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malereader-inserts · 3 months ago

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Be Your Boy

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Spencer Reid x Male!Reader Summary: Spencer and you are smitten like a pair of mittens; you do wonder how your team are qualified profilers. Word Count: 1,682 A/n: I hope this read well, I feel like it's all over the place. And as a present for hitting 9K followers, sorry for the empty promises or returning, i'll be there, just when you don't expect it. All the love ❤️

You and Spencer have been dating for almost eight months; if you have ever been in a serious relationship - eight months might not be a long time or even a big deal; but it was sort of a big deal because it's eight months of dating this Doctor in secret.

It wasn't because the two of you were ashamed or embarrassed to be out in public, but there was something about the thrill of sneaking around like teenagers. Plus, it was somewhat concerning for a bunch of profilers not to even clock on to the fact that you feel like you and Spencer have been painfully obvious. It doesn't diminish the option that they do know but not getting into your business; but at the end of the day - they're not just a team, they're friends outside of work, and you guys are very close together.

"Any plans for the weekend, pretty boy?" Morgan asked Spencer, who looked up from his paperwork.

"Yeah, (Y/n) is hanging around, planning to try and do a Harry Potter marathon."

You look up upon hearing your name, Morgan looks over to you as you flash a smile and a thumbs up. Morgan simply smiles and turns back to his work. You look at your boyfriend, who stares at you, both of you (promptly) shrugging your shoulders and returning to work.

It was almost a weekly occurrence that one of you two would slip up and make it obvious that you two are dating.

"When did you start wearing hoodies?" Penelope asked Spencer, pulling on the hoodie strings as Spencer swats her hand away.

"It's (Y/n)'s."

"Oh, that's nice of him, I know you can get cold easily."

You stood behind Penelope with a baffled look that she had not connected the dots. Spencer sighs out a chuckle before changing the subject.

"Cute lockscreen."

You looked up from your phone to see JJ next to you with Emily, who peered over to look at your lock screen, which was a picture of you and Spencer with your family dog between the two of you. You could mistake it as a friend picture, but what type of friends have their temples touching and basically cuddling up together?

At this point, you gave up. It was much more funnier to see them be more confused as to why you and Spencer spend so much time together. But, sometimes, you are thankful that you and Spencer can enjoy each other's presence without being teased and hounded by your team. It was nice to have each other and be each other's escape from reality.

"So, Spencer," You hummed, lying in your apartment, which was bigger than his, "I was wondering when you wanted to move in?"

He looks at you, eyes shimmering like a child on Christmas day, his heart is thumping loudly against his chest as he can't help to feel the heat rise to his cheeks. You couldn't help but smirk at his reaction, booping his nose as a tease causing Spencer to smile so bashfully.

Your apartment was bigger than his and a lot more cosier; he was most often than not at your place, he had started bringing his stuff over and leaving at yours; slowly he was invading your home, but you loved it.

"I like the idea of that."

You shrugged your shoulders, snuggling closer to your sofa as you looked at him. Beautifully lit under the warm lamp as he read his book, and to you, he had looked like a piece of art, upon seeing him - you couldn't help but smile to yourself; wondering how you got so lucky.

Spencer thinks the world of you, from an outsider, most often not, you are the one to protect him. You were the more threatening-looking one, you were always blunt and sometimes rude, but he still thinks you are one of the most sweetest person he has ever met. You have been there for him, you know him so well, and you've been there on the days he struggled the most. You are so understanding and patient, he couldn't believe you're his boyfriend.

Like Frida Khalo said: 'Take the lover who looks at you like you’re some kind of magic.'

"You're soft," Spencer teased, lying in bed with you, you turn to look at him in the dark, and he can't help but notice that you, once again, have taken his breath away from your darling eyes.

"I'm soft?" You mused out, a slightly humourous tone to your voice, "I am soft in the way the fabric of a tattered blanket is soft. I could be ripped to shreds and still hope someone finds comfort in me."

"You are comforting," He reassures you, you let out a breathy laugh, as you bring your hand to caress his cheek.

"Oh, to be your boy, Spencer Reid," You gently say, sending shivers down his spine, tenderly placing a kiss upon his lips, "Turn over, we gotta sleep and I want to cuddle you.

"I heard that (Y/n) is ill," Morgan says during lunch break, the team sitting about around Spencer's desk.

They had noticed that Spencer have been on his phone more often than not. He looked worried sick and every hour he seemed to be checking his phone; it's not usually like him. The team were sharing concerned looks and usually, the person who could calm him down was off ill.

"Hey, Spence, are you going over to (Y/n)'s later?" JJ inquired as Spencer looked up as he heard your name, "If you don't mind, I'd like to tag along, (Y/n) isn't usually ill and I get worried sick when one of us gets sick."

"Awh," Morgan had a playful tone, "You care about us, JJ?"

"Maybe not with you," JJ playfully snapped back before looking at the young genius with a questioning look, "Well?"

"I mean, I guess?" Spencer finally responded though he debated with himself whether or not to inform you.

"Great!" Rossi says, Spencer did not know that he was listening to the whole conversation, "We can all check up on him!"

"Er.. I don't think-"

"Nonsense, Reid," Rossi interrupted, giving him a look, "You need to learn how to share."

Spencer was rendered speechless before making the decision to message you that he couldn't stop the team from tagging along with him to check up on you.

You had completely forgotten that the team was also coming along with your boyfriend, you had spent the better half of your day lying in front of the television catching up on your series as you battle the winter flu. You hear the door unlock as you tiredly sit up from the sofa.

"Babe?" You called out, though it was hoarse and you tried to clear your throat, but to no avail, you were inevitably going to lose your voice.

"I'm home, baby."

The sound of your boyfriend's voice was so comforting that you slunk back into the comfortable position on the sofa.

"Babe?"

You sat up almost immediately as you realised that was not Spencer's voice, then remembered that he had brought visitors. You internally groaned, not wanting to be putting up with the antic of your team. You slowly got up as you stood in the arch way that stood between the hallway and the living room, the blanket wrapped over you.

"What are you guys doing here?" You croaked out, it was so pitiful, you turned to look at your boyfriend helplessly. He put his hands up in defence.

"I tried to tell them no," You hummed in disapproval as Spencer sighed at your state, "You look worn out."

"'Cause I am."

He gently place a kiss upon your forehead, and you had to stop yourself from letting out a coo. You just couldn't help but slink yourself into the comfort of your boyfriend's arm.

"Hang on, you two are dating?" Emily asked, she had an offended tone and you know why she would be offended.

"I mean, we haven't exactly made it sublet," Spencer says bluntly as you snort, he looks at you with an annoyed expression but that was soon washed away and replaced with a fond expression, "I spend too much time around you."

"You love me, Spence," You teased, a playful twinkle in your eyes.

"Well, why didn't you tell us!" Morgan says afterwards, almost pouting, "I'm your best friend, Reid!"

"Like he said, we haven't made it sublet, we just didn't think we needed to tell anyone, plus Hotch knows."

"Aaron knows?" Rossi asked, surprised that their stoic team leader had not said a word about the pair of you.

"He had caught us making out in the cleaners' closet at work," You answered dryly, "He's known for about five months, we go on double dates with him and Beth every so often."

"Five months?" Penelope exclaimed, it makes sense why Hotch declined the offer to come to check up on you and it makes even bigger sense that he had teased Spencer about it afterwards.

Spencer nodded, ushering you back to the living room so you could rest, "We've been together longer than that, about eight months."

"How?"

"It was after a night out we all had, we got drunk, stupidly confessed our feelings and the rest of history, to put it short."

"Well, I don't want the short story, I want the details," JJ demanded, sitting on the other sofa that was adjacent to you as you sent a glare to Spencer.

"This is your fault," You mumbled, as Spencer rubbed your shoulder, you couldn't really be mad at him.

"You love me really..."

You really did love him and loving him was so easy. You love being his boy and you love to call him yours. Eventually, the rest of the team was going to find out about you two, at least it was now and not when you planned to propose to Spencer down the line - but, Spencer doesn't need to know that, for now anyway.

#x male reader #spencer reid x male reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid #criminal minds x male reader #criminal minds imagine

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formulaforza · 1 year ago

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—if walls could talk

some things are meant to be secret (we'd fall from grace) pairing: charles leclerc x female reader warnings: 18+ minors dni. loadsss of google translated french. language, friends talking about sex, nsfw warnings under the cut :) love, mackie... 6.3k words! sometimes the only person who can help you out is a good friend. happy almost thanksgiving to all my american followers :) thankful for each and every one of you. mwah mwah mwah.

18+ because: fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, aftercare, mentions of hookups/faking it

You’re the last one to walk through the door of Charles’ apartment. Everyone else has been long comfortable, leaving imprints on the comfortable couch, footprints in the freshly-vacuumed rug, empty wine bottles and half-empty glasses on the coffee table.

There’s always something so cold about his apartment—always empty, always dusty, filled with the remnants of his boyhood and the promise of his adult life. It has all the makings of a home, but it still feels like a house—like a museum instead of a secondhand shop. Always, except on days like tonight, when it’s filled with warm laughter and the smell of half a dozen different meals and the quiet hum of his favorite playlist. On days like today, it feels like a home.

Nobody in the living room hears you open the door or slip off your shoes—they’re too preoccupied in their busy, lively conversation about a road closure on the way to the airport in Nice that adds twenty minutes on to the drive. You move in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen, to set your crowd offering—blue cheese stuffed shrimp—on the counter and get a wine glass from the cabinet to fill. He’s in the kitchen when you turn the corner, carefully examining the platter of Italian meatballs he’s got cooking in the oven.

Charles looks up as soon as you set the heavy plate down on the counter. “Hé!” Hey, he greets, closing the oven door and pulling off his blue mittens to properly kiss both of your cheeks, a single arm wrapping around your middle to pull you into a quick hug. “Quand es-tu arrivé?” When did you get here?

“Tout à l'heure,” Just now, you reply, roll up the sleeves of your shirt because his kitchen is so small, and heats up so quickly when the oven is on. “Désolé, je suis en tard,” Sorry I’m late.

“T'es pas en tard,” You’re not late, he interjects, dragging a tortilla chip through someone’s dip and popping it into his mouth. With his other hand, he’s reaching into the cabinet above his head, pulling down a wine glass and handing it to you.

“Je suis très en tard,” I am so late, you smile, take the empty wine glass with a thank you and follow suit with your own chip in the fame dip. “Je reviens directement du travail. Les crevettes sont restées dans le réfrigérateur du bureau tout l'après-midi,” I came straight from work. The shrimp sat in the office fridge all afternoon, you explain, and he scowls, raises his brows at you and at the shrimp. You chuckle, nod. “N'en mangez pas,” Don’t eat it.

His eyes are stuck on your cheek, which forces your hand to investigate what he might be staring at. “Quoi?” What? You ask, fingers coming up with nothing but an embarrassed heat.

“Rien, juste... tu as un cil,” Nothing, just… you have an eyelash, he lets a sharp exhale leave through his nose, “je l'enlèverai,” I’ll get it, and then he does. Carefully, with the pad of his middle finger, he picks the eyelash from your cheek. You don’t look at him while he does it, but you are watching when he transfers it to his thumb and drops it onto the platter of shrimp with a quick flick. “Oh, non,” he feigns concern, grabs the platter from the counter, “Allons juste…” Let’s just… he laughs and holds the plate over the trash can and drops the shrimp into the plastic bag with a thump.

“Bon appel,” good call, you laugh.

He drags you into the living room, towards the rest of the evening festivities, with his arm tossed over your shoulder. Between that, and the whole let me get your eyelash thing minutes earlier, you’re as close to certain a person can get that he and his girlfriend are still broken up.

They go through phases, the two of them. She doesn’t like your friend group very much, and Charles doesn’t seem like he likes her all that much, but they come and go like seasons. Together one month, broken up the next week. He usually tells you, but even when he doesn’t, you usually know. He’s always touchier with you when she’s out of the picture. Not that you mind it, but. He is.

It’s all a little more comfortable, like you’re both a little less aware of the fact that you’re the only girl in the group who isn’t spoken for, or that you’re both atrociously the other’s type.

“Regarde qui j'ai trouvé,” Look who I found, Charles announces, and you’re met with a spattering of greetings, plopping down onto the couch, slotting between Marta and an empty space that is quickly occupied by Charles.

You both fight over the corner seat, who gets to take up more of it. He loves to sprawl out and you love to curl up. When it’s all settled, he’s spread out like he likes, and you’re curled up into the space he leaves, half leant against him with your knees pulled to your chest, sleeves pulled over your hands because it’s hot in the kitchen, but only in the kitchen.

“J'ai entendu dire que vous avez tous les deux eu un week-end assez mouvementé,” I heard you both had quite the eventful weekend, Marta teases. She’s the only other person besides the man next to you—as far as you know—that knows about what went down last Friday night. It takes even you a moment to remember, having already relegated the mortifying details to the bottom of your soul. When you do recall, your cheeks burn with the sudden blow flow and you giggle, curl into Charles a little further than you probably should.

“Quoi?” What, Joris asks, “ce qui s'est passé?” What happened?

“Rien ne s'est passé,” Nothing happened, Charles tries to protect you from re-living the evening, but it’s no use. Now that your friends have a sniff of a story, they won’t stop until it’s told in complete, painstaking detail. So, you begin:

“J'étais en train de garder un chat le week-end dernier pour mon collègue, n'est-ce pas?” I was cat sitting for my coworker last weekend, right?

— —

You were indeed cat-sitting for a coworker last weekend. It was an orange cat whose name you never really learned, much less remembered, and you were on day three of five of cat-sitting. It’s important for the rest of the story, for later. It is.

Anyway, you were cat-sitting on a Friday night, but that wasn’t going to stop you from going out. Your sister had invited you, something about a club and her boyfriend’s friends visiting from London. Only if I can claim a brit, you’d joked. You’d joked, right up until coming face-to-face with the twenty-something, five-foot something-but-still-taller-than-you, perfect brown hair and perfect green eyed British man that had come along for the visit. You weren’t joking after meeting him.

Once the two of you were finally drunk enough to lose any sense of what’s good for you, you were squeezing into the back of a taxi and stumbling up the stairs of your apartment complex, the cute boy and his little kisses and touchy hands slowing the whole process down.

We all know what a drunken Friday night hookup looks like, so. There’s no need to explore the logistics of it with someone who’s name you’ve since forgotten, who you hope is back home in London never to return. Because where the story really gets good, is after the uneventful hookup, when Mr. Brit really needed to get back to his fiends and had you walking him to your apartment door in just a towel because he didn’t have the patience to wait for you to put on some fucking clothes.

— —

“Bon sang,” damn, Hugo laughs from the other end of the sofa, “tu es vraiment si mauvais en sexe?” Are you really that bad at sex?

“Va te faire foutre!” Fuck you, you scoff. “Je suis incroyable en matière de sexe,” I’m amazing at sex.

“Je peux trouver quelqu'un pour vous donner des cours, si besoin,” I can find someone to give you lessons, if you need.

You pause, blink twice, and then continue your story. “De toute façon,” Anyways.

— —

As you open the door to let him out, the cat you’ve been cat-sitting—see. It did come back to be important—darts out of the door.

“Grab him!” You’d yelled, and the guy actually looked back at you before replying.

“I’m allergic.”

You scoffed, hurrying past him and down the stairs after the cat. You manage to corral it in the corner of the stairwell, pick it up and return to your apartment, just in time to watch the door shut behind you. You look at the door, at the guy you’d just fucked, at the cat in your hands, and then back at the door. “That is not good,” you say.

The guy laughs. “Just open it.”

Oh, brilliant. Why hadn’t you thought of that? “It’s locked.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

By the grace of God and all things good in this world, the guy had a fully-charged phone. Unfortunately for you, of the three people with a spare key to your apartment, there was only one number you had memorized: Charles.

You text him before you call him. It’s me, please don’t send me to voicemail, and then he did send you to voicemail twice before calling the number back.

“Bonjour?”

“‘Bonjour?’ Mon cul!” ‘Hello?’ My ass! You greeted, the cat snarling and wiggling against your grip. You were so far beyond being in the mood for pleasantries. You just really, really wanted some fucking pants. “J'ai besoin que tu viennes ouvrir ma porte. Genre, il y a dix minutes,” I need you to come unlock my door. Like, ten minutes ago.

“Et avec qui ai-je le plaisir de discuter?” And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with? You swear if you could, you’d punch him through the phone. You can’t, so you settle for hanging up.

It’s at this time that Mr. Brit properly excuses himself from the evening of fun, because now that he knows you won’t stand outside your apartment in nothing but a towel for the rest of time, his conscience is clean.

You and Charles live a sixteen minute walk from each other, and he definitely chose to walk rather than literally any other form of faster transportation. Maybe you should have disclosed your current state over the phone, but that probably would have made him walk slower.

When he finally does trudge up the stairs, he stops three steps short of your landing at the sight of you, towel and cat and literally nothing more. “Qu'est-ce qui t'est arrivé, putain?” What the fuck happened to you? He laughs, and then finishes his walk up the stairs, holding your key out to you tauntingly.

“Connard,” Asshole, you mutter, snatching the key away from him with your free hand and forcing it into the lock. “J'avais un gars chez moi,” I had a guy over, you add, forcing the door open with your hip.

“Où à?” Where? He asks, following you into the apartment.

“Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire, où?” What do you mean, where? You laugh, gesture around the apartment. “Ici,” here.

Charles frowns, scowls even. “Et il t'a laissé dehors?” And he left you out there?

You nod, gather up your clothes from the floor before they can exist there long enough to be perceived. “Tu n'es pas obligé de rester, je vais bien,” You don’t have to stay, I’m fine, you tell him, half-usher him back out the door he came through. “Je sais que ta copine va probablement me tuer,” I know your girlfriend is probably going to kill me next time she sees me.

— —

“Je ne peux pas croire qu'elle ne t'a pas tué,” I can’t believe she didn’t kill you, Ricky chuckles, looking to Charles.

You find solace in the bottom of your wine glass, an excuse to fill the silence that follows Ricky’s comment. “En fait, nous avons rompu,” we actually broke up, Charles says, and the room falls into the same silence it always does everytime they break up. It’s not that you guys don’t like her, so much as… well. Yeah, it is that you don’t like her. But she didn’t like you guys first, so it really shouldn’t matter much that none of you like her.

“Je suis désolé, mec,” I’m sorry, mate, Joris offers, and then everyone follows suit with half-hearted apologies they don’t mean.

“C'est bien, vraiment,” It’s fine, really, he offers to the group. “Elle était gentille, mais elle ne l'était tout simplement pas…” she was nice, but she wasn’t… he hesitates. You take another sip of your wine. Your friends listen to him intently. “Je ne veux pas être méchante,” I don’t want to be mean.

“Soyez méchant,” Be mean, Marta giggles.

He laughs nervously, fidgets with his fingers, watches his rings spin. “Elle n'était pas très bonne. Elle ne pouvait pas... Je ne l'ai jamais fait, tu sais,” She wasn’t very good. She couldn’t… I didn’t ever, you know, he trails off, gesturing wildly into the space around him, anything to avoid having to say the words the entire room has picked up on.

You roll up your sleeves, hot again. Burning.

The teasing that follows from the guys is relentless, gets to a point where you and Marta step in, begging them to stop kicking a dead horse while Charles is in the bathroom. They do ease up, and the night continues far, far away from horrible hookup stories and mortifying relationship admissions.

You were the last to arrive, which means you’ll be the last to leave, make sure that the whole place has been cleaned up, returned to its stiff and dusty places in the apartment before you head home for the night.

“Juste pour que tu le saches,” just so you know, you comment, scraping the last of the left behind chip-dip into a tupperware container while he gathers up the now-stale crackers from the charcuterie board. “Je ne te crois absolument pas,” I totally don’t believe you.

He meets your eyes, confused. “Tu ne me crois pas à propos de quoi?” Don’t believe me about what?

“A propos de ne pas…” about not… you look away, direct your attention to the lid of the container. Anything but looking him in the eyes while talking about each other’s sex lives. “Tu sais. Il est impossible que vous n’ayez pas joui depuis cinq mois.” You know. There’s no way you haven’t gotten off in five months.

You see him shake his head in your peripheral, distract himself with the task at hand the same way you had. This isn’t something the two of you talk about, and you talk about pretty much everything. Sex, though. It’s always been off-limits, especially in a situation like this, just the two of you together. “Non,” nope, he mutters. “Je souhaite,” I wish.

You roll your eyes. “Charles, regarde tes mains,” look at your hands, you say, and he does, all full of crumbs and salt and grease. “Voilà, voici la solution à ton problème. Tu peux le résoudre dès que je partirai,” there’s the solution to your problem. You can fix the issue as soon as I leave tonight.

He rolls his eyes right back, “idiote,” idiot, he says, shoves your shoulder with one of his hands and you laugh. “Je ne peux pas. C’est… je ne sais pas, c’est irrespectueux,” I can’t. It feels… I don’t know, it feels disrespectful.

You laugh, curl in on yourself at his comment because it feels so completely ridiculous. He’s a good guy, you know. You know, or you wouldn't be such good friends in the first place. You know, but that's a crazy concept even for a good guy. “Manque de respect envers ton ex-petite-amie si tu te branles après un séparer?” Disrespectful to your EX-girlfriend if you jerk off after you’ve broken up?

“Bien. Quand tu le dis comme ça,” well. When you say it like that.

“Ouis,” yeah, you chuckle, hoisting yourself up onto the counter you’d just cleared. The granite is cool even through the denim of your jeans. “Quand je dis ça comme ça, tu es un imbécile,” when I say it like that, you dumbass.

“Pourtant,” Still though, he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. He always looks particularly boyish when he gets even the tiniest bit frustrated with you. “Tu ne comprendrais pas. Ça n'est pas pareil.” You wouldn’t get it. It’s not the same.

Wouldn’t I? You pick at your cuticles, don’t know how to skate around the admission that you’re finishing about as often as he is—that Mr. Brit, who he’d missed by no more than ten minutes last weekend, was not exactly giving you a very eventful evening when he decided he was done for the night.

"Je ne vois pas comment tu pourrais,” I don’t see how you could.

You nod, wish you lived in his little naive world where you always finish. “La moitié des gars de ce putain de pays ne savent pas comment faire jouir une fille. Et apparemment, les gars de Londres non plus.” Half the guys in this fucking country don’t know how to get a girl off. And apparently, neither do the guys in London.

“Vraiment?” Really?

You nod. “Je ne peux pas te dire combien de fois j'ai simulé parce que j'en avais marre que quelqu'un attaque ma lèvre gauche avec sa langue,” I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve faked it because I was tired of someone assaulting my left lip with their tongue.

“Fuck,” He laughs. “Ce n'est tout simplement pas bien,” that’s just not right.

“Non, ça ne l'est pas,” no it is not.

“Tu devrais vraiment obtenir de l'aide pour ça,” you should really get some help with that.

“Et toi aussie. Je mourrais avant de laisser tes conneries arriver.” So should you, you offer. I’d die before I let that shit happen. And you would, you really would. You can’t think of something worse than dating someone for months and knowing you’ve never gotten them off once. And she knows, she has to know, because there’s no way for him to fake it. She has to know.

There’s a pause, and you realize that somewhere on the other side of the apartment the music has stopped playing. The speaker must have died—or the phone playing through it. You realize that Charles is close, now. Really close. Has he been this close the entire time you’ve been cleaning up, close. “Le feriez?” you would?

“Cent pour cent. Une bonne petite amie le ferait—en fait,” a hundred percent. A good girlfriend would—actually, you stop yourself, scowl a bit at the idea of it all. “Une bonne petite amie n’aurait jamais ce problème en premier lieu, mais ce n’est pas la question,” a good girlfriend would never have that problem in the first place but, that’s besides the point. He smiles, the threat of a laugh, and takes a step closer, firmly between your legs, now. You put your hands on either of his shoulders, give them a firm, friendly squeeze. “Une bonne petite amie t'aurait aidé,” a good girlfriend would have helped you, you assure him, but it doesn’t sound as friendly as your gesture was.

His hand falls to your knee, thumb moving over the fabric of your jeans there ever so softly. It sends a chill up your spine, makes you shiver. “Un bon ami pourrait m'aider,” a good friend could help me, he says, hardly above a whisper—like he thinks saying it quieter is going to make it have any less suggestion.

You nod, gulp, your fingers intertwining behind his neck. “Un bon ami pourrait vous aider,” a good friend could help you.

“Ouis,” yeah. You’re so close now that you can feel his breath on your face, that your noses might as well slot against each other. That you might as well be kissing, even if you aren’t. You’re sure your eyes cross when they meet his.

“Dommage que tu n'en ai pas,” shame you don’t have any of those, you tease, smile pulling on your lips, hands falling from over his shoulders to move down his chest, to feel every reaction of his muscles as you trail over his abs softly, toy with the hem of his t-shirt.

“C'est vrai, n'est-ce pas?” It is, isn’t it? His hand moves up your leg, and you instinctively move towards the touch, move yourself closer to the edge of the counter. He moves up, up your thigh, to your hip, threatening to go further. He doesn’t, though. He stalls there, searching your eyes for the permission to be there in the first place.

And then, just like that, he kisses you.

It starts soft, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but you don’t. It’s a gentle collision, tender and hesitant and exploring whatever new waters you’d just sat yourselves in. His lips are so soft against yours, so careful, so sweet, and then his tongue is slipping through your lips, settling into the kiss now that he knows you’re going to kiss back. And you do, you kiss back, until it’s all hurried and messy, noses bumping against each other, teeth scraping each other’s lips. Until you’re hazy and dizzy and have to pull apart for air.

“Peut être,” maybe, you chuckle into his mouth, kiss him again quickly. “Peut-être que tu devrais accepter l'offre de Hugo de trouver un tuteur,” maybe you should take Hugo up on his offer to find a tutor, you joke, and his smile is sweet against your lips.

“Peut être,” maybe… he says, fiddles with the buttons of your jeans hurriedly, like they’re going to seal shut if he doesn’t undo the button that very moment, and then he unzips the zipper, “ou peut-être,” or maybe…

You kiss him again. Your core aches, the knot in the pit of your stomach pulling itself tighter and tiger with each millimeter further he moves. “Tu pourrais juste,” you could just.

“Je pourrais juste,” I could just, and he dips a hand into your pants.

You sigh, react instantly to his touch and his lips are on your again. Your hips move against his hand like it’s the first time you’ve ever been touched—which, this whole thing feels so charged that it might as well be. Charles’ hand moves in flat circles over your clit, pushing farther, deeper, slipping a single finger inside of you.

You hiss at the movement, kiss him harder when your breath is back, pull him hard against your lips by the back of his neck. “Putain, tu es tellement mouillé,” Fuck, you’re so wet, he says.

You nod, talk into his mouth, “Je sais, je sais,” I know, I know.

You reach between your bodies to palm him, find him already hard in his jeans, taking in a sharp breath when you touch him there. His other hand grabs at your tits, pushing and pulling and squeezing over your shirt before finally slipping under, haphazardly pushing your bra out of the way and palming them, kissing mumbled profanities into the skin on your neck.

He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whine—he ruts against the counter when you do, smirks against your lips and hums whatever noise he’s attempting to swallow.

You sigh when he pulls his hand out from your jeans, but he’s quick to get them off of you, pulling them and your underwear off as soon as you raise yourself up off the counter. It’s cold, so cold, but his hands are equally warm, burn against your body as he explores every inch of available skin.

You work away at his jeans, pushing down his pants and underwear as far as the angle allows you to. His cock springs out of the elastic waistband and the only thing you can think is how pretty it looks, all swollen and twitching and wet with precum. It looks painful, almost, how hard he is. But so, so pretty. “C'est tellement chaud,” this is so hot, you say.

“Tu es tellement belle,” you’re so hot, he replies.

You’re expecting for it to all boil over, then, for him to sink into you, fill you up with his perfect pretty dick, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers himself to your cunt and looks at you with nauseating eye contact. “Dis moi quoi faire,” tell me what to do, he says.

“Quoi que ce soit. Faire n'importe quoi,” Anything. Do anything, you beg.

He does, he does—licks a long stripe through your folds, forces your head to the sky and a sweet moan from your lips. He holds your legs apart with a hand on the inside of each thigh—strong, warm, big—and fucks you with his tongue. It’s messy and natural, but every move is intentional, working towards the goal of getting you off before he even fucks you. And he will, he will, because he listens so well.

Every direction, even the jumbled, incoherent moans that leave your mouth, even the little twitches of your legs or the way your hips move against his mouth—it's all an instruction for him. What to do. What to continue doing exactly like he’s doing. “Juste comme ça. N'arrêtez pas,” just like that. Don’t stop, you chant, and he doesn’t stop. He holds his pace, and then you’re coming in his mouth, fingers slipping on the countertop in search of some kind of grip, some kind of stability as you writhe against him.

When you’ve come down, come back to reality and the cold countertop and his warm hands, he’s kissing you again, cock hard and twitching between your bodies. You take him in your hand and he winces, groans when you start to stroke him, to spread the precum around his tip with your thumb. “Ça fait du bien,” feels good, he mutters.

“Laisse-moi t'aider,” Let me help you, you insist. He doesn’t need much convincing. None at all, really.

“Est-tu toujours... sur le?” Are you still… on the, he asks, tapping your arm.

“Mon implant? Ouais, ouais,”My implant? Yeah. yeah.

He kisses you again, licks into your mouth in a way that feels half-illegal, like all the rules of the universe have been broken. “Tu veux que j'utilise un préservatif?” Do you want me to use a condom?

You shake your head against his lips, shrug somewhere in the distance, far away from where your mouth is on his. “Je m'en fiche, je suis propre,” I don’t care, I’m clean.

“Moi aussi,” Me too.

"D'accord, d'accord. Putain," Okay, okay. Fuck, and then he's slapping the head of his cock against your pussy, making you quiver with every touch. He drags it over your clit, through your folds, and then he’s sinking into you. His fingers bruise into your hips as he ruts into you, you reaching down to circle you clit while he fucks you full of him. "Putain, Dieu," Fuck, God, he moans.

“Oui c'est bien?” Yeah, it's good? You ask.

“C'est tellement bon, putain, c'est tellement bon, tu es si sexy,” It’s so good, fuck—it’s so good, you’re so hot. You don’t know if its his words, or that the seal’s properly broken now, but right as his dick slips out of a particularly measured thrust, you’re coming around the air, shoving a finger back inside to ease the ache of emptiness, pulling it back out and guiding his cock back in. He fucks you so good. So hard. So deep, just the sounds of each others groans, of heavy sighs and skin slapping filling the room, bouncing off the walls. “Je suis près,” I’m close, he tells you. “Je suis si proche, putain. Je vais,” I’m so close, fuck. I’m gonna, he repeats, fucking into you hard. Hard, burying himself in your cunt longer and longer each time.

“Fais-le,” Do it, you say, “laisse-moi l'avoir, je le veux,” let me have it, I want it. And then he’s coming. Hard. Bottomed out in you, groaning against your neck, and filling you up with him. Fuck, he breathes. You can’t make a distinction between a sigh versus a laugh. “Ça va?”Are you okay? He asks.

Your breath is heavy, heart thumping in your chest, in your ears, in your toes. “Je suis,” I’m, you laugh. “Ouais, je suis plus que… je vais bien,” Yeah, I’m more than… I’m okay, you finally sputter out into his patient eyes. You think that’s the reason you stutter—the eye contact. “Es-tu?” Are you?

“Ouais,” Yeah, he says, running a hand through his hair, nodding. “Oui. Très bien.” Yes. Very okay.

“Bien,” Good, you nod, and then, with all the vulnerability in the world: “Étais-je bien?” Was I alright?

He smiles, moves his hand to brush your flyaways from your forehead, to stop them before they can get in your face. “Tu étais…” You were… he laughs, and there’s no mistaking it now. When he does it, you’re reminded just how full of him you still are, of the ache you’ll feel when he finally pulls out. “Je ne pense pas que quiconque puisse avoir un problème avec toi,” I don’t think anyone could have any issue with you.

“Oh,”, you chuckle, eyes locking onto the clock hung on the kitchen wall. You can hear the second hand clicking around the same way you can hear your own pulse. “Bon alors,” Good then.

“Et moi?” And me? He asks, and pulls out slowly before you can begin to answer. There’s a silence in the room, just the clock and your heart and your breathing, his eyes glued to your cunt like he’s admiring his handy work. “C'étaient…” Those were…

“Tous deux très réels,” Both very real, you nod, biting the inside of your cheek, catching his eyes when he leans over the sink, wetting a paper towel and ringing it out. “Je ne suis pas doué pour faire semblant,” I’m not that good at faking it.

“Bon,” Nice.

“Je ne pense pas que nous soyons le problème, alors,” I don’t think we’re the problem, then, you chuckle, eyes snapping back to the clock, mind to the feel of the counter under your fingertips. You can’t think about anything more, of any other feeling or sense of taste or smell you’re experiencing or it will be too much.

“Non je ne pense pas,” No, I don’t think so, he continues, and starts to clean you up, warm hands on your legs again while he runs the cool paper towel through your folds. You recoil at the cold, a shiver running up your entire body and his eyes jump to yours—”Désolé,” Sorry, he mumbles.

“C'est bon,” It’s okay, you squeak, and it sounds like you’re about an inch tall. Utter mortification will do that to you, something this fucking awkward making you incredibly aware of everything happening in the room around you, of every touch of his warm hands on your skin. A lot of things are different now. Everything is different.

“Je, euh. Putain,” I, uh. Fuck, you resort back to what you know best, to the only thing you can think about that doesn’t spiral back to the feeling of him finishing inside you. “Je n'arrive pas à croire que je doive nettoyer à nouveau ce comptoir,” I can't believe I have to clean this counter off again.

He laughs again, tossing the paper towel into the trash can. It sits on top of everything else like a billboard, screaming about what it had been used for. The lid on the trash can doesn’t close like it’s supposed to. “C'est à ça que tu penses en ce moment?” That’s what you’re thinking about right now?

“Ouais,” Yeah.

“Tu es tellement bizarre, putain,” You’re so fucking weird, he says, adjusting himself, tucking back into his boxers, pulling them and his jeans up to make himself proper again. You have to hop off the counter to do the same, collecting and correcting your things as fast as you can because you can feel his eyes on your figure while you dress, and it feels too intimate.

“Je ne suis pas bizarre,” I am not weird, you quip, buttoning your jeans and pulling up the zipper, carefully fixing your shirt, your bra, smoothing all of your clothes out over your skin.

“Tu es. Tu es tellement bizarre.” You are. You’re so weird.

“Peu importe,” Whatever, you mumble, quickly closing the lid to the trash can.

The night has run its course by now, and then some. You spend fifteen minutes silently moving around each other in the kitchen, the whole room quiet enough to hear a pin drop in the downstairs lobby. You spend at least ten of them cleaning off the counter, which doesn’t feel so cold anymore, at least not where you were sitting.

“Tu peux rester, tu sais…” You can stay, y’know… he finally breaks the silence. “Si tu veux.” If you want.

“D’accord,” Okay, you nod. “Je ne… je ne sais pas si c’est une bonne idée.” I don’t… I don’t know if that’s a good idea.

“C'est vrai, ouais,” Right, yeah, he says, and the place threatens to fall back into negative decibel levels. “Je t'entends, tout ce que tu veux.” I hear you, whatever you want.

“Désolée,” Sorry, you choke.

“Ne le soit pas, vraiment,” Don’t be, really, he assures, but you still are, still feel like you're stepping on a little baby bug that’s on its way home to its family. It’s not that you don’t want to stay, it’s more that you… you don’t trust yourself to stay, and you don’t trust him not to turn this into a messy rebound thing. If you slept in his bed tonight and got a text next weekend that he’d gotten back together with his girlfriend, you’d feel like a piece of shit. It’s bad enough that when they do inevitably reconnect, you’re already never going to be able to look her in the eyes again.

“Tu m'enverras un texto quand tu rentreras à la maison?” You’ll text me when you get home? He asks, standing opposite you in his doorway.

“Bien sûr,” Of course, you nod, fidgeting with the keys on your lanyard. “Nous n’avons pas simplement ruiné notre amitié, n’est-ce pas?” We didn’t just ruin our friendship, did we?

“Non,” he answers, without leaving space for a hesitation, to really wonder about your question.

You smile at your keys, bite back a chuckle at just how quick he’d responded to you, about how sure he seemed. “Parce que tu es une de mes personnes préférées, tu sais,” Because you’re one of my favorite people, y’know.

“Tu es ma personne préférée,” You’re my favorite person.

You swallow, and when you look up from your keys, he’s staring right back at you. The comfort in the silence is palpable, and it makes you shy, pushes a nervous laugh from your lips. Charles just nods, certain in his choice of words. It makes you even more sheepish.

You’re completely aware that he doesn’t look at everyone like this, that he never looked at her like this. “Que s'est-il passé entre toi et elle cette fois, d'ailleurs?” What happened with you and her this time, anyway?

He sighs. “Tu veux vraiment savoir?” You really want to know?

“Ouais,” Yeah, you nod. “Je fais,” I do.

“Je euh,” I uh, his fingers fidget with each other, pulling on the joints and twisting his rings. He doesn’t look at you when he tells you, watches the metal spin around his finger. “Je suis rentré de chez toi le week-end dernier et elle attendait dehors que je la laisse entrer. J'ai complètement oublié qu'elle venait après le travail.” I came home from your place last weekend and she was waiting outside for me to let her in. I totally forgot she was coming over after work. You regret asking as soon as he starts explaining. It’s not your business, and you could have gone your whole life without knowing that you were the catalyst for it. “On s'est disputé, elle m'a dit de choisir qui était le plus important,” We got into a fight, she told me to choose who was more important, he shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he was being asked to flip a coin, asked what color the sky was. “Je te choisi,” I chose you.

“Charles,” your head falls to the side defeatedly. You wish he never told you this, even though you asked. You wish he knew better, that you knew better.

“Je sais,” I know, he nods, and it sounds like he feels genuinely bad about the truth. “Je suis désolé,” I’m sorry.

“Je devrais y aller,” I should go.

“Ouais…” Yeah… he hesitates, his hand lingering around his front door, refusing to close it on you. “Ouais,” yeah.

“Juste... ne le fais pas,” Just… don’t. You stop yourself—or you try to stop yourself—from speaking. It’s unsuccessful, how could it not be when he’s staring at you intently with those big green eyes, clinging to every word that leaves your lips. “Ne te remets pas avec elle S'il te plaît,” Don’t get back with her. Please.

“Je ne vais pas,” I won’t.

You nod, even though you know he will. He always does. They always get back together. It’s nice to pretend, though, for a few days. To pretend that anything is ever going to come of what’s happened this evening.

“Bonne nuit, Charles,” Goodnight..

“Bonne nuit.” Goodnight.

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diejager · 6 months ago

Note

could you maybe do more of the Phoenix series or is that discontinued? But if you're still working on it can you maybe do something like monster TF 141 use hunter as a heater? Ik if it doesn't make any sense but like monster TF 141 are on a mission and its horribly cold and they're actually cold so hunter just walks up and turns into a phoenix? and just starts heating up the room 141 is in. idk I just have had this idea in my head for a while

Cw: human heating, tell me if I missed any. Note: Nope! It’s still on going, well, at least the original Au of the Phoenix hybrid!reader spinoff.

“I’ll have a bloody word with the tosser who sent us here,” Soap hissed, body wracked with tremors as he breathed into his mittened hands, hoping that the small bit of heat would warm him just a bit more than the failing heating system of their Siberian safehouse.

They had planed to rest and warm up their temporary residence while Price took Ghost and you to survey the area, all warmly covered but mostly immune to such cold temperature. A dragon rarely needed anything other than the beating fire in their heart, kindled and powerful; a wraith, long since dead, had no worry about feeling cold or warm, only hunger and anger; and a phoenix, whose body was stuck in a perpetual cycle of life and death, had no fear of being cold when they were an embodiment of life’s fire.

It was only natural that Price took the only people who could withstand the harshness of Siberia for a long and careful inspection when the others would freeze and shake in their thick boots and warm coats. They safehouse looked old, surfaces covered in a thin layer of dust, shelves filled with canned food - both expired and unexpired- and walls and floors as frozen as the loud winds blowing against the thick windows. It wasn’t much of a surprise that something would malfunction, the soviet era building left to appear rotten and forgotten to fit it’s intended use, and it seemed to lack any sort of upkeep.

“We’re freezing our arses off in here!” Soap growled out, leaning closer to Gaz’s side to steal more warmth from under his wing, the soft feathers all ruffled, “Can’t even-”

Crunch

The two perked up, hands immediately reaching for their weapons, bodies tense and ready for a fire fight until your head popped in, huffing about the melted snow soaking your clothes. They jumped to their feet, running to your side for a lick of warmth that oozed off your skin. You froze at the grabbing hands, pulling you to the cold sofa and pushed under a mass of groaning and moaning bodies, happily soaking in your fire.

“Let me- ” you squirmed between them, shuffling out from under them to stretch your arms and back.

The four watched your neck crack with a wince, flames erupting from your feet, wild and bright embers licking at your skin until it engulfed you in a fiery blaze. It was both too hot to touch and too strong to approach, a fire that would threaten to burn if they touched you. It worked to protect you from an early death while you shifted into the majestic bird you were, a gentle flame in the form of orange and yellow feathers, softer than any silk and warmer than any suns.

In your place stood a phoenix, lashes fluttering while your flapped your wings, stretched backwards to scratch the itch from the lack of use. You cooed, preening under their awed expressions before you flew back in your prior position, body heat growing hotter and hotter, strong enough to warm up the entire room.

“Thank you, Hunter,” Gaz smiled at you, a sweet and grateful grin that made your feathers shyly ruffle up.

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#x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #monster 141 au #monster 141 #Monster cod au #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #mw2 ghost #ghost x reader #soap mw2 #soap x reader #captain price #price mw2 #price x reader #gaz mw2 #gaz x reader #pheonix hybrid!reader

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hoernypie · 1 month ago

Text

Purr-fect Play

tags: costume, creamp!e, sex (p+v)

wc: ~1.5k

Gojo had always been a curious man, eager to explore your boundaries and patience. So one evening, while strolling through the bustling streets of Tokyo, he stumbled upon a cosplay shop tucked away in a corner of the alley. The window display was filled with an assortment of cute costumes. Above the door, a pink neon sign flickered, revealing the words "Purr-fect Play." Satoru's curiosity won and before he realized it, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Racks and shelves of costumes filled the shop, each one more fantastical than the last. His eyes fell upon a sleek, black cat costume that brought a smug smile to his face.

The bell above the door jingled softly as Gojo stepped outside, proudly holding a bag with a gift for you. He hurried back to the apartment, his heart racing with excitement. He knew the moment he saw the black cat costume on you would be better than any dessert he ever had. Upon reaching the door, he took a deep breath and stepped inside, looking at you lazying on the couch. "Welcome back," you called out, turning the volume low on the TV. He held up the bag, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "I've got a surprise for you," he said, his voice barely containing the excitement. As he walked towards the couch you sat up, reaching for the paper bag. "Please, open it," he begged, his eyes pleading for you. His anticipation grew as you pulled out the costume, the material glinting under the soft glow of the room's lighting. Satoru watched eagerly, his anticipation building as you unfolded the cat costume with widening eyes and a smile that grew from puzzled to amused. "Will you wear it for me?" he asked in a tone full of hope. "Pretty please, I've been a good boy today - filling the reports, helping students and quickly finishing all the missions," you could've sworn that if he had a dog tail now he'd be wagging it like crazy.

You couldn't help but snort at the sight of Satoru's hopeful puppy-like expression as he held out the cat costume. "You really want me to wear this?" you questioned, your amusement clear. Gojo's eyes sparkled with excitement, his voice taking on a playful whine, "Yeah, please, please, please!" He dropped to his knees, putting his hands on your knees. The absurdity of the situation was almost too much to handle after long day, but the genuine joy on his face was infectious. You took in the costume, feeling the softness of the fabric between your fingers. "Alright," you conceded, unable to resist his adorable plea. "But just for a little while." His face lit up, his ears perking up metaphorically as he jumped to his feet, a bounce in his step. "Thank you, thank you, I promise it'll be so much fun!" he exclaimed, already grabbing your hand to lead you to the bedroom. When you barely stepped into the bedroom he immediately started undressing you - claiming that he needed to help you with getting into the costume

With a sigh, you allowed Gojo to help you out of your clothes, his excitement palpable as he carefully put you in the cat costume. The costume was just a short black dress that had a plush tail attached to the back and furry paw-like mittens. He then put on you the matching headband with cat ears. As he put the costume onto you, he couldn't help but let out little squeaks of delight, his eyes never leaving your body as your eyes traveled down, looking at the tent in his pants. Once you were fully dressed, Gojo stepped back and took in the sight of you, his chest swelling with pride. "You look absolutely purr-fect," he murmured looking at you and taking multiple pics. He approached you slowly, his hand reaching out to gently stroke the soft fur of the costume's ears. "Now, let's see if you can be a good little kitty for me," he said with a soft smile.

You felt a sudden rush of heat as Gojo's finger grazed the soft fur of the cat ears, his gaze never leaving yours. He stepped closer, his hand sliding down to the base of your neck, his thumb lightly brushing your skin. "Meow~," you teased, playing along with the role. The warmth of his touch sent shivers down your spine, and you leaned into his touch. He chuckled, as he began to trail his other hand down your body. His fingertips moved along the curves of your waist, over your hips, and finally reached the hem of the short black dress. With a gentle tug, he lifted the fabric, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs. His eyes followed the path of his hand, and without a word, he dropped to his knees. The room was filled with the sound of his shallow breaths as he leaned in, his warm breath ghosting over your clothed heat. Your heart was racing, as he placed a soft kiss on your panties, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before he nuzzled his nose against your cunt.

Gojo's eyes sparkled with mischief as he pressed his lips to the fabric covering your hot pussy, his tongue darting out to taste the hint of your juices that seeped through. You squirmed at the sensation, a soft moan escaping your lips as he began to kiss and lick through your panties with fervent passion after your fingers slid into his hair. His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you closer to his face as he explored the contours of your pussy. The fabric grew wetter with each move of his tongue, the friction sending waves of pleasure through your body. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin, and you could feel his excitement growing as he devoured your scent and taste. Your hands were guiding him closer, urging him on as the tension built within you.

Satoru's eyes flashed as he swiftly hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and yanked them down, revealing your bare, soaked pussy. Before you could even process anything, he had his mouth on you, lapping at your folds with a fervor that made you moan and arch your back. The sound of your pleasure seemed to fuel him, and in one fluid motion, he stood up and unzipped his own pants, freeing his rock-hard cock. You watched the strings of precum with sparkles in your eyes, feeling how your mouth watered. Before you could do anything you found yourself being pushed on the bed. He grabbed your hips and thrust into you in one swift, powerful motion. You gasped at the sudden intrusion, your walls stretching around him as he filled you completely. He didn't wait for you to adjust, instead, he began to pound into you like a feral animal, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he pushed forward with force, making you bite the pillow, not wanting for neighbors to hear you and 'gift' you another noise complaint. The bed creaked as the headboard hit the wall with every thrust. His eyes roamed over you, the pupils dilated with lust, and he leaned over to whisper into your ear, "Do my little kitty want some milk?"

Gojo's eyes were closed as he whispered dirty sweet nothings into your ear, his breath hot against your neck as he hammered into you. With every deep plunge of his pretty big dick, you felt yourself getting closer to the edge of orgasm. "Meow," you responded breathlessly, your body arching up to meet his every thrust. He grinned, encouraged by your response, and he picked up his pace even further. His grip on your hips was bruising, but the pleasure it brought you was so intense, you didn't care. Each time he hit your g-spot, your pussy tightened around him, letting out a mewling sound that only seemed to motivate him to give you an orgasm. Satoru was utterly pussydrunk, his mind clouded with nothing but the need to pleasure you and to fill your divine cunt with his seed.

His grip tightened on you, his moves getting sloppy as his own climax approached. "I'm gonna give you so much milk, my little kitty," he growled, his teeth grazing your neck as his breath grew ragged. You felt your walls tighter around him, making him softly moan. He smirked and pulled out just enough to tease your entrance with his fat tip before plunging back in, his weeping tip hitting your cervix, the sudden depth making you cry out. As your climax washed over your body, he whimpered, emptying himself into you, his warm sticky cum filling you up as you shuddered under his weight. As you panted, tightly gripping sheets you felt how his hips still went on, trying to push his cum as deep as he could. Satoru leaned down and showered your neck with gentle kisses, his breathing still heavy and his cock still twitching inside of you. He whispered "You look so pretty when you're full of my cum," into your ear, his affectionate tone opposite to the raw, primal need that had driven him moments before. Slowly, he pulled out, gazing down at how his cum seeped out of you, dripping to the sheets. He leaned in to kiss your inner thigh, "I'll never grow tired of you."

#jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #smut #satoru smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo smut #gojo x reader #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #jujutsu gojo #gojo jjk #gojo saturo #jujustu kaisen #jjk satoru

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