shes-claws-deep:

demialwrites:

imagine-this-overwatch:

Imagine you’re about to have sex for the first time with Genji, but he’s so nervous… so afraid his body will turn you off. Afraid he won’t please you. Afraid he’ll go back to the days of his youth—- He has so much anxiety, he realizes he can’t even get it up.

He’s extremely embarrassed and swears it’s not your fault! He just has so much on his mind… But it’s okay! You tell him you can wait until he feels more comfortable and he needs to be a little better at communicating his insecurities. Rather than having sex that night, the two of you just snuggle warmly in bed while you pepper his cheeks with kisses.

AWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. POOR BABY!!

He’s humiliated. And not in a
good way.

In all his years he never wished
he could get an erection harder than he does now. He avoids your gaze and
glares down at his flaccid cock, looking embarrassingly tiny against his armour
and the dark synthetic flesh of his inner thigh. Faintly, he quips about how he’s
a grower and not a shower, trying so very hard not to let his mortification
bleed through his devil-may-care tone.

In his chest his heart freezes
and sits like a stone, dread coursing through him at your silence as you sit
between his legs on the bed. Though his lungs struggle to drag in air, he
forces himself to croak out that he’s sorry. It’s not your fault, it’s his –
his and his stupid issues that never seem to go away no matter how long his
wounds have had to heal. It’s been ten years but the imperfection of his flesh
and metal body still haunts him every time he looks down or in the mirror. Fuck,
he thought he got over it long ago but he supposes there are some things he
just can’t fix.

He rambles on, accent thickening
as he stumbles over his words. Eyes locked on your knees, he crosses his hands
over his crotch, mumbling again that he’s very sorry. He knows you’ve been
looking forward to being more intimate with him for a while. His brother was
right, he does ruin everything he touches, he-

His self-deprecating mental
tirade is halted in its tracks by your hand as it cups his cheek lovingly,
bringing his teary gaze up to your eyes that are full of understanding.

It’s okay. It’s really okay. He
doesn’t have to feel bad about something that he has no control over. You reassure
him gently and help him exchange his hands for his crotch guard, latching it in
place for him when his hands proved too shaky to do it himself. With slow
movements, you pull his head down to your shoulder and hug him securely, crooning
into his ear that he can take as much time as he needs to be comfortable with
his body around you. Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all. Baby steps, dear sparrow.
Baby steps.

Your embrace is like a warm
blanket for him, dousing his fear that you’d be disappointed in him. That’s the
last thing he ever wants to do. In his relief, he feels tears well up in his
eyes anew and he has to bury his face in your neck to stop you from seeing him
so weak. So vulnerable. But you don’t care that he’s crying a little into your
neck and soaking the collar of your shirt; in fact, you just pull him closer
and drag him into your lap so you can tangle your limbs together with his.

It doesn’t take him long to recover
from his mini-breakdown and to wrap his strong arms around your back to glue
himself to your smaller frame. He sighs into your skin and wipes the dampness
off with his hoodie, apologising softly for ruining your shirt.

Your laugh reassures him and
makes him smile. You murmur that he’s too cute for his own good and pepper kisses
all over his face and chin, stopping at his neck so you can rest your head on
his shoulder. A pout crosses his face and he pushes you down onto the mattress,
draping himself over you as he asks you if he’s always this cute or if this is
a good day for him.

The flurry of kisses to his
cheeks and lips are answer enough.