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thatdesklamp · 7 months

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The Gojo Household, Winter, 2010

more satoru pov from intrinsic warmth canon because I require only happiness from this fandom rn

Satoru wishes he’d thought of something different when he first saw you.

He knows, now, that gossip in Jujutsu society is trivial and meaningless. Nothing means anything, and anything that’s said is either inflated out of proportion, or so shallow it’s basically pointless, or just untrue.

Satoru is older now—in fact, it is his twenty-first birthday next week—and as he’s been the focus of that same gossip for all of his life, he’s learnt not to believe it. He doesn’t even listen, nowadays. Few people have the gall to talk to him so casually, which, for once, Satoru can spin as a positive.

But he was young when he met you. He was six, as much as you try to convince him he was seven. When he was young, he was convinced that all the rumours were true: after all, the ones about him were.

Satoru was the strongest, the best, the prodigy that would change the world; he was Satoru Gojo, born for everything, with everything, and so of course everything about you would be correct, because everything about him was, too!

He had heard rumours, spoken candidly by his parents, before they died, and then in hushed voices by the servants when they didn’t think he could hear. He had heard about everyone; the downfall of the Inumaki clan, the pathetic outcasts of the Zenins, even the tiny little Hebi family, whose heir was not only born a girl, but with a disgraceful mutation of the family technique.

It’s what he thought, when he first saw you.

He noticed you looking at him, in the corner of his eye. You were one of the only children at the clan meeting, and your hands were tied tight behind your back.

You looked at him with hollow eyes, and Satoru had preened under the attention. He had thought you were looking at him because he was Satoru Gojo, and he hadn’t realised that you hadn’t known who he was.

Before you, everyone he’d ever met had known him. Everyone, until you. But you don’t remember meeting him, so Satoru can’t ask you why you were looking at him.

Satoru wishes he’d thought more of you, that first time. He knows, of course, that there was no reason for him to; it wasn’t like he’d fallen in love with you because of your name, or your family, and it wasn’t as if he should have felt the spark between the two of you just from hearing your family story. That would make it fate, if it was like that, and Satoru had always hated fate. He doesn’t want to love you because he has to, or because it was destined for him.

He looks at you, now. You put the kids to sleep an hour ago, and had spent the evening as you usually do: together, on the couch of his childhood home, just being with each other.

But now you’re half-asleep, leaning against him—his Infinity—with your eyes closed. Your breathing is slow and soft, and he feels your chest expand with every inhale. You trust him with this, that he will not deactivate his technique when you’re sleeping. Satoru has never been more grateful for you, or more undeserving of your trust. He would never touch you, never: he isn’t fifteen any more, and he knows better than he did then. But he wants to. More than anything, Satoru wants to touch you.

That night, on the rooftop. He could feel the pressure of your hands on him, exploring him, the hesitance transforming into curiosity and then careful confidence in your touch. Satoru had been wanting your hands on him for… he doesn’t even know, not really. But now he has felt you, even if it is through Infinity.

And he wants you. He cannot look at you without wanting his hands on you, his lips on you: he feels it viscerally, every time you smile, every moment you allow him to see beyond your facade of severity.

You say that he pretends, but you don’t seem to realise that you do the same: you hold yourself back from him, always leave him wanting, craving, and Satoru, who has always been selfish, will never be satisfied with all that you allow him. He will always be wanting more.

You stir. “Hmn?” you mumble.

Satoru shushes you. “Go back to sleep.”

“Shouldn’t. Need to go home.” You break off, yawn so wide he can see the pink of your tongue. Satoru has to look away.

“I’ll wake you later. I promise.”

“Promise.” You pat your lips together and curl further into him, your head on his chest—Infinity, he has to keep reminding himself, because he wants to pretend he is holding you without it.

One gloved hand rests on your opposite arm, and you clench it in your sleep as pain bursts through the muscle. You had hurt your shoulder again yesterday; whenever it sparks up again, Satoru feels a fresh wave of pure hatred for your family, for those bastards that kept your hands bound for all those years. He had hated them when he was younger, and he hates them even more now; he hates that their hold on you has only tightened, keeping you from touching people, keeping you in pain.

The first time, he hadn’t thought of them as restraints. They were evidence that you were the strange Hebi heir, the one who was born with the weird touching technique. Satoru hadn’t understood why your hands were bound; yes, he’d heard of it, but he didn’t understand why the gloves weren’t enough. He was just a kid, but Satoru wishes he had thought better of you. At least he had liked you; he really had, right from the first time he had spoken to you.

He had noticed you leave. Your father and grandmother had left you alone, and you had stood there for a moment, watching them go. Then you had looked around, and walked through a half-open doorway, pushing it ajar with your shoulder. Satoru remembers that you had walked through the crowd: your aversion to touch was still enforced by your family, not your own mind, and you hadn’t yet developed your panic around the large groups of people that you have now.

Satoru, six and curious and arrogant, followed you. He was interested in the way you walked; it was so decisive, after a moment of hesitation, latching onto the open door and walking through swiftly. Satoru didn’t think about Yahaba, or whether she would be worried if he went missing, since, back then, he hadn’t learnt how to think about anyone other than himself.

He was good at walking quietly, though, especially through old houses like his own. Satoru knew what floorboards looked like when they would creak, from all his time hiding from servants. Satoru followed you through room after room, his excitement growing. It was like a game to him, trying to guess when you would stop, and then try to figure out why.

It took you a while to decide where to stay, and when you finally do, Satoru didn’t understand why: it wasn’t one of the cooler rooms you’ve passed, like the ones with loads of bows or the ones with the cool murals and paintings.

The room was the most boring room. It was dead silent, and pretty blank and bland, and you just closed your eyes and sit down on the floor with your back against the door.

Satoru followed you in: you’d left the door open. He wondered for a second if this counted as creepy, if following you was a bit weird, but then he shrugged and reckoned that you’d be grateful to see him anyway. After all, you were just the kid from the Hebi clan! He was Satoru Gojo. Anyone would be honoured to meet him.

Actually—no that he was thinking about it, your journey was really weird. You even walked past loads of rooms with blades and swords, and Satoru didn’t understand why you wouldn’t just take off those ropes that you’ve got behind your back. They couldn’t be comfortable: they influence the way you walk, he thinks, and you keep tensing your arms up like you’re trying to pull away from them. Why wouldn’t you just take them off? Satoru resolved to ask you.

“Why are you sitting like that?” he asked, stepping into your view and mimicking your hand restraints.

It was just an introductory question—he was getting himself ready for your surprise, and then the absolute flattery and praise that always came when people saw him. They were filled, as they often said, with an overwhelming mixture of fear and awe, which he thought was pretty damn cool.

Satoru had been told he could be intimidating when he was trying to be, but he didn’t really want to scare you right now. But that didn’t mean you weren’t going to be scared: he was Satoru Gojo, after all.

But Satoru was very good at being modest, and so he was asking you a question on your level, so you wouldn’t be so worried about engaging him in conversation. Here! He was telling you. I’m just a normal person! Even if he wasn’t, it was good of him to pretend. But Satoru was good with modesty, obviously, especially when people starting crying when they saw him, which had happened exactly five times in his lifetime.

Satoru smiled graciously, ready for you to start shaking and maybe prostrating yourself in front of him.

You looked up. “Oh. I can’t take them off.”

For a split-second, Satoru blanched. Where was the fear? Where was the awe? You were just looking up at him with that same solemn expression you were wearing before.

And then, Satoru brushed it off. Maybe that solemn face was just your ‘whoa, I’m super impressed that I’m in the presence of Satoru Gojo, and so I’ve got to pretend to be okay so I don’t look stupid in front of him’-face. He wouldn’t be offended: everyone else had their strategies to cope with meeting him for the first time.

So, Satoru continued your conversation: “Why not? That rope, or something? Doesn’t look that strong.” He stepped closer to you, pretending to size it up, like he didn’t know the exact answer you’d give him. “I could cut it off for you if you want.”

And there he was—being so generous, even though he didn’t have to, and even though he knew you’d refuse.

You shook your head, and Satoru felt a spark of triumph. “No, thanks,” you said.

“Didn’t think so.” Satoru grinned, very pleased with himself. Then, because he had to explain how clever he was, he added: “You walked through loads of rooms with weapons on your way here, but you didn’t even look at them. I saw you.”

“I’m not allowed,” you said, simply. You shuffled a bit on the floor, clearly still uncomfortable from the ropes, and probably trying to hide your nerves at being in such close-quarters with him, Satoru Gojo.

Satoru didn’t understand the concept. He didn’t like the idea of not being allowed to do something: he was allowed to do whatever he wanted, at home.

“Says who?” he asked. He sat right down next to you, copying your posture right down to the way your hands were stuck behind your back. He was right, before: it was really uncomfortable.

“My father.”

Satoru crinkled up his nose. “And you listen to him?”

“Yes.”

Okay, that was pretty weird of you. His opinion of you soured, a little. Satoru had been intrigued by how you’d left your family back in the other room; it had seemed like something rebellious, something interesting. But at the same time, you were the type of person who’d listen to people who didn’t care about you. Satoru looked away from you, feeling a little disappointed.

And then, like you were registering exactly what he was thinking, you said: “Well. Sometimes I do.”

Satoru perked up. “Sometimes? When don’t you?”

There it is! It’s obvious, now: you were holding back, but as soon as you picked up on his reticence, you switched up, and tried your absolute best to keep his attention on you. Of course. That makes sense!

“Now, I guess,” you said. You seem a bit shy, maybe, or a bit sullen. Satoru couldn’t tell: a flicker of something weird went up in him, an emotion he couldn’t recognise. He didn’t understand what you were feeling. Satoru didn’t like that—Satoru always knew everything, always. “He probably didn’t want me to leave the main room, but I did. He’s going to be angry.”

Satoru felt a strange tug in his belly. For some reason, he actually wanted to know the answer to his question. “Don’t you care about that?”

If you kept those weird ropes around your wrists because of your family, then surely you’d care about what they think about you.

“What?”

“If your dad’s going to be angry.” Satoru looked at you intently, trying to peer into your mind. You weren’t reacting the way he was expecting you to, and he didn’t know what to make of it, really. “You don’t look like you care.”

After a moment, you said: “He’s angry a lot. You kind of get used to it.”

Satoru’s lips pursed. He didn’t like the sound of that. If he was living with someone who was mean like that, he wouldn’t get used to it: Satoru would do something about it.

You looked at him in the eyes, and he was taken aback, for a second, at how strong your gaze was. You kept flipping in his view of you: at one time, you were nothing at all, and then you were interesting and rebellious, and then you were subdued and fearful, and, now, you were something in-between.

You cringed, a little, at your words. You cast your gaze down, and Satoru found himself seeking it: he wanted your attention back. He wasn’t used to losing it.

“I mean…” you trailed off. “Not really. You don’t get used to it, but, I mean, I just have to guess when it’s going to be a good choice or not. Overall.” You just stared at the floor, and Satoru found himself leaning closer to you. He didn’t think you noticed. “I think he’s going to be really mad, yeah, but I didn’t want to be in the room anymore, so I’m just going to deal with it later. A lot of the time, though,” you said, with an air of finality, “it’s overall a bad choice not to do what he says.”

You nod, a little.

Satoru had never known so little about a person before. Everything he had thought about you was being twisted and changed, and he didn’t know at all what to make of it. He had expected you to be surprised and honoured to see him: you weren’t, not visibly. He had expected you to be pitiful and boring, as the weird heir of the Hebi family: you weren’t, not really, but instead were something different altogether.

Maybe it was just because Satoru didn’t know how to deal with being wrong—although, no, he wasn’t wrong, because he was never wrong—or maybe it was because there was something genuinely interesting about you. He wasn’t sure.

But, perhaps for the first time in his life, Satoru wanted to know more about a person. That was definitely something to pay attention to. That was something.

“What’s your name?” he asked. He didn’t actually know your first name: none of the servants had ever called you it. You were just the sad heir of the Hebi family, the one who’d gone wrong.

“Hebi,” you said. “Hello.”

Satoru grimaced. That wasn’t what he was asking, and you knew it. “That’s not your name,” he said, clearly urging you to answer his question properly.

“It is,” you said, petulantly. “My name is Hebi.”

“Hebi,” he repeated. “Right. But,” he said, slowly, to make sure you understood, “that’s your family name.”

You blinked at him. “Yes, exactly.”

Satoru held back a groan—he held it back, because he was trying to make a good impression here. Him! Trying to make a good impression! This was a day of new experiences. Satoru never had to try to do anything. He just did it, and people loved him for it. He didn’t know why, but there was something he liked about you, and this, about how you were making him try.

“So,” he said, because he knew you weren’t getting it, “tell me your first name then.”

You hesitated, and then your eyebrows bunched together, and your lips pursed into a frown. “No,” you said.

Satoru’s eyes widened. “No?” he echoed, in disbelief.

“No.”

Satoru stared at you. No? But he was making a good first impression! He was Satoru Gojo—people didn’t say no to him, even strange interesting people like you. Satoru was actually trying, and it wasn’t enough for you to tell him your name.

He struggled to speak for a few seconds. Satoru genuinely didn’t know how to proceed—he felt out of step in a way that was completely foreign to him. Satoru was used to being in charge of every conversation; he would enter a room and it would fall silent, just because he was there; he would walk through a crowd, and people would part for him, like he was activating his Infinity, the way he was learning how to do at home. Satoru was good at conversations like that, where everyone else was on the defensive, not him.

And yet, here he was. You had just said no. He wanted to know your name, and you didn’t give it to him.

He looked back at you, bewildered. And, Satoru remembers now, that was the moment he had known you were special for him: because, even as his head spun with trying to understand how someone could deny him something, he watched as your lips twitched into the tiniest half-smile.

Satoru’s heart had filled, back then, with such an overwhelming rush of joy and pleasure and pride, pride he had never felt before, because he had never struggled for anything before, and so he had never yet succeeded.

And even though you were trying to hide your smile, it was still there: he had made you laugh, even if he didn’t know how he had done it, even if it was just because you had found his mystified expression somewhat funny. He had still made you smile, and he had been so proud of himself for it.

That was the first time he had felt that, and, now, remembering it, Satoru realises he has been chasing that feeling ever since.

Satoru had not known you back then. Satoru knows you now. He knows how you walk, how you smile, all your different smiles; he knows what you look like when you find him ridiculous, and when you are trying to pretend that he isn’t funny; he knows what you look like when you are afraid, and when you are afraid of him, and he knows that he never wants to hurt you again.

Satoru knows you. He loves you: he knows this, too, now. It had taken him some time to realise it, and even longer to accept it. But he knows. And he does.

Maybe it’s something wrong with him, he thinks, with some tired wry amusement. The way he enjoys you denying him things, or the way he has to work so hard for such small things, like your smile, or your compliments, or even your attention, these days. He likes how focused he has to be, how much effort he has to devote to you, because he knows he will always be rewarded, eventually.

You’re magnificent. It was what you had said to him, that night on the rooftop, when you had let him get so close to you, and when you had looked so beautiful. Satoru still remembers the way the moonlight had made your eyes shine, as if liquid, and he remembers how staggering his love for you had felt, how all-consuming and unbearable.

He remembers your words, all of them. You’re just magnificent, Satoru. His name: you had called him by his name. The lilt of your voice, the curve of the vowels. You say his name, and he wants to kiss you. He feels it like a need, as strong as his beating heart.

You’re smart, and you make me laugh, even when I try to hide it. He wishes you wouldn’t: he loves that you do, because he is the only one who can make you laugh like you do with him. Satoru is the only one: to you, he is special. You make me feel… everything. It’s like my world is sharper and better whenever you’re in it.

Satoru wishes he had said more. Satoru wishes, sometimes, he had said the truth: that he could have repeated those same words back to you, and it would have still been just as truthful. Satoru’s world is nothing when you are not in it: he works, and he lives, and he is fine, but with you, everything is so much more. You know him. You know him, and you stay with him regardless.

You think he is good. You’re a good person, you had said. You are such a good person.

Satoru knows he is not. He has always been insensitive, needy, and he scares himself, sometimes, with the things he can do easily, that he knows are supposed to haunt him.

Satoru is selfish. He wants too much, and does not like it when he is denied that which he wants.

He wants you. He hates it when you hold yourself from him.

And he had asked you to marry him.

Satoru had been asking for a while. Not marriage: but for you to stay with him, for you to let him keep you close, to keep you with him always. Move in with me, he had been saying, for so long. Since you had finished with your fourth year at school, he had been asking. You’d visited his new house before he’d properly moved in, some random luxury penthouse suite that he didn’t care too much for, and you’d been impressed, in your restrained, amused way.

He had asked you, then, in the empty shell of a living room. Move in with me, he had said. It could be ours, he had not said.

You said no.

Satoru asked again. Later, when you were helping him move in. You said no.

Satoru asked again. You were watching the kids explore their new rooms. You said no.

Satoru asked again.

Satoru asked, and asked, and asked. You said no.

He didn’t understand why you didn’t want to. You gave him reasons, but he knew well enough that they weren’t real; he asked you again and again, and you refused to be honest with him. Satoru felt, for the first time since he had hurt you, back when he was fifteen, that divide between the two of you, something he could not cross, despite his desperate and fervent attempts.

Satoru asked again. You said no.

Satoru asked you to marry him. He didn’t understand it all, then, but he knew he wanted you to marry him. Satoru had always hated tradition, and had never thought about marriage, not seriously, but he thought of you, and your soft smiles and shining eyes and wry comments, and he had wanted it. You.

He had tried, so hard. He wanted you to want it—he wanted you to want him. I would, Satoru had told you. You knew that he didn’t enjoy traditions, that he didn’t subscribe to such antiquated ways of living, and you knew that being married would be compromising so much of what he believed in: but he told you that, despite all of that, despite everything, he would.

I would marry you, he had told you. Despite so much, he would.

It was his quietest confession. You knew him. You would understand.

You said no.

Satoru feels you stir, in your sleep. You mumble something to yourself, and then your eyes squeeze together and you yawn, widely. You open your eyes, groggy, and turn your face up to look at him. Satoru could kiss you, your lips are so close to his.

“Did I fall asleep?” you say, with a slight slur to your words. It’s cute, Satoru realises. Fuck, not only is he in love with you, but you’re cute, too.

“Just a little,” he says, and smiles as you scowl, as your nose scrunches.

“You should’ve woken me. I’m not going to—get to sleep at home, now.” You yawn again, and then push yourself off him—his Infinity—with a throaty heave. Satoru feels the loss instantly. Come back, he wants to say. He doesn’t.

“Ah,” Satoru says, leaning back to give you some more space, “that’s only if you still want to go. You don’t have to.”

You give him an unimpressed look. “Gojo.”

Satoru, he pleads, in his mind.

“What?” he says instead, laughing.

“I need to go home. I’ve got—” and your face, so untroubled and tranquil and sleep-drunk, falls. Your eyes go hollow, just for a second. “I’ve got work tomorrow,” you say, and then run your gloved hands over your eyes. “God, I’m tired.”

“I’ll take you to your work,” Satoru says. He knows he sounds impulsive, or pushy, or even desperate, but he is—nowadays, he has to treasure every hour with you, even when you’re asleep. “It’s no big deal, Hebi-Hebi. You can use your old room here—Yahaba will get someone to sort it out now, if I ask her.”

Satoru stands, decisive, and prays you won’t ask him to stop. “I’ll ask her now, yeah?”

You’re hesitating. “I can’t stay.”

“Sure you can!” Satoru grins down at you, and he recognises the flash of uncertainty. He purses his lips, and then crouches in front of you, hands braced on his knees. “C’mon. It’ll be like old times! Remember when you’d stay at mine, nearly every night?”

Your lips quiver, and Satoru knows he is close to coaxing a smile from you. He chases it, and chases it.

“Yeah,” you say, quietly.

“Then we’ll just do that again! You can have your old room.” Satoru would like you to stay the way you were before; your head on his chest—Infinity—with your body tucked into him. He wishes he had worked harder to remember it, or remember what it had felt like, to be so close to touching you.

“I shouldn’t…”

“Says who?” Satoru raises his eyebrows at you, putting on a childish face, and finally you smile. It is small, and barely there, but it’s a smile, for him, just for him, and he loves you so much he cannot do anything else.

You bite at the inside of your lip. “I don’t have pyjamas.”

“I’ve got them in your size,” Satoru says, waving his hand in the air, as if to dismiss the thought entirely. He does: he always have, ever since you started staying the night at his as children. He has made sure that, whatever age you are, you will always have a place in his home.

“I need to take my makeup off,” you say, but he can tell your heart isn’t in it. Your smile has widened, and you are playful now. Satoru feels joyful, lighter than hair.

“You think I don’t have remover? You wound me with the accusation, Hebi-Hebi!”

“I’d need to put up with you for another few hours.”

Satoru laughs, full and loud, and you grin. “You adore spending time with me,” Satoru says, with a pretence of arrogance he hopes disguises the ever-present, thrumming desire for your reassurance, praise, love.

You hum, non-committal. “Maybe.”

Satoru clicks his tongue and pretends to be offended. “Agh. If you’re not going to admit it, maybe you can’t stay after all.”

“I said maybe, didn’t I?”

“Maybe isn’t good enough. I’m hurt, now. You’ve hurt me.”

“Poor baby.”

Satoru sticks out his tongue, which he knows doesn’t disprove the accusations of childishness, but he hopes will make you smile again. It does, to his pure delight.

You brace your hands on your thighs and push yourself up, combing stray hairs from your face. You laugh, quiet and to yourself, at something amusing he hadn’t realised he was doing.

“You’re so stupid,” you say, with a voice rich with affection. Satoru grins, and ducks his head down to your level. You blink at him, and then roll your eyes a half-second later.

“Tell me you want to stay,” Satoru says. He must be straightforward, or you might not say it at all. “Or you’re not allowed,” he adds, to make the request less obvious.

Your lips purse. “Gojo.”

“I’m waiting.”

“I—Gojo.”

“Do you want me to say please?” Satoru tilts towards you, another push, another quiet confession, one of hundreds. “I will if it’s you.”

Your eyes widen, just a fraction. Your lips part. Yes, Satoru thinks. You understand.

Then you look down, away from him, and it is broken. Satoru is selfish, and he wants too much.

“I’ll stay,” you say, turning from him and moving to plump up the cushions he had been sitting on. You do not look at him. “That’s all you’re getting.”

“So mean to me,” Satoru says, automatic.

“You deserve it.”

“And so cruel!”

“As I’ve heard.”

Satoru brushes it off. He’s getting used to that. He instead bounds over to you, finishes your work with the cushions, and then sits back down.

You stare at him. “What are you doing?”

“Hoping to spend a little more time with my Hebi-Hebi before she goes to sleep,” Satoru says, promptly. “You’re not that tired, are you?”

“I’m very tired.”

“But you don’t have to go to sleep right now,” he says, “right?”

You scoff, but it’s clear to both of you that there is no bitterness or anger. It is amused, and endeared, and Satoru loves that you think about him that way.

“Just a short while,” you say, collapsing back down on your half of the sofa. Satoru grins, so broad and happy, and he sees his smile mirrored on your lips.

“Just for a little bit,” Satoru echoes. “Until you want to leave. I promise.”

#intrinsic warmth #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #i don't even know how fluffy this is #i think my angst instincts took over for a second there #oops #anyway it's 5k and i've got a 9am tomoz wahh #no rest for the wicked or the gojo stans (they are synonymous)#also if I messed up the tenses anywhere no I didn’t #it’s been years since I wrote in past tense shhhh

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keii4ii · 6 months

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In memory of

#lies of p #my art #Inner text reads CARLO WUZ HERE the past tense is important #Outer ring text reads FIND YOUR PATH from Antonia #Banner text reads FOR BRAVERY KINDNESS BEAUTY from Polendina #slightly misquoted #I don't think his p organ is visible from outside because you only see skin color when his white shirt gets wet #I did put a slight indentation for the hatch? that would open to reveal the p organ?#I also don't know if his skin can be tattooed #Maybe this is just a sharpie drawing #There is a crown for Romeo atop the circle #I did not mean this to be so fanservicey rip

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saleeba · 1 year

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infatuated ; jamal musiala 🥀

summary ♡ just a short, sweet smut about sucking dick innit <3

pairing ♡ jamal musiala x gn!reader

content ♡ 18+, smut, oral (m receiving), cum eating, zero plot as per usual 😍

a/n ♡ requested by this lovely anon!! i’m not too in touch with jamal but he seems adorable so i just wanted to explore him a little more with this short fic!! i hope u guys like it esp u anon :D

there was no feeling in the world that could come close to what your mouth feels like on his cock for jamal. not even winning a match nor scoring a goal could fill him with so much elation, he was just that infatuated with you.

when you innocently asked if you could feel him cum in your throat before he had even put a leg into bed, he was far from taken aback, the softness of your voice immediately pulling his lips to yours to place a deep kiss before he replied with a yes please.

and there the two of you had been for the past few minutes — jamal’s legs spread to accommodate your body, flat on your stomach and lips wrapped around the seething-red tip of his cock, not yet wanting to move further, not wanting to rush any bit of this.

“baby, please don’t tease,” jamal whimpered, hips bucking in an attempt to seek relief further into your warm mouth. luckily for you, you had a hand on the base of his cock, your grip just enough to hold him down before you pulled yourself off to scold him.

“i’m not teasing, jamal,” you say with a painted pout on your face. you knew you were teasing, he knew you were teasing, but you still feigned being offended, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to deny you and would let you have your own way. “now, will you let me do what i need to do?”

before jamal could dare to speak out in defense, you tongued his tip, leaving the tiniest kitten licks on the head before you navigated your mouth to the tiny hole in the middle, puckering up to sip away at it. he sighed in defeat, although taking note of how you hadn’t done that before but yet welcoming the new sensation of your mouth giving special attention to his most sensitive part.

“where did you learn to do that?” jamal quizzed, panting as his fingers found refuge stroking your cheek. “i mean, i’m not complaining but-”

“dunno, it was an intrusive thought, i think,” you cut him off with a giggle, hand wrapping around his cock to keep it occupied while you two conversed. you said the next part whilst avoiding eye contact with him, shyness casting your gaze to where your hand was working him slowly. “just wanna drink all of you in.”

the shyness didn’t stop you from taking jamal’s dick back into your mouth though, finally granting his wish of engulfing the throbbing length deeper into you. jamal’s moans dropped a couple of octaves as you moved lower, cheeks pulling in to suck tighter around him while your head dipped up and down.

“oh, fuck, baby,” he huffed out as your tongue talentedly swirled around him, lips running along the few prominent veins on his pretty cock. “you’re taking me so fucking well, love the way your mouth feels, oh fuck!”

his muttering was cut off by the way you sloppily mouthed at his balls, tongue laid flat to coat the smooth skin in your spit as your fingers focused on jerking the first two inches of his cock off. already missing the way he filled your mouth to the brim, you replaced your fingers with your swollen lips, head easily sweeping down to let his tip kiss the back of your throat.

the sounds coming out of jamal’s mouth were becoming desperate with each passing second, his lungs operating even harder to push out sighs and pants of pleasure, which set off your own arousal; the butterflies in your tummy flew even wilder.

“you’re fucking unreal, baby,” jamal praised you, lungs still grabbing onto oxygen to make sure you were hearing how good your mouth felt around him. “gonna cum right inside that tight throat, want you to take it all, angel,”

you moaned around his length, a muffled please sending vibrations right to jamal’s core, the cacophony of filthy slurping sounds, his moans and yours making the tense knot of ecstasy unravel in a split second. with a guttural groan, he came right inside your eager mouth, spurts of milky fluid flooding your throat, your lips insistently tightened around him to draw every drop from his twitching cock. you audibly swallowed his cum, tongue darting out to collect the last few drops that were trickling down his shaft.

“oh, oh my god, baby, oh fuck,” a few moments had passed since he came and your mouth was no longer on him but jamal still felt like he was on fire, the waves of his orgasm still rippling through him. he looked across to see you licking the tips of your fingers, slightly moaning at how determined you were to clean up and take in every bit of him.

once you felt satisfied with your cleaning job, you laid next to his spent body, snuggling up to his side and planting a chaste kiss to his chest. “how did i do, babe?” you pressed, your turn now to stroke your fingertips along the heated skin of his cheek.

“fucking amazing,” he breathed out, laughing in pure dizzy relief before rewarding you with a kiss on the forehead. “once i get my breath back, i’m repaying you so quick, just give me a few minutes.”

you laugh humorously, telling him to take his time, the flame of arousal still burning ferociously in your core.

#y/n when jamal interrupted them: [tyler the creator voice] oh my god can u let me do what i need to do ✋🏽😐#me 🤝 finding pics that don’t match colour wise but still putting them in bc fuck it we ball #also this is my first time writing in past tense so pls lmk if there’s any grammatical issues #safe to say this is my only time writing in past tense i just don’t like it for some reason 😭#˗ˏˋ 📝 ˎˊ˗#˗ˏˋ 💬 ˎˊ˗#jamal musiala #jamal musiala imagine #jamal musiala smut #jamal musiala x reader #jamal musiala x gn!reader #jamal musiala x fem!reader #jamal musiala x you #football imagine #footballer imagine #footballer smut

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allthoseotherworlds · 5 months

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Genuinely really loving the tendency of official Doctor Who stuff to now refer to the Doctor in general with they/them pronouns

#Doctor Who #New Who #The Doctor #I am talking #I feel like the Doctor in the show just lets people assume whatever pronouns and gender #because people are going to make assumptions and whatever anyways #and going along with people's weird assumptions until there's a reason not to is generally the Doctor's MO #see: anytime someone is like 'are you here for XYZ reason?' and the Doctor's just like 'yes absolutely'#but I feel like if the Doctor had a reason to care about the nuances of human gender conventions in the 21st century #they would like they/them pronouns #also I think it's neat that Time Lords who do have an actual experience of gender #like the master #seem to use whatever pronoun applied at the time in question when speaking in past tense in English #rather than the human convention of using the current pronoun even when speaking retroactively #it's just an interesting distinction #and then that makes me think about translation stuff and how concepts about gender may not even apply in Gallifreyan #but this is getting too long for me just rambling in the tags

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shima-draws · 1 year

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I can’t speak for Scarlet players since I haven’t played it yet but at least in Violet. I feel like the Paradox Pokemon from Violet are more…terrifying? Because in Scarlet they’re from the past, they’re just a little more beastly and wild, they’re from an era that’s already happened so it’s been recorded. There’s at least some assumption as to what life was like back then, what Pokemon were like. And we KNOW what they become in the present day, the sorts of Pokemon they naturally evolve into over the centuries. But when you look at Violet’s Paradox Pokemon…they’re from the future. An era yet to be, something unpredictable, something unseen. And looking at the Pokemon themselves—they’re all machines. Robots, made of chrome and mechanical parts, not entirely “living” beings anymore. And that fucking terrifies me. What happens in that distant future that makes it so all Pokemon look like this? Do Pokemon cease to exist in that time, so humans turned to the next best option, that being a replica of Pokemon? Or did something so awful happen to humanity that Pokemon were forced to evolve into machines just to survive??

I’m not saying Scarlet’s concept of Paradox Pokemon isn’t scary, because looking at it, it definitely has a theme of “wild, untamed and unknown eldritch creatures” which is also pretty horrifying. But obviously things were all rougher and tougher back then, and as people evolved and humanity evolved, so did Pokemon, so they were tamed by humans over time. But the FUTURE Paradox Pokemon…what the fuck happened. Why do they look like that. Why are they naturally violent creatures, if they were made by humans. It feels much more jarring to be walking around in Area Zero seeing regular Pokemon and then robots roaming around along side them rather than Pokemon and some cooler, rougher looking Pokemon. Am I making sense. Lol

#Pokemon #Pokemon SV #Pokemon SV spoilers #Pokemon Scarlet and Violet #Shima speaks #Paradox Pokemon #IDK JUST THE WHOLE ‘UNKNOWN FUTURE’ THING FREAKS ME OUT MORE. But maybe that’s just me #Idk ancient past with powerful eldritch creatures is also scary. They’re BOTH scary #Which is why they pull it off SO well. Area Zero feels eerie and tense and just altogether Mystical

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upontherisers · 1 day

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in the cold spring

a/n: i'm in a writing mood recently! disclaimer: i haven't read mota or on a wing and a prayer yet so i do not know anything about jack kidd's life beside what is available on the 100th bomb group's website, so consider some details ~exaggerated for dramatic effect~. title is from ml burch's "i feel like giving you things" and this fic is about neither the cold or the spring, but it fits.

Goddamn Air Exec.

Jack says goddamn Air Exec from the moment Bucky tells him that Hughlin recommended him, through two rounds of meetings with Harding—call me Chick—and Bowman—call me Red, through moving into the ops barracks, through shaking a thousand hands, and through getting a desk. Goddamn Air Exec. Goddamn Egan, goddamn Hughlin, and goddamn Air Exec.

His crew, his fort, and his dignity all because Bucky purposely flunked out of the tower. And Buck vouched for him! Goddamn Cleven and goddamn Air Exec. All of his training out the window for a desk in a corner office. He can’t even see the runway through the blinds, just the backroads of East Anglia and occasionally the Land Army girls and their cows. Five hundred hours of flight school for a desk in a corner office and a secretary.

“A secretary?” he asks as Harding points at a small station outside Jack’s newly-labeled office.

Chick nods. “Yes, Lieutenant Keene.” He looks around the busy floor, eventually settling on who he’s searching for. “There she is… Hazel!”

A head pops up from the mass of moving bodies and paper and a woman quickly makes her way across the room, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. As she approaches, she’s smiling with a brightness that goes all the way to her warm, round brown eyes, hand outstretched for another yet another handshake. Goddamn Air Exec, but he’s less bitter about it.

“Jack, I assume you’ve met Lieutenant Keene—”

“Hazel, I insist.” Her grip is firm and as warm as her eyes.

They met the few times when he had to go to Bucky’s office—his office now—and she was waiting at her station outside. He remembers her as polite but busy, inoffensively curt. Not one of the staff who blathers away, overly chipper and overly interested in the reason for his visit, but also not one of the ones who snaps at him to sit and wait and then ignores him like he’s the reason they’re losing the war. Hazel’s friendly and effective, a good temperament for a C.O. He wonders why she’s in here and not up in the air.

“Good to see you again.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Jack, I insist.”

Her smile widens just so, and he has a feeling that they’re going to work well together.

She turns to Chick and nods to where she came from. “Last of the after actions for the 418th—” Jack pretends that doesn't hurt to hear. He should’ve been up there with his boys. Goddamn Air Exec. “—I’ll have ‘em to Sheila in fifteen, and I’ll be at my desk after that, in case you need anythin’.”

It takes him a moment to realize she’s speaking to him, and he mumbles an ‘of course’ at his shoes. He’s a man who gets waited on now; it would take some time to get used to. She departs with another smile and heads back into the fray.

As Chick leads Jack around the rest of the space, showing him charts and maps and a million other semi-familiar faces, he remains acutely aware of Hazel. She’s speaking to a WAC as they go over some maps, marking here and there, her encouraging smile no doubt prompting stellar work from the younger girl. He’s reminded of Ev, the way his friend’s genial countenance can turn a boring day kicking around the hard stand into a respite and a rough flight home from a mission into a night at a comedy club.

Then he misses his friends—Ev, Dougie, Crosby and the man the navigator has become since getting kicked off of the Crash Wagon. He misses hearing DeMarco and Cleven bicker as they climb into their fort, that damn dog never far behind as Lemmons likes to sneak him out onto the hard stand. He misses the feeling of sitting in his seat and the controls roaring to life under his fingers as he hears his crew get ready at their guns. He misses looking out the window to see Ginny settling into her cockpit to his right, grinning like it’s Christmas morning and popping her gum into her headset receiver to set off Knick Knack at her navigator’s seat.

He even misses Bucky and his plane-to-plane chatter, always vigilant, always watching out for his squadron, his group, and the rest of the wing. He misses the man Bucky can be in the air as opposed to the faux-apologetic fast-talker that landed Jack at a desk in the first place. Goddamn Air Exec.

But then he comes back to Hazel and the scrunch of her nose as she stretches her arms above her head with a yawn. She slumps back onto the desk she’s sitting on, looking around the room curiously before meeting Jack’s eyes and nodding. He nods back before Chick drags him off to some new wonder.

She’s at her desk in fifteen minutes like she told him she would be and sticks her head into his office with a smile. She smiles a lot. “I’m back. Holler if you need anything.”

By the time he can look up from the file he’s puzzling over, she breezes back to her desk and immediately busies herself at her typewriter.

He doesn’t know what to do with her. The other C.O.’s have their secretaries do the standard—take memos, keep their schedules, make coffees—but that seems insulting. She’s here to win a war; he wasn’t going to send her scrambling for sugar. On the other hand, it’s insulting not to utilize her, as sharp and reliable as she is. His father would find her a task and a ring, which he had with his last three secretaries. Jack had no intention of using his rank like that. He’ll find something for Hazel to do. It just has to be the right thing.

And he searches for too long, it seems, because after three days of greeting her when he arrives in the morning and occasionally asking her where certain stationery was stored, she steps into his office post-lunch and plops down in the chair in front of his desk with a sigh. Her eyebrows raise and she wears a bemused smile as she folds her hands in her lap. She reminds him of Bucky for a moment.

“Was it something I said?”

He shakes his head. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t notice his lack of engagement, or perhaps would lean into not having much on her plate. “I’ve never had a secretary before.”

“Most men haven’t.” She leans forward and starts picking at a chip in the wood of his desk. “Your job is my job, too.”

“You seem busy enough.” She does. Every time he looks out into the hall, she’s up to something, whether it’s at her desk, in the filing cabinets along the walls behind her, or somewhere on the ops floor. She knows what she’s doing; he’s the one who’s lost.

Her mouth purses. “Not for long. I’ll be done with the backlog Bucky left by EOD.”

“I’m sorry he left so much—”

Her exaggerated eye roll surprises him. “That’s the point, Jack. It’s too much work for any one man.”

Goddamn Air Exec.

“But that’s why you got me. We’re a team… so,” she raps his desk twice, “put me in, Coach.”

He wants to say something, to have an important Air Exec order or some example for her to follow, but as he looks into her expectant face, he comes up short. He hasn’t eaten yet today, but he’d shoot himself in the foot before he ever made her go to the mess for him. She reads him like a book, which only further rankles his sense of command.

“Well, what’s all this?” She spreads her hands over the papers in front of her.

“Interrogation logs, new crew files—” He points at a pile Chick’s aide had delivered that morning. “I need to get those back to Harding as soon as I sign them.”

“Sign ‘em now and I’ll run ‘em over.”

“No.” This is exactly what he’s been avoiding, assigning her utter tedium.

She pushes the papers toward him. “C’mon.”

He blinks at her before opening the file. It’s some report or inventory request, or both or neither, which he has no idea why he has to sign, but he’ll do it because that’s job along with waiting around and going to briefings and briefings about briefings. Not even a week in and he was ready to crawl out of his skin or at least out the window. Chick denied both his requests to fly so he’s truly stuck in this office for who knows how long. Goddamn Air Exec.

Two signatures, three, four, five—Hazel points to hidden dotted lines, flipping through the pages without a second glance, and Jack can’t help but feel like she’s tying his shoes. That probably flew with Bucky, but it wouldn’t with him. They gave him the promotion because they knew he could do the job well and he agreed. This is something he could be good at. A team of subordinates was a perk of the job, expected for a man of such a station, and he’s grateful that folks were will to help out, but he’d grown up watching secretaries turn from aides to mother-wives and he doesn’t want that for anyone, especially a gal as nice as Hazel. He’ll find something for her to do.

He signs the last page and closes the file as Hazel stands, hand outstretched. Pausing for a moment, he doesn’t pass it over quite yet. “I don’t want you being my errand girl.”

She reaches across the desk and plucks the file from him. “It’s my job.”

She turns on a graceful heel and heads out across the floor, making it to Harding’s office and back before he could find it in him to stop staring at her confident, unaffronted gait. Bright laughter—the brightest he’s ever heard—bubbles out of her as she tucks her skirt under her thighs and takes a seat at her desk.

“You could’ve signed three more reports in the time that took me. Now I’m gonna have to wait for you.” She tsked. “Wastin’ both our time.”

She’s tying his shoes again and that lights a fire under his ass for the rest of the day. He clears the files that had accumulated on his desk plus two rounds of parts inventory from the hard stand and he gets a memo off to London requesting more birds. He feels satisfied by the time he flicks off the light and gathers his jacket and coat. It sure wasn’t flying, but it felt like making a difference all the time. He didn’t know he could do that from behind a desk.

It takes some soul-searching, but he manages to light his own fire for the rest of the week. He maintains his composure through the worst of it, a long fog delay that had half his pilots climbing into the tower to beg him for clearance, a ‘misplaced’ delivery of Mae Wests that somehow ended up with the 418th before they came to ops, and another declined request to fly from Harding. Goddamn Air Exec.

The job gets easier each day, especially with Hazel right outside the door. It does feel more like a team than subordination as they move around each other, trading reports and memos without having to speak. Still, she’s a few steps ahead of him—coming through the door before he can call her to pick up a file, finding this or that form before he can realize he’s misplaced it—but he’s determined to catch up. He comes in early on Saturday and has the summarized after action reports in Chick’s office before Hazel’s arrived for the day. It’s a good feeling when her eyes go wide in surprise and her cheery mouth finds its usual smile.

“Well, I suppose we’re even now.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “not even close.”

If they’re really going to be a team, he’s going to even the playing field. No more having her play governess. Neither of them are here to clean up after someone else.

That evening, Hazel is leaning into Chick’s doorway as Jack leaves for the day, chatting with Sheila.

He mumbles a ‘pardon me’ as he passes and her face lifts at the sight of him. “Major Kidd! We were just talkin’ about you.”

“You were?” he asks as they fall into lockstep on their way out.

“We were sayin’ how nice it is to have an Air Exec who knows what he’s doin’.”

“Bucky tried his best.” He’s lying.

She knows it and she snorts. “He was fun to have around, certainly.”

It’s quiet as they walk. The flights have stopped for the day and if he strains his ears he’d be able to hear the crews working away on the hard stand, but there’s no need for that now. That’s another thing he’s learning—when he’s doing the job and when he’s not. With the warm evening air and the blazing sunset in front of them, he’s grateful for the time off the clock.

He looks at Hazel and is struck by the sight. The light washes her dark cherrywood skin in a velvet glow, sending shadows of her lashes and her nose across her face. He’s suddenly jealous of Bucky and he doesn't know why. She catches his eye and smiles. Blanching, he clears his throat and stares at the ground. His boots are the cleanest they’ve been since he’s been in England now that he’s out of the grease and dust of the planes. Goddamn Air Exec.

They’re nearly at the ops barracks when he realizes that he doesn’t know where she’s going. Does she live in the barracks? Is she one of the girls who’s at a billet in town? Why doesn’t he know? Shouldn’t he know? She’s never in the mess and is so rarely at the Silver Wings. He wonders what she does with her time. He realizes he doesn’t know much about her at all, not her hometown, her family, where she was before the Air Force. The Oberlin pennant on the wall in his office had prompted her to ask into his life, but that’s because she’s always where he is, but he’s never where she is. He wants to be.

“Where’re you headed?”

She comes to a stop. “Home.”

“Where’s that?”

Her wry smile makes his heart skip a beat as she turns down the path leading toward the enlisted barracks. “Good evening, Major.” She never calls him that.

“Some of us’ll be at the pub tonight—Chick, Red, Bucky… it’d be good to see you.” He takes a half-step toward her so as not to yell the offer, maybe she’ll take it if he’s gentle. Part of him hopes she’ll say yes. He wants time with her outside of keeping the group on its feet, just an hour to hear her laugh, to ask her where she gets that charming accent from, to ask her for a dance. Part of him hopes she’ll give him one more good smile and walk away, that she’ll remind him there are rules, lines to be maintained. He’s not going to become his father.

“Good evening,” she repeats and he watches her go. He doesn’t have time to dwell on the ache in his chest as Cros yells at him from across the way. He’ll have his night and she’ll have hers.

He’s not sure if he should apologize for being out of turn when he sees her next, clear the air and make it clear that he’s not… he isn’t going to be that man. He reasons to himself that wants to know her as a teammate, in the same way he’d come to know the members of his crew. It’s what any good leader does. There’s a short speech ready to go when he enters HQ Monday morning after seeing the forts off.

She greets him as politely as she always has, but he gets the feeling he probably wouldn’t be able to tell if she’s upset. Her cards are meticulously close to her chest while she learns about the people around her. It’d be a good quality in a C.O. He thinks of all the women he’d just sent to Norway—Ginny, Vera, Amelie, Suzanne. Hazel would fit right in.

There’s a small box on his desk, no sender address upon investigation. “Hazel?”

“Yeah?” she asks as she gets up from her desk.

“Do you know who this is from?” He’s popping open one end with his letter opener.

“Oh, well,” she starts, folding her arms and leaning against the doorframe, “it’s from my momma” Her inflection is that of an embarrassed and entertained daughter.

A swath of white silk flutters to the floor and he picks it up. It’s a scarf decorated with rows of small and large flowers. From… from her mother?

“I—I, uh, I wrote her about you and she insisted on sending it. Bucky got one, too, when he started.”

He couldn’t recall Bucky ever wearing a scarf. “What’d he do with it?”

She scoffs. “God knows. I don’t think he remembers getting it. It was one of his… one of his mornings.”

“Hungover?”

“Still drunk.”

Closing distance, she takes the scarf from him gently and tosses it around his shoulders. She’s so near now as she starts tying it and he can look at her while she concentrates, her eyes glittering with that hope that never seems to fade. Does her mother have the same eyes? The same round apples of her cheeks, the lovely point of her chin? And her perfume, the faint hint of roses he occasionally gets during the day now in full force as she works. He feels flush and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands or where to put his eyes or what to say. A woman who’d only heard about him in letters sent her daughter to war and is sending him beautiful scarves. That’s the kind of woman who would raise Hazel.

“I always tell her that this is unnecessary, that y’all have mommas of your own to fuss over ya,” she says as she adjusts the knot at his neck and smoothes her hands over his shoulders.

“I—I don’t,” he stammers out.

Her eyes widen and he hates the kick in his chest. “Oh, I’m—I’m so sorry, Jack, I had no idea.”

He waves her off but can’t quite find the words. There’s a yearning suddenly, one he left in the dark years ago, and he doesn’t know what’ll come out if he tries to name it. Hazel puts a comforting hand on his arm and looks at him sympathetically. “Well, I’ll tell my momma to keep sending scarves… only if—if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I could use a few more of these,” he says, glancing down at the knot at his neck. He probably looks ridiculous wearing it without the rest of his flight gear, but the accomplished smile on Hazel’s face is worth it. He’ll bear all the stares in the world if it keeps her smiling.

She gives him one more once over before returning to her desk. “It’s a good color on you.”

“Matches my eyes?”

“Something like that.” She winks.

His stomach flips; he thinks of his father and three weddings.

“Oh,” she calls, “you can keep it on.”

He raises an interested eyebrow.

“The Telergma mission, you’re going. Chick sent authorization this morning.”

Three days later, Ev’s the only one who comments on Jack’s new gear after they finally get the all-clear for engine start.

“That from Franny?” his co-pilot asks. It’s a good guess; his sister would send something like it.

“Lieutenant Keene’s mother sent it.”

Ev scoffs with a shake of his head. “Your secretary’s mother is sending you scarves? Goddamn Air Exec.”

Yeah, Jack thinks, smirking out the window and sitting a little taller. Goddamn Air Exec.

#my writing #hazel keene #jack kidd x oc #masters of the air #straighten up and fly right #jack x hazel #some of y'all have neat little banners for all of your works and i want one of those i just don't know how to make them #also this ended up being way more of a jack character study than a true intro to hazel because i wrote it in his pov instead of hers #also i can't decide if this universe is in present or past tense. who's to say

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