#all the usual tags for this verse

[ryehouses]

ive said this before and I’ll say it again: Boba POV for his and Din’s first scene in the kitchens

this was by FAR one of the most requested boba povs -- seriously, i have like twelve of these in my inbox -- so i figured that it would be as good a POV to start on as any!

set during chapter 3, "sha'kajir." the content warnings relevant to that chapter, including some extremely preliminary kink negotiation, some mild non-sexual choking and some painplay, apply.

if you're like "wait, all of the dialogue is the same!" it is, but the ~inflection is different from a different pov.

enjoy!

in which boba fett makes an educated guess. 

If Din Djarin wound himself up any tighter, he was going to snap in half and scatter beskar all over the floor of Ushib’s tidy kitchen, and somehow, Boba didn’t think that Fennec would be very happy with him if he let that happen. 

He wouldn’t be very happy with himself either, honestly. Boba liked Djarin. His side still hurt where Djarin’d gone for a gap in Boba’s cuirass – twice – and he was trying his hardest not to limp where Djarin could see. The mean little lyleck had kicked Boba so hard that Boba was going to need to hobble around with a brace in the morning, though he’d be karked if he let Djarin notice. 

The whole point of getting him in the sparring ring was to get him to relax, Boba thought, watching Djarin across the quiet, dim kitchen. He’d found Djarin in one of the old pit fighting rooms, where Jabba and his court had bet on gladiators, and had brought Djarin here after their spar to put Djarin more at ease. To get him more comfortable. 

Djarin was not comfortable. 

He’d been willing enough to spar, when Boba had finally managed to track him down. For a man in bright silver armor – not even a sensible green, a red that would disappear in low light, a blue that would blend into the sky – Djarin’d been karking hard to find. But once Boba’d managed to dig him up, Djarin had  agreed to spar, and during the spar he had relaxed. Boba had been able to see Djarin. To learn about who he was underneath the armor. 

Any ease that Djarin’d found in the sparring ring was long gone now. He was staring at Boba, one hand curled around a cup of tihaar that he hadn’t yet touched, like he thought that Boba was going to rush him and stick a knife in his belly. His shoulders were pulled tight. His free hand was twitching for a weapon. 

I don’t particularly want to get stuck with the darksaber, either, Boba thought. I’ve already been whacked with that spear. Djarin had only used the blunt end to jab Boba – he was polite enough, for a Mandalorian – but still. Sparring was one thing. Sparring was fun. A good way to blow off some steam. Boba’d hoped that the spar had convinced Djarin that while Boba might whack him around a little in the sparring ring, Djarin wasn’t in any danger here at the palace. Boba wasn’t Bo-Katan Kryze. He had no interest in stabbing any of his allies in the back, no matter what they’d accidentally walked in on. 

I don’t have enough allies to go around betraying them, or to go around shooting them because I forgot to look my own karking door.  

Boba eyed Djarin for another minute, feeling an echo of Djarin’s stress in his own shoulders, behind his teeth, and then turned away, swallowing the tihaar in his own cup. The familiar smell, sharp alcohol and sweet fruit, warmed his mouth. He watched Djarin out of the corner of his eye. Djarin didn’t move, stiff and wary. It was like Boba’d invited a half-starved anooba into his home instead of one of the best fighters Boba’d ever seen.  

Boba sighed. “I thought maybe food and drink would put you at ease,” he admitted, apologetic. Boba had vague, old memories of his father passing around a bottle of tihaar with the Cuy’Val Dar, old grudges set aside while the bottle changed hands. He’d thought that sharing food and drink was a way to set a Mandalorian at ease, but the days of the Cuy’Val Dar were long over, and Boba’d never been very good about remembering what few Mandalorian custos he’d learned at his father’s knee anyway. “But we can do this up in my rooms, if that’ll help.” 

Boba hadn’t wanted to corner Djarin. He knew well enough how a cornered fighter would react, and Djarin hit pretty hard. But maybe Boba’s room, with its open walls and its starlight, would be better. Boba liked the kitchens, personally. Liked the smell of fresh japoor bread and chuba stew. It reminded him of the simpler days out in the desert, sharing a tent with Ushib. 

Boba hadn’t had much to worry about, then. Not getting killed by the Spotted Anooba’s chief, who’d hated outsiders. Not dying of the wounds inflicted by the sarlacc. Life had been easy. Simple. 

Then I had to go off and start a syndicate, Boba thought dryly. Though none of this was in the job description. 

Boba wasn’t sure what had set Djarin off. What made him so tense and wary here. He had walked in on Boba and Theran, but – 

The suggestion – the idea of going up to Boba’s rooms – made Djarin tenser. “Do what,” he said, tone flat. 

Kark. Boba poured himself another small measure of tihaar. Looking at Djarin head-on only seemed to put him more on guard. “Talk about what you walked in on,” Boba said. He’d been willing enough to dance around the issue, to use vague terms or euphemisms; most beings preferred it. Boba’d prefer to keep Theran’s privacy, if he could, but he also needed Djarin to be sharp, if he was going to stick around with the outfit, and Djarin couldn’t be sharp if he was fretting over what he’d seen. 

Djarin was fretting over it. He was so stiff that Boba was half-worried that Djarin would fall over. 

Is it me he’s afraid of? Boba wondered, and the thought tasted sour in his mouth. Respect was one thing. Boba didn’t particularly mind being feared by his enemies either. 

But Djarin – Djarin wasn’t an enemy. Not now, at least. Once he got tired of hanging around on Tatooine and karked off back to the other Mandalorians, he might end up on the other side of a battlefield some day, but here and now, he wasn’t Boba’s enemy. 

“I’m not Jabba, you know,” said Boba, aiming for a light, unbothered tone. Djarin had said that he’d done a few jobs for Jabba. He probably knew how Jabba’d handled things in his court. 

This isn’t Jabba’s court. It’s not going to be Jabba’s court again. 

Boba had promised the universe quite a few things, when he’d been sitting in the sarlacc’s belly. He had decided, if he lived, that he was going to be better than Jabba. Better than Boba himself had been. 

“I’m not gonna have you dropped down into the rancor pit just because you walked in on me enjoying some of my – ” Boba hesitated for a split second, unsure how to describe what he’d been doing with Theran to someone like Djarin. 

For a Mandalorian, Djarin was – different. Boba hadn’t figured out just what it was about him that was different, but Djarin was nothing like the few Mandalorians Boba’d run into over the years. Boba didn’t know anything about him. He didn’t know if Djarin understood what he’d seen, between Boba and Theran. 

“ – odder pastimes,” Boba finished, wincing internally as he did it. He wasn’t very good at coming up with words on the spot. Odder pastimes wasn’t the best description of what Boba and Theran did together, but –

“Is that what it was?” Djarin asked, sounding tentative. “I didn’t – ” he paused too, and Boba wondered if he was blushing under his helmet. 

Boba paused. Pinned that thought down. 

Now where, he thought, did that come from? 

“How you punish your people isn’t any of my business,” Djarin continued hastily, pulling Boba back to the matter at hand. “I just heard – through the door, I heard what sounded like someone in pain.” 

Boba had to blink for a moment, surprised. 

Well, that’ll teach us to play on the main floor, he thought. Theran hated Boba’s rooms. He was as brave as a bladeback, Theran, and had been for as long as Boba’d known him, but Theran was terrified of heights and their old arrangement – renting a room in a cantina somewhere in Mos Eisley – was more dangerous now that Boba was trying to set up an outfit of his own. 

And I wasn’t punishing Theran, either. Theran didn’t go for punishment. He preferred regular, quick sessions, a few licks of the flogger to take him out of his own head for a little while. That was all. For anything heavier Boba would have insisted on his own rooms, or on a different suite. The room Theran’d chosen hadn’t had anywhere for Boba to stash any of his medical supplies, any snacks, anything that Theran might need as he came back up once he’d finished letting Boba bring him down.  

“Theran and I have an arrangement,” Boba said, watching Djarin to see if Djarin would understand the difference between the two. Punishment and arrangement. 

It was harder to guess what Djarin was thinking with all of his beskar on. That helmet was blank. Unchanging. The set of Djarin’s shoulders told Boba that he was uncomfortable, but little else. 

“He knew me before, when all of this – ” Boba gestured at the kitchens, which weren’t really much to look at, but meant the palace above them too – “was Jabba’s. We.. have compatible interests.”

Djarin’s confusion was almost palpable. “Compatible… interests?” he asked, still tentative. 

Boba tried not to wince. C’mon, Mando, you know what I’m talking about. 

Boba’s preferences weren’t necessarily common, but he was hardly the only man in the galaxy who enjoyed wielding a whip. Theran was hardly the only man who liked to be whipped. 

“Ni gaa’tayl,” he muttered to himself, hoping it was quiet enough to escape Djarin’s notice. Boba didn’t know enough mando’a to hold a full, complete conversation with a real Mandalorian and didn’t feel much like dealing with Mandalorian ossik tonight anyway, but sometimes the handful of phrases Boba still remembered from his days on Kamino were the only phrases that felt like they fit how he was feeling. 

Right now, I need all the help I can get, Boba thought. He studied Djarin, trying to figure out what to do.

Best to just – go for it, Boba thought. Boba had never been very good at being subtle. “Yeah, compatible interests. He likes – to give someone else control over his body,” Boba said, trying to explain his and Theran’s arrangement in vague enough terms that Boba wouldn’t completely run over Theran’s privacy, though Theran himself didn’t much care. 

He could tell that Djarin still didn’t understand, though. The Mandalorian had cocked his head a little, listening, like a curious anooba cub. Boba squashed the flicker of amusement and kept going. 

“He likes pain,” Boba said. “He likes… someone to look after him, to decide what he feels and when he feels it.” 

There, thought Boba. That’s about the gist of it, without digging into the specifics. Djarin should understand. Boba’d seen Djarin fight. Had watched him come up with plans, with strategies. Djarin wasn’t stupid. He could figure it out. 

Djarin, if anything, pulled his shoulders up even higher. “And you…” he said, trailing off before he managed to voice an actual question. 

Something about the way that Djarin was sitting – the way that he was looking at Boba, the way that Boba knew that Djarin wasn’t looking him in the eye, even though Djarin was wearing a helmet – scratched lightly at the edge of Boba���s awareness. Felt almost – familiar. 

Boba cocked his head and looked harder at Djarin, trying to see the man underneath the armor. “Like to take control, yeah,” Boba said. In for a peggat, he thought. There was no harm in describing his own preferences. Anybody who’d spent more than five minutes in a room with Boba knew that he liked to be in control. Boba’d accepted that part of himself a long time ago. 

“Like to cause pain, too.” 

Boba saw the moment that Djarin understood. His shoulders twitched, just a little, like Djarin had brushed a live wire.

Interesting. The feeling of familiarity scratching at the back of Boba’s head itched harder. 

“...Oh,” said Djarin. He set his cup of tihaar, still untouched, down on the counter beside him. He didn’t immediately sneer anything derogatory and he didn’t try to bolt, either. Boba watched him carefully for a second, then relaxed. 

Djarin understood. 

He was still tense, though. 

He said that he thought that he heard someone in pain, Boba thought. He came to help. 

Before Boba and Fennec had set off after Djarin – after Djarin had left Tatooine with Boba’s armor, not knowing what it was that he was taking away – Boba’d done a bit of research. He hadn’t been able to find the man’s name, not until Djarin’d shared it, but rumors of a Mandalorian in silver armor fighting the Empire, driving off pirates and rescuing towns from Greater karking Krayt Dragons echoed all over the galaxy. Djarin had helped a lot of people. Had killed a lot of people, honestly, but Boba’d done his own share of killing and wasn’t bothered by it, and all of Djarin’s killing had been pretty straightforward and clean, too. He wasn’t a torturer. He wasn’t cruel. 

He heard Theran cry out, and he came to help. 

“‘S not as bad as you’re worried about, Djarin,” Boba said gently, trying to set the other man more at ease. Theran didn’t notice, and he doesn’t mind an audience anyway. It’s just – it’s a matter of discretion, yeah?” 

“I won’t tell anyone,” Din said hastily, and Boba could hear him blushing. “I’m not – I don’t share other people’s secrets.” 

Boba almost smiled. “No, you wouldn’t,” he said, trying not to laugh at Djarin. Boba’d already known that Djarin could be trusted, at least a little. Djarin was the Resol’nare walking. “You’ve got your honor.” 

Djarin relaxed a little. 

Something in Boba’s gut twinged. Settled. Like Boba had just rounded a corner in Mos Eisley and come face to face with someone in the crowd, like he’ reached for his blaster, but instead of finding an enemy, had found someone that he could trust. 

Recognition. 

The way that Djarin was sitting – the way that he was looking at Boba – Boba recognized it. Had seen it before. 

“But that’s not all I wanted to talk to you about,” Boba added on instinct, though he felt a little bad when Djarin immediately froze. Boba paused for a fraction of a second, debating whether he should follow what his instincts were telling him or just let Djarin go, send him off to work through what he’d just learned on his own, but – 

But something about the way that Djarin was looking at Boba – something about the way that Djarin had fought in the sparring ring, about the way he carried himself – made Boba say, “Sometimes, pain is good.” 

Later, Boba wouldn’t be able to say what it was about Djarin that told him that Djarin was like Theran. Sometimes there were clues. A certain pattern of speech, a certain look, an intake of breath when Boba stood close. Sometimes beings who wanted what Theran wanted just came up to Boba and karking asked. Sometimes it was just a feeling.

With Djarin, it was just a feeling. 

“For some it’s a focus,” Boba continued. “Or a reminder, or a reason.” 

“Is that why you were.. Was it to help Theran?” Djarin asked. He was still holding himself very still. Boba wondered what Djarin would be doing if he’d let himself move. If he’d pick up his cup of tihaar again, or if he’d try to leave. If he’d put a hand over his thigh, over the plate of armor Boba’d hit with his gaderffii, and try to feel the bruise that Boba was sure was growing there. 

A spark of interest licked the back of Boba’s ribs. Trying not to show it – it’d never paid for Boba to play his hand too early, even if he’d had a perfect sabacc – Boba just said, “That’s between me and Theran.” 

What Theran got out of a flogging session was Theran’s concern. Boba’s too, of course – Boba tried to make sure that everyone he played with got what they needed – but it was private, even if Djarin would get something similar out of a flogging session himself. 

Would he? Boba wondered. He is Mandalorian. He ought to be used to using pain, or at least to fighting through it. 

Djarin was a frighteningly competent fighter. Boba knew that the Empire – even the Remnants – had tended to value their own pride over any kind of self-awareness, but if Boba’d been Gideon, he would’ve thought twice before trying to interfere with Djarin’s clan. Djarin had a shriek-hawk’s temper. 

Most of the best fighters had a more intimate relationship with pain than the average being. It came with being hit in the head – and the chest, the gut, kicked in the knee, grappled – so karking often. Djarin was one of the better fighters Boba’d seen. 

Djarin, fidgeting more obviously now, picked his cup of tihaar again and brought it up almost protectively, though he still didn’t make any move to take his helmet off. 

The flicker of amusement in Boba’s chest was brighter now, and it wasn’t as easy to quash. 

He tilted his head, considering. 

I can just let it go here, he thought. He’d explained himself to Djarin. Djarin’d promised that he wouldn’t go spilling the details of Boba’s arrangement with Theran all over the palace. Their business with each other, at least for the night, was done. 

But that instinct – that recognition, searing and bone-deep – wouldn’t let go of Boba, so he said, “Your buy’ce.” He drummed his fingers over his own helmet almost absently. “Can you take it off?” 

He wanted to see Djarin’s face. His eyes. 

Boba knew that there were some groups of Mandalorians who preferred to show their faces only to their families or their close allies. Djarin and Boba weren’t close. They’d known each other for just a little more than a week, and for part of that week Djarin had been unconscious in a bacta tank after defeating a Remnant Moff and upsetting Bo-Katan Kryze’s plan in one swoop. 

But Boba still wanted to see his eyes. 

Djarin clearly hadn’t been expecting the question. He startled, which caught Boba by surprise – he hadn’t seen Djarin startle before. Then Djarin sat up straight, chin up, that fierce lylek look plain even through his armor, and put his tihaar cup back down.  

Boba watched Djarin flex his fingers a few times. 

Interesting, he thought. He wasn’t surprised, though. Just about any being or beast had two reflexes, when surprised; fight or flight. With Mandalorians – with Boba too, either through persistent genetics, training or plain experience – the response was almost always fight. 

Djarin managed to master his urge to punch Boba, though. Boba saw him take a deep breath. Djarin sat up straighter. Boba watched him, intrigued. 

“Why?” Djarin asked. 

That was an easy enough question to answer. 

“Because I want to ask you something,” Boba said. “And I’d prefer to see your face while I do it. If that’s alright?” 

Djarin started at Boba for a handful of seconds. He’d gone stiff again, wound tight with tension, and all that energy would eventually have to go somewhere – Djarin titled his helmet a little and Boba could tell that Djarin was looking for a way out. 

Boba realized that he was between Djarin and the door and tried not to wince. 

Don’t corner him, he reminded himself. That’s going just gonna get you punched again, Fett, or worse. Djarin had already kicked Boba in his bad knee once tonight. 

But Boba knew how to manage this sort of reaction too. Moving very carefully, slow and deliberate, Boba shifted over to the side, leaving a clear path between Djarin and the door out into the hall, ready to let Djarin go if Djarin wanted to. 

Djarin didn’t move. 

Boba let him think about it. He could be patient. He hadn’t become the best bounty hunter in Jabba’s outfit by rushing headlong into things. Boba knew how to wait his prey out. 

Thinking of Djarin as prey, something to be caught – tamed – made Boba’s heart beat a little faster in his chest. Djarin’d put up a fight. He would. Boba knew that he would. It’d be fun. He squashed that feeling too. 

This was about Djarin. 

Finally, after several tense, frozen seconds, Djarin obeyed and reached up, curling his fingers around the edges of helmet. Most buc’ye – buckets – were the same, even if the shape and the features were different. Djarin released the seals with a hiss of compressed air and tugged his helmet off in one sharp move, like Djarin thought he’d stop halfway if he tried to pull it off slowly. 

Djarin blinked in the light, and Boba hid the frown that wanted to pull at his mouth. 

The last time Boba’d seen Din Djarin’s face, the man had been fresh out of a bacta tank. He’d looked terrible. The bacta had kept Djarin’s brain from leaking out of his ears – Boba’d seen the hole in the wall where some kind of new superdroid had done its best to kill Djarin – but even bacta could only do so much, and the last time Boba’d seen his face, Djarin had looked half-dead. Pale, bruised and exhausted, the old, half-visible scars on his face stark in the artificial light of the med bay. 

Despite the fact that it had been a few weeks since then, Djarin still looked awful. The bruises had all faded, but he had shadows under his eyes. His hair, a curly, soft-looking brown, stuck up untidily. His face was thinner, more worn, and the scar between his eyes still stood out, even in the low light. 

What happened? Boba wondered, alarmed. Djarin’d only been on Tatooine for a few days – he couldn’t have been that badly-injured out on his hunt. Boba knew that Fennec had made sure that Djarin had eaten, the night he’d landed on Tatooine. Djarin hadn’t been with them long enough to get this tired. This worn. 

Kryze, Boba thought, darkly. He should’ve known that she’d be too busy with her own karking plans to make sure that her guests – her allies – were well taken care of. 

Djarin held Boba’s eyes for a second. His eyes were dark too, like Boba’s. Kryze and her people all had blue or green eyes. Kalevalan Mandalorians were fair-skinned and fair-haired. Boba’d gone to Keldabe once, when he’d been younger and stupider, convinced that he could scratch out a living for himself among his father’s father’s people, and had been shocked to see how few Mandalorians actually looked like Jango Fett. 

Then Djarin’s eyes darted away again, anxiety plain in Djarin’s face. 

Boba softened. Djarin’d had a long few days, and he was clearly out of his depth.

“Jate,” he said, hoping that the common language would set Djarin more at ease. Djarin started at the word again, his eyes skipping back to Boba’s own for a second, but he did relax some. He rubbed a globed thumb absently over an invisible mark on his bright silver helmet, his eyes finally settling on the side of Boba’s face. 

Not a big fan of eye contact? Boba wondered. If Djarin kept his helmet on in front of everybody but his clan, Boba supposed that that made sense, though he didn't like the way Djarin kept looking sideways at Boba, nervous and tense.

“You don’t show your face often, huh?” he asked. 

Djarin just shrugged, raising one stiff shoulder and dropping it down. He looked at Boba’s cheek for another second, then met Boba’s eyes again. Djarin’s jaw was tight. He clutched his helmet like he wanted to pull it back down over his ears. 

He didn’t, though. He looked Boba in the eye and said, with a bit of a challenge in his voice, “Well?” 

Boba blinked at thim. 

Right, he thought. We were having a conversation. 

Boba let himself hesitate for another second, then pushed on. He’d learned over the years to trust his instincts, and this instinct, this feeling of familiarity – 

I think, Boba said to himself, that Djarin is – like me. Like Theran. He couldn’t say what it was, exactly, but Djarin has hesitated at the door, when he’d walked in on Boba flogging Theran. He’d stared for a second longer than he should have. 

“What’s your relationship with pain?” Boba asked, deciding to take pity on Djarin and cut straight to the point.

It was Djarin’s turn to blink at Boba. “Uh, what?” 

He didn’t bolt, which was a good sign. “What’s your relationship with pain?” Boba repeated, keeping his tone friendly and even. “Good, bad, want it, don’t want it? Does it distract you, or does it help you focus?” 

“Nobody wants,” Djarin began, tone hot and defensive, but he caught himself before Boba could correct him. He would’ve done it gently, but still. Djarin was wrong. Plenty of people wanted pain. Wanted to take it or to give it. 

Djarin chewed his lip, eyes darting up to meet Boba’s again. He was flushed faintly, the tips of his ears red, and that familiar feeling in Boba’s chest hardened into certainty. 

Cyar’yc, he couldn’t help but think, amusement uncurling in his belly. Sweet. 

“Have you ever thought about it?” Boba asked, gently. Gentleness didn’t come very easy to Boba, but he had learned it, over the years. It took more effort to be gentle than to be cruel, but gentleness had its place, even on Tatooine, and Boba found himself wanting to be gentle with Djarin, at least for now. He didn’t know Djarin well enough to know how to push him, yet. To know how far Djarin was willing to be pushed before he fought back. 

“About letting someone hurt you?” he continued. 

Boba saw Djarin swallow, and satisfaction flared bright behind his ribs. 

“Letting someone – no,” Djarin said. One of his hands twitched towards the bruise that Boba knew was darkening across the top of his thigh, but Djarin didn’t touch it. 

“Why?” Boba asked, curious. There must’ve been Mandalorians who enjoyed dominance or submission. Pain and pleasure. Boba’d never been one of them, but Mandalorians were beings just like any other. 

Djarin didn’t answer Boba right away. He shook his head a little, fingers tight around his helmet. 

“Why not?” Boba said, pushing just a bit. Djarin could take it. 

Boba’s persistence got a reaction. Djarin bared his teeth a little and snapped, sharp as a blade, “I shouldn’t need it. The only things a warrior needs are his armor and his courage.” 

Boba almost rolled his eyes. Mando ossik, he thought. Djarin wore his armor proudly, though – and took his rules seriously – so Boba didn’t disparage his people to his face. 

“Those are important,” Boba agreed. “But a warrior can’t march on just courage, you know.” 

Djarin bared his teeth again, studying Boba’s chin intently. “Why are you asking?” he challenged. 

Boba rather thought that it was obvious. “You’re Mandalorian,” he said. “A warrior. Warriors have… an interesting relationship with pain. The good ones, anyway,” he said, throwing Djarin the compliment. Anybody who could defeat an Imperial Moff was a good warrior. Boba’d seen Djarin fight on Tython. Kark, he’d seen Djarin fight here. Boba’d be carrying bruises underneath his cuirass for a good few days. 

Djarin didn’t soften. 

“Not just anyone can push themselves through training,” Boba pointed out. “Some warriors… they get through it because they have to, but others get through it because they like it. Pain helps them focus. Helps them center themselves.” 

Djarin’s shoulders went up again, tense and miserable. 

In for a peggat, Boba reminded himself. “I think it might help you,” he said, still gentle. He looked at Djarin’s leg. He could almost see the bruise that would be blooming there, underneath his silver beskar. Boba hit hard; he could crush a stormtrooper’s helmet with his gaderffii, if he put enough power behind the swing. He could crack skulls, break rocks. Boba couldn’t break beskar, but underneath the armor was just a man, and men bruised. 

Djarin’s flush was spreading. His dark eyes were wide. 

“And,” said Boba, laying down the last of his cards, “I think that you want it, though it’s hard to tell when you’ve got your armor on.” 

 Djarin twitched again, his whole body shivering with the urge to slam his helmet back on. Boba wondered what had made Djarin so defensive. He still wasn’t looking Boba in the eye. 

“Just because I want something doesn’t mean that I need it,” Djarin said. It hurt him to speak, Boba could see that it hurt him, but he made himself speak anyway. 

Brave, thought Boba. And honest. 

“No,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t have it, either.” 

That won Boba a derisive snort. “I’ve lived this long without it,” Din said. “I’m not – I’m an effective warrior. I provide for the tribe, I haven’t lost a bounty in years, I brought in renown for the Guild – ”

That one sentence had more words in it than Boba thought he’d ever heard Djarin say at one time. Boba wanted to frown again, but managed to avoid it. Djarin was still watching him with wide, wary eyes. 

“Yeah,” Boba said, holding up a hand. Djarin was a battle-trained warrior – he knew how to watch for hand signals, how to obey them, and his mouth clicked shut mid-sentence. 

“I’ve seen you fight, Djarin,” Boba said, trying to reassure the other man. “I know you’re capable.” His knee throbbed helpfully. Djarin had kicked Boba without a second thought. Without hesitation. “I’m gonna have a few bruises of my own when the suns rise.” 

Djarin looked at Boba like he wanted to keep arguing, but managed to hold off. 

Jate, Boba wanted to say. “All I meant is that if you want more,” Boba said, deciding to help Djarin out, “if you want to see what pain could do for you, well.” Boba gestured at himself. “You’re in a good place to try it out, is all.” 

“With you?” Djarin said. 

“If you wanted,” Boba replied, evenly. He was hardly the only man in Mos Eisley who knew how to swing a flogger, though. Djarin didn’t strike Boba as the type of man to trust that kind of vulnerability – his bare back, his submission – to a stranger, but then he really didn’t know Djarin very well, and had only gotten this far with him on instinct. If Djarin wanted to visit some cantina in Mos Eisley and find a stranger to flog him, that was his business, not Boba’s. 

“A few of the palace guards, some beings in Mos Eisley,” Boba continued, determined to give Djarin options. “Fennec, even, though she usually doesn’t play with men. She likes you enough she’d be willing to help out.” 

It had been Fennec’s idea to contact Djarin, actually. She liked Djarin. Respected him. 

Despite that, Djarin made a face, an open, honest expression, and Boba laughed. Djarin flushed again. The curl of amusement in Boba’s belly broadened. 

“Fennec’s out, then?” he asked. 

Djarin didn’t say anything for a while. Boba let him have his silence. Djarin was obviously thinking, and that was really all that Boba could ask from him. If Djarin really hadn’t thought of this before – had never considered intentional pain as a tool, as a relief – then Boba’d give him the time he needed to think about it. 

“What would it… how would I know?” Djarin asked, tentative again. The flush creeping down his neck was distracting. “If I wanted it? If it would… help me?” 

Boba could only shrug, spreading his hands. “I can’t answer that for you,” he said, repaying Djarin’s honesty with his own. “You’d just take it slow, and stop it if there was something happening that you didn’t like.” 

Djarin blinked at Boba again. “Stop it?” 

“Yeah,” said Boba. “In an arrangement – ” which wasn’t the right word, exactly, but was as close as Boba could get without needing to walk Djarin through a thirty-minute lecture – “either party, you or me, if you wanted to try it with me, or you and whoever else you picked, can stop at any time.” 

“Oh,” said Djarin. Doubt still flickered across his face, but there was something else in his eyes too. Curiosity, and something deeper than curiosity. 

Hunger, Boba thought, excitement beginning to build in his chest. 

Technically, he didn’t need to show Djarin anything tonight. Boba’s sessions with Theran were usually pretty short, but Theran was so used to Boba by now – and Boba so used to Theran – that Theran slid to his knees as soon as he walked into the room and gave up control of his body to Boba without a second thought. Boba was satisfied. It had been a good session, despite Djarin walking into it near the end. Boba was comfortable in his own skin. Settled. Between the flogging and the fight, Boba would sleep better tonight than he usually did. 

But the hunger in Djarin’s eyes had a similar hunger rising in Boba, an answer to the question Djarin hadn’t yet asked. 

Djarin licked his lips, then said, “How would I stop it?” 

The faint hunger deepened. “There’s a word, usually,” Boba said. He rattled off a few that he’d used before. “Gev, rahm, luubid, something like that.” A mix of mando’a and tuskra. Djarin ought to know both. 

“Gev,” Din repeated. “It’s that easy?” 

Boba nodded. “It’s that easy,” he said. 

The keen hunger in Djarin’s face shifted. He looked – 

Ravenous, Boba thought. Djarin looked starved. Like he hadn’t eaten for a week, lost in the desert, and had stumbled across a full feast. 

Pushing Djarin now could backfire. If he hadn’t considered pain a tool before, rushing him headlong into a scene probably was likely a bad idea. Boba didn’t know what Djarin liked. What his limits were. He didn’t know if Djarin just wanted pain or if he wanted more. If he’d like to be held down. If he’d want to get on his knees. 

But the look in his eyes, sharp with longing – 

Boba decided to risk it. “Here,” he said, taking a cautious, slow step closer. He left his helmet and his cup of tihaar behind. Djarin didn’t bolt. That was good. “Let me show you. Remember your word? Gev to get me to stop, alright?” 

Djarin tensed again as Boba got closer to him, but made no move to fight. “Alright,” he agreed, wary as a wraid. He shifted like he was going to stand, but Boba shook his head. He didn’t need Djarin to stand, not for this. 

Djarin hesitated as Boba got even closer, but still didn’t pull away. 

If he does, I’ll stop, Boba thought. Djarin didn’t really know what a safeword was, not yet. Not like Theran did. If he pulled back, if he tried to leave, Boba’d let him. 

Djarin just tilted his chin up. He met Boba’s eyes this time. 

Boba grinned. Mando pride, he thought. “Confident,” he said, close enough now for Djarin to touch. Boba got between Djarin and the counter where Djarin had set his cup of tihaar. That way, Djarin could bolt right or left if he had to, and get to the door without Boba blocking his path. Djarin didn't seem like he was going to bolt now, but Boba remembered how tense Djarin'd been when he'd realized that Boba had been between him and the door. “I like that.” 

Djarin shivered a little. He was warm. Boba was close enough now to feel the heat of his body. Moving slowly and carefully, Boba took a hand and did what he’d wanted to do since he’d brought his gaderffii down on Djarin in the sparring ring. He set his hand on top of Djarin’s thigh plate. Curled his fingers around the smooth edges of that beskar. 

The metal was cold. Djarin wasn’t. He went still when Boba touched him. His eyes went wide. Boba smiled at him, amused again, and pushed. 

He did it lightly enough. Boba couldn’t see what Djarin’s leg looked like, not like this, and he didn’t want to cause true pain. He just wanted Djarin to see what Boba’d been talking about. To understand. 

As soon as Boba pressed down, Djarin growled and jerked, twisting like he meant to lurch off the stool towards Boba. It was another, easy instinct for Boba to take his free hand and catch Djarin by the throat. 

He did that gently too, or at least did it as gently as he could. There wasn’t really a soft way to grab a man by the throat, and the look in Djarin’s eyes, wild and challenging, told Boba that Djarin didn’t want Boba to be soft. 

Still, choking Djarin out wasn’t something that Djarin’d agreed to and it wasn’t the kind of thing that Boba wanted to do without talking to Djarin first – without knowing for sure that Djarin would understand just what it was that he was agreeing to – so Boba was careful to keep his grip loose. 

He set his thumb at the corner of Djarin’s jaw. Even through his gloves, Boba could feel Djarin’s pulse hammering wildly. Djarin was still for another fraction of a second, and then his own instincts kicked in and he reached up to try to pry Boba’s hand away from his throat. His helmet fell from his hands, clattering against the floor. 

“None of that, now,” said Boba firmly, keeping his grip steady. If Djarin struggled, he’d hurt himself. Djarin stared at Boba, eyes wild, but obeyed. His immediate obedience made Boba want to smile. 

“Relax,” Boba added, as Djarin’s heart beat hard against Boba’s thumb. “You can still breathe, yeah?” 

Djarin took a few shallow breaths, his throat working against Boba’s palm. Boba didn’t loosen his grip, but he gave Djarin a few more seconds to realize that he was alright. 

“I need to hear you say it,” Boba said. “Can you breathe?” 

Djarin finally blinked, swallowing. “Yes,” he said. His voice had changed. Without his vocorder, Djarin sounded – uncertain. There was a hesitance to him that his helmet usually hid. He finally looked Boba in the eyes, too, and Boba could see Djarin’s shock. His confusion.  

“Jate,” said Boba warmly, immediately rewarding Din’s obedience. Djarin’s eyes widened at the praise. Boba couldn’t help but soften, instinctively adjusting his approach. He didn’t know what Djarin wanted just yet, but praise was usually well-received. “Very good,” Boba said. He didn’t have enough mando’a to tell Djarin to let go of his hand. 

Both of Djarin’s hands were wrapped around Boba’s. Djarin had a good grip. A warrior’s grip. He could break Boba’s hold, if he wanted to. 

“I want you to let go of my hand, alright?” Boba said, speaking slowly so that Djarin could hear him over the adrenaline, the confusion, that must be crashing through him now. 

Djarin blinked. His grip didn’t loosen. 

“Grip the edge of the counter, if you have to,” Boba said. Theran didn’t need anything to hold onto during a session, but it was alright if Djarin did. “But I need you to let go. I can make you, if you need me to.” 

Boba’d have to let go of Djarin’s leg to break his grip, but that wouldn’t be the worst thing. Djarin had given Boba a hell of a fight in the sparring ring, but here, now, Djarin was off-balance. Unsteady. 

Djarin swallowed again, looking a bit like Boba’d punched him between the eyes, and finally obeyed. His fingers loosened, one by one, and Djarin let go of Din’s hand. 

He did grab the counter, one hand on either side of Boba, clutching the wood so hard that Boba heard his gloves creak, but he let go of Boba’s hand. 

“Good,” Boba praised again, watching as Djarin swayed towards him like he’d been caught in a gravity well. Like he couldn’t stay away. 

Boba liked this part. His own heartbeat picked up, not as fast as Djarin’s, but fast enough. 

“Very good,” Boba repeated. “Don’t let go.” 

Djarin didn’t say anything. He’d heard Boba, Boba knew that he had. He applied just a bit of pressure to Djarin’s throat. Djarin’s breath caught again, a sweet little sound and a dark sort of satisfaction preened in Boba’s chest. 

Maybe I didn’t burn as much off with Theran as I thought. 

“I need to tell you that you understand,” Boba said. 

Djarin stirred again, heart hammering, but managed to say, voice thick, “Yes. Yes, I understand.” 

Boba made a pleased noise. “This is going to hurt,” he warned. He made sure that his grip on Djarin’s throat was loose, so that Djarin could breathe without trouble, and then returned his attention to the plate of armor across the top of Djarin’s thigh. 

Slowly and deliberately, Boba began to push. 

Djarin lasted three or four seconds before he made a sound, a low, thin noise of pain. It was as sweet as music. Djarin’s eyes met Boba’s again and his pupils were almost entirely blown, his eyes black in the dim light of the kitchen. Djarin’s mouth parted.

He wanted to collapse against Boba’s body, but he wasn’t letting himself. Djarin stayed straight as his spear, shoulders back, chin still tilted defiantly. That was alright. Boba had some time. 

He kept pushing. Pressure bruises weren’t really Boba’s specialty, but he understood the theory, and it’d be a good demonstration for Djarin, one that would show him what Boba meant about pain without scaring him or putting Djarin on his knees. 

I do want to put him on his knees, Boba thought, the desire flashing through him. He’d look good on his knees. 

This wasn’t about what Boba wanted, though. Djarin caught another thin sound of pain, gritting his teeth, and tried to pull away from Boba again, though he didn’t let go of the counter, so Boba was fairly confident that Djarin wasn’t really trying to get away. He watched Djarin’s mouth closely, ready to let go at the first sign of gev, but Djarin didn’t say it. 

“Easy,” Boba soothed, resisting the urge to lean in and nose at Djarin’s temple. Djarin kept fighting. Boba sighed. “You’re stubborn, you know that?” 

Djarin flashed his teeth again, snarling at Boba, and another wave of amusement rose and fell behind Boba’s ribs. 

He did like Djarin. Djarin was a fighter. 

“Easy, Djar’ika,” Boba said, the name falling off of his tongue before Boba could snatch it back. It wasn’t a conventional nickname, as far as Mandalorian nicknames went, but Boba liked the sound of it better than Din’ika, and he hadn’t yet called Djarin by his first name anyway. 

Djarin evidently felt otherwise, because he jerked again at the nickname and made a sound like an angry anooba. 

Boba couldn’t help but laugh. “Easy,” he said again, trying to help Djarin understand. He didn’t ease up on Djarin’s leg and he didn’t let go of Djarin’s throat, either. “Don’t fight me so hard. Lean into it. Let it happen.” 

Djarin showed no sign of listening, so Boba tried something else. For Theran, it was mostly about the pain. Theran didn’t care much for restraints, for being held down, for being made to take a flogging. 

But Djarin was Mandalorian, and Mandalorians were peculiar. Proud. Mando ossik, Boba thought. Maybe Djarin would only let himself enjoy this once he realized that he couldn’t get out of it. 

“It’s not like you have any other choice, yeah?” Boba asked, following the instinct. He’d made pretty good guesses so far, anyway, and decided that he might as well keep following his luck. “Unless you have something you want to say?” Boba loosened his grip, reminding Din that he could speak, if he wanted to. If Djarin didn’t like this – if he was really struggling, and not just putting up a token fight because he thought that he had to – he could stop it with a word. 

Uncertainty flickered across those dark eyes of Djarin’s. He panted against Boba’s hand. He was tense again, wound taut, and his breath came short with fear. 

But he didn’t say gev. He didn’t say gev. He looked Boba in the eye, his teeth half-bared in pain, and didn’t ask Boba to stop. 

Boba smiled at him. Stroked a thumb against the corner of Djarin’s jaw. 

Djar’ika, he thought. “I think,” Boba said. “That I can help.”

#i'm not going to post all of the asks for this pov like i usually do #because for once the formatting on tumblr does not make me want to die #but here ya go! #boba: what's up with that guy's vibe #also boba: oh. i see. #ast asks #ast 'verse pov tag

[sneez]

since i started testosterone in february i have been reading a stanza of andrew marvell’s poem ‘the garden’ every month to track the way my voice has changed. today i finished it :-)

#my voice #does it belong in that tag given that i am speaking and not singing. ah well in it goes #andrew marvell #it is exciting to finally be able to post this! given the nature of the project i've been working on it for a while #i can't remember if i was initially intending to post it but i think it's neat so you guys can see it too :-) a questionable gift unto ye #it's one of my favourite ever poems which is why i picked it. partly because it's a cracking poem but also because the garden in #question is very likely fairfax's garden given that marvell wrote it whilst he was living at his house to tutor his daughter :-) #i love the line about melons. i love the idea that fairfax was growing melons. his melonship #also 'the luscious clusters of the vine upon my mouth do crush their wine' is such incredible imagery i think about it all the time #stopping myself now before i start explaining all my favourite parts of the poem because then i would just be reciting the whole poem #sorry the audio quality changes quite a bit by the way i kept changing where i recorded #oh also i skipped a month because my voice hadn't changed at all (between the first and second stanzas i think) which is why the #number of months doesn't quite match up to the number of stanzas #i do wish i had recorded a stanza when i was one month on T given that my voice barely changes in the last few verses. ah well #anyway i hope you enjoy it my dear friends :-) holding you all in my arms #also as usual i have a few messages and things to answer so i will do that soon! i have been enjoying being active again after so long :-) #ive got a song to post soon too. he he ho ho ho. hum hum hum

[booksandpaperss]

Sooo after my bestie @wayward-sherlock pointed out that Achilles Come Down by Gang of Youths is literally the perfect song for Mike getting Vecna’d and Will begging him to live and come back, I listened to the song again and promptly had a mini mental breakdown, so then ofc I listened to I Know the End bc I was in the right mood, and I ended up feeling really inspired so-

-I spit balled a poem about Mike getting Vecna’d from Will’s POV. It *attempts* to combine phrases, motifs, and themes from Achilles Come Down and I Know the End, and it is definitely one of the messiest poems I have ever written in my typical poetry style so I have no idea if it’s genius or literal word vomit (it definitely will not make sense to u if you don’t listen to the two songs so go and do that if u haven’t already at some point), but I figured I should share it here and let you guys decide that hehe (cries)

Haha anyway… Enjoy the results of my Greek mythology and Pheobe Bridgers induced mental breakdown 🫡

To Swing in our Rusty Memory (like the age old pact)

An old, haunted house

Somewhere in Indiana

Old memories

A swingset, rusty and

Metal damp from Rain

Do you remember

The promise

The pact we made

Do you, do you, do you

Don’t.

Don't listen to Him

Stay, and swing

Swing with me

In my loving memory

I’ll keep you close

Where you go, I’ll go too

So tell me

Tell me, is it the same

For you

Would you stay

Will you stay

Stay and swing

Swing with me

A reason to live or to die, you say

Oh sure

Just rip

Rip him away from me

Just go ahead and rip and tear

him away

All I have left

Of a happier time

Of a swingset

Rusty with rain

Lie, lie, lie

That is all

all they do

Do not listen to their whispers

Their callousness

It is all a Falsehood

I beg of you, Do not listen.

When we held

One another

An innocent touch

Hand to hand

So light

How can that be Wrong

Please, please, remember

Remember our

Swingset

All rusty and old

When you reached for my hand

It can be new again

We

Can be new

New again

As the end approaches

As the world falls away

I want, I need

Need you

By my side

So please, please

Step away from Him

From Them

Choose the Rain

The Rust

Choose Us.

Choose our swingset

And come Swing

Swing with me

In our loving Memory

I promise

Like our age old pact

Where you go, I’m going

Like our age old pact

The End is near

So come. Come Home

And I swear won’t desert you

#rest of poem below the cut 👀 #WAYLI THIS IS ALL UR FAULT BTW #IM STILL TREMBLING #i have. so much history with Achilles come down and it’s actually SOOO similar to I know the end #hopefully I captured that to an extent #this feels like an ambitious crossover of the three things I usually have mental breakdowns over #anyways actual tags now #byler #mike and will #mike wheeler #will byers #mike gets vecna'd #byler ficlet #byler poetry #wow that’s a tag #will byers loves mike wheeler #free verse poem #achilles come down #i know the end by pheobe bridgers #uhhhh #byler tumblr #elli’s writing #yeesh that’s a lot of tags lmao #anyways hope u enjoyeddd #I’m going insane I’m gonna log off and read some fic #take a breather 😭

[tvrningout-a]

i'm creating a whole frikkin fantasy world with a conflict and everything, lord help me

#i blame all of y'all who talked about baldur's gate and i blame vee's fantasy verses #and i blame myself bc i have always been a sucker for fantasy :' )))) #there's gonna be a power hungry king ( ofc ofc ) and his nephew trying to get his country back #an elven rogue blessed by a god and helping lead the rebellion against the king #it's not her usual kinda thing to do but she's a lady of the people ( but the nobles hate her asdf ) #and there's also a few other characters and a lot of world building to do #like i'm thinking the gods in this world walked among the folk but there was a battle amongst them #and some believe they all died while others believe they simply retreated to another realm #and here comes rin our elf who is basically walking proof that at least some of the gods live #i haven't decided what exactly happens to her that makes everyone go ' oh my she walks with the gods' favor ' #but i'm excited about that especially bc rin was definitely one of those people who believed the gods were dead/never existed #ANYWAY i'm both looking forward to all of this and dreading it bc it's gonna be a lot of writing #to just kinda flesh out the world itself and whatnot #but maybe i'm just complicating it in my head #also i'm not sure who all i'm going to actually feature on my blog #but i'm currently leaning towards delwyn the nephew and rin the elf bc i think they'd be the most fun and interesting atm #bc both of them are in a position where people are looking to them for leadership but they have wildly different backgrounds #but my gosh let me not continue to ramble about my ideas in the tags asdfgh #get ready to ramble | ooc #bro why is my ooc tag not working today??

[subdued-moderation]

𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄'𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒

repost  and  rate  your  muse's  traits,  then  tag  your  followers.

Compassion: 8 / 10

Bitterness: 9 / 10

Happiness: 2 / 10

Politeness: 7 / 10

Chivalry: 7 / 10

Pride: 5 / 10

Honesty: 7 / 10

Bravery: 9 / 10

Recklessness: 0 / 10

Ambition: 2 / 10

Loyalty: 9 / 10

Love: 5 / 10

Sense of family: 1 / 10

Attractiveness: 9 / 10

Agility: 7 / 10

Sex drive: 3 / 10

Tagged by: @rexpyre Tagging: @project115 @therxtking @dragonskxn @kingbcwser @finncomet

#ᴛʜʏ ᴡʜᴏ ᴀʙꜱᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴀʟʟ - ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴇʀᴀɴᴄᴇ #[Dash Games] #((Took me a second to do this one cause I kept thinking and rethinking the numbers)) #((And even then I feel like each one requires some explanation)) #((Tagging a few people at basically random)) #((You might think Compassion is high for how distant he acts but thats a front. He cares more than it seems and struggles with it.)) #((He can be rude but he basically is as polite as you are to him)) #((He can lie if its beneficial but usually by omission. All other times he is being 100% honest even if his words are brutal)) #((He has very low ambition. In fact his behavior for AU verses is that he essentially doesnt even know what to do with himself)) #((He can be very loyal. It may just be misplaced.)) #((I dont exactly get “sense of family” but currently he has no one he really thinks of as family))

[oceanxveiined]

Special Dish: Sea God’s Catch

Base: Sashimi platter

❛❛ The fish and garnishes seem oddly cut, but nonetheless the meat is chilled, tender, and its fragrance holds a sweet zest to it and an odd hint of spice from the side made to go with it. With Danae’s usual lack of culinary skills, it seems she must have put lots of practice into this. And been a bit overeager in her efforts, the overwhelmingly hearty portion considered. Your expression seems to fluster her. “What?! A proper meal’s good to keep up your strength! So eat up! Wh–you want to share it?! I...ugh, fine, I’ll help you finish– ❜❜

#//Idk; fun hc bc why not lol #;mun has spoken #//Would you believe me if I said I struggled to find a dish she’d feasibly be able to prepare lmao #//And it fit her brand so yeeee #//Funny she would insist on making other people eat well to keep up their strengths considering how often she skips/forgets meals; innit #//But when she dotes on someone; she DOTES and she tends to overlook her own habits #//Hence the dialogue (smile) #disordered eating mention tw #//Tagging that jic #v; intertwined fates (genshin verse) #//Sharing food is a love language. Though she’s the one who usually tended to give up bigger portions of her food #//It's just how she got used to things while growing up. Big Sibling Responsibility and all that #//Then after they've parted ways; she's already gotten so in the habit of eating less; she gets a bit queasy actually eating her proper fil #//She no longer had/has to share; but she'll still chose to take smaller portions unless she's made to otherwise #//Whoops; that that's extra info #//Implied is that she essentially makes a Inazuma-Natlan sort of fusion #//It’s sashimi she sprinkled over with citrus juice; spices & then made something reminiscent of mango salsa to go with the sashimi #//Best eaten by scooping a bit of said salsa onto a strip of meat and rolling it to eat together #//Unconventional yes; but she likes it enough so she shares. Whether or not it's actually LIKED by others; That is up to interpretation lma #//Image set is an approx. idea of what it would look like. Might draw the actual one some time #//Uhhh; game stats would be...Increases all party members' ATK by 290 and CRIT Rate by 15% for 300s ig

[seakrisp]

RED LIKE ROSE II (THE SONG FROM RWBY) BUT AMAZING CHEESE WHY AM I JUST REALIZING THIS OMG I NEED TO MAKE THIS SO BAD AAAAAA

( I accidentally ranted in the tags lol)

#OH HES JUST A RLLY SHITTY EX THAT LEFT YOU WHEN U NEEDED HIM #steven is the first verse ofc! and it would sometimes shift to two brains.. I always like to think steven was a bit bitter when amazo left #but he never entertain that type of emotion but instead just feels sad grief and not anger #BUT AS TWO BRAINS WHEN HE REMEMBERS AMAZO ITS ALL BLURRY AND I LIKE TO THINK THE MOUSE BRAIN WOULD JUST HELP INTENSIFY THE BITTERNESS LIKE #AND THAT STUFF #but like the steven brain and mouse brain always fight when it comes to remembering amazo and its rlly pain so two brains #but usually takes the mouse brain's side bcs we have more important things to think about than an ex #so two brains just tries to forget about it and finds a distraction but usual #then like amazo on the second verse ofc #them third verse is both of them and like yeah yeah ejsbjw #I'm going insane #idk why i ranted on the tags help eiabjw😭😭 #wordgirl #amazing cheese #amazo guy #steven boxleitner #dr two brains

[livesinthebalance]

So I posted something because of Loverwatch when it first happened and I told myself I was not going to get invested in another ship between my own characters but. Here we are again.

To quote what I said to the other two people I regularly [ terrify ] plot with:

It's still a pretty rough sketch that needs more work what else is new? but

Here's the gist:

The thought occurred to me that Genji is difficult to snuggle without getting pinched or imprints from the cybernetics and then just the general weight being heavier than a normal person.

Which he knows. So I suspect he would have been hesitant at first, but Abby insisted there is no engineering issue that doesn't have a solution and the same applies here. So they figured out some ways to make it work, usually by sleeping side by side and using pillows and a thick comforter to help cushion.

I have no excuse for this except a lack of self-control and that I like to see Genji happy because he deserves to be. That is all. 😂 [ And also I still blame Loverwatch, hence the relationship tag. ]

#|| blame it on cupid || { r; ataleoftwodragons / genji // abby } #|| taking down the 'out of order' sign doesn't fix the problem || { about // abby } #// I don't know what to tell you all. #// I played myself. #// But! If anyone does not want to see stuff like artwork pertaining to this the relationship tag above is the one to block #// I will probably just be keeping any artwork and whatnot just on this blog to keep from cluttering up Genji's blog. #// So no worries about that one. #// Obviously outside of my own canon for my characters this relationship does not apply #// As I have mentioned before about how I tend to view my various characters. #// When my babies are the ones within the context of the story I do whatever the hell #// And usually end up giving them interconnected backstories / histories / relationships #// Sometimes platonic or familial or antagonistic… or romantic #// Obviously if another Genji is involved in the story this is a non-issue xD #// I build my own crazy canon for when I'm interacting with people within my verse as a means of broadening the scope #// And then I have what I build entirely with other people and their versions #// Please never feel like you're obligated or I expect anything. #// I swear I really am super chill about RP stuff in general. I am too old to be otherwise. I don't have the Energy. xD

[sergeantpixie]

tell me about whichever WIP isn't about elena gilbert if you can

Anon I know you're trying to be mean but a) I have no shame about how many Elena verses I have, that's my Girl, and b) I am so delighted to be able to talk about the one verse on that list that has nothing to do with Elena Gilbert, that's why I put it there! So thank you!

"I am willing to take more hurt if it's from you" is a project I've been working on for so long and I'm finally making some real progress on it which feels amazing! It's my Alison DiLaurentis/Aria Montgomery (Pretty Little Liars) fic that is supposed to be as canon based as possible, just using the subtext between the two characters to create a story where Alison and Aria were secretly hooking up before Alison disappeared.

Instead of giving you the full pitch on why they make sense as a ship (and why they are basically canon, or at least Alison having feelings for Aria is) I'll just refer to a post where I went off in the tags about them because it says pretty much everything I would say about it here: this post.

In summary: When Alison asked Aria if she knew why she picked her, the answer is: Ali's obsessed with Aria.

The premise of the story would be Alison and Aria's relationship being Rosewood's best kept secret, then when the liars discover Alison has been alive all this time, Aria feels compelled to confess what happened between them all those years ago in order to get ahead of Alison and prevent her from using that to alienate her from the other girls. (Alison is still Alison, I have no interest in changing that.) It's the girls' reaction to that as well as an exploration of Aria and Alison as characters. And maybe Ezra really is A but that might just be implied we'll see.

Between Jake, Ezra, and her first love’s girl-Jesus resurrection, Aria’s love life has never been more complicated, and that’s like, really saying something.

the tiniest excerpt :)

@randomestfandoms

#asks #tag games #anons #thanks anon! #wild that you wanna insult me for loving a character on the loving a character website lmao but thanks for the opportunity to babble! #idk if you got the memo but I have too many WIPs to include them all so I just chose the ones I'm actively working on rn #what that actually means is that there are even MORE Elena verses :) #and also quite a few more that have nothing to do with her #even a few in the tvd verse which will be a first for me #I am willing to take more hurt if it's from you #alia #also maddie idk if you are at all interested since we usually just talk about deanlena but just in case! #maybe the story I have done the most research for? idk I just find them so fascinating and wanted to prove that it's quite easy #to make them a canon ship #so first I had to watch the show to figure out every relevant episode and make an outline #(and take some notes) which I finally finished this past fall (it's just s1-first few episodes of s5) #and then I'll be rewatching all of those episodes in order to par it down to an actual coherent plot #I thought about putting a longer excerpt (maybe even smth from my version ezra's book) but that one always makes me giggle so

[favroitecrime]

Zionists quoting the Quran and dropping leaflets of the out of context ayah is cruel. There is no other word for it. It’s beyond inhumane to take that verse and use it against Palestinians, specifically the ones from Khan Younis, a village in the South of Gaza.

It’s in reference to Noah’s Ark. The glorious irony though? The ayah right after talks about Allah saving him (Noah) from the flood.

#Instagram #i know a lot of people don’t believe in religion or aren’t Muslims #but utilizing our holy book and trying to turn it against them? against other Muslims? insane. #zionists were never smart though. #this is kind of why i’m not gonna tag this like i usually do i know a lot of people probably wouldn’t feel comfortable with the religious #aspect present here but i wanted to emphasize how you cannot utilize the text against Muslims. #you can spin whatever you want out of context but the very fact that the next verse speaks of salvation from the flood? the very one #they’re saying they’ll send? yeah. i love irony. #free palestine #btw feel the need to mention these people aren’t necessarily all from khan younis #they’ve been displaced there hence the tenta #but given the relentless bombing on khan younis it wouldn’t be surprising if there were residents of khan younis amongst them #ceasefire now and immediately and an end to the brutal occupation and existence of apartheid states

[leomonae]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Astarion/Tav (Baldur's Gate) Characters: Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Tav (Baldur's Gate) Additional Tags: Illithid Tav (Baldur's Gate), POV First Person, Developing Relationship, Developing psionics too Series: Part 5 of We Shall Not All Die, But We Shall All Be Changed Summary:

“Mind flayers,” Astarion hisses, slamming a hand down onto the desk and pushing himself sideways in order to glare at me. “Are supposed to be sadistic in a grand, subtly elegant, mastermind sort of a way. They are not supposed to be unceasingly irritating in the manner of a five year old child!”

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion x tav #my writing #hyperfixation ahoy #we shall not all die verse #just filling in a little gap real quick here before i forget! #on the plus side i've figured out how to reorder a series without taking everything out and putting it back in again #so that's nice #first person pov #i was so close to remembering all the usual tags at the start this time :(

[floatmeintothesun]

Utterly Enraptured

Pairing; Miguel O’Hara x f!reader

tags; breeding, little bit of overstimulation, Miguel goes into rut, creampie, wordcount 4k

Summary; Miguel seems to have forgotten about a certain side effect from having half of his genetic makeup being spider DNA

EXPLICIT - MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

—

Wet, warm, perfectly molded to his length. Large palms pressing against thighs, his mouth quieting your little gasps and hiccups. His murmured praise, his filthy tongue pressing against your hole wetly, licking long stripes up your skin. Hungry. The twitch of his hips, the choked whimpers, he wants it. Needs it. 

You’re gasping, trying in vain to muffle your moans into the pillow while he completely and irrevocably rearranges your insides. You’re so fucking sweet – god, he wants nothing more than to stuff you full of his seed, pull out and admire the view of him seeping out from your weeping pussy. 

He wants to push it all back in with spit slicked fingers, kiss away all of your tears and do it all over again until you’re sobbing in pleasure, begging for more, more, more –

Miguel wakes up feeling fire burn at the base of his spine and the undeniable hardening of his cock. He immediately wants to just roll over and go back to bed. 

It’s 7:47, he has to get up in ten minutes, he’s way too hot but the floors are probably freezing, his blankets are so so comfortable and his dick is aching. So far, great start to his morning. Miguel turns to his side, finding your side of the bed empty. He resists the urge to groan. 

Right, you have your early work shift today.

 He mourns the loss of the warmth as he kicks off his blankets with one languid motion. For a moment he’s tempted to just indulge himself right now, right here. Your scent is still in the air, soaked into your pillow, heady and intoxicating. 

Absent-mindedly he palms himself, cupping the sizable bulge and considers. Miguel wants you, to be completely honest. Always does. Like a thirst that will never be quenched, he craves you. All of you. Your hands, your flesh, your blood — if he could, he’d worship every single inch of you for the rest of eternity. 

And you’re not here. Unfortunately. He imagines your hand, smaller than his, wrapping securely around his length, the other curled loosely around his hot, swollen balls, and slowly exhales. 

He can wait. He has self control. He doesn’t have time to fist himself like a wild animal. He has an online meeting to attend since he, for once, is taking a break from the Spider Verse for a day or two.

Miguel heaves a sigh and gets up, stretching lazily. The chill seeps into his skin and he resigns himself to taking a cold shower. 

(He ends up having to clean spurts of creamy white off of the shower walls anyway. He is so fucked.)

—

There’s something wrong with him. There’s something wrong with today. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Miguel can’t get you out of his head. 

You usually don’t leave his mind regardless, but at the moment, all he can think of is bending you over the nearest flat surface, letting you slather at his tip, feeling your sweet, tight pussy clench around him while he whispers obscenities in your ear.

He thinks of you all day, but his thoughts are never this…vividly vulgar. Miguel will admit to having the stray passing instance but right now? He’s practically been a depraved fucking dog for the past three hours straight. 

This morning didn’t help. That damn dream didn’t help. He’s been staring at his laptop for the past thirty minutes trying desperately to redirect his thoughts to something more productive, his board members are droning on and on about stock values and whatnot  – he has work to finish, but jesus, he can’t think of anything but you.

Your taste, your heat, your everything. He’s hard as rock as he mumbles some bullshit excuse to his meeting members before shutting off his laptop with a definite click. It’s as if a fog has filled his head, keeping him drunk and dizzy. Miguel’s body feels unbearably hot right now, scorching, needing. 

“Lyla,” his voice is strangled. “What’s the date?” 

His assistant flickers to life next to him, drawing up a calendar.

“Mm…it’s the 8th,” she says, blinking down at him. “Ah, I see. Your uh, time of the month, y’know?” She wiggles her eyebrows and he growls, waving her away. She pops up a little ways away, putting her hands on her hips.“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, man,” Lyla frowns. “Just telling you,”

“Thanks,” He says bitingly, dismissing her and groaning into his hands. You won’t be home until later – and later means that he’s going to have to suffer for the next few hours, alone and unbearably horny. Wonderful. 

Mentally, he berates himself with a low hiss, feeling annoyed that he didn't connect the dots earlier. His throat is dry and he swallows raspily.

He should’ve looked at the date, how could he have forgotten? Heightened sensitivity, overheating, inability to focus, the urge to fuck you into next week — all signs pointing to a very large neon billboard that says “SPIDER INSTINCT FUCKERY” in big bold letters. In other words, mating period.

 It happens every other month through the 8th to the 10th when his body decides that it’s time to procreate and do nothing else for the next two days. 

He sucks in a ragged breath slowly, trying to calm his fast beating heart. It doesn’t work, only serving to remind him of the pulsing in his chest and between his legs. 

It wasn’t this bad before he started dating you. All he had to do was tug on his cock a few times and he was fine, for the most part. Anything else could be burned off by fighting criminals and doing his usual dimensional overseeing.

That was before you. You and your gorgeous smile, you and your honeyed scent, you and your burning touch. He’s so hungry — greedy. He wants your flesh in his hands, your slick on his chin, your hands on his body. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s getting up from the couch and migrating to your shared room until his knees hit the mattress and his huge frame curls up on your side of the bed. His cock is stupidly hard, twitching and throbbing from where it’s formed a tent in his sweatpants. 

Miguel can already feel the precum seeping out of him and staining his boxers. A whine rips itself out of his throat as he buries his head into your pillow, basking in your familiar sweet smell. 

A heady mixture of your favorite shampoo, perfume and body, all swirling around him as he grinds his lower half into the bed desperately like a dog in heat. 

It’s not enough. It’s not enough. 

He needs you, craves you. His large hand snakes down to wrap around his weeping length, the other pulling down his sweat pants and boxers to give him some relief. It’s agony, waiting for you to come home. 

He wishes you were here right now, wishes that he could pepper your face with kisses and croon apologies while he slowly bottoms out in your tight cunt while you writhe beneath him. 

Or on top of him. He doesn’t give a damn. Any position you want, he’ll do it. 

Just imagining your sweet whines and whimpers has his breath labored. He presses the heel of his palm against his stiff length, hissing at the jolt of pleasure and sensitivity that burns through him. It’s painfully dry, but he takes the slick precum dripping out of his tip to aid the tight slide of his fist over his fat cock. God, he just needs to pump you full of him and fuck it all back into you. The thought of you, all swollen and glowing with his kid makes him nearly feral.

His hips jerk upwards and he can’t help but imagine your hand instead of his, can’t help but imagine how much better it would feel. 

He gasps quietly as his thumb presses against his slit, jaw tightening, fangs threatening to break skin. The hand currently not wrapped around his cock is clenching the bedsheets hard enough to rip. 

He just needs to wait. He just has to wait a little longer. You’ll be home soon. 

—

You slip off your shoes at the door, setting them aside on the rack near the entrance. The warmth from the apartment chases away the chill and you set down your bag, heaving a sigh of relief. You’ve been looking forward to spending time with your boyfriend all day since he has a rare day at home today. 

You peek around the hall, letting your aching feet be comforted by the rugs near the living room. Where is Miguel anyways? 

“Heyyyy,” Lyla pops up in front of you suddenly, grinning when you startle. “Looking for Miguel?”

You set a hand on your chest trying to calm your jackrabbiting heart, before giving her a small smile.

“Yeah. Is he here right now? I mean he said he would be, but I don’t know if he’s doing his Spider-man thing right now,” You tilt your head as Lyla’s expression flickers. She adjusts her glasses, glancing at your bedroom door.

“Well uh, he’s in there. Might wanna be careful though,” She mutters, checking out her bright pink nails absentmindedly. You raise an eyebrow.

“Why’s that?”

In lieu of explanation she draws up a calendar and materializes a glitching pen in her hands, circling the date. Your frown in confusion. 

“The…8th?” You blink and she nods. Why would today be significant? It’s not your anniversary, the only thing that comes to mind at the moment is… “Oh.” You swallow dryly, remembering vague flashes from two months ago. Two months ago when he had fucked you silly for what was basically two days, interspersed with breaks in between. Then the sheepish explanation of what he calls "mating period" where his DNA practically drives him insane with rampant horniness. 

 Lyla nods empathetically.

“Yeah…well, good luck! I've heard that massages really help with soreness.” She vanishes with a pop of golden glimmers, leaving you alone in the hall. 

You glance where she had been moments prior before sighing. Dating a man with half of his makeup being spider DNA came with its quirks. Your feet carry you down the hall and you open the door to find –

Oh fuck.

Miguel, in all of his bare glory, strong thighs spread wide, leaving nothing to the imagination. His sweatpants and shirt are in a heap on the floor, most likely thrown in his haste. His heaving chest is gleaming with sweat, abdomen twitching, looking like a Greek God. 

And there, his throbbing, swollen cock squeezed tightly in his fist, his hips working back and forth at a languid pace. Long and thick, the tip shining slightly with precum. It makes you salivate, sticky heat beginning to grow between your legs. 

The room's atmosphere is heavy as you mindlessly draw closer. Fuck, his gasps and whimpers sound so pretty. Half of his large frame is hanging off the bed as you realize he's on your side, face buried desperately in your pillow.

"B – baby," His words stutter in his throat as your scent overwhelms him, his nostrils flaring. "Please, please, please —fuck, need you so bad," he quivers, taking his hand off of his face to look back at you. He's grimacing, gorgeous plush lips stretched into a pathetic pout and you hum in acknowledgement, putting a hand on his thigh. He twitches but makes no other move.

Your clit throbs in response to the pure neediness in his voice, high and whiny. He sounds utterly wrecked, squeezing his cock and waiting for you to touch him. You’re so close, your hand is on his body, but it’s not where he wants it. 

“You’re so desperate, Miguel,” You croon, reaching out slowly and wrapping your hand around his base. He makes a choked sound, his hand falling away to run through his sweaty hair. “Aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer for a second, visibly trying to contain himself before he speaks, low and ragged.

“Yes,” He finally hisses, crimson irises foggy and clouded with lust. You hum in approval at his answer, squeezing lightly as you begin to pump him, going at a pace you know is wholly too slow for his taste. “Don’t t — tease me, cariño. Faster, baby, please,” He begs, his breath stuttering in his chest. 

You rock back on your heel as you begin stroking faster, your thumb tracing the veins on the underside. Miguel’s eyes roll back as your deliciously hot mouth descends on him, your tongue circling his tip juuust the way he likes it. Fuck, you can feel yourself getting wetter with each trembling hiss and moan you pull out of this man — your man. You separate from him with a pop, licking pre from sticky fingers while he watches hungrily.

The smell of arousal — your arousal, invades his senses and his hands twitch and he lunges, pulling you up to him and flipping you over. You yelp in surprise as his hands immediately squeeze flesh, your hips, your thighs, your ass, anywhere he has access to. 

You tilt up to kiss him and he leans down, pressing his lips to yours firmly. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip and when you allow him access inside he moans quietly, fangs digging into your lower lip lightly. 

Your shirt is practically discarded at the speed of light and you shiver for a second at the cold washing over your skin before Miguel's all over you again.

He leans forward to fumble with your bra, fingers struggling to unclasp the hooks on the back. You laugh and pull it off yourself, to which he rolls his eyes fondly before his mirth is devoured by desire.

Thick fingers nimbly pull at your pants waistline.

"Take these off too, sweetheart," He whispers, leaving wet open mouth kisses trailing down your neck. You shiver, obliging quickly and kicking them off. They land somewhere on the floor and you don't care enough to look for them. Not when Miguel is between your legs, staring down at your clothed pussy like it's his last meal.

He inhales slowly, leaning down to press his head against your thigh. You smell so fucking intoxicating, he wants nothing more than to bury his face between your legs and make you scream in pleasure. But first he has to get rid of your panties.

"Hurry up, Miguel, please," You whine, wiggling your hips as if to try and encourage him. As if he needs any sort of encouragement. 

"Do you care about these panties?" He asks, quick and low. You blink.

"No…? –! " You gasp as he lowers his head and fucking rips them off of you in one quick motion with his damn teeth. "Miguel!"

"I'll get you new ones, baby. Promise." He kisses your inner thigh, holding you down with two large searing hands. "As many as you want. As long as I get to have this goddamn pussy, I'll get you anything."

Your glistening lips look absolutely delicious, all wet and soaked from watching him play with his cock in front of you. He wants to put his mouth on your throbbing, swollen clit until you sob, wants your pussy in his face, wants his tongue in you while you grab at his hair and urge him for more. You'd taste divine, and he nearly just decides to do it anyway.

But his cock is so hard it almost hurts and he's about three seconds away from getting blue balls, so instead he sinks one finger in your drenched cunt. Your breath hitches and you turn your head into a pillow as he begins to finger fuck you in earnest. The obscene sound of slick gushing out from your hole makes Miguel nearly feral, nearly has his eyes rolling back into his head as he feels your tightness squeeze and pulse around his thick digit. You hiss at the stretch, slow pain and growing pleasure intertwining as Miguel goes slow adding a second. 

"You're doing so good, so good, baby. You feel so – fuck, so good. Can you take one more?" He asks breathlessly. "C’mon, you're such a good girl, aren't you?"

You nod amidst blurry vision, gasping as he slides another finger in. His pace is fast and punishing, and the final goddamn nail on the coffin is the way his fingers press into your g-spot, while his thumb rubs messy circles on your puffy clit. 

"Cum, baby, you can do it, you can fucking cum for me, can't you?" He latches onto your tit, swirling his tongue around your nipple in such a way that makes your head foggy. 

“Mig – guel!” You whine brokenly as he rolls it between his teeth, sharp points of pleasure burning up your spine like wildfire. Miguel can’t help but groan at the feeling of your sweet cunt clamping down on his fingers, and he increases his speed at the telltale signs of your impending orgasm. You're so so close and when the building coil in your lower stomach finally snaps, you sob, gushing all over his palm.

Your bare chest heaves as he murmurs sweet praise in your ear, telling you that "You did so good, cariño," and "Look at you, you're so gorgeous all spread out like this,". Miguel drags his tongue down your neck, pulling away for a second to suck your juices off his fingers in an awfully erotic display of tongue, saliva, and a flash of a grin. 

He presses kisses to your face, trying his absolute damndest not to hump you like a fucking dog but he’s waited so long and he’s going to go fucking insane if he doesn’t get your pretty pussy wrapped around his cock in the next two seconds. 

“C’mere, baby,” Miguel takes himself in hand, his other keeping your thighs spread so he can see your twitching hole all wet and ready for him. “Can’t wait any damn longer – I’ll fuckin’ – explode or something.”

Looking up at him from your position is absolutely deadly. His hair is disheveled, strands slipping from their usually neat positions, his expression is utterly and completely devoted as his chest heaves. Your eyes travel down to shamelessly stare at his massive package, complete with his proportionally large hand curled around the weeping length. 

He’s so stiff that he splits your lips easily, and he groans at the feeling of your slick coating the underside of his cock. You can’t help but gasp as he grinds against you slowly before the head catches on your clit and pushes inside. 

And oh god, he could die right here and be happy, he could fucking die with the tip of his dick buried in your tight pussy and think that his life is fulfilled. It takes everything in him not to cum and paint your insides in a creamy white. Your wet walls are so slick and he hisses as they clamp down on him.

“Fuuuuck… baby you — you gotta loosen up for me, relax — mnnshit — “ he gasps, and you cry out, shifting underneath him. He rubs sloppy circles on your clit, his breathing labored as a few more inches of his monstrous cock slide in, “There we go, there we — nnngh, okay, good, so fucking good, you’re such a pretty girl,” he babbles nonsensically, practically losing his mind in the warmth. 

“M — Miguel,” You hiccup, nudging him out of his daze. “Move — please, s’not enough,” You want him in your guts, you want him to fuck you until the only thing you can remember is the shape of his cock. 

And who is he to deny you?

He shoves the rest of himself in in one fluid motion, his throat closing in on itself as he bottoms out, his pelvis flush to yours. His mouth parts slightly as his lips form an o shape, and he thrusts once, caging you in his burly arms. 

“Oh shit — I’m gonna move, okay? M’gonna move,” he warns you, before pulling out slowly only to slam his hips back into yours with wild abandon. You suck in a startled breath as he begins to absolutely fuck your brains out, fire igniting deep in your lower stomach again. There’s none of his usual careful approach, there’s no teasing, no smug remarks. He’s focused on one thing and one thing only: stuffing you full of his seed until he physically can’t anymore. 

You can barely get anything out as he grinds against you, his dick so deep inside that you’re sure that he’s showing through your lower stomach. Fuck – he feels so good as he fills your tight pussy, rocking precisely in all of your sensitive spots. The head of him practically kisses your damn cervix, sending you rocketing towards your second orgasm of the night. 

Your brain is so mushy and pleasure-drowned that it takes you a second to realize that he’s still talking and oh fuck.

“Let me fill you, le— let me cum inside, please, please, baby, I wan – nngh, I want you all round and swollen f’me,” he sounds utterly wrecked, desperate and hungry all rolled in at once, “Wouldn’t you look so pretty an’ gorgeous? Pleas – e, please? Need you full, all full of me,” Miguel begs, grunting lowly when you clamp down on him from the downright filth flowing from his mouth. 

“Yes – Miguel, just –nnhgod, oh shit, oh fuck,” You lose the tail end of your sentence as your head melts out of your ears and pleasure sears through your veins. Miguel whimpers at your words, shoving himself deeper than you thought was humanly possible. 

“Waited so long for you, baby, was so – was so lonely, needed you – need you – “ He hits a spot that has you keening, eyes rolling back and your head bumping against the headboard of the bed. You’re driving him utterly insane, your moans and cries sounding like a blended symphony of bliss pounding through his eardrums. He leans down to litter any inch of bare skin he has access to in dark marks, his burning mouth trailing wetly down the valley between your breasts.

“M’close, Mig – uel, I’m going to cum, baby –” You manage to gasp out before you’re overwhelmed completely and your vision erupts into stars as you gush around him for the second time in one day. It feels like someone has poured molten pleasure down your veins and you’re incandescent with it. 

Miguel chokes, low and deep in his throat, feeling your slick pussy tighten around his girthy cock, slathered in your juices. It tears a downright animalistic sound out of him, a trembling snarl from somewhere in his chest as he thrusts once, twice, then finally pumps you full of creamy thick seed. 

His mouth is agape, transfixed in a silent ‘o’ as his hips stutter and his balls draw up tight, every atom in his body devoted to filling you completely. When he’s finished, he rolls his hips a few more times, fucking his cum deeper inside of you despite his hiss of overstimulation. 

Your limbs are putty in his hands as he slides out slowly and adjusts you into a more comfortable position, his eyes lingering on the way some of his cum drips out of your loose hole. He pushes it all back in with two fingers, giving you a small smile of apology at your choked mutter, before collapsing down next to you and dragging you close to his chest. 

“...How long does this last again?” You rasp, voice sore from screaming. Miguel hums in contemplation, nosing your shoulder from where he’s draped over you.

“About a day and a half more to go,” He responds languidly after a moment. “Are you okay with that?”

You know you’re going to be so sore by the end of it. You know you’ll probably be feeling it for weeks on end after. You know you’ll probably have to take a few sick days to recover too. 

“Mhm,” You answer, kissing his cheek. “I can handle it,”

“That’s good,” He replies quietly, and you stiffen, feeling his fat softened cock twitch against your thigh. He raises his head to give you a semi sheepish look and you gulp.

Maybe you can’t handle it, actually. It’s okay though, since Miguel will take care of you long after. 

—

Man im so sorry this was pretty late. At least i managed to get it in before October ended. Also I’d let that man dick me down any day of the week, 24/7 😻😻

#across the spiderverse #atsv miguel #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara #miguel spiderverse #into the spider verse #miguel ohara #miguel o’hara smut #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman atsv #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara imagine

[floatmeintothesun-2]

Utterly Enraptured

Pairing; Miguel O’Hara x f!reader

tags; breeding, little bit of overstimulation, Miguel goes into rut, creampie, wordcount 4k

Summary; Miguel seems to have forgotten about a certain side effect from having half of his genetic makeup being spider DNA

EXPLICIT - MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

—

Wet, warm, perfectly molded to his length. Large palms pressing against thighs, his mouth quieting your little gasps and hiccups. His murmured praise, his filthy tongue pressing against your hole wetly, licking long stripes up your skin. Hungry. The twitch of his hips, the choked whimpers, he wants it. Needs it. 

You’re gasping, trying in vain to muffle your moans into the pillow while he completely and irrevocably rearranges your insides. You’re so fucking sweet – god, he wants nothing more than to stuff you full of his seed, pull out and admire the view of him seeping out from your weeping pussy. 

He wants to push it all back in with spit slicked fingers, kiss away all of your tears and do it all over again until you’re sobbing in pleasure, begging for more, more, more –

Miguel wakes up feeling fire burn at the base of his spine and the undeniable hardening of his cock. He immediately wants to just roll over and go back to bed. 

It’s 7:47, he has to get up in ten minutes, he’s way too hot but the floors are probably freezing, his blankets are so so comfortable and his dick is aching. So far, great start to his morning. Miguel turns to his side, finding your side of the bed empty. He resists the urge to groan. 

Right, you have your early work shift today.

 He mourns the loss of the warmth as he kicks off his blankets with one languid motion. For a moment he’s tempted to just indulge himself right now, right here. Your scent is still in the air, soaked into your pillow, heady and intoxicating. 

Absent-mindedly he palms himself, cupping the sizable bulge and considers. Miguel wants you, to be completely honest. Always does. Like a thirst that will never be quenched, he craves you. All of you. Your hands, your flesh, your blood — if he could, he’d worship every single inch of you for the rest of eternity. 

And you’re not here. Unfortunately. He imagines your hand, smaller than his, wrapping securely around his length, the other curled loosely around his hot, swollen balls, and slowly exhales. 

He can wait. He has self control. He doesn’t have time to fist himself like a wild animal. He has an online meeting to attend since he, for once, is taking a break from the Spider Verse for a day or two.

Miguel heaves a sigh and gets up, stretching lazily. The chill seeps into his skin and he resigns himself to taking a cold shower. 

(He ends up having to clean spurts of creamy white off of the shower walls anyway. He is so fucked.)

—

There’s something wrong with him. There’s something wrong with today. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Miguel can’t get you out of his head. 

You usually don’t leave his mind regardless, but at the moment, all he can think of is bending you over the nearest flat surface, letting you slather at his tip, feeling your sweet, tight pussy clench around him while he whispers obscenities in your ear.

He thinks of you all day, but his thoughts are never this…vividly vulgar. Miguel will admit to having the stray passing instance but right now? He’s practically been a depraved fucking dog for the past three hours straight. 

This morning didn’t help. That damn dream didn’t help. He’s been staring at his laptop for the past thirty minutes trying desperately to redirect his thoughts to something more productive, his board members are droning on and on about stock values and whatnot  – he has work to finish, but jesus, he can’t think of anything but you.

Your taste, your heat, your everything. He’s hard as rock as he mumbles some bullshit excuse to his meeting members before shutting off his laptop with a definite click. It’s as if a fog has filled his head, keeping him drunk and dizzy. Miguel’s body feels unbearably hot right now, scorching, needing. 

“Lyla,” his voice is strangled. “What’s the date?” 

His assistant flickers to life next to him, drawing up a calendar.

“Mm…it’s the 8th,” she says, blinking down at him. “Ah, I see. Your uh, time of the month, y’know?” She wiggles her eyebrows and he growls, waving her away. She pops up a little ways away, putting her hands on her hips.“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, man,” Lyla frowns. “Just telling you,”

“Thanks,” He says bitingly, dismissing her and groaning into his hands. You won’t be home until later – and later means that he’s going to have to suffer for the next few hours, alone and unbearably horny. Wonderful. 

Mentally, he berates himself with a low hiss, feeling annoyed that he didn't connect the dots earlier. His throat is dry and he swallows raspily.

He should’ve looked at the date, how could he have forgotten? Heightened sensitivity, overheating, inability to focus, the urge to fuck you into next week — all signs pointing to a very large neon billboard that says “SPIDER INSTINCT FUCKERY” in big bold letters. In other words, mating period.

 It happens every other month through the 8th to the 10th when his body decides that it’s time to procreate and do nothing else for the next two days. 

He sucks in a ragged breath slowly, trying to calm his fast beating heart. It doesn’t work, only serving to remind him of the pulsing in his chest and between his legs. 

It wasn’t this bad before he started dating you. All he had to do was tug on his cock a few times and he was fine, for the most part. Anything else could be burned off by fighting criminals and doing his usual dimensional overseeing.

That was before you. You and your gorgeous smile, you and your honeyed scent, you and your burning touch. He’s so hungry — greedy. He wants your flesh in his hands, your slick on his chin, your hands on his body. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s getting up from the couch and migrating to your shared room until his knees hit the mattress and his huge frame curls up on your side of the bed. His cock is stupidly hard, twitching and throbbing from where it’s formed a tent in his sweatpants. 

Miguel can already feel the precum seeping out of him and staining his boxers. A whine rips itself out of his throat as he buries his head into your pillow, basking in your familiar sweet smell. 

A heady mixture of your favorite shampoo, perfume and body, all swirling around him as he grinds his lower half into the bed desperately like a dog in heat. 

It’s not enough. It’s not enough. 

He needs you, craves you. His large hand snakes down to wrap around his weeping length, the other pulling down his sweat pants and boxers to give him some relief. It’s agony, waiting for you to come home. 

He wishes you were here right now, wishes that he could pepper your face with kisses and croon apologies while he slowly bottoms out in your tight cunt while you writhe beneath him. 

Or on top of him. He doesn’t give a damn. Any position you want, he’ll do it. 

Just imagining your sweet whines and whimpers has his breath labored. He presses the heel of his palm against his stiff length, hissing at the jolt of pleasure and sensitivity that burns through him. It’s painfully dry, but he takes the slick precum dripping out of his tip to aid the tight slide of his fist over his fat cock. God, he just needs to pump you full of him and fuck it all back into you. The thought of you, all swollen and glowing with his kid makes him nearly feral.

His hips jerk upwards and he can’t help but imagine your hand instead of his, can’t help but imagine how much better it would feel. 

He gasps quietly as his thumb presses against his slit, jaw tightening, fangs threatening to break skin. The hand currently not wrapped around his cock is clenching the bedsheets hard enough to rip. 

He just needs to wait. He just has to wait a little longer. You’ll be home soon. 

—

You slip off your shoes at the door, setting them aside on the rack near the entrance. The warmth from the apartment chases away the chill and you set down your bag, heaving a sigh of relief. You’ve been looking forward to spending time with your boyfriend all day since he has a rare day at home today. 

You peek around the hall, letting your aching feet be comforted by the rugs near the living room. Where is Miguel anyways? 

“Heyyyy,” Lyla pops up in front of you suddenly, grinning when you startle. “Looking for Miguel?”

You set a hand on your chest trying to calm your jackrabbiting heart, before giving her a small smile.

“Yeah. Is he here right now? I mean he said he would be, but I don’t know if he’s doing his Spider-man thing right now,” You tilt your head as Lyla’s expression flickers. She adjusts her glasses, glancing at your bedroom door.

“Well uh, he’s in there. Might wanna be careful though,” She mutters, checking out her bright pink nails absentmindedly. You raise an eyebrow.

“Why’s that?”

In lieu of explanation she draws up a calendar and materializes a glitching pen in her hands, circling the date. Your frown in confusion. 

“The…8th?” You blink and she nods. Why would today be significant? It’s not your anniversary, the only thing that comes to mind at the moment is… “Oh.” You swallow dryly, remembering vague flashes from two months ago. Two months ago when he had fucked you silly for what was basically two days, interspersed with breaks in between. Then the sheepish explanation of what he calls "mating period" where his DNA practically drives him insane with rampant horniness. 

 Lyla nods empathetically.

“Yeah…well, good luck! I've heard that massages really help with soreness.” She vanishes with a pop of golden glimmers, leaving you alone in the hall. 

You glance where she had been moments prior before sighing. Dating a man with half of his makeup being spider DNA came with its quirks. Your feet carry you down the hall and you open the door to find –

Oh fuck.

Miguel, in all of his bare glory, strong thighs spread wide, leaving nothing to the imagination. His sweatpants and shirt are in a heap on the floor, most likely thrown in his haste. His heaving chest is gleaming with sweat, abdomen twitching, looking like a Greek God. 

And there, his throbbing, swollen cock squeezed tightly in his fist, his hips working back and forth at a languid pace. Long and thick, the tip shining slightly with precum. It makes you salivate, sticky heat beginning to grow between your legs. 

The room's atmosphere is heavy as you mindlessly draw closer. Fuck, his gasps and whimpers sound so pretty. Half of his large frame is hanging off the bed as you realize he's on your side, face buried desperately in your pillow.

"B – baby," His words stutter in his throat as your scent overwhelms him, his nostrils flaring. "Please, please, please —fuck, need you so bad," he quivers, taking his hand off of his face to look back at you. He's grimacing, gorgeous plush lips stretched into a pathetic pout and you hum in acknowledgement, putting a hand on his thigh. He twitches but makes no other move.

Your clit throbs in response to the pure neediness in his voice, high and whiny. He sounds utterly wrecked, squeezing his cock and waiting for you to touch him. You’re so close, your hand is on his body, but it’s not where he wants it. 

“You’re so desperate, Miguel,” You croon, reaching out slowly and wrapping your hand around his base. He makes a choked sound, his hand falling away to run through his sweaty hair. “Aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer for a second, visibly trying to contain himself before he speaks, low and ragged.

“Yes,” He finally hisses, crimson irises foggy and clouded with lust. You hum in approval at his answer, squeezing lightly as you begin to pump him, going at a pace you know is wholly too slow for his taste. “Don’t t — tease me, cariño. Faster, baby, please,” He begs, his breath stuttering in his chest. 

You rock back on your heel as you begin stroking faster, your thumb tracing the veins on the underside. Miguel’s eyes roll back as your deliciously hot mouth descends on him, your tongue circling his tip juuust the way he likes it. Fuck, you can feel yourself getting wetter with each trembling hiss and moan you pull out of this man — your man. You separate from him with a pop, licking pre from sticky fingers while he watches hungrily.

The smell of arousal — your arousal, invades his senses and his hands twitch and he lunges, pulling you up to him and flipping you over. You yelp in surprise as his hands immediately squeeze flesh, your hips, your thighs, your ass, anywhere he has access to. 

You tilt up to kiss him and he leans down, pressing his lips to yours firmly. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip and when you allow him access inside he moans quietly, fangs digging into your lower lip lightly. 

Your shirt is practically discarded at the speed of light and you shiver for a second at the cold washing over your skin before Miguel's all over you again.

He leans forward to fumble with your bra, fingers struggling to unclasp the hooks on the back. You laugh and pull it off yourself, to which he rolls his eyes fondly before his mirth is devoured by desire.

Thick fingers nimbly pull at your pants waistline.

"Take these off too, sweetheart," He whispers, leaving wet open mouth kisses trailing down your neck. You shiver, obliging quickly and kicking them off. They land somewhere on the floor and you don't care enough to look for them. Not when Miguel is between your legs, staring down at your clothed pussy like it's his last meal.

He inhales slowly, leaning down to press his head against your thigh. You smell so fucking intoxicating, he wants nothing more than to bury his face between your legs and make you scream in pleasure. But first he has to get rid of your panties.

"Hurry up, Miguel, please," You whine, wiggling your hips as if to try and encourage him. As if he needs any sort of encouragement. 

"Do you care about these panties?" He asks, quick and low. You blink.

"No…? –! " You gasp as he lowers his head and fucking rips them off of you in one quick motion with his damn teeth. "Miguel!"

"I'll get you new ones, baby. Promise." He kisses your inner thigh, holding you down with two large searing hands. "As many as you want. As long as I get to have this goddamn pussy, I'll get you anything."

Your glistening lips look absolutely delicious, all wet and soaked from watching him play with his cock in front of you. He wants to put his mouth on your throbbing, swollen clit until you sob, wants your pussy in his face, wants his tongue in you while you grab at his hair and urge him for more. You'd taste divine, and he nearly just decides to do it anyway.

But his cock is so hard it almost hurts and he's about three seconds away from getting blue balls, so instead he sinks one finger in your drenched cunt. Your breath hitches and you turn your head into a pillow as he begins to finger fuck you in earnest. The obscene sound of slick gushing out from your hole makes Miguel nearly feral, nearly has his eyes rolling back into his head as he feels your tightness squeeze and pulse around his thick digit. You hiss at the stretch, slow pain and growing pleasure intertwining as Miguel goes slow adding a second. 

"You're doing so good, so good, baby. You feel so – fuck, so good. Can you take one more?" He asks breathlessly. "C’mon, you're such a good girl, aren't you?"

You nod amidst blurry vision, gasping as he slides another finger in. His pace is fast and punishing, and the final goddamn nail on the coffin is the way his fingers press into your g-spot, while his thumb rubs messy circles on your puffy clit. 

"Cum, baby, you can do it, you can fucking cum for me, can't you?" He latches onto your tit, swirling his tongue around your nipple in such a way that makes your head foggy. 

“Mig – guel!” You whine brokenly as he rolls it between his teeth, sharp points of pleasure burning up your spine like wildfire. Miguel can’t help but groan at the feeling of your sweet cunt clamping down on his fingers, and he increases his speed at the telltale signs of your impending orgasm. You're so so close and when the building coil in your lower stomach finally snaps, you sob, gushing all over his palm.

Your bare chest heaves as he murmurs sweet praise in your ear, telling you that "You did so good, cariño," and "Look at you, you're so gorgeous all spread out like this,". Miguel drags his tongue down your neck, pulling away for a second to suck your juices off his fingers in an awfully erotic display of tongue, saliva, and a flash of a grin. 

He presses kisses to your face, trying his absolute damndest not to hump you like a fucking dog but he’s waited so long and he’s going to go fucking insane if he doesn’t get your pretty pussy wrapped around his cock in the next two seconds. 

“C’mere, baby,” Miguel takes himself in hand, his other keeping your thighs spread so he can see your twitching hole all wet and ready for him. “Can’t wait any damn longer – I’ll fuckin’ – explode or something.”

Looking up at him from your position is absolutely deadly. His hair is disheveled, strands slipping from their usually neat positions, his expression is utterly and completely devoted as his chest heaves. Your eyes travel down to shamelessly stare at his massive package, complete with his proportionally large hand curled around the weeping length. 

He’s so stiff that he splits your lips easily, and he groans at the feeling of your slick coating the underside of his cock. You can’t help but gasp as he grinds against you slowly before the head catches on your clit and pushes inside. 

And oh god, he could die right here and be happy, he could fucking die with the tip of his dick buried in your tight pussy and think that his life is fulfilled. It takes everything in him not to cum and paint your insides in a creamy white. Your wet walls are so slick and he hisses as they clamp down on him.

“Fuuuuck… baby you — you gotta loosen up for me, relax — mnnshit — “ he gasps, and you cry out, shifting underneath him. He rubs sloppy circles on your clit, his breathing labored as a few more inches of his monstrous cock slide in, “There we go, there we — nnngh, okay, good, so fucking good, you’re such a pretty girl,” he babbles nonsensically, practically losing his mind in the warmth. 

“M — Miguel,” You hiccup, nudging him out of his daze. “Move — please, s’not enough,” You want him in your guts, you want him to fuck you until the only thing you can remember is the shape of his cock. 

And who is he to deny you?

He shoves the rest of himself in in one fluid motion, his throat closing in on itself as he bottoms out, his pelvis flush to yours. His mouth parts slightly as his lips form an o shape, and he thrusts once, caging you in his burly arms. 

“Oh shit — I’m gonna move, okay? M’gonna move,” he warns you, before pulling out slowly only to slam his hips back into yours with wild abandon. You suck in a startled breath as he begins to absolutely fuck your brains out, fire igniting deep in your lower stomach again. There’s none of his usual careful approach, there’s no teasing, no smug remarks. He’s focused on one thing and one thing only: stuffing you full of his seed until he physically can’t anymore. 

You can barely get anything out as he grinds against you, his dick so deep inside that you’re sure that he’s showing through your lower stomach. Fuck – he feels so good as he fills your tight pussy, rocking precisely in all of your sensitive spots. The head of him practically kisses your damn cervix, sending you rocketing towards your second orgasm of the night. 

Your brain is so mushy and pleasure-drowned that it takes you a second to realize that he’s still talking and oh fuck.

“Let me fill you, le— let me cum inside, please, please, baby, I wan – nngh, I want you all round and swollen f’me,” he sounds utterly wrecked, desperate and hungry all rolled in at once, “Wouldn’t you look so pretty an’ gorgeous? Pleas – e, please? Need you full, all full of me,” Miguel begs, grunting lowly when you clamp down on him from the downright filth flowing from his mouth. 

“Yes – Miguel, just –nnhgod, oh shit, oh fuck,” You lose the tail end of your sentence as your head melts out of your ears and pleasure sears through your veins. Miguel whimpers at your words, shoving himself deeper than you thought was humanly possible. 

“Waited so long for you, baby, was so – was so lonely, needed you – need you – “ He hits a spot that has you keening, eyes rolling back and your head bumping against the headboard of the bed. You’re driving him utterly insane, your moans and cries sounding like a blended symphony of bliss pounding through his eardrums. He leans down to litter any inch of bare skin he has access to in dark marks, his burning mouth trailing wetly down the valley between your breasts.

“M’close, Mig – uel, I’m going to cum, baby –” You manage to gasp out before you’re overwhelmed completely and your vision erupts into stars as you gush around him for the second time in one day. It feels like someone has poured molten pleasure down your veins and you’re incandescent with it. 

Miguel chokes, low and deep in his throat, feeling your slick pussy tighten around his girthy cock, slathered in your juices. It tears a downright animalistic sound out of him, a trembling snarl from somewhere in his chest as he thrusts once, twice, then finally pumps you full of creamy thick seed. 

His mouth is agape, transfixed in a silent ‘o’ as his hips stutter and his balls draw up tight, every atom in his body devoted to filling you completely. When he’s finished, he rolls his hips a few more times, fucking his cum deeper inside of you despite his hiss of overstimulation. 

Your limbs are putty in his hands as he slides out slowly and adjusts you into a more comfortable position, his eyes lingering on the way some of his cum drips out of your loose hole. He pushes it all back in with two fingers, giving you a small smile of apology at your choked mutter, before collapsing down next to you and dragging you close to his chest. 

“...How long does this last again?” You rasp, voice sore from screaming. Miguel hums in contemplation, nosing your shoulder from where he’s draped over you.

“About a day and a half more to go,” He responds languidly after a moment. “Are you okay with that?”

You know you’re going to be so sore by the end of it. You know you’ll probably be feeling it for weeks on end after. You know you’ll probably have to take a few sick days to recover too. 

“Mhm,” You answer, kissing his cheek. “I can handle it,”

“That’s good,” He replies quietly, and you stiffen, feeling his fat softened cock twitch against your thigh. He raises his head to give you a semi sheepish look and you gulp.

Maybe you can’t handle it, actually. It’s okay though, since Miguel will take care of you long after. 

#miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #miguel x reader #miguel spiderman #astv miguel #miguel x you #Miguel smut #miguel atsv #miguel ohara

[catopoliscat]

sweet dreams, good morning / fem!reader/kento nanami.

you and your boyfriend nanami usually showered at different times. this morning, he decided to join you.

tags: nsfw. 18+. fem!reader. afab!reader. established relationship. shower sex. penetrative sex. no set timeline but presumed canon!verse. fingering. creampie. unprotected sex (wrap it kids). nanami had a little dream about you. no use of y/n or any other placeholders. ever.

wc: 3.6k.

a/n: inspired by some nsfw pieces @jimwackthesecond sent to me of nanami on discord, ty babes I'm still throbbing about it

mdni.

It was rare for Nanami to join you like this. 

Even after months of living together, of being by each other's side; of cooking, eating, drinking and sleeping next to one another—showers together were rare. It wasn’t any conscious decision, really, just a difference in routine. You preferred to shower in the mornings. Nanami preferred to shower in the evenings. Small moments of solace and quiet amidst the hot water and soap. A moment of solitude between lives so tightly intertwined. 

Today, however, Nanami had surprised you. 

You were halfway through your usual semi-methodical routine, soap suds still clinging to your arms and chest, when you felt the door open. A cool gush of air rushed through the fog of the warm bathroom for a moment, skittering up your back in a gentle caress. You shiver, hearing Nanami’s familiar footsteps, but think little of it. You had thought you had been quiet when you had slipped from his sleepy embrace, wanting to give him a longer lie in bed for once—but perhaps you hadn’t been quiet enough.

Any moment, you had expected the tap to start running, the sound of toothpaste being uncapped and bristles against white teeth. Instead, the sound of rustling clothes just about reaches your ears over the sound of water thudding against the tiles beneath your feet, and then comes the slide of glass, a footstep and—

—strong, warm arms encircling your waist tightly, as if you might disappear into smoke if he let go. 

You smile softly to yourself as Nanami presses up close against your back, hard pectorals slotting against the ridges of your shoulder blades. The heat of his chest is a strong match to the warmth of the water against your front, seeping into your bones and warming you from the inside out. 

A nose nudges at the crook of your neck, moving upward before soft lips press against the spot right behind your ear. You chuckle softly, leaning back into the caress, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Not like you to shower in the morning,” you murmur, barely audible over the rush of the water. 

A low hum is your response. The arms wind tighter, and a large, calloused hand settles on your navel. His thumb brushes up and down in a languid, repetitive motion. You shiver slightly.

“I had an incentive,” Nanami replies, his voice a husky rumble, throat still thickened with the remnants of sleep. He presses another kiss against your skin, his lips lingering this time. “You don’t mind?” 

You chuckle again, shaking your head as you settle it back against him, feeling the hard ridge of his collarbone against your skull. “Of course not.” 

Even after all this time together, seeing each other at your most vulnerable, Nanami was always aware and respectful of boundaries, even unspoken.

A contented silence settles in the bathroom, broken only by the spray of the showerhead. Morning sunlight spills through the frosted, dewy glass, reflecting off the mirror that paints a portrait of a couple, very much in love. Nanami’s thumb continues its gentle caress, a soft swipe up and down that becomes as familiar to you as your own heartbeat. His other hand rests against your ribs, just underneath your breast, but makes no move to touch or cup it just yet. 

A sleepy comfortability takes over you. Between the heavy warmth of the water and steam, as well as the steady thrum of Nanami’s heartbeat behind you, you find yourself leaning more and more into his form. He supports you easily, hands tightening just slightly to bear more of your weight. You start to distinctly remember why you rushed through showers in the morning—sleep still clinging to your mind like condensation on glass. 

It was a weekend, though. Neither you nor Nanami had any work or missions, no business or meetings. There was no world to save. Not today. 

“I could fall asleep like this,” you mumble, eyes still shut. 

Another feathery kiss, against your shoulder this time. “Do you want to go back to bed?” 

Although the idea of crawling back into still-warm sheets is appealing, you shake your head. This was enough. More than enough. 

You wind a hand down your body, settling it above Nanami’s own where it rests against you. You don’t hesitate to intertwine your fingers with his, and he doesn’t hesitate to hold them, giving them a small squeeze. 

With his one thumb now restricted, his other thumb takes over its brother's repetitive motion, occasionally brushing against the underside of your breast. Although initially accidental and easily forgotten, the movement gradually becomes more intentional. Daring. One particular sweep brushes over the swell of your breast. The next is even higher, just across your nipple.

An involuntary breath leaves you as the slight sensation causes familiar goosebumps to erupt across your skin. Your lips part slightly as you arch into the touch, the curve of your back pushing your hips back into— 

Ah.

A soft puff of breath leaves Nanami’s lips as your ass brushes against his cock, the hard length rubbing up against the cleft. His grip tightens on your hand, and you can feel his responding shudder. He quickly moves his hips back again, keeping his chest pressed up against you instead.

You smile to yourself, a touch wryly. Nanami wasn’t easily worked up, and certainly not in tender moments like this. You can’t help but wonder if this is the product of just the proximity, or something more. 

“I’m flattered that my sleepy morning self has this effect on you,” you drawl, a layer of amusement in your tone that you can’t quite shed. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, as if he has anything at all to apologise about. “I…” 

You feel his lips open against the skin of your neck, but he shuts them again. That makes you raise an eyebrow, your eyes blinking open to squint against the steamy bathroom. You try to angle your head to get a look at him, but the angle is difficult. When you try to turn your body to face him properly, however, his arms tighten around your waist, preventing you from doing so. 

It wasn’t like Nanami to be this… reserved. Not this far into your relationship. 

“Nanami?” 

Another gush of air flutters against your wet shoulder, something close to a sigh of resignation. “I dreamt about you,” he finally says, the words imprinted against your skin. “This morning.” 

Ah. 

A wet dream? Hardly something to be self-conscious about, you think. Especially when you were clearly the star of said dream. Nanami was always oddly prudish around certain things, however. Traditional, in some senses.

“Oh? How rude, we hardly know each other.” 

You can almost feel the responding eye-roll in response to your teasing humour. He gives a small squeeze to your intertwined fingers, as if telling you to take this seriously—though you refused to. A dream was a dream, and you were less concerned with the fact he had one and more concerned with what exactly was in it. 

“I’m a thirty-year-old man,” he grumbles. 

“Who’s still human,” you remind him. You push your hips back again, pleased to feel Nanami’s cock still very much hard, nearly pulsing, against the swell of your ass. He exhales a slow, steadying breath, but makes no move to pull his hips away again. “Tell me about it.” 

Another small sigh against your shoulder. You can practically feel his hesitation, unwilling to unveil the explicit nature of his dream just yet. 

You push yourself back against him again, a slight movement of your hips that has his cock pressing a little deeper against your skin. You buy yourself a small grunt in response, a choked sound that hitches in the back of his throat.

“Come on,” you chuckle, the sound a little throaty now. Sensing he needed a little more push, you unlink your hand from his to lay atop his other one, guiding it up to cup your breast properly. “Did I at least look good?” 

“Mm.” He gives your breast a small squeeze; a well-practised, perfect amount of pressure that always makes your thighs clench together. “So beautiful… as always.”

“Where were we?” 

Another hesitation, though shorter this time. He occupies the time by kneading your breast slowly, massaging it almost in his calloused palm. “On a beach. It was just us. White sand, palm trees, lapping waves… the sun was so warm.” 

You smile at the picture he paints in your head. “I’m sure we made it feel warmer.” 

You feel a shuddering breath against the back of your neck before he hums in agreement. You can only imagine that whatever memory of his dream is replaying in his mind is a good one, because he presses his cock against you more firmly. 

“Yes,” he mutters against your nape, before pressing a hungry, hot, open-mouthed kiss against the skin there. “You have no idea what you do to me.” 

By the way he’s groping at your breasts and ever-so-subtly grinding his hips against your ass, you would say you have a general idea. You want to press him for more details on his dream. What did you do to rile him up so? What did he do in the dream to make him pursue you to the shower when he awoke? 

All those thoughts and questions are disappearing from your mind, however, as the hand against your navel is drifting down between your thighs. Your lips part in a soft exhale as he cups your heat, his middle finger running down your slit almost teasingly, smearing the dripping shower water along with your own arousal. 

Another shuddering breath fans against your neck as he dips his middle finger between your folds. “You were so wet, so tight around me,” he whispers, his words almost swallowed up by the sound of the shower and your own heartbeat in your ears. “It was maddening. I… I couldn’t stop.” 

He circles your clit once, causing your hips to twitch and a soft moan to leave your lips, before he dips his finger down, pressing it against your entrance before sinking inside. You both seem to moan simultaneously as your inner walls clench tight around his thick digit.

“You were so…” He swallows thickly around another groan. “…loud. Insatiable.” 

In, out, in, out. He thrusts slowly, languidly, as if savouring every contraction, every syrupy moan that left your plush lips. Slick gathers quickly, and before long the sound of his thrusting finger becomes wetter and wetter. A second finger soon joins the first, his palm pressing against your clit as his ministrations quicken, your thighs shaking in response. The steam of the shower, the heat of Nanami at your back, the fog of lust in your mind and the increasing pulse between your legs—it makes your head swim, your mind hazy and uncoordinated. 

He curses as you grip his fingers particularly tight, as if imagining the sensation around his cock instead. You feel a pressure against your nape, and you dully realise it's his forehead, hot and wet with sweat and water. “Please,” he murmurs, his low voice hot and wanting. “Can I have you? Here?” 

Even after all this time, he still asked—still cared enough to ask—even though your answer was always the same. 

“God, yes,” you’re replying before he’s barely finished his question, every thought in your mind evaporating into the same steam swirling around you. 

You’re leaning forward, arching your back before he even makes any move to position you, both of your palms resting against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. Shower water sprays across your shoulders and the back of Nanami’s neck as his head follows your descent, forehead now planted between your shoulder blades. His fingers don’t stop their ministrations, but his other hand does disappear from your breast. A moment later, you gasp as you feel his fingers slip from you—replaced instead by a familiar pressure. 

His cock, thick and heavy, presses against you, hesitating for only a moment before pressing forward slowly. The thicker head slips past the tight ring of muscle with a sharp stretch, your lips falling open in response as a ragged moan leaves you. No matter how many times you had done this, Nanami’s cock was always a stretch, making each time seem like the first all over again. 

“God,” he gasps, his jaw falling open against your shoulder blade. “P-Perfect… so perfect.” You can feel him practically shaking with restraint as he pushes forward slowly, oh-so-fucking-slowly, until his hips finally meet your rear. As always, he gives you a moment to adjust, no matter how wound up or turned on he is—his one hand bracing against the wall near your own, the other winding back around your waist to circle your clit with slow, languid movements. 

You’re shaking too, you realise, hands slipping on the wet shower wall. You clench tight around his cock despite his attempts to relax you, too wound up and dizzy with arousal to care about the discomfort. Bucking your hips back, you try to press him impossibly deeper, as if you weren’t already full of him. 

He groans at the attempt though, the slight friction you grant him causing his fingers to stutter against your bud. Quickly getting the hint, he pulls back just a few inches before sinking back into you again, just as slowly as before. You both moan again at the delicious drag, before he starts to set a slow, steady rhythm—pulling out a little deeper every time until the tip threatens to slip from you with each thrust. 

You had expected something quick, frantic perhaps. The dream he had seen had clearly riled him up. But Nanami was still Nanami—slow and methodical, passionate and loving. 

Long, hot puffs of breath fan against your neck, matching the slow, sensual rhythm of his hips against you. You can feel his eyebrows knitted against your back, and in your mind's eye, you can already picture his expression perfectly. Flushed skin on his high cheekbones, the sweat on his brow, the slight scrunch of his eyes and parted lips. 

Every thrust pushes deep, his slow pace ensuring that you felt every inch of each push until he bottomed out, only to repeat the whole cycle once more. His hand on the wall slips, bumps against your own, and with trembling fingers he places it on top of yours, pinning it against the wall before intertwining your fingers tightly. 

“I love you,” he groans, his voice thick and gravelly. “I love you, ngh—“ He pushes deep again, stills for a moment as he grinds against you, before withdrawing again. “I love you so much.” 

You meet his every thrust, pushing your hips back until your skin meets his with a satisfying ‘pap’. The slow, deep pace is driving you insane, deliciously perfect and yet wildly maddening. You can feel the heat pool in your gut with every stroke, the warmth blooming hotter and hotter like the slow lap of waves, threatening to consume you. 

You’re greedy, you know. You need more.

You push your hips back in a quicker rhythm and Nanami’s hips stutter in response, his rhythm thrown off. He hisses, clenched teeth brushing against your nape. The fingers on your clit disappear, a strong hand grasping the plush flesh around your hip instead, steadying you. You expect him to stop you or slow your rhythm down, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stops thrusting altogether, allowing you complete control of the pace as you fuck yourself on him. 

He’d always allow you to take what you wanted from him. 

“Ah, y-yes, yes—“ you pant, forehead pushing forward to rest against the cool tile. You tilt your hips, angling Nanami’s cock to prod against the exact spot you need him. He curses in response to the harsh clench of your walls around him, his hips bucking forward involuntarily. “Kento—“ 

“Tell me what you, ngh, need,” he grits out, now matching your rhythm until the clap of your flesh starts to match the pour of the water. The hand on your hip slides up, caressing your waist in loving strokes before winding around, palming at your breast again. “A-are you close?” 

“Yes!” You start to push back harder, more frantically. Nanami instantly matches it, thrust for thrust, the head of his cock dragging against your sensitive point with almost pin-point accuracy. He pinches, tweaking your nipple in a way that makes your thighs shake. “Harder, I need it—“ 

You don’t even have to say another word before both of Nanami’s hands disappear, only to grip your hips tightly. You feel the warm of his chest leave your back as he straightens, replaced by the spray of the shower water instead. A moment later, his pace becomes almost punishing, the hard lines of his Adonis belt hitting against the flesh of your rear with a smack. 

You practically reel, something guttural and primal leaving your lips as you arch forward, bracing fully against the tiled wall in front of you. You can feel your flesh ripple, your breasts jolting with the wet smack of flesh against flesh. Even now, he’s careful never to push harder than you need it, but experience and attention allows him to get it perfect. He was always perfect. 

A chorus of ‘just like that’ and ‘yes’ leaves you in a symphony, your eyes rolling and eyelids fluttering simultaneously. It doesn’t take long until you're practically clamping down on his cock like a vice, your lower stomach clenching impossibly tight as ragged, fractured moans tear from your lips. Distantly, you wonder if you’re as loud as you were in his dream—or maybe louder. 

Nanami doesn’t fair any better, harsh grunts and choked groans leaving in him in rhythm with the clap of his hips. With each thrust, it seems his body hunches further inward until he’s practically curled over you, his grip tightening on your hips, thumbs digging into your skin. Deep moans smother against your shoulder as lathers you with kisses, half-formed praises coating your skin with his love. 

“I’m close, my l-lo-“ He chokes up, curses, hips stuttering as he tries to maintain the hard pace. He starts pulling your hips back to meet his, cock plunging seemingly deeper and deeper—  

Stars are exploding behind your eyes a second later, your abdomen clenching and rolling as you cum hard around him. You call out his name, you think, jaw falling slack as Nanami continues to thrust and thrust you through your climax, pushing you toward oversensitivity and fast. You’re clenching down on him tighter and tighter, unable to stop as you babble nonsensically, delirious and drunk on steam and release. 

“S-Shit,” he hisses, his voice barely there, just breathless and torn. “So b-beautiful, so perfect, I love you, I love—“ 

A second later, Nanami’s following you over the edge; a deep, broken moan leaving him as his cock twitches and throbs, spilling into you. He continues to move, his hips erratic and rhythm broken, just bucking disjointedly as his voice cracks and splinters.

You’re trembling, he’s trembling, both of you panting and moaning weakly as Nanami continues to grind against you, albeit slowly. You rest your forehead against the cool tile in front of you for a moment, your hot breath making the ceramic fog up—before Nanami’s arms wind around your waist, pulling you back up and against his chest. 

Your thighs are shaking, body nearly limp in his arms, but he supports you once more easily. Soft kisses and brushes of his nose rain down against the crook of your neck as his hand brushes up and down your stomach, his cock still throbbing weakly inside your warm grip. You let your head loll back against him, a tired, contented smile on your lips. 

You reach a hand up and behind you, fingers fumbling for a moment before his head leans into them. You card your fingers through the short, wet strands behind his ear, a small sigh fluttering against your ear in response.

“We should shower together more often,” you murmur, which earns you a small, slightly breathless chuckle, the rumble of his chest vibrating against your back. 

Eyelashes flutter against your neck as he closes his eyes. “We should.”

“In the evening though,” you add. Between the hot water and well, everything else, your body was sated but drained. “I really could fall asleep now.” 

The idea of stepping out of the warmth of the shower and Nanami’s embrace only to get dressed and continue with whatever you had planned for the day wasn’t an appealing one. As if sensing this, his arms hold you tighter, unwilling to break the moment, or your intimate connection, just yet. 

“Then do,” he murmurs against your ear, before pressing a soft kiss to the shell. “I’ll take you back to bed.” 

And you know he would. You know that if you were to fall limp in his arms right now, he’d carry you; dry you off and settle you amongst the sheets again as if you’d never left them. It wouldn’t even be a question. 

You stay awake though, body still thrumming with remnants of your connection and your muscles at ease. Tilting your head slightly, capturing a glimpse of his profile, you raise an eyebrow.

“…so?” 

Nanami meets your gaze, raising an eyebrow in turn. “So?” 

“Was it as good as your dream?” 

He closes his eyes with a tormented sigh, burying his nose back into your skin. “…it always is.” 

You let out a laugh of disbelief, angling your head to try and face him better despite him seemingly burying his face in your skin deeper, unwilling to meet his gaze. “Always?! How many dreams have you had about me like this?”

You feel a small nip at your neck, just a brush of teeth really, but that seems to tell you that these ‘dreams’ of his were far more a regularity than the stoic sorcerer was willing to let on.  

masterlist.

#kento nanami x reader #nanami x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #nanami #kento nanami

[kaciidubs]

Cameras and Sweatpants

❣ Summary: Photoshoots, the gift that keeps on giving, and you welcomed it with open arms - and mouth. ❣  ❣ Word Count: 1.5k ❣ Warnings: Smut, degradation/name calling [slut], slight public sex ❣  ❣ Female! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns ❣  ❣ Additional Tags: 230526 Chris [pictured], Chan is referred to as Chris and Daddy, Reader is referred to as Baby, Pretty/Dirty Girl, Slut, mention of Jisung, lightly edited, this was written almost a year ago while I was sleep deprived and horny for this specific version of Chris ❣ Stray Kids Masterlist ❣ General Masterlist

“We have 30 minutes,” Chris whispered against the shell of your ear, his hand resting against the small of your back. 

You smirked, pace quickening ever so slightly as you walked past staff members and stylists alike - a glint of mischief shining through your lust fogged eyes. “I’ll be done in 15.”

Attending photoshoots with the boys was a rare occurrence, usually only happening when your oh-so-loving boyfriend figured a ‘little vacation’ was in order - and this was one of those times.

Even if you weren't well versed with Dispatch as a whole, you were more than aware of the speculation of idols’ private lives and, more present, promotional photoshoots and interviews.

Especially promotional photoshoots that had your boyfriend in the most relaxed yet revealing outfit you’d laid your eyes on; from the white, sleeveless shirt showing off well sculpted biceps that never failed to draw attention, to the baby blue sweatpants tied securely around his hips with holes that gave peeks into what you had the pleasure of seeing daily.

All of this, paired with the borderline bedroom eyes he was giving the camera, culminated into you tugging him off the couch the minute the director gave the call for a break to set up for the next room.

The second the changing room’s door shut and the lock clicked into place, you wasted no time in sinking to your knees in front of him - hardwood floors be damned. Your mouth watered at the prominent bulge beginning to tent the blue fabric; running your hand along the outline and earning a stifled grunt in return. 

“Baby, I’d rather not stain these pants,” Chris gritted out, trying to keep his anticipation at bay as you continued palming him, “we still have the second half to shoot.” 

You opened your mouth for a rebuttal, a tease of some sort, but the looming reminder of how much time you had made it close just as fast. 

Heeding his request, your hands slid up to the waistband of his sweats before tugging them past the swell of his ass and down the expanse of his thighs, just enough to expose his boxer-briefs.

“If we were home, this would be so much easier.” Your lips pulled into a playful pout, fingertips dipping past the branded waistband before pulling them down to meet the same fate as his sweats. “I wouldn’t have to worry about this many layers.”

He scoffed, leaning his back against the cool wooden door, “If you were patient you wouldn’t have this problem, now would you?” Cocking his head to the side, he ran his tongue across his bottom lip, “But you’re just so needy for my dick, aren’t you, baby?”

A fresh heat washed over you from his words and you had to physically fight back the whine bubbling in the back of your throat - if he was already talking like this, then you knew you weren't the only needy one here.

Spitting into your hand, you wrapped it around his length and gave a few experimental pumps, relishing in the sharp hiss of air he took above you with each pass of your fist, before leaning forward to lick a line from the base of his dick to the tip.

His lips parted with a breathless, “Fuck…”, his head falling back against the door with a low thud as he watched you with lidded eyes.

You looked up at him, the smallest hints of a smirk on your lips before parting them to take the head into your mouth, lapping languidly at the bitter-sweet precum leaking from the slit. A soft moan hummed from your throat as you sunk further, eagerly welcoming the familiar weight of him on your tongue.

 It was always an effort to take him down your throat, long as he was thick, but you continued pressing on - eyelids fluttering shut as you focused on breathing and fighting your gag reflex.

“S-Shit, baby,” Chris gasped, his hand resting on the top of your head, “can’t- ah, can’t go two hours without having your mouth stuffed, yeah?”

Your left hand gripped his thigh, either as a muted response or moral support when you finally, finally, pressed your nose against the finely trimmed patch of pubes that decorated his pelvis. Swallowing around him, earning a delicious whimper that made your pussy flutter, you tapped his thigh twice with a soft hum.

He tensed, his brain short circuiting while his heart skipped a beat so hard he felt it in his throat, “Really? Y-You don’t- fuck, you really want me to…?”

Another two taps against his thigh, and you looked up at him as best as you could from your knelt position, feeling spit start to overflow past the corners of your lips.

“Fuck- You’re gonna be the death of me, baby.”

His hand shifted to the back of your head, locking you in place as he drew his hips back, a shiver running down his spine until half of his cock remained in your mouth before thrusting forward, sending himself down your throat once again.

You squeezed your eyes shut, one hand holding onto his half while the other balled into a fist on your thigh, helping you focus on keeping your gags at bay with practiced breaths.

Chris kept a few more slow, manageable thrusts before turning up the pace; his cock leaving your mouth a little more each time before sliding its way back into your throat, ragged pants tumbling from his lips as he fucked your mouth.

It was dizzying, the way your muscles constricted around his girth while your plump lips were slicked with bubbling saliva - it wasn’t anywhere close to how your cunt felt, but it was still bringing him to his end just the same. It also didn’t help that soft moans were interspersed between your muted gags; the thought of you getting off on him using your mouth like a fleshlight making his grip tighten and his balls swell.

“T-Taking me so well,” he gritted, breaking out into a small sweat, “so needy for me you can’t even suck me off by yourself - need me to help you, huh? Need me to- fuck- to use this throat of yours like the slut you are.”

Your nails dug into his calf and he chuckled, a short, husky sound that had your pussy clenching around nothing, your panties sticking like a self-imposed punishment.

“My little slut, yeah? All mine?” Sucking in a sharp breath, his hips stuttered, “A-All mine to use - daddy’s pretty, dirty girl.”

Blinking away the tears blurring your vision, you angled your head up just enough to gaze at him through your eyelashes, and the sight you were met with had you rocking your hips in the open air - desperation taking over your rational thoughts in hopes of an odd rotation to get something to grind against your aching cunt.

Pupils blown, the ends of his hair sticking to his forehead,the glow of sweat shining down the curve of his neck, pretty pink lips parted and shimmering from the gloss the makeup artists coated them in, and brows furrowed with a focus you’d seen time and time again - he looked delectable.

“S-Shit- I’m close, baby,” panting, Chris looked down at you with worry flashing in his eyes, “Wh- Mm- Where do you want it?”

Answering his question as best you could, you squeezed his calf once before pressing your tongue to the underside of his dick, running it against a vein that never failed to make his head spin.

The grip on your head tightened as he nodded frantically, “Y-Yeah, yeah, okay - t-take it all, princess, swallow every drop j-just f’me, yeah?” A shiver ran down his spine as his rhythm began to falter, breathless whimpers falling from his lips, “‘M coming- oh fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna come-”

His dick twitched, throbbing against your tongue, and with a handful of thrusts the tip pressed against the soft flesh of the back of your throat before a rush of cum filled your mouth.

Your throat tightened with each swallow you took, gag reflex working double time with the lack of air reaching your lungs until the last of his release settled onto your tongue.

As his hold on you relaxed, you slowly pulled yourself off of his length with a lewd slurp, taking whatever final remnants remained before swallowing - almost choking on the deep breath that immediately followed suit as your lungs gratefully welcomed the unhindered rush of air.

“I’m-” Chris huffed out a breath, fully leaning against the door to save him from falling to his knees, “I’m sorry, baby, are you okay? Did I go too hard?”

“Honestly?” Clearing the rasp from your voice, you laughed lightly, “If I passed out, it would’ve been worth it.”

“Oh my god, you absolute menace!”

Eyes narrowing with mirth, you smirked, “Menace? I thought I was daddy’s little slut?”

The blush tinting his ears and neck deepened, but before he could respond a series of knocks rapped against the door, followed by Jisung’s sheepish voice.

“Uh, if you guys are done in there, can I grab my phone?”

✧. ┊Tagged lovelies: @having-an-internal-crisis-rn, @midnightfrog625, @anyhow-everything, @bangchanbabygirlx, @sweetracha, @nightimescapes, @caitlyn98s, @ch4nn13luv, @ihrtlix, @jeonjungkookenthusiast1997, @maximumkillshot, @y-ur--i, @acker-night, @dreamescapeswriting, @specialstay, @s00buwu, @tinyelfperson, @jj-stay, @katsukis1wife, @inlovewithmusician, @keen-li, @armystay89, @main-character0, @vampcharxter, @ddyskz, @prettymiye0n, @bbgnyx, @ivyisnotokay, @bahng-chrizz, @milknhoneyracha, @hann1bee, @palindrome969, @newhope8, @softkissfelix, @luvyev, @luminouskalopsia, @kpopsstuffs, @luvyev, @starquokka, @wolfs-howling, @laylasbunbunny, @zaethefangirl, @chxnb97, @4-chan-inpadella

✧. ┊If your username is in bold italics that means tumblr won't let me tag you. If you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill out this form!

#skz smut #stray kids smut #bang chan x reader #bang chan smut #bangchan x reader #bangchan smut

[harunovella]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ love language (verse vi); s.g.

synopsis: you and gojo share your"first" kiss... and maybe, you become something more? content: canon divergence (teen!gojo era), fem!reader, hopeless romantic gojo, first kisses, absolute softness!!! not beta read (sorry for any errors!) note: another one shot for my gojo anthology series! thank u all for the love on this series!! wanna be tagged? lmk in the replies!

There was no lie in saying Gojo Satoru had consumed your thoughts. It was quite the recent development, seeing as he was an enigma that sort of manifested into your life. One day, you were living your apprentice life, exploring your technique, honing and developing it... then the next, this myth of a (young) man appeared before your eyes. Like an angel that fell from the sky and right into your palm. You just had no idea that he was wrapped around your finger. 

Maybe it was because you were oblivious, unaware of the subtle (but were they really subtle?) messages he sent your way. If you had known Gojo Satoru well enough, you would've known that this was very unlike him. Sparing his time for someone else? Giving them his all? Focusing on them more than himself? Practically going brain dead around them unlike the usual cocky persona he carried around. Surely it scared him, falling deeply for someone just at the simple sight of them... but, for you? You just thought it was the universe working its magic. Bringing someone new into your life to develop a bond with. That was it, right?

Just another somebody to call your friend. 

However, Gojo Satoru wasn't just any somebody. He was the honored one, the strongest (he'd eventually learn this). He was the Gojo Satoru. The once in a life time (well, thousand years) creation formed by the gods themselves. 

He was the man who fell head over heels for you when he laid his eyes on you for the very first time. Stumbled over his words before you. Unable to process a single thought when he gazed into your eyes. Rescued a cat you found in a tree that you named after his favorite treat (and the nickname he had for you), Mochi. Kissed you at Utahime's birthday party during a game of spin the bottle where both of you were tipsy—a moment he would never forget, but you sadly had. A moment that slipped through the cracks of your brain, a moment that would eventually get replaced by a memorable moment.

It had become routine for you, spending your mornings in lessons with Nanami and Haibara. Then, you'd spend mid day with Shoko, following her like a shadow as her junior. Go on the occasional mission, take down curses, squeeze in snack breaks with your dear classmates, go out in the evening for dinner... and somehow, along your schedule, Gojo would make his appearance. You could never foresee it, he would pop up out of nowhere. If it wasn't teasing Kento, or bugging Shoko for her secret snack stash, he'd show up to your favorite dinner spot you shared with the girls (this almost always irritating Utahime because he ruined girls night). Gojo never cared, at this point he showed up wherever knowing (hoping) you'd be there. Always settling himself next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, sneaking a milk box onto your lap or even sharing his treat of the hour. He never shared his sweets with anyone. You were the exception. 

"I got these lil gummies next to that arcade you frequent with Yu," Satoru said as the two of you sat under your (now his, too) favorite tree. The gorgeous cherry blossom in full bloom as spring had made its way around. You almost always had a blanket set, one of your books settled to the side, bookmark slipped into the part you last read. Your iPod nestled between you and Satoru, sharing each earbud as you listened to the current track that came on. Gojo, in his infamous wisdom, was the one who found programs to download music for free, an endless catalogue filling the memory of the rectangular device. Unlike it being yours, it was now his, too. You didn't mind. You liked sharing. You liked having these gentle moments with the overly energetic Gojo Satoru. These were the only moments he sat still, only with you. Just for you. 

Always for you. 

It was the little things that started adding up. It took you a minute to realize, longer than Satoru had hoped—but he was patient. He was obvious, made it clear that his feelings for you were there, he just hoped you'd piece the puzzle together. He had hoped you'd feel the same. How couldn't you when you looked so happy around him? When you said things reminded you of him. When you bought him little sweets you knew he'd love. When certain songs he loved, you'd learn the lyrics to. Just as you started noticing the (obvious) little things he did for you, he started noticing the same for you. Except, for you, it was coming out naturally. Nothing planned, nothing decided in advance, it just happened. It always just happens and it makes Satoru's heart beat faster and faster. Faster than it did before. 

"You like 'em?" He asked, popping another gummy in his mouth as you chewed, nodding happily with the cutest smile of pure content. "I'm glad! Take some more!" He offered, waving the decorative bag of bright colors and little cartoons. 

Letting out a small laugh, you took a couple more, waving your free hand, gesturing for him to take the rest as you popped them in your mouth. The fruity flavors filling your senses with pure bliss as you looked off to the open grounds of the school before you. The gentle breeze pushing through, strands of your hair fluttering against your face as they slipped from your ponytail. Gojo leaned against the tree, a knee propped as he rested his wrist against it, holding the baggie while his other tossed more gummies into his mouth. It was quiet. It was peaceful. Nothing but the music in one ear and the soft sounds of nature in the other. 

"Oh, I love this song!" You perked up as a song ended and another started, looking at Satoru with a bright grin. 

"Didn't I show you this one?" He asked, pushing his round glasses atop his head, smiling with you as you stood up. 

"Mhm! I've been listening to it on repeat!" Grabbing the bag of gummies from his hand and settling it down, you took his hands and pulled him to his feet with a faint grunt. Sometimes you'd forget just how giant Satoru was since he loved to make himself seem so small when he was with you. "The music video is so cute! I kinda learned the dance."

"Really?" He chuckled as you guided him. 

"Yes, remember you said you learned it after a few watches?" You asked as he nodded. "Let's dance it together!"

"Okay!" The white haired young man blushed, though a wide grin still was plastered on his face. He may have been a goofball, but Satoru did not have two left feet. He actually was quite skilled, and having him sing along with you made your heart flutter as you so casually danced around your shared tree. 

It felt as if it was just the two of you, singing, dancing and entangling yourselves with the earphones, laughing and gazing at one another. As if there was nobody else in the world. As if it was just Mother Nature gazing upon two souls intertwining. All in what felt like slow motion, a scene right out of a movie. Your hand in his, his other on your lower back as your free one settled on his shoulder. You couldn't tear your eyes away from his, and neither could he from yours.

Maybe it was a moment of vulnerability—or, rather courage—but your hand gently found its way to the back of his neck, fingers gently carding through his soft locks. The gentle feel of his undercut tickling underneath your palm, sending shivers down either of your spines. The softness in Gojo's eyes faded as you gently tugged him towards you. Growing in shock as your own fluttered closed. Gentle lips meeting in the middle as his plump ones met your lightly tinted own. 

His heart was racing, faster than it had that night of Utahime's birthday. Maybe it was because both of you were 100% aware, or maybe it was because it was happening again but away from others, in your own shared comfort zone. 

Feeling you pull away, Gojo instantly placed his hands on your hips, engulfing you in his arms as he kept you close. Kissing you, once sweetly turning deep. He didn't want this to end, didn't want it to be forgotten. His lips moved against your own, testing the waters. Nerves fading away, anxieties melting at how right this felt. You were his first, and he was going to make sure you were going to be his only. He didn't want anyone else. No one but you. 

And you, after months of being oblivious and unaware, to months of development and realization, wanted him the same. Only him and no one else. Just Gojo Satoru. 

Gently pulling back and resting his forehead against yours, a sigh of relief left his lips. "You beat me to it."

"It felt like the right moment," you softly spoke. 

"Then I guess this is the right moment..." Gojo trailed. 

"For what?" You curiously asked. 

"Will you be my girlfriend?"

tag list: @bakananya @strangehuman101 @thirtykiwis @sillygoosegoose @mandysfanfics @pinksaiyans @peqch-pie @pinksaiyans @silentmajesticfox @r0ckst4rjk @nerdiel-has-no-braincells @stinkysposts @lupitalove (some of u I sadly couldn't tag!)

#harunovella writes; #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #gojo au #gojo fanfic #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk au #gojo fluff #gojo #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen x reader