, eyes fluttering shut as you clench down on him, only to open wide when you whine out to finish inside ‘Nemi, please please please want your cum!

And it’s lewd and dirty and it gets him fucking into you deeper, hips snapping into yours so hard that you’re physically moving up the length of the bed, his voice a growl as he grins, groaning yeah? Want me to come in this tight – fuck, tight little pussy? So damn greedy, fuuuuck, you better take it, don’t let any drip out or I’ll have to fill you again. He’ll press kisses against your lips, jaw, and neck, his voice growing louder as he growl again between each kiss.

And when he’s right on the edge, his thrusts growing uneven and choppy, his eyes are meeting yours again as he gasps take it take it take it, cum spurting from his tip and leaving you feeling warm and so very, very full. He produces a lot with each orgasm, seeming to never stop as it oozes from his hyper-sensitive tip, and Sanemi uses it to his advantage.

He’s obsessed with looking at the product of his orgasm – he’ll kneel between your legs so that your cunt’s eyelevel and simply stare as his cum slowly leaks out, down the grooves of your folds and over your pert hole, dripping onto the floor below you and making him scoff. He’ll scoop it up with a single finger, pushing it back inside of you and kissing you to muffle the sound of your surprise, slightly embarrassed because he absolutely can’t let even the smallest amount not end up inside you.

When you’ve convinced him to be a tad bit rougher as you bob your head between his legs, Sanemi will grant your wish and finish on your face, groaning and biting his lip at the way you look, his cum dribbling down from your lips to your chin, dripping down to land on your nipples, thighs, other parts of your body.

 (And as disrespectful as it felt to finish there, Sanemi secretly loves it – he won’t request it because he doesn’t think you’d enjoy it, but he’s nursing a fantasy that you’ll let him smear his cum all over your lips and cheeks, and then simply not clean it for the rest of the day. He wants the physical evidence of his intimacy with you to be constantly visible, so that every glance reminders him that you wanted him, that you were practically begging him for his cock like some common whore. You aren’t, or course, but the possessive, animalistic part of him that desires rough, carnal sex with you is satisfied by the idea, something primal about the idea of leaving a mark of him him him against your pretty face. He’ll never bring it up, simply stewing on it in silence, but if you were to mention the idea, or tell him that you want to keep his cum really anywhere against your skin, you’ll witness something that absolutely mortifies him – a dry orgasm paired with a sad, shocked little whimper, the embarrassment and unexpected pleasure making him too ashamed to even look at you for a few hours afterwards.)

He just really likes the concept of leaving you stuffed full of him. (And there’s a small part of him that hopes desperately with every load he gives you that it’ll finally take. He’s always fantasized about having a family with you, but with each time he stuffs you full, he can only get closer and closer to the dream, the mere idea of you pregnant enough to get him hot under the collar and desperate to get his hands on you.)

And to his credit, this kink goes both ways – he’ll gladly let you cover every inch of his skin in your spit and slick, rubbing yourself against his body and licking at him until you’ve had your fill.

(And fuck, if you squirt? He’s wearing it like a badge of honor, pride and arousal coursing through him in such potent amounts that he’s nearly dizzy, nearly unable to function because god he needs to fuck you and make you do that over and over again until you can’t anymore.)

He’s just possessive, and while you might initially be rather disgusted simply by his eagerness and fixation on it, eventually you might even find it hot, too. Because really, he may be deranged, a stalker, horribly and uncomfortably dependent on you for his emotional stability and health, but isn’t there something so very sexy about a grown man moaning in your ear and begging you to please let him finish inside you?

Voyeurism

Perhaps it’s a remnant of having stalked you for so long, but there’s something that gets Sanemi so fucking hard about watching you pleasure yourself.

There’s layers to it – of course he loves the physical sight of you with your fingers stuffed into your cunt, tits spilling out of your lounging shirt, thighs quivering and your lips parting into that pretty ‘o’ shape that Sanemi wants to fill with his fingers. He loves the way you look all fucked out, pretty and writhing and gasping, letting all your natural sounds out because there’s not a soul around to hear you and you can be truly free. So yes, from a purely carnal, sexual standpoint, Sanemi very much enjoys the sight of you touching yourself.

But even beyond that, there’s something morbidly fascinating and addicting about it – there’s something indescribably intimate about watching you at your most vulnerable, those lilac eyes widening and staying transfixed on every aspect of you that he can. He’s watching like a hawk as you squeeze at your breast, watching to see if you pinch at your nipple or roll it, if you squeeze hard and hold it there or opt for weaker but more frequent squeezes.

He’s carefully watching your fingers, analyzing the patterns and shapes you’re drawing against your clit, how fast you’re going and whether you vary anything or keep it all consistent.

(He’ll even press his fingers against the expanse of his forearm as he watches, mimicking your motions against his own skin in an effort to practice, to learn by muscle memory exactly how you like to be touched so that once he gets you naked and spread out for him, he can be exactly what you want and give you exactly what you need. He’ll do this with the way you finger yourself, too, guessing at the particular angles you’re reaching for based on the way your wrist flexes, how your knuckles move. He’ll go home and practice this, too, using his pillow as a poor stand-in for your body and practicing thrusting in the pattern you seem to like, angling his hips to brush against the spot that always gets you gasping, buffing up his stamina because he’ll be damned if the first time he gets you naked underneath him is thwarted by his own physical inabilities.)

It helps him feel connected to you like this – easier to pretend that he’s the one making you moan and curl your toes rather than your own hand or the toy you’d purchased for yourself.

(A toy that he absolutely fucking hates, always glaring at it and scoffing because he’s sure that he could fuck you so much better – he’d get the angle right, he’d get the depth perfect, and he’d do all the damn work – you just need to lay there and look pretty, grasp onto him and moan his name and he’ll take care of the rest. He'll always take care of you, after all, and he wants the sex to be absolutely perfect, for you to crave him even a fraction as much as he craves you.)

And even once he’s forced to steal you away, these habits of peeping in on you while you’re lost in your own little world don’t magically disappear. It’s more difficult now, sure, because standing and peering through your window was always easier, always less risky, but Sanemi becomes too desperate and in withdrawal to stop himself.

His lucidity leaves him feeling guilty every time, but he’ll crack the door into your room open ever so slightly, having returned home from a mission or an errand earlier than he’d told you. He’ll peek in, doing his best to move slowly and silently to avoid grabbing your attention, and he’s immediately got his hand in his pants, gripping himself so tightly and harshly that it nearly brings tears to his eyes.

His orgasms are always stronger when he’s got you in his sight, and as he times his strokes with your thrusts inside yourself, he’s clenching his abs and shaking, hips coming up to thrust and rut against his fist. He’s staying deathly quiet, intent on hearing the sound of your moans and the wet squelching of your cunt sucking your fingers in again and again. And when he comes, he’s praying that you’ll finish at the same time, forcing himself to stop and endlessly edging himself just so that you can come together, to have something romantic and sweet like a simultaneous release.

(Of course, the aftermath of cum staining the front of his trousers and his upper thighs is less sweet, but Sanemi can’t quite care – even as it dries and grows cold, feeling slimy and sticky against his skin. He’s too transfixed watching the way your chest slowly stops heaving, how you relax and bask in the afterglow of your orgasm, how you idly play with your nipples and smile up at the ceiling, and if he tries harder enough - pretends hard enough, really - he can even hear you murmur his name.)

The intention is relatively sweet, no matter how deranged and creepy he may feel for actively spying on you as you undress, but he’s just a man, and how can a man be expected to deny himself the viewing pleasure of the woman he’s so madly, pathetically obsessed with?

But unfortunately for Sanemi, you’re not as oblivious as he hopes – you’ll notice the way he lingers at your door, his occasional soft, shuddering gasps not going unheard even over the sound of your own moans. You’ll see his shadow against the door panels, even seeing the shadow of his cock when he pulls it out of his pants, the mere sight making your orgasm hurtle closer and closer, even despite your shame at finding your kidnapper’s cock arousing.

You’re not blind, and it’s almost therapeutic to watch how easily he falls apart for you, the shadow of his back hunching over slightly as you both near your ends, the wet squelching sounds of his fist going up and down just barely audible if you strain yourself hard enough. It’s endearing, in a fucked-up sort of way, but if you were to ever mention something about it, Sanemi will immediately bristle, embarrassment crawling up his spine and his cheeks glowing a soft, subtle pink, entirely caught off guard and unsure of what to say.

(He’s mortified that you know, that he’d been caught, if only because now he’s absolutely convinced you must think of him as a pervert, as a monster, and it kills him to know that it’s true. And yet, there’s some small, masochistic part of him that’s almost glad, finding the whole situation so, so very hot because now he can’t help but wonder if you’d started touching yourself on purpose, perhaps wanting to draw him out, perhaps wanting to listen to him losing his fucking mind over your naked body. You naughty, naughty thing.)

And so, once your consensual sexual relationship begins, Sanemi is using every piece of knowledge he’d gathered from watching you to his advantage – he’s not wasting any time putting all that practice into use, curling his fingers and rubbing and kneading just how you like it, watching with wide, almost nervous eyes to see how you react, hoping that he’s doing good and making you enjoy it, enjoy him.

He wants you to tell him how it feels, to hear you say that it’s good, that you love it when you touch me ‘Nemi, and that alone gets him doubling in his efforts, frantic to get you to orgasm for him and only him, filled with a sort of crazed need to be the one to finally, finally bring you your high.

And as time passes, you’ll notice that Sanemi tends to bring this kink into the bedroom, too, even when you’re fully aware of his presence – he’ll tell you to touch yourself, settling across the bed, and slowly fisting at his cock, licking his lips and watching with rapt attention as you spread your legs, playing with yourself and humming his name.

But it’s not quite the same as when you were alone, though, and Sanemi will tell you to act like I’m not here, don’t make shit up or fake your moans. He wants the authenticity, the rawness, the realness of you fully indulging in yourself.

It’s in these moments that you’ll see the more submissive side of Sanemi – the small part of him that absolutely loves when you ignore his existence, pretending he’s not fisting his cock like a madman simply to the sight, smell, and sound of you. He likes the way that you’re not paying him any mind, completely focused on yourself, Sanemi merely a bystander and watching you. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s in these moments that his obsession only further solidifies, his feelings for you growing stronger and latching into him deeper, like claws that make him shiver in pain-tinged pleasure. Because really, he can only consider himself lucky and cruelly blessed for getting to see you like this, for being allowed so close to you as you gush on your fingers and pinch at your nipples. It’s an honor, even if that explanation makes you shift uncomfortably and try to ignore the reverent look in his eye.

You’re just so damn pretty, can he really be blamed for wanting to stare and stare and stare?

Marking

While hyper fixated on your health and safety in every aspect of his obsession, one area where he’s ever so slightly lenient is in bed. He’ll outright refuse to do anything that draws blood or involves hitting you, but there’s something rather tempting about the idea of leaving a trace of himself after he spends hours upon hours getting you to come on his fingers and cock.

He likes the reminder that he’d been able to pleasure you, the feeling enough to get you moaning and clawing at his back and whining his name. And so, Sanemi develops a liking for leaving all sorts of hickeys and love bites all over your body.

He’s passionate when he fucks you, leaving kisses on every inch of skin he can reach and grasping onto you tightly enough that sometimes bruises appear.

(And he feels guilty for it, in the beginning, always scowling when he sees them the next day. But alongside the guilt there’s something good – something that makes him smug, pride settling in his gut because those are his fingermarks on your body, showing that he attends to your more intimate needs. Reminding him that you let him attend to those needs – that you let him kiss and hold you, that you let him squeeze and grope at your skin, that you let him spread your legs and push himself inside until he’s filling every possible inch of you, connected with you in the most raw, natural way. It’s romantic, almost, and it makes Sanemi squirm slightly just thinking about it because oh fuck, now he’s hard again and really you should take some accountability for showing off your collarbone and the barrage of hickeys like that…)

He’s not picky about where or how he does it, either – what you’ll mostly be covered in are hickeys, the dark spots dancing in patterns all along your neck, shoulders, collarbone, inner thighs, and even your stomach and ass. His favorite is your neck, though. He likes the way you get all breathless when he kisses and sucks and licks at the skin, the sensations making your breath go light and airy against his ear, the harsh puffs of air blowing against the tufts of white hair on his head.

And he’ll leave all over your neck – at the juncture at your jaw, sucking a few right below your ear.

(He’ll take a few moments to lightly nibble and bite at your earlobe, liking the way you whine his name and tell him to stop being weird, but it’s endearing, the way you clearly like it and are just saying that to keep up images. Silly girl.)

He’ll flutter kisses along the column of your neck, tracing your windpipe and smiling against your skin when you swallow heavily. He’ll suck dark hickeys into the flesh of your shoulders, the soft slope the perfect canvas for him to leave littered with his marks. Sometimes he’ll randomly pick spots, the final result looking a little unorganized but still enough to make his heart swell and his breathing to get heavier. Other times he’ll very strategically place them – spelling out an ‘s’ character or a heart or something sappy that leaves him feeling a bit embarrassed but he just can’t help it.

Your neck is his favorite because of the intimacy and the difficulty of hiding the particularly high ones, but your inner thighs are a very close second. When he settles onto his stomach and spreads your legs, mouth hovering over your cunt and his warm breath making you twitch, he’ll take his time kissing up the space from your knee to your pelvis, taking the skin between his teeth and lightly nibbling, pressing dark sucks against the area and loving the way you squirm underneath his rather harsh grip on your thighs.

He’s a tease once he grows confident in the fact that you crave intimacy with him, loving the way you get desperate and beg him to give you what he knows you need. (He’d watched you with enough consistency and thoroughness for all those months before stealing you away and now he knows your tells – the way your face looks, how you sound, how your body jerks and shakes, hell, even the way you smell when you get close.)

He’ll push you right up to the edge, fingers working magic in a come hither motion against that spongey spot inside of you that makes your whole body tense in pleasure, all while his thumb is rubbing circles at your clit that leave you bucking your hips and chanting out his name. He’ll get you right there, then pull back, going back to your inner thigh and working on a fresh, new hickey, the loss of stimulation making you pout and whine for him to touch you again.

He’ll only roll his eyes, pulling back with a loud thwap noise as the suction breaks, your slick still visible on his lips, chin, and cheeks. So demanding, he’ll start, sending a sharp brush of his fingers over your clit that gets you gasping.

He’ll hold out for a while longer, milking out the way you plead with him, before he’ll eventually give in and get back to your neglected cunt, bringing you to your high and rutting at the bed below him with the way you writhe and cry out. And for the next few days, every time he sees that particular hickey he’s suddenly way too red, sweaty and panting and growing more desperate by the second to give you more more more, wanting your whole body to be evidence of his presence in both your life and your bed.

And he’ll proudly wear any marks you make on his body, too – leave hickeys and love bites against his skin and he’ll only shiver and let his eyes roll to the back of his head. He’ll encourage you to run your nails down the expanse of his back when he’s got you in missionary or a press, growling your name as his hips fuck into you harder, faster, with more intent and purpose.

(And later, when he’s dressing himself and happens to see himself in a mirror, he can only gulp, thumb tracing along the scratch marks and blemishes left behind from you. It makes him giddy, often absentmindedly running a finger over them while he travels to missions, during pointless conversation, during times when he’s away on a mission and starting to think himself into a panic about how you’re doing, if you’re safe, if you’ve escaped him somehow. It calms him and only kindles his feelings for you, the knowledge of you willingly leaving your mark on him enough to get him licking his lips and palming himself over his pants, trying to restrain himself so that he can get you to leave newer, fresher marks.)

He just likes the idea, and while he’d never bite you hard enough to cause genuine pain or give you a hickey so deep that it hurt, he will be marking you from head to toe so that everyone you come into contact with (no one besides him, really, but that’s besides the point) cannot deny that you are Sanemi Shinazugawa’s woman.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Slapping

But in a very, very specific way – Sanemi treasures you, idolizing and worshipping you to the point of self-loathing, and consequently he’s not terribly mean in bed. Once a steady sexual relationship is established between the two of you, he’ll get more vocal and adventurous, adapting to what you like.

(And he’s willing to do just about anything you want of him sexually – he’ll get on his knees and kiss up your thighs, lapping and sucking at your cunt until you have to physically push him off of you, slick smeared across his lips, cheeks, and chin while he stares up at you, equal parts hazed and irritated that you’d pulled him away. He’ll let you climb on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head and letting you play with his cock until he’s near tears, the edging and phantom touches making him grit and groan, desperation eating away at him because your touch feels so good but oh – it’s the attention you’re giving to him that ultimately makes him paint your fist white.)

And though he’s not naturally inclined to be degrading towards you during sex, there’s one stark exception – that is, there’s something that makes the possessiveness and territorial feelings Sanemi harbors for you flare up when he smacks you with his cock. Nothing too hard, of course – the intention isn’t to hurt you or bruise you, but rather it’s like staking his claim on you.

It’s like showing you that you belong to him – he’ll grip himself at the base, biting his lip and flexing his arm as he shifts his weight, hovering over you and smacking his fat, soaked tip against your pretty, puffy clit, stifling a groan at the way you jerk at the contact.

He’s smacking himself against your folds, the wet and tacky noise making his fingers tighten against the pillow under your head, his breath getting heavier because fuck, you look so damn pretty underneath him like this, reactive to his cock even when it’s not inside of you.

He’s tracing his tip against your lips when you’re on your knees for him, whispered chants of your name falling from his lips as he lightly taps his tip against your cheeks, your lips, your outstretched tongue.

(And, after he smacks himself against your tongue, if you smile and giggle ever so slightly? Well, don’t be surprised when he stiffens up, his orgasm crashing through him after a mere minute of your hot, wet mouth around him. Don’t be surprised when he starts cursing and murmuring things under his breath right on the brink of his high, your name mixing with gravely I love you’s as he gives you rope after rope after rope of his cum, hot and potent and made with only you in mind.)

He just likes the physical action of it, the way that even something so small gives him the slightest bit of acknowledgement that you’re his, that you’re here and touching him and looking at him just as he’s been fantasizing of for so long. It’s hot, he thinks, and while he’d be extremely reluctant to actually hit you during sex, he’s rubbing and smacking his cock against every inch of your body that he can – your face, your ass, your tits (he especially loves to rub his cum-soaked tip against your nipples, watching as they get hard and get glossy in the candlelight), your thighs, hell, even your arms.

He wants to claim every part of you, and so between covering you in his cum and the imprint of his cock, you’ll be fully and utterly his.

Spitting

Again, it’s a possessive thing – tying into his desire to mark you as his and only his, Sanemi grows a penchant for spitting. It’s something he harshly avoids when you first begin your intimate relationship, finding the act too disrespectful and frankly gross to partake in. He’s worried you’ll find it derogatory and that you’ll see him as some misogynistic freak who views you as his property.

(Which is, in some ways, ever so slightly true – he does see you as his, but it’s reciprocal. You’re his just as much as he’s yours, and if you want to think about in such a crude, black-and-white way, then yes – he sees you as his property. But he’s your property, too, if it makes you feel any better.)

And frankly, he won’t bother indulging in the kink unless you initially bring it up – he’s too tied down to this philosophy and he doesn’t want to risk you getting disgusted or turned off when he’s touching you.

But if you bring it up and use a lot of ‘please’ and compliments, Sanemi will cave.

It’s awkward the first few times, hovering over you and perched on his elbows, nose scrunching slightly because he’s not sure how to do this in a way he thinks will be sexy for you. He wants to live up to your fantasy, so he presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, collecting the saliva, before puckering his lips, letting the glob fall with a rather obnoxious noise.

Your mouth’s already open for him, tongue lightly sticking out and your eyes half-lidded with lust, and the mere sight alone makes Sanemi gulp, scared he might accidentally drool into your mouth.

(Though, perhaps you’d like that – you’re a freak, he thinks, but it still makes his cheeks feel hot, his cock jumping against your thigh, his Adam’s apple harshly bobbing.)

It’s in the moment when he watches his spit land on your tongue, pretty lips closing and the swallowing motion you make exaggerated and loud. He’ll pause, staring down at your lips in a daze, before suddenly telling you to do that again, the sight so strangely erotic that he needs to do it again and again and again.

It strokes something in his ego – some sort of feeling of dominance and claim on you, marking his territory by making sure you’ve got a little piece of him in you. Soon he’s cupping your jaw every time your clothes get stripped off, forcing your lips to open and immediately spitting onto your tongue, watching with hazy eyes and a small smirk as you obediently swallow, the sight never failing to get him even more eager to spread your legs and sink inside of you.

It gets to the point where it even becomes a non-sexual thing sometimes – it feels too good to be showing such an obvious sign of claim on you that he’ll slowly kiss you in the mornings, your soft lips and little sighs making him light-headed. He’ll pull back, his morning voice hoarse and gravely as he tells you to open up, immediately spitting into your open mouth and following it up with a few kisses against your jaw, a murmur of good morning.

He likes to start the day with it because it puts him into a good mood – a light, peaceful one, quelling the jealous, anxious worry that you’ll leave him, that you’ll be snatched up by another man, that you hate him.

And his fixation for spitting doesn’t just end at your mouth – he’ll spit onto your cunt when he’s kneeling between your legs, two thick fingers rubbing the fluid against your pretty folds, taking extra care to let it lubricate his fingertips before he presses quick, steady little circles against your clit.

He’ll spit into his own hand, coating his fingers and slowly pressing them into you, grunting at the way you gasp out and tighten impossibly around them. It’s lubrication, he thinks, and the idea of his saliva being in your pussy makes him shiver, the thought so dirty and taboo and so very good.

And he’d be happy if you wanted to return the favor – he’ll look at you expectantly, irritation evident in his gaze, before he sits down and forces you to stand over him, his own mouth open and awaiting. He likes it for all the same reasons, just reversed – he likes the idea of you wanting to stake your claim on him. He wants to feel wanted and cherished by you, and if you were to spit into his mouth it’d be direct evidence that you want him, at least in a sexual capacity.

It’s thrilling, frankly, and it leaves Sanemi eagerly swallowing, immediately attacking you with passionate, needy kisses and wandering hands that swiftly find purchase in groping at your ass.

He just thinks it’s romantic, and he’ll do everything in his power to win points with you. Anything to get you liking him more, craving him more.

BIGGEST FANTASY:

Despite holding status as both a Hashira and your captor, Sanemi is very, very shy about asking you for any sort of deviation in the bedroom. It’s a combination of things that hold him back – fear of rejection, mainly, but also embarrassment because he’s worried that you’ll think he’s strange for wanting to try certain things.

Namely, Sanemi desperately, desperately wants you to sit on his face.

He has no sexual experience and hadn’t even been aware this was an option until he’d accidentally overheard a conversation between Uzui and a (very uncomfortable) Giyuu, and while he’s ashamed to admit it he’d stuck around, eavesdropping just around the corner as Giyuu asked the older man what exactly that meant (only to very quickly regret it, his cheeks flushing a light pink and not even bothering to make up an excuse as he hurried away).

It’s where the woman sits down on the man’s face, giving him better access to pleasure her with his mouth! It’s quite flashy, and a good view, too.

Sanemi had been flustered at his words, too, but had spent the whole day struggling to get the thought out of his head. Fantasies about eating you out and making you fall apart with just his tongue and fingers had long been circling through his head, keeping him up at night and forcing him to wrap calloused fingers around his cock, holding the scrap of fabric from your kimono he’d managed to snag between his teeth, groaning and growling at the mere thought of what you taste like.

But this?

This is risqué, vulgar, perhaps even crude – and something he grows more and more antsy to try with each passing day, unable to stop his gaze from lingering on your thighs, biting his lip and imagining the way they’d feel around his head.

He generally likes sexual positions and scenarios where you’re getting most of the pleasure, genuinely getting off on the idea of being useful to you in the bedroom. And he finds the idea of being so surrounded by you – his sight, his hearing, his taste, his smell – enticing, loving the idea that he gets to spoil you by working at you for hours and letting you ride his face, all the while getting to indulge himself in all things you.

And he truly wants you to use him – he wants you to grind your hips against the expanse of his tongue, to let your clit press against his nose and hump at it. He wants his entire lips, chin, and cheeks to be smeared with your release, to have it seep into his skin and soak in so that he has a piece of you with him always, a reminder that you let him touch you, pleasure you, that you want him.

“Are you sure about this, ‘Nemi?” You ask, biting your lip and watching as he scowls. He’s laying down in front of you, clothes thrown off to some other part of the room and his cock already half-hard, flushed a deep pink color.

He’s cocking his brow at you, embarrassment creeping up his spine. He knew you’d find this weird – stupid Tengen, giving out stupid advice.

“Yes, hurry up!” He snaps, swallowing and looking away for a moment to collect himself. Excitement and anxiety eat away at his stomach. He’s surprised you’d agreed to this, given the way he’d very haphazardly and defensively presented the idea. He’s pleased, of course, but now there’s that familiar self-imposed pressure to make sure that he preforms perfectly, that you enjoy every minute of it, that you’ll be satisfied and happy with his performance.

When you still don’t move, his scowl morphs into a frown. He opens his mouth to speak, to reluctantly tell you that you don’t have to unless you want to, but your small nod and footsteps towards him snap his jaw back up.

He’s practically brimming with anticipation, fists clenched at his sides.

You step over him, slowly kneeling down and standing on your knees. You’re hesitating, shuffling forward but scared to lower yourself those last few inches, and Sanemi grumbles underneath you.

“I don’t fucking bite,” he starts, hands coming up to grip at the plush of your thighs. He guides you up further, moving you forward and forward until your cunt’s directly above him, a shaky exhale brushing against the sensitive skin of your folds and making you shiver.

“Now just sit down.” He tells you, squeezing his fingers as if imploring you to just do as he says. You lower down but still leave most of your weight on your own legs.

He inhales deeply, the sound filling the room and making you blanche, embarrassment eating away at you. Sanemi groans at the scent of you, the familiar musk making his cock throb even harder against the confines of his pants.

He’s slow when he starts – kitten licks against your clit and large, flat licks along your folds. His eyes are fixed on you’re the whole time, staring and transfixed, trying to note every minute, small change in your expression.

He’s steadily tonguing at your clit now, and a moan rips its way out of you before you can really stop it. Closing your eyes, you focus on the feeling of his tongue against you, his fingers pressing against your thighs, the brush of his hair against your bare skin.

But then he’s suddenly grabbing onto the globes of your ass, pulling you down down down –

“Sanemi!” You gasp, the sensation so much stronger now that you’re flush with his face. He’s using his strength to pull you down – muscles flexing in an effort to keep you still and exactly where he wants you.

Lilac eyes stare up at you half-lidded, the taste of you clouding his senses and leaving him eagerly licking for more, slurping at you with lewd sounds that only serve to get him harder and harder.

Soon your stationary position isn’t enough, though, and he’s guiding your hips in a forwards-backwards motion, effectively grinding you against his lips and noise. Your breath catches as the action and Sanemi swears he sees stars – you’re so damn pretty, and Tengen had been right about the view. He can see your face, feel your thighs around his head, and see your pretty tits from up close.

He’s gripping onto you so tightly that you can’t even try to break the control he has over your movements – he’s pulling you across his face in a rhythm that makes your breath stutter and your hands blindly reach out to steady yourself on anything nearby. It ends up being the wall in front of you, both palms laying flat against the paneling as you pant and sigh his name. His nose is pressing against your clit, the sensation only causing you to shake as he slowly builds up your orgasm.

He pulls away for the smallest moment, licking his lips and squeezing your ass even harder, kneading at your cheeks and spreading them apart from one another. “Use me, ride my face.”

You blanch at his words, doubt settling in your chest, but at the insistent tug of your cunt back down onto his face, you can only shakily sigh, taking his advice and slowly starting to gyrate your hips. The response is immediate – a groan of satisfaction from Sanemi, his tongue efforts doubling as you control the pace, smearing your cunt against his skin and feeling like you’re suffocating him.

He’s in heaven, meanwhile, tasting you with a fervor and lightly bucking his hips, the phantom ghost of your touch through his clothing making his mind spin. You’re so damn pretty and perfect and lovely and when you’re using his face like your own personal pillow to hump and fuck, how can he complain?

He can’t, which is why he’s groaning equally as loudly as you when you reach your high a few minutes later, your shakes and shivers against his skin leaving him drooling at the sight of your back arching, tits jutting out and your thighs clenching even tighter around himself. You’re so attractive like this – all sexy and adorable even when he’s doing such filthy things to you, and it’s the sight and knowledge that he’s the one making you feel this good – that it’s his face and tongue and cheeks and body – that are getting you to violently jerk and moan his name, fresh rounds of slick dripping against his tongue and making him groan tightly against you.

And you’ll be able to tell just how much the mental and physical pictures affected him because once he’s had his share – pulling four or five orgasms out of you with just this method – there’s a distinct wet spot over his trousers, seeping across the fabric and leaving everything thick and warm with cum.

But don’t worry – there’s plenty more where that came from that he’d love to you.

You don’t want to touch him, not really – not with everything you know he’s done. You know he’s stalked you incessantly, following you like your shadow for months on end with no sense of privacy or personal space, intruding on every aspect of your personal life with only a passing sense of guilt.

(He’s watched you sleep, even settling beside you on your bed and watching the rise and fall of your chest, listening to the soft inhales and exhales, even going so far as to let his mouth hover over yours, breathing in the air of your soft little snores. He’s watched you shower, setting up cameras and staring through windows to see even a peek of your nude figure, palming himself and practically drooling because fuck, he would cut off his own limb to be washing your hair for you or soaping down your back, your thighs, your tits…)

You know he’s threatened others, blackmailed friends, family, and partners, perhaps even permanently eliminated potential rivals. You know he’s gone to extreme lengths to keep you right where he  wants you, to keep you within his imaginary grasp so that he can finally, finally make the final move to make you officially his.

He's a creep in every sense of word, but perhaps you’re a bit of a creep, too, because there’s something about the raw, carnal desperation he’s exhibiting for you that almost feels good. It’s flattering in a fucked up way, making your self-confidence skyrocket because here’s this grown man that’s absolutely whipped for you, willing to do all sorts of illegal and depraved things just for your allowance of him to breath the same air and occupy the same space as you.

You may not be a particularly egocentric person, but perhaps you can indulge his little obsession. Perhaps it’s boredom, excitement at just how pathetically eager he is, or maybe it’s even a genuine sort of fondness and attraction you’ve developed for him – regardless, the next time he begs for you to please, please just give him a single chance to show you that he can make you feel good, you’re biting your lip and nodding, interrupting his stuttered gasp and shocked r-really with a few conditions of your own.

And yet, no matter what conditions you lay forward, things don’t go quite as you’d planned, quite as you’d hoped. Somehow you lose control of the situation, and before you can stop it you realize you’ve opened the floodgates, the truly breadth of his yearning and disregard for morality uncomfortably obvious. Somehow, the creep manages to bend you to his whim – showcasing just how dangerous and strong his Loverboy, eager-to-please façade had been. Because now, the man hovering over you and groaning declarations of love and devotion is suddenly very strong and very impossible to push off of you.

And yet, his creep has rubbed off onto you, because you’re almost enjoying it.

And now, for the sake of imagination, let’s say you give one of three possible conditions…

He’s not allowed to touch you.

It’s a proposition that makes him whine, disappointment settling deep in his chest because how is he supposed to show you what you’re missing out on if he can’t kiss you or touch you or stuff you so full of his cock that you’re dazed and nonsensical?

It irritates him, but the prospect of getting to touch himself with you looking at him is enough to get him agreeing, and you’ll find yourself sitting in front of him, fully clothed even while he’s stripped down to nothing, red, swollen cock in hand as he furiously brings his wrist up and down. It’s loud – squelching and making bassy, tacky thump noises with each slam of his fist against his navel, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s too busy staring at you, eyes seemingly unblinking even when they’re half-closed in lust.

It’s arousing at first to watch a man so blatantly and needily masturbating to you, but the moment that your eyes stray from him and his body he’s faltering, fury sprouting from his gut because how dare you not be looking at him during this. How dare you not contribute the same amount of attention and intimacy that he is. How dare you ignore him like he’s just some little puny bug when he’s whining and gasping about every little explicit, detailed fantasy he’s had of you.

And he’s moving before you know it, grabbing your clothed wrists in a single hand and pinning them above your head, keeping your thighs trapped between his own as he ruts into his fist, the smell and sound overwhelming now as he hovers over you.

Look at me look at me look at me he’s chanting to you, voice strained and uneven as the pleasure mounts, the scared look in your eye only making him harder, precum oozing from his sensitive tip in copious amounts, even dripping down his knuckles and lightly staining your shirt.

It’s not long before he’s coming, crying out your name and pressing his crotch against your body, cum spurting out to cover your torso, even getting a little bit against your neck and chin, the hot, slimy sensation making you squirm.

He’s panting, and as he resumes stroking himself, hissing and wincing slightly at the overstimulation, he’ll only breathily laugh down at you, smile too wide and his cheeks too flushed as he reminds you that I’m not touching you, am I? Fabric separating us still, but isn’t this good? D’you like being covered in my spunk?

It feels like hours before he finally lets his fist slow down, cum covering your chest, but with the majority of his releases concentrated over the expanse of your cunt, seeping through the fabric of your jeans and leaving the skin below feeling wet, the sheer volume impressive and leaving you to wonder how he hasn’t passed out from exhaustion.

He’ll groan, eyes fluttering closed briefly before opening up wide, leaning down so that he’s merely a breath away from your lips, murmuring next time, we’ll do this again and I’ll stick to your fucking rules, but a condom counts as not touching, right? Right?

Kyojuro Rengoku, Gyutarou, Koushi Sugawara, Atsumu Miya, Yuu Nishinoya, Koutarou Bokuto, Hawks, Jin Bubaigawara, Nobunaga Hazama, Uvogin, Leorio Paradinight

2. You want another person present in the room.

Maybe it’s a safety precaution, or perhaps this is the chance to play out some long-standing fantasy of a threesome you’ve had for longer than you’d care to admit. Regardless, he’s not pleased about the prospect of sharing you, but the months of wringing himself dry to the point of rashes and skin-rubbed-raw leave him babbling out a yes, promising to include whoever you desire.

Except, maybe you really are a sadist because of course you choose the man he hates most.

It’s a slap in the face but he manages to pull through, irritation already coursing through him the moment the three of you settle onto the bed, but things only get progressively worse. Almost immediately, the fucker is stealing your attention – pulling you in for a messy, loud kiss, and it makes his skin crawl to see the way your eyes close, how you lean into the kiss, how you guide his hands to cup your tits and grope at your thighs.

The intruder is far too comfortable, and as your yandere grabs you and physically puts you onto the other side of the bed so that he’s sitting between you two, he can only swallow. He’s immediately leaning in for a kiss of his own, lips working against yours in a fervor, hands unable to stay still as he yanks at the hem of your shift, ripping the material. He’s groaning against you, moving hurriedly as he tries to strip you, unwilling to let the intruder do anything as monumental and intimate as undressing you. But it’s too late, because the man is moving to your other side, pressing his navel against your ass and biting at your ear, and you’re breaking the kiss to moan and he thinks he’s going to be sick because the intruder’s hand is slipping under your skirt.

He slaps the man’s hand away, sending him a glare that makes even a shiver roll down your spine, before shoving his hand between your thighs instead, sucking in a breath because he knows what panties you’re wearing by feel, the pretty black ones that make your ass look so damn good, the one he’s stolen and jerked himself with so many times that it’s making a sort of Pavlov response hit him and oh oh oh no no no he can’t come yet oh please god no –

The moment is ruined, though, because the intruder’s kissing you again, suddenly slapping your thigh with his cock and telling you to beg for it, pretty girl, tell me you want it and something inside your yandere just sort of snaps.

He’s got the man on the ground before he can stop himself, fists raised and connecting with the man’s face, blood already covering his knuckles with just a few hits. He’s growling, a sort of inhuman sound that leaves his teeth bared, audible even over the man’s pained whimpers, even as the consciousness slips from his eyes and he goes limp against the ground, chest rising and falling very slowly.

And you’re still on the bed, staring with a dropped jaw and fear swimming in those pretty eyes as your yandere comes back to you, blood staining his palms and speckling his shirt, his breathing ragged as he shoves your head down to his crotch, telling you suck it clean or I’ll kill him, a smirk settling on his lips as you immediately hollow your cheeks.

And as he maneuvers you onto your knees, fingertips groping and kneading at your cheeks as he fucks into you from behind hard enough to leave your ass ricocheting and jiggling, it’s difficult to not hear the way he breathily laughs, thumb coming around to pinch at your clit as he tells you didn’t break your rule, there’s still another person in the room, isn’t there? Stupid fucker’s just not able to see how well you take my cock.

He’s shoving your face too far into the mattress to respond though, so he only answers himself with a slurred groan of ‘m coming, fuck take it take it –

Sanemi and Giyuu, Akaza and Douma, Oikawa and Kageyama, Kuroo and Daichi, Daishou and Kuroo, Tsukishima and Hinata, Shigaraki and Dabi, Endeavor and All Might, Nobunaga and Franklin

3. You want everything on camera.

Maybe it’s a kink for being recorded or maybe you simply want hard evidence to be able to use against him when you eventually take him to court, confident that he’ll let something incriminating slip out. Regardless, he’s very, very eager to fulfill your request, only growing slightly camera shy when the time finally comes.

It’s not a complicated set up, really – you’ve got a tripod of sorts with your phone balanced on it, the video rolling and centered on the bed where you’re settled in his lap. He’s clutching at you, making all sorts of little whimpers and whines as you kiss him, his lips eager and insistent and his tongue immediately pushing into your mouth the moment he can. It’s sticky sounding, and you’re sure the camera can pick it up.

When you pull back for air, letting your shirt come up and over your head, you’re almost embarrassed at the way he immediately shoves his face between your breasts, violently shaking his head back and forth, not paying attention to the way your bra cups poke at his eyes. He’s mouthing at your nipples over the fabric, even going so far as to dig one out of the cup, sucking and licking at it. His free hands travel down the expanse of your back, tracing the muscles under the skin and eventually settling at your ass, moving you to grind on his already very hard cock.

He pulls back with a little pop noise, licking his lips and looking up at you almost dazed. So pretty, he mumbles to himself, squeezing his hands, and you can only shiver in both excitement and discomfort as he starts rambling.

Been dreaming of this for so long, baby, stalked you for so long that I know exactly how to touch you, how to fuck ya… Been touching myself too much to the thought of you, huh? Feel how fucking hard I am just from a bit of kissing and touching?

He giggles at that, nipping at your nipple and enjoying the way you squirm slightly.

Broke into your apartment almost every day the last year, stolen your stuff and licked every utensil you own. Wore your panties and sucked on your toothbrush, stole your mail and hacked into your laptop and phone cameras just to get a front row view of you.

The information makes your stomach drop and you stiffen in his hold, his his insistent, guided grinds against his crotch only pick up.

Touched you while you slept, too, but I think you already knew that. You’re hard to wake up, y’know? And you make this cute little whine when I finger you, but this is much better right now. You’re hotter when you’re awake, but I’ll take you either way.

It’s ten more minutes of dreadful, disturbing admissions from him as he grinds you against him and suckles at your chest, leaving your nipples sore and bruised, puffy and overly-sensitive. The camera’s still rolling, and it’s only when he curls in on himself, a strained f-fuck spilling past his lips as something warm and wet seeps through his boxers that he slows down, stopping and cupping at your tits, squeezing harshly and burying his face in them once more for a brief moment.

He detaches himself, walking over to your phone and ending the video, before pulling his own out and replacing it with yours, walking back over to you and licking his lips.

Hey now that we’ve got yours and I’ve confessed to all the shit you wanted me to, it’s my turn, yeah? We make a video for you, now we make a sex tape for me. Oh, don’t make that face – ‘m not going to show it to anyone. Well, except maybe you, would you like to watch it back with me?

He doesn’t give you time to respond as he flips you onto your stomach, displaying a level of strength that shocks you, keeping you flat against the bed as he pulls you towards him so that you’re dangling off the edge, ass bared to the camera. He giggles, tracing a fingers against your clothed cunt, before slapping at it harshly, enjoying the way you squirm.

Let’s put on a good show, huh? I’m thinking…

He lets a leg stand on either side of your hips, settling himself so that his chest is pressed flush against your back, lips brushing at your ear as he murmurs we’ll start like this, the angle will be really good, I promise. Trust me, ‘ve watched a lot of porn – you’ll look good like this.

Then he’s forcing you into his lap, facing the camera and making your legs spread wide, a hand slipping into your shorts and toying with your clit. Then like this – think I can make you squirt? Think it’ll reach the camera from all the way over here?

Finally, he’s forcing you onto your knees while he stands over you, the camera right at your face level as he pets at your hair, sighing dreamily and saying and we’ll finish it like this – be loud, okay? Wanna see you gagging and choking. And if you don’t swallow, I’ll just have to do it again – thoughts on throatfucking?

And as he settles you onto your stomach, mounting you and letting the camera roll as he fucks into you hard enough to leave you screaming his name, he’ll only whisper in your ear between hearty groans and the slap of his balls against your ass remember, you wanted the video sweetheart.

Douma, Tengen Uzui, Rintarou Suna, Kenma Kozume, Tooru Oikawa, Dabi, Hizashi Yamada, Shalnark (like a LOT), Uvogin

HABITS:

 Sex is not a priority for Gyomei.

Not only does his lifestyle make having a partner difficult, but even the physical act of sex is something he’s never been particularly interested in. He’s just simply not that physical of a man – affection isn’t something he’s especially comfortable with, and while he wants nothing more than to hold you and keep you in his arms forever (and he really does mean forever, something he doesn’t hesitate in reminding you), touching you isn’t at the forefront of his mind.

And this is especially true in the context of sexual intimacy – it’s one thing to crave holding your hand, but it’s another to crave having your thighs wrapped around his head. It’s one thing to desire you falling asleep with your cheek pressed against his chest, but it’s another to imagine you perched on top of him, your pretty moans of his name making his cheeks feel hot and his pulse rising dramatically.

It feels disrespectful, more than anything, to imagine you in a sexual light; he’s already painfully aware that having any sort of romantic feelings towards you is wrong, but to doom himself even further with explicit, lewd fantasies of you? Just the thought makes him bristle, unease and shame crawling up his spine because only perverted men do that, men with no morals or self-control.

And he’s able to keep this mentality for an impressively long period of time - you’d be hard pressed to catch him having any sort of risqué thoughts regarding you for much of the time his obsession festers, the furthest possible thing being imagining kissing you and gently cupping your cheeks.

(And even then, the idea of slipping his tongue into your mouth makes his cheeks feel hot, his entire body feeling like it’s on fire and making him hurriedly forget the thought, instead busying himself with imagining hugging you or pressing a quick kiss to your temple. But as time passes, if his concentration lessens for even a single moment, then he’s suddenly thinking about you putting your tongue in his mouth, and suddenly he needs to sit down, his head feeling dizzy and light and overwhelmed.)

He manages to stay within the confines of innocent fantasies of you, physically conditioning himself to halt any thoughts further than holding you by pinching himself or biting his tongue, anything at all to deter such thoughts and reprimand himself. But really, while Gyomei may be a very morally guided man with one of the gentlest hearts, he’s still a man.

And like most men, he has needs – even if he himself isn’t truly aware of them.

And so, while he forces himself to stay respectful of you during the day, he’s not so in control of his thoughts at night. It’s not as easy to stop himself from playing out vivid, pleasure-filled scenarios when he’s in the grips of slumber, his subconscious running wild and imagining how you’d feel with your hands on his body, your soft breasts pressed against his own rigid chest, your lips kissing his neck, and the wonderful warmth between your legs that he’s absolutely sure would be such a tight fit, truly stretching you out in every possible way.

(And god, while the size difference intimidates him ever so slightly because he doesn’t want to hurt you, there’s something about the fact that you’re just so damn tiny compared to him that makes something primal and territorial stir in his gut, the sense of protectiveness and ownership he feels over you only amplifying, despite his wishes. And then he’s imagining the way you’d squeal and grasp onto him as he sends rope after rope after rope of thick, white cum as deeply inside of you as he can manage, and it’s only then that Gyomei truly gives up any hope of not viewing you in a sexual light because how can he not fantasize about stuffing you so full that you’re leaking it? Leaking him?)

He’s woken up to messy sheets, a sweaty body and heavy breathing more often than he’d like to admit, the cum smeared across his softening cock and the material of the bed making him feel dirty, ashamed and disgusting.

(And when he sees you later that day, you’ll notice he’s a bit quieter than usual, not standing as close to you as he normally would, but if you bring it up he’ll only tear up a bit, telling you to disregard his strange behavior, but not really giving you a reason for it. He can’t lie to you, it feels wrong, but he can’t tell you, either, so he settles with omission, praying you won’t push the issue further.)

And so, as time passes, slowly he’ll find himself becoming a victim of the lust that begins showing itself, rearing its ugly head when he finds himself wanting you most, the bouts of loneliness he feels late at night making fighting off his desire difficult.

But even then, Gyomei has the patient of a saint and could probably stave off his urges to actually touch himself for the rest of his life. Dirty thoughts, no, but the act of actually stroking himself or acting upon those thoughts? He could, if he really tried – or at least he could without the intervention of something outside of his control, something that pushes him to finally, finally give in.

And that intervention comes one summer evening, when the wind is warm and the night air is full of liveliness. The village he’d been sent to had a night market that was bustling, hence the presence of a demon slowly picking off the shoppers every night. Finding and destroying the demon was quick and easy, and as Gyomei wandered through the market after completing his mission, a wrong turn led to a rather shocking discovery.

The woman’s voice sounds almost exactly like yours, only a bit higher, a bit more slurred, a bit sultrier as she moans presumably the name of the man pinning her against the wall. The alleyway between the two buildings in the downtown segment of the town reverberates her cries strongly, the wet sucking and kissing noises as the man worked at her neck making Gyomei freeze, embarrassment slowly creeping up his spine.

Of course, Gyomei isn’t naïve – he knows about the intimate relations between men and women, and although he has no sexual experience of his own, the heavy breathing, racing hearts and wet plap plap noises echoing down the alleyway towards him tell him more than enough about what exactly is taking place just a few meters away. He knows that this is really quite a private moment, and he knows that he should really, really move.

And yet, the similarities between your voice and the woman’s make him pause, his legs suddenly feeling like lead, even as the man’s grunts and questions of you like that, baby ring in his ears, making Gyomei’s eyebrows shoot up because oh no, what a horribly inappropriate thing to be hearing.

A particularly harsh thrust and a nearly pained groan from the man has Gyomei suddenly moving, sensing that the man is close to his end and the Hashira would prefer to give them privacy during such a moment. He tries to continue on with his evening, focusing entirely on the feeling of the beads between his palms and the bustling sounds of the town’s evening life as he heads back towards the more populated area, but the damage is already done.

The woman sounded so much like you that it haunts Gyomei that night, the sound ringing through his ears on repeat and driving him nearly mad, forcing him to head back home to his estate early. Once he’s smelling the familiar air of his home (tinged ever so slightly by your scent, you having visited earlier that day and leaving a lingering reminder of you that he immediately deeply inhales once he enters), Gyomei relaxes ever so slightly, head dipping down in shame as he notices the way his trousers are still fitting tightly, the woman’s sounds and the small, barely-there thoughts he’s trying to repress about your sounds physically affecting him.

Furrowing his brow, he resigns himself to the knowledge that he’ll likely spend the rest of the evening hard enough to be uncomfortable, instead simply sitting and resting atop his bed. He tries to distract himself as the minutes slowly tick by, thinking of training, praying, and anything else he can conjure up, brain working as frantically as possible because the idea of you moaning his name in that same wanton, needy way just absolutely refuses to leave him.

It’s infuriating, really, and it leaves Gyomei with a heavy sense of shame in his gut because it’s just so, so disrespectful to be thinking of you in such compromising, lewd ways. It’s abhorrent, truly a sign of just how weak he’s become in your hands, all without you even realizing it.

The next few hours are painful, his erection remaining prominent and sweat beading his brow, his concentration waning the longer it drags on. Every time he lets his mind wander, it’s turning back to you – he’s thinking of the delicious smell of curried meat that was coming from a market stand, and suddenly he’s imagining the way you would suck on the meat stick, and it’s not long before he’s thinking of how you’d suck on his lips, his fingers, him –

He sits up abruptly, biting his lip and forcing himself to his feet. And eventually, as Gyomei tasks himself with whatever simple task he can think of as a distraction, the concentration and resolve eventually breaks. The neatly folded pile of his clothing in the corner of the room shouldn’t make him pause as it does, but as his fingers feel over the fabric to identify each piece, he can’t help but notice the presence of something new atop the other items – something lighter and softer, a material completely unlike the rough, thick fabric of his uniform.

Curiously, he brings the material up closer to his face, leaning down slightly and inhaling, only to immediately stop, eyes going wide because fuck, this is your shawl, isn’t it?

You’d accidentally left it in his home and he’d placed it in the corner with the hopes of keeping it out of the way to preserve it and not accidentally ruin it. And yet, as he stands there, muscles tense with each inhale bringing your scent to his nose again and again, Gyomei finds that he simply can’t take it anymore. He’s so hard that it hurts, and with the smell of you filling his lungs, how can he possibly hold himself back any longer?

And so, with a heavy heart and shame creeping up his neck, Gyomei finds himself once again laying on his bed, back flat against the ground and swallowing heavily. He’s never touched himself before – maybe once as a young teenager, but he’s simply not had the time nor desire to, and he’s ashamed to admit that he’s nervous.

But then he’s imagining the way you’d moan again, your pretty voice ringing in his ears, the syllables of his name rolling off your tongue like velvet, G-yo-mei whimpered in his ear as he kneads at your breasts, thumbing at your nipples and kissing along the sensitive skin of your jaw.

And that’s all it takes for him to gently loosen the belt of his uniform trousers, his hand slightly trembling as he shuffles them down a bit, the cold air brushing against his freed cock and making him shiver slightly.

He’s slow and methodical as he very, very slowly relaxes. Guilt still consumes him, but he’s already got his pants off, cock in hand – and soon, he’s throwing caution to the wind and instead focusing on the idea of you.

He starts by imagining a simple part of your body – your hands, the ones whose fingers always brush his own, resting against his clothing as you compliment him, always feeling warm and soft and so, so very foreign. He swallows, his fist moving to grip himself at the base, the dull pleasure making his toes curl a bit.

Then he’s mentally picturing your arms, remembering the way they feel against his palms. He’s sure the skin there is soft, too, and he squeezes tighter as he thinks of the way you’d wrap them around his neck as he thrusts into you, hovering over you and trying to get as deep as he possibly can – he wants to feel every possible inch of you, to leave you stuffed full enough to be a gasping, stuttering mess.

He’s imagining your collarbone, his free hand coming up to trace his own for reference. He decides that your must be more delicate, softer, pretty and mirroring the shape of your jaw. Slowly, his hand begins moving upwards, a low, uneven breath falling from his lips because oh, this is a strange feeling.

He’s not entirely sure what breasts feel or look like, but as he licks his lips, he thinks back to all the (unpleasantly and unwilling) conversations he’s overheard from perverted older men. Soft, he thinks, and surely firm enough to grasp onto – one hand continues the slow, steady strokes as the other reaches up in front of him, shame eating away at him as he spreads his fingers, cupping and squeezing them as if your chest were right in front of him, your pretty tits bouncing, the plap plap noise of skin hitting skin filling the room.

He quietly groans your name as he continues to squeeze, head lolling back slightly against the floor, a strained look crossing his features because no, he knows the feeling that’s coming is an orgasm but dammit, he wants this to continue, even as depraved as it is. Even as disrespectful and rude – even as badly as he hopes and prays that you do this thinking of him, too.

His thumb comes up to quickly swipe at his tip, his abs clenching tightly at the sensation. He’s thinking of your stomach – it’s soft, he just knows it, the perfect thing for him to grab at, imagining the way he’d rest his head against the soft pudge of your lower tummy as he licks and sucks between your legs, feeling your thighs cage around his head, squeezing and crushing and fuck fuck fuck –

He groans your name, hips bucking up and up as he imagines what lays between those pretty thighs of yours, the exact picture a mystery but the idea making every nerve feeling like it’s on fire, white hot pleasure burning its way from the pit of his stomach through to every limb.

He’s sure fucking you would be heavenly – he’s heard women’s genitalia described as warm, wet, and tight, and the mere idea of you being that way is enough to get him gasping, his orgasm hurriedly approaching and his concentration too haphazard to use a technique to slow his breathing and delay the inevitable.

It’s futile, really, because when he imagines the way you’d clutch onto him and tell him such sweet praises, your pretty lips pressing against his desperately, whining that you want him, that you need him, it’s only natural for him to start bucking up into his hand, thrusting against his fist faster and faster and faster, the sound of his ass clapping back down against his bedsheets reverberating through the room, along with the wet slapping noise of his balls clapping against his fist as he imagines fucking into you harder, faster, more more more –

And just the idea of you moaning a breathy, adoring I love you, Gyomei is enough to get his back arching up, every muscle in his body going taut as spurt after spurt of warm, thick cum spurts from his tip, landing in rivulets across his chest, feeling hot and wet even over the fabric.

He’s panting, breathing heavily and bathing in the aftershocks of his orgasm, cock still pulsing and throbbing even as the minutes tick by, still mostly erect even as he grasps at the sheets, a fresh wave of tears beading at his eyes because what has he done?

Clarity rushes back to him and for a moment he’s in shock, the pleasure still numbing his senses. He’d masturbated to the thought of you – imagining your naked body touching his own, fantasizing about the way he’d taste you, how he’d ever so carefully ease inside you, a thumb constantly pressing against your clit to make sure everything feels as good for you as he’s sure it will feel for him.

He’s breathless, disappointed in himself, and as he silently sits up and washes himself up in the bathroom, scrubbing at the drying cum stains on his uniform, Gyomei can only sigh. It’s truly amazing what you’ve done to him – what you’ve reduced him to.

And yet, as Gyomei walks towards your home the next day with the intention of walking you to the market, he can’t help but subtly take wider steps, hoping to adjust himself as he grows hard at the mere thought of being close to you.

What have you done to him?

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your Voice

Due to his blindness, Gyomei perceives your beauty in more meaningful ways than simply your appearance.

He fell in love first with your voice, the things you say never failing to leave him in awe of your kindness and your humility. He falls in love with your laughter, loving the sound and finding himself speaking more often simply for the chance to say something that would amuse you.

(Something that both you and others will notice, if only because it’s extremely unlike Gyomei to say anything even remotely hinting at humor, and while his comments often don’t land as he intended, you’ll often times end up laughing simply because it’s so out of character and odd of him. And oh, in the moment Gyomei is basking in the sound of your laughter, committing every inhale of breath and slight snort to memory, obsessively replaying the sound over and over and over.)

And so, when he’s falling into the depths of loneliness, arousal and desperation for you becoming too difficult to handle, he’ll think of the lulling sound of your voice, the way you roll your letters and how you enunciate your words. He’s memorized your speech patterns, always trying to engage you in conversation just so that he can listen to you talk, eagerly absorbing everything you say because it all feels important, like he’d be doing you a disservice to not memorize every little quirk, mannerism and opinion you have.

And so while his love for your voice begins platonically and innocently (or at least as innocent as it can be, considering his feelings for you are anything but), Gyomei finds that over time, this sentiment begins changing.

Sure, he’s still in love with your voice, but now he can’t stop thinking about what you’d sound like when you’re out of breath, when you’re moaning, when you’re whining and keening and begging and needing him to please touch me Gyomei, I need it so bad please please please –

He’s fantasizing about what you sound like during sex long before he feels comfortable with it, his mind conjuring up all these questions and hypothetical scenarios without his control. He’s idly wondering if you’re more of a moaner, all high-pitched and girly, plentiful sounds that are expressive enough for him to very easily and quickly be able to read exactly what you’re feeling, exactly what you’re wanting. Or perhaps you’d be a little deeper, more of a groaner, more likely to let out sighs rather than whines. Or perhaps you’re just very quiet - he’d be happy with that, too, finding that the minimal sounds he does manage to get out of you are all the more rewarding, all the more precious and worthy of cherishing.

(He’s even found himself, in a moment of dissociation as he tries to sleep, mimicking what he imagines your noises would be like – he catches himself after the third moan slips out, immediately stopping himself and becoming mortified because oh god, does he now not even have autonomy and control over his own body and actions?)

And once he’s stolen you away, his hand forced by some external event, Gyomei’s love and appreciation for your voice persists. He’s still captivated by it, except now he’s paying even more attention, listening to your heartbeat and the way you breath, finding himself pressing his ear up against walls when he wants to give you space but still needs to hear you.

Once your sexual relationship begins, he’s absolutely addicted to drawing all sorts of sounds out of you – he wants to hear your every moan, your every comment, every everything because he wants to know exactly how you’re feeling and what he can do to make it better for you.

He’s always encouraging you to be louder, to be more expressive, always asking you questions during sex in attempts to get you to be more vocal. It’s selfish, sure, but with the way his cock throbs at the sound of your voice, can be really be blamed?

You just have an effect on him – one he absolutely adores, shivers running up and down his spine merely at the sound of you breathing.

His Fingers

Even outside of the bedroom, Gyomei is reliant on his fingers. It’s a necessary part of his job – wielding his axe and flail, praying, even simple day-to-day activities. They’re thick, and they’re strong – calloused and weathered with the scars of battle and a tough life, and Gyomei has remarkable dexterity and control over them.

And while he may be blind, Gyomei notices almost immediately that you seem to take a liking to them, once your fear and apprehension towards him starts to wear off, once you start to see him as less of a threat and more as a provider, a lover, even.  

So while he’s never really given them much thought, there’s just something about how you react to his thick, scarred digits that makes him positively swoon with happiness – it starts off relatively platonic, with you simply touching his fingers. Letting one of his hands rest in your lap, your smaller fingers comparing sizes, tracing scars and callouses, idly toying with them as you talk about something seemingly trivial to you.

(Little to you know that Gyomei is listening with rapt attention, every one of his senses heightened because you’re touching him, and it feels so soft and sweet and adorable that he almost thinks he might combust, his cheeks feeling warm and something fluttering in his stomach.)

It’ll move to you asking him to rub your shoulders, letting out little moans at the feeling of him running thumbs against your back, digging in – carefully, of course – against the tight, sore muscles of your shoulders, all the while Gyomei has to focus on continuing his job and relaxing you, ignoring the rather insistent erection pressing heatedly against his pants as a result of your sounds, the feeling of your skin, and the proximity of your scent.

And of course, you absolutely adore his fingers in the context of sex - one of them is enough to have you pleading with him to wait, please, the stretch is too much, you need a second to adjust, immediately pausing or pulling back, listening to you and asking if you’d like him to try again, if he should go slower, if you’d like to be done and instead do something else, or nothing else at all.

(He hopes, prays, even, that you’ll let him try again, that you’ll let him sink his fingers into you, curling and rubbing and mapping out every inch of you like some sort of sacred knowledge, like knowing you inside and out is his only purpose.)

And while Gyomei has never been an especially prideful guy, he can’t help the surge of satisfaction that rolls through him at the knowledge that he’s enough for you in bed, that he’s able to satisfy you and give you what you want at any time, sometimes even with just his fingers alone.

He had no experience before his infatuation with you began - he’d never even kissed someone, let alone fingered them or been inside them, but once he realizes how badly he wants to make you come, how desperately he needs to hear up-close the way you sound as your orgasm crashes through you, he’s suddenly learning as diligently as he can, taking into consideration your every whimper, moan and gasp.

Soon, he’s able to pinpoint your spot within the first three thrusts, and once he feels the way you tighten around him, almost as if you were sucking his fingers in further, deeper, he gets to work - he’s thrusting, curling, rubbing and stretching you out just how you like it, hearing the symphony of your noises and cries, along with the lewd squelching noises of his fingers pushing and pulling out of you again and again.

And when his calloused fingertips find your already swollen and sensitive clit? Honestly it’s game over – they’re never leaving the spot, quickly learning precisely how you like to be touched, the accuracy and ease of the movements nearly unfair as you squirm and writhe and gasp out his name.

Gyomei is determined, and he will get you to come, if it’s the last thing that he does. After all, how can he call himself good enough of a lover for you if he can’t even manage to do that?

DRIVE:

Before his infatuation with you began, Gyomei’s drive was quite literally nonexistent. The thought of sex hardly ever crossed his mind, and if it did, it was immediately shoved away, pushed aside for more important matters in his everyday life. Survival, hunting demons and saving innocents took all of his free time and energy, and touching himself was both unnecessary and a stark reminder of not having a partner.

(Something that doesn’t bother him up until he meets you – because now he’s suddenly hyper aware of what couples do. He’s constantly thinking of holding your hand, brushing back your hair and cupping your cheek, softly pressing his lips to the corners of your mouth and against your jugular, holding you in his arms at night to keep you protected from both the cold and any wayward demons. And of course, the other things couples do – the things that make him feel like some hormone-driven teenage boy for being so easily flustered, for being so horribly eager to try them out with you.)

His libido was essentially non-existent, and while he’d sometimes overhear Tengen talking in shockingly explicit detail to Rengoku about his latest sexual escapades with his wives, he genuinely never felt the need to even so much as think about intimacy like that, let alone indulge in it.

But once you worm your way into his heart, suddenly the urge to be with you in an intimate manner is just too much to ignore. Of course, it’s still very gradual – it takes years of friendship in order for Gyomei to even form romantic feelings towards you in the first place, much less feelings to this degree. And even once they’re realized, it’ll take a long while before he moves past fantasizing about simply sitting by your side and slowly breathing in the air you’re exhaling and instead towards fantasizing about fucking you until you’re crying.

But as time passes and he slowly gives in more and more to his better judgement, Gyomei finds himself idly toying with the thoughts lingering at the edges of his subconscious – ideas of how you’d feel underneath him, how your lips would curve against his skin, how you’d keen and sigh his name. It becomes too hard not to imagine the way your pretty cunt would suck in his fingers, clenching down and fluttering around him as he curls and thrusts them, listening to the beating of your heart and slowly but surely finding every spot that drives you absolutely crazy.

His drive is still quite low even once he realizes his infatuation with you (simply finding that while he very, very much wants to have sex with you, it’s not something he needs on an hourly or daily basis), but the more lewd, dirty thoughts about you are most certainly still swirling in his mind.

And really, how can he be expected to not fantasize about you?

 You’re so beautiful, inside and out, and Gyomei is sure that if you were to allow him to touch you in such an intimate way, he'd be in heaven. The softness of your skin, the tightness of your throat, the warmth of your pussy…

(He’s heard, once again mainly from Tengen but also from others he’s unfortunately overheard, that vaginas tend to be warm, hot even. Initially, he’d just thrown aside this information, having no use for it, but the comments flow back into his head as he tries to picture what your cunt must feel like. Warm makes sense, but then he’s thinking of how it’s supposedly so very wet, assuming the woman is aroused, and Gyomei can only gulp at the thought, imagining the wet schlock noise that would ring in his ears when he’s got you bouncing in his lap. And of course, the tightness – he’s gripping himself harder at the mere thought, gasping sharply as he brings his fist up and down, varying the strength of his grip as he imagines where you’d be tightest, how your walls would squeeze and massage at him just how he’s been told it is.)

And you make it very, very hard to keep the thoughts from entering his head once he's accepted his sexual attraction to you.

When he notices the little sound you make when you throw your arms over your head and stretch, how can he not think of the way you’d squirm and cry out when he gently, sweetly presses a finger inside of you, curling and rubbing at the spot that Tengen promises will make you feel good? And although he knows it’s probably a bit inappropriate to be thinking of you in such ways despite you not being married quite yet, he honestly can’t help it - you’re too attractive to him, you mean to much for him to not want to be with you in every possible way.

After all, Gyomei wants to do everything in his power to make you as happy as possible, and if it means burying his face between your legs for hours on end and bringing you to your high a few times, he’s already plopping down onto his knees, throwing your legs over his shoulders.

(And even if you don’t really want it, Gyomei is still more than happy to taste you, practically begging you without saying the words, reminding you that he can make you relax, please allow me to pleasure you, it should help with your headache. And while it’s mostly for you, genuinely, there’s still a selfish part of him that’s hurriedly settling your pretty cunt over his face because he wants your thighs caging around his head, the taste and smell of you enveloping his senses, to have every ounce of your attention solely on him him him.)

He's not perpetually desperate for you in a sexual sense, but once Gyomei’s infatuation settles in for long enough, he will not turn you down should you offer.

That said, Gyomei will never force anything physical onto you in any capacity.

(And this is true In all senses – obviously he won’t force you into sex if you don’t consent, but he also won’t do things like holding your hand or calling you petnames, wanting everything in your relationship to be as reciprocated as possible. Except, of course, where your safety is concerned – if he looks the villain for kidnapping you, so be it, but at least he isn’t pinning you down and taking what he wants from you. Though with his stature, you’re aware that he could take practically anything he wants and you’d not be able to do a thing about it.)

While he isn’t especially experienced with romantic relationships, he’s more than aware that consent is everything, that each action and step should be accepted by both parties, whether it be a peck on the cheek or bending you over the nearest counter and leaving you sore.

Gyomei hates when you cry, and as the target of his obsession, this works in your favor - while you’re likely to develop sympathy and possibly even some warped sort of love for him, you won’t ever have to worry about being taken advantage of, or being put in a situation in which you’re forced to do something physical that you’re uncomfortable with. His top priority in any situation is you, and how can he justify shoving his tongue down your throat if you’re cringing, pushing at his far too muscular chest, showing obvious signs of fear?

How can he enjoy spreading your legs and running a thick finger up and down your folds when you’re shivering, whimpering with a few tears trailing down your cheeks?

He’d never forgive himself if he touched you without your consent, if he hugged or kissed or - heaven forbid, fucked - you without your explicit agreement, and this honestly ends up advantaging him in a strange way. It’s wrong and you know it, but eventually you’ll begin to grow fond of his gentle touches, his way of treating you as if you were made of glass, far too fragile and breakable for this world.

Perhaps it’s Stockholm Syndrome or the extreme isolation of only seeing one other person on a consistent basis, but eventually you’ll stop caring, justifying your growing yearning for his touch as simply a natural response to your situation. And at some point, you’ll want him to go further - no longer is a soft caress of your cheek enough; no, you want him to press his thumb against your lips, tracing the outline and pushing in just enough to pop it past your lips, settling on your tongue and telling you in that calming, deep voice of his to suck.

At some point you’ll decide that instead of him simply placing the palm of his hand on the top of your head as a sign of subtle, noninvasive affection, you’ll want him to instead have you on your knees before him, that same hand pressing your head down as you choke and gag on what you’re sure is a very, very sizeable cock. And once you voice these needs, gathering the courage and confidence that he won’t reject you (he would never, no matter how compromising or humiliating what you’re requesting of him is), Gyomei will be shocked, flustered, nervous, even.

When you shyly tug at his belt, kissing along the line of his jaw and whispering his name in a way that gets shivers erupting over his whole body, he won’t fight you. And all throughout the process he’s asking for your consent, refusing to move his hands until he gets explicit verbal confirmation that he can touch your back, your waist, your tits, your thighs, your ass, your cunt, your everything.

(Honestly, the question of are you sure, is this okay, does that feel good that constantly falls from his lips is almost too endearing, the ever-so-slight tremor in his voice giving away just how excited and nervous he is to be getting so intimate with you, as if the very, very insistent bulge pressing against your ass isn’t enough to tell by.)

It’s in moments where he’s completely vulnerable with you that the Stockholm Syndrome really accelerates: he’s slowly drawing circles against your clit and listening as if his life depends on it to the changes in your breathing, your moans, feeling the way your hips and thighs twitch at certain stimulation. It’s sweet, really, how attentive Gyomei is and just how anal he is about making sure that you’re comfortable with everything, and with each soft moan of his name and each orgasm he coaxes out of you, Gyomei can only thank whatever is listening, savoring the taste of you like a starving man and trying to memorize every inch of your body.

(It’s in the times of post-orgasmic bliss that he finds himself incredibly grateful for having prioritized your comfort and not pushed you into anything too early – sure, covering his mouth with the section of his happi you’d touched early in the day and absolutely yanking at his cock, his fist moving so quickly it’s nearly a blur wasn’t ideal, but it lead to this. All those evenings spent desperately trying to orgasm to release some of the built up sexual frustration and to minimize your chances of seeing the rather massive tent in his pants were worth it – anything is worth it to have you cuddled up in his arms, cheek smoothed against his bare chest, your soft breaths puffing against his nipple and making him lick his lips. Anything at all.)

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Oral Fixation

Specifically, Gyomei absolutely adores going down on you.

In general, he’s a giver in bed. He’s not a selfish lover by any means – in fact, he’s almost infuriatingly generous, prioritizing your pleasure over yours no matter the situation to the point that it’s almost irritating. And because he’s so cautious and aware that he’s significantly larger than you and thus has a cock proportionate to his height and stature, he knows that he needs to take things slow and spend a very, very long time preparing your body to take him.

And Gyomei’s personal preference is to use his tongue on you – to spread your legs and leave you squirming against him, the taste of you invading every one of his senses and only driving him to lick with more fervor, to suckle harder, to give you more more more because he needs you to be ready and able to take his cock or he thinks he might go insane.

He likes the intimacy of using his tongue on you – it means you trust him, he thinks, and there’s something so wonderful about the lewdness and vulgarity of it all. Having his mouth on the most sensitive, personal place on your body, all while your thighs cage his head in, your hips twitching and your fingers tunneling through his hair. He loves the way he feels so close to you – like he’s experiencing the most real, raw part of you that he can, the feeling almost as euphoric and intimate as having his cock nestled inside of you, warm and snug and full.

He loves the smell of you – it’s musky and earthy, something that makes his eyes roll to the back of his head and something resembling a groan slip from him at a mere whiff of between your legs, often leading to his hips bucking on their own, unconsciously moving to come closer to the source of your scent, his body physically unable to stop itself from trying to rut and fuck into you.

(Something that embarrasses Gyomei slightly, if only because he finds it rather pathetic just how poor his body-control becomes around you, ashamed at his inability to stop himself from responding so carnally, so perversely.)

He’ll often lean down and press his face against the pretty hair covering your cunt, nose-deep into it as he inhales, pants growing tight embarrassingly fast because oh fuck, he’s practically Pavolv’d himself into orgasming the moment he smells you, arousal blooming through him even though he hasn’t touched himself even the slightest.

And he’s not shy to tell you that you smell good, either – he’s always praising you in bed, but he’ll murmur to you that you smell divine, the compliment sounding throatly and groaned, and he’ll always finish it off by pressing soft, adoring kisses around the junctures of your thighs and pelvis, making sure every inch of space has been touched by his lips.

(And he gets very, very into it, too – he’s groaning lightly against your skin, letting his lips linger, letting his tongue come out to rub at the skin of your inner thigh, sucking slightly and letting go with a wet plop sound that makes your face feel hot and your stomach twist. It’s often at this point that he’ll wind up unconsciously very slowly grinding against whatever object is available, often the blankets you’re resting on and even sometimes your leg when he’s feeling especially needy, often when he’s returned from a prolonged mission. On those rare occasions, you may even feel something wet and very, very warm seep against your leg, hot cum already staining your skin and only serving as an omen for what Gyomei wants to do to you.)

He’ll trail kisses up to your clit, little kitten licks while he listens and gauges your reactions, trying to discover if you’re more in the mood for circles, figure eights, stripes, or – when a strange, unusual bout of possessiveness surges through him – the kanji for his own name.

(He’ll always grip onto you harder when he does this, still trying to be mindful of his strength, but with enough force to leave you completely immobile, utterly subject to whatever he wants to do to your body – a fact that both frightens him and excites some small, carnal part of him.)

He’ll station a thumb to work the pattern against you, rhythmic and steady, while his tongue darts out to dig between your folds, pressing shallowly into you while you twitch and whine, his thumb insistent against you. He’ll take his time to explore you, leaving no area untouched, and he’ll pull back with a few hearty sucks against your labia, licking his lips as he presses kisses against your stomach.

How would you like to come, my love? He’ll ask between kisses, the emphasis on the word ‘my’ subtle but still there. If you want to come solely from his tongue licking and sucking at you, he’ll be more than happy to – he’ll shift his positioning, laying on his back with you perched on his face, keeping his tongue stationary and instead moving you to the rhythm he knows you like, just so that all you have to do is sit there and take it, leaving your body completely in his control.

He’ll bring you to your high solely through sucking at your clit if you’d prefer, puckering his lips and keeping the pressure up, running his tongue over the sensitive skin and keeping them attached even when you buck up, your hips moving uncontrollably as you near your orgasm.

He’ll do both, if you want, able to multi-task and keep everything exactly as you like it, desperation motivating him because he needs to feel you come for him, to feel the way you muscles clench and spasm around him, to hear your pretty cries and feel your fingers dig against his scalp, pulling and yanking and making him groan lowly at the pain-twinged pleasure.

He just loves to please you really, and he can spend hours between your legs – genuinely, and without a single complaint. He’ll bring you a single orgasm or twenty, whatever you want of him, all you have to do is sweetly ask, to say his name and say please Gyomei, need another one, you feel so good and I want to come for you again all the while you grind against his tongue.

(If you really want to get him going, do all that and grab his free hand, slipping a finger or two into your mouth and sucking yourself, making sure it’s wet and sloppy and full of drool. He’ll pause for a mere second, before swallowing hard and immediately diving into your cunt, motivated because oh god, you never use your mouth on him – his own instigated rule, simply because he’s terrified he’ll choke you and kill you should he lose control and thrust down your throat. But this? Oh, perhaps he does have a penchant for your mouth, too, the oral fixation extending both ways and leaving him dizzy and light headed because even your fucking mouth is perfect, all warm and wet and smooth, making his cock leak so much precum that he idly wonders if he’s undergoing a single long, drawn-out orgasm because of the sheer volume.)

And Gyomei will be eager for the entire time he’s between your legs, keen to take you in any position – you laying down, from the back, you sitting on his face, anything that feels right – in any setting. He just loves the way you taste – how it’s so earthy, heavy against his tongue, natural in a way that makes him desperate for more, finding himself craving the taste at the most inopportune of times.

 (Thank god for the looseness of the uniform pants – you can notice the tent in them, of course, with just how often he’s sporting an erection in your presence, but this way his fellow slayers won’t notice – which is good, because as your sexual relationship progresses, it’s a near daily basis that a passing thought of your taste hits him, literally making him salivate and having to leave the room briefly.)

He just really, really likes using his mouth on you, and he won’t hesitate to offer himself up at even the slightest change of you wanting it. Even the slightest chance.

Praise

He’s not terribly vocal in bed, but when he speaks he makes it count.

His natural sounds during sex are much more controlled – he’s always letting out these long, shaky exhales, his lips parted slightly and his eyebrows drawing tight because fuck you feel good. He’ll groan your name and often hiss lightly through his teeth, soft little ah-ah sounds falling from his lips when you’re sucking on him just right and riding him with the rhythm and angle he likes best.

And yet, he was very, very quiet at the beginning of your sexual relationship – only breathing heavily and giving you a slurred, rushed I’m coming right before so much cum is stuffed up into your cunt that you’re literally leaking around his still-hard cock inside of you. He was quiet mostly because he didn’t want to turn you off by letting out some of the more intense noises, groans that start low but turn into this higher, whinier sound, or chants and mantras of your name like a prayer when he’s gently rolling his hips into you, every muscle in his body clenching in an effort to restrain himself and not absolutely pound into you like he so desperately wants to.

He didn’t want to scare you or make you uncomfortable, but as he grows more familiar with your body and your sexual preferences, Gyomei finds that complimenting you seems to fall naturally off his tongue.

He already thinks of you as perfection in human form, idolizing you to such a degree that he knows it’s unhealthy but he can’t find it in himself to stop. He’s never seen your face, of course, but he’s sure that  you’re beautiful, fingers having groped and traced out every feature of your face, every slope and curve of your body (even the inside of your body, too, of course) more times than he can count.

And before he knows it, all sorts of praises are filling the wet, thick air between you as he fucks into you – his voice is still low and timbered, the vibrations making shivers shoot up your spine and your nipples harden up, his strained praise of you take me so well, love only serving to get you going faster, grinding and scooping your hips more aggressively and feeling the way he sucks in a sharp breath and tenses up underneath you.

A lot of his praises focus largely on your performance during sex – always complimenting you for the way you feel, telling you that you feel like heaven and that you’re perfect and that you’re everything I’ve been dreaming of quietly under his breath the first time he carefully, almost fearfully cups your tits in his hands, squeezing gently and waiting pointedly for your response, forcing himself to not cave and squeeze as hard as he can.

He’s complimenting parts of your body, too – telling you that your skin is so soft, that your lips taste so good, that your ass is so warm and perfect to grip onto while you’re riding him. Of course, not in such vulgar terms – he only gets crude when he’s right on the brink of orgasming, some of his more lewd, risque thoughts coming to life because fuck fuck fuck it’s like you’re milking him for everything he’s worth, cunt sucking him in so tightly that he thinks he might die and oh god oh god oh god –

Even then, it’s still nothing terrible, but he’ll switch out some of the sweeter terms for cruder ones, calling it a cunt rather than your warmth or something equally virginal, really.

(Which makes sense, considering that it’s extremely obvious the first time that you touch him that he is in fact a virgin, his startled little gasps at every touch even against his torso leaving some sort of power trip rushing straight to your head because while he’s this hulking, huge, powerful man, you have him crumbling with a simple brush of your index finger, every muscle in his body flexing so hard it nearly hurts when you lick at his tip for the first time.)

Instead of asking you with a rather polite please go faster, angel when he needs you to bounce on him at a quicker pace, he’s throwing his head back a bit, Adam’s apple bobbing as he clutches onto you, losing his composure and telling you that you feel so – so good, oh keep going, don’t stop, you’re making me so close to coming – please tell me I can finish inside of you…

Which brings up another major aspect of his praise kink – Gyomei always seems to be asking for permission, even borderline begging at times. It doesn’t read as begging often, though, simply because he's still the one in control most of the time, even if you’re on top or dictating the pace. But he’ll always slip in a please, or bite his lip and wait for you to give him permission, managing to stave off his orgasm long enough to hear you moan out a yes, please come inside me, and suddenly he’s calling you beautiful and clutching onto you as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear, cum spraying into you and leaving you squirming because you can feel just how hot it is and just how much there is.

During his orgasms he’s particularly vocal, not to an exaggerated degree but always babbling in that deep, groaning voice that gets high at the very end about how you’re perfect, how you take him so well, how you’re made for him, how he loves you he loves you he loves you he loves you –

He genuinely finds you to be perfect, and every sexual encounter with him will leave you uncomfortably aware that he feels this way. He’s always complimenting you, and due to his lack of vision, the compliments are often extremely specific and leave you more puzzled than flattered.

He’s telling you that you’re the perfect size for him (this is often size closer to his orgasm, when he’s marveling and unable to fathom just how fucking tight you are around him), that you smell like how he’s always imagined (followed with a loud, audible sniff that’s trailed off with a moan, his voice higher than normal), that you’re so soft and squishy (this is always punctuated by particularly hard thrusts if he’s fucking you, and he’ll bury his face against the warm skin of your neck, hands groping at any fatty, squishy part of your body in a frenzy that’s rather uncharacteristic of him).

He just finds that while he’s normally able to stay composed and can be judicious about just how much he reveals he knows about you when he’s not touching you, the moment your skin comes into contact with his, a bit of his judgements flies out the door, instead focusing on the way you feel, how he’s been dreaming about this moment for months, guiltily wringing his cock dry at the mere prospect of getting to touch your used clothing, of getting to hear you breathing in his ear while he thumbs at his tip and lightly squeezes his balls.

You’re just so, so damn good – and in those moments where his admiration and obsession with become dangerously on display, you’ll feel equal parts disturbed and flattered, because really isn’t it just so damn pathetic that you’re able to turn such a large, important, strong man into a groaning mess that’s holding onto you for dear life with just a grind of your hips and a few well-timed, sultry phrases in his ear? Pathetic, sure, but also erotic, sexy in a way that scares even you for feeling it.

But Gyomei can’t seem to care, unable to stop himself form laying on the praise thick, not even conscious that he’s doing it – you just affect him that much.

Orgasm Control

But specifically, Gyomei wants you to control his orgasms.

Most of the time, Gyomei assumes a more dominant role in bed. He doesn’t really adhere to the dominant and submissive roles per say, but it’s rather because he holds so much power over you outside of the bedroom that it naturally follows between the sheets. You’re his captive, after all, and while you’ve slowly come around to him, perhaps even returning his feelings in some sort of deranged way, Gyomei is still undeniably the one in charge in your relationship.

So while he’s not shoving your face into the mattress and mounting you like some sort of animal staking his claim on you (though if you begged him hard enough, he might consider maybe doing something along the lines, but significantly toned down and with a constant question of is this alright, my love asked before each and every motion), between his size and his aura you’ll often find at the start of your sexual relationship that you’re following his lead, doing what he wants to do.

And this bothers Gyomei – he doesn’t like the fact that you still feel a shadow of fear for him, obvious in the way that you look to him for guidance and approval during sex, even though you have at least as much experience as him if not more. It makes him uncomfortable and reminds him of the reality of your situation, something he wants to escape from when he’s being intimate with you.

He wants to think of you as wanting to be naked in his arms and kissing him rather than you having talked yourself into it simply because he’s the only human being you regularly have contact with now. And to remedy this, Gyomei does his best to let you dictate the timing of his orgasms. He has impeccable self-restraint and control, and while it’s not necessarily easy, he’s pretty adept at holding off his orgasms.

(It’s a lot easier to come on command, of course, simply because all he needs to do is focus on the feel of you under his palms and around his tongue or cock, listening to your heartbeat and the sound of your voice and he’s already halfway there, only needing a single, final push to get him groaning and letting go.)

And while he doesn’t explicitly say it at the start, you’ll notice pretty quickly that he only lets himself go when you beg him to, only warning you with a clipped I’m close to coming as a prompt for you to tell him to either hold it in or release.

You’ll soon figure it out, and Gyomei absolutely loves the power structure that forms when you finally understand what he’s trying to do. There’s something thrilling about letting go of his control and handing it totally over to you. No longer does he have to be the strongest, wisest, or most senior – no, now he can just be Gyomei, just be your lover, the man unequivocally whipped and subject to your beck and call.

It’s freeing, almost, and he looks forward to seeing what mood you’ll be in each time your clothing gets peeled off. He’s not sure which mood he likes most – there’s something arousing about the way that you tease him, denying him his orgasm over and over and over, leaving him pent up but still attentive to your words, following your instructions and holding himself back, even when you’re doing things you know drive him crazy.

(Like bouncing on him just right, the feeling of your ass clapping against his thighs making his mouth feel dry. Or when he’s hovering over you, fucking into you slowly and deeply, and you go and wrap a leg around him, drawing him closer, begging him to finish inside but stopping him just moments before his release, telling him nuh-uh, not yet, you only get to come inside me when you’ve earned it. Or one of the rare times you’ve convinced him to let you take him in your mouth, teasing him with tracing his tip over your lips and collarbone, alternating between suckling at his tip and pushing your breasts together to rub up and down his length, narrating to him the whole time exactly what you’re doing. They all make his face go slightly red, his fists clenching up and the muscles in his arms bulging, veins standing out and leaving you to drool slightly, entranced that this behemoth of a man is listening to your words like gospel, forcing himself to be good and do exactly as you say. Even if you’re not an especially dominant person, there’s still something that’ll get you going about that, some sort of power trip that leaves you feeling light headed in the best possible way.)

The edging only serves to make his orgasm stronger, to make everything feel more intense, his eventual orgasm ending up being way more powerful, arcs of cum shooting from his swollen, red tip with such intensity that it feels almost painful against your skin.

(And he’ll finish wherever you tell him to, too – his preference is always inside of you simply because it feels the most intimate and it satisfies some small possessive side of him, but Gyomei will do whatever you want – you want him to finish on your chest? He’s painting your tits in white, droplets dripping from your nipples and drying in thick smears against your skin. Grab his hand and let his fingers feel over the mess he's made and he’ll lowly gasp, a smaller, less impressive spurt landing freshly on your chest, the feeling of his cum on you enough to get the last, sad little bit out. He’ll finish on your back, your ass, your stomach, your thighs, anything you want – just say the word and he’ll do it, eager to please you and make you enjoy your time with him, even if it means leaving his seed somewhere other than where it really belongs – inside you.)

But of course, Gyomei also loves the other side of you dictating his orgasms – that is, similarly to his ability to hold himself off, his refractory period is short. If you were to take advantage of that, you'll see him at the closest to pussydrunk you’ll ever get – make him come in quick succession, your hand steady and quick as you jerk him off, and you’ll see how the first orgasm is the familiar heavy load, the second is slightly reduced, the third even more so, and by the fifth orgasm he’s shooting blanks, abs clenching and unclenching so quickly that you almost feel bad for him, but the sounds he’s letting out are filthy. His normally low and masculine voice rises with each one, until he’s letting out something that isn’t quite a whimper but isn’t not one, either.

He loves the way you bleed him dry, your voice soothing and alluring even as you push him to the edge of his comfort zone, tears pooling in his eyes as you tell him to keep going Gyomei, I know you can give me another one, please give me another one paired with a wet, needy kiss to his lips.

You unlock all sorts of kinks and sides to him that he wasn’t aware even existed, and he’ll let you play with him as much as you please, eagerly setting down onto your shared bed, spreading his legs and helping guide you to your place in his lap, already rock hard below you.

He’s too big and powerful to be called pathetic, but he sure toes the line when you’re touching him, when you’re driving him absolutely insane.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Size Kink

Though, only in very specific circumstances. By and large, Gyomei is painfully aware of just how extreme the size difference between the two of you is – and regardless of your height or weight, you are smaller than him. Small enough to make him worry constantly about accidentally hurting you, terrified that he’ll somehow crush you or bruise you or simply be too much for you. It’s his number one concern when doing anything sexual with you, worrying that even a single finger slipping into your cunt will make you squirm with more than just pleasure.

But by the same token, there’s something so inexplicably right about just how much bigger he is than you. It’s shameful, he thinks, and it makes him feel like some sort of freak for being attracted to the size difference, but it makes him feel stronger, more masculine, feeling like a true protector and provider for you because he can encompass your whole body simply by hovering over you.

And he’s reminded of it at every turn – his hand against your waist covers half the area, the skin soft and plush and warm underneath him, but he can feel the curve of your hip, the expanse of his hand just that much on your body. He can feel the way your fingers struggle to fully grab around his cock, fingertips barely touching even as you squeeze him tightly, and while it seems to frustrate you, Gyomei can only headily swallow, cock twitching in your hands because god, there’s no way that will fit inside of you, will it?

And yet as he swallows, oh so slowly eases you down as you straddle him, going slow and giving you ample breaks to adjust to his size, there’s something about the way he can feel you tremble, your cunt stretching to accommodate him that makes him fist at the sheets, struggling to maintain his composure.

(The warmth and wetness of your walls certainly don’t help his predicament, absolutely soaked and sensitive from the some three orgasms he’d already pulled from you in preparation.)

He’s cautious and terrified that he’ll hurt you, of course, and his concern for you weighs out over any sort of sexual pleasure he gets from the size difference, but it’s still present at the back of his mind, toying with him and begging him to just shove himself inside of you, to take a quick, harsh pace like his body is dying to, to use you as some sort of living cocksleeve for him to fuck into and fill up. He won’t ever do that, of course, but it’s one of the main motivations behind his deep, far-reaching thrusts, enjoying the way you gasp and claw at him when he’s nudged up right against your cervix, pressing and filling you to the point of you almost feeling that you’re being split in half.

He preps you well enough that you’re always able to just barely take him, too worried that he’ll hurt you otherwise, but he still can’t deny the allure of just how different your bodies are.

(And this extends beyond the bedroom, too – he loves the way you fit against his side when you cuddle against him, or how he has to lean down for you to press kisses against his face - something he absolutely adores and very does not mind leaning over for.)

It’s just sweet in his opinion, and while it gets blood rushing south more easily than he’d care to imagine, it ultimately only serves as another reminder that he needs to keep you safe and protected, that you’re too weak to survive in the real world without his aid.

(And, of course, some selfish part of him is satisfied with the knowledge that now that you’ve had him, you’d never be satisfied with another man’s cock, never able to feel the level of stretch and fullness that he can give you. Not that he’d allow you the opportunity to try with another man – he’s not terribly possessive, but the thought of someone else touching you, fucking you, is enough to get his nostrils flaring, rage simmering through him because he absolutely does not want anyone else getting even remotely close to you in that capacity.)

Thigh Riding

Gyomei lives to please you in bed. Every sexual encounter with him sees your pleasure as the absolute priority – he’ll have pulled some three orgasms from you before he even thinks about reaching one himself, before he even really pays attention to the fact that he’s so hard he’s soaked the front of his pants through.

And he’s not picky about how to get you there – namely, Gyomei doesn’t mind being quite literally used for your pleasure, his every limb and feature available for your use. He’ll let you do whatever you want to him; bending him into all sorts of positions, giving him directions for how to finger your pretty cunt, laying down and letting you grind and hump at his face like he’s a mere pillow.

He loves to be of service to you, and he finds that the best sex is where he’s nothing more than a toy for you, at least at the beginning – hence, Gyomei grows to absolutely love having you ride his thigh. He’s huge, a hulking man with muscles so thick and defined that you’ll quite literally be drooling the first time you see them, sucking in a sharp breath when you touch him for the first time.

(And he’ll feel a mixture of pride and bashfulness grow inside him when he hears your little gasp – he’s overjoyed that you seem to like what you’re seeing and feeling, some small, anxious part of him having been terrified that you’d be repulsed by his size and the scars littering his body, that you’d find him to be too muscular, too intimidating. And you can tell, too, because the way that he visibly becomes harder afterward the gasp is a clear indication that you’re doing something to him, your mere presence and breathing getting him hard as a rock.)

He likes the physicality of the act – he keeps you steady on his thigh, the muscle large enough for you to straddle, and the feeling of your hands gripping onto his chest for support makes him oddly giddy.

 The first time it happens, Gyomei honestly isn’t sure what you’re trying to do - when you straddle his thigh rather than his waist, his lips part slightly, confusion evident across his features. But as your hips start moving, your exposed, wet cunt sliding against the toned, broad expanse of his thigh again and again, he’s suddenly grasping onto our hips, helping guide you up and down the length of his thigh, occasionally tensing his muscles in order to hear you gasp and cry out his name.

He wants to do everything he can to service you, to help you reach that wonderful high, and the only thing that’s rolling through his mind at that moment is how perfect you feel, the way his name slips from your lips as your body shakes in pleasure, how he can feel the pulses and clenches of your cunt even as you pick up the pace.

And when he snakes a hand down to thumb against your clit, he nearly comes from the sound that escapes you - it’s so wanton, so lewd and dirty but so fucking hot, and suddenly all he can think of is the repeated phrase of make her come, make her come, a mixture of desperation and determination leaving him frantically rubbing at your clit.

Gyomei will offer his thigh to you whenever you feel like riding it, and once you’ve finished, your body exhausted and laying down next to him, he’ll sneakily rub along the area where your slick has rubbed off onto his thigh, bringing his fingers up for a taste and groaning as your flavor coats his tongue, free hand reaching down to palm at himself, squeezing at his balls and shuddering. Gyomei can and will do anything to make you feel good in the bedroom, and he’ll never turn down the opportunity to see you fall apart on his thighs. 

(And if he’s feeling particularly needy or knows he’s leaving for a long mission away from you, he won’t bother to wash off his legs afterwards – he'll let your slick dry against his skin, wearing it like a sort of badge of honor, feeling connected to you as he slaughters demons even while you’re miles and miles away from him. It’s dirty, sinful, even, but it’s enough to keep him satisfied, to let him bear to be away from you while he does his duty. And yes, he’s running his fingers along the area occasionally and sniffing, his knees getting ever so slightly weak because the smell has the taste of you flooding his mouth, the sound of your moans ringing in his ears, even phantom touches of yours erupting all over his body.)

BIGGEST FANTASY:

As a general rule, Gyomei prioritizes your pleasure in the bedroom. He’s not a particularly sexual man, and so he views intimacy as being all about making sure that you enjoy it to the fullest extent possible – in many ways, he sees himself as merely a tool for you to use to reach your high.

(And if he happens to orgasm – which he always does when it’s you touching him – then great, but it’s not a necessity.)

And this is largely true – he really does want you to enjoy fucking him, and he’ll go to extremes just to make sure everything is as perfect as possible.

But Gyomei is only human, and as such he harbors a few fantasies that are entirely selfish, entirely about him – one of which develops by complete accident. He’s so terrified to hurt you that he’s constantly looking for ways to satisfy you without using his cock, because although he loves the feeling of your lips, fingers, or cunt wrapped around him (to the point that just thinking about it makes his composure falter ever so slightly, his jaw going a bit slack and his Adam’s apple bobbing harshly), he’s always concerned that it’ll be too big and you could hurt yourself if he fucks you with it.

And so, during the rare times he’d get off before he begins any semblance of a sexual relationship with you, Gyomei’s exploring alternative options.

And while it isn’t necessarily a way to help you get off, per se, he’d been idly gripping himself while thinking one evening, biting his lip and feeling awfully shameful of his actions but unable to bring himself to stop. He’d reached down further, sucking in a sharp breath as he carefully and delicately cupped his balls, idly squeezing and rolling them between his fingers.

But he must’ve been too deeply in thought, distracted by the idea of you, that his hand continued down, reaching and pressing against his skin, until a sudden, odd sensation made him pause, eyes going wide. He’s never even considered anything involving either your ass or his own, but at the single press of his fingers against his hole, the strange, fluttery feeling in his chest makes him feel a bit light-headed.

It’s dirty, taboo, and he hadn’t explored the thought any further that night simply because he was too embarrassed to have found it pleasurable, but it sticks around in the peripheral of his mind. There’s this ever-present question of what if, a sort of far-off fantasy that he toys with every once in a while, when he’s particularly needy and missing the feeling of your skin on his or your attention on him.

And the idea of you taking your time, worshipping his body and guiding him through a new, pleasurable experience makes more than just his cock swell, because there’s something so loving and calming about it, and letting himself be vulnerable in that way is something he hasn’t done for years – something he can’t afford to do, no matter how wonderful it sounds.

Of course he’d never, ever bring up the idea to you for two reasons – it bothers him a bit that you wouldn’t be getting any direct pleasure or stimulation out of it, and he’s too embarrassed to admit that he wants you to touch his ass, afraid that you’ll find him disgusting or flatly reject the idea. He'll keep quiet about it, and if you were to bring it up, you’ll see the way he subtly perks up, body tensing as he swallows, telling you that you don’t have to, I understand that you may not wish to.

But if you’re insistent, and you see the way it affects him, Gyomei will be putty in your hands – you can do anything to his ass, and he’ll take it so well, the only sign that you’re affecting him being the small, barely-there moans leaving his lips, a slight flush across his cheeks, and the copious, copious amounts of precum oozing from his swollen tip.

So really, play around – he’ll never request it, but it’ll only make his feelings for you grow stronger, his desperation and dependence on you growing because only you can make him feel this way.

“Gyomei, I want to try something new tonight.” You start, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. He’s got you straddled in his lap, large hands resting on your hips and his back leaning against the near wall. At your words, he nods, encouraging you to continue.

“Anything you wish, angel.” His voice is low, deep, excited in a way that you can ever so slightly pick up on.

You take a deep breath, leaning up to whisper into his ear as you brace yourself on his chest. “Gyomei, I want to touch you. All of you.”

His hands lightly squeeze at your sides. “You have all of me, you know this. I am all yours, and you can do whatever you please with me.”

You laugh slightly and it makes Gyomei shiver, his grip tightening just enough to make you uncomfortable, but you don’t say anything. “No, I want to touch you where I haven’t before – somewhere new.”

You reach back and grab one of his hands, guiding it to press against your clothed ass, his index fingers landing on the indent between your cheeks.

Gyomei gulps. He’s silent for a moment, mind racing, but the semi-hardness underneath you throbs at your words, and you only smile as he shakily exhales, murmuring an “Are you sure?”

Carefully taking his earlobe between your teeth, you grind down onto him, your thumb finding his nipple over the fabric of his top. Humming, you let go of his skin with a kiss, telling him, “Yes, please… lay on your front for me, please Gyomei.”

Which leads to where you are now, with your big, strong captor laying on his front, arms kept tucked at his sides. This angle makes his muscles stand out, his sculpted back and the definition of his thighs nearly making you drool. And of course, the tan skin of his ass, muscular enough to make you grab handfuls of each cheek and spread them apart to get a good look at him. Coarse black hairs dabble over his skin, and Gyomei finds himself oddly self-conscious as he feels you staring. He’s laying with his head to the side, his breathing still a little quick, and he waits with baited breath for you to do something, to say something, anything.

What he isn’t prepared for, though, is to feel your soft lips press against the sensitive skin of his cheeks, making him jerk ever so slightly and stiffen up under your touch. Your thumb rubs soothing circles against his skin as you kiss a trail down from his tailbone to his thigh, the hardness of his muscles never ceasing as you continue.

“Gyomei,” you whisper against his skin, “relax for me, please. I want to take care of you.”

He hesitates, but forces himself to be less tense, only slightly shifting under the weight of your lips. You smile at that, planting another kiss. “So good f’me.”

That gets something small and uncharacteristically high sounding from low in his throat, but you don’t comment on it.

Your thumb comes down to press softly against his puckered hole, and Gyomei sharply inhales at the sensation, immediately clenching and shaking slightly at the feeling of you increasing the pressure, just idly rubbing circles over it.

The way you retract your hand without warning almost makes Gyomei grunt, confusion and disappointement contorting his face, but then your thumb is returning, something warm and sticky coating your thumn, and suddenly you’re pushing in, further and further until you break past the tight ring of muscle, Gyomei’s breath goes ragged because it feels strange –

It feels good, though, and as you settle in to your first knuckle, his toes curl slightly, the sensation odd but not unpleasant.

“How does it feel, Gyo?” You ask, pressing more kisses along his back and squeezing at his ass. He can’t quite answer, too overwhelmed by the feeling of your thumb inside him. Smiling, you lightly nibble at the skin of his lower back. “Know what I’m using for lube?”

He shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to get used to the feeling.

Pressing your thumb just a hair further, you smile at the way he jolts, thigh muscles tensing hard enough to see visible definition. “It’s me, seeing you like this is making me wet enough that I’m using my own slick to prep you…”

That gets Gyomei groaning, the sound muffled by the pillow underneath him, but audible nonetheless. His cock’s painfully hard, pressed up against his stomach, and he can feel the wet pool of precum already staining his skin and the fabric of the sheets below him.

Humming, you press another inch or so in, curling your finger slightly and listening the way his breathing changes, trying to identify what he likes most.

“So pretty, Gyomei,” you start, and his eyes snap open when he hears the familiar sound of your fingers sinking into yourself, the small sigh you make only making him clench around your thumb and his cock throb underneath him.

Your thumb’s all the way in now, and as you slowly, shallowly begin thrusting it, you time it with your own pumps inside. “I’m fucking myself at the same pace as you, that way it’s like we’re together.”

Your voice makes him melt, and as you angle your thumb just right, a gasp tunnels its way through him, ripping him apart and making his hips jerk forward, humping at the sheets below him.

You smile. “There, huh?”

And immediately you’re abusing the spot, pressing tightly against it and rubbing it in a hithering motion, Gyomei’s hips twitching wildly at the feeling. He’s chanting your name under his breath as the pleasure begins mounting, eyes shut again and eyebrows drawn tight.

He’s embarrassed, truly, because even something as small as your thumb has him falling apart like this, desperation lacing his movements because this is building up to be a different feeling from his normal orgasms, something entirely different that makes his whole body tense up and stutter, a muffled groan sound, “It-It’s coming – “

And suddenly cum is caked along his front, your eyes watching transfixed as the visible portion of his balls clench and spasm wildly, his ass flexing and the tightness nearly forcing your thumb out. Instead, you keep pressing against his prostate, watching the way he clutches onto the fabric below him, grip so strong that the fabric rips under him, his strength uncontrollable as his orgasm rocks him.

It’s easily a twenty second affair, cum pouring out of him and visibly seeping into the fabric surrounding him, making you lick your lips because oh, isn’t this precious? Your big, sweet, strong Gyomei falling apart with your thumb up his ass, something like whimpers falling from his lips because you’re still rubbing inside him, reaching deeper with every curl and leaving his back to tense up, shoulder blades visible as he fights off the acute feeling overstimulation.

You only press a kiss to the back of his head, pausing your movements for a single moment as you murmur his name in his ear, telling him with a near purr, “You’ll give me another one, right? I know you can do it, my pretty boy.”