#_lee rambles

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.

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.

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?

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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 –

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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

It’s pretty – a pale color and perfectly smooth, feeling almost virginal with how perfectly unmarked it is. And of course, it is virginal – that much will become uncomfortably obvious the first time you touch him, Giyuu letting out a near pained grunt after a mere thirty seconds as his orgasm washes over him, embarrassment settling in his stomach because oh god, you must think he’s pathetic now.

Giyuu’s never been one for masturbation, and so the skin on his cock is genuinely extremely sensitive, having had very, very little experience being touched. Just a brush of your finger against his length makes him sputter a bit, Adam’s apple bobbing harshly as he gulps, embarrassment starting to creep up his spine because god, something so small shouldn’t feel so good, especially when it’s just over his robes, not even skin-to-skin contact. He’s bucking his hips at the smallest touch of your thumb against his tip, something like a whimper escaping him when you kitten lick at his base, peppering kisses up the length until you suckle at his tip and see the way his eyes roll back.

When he gets hard he gets rather embarrassed, always trying his best to be subtle about it and not draw attention to it, but the way he cowers over and tries to cover his groin with anything nearby is not nearly as smooth as he’d hope, his cheeks flushed ever so slightly pink over the bridge of his nose.

(And of course, the staring – eyes drilling holes into your body, trying desperately to not ogle at your clothed breasts or the sway of your hips, though he can’t resists a few glances that you’ll almost certainly notice.)

His balls are ever so slightly smaller than expected, not enough to be noticeable at first glance, but they easily fit together in your palm, the area sensitive enough to make him tear up a bit, biting his lip and trying to worm out of your grasp. But don’t be fooled – he likes it, something vaguely sounding like a whine slipping from his lips when you retract your hand, and if he’s especially needy for your attention and touch, he’ll even physically grab your hand and put it back, sucking in a breath and forcing his body to relax.

He's generally very quiet when he’s orgasming, the only visual cue being the way his face twists up into something entirely unexpected from the stoic, emotionless Hashira – he’s gasping, eyes fluttering closed and his eyebrows screwing together.

His body shakes, his abs visibly clenching and unclenching, his thighs flexing and his hips bucking in small, almost imperceptible thrusts, as if his body’s unsure of whether he wants to run away from the pleasure or get closer, impossibly close to have more and more of you. His cum doesn’t taste too bad – a neutral, musky flavor, though luckily without too much saltiness or bitterness.

This is great news for you, because while Giyuu won’t admit it, the feeling of your mouth on his cock has his whole body going slack, his vision becoming a bit splotchy because the sensation of something so warm and wet moving against him has every rational thought leaving his brain.

He’s normally not very adventurous or expressive in bed, trying hard to not turn you off and struggling to become relaxed enough to actually enjoy it, but something about the sight of you on your knees, looking up at him while his cock appears and disappears past your lips has him losing all control, a small moan of your name falling from him while he lightly thrusts his hips, not caring if he looks pathetic or depraved. Not when you’re mouthing at him, drool spilling from the corner of your lips, tongue prodding at his slit and suckling on his tip, as if you’re trying to coax the cum out of him. His cum is runny, and tends to stain things.

(Something alarming when you realize just how many of your clothing items have very, very similar mystery stains.)

He’s not picky about where he finishes, feeling grateful that you’re touching him at all, really, but if he had to choose, he’d pick inside of you because it just feels more intimate that way. It feels right, primal even, and he’ll often have to take a few minutes between rounds simply because his orgasms crash through him with such intensity that he can’t form a coherent thought for a few moments afterwards.

His favorite way for you to touch him is when you’re straddling him, riding him and pressing your hands against his chest for leverage. He generally likes positions where you’re in control more, finding himself enjoying the passive, observing role while you take the lead.

(It bruises his pride a bit to confess it, but there’s something so, so very arousing about the idea of being a mere object and tool for your pleasure. And when you’re scooping your hips atop him, grinding and bouncing on him like he’s nothing more than a toy to get off with, Giyuu finds his breath gets heavy, his palms sweaty, every clap of your ass against his thighs bringing him closer and closer to his inevitable orgasm.)

He likes the way you can make the pace and angle exactly what you need, the way he can feel every inch of your cunt sucking him in, and of course the visual. The way you look at him with sultry, pleasure-filled eyes, your lips parted in that pretty ‘o’ shape that he sees when he closes his eyes at night. He has a perfect view of his cock appearing and disappearing inside of you, his skin glistening with your slick and a pretty little ring of white sitting against the coarse black hair of his pelvis.

His hands will grip onto your hips tightly, almost too tight, the only way he can anchor himself in the moment, living and tangible proof that you’re really here with him, touching him, wanting him, and he’s gripping onto you as if he’s afraid it’s all still just a fantasy.

But you’ll see the way his eyes are constantly darting to your bouncing chest, unblinking and fascinated as he watches your nipples grow hard, the plap plap noise of your skin smacking against your ribcage making him practically drool.

(His grows even redder if you grab his hands and use them to cup your breasts, telling him in a breathy, slurred voice to touch me, please Giyuu then you’ll be taken aback by the way he immediately squeezes and gropes, kneading and pinching at your nipples with a voracity that makes your hips stutter. And when he leans in to kiss you, his tongue immediately pushing past your lips and tracing your teeth, just know that it’s a matter of time before his orgasm hits. A matter of seconds, really.)

He likes the intimacy, and how he can feel even more connected and close to you, all the while seeing the way his cock makes you feel.

It’s a solid five inches with average girth, a few thick veins decorating the underside of his length. Kyojuro’s average in nearly every way, with the stark exception being his stamina.

His refractory period is nearly non-existant – he seems to be always hard in your presence, always sporting at least a semi any time he catches a whiff of your scent or hears even the echo of your voice. And it’s obvious, too, in his uniform – there’s always a tent of some sort in his pants, and the truly unfortunate thing is that Kyojuro doesn’t seem to care. He’s not making any effort to hide it when it’s just the two of you, even subconsciously moving his haori back and jutting his hips out ever so slightly so that you’ll notice and perhaps even be enticed by what you’re seeing.

He’s not especially meticulous about grooming himself, feeling that sex should be natural and as you are. To shave would be removing a part of his authentic self, and so there’s always a rather thick bush of dark, curly hairs sitting at the base of his cock, brushing against your clit and making you squirm when he’s got you settled on his lap, warming him while he cuddles you and presses kisses against every inch of your skin he can reach.

(This of course also extends to you – he prefers you don’t shave or wax, and once you’re trapped under his roof he simply won’t let you, denying you access to anything sharp enough to cut. And he’ll make his appreciation for your natural body very, very obvious, even going so far as to bury his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply and sighing when he’s knelt between your legs, letting your scent engulf him as he licks his lips and dives into your cunt.)

He’s decently sensitive, always letting out these pleasured little sighs, a boyish grin sitting on his face every time you touch him because oh, isn’t this heaven, feeling your pretty lips and fingers and cunt on him, just as he’s so longed for?

His cum is warm. Like, unnervingly warm – he’s always running a few degrees warmer than you it seems, every cuddle and press of his body against your own feeling startingly hot, and when his cum lands on your skin it’ll feel like fire. Not painful, but right on the edge of it. It’s thick, too, having the consistency of melted ice cream and leaving a sort of residue on your skin that he’ll gladly lick off of you.

(Cuteness aggression tends to affront him after he’s orgasmed, still out of breath and staring down at your disheveled, messy state underneath him, his cum staining your skin and sweat lining your brow.)

His stamina is off the charts, capable of fucking you for hours on end and holding off his orgasm if he concentrates hard enough. However, his refractory period is also quite short, leading to him instead preferring to come multiple times and not edge himself as strongly, thinking that the act of orgasming for you is proof of how deeply he’s attracted to you, how strongly your touch and words and presence affect him.

And he’ll make you very aware of when he’s orgasming, too – he’s loud, groaning your name and all sorts of praises, that same breathless laughter falling from his lips as he buries his face against the crook of your neck, fingertips pressing against your skin so hard that bruises form the next morning.

(Which he’s inconsolable about, really, the next morning fussing over you and promising to never do it again, only to get lost in the pleasure a few nights later and leave you with fresh bruises. He’ll always beg you to scratch down his back as he thrusts into you as repayment, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the pain-tinged pleasure, proudly wearing your scratches as a badge of love. He’ll even brag to Tengen about it, proudly proclaiming that he’s able to pleasure you so well that you simply must mark him as yours.)

His favorite way for you to touch him is when he’s fucking you in a deep, intimate mating press. He likes the fact that he can get as deep as physically possible in this position, always angling his hips to brush against the front of your walls and against that spongey spot that makes you whine his name, the sound making his head spin and his tongue coming out to lick at his lips.

He loves feeling the way you clench down onto him, the grip you leave on him almost making it hard to pull out and push back in, and idea of you never wanting him to leave you only furthering his thrusts, becoming faster and more bruising.

He’ll have you hold one of your knees against your chest, the other tangled in his hair while he supports himself on his elbow, holding your other leg up while his other hand permanently rests against your clit, drawing circles and tracing the kanji of his name over and over again. The sound of his hips and balls clapping against your ass encourages him to move faster too, and the sight of your breasts bouncing and jiggling underneath him makes his head dip, enveloping a nipple in his mouth and sucking.

(Sucking hard enough to leave you squirming, almost as if he’s expecting something to come out – the mere thought makes him groan, teeth lightly nibbling at your skin and his hips stuttering ever so slightly.)

He just thinks the positions blends the perfect mix of intimacy, eye contact, physical touch, and pleasure, and this is his go-to position that he’ll always default to any time the two of you are naked with one another.

You can request something else, asking him with a sultry hand on his chest to take you from the back or let you ride him, but you’ll always find yourself eventually back up in this position, his sweaty chest brushing against your nipples as he moans and begs for you to tell him you love him.

It’s a girthy six inches, with a near comically large, bulbous tip. It’s the kind of cock that makes you immediately freeze, simultaneously intimidated and immediately salivating, and he knows it. He’s a fan of all things extravagant, and this certainly extends to his cock – there’s a rather obnoxious piercing sitting right underneath his tip, the small metal ball framing an acidy green gem that manages to brush against your g-spot perfectly when he’s got you bent over.

It’s a pretty pink color when he’s flaccid, but when he grows hard it turns to a deep near fuchsia color, never quite making it above the ninety degree mark because it’s simply too heavy. He takes great care in grooming himself, always making sure that he’s impeccably trimmed and clean. He likes to leave the dark pubic hairs in interesting designs and patterns, all sorts of shapes gracing his navel.

(He loves when you trace a fingers along the perimeter of the hair, his skin erupting into goosebumps at the feeling, his cock stirring to life because the tasing sensation is simply too much for him.)

He even takes the time to very carefully trim up his balls, wanting to make sure that everything is pristine and perfect when you touch him – he wants you to be impressed, after all, and he waits with baited breath the first time you see him nude, eyes watching your each and every expression because he wants to see exactly what you’re thinking and feeling.

(This happens every time he’s naked before you, even if it’s the hundredth time – he’ll even ask if you like what you see? Maybe you should taste it, too, to get the full picture.)

His cum is thick and tends to stay where it lands, often not dripping and instead just drying against your skin or lips or shirt or panties, wherever he feels the urge to finish. And he likes to mix it up – his favorite places are of course inside of you, your face, and your ass, but he’s game to try anything you’d like.

He likes to finish inside you when he’s feeling especially worn down or overwhelmed by his job, clutching onto you and groaning in your ear as he pushes himself as deeply as possibly and letting go, filling you with so much that it leaks out of you even with his cock still plugging you up.

He likes to finish on your face, too, because it’s just so dirty and taboo and you look so naughty when you’re looking up at him with your tongue lolled out, a flare of possessiveness and adrenaline making him feverishly fist his cock mere inches from your face, groaning out an uneven take it as he lands spurt after spurt in stripes across your face.

And of course, your ass – he loves to watch the fat bounce back against him as he fucks you, smacking at it and grabbing it in fistfuls, spreading your cheeks apart to get a better view of his cock fucking into you. And seeing it stained with his cum, even a bit dribbling down and settling into the folds and pockets of your cunt makes him whistle, giving himself just a few more strokes to ensure he’s given you every drop he can.

He’s loud when he’s finishing, always narrating what it feels like, groaning your name and even breathlessly laughing, still partially in awe because he’s fantasized about fucking you for so damn long, and you’re even better than he’d been hoping for. He also tends to thrust throughout the entirety of his orgasms, going even harder and faster, losing control for a few seconds because the pleasure is blinding him and driving him to fuck into you harder, faster, deeper, anything to prolong the pleasure your body is giving him.

His favorite way for you to touch his cock is when you’re giving him head while he reciprocates, in a somewhat modified 69 position. However, unlike the traditional, Tengen prefers to be on top of you – he likes the way he can hold onto your thighs, keeping you perfectly spread for him so that you can’t close him out or run when he gets you closer and closer.

Besides, the way he can (very) carefully thrust lightly down your throat from the angle gets his ears ringing, the sense of dominance he feels over you making him drool against your clit. He likes the depth he can get, and although he’s conscious of choking you, the small gagging noises you make when he goes just a hair too deep have precum dribbling against your tongue, his cock pulsing against your lips.

His favorite sexual experiences are when you’re both getting something out of it, and so he’s a big fan of pleasuring you simultaneously. But with this position he gets the most control, able to tease you and nose at your clit all the while letting his own pleasure steadily build.

And when he comes, something about the physical position makes him feel like he’s genuinely coming down your throat, cum settling against your uvula and dripping down your throat. It’s romantic, he thinks, and when your hands come up to grasp onto his thighs Tengen feels shivers roll down his spine because oh, you’re just so fucking cute.

He likes it, and when you pull off to take a small break, stroking at his cock, he likes when you run his tip along the outline of your lips, your cheeks, you jaw and collarbone, even your nipples if you can maneuver it. It makes him groan, licking long, flat stripes against your hole, a thumb working diligently, frantically at your clit because you’re getting him so very close and he needs you to come before he does.

It’s just a guilty pleasure of his, and while he won’t often request it, it’s his go-to when he’s been away from you for long missions, desperate to kiss you and taste you.

(And due to his near non-existent refractory period, it’s the warm up to fucking you good and proper.)

Sanemi’s overall thoroughly average in terms of length and girth, but the thing that sets him apart is how genuinely heavy his cock is. When you’re holding it in your palms, it weighs against your skin, feeling thick and intimidating, throbbing hard enough for you to feel. He’s got no experience before you, and when you first slowly exhale and marvel at his sheer weight, he grows embarrassed, terrified that you don’t like what you’re seeing.

(He won’t explicitly ask you if there’s something wrong with it, but he’s carefully watching your reactions, holding his breath and managing to mutter out a quit staring just to simply end the insecurity swimming in his chest.)

He’s scared that you’re disappointed, cheeks tinging pink and struggling to look you in the eye, but he’s putty in your hands the moment your skin touches his. When he’s got you bent over, hands groping and grabbing at every inch of your body that he can reach, you can feel how heavy he is inside of you, too – it’s impossible to ignore the way he’s bullying into you, stretching you and feeling like he’s practically in your throat with how overwhelming the sensation is.

Matching his length, a pair of sensitive balls sit firmly underneath his base, always a rosy pink color and twitching alongside his length when he’s especially hard. They’re extremely sensitive, however, and while Sanemi will never, ever tell you to stop touching him, you’ll see the way he clenches his fist and squeezes his eyes shut when you play with them just a hair too hard, the strained groan that falls from his lips sounding more pained than he wants it to.

He likes it though – you just have to be gentle, and if you really want to see him melt, gently suck on one and let your tongue loll around it like some sort of musky candy – it makes his cheeks go red, his lip stuck between his teeth and his hips twitching because oh fuck you look so damn good drooling all over him like that.

His cum is hot, and there’s a lot. He’s pent up – he doesn’t masturbate often, instead letting all the rage and irritation fester and channeling it into swinging his sword. And so, each time you touch him, Sanemi has so much to give you that it inevitably ends up leaking out of you.

If you’re on your knees for him, all pretty and staring up at him through doe-eyed lashes with pouty lips, he’s coming down your throat, grasping onto your hair and simply keeping you there, cum spilling out from the sides of your mouth because there’s simply too much and you can’t swallow quickly enough to keep up.

When he’s folding you into a mating press, mouth hot at your ear as he gasps and groans and growls, when he eventually calls out what vaguely sounds like your name in a slurred frenzy along with fuck and yes yes yes, he’s coming so much that it physically forces him out of your cunt, the sheer volume filling you up so well that there’s not even room for him.

And Sanemi absolutely loves to see you covered in it, too – he never suggests the idea because he doesn’t want it to feel disrespectful, but he absolutely loves to finish on your face. There’s something about the way you look underneath him, with your tongue lolling out and your palms pressing against his thighs as if bracing yourself that gets him throwing his head back, his orgasm ripping through him with enough force to leave his knees almost collapsing underneath him.

(And if you were to lick your lips and then reach out to lick him clean of every last drop? Well, please don’t say anything about the way he whimpers, a few sad, pathetic little spurts of cum ooze out, a last ditch attempt to give you absolutely everything he can.)

He’s a dribbler, cum oozing from the tip in a steady stream that never seems to end, and when he’s coming he always blindly reaches out to grab something to ground him. More often than not it’s you that he’s clutching onto, his grip tight enough to leave slight bruises (that he will feel incredibly guilty for the next morning). It’s to ground him, to remind him that you’re real, that you’re with him, that you’re not merely a figment of his imagination or some poor, pathetic stand-in that he can fuck and desperately pretend is you.

His favorite way for you to touch him is when you’re seated on his lap, straddling him with nothing separating you. He loves fucking you, of course, something primal and animalistic in him satisfied with the knowledge that he’s claiming you from the inside out, but there’s something equally pleasurable – if not more so – about the intimacy of simply holding you and feeling your cunt slowly and steadily grind against him.

He wants both of you completely nude, your tits pressing against his chest and your lips attached to his and he slowly guides your hips, a hand clutching at either side as he brings you forward and back, the wetness of your folds coating him in a thick layer of you and letting him slide easier.

It’s heaven to him – the perfect vantage point, though he’s much too embarrassed to admit why. Truthfully, it’s because the position almost feels like you’re holding him – he’ll often just wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you as tightly against him as possible, listening to your heartbeat and trying to match the rhythm of his breathing with yours.

Often, if he’s feeling particularly vulnerable or if he’s just returned from a long, grueling mission, he’ll slip a nipple into his mouth, gently suckling and biting, closing his eyes and focusing on the way that you’re so very warm and soft in his arms.

It’s comfort thing, more than anything else, as if being with you in such a raw, intimate way means that he’s safe, comfortable, loved and wanted. It’s sappy and he’d rather die than admit it, but you’ll notice the way his eyes grow red, tears prickling at the corners because it just feels so damn good to hold you like this.

He’s a bit shorter than average, coming in just slightly under five inches, but Obanai has a pretty significant girth – significant enough to get you gasping the first time he fucks you, the feeling of being so stretched out leaving you gasping for air.

You’ll always be able to tell when he’s close to coming because everything literally throbs – you can feel him pulsing inside of you, the sensation making you squirm because it’s so very arousing but so very weird against your walls. And it’s a constant, too – from the moment he gets hard, it’s constantly pulsing against your palm, his cheeks bright red and embarrassment running through him but he just can’t stop, too turned on by the sight and smell and taste of you, and his body is betraying that.

He’s pale everywhere on his body, delicate skin that’s shockingly soft and so, so very sensitive – one touch against his chest gets him shivering, every nerve in his body feeling on fire because all he can focus on is the fact that you’re willingly touching him and you’re so much softer than he’s imagined.

(And he’s extensively imagined. Frequently.)

His cock is pale, too, with hardly any color differentiation from base to tip. As he gets near his orgasm, the tip turns a pinkish color, the blood rushing in and leaving him dizzy, and his entire navel area turns a pink color too. He’s pale enough that if you try hard enough you can even see a few of the near-surface veins dipping down under the tuft of dark hair on his navel. And it’s a rare occurrence that Obanai shaves – it’s not for lack of trying, but rather that he’s simply worried that he’ll look strange without the hair to cover himself, worried that you won’t like what you’ll see if you can see the entire expanse of him.

(He’s insecure that he’s not perfect enough for you – that his cock is too small or his balls are shaped strangely, and a single compliment about it from you will have him going wide-eyed, swallowed hard and a large, insistent glob of pre-cum oozing from his tip because oh god, do you really mean it?)

His cum is watery and, quite frankly, doesn’t taste great. It’s remarkably bitter – your face screws up the first time it lands on your tongue, the sight making Obanai shrivel up in embarrassment, mortified that you’ll no longer want to touch him.

(He immediately tries to change his diet to almost exclusively foods he thinks will make him taste better, even swallowing his pride and approaching Tengen about it, embarrassment making it difficult to spit out the words.)

He’s a shooter, the arc looking truly pornographic because he tends to throw his head back when he’s coming, eyes squeezed tightly shut and almost a grimace overcoming his features, all while hips jut out and cum practically pours out of him. He prefers finishing on your stomach, simply because there’s something about the sight of you stained white that makes his possessiveness flare up. If it’s a particularly powerful orgasm (as they all are, when you’re the one touching him), he’ll be out of breath, cheeks still flushed pink as he hovers over you, mesmerized and letting his thumb dip into the cum, smearing it across your skin.

He likes it best when the two of you finish at the same time – simultaneous orgasms, if only because Obanai knows that as you get closer you tend to reach out and grab for whatever is nearest to you, and he’ll purposefully maneuver himself so that you’re clutching onto him, the sight of you moaning for him and shaking hurtling him towards his own orgasm.

(He’ll often scoop up a bit of his own cum and your slick, mixing them together with his fingers, swallowing heavily and letting his finger brush against his tongue, eyes rolling to the back of his head because the taste of you together is making his cock throb again, slowly rising up to ninety degrees, desperate to give you more more more.)

His favorite way for you to touch him is a slow, intimate handjob. He’s typically a little bit harsh when he’s touching himself, his tugs leaving his arm sore, his fingers clutched so tightly around his shaft that it’s nearly suffocating. And yet, when it’s your fingers wrapped around him, Obanai finds that there’s something indescribably sensual and passionate about the soft, slow strokes you give him. The softness of your fingers combined with the way you carefully, almost hesistantly grip him leaves his head spinning, the pleasure somehow feeling much more acute despite the lessened stimulation.

He likes the way your thumb comes up often to brush over slit, collected the precum and letting it guide your hand up and down, up and down, his toes curling and his fists clenching because you’re being such a damn tease, making his hips buck up over and over.

And there’s something about the eye contact that gets him panting – the attention leaves him squirming as you let your eyes rest on him, the intensity making every brush of your fingers against his sensitive skin amplify a thousand times.

He wants you to talk to him, to let your voice get all low, to call him all sorts of possessive petnames that only fluster him more, a pointed thrust against your fist with each name. My pretty boy is his favorite, even as embarrassing as it is, and if you lean in and kiss along his collarbone and jaw, complimenting him about his looks, his ability to care for you, how he makes you feel he’s immediately gasping, abs clenching wildly and his balls visibly clenching as he paints your hand white with cum, the liquidy consistency making it run down your knuckles like rivers, dripping down onto your thighs and making Obanai suck in a breath because fuck fuck fuck you’re still going and it’s so sensitive, too sensitive but he doesn’t want you to ever ever stop-

He wants to feel cared for, wanted, loved, and even something as simply as you jerking him off with a few well-timed flutter of your lashes and purred words leave him putty in your hands.

It’s big and Gyomei knows it. Easily a solid seven inches and thick enough to leave your fingers barely touching when you wrap them around his girth, even when he’s not fully hard. The skin is slightly tanner than the rest of him, with his tip flushing into an even darker shade matching the two low, heavy balls that sit snugly underneath his shaft, hefty enough to feel substantial in your palms as you cup and squeeze at them.

Tufts of dark hair decorate his navel, the curls thick and almost coarse, tickling your nose as you take him down your throat and tickling your clit as you oh so slowly inch your way down on his lap. Even the sight of him flaccid makes you suck in a sharp breath, nerves starting to eat away at you because there’s absolutely no fucking way it’s fitting inside of you. It just looks too heavy and big and full, veins protruding along the sides in enough detail that you can practically see them pulsing.  

And really, your fears aren’t unwarranted – Gyomei can feel the movement with every step he takes, the sensation of his cock brushing against his undergarments and his balls pressed against his thigh always leaving him slightly uncomfortable, always consciously aware of the feeling. (He’s extremely grateful for the loose nature of the Demon Slayer Corps uniform pants – otherwise, the bulge would be unbearably visible, even when he’s completely soft.)

All things considered, it takes Gyomei a long time to orgasm. He’s not terribly sensitive (not for a lack of experience – he has none, he’s just genuinely not the type to immediately buck his hips and gasp at the slightest bit of stimulation), but finds that steady, consistent pleasure is the golden ticket to finding his high.

Specifically, pleasure that involves a lot of lubricant: spit, slick, hell, even blood when you’re on your period and needing something to help relieve the pressure. He likes how smooth it all is – the slick schluck schluck sound of him rolling his hips into yours makes his knees weak, the wet feeling of your cunt clenching down on him enough to get him groaning lowly and grasping onto your hips hard enough to almost leave bruises. He’ll refuse to fuck you until you’re absolutely dripping, wet to the point of insanity because he’s been fingering you for what feels like hours and you can’t handle the teasing anymore.

It’s only then, after he’s brought you to your high some three times with his tongue and the pads of his index fingers that he’ll finally, finally press inside, moving slowly and chanting what sounds like prayers intermixed with your name under his breath, almost as if you’re some god he’s thanking over and over for the feeling of you.

It takes him a while to get off, but there’ll be a few signs that he’s getting close – his thrusts turn from deep, slow, almost tentative, to quicker and more clipped, the actions somehow feeling needier and more desperate because he’s holding you in place and his breath is stuttered as he gasps and exhales, pleasure hitting him like a tidal wave and sending his eyes rolling back.

He produces an almost obscene amount of cum with every orgasm, ropes spilling out in long, rather impressive spurts. It’s thick, almost viscous, leaving a residue against your skin that he’ll oftentimes idly rub at when he’s pulled you against his chest, cock still nestled inside you as tears flow down his cheeks from the intensity of it all. It’s bitter, almost earthy, and while Gyomei doesn’t expect you to swallow, you’ll be earned with the smallest, quietest little whimper once he hears you audibly gulping.

His favorite way for you to touch his cock is when you’re simply riding him. There’s something about the way you grip him in this position that makes his toes curl, his voice getting a hair deeper because it just feels too good. He likes the way you control the pace – sex feels better to him when you feel good, and having you dictate the speed, angle, and depth gives Gyomei an insight into exactly what you like.

(And he’s committing every detail to memory – the sounds you’re making, the way your nails bite into his chest as you steady yourself, the way your ass bounces against his thighs over and over, the tensing of your legs as his tip brushes against that spot that makes you gasp and moan his name…)

He likes the way he can feel more of you in this position, too – the curve of your ass pressing against his balls, the slight pressure pinching and giving him just the slightest bit of pain that makes blood rush south, cock throbbing inside of you because god he wants you to go even harder.

He can feel your stomach pressed against his navel when you lean forward in this position, your muscles growing tired and starting to give out, the softness of your skin against the overly sensitive area right above his shaft making him grasp onto your hips and thrust upwards, meeting you halfway and mumbling out your name as you whine.

You peek at him, now, out of the corner of your eye. You’re not sure what brought this on – he’d just been out to get a coffee from the campus café, promising to be back in a few minutes. That’d been thirty minutes ago.

Working on the project together hadn’t been your choice, but when he turned to you in class and nudged you, quirking his brows and promising to work real hard, you’d merely shrugged, genuinely ambivalent. You didn’t know anyone else in the class, only taking it as an elective, and it was supposed to be pretty easy.

“See, you’re doing it right now.” He snorts a bit, and now you fully turn to look at him.

“Thirty minutes? The café’s next door.” You’re a little irritated, sure, but not terribly so. Working on the project wasn’t exactly your idea of fun, either.

He winces, eyebrows drawing together, but offers you an apologetic smile. “Yeah, yeah, sorry about that.”

He sits down next to you, the otherwise empty classroom making the squeaking chair echo. The smell of coffee fills the room as he sets down his own cup, steam billowing from the sipping slit. You’re about to open your mouth to ask him if he’s finally ready to get started, but when he places a to-go cup down in front of you, too, your mouth snaps closed.

“Just guessed what you’d want, sorry. For whatever it’s worth, your drink’s the one that took so long to make.”

You glance at him, finding his gaze already stuck on you, but you just smile a bit. “Okay, forgiven.”

He laughs, clapping his hands together in a praying motion. “Thank god.”

Your laptop’s open in front of you, and for a few minutes the only sound filling the room is the clicking of keys and occasional sipping. Much to your surprise, he’d managed to select a drink you didn’t mind. Taking a small sip, you sighed at the flavor. It was cold in the classroom and the warmth was welcomed.

“So, what are you thinking for colors? I like my PowerPoints to be pretty, but if you want it to be more simple then that’s okay.” You look over at him as you finish, watching the way he bites his lip.

“Mm, maybe black and white? Y’know, just real simple. Simple’s always good.” He winks at you, and you slowly nod.

“Okay, uh, sure.”

Truth be told, you didn’t know much about your seatmate – he’d ran into class five minutes late the first day, quickly rushing into the closest open seat which happened to be next to you. You’d been a little irritated at first at how his stuff sprawled out and invaded your space, but he seemed nice and was decently participatory in class, making you grow a bit fond of him. Besides, the professor always looked so thankful when he was the only one to raise his hand – and for that, you could let his more questionable behavior slide.

“You’re doing it again, you know.” He starts, a finger coming out to poke at the side of your arm.

Jumping, you whirl on him. “What?”

“Doing your angry-but-not-really face.”

“I’m not mad, I promise.”

“Sure, sure. Then hopefully you won’t be mad if I do… this.” He starts, before reaching out to flick your pencil over the side of the table.

You’re frozen for a second, before staring at him blankly. “What the fuck?”

He grins. “I just wanna see if that look gets worse when you’re for real irritated, y’know?”

You sigh, reaching down to pick it up off the floor. Fixing him a look, you cross your arms. “Better? Because I am definitely irritated now.”

He appraises you, leaning a few inches closer. “Mhm, just as I thought! Your lips get thinner, and your eyebrows get all tight.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn to face your laptop again. You only get a few words typed before he’s snickering under his breath, voice low as he mutters, “Most guys think that’s pretty unattractive, just so you know.”

Immediately you stop typing. Maybe partnering with him wasn’t such a good idea after all.

“What’s your problem?” You ask, and he looks at you again, hands poised over his own keyboard.

“What? Sorry if I hit a sensitive spot – girls are so weird about stuff like that. You’re pretty, don’t worry.”

You stay staring at him, and he only snickers. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s the look I’m talking about. Kind of kicked-puppy, like you’re real sorry for yourself.”

Standing up from your chair, you set your hands on your hips and face him. “Okay, listen you ass, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’m not dealing with this shit.”

You start to gather your stuff, but your partner only laughs a bit, before reaching out and flicking your pencil once more, this time a little bit further. With a huff, you smack at his arm and set your things down with a loud thud onto the wood, moving to the side of the desk and bending down to pick it up.

He’s quicker than you’d expected, given the frumpy sweatshirt and sweatpants he wears that hide the muscular physique underneath.

Hands encircle your wrists before you can think, body rotated harshly, back hitting the linoleum floor with enough force to knock the wind out of you. He’s above you, strong thighs caging your legs together underneath him. Your wrists are held up above your head, his single hand large enough to keep them pinned there. It isn’t until now that you realize just how tall he is, or how strong.

“What the fuck – “ You start, struggling and wiggling in his grasp. With growing panic, you realize you’re not able to make much progress, his muscles feeling like stone against you. A hand quickly comes down to slap over your mouth, muffling any yells or screams.

He’s staring at you, expression blank, something heavy simmering behind his eyes. Slowly though, the corner of his mouth tilts up, and it spreads, something resembling a grin stretching across his mouth – though his eyes don’t change.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a filthy mouth?” He asks, voice a bit quieter now, more of a whisper and deeper somehow – deep enough to make you freeze, momentarily stopping your struggle. His eyes are sharp, scary, too much – he’s too close to you, leaning closer and closer and making you press yourself harder and harder against the dirty classroom floor.

He laughs again. “But that’s okay, I like that about you. It’s like you’re wild, like you’re untamed. Real.” His eyes flash. “Raw. Ha, I just know girls love to hear that word.”

Your eyes go wide, the insinuation making your struggling pick back up again. You’re thrashing, but he only squeezes at your jaw, tutting at you.

“Nuh-uh, none of that, okay? And don’t worry,” he throws you a smile that makes your eyes feel wet, your nose tingling, “I’m not gonna do that. At least, not here. Y’know, I’ve got a little bit of decency, I know girls like mattresses, pillows, and shit like that.”

He licks his lips. “Anyways, back to that mouth of yours…”

Quickly, and without any warning, the hand over your mouth shifts up and down, two long, curling fingers plunging past your lips and laying heavily against your tongue.

Your face twists up, eyebrows knotting together in disgust because his fingers taste like salt. He grins again, and to your horror, his fingers start moving. Rubbing against your tongue, pressing down and down, the pads of his fingers feeling like sandpaper against you.

“You always get a look when you’re angry, sure, but did you know you get this look when you’re really happy, too? It’s like you’ve seen something Earth-shattering, like it’s something almost holy.” The fingers move and angle under, rubbing against the soft underside of your tongue, down and pressing against the space underneath your tongue. He shudders. “They say this part feels like pussy. That true?”

You can’t move, can’t even breath as he shoves his fingers down deeper, moving to run over all of your teeth, a whistle slipping past his lips. “But you’re real pretty when you’re smiling, you know. Makes me wanna stare at you. When you answer a question right and professor tells you ‘exactly!’, you get this big grin and it’s damn cute. Always staring at those lips of yours – they get thinner when you’re smiling, y’know? Stretched taut, always makes me think what all they can do. Just how much they can stretch, if you get what I’m saying.”

You do, but you wish you didn’t, and he must know that because his fingers move to dip into the lower corners of your mouth, slipping between your back molars and your inner cheeks, prodding and poking at the juncture between gum and cheek. “Pretty, pretty, pretty. Even like this – you’re puckered, which I guess isn’t the same thing, but I like it.”

He hums, taking his time as his fingers dip and poke at every inch of your mouth, running over every bump and curve of your teeth, pinching your tongue between his finger pads, thumb rubbing circles against the underside of your chin.

“Do you like this?” He murmurs, those eyes locked on the motion of his fingers inside your mouth, the imprint visible against your cheeks. He licks his lips again. “I’ve heard some girls like shit in their mouth. Obviously I think my cock’d be better, but this works too. Works for me, that’s for sure.”

He laughs at that, shifting his hips forward, and you whimper when you feel what you can only assume is his erection against your thigh. His nostrils flare at the sound. “Fuck babe, that’s good. Do that again.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately to pretend you’re somewhere else, but his grip on your wrist gets tighter, tight enough to hurt and oh ow ow ow –

You gasp around his fingers, the sound choking, and he whines lowly in his throat. “God, you’re fucking pretty. Your smile’s good, but you look good like this too, just so you know. All scared, shivering and squirming around… Ha, see? This is kind of like that angry face I was talking about. All terrified and self-patronizing, feeling back for yourself.”

He cocks his head to the side, fingers pushing in even further in a fluid motion, reaching to touch the back of your throat, making you gag. He bites his lip. “Kind of pisses me off that you’re so afraid of me, but I get it. I can forgive you. Besides…”

He leans down, nose nudging at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. Something warm and wet lolls out to run in languid strokes along your skin, the tee-shirt you’re wearing doing little to deter him. In fact, he takes the hem between his teeth, sucking at the fabric and letting his hair brush against your jawline. You shut your eyes again.

“I know what will make that face even better, how you’ll get even more angry.”

You stop, dread filling every muscle in your body.

He laughs against your skin, nibbling lightly and smiling at the way you jolt away. “Remember how I said I like your smile? How I think it’s just so damn pretty?”

You’re too frozen to move – not like you could, anyway. The linoleum feels especially cold against you.

He grins, pulling back to look at you. He presses a kiss against his hand, right over your lips. “Well, when we met up today and you looked at me like that, smiling at me – at me, I mean, what was I supposed to do?”

His cock’s pressing against your thigh again, humping lightly as it grows harder, bigger, more insistent. “I know you’re not stupid. Coffees don’t take thirty minutes to get. So you know what I did with the other twenty minutes, then, right? C’mon, you’re smart, think about it.”

He’s staring at you again, mirth swimming in his eyes. “Let’s just say my refractory period is damn short.”

Immediately there’s bile climbing up your throat because the salty taste of his fingers – his right hand, no less – is all too strong now, the smell of his pinky pressed up against your nose musky and heady and god, you’re going to be sick. 

He’s quick to press harder against your mouth, though, tutting against at you. “Oh, don’t worry, I washed my hands after the first round. But then your drink was done, and I couldn’t keep you waiting, right? After all I know how you get when you’re mad.”

He sighs, leaning down to press his forehead against yours again. “Now, about that mouth.”

He grins, eyes sparkling as he ruts against your thigh and asks, “On your knees or on your back? I’ll let you choose, babe.”

It’s the desperation that they can't control. It's the physical urge to move, to feel something underneath them, their body physically unable to stop itself from fucking something. It's the way their hips snap and buck and jolt all without them meaning it, their body betraying them on the most primal level because their subconscious is recognizing that they need something warm and soft and oh so pretty to sink into, to rut against until he's smearing pearls of white against soft, supple skin. It's the uncontrollable need to hump themselves against you, really.

Fucking their fist and mechanically bringing their wrist up and down again and again until cum oozes from the tip is fine and dandy, but they need more. They need the full immersion of the fantasy of fucking you, their brain needing the mental images and the physical motions of thrusting, pretending with every fiber of their being that its your warm, wet cunt sucking them in, the velvety feel of your walls leaving phantom touches against his skin.

(Some of them even go so far as to scratch at their own back, eyes rolling to the back of their head imagining that it’s you leaving your mark on him, that it’s your nails digging into his skin and digging into him, making him yours yours yours. They'll pinch at their own nipples, press fingertips hard against their biceps, even wrap a hand around his neck hard enough to leave the area red and irritated just to simulate the way that you'd touch him.)

Pillows, cushions, blankets, anything soft that could be a poor stand-in for your body is fine. Anything that he can clutch onto, that he can press his hips against tightly enough to be suffocating, something that can mold to the shape of him just as you would - all just to really feel like he’s got every single inch stuffed inside of you, giving everything he possibly can to you.

Even hard things will do in a pinch - perhaps the cover of a book you love and cherish, the texture of the binding leaving a slightly painful sting behind that blends into the pleasure and makes his eyes roll back. (Will you still smell the pages and sigh at that old-book smell, or will you perhaps notice the new presence of something slightly musky, slightly heavy, unexplainably male?) Your hairbrush - rutting against the handle he knows you’ve fucked your self with, alternating between rutting against it and bringing it up to his mouth to suck on, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to taste any traces of you.

The only rule is that it has to be something of yours, or something that connects to you in some way. Your pillow, a few wayward strands of your hair sitting against the plush, feeling like heaven and making him blush when he sees the way his sticky cum has left the hairs smeared again his skin, tacky and stuck to him. (The sight makes him suck in his breath, gulping harshly as he comes down from his high, a thumb coming out to carefully, nervously brush at the hair, unable to stop himself from feeling like the sight is somehow so very right.)

It’s better when things are stained - your underwear with discharge discoloration bleaching the fabric, your favorite skirt that you accidentally stained during your period, even a particular pair of socks that you once got dirt on. It’s been used and loved by you, and now he’ll use and love it, too, even leaving his very own stain behind.

There’s just something about it that makes everything feel better, more complete, more real. Of course nothing will ever compare to actually fucking you, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

And of course, the pinnacle, when he really gets desperate, is when he whips out one of the many, many photographs he's taken of you. (Or, photos he'd printed out from your social media accounts because he's too shy to actually photograph you - and this is less creepy, right? Right?) He's touching it with delicate fingers, barely pinching onto the corners, laying the image down on his bed and positioning himself to be right over it. He'll take his time to trace the outline of your face with the tip, sighing and biting his lip, before the urge takes over and soon he's groaning, hips rutting against the smooth surface of the photograph - your face, really.

(The cool feeling and the twinge of pain he gets when he angles wrong and catches the edge of the photograph only makes him grit his teeth, eyes squeezing shut harder because he has to do this - he has to keep fucking, to keep pushing himself because he needs to come for you, you deserve and he wants to give it to you so badly and oh oh oh - The photograph of you smiling is almost prettier with globs of his cum staining your pearly teeth and the apples of your cheeks.)

It's just so depraved, but they can't help it - they just want you so badly that they can't help it.

(In particular I'm thinking of the chronic humpers - Kageyama, who gets so, so whiny, his voice going high and pitchy and his face turning a bright pink color as his abs clench and flex, each drag of his hips making his arms shake even more, sweat beading at his temple leaving his dark hair matted to his forehead.

Or Sugawara, who tends to lay onto his back, humping at the pillow from underneath, pressing the cotton so hard against his pelvis that his biceps are taut, back arching and Adam's Apple bobbing as he chants yes yes yes under his breath, one hand even coming up to blindly grope and squeeze at the air where he imagines your bouncing tits to be.

Or Giyuu, who's thrusts start out slow, hesitant, embarrassed, as if he can't believe he's been reduced to his, worried to sully your good name. But then his hips get faster and he's burying his face into the crook of his elbow, whispering out a stuttered, broken p-please accompanied by your name as he cum seeps into the pillow material.

Or Tomura, who has all the fancy sex toys in the world that he's found on the deepest, most questionable parts of the internet, but finds that nothing is a good stand in aside from your pillow. He starts off animalistic, mounting the pillow and smacking at it, imagining the way your pretty ass would bounce back and ripple at the motion. But then his orgasm draws closer and the thrusts get deeper, more meaningful, like he's trying to reach as deeply inside of you as possible, and his grip is almost unbearably tight as his orgasm washes over him, hips quivering and twitching as he imagines the way you'd clutch onto him and thank him.

Or Feitan, who's biting into the pillow as he cock drags against it, teeth bared and practically snarling into the (stained) cotton, dark eyes squeezed shut as he tries so very hard to not whine your name.

Or even, on very, very specific occasions, Chrollo, whose sense of dignity flies out the window when you deny his romantic advances once again. You're just playing so very hard to get, and while he's invested into the game for the long run, he's still just a man - and the image of you spread out underneath him, wearing lacy, angelic lingerie and spreading those creamy, supple thighs of yours is enough to drive him mad.

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.

Catching his attention is a difficult, nebulous thing, but once you’ve managed to snag it, you’ll never shake it off. Very early on he’s attached to your hip, following you around and always, always blabbering on and on about this and that, asking you all sorts of questions that leave you simultaneously disgusted and exasperated.

(Questions like hey, if you had to eat another human, where would you start? Questions like when you menstruate, can you feel it coming out of you? Describe it to me – and show it to me too, okay? I can smell that you’re currently in that phase, what do you mean you won’t take your pants off right now? Why does it matter that we’re in a grocery store? Maybe they'd like to watch too.)

He’s irritating and strange, and you’ll know that there’s something seriously wrong with him without ever even needing to see him using his cursed energy.

And as he grows more attached and invests more time and curiosity in you, a rather disturbing situation begins unfolding – you absolutely did not invite Mahito to live with you, but he doesn’t seem to understand that you don’t want him in your apartment every moment of the day.

When you wake up in the mornings, he’s standing over your bed, face so close to yours that he can feel your breaths against his cold lips, his own stretching wider than humanly possible to morph into a grin that immediately has you awake and alert.

He’ll follow you around your modest apartment as you get ready for work, those mismatched eyes of his glued to your figure watching as you get dressed, your movements hurried and uncomfortable because why the fuck is he looking at you like that?

And he’s not quiet about it either – he’s commenting the whole time, talking about how he’s read that the discharge stains visible on your underwear are a sign that you have good vaginal health.

He’s telling you that you really should tighten up the straps on your bra – all the Playboy magazines and borderline pornos he’s seen in theaters always have the women wearing very perky bras, and shouldn’t you be insecure about that like most human women?

(He’s quick to point out that yours aren’t perky, but rather some other description, something much less flattering and much more damaging.)

He’ll watch as you brush your teeth, tilting his head like some sort of animal as those mismatched eyes take in your every movement, a smile slowly forming on his lips that makes something heavy and sick sit in the base of your stomach.

Immediately after you’re done, practically before you’ve finished spitting out the toothpaste, he’s immediately snatching the brush and settling it against his own tongue, twirling around the bristles against his teeth and tongue as he hums. He’s narrating the taste to you, telling you that it’s minty but also a bit sweet and earthy, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucks at the bristles and giggles. He’ll follow you around with that damn toothbrush in his mouth, staying glued to your heel like some oversized, murderous puppy.

He’s touching your breakfast as you cook it, a finger reaching in to burst the yolk of your fried egg, a thumb and pointer finger reaching into the toaster to squish and pinch at a section of your toast so that it’s cracked and crumbly and has the imprint of his fingerprints against it.

He’s slipping in through the bottom crack of the door as you use the toilet, peeking up at you and smiling too widely, asking you if it feels good when you urinate? I’ve heard that some women think it feels good to hold it in. Next time you have to go, get me first. I want to see how long you can hold it for.

And as time passes, it only becomes worse – he gets more invasive, more pushy, wanting to insert himself into every possible aspect of your life because you’re just so fascinating and the way you respond to him is just so delicious. He’s still forcing you to share intimate supplies like toothbrushes and underwear.

(Though he never returns the underwear clean after stealing them for a few days. There’s always a multitude of mysterious stains in colors you don’t understand – you can handle the very obvious cum stains, albeit begrudgingly and with bile rising up your throat, but what the hell had he been doing that resulted in bright orange stains?)

He’s still asking you all sorts of questions about extremely personal topics, blinking at you with all the innocent curiosity in the world, making you feel like the crazy one for being uncomfortable when asked how many fingers you’ve ever managed to stuff inside yourself and oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask – have you ever tried fisting? I bet I could put a finger inside you and then just expand it bigger and bigger until it’s the size of my fist or maybe even more. That sounds fun! Let’s do that. Right now.

He’ll be standing next to you as you brush your hair or brush over it, watching intently and prying the brush out of your hands, pulling at the caught strands and plopping them into his mouth, swishing the hairs around before audibly swallowing them, licking his lips and running off to the shower to find any stray hairs against the tiled walls.

(He won’t verbally explain this particular habit to you, but it stems from a strange, possessive desire to have a piece of you inside of him, the concept of having your DNA within his body making him strangely giddy. He refuses to touch or alter your soul simply because he doesn’t want to change anything about you, and this feels the closest he can get in place of it. The closest he can get to you.)

He’ll open up your makeup bag and drawer, digging with grubby fingers and opening each and every product, smearing a bit across his wrist and returning it back uncapped, occasionally grabbing sticks of lipstick and letting his tongue run across the pigmented product, teeth sinking down as he takes a bite, face twisting up a bit because yuck, it tastes like chemicals!

He’ll grab your makeup brushes and run them along the areas of his body that he’s read are the main production points of pheromones, some raunchy article he’d read claiming that women are highly affected by them and are subconsciously attracted to them.

(The brush gets rubbed across his underarms and navel, a few silver, curly hairs getting stuck in the brush bristles that he figures only imbues more of his natural scent into the tool.)

And Mahito isn’t at all shy about doing any of these things in front of you – in fact, he actively encourages you to look, telling you that it’s good to be honest with each other, that it’s sweet how interested you are in what he’s doing, even if that interest manifests as you angrily yelling at him and begging him to stop being such a freak.

Really, Mahito consciously learns about human societal standards and perceptions of privacy and actively breaks them when it comes to you. He likes to see how far he can push you, just how much you can take before you start crumbling.

He wants to understand what makes you tick, how you function, what your biggest fears are, the order you eat your food, the way you breath, how you sniffle and hiccup when you're crying.

He's a freak in every sense of the word, and once he's grown any sort of attachment to you, he's like a parasite that you just can't get rid of. He'll feed off of you, growing greedier and greedier, but still somehow managing to find some new way to humiliate you, some new way to get you angry enough to scream and lash out at him but terrified enough to stop yourself.

And oh, seeing that look on your face when you're angry enough you could cry makes him feel so, so very good, all the blood rushing south and making him tell you in that sing-songy, too-chipper voice of his to give me your panties you're wearing right now, but stay here. It's better when you watch.