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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?
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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.
„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.
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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.”
AIB x Reader where reader is extremely clingy, cuddly, and touchy with them. Like whenever reader is with them, reader needs to be hugging them, holding their hand, cuddling them, or leaning on them 24/7
AIB Characters react to Reader being clingy
A/N: I'm sorry for taking so long. I've just gotten a puppy, so I haven't had much time the past few days. I still hope you like it!
content/warnings: Ann, Kuina, Mira, Aguni, Niragi, Last Boss, Chishiya, canon typical blood and violence, 3.451 words
Ann
Ann had always been composed. Private. Untouchable, almost. She didn't flinch in life-or-death situations, never raised her voice, and rarely smiled in front of others. She'd spent most of her life learning to be still—calm in chaos. Which made you, by all accounts, the opposite of everything she was used to.
You clung to her like static. A walking, talking, warm-blooded koala with a heart too big for your own body. The first time you held her hand in front of everyone at the Beach, she nearly pulled away on instinct—not out of discomfort, but surprise. You had beamed at her like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"You don't like holding hands?" You'd asked, tilting your head.
She stared at your interlocked fingers. "It's not that I don't like it."
You leaned your head on her shoulder, unapologetically content. "Then I'll just keep doing it."
And you did.
Whenever you walked together, your hand always found hers. When you sat down to eat, your leg pressed to her thigh like magnetism. When she was patching a wound or cleaning her gear, you were either leaning on her, cuddling her arm, or slumping against her back. Like it was a reflex. Like your body simply needed to be touching hers to function.
At first, it was… distracting.
Ann was used to solitude. Quiet corners. The absence of warmth. You, however, treated physical affection like oxygen.
She tried to resist, once.
You had dozed off against her after a long patrol, your arm slung across her stomach and your nose buried in her neck. Ann lay there stiffly, staring at the ceiling of the dark dorm room like it might offer answers. She debated gently moving you off her, but you made a small content noise in your sleep and cuddled closer.
She didn't move after that.
Eventually, your clinginess stopped being strange. It just became… you.
Like when you plopped down beside her during a strategy meeting, immediately draping yourself across her lap with zero shame. Arisu gave a short, surprised laugh. Chishiya didn't even look up.
Ann didn't say a word. She just reached out and began running her fingers through your hair while she listened to the game plan.
After that, no one questioned it.
There were still moments when it caught her off guard. Like when you wrapped your arms around her waist while she was sharpening a knife, or when you hugged her from behind in the hallway and buried your face between her shoulder blades.
"You could have startled me," she murmured once.
"You knew it was me," you mumbled into her back.
She couldn't argue with that.
One night, after a long and grueling Hearts game, Ann returned bloodied and bruised. You were waiting in her room, pacing like a nervous animal. The moment you saw her, you practically tackled her with a hug.
"You're okay," you whispered, voice thick.
She winced slightly but didn't push you away. You were trembling.
"I thought—what if you didn't come back? I didn't even get to say goodbye properly—"
Ann's arms wrapped around you, firm and grounding. "I'm here."
You pulled back just enough to cup her face. "You're not allowed to leave me. Ever. Got it?"
There was something teary and fierce in your expression—your love wrapped in desperation.
Ann didn't flinch from it. She reached up, rested her hand over yours, and nodded once.
"I'm not going anywhere."
You curled into her chest and held her like the world was ending. She let you. And when she finally lay down beside you, she didn't resist when you latched onto her like a starfish.
She just closed her eyes… and pulled you closer.
Kuina
Living in the Borderlands meant accepting a certain level of unpredictability: deadly games, crumbling buildings, and people who could snap at any moment.
And then there was you.
You, with your relentless affection, soft eyes, and the absolute refusal to go more than five minutes without touching Kuina in some way.
She first noticed it when you started draping yourself across her lap during downtime at the Beach, completely unfazed by the stares from other residents. You'd hum little songs under your breath while tracing lazy shapes on her arm. Or you'd press your cheek to her shoulder like it was the comfiest pillow on earth—even if she was actively cleaning a blade.
"Do you ever sit on your own chair?" she asked one afternoon, cocking an eyebrow as you once again settled yourself half on top of her.
You blinked at her. "But your lap is right there."
Kuina smirked. "Fair point."
It wasn't just about sitting. You were tactile in every situation.
If you were walking, you were holding her hand—or her sleeve—or looping your arm through hers like it was second nature. If she was eating, you were leaning against her side, sometimes stealing bites from her plate with the most innocent expression imaginable. If she was gearing up for a game, you were fixing her collar, brushing her hair behind her ear, giving her a forehead kiss like you were sending a soldier off to war.
It should have been overwhelming. Too much. Clingy, even.
But it was you.
And with you, nothing ever felt like too much.
After one particularly brutal Diamonds game, Kuina limped back into the compound, blood crusted on her knuckles, muscles aching. She expected to collapse in bed, maybe shower if she could keep her eyes open long enough.
Instead, she found you waiting at her door.
You didn't say anything. You just opened your arms and let her fall into them.
You hugged her so tightly she could feel the beat of your heart against hers—like it was trying to sync with her own.
"You're late," you whispered into her hair.
"Game ran long," she mumbled, burying her face into your neck.
You pulled her into the room and onto the mattress in one smooth motion, wrapping yourself around her like a blanket.
She blinked at you in the dark. "You're going to suffocate me."
"I will die before I let you sleep alone tonight."
Kuina laughed—soft and real—and tangled her legs with yours.
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
And damn it, she did.
But it wasn't until one night, another post-game, when she was trembling from adrenaline and anger and the ghosts that always came back when it was too quiet, that she truly realized what your affection meant.
You didn't ask what had happened. You didn't demand she talk.
You just held her.
Arms around her back. Legs tangled. Fingers stroking through her hair.
And Kuina, who had built her life on strength and steel and silence, let herself be held.
"You're not subtle," she whispered into your collarbone, voice hoarse.
"I'm not trying to be," you murmured, kissing her temple. "I'm just trying to love you."
She didn't say anything.
But she didn't let go either.
Mira
If Mira was ice—elegant, composed, untouchable—then you were her fire. Not explosive, but warm. A slow, constant burn. You clung to her like you were solar-powered and she was your only source of light.
And she noticed.
The first time it happened, Mira had been seated in one of the plush velvet chairs in the Beach lounge, wine glass in hand, idly flipping through a deck of playing cards. You strolled in, casual as ever, and draped yourself over the arm of her chair like you belonged there.
Correction: you draped yourself half on the arm and half on her.
"Mmm. You're comfy," you sighed, tucking your face into the crook of her neck.
Mira blinked, amused. "Is that so?"
"Very. You smell like rose and danger."
She let out a soft, velvety laugh. "What an intoxicating combination."
From that moment on, you became a constant fixture by her side. Or on her lap. Or sprawled across her bed like a cat waiting to be pet. You always had to be touching her somehow—fingers brushing her wrist, head on her shoulder, hand intertwined with hers like the connection physically soothed something in you.
Others noticed, of course. Whispered about it.
"She's so clingy," a jealous player sneered one day when you leaned into Mira during breakfast, your legs draped across her lap like you owned her.
"She's affectionate," Mira corrected with a cool smile, her hand sliding into your hair. "And she's mine. That's all that matters."
You flushed. "...I mean, she's not wrong."
Sometimes, Mira tested you—pushed to see how far your need for closeness went.
She'd walk a few paces ahead of you, ignoring your outstretched hand just to see if you'd pout (you did). Or she'd sit just slightly out of reach on a couch, watching you squirm until you inevitably crawled over and curled into her side like you were magnetized.
"You're hopeless," she teased once, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"I get separation anxiety," you replied, arms firmly wrapped around her waist. "You're my emotional support queen."
There were quiet moments too—ones she never let anyone else see.
Late nights when you were half-asleep on her chest, murmuring nonsense. Days where she'd read aloud from a book while you rested in her lap, fingers ghosting through your hair. And after every game, no matter how bloody or brutal, she always let you cling to her like a lifeline.
"You don't have to touch me constantly, you know," she whispered once, voice oddly gentle.
"I know," you replied without opening your eyes. "But I want to."
Mira stared at you for a long moment, then pulled you closer.
"You're addicted to me," she said lightly, a smirk playing on her lips.
"And you love it," you shot back, grinning.
She kissed the top of your head like a silent admission.
Because she did.
Aguni
Aguni didn't know what to do with someone like you.
You were the kind of person who walked into a room and immediately gravitated toward him, like his presence had gravity. You clung to him like he was your anchor—which, ironically, was what he thought of you.
The first time it happened, you caught him off guard. He'd just come back from a brutal game—bruised, bloodied, adrenaline still racing through his system—when you ran straight into him, wrapping your arms tight around his waist.
"You're okay," you whispered against his chest, voice shaking slightly.
He stood stiff as stone, unsure what to do with the sudden affection. You didn't even flinch at the blood on his shirt.
"…You always hug like this?" he muttered.
"Only when I'm worried," you said. "So… yeah. Pretty much all the time."
He grunted, but he didn't pull away.
From that day on, it was a pattern. You touched him constantly—an arm looped around his when you walked beside him, a hand on his back when he was brooding, curling up beside him on a couch like it was your designated spot. You weren't subtle. You didn't try to be.
Aguni, for the most part, tolerated it in silence. He wasn't exactly a words of affirmation kind of guy. But the way he subtly leaned into your touch, the way his hand always hovered just slightly before resting on your back? That was his version of returning it.
Once, Hatter made a joke about your attachment.
"Can't even go five minutes without clinging to him, huh?" he smirked.
Aguni shot him a glare so sharp it could've cut steel. "And?"
You beamed, clutching Aguni's arm tighter. "It's true. He's warm. And he's mine."
Late at night was when the vulnerability crept in—when his guard dropped enough to let you in deeper.
You'd lie across his chest, listening to his heartbeat, your fingers tracing the old scars on his arms. He rarely said anything. Just held you, big hand splayed across your back like he was afraid to let go.
One night, after a nightmare woke him, you curled around him without hesitation, draping yourself over his tense body like a blanket of safety.
"You always do this," he mumbled, voice gravelly.
"Do what?"
"Hold me. Even when I don't ask."
You looked up at him, your hand gently resting over his heart. "You don't have to ask. You never do."
He didn't respond. But he turned, pulling you fully into his arms like you were the only thing tethering him to the world.
"Thank you," he said quietly, rough and barely audible.
You smiled against his chest. "For what?"
"For always coming back."
Aguni didn't know how to be soft. But with you—your constant presence, your quiet affection, your need to always be touching him like it kept you both grounded—he didn't have to know how.
He just had to let it happen.
And he did.
Every single time.
Niragi
Everyone thought you were a little unhinged for being so attached to Niragi.
He was loud, volatile, armed, and not exactly known for being emotionally available. He flirted like it was a weapon, pushed people too far for fun, and had a temper shorter than a fuse soaked in gasoline.
And yet—there you were, latched onto him like he was your emotional support war criminal.
You hugged him constantly. Slung yourself across his lap in the common room like you owned the space. Played with his hair while he cleaned his rifle. Held his hand when he was in a mood, like that could keep the violence in check.
The first time you back-hugged him in public, everyone tensed like someone was about to die.
Instead of shoving you off, Niragi just muttered, "You're clingy as hell," but his hand casually found yours and stayed there.
No one knew what to do with that.
He never told you to stop.
"Do you ever not touch people?" he grumbled once as you climbed into his lap after dinner.
"Only when I'm dead," you replied sweetly, settling your head under his chin.
"Great," he huffed. "Guess I've got a parasite now."
But he didn't move you. His hand ended up resting on your thigh, tracing lazy shapes into your skin like it was second nature.
You brought him snacks before patrols. Pulled him down onto couches so he'd nap. Snuck into his bed when he stayed out too late after a game, curling up like a cat in his arms.
"You're gonna make people think I'm soft," he muttered once while brushing your hair out of your eyes.
"You are soft," you teased.
He gave you a sharp grin. "Only for you."
What no one saw was how he started seeking it out, too.
He got twitchy when you weren't around. Wouldn't admit it, but his mood tanked. And if anyone else tried to be touchy with you? He was suddenly at your side, draping an arm around your shoulders like a warning label: Mine.
"Didn't peg you as the jealous type," you'd whisper, amused.
"I'm not," he'd snap—before pressing a kiss just behind your ear, possessive and rough. "I just don't share."
One night, after a brutal Hearts game, you found him in your room instead of his. Shirt off, bruised and bloody, sitting on your bed like he belonged there.
"I didn't know where else to go," he said gruffly, not looking at you.
You didn't say a word. Just walked over, dropped to your knees in front of him, and wrapped your arms around his waist like you were the only thing holding him together.
He leaned into it.
Hard.
"You're still clingy as hell," he whispered into your hair.
"And you still love it," you replied.
He didn't argue.
Last Boss
No one touched Last Boss.
They didn't joke with him. Didn't pat him on the back. Didn't nudge him or loop their arm through his. He moved through the Beach like a ghost in boots, silent and sharp, sword always strapped to his back.
And then there was you.
The polar opposite.
You draped yourself over him like it was a habit — always hugging his arm, pressing your cheek against his shoulder, leaning into his side like he was made for it. If he sat, you sat closer. If he stood, you'd hold onto his jacket until he noticed you.
You were soft smiles and sleepy cuddles. A quiet hum when you were near him, like being close made you content in a way no one else could understand.
At first, people watched you with baited breath, sure you'd get sliced in half.
Instead, he let you stay.
One afternoon, you wandered into the quiet hallway where he was sitting alone, sharpening his blade.
Without a word, you plopped down next to him and curled your arms around his torso, resting your head against his chest. His hand paused mid-motion.
"…You're clingy," he said softly, not even turning.
"Mhm," you mumbled, eyes fluttering closed. "I missed you."
"We saw each other an hour ago."
"I still missed you."
There was silence. And then, slowly, he shifted — just enough so your head rested more comfortably against him, and his arm came to rest loosely around your back. His fingers brushed your side, hesitant, like you were something fragile.
At night, you curled up in his bed like a cat, pulling the blanket over both of you with zero shame.
"Don't you get tired of needing to touch me all the time?" he asked once, voice barely above a whisper.
"Nope," you replied, already halfway to sleep. "You're my favorite."
He stared at the ceiling for a long time after that. Then, gently, carefully, he tucked your hair behind your ear and let his hand rest there for a moment longer than necessary.
He never initiated — not in public. But when no one was around?
His hand would find your lower back. His thumb would trace circles against your arm. He would hold you so tightly some nights it was like he was afraid you'd vanish.
You never said anything. Just held him tighter.
You gave affection like oxygen. Constant, necessary, unyielding.
And Last Boss — blade-wielding ghost of a man — let himself breathe only when he had you in his arms.
Chishiya
Chishiya didn't do affection.
He didn’t need it. Didn't crave it. And definitely didn't expect it. People were liabilities, emotional messes he preferred to keep at arm's length — or further, if possible.
And then there was you.
You were like static electricity — always close, always buzzing. The kind of person who couldn't just sit next to someone. No, you had to lean against them. Hold their hand. Hook your pinky through theirs. Climb into their lap when you were bored and drape yourself across them like a blanket.
You were, by all definitions, clingy.
And for reasons unknown to everyone — including Chishiya himself — he let you be.
"I think you might be a cat," you told him once, lying across his chest as he read a weathered book by flashlight. “You always look so calm. Detached. But you get all twitchy when someone you don't like gets too close.”
"I'm not a cat," he replied, not looking up. "You're the clingy one. You're like… a human scarf."
You grinned and nuzzled under his chin. "Then wear me."
He sighed, but his hand found the small of your back anyway.
During games, you stuck to his side like a shadow. Arm brushing his, pinky loosely linked with his until he gently tugged your hand fully into his.
"You're distracting," he muttered under his breath during a particularly tense Diamond game.
"You still haven't let go," you whispered back, lips brushing his ear.
He didn't respond. But he squeezed your hand tighter.
Back at the hideout, you always found your way to him. If he sat on the couch, you'd stretch across it with your head in his lap. If he sat in a chair, you'd squeeze in sideways and curl up like it was built for two. If he went to bed first, you'd follow five minutes later, crawling under the covers to tuck yourself into his side.
And no matter how many times he rolled his eyes or exhaled like he was so put upon, he never moved away.
One night, you whispered against his collarbone, "Am I too much?"
He didn't answer at first. Just let the silence linger like it always did.
Then he murmured, "You're exactly enough. For me."
You smiled into his skin.
And though he didn't say another word, his hand slipped into your hair and stayed there long after you'd fallen asleep.
