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bloodblanks · 1 month ago

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nsfw headcanons — kaneki ken

ft. different variations of kaneki throughout his character arcs

note: alternatively, this can be considered a very explicit character study of kaneki.

author’s note: this fanfiction will contain mature content, including explicit sexual acts, mentions of trauma, some overstimulation, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

kaneki ken, the college student, is a shy, flustered mess. whenever you speak, his cheeks are dusted with a warm, rosy hue. despite him anxiously tripping over his own words, he still manages to maintain a contagious smile, beaming brighter than the sun.

when the topic of sex is brought up, kaneki’s eyes instantly widen, his expression much too easy to read as the reddening of his cheeks deepens in colour. he’s surprised—surprised you want to do this at all, but even more so that you want to do this with him.

after all, the day he first laid eyes on you was the day he decided you were out of his league.

kaneki is anxious—terrified, even—at the prospect of having sex with you. simultaneously, however, he is ecstatic. he is absolutely delighted knowing that he gets to engage in such an intimate, sensual act with you.

when you tug on kaneki’s shirt and he realizes he should undress himself, he can’t help but feel a pang of insecurity. but when your hands are on his bare skin and you’re murmuring compliments in his ear, telling him words that make his heart swell and blossom, any worries he harbours will dissipate.

he asks for your explicit permission before doing anything. even just small touches, featherlight brushes of his fingers against your skin, are only done after you tell him that it’s okay.

kaneki is very sensitive and extremely vocal. as soon as your fingers wrap around him, he’s gasping, his breath hitching, small whimpers leaving his lips. he’ll bite down on his bottom lip to stop the embarrassing sounds from coming out, but it’s not long before his mind becomes hazy and he loses any semblance of self restraint, long, needy whines leaving his lips.

despite his inexperience, he’s eager to please, be it with his fingers or mouth. his movements are clumsy to begin with but he’s a quick leaner—he’ll pay close attention to your reactions and adjust accordingly for what makes you feel best.

when he enters you as last, he sharply inhales, and his breath is quivering as he tries to steady himself. his movements are slow and timid, his focus entirely on your pleasure rather than his. not that he needs to pay attention to the euphoria that flows through his veins; if anything, he fears if he lets himself enjoy it too much, he won’t last. and he desperately wants to make sure you finish before him. he needs to ensure you feel good. he doesn’t want to disappoint.

but all the nerves in his body are being set ablaze, his mind flooding with pleasure as he cries out your name. his eyes squeeze shut for a brief second as he reaches his climax, his hands trembling all the while. apologies quickly spill from his lips, the temperature in his cheeks reaching a boiling point as he frantically tries to make up for finishing so soon.

when the both of you are satiated, he’s relieved, thanking whatever gods are out there that he was able to fix his blunder. but more than that, he’s hopelessly, pitifully infatuated with you, the adoration visible in his eyes as he whispers breathless professions of his love.

kaneki ken, the centipede, is a broken, empty husk of the man he used to be. his mind has frayed and fractured from the suffering he endured at yamori’s hands. long gone is the warmth that he used to exude as a human and in his early days as a half-ghoul. in its place is a tormented soul whose last remnants of sanity are held together by threads.

but the affection he holds for you remains. his feelings for you are so deeply embedded into his heart; they are what he clings onto during the endless nights of excruciation, the only thought keeping his mind from deteriorating as he chants the ceaseless string of forsaken numbers.

it isn’t the same, though. what was once pure and untainted has now become something darker, something warped. his attachment to you is no longer rooted in innocence and hope, but rather obsession—a sick yearning.

no, kaneki doesn’t just want you; he needs you. and that’s what he tells you, his eyes wide with lunacy as his hands grasp at you with bruising force. he clutches onto you like a lifeline. in his maddened eyes, that’s what you are.

he has nothing else to soothe him after he wakes up from the nightmares that frequently haunt him. there’s no one else he can find solace in when his eyes snap open, a thin layer of sweat soaking through the fabric of his clothes, besides you. you, who peels away the matted strands of hair stuck to his forehead. you, who dries away the dampness on his forehead. you, who coddles him and caresses his hair, whispering words of comfort in his ear. words that never reach him, as the sound of rushing blood and thundering claps of his heartbeat ring in his ears, as the mocking whispers and taunts in his mind fill up his entire head.

in moments like this, all he wants is to crawl inside of your chest, to nestle himself within the confines of your ribcage and to seek refuge in your heart. but that’s not possible, so he settles for being as physically close to you as possible.

his hands are all over you, running along every arch and ridge with the intent to memorize them. to sear the sensation of your flesh underneath his fingers into his mind, to eternally etch the softness of your body into his brain.

he prepares you with his fingers, and his movements, albeit hasty, are precise. he curls his fingers into you at just the right angle, tips of his fingers brushing against the sweetest of spots as his thumb rubs delightful circles around your clit.

kaneki thrusts into you with reckless abandon, his newfound strength and stamina unrelenting as he buries himself inside you, bottoming out with each frantic slam of his hips. all he can think about is how he needs to feel closer to you, how he needs to be deeper in you, how he needs to possess every inch of you, inside and out.

although he’s desperately chasing his own high, his body far outlasts yours, and the ruthless rhythm he maintains is quick to bring you to orgasm. he can feel your walls tighten and spasm around him, he can hear the way you cry out his name, but he doesn’t stop or slow his pace. he’s yet to climax, and even if that wasn’t the case, he yearns to drag out each melodious sound from your throat. he longs to brand the sound of your voice—the catharsis of his name on your lips—into his eardrums forever.

in the darkness of the room, the two of you are all that exists, fingers interlaced with one another’s and bodies tangled in coalescence.

prisoner 240, the amnesiac, is lost amidst a sea of memories that doesn’t belong to him. he doesn’t know what they are, he just knows that the blurry events and the emotions they evoke plague him at night. the dreams are endless, constantly drowning him in a distant yet intimate feeling of anguish. they could be recollections, but they aren’t his. nothing is his. not the thin fabric draped over him nor the four walls surrounding him; a cell he doesn’t know how he ended up in.

so, when you tell him that he can have you—that you’re willing to be his—he can only accuse you of lying to him. because it’s too good to be true; it’s not possible for someone as kind and beautiful as you to love a monster like him. he fights it, but each refusal of acceptance he utters is only a mask covering his true intent of seeking more reassurance from you.

and reassurance is what you give, wrapping his trembling body up in your arms, holding him in an embrace that he doesn’t think he’s worthy of. but with each doting whisper and comforting caress, his body melts into yours and his tears begin to dry.

prisoner 240 is sensitive, painfully so. he’s starved of touch, yet at the same time traumatized by rougher hands that brought him nothing but pain. he craves physical contact as much as he’s afraid of it, but his desires overshadow his fear by a fraction of a percentage as he allows you to undress him.

he wants to see you, touch you, have your body in ways that make him feel ashamed and guilty, but he dares not ask. he’s undeserving of such tenderness and affection. yet you look at him with such sincerity that he can’t help but swallow his own shame, pushing his reservations to the back of his mind and selfishly indulging in the gentleness of your touch.

at first, he’s busy trying his best to stop himself from instinctively flinching, but once his body relaxes, he’s all whimpers and whines and meek, timid pleas for you to continue. he quivers at the sensation of your fingers wrapping around his length, his erection twitching pitifully as you stroke him, heat searing his skin and electrifying each one of his neglected nerves.

he gasps as he enters you—you’re warm in a way he’s not sure he could ever get used to, your walls squeezing around him in a way that wrings a cry of delight from his lips. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, both out of embarrassment and because he wants to be close to you, wants you to hold and cherish him.

his hips rock against yours softly, his movements gentle and uncertain. despite how much his brain is flooded with euphoria, he’s using every ounce of control to ensure you feel good; he wants to return even a fraction of the pleasure you give to him.

when he orgasms, he’s calling out your name with an utmost angelical voice, his body stiffening as he permits himself to be completely unravelled by you.

after his climax, he’s quiet, save for the hot, heavy breaths that leave his parted lips. he basks in the afterglow of the act with you, before eventually, he tentatively asks if this was okay.

when you tell prisoner 240 he did good, his smile lights up the entire room, no matter how dense the darkness that envelops you both.

haise sasaki, the ghoul investigator, is never truly emotionally present. he’s kind, gentle, and affectionate. but he always pauses before he can utter the word ‘love,’ as if he’s afraid of the very syllable itself. you think some part of him is missing, an invisible wall dividing him apart from himself, a piece of him kept at a distance and hidden away from the world.

haise thinks so, too.

in fact, he knows so—there’s a portion of his mind that doesn’t belong to him. there’s a section in his head that’s inhabited by another person, another individual. someone he’s scared of letting out, someone he worries will devour him whole. someone he fears is all too much him, more him than he’ll ever be.

and there’s a fragment of his heart that beats with so much raw emotion, it threatens to overtake all the flimsy, superficial connections he’s made.

but he doesn’t want to lose this, not quite yet. so he keeps you at arm’s length; just close enough to have you, but not enough for you to have him. he cares for you with his half of the heart, the half of the organ that obeys him.

haise doesn’t commit. it’s no strings attached, no true intimacy, only quick exchanges of your body against his in the small, impermanent space of a hotel room.

his touch is gentle but firm, exploring your body with warm, calloused hands. he kisses you with hunger, his lips deftly moving against yours and your tongues locked in a dance which he performs with practiced ease.

it’s terrifying how little he resembles the person he used to be, the one locked away in the back of his mind.

haise will sink his head between your legs and lap away at your core, sucking on the sensitive bud before delving into your folds, pushing his tongue up your dripping hole. he enjoys tasting you more than anything else; nothing compares to the pleasure of having your thighs wrapped around his head and your juices running down his chin. it’s heavenly, he thinks, unable to get enough of your nectar, your fluids tasting so delectable on his tongue.

and the sounds you make—he longs to hear more, craves to keep hearing you moan out his name like it’s the only thing you know.

haise is vocal, but everything about him is more controlled, from the steady pace he thrusts at to the soft moans and gasps of pleasure that emits from his vocal cords. he presses his lips to your neck, peppers your throat with kisses as he continues fucking you at a comfortable speed, not too fast or too slow, all the while he mumbles earnestly about how good you feel.

you can tell he’s getting close when the tightly wound restraint he constantly holds dear begins to slip, his hips snapping against yours at an accelerating pace, and he brings a hand down to the crux where your bodies converge to rub at your clit. he makes sure to bring you to orgasm first, letting your sounds of fervour unravel the last of his control as he groans loudly, burying his face in your neck.

haise’s always there for you when you come down from your high, stroking your hair and whispering words of praise as he catches his own breath. he’s tender and caring as he cleans you up, basking in the weighted silence encapsulating the room. he’s almost loving, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek before you part ways for the night.

it’s not enough, but it’s everything that he, haise sasaki, has.

kaneki ken, the black reaper, is a man who puts up walls of harsh, unforgiving defences. he’s cold and closed off, not letting anyone in behind the barrier he built. but even the sturdiest walls aren’t impenetrable, and there are still moments where his barricade cracks ever so slightly.

that is not to say you are able to push past his fortifications entirely—no one is capable of that—but your persistent company has chipped away and nestled itself into the small crevices of his guard. it’s infuriating, how much you affect him, how he finds himself slowly but surely growing fond of your presence and eventually your touch.

your encounters always start the same, with you initiating contact and asking to meet when you know he’s just finished a long day of work. his job is draining, leaving him fatigued and much in need of stress relief. you’re what he considers a distraction, but he agrees to your request nonetheless, telling himself it’s insignificant. but kaneki’s never been one to do meaningless exchanges, and him entertaining this at all implies more than he’s ready to admit.

kaneki’s sitting on the edge of the flawlessly made bed with crisp white sheets when you arrive at the hotel room. he doesn’t do much to greet you, simply muttering a quiet but firm request for you to come. you do as instructed, walking over to the bed with your usual joke about how he’s always so unfriendly.

he’ll tug you down onto his lap in one sharp pull, causing you to stumble. you don’t have the opportunity to protest; any sound you make is quickly muffled by his lips crashing against yours, his hand in your hair and the other holding your waist. the movement of his lips is methodical and detached. despite the searing warmth of his mouth—all liquid embers and velvet flames—he’s so, so cold.

knees, he’ll murmur; a selfish request for you to please him. you oblige, dropping down and undoing his pants. kaneki isn’t hasty or aggressive; he allows you to go at your own pace, save for if you’re teasing, in which case the hand he has in your hair tightens ever so slightly as a warning. as you take him into your mouth, tongue lapping and swirling around his tip, you’re rewarded with the sight of his head tilted back, cheeks flushed, uneven breaths leaving his parted lips. it’s the most vulnerable you’ll ever see of him, because that moment lasts for only so long before he pulls you off his length and bends you over the bed.

he’ll harshly shove two fingers inside you, but any complaints you have wither away as soon as the heel of his palm grinds against your clit. his movements are rough, but he’s not in any actual rush. he takes his time thoroughly preparing you until your cunt is drooling and your climax is near. he doesn’t let you finish—he never does—and instead retrieves his fingers, your denied orgasm and the sudden emptiness leaving you needy and whining for more.

when kaneki enters you at last, he stills for a moment to let you adjust. once you do, the rhythm he sets is fast and unrelenting. he’s fucking into you from behind, his hips colliding against yours in harsh snaps, the sound of skin slapping against skin a backdrop to the chorus of your moans and the ragged breaths he lets out. his hand is reaching between your legs, fingers expertly toying with the bundle of nerves in a way that quickly brings you to orgasm. if you finish before him—which you often do—he’ll slow his pace for a brief moment to let you catch your breath, before he returns to his unyielding pace.

you’re not done until he is—something he’s made clear by now. it doesn’t matter if you’re already a mess and too sensitive, he’ll simply reply saying that you can handle it.

when he finishes, it’s with the same loud moan, albeit stifled, his body shuddering in pleasure as he comes to a halt. the room is silent, save for heavy gasps and pants as you both greedily take in oxygen. it’s a while until he finally pulls out, but then he’s quick to clean you up. neither of you talk; the room is choked in a tender silence as he wipes you down in a manner that feels far more intimate, far more personal than he’d like.

he ignores it. instead, he lets his gaze linger on you for a few moments, his eyes searching you. it’s evident there’s something on his mind, but neither of you truly know what it is.

no more words are exchanged for the night—he redresses himself, and he’s gone, leaving you uncertain as to if he’ll come back.

he doesn’t admit it, not even to himself—but deep down, kaneki knows he’ll return.

kaneki ken, the one-eyed king, is a culmination of all his past experiences. he’s matured and grown, many aspects of his personality having gone through metamorphosis. but what has always been here and still remains is the caring self so deeply embedded in his nature. despite the suffering he’s endured, all the grief he’s gone through—he’s still willing to care for others. he’s still willing to open his heart for you.

kaneki doesn’t have all the nervous anxiety that bubbles up at the thought of having sex with you, but without the coldness masking his demeanour, he’s much less restrained, allowing the butterflies in his stomach to freely flap their wings. his characteristic shyness is apparent, his cheeks visibly flushing as he undresses, but you can tell by his soft smile that it’s excitement rather than unease.

he takes his time thoroughly savouring you, preparing you with both his mouth and fingers. he’s quiet as he laps at your core, his fingers simultaneously pushing up against that sweet spot nestled within your inner walls. he’ll pause briefly to ask if it feels okay, and when you nod, smiling at him as feverish words of encouragement leave your lips, he can only beam in return. pink dusts his cheeks like the fallen petals of cherry blossoms.

if you offer to return the favour, he’ll nod, quietly accepting your offer. he prefers to lay on the bed so that you can get comfortable too, rather than having you on your knees. he doesn’t hold back, not like this, letting out breathy moans and sighs of pleasure as you wrap your lips around him. all the while, he reaches to your face and brushes your hair out of your eyes so that he can see your pretty face better. he gazes at you so lovingly, as though you’re the only one in this whole entire universe for him. and you are.

when he finally enters you, it’s with your legs wrapped around both sides of his waist. he holds himself up, but leans down often to capture your lips with his. while his kisses are gentle, they’re hungry. you can taste the need as your mouths melt together, a coalescence of unadulterated passion.

the pace he sets is slow in the beginning, but soon becomes something more ardent, his hips meeting yours fervently with each hitching breath and guttural groan. hot, panting gasps of air are taken each time your lips break apart, a string of saliva connecting the both of you still, only broken by the next time his mouth finds yours.

he waits for your release first, allowing it to trigger his own. the feeling of your insides clenching and spasming around his length never fails to bring him to the edge himself, and he finishes in you soon after. it’s your name that he calls as he climaxes—an angelic cry of ecstasy, a confirmation of his devotion.

kaneki takes a minute to catch his breath, before he climbs off you, laying down beside you and pulling you close to his chest. his lips are on your neck, pressing soft kisses from your jugular to your shoulder blades as he cradles you close. as the afterglow settles, your breathing gradually returning to normal, he murmurs of his love for you, a hushed whisper like a confession of sin. it’s anything but—his feelings for you are a source of comfort for him. he’s thankful to experience such a beautiful connection with you. he’s grateful for your presence, and he tells you so, before eventually getting up, carrying you to the shower with him.

he takes the time and affectionately lathers you up with soap, his calloused hands caressing your skin with such tenderness that it makes you shiver despite the hot water cascading over the both of you. as the two of you clean away the aftermath of your intimacy, your skin against his, he finds himself thinking that it’s not about you completing him.

instead, with you, kaneki feels like he could be a whole person on his own. no longer does he feel the hollow ache of a void in his soul; instead, he’s fulfilled and content. he knows he’ll do anything to ensure you are, too.

kaneki brushes his lips over yours, sealing an unspoken promise.

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