#obsessed behavior

"Mhn~You taste so fucking good Y/N" He said swirling his tongue around your clit softly sucking it into his mouth his tongue piercing slightly cold on your pink bud. Causing you to moan out releasing your sweet nectar into his mouth and he drinks it all up loving the way it slides down his throat feeling his neck get warm with excitement

should've posted this video on danandphilgames the way his name won't leave your fucking mouth

(𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚔𝚊 𝚡 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛)

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: This story contains themes of trauma, grief, loss, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, stalking, and the psychological effects of genocide and family annihilation. It explores dark emotional territory including depression, anxiety, and the lasting impact of violence on mental health. Reader discretion is advised.

The rain had been falling for three days straight, turning the streets of Yorknew City into slick mirrors that reflected neon signs and hurried footsteps. You pulled your coat tighter around your body, feeling the fabric strain slightly across your chest and hips. The chubby curves you carried had always made you self-conscious in crowds, but tonight the weight of your own thoughts pressed heavier than any physical discomfort.

You had met Kurapika through a mutual contact who needed help translating ancient texts. What began as a professional exchange quickly became something more personal. He was precise, quiet, and carried himself with the kind of controlled intensity that made people step aside without realizing why. His blond hair caught the streetlights like pale fire, and his scarlet eyes usually hidden behind contacts—sometimes flashed when emotion slipped past his iron discipline.

Tonight you were meeting him at a small café tucked between two abandoned buildings. The place smelled of old books and strong coffee. Kurapika was already there, seated in the corner booth with perfect posture, a single cup of tea cooling in front of him. His gaze lifted the moment you entered, tracking every step you took toward the table. There was something in that look that went beyond simple recognition.

"You came," he said, voice low and measured. "I was concerned the weather might keep you away."

You slid into the seat across from him, your thighs pressing against the edge of the booth. "I said I would."

Kurapika nodded once, but his eyes lingered on the way your coat hugged your fuller figure. He had noticed the way fabric stretched over soft flesh, the gentle sway of your hips when you walked. It was not crude appreciation. It was cataloging. Memorizing. The same way he memorized every detail of the Phantom Troupe members he hunted.

"You look tired," he observed. "Have you been sleeping?"

The question carried more weight than casual concern. Kurapika had begun asking about your routines weeks ago—when you ate, where you went after dark, who you spoke with. At first you thought it was simple care. Now you sensed something sharper beneath the surface.

"I’ve been working late," you admitted. "The archives needed reorganizing."

His fingers tightened around the teacup. "You should not be alone in that building after midnight. The neighborhood is unsafe."

You smiled faintly. "I can handle myself."

Kurapika’s scarlet eyes flicked up, the contacts doing little to hide the sudden intensity. "Can you?" The words were soft, but they carried an edge. "The world is full of people who take what they want without asking. I have seen it happen to entire families."

The reference to his clan hung between you like smoke. You knew the story—how the Kurta clan had been slaughtered, their eyes stolen, their children left to rot. Kurapika had survived, but survival had carved something ruthless into his bones. He spoke of revenge with the calm certainty of someone who had already decided the ending. That same certainty now seemed to extend toward you.

He leaned forward slightly. "I have resources. People who can watch the building. It would ease my mind."

"Watch?" You frowned. "Kurapika, that sounds like surveillance."

"Protection," he corrected. His voice remained even, but his knuckles had gone white around the cup. "After what happened to my people, I refuse to lose anything else. Not again."

The café felt smaller suddenly. You shifted in your seat, the soft flesh of your thighs rubbing together. Kurapika’s gaze followed the movement before returning to your face.He realized that he had started noticing every detail about your body—the way your stomach pressed gently against tabletops, the softness of your arms when you crossed them, the way your breasts rose and fell with each breath. These observations were filed away with the same precision he used for enemy profiles.

"I appreciate the concern," you said carefully, "but I don’t need bodyguards."

Kurapika’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment the mask slipped and something raw flickered across his features—fear, possessiveness, the desperate need to control what little remained in his shattered world. Then the mask returned.

"Very well," he said. "But if anything happens, you will call me first. No one else."

The demand was quiet but absolute. You nodded, unsure whether you were agreeing or simply avoiding conflict.

Over the next weeks the pattern deepened. Kurapika began appearing at unexpected times outside your apartment building at dawn, at the library where you researched, even at the small market where you bought groceries. He never explained how he knew your schedule. When you asked, he simply replied that he worried. The answer always felt incomplete.

One evening you returned home to find a small package on your doorstep. Inside was a new coat—thick, warm, and exactly your size. The note inside read: For the rain. Do not catch cold. No signature, but you recognized the precise handwriting.

You called him that night. "Kurapika, this is too much."

"It is practical," he answered. "Your old coat was thin. You deserve better."

"How did you know my size?"

Silence stretched across the line. Then, softly: "I pay attention."

The answer should have comforted you. Instead it sent a chill down your spine. Kurapika’s attention was total. He noticed when you skipped meals, when your shoulders slumped from exhaustion, when strangers lingered too long near you on the subway. He noticed the way your body moved soft, full, warm and the knowledge seemed to settle something restless inside him.

One afternoon he invited you to his temporary residence, a modest apartment above an old bookstore. The rooms were sparse, almost monastic, except for the wall covered in maps and photographs of known Phantom Troupe members. Red strings connected faces to locations. The sight made your stomach tighten.

Kurapika noticed your reaction. "Does it disturb you?"

"It’s a lot," you admitted, sinking into the only armchair.

He watched the way your body settled, the way your thighs spread just enough to accommodate your shape. Something possessive stirred behind his calm expression. You were here, in his space, marked by the shape you left on his furniture. It felt like claiming.

"I need to know where they are at all times," he said. "If I lose track, they could disappear again. I will not allow that."

The words carried a double meaning. You wondered if the same rule now applied to you.

He poured tea with precise movements. "You have been avoiding the east district lately. Why?"

You blinked. "How did you—"

"I noticed your usual route changed. The east district has higher crime rates. I am glad you adjusted."

The admission hung heavy. Kurapika was tracking your movements, cataloging your habits, adjusting his own schedule to intersect with yours. The obsession was quiet but relentless, born from the same wound that drove his hunt for revenge.

"Kurapika," you said gently, "I’m not in danger. You don’t have to protect me like this."

His scarlet eyes met yours. The contacts were gone tonight, revealing the true color that marked him as the last of his kind. "My family thought they were safe too. They believed isolation would protect them. They were wrong. I will not repeat their mistake."

The pain in his voice was old but sharp. You reached across the table and touched his hand. His fingers closed around yours immediately, grip firm, almost desperate.

"I’m still here," you said. "I’m not going anywhere."

Kurapika’s thumb traced slow circles over your knuckles. "Promise me."

The demand was soft but unyielding. You nodded. "I promise."

Satisfaction flickered across his face, quickly hidden. He released your hand but remained close, his presence filling the small room like smoke.

Days blurred into weeks. Kurapika’s protectiveness grew more intricate. He began sending messages at odd hours—Did you eat? Are your windows locked? Who walked you home? When you mentioned a coworker who had been friendly, the messages became more frequent. The coworker received a quiet visit from an associate of Kurapika’s. The friendliness stopped.

You confronted him about it. "You can’t interfere in my life like that."

Kurapika stood very still, hands clasped behind his back. "I did what was necessary. He was becoming too familiar."

"He was just being nice."

"Nice is how it begins," Kurapika said. "Then they take. Then they destroy. I have seen it. I will not see it again."

His voice cracked on the last word. The mask slipped completely, revealing the terrified boy who had lost everything. You stepped closer, your fuller body brushing against his lean frame. The contrast was stark soft against hard, warm against cold.

"I’m not your family," you whispered. "I’m not going to be taken from you."

Kurapika’s hands rose to your arms, fingers pressing into the soft flesh above your elbows. He held you there, not painfully, but with unmistakable possession. "You do not understand. Every person I care for becomes a target. If I am not vigilant, if I do not control every variable, they will be gone. You will be gone."

Tears stung your eyes. You understood the trauma now the way loss had twisted into obsession. Kurapika needed to own the safety of those he loved because the world had proven it could steal everything.

"I’m not leaving," you repeated. "But you have to trust me too."

He exhaled slowly, forehead resting against yours. "Trust is difficult."

"I know."

You stayed late that night. Kurapika cooked simple food and watched you eat with quiet satisfaction, noting the way your body filled the chair, the way your cheeks flushed from the warmth of the meal. Every detail was recorded, cherished, protected.

When you finally left, he walked you home. At your door he hesitated. "May I come inside? Just to check the locks."

You nodded. Inside, Kurapika moved through each room with methodical care, testing windows, checking the back door, even looking under the bed. When he finished he stood in the living room, shoulders tight.

"It is secure," he said. "But I would feel better if you allowed me to stay."

The request was not sexual. It was something deeper like an animal that needed to remain between you and any threat. You agreed.

Kurapika slept on the couch, fully dressed, one hand resting on the chains he always carried. You lay in your bedroom listening to his quiet breathing through the thin wall. The knowledge that he was there, guarding, watching, filled you with complicated feelings—safety mixed with the weight of being someone’s entire world.

Morning came. Kurapika made breakfast, precise portions arranged neatly on the plate. He watched you eat, noting how your soft stomach pressed against the table edge, how your full thighs shifted when you crossed your legs. The observations seemed to calm something frantic inside him

"You are safe here," he said quietly. "With me."

You met his gaze. "I know."

The days that followed settled into a new rhythm. Kurapika became a constant presence sometimes visible, sometimes felt only through messages and small gifts. He bought you books you mentioned wanting, adjusted the heating in your apartment when you complained of cold, even replaced the lock on your door with something stronger. Each action was framed as care, but the underlying message was clear: you belonged to his protection now.

One evening you found him waiting outside your workplace, leaning against a lamppost with his arms crossed. Rain had started again, and his blond hair was damp.

"You didn’t have to come," you said.

"I wanted to," he replied. "The streets are dangerous after dark."

You walked together. Your body moved with its usual soft sway, hips rolling gently, stomach shifting beneath your coat. Kurapika matched your pace exactly, his presence a shield against the night. When a stranger brushed too close on the sidewalk, Kurapika’s hand found the small of your back—possessive, guiding, claiming.

At your building he paused. "May I come up?"

You nodded. Inside, he checked the apartment again, a ritual that had become familiar. When he finished he stood in the kitchen, watching you prepare tea.

"You have become important to me," he said suddenly. "More than I expected."

You turned, the soft curves of your body silhouetted against the warm light. "You’re important to me too."

Kurapika stepped closer. His hand rose to touch your cheek, fingers cool against your skin. "I cannot lose you. The thought is unbearable."

"You won’t," you promised.

He closed his eyes, leaning into the contact. For a moment the hunter, the avenger, the last Kurta, simply existed as a man terrified of being alone again.

The tension between you grew thicker with each passing day. It was not lust—Kurapika’s trauma had carved away any casual desire but something more primal. Every glance, every touch, every protective gesture carried the weight of possession. He needed to know where you were, who you spoke with, what you ate, how you slept. The obsession was born from love twisted by grief, and it wrapped around you like chains made of silk.

One night you woke to find him standing in your bedroom doorway, fully dressed, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

"Kurapika?" you whispered.

"I heard a noise," he said. "I needed to check."

You sat up, blankets pooling around your figure. "I’m fine."

He approached the bed slowly. "May I sit?"

You nodded. The mattress dipped under his weight. His hand found yours in the darkness, grip firm.

"I dream of losing everything again," he admitted. "Every night. The only way the dreams stop is when I know you are safe."

"I am safe," you said. "Because of you."

Kurapika’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He stayed until dawn, sitting vigil while you slept. When morning came he made breakfast again, watching you eat with quiet satisfaction.

The pattern continued. Kurapika’s presence became the center of your days—his messages, his visits, his careful attention to every detail of your life. The obsession never turned violent, but it was absolute. He needed to own your safety the way he needed to own the knowledge of his enemies’ locations. Both were matters of survival.

You began to understand that loving Kurapika meant accepting the weight of his trauma. The possessiveness was not about control for its own sake. It was about preventing the universe from stealing one more thing from a boy who had already lost everything.

One afternoon you found him in your living room, organizing your books by subject. His movements were precise, almost reverent. When he noticed you watching, he paused.

"I thought it would help," he said. "Order reduces anxiety."

You crossed the room, your soft body brushing against his as you passed. Kurapika’s breath caught. He reached out, fingers tracing the curve of your waist through your shirt.

You crossed the room, your soft body brushing against his as you passed. Kurapika’s breath caught. He reached out, fingers tracing the curve of your waist through your shirt.

"You are here," he whispered. "Real. Warm. Alive."

"I’m not going anywhere," you repeated for what felt like the hundredth time.

Kurapika pulled you into a careful embrace. His arms circled your fuller frame, holding you against his chest. The contrast of hard muscle against soft curves seemed to ground him.

"I will protect you," he said into your hair. "Even from myself if necessary."

You held him tighter. "I know."

The days stretched into months. Kurapika’s obsession remained, but it softened around the edges as trust grew. He still tracked your movements, still sent messages at odd hours, still appeared when you least expected him. But the fear in his eyes lessened each time you returned safely to his arms.

You learned to navigate the intensity. You left notes when you changed plans. You called when you were running late. You accepted the gifts and the surveillance with the understanding that they came from a place of profound loss.

One evening, as rain fell once more outside your window, Kurapika sat beside you on the couch. His hand rested on your thigh, fingers spread wide over the soft flesh.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For letting me stay. For not running."

You leaned your head against his shoulder. "You’re worth staying for."

Kurapika’s eyes closed. In the quiet of your apartment, with your warm, full body pressed against his side, the ghosts of his past seemed to recede just a little. The obsession remained, but it was tempered by the knowledge that you chose to remain within his protection.

Dazai, getting ready to meet Akutagawa and ask him for a favor: