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uhlaylays · 9 months

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haven't posted on tumblr in many moons so here's a celebration sketch of my babies 🐸

#my adventures with superman #maws #superman #clark kent #lois lane #jimmy olsen #arties #god i cant believe i got to work on this show #who am i

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ghostlychief · 11 months

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mirror, mirror

ghost x fem!reader

warnings: NSFW; smut; MINORS DNI (i am watching u); reverse cowgirl

a/n: part four of my positions series. i promise the next thing i post will be fluff but if you're here, ENJOY

*going to post this then run and hide*

---

you could probably count on your fingers the number of times you were this fucked out. although, you were quickly running out of fingers.

you have your boyfriend to thank for that.

currently, you find yourself straddled on Ghost’s large thighs on the corner of the bed. your back is to him, but you can still see him clear as day thanks to the mirror propped up on your wall.

well, clear in a relative way; the bottom half of his face was covered in one of his signature skull balaclavas. a request made by you, of course.

ghost usually was against wearing those black masks in the bedroom, but you asked him so nicely earlier, with your eyes wide and lashes batting annoyingly. How could he say no to you?

so here you are a couple hours later, and you both are still going.

it must be the mask, you think (the mirror might be an added bonus as well).

seeing Ghost’s rock hard abs flex every time you slide down on him definitely did things to you. but you really did try your best to keep yourself composed, which didn’t sit well with Ghost.

he liked to see you squirm, and enjoyed every little bit of you losing composure because of him. so he tried his best to completely ruin you. and he was doing a pretty good job so far, seeing that this was your fourth round at it.

your legs feel like jelly but you soldier on, continuing to raise and lower yourself on Ghost’s thick cock, the imagine that reflects back to you spurring you on even more.

“fuck.” Ghost’s voice is deep, and there’s a trace of a whine as he drags out the word. he could be helping you, but he’s decided to let you take the reins. It only makes sense with what position you’re in.

“that's it baby, just like that.”

he brings one of his hands to snake around you, his hand now splayed across your tummy. he presses down gently, and the added pressure on your lower stomach has you letting out a moan.

you bring your hand up to cover his, although it really doesn’t cover much, since his hands are so much larger than yours. you slightly grasp his hand as you continue to move, but you need to go back to balancing yourself, so it falls down to his thigh where it previously was, your fingernails leaving faint crescent indents in his skin.

your room is in a state of disarray, your sheets are sloppily thrown around your bed, and your comforter rests at the bottom, on the floor. typically, you would care about the state of your room, but you can't find it in you to worry about that right now.

his hand travels down further until two of his fingers toy with your center. they quickly become slick, which allows him to touch you just right.

your legs tremble as he coaxes you over the edge, and you fall back against his chest. his fingers are still moving in circles around your sensitive bud, but before you can protest at the over sensitivity, you feel him come inside you.

you look back at your reflections in the mirror and see the mess between your legs, now exacerbated by Ghost's come that's seeping out of you.

he brings his other hand to lightly grasp your waist, steadying you, even though you're still leaning back on him.

he places a kiss on your shoulder through his mask, and before you know it, he lifts you off of him and swiftly places you down on your back, his face in between your legs.

you know what's coming next; it's his favorite way to clean you up, after all.

---

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neocentral · 10 months

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rating: 18+. mdni.

masterlist

Your arms are tightly wrapped around Jisung’s back, nails grazing his soft skin as you reach for his hair to pull him deeper into your neck. He pants into the crevice, hot puffs and noises of pleasure muffled within it. The movements of his hips are slow and precise, his cock hitting the spot that has you whimpering into his ear and your split thighs trembling around his body fit between the space.

Your eyes open, catching a glimpse of the luxurious headboard and fixtures of light around the room, Jisung’s pale, bare shoulders and soft dark hair, and your hands grasping at any part of him you can reach. You let your eyelids flutter shut, unable to rip your attention from his warmth and the pleasure brought with it. It feels intimate. It has for weeks.

Jisung is a romantic, you knew that before your arrangement had begun. And despite his efforts to deny it, it was clear that nothing had changed. Made even more so by the increasing romantic gestures each time he gave in to his desires. A bouquet of flowers to your favorite takeout and everything in between. Even during the most innocent moments like when he soothingly rubbed your feet or gently tended to your hair, his touches, his glances, his words were tender.

This time was no different. The hotel room is nice, far too nice for a struggling university student like he is to afford, but you said nothing of it as you pushed your way inside, distracting yourself by locking your lips with his and desperately pawing at his hoodie. Jisung let you, swallowing his words and giving in to your touch, relishing in it. His body’s reaction was immediate, skin burning and heart thumping as he followed your lead.

Jisung thrusts harshly as if he senses your wandering mind, forcing a whine from your throat. Gentle sucks trail up the column of your throat as Jisung makes his way up to your mouth. Soft kisses are laid on your lips between hot pants that blend with his the closer you get to your climaxes.

His lithe fingers slither between your sweaty bodies, taking his time approaching your core to savor the feeling of your skin underneath his fingertips. He begins to swirl the flat pads of his digits around your swollen bud in the way he has grown so familiar with. You gasp shakily, the stimulation to your clit and the pounding of his stiff cock in your gummy walls causing you to feel weightless, falling limp with one last scratch down his back.

Your walls spasm around him as you cum, eliciting a groan from the man above you. Jisung uses you mercilessly, abandoning the slow pace he had used during your intimate encounter. You whimper, writhing beneath him as he overstimulates you. Tears fill your waterline and Jisung lays sweet pecks to your face as his body tenses and his thrusts turn sloppy.

He connects his lips with yours again, moaning into your mouth as he stills inside you, grabbing your weak hands and sliding them up the soft sheets.

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nickfowlerrr · 7 months

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🦋 - “what would you do without me?” with steve rogers maybe…? please? :}

(you don’t have to if you don’t want to, it’s totally up to you because ik you probably have a bunch of asks and you’re busy. and ofc if bucky instead of steve is better for you then im fine with that too! love you sweets and again… happy 3k ❤️)

working overtime

pairing: steve rogers x curvy!reader

warnings: literally nothing but smut and a lil bit of fluff. 18+ only.

words: 1.6k

notes: look what you made me do. 💀

but actually, lol, thank you for the request. i wasn't sure i was gonna do it, but i woke up this morning and decided to at least try. i have such a hard time writing steve, especially smut with steve, but this just took off on it's own once i started! hope you enjoy it. not edited and quite hastily written, so sorry for any errors!

thank you in advance for reading! as always, reblogs and comments are more than welcome and so appreciated. let me know what you think! 🩵

"Oooh, fuuuuuck," the sultry moan draws out from you as you grasp onto his body even tighter, pulling him down even closer as you whimper in his ear, your hot breath across his sweat dampened skin and your legs circling his waist as best they can.

His thick length is hitting just the right spot deep inside your warm walls and you swear to god you're about to combust from the never ending pleasure he's torturing you with.

Your nails are leaving marks all over his solid back, and his heady grunts in your ear are doing nothing but pushing you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

With every deep stroke of his cock inside you, your chests are brushing together. You arch up into him, you need him closer. You need to feel him, every inch of him that you can, along your hot, sensitive skin.

Your lips are searching for him, desperate for his kiss as he fucks you so perfectly.

You nip at his jaw and earn a moan that spurs you on, your lips now incessant until he finally turns his head a bit and meets you. His lips are soft but adamant against your own, hot and fervent as he continues thrusting into you just the same.

"Please, Stevie," you mewl against his lips breathily, sounding so debauched and pathetic.

He fucking loves it.

He drops his body down on yours, but continues to hold most of his own weight with his arms either side of you, one on the mattress and one on your fleshy hip, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

His hips are flush to yours now, he makes sure you feel him, pressing you down into the mattress until you're a mess of broken moans squeezing around him. He can't take his eyes off your pretty face. The way your eyes are closed tight in your pleasure, how your lips are parted just slightly as you let out the most beautiful sounds, just for him.

His gaze stays trained on your face as he begins to slowly roll his hips against yours. The gasp you let out and the way your eyes snap open when he stimulates your sensitive clit with his movements send him even closer to edge he's been on for the past few minutes. He holds himself back, though. He just wants one more orgasm from you, and then you can call it a night.

He said he'd be quick, but from the twinkle in his eye as he kissed your neck, his big hands wandering all over your soft body, those big blues peering up at you, you both knew he'd be anything but.

It'd been a prolonged torture as he ate you out like a man starved, his tongue ceaseless as his thick fingers brought to the edge over and over again before he finally allowed you to come.

When he finally slid his throbbing length into you, you honestly could've come right then, but he took his time with you yet again. He moved slow and deep inside of you, ensuring you felt every inch of his heavy cock as he fucked you like you were the most delicate, precious thing in the world. And to him, you were.

He touched you so gently, large warm hands squeezing and caressing every inch of your body that he could. He slid out of you, turning to sit against the headboard of the bed before he pulled you onto him.

He nuzzled into your neck as you sank down onto his cock, the stretch of him had your head falling back in bliss as his held you to him, his hands on your back, keeping you close.

You rode him just the way he liked, your hands in his hair, holding him to you as he kissed, nipped, and sucked on your sensitive nipples, his hands smoothing up and down your backside as he kept you astride him.

When he felt your walls tightening around him, he grunted deeply, trying to keep hold of himself. He moved a hand around your hip, traveling down to where you met him, his thumb finding your clit and working circles of the bundle of nerves. He had you coming around him in seconds.

You swore you were through after that, but he had other ideas.

He kept hold of you, turning you back over onto the mattress as he hovered above you.

He gave you some time to come down, leaving his cock inside your tight walls, but not moving within you as he kissed you softly, trailing his lips over your skin as he hummed and whispered praises to you.

When he felt your walls squeeze him, he smirked and found your eye. "You ready, sweetheart?" he asked.

"Steeeeve," you bemoaned, "I have work in the morning," you complained while tilting your head to give him more access to your neck as he continued kissing you. You could feel his smile against your skin and couldn't keep your own from gracing your lips.

"Just one more for me, baby," he murmured against your skin, "then we'll sleep."

With that, he began fucking you once more, but his thrusts weren't as slow.

He was hitting you just as deep, but his pace was quicker.

And now here you were, teetering on the edge of your third orgasm of the night.

With every slow, deliberate roll of Steve's hips into yours, you swear you could cry from the overwhelming sensation. It felt so incredibly good, you couldn't stop the gasps and whines that were leaving you even if you'd wanted to.

"You take me so fucking well, angel," he groans. "Squeeze my cock just like that. Oh, fuck. You're so good to me, baby.," he praises with every rock of his hips.

His hand squeezes your hip tight as your legs starts to twitch. "I'm gonna give it to you, baby, don't worry," he soothes as you cry, the pressure compounding as the coil in your belly tightens even more - your muscles taunt as you can feel your walls starting to clench down on him. "I know what you need, sweetheart, I'll give you every last fucking drop," he grits out as his pace falters a bit.

One particular thrust finally has you coming completely undone. You can barely hear yourself as your body shatters around him, your moans and cries and his name like a prayer falling off your tongue are all lost to you as your walls pulse tightly around Steve's cock.

The sensation mixed with the sounds coming from your lips have Steve finally letting himself go; his thick, heavy load painting your walls as your body refuses to let him go without draining every last drop of release he has to offer you.

You're leaking him by the time he finally stops coming, heavy pants from both of you filling the air as he easily grabs your plush body and tugs you into him as he lays down, wrapping his arms around you and sighing in contentment as you let yourself nuzzle into him. You're both a mess of sweat and stickiness but you can't seem to mind all that much as he holds you.

"That was so good," you mumble in your exhaustion, your tiredness now more evident than ever as you melt in his arms.

"Yeah," he smiles. "And see, you're all tuckered out and ready to fall asleep now," he teases.

"I need to pee," you pout into his chest. He laughs and takes a breath before he suddenly moves to stand, holding you in his arms with ease. You know he's super soldier strong, but you'll never get used to how easy he makes it seem.

Your legs are around him, surely making a mess of his abdomen, but he doesn't seem to care as he walks you to the bathroom.

He sets you down gently with a kiss to your forehead before he turns, "I'm gonna grab the towels from the dryer," he says, leaving you to relieve yourself.

When you're washing your hands, he returns, clean towels folded and ready to be put in the cabinet.

"Wanna shower now or in the morning?"

"What time is it?"

"A little past eleven," he tells you, having the decency to be a little sheepish with the information.

"Steve!" you admonish with a whine.

"I'm sorry," he laughs, "but really, do you have to go in on a Saturday? You sure the boss needs you that badly?"

"Oh, the boss needs me pretty damn badly," you answer. He smirks at your quick response.

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind you calling out one day," he says.

"No? Well what would he possibly do without me there?"

He shrugs, "I have a feeling he's gonna be taking the day off, too," he smiles as he gets closer to you, arms wrapping around you.

"Is he, now?" you question.

"He is," he whispers as he leans close to you, brushing his lips against yours. "We both deserve it."

It's your turn to smile then as you kiss him gently. "We do," you agree. "Thank you," you add with another kiss.

"Mmm," he hums against you. "What would you do without me?" he jokes. You chuckle.

"Might get some fucking sleep for once," you shove him playfully, laughing as he humors you and pretends to be affected by your push. "Start the shower, Captain, you're a mess."

"Yes, ma'am," he says with a smirk, his eyes trailing your body, lighting a fire under your skin as he does. "You gonna join me? I know you cleaned up some," he says, pulling you in by your arms, "but we could always get you a little more dirty."

#steve rogers x curvy!reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #i'm shocked and appalled at myself #who am i #asks #3k celebration #steve rogers drabble #steve rogers one shot

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thegirlthatcriesacademia · 2 years

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Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath // art by @/kosmiklia on ig // William Chapman // Virginia Woolf // Brian Andreas // artwork - flowers by Hanna Ilczyszyn // Elizabeth Kinkaid-Ehlers, Still Searching

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baesooraya · 7 months

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So it seems like Neil Newbon, the mocap and VA for Astarion was also a mocap/body double for Gortash and now I feel like such a fool.

#how does one fall for the same thing twice?#this might be a talent at this point #does this mean i have a type?#who am i #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #astarion ancunin #enver gortash #gortash

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tlou-reid · 2 months

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could you do an aaron hotchner x bau wife where she’s up all night throwing up and he just takes care of her

tw vomit and vomiting!!

do your daily clicks

"hun," aaron coos as he walks into the bathroom. his voice was groggy and deep, reflecting the fact that he'd just woken up. you were doing your best to be quiet, not wanting to wake him. you knew he spent a lot of time not being able to sleep, whether it be from working or the nightmares the job caused, so you tried to let him rest as much as possible when he was home. but, the nausea in your stomach that had lingered all day finally spilt over, sending you rushing to the bathroom a little after one in the morning.

"i'm sorry," is all you can mumble out from your position with your head practically in the toilet. aaron doesn't reply, choosing to slowly sit next to you, bringing one hand to hold your hair out of your face and the other to soothingly rub down your back instead. you're happy to have his presence, not liking being alone while you're vomiting.

you two sit like that for a few minutes. you can't really tell how long it takes for your stomach to settle, but you refuse to move your head away from the toilet, just in case.

"any better?" aaron asks, rising from his spot on the bathroom floor. "a little," you mumble. you were being honest, getting some of it out helped settle the nausea, but your body ached and your throat burned. "i'm sorry," aaron echoes your sentiment from earlier as he hands you a clean wash rag. you wipe off your face as he lays another across the back of your neck. the chill makes you jump at first, but you quickly enjoy the feeling.

"want to brush your teeth?" he questions, helping you stand. you nod in response and he moves to grab your toothbrush. he sets it up for you, with a small bead of toothpaste and runs extra water over it. once he hands it to you, he brings his hand to rest comfortingly on your shoulder.

"did you eat something bad?" he questions after you hand him the toothbrush back and go to rinse your mouth. you shrug, "my stomach was messed up all day, it might've been the jet." aaron nodded in understanding. no one on the team was especially prone to airsickness, but after gruesome cases, being sick from the movement was possible.

"well, lets go get some crackers," aaron instructs, reaching out for your hand. you don't have the energy to argue, to tell him no, i just want to go to bed, so you take it, and let him lead you to the kitchen.

he led you to a stool in the kitchen, helping you get on it and relax against the counter in front of you. once you were settled, aaron turned on the light over the stove and reached in the cabinet for the box of saltines you kept for when jack was sick. you were grateful he didn't turn on the big overhead light.

"we don't have any ginger ale," he informed, reaching for a bottle of water instead. he knew if it was cold, it would upset your stomach more. once the crackers and bottle were sat in front of you, aaron said, "eat slow, so it doesn't upset you more."

you nodded in reply, slowly bringing a cracker to your lips. you ate three or four, before sliding them across the counter, signaling to aaron that you were done. "did they help any?" aaron asked as he cleaned up.

"yeah, but i want to try and sleep." aaron nodded at your words, moving to help you off the stool and get you into bed. despite being unsure if there was vomit in your hair, he let you cuddle up to his side, making yourself comfortable.

"feel any better?" you nodded in reply, closing your eyes. aaron gently rubbed his hand along your side until you fell asleep.

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booksbonesborderline · 1 year

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maybe if i reinvent myself enough times, ill find a version of myself i actually like and want to be

#actually bpd #bpd thoughts #actually borderline #bpd things #bpd moment #borderline things #borderline vent #bpd fp #unstable emotions #unstable sense of self #who am i

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thatdesklamp · 7 months

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Spring, 2007

more intrinsic warmth + gojo pov. This one is a little more salacious. I feel like a heathen. (nsfw, if that wasn’t evident) La la la la la

Satoru was seventeen when he first dreamt of you.

It was a weird dream, which he decided later was because of the heat: it was a spring heatwave, a sweltering April night, the air thick and sticky. Satoru liked the spring usually, as the school year slid to an end, leaving him with with all the freedom and the long days and the excuses for laziness. But when it was hot, it was too hot; especially since, like you always told him, his body ran far too warm. He was great in the winter, when he never needed more than one layer whilst you were bundling up with three, but in any extreme heat he was useless.

He had stripped off in bed, thrown the blankets down to bundle at his ankles, but his bare back still stuck to the bedsheet. When he rolled over onto his stomach, the sheet was damp with his sweat. Suguru had told him to lie on the floor without the mattress, but Satoru thought that was something he only said because he’d never slept right in his life. Satoru was raised with absolute care, and he was also raised with air conditioning. He wasn’t going to sleep on the floor, whatever Suguru said. Satoru had standards.

That was why it didn’t count. When he had the weird dream, it didn’t count, because his room was so hot and he was feeling so tired and he wasn’t himself.

---

In the dream, Satoru was sat in the Chapel, his back propped up against the wall he would lean against when he used to play Pokémon. He was playing Pokémon on his Game Boy Colour—which should have been his first indication that this was a dream, because he hadn’t played on that old thing since he was an actual child—and he was moving his character through Blackthorn City. The Chapel looked like it had when you were younger and still went there every day; nowadays, now you two weren’t so childish, you went there less and less. He played the game for a few minutes, and then he realised that there was a weight on his shoulder, and he stopped. Satoru looked down, and there you were.

You had your head on his shoulder. Looking back, Satoru would note this as the second weird thing, in the long list of very weird things. The third weird thing was that, in the dream, Satoru didn’t think that this was weird at all.

He didn’t think about how, in real life, you wouldn’t want to touch anyone, or put your head on anyone’s shoulder. He also didn’t think about how, in real life, you also wouldn’t want to touch him. Not the way you were touching him in the dream, at least.

In the dream, Satoru smiled. He noticed that his arm was already around you, and that he could splay his fingers around your waist if he wanted to. You felt warm, and in the dream, the feeling was familiar. He entertained himself with that for a few seconds, and then moved his hand up, skirting higher than your waist, around your ribs.

Then, curious, he moved his hand back down to feel the curve of your side, and then further down, down to your hips. You felt different, he noted, to the way his own body felt. He knew that was because you weren’t him—you were a girl, or a woman, which he’d only really noticed a few years ago. When you were both kids, your respective genders hadn’t been a thought at all. But then you both got older, and he became aware of it, and now it was something he had to think about. And Satoru was aware of it, now. He had that thought in the dream, and later, he would realise what it had meant, because he’d thought the same in real life, too.

But it was nice, to feel. He liked touching you.

Your head moved on his shoulder. Satoru would remember this as a pivotal moment, not just in what happened, but how he had felt with your head resting on his shoulder. He had not felt guilty, then; not the way he later felt, when he woke, panting and sweaty and achingly hot. It had been normal, in the dream, for him to be touching you like that.

So, he hadn’t stopped. Satoru’s hand stayed lazily at your hip as you stirred. Then, he realised that you weren’t asleep at all: in fact, you were just as awake as he was, and you were watching his hand move on your body with a smile playing around your lips.

You looked up at him, eyes glinting. It was a smile he recognised: Satoru knew all of your smiles, each and every one. This was one of his favourites, and one of the rarest. You looked mischievous, slightly sly, and the expression sent heat coursing through him in a way that was both familiar and new.

“You could’ve just asked,” you said. You shifted from his side, and Satoru opened his mouth to protest. You clicked your tongue and placed one gloved finger against his lips. Satoru fell silent, and your lips curled up. There was anticipation, now: excitement. He knew what was coming, and he wanted it from you.

“Could I really?” Satoru asked, as he reached out to touch you again. His hands found your ass, and he grinned at you, tugging you closer.

You laughed at that, and he marvelled at how easily he could make you laugh, here. Satoru spent all of his days trying to make you laugh—it didn’t come easily, so he savoured each time like he’d never see it again.

But you just swatted him on the chest, playful, and he took the touch as encouragement. Satoru kept one hand on your ass—which he liked being able to touch, he realised, or he just knew, because in this dream he had clearly done this before—and moved the other to skirt the underside of your shirt. Your skin was burning hot, and so soft. He slipped his hand under your the fabric, and felt the dip of your back, how it arched under his touch, responsive, and then higher, to the material of your bra strap. Lace—

“Eager!” You laughed again—so easily! Satoru liked this, he definitely liked this—and gave him that cunning, knowing look again. And then you had swung one leg over his, and you were sitting in his lap, hard and directly on top of him. Satoru inhaled, sharp and surprised and aroused. Your hands had moved to his shoulders, resting there, steadying yourself. You let out a soft noise, like you had surprised yourself, but that blazing look was still in your eye, and Satoru was staring.

He could feel you: the insides of your thighs were pressing against him, and his pulse was starting to quicken. You shifted your weight, moving to the side just the smallest amount, but the movement was enough to make Satoru hiss.

“Did I do something?” you asked, eyes going wide. Your eyelashes looked long, and they fanned across your cheeks.

You knew what the answer was, and Satoru knew that you did. You moved again, this time deliberately grinding down on him, and Satoru tilted his head back against the Chapel wall and focused on breathing.

You knew what you were doing to him: it was another one of those moments you had, when he could read exactly what you were thinking, and when you could do the same for him. It usually made him nervous, that you could tell so much about what he was thinking without him even knowing it, but here he was just exhilarated.

“Hebi,” Satoru said, his voice half-choked. He heard what he said, and frowned—later, he would understand that he was on the cusp of breaking from the dream, and that saying your name had almost pushed him over the edge—but then, when your thumb moved to brush his bottom lip, he shook off any reservations.

You hummed, and dipped your head down to his neck. Your lips pressed there, burning hot, and Satoru groaned. He felt your tongue, how you kissed and licked up his throat, and he gripped tighter onto you. You moved your hips against him, and pleasure was growing there, exactly where he could feel you, where he wanted to feel you.

“Hebi,” he said again. This time, his voice was whispered, like a plea. “Hebi. Hebi.”

“I’m here,” you said back, your breath hot against his lips. “I’m right here, Satoru.”

A ragged moan was torn from his chest. His name. He loved it when you said his name—he loved it now, as he watched your lips move around it, the way your lips pursed at the end, like a kiss.

Like you knew what he was thinking, you said it again.

“Satoru. Satoru, touch me, Satoru.”

He wanted to: you wanted him to. He explored your bare skin, hand still underneath your shirt—that was his shirt, he realised. You were wearing his shirt! It was a t-shirt that fit normally on him, but it was too big for you, and it fell to just skim the tops of your thighs.

He loved it, the sight of you, of you on top of him, your lips round and soft, you wearing his shirt that was far too big for you. He wanted to take it off, but he also wanted to keep it like this: Satoru liked you wearing his clothes. He realised it in the moment, but of course he did! In the dream, you wore his clothes all the time.

Of course! The first time had been a few months ago: you had arrived at his house in the middle of the night, fresh from an incident with your family that you refused to go into detail about, and you had been blinking back tears when you had asked him if you could stay the night. You hadn’t had to ask: Satoru would have never turned you away, not ever. But Yahaba had been washing the pyjamas he kept at his house, and so you’d shrugged and walked into his room, so carefree, and picked out a t-shirt of his that had looked the biggest.

“I’ll wear this,” you had said, casual. Satoru hadn’t known what to say. He was too consumed with this new, fresh idea of you wearing his clothes, and what you would look like in them, and whether you would do it more, and he had just about managed to crack a smile and make some joke, passing it off like it was nothing.

Now, though, it wasn’t nothing. The shirt was large, and it hung low about the neckline, exposing your collarbone and the shadow of your breasts. You moved your hips down against him, this time even harder. Satoru’s fingers fisted in the bottom of the shirt, tugging you towards him.

The friction was good, and Satoru was certain that it was only made better that he got to feel you moving against him. He realised with a wave of arousal that your legs were bare, and that other than his clothes, the only thing separating your bodies was the thin strip of your underwear. And that you were doing this to him and that you wanted this, that this was good for you, too. Satoru wanted that desperately, and recognising it was staggering; Satoru wanted you to feel good, and he wanted to be the one to make you feel good.

He gripped your thighs, hard, and then almost lost control completely when you moaned against his neck. Your head dropped down to his shoulder, and he could feel your hot gasps right near his ear. It hit him that you were trying to say his name, just choked-off syllables, like the only thing you could think of was his name—his first name, Satoru. Encouraged, he pulled you down against him, controlling the movement of your hips, and both of you gasped together.

Closer, Satoru wanted. He wanted more, more of you. He felt your bra strap again and he undid it with one hand expertly, which of course he knew how to do, even though he had never been able to do that before.

The snap of your bra against your skin made you gasp, high and breathy. Satoru sucked in a breath. There was another noise he wanted to hear again: your laugh, and this. He moved his hand from your back, to the front of you, where he really wanted to touch now. When his fingers brushed your breasts, your eyes fluttered closed.

“Satoru,” you were saying, with every roll of your hips, with every rise and fall of your chest. He felt you breathing, he felt it as you shook against him when his thumb rubbed over your burning skin. “Satoru. Satoru, please… please, touch me more.”

“You want me to?” His voice was ragged: you had made his voice ragged.

“Please. Please, Satoru, it feels good, you make me feel so good—“

Satoru bit down on his lip, hard. You never spoke like this—he didn’t know that he wanted you to speak like this, but he was hard against you, painfully hard. It would have been embarrassing, but Satoru couldn’t feel that, could only focus on how much he wanted you to say that again.

Satoru spoke in a rasp, his head spinning. “I do?”

“So good.” Your hands were on his shoulders, his neck, his jaw, his chest, touching him everywhere. Every movement of your hand left searing impressions in its wake, and Satoru wanted you branded onto him.

“You—” Satoru shuddered, visceral, as he felt your hands tug at his shirt, try to pull it up. “You feel good too—“

Now he wanted your shirt off. He wanted to see, not just touch, and he wanted to put his mouth on you, the way your mouth was on him. He wanted to make you gasp like that again, and he wanted to feel you underneath him, and he wanted you, he wanted you to touch him, touch him harder, harder, harder until—

Satoru awoke, gasping.

His mattress cover was damp again, and when he looked down he realised it was uncomfortable and sticky. Satoru grimaced, and wiped his palms on the sheet. He stared up at the ceiling, and tried to will his heart to stop racing.

Satoru had had dreams like that before, obviously. But, shit, he’d never had them about you before. He had never dreamed about you so vividly, with his subconscious piecing so many half-moments together to make… whatever the hell that was.

Like the time you had borrowed his t-shirt a few months ago, or the time when you had fallen asleep on a pillow beside him and he had wondered what he could do to make you rest your head on his shoulder instead, or all those times you had called him by his first name.

He breathed in, but the air didn’t seem good enough. It was hot, and too humid, and Satoru decided that there wasn’t enough oxygen, what with all of that water floating about.

Yes: it was the heat. Besides, Satoru had heard stories of people going crazy when they got heatstroke, or whatever. It was probably something like that. It didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was just an unconscious side of his brain realising that he’d been spending so much of his time with a really, really pretty girl, and it had only just caught up to deliver the normal, maybe-weird reactions to it.

And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t considered you like that before—sure he had, kind of. Satoru was convinced that he’d be weirder to not have. You were his best friend, and he spent all of his time with you; there was one time before your big fight, and he’d not really known what to make of it, and then after, when it was like he hadn’t seen you in months, when he asked you to be his friend again. It was raining, that night, and he must have woken you up, because you were in your soft cotton pyjamas, and the shorts had ridden up on your thighs, and you hadn’t been wearing a bra, and of course Satoru had noticed. He was a guy. It didn’t mean anything, he’d known, but he also hadn’t told Suguru about it. Satoru didn’t know why he hadn’t. Something itched at him, uncomfortable.

But it hasn’t meant anything! Just how it didn’t mean anything now.

It was just the heat. It didn’t matter about anything else: he’d had a weird dream, but it wasn’t like he needed to tell you about it. You wouldn’t be able to guess, would you?

Guiltily, an image flickered across Satoru’s mind before he could stop it: the sight of you above him, your bare legs hardly covered by the long t-shirt, the purse of your lips as you said his name. Satoru pushed it away. What was he doing, thinking about you all weird like that?

This was the worst time for something like that to happen, too; it was almost a year since his and Suguru’s mission, and so it was almost a year since he had apologised, and since you had both been trying to be friends again. Friends.

Friends. It didn’t help, this. Satoru had thought you two were getting better, and even if it wasn’t exactly like it was before, it was close, really close. He wanted you in his life. He always had.

Satoru turned to the side, and then wrinkled his nose as he remembered that he needed to change his sheets.

He bunched them into a ball, and then chucked them into the laundry basket he kept in the corner of his room. He looked back at his mattress, and decided that, fuck it. Suguru was probably right. With a grunt, Satoru managed to pull it off the bedframe and onto the floor. Then, deciding that the heat wouldn’t win against him, he lay down on the mattress and tried to get to sleep.

1-1 to me, he thought, to the heat. Fresh slate. We can forget about everything, then.

You were knocking at his door.

“Hnrggh—“ Satoru blinked in the light, everything blinding and bright as it usually was. He patted on his bedside table for his glasses, then remembered he was lying on the floor. Satoru rolled out of bed and bumped his forehead on the floor, shoved his glasses onto his face, then rooted around the ground and pulled on some boxers. If it was Suguru, he’d be fine like this, because who cares? But it was you, he recognised the way you knock, and so he’d got to find a shirt—where was his shirt?—shit, last night. Shit.

Satoru stumbled to a halt. He couldn’t see you like this, after last night.

What if—and it wouldn’t be him, it would just be his body, which wouldn’t be him at all, just normal teenage instincts—he saw you and started remembering the dream? And if he remembered the dream, he’d get a hard-on way too fast, and then he’d be standing in front of you like that, and Satoru couldn’t deal with it. You were friends. That would be fucking weird, for friends to do.

Again, it was weird for friends to dream about having doing some strange dry-humping-slash-groping sex, but he had already rationalised that it was just the heat and normal teenage instincts, so that dream didn’t count.

“Gojo,” you called. “Gojo! Wake up.”

Satoru, his brain supplied, unhelpfully.

“Ah—one second, Hebi-Hebi!”

He pulled on some jogging bottoms, threw on a scruffy shirt, and then, scrapped for time, used Blue to make the door fly open.

“Finally. You’re impossible to wake—”

“Good morning!” Satoru said, taking a theatrical bow. “Good morning, everyone!”

You stared at him, blankly. “What?”

“It’s my audience. I’m saying thank you and good morning.”

“You don’t have an audience.”

“Sure I do. I’ve got you, haven’t I?”

“Not for long.” You sent him a glower, and Satoru felt his stomach flip. “You forgot to give me those worksheets for class today.”

“Oh!” Satoru did, actually, forget. You’d wanted them in yesterday, but then he had been hanging out with Suguru in the evening when you went off to chat with Shoko, and by the time he’d gotten back it was too late to do anything. “Why didn’t you remind me, Hebi-Hebi?”

Your nose crinkled. Satoru had to admit that it was pretty cute, objectively.

“I did remind you,” you said. “All of yesterday. C’mon, Gojo, how are you so irresponsible?”

“I’m not! I’m the most responsible person you’ve ever met.”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

Would you? he thought, traitorously. Would you laugh for me, again?

You tutted, pretending to be unimpressed, and then you glanced down at the floor. You frowned. “Why isn’t your mattress on the bed?”

“It—was hot.” Satoru knew he blurted it out too quickly, and that you noticed, because you always did, with him.

There was a torturous moment of silence where Satoru was convinced you had figured it all out and that he was ruined and you would never want to speak to him ever again, but then you said: “I thought you had that superiority complex thing. You know. With Geto, and the mattresses.”

“You heard about that?”

You hummed. “You must’ve told me.”

Satoru didn’t think he had. He was too focused on inconspicuously wiping his hands on the backs of his jogging bottoms without you noticing.

You noticed. Your eyebrows furrowed, and then your gaze slipped from his hands, to his backwards shirt, then to the balled-up bedsheet by the wall, and finally landing on the half-empty bottle of hand lotion Satoru had bought a few months ago, because he kept thinking that his then-girlfriend didn’t want to hold his hand because the skin was so rough.

You looked back up at him, and Satoru was certain you could see the flicker of panic on his face. You groaned, loudly and in disgust, and covered your eyes with your gloved hands.

Satoru’s heart skipped with fear. No, he couldn’t ruin it with you, not when he’d barely even—

“Gojo!” You peered back at him through your fingers, and Satoru realised with a jolt that you weren’t disgusted, you were embarrassed. “Just tell me not to come in if you’re—oh, eugh!”

Satoru’s lips parted in confusion. What? And then—

Oh! Satoru felt a heavy weight slide right off his chest, and suddenly he was light as a bird! You just thought he was jerking off! Yes—what a win!

Satoru could deal with this. He could even turn this in his favour, the way he always was trying to with you.

He grinned at you and leaned forward, bending at the hips with his hands still behind him. “What, you embarrassed?”

Your lips pinched tight together. “Shut up.”

“It’s a normal bodily response, Hebi-Hebi,” he said, delighting at your growing mortification. “I’m seventeen! And, hey, it’s not just guys who would enjoy—”

“Oh my god—”

“—so you should we congratulating me!”

Satoru beamed at you, enjoying himself a lot now.

You glowered. “I hate you.”

“Self-pleasure—”

“Don’t call it that!”

“—isn’t something that—”

“Stop talking.”

“Stop interrupting me!” Satoru couldn’t help but laugh at your expression. “I’m trying to give you a biology lesson. Just because you’re a priss—”

“I’m not—”

“And I’m sure you’re no stranger to it! After all, I’m sure you’ve…” Satoru’s brain caught up to wnat he was saying, and his voice faltered, and then trailed off.

Your eyes widened. You looked away from him, folding your arms right across your chest.

Satoru felt just as out of place. Just as he’d said it, the actual image of what he was saying had forced itself into his head. You: you, touching yourself, gasping and moaning in that same way you had in your dream. Would you sound the same as your had in his imagination? What you would look like—Satoru had not seen you naked in his dream, but he had wanted to, there.

But he could imagine. Your soft thighs, clenching around your bare hand, buried between your legs, your fingers—your fingers inside you, moving inside yourself, or rubbing circles on your clit, and Satoru’d had a girlfriend a few months ago who had liked it when he watched her masturbate, and he remembered how it had felt to be in the room with her.

It had almost been painful how hard he’d been, how much he’d wanted to touch her and be able to make her come himself—and there was a flash, just a split-second image, of Satoru’s lips on yours and his fingers curling inside you and your neck bared for him instead, and making you come. He didn’t know what it would be like, and Satoru felt his curiosity like a hunger, something that ached to be sated. Satoru swallowed.

Touching yourself, what would you think of?

Who would you think of?

You cleared your throat. “Anyway.”

Yes! Anyway!

Satoru forced out a laugh. Anyway! He pushed all those thoughts from his head—just remnants of his dream, coming to haunt him, everything perfectly normal—and grinned at you, feeling slightly delirious. He noticed that you didn’t look all that right either; you were blinking in that way you did when you were nervous or off-guard, and you still weren’t making eye contact with him. You didn’t know, did you? Was he—Satoru tried to subtly glance down—no, he was okay. You couldn’t know. Sure, you could figure out pretty much anything about him most of the time, but you weren’t a literal mind reader. You were just embarrassed for… whatever reason. Satoru didn’t know.

But he was moving on! He wasn’t thinking about it.

The silence stretched. Satoru felt awkward—he never used to feel awkward around you, but you’re still learning each other after your fight, and it’s harder than it was before.

“We good?” he asked, in a way that he realised a second later was much too vulnerable for his liking. He fixed it with a wink, and a casual stretch of his back.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. You cleared your throat again, and then nodded. “Yeah. Anyway.”

“The worksheets!” Satoru clicked his fingers in the air and hurried over to his desk. He rifled through the mess of papers, humming loudly and on purpose, and then shouted out: “Ha-ha! I’m amazing—here, look, I printed it out.”

“Good,” you said, tucking some hair behind your ear. “Hopefully Yaga won’t kill me in first period.”

“I’d have defended you from him.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome! I appreciate the appreciation, Hebi-Hebi. Being this kind and generous is a thankless job sometimes.”

“Oh, you’re such an idiot.”

But your lips were curling, and Satoru was floating on the air again, overjoyed that the awkwardness had fallen away. Success! A perfect deflection, and he’d coaxed the first half-smile of the morning from you.

Satoru laughed. And then you were just looking up at him, with that standard way you do, slightly heavy-lidded and bored, and it felt like a normal day again. It didn’t feel like anything had changed: even though it had, for him. It had changed. But between you two… it was just normal.

He hoped you couldn’t do your psychic magic trick on him, and figure out that he was feeling awkward. But why should he? After all, he was Satoru Gojo: it was him, now, him and Suguru. Both of them together, the world’s strongest. He didn’t need to feel awkward about anything! And especially not something that could be so easily explained, by the heat and by his normal teenage reactions to normal teenage stuff.

So, nothing had changed. Satoru’s face broke into a grin. That was good. You were just as close as you always were. No stress. He should just forget about it.

And he did.

And then it happened again.

#intrinsic warmth #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo smut #ikr #who am I #gojo fluff #everyone say thank you drunk maggie #she was a different girl to me I’ll tell you

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