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Summary: A usually unshakable heart surgeon, Shuntarō Chishiya, learns that nothing tests his composure quite like his adorably unpredictable, pregnant, and wildly emotional wife.
Shuntarō Chishiya x pregnant!reader
Words: 1,8k
A/N: blond or brunette?
Buy me a coffee:)
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The hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic and burnt coffee, and somewhere in the distance, someone’s shoes squeaked down the hallway. Dr. Shuntarō Chishiya had long stopped noticing either sound. His focus was entirely on the chart in his hands, the lines of an EKG as familiar to him as the back of his own hand.
He was, by all accounts, a man who didn’t feel much — or at least didn’t show it. Even in a hospital full of adrenaline junkies, Chishiya was an enigma: calm, detached, and eerily composed. His colleagues could be shouting, the OR could be a mess, but he’d still be steady, monotone, efficient.
Which was why, when one of the nurses asked with a teasing smile, “So, Dr. Chishiya, how’s married life? Your wife’s due soon, right?” — he didn’t flinch.
He just said, “She’s fine.”
They all rolled their eyes. “You could at least pretend to sound excited.”
He only gave them that small, knowing half-smile — the one that made people unsure if he was amused or just done with the conversation. “I’m a heart surgeon,” he replied. “I see excitement every day. I don’t need more of it at home.”
What he didn’t add was that his wife was literally the definition of excitement lately.
Because while the rest of the world thought Dr. Shuntarō Chishiya was unflappable, only one person had ever seen him break his poker face — you.
And you didn’t even mean to.
It was almost 9 p.m. when he finally pulled into the driveway. His hands were still faintly stained from gloves, the faint scent of soap and hospital disinfectant clinging to him. The house was dark except for a warm glow spilling from the living room.
He exhaled slowly. Home. Finally
When he opened the door, he heard it — the sound of sniffles.
Immediately alert, he dropped his bag near the entryway and stepped out of his shoes. “(Y/N)?”
You were curled up on the couch under a blanket, phone in hand, face red and blotchy from crying.
His pulse kicked up slightly, reflexive concern, trained instinct — until he caught sight of your phone screen. A cat video. A compilation of kittens meowing softly at the camera.
You hiccuped. “They’re so small, Shuntarō.”
He blinked. “...The cats?”
You nodded miserably. “They can’t even open their eyes yet. They just want love!”
He sighed, crossing the room and sitting down beside you. “You’ve watched that same video about ten times this week.”
“I know!” you wailed, wiping your nose with a tissue. “And it’s still sad!”
He didn’t say anything at first, just brushed a strand of hair off your face. Then, with that calm voice that could command an entire OR, he murmured, “You’re crying over happy kittens, love.”
You sniffled. “I’m pregnant. I have feelings.”
That got him, a soft, rare smile tugging at his lips. “Clearly.”
You huffed, crossing your arms. “You’re so mean. You don’t even miss me, do you?”
That startled him. “What?”
“I said, you don’t miss me!” you repeated, your voice trembling as tears started welling again. “You come home so late every night, and I’m just here alone, and I miss you, and you probably don’t even think about me while you’re doing all your— your doctor things!”
Chishiya blinked twice. Then again. Slowly.
He’d faced heart attacks, cardiac arrests, chaotic emergencies — and yet, somehow, this was what truly left him speechless.
Finally, he let out a quiet sigh, leaning closer until his forehead rested against yours. “You’re ridiculous,” he whispered, but his tone was fond. “Of course I miss you.”
You frowned, lip trembling. “You don’t say it enough.”
“Because every time I do, you cry.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is,” he said, brushing his thumb under your eye. “You cried when I said ‘good morning’ yesterday. And again when I said ‘you look beautiful.’”
You sniffed. “Well, maybe if you weren’t so nice I wouldn’t cry.”
He couldn’t help it — he laughed. Not the small, sarcastic chuckle his coworkers heard, but a soft, warm sound that was all for you.
You narrowed your eyes, offended, even as tears still streaked your cheeks. “You’re laughing at me.”
“I’m laughing near you,” he corrected. “Different thing.”
You swatted his arm weakly. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re beautiful when you’re mad.”
That earned him a glare — followed by a watery smile you couldn’t suppress.
The next day, when he got home, you were in a completely different mood.
“Hi, baby!” you cheered, running — well, waddling — to the door to greet him. You were glowing, wearing one of his oversized shirts, and clutching a bowl of strawberries.
He blinked at the whiplash. “You’re...happy?”
“Of course I am! You’re home!” You wrapped your arms around him as best as you could, pressing your face into his chest. “Did you eat? Are you tired? Do you want me to run you a bath? Wait, I made dinner! Oh! And I washed your scrubs!”
Chishiya stood there, coat half-off, eyes slightly wide. “Did you nap today?”
“A little!” you said proudly. “Only cried once!”
“Progress,” he murmured dryly.
You didn’t notice the teasing. “And I watched this video where a baby heard his mom’s voice for the first time with hearing aids, and I—” your voice broke off, and he immediately tensed, but you shook your head quickly, smiling again. “—but I didn’t cry this time! Okay, maybe a little.”
He chuckled, cupping your face. “You’re unbelievable.”
You leaned into his hand, eyes fluttering shut. “You love it.”
He did. More than he could say.
Later that evening, you were curled up in bed watching random videos while he read next to you.
Everything was peaceful. You were giggling at some stupid meme, the sound of your laughter soft and contagious. He allowed himself to glance up from his book, just for a second — watching your expression change with each video, your eyes bright and happy.
Then the next video autoplayed.
A slow, melancholy piano began to play. The screen showed a montage of couples growing old together, the kind with captions like “True love lasts forever.”
Your face crumpled instantly.
“Oh no,” he muttered.
You sniffed loudly. “It’s so sweet, Shuntaro. They’ve been together since high school and he still holds her hand even though she has Alzheimer’s.”
He closed his book with a resigned sigh. “Here we go again.”
“She doesn’t even remember him, but he still visits her every day!” you wailed, clutching the pillow to your chest. “That’s— that’s what love is supposed to be!”
Chishiya reached over and gently took your phone, locking it before you could scroll further down the emotional abyss of the internet. “Okay, that’s enough TikTok for today.”
“Hey!”
“You’ve cried three times in one hour. Your tear ducts need a break.”
You frowned up at him, eyes glassy. “You don’t understand, you’re emotionally constipated.”
He snorted. “That’s a new diagnosis.”
“Yeah, and I’m the doctor now.”
He set your phone on the nightstand and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re cute when you’re bossy.”
“I’m always cute.”
“I won’t argue that.”
That finally drew a laugh out of you — a soft, sniffling one, but genuine.
And that, he thought quietly, was worth more than any successful surgery.
A few days later, one of his colleagues caught him smiling at his phone during lunch.
“Okay, that’s it,” the nurse said, squinting suspiciously. “What’s got you smiling, Dr. Emotionless?”
Chishiya didn’t look up. “Nothing.”
The surgeon next to him leaned over. “Is it your wife again?”
“She sent me a video,” he said simply.
“What kind of video?”
He paused. “…A raccoon washing grapes.”
There was a collective groan around the table.
“Seriously? That’s what makes you smile?”
He shrugged. “She said it reminded her of me.”
The nurse snorted. “Because you’re both emotionally detached and like to wash things?”
He smirked faintly. “Because we both use our hands a lot.”
The entire table groaned louder.
“Gross, Chishiya.”
He only smirked more.
That night, when he got home, you were on the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of the baby crib you’d just assembled.
You looked exhausted but proud, rubbing your belly absently as you admired your work.
“Hey,” he murmured, kneeling beside you. “You actually did it.”
You beamed at him. “I’m nesting. It’s a thing.”
He reached out and steadied your hand, seeing the faint tremor from your effort. “You could’ve waited for me to help.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
He exhaled softly, then leaned in to kiss your temple. “You always do.”
You leaned your head against his shoulder, suddenly quiet. “You think I’ll be a good mom?”
He turned to look at you — at your soft eyes, your worried frown, the vulnerability that came in waves lately.
“(Y/N),” he said quietly, “you cry because a cartoon dog gets lost and laugh because someone sneezed like a duck. You already care too much. You’ll be perfect.”
You laughed through a sniffle. “That’s not a medical opinion.”
“It’s a personal one.”
You smiled at him, soft and watery. “You’re sweet sometimes.”
“Only for you.”
That night, as you both lay in bed, you reached for his hand, resting it on your belly.
He blinked, startled by the gentle movement beneath his palm.
“She’s kicking,” you whispered. “She does that when she hears your voice.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stared at your stomach — the faint thump against his hand making his chest tighten in ways he couldn’t explain.
Finally, his lips curved into that tiny, private smile again. “Guess she’s impatient. Just like her mother.”
You giggled, swatting him lightly. “You love us both.”
He didn’t deny it this time. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really do.”
The next morning, he left for work before sunrise. You were still asleep, curled up on his side of the bed, wearing his shirt and hugging one of his pillows.
He paused by the door, taking in the sight — the peaceful mess of blankets, your hair spilling across the pillow, one hand resting protectively over your stomach.
For someone who prided himself on logic, Chishiya couldn’t quite rationalize why his chest ached in the best possible way.
Maybe this was the one part of his life he didn’t need to analyze — the one thing that didn’t need to be measured, dissected, or fixed.
Because no matter how unpredictable your moods were — whether you were laughing, crying, or scolding him for being “too pretty to be a doctor” — you were his constant.
And if the hospital was where he fixed hearts, home was where his own finally learned how to beat for something other than survival.
synopsis: It starts as a fight in front of everyone at the Beach—Niragi talking too much, acting like he’s untouchable. You drag him off to a corner, and he tries to fight back, but you don’t let him. He struggles, whines, and eventually gives in, shaking and leaking, while you take control. By the end, he can’t hide how much he needs it.
content warnings: 18+, smut, rough sex, hair pulling, light choking, humiliation, degradation, pain kink, crying/tears, power play, brattiness, top male reader, consensual dub-con vibes, edging, no aftercare, pre-Beach collapse, implied Borderlands violence.
word count: 1.9k words
The Beach courtyard felt like a pressure cooker set to explode the second you stepped out. Hatter was on his soapbox—yada yada, Beach rules, nobody cares—but all the real heat was coming off Niragi. He was a live wire, pacing the dusty concrete like a wolf who'd caught the scent of fresh blood. One minute, he was fine; the next, he was shoving some random guy clear out of the way just because the dude dared to exist in his proximity.
Click. The sound of a collective turning away. Everyone at the Beach had mastered the art of selective blindness. You look away, you survive.
But you? You were never good at following the rules.
"Cut it out," you snapped, stepping directly into his path. It was a stupid, reckless move. You knew it the second the words left your mouth.
Niragi stopped dead. His pacing stuttered, his heavy boots scuffing the concrete. He stared at you like you were an abstract concept that had suddenly manifested in his reality. Disbelief. Then rage. His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, and that pissed-off, challenging half-smile, the one that promised violence, pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"You got a problem?" he asked, his voice a switchblade, sharp, too loud, slicing through the mundane hum of Hatter’s speech.
"Yeah," you fired back, meeting his glare head-on. "You're acting like a moron."
A few people froze, mid-conversation, mid-drink. They watched, terrified but glued, out of the corners of their eyes. You didn’t care. Niragi took a step closer, crowding your space. You didn't flinch. You didn’t back up.
"Oh, you think you’re tough?" he sneered and shoved your shoulder. It wasn’t a killer blow, just a test. A little nudge to see if you'd fold.
You didn't. You shoved back. Harder.
He actually stumbled. The crowd murmured. Hatter, mid-tirade, actually looked over.
That did it.
Niragi lunged. His fingers hooked into your shirt, ready to slam you into the nearest flimsy plastic table. But you were faster. You caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted the joint, and used his own momentum to force him back a full step.
For a heartbeat, his eyes went wide, pure shock. Then, the surprise melted away, replaced by something dark and utterly feral.
"You wanna fight?" he hissed, low and vicious.
"No," you said, your voice just a breath. "I want privacy."
Before he could process the sheer absurdity of the statement, you grabbed him by the back of his neck, a brutal, controlling grip, and hauled him away from the crowd. He cursed, a stream of filthy, furious Japanese, struggling and yanking against your hand, but you didn't slow down. You dragged him down one of the long, empty hallways, his heavy boots scraping and stuttering as he fought to keep up with your relentless pace.
"Let go, you little—" he snapped.
"Shut up," you said, and shoved him hard into a shadowed corner, hidden behind a towering stack of forgotten crates. No one ever came back here. Perfect.
He opened his mouth, fire in his eyes, ready to spit out whatever insult bubbled up, but you had him pinned before a single word could escape. Your hand slammed onto his chest, shoving him against the wall, while your other hand locked around his jaw, tilting his head.
He froze.
Not from fear. Never fear. But from pure, staggering surprise. Like he couldn't comprehend that you, of all people, would dare to manhandle the infamous Suguru Niragi in broad daylight.
"You really wanna pretend you don’t like this?" you murmured, your voice low and dangerously close.
His throat worked, bobbing hard. He glared, the hatred in his eyes warring with the fierce, betraying heat that was already flooding his face.
"Fuck you," he managed, the words a raw rumble.
You leaned in closer, your mouth almost brushing his ear. "Keep talking."
His breath hitched, a stuttered intake of air. That was all the admission you needed.
You shoved him harder against the wall, your thigh sliding aggressively between his legs. A quick, sharp gasp escaped him, a sound he immediately tried to choke down with a harsh scoff. Too late.
Your fingers tightened brutally in his hair. He hissed in pain, and you used the leverage to tilt his head back, forcing his mouth to part on instinct.
"Always running your mouth," you ground out, your voice a threat. "Always acting untouchable. But right now?"
You squeezed his jaw until his eyes fluttered.
"You’re shaking."
"I’m not," he started, his voice thick, but you silenced him with pressure, your thigh driving up and finding purchase between his legs. His hips bucked, a desperate, automatic move, before he could physically stop them.
That finally broke his mask.
"Please," he muttered, the word barely audible, a ragged plea torn from his chest.
You let a slow, utterly satisfied smirk spread across your face. "That easy?"
He looked absolutely furious with himself, like his own traitorous body had committed the ultimate betrayal. You didn't give him time to recover. You spun him around, his chest slamming against the cold wall, and your hand wedged hard between his shoulder blades to keep him locked there. His palms flattened against the rough concrete, and a shaky breath escaped him.
"On your knees," you commanded.
He didn't move. Pure, toxic pride held him rigid.
You didn't ask again. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, dragging his head down with a vicious yank. His knees hit the ground with a dull, painful thud, and he let out a choked sound that he instantly tried to swallow back.
"You look good like that," you said, circling him slowly.
"Shut up," he rasped, but the way he was squeezing his thighs together ruined the bite in his voice.
You pushed your thumb against his lower lip. "Open."
He hesitated. Two seconds of his pridefulness.
Then he opened.
“Good boy.”
You slid your thumb inside. He glared, but his lips sucked around the digit despite himself, his eyes already glassy with humiliation and something far, far needier. When you pulled your hand out, a glistening string of spit followed. His face flushed a deep crimson, his eyes flicking away, ashamed at the speed of his surrender.
"You’re gonna listen," you stated, your hand gripping the back of his neck like a leash. "Or I’ll leave you here like this, hard and desperate."
His breath hitched.
"Don’t," he whispered.
You smiled coldly "Then behave."
You forced him down again, his cheek pressed hard to your thigh, his breathing uneven. You grabbed his hips, yanked him closer to your body, and he let out a little choked noise, half pain, half an uncontrollable rush of want.
He hated how much he wanted this. You could feel the hatred shaking through him.
You pushed him down further, until he was braced against the floor with trembling arms, forehead bowed, his body completely open for you. Utterly broken down in a forgotten, dark corner of the Beach where no one could witness his spectacular fall.
"Good boy," you murmured, guiding him firmly into position. "Now stay still and take it as you need it."
He whimpered, a quiet, raw sound, and didn’t move an inch.
You pressed him closer against the wall, one hand still tangled possessively in his hair, the other gripping his hip. His knees dug into the unforgiving concrete, trembling; his arms braced against the dusty floor. Every inhale he took was a stutter, every exhale a small, desperate whine he tried and failed to swallow.
"You’re already leaking for me," you breathed, leaning in close until your mouth brushed the shell of his ear. "Even though you keep pretending you don’t need it."
He growled, his voice rough, chest heaving. "I, don’t—"
You cut him off with a firm press of your thigh, rocking him down, your hips grinding instinctively against his. He jerked violently, gasping, his fists scrabbling uselessly at the floor. His words tried to fight you. His body didn't care.
"Shut up," you said, your voice a low, dangerous growl. "Move your hands where I tell you."
He tried to resist, huffing curses and muttering, but you caught his wrists, pinning them roughly above his head. His chest hit the wall, forehead bowed, and you leaned in, your teeth grazing the delicate shell of his ear.
"You think holding out will make you strong? It won't," you whispered. "It’ll just make this worse for you."
He whimpered, a sound that was half protest, half plea, trying to twist away. You yanked his hair, forcing his head back, and he let out a sharp, choked noise. That’s the sound you’d been waiting for.
"Good boy," you murmured. "That’s it. Stop pretending you’re in control. You’re mine right now."
His hips bucked, an instinctive, total betrayal, even as his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed in furious shame. He hated it. Hated that he loved it. Hated that you had stolen this much power over him.
You slid your hand down to the front of his pants, brushing him roughly, teasing, dragging out every single reaction. He hissed, pressing forward, digging his nails into the floor, trying to push back without moving away.
"Say it," you demanded, low and sharp. "Say who you belong to."
He shook his head frantically. "I, don’t—"
You tightened your grip in his hair, tugging his head back further. "Louder. Now."
"I—I’m yours!" he spat out, the words cracking, his eyes watering with the humiliation.
You smirked. Perfect. That tiny, hairline crack in his armour. You yanked him down to his knees fully, spreading him roughly, and he let out a strangled, frustrated whine.
His pride was gone. His body was a complete, messy betrayal. You didn't even bother slowing down. Every brutal push, every possessive grab, every hard press was designed to make him submit completely.
He tried to hiss, tried to curse, tried to snap at you through gritted teeth, but each time his hips betrayed him again, each time his chest hit the wall or floor and he whimpered under your controlling hand, you knew he’d lost.
You drove into him, rough, deliberate. His body shook uncontrollably, arms braced, his back arching, cheeks wet with tears he desperately didn't want to show. He tried to keep his eyes on yours, tried to glare through the hazy desire, but all he could do was shiver and moan.
"Look at you," you murmured, your teeth grazing his shoulder. "All pride gone. Just taking it like you need it."
He hissed, head falling forward, lips trembling. "Stop… please… I—"
You pressed your hand into his jaw again, tilting his head up. "No talking. You’ll get used to being quiet soon enough."
His thighs clenched around nothing. His hands fisted the floor. He was a helpless, desperate, messy wreck, and you revelled in every second of it.
When he finally came, it was choking, small sobs breaking through, his body shaking like he couldn’t contain himself. You kept him pressed to you, riding him through every pulse, every shudder, letting him ride out every humiliating, desirable moment of broken pride.
"Good boy," you whispered again, dragging him back close. "Mine. Don’t ever forget it."
He whimpered, his chest heaving, his pride shattered, tears streaked across his face. He didn’t say anything. He couldn't. All he could do was let you have him, completely.
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„You‘re still pretty, you know?“ Your voice broke through the quietness of the night in your shared room.
After the 10 of hearts, you had dragged Niragi‘s wrecked and ruined body out of the arena, cleansed his wounds, wrapped him in protective bandages. His entire body was burned with second and third degree burns, the ends of his hair completely fried off and his piercings melted into his skin. You cried for him. He just watched you with those dull eyes.
He looked up at you and scoffed. Him? Pretty? You were telling a corpse it was still looking alive.
But your finger ran ever so gently over his bottom lip. That look on your face- so soft and ruined. Like seeing him like this hurt you more than it did him. Like you felt bad for a man like him.
„Cut the shit.“ His words were harsh, but his voice cracked. You hit a place in his heart he had forcefully locked away.
You smiled weakly. „I mean it.“
„You don’t.“ There it was again- the crack in his voice. Like your smile alone could break his walls down.
And maybe it could.
You scooted closer, the blanket falling down to expose your shoulder. You propped yourself up with your arms, looking down at him.
Niragi swallowed. Your breath fawned against his lips.
Note: English is not my first language so feel free to tell me if there are any mistakes.
Kazuya:
Your relationship with Kazuya is difficult to define. You are not dating, there is no place for that in Borderland, but you have something... where passion hides the deep feelings you both try to bury.
Kazuya is forced to project control and authority in the games, making intimacy an intense transaction of dominance to protect himself from vulnerability.
His preferred position is Missionary.
Kazuya prefers it because it allows him complete sight of you: your expressions, your vulnerability, and the pleasure only he can give you. The sensation it produces for him is one of absolute physical control that disguises the emotional connection that terrifies him.
He uses his weight and the firmness of his movements to immobilize you... this act is a safety measure to keep his own emotional barriers up, fearing that a moment of weakness might make him lose control over himself and end up uttering those forbidden words. His dark eyes never leave your face, seeking the reflection of the passion he refuses to name.
While his penetrations are decisive and firm, his voice is a low, possessive murmur, very close to your ear. His words affect you, though you would never tell him, serving as an affirmation of ownership that conceals a deeper feeling.
“Look me in the eyes” he will order with fierce intensity, his hot breath against your jaw. “You are mine. I’m the one giving you all of this. Don't forget it.”
The man gives you the most intense pleasure as an act of desperation in this world without rules, hoping the physical bond he creates is sufficient for you to survive and stay by his side.
Banda Sunato:
The dynamic you have with Banda is that of stalker and victim, where intimacy is another form of psychological torture and confinement, reflecting his cold and manipulative nature. His preferred position is Spooning, entering from behind and cradling you in a way that makes you feel completely trapped.
Banda chooses it because it provides him with a feeling of total confinement and psychological control. He keeps you prisoner between the wall and his slender but iron-hard body, your back against his chest, preventing you from seeing his expression.
This forces you to feel his breath on your neck, while he can whisper directly into your ear, making his twisted voice resonate in your mind. For him, it is a pleasure to break your will while giving you what appears to be a hug.
In the middle of the act, he will use his ability to manipulate, not to praise, but to degrade and remind you how vulnerable you are, seeking your desperation.
“Do you like it?” he will ask in his soft, false tone. “Don’t worry. Youre mine, and I’ll make you feel good until you confess it. Confess that you only want me, and maybe I will think about letting you go.”
Ryuji: Matsuyama
Ryuji and you maintain a friends-with-benefits relationship within the Borderland survival team. Although he is reserved, you are each other's emotional anchor. His favorite position is Cowgirl, where you ride him.
Ryuji prefers it because it is the only moment where he allows himself to release obsessive control over everything and simply feel. This position allows him to observe and actively participate in the passion, maintaining eye contact and the possibility of talking or kissing you. He uses the strength of his notably muscular upper body, not to direct your hips, but to hold you with a desperate firmness, his hands gripping your waist, communicating an intense need that his voice would never admit.
The sensation he experiences is vulnerability and emotional connection; it is the only time he allows himself the luxury of forgetting logic.
“You’re the only real thing right now. Kiss me” he will say in his usually serious voice, now tense with pleasure.
Nobu:
Your relationship with Nobu is one of boyfriend and girlfriend, based on intense and fragile emotional dependence. He lives with a constant fear of abandonment, so his favorite position is any that guarantees maximum contact and the certainty that you will not leave, such as sitting face-to-face with your legs wrapped around his waist.
Nobu needs this position because it provides him with a feeling of extreme intimacy and constant reassurance. He must see your eyes, your face, and have your arms around his neck to believe that you are truly there with him. Intimacy for Nobu is not pleasure, but the temporary abolition of his fear.
His movements are often uncertain, but desperate; his voice is full of gratitude and palpable need.
“Y/N, dont go. Look at me, please,” he will plead in his nervous voice, clinging to you. “Just tell me you won’t leave, okay? I can't... I can't bear this without you. You're the only thing I have.”
Ikeno:
Ikeno and you are teammates, with him being the leader and you a subordinate he uses for his pleasure. His favorite position is the one that allows him total objectification and physical dominance: Doggy Style.
Ikeno chooses it because it produces a feeling of raw domination and heightened ego. He doesn't need visual connection or intimacy, he just needs proof of his power over you. This position is inherently dehumanizing, and the fact that he doesn't have to see your face while possessing you is an extra point for his cruel personality.
His words are always of arrogant degradation, seeking to remind you of his status and how little you are worth without him.
“Hold still and do your part,” he will order with a cynical smile, his voice loud and clear. “Remember Im only using you for my own satisfaction. In this world, only winners matter, and you kneel before one. So don’t complain.”
Aguni:
Your relationship with Aguni is marked by the intensity of his trauma and his struggle for control in Borderland. Outside of the games, he is a tough man who converts all his emotions into rage, but intimacy is the only place where his military facade breaks. His internal pain over the death of his best friend has left him emotionally closed off and unable to trust.
His favorite position is Spooning.
Aguni prefers it because it allows him to experience a physical security he rarely feels, without the vulnerability of eye contact. The position gives him a sense of protection by surrounding you with his large, muscular body, as if the strength of his arms could contain the chaos consuming him. He uses you as his anchor, a physical object that reminds him he is not completely alone.
His movements are slow at first, almost a relief more than a pleasure, but they become fierce and desperate as the need to feel you overwhelms him. His voice is deep and demanding, but what he says is a plea.
“Dont move. Just... stay like that,” he will hug you with a strength that takes your breath away. “Just feel me and stay here.”
Arisu:
Arisu, the intelligent and compassionate player, is constantly tormented by guilt for the friends he couldn't save. For him, intimacy is a desperate attempt to connect... to prove that goodness and real feelings still exist.
His favorite position is Missionary.
Arisu chooses it because it allows him total vision. He desperately needs uninterrupted eye contact to confirm that you are real, present, and not another victim he will be responsible for. Intimacy becomes a forced therapy for his pain and depression, he has to see your pleasure to justify his survival.
His movements are hesitant and full of fear of hurting you at first, but they become stronger and rhythmic when he sees joy on your face, as if he is solving an emotional survival game. His voice is an intense whisper that asks for reassurance.
“Look at me, please. I need to know this is happening, say my name... tell me I’m doing this right. Are you okay? Dont lie to me.”
Chishiya:
Chishiya is the cynical genius of logic, the manipulator who sees people as variables in an experiment. His profession as a disillusioned doctor makes him incapable of emotional attachment. For him, sex is a clean, calculated exchange of pleasure.
Therefore, his favorite position is Sixty-Nine.
Chishiya prefers it because it is the most logical solution to intimacy: it is perfectly symmetrical and efficient. Both receive pleasure with the minimum emotional investment and without the vulnerability of eye contact.
It is a transactional act that avoids the messiness of feelings, something he despises. He enjoys the absence of hierarchy in that moment, because at the end of the day, everyone is alone.
His movements are precise, technical, and analytical. He seems to enjoy the act as if he were studying a chemical reaction. His voice is condescending, and his dialogue is as if he is explaining the rules of a game.
“I love this position, it’s an efficient solution. Don’t you find it fascinating how we can satisfy each other equally? Now focus, or I'll get bored.”
Niragi:
Niragi is a volatile and aggressive man, whose abuse of power in Borderland is a direct response to the bullying and lack of status he suffered in the real world. Intimacy is for him the absolute validation that he is now strong and dangerous.
Therefore, his favorite position is Doggy Style.
Niragi chooses it because it provides him raw dominance and a complete objectification of your body. It is the position that most directly satisfies his hunger for power and allows him to unleash his aggression without limits. He doesn't need to see your face; he just needs to know that you submit to his will and that you are his.
His movements are violent and unrestrained, driven by repressed rage. It is not about your pleasure, but about releasing his own through intimidation and pain. His voice is full of degradation and commands.
“Look how you shake beneath me, bitch! You’re pathetic. Now scream my name... loud, so they hear you!”
Tatta:
Tatta is, by nature, friendly and calm, but he carries a heavy psychological burden for having caused permanent harm to his coworker. Intimacy is an act of service and a constant apology.
His favorite position is Classic Missionary.
Tatta prefers it because it is the most tender and safest position. Being dominant in the act, he feels the responsibility not to cause harm. He must see your face to confirm that you are safe and comfortable. His pleasure is directly linked to the absence of pain and the presence of joy in your expression, which momentarily absolves him of his guilt.
His movements are hesitant and excessively gentle at first, full of a palpable fear of hurting you, and he apologizes instinctively. His voice is sweet and anxious for your well-being.
“Am I going too fast? Please let me know if I hurt you. I just want you to feel good. You're the only good thing in this place... I swear I’m going to take care of you.”
Tetsu:
Tetsu is an emotional, temperamental, and decisive man who, despite his issues, proves to be brave and protective of his friends. His history suggests a deep dissatisfaction with his own control in life.
His favorite position is Reverse Cowgirl.
Tetsu chooses it because it allows him to cede all control. In this position, the fear of making mistakes dissolves, as you set the rhythm and depth. He can simply observe and admire you, concentrating on the joy of being the recipient of your pleasure without the pressure of being the executor of it. It is the only place where he doesn't have to be the leader or the protector.
His movements are minimal and limited to holding you. He is completely submissive to the rhythm you impose on him. His voice is rough and emotional, but focused on praising you and surrendering to your dominance.
“Shit, yes! Don’t let go of me. Don’t stop... like that. You’re doing exactly what feels good. Look at me, but don’t stop. Don’t stop for me.”
