Ft. the Inarizaki men: Shinsuke Kita, Aran Ojiro, Rintarou Suna, Atsumu Miya, Osamu Miya
tw: excessive talk of dicks/cum, yandere undertones, no protection, allusions to anal but nothing explicit, fem reader, MDNI
He’s just barely over five inches, but he’s got enough girth to get you wincing every time he slips inside you. Overall, his cock is very masculine; hard lines, perfectly straight, with a prominent vein that runs diagonally across his shaft. He likes it when you trace along it, either with your tongue or your finger, always making him quickly suck in a breath. He’s moderately sensitive, but it you want to make Shinsuke crumble then you have to aim for his balls – they’re heavy, constantly full, always ready to emptied, preferably into you. The moment your nimble fingers touch the sensitive skin, Shinsuke’s groaning, his jaw working as he tries to steady his breathing, not wanting to come too quickly from just a few simple touches. He lets out these airy hisses of breath when you squeeze at them, almost sounding like he’s trying to hold back any noise – but you’ll see the dead give away of his pleasure with the way his thighs tense up.
His cum is thick, to the point where it takes a while when it drips down your face, feeling warm and sticky. It’s difficult to clean because it’s so sticky, getting everywhere and staying there, and it tends to glob up. It’s messy, and normally Shinsuke would hate it, but when it’s on you, it’s different. And god, when it’s inside of you, some switch gets flipped in his brain, the way it dribbles out of you making him feral. He likes to gather any leaking out of you and smear it across the inside of your thighs, pressing kisses against the skin and tasting himself on his tongue. If given the preference, he will always come inside you, and he tends to groan your name when he’s finishing. It’s higher than normal, sounding strained, and he’ll always shut his eyes tightly, the pleasure overwhelming him as he releases inside you. He always kisses you as the last few spurts leak from his tip, his tongue desperately toying with yours, his hands gripping onto your sides and thighs to try and ground him. He gets a bit carried away when he comes, the feeling making his head spin, and you can hear it in the way he breathes so heavily, see it in the way his cock twitches inside you, long after he’s given you every drop he can.
His favorite way that you touch him is when you clench around him when he’s fucking you in a mating press. It’s his favorite position; the angle, the view, how close he can get to you. He likes to keep your knees pressed as tightly as possibly, opening you up and leaving your pretty little pussy open for him. His eyes always manage to wander down your body to where he’s thrusting into you, watching the way he sinks into you again and again, disappearing inside you only to pull back out. He gulps when he sees the white ring slowly forming at his base, standing out against his pale skin and only getting bigger with each thrust back inside you. He likes the way the angle makes you feel tighter around him, the sensation making him grasp onto you tighter. He’s able to hit all those spots that get you moaning this way, and with each pounding against your g-spot, you clench down on him even tighter, until he eventually loses it and lets go, burying himself as deeply inside as possible so as much of his cum stays in as it can. He likes the way your cunt flutters around him in this position, massaging him and pushing him through his own orgasm. And when he pulls out, he especially loves the way it makes this graphic, dirty schlucking noise, as if your cunt doesn’t want to let him go, that one last suction on his cock making him want to fuck you all over again.
He’s a solid six inches with moderate girth, a thoroughly filling cock that’ll make every hole feel stuffed no matter how he fucks you. He does his best to stay trimmed and groomed, but he likes to keep things a bit longer because he doesn’t like the way he looks cleanshaven. He’s not especially sensitive, but he finds the way that feels best for him is steady, consistent stimulation – expect rhythmic motions with him, especially when he’s in your mouth and in your cunt. If you really want to get him shivering, though, you can target the spot at the base of his cock, on the underside right above his balls. He won’t moan when you brush your fingers along it, but he’ll stiffen up, Adam’s apple bobbing and his hand grabbing your wrist, motioning you to do it again. He especially likes it when you lick there, rubbing circles with your tongue as he sighs and subconsciously pulls your head even closer.
His cum is kind of watery, and tends to run once it lands. It’s easy to clean up, though, which is a good thing because he’s a bit fan of coming on your body rather than inside you or down your throat. He shoots the first round, but if he comes more than once he dribbles, the volume significantly reduced. He always lets out this breathy moan of your name when he’s coming, sounding almost as if he’s in pain. He throws his head back, eyes fluttering closed, and you can see the way his entire hips twitch alongside his cock, everything bobbing up and down from the jerky motions. He prefers to come on either your stomach or your ass, depending on which is available when he pulls out, but his favorite will always be your pretty cheeks, all round and soft and perfect to touch and grope. He’ll pull out and start vigorously fisting himself, his other hand finding purchase on one asscheek, squeezing harshly and groping, before lining his cock up with your ass and letting go, watching as spurts land over your clenched pussy and asshole, the white getting all over you. It makes him groan at the sight, and he’ll often lightly smack your ass, rubbing your cheeks together and then pulling them apart just to admire the sight again.
His favorite way for you to touch him is when you grind on him. Specifically, he likes when he’s standing behind you, your perfect little ass rubbing against his crotch, slowly getting him hard and pressing insistently against you. He likes the way it feels to have dull stimulation for a long period of time, and if you’re able to keep it up for a while, he’ll eventually be able to come this way. He likes when you’re leaning on something, and often he’ll ambush you against the kitchen counter, starting by humping at you like some dog in heat before letting you take over and grind back against him. Sometimes he’ll bring his hands up under your shirt to cup at your bare breasts, squeezing and pinching your nipples. He likes the way you feel so desperate against him, and how, if you’re wearing nothing and only his boxers are covering him, he can feel your wetness through the fabric, teasing him and making him ache for more. He likes riling you up, and while sex with you feels amazing, sometimes the buildup can be better than the finale.
He’s roughly five and a half inches, definitely enough for you to work with, though he is on the skinnier side. He’s not very veiny, instead just a lovely, smooth cock – pretty and without any blemishes, the kind you see and just want to touch and suckle. A small tuft of brown hair sits atop his shaft, a few hairs spread across the set of balls that a pinker color than the rest of him. The closer he gets to coming, the redder his cock gets, especially near the tip – it swells, too, the blood rush leaving him dizzy and making him fuck you even harder. He produces an above average amount of precum; when he’s kissing you and his hands are all over your body, excitement buzzing in his veins at the prospect of getting you naked and moaning his name, his boxers are already forming wet patches, a big, sticky mess when you eventually get them off. He’s a bit embarrassed by it, worried it makes him look too eager and desperate for you, but if you just compliment him and tell him that you’re excited too, he’ll just stutter out your name and look away, embarrassment mixing with bashfulness.
He’s a shooter but it doesn’t go too far, you have to get a bit close to get it on your body. His cum is always very warm and feels nice on your skin, even as it starts to dry. It’s opaque and unfortunately pretty bitter, but he really likes it when you swallow it. He won’t force you to, but watching the way your pretty throat bobs as you take it all makes his cock twitch, a small, sad spurt of whatever his body can scrounge up leaking out of his oversensitive tip. He’ll just stop and stare when you do this, lips slightly parted and harsh breaths coming out, his eyes a bit wide, the smallest whisper of your name on his lips. He’s also quite partial to finishing on your chest, especially if it’s cold in the room and your nipples are all hard and taut. He likes the way it runs down them, dribbling down to form little droplets, and sometimes he’ll lean in and suck them off, teeth lightly nibbling on the sensitive skin. He just likes seeing his cum on you, and it’s especially erotic to have it in such a dirty place.
He’s got this fantasy of you just absolutely manhandling him – in the bedroom he’s normally a bit more dominant (though very much a soft dom, if only because he really genuinely wants to make you feel good – his eagerness is almost palpable), but he secretly wants you to take control, and this extends towards your treatment of his cock, too. He wants you to suck him off, but to have your way with him; he wants you to grip him with force, your pretty fingers wrapped around his length while you lick at him, smiling up at him as you squeeze, tightly enough to make him hiss through his teeth, your thumb coming up to quickly swipe at his tip, making sure to pass over his slit. He wants you to suck at him, pressing wet, slobbery kisses up the sides but never quite the tip, never quite where he needs you. He wants you to tease him, to make his breath stutter and his muscles flex, but to never quite let him fall over the edge, keeping him right where you want him. He wants you to vigorously take him down your throat, bobbing your head up and down and blindly grope at his balls while he clenches his teeth and shuts his eyes, only to pull away completely, smiling up at him and telling him to hold on, not yet, I’m not through with you yet. He wants you to edge him until the last possible moment, and when you whisper to him that he can finally finish, he’s immediately coming, a grunt that sounds more like a shout falling past his lips. He just likes the idea of you using him for your pleasure, and while he’ll never voice this fantasy, every time he fucks his fist to the thought of you it’s what’s swirling through his mind.
It’s a solid five inches, with perfectly groomed black hairs framing the base. He’s meticulous about upkeep; he spends easily ten minutes out of every shower just trimming up, leaving a very short layer of hair there to make sure everything looks inviting for you, but not too perfect; he doesn’t want you to think he spends as long worrying about it as he does. (He wants you to think it’s effortless, like he’s just that sexy.) A few veins dot the length, none standing out super far, but it’s enough to run your tongue over when he’s in your mouth, which gets his knees weakening and nearly buckling. He’s pretty sensitive overall, but his cock visibly throbs when you pay attention to the tip; he likes when you drag your tongue along his slit or run your tongue around it, especially if you pull off of him with a big, wet pop noise. He just twitches a lot, cock jumping and making his balls jump, too. You can even make him twitch visibly through some of his pants if you whisper into his ear, telling him all the dirty things you want to do to him – and if you cup him over his pants, you can feel the movement, the warmth radiating through the fabric, and, if you’re lucky, even a little patch of wetness.
His cum is runny, leaving a slick residue as it slides along your skin, and an opaque, creamy color. It’s a little bit watery, but he likes the way it looks when it’s on you. It doesn’t taste too bad, but it is a bit salty, though it’s manageable to have in your mouth or to swallow. He dribbles, leaking out of his tip and sliding down his shift while he moans. He needs stimulation throughout his orgasm, and likes when you gently squeeze at his balls, the dull pleasure making his toes curl and prolonging his finish, so that you get every last drop of cum he can give you. He’s a bit whiny when he finishes, his voice higher pitched than normal, and his eyes squeeze shut, eyebrows drawn taut because it feels too good. His abs visibly flutter when he finishes, the muscles contracting and squeezing, while he tilts his chin back and tries to hump at whatever is still touching him. He really likes to finish on your face; seeing you painted in him makes him horny all over again, his cock springing to life mere minutes later because fuck, you look good covered in his cum. He also has a thing for finishes on your pussy, with you spreading the cute little lips so that he can see your clenched hole, his cum looking perfect all smeared across your thighs and folds.
His favorite way for you to touch him is when you ride him. He likes the way you clench him, the feeling different than every other way he fucks you. He likes when you go nice and slow, dragging your walls up and down his length, massaging the sensitive skin and making him grip onto your thighs. The way your ass feels as it claps down onto his balls with every downwards motion makes his head spin, and more often than not his hips will try to chase yours as you move upwards, desperate to keep himself inside you. He likes this position because there’s something about the way you look above him that gets him throbbing inside of you, your pretty tits on full display and easy to grab onto, bouncing in his face when you suddenly pick up the speed near the end. He likes to grab onto them, clutching on tight while you work him up and down, fucking him so impossibly deep that he swears he’s in your stomach, all the while you squeeze down on him harder and harder and harder. Atsumu likes when you alternate between thrusting and grinding, swirling your hips in circular motions and giving him a break when he thinks he’s too close to coming. Something about the motion feels good, and the way your face gets all screwed up in pleasure when you grind his tip against the spongy spot inside you makes precum ooze out of his tip and into you in copious amounts. He just likes when you ride him, kissing him and thumbing his nipples, even reaching behind you to grope at his balls. He comes harder that way, everything slowly dripping out around the both of you and coating his cock as you just keep going.
He’s a little over five inches; a nice, solid cock. It’s the perfect size to fill you up, stretching you out and making you hiss ever so slightly when he pushes into you, but not too much to hurt – he’s truly the perfect fit. He has this strange tendency of kind of man handling it; his calloused fingers will often grip himself at the base, running his tip through your folds or smacking your clit with it, liking the way you’re so soft and warm against him. He’s unfortunately not especially sensitive, so it takes him a while to come, but he actually kind of likes it because it makes him last a lot longer in bed, and he can multitask better. (It makes his thumb sneaking down to circle at your clit while he fucks you with your leg over his shoulder easier, more of his focus going into the movement so he can get tight, controlled figure eights against your sensitive bud and make you tremble.) Ironically, after he’s come he’s much more sensitive – he’s easily overstimulated and has to pull out immediately, otherwise his legs start shaking and his grunts become more like moans.
He’s a shooter, cock twitching with every spurt that splatters against you, contracting in time with his abs. It’s thick; when you rub it between your fingers it’s slimy, and smells like musk and an odd undertone of sweetness. It actually tastes good, or as good as it can get, all thanks to his diet – it makes you want to take him in your mouth, to suck the cum off your fingers, and while it still makes Osamu flush a bit every time you hum in content, he likes it. Especially when you have a drop or two still on your lip, dribbling down your chin, making you look so dirty. He’s a grunter, the sounds deeps and guttural, starting in the bottom of his chest and climbing up and up. Tends to grunt your name as he gets close, the letters blurring together until he’s slurring it out, melding it into one word that eventually just turns into a strangled nghh noise. His hips buck up when he comes, often times unexpectedly, which can sometimes choke you a bit if he’s in your mouth, or get you yelping as he reaches just a bit deeper inside you when he’s stuffed into your little cunt.
His favorite way for you to touch him is when you cockwarm him. He likes mixing sex and domesticity, and he likes having you perched in his lap, cunt all stuffed with him while your arms are around his shoulders, face buried comfortably in his neck. He likes to do paperwork while you warm him, his cheeks a slight red while the pen flies across the page, his free hand parked securely on your ass. He likes the way your walls clamp down on him, all warm and wet and soft, and because he’s not that sensitive, sometimes he’ll even forget he’s inside you until one of you moves, and oh – The shocked little groan he lets out will have you keening and grinding down on him, desperate for him to just fuck you. Osamu likes to see how long he can hold out – how long you can hold out – but most of the time these little sessions end with you bent over his desk, ass bare face pressed into his paperwork while he pounds into you like a man possessed. He even likes to cockwarm in softer, sweeter settings – watching a movie together, with the blanket thrown over you and your cunt sucking him in, his balls sitting tightly against your ass while you laugh at the movie, his eyes on you and his mind fixating on the way your every chuckle makes you clench, so that you’re even tighter, something that makes his fingers dig into your sides. Even these sessions end with fucking – he just has to have you once he’s been inside you for hours already.
Warnings: non/dub-con, masturbation, kidnapping, mentions of somnophilia, mentions of nonconsensual voyeurism, exhibitionism, toys, biting, bondage, overstimulation, mentions of crying, fem reader, Osamu is horny as hell, he briefly considers coming in your food, stalking, MDNI
WC: 10.0K
I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!
HABITS
Osamu has never classified himself as an overly sexual person.
Of course, he’s had his moments; nights of insatiable horniness, his hand or a girlfriend being the only one to bring him the release he’s so desperately craving, his body feeling hot and heavy and frantic to reach orgasm. But even then, his horniness has never been a huge part of his life – more so something he indulges in occasionally. Even with past partners he’s never found himself wanting sex more than once or twice a week, his body simply not needing it.
And for the most part, this has been his life story – however, once you step into the picture, things begin changing. Just as his desire for you in less graphic, more wholesome and pathetic ways multiplies monumentally, the way his body begins desiring you does as well.
It’s not even purposeful; Osamu doesn’t mean to be creepy when he slowly begins noticing the way your body looks in those sweatshirts you always seem to be wearing. He promises he’s not being weird when he sees the way a bit of your tummy is exposed when you stretch, your arms high above your head and your face twisting up into the cutest little pout and fuck, the noise that slips past your lips –
He has to physically pause and breath when this happens, willing himself to not get carried away by thoughts of how you’d sound in bed with him, your pretty moans and cries like music to his ears as he touches and squeezes at you, his thumb rubbing firm circles against your clit and his cock plunging in and out of you so steadily it’s almost filthy. Osamu doesn’t mean to be a pervert when he imagines the way you’d look in your underwear, your cute bras and panties framing your body oh so well, making you look delicious and perfectly soft and supple for him to grab and caress.
He’s shocked by the way you make his body so easily respond; perhaps it’s because he’s been so long without a previous girlfriend (maybe a year or so), or perhaps it’s just because his every waking thought revolves around you. And really, isn’t it only natural for his thoughts to drift off into a more risqué domain? Isn’t it only natural for a young, vital man at the prime of his sexual health to imagine a sweet thing like you underneath him, writhing and grasping at his pillows, begging and pleading for him to give you more, please ‘Samu, more more wanna come so badly please!
He thinks so, and while the influx of sexual thoughts about you makes him nervous at first (too often is he scared he’ll grow hard at the mere sight of you, making it glaringly obvious exactly what’s on his mind), eventually Osamu is giving in and letting it happen.
Because really, what can he do to stop it?
The seeds of his desire for you are already planted, and it’s not like he can stop the roots that slowly take hold in his every thought. It’s alarmingly easy to accept the way his body just needs you now. It’s scarily easy to let himself fuck his fist every night, gasps and wanton groans tumbling from his lips along with slurs of your name, praises and begs for you to clench harder, to go faster, to moan out his name and tell him you want him, that you want his spit and cum and love. It’s just too easy for him to deny, and what’s the harm, really?
Sure, when he’s fucking his pillow or the makeshift pillow he pretends is you, he’s wasting precious cum that should be resting inside that cute cunt of yours, but he’s sure you’ll understand. After all, you must touch yourself with him in mind – why else would you be so flustered around him?
Why else would you be bending down in front of him, biting your lip, twirling your hair, making those sexy fucking sounds that are much too close to being a moan to be a coincidence?
When it comes to actually touching himself, Osamu is versatile. He likes to mix up his methods often, as he believes the key to a good sex life is surprise and trying new things. And so, once he’s got his fingers wrapped around his cock and his eyes fluttering closed, Osamu practices this in the way he imagines you.
His fall back is often to let the warm shower water run over his nude body after work, letting the stress of the day wash away from his tight muscles. He closes his eyes and sighs, wiping down his chest and letting his mind drift back to how cute you were today in his shop; you’d smiled at him, your cheeks plumping up as you laughed at some joke he’d made, your pretty voice making his heart race and the way you’d said his name –
Osamu curses under his breath, the memory of how your tongue caressed the syllables of his name making his throat run dry. Listening to you speak was always a pleasure, but there’s was something about the way you’d said it, something about how breathy and airless it’d been that had Osamu’s hand reaching for the wall, steadying himself against the tiles as he gulped.
It’s easy to let his mind wander to more explicit thoughts of you; the way your shirt hugged your chest just a little too much, the outline of your breasts painfully clear through the material. Osamu hisses under his breath as he imagines reaching out and squeezing, feeling your soft skin under his palms, your hard nipples pressing against his skin. His tongue flicks out to lick at his lips – would you let him lick them? Would you let him run his tongue over your sensitive buds, swirling and teasing, sucking them into his mouth and little nibbling at them, making you keen his name and sigh out?
His fingers trail down his chest, toying with his own nipples as he imagines it, making his cock throb as it grows half hard in mere moments, the affect you have on him making his body respond faster than it ever has before. He lets his eyes flutter open for a moment, staring down as his cock steadily grows darker, the tip turning a bright shade of pink against the wet, matted pubic hair.
He bites his lip as he wonders whether you’d be able to take it – maybe down your throat? Would you let him thrust into your mouth, gasping your name as his tip lodges itself down your throat, twitching and leaking precum as you gag and choke?
He wonders if you you’d let him facefuck you right in this shower, your pretty body kneeling against the wall, letting him rest his hands against the tiles and languidly thrust into your mouth, letting his balls clap against your chin, thick and aching to be drained inside you.
He’s fully hard at this point, images of you with spit, drool and cum dripping down your chin too much for him to ignore. He wonders if your sounds could be heard over the shower water as he lets his hands trail down to his navel, his fingers brushing over his skin and making him hiss. It’s ridiculous how sensitive he already is – how sensitive you’ve made him, how cock practically begging to be surrounded by your warmth, your spit, your little hums and moans of pleasure that shoot straight up his spine.
With a shaky, uneven exhale, Osamu lets his fingers wrap around his length, turning around to face the tiled wall away from the shower stream. He positions his legs wide apart, imagining enough space for your cute little body to kneel down, your mouth the perfect level with his cock. He gives himself a few pumps, hissing through his teeth, before letting one hand press against the wall and lean forward.
It's disturbingly easy to imagine you between his legs, your eyes staring up at him all glossy and needy, your hands running up and down his thighs as you mouth at his cock, desperate to get him in your mouth, wanting to taste him and feel him and swallow him and milk him for every fucking drop of cum he has –
Osamu groans as he lets his hand begin stroking, the motions quick and precise, exactly as he likes it. He flicks his wrist slightly as he pulls upward, the foreskin glistening with the bit of sheen left from the water and his own pre-cum. He closes his eyes, gritting his teeth and feeling the way his thighs tense and clench, his hips jerking forward every once in a while, his imagination running wild with ideas of the way you’d lick and suck at his skin.
His tip is bright red, oozing pre-cum in large droplets, and Osamu curses as he imagines the way you’d moan at the taste, pulling off of him with a popping noise and giving him a few pumps. Fuck ‘Samu, taste so good, wanna make you cum, wanna taste your cum, please…
He loses himself in the fantasy for a few moments, squeezing his eyes shut and letting a shaky smile spread past his lips, his voice interrupted by his own moans. F-fuck yeah baby, shit, make me cum, give ya everythin’ – oh fuck, just like that – gonna give you every fuckin’ drop, gonna stuff you fuckin’ full -!
His voice is gravelly, the pleasure making his head spin, and as he strokes harder and faster, Osamu feels the trace edges of his orgasm approaching. The water beats down on his back, the heat making his muscles flutter, and as he imagines the way he’d slowly lose control, his hips unable to stay still while you bob your head up and down, he snaps. His hand stays still as he jerks his hips forward, thrusting into his hand with reckless abandon, imagining the way you’d gasp against his cock, your throat tightening up impossibly as he uses your mouth for his pleasure, your body to make him feel good.
He cries out your name, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as every muscle in his body tightens, the feeling growing as his balls clench, the warmth spreading, growing larger and larger as he moans and gasps your name, warning you that ‘s coming, take it baby, fuck take it take it! Long ropes of cum shoot from his puffy tip, the off-white splattering against the shower wall, sliding down towards the tub bottom. Osamu’s heaving, ragged breaths slipping past his lips as he leans down, hunched against the wall as he keeps stroking, trying to milk every drop out just like he promised he’d give you, because he knows how much you love his cum.
His shoulders shake as he slowly overstimulates himself, his red cheeks growing even darker as he whispers out praises to imaginary you, the sound of the water nearly drowning out his voice. It feels so good, so fucking good, and as he lets go of his spent cock, Osamu shuts his eyes and turns back to the water, letting it run down his face as he wills himself to stop breathing like he’s just run a marathon.
You’re just too damn good – if you feel this good in his imagination, then how would you feel in real life? How warm, tight, wet would your mouth feel against his skin, your hands carefully groping and massaging at his balls, maybe even letting one slip inside?
Osamu shudders, one last spurt of cum dripping onto the ground below, before smiling shakily.
You’re just perfect, and he can’t wait until he gets to fuck you for real – no more imagination.
FAVORITE BODY PARTS:
Your thighs
While Osamu would be honest with ever fiber of his being if he were to say that he loves every part of you, he’d be a liar to say that his thighs aren’t his favorite part.
To him, there’s just something so wonderful about the plush expanse of fat; he loves to watch you watch, the little shorts he has you wear leaving nothing to the imagination. Seeing the slight jiggle as you move gets him biting his lip, those steel eyes never leaving your upper legs. He likes seeing the way your skirts brush against the soft skin, all the sizes he buys you just slightly too short to be comfortable, though you both know why he does this.
When you bend over, exposing the curvature of your ass and how it connects to your thighs, Osamu has to stifle a groan, his hand automatically reaching down to cup at his cock as arousal starts flowing through his veins.
There’s just something so soft and supple about them, and really from the beginning of his infatuation with you, many of Osamu’s fantasies revolve around them.
At first, it’s mostly innocent; he wants you to lay on the couch with him, your legs over his knees while you stuff your face with popcorn, the movie on the screen making you laugh – and fuck, do you look pretty while you laugh. He’d spend more time simply staring at your creamy skin below him than watch, though, tracing a finger over the flesh and making you giggle slightly because it tickles.
He wants you to cuddle with him, to wrap your legs around his, letting your plush thighs brush against his own, their warmth and softness driving him crazy and making him kiss all over your face, his heart swelling at the way you try to hide from him.
Eventually, however, Osamu can’t deny the way his fantasies slowly turn more lewd, more risqué, less innocent. He can’t deny the affect your thighs have on him; the idea of spreading them, exposing your twitching hole and your puffy clit makes his throat dry, desire blowing his pupils wide because god, how soft is the skin right below your pussy, your upper thighs?
He can’t deny the prospect of sucking hickeys into the area, feeling the way you squirm underneath him, the thin, sensitive skin so susceptible to that pretty, purple color his lips leave behind. He can’t deny that having your thighs squeeze his head as he eats you out would be enough to get him moaning your name, that you clenching as tightly as you can around his head would him dizzy in the best possible way.
He can’t deny that the idea of you clasping your thighs around his waist as he fucks into you would be enough to bring him to orgasm, the way your muscles would spasm and sporadically clench and unclench enough to get him moaning into your ear, gasping your name as he fucks you harder and harder, pushing you deeper into the mattress as his hips smack against your own.
He just really, really likes your thighs, and he’s not afraid to say it – maybe towards the beginning of his obsession he is, too shy to tell you that your thighs have routinely gotten him hard, but by the time he’s got his tongue shoved down your throat, your breast in his hand, his fingers teasing your aching cunt, he doesn’t mind letting you know.
He doesn’t mind telling you that he’s spent so many nights with his cock in hand, your thighs on his mind as he imagines fucking them, pushing his length between them over and over while you writhe and squirm underneath him, the sight of his cockhead appearing with every thrust driving you crazy with lust.
He’ll tell you he’s thought of coming all over them more times than he can count, smearing the off-white into your skin and telling you how pretty you look, all painted up just for him.
He loves your thighs – they’re the perfect reflection of you. Sweet, soft, sexy as hell, and something he’s thinking of nearly every minute of the day – you just have that effect on him, after all.
His mouth
Osamu’s favorite part of his own body is his mouth. You’ll quickly discover with him that he absolutely loves to use his mouth on you.
There’s something so satisfying about tasting you, feeling the texture of your skin against his tongue, knowing how you sound when he’s licking stirpes up your neck or along your thighs.
He’s always imagining kissing you; he’s spent time daydreaming about what your lips would feel like against his as he rolls rice balls at work, wondering what your tongue must taste like, whether you like rough or soft kisses. He’ll check inventory as he imagines the way you’d moan into his mouth as he kisses you – would you like it if he bit your lip? Just a bit, just enough to be playful, the smallest, smallest edge of pain lighting up through your body?
He’s daydreaming of leaving hickeys along your skin, wondering how you’d react if he were to spell his name out in the dark patches, right along your collarbone or your lower tummy, anywhere that shows his possession over you, that he’s the only one who gets to see your body in such a vulnerable way.
He’s thinking of the way you’d caress his hair and sigh as he sucks on your nipples, mouthing at your tits like some fool in love because god, what would they taste like? He’s constantly plagued with thoughts of how you’d respond to his mouth, whether you’d enjoy the sensations he can bring you, whether you’d like the way his tongue feels against your skin, even if you like the residue of his spit when the cool air hits it, making you shiver.
And so, once he’s got you in his arms, your pretty face mere inches from his own, he’ll put all those theories and questions into action. You’ll find yourself being kissed nearly every minute of the day; anything from heated, French kisses that leave you breathless and wanting more, all the way to chaste pecks against your knuckles when he’s cooking you dinner, telling you that nothing he could ever make would be as sweet as you.
He’ll always be kissing every inch of your body when he’s got you naked underneath him, making sure no area is left untouched before he ravages you and has you seeing stars.
And when he gets to use his tongue on that magical place between your legs, kissing and sucking at your cunt with a reckless abandon?
Well, sometimes you wonder if he eats you out for his own pleasure, not yours – and really, you’re right. He likes to make you feel good, to get you creaming on his tongue so you can be prepared and relaxed for the rest of the session, but really, it’s for him. It’s for him because he loves the way you taste, all musky and natural and irresistible. It’s for him because he likes the texture of your folds against his tongue, all soft and squishy and slick with your cum (and sometimes his, too).
It’s for him because he likes the way you pull at his hair, his tongue making you see stars as you drive your hips up, so close to coming that you can almost taste it.
At any given time, Osamu is more than happy to use his mouth against you – after all, you’re his beloved, and what kind of partner would he be if he wasn’t willing to give you orgasm after orgasm, all because of his tongue and the talented ways he can use it?
Surely, you’re not complaining – how could you be, when he leaves you too fucked out to remember your own name afterwards?
DRIVE:
Although his libido spikes up monumentally once you step into his life, Osamu is still not that dependent on sex. He likes the idea of being close to you; your bodies touching without an inch of air between you, your mouths working against one another while your tongue brush and suck, to the point where he’s fantasizing about it at least every other day.
But just because Osamu thinks of fucking you routinely, it doesn’t mean that’s the only form of intimacy he craves with you – no, as much as splitting open that cute little cunt with his fat cock makes him light headed and pleasantly dizzy, he’s almost as happy to hold you against his chest, to kiss the crown of your head and whisper little declarations of love against your skin.
He’s almost as satisfied holding your hand, letting his fingers trace yours, comparing the sizes of your palms and chuckling when you ogle at how much bigger his palms are. He just likes physically interacting with you in general, and therefore not everything has to be sexual. He’s just as content spending time with you in romantic, wholesome ways; things that get his cheeks dusting pink, his heart racing in his chest because you’re just too damn cute.
You’re so sweet to him, and particularly at the start of your captivity with him, he’s not very insistent on making things sexual. Of course, he’d never say no if you were to climb on top of him, to cup his cheeks and kiss him until your lungs give out, to grind your hips into his and beg him to make love to you. He’d have to be insane to deny you of that, really, particularly if you were to beg, to look at him with such pouty, full lips, to tell him you’d do anything, that you just wanna feel his cock and how full he can make you feel. Osamu is only a man after all, and one who’s weakness has always been – and will always be – you.
However, he’s content to wait for you, to get your consent before he touches you in any way that’ll make you moan or scream his name, wanting you to enjoy the moment, to like the pleasure he brings you. Plus, he has an active imagination – he can always find something to fantasize about, to tide him over until he can compare just how realistic his fantasies are to reality.
And honestly, that becomes one of his favorite hobbies once his feelings for you form – thinking up scenarios he sees in porn or develops on his own, imagining the way you’d respond.
Would you enjoy being tied up, your pretty wrists and ankles bound by a soft silk, your free movement totally restricted, relying entirely upon Osamu?
Would you moan and whine when he teases you, degrading you for being so needy, for wanting his cock so badly you can hardly stay still?
Would you like to be recorded, your pretty body on camera while he destroys you, rearranging your guts and stuffing you full of his cum as the recording captures every depraved moan, every desperate buck of your hips, every bit of drool that slips past your lips as you whine and moan his name, the way his hips smack into yours simply too much to handle?
He wants to know, fuck he wants to know, but he’s a patient man – he can wait, because doesn’t that make the treat just so much better when he finally gets you naked in front of him? Doesn’t it make it more rewarding when you finally expose that perfect, tight little pussy he knows you have all for his eyes?
He thinks so, so he’ll let you play coy, get comfortable, get needy, until your body can’t take it anymore and you jump him, too desperate for his cock and cum to control yourself.
In the meantime, once you’re in his captivity, Osamu will channel his desires for you in ways that let you know he’s most definitely thinking of you, but don’t require you to actually touch him. He’s so used to regularly touching himself that while it slightly embarrasses him, he doesn’t mind continuing this habit once you’re living under the same roof.
He’ll leave the door cracked open slightly to the bedroom, sitting against the pillows on your shared bed, leaning back and letting his eyes close as he strokes his cock, letting his voice get louder and louder. He’ll moan your name, gasping out praises and encouragements that match whatever fantasy is playing through his mind, all with the hope of not only getting off, but with the goal of having you hear him.
You aren’t in the room, not watching him from the end of the bed, but the condo is only so big – you will be able to hear him, even if you don’t want to. You can hear the way he moans breathlessly, his voice starting off steady and low but eventually climbing to a higher timber, sounding like something out some audio porn.
It’s hot, if you’re being honest, but especially towards the beginning of your captivity, you don’t want it to be.
And when he moans your name?
Well, you can fight it as much as you want, but it’s difficult to ignore the way he sounds so desperate, the pleasure clearly making his voice unsteady, the hoarse quality to it as he nears his orgasm.
You’ll hate how it affects you, how you have to shift your thighs and ignore the way a wetness builds up in your panties, but isn’t it only natural to be that affected by someone sounding so fucking desperate while they moan your name and stroke themselves to the thought of you?
Osamu is shameless, truly, and as he gets more comfortable with doing this, he’ll invest in bottles of lube, anything to make the squelching noise of his fist against his cock louder for you. It sounds so wet, so dirty, so messy, that even if you don’t want to come closer, you’ll find yourself slowly inching closer to the bedroom door, the crack just enough to give you a better show of his self pleasure.
You’ll hear the way he hisses under his breath, how his little gasps and groans are more defined this close up, how the mattress squeaks slightly as he chases his hand with every upwards stroke, trying to keep the flighting sensation of pleasure alight. He’s a sight to see, really, and one day, when the horniness and curiosity are just too much for you to ignore, you’ll take a peek inside, looking through the crack into what may be the dirtiest thing you’ve ever seen.
He’s shirtless, his chest bare and looking perfect to touch, because while he may have lost his defined abs, he’s most definitely attractive – perfect, you might even find yourself saying. He’s wearing gray sweatpants, the waistline pulled down enough to release his cock and balls, the pale skin flushed bright red as he works himself towards orgasm. His hand is quick, nearly to fast to see, and suddenly the intensity of the squelching noises makes sense.
You can see lube and precum shining on his skin, the light from the overhead appliance doing nothing to hide how messy it all is. His mouth hangs open, lips parted as he breaths raggedly, gasps and groans slipping out as he cries out your name in between moans.
He’s shaking, his thighs and biceps tensing periodically, his hips jerking and spasming, and you can’t help the way your fingers reach down, between your panties and shorts, brushing against your clit – which is already much, much more sensitive than you’d realized. You’re quick to rub harsh, frantic circles against the bud, your arousal peaking, watching with wide eyes as he loses himself, his cries of your name sounding shrill and higher, growing in volume until he’s coming, ropes of cum shooting up onto his chest as he whines your name.
You think you even see a tear falling down his cheek, the intensity of his orgasm just too fucking much.
You watch for a few more moments, eyes fixated on the way his cum oozes down his chest, and somewhere in the back of your mind you idly wonder what it tastes like – surely, a man with such a good diet would have a decent taste…
You shake yourself out of it, ripping your hands out of your panties as he opens his eyes and makes direct eye contact with you, his cheeks flushing an even darker shade of red, your legs carrying you away as fast as you can.
You don’t see it, too busy locking yourself in the bathroom and trying to calm your racing heart, but Osamu can’t help but swallow and grin, reliving the way he’d watched your hand come out of your panties, you obviously touching yourself while watching him…
He’s sure it won’t be long until you’re ready to actually fuck him, until you’re ready to give him everything, just as he’s ready to give you everything in return.
MAIN KINKS:
BODY WORSHIP
Generally, Osamu finds you beautiful. He’s known for a very, very long time that you’re his ideal woman; your hair color, texture, eye color, body type, every asset you possess. There’s not a thing about you that he wishes to change, and while you may find this hard to believe, Osamu needs you to understand that he’s being honest.
He hates the idea of you being insecure about anything on your beautiful body, and so he makes it his mission in the bedroom to convince you of his honesty, to convince you that he’s genuinely in love with everything about you.
And to do this, what better way than to start every intimacy session with a slow, vulnerable, intense series of kisses against every body part of yours, his eyes never leaving your own?
He’ll always start with your lips – pressing kisses against them, his tongue coming out to play with yours as he groans into it, sighing heavily and getting comfortable as he situates himself above you on the bed. He loves pulling away afterwards, your lips all swollen and puffy, your eyes glassy as they stare up at him, breaths tumbling out of you because wow, Osamu is a good kisser.
(You don’t need to know how often he stayed up in the night practicing on his hand before he had you – he’s kissed plenty of people before, sure, but he wanted to be perfect for you.)
He’ll tell you that yer so pretty babe, love the way yer lips taste. He’s already breathless as he says this, his voice husky and just barely above a whisper. It feels like a secret he’s telling you; like it’s something only the two of you get to know, like he’s trusting you with something important that you shouldn’t squander. He’ll press kisses against your cheeks and forehead, smiling against your skin as he tells you that he loves the way your skin is so soft, how your cheeks are so cute ‘n squishy, wanna pinch ‘em every time I see ya, cutie.
He’ll move down onto your neck, licking along your jugular and leaving slight hickies, feeling the way you squirm slightly under him, the embarrassment of such personal attention making you antsy. He loves it, and as he moans against your neck, he’ll make sure you feel how he’s affected by rutting his clothed crotch against your hip, his boxers doing very little to hide the prominent bulge trapped beneath them.
He’ll press kisses into your collarbones, using a finger to trace their shape as he smiles up at you from under his lashes, licking his lips as he tells you this is my favorite spot to mark ya up, y’know. Love it when yer all purple here, makes sure everyone knows yer mine. Of course, no one will ever see your collarbone but him, but there’s something about the possessive lilt of his voice that gets shivers running down your spine, straight to your cunt.
He’s already got you stripped naked, and as he moves down and cups your breasts with his hands, you see the way his cheeks light up, a dusting of bright red smattering across the bridge of his nose. Fuck, yer perfect baby, so fuckin’ pretty… ya feel how hard yer making me? It’s all for ya, ‘m so hard because yer just too damn sexy. He grinds against your leg again to prove his point, his fingers massaging at your breasts, and you gulp, moaning slightly at the treatment.
He smirks and leans down to capture your nipples into his mouth, feeling the way they harden up as he blows his breath against them, licking and sucking against the sensitive skin. He moans against your skin, moving his head to your sternum and vigorously shaking it, his silvery hair looking like moonlight as you whine and cover your face, too embarrassed to watch.
This makes Osamu smile, and as he leans up again and presses his lips against yours in a quick kiss, he can’t help but chuckle. Been wantin’ to do that for so long, baby, dreamed about it every night for a month straight, these pretty tits in my face, in my mouth, ‘round my cock…
He trails off, his hands coming down to press against your stomach. Love this tummy babe, so pretty when yer all full – full of my food, he kisses right underneath your left breast. Full of my love, a matching kiss under your right. Full of my cum, right where it should be. He finishes with a long lick from your sternum down to your bellow button, blowing a raspberry against it while you giggle and squirm.
He smiles and laughs too, the sound of your voice making him grow impossibly harder. He spreads your legs slightly, looking up at you from his place between them, moving so that his head is merely inches away from your pussy.
He kisses up your knees and the insides of your thighs, moaning against your skin as he palms himself through his boxers. Ya get me so excited, love, this pussy’s so fuckin’ cute, could make me cum just from lookin’ at it. He closes his eyes and presses his nose against your folds, making you jump slightly. He groans, deeply, before growling out in a voice much deeper and gravelly than before how he could cum just from smellin’ it, fuuuck.
And soon, his tongue is working at your clit, his eyes never leaving yours even as you bite your lip and try to look away, too embarrassed to keep eye contact. He’s groaning and telling you how fucking good you taste, how it’s exactly how I imagined baby, tastes like heaven, never wanna stop eaten’ this cunt. So wet for me, fuck do I make ya this wet?
He loves the way you babble out a whiny yes, letting your hands thread through his hair as he eats you out, suctioning at your clit while his fingers press against that spongey spot inside of you, curling and scissoring them as he humps the best, rambling on about the way you make him so hard, so horny, so needy. He tells you it’s all your fault, that your body’s just too perfect, too warm and welcoming, how you should be ashamed of how sexy you are.
He just loves you, really, and as he lines himself up to finally, finally fuck you, he can’t help but moan that he loves you, pushing inside slowly and telling you that you feel so damn good, fuuuuck ‘m not gonna last baby, oh fuckfuckfuck –
Osamu really, really loves your body, and he’s not shy about telling you – plus, there’s something about the embarrassment on your face when he does this that makes him that much more desperate to fuck you, that much more desperate to stuff you so full of his cum that you’re leaking it for days.
ORAL FIXATION
Osamu has always been a fan of oral.
Even before you walked into his life, there was a part of him that preferred good head over actual fucking any day of the week – he can’t explain, but he likes how personal it is, how intimate and vulnerable it is to have someone’s mouth working at him, to have his own mouth working at someone else.
He just enjoys it, the warmth of tongues and spit, and once you step into his world? Well, he without a doubt absolutely wants to fuck you – he wants to fuck you so hard that you’re crying, that big tears are welling down your cheeks, that you’re too spaced out to even remember where you are, who you are, anything but his name and his cock. Obviously he wants to feel your cute, tight little pussy wrapped around him, but just as he’s always fantasized about head, this fixation only grows worse once you’re in the picture, the idea of you worshipping his body making him light headed, his pants already growing tight.
Because really, there’s something about the attention you’d be giving him that makes him feel shaky, his heart racing in his chest, his throat going dry because wow, would you really be willing to take him into your mouth? Would you be willing to get on our knees for him, to stroke him and drool on him, to let him stretch out that throat of yours and cum down your throat?
Osamu loses his cool merely thinking about it, and so the first time you actually move to take him into your mouth, he nearly passes out. There’s just something so intimate about the way you bite your lip and tell him that you want to taste him. There’s just something so sinful about the way you shimmy up between his legs as he sits perched on the couch, his legs spread wide while his cock bobs with every small movement he makes.
It’s twitching, pre-cum already dribbling from his engorged slit, and he can’t take his off of the way you lick your lips, moving impossibly closer so that your lips are merely inches away from him. He throws his head back in ecstasy the first time you kitten lick at him, groans tumbling from his lips as you suck on his head, your tongue slipping along his slit, dipping in slightly and making his hands latch onto your head, pulling ever so slightly at your hair.
He just loses himself when your mouth is on him; he’s moaning and whining out your name, praises, telling you how good you’re doing, how he’s never felt so good, how you’re going to make him come so fast, too fast. It's euphoric, and as he gets closer, he’ll start unconsciously bucking his hips, his head thrown back and eyes squeezed so tightly shut while his mouth hangs open, stuttered breaths and ragged moans free falling.
He’ll push your head down without meaning to, the pleasure just feeling so good that he needs more more more, and to feel the way you gag and whine around him makes Osamu’s gut clench, his orgasm hurdling towards him even faster.
His toes curl, his abdominal muscles flexing, and a non-stop stream of your name is spilling past his lips, the words slurring together as he begs you to keep going, begging you to not stop, fuck baby please – pleasepleasepleaseplease ‘m gonna cum, gonna cum for ya oh baby fuck-
He’s always brought over the edge if you play with his balls; your soft fingers toying at the extremely sensitive flesh, squeezing lightly and mouthing at them, running patterns over them with your tongue and letting one slip into your mouth to suckle, moaning around him and making his hips jerk near violently.
He insists that he always cum either down your throat, on your face or on your tits, sometimes all three. He’ll watch with lidded eyes and heavy breaths as his cum splatters across your breasts, the off-white rolling down over your nipples and dripping onto your thighs below, the sensation of the warm cum oozing down your body making you shiver. He’s mesmerized by the sight, his chest falling and rising so rapidly he almost looks like he may pass out.
He’s too lost in the post-orgasm glow to move after you finish sucking him off, and it’s only once you press a kiss to his lips that he snaps out of his haze, tasting himself on you and making his mind race.
He always wants to return the favor, to get between your legs and make you cry out his name, to get you coming over and over on his tongue, even to get you squirting; that’s always his goal, and whether or not he’s been successful doesn’t deter him. He wants to taste just as badly as he wants you to taste him, so you’d better get used to frequent and persistent head from Osamu – he’s just expressing his love, after all.
He loves you, loves the way you taste, the way you pull on his hair and cry out his name, how your hips buck and twitch as he brings you closer and closer, how you let out that cute little gasp if his fingers dip down to brush against your asshole, so taboo and strange.
Osamu just really, really likes using both his and your mouth in the bedroom, so hopefully you’re a fan of oral – and if not, you will be by the time he’s down with you. He’ll make sure of it.
BONDAGE
While Osamu enjoys wandering hands during sex, he’s equally as turned on by the prospect of restraints. There’s something undeniably hot about tying you up, or being tied up during your intimacy, and while he won’t be the first to bring it up, if you were to ever express interest he’d immediately jump you.
From the moment his sexual urges towards you formed, Osamu has been on the lookout for as many different kinds of sexual restraints as he can – he has a collection, one he keeps hidden from you until you express said interest. He doesn’t want you to find out, if only because he’s scared you’ll think it’s weird, that you’ll be turned off by the idea of being tied up, completely at his mercy. He’s got everything from handcuffs, silk ties, embroidery rope, and everything in between – he can utilize anything you want, whatever fits your particular fantasies.
(Although, his personal favorites are the silk ties, only because it’s softer on your skin and he thinks their softness matches you perfectly. He’s got all kinds of pastels, and he’ll always choose the color that looks best against your skin, making you look like a cute little gift for him to unwrap and fuck.)
It’s the protective instincts within him that really fuel this kink; he likes the idea of you giving yourself up to him, trusting him with not only your pleasure and ability to orgasm, but also with your physical movements, making you entirely at his mercy.
He likes the rush of power he gets from this, and while he has no intentions of leaving you or hurting you in any way, there’s something about the knowledge that he could that gets his cock hard, that gets him breathing heavy, that gets his hands itching at his sides to touch you. He finds that he particularly likes to tie your wrists and ankles to the bed, leaving you spread out in an almost star position, your breasts and pussy perfectly exposed.
You look up at him with such vulnerability, biting your lip and watching his every move that it almost makes him nervous, almost insecure, almost unsure. But then he’s touching you and you’re moaning his name, your pussy sucking in his fingers as if they belong there, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. It’s all so good, enough to get him biting his lip and struggling to not just ram his cock into you and fuck you until he’s spilling everything inside you, but he holds himself back.
After all, when he’s got you tied up like this, he has all the power; he can do whatever he wants to you, whenever he wants to. He could leave you with a vibrator against your cute little clit for hours, get you squirming and begging, a pool of cum sitting below your pelvis as you weakly jerk back and forth, the vibrations from the toy making your brain fuzzy.
He could lick and suck at your pussy, kissing your clit and fingering you until you’re right on the edge of orgasm, so fucking close until he suddenly stops, the pleasure fading as you whine and beg him to keep going, telling him you need more, need him.
He could straddle your tummy, pushing your breasts together as he thrusts between them, fucking your tits while he groans and throws his head back, the sight erotic for you but not giving you nearly as much pleasure as you want.
The possibilities are endless, and while he’s not cruel enough to do most of those ideas to you in real life, Osamu does enjoy the way you become dependent on him to make you orgasm. He likes to hear the way you beg him, how your voice breaks slightly as you get closer, your wrists tugging against the restraints as you close your eyes and moan, your lips permanently parted into that pretty ‘o’ shape.
He likes to watch you come undone, asking you if you need it baby? Need me to make ya come, huh? He wants to hear you screaming yes and his name, slurred together as he makes you come again and again and again, because this is what you wanted, right? To feel good?
And if you were to ever express interest in tying him up, Osamu would gladly do it. He wouldn’t until quite late into your captivity with him, until he knows that you wouldn’t take the opportunity to run, but once he feels comfortable, he can’t deny the euphoric feeling of you hovering over him, your lips quirking up into a smile as you tell him how cute he looks, all tied up and begging for you.
He wants you to tease him, to make his cock flush pink and leak, to get him moaning and twisting at the restrains, to have his hips desperately bucking up, chasing your hand as you oh so fucking slowly stroke him. He likes the way you have control, how you’re giving him so much attention, sprinkling in praises of how proud you are of him, how well he’s taking it, how he’s such a pretty boy underneath you like this.
He wants you to overstimulate him, to get him crying, and once you untie him he’ll scoop you into his arms, cuddling you against his chest and whispering to you that he loves you.
He’ll spend the rest of the night by your side, not letting you out of his embrace for even a moment, because now that he feels so close to you, how could he possibly let go? You’re perfect, after all, and you only get more perfect when you’re all tied up for him, all needy and helpless and his.
OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:
FACESITTING
Going hand in hand with his oral fixation, Osamu quickly finds that although he’s never done it with a woman before you, he absolutely adores having you sit on his face.
There’s something so trusting and intimate about it that makes him absolutely crazy; you trust him enough to let yourself be vulnerable on top of him, your thighs caging in his head and your pretty pussy at the perfect angle for him to ravage and destroy.
It’s so, so fucking hot, and from essentially your first few sexual encounters, Osamu will be somewhat shyly bringing it up, oddly scared that you’ll reject this fantasy of his. He’s always been too nervous to try it before, but with you, it feels like the ultimate form of worship. Like by doing it, he’s treating you the way you deserve – making sure everything is about you, that you’re enjoying yourself, that you’re finding the pleasure you deserve to feel.
And so, when you shakily agree to his plan, Osamu can’t help the way a giant grin splits across his face, excitement brewing in his veins as he strips off his clothing, practically throwing himself on the bed and wetting his lips, staring at you expectantly. Even if you try to tell him that you don’t want to crush him, that you’re worried you’ll break him or that you’ll look ugly from that angle, he’s having none of it. With every negative word that comes out of your mouth, he’s keeping count and telling you he’ll make you come that many times, that you’ve said you’ll crush me five times now baby, guess ‘m gonna have to make you cream five times, maybe you’ll even squirt for me, eh?
He’s quick to adjust you so that you’re fully sitting on him, slapping your hip harshly and telling you to just let go, to let your full weight drop on him, and if you were to look behind you, you’d see the way his hips buck up once you do as exactly as he says. He loves the way you suffocate him, how everything he can breathe, feel and taste is pussy, your pussy, his favorite thing on Earth.
And as he gets working, running his tongue along your folds and rubbing at your clit in figure eight motions, he finds that you’re so much more sensitive this way; he can see the way your tummy bulges out, your breasts looking tantalizing above his head, the angle he sees you at so strange yet so fucking hot.
It’s a wet dream come true, and as he encourages you to grind against his face, he can only squeeze his eyes shut and will himself not to cum, because the sensory overload is just too much. He’ll use his free hand so slap your ass, and if you were to reach behind you and toy with his cock, stroking or even squeezing it?
Well, don’t be surprised when a splatter of warm wetness hits your back, the moan he lets out downright sinful against your sensitive folds. He just really, really likes having you sit on his face, and he could leave you there for hours, idly nibbling on you and drinking up every last drop of slick you can offer him.
It’s heaven.
BITING
Osamu, in general, doesn’t like causing you pain. He’s not particularly interested in anything in the bedroom that could hurt you; he doesn’t want to see you bleeding or crying in anything other than pleasure, and for the most part he stays far away from anything like that, even if you beg him to try it.
However, the one thing he eventually relents and gives into trying if you bring it up is biting. Maybe it’s because it’s less inherently violent than slapping you around, than drawing a knife to your skin, or maybe it’s because there’s something so feral about it, so animalistic and natural.
He’s not sure, but the first time he lightly sinks his teeth against your flesh, an audible groan slips past his lips. There’s something so primal about it, like he’s staking his claim on you in the most basic, human way possible – leaving his teeth marks on your soft skin. He never bites hard enough to break the skin or leave any scars, but Osamu doesn’t mind; it’s about the heat of the moment, claiming you as his.
You're his lover, his woman, his to love and touch and fuck and cherish. And so, once this habit begins forming, Osamu takes nearly every opportunity he can to lightly bite you in the bedroom; when you’re throwing your head back and moaning as he thrusts into you, he’s sinking his teeth into the flesh of your shoulder, moaning against your skin as he licks and sucks at the area trapped between his jaws.
When your face is pressed into the mattress, your ass high in the air as he gropes and squeezes at it, he’s biting into the suppleness of your cheeks, making you squirm and moan into the pillow as he reaches under to rub fast circles at your clit.
He’ll even lightly bite at your nipples and breasts, paying extra care to not hurt you, but knowing that when you ride him, your tits are right fucking there, and how can he deny himself?
It’s something he never thought he’d see himself doing, but it just feels so right – and god, when you return the favor? When you sink your own teeth into his skin, biting down and claiming him as yours? Fuck, Osamu feels like he’s in heaven, the sensation of very slight pain making his cock stir inside of you, twitching and that much closer to filling you up with his seed.
He just likes the idea that you want to mark him back, that you consider him yours as he considers you his, and he’ll let you bite as hard as you want. He’s strong, he can take anything you give him, so please – bite him as much as you like, as hard as you like, as often as you like. He’ll enjoy it, he promises.
BIGGEST FANTASY:
When it comes to fantasies, Osamu is game to try pretty much anything you’d like to. His only hard and fast rules are no hurting you, and nothing that involves extreme humiliation. In that respect, he’s not especially harsh in the bedroom, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t willing to be in a more dominant position, to get you squirming and crying out his name.
No, in fact that’s what he loves most – seeing you turn into a shaking, desperate mess right before his very eyes, all because of what he’s done to your body. As a result, Osamu quickly learns that one of the things he loves to do with you is to overstimulate you.
There’s something beautiful about the way you shake and writhe, how your eyes squeeze closed as the pleasure doesn’t let up, even after you’ve come and your body cries out for relief. He thinks you look so pretty as you beg him to stop, that you’re too sensitive, that you can’t take it because it’s too – too much ‘Samu, I can’t!
He’ll always shush you, kissing you and smothering your cries with his lips and tongue, still rubbing those circles against your clit that have you spasming below him. He likes pushing you to the brink as many times as he can, and while he enjoys the rush of power that comes from knowing he’s the one that’s driven you so crazy, the root of this fantasy is his protectiveness. He likes the idea of taking care of you, and this carries over into the bedroom as well – there’s something so romantic about making you come, about watching you fall apart just for him, your body trembling and your face twisting up into that pretty expression you make when you’re coming.
It’s addictive, really, so much so that Osamu is willing to swallow his pride and invest in something that’ll make getting you off much, much easier. That is, while he doesn’t inherently have any problems with toys, there’s a certain piece of his pride that’s lost when he buys the vibrator. There’s some part of him that wonders whether his mouth, fingers and cock aren’t enough, whether you need this stupid toy to feel good.
He’s hesitant to first use it, worried that you’ll enjoy the silicone more than his own touch, but the moment he presses the vibrations against your body, he can’t find it in himself to care – you’re gasping and clawing at his chest, the overstimulation hitting your body in waves because you just fucking came on his tongue.
You’re incoherent, babbling and trying to string words together that have no meaning, and Osamu can only watch with wide eyes, his lips parted and drool threatening to spill out because fuck, you’re so hot like this. You’re falling apart right before his eyes, the pleasure almost hurting because it’s too intense, but Osamu can’t find it in himself to care – especially not when you’re coming again a few minutes later, tears streaming down your cheeks as he keeps the toy over your clit, the vibrations never ending even as your body threatens to give out.
It’s just so goddamn hot, and Osamu knows that buying the toy was a good choice – you’ll never like it more than himself, he’s sure, but it gets the job done, and at the end of the day as long as you’ve come more times than he can count, isn’t that all that matters?
“Feel good, baby?” Osamu asks, his voice husky as he leans down to lick at your clit again. You warble something out, an affirmation to his question that makes him growl and work harder at your nub, his fingers pumping at a steady pace inside of you. They’re callused, years of volleyball and cooking making them steady, precise, the texture feeling like heaven against your gooey, spongey walls.
Osamu groans, letting the vibrations roll against your sensitive skin. You jerk slightly at that, the stimulation to your clit making your head dizzy, but the building pleasure in your navel distracts you. With a sharp gasp, you’re whining out his name, “O-osamu, please ‘m gonna come! Don’t stop, oh fuck please don’t stop!”
Your cries motivate him, his eyes staring up at you as he watches your lips part, wanton moans falling past them as you twitch around his fingers, your walls clenching like wild, even your clit seeming to throb under his tongue. He uses his free hand to reach up and grope at your breasts, squeezing the flesh and pinching at your nipples, anything to give you that extra stimulation he knows will having you falling off the edge.
And, a few seconds later, you do – with a heavenly cry of his name, all broken up by your own moans and gasps, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he keeps up the pace. You’re shaking, chanting his name like a prayer and threading your fingers through his short hair. Closing your eyes and hoping to recover your breath, your brows squeeze together at the sound of something buzzing.
“’Samu, what are you – oh!” You cut yourself off with a cry, your hips jerking upwards as Osamu places the baby blue toy against your bundle of nerves. Your body lights up, the pleasure seeming to pierce through you as Osamu continues to finger you, his gray eyes watching with hazy lust as you lose your mind.
“Too much! Oh fuck – fuck, shit, ‘Samu I can’t – too sensitive -!” It’s hard to make out what you’re saying over the sound of your own moans, the pressure building in your stomach seeming to ebb and flow as the vibrations destroy your clit. It’s too much, truly – you feel an overload of pleasure, the onslaught to much to even process.
“Fuck princess, ya look so hot like this, gonna make me cum.” Osamu groans, letting his head fall against your thigh as he removes his fingers, licking at your cum and cleaning them dry. A strangled moan falls past his lips at your taste, and as he shifts himself to sit up, he keeps the toy pressed firmly against your cunt. You’re crying, he thinks, your eyes tearing up as you moan and writhe, and though he worries for a moment that this hurts you more than pleasures you, your little cries of ‘s-so good’ have him grunting instead.
He changes the vibration pattern on the toy, now a steady throb-throb-throb that has your abdominal muscles visibly clenches, the pleasure driving you crazy with need. He’s mesmorized, watching like a child on Christmas as your lips part and get caught between your teeth, your body and face absolutely wrecked.
It’s not long before you’re slowly getting close again, your body tensing up and your muscles contracting, and Osamu watches with baited breath as you scream his name, your body winding up as your second orgasm hits you, much more explosive than your first. More slick oozes from your hole, visibly contracting and making his mouth water. He can’t wait anymore – he’s been a fucking saint so far, holding back in favor of making you feel good, but at the way you’re grasping at the pillows behind your head, your tits bouncing as you shake and tremble, Osamu’s lunging forward.
He's quick to align his cock with your cunt, already dripping pre-cum and desperate to feel you. He groans deeply as he slides inside, his voice cracking as he moans out, “So – so fucking tight baby, how’rya this fucking tight Jesus –“
You cut him off with a gasp of your own, the feeling of something so big stretching you out in the midst of your pleasure making tears slip down your cheeks. He’s still holding the vibrator over your clit, and you almost can’t feel it anymore, the sensation so strong. You claw at his shoulders, bringing him down for a kiss that he eagerly reciprocates as he beings thrusting into you. You’re so wet like this; wet and tight and fucking warm, and Osamu swears as he pulls back from the kiss, his own orgasm approaching embarrassingly quickly.
He whines as he fucks into you, his face red while sweat drips at his temples, and though you’re nearly too fucked out to notice, Osamu gasps your name as he comes, sending spurts of hot, potent cum directly inside you. The sensation of his orgasm and the vibrations together send you over the edge, your final climax of the night as you scream his name and go limp, the pleasure making black spots dance along the edges of your vision.
Your body jerks as he turns the vibrator off, your skin clammy and sweaty as you stare unseeingly up at the ceiling, trying desperately to catch your breath. Osamu’s equally as breathless, scooping you into his arms as he holds you, kissing you and running his hand over your hair, whispering how well you did.
You’re too fucked out to listen, of course, but as Osamu holds you against his chest and coos at you, trying to recover from what may have been the best orgasm of his life, he can’t help but laugh a bit. You’re perfect, truly, and your pleasure ridden expression at the height of your orgasm just proves it.
Warnings: kidnapping, stalking, extreme possessiveness, unhealthy/toxic thoughts, mentions of dub-con, slight misogany/traditional gender roles, mentions of motherhood/forced motherhood, mentions of harassment, basically Osamu is obsessed with you congrats love </3, fem reader, MDNI
I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!
DARLING PROFILE
Introverted
It’s not that Osamu isn’t capable of being attracted towards a more social darling, but rather that there’s something very endearing and appealing about a darling that isn’t out with friends 24/7.
He doesn’t like the idea of other people monopolizing their time, and consequently it would make him much happier (and quell his protective tendencies) to have a beloved that spends most of their time at home.
Even a homebody would be perfect for him – of course, he wants his darling to have hobbies and activities that take place beyond the four walls of their home that they enjoy, but he likes knowing that ninety percent of the time, they can be found in pristine shape inside their home.
It fuels his more domestic fantasies as well; he likes to imagine spending lazy Sundays with his darling, snuggled up on the couch while rain pours outside, watching Top Chef or other favorite movies and shows, popcorn and other snacks slipping past their lips as he criticizes the chef’s cooking alongside Gordon Ramsay.
He likes to imagine the way his darling would look so pretty wearing his clothing, the hickeys he’d decorated their neck and collarbone with in last night’s passionate throws of intimacy standing out like a beacon as they sleepily rub their eyes, yawning out that fucking adorable morning ‘Samu.
He just likes knowing that his darling is mostly content with staying home most of the time – he hates the idea of them being out with strangers, with people that could potential hurt them or have ill intentions, and in his mind this is a perfect win-win. He’s a homebody too, and this way he can spend all of his time with them, by his side, preferably cuddled into his chest or with his tongue down their throat.
He just loves the way his darling slowly sees him as the most important person in their life, because he’s the only person in their life – it’s a dream come true, and to see their face light up when he gets home from work not only gets his heart racing and his palms sweat, but his pants so fucking tight.
Artistic
Now, this particular trait isn’t a must-have for Osamu, but it’s definitely a factor in what attracts him to his darling.
He likes the idea of a beloved that has hobbies of their own – someone who finds passion in their lives, and devotes a substantial portion of their time to practicing and perfecting their chosen art form.
This could be quite literally anything – painting, playing an instrument, drawing, cooking (Osamu’s personal favorite, though he must be a better cook than you, no exceptions), writing, sewing, crocheting, anything that gets his darling’s creative juices flowing.
He loves to watch them practice; there’s something about the expression on their face as they concentrate that really gets him going. Maybe it’s the way their tongue sticks out just slightly as they put the final touches on the cupcake batter they’re mixing, the way their brows twist together as they brush the ink over the paper, how they tap their foot as they try to keep their rhythm while playing a difficult passage on their instrument.
He just loves the way they look so invested and passionate, and if Osamu is being honest, a lot of this fascination comes from his hopes that one day they’ll think of him with that degree of devotion.
He loves the idea of his darling paying him so much mind and attention that he becomes their hobby, that their artistic urges get focused onto him – maybe the little scarves and knickknacks his darling makes start being his size or having gray hair and gray eyes.
Maybe the poems they write start depicting a man of strong build, with callused fingers and a heart of gold.
Maybe the pottery they mold starts resembling two hearts beating together, symbolizing his and his darling’s everlasting love.
It’s sappy and he knows it, but there’s something about his darling being passionate that really speaks to him – maybe it’s because he sees himself reflected in them, but regardless it only fuels his obsessive tendencies, pushing him to learn as much as he can about the craft so he can impress you, just as he desperately wants to.
Smart
Again, this particular trait isn’t hard and fast for the chef, but it’s most definitely a plus in the stages of his infatuation forming. He’s always had a thing for smart, capable women; he likes the idea of a girl who isn’t afraid to be right, who doesn’t try to dumb themselves down for other people.
Of course, humility is important too (no one likes a braggard, do they?), but Osamu takes pride in the fact that his darling is so smart, that his darling is so talented. And this can take the shape of many different things – perhaps his darling is a gifted mathematician, able to solve equations with little trouble because they just get numbers.
(He likes to imagine the way their math skills might falter as he holds them over his knee, their pretty ass bare to him as he spanks them again and again, hearing them count aloud and grind their pussy against his knee in a way they think is oh-so-subtle.)
This could be his darling being strongly empathetic; able to understand the way others feel, putting them at ease and investing in making sure they’re okay while Osamu flounders to understand why they’re crying in the first place.
(He likes to think this is a sign that his darling would be a perfect mother, always able to calm down their children and make them giggle and smile, even while their knee is scraped up or their favorite toy is broken.)
It could be that his darling has knowledge of a very particular, niche topic; he could listen to them talk for hours upon hours, never losing interest as he nods along to their words, watching the way their lips move and form words, part of him forcing himself to listen while the other part wars to reach out and shut you up with his own mouth.
He just really likes the idea of a smart darling, one he can be proud to call his own, and if you were to tell him off with some logical, well grounded argument? Well, he’s still not letting you out of the basement, but fuck it all – one glance at his pants is enough to show you how your little speech has affected him, and he has no qualms showing you, either.
Optimistic
While Osamu isn’t necessarily a pessimist, he’s most definitely in the middle of the spectrum in terms of his outlook on life. He likes to consider himself a realist; he has no delusions about what life is (though, he most certainly does have delusions about what the two of you are), and he’s not embarrassed to say that more often than not, life has a way of choosing the non-ideal routes.
Of course, things could obviously be much worse (how can he say life is bad when it’s led to him meeting you, the single best thing that’s ever happened to him), but they could be better too. He’s neutral, really, which is why a darling that’s more optimistic would be a perfect fit for him.
Overwhelming negativity is exhausting, and if his darling only ever complains without anything positive to say, Osamu would quickly grow annoyed and tired of their presence, snapping at them to shut up, I can’t listen to you bitch anymore.
It’s not that his darling has to be always happy, always looking at the bright side (as this, too, can be equally as annoying as constant negativity), but he likes that his darling just naturally assumes the best in people.
Of course, it terrifies the protective part of him, the one that’s always paranoid about their safety and the intentions of others regarding them, but even for as much sleep as it causes him to lose at night, it’s just too damn cute. When they’re smiling at others and encouraging them through difficult times, Osamu can’t help but swoon; they’re just too adorable, too motherly, too fucking perfect.
He likes that they’re just genuinely a happy person – he’ll always lend an ear to them when they inevitably have a bad day or need to complain, but he’s quick to give them kisses all along their face and neck, whispering that they’re absolutely right babe, I hear ya.
He just likes how sweet it makes him, and only furthers his idea that they need protection – the world has a nasty way of dimming those that shine brightest, after all.
GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS
Controlling
While it isn’t necessarily purposeful, Osamu has a bit of a problem when it comes to being a prominent figure in your life.
He’s used to having to share everything, from the limelight to the occasional toothbrush, socks to volleyball shoes with his twin. He’s used to being known as ‘the other Miya’, as the chef with the famous athlete for a brother.
So to finally have you, something all completely his own, how can he be blamed for being a little more paranoid? Can he really be faulted when he’s just trying to make sure that you stay his and only his?
He’s not even really conscious of the way he slowly begins becoming an omnipresent part of your life, how those cold metallic eyes are always watching over your shoulder, staying fixed on your figure because every little thing you do is riveting to him, fascinating and something he needs to see, to make sure you’re doing as you should, that you’re staying safe and healthy and happy.
He doesn’t mean to come off as the controlling boyfriend (though, his tendencies of being more intrusive than he should be will start much earlier than the boyfriend stage – when you’re both still acquaintances, friends, when his obsession is still freshly new), but with the way he slowly begins demanding more and more from you, the message will be pretty clear.
You’ll likely write it off at first; his insistent questions of who are you going with when you tell him you’ll be out for the afternoon seeming oddly serious, but it’s ‘Samu, right? It’s Osamu Miya, a man you know isn’t as petty as being jealous over your time being spent with another, who isn’t bothered enough to be weird about it, right?
You’ll just laugh it off, though this has the opposite affect on the man in front of you – your laughter has him on edge, wondering if you’re lying to him, wondering if you’re going out to meet another man – what’s Atsumu up to tonight?
Suna?
Ginjima?
The paranoia eats away at him as he paces around, terrified that you might be flirting with another man, chatting and making eyes at some piece of shit, that he could be touching you and fucking you and making you scream out a name that isn’t Osamu fucking Miya – the paranoia is really rather extreme, the deeply rooted fear forcing him to get more serious much quicker than he’d expected.
Soon he’s not only asking who you’ll be with, but where you’re going, how long you’ll be out, what you’re expecting to do, when you think you’ll be home, where and when to be checking your phone for texts or calls from him.
You’ll think it’s strange, confusing why he’s being so weirdly protective over you (and being so damn insistent, as he’s literally grasping your hands in his and forcing you to repeat back a promise to check yer damn phone every five minutes, what if something happened? Ya understand, right? I have to be able to check in with ya when I need to.), but, just like before, you’ll just brush it off, nodding hesitantly and slipping out the door, unease crawling up your spine.
You’ll slowly come to feel as if Osamu is suffocating you, his presence overwhelming and always there, as if there’s no escape from his probing questions, his insistence on you always contacting him (though, the tracker he’s placed on your phone makes it so that his demands to update him on your location via text aren’t really necessary, but it makes him feel better).
And from there, things only get more extreme – he’s catching your wrist as you go to pluck a piece of fruit out of the pile, narrow gray eyes watching you as he tells you to choose something healthier, why don’t I just make ya somethin’ to eat?
He’s sighing and blocking the door when you leave the living area, telling you to sit down and drink the glass of water he’d given you before you go lay down in bed, before you use the restroom, before you shower or brush your teeth or yawn or speak.
He quickly becomes the sole dictator of your life, making you ask permission for every little thing, making you feel subservient and below him, making you feel as if you’re nothing without him, as if you can’t properly take care of yourself without his guidance, without him metaphorically (and literally) spoon feeding you.
And frankly, as irritating and terrifying as it is, it’s difficult to get mad at him – after all, Osamu doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. It’s not even about explicitly controlling you for him; it’s more about making sure you’re his and that no one else can get to you, to make sure that you aren’t being swept away or stolen by anyone else.
And of course, it’s to get you trusting him, relying on him, needing him, because isn’t that what relationships are about? Mutual love, dependence, desperation?
Protective
Going hand in hand with his paranoia and controlling tendencies, Osamu views you as someone who, despite your best efforts, isn’t really able to take care of yourself. He trusts you and loves you, at least as much as he can given his staggering devotion to you, and yet he doesn’t inherently trust you with you, with your health and safety and care.
No, that’s his job, him as the man and your caretaker and the only one who can actually take care of you, who can adhere to your every need, whether you’re aware of it or not.
He’s fairly domestic at heart, loving the softer moments, and you’ll notice this extremely early on with his obsession with you. He’s always trying to cook you things, and while it’s sweet, soon it’ll start getting a bit weird.
He’s got a full course meal for you every lunch, always your favorite foods cooked exactly how you like them despite never mentioning it to him in more than passing. He’s raising his chopsticks and telling you to say ahh, his voice soft and gooey, practically purring at you. He’s placing the sushi against your tongue and smiling boyishly at you, his cheeks dusted pink while pride swirls in his chest that you’re eating his food.
It’s sweet, at first, and damn can he cook, but once he starts showing up at your door with breakfast and dinner as well, inviting himself inside to eat with you and your family, chatting up your father and helping your mother cook, you’ll start growing uncomfortable, unsure of why he’s there.
You won’t know why he seems to care so much and why he’s subtly tapping your wrist under the dinner table, smiling softly and telling you to slow down a bit, you’ll choke if ya keep eatin’ like that.
It’s strange and it’ll feel beyond out of place, but Osamu is a charmer. He may not be as obvious or charismatic as his twin, but your parents will quickly be won over, everyone around you telling you how good of a person he is, how he’s such a catch, how he’s so sweet to you, won’t you just give him a chance?
He’s always pulling you closer to him, keeping you by his side so that you don’t stray too far, keeping a hand on your wrist or shoulder or waist or back, warm fingers pressing into your body as a discreet but strong reminder that he’s right there.
He’s grasping your hips as he maneuvers you to the side to avoid the crack in the sidewalk, sending you a strangely shy, boyish smile as his cheeks turn pink and he murmurs something about you being oblivious as hell, yer always getting’ hurt.
He’s quick to grab your wrist when you’re opening doors or grabbing something sharp or hot, sending you a small look as he does it for you, murmuring something under his breath about you being too delicate, can’t have ya doing something so dangerous.
He’s genuinely concerned about your health and safety, truly – he doesn’t mean to be overbearing. He’s not trying to be condescending by saying that you’re incapable of doing anything substantial on your own; of course not! He’s just concerned that you tend to be clumsier than he’d like, and what would happen if you tripped and skinned your knee, broke your arm, got a life threatening concussion that altered your life forever?
(Or, worse yet, made you forget about him?)
He’s just doing what he thinks of best, and the trouble with Osamu is that while he’s not particularly delusional, he’s also not particularly great at seeing the reality behind his actions. He knows he’s a bit more overboard on his protectiveness over you than he should be, but he’s able to honestly write it off as being chivalrous, as being a good, caring partner.
He thinks he’s being romantic and exactly what you want when he cuts the crusts of your sandwiches off for you (even if you didn’t ask).
He thinks he’s being attractive when he doesn’t let you package your own leftovers from the restaurants, claiming the food is ‘too hot’ even though it came out more than forty five minutes ago.
He’s just trying to help, and he’d never be able to forgive himself if you were hurt when he could’ve prevented it – after all, what does that say about his ability to take care of you? Does he even deserve to call himself yours if he can’t keep you from getting bruised or scraped?
Would you even want him if he can’t protect you like a man should?
Obsessive
Generally speaking, Osamu’s devotion to you knows no bounds.
He’s busy with his restaurant, cooking orders and managing paperwork, but in between shaping the rice and signing his name, every single thought is aimed towards you. He’s constantly idly wondering about what you’re doing, what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking, whether you’re happy or sad or whether you miss him.
He likes to imagine the way you look at any given moment you’re apart; he’ll imagine the soft smile on your face as you see a particularly cute pet when you walk down the street, your fingers itching to reach out and give it some love.
He’ll imagine the way you’d sigh to yourself and roll your eyes when your coworkers are being annoying again; he’s told you so many fucking times to just quit so you don’t have to worry about it anymore, but you always refuse and laugh him off.
(It pisses him off that you so lightly reject his advice; can’t you see how being there is ruining your mental health? Can you not see how it’s deteriorating you, how you’re so much more stressed now, how the money isn’t worth your time? It infuriates him, and he’s sure that once you’re living together, your full time job will be taking care of the house, not your own finances. He’ll cover that, so don’t you worry your pretty little head.)
He’s imagining the way you shrug on your jacket, zipping it up until it stops right below your nose because it’s fucking cold outside, how you’d look like a cute little hedgehog all wrapped up for winter – no doubt warm and soft and perfect to hold in his arms.
He’s always thinking of you in sweet, domestic situations; you’re just too adorable to him, and it’s always been his fantasy to find a partner and live out those horribly cliché romantic tropes he always sees in TV or reads in books.
He wants to be the one spoon feeding you warm soup on cold days, watching as you flutter your lashes shyly at him and compliment to new recipe he tried out (or, more accurately, the recipe he made up knowing your favorite ingredients).
He likes to think about waking up in the mornings with you, the sunlight streaming onto your face as you let out soft little breaths and even the occasional snore, making his nose scrunch up and a snort leave his laugh because fuck, he’s heard that nose through your window for years and now that it’s right in front of him?
He’s imagining falling asleep with you, too, helping you with the skin routine he demands you set up and carry out with him – he wants to have dozens of photos on his phone of you making a kissy face in the mirror with him, a white mask covering your skin and making you look like some sort of slasher serial killer.
He’s plagued by thoughts and fantasies of you in every shape and form. (Some much, much more explicit than the kind, domestic ones – images of you on your knees with cum dripping down your chin and onto your tits, your fingers holding open your pussy and turning away your head in embarrassment as he stares from above you on the bed, the way you’d wantonly moan out his name and scratch down his back because he just feels too damn good.)
And so, the basis of his obsession with you starts out almost immediately with gathering information about you.
He wants to fantasize these sweet (and not-so-sweet) moments with you, but in order to this he needs to know more, to learn more. He wants to know everything he possibly can; when do you fall asleep at night?
Do you spend hours staring at your phone in the darkness of your bedroom, or are you out the moment your head hits the pillow?
What kind of food do you like?
Do you eat breakfast, and if so how would you feel about breakfast in bed, with you woken up to the scent of freshly scrambled eggs and a few (much too heated) kisses to your forehead by Osamu himself?
Do you prefer to spend time with others or by yourself?
Are you an animal person, and if so would you consider getting a pet with him as a trial run for your first child?
He wants to know every possible detail there is about you – and he’s frighteningly good at it. He’s just so unsuspecting; he’s nice, funny, a stand-out guy to everyone that knows him, and why would you have reason to think any differently?
Sure, it may be slightly offputting with how insistent he is that he’s always with you and making sure others don’t get close to you, but you’ll answer every question he throws at you.
After all, it may seem a bit odd to be asked what your greatest fear is, but you’ll just at him and puzzle over the answer, pressing a finger to your lip as you hum in thought.
It may be strange initially to be bombarded with so many questions about your future plans (where do you want to live? What do you see as your ideal marriage? Your ideal house? Your ideal number of children? Could you see yourself becoming a housewife or a stay at home mother?), but you’ll shrug off the sense of unease coiling at your shoulders and answer him honestly, because that’s just what friends do.
However, once his questions start teetering to a more questionable side, things that you don’t feel comfortable sharing with him, with another man, red flags may begin appearing for you. After all, why does he need to know your bra size?
The package of fancy lingerie that appears on your front door the next day in delicate lace of your favorite color surely can’t be connected to him, right? Even if the fit is perfect?
Why does he need to know how heavy your periods are; what knowledge could that serve him?
(Quite a bit actually, if the some twenty boxes of pads, tampons, and menstrual cups he’s hoarded into his closet in his apartment is any indicator.)
You’ll slowly grows confused by his efforts to know more and more, but Osamu is slick; he’s good at keeping information at bay, at comforting your fears because he's just such a nice guy, now won’t you please take another sip of your beer and tell him what position gets you seeing stars every time?
He just loves you, and he expresses his love by overfilling his brain with information of his favorite variety – you.
DEALING WITH RIVALS
While it would be a stretch to say Osamu never feels jealousy, he wouldn’t be lying if he said that the majority of his unease with other men earning your attention lies from the perspective of simply wanting to protect you.
Of course, he doesn’t like the possibility of your attention and love deviating away from him, your pretty eyes no longer focused on his, your smiles and laughter no longer aimed at his words and jokes. He likes that you seem to like him – he needs you to like him, after all, but that isn’t the entirety of what fuels his jealousy.
No, it’s the paranoia that eats away at him every time he sees you in public with any number of other people around you. He knows what kinds of monsters a lot of men are – he went to school with a number of them, and while he considers his friends to be good guys, even his closest companions have said questionable things over the years.
Hell, he’s though some questionable things over the years – of course, he’d never act on them, but idle thoughts of wow, she’s got nice tits or those pants are tight, wish she’d bend over again shocking him and making his cheeks flush red. He always feels guilty, immediately leaving the room and not able to look the woman in the eye ever again, but if he, Osamu Miya, someone who likes to think of himself as a feminist and non-threatening to women, is capable of such thoughts?
Then what do the men that don’t hold themselves to higher standards think? What kind of sick, perverse thoughts are rolling through their heads when they see a pretty woman nearby, a pretty woman like you?
It makes his skin crawl to just think about it, and so while he knows that rationally four out of five men would never hurt you, there’s always the what if eating at the back of his mind. He likes to think of himself as a the chivalrous, traditional male partner who cares for and protects his lover, and what kind of a man would he be if he wasn’t able to keep vicious hands – and heaven forbid, cocks – away from you?
What does that say about his ability to protect you, his ability to keep you happy and safe by his side? And so, while jealousy happens to him fairly often, most of the time it’s an ugly mix of his own personal jealousy, his protectiveness, and pure selfishness that cause him to tense up and watch the scene with an extra careful eye.
Towards the beginning of his obsession with you, Osamu was much more reluctant to actually interfere in situations in which he suspected something bad may happen. Of course, the moment anything bad actually did happen, like the man talking to you and reaching out to touch your shoulder, forced him to spring to life, to come to your aid and make him out to be not only the knight and shining armor, but also to get you out of that situation.
He’ll always remember the first time he did this – you ‘d been cornered by a man at a park while Osamu ‘happened’ – at least, you think it was an accidental meeting – to be passing through. The man had been sneering at you and backed you up against a tree in a less populated area, with no one seeming to notice.
You’d been visibly scared; shoulders tensed up and little stuttered pleas for him to move falling past your lips, but the man didn’t seem to care – or maybe, didn’t seem to mind. He’d been quick to swoop in, stepping between you and the man, and while Osamu doesn’t quite have the same physique as he did in high school, his height and the still very clear muscles coating his arms were enough to have the man scuttering off, spitting at the ground and glaring at Osamu.
He’d immediately turned around to help calm you down, leaning down and placing his hands on your shoulders, and it’s safe to say that the way you hugged him and whispered your thanks only further cemented his obsession for you – if you were to ask in the future, that’s the moment he’d say he knew he was in love with you.
And so, after that initial turning point, Osamu hasn’t hesitated much when it comes to defending you against unwanted (or, even wanted) attention from men – it’s his job, after all, and the reward of you clinging to him is so damn worth it.
The bell chimes right as expected, Osamu’s back facing the door to Onigiri Miya.
He can’t help the wide grin that takes over his features, even as he tries to bite it back so as to not lose his cool. He’s sure a flush is coating his cheeks; you always come in around five o’clock on Wednesdays like today, ordering your usual – onigiris that Osamu makes specially for you, but would never tell you is only willing to make for you.
He’s molding the rice with his hands at the counter, grateful for the open concept kitchen and eating area because as he turns around and sees you walking up to the register, the breath gets sucked out of his lungs.
Fuck, you’re so pretty.
And you’re looking right at him – chuckling as you call his name and wave your hand again, breaking him of the stupor he’d been trapped in. He clears his throat in embarrassment and fixes his cap, wiping down his hands on his pants as he approaches the register.
You greet him and give him your order, mentioning off-handedly you’ve been looking forward to his food all day – it must’ve been the only thing that got you through work, you’re sure. Osamu’s heart melts in his chest, the feeling in his fingers fully gone as he lets the compliment sink in, but he’s almost on autopilot as he rings you up and takes the money from your hand, already pushing the tray containing the onigiri your way.
(He’d already had it prepared, something you asked with a laugh as you took the tray, though you’d turned on your heel after thinking him before you could hear his small, vulnerable of course.)
His shift takes what seems like forever after that – he’s trying to focus on cooking, on making sure the seaweed lays perfectly against the rice, the filling being mixed to perfection, not letting any customers wait too long at the register, but it’s hard.
It’s hard to not watch the way you enjoy your food as you sit at the table by the window, the overcast sky shining in on you and making you seem to glow.
It’s also hard to ignore the way the man at the table next to you keeps sneaking glances at you, and when he opens his mouth to finally speak to you once you’re roughly halfway through your food, Osamu’s hand involuntarily crushes the rice in its grasp.
He curses under his breath as he sets it aside, perking his ears up and straining to hear the conversation. He’s flirting, Osamu realizes with a gut-wrenching feeling in his stomach – and badly, too. All compliments about your looks; you’re looking pretty today, love that skirt on you. Do you work out? You’ve got great legs. Osamu feels a shiver roll down his spine, and suddenly the mishappen rice is forgotten as he can only stare at the interaction, feeling his body temperature rising rapidly the longer the stranger talks.
You laugh weakly at the man’s comment, clearly uncomfortable as you shift in your seat to get further away from the man who’s clearly leaning in towards you. Your fingers tap nervously against the table you’re seated at, the shop suddenly feeling much too empty to you.
Oh, uh, that’s very nice of you… you trail off, hoping to end the conversation in its tracks. Unfortunately for you, the man doesn’t seem to pick up your hint.
He resumes on, rambling on about his own workout regimen, even going so far as to pull back the sleeve of his t-shirt and flex, cocking a brow at you and offering to let you touch his bicep.
You refuse, as politely as you can, and turn back to face your food. This seems to displease the man, and Osamu watches with a sharp, dangerous inhale of breath as the man reaches over and grabs your hand, setting it on his arm as he murmurs out a doesn’t it feel good –
Osamu’s moving before he knows it, having jumped the counter and practically sprinting to reach you. His wrist slaps away the man’s hand, your own fingers retracting immediately. He stares down in anger, disgust, barely contained rage, watching as the stranger’s lips part, anger and fear swimming in the man’s black eyes. Get out. Harassment is not tolerated in this restaurant. Get the fuck out, and don’t ever come back.
His voice is deep, the scariest you’ve ever heard it, and for a moment even you’re terrified – of Osamu, of all people.
But it seems to do the trick; the man is out of his chair in an instant, almost cowering away as he shakes his head and haughtily scoffs, walking towards the exit and keeping his shoulders taut all for show.
Osamu growls, before spinning on his heel and facing you, his hands on your shoulders as he searches your eyes with his own. He asks frantically if you’re okay, bombarding you with questions while you simply stare, before lunging at him and wrapping your arms around him, your shoulders shaking slightly as you whisper your thanks over and over. Osamu freezes for a moment, a pink flush spreading across the plains of his cheeks, before his arms return the embrace, squeezing you so much it nearly hurts.
He stays like that for who knows how long, before you pull back and he begrudgingly lets you go. You gulp and tell him you’re okay, that you’ll just finish this last bit of onigiri and then you’ll be off, and Osamu only nods, a displeased look on his face.
He scruffs your hair as he stands up, smirking down at you as you whine a bit, before he steps out the door, following the path he’d seen the man take.
It’s not hard to find him, nor is it hard to shove him against the alley wall, his fist meeting flesh once, twice, five times as the howls in pain. He’s clutching his face in his hands and crouching down by the time Osamu is done with him, but all the chef can do is spit at him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and cursing under his breath.
Disgusting, treating women like that. Especially my women. Don’t you ever fucking come back, or next time I’ll kill ya. I’m dead serious. Yer fucking dead.
He seems happier when he steps back inside the shop, sending you a little wave to which you return, unknowingly making his heart flutter and his resolve harden.
Yeah, he’d do whatever it takes to make you safe and happy – even if it means roughing up his own criminal record.
TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY
To be quite honest, the prospect of kidnapping you occurs to Osamu disturbingly quickly.
He’s always seen himself as wanting to end up with a partner one day – a pretty wife that he cherishes and who cherishes him back. He wants to live in a nice, downtown apartment a few blocks away from his restaurant, the whole place painted shades of white and gray (he’d never admit it, but just to match his hair and because his skin tone looks best against the color), with maybe a cat or child running around not too long after.
It’s a fantasy, pure and simple, but while little fourteen year old him was embarrassed to be daydreaming about such a sappy idea (Atsumu had been more than willing to make him aware of how weird this was when he’d accidentally let it slip at sixteen), the embarrassment has faded with age until Osamu began viewing the idea as less of a desire and more of a sure aspect of his future.
And so, once his feelings of such magnitude for you form, you seem to fit perfectly into this image he’s built in his mind.
You’d be such a good partner – he’d love to live by your side, sharing the dinner table with you, a bed, a shower, even a toothbrush if you wanted to. (And in case you’re wondering, yes, he wants to.)
It’s remarkably easy to imagine stepping into a bath tub with you, his bare chest against your bare back as you lean against him, letting your wet hair fall over his shoulders and his chin hook above your head. He'd rub his arms up and down your shoulders, admiring the way you shiver in his touch before relaxing, the heat of the water making your muscles loosen as the shiny diamond on your ring finger winks up at him, validation that you’re his, that he earned you.
It’s surprisingly easy to imagine poking your nose with a dollop of whip cream as he makes a batch of eclairs, seeing the way your nose scrunches up and you giggle, wiping it off your skin and instead placing it on his lips, following it up with a kiss and mischievous tongue that licks away all the cream.
It’s disturbingly easy to picture the way you’d breathlessly whisper to him that the test is positive – we’re – you’re – you’re gonna be a dad, ‘Samu.
You just fit the entire fantasy oh so perfectly, and so it just feels natural to substitute in your form whenever he finds himself idly daydreaming about his future. It’s mostly during long shifts at the restaurant or late nights alone in his bed that the thoughts come, but after only about two months of his obsession reaching it’s full fledged rage that the notion that he needs to live out these fantasies really solidifies.
No longer is it something he sees himself eventually doing – no, he will be living out his hopes for his future life, and you will be the one doing it with him. And so, while he’d ideally have you consenting to this and choosing to move in with him, Osamu isn’t above forcing you, either.
Of course, he’ll ask you first; it’s intended to be casual, the way he brings up moving in together, your brows shooting up in confusion because we’re not dating, ‘Samu, right? So why would we move in together…?
And really, you don’t have to remind him of that – you’re practically dating, aren’t you? With the amount of time you spend together, the longing glances he gives you that he swears are returned, and the way you melt into his touch when he gives you what you think is a friendly hug or kiss on the cheek.
You’re basically already together – which is why Osamu decides that sure, you may be pissed at him for the first few days, weeks, hopefully not months of being his captive, eventually you’ll come around. You seem to have a soft spot for him, and he can treat you like he should – he promises.
He can make you happy, in ways you’ve never been happy before.
And really, as much as you won’t want to admit it, Osamu is right.
You are mad when you first wake up to a semi-familiar but not quite known bedroom, your chest rising and falling rapidly because this isn’t your home. You don’t remember going home with anyone the night before, so where are you?
It’s only once Osamu slips into the room, his face lighting up at seeing you awake that the pieces slowly start connecting, the lock he sets into place on the door’s deadbolt making panic eat away at your gut.
You’re mad, enraged, terrified, and all Osamu can do as you struggle and yell at him to let you go is sigh and nod his head, telling you that it’s okay, I understand this is scary, but it’s what’s best for you. For us.
Of course, that doesn’t get you any calmer – you’re quick to spit out allegations of him being crazy, telling him that there is no ‘us’, that it’s not okay for him to be locking you away with him for the rest of your life – as he so brazenly tells you.
Osamu is patient, though, at least at the start. He’s not delusional enough to believe that you’d be happy the moment you wake up in your new home, that everything would be rainbows and butterflies.
However, Osamu does eventually expect you to straighten up; maybe it’ll be Stockholm Syndrome, maybe it’ll be those feelings of attraction you’d held for him before being stolen away resurfacing once more.
Frankly, he doesn’t care – all he cares about is now you’re in his grasp, by his side, where he can keep you safe, secure, and his. And safe he’ll make sure you are; the entire house is nearly babyproofed, because while he doesn’t think of you as an infant or treat you like one, there’s a part of him that’s too terrified that you’ll see the knife and start getting ideas.
He’s scared that if he doesn’t have covers on all the outlets, you’ll take the fork and jam it in as far as you can go, hoping your heart will eventually stop beating. The thought is too much for him to bear, and so he’d begun planning to make his apartment (in a very exclusive part of town, thanks to Atsumu’s connections, complete with soundproof walls and more square footage than he could ever hope to use) as perfectly fit for the both of you as early as he could.
And so, once you wake up that fateful morning to his bedsheets, you don’t really have a chance at escaping. And despite being kidnapped, you’ll find that you don’t particularly want to; you don’t have too much anonymity, but at least Osamu respects you enough to let you do your basic hygiene alone.
He’s not accompanying you to the toilet, nor does he brush your teeth for you, nor does he dress you himself. Of course, he’d love to do any number of these things, but he still sees you as your own, respectable person – just a person that needs him, is all.
Some things Osamu will still force you to include him in, though; showering is an activity that is always done together, your wet, nude bodies hovering close as he runs the loofah over your back, dipping dangerously close to your ass as he breaths a heavy kiss against the shell of your ear.
Cooking is an event that while he mostly does alone (he doesn’t trust you with a knife yet), you’ll be seated at the dining room table, expected to keep him company while he flies around the counters with pots and pans.
He’s really not too terrible of a captor, really. He’s pretty physically affectionate with you, always pressing kisses against the crown of your head, your fingers, your thighs, your lips and neck, and his arms are always around your waist while he sighs and relaxes against you.
He’s touchy, yes, but every amenity under the sun will be yours when you’re under his roof – nice TV’s with access to every streaming platform you could want, because he knows you get hankerings for programs that are difficult to find.
You’ll have exquisite food, always prepared by him and hand made with love (and perhaps, other things as well, though you’d rather die than find out the secret ingredient of his famous fried rice).
You’ll have an assortment of fluffy, warm sweaters (all of which have been worn by Osamu and spritzed with his cologne, just to get you falling in love with his scent), and all the blankets and stuffed animals you could ever want.
He wants to spoil you, and his only rules are pretty easy to follow; obey him, don’t try to escape, and don’t try to do anything that could hurt you.
It’s not horribly complex, is it?
It’s really not, and after a while of being stuck with Osamu as your only human contact, his kind words, compliments, gentle touches and earnest desire to please you, you’ll slowly find yourself letting your guard down, developing begrudgingly loving feelings towards him. You’ll hate it at first, hate both himself and yourself, but at the end of the day you really don’t have a choice.
Because while Osamu may chastise you for attempting to crack your neck (you’ll break it, baby, don’t crack it like that) or wear something light weight when the heating is broken for a few days in January (put on yer jacket or my sweatshirt, can’t have you walking around in shorts and a t-shirt for Christs’s sake), it’s difficult to ignore the way he looks at you with such reverence and devotion.
And while it may have scared you at first, eventually you’ll come around to it – isn’t it nice to know how much Osamu needs you? Isn’t it nice to feel wanted and desired, to know you’re the reason your captor is living, breathing, smiling?
It’s a head-fuck, sure, but who cares? All you’ll ever know for the rest of your life is Osamu Miya, so why not make the best of it?
PUNISHMENTS
For the most part, it’s true that Osamu is a fairly lenient captor.
He’s not particularly harsh nor demanding, and he does genuinely want to see you smile and return his feelings. Those fantasies of having a loving domestic life with you that he’s harbored for so long bar him from any truly atrocious acts, like burning you or leaving scars on your pretty body.
He doesn’t want to hurt you, not only because it would ruin his fantasies of being your perfect, caring lover, but also because he’d never be able to live with himself if he knew he was the reason for you being in pain. He’s driven to madness by his love for you, but he’s still not fully detached from reality – he knows that causing you pain is wrong, particularly physical pain. He’d be no worse than all those men he was trying to keep you away from when he was still developing his feelings for you.
And so, Osamu tries to give you as much freedom as he can within reason. You’re obviously not allowed to venture into the real world by yourself, nor are you allowed to do anything he deems dangerous (though, while belittling at times, eventually you’ll start to agree that it is dangerous for you to handle knives and razors, that you should just let him cut your apples and shave your legs).
You’re not allowed to disobey him, either, because if there’s one thing Osamu can’t tolerate from you, it’s disrespect or purposefully going against his words.
He doesn’t particularly enjoy brats, and he wants to be able to trust you to keep yourself out of harm’s way; it would save so many stress induced headaches, his eyes wearily watching the clock as he desperately wishes time would hurry up so he could close up shop and head home to you. He’s not super strict, and frankly it’s pretty easy to placate him – just hug him and compliment him, tell him you appreciate everything he does for you, and let him pamper you for a while.
He’s more than happy to take care of you; grabbing water and whipping up a nearly Michelin level meal of your favorite foods, with a yummy dessert for the both of you to share.
(With only one spoon, of course.)
He’ll turn on your favorite movie and have you lean back against his chest, his fingers idly massaging at your scalp as you watch the bright colors and action, familiar with every line and making him chuckle as you recite it.
He’ll lift the covers over your tired form when you’re about to fall asleep, diving down below them as he trails kisses down your stomach and between your legs, wanting you to fall asleep while feeling good, even if it leaves him hanging and having to either fuck his fist or your pretty thighs while you sleep.
And so, you’ll discover it’s actually pretty hard to tick Osamu off enough to get him to punish you – but when you do, he’s remarkably good at shutting down the behavior, even if it kills him to do so.
Osamu’s always known he’s soft on you; he doesn’t claim to pretend that he’s the traditional man of the household, putting you into your place so that you’re always the subservient woman.
No, if anything, Osamu plays both roles – being the strong man in the relationship, and caring to your every whim and need. And so, while it makes his heart ache and his gut wrench in agony to do it, he knows that the best way to punish you is to stop taking care of you.
He thinks the fastest way to show you that he’s your everything is to stop being it for a while – not cooking for you, not holding you in his arms, not engaging you in conversation and asking about your day, not giving you more attention than you would ever know what to do with.
It hurts him (more than it hurts you, if we’re being honest), but it’s the only way – and so, as Osamu watches in displeasure as you shake your head at him, he’s internally sighing. You’d refused to let him bathe you again – you’d been feeling rebellious lately, and while you’d only been with him for about a month – not nearly long enough for the Stockholm Syndrome to set in to the degree he wanted it to – he was starting to get sick of it.
Can’t you see he just wants to give you the proper love and care you deserve? It’s so hard to properly wash yourself, and it’s such a sweet, intimate moment to let him take control of your body, to run the soap through your hair and down the expanse of your arms and legs. Your rejection of bathing feels like a rejection of him, and so he merely nods his head, those gray eyes fixed on you.
Okay, he tells you, sitting up from the dinner table.
The barely touched food in front of you is snatched away from you in the blink of an eyes, being scraped into the garbage bin before you can even utter a word.
You’re confused, your rebellious flare dying down as you stare at him, unsure of what he’s doing. Osamu doesn’t say anything more, merely washing the plates in the sink while willing himself to not glance at you.
(It takes an inhumane amount of self-restrain to accomplish this task, as he’s so used to stealing looks at you nearly every minute of the day, too mesmerized by your beauty to do anything more than gape like a fish, but he manages.)
And maybe it’s petty, but hearing the way you mutter his name has his resolve hardening, because fuck, you’re already cracking.
Once the dishes are done, he dries his hands and whistles a tune to himself, heading down the hallway to his office. Paperwork is strewn across the wooden top, evidence of the way he’d been procrastinating for days on doing it in favor of spending time with you, but now is the perfect time. With a heavy sigh, he plops down into his rolling chair, picking up the pen and getting to work signing and approving business transactions, visualizing where he wants the company to be this time next year.
He slowly grows immersed in the work, having chanted to himself too heavily at the start of the paperwork to ignore you, ignore you, make her dependent on you by ignoring her needs, it’s the only way.
And so, when you peek into his office room, biting your lip in worry, Osamu genuinely doesn’t notice. You’re not sure what’s going on – he’s never this dismissive of you, always asking you if you’re hungry or need anything, if you’d like to read a book together or take a nap.
He’s never gone this long with at least smiling at you, and while it’d likely only been forty five minutes since you’d told him in a moment of bravery that you didn’t want to bathe with him, it feels like a lifetime.
You watch for a few moments, before carefully sitting yourself in the plush armchair in the corner of the room, situated so that you’re watching his back as his pen flies across the paper and his finger across the calculator.
At some point, Osamu notices your presence, but he steels himself to remain visibly ignorant to you and your eyes that seem to be boring into him.
Soon he finishes for the night, groaning as he stretches his shoulders and arms, but as he gets up to leave he doesn’t bother to spare you a glance.
You heart aches; are you missing him? The thought has you biting your lip harshly, tears stinging at your eyes at the realization, but before you can anything you hear Osamu turn the faucet on the bath on, the sound of rushing water making you stiffen up. Perhaps… if you want his attention back, maybe you’d have to…?
Osamu's brows are tightly drawn as he strips himself of his clothing and steps into the tub, trying to let the warm water relax his tense muscles. He peeks at the (purposefully) open door to his left, wishing that you’d appear, but after five minutes of you not showing up, Osamu sighs.
This is the right thing to do, he just knows it – how else is he supposed to get you dependent on him, on his love and protection? He knows it, he swears, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, that his lungs don’t feel like they’re crushing under the weight of his heartache –
He’s brought out of his reverie as he feels a poke at his hand, opening his previously closed eyes to see you standing next to him, a nervous and somewhat embarrassed look on your face.
With a start, Osamu notices that your cheeks are wet and your eyes still a bit red, and immediately guilt is crashing into him; he made you cry, fuck. He blinks at you, trying to keep his face emotionless, and watches as you gulp.
I-um, can I get in with you? You’re asking in such a quiet, unsure voice, and for a moment Osamu threatens to break his careless façade, the urge to swoon at your cuteness nearly too much to handle.
He blinks once more, prompting you to keep speaking.
You play with your fingers as you stare down at them, letting the words fall off your tongue. ‘m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a brat. I’m just – I don’t know. I’m scared, ‘Samu, of how I’m feeling. You stole me away, and I’m not supposed to love you or even like you, but I don’t think I hate you anymore. I think – I don’t know, it’s confusing, but I think that I’m starting to need you.
Osamu’s heart is racing in his chest, your admission making his chest flush bright red, joy eating away at him because are you being honest?
Are you speaking from the heart?
The way you look so frustrated at yourself tells him that you are, and with a swallow much too loud to be unheard by you, Osamu speaks. Do ya understand that I’m just trying to take care of ya?
You quickly nod, chancing a glance at him, only to find his gaze stuck on you, the intensity making you shrink back.
It’s silent for a moment, before Osamu’s face splits into the softest, happiest smile you think you’ve ever seen, his arms opening wide as the water splashes lightly against his chest. Hurry up, cold water’s no fun to be in.
Your lips part and your eyes widen, and quickly you’re stripping off your clothes, too relieved at the way he’s looking at you to be embarrassed as every inch of yourself is revealed to his prying gaze. Soon you’re clambering in, burying your face into his neck and wrapping your arms around his torso, letting him return the embrace as you whisper against his skin.
I’m sorry ‘Samu, I know you love me and just want me to be safe, I’m sorry I acted out. I won’t do it again, just – just please, don’t ignore me. I need you too badly for that.
Osamu’s never had such a warm, pleasant feeling sit in his stomach before, and neither has he had such wonderful, romantic sex in his life as that night – with you clutching at him, not letting a single inch of space between your bodies, his name rolling off your tongue in waves as you came again and again and again, all for him.
OVERALL DANGER
Overall danger rating: 6/10
Osamu isn’t too terribly dangerous.
As far as yanderes go, he’s somewhat tame; he’s mostly just extremely devoted to your safety, and in turn devoted to making sure he knows everything about you so that he can properly fulfill his duty as your lover.
He’s a bit of a sucker at heart, and so while he’s capable of hurting others on your behalf (and isn’t afraid to do so, if he feels your safety is being threatened), Osamu treats you with delicacy.
You’re precious to him, something he can think of as truly and wonderfully his; he doesn’t have to share you with another soul on this planet, and he cherishes the idea of being your one and only in the same way. He’s lovestruck, truly, and while his protective tendencies may scare you at times, it’s truly coming from a (mostly) good place.
He just wants you to be safe and happy and his, and so while it likely doesn’t win him many points to be relocating you to his apartment, chasing off any rivals for your affection, time, or attention, Osamu sees it as a necessary evil.
He’s always wanted to have and be a loving partner, and you’re the one he’s decided has to be it. So while he may not be the traditional knight in shining armor, all Osamu cares about is you falling for him, just as you should.
All he wants is for your dependence on him to grow, so that the two of your can be mutually addicted to one another, unable to go nary an hour without at least some form of contact, be that a smile, a touch, a kiss, or feeling your wonderful, perfect little cunt squeezing around him.
Osamu just loves you, and try all you can, but eventually you’ll return his feelings. And how could you not?
There’s something wrong with him, yes, but have you ever felt so loved?
Have you ever felt so seen, validated, wanted?
You never have, and you never will, so just accept it. Accept him.
Warnings: stalking, kidnapping, extreme spoiling/forced financial dependence, guilt tripping, desperation, jealousy, mentions of dub-con and masturbation, mentions of forced physical affection, mentions of creeps, fem reader, MDNI
I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!
DARLING PROFILE:
Sweet
Aran himself is naturally quite nice, despite his penchant for not putting up with other peoples’ bullshit. He’s able to stand up for himself, but he’s never been particularly fond of people who are mean just for the sake of it. He can appreciate a funny joke, a biting comment here or there, but someone who’s entire personality is based off of this? Not so much.
And so, a darling who is naturally quite kind is a perfect match for Aran – he thinks of his beloved as innocent, a little lamb he must protect, and whether this visage of innocence is real or not, Aran believes it to be so. All it takes is a few compliments, a few sweet smiles, some kind favors, anything showcasing his darling’s kindness, really, and Aran is smitten.
And how can he not be?
How can he not imagine how wonderful it would be to spoil someone so kind and compassionate, to reward them for rewarding others? He views himself as hid darling’s protector, and it melts his heart to see his beloved caring for other people, even if it causes these same protective tendencies to flare up when others take advantage of them.
He can’t not imagine how wonderful of a partner his darling would be, the compliments slipping past their lips making his cheeks feel hot and his chest lighter than air. He can’t not imagine how wonderful it would be to wake up beside his darling in the early morning, to feel their soft breaths against him, to have their soft, supple body pressed against his own in ways that make him groan, his own body oh so aware of them? How can he not imagine how kind and loving his darling would be towards their children, a few little copies of the two of them running around, laughing and giggling and calling them mama, Aran being daddy…
It’s the stuff of his deepest hopes for the future, and having a kind darling plays into these fantasies – so while Aran could fall for a meaner darling, it’s unlikely. He wants to protect his sweet baby, and give them the protection, love and devotion they deserve – he’s just rewarding them for everything they earn, after all.
Passionate
Aran’s hobby has been volleyball for as long as he can remember. He’s always loved the sport; playing it, watching it, talking about it, even just being in the gym makes him happy.
And so, a darling that has a similar sort of passion would make Aran’s obsession grow tenfold.
It doesn’t have to be volleyball, or even a sport – any sort of activity that makes his darling happy makes Aran happy. (Arguably even more happy, because watching his darling smile and get lost in their own little world as they practice the hobby has him staring like a lovesick fool, his lips parted and brows tilted in, his throat feeling tight because fuck, how can someone be so damn adorable?)
It could be anything at all – writing, cooking, playing the trumpet, watercolors, reviewing movies, fashion, anything at all. Aran just loves the idea of his darling loving something, and he’ll eagerly ask them about anything he can involving the passion. He's asking what got them into it over dinner, asking to see, hear, taste or watch some of their creations as they give him a tour of their modest apartment.
(He’s watching them nervously show off their hobby, but inside he’s cooing at how adorably embarrassed they are, because no one has ever taken such an intense interest in their passion before, and he can tell they’re nervous that they’re boring him, that he’s losing interest and thinking they’re weird, even though the truth couldn’t be further from it.)
He’s asking his darling to teach him the basics, to learn to sketch a circle or knit a few stitches or play a scale on the piano. He just wants to be involved in his darling’s hobby, mostly because he loves watching the way their eyes light up as they indulge themselves in it, their whole body language brightening up, only furthering his love because fuck, he wants them to look like that one day when Aran himself is on their mind.
He wants to be his darling’s passion one day, just as they are his, but for the meantime he doesn’t mind watching – they’re just so damn cute, after all.
Bookworm
This isn’t something that Aran must have in a partner, but it’s certainly a plus for him.
He’s always been attracted to softer, quieter people, and having a darling fits this mold is a dream come true for him. And to further exemplify the stereotype, Aran particularly likes those are deeply interested in literature.
The genre doesn’t matter – it could be hardcore fantasy books, cliché romances, historical non-fiction, or anything in between. He doesn’t care, just as long as they enjoy picking up a book and curling up under a blanket to read.
He himself isn’t too much of a reader, but he loves to imagine his darling snuggled up on a couch or in a comfortable chair, a book inches from their nose as their eyes eagerly take in the words, flipping through the pages so quickly it’s almost impossible they’re absorbing everything the story has to offer.
He likes to think of his beloved as being so enraptured by the book that they’re completely unaware of the real world around them, fully immersed in the story and becoming invested in the characters, the plot, the action, the everything. It’s just so fucking cute, and Aran has no issues asking about said books.
He doesn’t mind listening to his darling rant and rave about the text for hours on end, watching their face as they talk and talk, slowly opening up more and more as they discuss something they truly love. Speaking of watching, one of Aran’s favorite pastimes is to simply watch his darling read – he likes to see the way their eyebrow wrinkles when a character does something unexpected, the shock in their face as they read a cliffhanger, the way they bite their lip as the tension in the scene rises to almost unbearable levels.
It’s too much, really, because while Aran thinks it’s so very adorable, he has a darker, more perverse reason why he enjoys watching his darling’s face – it’s too easy to imagine the way those expressions could be morphed into something dirty, something lewd.
It’s remarkably easy to fantasize about the way they’d look when he presses inside of them, stretching them out as they tell him it’s too big, not gonna fit! He’s plagued by thoughts about his beloved, and having a bookish, almost nerdy darling would be perfect for him – in more ways than one.
Shy
Aran isn’t too picky with this particular trait either, though he openly admits that he tends to find himself attracted to those that are a bit more hesitant around new people.
Perhaps it’s the protector in him; he doesn’t like the idea of his darling constantly talking to new people, interacting with them and potentially developing feelings for them.
He doesn’t like that they could be chatting with any number of people, interacting with creeps and men with bad intentions that they wouldn’t even know about until it’s too late – it makes his skin crawl just thinking about it, anxiety sweltering in his gut.
And so, to have a darling that’s less inclined to speak to strangers is something Aran really, really likes. It means less worrying about his darling’s safety; why would a person with ill intentions go after someone skittish who won’t give them time a day when they could be going after someone who’s talkative, smiling at them and lowering their guard around them?
Aran couldn’t be happier; not only is it safer for his darling and much more convenient for him, but he loves how easily flustered his darling is. It’s oh so easy to compliment them and see them prickle up, their expression turning bashful as they murmur out a thanks or a compliment or their own, their voice getting all high and cute. It’s adorable, and sometimes it’s too much for Aran – he has to bite back a smile or cover his face, because his heart simply can’t take how fucking cute his darling is.
So really, while he could fall for a more talkative darling, a shier beloved is more his type – he wants to be the only one they talk to, the only who flusters them and makes them feel all gooey and warm inside, just as they make him feel.
It’s only fair his feelings are returned, right?
GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:
Selfless
In general, Aran is absolutely whipped for you.
He’s quite literally head over heels for you – obsessed to the point that nearly all of his waking thoughts revolve around you, and a good portion of his sleeping thoughts as well.
He’s dreaming about you nearly every night, imagining your pretty face in his hands as he kisses you, your voice saying his name, how you’d laugh at his jokes and lean into his side as you watch movies together on the couch, the relaxing night slowly turning into something much more exciting as wandering hands and eager mouths begin to explore.
Aran loves the idea of loving you, and he’s surprisingly naturally quite romantic. He’s always been a bit of a sucker for those horrible romance movies; chick flicks, period pieces, anything with a strong romantic story line in it. He’s always idolized the idea of having someone to love, and as a result, once you step into his life, someone with whom he feels so strongly and passionately for, every cute date idea, romantic line he’s ever seen seems possible, real, important.
Once Aran’s feelings for you develop, he becomes more or less your personal servant. He lives to see you happy – your smile is the most beautiful thing he thinks he’s ever seen, and when it’s directed at him?
God, does it feel good to make a tall, buff, nationally known athlete fall to his knees simply because you looked at him?
Aran would do anything for you if you asked him to; he wants you to associate him with happiness and chivalry, and he’s willing to go to any length to get this association. He’s always trying to do things for you – he’s bringing you your favorite pastries from that bakery nearby the practice courts, telling you to not bother paying him back because ‘you’ll cover next time’, even though he’d rather die than let you pay for something of his.
He’ll always show up at your workplace with a somewhat bashful smile, the little cardboard box in his hands as you gasp and hug him, your smile lighting up your face as he gapes and stares at you like some teenage boy. He’s buying you little trinkets that remind him of you; anything you collect, little plushies that are adorable (just like you).
He’ll pick them up and smile down at them, thinking of how your hair looks like this plush’s, how your cheeks are so cute and round like this one’s, how this one looks almost exactly like you – a character from a TV show that he looks up once he gets home, if only because while the two of you are vastly different, he feels like he’s getting to watch you living out your life.
Fantasies cloud of his mind of living out your day to day with you, of getting to wake up with you in his arms, your messy bed head looking adorable as you snore slightly into his chest. He’s swinging by your place with groceries fairly often, things you didn’t know you needed, only to check and find that you’re much lower on than you thought you were, despite having sworn you checked it yesterday.
Aran doesn’t like to admit that he sometimes tampers with your supplies or basic ingredients just to give him an excuse to buy you something you need – he doesn’t like that it sounds invasive, but seeing your relieved smile and being invited in for a snack or dinner is so worth it. He’s always trying to buy you things, and while it initially made you uncomfortable that he spends so much money on you (and you know the items are expensive – the brand names and quality of the products more than speaks for itself), eventually you’ll stop scolding him for spending his salary almost exclusively on you.
It doesn’t deter him, and he always waves off your complaints, telling you that it’s a pleasure, plus I get to see your smile, so it’s more than worth it. That normally gets you to shut up, your ears feeling hot, only serving to make Aran find you even more adorable than before.
He’s willing to shell out serious amounts of money for anything you’d ever want – a new car? The most expensive one on the market? Of course, and he’ll even get all the fancy additional features that no one needs, like extensive stereo systems and cool gel leather seats.
You want a diamond bracelet costing upwards of thousands of dollars? You’ll find a pretty velvet box on your doorstep the next day, a bouquet of roses accompanying it along with a note that simply says you shine brighter than any diamond.
(He spent hours agonizing over what to write, and despite the corniness, he ultimately decided that maybe classically romantic things would win you over – besides, the words are true.)
Even outside of money, Aran is willing to do anything you’d ever need of him.
Your sink is leaking? He knows next to nothing about plumbing, but he’s quick to pour over dozens of online articles on what could be wrong, arriving at your apartment merely two hours after your frantic call, a toolbox in hand and a determination in his shoulders that you can’t argue with.
You’re struggling with a project for work? Well, Aran may not understand what it is you’re doing, but he’s right beside you as you work through the issue, rubbing your back and smiling at you, encouraging you with smile and compliments each time you make a small breakthrough.
He’ll be there at a moment’s notice, dropping literally everything just to run to your side, like a loyal puppy desperate for its master’s affection and approval.
And of course, Aran doesn’t expect anything in return – he hopes for your love, for you to think of him as your protector and greatest confidant, but he’ll never ask for money or time in return. He’s simply happy to just be of use to you, to feel wanted, needed, like you wouldn’t survive without him.
He’s always slipping into daydreams of ways you’d repay him, how you’d pepper kisses across his cheeks as a thanks for helping change your flat tire. He’s smiling bashfully as he imagines how you’d fuss over him and make him dinner after he’d moved something heavy in your apartment, maybe moving furniture of helping put it all together. He imagines the way you’d sink to your knees and insist on repaying him with pleasure, on making him feel because you make me feel good, too, Aran, and I wanna make you feel so good that all you can remember is my name…
He just wants you to view him as a necessary part of your life, and to see your attention on him and only him for a few moments – anything to get you thinking of him just as much as he thinks of you.
Clingy
Tying into his more selfless traits, once Aran’s feelings for you develop, it’ll be extremely difficult to avoid him. He’s never felt this overwhelmingly for someone before, and because you take up so much of his thoughts, he finds it incredibly difficult to not be thinking of you constantly, to be idly wondering what you’re doing, what you’re thinking about, who you’re with, what you’ll be doing next.
He’s obsessive in that he’s almost always got you on his mind, and consequently he finds himself just so ‘happening’ to run into you all the time. He knows the places you frequent – certain cafes or restaurants that you like, learning your orders and preferred drinks. He knows the times you tend to frequent them, suddenly finding that his schedule is – surprise – open during that time too!
He’ll always just be there; his presence isn’t intimidating to you in any way, and as a result it’ll take you quite a while to recognize just how often these ‘coincidences’ seem to happen. It’s nearly daily, with the spiker always feigning surprise that you’re there, because what are the chances?
And once your friendship (relationship, at least to Aran) progresses, slowly he’ll stop trying to make excuses and instead simply reach out to you. You’re getting texts almost every hour from him; questions of whether you’re free, designed to not only get you talking with him, but suggesting activities to do together.
He’ll ask you if you’re free and interested in going to the bookstore with him, because there’s this new series he’s heard about that’s supposed to be so good, and oh, what’s this? It’s the same series you’ve been anxiously waiting to be published? What a coincidence!
He’ll invite you out to get a drink with him and a few of his teammates, but aw what a shame, they can’t make it! They had to cancel at the last minute, but it would be a shame to waste a perfectly good night of drinking, wouldn’t it? So just sit down and let him buy you drink after drink, his face loosening up as time passes, letting some questionable things slip from his lips.
(Slurred words referring to you as his, telling you you’ve been on his mind all day, cheekily complimenting the blue panties he knows you’re wearing under your clothes, all things that seem strange but only make your alcohol infused brain shrug.)
You’re getting texts that are simply asking questions – they’re designed to get a conversation flowing between the two of you, so that your attention is sporadically on him and he can learn more about you. He’s asking you what animal you would be, what superpower you would have, if pineapple belongs on pizza, whether you want children, everything and anything under the sun.
He likes having you speak with him, if only because it makes him feel special, like – if only for a moment – he’s taking up as much of your thoughts as you do his. It’s a thought that makes his cheeks feel hot, his whole body tingling, his muscle tightening up as he stands up to walk and get fresh air because god, why is it so hot in here?
He’s sending you photos of things that reminded him of you throughout the day – a pretty wildflower, an aesthetically pleasing photo of the clouds, gifs of animals with hearts. He likes the way you respond to him so quickly, the three little dots appearing on his screen making his heart pound, nerves eating away at him because what will you say?
He gets simultaneously excited beyond belief and nearly ill every time his phone chimes, your responses making his palms sweat and his heart race because god, you took the time out of your day to respond to him, to give him enough thought to create an answer to his question?
And once you’re actually physically with him, Aran is in seventh heaven – he’s always in your personal space, though it’s difficult to grow mad at him when he’s giving you that shy smile, his words and voice like honey. His hands are always near you as well – he’ll never touch you, because despite how wonderful, euphoric his skin against yours feels, he doesn’t want you to find him creepy or invasive, so he keeps his hands to himself.
His fingers twitch occasionally, the urge to reach out and simply touch your soft skin, squeeze at the fat of your tummy or thighs nearly overwhelming him.
You won’t notice his clinginess much when you’re still unaware of his obsessive feelings towards you – he always seems to be around, but what’s the harm in that? Aran is nice, funny, attractive, a talented volleyball player, and seems to be interested in you, so what could you possibly be upset about?
But once he’s got you in the sanctity of his own apartment, your perspective on his clinginess will change drastically. Now that he’s bitten the bullet and plunged into the process of officially making you his, Aran sees no reason why he should hold back any longer.
Suddenly, he’s always beside you – his hands are on your waist or shoulders, idly playing with your hair or rubbing circles against your skin. You’re always in his lap or within touching distance, his dark eyes fixed on you ninety percent of the time.
He’s always wanting to do things with you; watching TV (often reruns of his games, with him sneaking anxious glances at your reactions each time he spikes a ball, hoping to see you impressed with his strength and skills), cooking together (he does everything involving cutting or heat, so you’re basically resigned to stirring and measuring duty), anything that involves contact between the two of you.
He’s lovesick, truly, and despite being suffocating once he’s got you under his roof, Aran’s not too terrible – he just wants to be with you, and is that such a crime?
Is it a crime to want to touch you, to kiss you and lick you and squeeze you and fuck you and make him your everything, just as you are his?
Protective
In general, Aran views himself as your provider. He likes the idea of being the stereotypical man that protects you from the world, whether that be through financially supporting you, giving you a nice, warm bed to sleep in, or keeping any creeps away from you.
He likes to feel important to you, as if he’s a vital part of your life, and as his obsession develops Aran slowly becomes dependent on this idea of himself being your provider.
He likes to pretend that everything he does affects you in some way – like his every action is for you, designed to keep you safe and make you happy.
When he gets up at the crack of dawn and enters the gym with his teammates for pre-practice working out, he’s fueled by the thought of growing his muscles and stamina so that he can better protect you. With every rep of bench presses, he’s forcing himself to go harder, to push more because in order to intimidate any guy stupid enough to approach you, he needs to look the part of the scary, strong boyfriend. To get any creep to leave you alone when they come wandering too close to you and make you uncomfortable, Aran needs to be able to easily throw them away, to easily pick them up or beat the shit out of them so that they get the fuck away from you, where they belong.
He’s training harder in volleyball practice, slamming the ball with a ferocity that makes the coach and his teammates slightly concerned, but Aran is doing it all for a purpose. The harder he trains, the more impressive his playing, and thus the more impressed you’ll be when you come to the next game he invites you to.
(He almost always invites you to watch his games; he gets you free tickets – they aren’t actually free, he just pays for them and lies saying he got a player discount – and despite how nerve-wracking it is to know you’re in the audience, hopefully watching him, it’s worth it to hear the cheering when he spikes. And if he tries hard enough, he can even pretend to hear your individual cheering out of the masses – chanting his name as loudly as you can, perhaps even your voice yelling I’m so proud of you, good job Aran…)
He’s cleaning himself up more for pre and post match interviews, hoping to look his best in case you’re watching, because he wants you to find him attractive, to think he’s handsome as a thin sheen of sweat lies on his forehead, his biceps nearly bulging out of the volleyball top uniform he’s sporting.
He’s wearing only large hoodies around his home, manifesting the idea that if he keeps wearing them, they’ll retain more of his natural smell, so that when you wear them later it’ll smell like him – you’ll smell like him.
He likes the idea that everything he does affects you in some way, and while it obviously doesn’t, it feeds his view of himself as being your provider, as giving you everything you need in order to be happy in life.
And of course, he takes this mindset into more literal terms with you as well – anytime the two of you are together, he’s employing everything he can think of to keep you safe.
When you’re walking along a sidewalk, he’ll be closer to the traffic, so that if a car happened to swerve off the road, he’d be injured instead of you. He’s holding doors open for you, making sure they don’t slam closed and catch your ankle or elbow.
He’s helping blow on your food to cool it down, because despite what you say it’s still too hot for you to eat, he’s sure.
It’s mildly embarrassing, and while you may think it’s strange how insistent he is on making sure you don’t hurt yourself, you likely won’t fight it too much. After all, if you were to ask him why he seemed to care so much, he’d only blanch and rub the back of his neck awkwardly, telling you that he just wants to help keep you safe. And isn’t that just so romantic and sweet? This big, strong, athletic man caring enough to keep you safe, to use his time and energy to make sure you’re taken care of, that you’re in pristine condition and happy.
It’s only natural to be flattered – who wouldn’t be? Except, once Aran lets his walls down a bit, exposing just how truly obsessed with you he’s become, it suddenly shifts from sweet to creepy very, very quickly.
What started as endearing when he’d walk on the traffic heavy side of the street becomes concerning when you learn he didn’t want anyone in the cars to see you, because what if someone saw you and decided to pursue you, breaking your heart and stringing you along in the process? Besides, wouldn’t it be just so much better if no one else knew you, if Aran was all you had? At least then he’d know you wouldn’t be associating yourself with the wrong sort of people.
What started as a sweet gesture when he’d gotten you the pocket taster to keep in your purse suddenly becomes much more sinister when you discover the tracking device placed into the taser’s side, designed to help him keep tabs on your location discreetly, so that you wouldn’t know.
Once you’re trapped inside his home, every desire, thought, fantasy and urge coming to light, you’ll know that Aran is not nearly the protector he claims to be – at least, in some ways. Of course, he’s largely successful in making sure you don’t get harmed. He won’t let you near anything sharp or hot, always supervising when you’re in the kitchen or supplies that have even the potential to injure you.
He’s always playing guard dog to you, making sure you’re happy and safe, and that nothing and no one can touch you. You’re his, and while it makes him giddy and light headed to think of himself as your protector, don’t think this role is entirely selfless – if you were to be hurt, killed, altered in any way that changed the core of who you are, Aran wouldn’t be able to function.
You just mean too much to him – you’re his life, his love, and he’ll be damned if he’ll let you walk away, scathed or unscathed. You’re just too precious to him, and isn’t that just so damn romantic?
DEALING WITH RIVALS:
When it comes to dealing with rivals for your affection, Aran is surprisingly good at controlling himself.
He’s not a particularly forceful yandere; in general, he wants you to want him. He wants you to be in a relationship with him because you deem him a worthy partner, because you’re in love with him and want to spend every waking moment by his side.
He doesn’t like the prospect of isolating you – there’s something underhanded and dirty about getting you to be his that way. There’s something cheap about not letting you have any contact with any other men in your life, or women for that matter. He’s not naïve; he understands that you’re gorgeous, that other people are more than likely interested in you too.
And how could they not be? Aran worships the ground you walk on, and is it so strange to assume that other men likely do the same?
He knows that he’s not the only one vying for your attention and heart, but this only furthers his reasoning that he wants you to want him, that he wants you to choose him. And so, while it kills him inside, Aran doesn’t outwardly try to run off his competition. He’s not immediately threatening the men that stare longingly at you, their palms sweaty as they slowly build up the courage to approach you and talk to you. It hurts his heart, yes, and it’s the worst torture he can imagine to watch, but he has to.
It makes every muscle in his body seize up as his dark eyes bore into the back of the man chatting with you, his frame so rigid that passerbys are concerned, even asking him if he’s alright. It makes his lungs feel like they’re being crushed, the breath difficult to suck in, his every bit of attention devoted to simply watching, praying that you don’t fall victim to the man’s charms, that you won’t be wooed by his clearly inadequate attempts at flattering you.
He’ll be mentally chanting that this stranger, this piece of shit, doesn’t deserve someone as lovely as you. They’ll never be able to care for you like he can; no one knows you as well, no one is willing to go to such extreme lengths to make you happy.
He’ll always be watching, if only because he’s always slightly on edge – not even just out of fear that you’ll develop interest in another man, but simply because he’s terrified that you’ll somehow be hurt. He’s scared that you’ll be taken advantage of, that this man will reach out and touch you, that you’ll develop bruises and scream and cry because Aran couldn’t protect you like he’s supposed to.
He’s scared that if he looks away for even one moment, you’ll disappear, gone forever, the love of his life. It’s a horrible feeling, one that claws at his chest and eats at his heart, but Aran almost thinks the torture of watching is worth it. It strengthens his love for you, and with every refusal you give, every awkward smile and lame excuse of why you need to be going, he feels his chest swell with pride.
You want him, he’s sure of it. Why would you be denying so many other men if you weren’t already in love with the spiker himself? It’s obvious, and while it hurts more than anything he’s ever experienced, Aran has to let other men approach you, at least unless they hurt you.
It’s the only way to know for sure that you’re his.
Aran frowns as he notices the way the man behind you in line keeps glancing at you. You’re still waiting to order your sandwich, the line at the deli decidedly long. Aran already had his – you’d claimed you weren’t hungry, and despite Aran’s insistence, you didn’t allow him to buy you any food.
However, as you watched him eat his sandwich, something in your attitude must’ve changed – you should’ve let him wait in line for you, to pay for the sandwich he knows is your favorite, but you didn’t.
He should’ve insisted more, been more forceful, but it’s too late now – most definitely too late as the man behind you puffs up his chest, clearing his throat and telling you something. You jump slightly and turn around to face him, a small smile on your face as you answer whatever question he’d asked you.
Aran’s too far away to hear what you’re saying, but with the way the man laughs, he can’t help tightening his hand into a fist under the table. His blunt nails dig into his palm, surely leaving indents in the calloused skin, but he can’t find it in himself to care. His gaze is fixed on you, his sandwich pathetically forgotten on the deli paper before him. His lips are slightly parted as he watches, murmuring under his breath to ignore him, ignore him please, don’t laugh at his jokes, don’t smile at him, stop touching her…
He doesn’t even realize he’s speaking, but it hardly matters – because despite smiling at his joke, the man doesn’t seem to realize that you aren’t nearly as interested as he thinks, because a moment later he’s reaching out and lightly touching your arm.
You recoil immediately, shrinking back slightly as your smile turns tight, and suddenly the air in the room has returned, Aran heaving a massive, massive sigh because you obviously don’t want him to touch you. You obviously don’t want his filthy hands on you – but you do want Aran’s, if the way you let him touch you is anything. You don’t shy away from his small touches; a hand on your back to guide you, a pat on your head when he calls you short or fun-sized because he knows it annoys you. He bounces his foot against the ground, internally swearing that the line would just hurry the fuck up, so that you can come back and get away from the man who has now fallen quiet, fishing in his wallet for nothing.
You order your sandwich, keeping your back to the stranger, and as you return, the intensity in Aran’s gaze surprises you.
Those dark eyes are fixed directly on you, not wavering even the slightest bit, and a small shiver wracks your spine because fuck, why does his gaze feel so heavy and crushing?
You shrug it off, however, when he smiles at you, the grin so bright that it almost blinds you. There’s something making him indescribably happy, you can tell, but you don’t know what. You make some comment about him not having finished his sandwich yet, but Aran doesn’t pay any attention – he’s too focused on the fact that you didn’t want that man.
You rejected him essentially, and instead chose to come stay with him, with Aran, the only one who really loves you. He’s too lost in his fantasy happy land to return the teases you give him, instead relishing in the the warm, fluttery feeling in his heart, his eyes occasionally darting to the other man to watch him hurriedly walk out of the sandwich shop, sending you a last cursory glance before slamming the door behind him.
Pride swells in Aran’s chest, and once you’ve both finished, he’s quick to place his hand on the small of your back, opening up the door for you. And to his intense happiness, you don’t flinch. You let him touch you, let him guide you, let him care for you and lead you out onto the busy street.
He’s in heaven, and as he smiles like a fool, you won’t suspect a thing. He’s always been so happy, it’s just who he is – his labored breathing and the excited, desperate twitch of his fingers to keep touching you has nothing to do with you, right?
TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:
Because many aspects of Aran’s relationship with you are normal, kidnapping you isn’t something that crosses his mind until very, very late into his obsession with you.
He likes the idea of keeping things somewhat natural between the two of you; organic and warm, with nothing too forced. He wants to woo you, to have that perfect romantic courtship where he brings you flowers, making you flustered, takes you on lavish dates by candlelight at the most expensive and exclusive restaurants in town because he can afford it.
He wants you to feel spoiled and loved, and most of all he wants you to choose to be with him. He wants you to want him out of all the other men you know, for you to decide that he’s the one for you just as he knows you are for him.
And so, while the idea of having you knowingly in his home, kept safe, pristine, and his is extremely appealing, Aran struggles to let go of his desire for your willingness in the arrangement.
He can’t deny that having you stuck at home, spending your days safely under lock and key gets him feeling strangely domestic, butterflies igniting in his stomach as he bites back a smile, his cheeks feeling hot. He’s always daydreaming about how you’d look so pretty chopping up vegetables in the kitchen when he gets home, maybe a cute apron around your waist as you hum and sing to yourself, only stopping when he hugs you from behind, letting yourself melt into his arms.
(Of course, he’d never let you actually chop anything alone – too scared of you cutting yourself with the knife, but the fantasy is still appealing.)
He’s fantasizing about you doing the laundry, him coming home to a house that smells like detergent and new sheets on the bed; soft, warm, and oh so pristine.
(Though, they won’t be by the time the night is through – you’ll have to scrub out the new white stains, but that’s nothing new.)
He’s imagining the way you’d lay your head on his chest while you shovel popcorn into your mouth, the wool blanket strewn over the both of you making him feel all warm and fuzzy as you stare intently at the TV screen, the movie he'd chosen capturing your interest perfectly.
He’s got all kinds of domestic fantasies in his head, and Aran is terrified that by kidnapping you, he’s ruining any chance of any and all of these daydreams from becoming real. He’s too attached to the idea of seeing you with his baby on your hip, your pretty face smiling at him while you coo at the child, nursing it and telling him that you were wondering if you could take Friday off, I’ve been feeling awfully lonely around the house, and the baby’s normally asleep for a few hours during the afternoon – maybe we could break in those new sheets we got last month?
He’s too attached to the idea of having a normal, healthy, perfect life with you to really seriously consider forcibly relocating you.
However, Aran is nothing if not practical – and so, while it pains him immensely to do so, if something serious were to happen to you, he’d be left with no choice but to steal you away. It’d have to be something quite significant, however; perhaps an attempted home invasion, or a robbery, or maybe you were hit by a car or contracted some horrible virus that meant you needed care at all hours of the day.
Whatever the reason may be, he’ll be sighing and wringing his hands, but nonetheless gathering the softest rope he can find, setting up pillows in the back of his car so that you’re comfortable on the ride over, even going so far as to keep his face covered during the event, so that he can perhaps fabricate some story of how he was saving you from another robbery – and isn’t he just such a good guy for doing that?
For being so considerate, kind, being your knight in shining armor?
As a captor, Aran can be described mostly as incredibly giving. In a lot of ways, you’ll be terribly, rottenly spoiled; he’s giving you anything and everything he can think of.
When you initially wake up in his home, terrified and changed into a set of clean, soft pajamas (though thankfully your panties and bra are still on, helping relieve your anxiety just slightly), you’ll notice immediately how lavish the bedroom you’re in is.
The walls are a pretty emerald color, mahogany drawers and dressers sitting along the wall. There’s a window – it’s easily six feet tall and six feet wide, with a window seat and big, billowy white curtains, though there’s something odd about the glass – you get up to examine it, only to find it feels brittle, harder, even flexible. (Bulletproof glass, you later learn, placed there in case you got any ideas about braving the twenty story jump.)
All sizes and shapes of pillows adorn the bed, the best quality sheets and a heavy comforter that traps heat so well you’ll nearly be sweating in December. The closet is full of pretty clothing you don’t recognize; all colors you love, neutral pieces that flatter your form and make you feel more expensive than you’ve ever felt in your life.
Aran’s only buying the best quality food, always making sure you have a healthy balance of vegetables, protein and carbs, even occasionally indulging you with exquisite chocolates and pastries. He’s always got music playing in every room of the apartment; quietly, so as not to distract you, but you’ll notice it’s a playlist of your favorite songs. The ones that relax you, that make you smile, that bring back sentimental memories.
He’s got all the supplies for your hobbies set up in ‘your room’, as he likes to call it. Anything from easels and paint brushes to a baby grand piano will reside in the room, and despite your pleas for him to not spend so much money on you, Aran will just laugh and poke your nose lightly, telling you to not worry, that he’s got more than enough money to buy a pretty lady like you pretty things.
He just wants you to be as happy as humanly possible, and while he knows you’ll always be at least a little bit unhappy, he’s hopeful that he can help make it up to you by being the perfect partner – indulging you in all the romantic cliches and dreams you may have had when you were young.
Besides, he’s a romantic at heart, and while it feels maybe just a tad bit overkill to have the rose petals on the table and candlelight as you share a meal he cooked, Aran doesn’t care. Because when you’re wearing the dress he custom ordered for you, your curves looking magnificent and your face so warm and flustered, how can he care about anything at all except this moment?
He spoils you, yes, but you’ll not forget your kidnapped immediately – no, you can’t, not when he’s insisting you share a bed from the beginning. He’ll never try to touch you or force you into anything, but his insistence on letting him cuddle you, on letting him place a hand to your hip while you drift into sleep with your face pressed against his chest is perhaps not your first choice for how to sleep.
But really, aside from a few small quirks of Aran, you’ll find yourself growing disturbingly comfortable disturbingly fast. After all, he’s a charmer – and though you may try to hate him for kidnapping you, for being so horribly, disgustingly, wonderfully obsessed with you, he’s like a puppy.
One desperate for your affection, always bringing you a new bone or toy, and one who’ll do anything for you at a moment’s command. So really, just let him pamper you, let him spoil you, even if it makes you uncomfortable.
It makes him happy, and he’s sure eventually it’ll make you happy, too – and won’t it? Won’t it, really?
PUNISHMENTS:
Aran doesn’t ‘do’ punishments.
They just simply aren’t his thing – he wants you to love him, for your relationship to develop as organically as it possibly can (considering he’s kidnapped you and essentially been stalking you for months, of course), and the concept of disciplining you for misbehaving doesn’t fit his hopes for a normal, healthy relationship.
And so, Aran is really quite lenient when it comes to you – he doesn’t get mad very often, instead preferring to keep a steady, calm disposition, because if he wants the best possible chance of you falling in love with him, doesn’t it make more sense to be calm, happy, warm?
Doesn’t it make more sense for him to approach you with loving arms, gentle touches, soft smiles that make your cheeks heat up, that get your stomach feeling fluttery and light because fuck, has anyone ever looked at you with so much adoration and unfiltered joy?
It’s overwhelming, and for the most part Aran’s method of not punishing you works exactly as he wants it to. It’s not long before you’re moving past your hatred of him for ruining your life by stealing it for himself, and while you hope to never forgive him for what he’s done, you’re looking past it remarkably fast.
Too fast, you could even say, though with every compliment he gives you, it becomes harder to find issue with this development. With every hand picked present that you’re sure is much too expensive being given to you with that flustered, wide grin on his face, you’ll slowly find yourself forgetting about the rage you promised yourself you’d never forget.
It’s scary, really, how he’s able to mold you into what you hoped you’d never become – loving, submissive to him, wanting to please him so that the love and care you’ve come to grow addicted to is never cruelly ripped away from you.
It’s terrifying just how easily Aran is able to mold you into his ideal lover; he’s not trying to change you by any means, but after a few months with him, you’ll discover that you don’t fully recognize yourself anymore. He isn’t trying to break you down and rebuild your personality to be exactly what he wants, if only because he already loves you exactly the way you are – why would he change anything?
And yet, despite him not trying to, it’s impossible to ignore the way you’ve never been this happy before.
When you look in the mirror, you’ll find yourself smiling much more than you used to; there’s laugh lines starting to appear on your cheeks, surely formed from all the horrible jokes and sweet nothing Aran whispers in your ear with that dashing smile and those callused, gentle hands caressing your body against him.
You’ll discover that you look healthier than you ever have before – your body looks to be at a good, manageable weight, your hair shiny and healthy, your skin cleaner than you remember it being when you were on your own.
And really, who do you have to blame but Aran?
He’s so diligent in taking care of you, so loving and overwhelmingly giving when it comes to making you happy and healthy that you really can’t ignore the way your body and mind has changed. You feel happy, loved – by your captor, no less.
And so while you may have initially been so, so enraged and terrified of him for stealing you away from your old life, eventually the rage will subside, your love and devotion to him taking its place. Aran couldn’t be happier; this is exactly what he wanted, and seeing the way you morph into greeting him when he returns home from practice with a big hug and a flurry of kisses against his cheeks and lips couldn’t be more appreciated.
He just really, really loves you, but that isn’t to say the beginning of your relationship was more rocky, your behavior and feelings towards him not even a shadow of what they are now.
Even at the beginning, Aran was never one to actually hurt you. He hates the idea of physically touching you in anything other than love or in teasing, and so he absolutely refuses to harm you, to punch or scratch or slap or bruise you.
(You’ll notice early on into your intimate life with him that bruises are left often, but only because Aran needs you as close as physically possible when he’s fucking you, keeping your warm body next to his without an inch of space because god, how can you feel so damn good?)
And so, even when Aran gets mad (which is already a rare occurrence), you’ll never have to worry about being on the receiving end of a swinging fist, or having blood pooling anywhere on your body.
He would die before he harms you in that way – it would break him, truly, to the point where he may actually consider ending his life, but only if yours is taken alongside his as well, so that the both of you can be together in life and death.
And so, when Aran does get mad, he’s not even trying to punish you.
A few things can set him off – the main one being any sort of an escape attempt by you.
He’s livid the first few times you try this; he understands why, rationally, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. You’re trying to escape him, to run away from him, clearly showing you aren’t happy. And why aren’t you happy? Doesn’t he give you everything he possibly can, everything you could possibly want?
What more is there for him to give you – he’s already given you his heart, body and soul?
Sunlight is streaming through the window when Aran wakes up, his lashes fluttering as his face scrunches up into a grimace, the bright light not welcome. He groans, rolling over onto his side and instinctually reaching for you – he always sleeps with you in his arms, your warm body against his. He finds it helps him sleep, and often he’ll wait until you drift into a slumber before he stares at your face, tracing the lines of your lips and cheeks with his thumb while he marvels at how beautiful you are.
Except his hands don’t feel you. His eyes shoot open, and at the empty space where your body should be in the bed, immediately he’s bolting out of bed, scrambling to open the bedroom door. The boxers he’s wearing are haphazardly on his hips, and normally he’d be embarrassed that you see him in such a messy state, but he doesn’t fucking care.
Where are you? You’re never up before him – it’s five o’clock in the morning for Christ’s sake, you’re surely not making breakfast.
He’s quick to check the living room, seeing no sign of you anywhere. The kitchen is next, and while he’s relieved to not find a lifeless you bleeding out on the floor, it does little to calm his anxiety.
It’s only once he reaches the front door that he sees you – you’re on your knees, hands desperately working the bobby pin at the deadbolt’s lock, your movements frantic yet obviously trying to stay silent.
Aran stares for a moment, before his face hardens, his legs bursting forward as he scoops you up into his arms. You yelp and kick at him, telling him to let you go as you thrash, but with your every move Aran only finds himself getting more and more angry.
Soon he’s setting you down on the couch (not nearly as gently as he normally does, you distantly note), before taking a few steps back, his dark eyes fixed on you. He’s rubbing at his temples, clutching at his jaw, shaking his head and murmuring something under his breath that you don’t hear.
You’re mad, too, and your mouth opens as you prepare to accuse him. Why did you stop me? I was so close Aran, so close to getting out of this goddamn apartment!
And that’s it, really – it’s enough to have the extremely thin control over his rage snapping off. Why the hell are you trying to leave? What’s wrong with you?
He’s yelling, his voice so loud that you physically cower back into the couch, the cushions soft but not enough. You’ve never heard him sound like this before; this angry, this hurt. His fists are clenched at his sides, the muscles in his torso and arms visibly flexing as he continues on.
I do everything for you, do you understand? I give you every fucking thing I own – my heart, my money, my home, my love! And you what? You squander it? Throw it away like it means nothing? How ungrateful can you be?
He’s lost himself, he knows it, and yet he can’t stop. The prospect of you running away from him is just too much – he's tried too damn hard to get you to love him, to woo you for you to even think of leaving him behind. How can he survive without you?
He’s still yelling, but you’re not listening anymore. You can’t, not as a stinging, hot sensation in your nose leads to tears, your sniffles and small hiccups going ignored by Aran as he continues on.
It’s euphoric, in a way, expressing himself, but as his dark gaze moves from the ceiling (which he’d been yelling at) and towards you, the words die in his throat. Your hands are at your eyes, wiping away the tears as you sob, the emotions overflowing you. The yelling, the escape attempt, the months of trying to repress the way your desire to leave was slowly dwindling was all just too damn much –
You didn’t even realize it had gone quiet in the room until Aran’s arms are around you, your smaller body pressed against his broad chest. His face is against your neck, and you see his shoulders shaking slightly.
You wonder if he’s crying, too.
It’s silent for a few moments as your tears continue to flow, but you hug him back slowly, whispering in a dry, hiccupy voice that you’re s-sorry Aran, ‘m so sorry, I don’t – I don’t know why I tried to leave, I’m happy here. I wanna stay with you, please let me stay with you, please d-don’t leave me, please!
Your arms are fully around him now, clutching onto him with as much vigor as he you, and Aran stiffens slightly. He shouldn’t have yelled at you; that was uncalled for, and he’d made you fucking cry, something that was making him feeling physically ill. And yet, you were saying you didn’t want him to leave you, that you want to stay with him, that you’re happy…
And sure, maybe it’s a ploy to calm him down, but Aran doesn’t care. How can he, when you’re separating after a few moments, a small, sad smile on his lips as he wipes away your tears with his thumb, his voice much softer as he tells you I’ll never leave you, I promise. Shh, shh, it’s okay, I love you, I’ll never let you go. Now c’mere, I’m makin’ us a bath.
He’s quick to call out of practice that morning, settling you into the large white tub in front of him, your head leaning on his chest as the scent of lavender surrounds you both.
He holds you, letting you get the last few tears out, all the while reminding you that he loves you, you’re perfect, you’re his everything, and how can a man live without his whole world?
OVERALL DANGER:
Overall rating: 4/10
Aran really isn’t so much dangerous as he is effective. He’s not intentionally manipulative – no, of course not.
He doesn’t want to trick you into anything, to lure you into falling in love with him. No, he wants your heart honestly, to have you falling in love with him on your own terms, in your own time, so that when you do eventually make him your world, you’re doing so willingly.
However, Aran isn’t adverse to helping you along the path; he’s spending time with you, complimenting you as often as he can, buying you expensive gifts and taking you out on dates (though, you’re never quite sure if he means them romantically or platonically, and you’re almost too scared to ask), anything he can think of that’ll have you falling for him. He just wants you to enjoy being around him, to crave him like he craves you, to return the level of sick devotion he holds for you.
You’re perfect; genuinely everything he could want in a woman, and while it’s a bit embarrassing how horribly whipped and desperate he is for your attention and validation, Aran slowly begins finding that he doesn’t care.
After all, how can anything else besides your love matter?
How can he find it in himself to care whether he comes off as pathetic when he sends you a bouquet of roses on your birthday, the pretty card he spent hours writing (both to solidify what he wanted to write, and also to practice his cursive so you’d think it’s pretty and worth keeping) describing how beautiful you are, how he’d love nothing more than to hold you, kiss you, mark you up so that no other man could ever take you?
Aran slowly loses himself to his obsession with you, and while he’s not particularly delusional or violent, Aran is dedicated. So much so that it’s almost futile to run from his love – he will eventually have you falling for him, returning his feelings whether you realize it or not.
And he couldn’t be happier; the day you willingly return his hugs, initiate kisses, grind down on him with that tight fucking pussy is the happiest day of his life.
Because it means you want him, and who doesn’t like being wanted? Especially by the woman they’ve spent years pining for, obsessing over, watching and fantasizing about like some lovesick teenage boy?
Not even an upstanding man like Aran would resist that – so congratulations, because once he’s hooked, he’s never, ever letting you go.
Quick reminder that all my content is yandere, so please proceed with caution! Themes including (but not limited to) violence, kidnapping, non-con, stalking, etc are found in the links below! Please be responsible; no one can police your internet intake but yourself. Another quick reminder that absolutely everything is set in the timeskip for obvious reasons!
