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He becomes a mountain range that has finally decided to be a valley. The 6'7" Fang will not let you move. You are a casualty to be triaged. He checks your pulse with two fingers against your carotid, checks your pupils, then wraps you in his arms and does not let go for a minimum of forty-five minutes (if it's night, he will sleep, however). He will not speak much, but he will hum a low, continuous note that vibrates through his chest and into your spine.
B โ Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partnerโs)
His: His thighs. Not for vanity, but for utility. He knows they can crush a skull or carry a wounded comrade for miles, and he likes when you acknowledge that dual purpose.
Yours: Your throat. Not to choke (though he has learned that protocol), but because when you speak to him while exhausted, he can feel the vibration in his own chest. He likes to place his hand there while you talk, feeling the words before they leave your mouth.
C โ Cum (Anything to do with cum)
He treats it as a biohazard. He will not cum on you unless you explicitly request it (or in a scene with clear parameters). When he does, itโs usually internal (using a condom) or on your chest, and he immediately retrieves a warm towel and wipes you down with the efficiency of a corpsman. He has never once left you sticky. He considers it a failure of protocol.
D โ Dirty Secret (A dirty secret of theirs)
He has a collection of your shirts. Not to wear, but to smell. He keeps them in a sealed bag in his locker at the gym and sniffs them before fights to ground himself. He has never told you because heโs afraid theyโll think itโs "creepy" rather than "romantic in a feral way."
E โ Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what theyโre doing?)
He was The Fang for years. He knows how to read bodies. He knows pressure points, leverage, and the exact angle to make a joint lock or a prostate sing. He is not "experienced" in the sense of many partners, but he is competent. He treats sex like a fight: study the opponent, respect the weight class, and finish with precision.
F โ Favorite position (This goes without saying)
Standing, holding you against a wall. He is 6'7". He likes the eye-level contact, the way your legs wrap around his waist, the way he can use his thighs to pin you while his hands are free to hold your wrists or stroke your face. It is the only position where he feels he can protect you from gravity and pleasure simultaneously.
G โ Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)
He is a stoic. He will make you cum with a face like a judge delivering a life sentence. However, if you say something absurd mid-thrust ("Is this what you call a ground and pound?"), he will huff out a single, silent laugh through his nose, his shoulders shaking once, before resuming his serious, devastating pace.
H โ Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)
He is hairless by choice. He waxes. Everything. This extends to his pubic region; he considers body hair a liability for grip and hygiene, and his Fang uniform fits him better without fluff. His chest is smooth, his legs are smooth, and his groin is bare as a baby seal.
I โ Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspectโฆ)
He is a brick wall that has learned to be a blanket. He does not whisper sweet nothings; he whispers facts. "Your heart rate is high for me." "Your pupils are dilated." "You are safe." He will not look away from your face. He will hold your gaze with the intensity of a man staring down a barrel, and he will not blink until you do.
J โ Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)
He treats it like physical therapy. Scheduled, efficient, and with a specific goal (release of cortisol, maintenance of prostate health). He uses a fleshlight he bought online and keeps in a tactical pouch. He does not fantasize about strangers; he replays the memory of your voice saying "Good boy" the times you caught him doing something sweet or kinky. He cums quietly, cleans the toy, washes his hands, and goes back to whatever he was doing.
K โ Kink (One or more of their kinks)
Impact play (receiving and giving). He likes the sound of flesh on flesh. He likes the way your handprint looks on his ass. He likes the way your pale skin blooms red under his palm. He also has a size kink that he will not admit to; he likes being the biggest thing in the room, and he likes when you acknowledge that you are smaller than him.
L โ Location (Favorite places to do the do)
His private gym. Specifically, the matted area where he trains intensely. The smell of neoprene and sweat and the sound of the ventilation system hum. He likes the idea that he can fuck you where he spars and sweats, that the space is consecrated by violence and pleasure alike.
M โ Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)
Competence. He is turned on by skill. If you have precision and passion, whatever you're doing, he will be hard before you finish the last step.
N โ NO (Something they wouldnโt do, turn offs)
Public humiliation. He will not be embarrassed in front of strangers. He will not be made to look foolish. He will also not engage in anything that involves feces or urine. He is a fighter, not a fetishist for filth.
O โ Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)
He secretly loves receiving. He has a specific technique he enjoys the most: he likes you to use your hands on his balls while your mouth works the shaft, and he likes you to look up at him while you do it. He is less skilled at giving oral, but he is a fast learner. He treats it like a fight: study the opponent, find the weak points, apply pressure.
P โ Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)
He is a heavyweight. He is slow, deliberate, and devastating. He does not rush. He will fuck you at a pace that makes you feel like you are being dismantled piece by piece, and he will not speed up until you are begging.
Q โ Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)
He does not believe in them. He believes in proper sex. If he has ten minutes, he will spend nine of them on foreplay and one on the act itself. He considers quickies a waste of a perfectly good erection.
R โ Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)
He is conservative. He will try anything once, but he needs a briefing. He needs to know the risks, the safewords, the exit strategy. He is not spontaneous. He is a planner. If you want to try something new, you must submit a proposal in triplicate.
S โ Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they lastโฆ)
Considering he's the Fang, and if you need him to.. He can go for hours. He has the cardiovascular endurance of a man who has run miles in full gear. He will not cum until you have cum at least twice. He considers it a matter of honor.
T โ Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)
Besides the masturbator, he owns a single penetrable: a high-end prostate massager he bought after reading a medical journal on the benefits of prostate stimulation. He uses it on himself, alone, in the shower, with the efficiency of a man performing a necessary maintenance task. He will use it on you if you ask, but he will not initiate.
U โ Unfair (how much they like to tease)
He is a finisher no matter the amount of time on foreplay beforehand. If he starts something, he will finish it. He will not edge you for fun. He will edge you because he is waiting for the perfect moment to strike, and that moment is when you are about to cum from the teasing itself.
V โ Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)
He is silent. He breathes through his nose. The only sound he makes is a low, guttural grunt when he cums, a sound like a heavy bag being dropped. He will not scream your name. He will not moan. He will simply look at you, with an intense expression louder than any scream.
W โ Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)
He has extremely sensitive ears, and are the quickest way to know if you got a reaction out of him. Like an animal but with less muscle to manipulate them, they will wiggle slightly if he heard a passing conversation he wants to hone in on. If he's embarrassed or angry, his ears are the first things to flush in color. If you lick them- it's devastating.
X โ X-Ray (Letโs see whatโs going on in those pants, picture or words)
He is eight inches, thick, and uncut. The head is dark and flushed under the foreskin, the shaft is strangely pale, smooth and heavy. He has a slight upward curve that makes him perfect for hitting the prostate or the cervix. He keeps his pubes shaved or waxed.
Y โ Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)
It is low. He is a fighter, not a lover. He has sex because he loves you, not because he needs it. He can go weeks without touching himself or you, and he will not complain. He is not asexual, but he is asocial. He prefers the company of his own thoughts to the company of others.
Z โ ZZZ (โฆ how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
He falls asleep immediately. He has trained his body to recover quickly. He will cum, clean up, roll over, and be asleep in ninety seconds. He will not talk if you are too exhausted. He will simply be gone. If you want him to stay awake, you must hold his hand and talk to him until he falls asleep.
I wonder if you have some ship with Kengan ladies and some headcanons of these? Can sfw or not.
One hc ship I have is Togo x Hiyama, stealing her away from the abusive husband
Well, *now* I have a ship headcanon thanks to you. I really liked Togo, so I decided to expand your idea with a short story since I'm not the best at thinking up stuff for women without sounding forced ๐ซ
For Your Own Good
-
The rain had just begun when Tomari first noticed it.
Not the weather.
Hiyama.
Across the marble floor of the Kengan Association headquarters, executives drifted between conversations with polished smiles and expensive suits, glasses of champagne clinking softly beneath crystal chandeliers. It was another meeting of people who measured worth in billions of yen and human lives.
Tomari Togo hated almost every second of it.
She leaned lazily against one of the enormous pillars, swirling amber whisky in her glass as several CEOs wisely chose not to approach her. The "Merchant of Death" had a reputation for biting harder than she smiled.
Which was saying something.
Her narrow eyes wandered across the room until they landed on the tiny CEO of Wakasa Life Insurance.
Hiyama Shunka looked exactly as she always did.
Perfect.
Her pale blue kimono sat without a wrinkle. Every strand of her neat black bob rested precisely where it belonged, the blunt bangs ending just above those large, dark eyes. Even standing completely still, there was an unusual precision to her posture, as though every breath had been measured beforehand.
She checked the watch hidden beneath her sleeve.
Six seconds.
Looked toward the entrance.
Three seconds.
Straightened a flower arrangement by exactly half an inch.
One second.
The front doors opened.
Akoya Seishu entered.
Tomari's grin widened.
"Of course."
Like clockwork.
Literally.
โโโ
She watched without meaning to.
Or perhaps she did mean to.
Akoya crossed the room, every movement stiff with military discipline. The conversations around him seemed to quiet instinctively.
People feared him.
Tomari simply found him exhausting.
Hiyama lowered her head ever so slightly when he reached her.
No smile.
No greeting.
No warmth.
Only quiet acceptance.
Then Akoya reached out.
His hand closed around her wrist.
Not lovingly.
Firmly.
Enough that Tomari noticed the faint tightening around Hiyama's eyes.
Pain.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
Most people would have missed it.
Tomari didn't.
Akoya released her just as quickly.
They walked away together.
Five minutes later, when Hiyama reached for another document, Tomari caught sight of the faint red fingerprints blooming beneath the sleeve of her kimono.
No one else noticed.
Hiyama certainly behaved as though nothing had happened.
Tomari finished her whisky in one swallow.
"...How unbelievably dull."
One of her secretaries blinked.
"Ma'am?"
"I've decided I dislike him."
"...Mr. Seishu?"
"I dislike anyone who mistakes ownership for affection."
โโโ
Over the next month, curiosity became observation.
Observation became obsession.
Not with Akoya.
With Hiyama.
Tomari learned that the woman truly did live by the second.
At exactly 7:03 every morning, tea.
At 7:11, financial reports.
Lunch lasted precisely twelve minutes.
Every document was filed with mechanical efficiency.
Every meeting ended exactly when she predicted.
It should have impressed Tomari.
Instead...
It saddened her.
There was no spontaneity.
No mistakes.
No life.
Just someone desperately clinging to order.
As though if even one second slipped away...
Everything else would collapse with it.
โโโ
The answer arrived one evening.
Tomari happened to be leaving another Association meeting when she saw Hiyama waiting quietly outside the building beneath a small umbrella.
She wasn't looking at the street.
She was looking at her watch.
Waiting.
Tomari checked her own.
Seven-oh-one.
Hiyama's eyes never left the road.
Seven-oh-two.
A police motorcycle rolled around the corner.
Akoya.
Exactly on schedule.
He removed his helmet without a word.
Hiyama stepped forward immediately.
Almost automatically.
Like breathing.
Like gravity.
As Akoya spoke, Tomari couldn't hear the conversation.
She didn't need to.
She saw Hiyama lower her head.
Saw Akoya frown.
Saw his hand seize her upper arm with enough force to wrinkle the silk of her kimono.
Hiyama apologized.
Again.
And again.
Until whatever invisible standard he'd been measuring her against had finally been satisfied, and she bowed her head in appreciation.
Only then did he let go.
They drove away together.
Tomari remained standing beneath the awning long after the rain had begun.
"...You're thanking him."
She laughed quietly to herself.
"You're thanking him."
There was something profoundly wrong about that.
โโโ
The kidnapping wasn't planned.
Not originally.
Tomari preferred negotiations.
Bribes.
Hostile takeovers.
Those were civilized.
But civilized solutions required civilized people.
Akoya was many things.
Reasonable was not among them.
So when her surveillance team informed her that Hiyama would be leaving the Wakasa headquarters alone for exactly seventy-three seconds before Akoya arrived...
Tomari made a decision.
โโโ
The black limousine slid silently against the curb.
Hiyama looked up from her watch.
Confusion crossed her face.
The rear window lowered.
Tomari smiled.
"Good evening."
"...President Togo?"
"Get in."
"...Pardon?"
"I said get in."
Hiyama blinked several times.
"I'm waiting for Akoya."
"I know."
"He'll arrive in..."
She glanced down.
"...Thirty-two seconds."
Tomari sighed dramatically.
"Yes. That's rather the issue."
"I don't understand."
"No one ever does."
Twenty-four seconds.
Hiyama remained rooted to the pavement.
Tomari stepped out of the limousine.
Up close, the difference between them was almost comical.
Hiyama barely reached her chin.
"So."
Tomari adjusted her glasses.
"I'm asking one final time. Would you kindly get into my car?"
"...No."
"...Excellent."
Before Hiyama could react, Tomari slipped one arm beneath her knees and another around her back.
With surprising ease, she lifted the tiny CEO clean off the ground.
"...Eh?"
Hiyama made the smallest, most bewildered sound Tomari had ever heard.
"I've been told I'm quite strong."
"President Togoโ"
"Tomari."
"Iโ"
"You can complain once we're moving."
She deposited Hiyama gently onto the leather seat and climbed in after her.
The doors shut.
The driver accelerated.
As they turned the corner, Tomari glanced through the rear window.
Akoya had just arrived.
He stood perfectly still in the rain.
Watching the limousine disappear into traffic.
Even from this distance...
Tomari could almost feel the murderous intent rolling off him.
She laughed.
"Oh, this is going to become everyone's problem."
โโโ
Hiyama sat perfectly upright beside her, hands folded neatly in her lap despite having just been abducted.
For nearly three full minutes...
She said nothing.
Then, very quietlyโ
"...I've been kidnapped."
Tomari nodded.
"Correct."
The silence that followed stretched on until Hiyama looked out the rain-speckled window.
"...I've never been kidnapped before."
"No?"
"No."
"...How disappointing."
For the first time since entering the car...
Tomari noticed the tiniest hint of confusion crease Hiyama's otherwise composed face.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't anger.
She simply... didn't know how to process someone whose first response to kidnapping was disappointment that it hadn't happened sooner.
Tomari decided then and there that she rather liked her.
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Before I go & order rigid mailers, cellophane covers, & A4 backing sheets, I'd like to know if there's any interest at all for mini prints of some of my art.
4x6 inches, glossy, & I'm thinking ~ยฃ6.
I'll print some more of my Kengan Ashura + other fandom art. & if you'd like a specific piece, it'll just take longer to order, but it's not impossible.
His back arches violently beneath you as the transformation rips through him mid-thrust. You feel it happen inside him first, his hole clamping down on your cock like a vice, the rhythmic pulse of his changing body milking you without mercy. His claws rake down your forearms, tearing through skin and drawing hot ribbons of crimson that drip onto his heaving chest. You grip his hips harder, forcing him to take every inch as his lycan form bulks and shifts beneath you.
His spine pops. His jaw elongates, fangs glistening with saliva as he snarls up at you, eyes blown to dark slits of pure animal hunger. You feel his insides rearrange around your shaft, tighter now, hotter, the friction building to something almost unbearable as his new form demands to be filled deeper, harder, ruined.
He claws at your shoulders, drawing you down, those beast eyes burning with Formless desperation of finding something that gives him a challenge. "Don't fucking stop," he rasps, voice guttural and broken. You feel his cock spilling precome untouched across his transforming abs, his body betraying how thoroughly he's submitting to your cock even as his claws draw fresh wounds across your back.
The pain is white-hot. You crave it. Every sting of his nails, every throb of his tightening lycan hole around your base, every desperate growl vibrating through his chest as you pound into his changing flesh. He could shred you open right now. The thought makes your balls tighten, your thrusts savage and uncontrolled.
You feel his hole flutter, then clamp in rhythmic spasms as his knot throbs and untouched cock erupts across his fur-sprouting stomach. His howl tears through the room, and you bury yourself to the hilt, letting his convulsing body wrench your own release from you, flooding his transformed guts while his claws sink deep enough to hit bone.
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I usually don't post self-indulgent fics. So I was wondering if anyone would be interested to read an ongoing story I've been writing of my & a friend's OC being included in Kanoh Agito's backstory starting from his survival in the Russian-Mongolian border before he got taken in by The Other Niko.
It's pretty gruesome so I'm hesitant to share.
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