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nereidprinc3ss · 12 days

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slumber party

in which there's only one bed. fem bau!reader x spencer reid

fluff! warnings/tags: dark humor, (the word molest is used jokingly once but in my defense your honor its completely on brand for early seasons cm humor, if u cancel me u have to cancel the whole cast those are the rules, its just a joke cause reader always flirts w him aggressively, pls don't come for me i have a wife and children and three boyfriends to take care of,) mutual pining, bullying and death threats as flirting, they love each other so much and bicker like children, glasses spencer, (moans), emily and rossi are mentioned bc canon means fuck all to me, i think thats it but this is my most out of pocket duo so if i'm wrong lmk a/n: just a silly little thing that i cooked up, not a masterpiece but i think its cute!! I hope u enjoy!! lmk what you think!! looooveee youuuu

“Oh, there is no way.”

Your duffel bag hits the dingy carpet as Spencer is still closing the door behind you.

“What? Is it—”

You give him a look over your shoulder, eyebrows raised as if to say, what are you going to do about this?

But he only manages to meet your eyes for a split second before they’re back to the singular queen bed, darting over the white sheets and pillows like he might find another mattress if he looks hard enough.

Sharing a room with Spencer, you can handle. You've done it before. Whenever the team has to pair up at a hotel, you two are an obvious choice. And while you occasionally butt heads, mostly you adore each other and it's great.

But sharing a bed is a whole other situation.

One you were not prepared for. And evidently, neither is he.

Watching his big anxious eyes flit around the room nervously, you feel sort of bad for your reaction. You know you can be a bit… abrasive, sometimes.

“It’s fine, I’ll just—I’ll see if I can share a bed with Emily or JJ in their room—”

Just then there’s a knock at the door. Spencer looks relieved to have something else to focus on, turning back around and quickly undoing the latch again before opening the door to reveal your favorite raven-haired SSA. Emily leans past the doorjamb, eyes immediately honing in on the awkward sleeping arrangement.

“Oh my god! You guys too?”

“What?” You and Spencer ask at the same time. Emily raises her eyebrows at this and glances between you, but otherwise doesn’t comment.

“Me and JJ only have the one bed. I thought it might just have been us.”

You frown. There goes your plan of sharing a room with them.

“What about Morgan and Garcia?”

Spencer snorts.

“Something tells me Penelope wouldn’t be too torn up about it if that's the case.”

“Hotch and Rossi?”

The room goes quiet and a little chilly as the thought disturbs everyone equally. Emily frowns deeply.

“I don’t even… I can’t picture that.”

“Can we please not try to picture it?”

“Great. Okay, well. I just wanted to make sure everyone is suffering equally. Good luck, champs.”

“Thanks,” Spencer mutters dryly. Emily smiles, eyes darting between the two of you for just a moment too long, before pushing off the door frame and disappearing from sight. Once the door is closed again, a heavy silence ensues. “I’ll… I can take the floor—”

“It’s fine, Spencer. I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor. We’re both grown-ups. Besides, we like each other, right? It’ll be like a slumber party.”

“I’ve never had one,” he admits. His glasses slip further down his nose as he frowns. Your fingers itch to push them back up.

“Then I’m happy to be your first,” you tease, facing him fully with your hand on your hip and barely resisting the urge to add, I’ll be gentle. “Do you want the shower first or can I?”

Spencer has a habit of looking you up and down like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Some might find it odd, but his utter lack of social graces is, lucky for him, incredibly endearing to you.

“You can have it first,” he says, meeting your eyes again. “Just don’t do that thing where you get the entire bathroom soaking wet.”

“Aw. But I love doing that. It’s my favorite part,” you tease, scooping up your bag once more.

Twenty minutes later you’re emerging from the bathroom with damp hair, clad in loose shorts and a college hoodie.

“Nice outfit,” Spencer says from the spinny-chair at the desk, examining your outfit choice with a scrutiny you wish you’d been prepared for. Really, you wish you’d known ahead of time you’d have a roommate and brought some alternate sleeping clothes. “I had no idea you felt so passionately about… Scooby Doo?”

“Shut up right now,” you grit, tossing your bag into the corner of the room and tugging your hoodie down over your cartoon-patterned shorts as far as you can.

“What?” He’s laughing as he brushes past you on his way into the bathroom, bearing his own bag. “It’s a good look for you.”

Your face is burning as you choose the side of the bed furthest from the door. Springs creak underneath your weight as you sink down, sitting with your legs hanging off the side for a moment before swinging them up onto the mattress, leaning against the headboard and side-eyeing the empty space next to you. There’s really not very much of it. The bed feels even smaller than it looks.

From the bathroom you hear the sound of the shower squeaking and starting up again—a cacophony of droplets against tile on the other side of the wall. You try not to be nervous as you imagine Spencer filling the space beside you in just a few minutes, hair wet and in pajamas. And yet you spend each second wondering if he’s almost done, wondering if the shower will finally sputter to a halt, and once it does, wondering how long it’ll be before he’s out again. It’s ridiculous how impatient you're getting—and by the time you finally watch the door knob twist you feel crazy.

“I think that was your longest shower yet, Dr. Reid.”

The teasing affords you a moment to ogle him head to toe, taking in his choice of pajamas—tonight, familiar plaid pants and an MIT crewneck—as well as his hair which has already begun to dry. Briefly you wonder if he does that thing guys do, where they lean down and haphazardly dry their hair with a towel because they have no concern for its texture whatsoever. But you kind of doubt it, because his hair always looks so soft.

“You were sitting here waiting for me?” He chuckles, and honestly you’d been expecting a shyer response. But you adapt quickly.

“Maybe I was. Big spoon or little spoon?”

“Ha-ha.” He opens a drawer in the dresser and begins unpacking his clothes into it. It's a funny habit of his. You never unpack your duffel. “You took the better side of the bed.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m the woman. I get to do that.”

“Well you should know that if an intruder breaks in, I’m not fighting him off. You’d probably have a better chance than me.”

“And my chances will be even better if he’s distracted with you first.”

“So I’m just bait?” He scoffs, looking back at you. Strands of wet hair hang so prettily around his face, like the perfect frame around a work of art. You smile sweetly from your spot on the bed before playfully biting at the air in his direction. The message goes unspoken but reads loud and clear. Of course you are. You make such good bait.

That gets a blush out of him and he has nothing else to say as he turns back to his drawer. Happily you lean back against the headboard, stretching your legs out and bouncing slightly in place. Beneath you the mattress springs groan and squeak in protest.

“I hope you're not going to be this irritating all night.”

It's clearly lighthearted, but you promptly stop and frown at his back.

“Call me irritating again and see where you end up sleeping tonight.”

“I just don’t see how you’re even more hyperactive than usual right now. Has anybody ever told you that you’re crepuscular?” Spencer asks, finally sliding the drawer shut and going to shut the overhead light off. Your eyes narrow.

“Obviously nobody has told me that.”

“It means y—”

“I’m most energetic within the few hours around dusk and dawn. Contrary to your belief, Dr. Reid, other people are also capable of looking up words in a dictionary and remembering what they mean. Are you going to stand in the corner all night or are you gonna come to bed?”

“I am,” he scoffs, clearly embarrassed and shy and embarrassed of being shy. “I’m just… you look like you kick in your sleep. And hog the blankets.”

You shrug, folding your knees to your chest and hugging them quaintly.

“I’ve never had any complaints. In fact, you should be so lucky to share a bed with me. All five star reviews, baby.”

You toss a suggestive wink in at the end, which seems garish enough to break the tension so that Spencer can stop lingering in the corner like a sleep-paralysis demon and move to carefully take his place next to you. He almost mirrors your position, but his legs are too long to quite manage your level of compactness and so they simply fold underneath him. A few silent moments go by, in which you have the dumbest smile on your face and you keep glancing over to the side, waiting for him to be looking back at you.

“This is already the least relaxed I have ever been in a bed.”

“Good thing we’re not going to sleep yet.”

Finally he looks at you, a casual mix of hesitance, concern, and moderate curiosity coloring his features.

“We’re not?”

“Oh, my god, Spencer,” you snort. “I’m not gonna molest you. We have to do slumber party stuff, remember?”

He flushes again, glancing at the digital clock in his bedside table.

“But it’s late. We should go to sleep.”

“At slumber parties you have to stay up until you literally can’t keep your eyes open anymore. Those are the rules. I don’t make them.”

Still, your insistence that you follow the international code of sleepover law goes unabided by Spencer. He simply leans over to flick off his lamp, bathing the room in darkness.

“I appreciate the effort,” he says, and your eyes haven’t adjusted but you can hear the rustle of sheets and blankets as he gets under them, “but unfortunately we have to be awake and alert in five hours.”

“You’re no fun,” you huff, but climb under your own side of the cover and scoot down until you’re flat on your back, covered in blanket and hands folded on your sternum.

Spencer doesn’t respond.

It’s silent for maybe five minutes, during which your brain doesn’t slow down at all. Maybe you are crepuscular. Or slightly nocturnal. You have nothing but energy.

In an attempt to get comfortable, you try adjusting your position.

The mattress squeaks.

You do it again.

Another squeak.

A second goes by, and now you’re intentionally jostling about, squeaking the mattress as much as you can.

“Would you stop that?” Spencer says, voice already gravelly with sleep. You manage, but you’re already devolving into a fit of giggles. “I’m going to smother you with this pillow,” he threatens, but you hear the disgruntled smile curling his words.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just not in the mood to rest.”

Another moment passes. He sighs deeply. You smile into the dark.

“What are you in the mood for?” He asks flatly, and you’ve won.

“Tell me a secret,” you immediately demand in a hushed tone, flipping on your side to face his back. “Something you’ve never told anyone else.”

“I don’t—”

“Shh! You have to whisper it. Those are the slumber party rules.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” he whispers, clearly flustered, and to your delight, rolling to face the ceiling. “None that you’d want to hear.”

“Oh, now that’s just not true. You’re an enigma, Spencer Reid. You fascinate me.”

You’re only sort of kidding.

“I… fascinate you?”

“Completely. You know, ever since you moved your desk across from mine I get distracted just staring at you and wondering what you’re thinking about. But you’re very… hard to read, sometimes. I think it’s because you’re a Scorpio.”

“The position of the stars at the time I was born has no bearing on my personality.”

“Fine,” you concede, still in a glorified stage whisper. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t display the archetypal Scorpio traits. You’re all brooding, mysterious. Kinda, I don't know... intense and sexy and unknowable…”

“Sexy?” He laughs, breaking the whisper rule. You grin and let it slide. You’d hoped he would catch that one.

“Hey,” you snap, losing the smile immediately and lightly shoving against what you hope is his shoulder. “You’re supposed to be telling me a secret, damnit. I won’t let your wiles and charm distract me from getting what I want.”

“When have you ever let anything stop you from getting what you want?”

Truly, your cheeks are going to start aching with this constant back and forth between poker-faced and huge Cheshire smile.

“Stop flirting and answer my question, Reid.”

With the amount of times you’ve made him sigh tonight he must be dizzy. You chew your lip apprehensively in the silence, picking a loose thread on your pillow. It’s so pitch black in the room, you can’t see him where he lies only a few meager inches from you. But you can feel his presence. You can feel the unexpected bass to his voice when he’s tired and speaking this lowly, which you’ve never heard before.

“All the secrets I’ve never told anyone are just… depressing.”

Your heart sinks a little at the way he swallows between words, like that in and of itself was hard to admit. Unthinkingly your hand slides into the small gap of white cotton between the two of you.

“Not very good slumber party material, I think,” he laughs self-consciously.

“You’d be surprised.”

The sentiment comes quieter and more serious than you’ve been all night. If only you had the words to tell him that he can tell you anything. That you want to hold his secrets for him under lock and key. That you would never, ever do anything less than offer him kindness and support—even if it doesn’t always seem that way when you’re teasing him.

“Do you have any secrets you’ve never told anyone else?” He murmurs eventually, so soft it could kill you.

And you do. There are plenty of dark ones, probably not all dissimilar from those he’d elected not to share only a moment ago.

But you don’t bring those up.

Instead, you decide to admit to something silly. Still, it makes you nervous as you feel it coming loose in your chest. You’ve really never told anyone this, and it’s perhaps more vulnerable than you’d realized before the words were already leaving your mouth.

“I, have…” You pause to laugh at yourself, and continue on. “I have a stuffed dragon that I take with me on every single case.”

“You do?” Spencer laughs, so loud and unexpected it almost hurts your ears, angling his head toward you. Blood rushes to your face.

“Yes. He usually sleeps in bed with me. He’s an excellent listener and has been the origin of several of my most genius breakthroughs. You remember Gibson Cooper?”

“Family annihilator from Houston?”

“Correct. He’s in prison because Oscar helped me make the Cook Creek Campground connection between the O’Hara and Diangelo families.”

“You have a stuffed profiler dragon named Oscar? Is he here?”

“He’s—I mean, I wasn’t expecting to share a room with someone.”

“So he’s in your bag.”

“Yes,” you seethe, “and I will not be introducing you to him. He doesn’t do well with men.”

“You are genuinely psychotic.”

You huff.

“Fine. I’m sorry I told you anything.”

You’re about to roll over onto your other side—but Spencer surprises you by catching the hand that had been outstretched in his direction. He carefully intertwines your fingers and squeezes gently.

“You’re right. That was mean. Thank you for telling me about Oscar.” His tone is surprisingly teasing, and you’re so uncharacteristically flustered by this rare show of physicality and affection that you can’t muster an adequate comeback. Spencer doesn’t seem to mind filling your silence, though, sounding a little more solemn now. “I’m sorry I don’t have any secrets for you.”

The way his voice gets all thin and scratchy sometimes—it’s like the earnest sincerity just pours out of him. He can’t control it. He can’t be anyone other than who he is. Maybe that’s a part of why you love him so much. You wonder if he knows how much you love him. It’s not exactly a secret—anyone on the team would be able to tell as much. You’ve been relentlessly teased for the way you are with him. For your batting lashes and your lingering touches and your unabashed flirting. But beneath it all is true affection, and nobody doubts that.

“It’s okay,” you decide with a squeeze of your own, after a moment of deliberation. “You’ll think of something. ’Cause, y’know—you’re stuck with me for at least a few more days.”

“Oh, god,” he laughs, and releases your hand, rolling over to face away from you. But you don’t mind. You’ll get lots more time to invade his personal space over the coming week or so. “Goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams,” you sing-song, turning away to face the wall with what is perhaps your biggest, stupidest smile yet.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds imagine

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starlooove · 2 months

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“There is no fanfic on Stephs treatment I have checked” that’s like the whole point.

#I’m not saying ur wrong bc it’s not canon #I’m saying ur wrong bc ur perpetuating the misogyny that got u there in the first place #and yeah imma take it there it IS that deep to me sorry #like this isn’t like a diff in opinion on an arc or smth #this is quite literally the bigotry that fandoms supposed to be an escape from manifesting itself again with a rainbow flag over it it’s so #like first of all not that serious but concerning to me is getting into smth without knowing the source material #u don’t need to know the exact timeline of events and which specific Batmobile Bruce had in every era duh #that’d be hypocritical to say I read character to character screw the timeline lmao #but it’s like. ur telling me u adore Dick Grayson and have never picked up NTT?#u wanna analyze the queer coding in Tim’s character but you’ve never read his og robin run?#u wanna talk about Damian’s character growth but you’ve only read Batman and Robin 2020s?#u ADORRRRE steph and cass and you haven’t even read batgirls #and that’s like nonissues #my issues are u wanna discuss how Barbara is actually so cold and cruel to dick for how she handled Catalina and you’ve never read birds of #prey and actually dick never cheated so (this isn’t me being hypocritical if you’ve seen that post I just lowk changed my mind)#or if he did it was justified or whatever #you wanna talk about how Jason and Roy are soulmates and you can’t tell me a single thing besides he’s an archer a father and an addict #it’s like ur putting shit out there about these characters and their relationships and you don’t know them #and more people who don’t know them see ur shit and do the same thing #and that’s mid level issue #the BIG issue is that y’all have not unpacked ur racism misogyny or classism enough to do this and then turn around and say ur fixing dc or #whatever. u have not done enough work to speak on Jason or Damian and say they deserve better whilst u water down their anger into smth #palatable and sweet on ur white faves. u don’t get to complain about how there’s not enough about steph and all u do is spread more made up #shit to infantilize tim. and I’m not saying I’ll never read a tim centric fic that’s ooc and stupid and have fun #I do that and I don’t talk about it bc that shit should not be the main writing you find when you look for BATMAN lmao #and even then they HIGHEST problem is that even when people make more content centering the woc poc and yes even WW it still doesn’t get any #traction bc y’all haven’t unpacked as much of ur racism and misogyny as u think u have #making hcs about tim being a Barbie and Jason being a feminist and dick painting his nails is not progressive when Steph and cass are #cardboard cutouts or the vehicles through which the white men discover feminity is ok actually and nothing else #and then Duke and Damian are the token straights or allies. like y’all are so sick lmao

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saetoru · 10 months

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✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ i’m afraid that’s just the way the world works (but i think that it could work for you and me)

synopsis. suguru stumbles across two girls that need a home. somehow, one step at a time, you both find yourselves navigating parenthood

word count. 5.4k (sigh...this was supposed to be a drabble)

contents. not canon compliant at all—there are still curses, but it's literally an au where everything turns out happy LMAO, teacher! suguru, husband! suguru, fem! reader, reader is referred to as "wife" and "mommy," hints at child neglect/abuse (nanako and mimiko's backstory), yuji, nobara and megumi are the ones that save nanako and mimiko—the timeline is inaccurate bc the twins are still kids when megumi and co. are teens, single dad! satoru who raised megs and tsumiki (tsumiki is ALIVE and NOT CURSED) <3, it's just fluff tbh, it's overall healing and happy i promise

notes. yeah i am telling u i literally shoved every fix-it fic idea for jjk into one fic okay and u will all nod along and agree with it. this was supposed to be a drabble but i literally just could not shut up so now its a fic

“there are these two girls,” suguru says quietly at dinner one night, pulling you from the comfortable silence. you look up as you swallow, eyeing him as you nod carefully—nothing is ever a normal conversation when your husband is a jujutsu teacher. nothing is ever a normal conversation when you’re capable of jujutsu in general, you’ve learned that well by now.

“okay…” you say slowly, “and are they your students?”

they must be new, if they are. you know all of suguru’s students; you know them well enough to pick birthday presents and bring what they each like from the bakery. you don’t think you know of these two—they must be new.

“no,” he breathes, “no, they’re too young for that. maybe someday,” he adds hopefully.

“maybe someday,” you agree thoughtfully.

suguru loves teaching. it’s not something he ever saw himself doing—but life is dark at one point, a constant cloud looming over his head as it screams it’s over! your youth is over.

sometimes it hits him all at once—no one was there to protect suguru’s youth, no one was there for satoru’s or nanami’s, and certainly not haibara’s. no one was there to make sure they could be kids, that the sun could still shine and chase the clouds away.

so suguru becomes a teacher. he’s fond of the kids—and they like him too. geto sensei, they call, geto sensei, look! and then he pauses in the hall, holds back an amused chuckle before turning to face an overly enthusiastic yuji and nobara. megumi is not far behind, that disgruntled look on his face as always, but if you look closely, his eyes are soft and laced with something close to fondness.

geto sensei is a favorite—much more of a favorite than gojo sensei is, to satoru’s utter dismay. you can’t help but watch proudly sometimes, can’t help but watch how much suguru has grown as he interacts with those kids, how much he’s allowed himself to grow, how much he’s let himself try to chase the sun instead of letting the clouds convince him the light no longer exists.

“they’re five,” suguru continues, poking the soba in front of him as he doesn’t meet your gaze. “the kids found them on a mission. in a cage.”

you know what that means instantly. you look at suguru, watching as his eyes stare numbly at the food in front of him—sometimes, you worry that suguru will once more fall victim to those bone-chilling thoughts he shares with you one night. sometimes you worry he’ll slip and fall once more and you won’t notice this time, won’t reach your fingers and grasp him at the last second.

but he blinks, looks up and meets your eyes this time, stares into them and searches them for what he needs. he finds it, you think, because there’s light returning to them once more.

maybe it’s hope, maybe it’s acceptance. maybe it’s neither, and he’s just happy to have you to come back to when the world gets too burdensome. you’re not sure, but you do know you’ll always be there, right where he needs you.

“what happened to them?�� you ask gently, “was it their parents?”

“no,” he shakes his head, “the villagers. their parents are dead.”

it’s not new—you’ve seen it before too. children tend to notice their techniques at this age. it’s not new to hear about children with no family history of sorcerers being labeled as some type of other in the family, in the community, or in the village.

suguru is lucky in that way—his mother and father see him as something special, something worth celebrating, something greater than they could ever hope to be. you meet them once every year, just for a few days. they love you, greeting you with kind smiles and warm hugs, pulling you inside as they get dinner ready. you visit his old room and smile as you rake your fingers over the figures on his desk and the cd’s he used to collect. his mother keeps his room in perfect condition, even after all these years.

you remind him to call more. sometimes, he tries—just for you, he tries. it’s hard for him, you realize. sometimes suguru is guilty; sometimes, he’s haunted by what he almost did but thankfully didn’t. it’s hard to face his parents ever since, even if they’re blissfully unaware. it’s easier to love them from afar, he thinks. but you insist he calls more, so he does. sometimes hearing his mother’s voice is what he needs, even if he doesn’t like to admit it.

“so…what’ll happen to them?” you ask quietly.

“they’re at the school for tonight,” he mumbles, “there’s enough bedrooms, anyway. but…”

but they can’t stay there forever, is what he wants to say, you know that. staying at jujutsu high is hardly enough for children so young. they need a proper home, a proper family. you can’t help but stare down at your own bowl of soba. it’s hard to watch children suffer like this. it’s especially hard on suguru—he chose to teach to help those kids, to be there. somethings, however, cannot be fixed by simply being there.

“and then what will happen after?”

“they need a home,” he says quietly, “and…listen, i know we never really…we’ve never discussed something like this. but…maybe for a while, just until something better is decided, we could…”

you know what he’s trying to say before he can even say it—you and suguru have never discussed children. you don’t think you ever really want to, and you’re fairly certain he feels the same. it’s hard to lose haibara when you’re just a young kid, hard to live with the fact that someone so young and hopeful about the world is here one second and then gone the next. you see nanami sometimes—he’s kind to you, greets you politely, and asks how you are. but nothing about him has ever been the same since that day.

will your children meet the same fate? will you have them one second and lose them the next? will you patiently wait for them to come to visit the next chance they get from school, only to get a phone call no parent deserves to hear? they’re common in the jujutsu world. it’s a risk every parent has to take. some are selfish—rightfully so. some don’t care to let their children master their techniques, arguing it’s better to have a child that’s incapable and alive than gifted and dead. what if your children end up like nanami? the one who manages to live but can never accept the fact, not when someone else is dead. how will you be a pillar of strength? how can you tell them it’s okay to live as long as it’s not them who’s dead? how can you help them grieve when you are always grieving yourself?

you don’t think you ever want children, and you think you’re right in your assumption that suguru agrees.

but those girls need a home, and you know the look on suguru’s face means options are limited—scarily so. you look at him for a while, look at him and see the way he’s got his heart set on these two girls—suguru has lost more than you ever could, and if this is something he thinks he should do, you think it might be worth a chance.

“bring them for dinner tomorrow,” you say finally, bringing soba to your lips, “i’d like to meet them.”

it’s not a straight answer, but it’s a start. suguru nods, smiling gently at you before he continues with his own dinner. it’s silent after that, but it’s not uncomfortable. he still steals your last bite of soba at the end, and you still roll your eyes and let him. you wash the dishes together after that, argue over whose turn it is to rinse and whose turn it is to dry—it’s routine, and you’re grateful you have something to look forward to in this cruel world, something you can count on regularly.

—————

hasaba nanako and hasaba mimiko.

those are their names. megumi says so when he first brings them to suguru. nanako is blonde, a bit bolder than mimiko, who’s brunette. nanako is older by five minutes, and she likes to remind everyone when she can. mimiko holds nanako’s hand when she’s nervous, and nanako squeezes tightly with a smile. they’re a mellow pair, despite it all. a little distrusting and a little nervous when too many people are in a room at once.

they take a liking to suguru, however. satoru is a bit too loud and boisterous for them, but suguru is kind and soft and gives them gentle head pats when they cooperate and answer his questions. on the way home, he asks them if they’d like something from the bakery.

it leaves them a bit quiet, right until he looks over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow as he awaits their answer.

“we’ve never been to one,” nanako answers quietly, the first to speak between the two, as always.

“is that so?” suguru asks gently. they nod, still holding hands.

children of five summers, and they have never picked out a cake for even a birthday—he wonders why that is. they shouldn't have shown signs of having cursed techniques so young, there should be no reason to mistreat them so early on—the conclusion he comes to makes him even unhappier. parents should never have children if they aren’t willing to love them, he thinks bitterly.

“it’s alright,” mimiko says finally, “we don’t need—”

“come on then,” suguru grabs nanako’s free hand, gently pulling them both along the busy streets of tokyo, “my wife’s favorite bakery is around the corner. we’ve tried everything they have by now, so you’ll have to tell us what’s your favorite, yeah?”

it’s nanako who answers again first, nodding slowly before she smiles hopefully. “okay,” she murmurs.

from the corner of his eyes, suguru notices mimiko gently pull her hand from her sister’s, quickly taking a few steps as she walks across in front of him before promptly finding herself on his other side. her hand reaches for his—it’s slow, a bit unsure, so he grabs it delicately, giving a small squeeze as he grins down at her.

“wait until you try the strawberry cake,” he hums, “that’s my favorite.”

—————

suguru comes home with two small girls on either side of him and more bags than you can count from the bakery just five minutes from your apartment. you blink before rushing over and taking a few bags from his hands.

“did you just buy one of everything or something?” you ask incredulously, staring at all the boxes of goods within the bags.

he grins that closed-eye smile of his, crinkles forming in the corners as he says, “well, of course,” like it’s the most normal thing ever to buy one of every item in a large bakery in the heart of tokyo. “the girls have never been to a bakery before so i thought we could let them try everything and rank them.”

you look down at the girls, who stare at you nervously as they cling to each other. instantly, as soon as you meet their eyes, you can’t help but drop down to your knees to meet their level as you smile softly.

“why hello there,” you murmur, ruffling each head gently. they like that—suguru texted you that earlier, that they seem to brighten considerably when he offers them a gentle pat on the head in affection. “what are your names?”

“i’m nanako,” the blonde one answers instantly—suguru is equal parts shocked and equal parts pleased by her new air of confidence. he wonders if she’d be a bright and energetic child right about now, if the world hadn’t crushed her under and forced her to live meekly. “and i’m older by five minutes.”

“hello nanako, the eldest by five minutes,” you answer seriously, nodding as though it’s a crucial fact to her identity, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. and what about you?”

the brunette clutches her sister’s hand a little tighter—but nanako seems to have deemed you as safe. anyone geto sensei (as the other kids seem to call him) trusts is someone they don’t have to be on guard around. she nudges mimiko gently, encouraging her to tell you her name.

“i’m mimiko,” she says quietly. she seems to be holding a small, pink stuffed toy. it’s seen better days, you think, but a nice wash and a few stitches to the top of its head should have it looking quite a lot better.

“and hello to you too, mimiko,” you smile, “are you younger by five minutes, then?”

she giggles a little at that before nodding, “i am,” she assures, “but i’m smarter.”

“are not!” nanako says instantly, gasping. you and suguru share a look, amused and fond and relieved all at once.

“what a lovely toy,” you murmur, tracing the eyes with your finger. she droops a little at that—like being reminded of its condition is something that breaks her spirit.

“it’s ripped,” she mumbles, “it wasn’t before.”

“i can fix it,” you offer, “suguru is always ripping his uniforms, but lucky for him, his sweet little wife here is a fixer-upper.”

“really?” she brightens. you nod, chuckling as you ruffle her hair, doing the same to nanako, too, when she eyes you hopefully from the side.

“that sounds great,” suguru interrupts, “but i believe i have cakes that need to be tried and mouths that are not trying.”

you rise, rolling your eyes and standing next to him, and his hand gently grabs yours. thank you, he squeezes. always, you squeeze back.

“well, come on, girls,” you usher. mimiko grabs your free hand, and suguru grabs nanako’s—you all make your way to the dinner table. it feels oddly natural, you think. “we have desserts to try. the chocolate one will definitely be your favorite, i can feel it.”

“it’ll be strawberry,” suguru says confidently.

you meet his gaze, grinning at him as he stares at you hopelessly in love. it’s always been enough, you and suguru—it’s always been more than enough with just the two of you. so enough, that you never wanted more. but this is nice too, you think. this is something you could get used to, even if it breaks the routine you’ve learned to love just a bit.

—————

nanako and mimiko stay at your house that night, and somehow, that turns into a week. sometimes, suguru takes them with him to school, just to handle a few things that are still to be taken care of regarding their case. you find you miss three instead of one while you’re home alone for the day.

they return cheery each time, bags of deserts in hand and a newfound glow in their eyes. mimiko’s toy is much cleaner now, and the small rips have been carefully sewn shut by you from the first night they spend. she clutches it everywhere she goes, hugs it in her sleep too. it’s hopelessly endearing.

nanako takes a liking to suguru’s phone—he’s a bit too giving with her, you think. she’s managed to figure out his passcode rather quickly, and he lets her get away with it, watching her small fingers work the buttons of whatever game she's downloaded with a gentle look of affection over his features.

on the days that suguru goes to school alone, the girls are left in your care for the day—you don’t usually have someone to keep you company while you’re at home. you’ve quit being a sorcerer long ago, deciding that it’s not worth the constant back-and-forth tug of war with life and death.

perhaps it's selfish—people are dying every day, and you sit and let it happen, but you can’t help it. it’s too much, sometimes. suguru has always supported it, though, has always murmured that you’re doing the right thing and that sorcerers deserve quiet, peaceful lives, too, if they wish. so you do just that, stay home and learn a new dish or two through the day, watch a few shitty sitcoms on the television, leave and do some grocery shopping for the week, and return home to your quiet little apartment (as quiet as an apartment can get in tokyo, that is) and wait for your husband to come home.

suguru comes home by seven pm every day and gives you a soft kiss on your forehead as he says, hello, wife, to which you giggle and murmur, hi there, husband. you have dinner after that and share details about your days with each other. yuji and nobara are arguing again, suguru will tell you sometimes, i think nobara will cave and talk first this time, though. i brought fresh strawberries from the season’s harvest, you murmur behind a glass of water to your lips, got them just for you, sugu.

it’s been a routine like that ever since your marriage. you marry suguru quietly when you barely turn twenty, just a room full of the few people you dare let yourself love and the two of you as you sign the papers and share a kiss. there’s an extravagant meal waiting for you after, though, courtesy of gojo satoru, a man with more money than he could hope to use on himself. satoru is happy that day—happier than you’ve ever seen him in a long, long while. he takes his bandages off, sits and watches everything, and takes it all in even if it’ll bite him back in the ass later with a long, pounding migraine.

today, however, is a saturday—school is out, and anyone who doesn’t have a mission is free to have the day to themselves. suguru hasn’t taken a large mission in ages, years, even. he accepts small ones here and there, and if it really calls for it, he joins a tough one with his students—but it’s for their sake more than anything. but the big ones are too much for him to handle regularly anymore. the higher-ups aren’t happy—special-grade sorcerers are hard to come by, and it’s unfair that the lower-grade ones are busting their necks out there more than he is. but suguru deserves a semblance of control over his well-being, and with satoru on his side, there isn’t much of anything the higher-ups can really do.

he sits on the couch, scrolling through his phone as you click the remote, finding something to watch.

“you know, we should really talk about this,” suguru mumbles from the side. it’s early, still. barely eight am, and the girls are still sleeping. they’ll be up soon—and with that, will be gone any moment for you and suguru to share a private moment.

they didn’t warn you about that part of kids—you knew it was a busy job, watching over them, but you figured leaving them to play for a bit would grant you some peace. you and suguru quickly learn that children, no matter how well-behaved and disciplined, always need a watchful eye on them.

“talk about what?” you yawn, “it’s too early for you to speak in codes.”

“the girls,” he says, unimpressed. oh. right.

“what about them?” you say, dancing around the edge of the real issue. he sees right through you—you know he will. still, you’re petulant enough to try and dodge the topic anyway.

“it’s been a week,” he says seriously, “those kids think this is their new home. it’s cruel to make them think that any longer if we don’t…”

keep them. let them stay. let them become a part of this home and, by extension, this family that has always just been you and suguru. raise them. take them in. take responsibility over them. love them.

can you love? like that, at least? are you meant to be a mother? you’re too selfish, you think—you couldn’t even stay fighting curses for long, too weak to care about those who need you, and too focused on needing yourself. can you handle two children? if you do this, you can’t do anything else but do it right—it’s what they deserve. but you don’t know if you can give them what they deserve.

but there aren’t many better options either, you remind yourself.

suguru seems to know what you’re thinking because he murmurs, “i think it’s easier to raise children than be a sorcerer,” he says quietly.

you raise an eyebrow skeptically. “you can walk away from being a sorcerer, suguru. being a parent is for life.”

“being a parent means you get to love,” he reasons, “unconditionally. without regrets. without a contract, you know? loving a sorcerer is just betting how long someone has left to live, at the end of the day.”

“how morbid of you,” you snort.

“they’re good kids,” he says quietly, “great, even.”

“they’re lovely,” you agree. and then, quieter this time, “i…i would miss them. more than i care to admit.”

“me too,” he nods.

your head falls to his chest, and he presses a kiss to your head, wrapping his arms around you. suguru has always loved you—when the world was not worth loving, and the people were not worth saving, suguru had loved you. he still does. and the way you love him is enough to make all of those things change. the world has a little more hope, and the people are a little less ugly when you’re there to prove not everything is bad. that even where the bad exists, the good can follow. as long as he has you, suguru is complete—but he thinks more is not always so bad.

“suguru?” you ask gently. he hums, rubbing a thumb over your knuckles as he squeezes your hand, “we won’t force them,” you say firmly, “to do anything. they should exist as themselves if they want to. cursed techniques or not.”

he smiles. you don’t see it, and you don’t have to. you know it’s that deep, eye-crinkling smile that’s heartfelt and real.

“no, we won’t force them,” he agrees, “they’re perfect as is.”

—————

the girls are given the option to each get the two spare rooms you and suguru have in your apartment. that leaves ultimately no guest room, but you think they deserve to have their own space and be their own people after everything. but, as you and he had expected, they choose to share a room and stay together.

you’ll never forget the looks on their faces when they realize they’re staying here permanently, the look of pure excitement and the slightest hints of shock—you never realized how fulfilling it could be to make two children smile like that.

“we can’t paint the walls,” you hum, “we don’t own this place. but we can still decorate,” you offer.

they don’t seem all that disappointed about not being able to paint their walls—instead, they’re too excited about their beds, giggling as they jump on the mattress. suguru wants to tell them that jumping on mattresses is bad for the springs, but you stop him—they deserve to be kids for a bit. after that, you’ll teach them. but for now, they deserve to just be kids.

“can we get lights?” nanako asks—now that you and suguru are guardians to two children (parents seems…a bit too overwhelming to use right now), spontaneous dates don’t happen one on one anymore. evidently, it’s hard to find babysitters on the spot, and leaving them home alone is not an option, so you decide to simply bring them along on your weekly sunday afternoon cafe visit. nanako takes a liking to the lights on the walls, and mimiko eats three slices of cake.

you can’t wait to bring them next week, too.

“you sure can,” suguru hums, chuckling.

“and a mirror?”

“of course,” you nod, “you’ll certainly need one to make sure the beauty sleep works.”

nanako giggles, flopping onto the bed, and mimiko sits not long after, still hugging that toy to her chest as she looks around the room in wonder. they’ve been sleeping in it for over a week now, but now that they can officially call it their own, they seem to be much more attached.

“i want pink sheets,” nanako hums.

“i want blue,” mimiko mumbles, looking at you shyly.

“well,” suguru murmurs so that only you can hear, “maybe we can get them two beds. smaller one—they’ll fit on either side.”

“and what do we do with this one, then?” you raise a brow.

“we…sell it?”

“suguru, are you trying to drain every last bit of our savings?”

“we have plenty,” he chuckles, “we don’t ever do anything.”

that much is true—you and suguru hardly leave tokyo let alone japan, and though you let yourselves splurge on nice things, there isn’t much to spend on between two people. but the last few days have really put into perspective how…expensive raising children can be. clothing and school supplies (they’ll attend a normal school) and room decor and snacks, and anything else children require to be children is quite denting to bank accounts.

but you and suguru can’t say you mind—and if nanako and mimiko want pink and blue sheets, well…you think you can make that happen.

“i think we’re spoiling them,” you mumble, “should we be doing that?”

he wraps an arm around you and pulls you against his chest as his nose presses to the top of your head when he kisses it. he’s warm, just like he always is—maybe warmer now, in fact.

“nah,” he grins, “i think we’re doing great.”

—————

the girls take their time to warm up to satoru, but when they finally do, he seems to be a favorite. satoru is very proud of this fact—he’s not a lot of children’s favorite…well, maybe yuji’s perhaps, but you don’t think yuji has a single bone in his body that could really dislike anyone. or rank them, to be quite honest—you don’t think he prefers satoru or suguru over the other.

“oh, kids,” satoru calls, stepping into your apartment and letting himself in. you and suguru are in the middle of making dinner, looking back in shock from the kitchen as satoru waves enthusiastically at you both.

“satoru, how did you even get in?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. he grins, practically giggling as he points to your husband.

“suguru gave me a key.”

“what?” suguru sputters, “no, i didn’t!”

“you let me borrow them,” satoru concedes—that’s still not even anywhere near the truth.

“i left them at your place and kindly asked you to bring them to me at work the next day,” suguru corrects, crossing his arms and looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“yes, and i did what you should have done a long time ago and made myself a copy,” satoru huffs, “i’m the best friend! i deserve a key—”

“gojo sensei!” the girls call.

as most kids do, they pick up what they hear around them. everyone seems to refer to satoru and suguru as gojo sensei and geto sensei. they’re not students, but nanako and mimiko both pick up on the habit too—and it’s helplessly adorable, you can’t deny.

sometimes, you want to correct them, but they seem excited to see satoru, so you let the moment pass.

“there they are!” satoru beams, taking his blindfold off and crouching down to meet them in the eye—nanako and mimiko seem to find satoru infinitely more approachable when his eyes are out and easy to look into. you can’t imagine why—he looks like a creep. “i brought dessert! because what’s life without something sweet, right? are these two feeding you girls the sugar you need to grow into tall, healthy young women?”

“this is why you should never be allowed near children,” you say flatly.

satoru looks at you with a pointed look, “i practically raised megumi and tsumiki, y’know. saving young siblings and giving them a nice home life is old news, i already did that. be more original, please.”

what a jackass—you scowl at him, throwing the wooden spoon in your hand at his head and watching as it doesn’t even touch him and falls to the floor. curse his infinity.

“okay, now,” suguru chuckles, “i don’t want to spend the evening looking after four children instead of two—”

“geto sensei! thanks for having us over for dinner,” yuji interrupts, stepping through the door that satoru took such great care not to close, “fushiguro was a bit of a hassle to convince, though.”

suguru throws a sharp glare at satoru as soon as three of their students step into your home—you’re going to have to forget the dinner you’re making and order takeout, you think. satoru will pay.

“this is why you didn’t get a key,” suguru hisses, “because then you act like you own the place.”

“i wanted a family gathering,” satoru gasps, “tsumiki is coming too! wait for her.”

despite the way suguru grabs satoru’s hair—and satoru, for some reason, turns off his infinity and lets him—you notice the corners of your husband’s mouth twitching into a gentle smile, and you know he’s thinking the same thing as you. family—nanako and mimiko are here, and so are yuji, and nobara, and megumi, and satoru (the biggest headache), and soon, tsumiki too.

family—yes, this is family, you think.

—————

“daddy, i’m hungry,” mimiko tugs on suguru’s sleeve.

“i know, pumpkin, just give me a second and—”

“daddy, look! i beat the high score on my game and—”

“daddy is looking, sweetie, just give me one minute, nanako, yeah? daddy will look and—”

“wow,” satoru chuckles, grinning amused, “you’re really worn thin.”

“satoru,” suguru grumbles, “if you’re not going to help, then please leave.”

nanako and mimiko are seven now. in two years, their personalities have really blossomed—something which you and suguru are very grateful for. the world should not crush children so young that they don’t get to be the children they are meant to be. you and suguru take great care to make sure they know they can be kids.

and they are—they whine about bedtime and pick at their vegetables and point at everything in the store and plead for something new. they’re children—your children, and you can’t help but love them unconditionally so.

“well, welcome to fatherhood,” suguru snaps, trying his best to make lunch and entertain the two girls waiting for his attention.

suguru is a good father—a gentle one, in fact. he comes home every day from work and grins, asking in that smooth voice of his, where are my ladies? and just like that, you and your two girls meet him with excited grins. you peck his lips before he crouches down and pulls two small bodies against his chest, letting their tiny arms wrap around his neck as he hoists them up.

it’s a perfect little routine, one you cherish greatly. but the girls are getting older, and soon, they’ll be too heavy to carry like this. it makes you a little sad to think about—but if there’s one thing you’ve learned, breaking routine isn’t always so bad. soon there will be a new one, and when you outgrow that, another new one, and so on.

what won’t ever change is the way you love suguru, and he loves you, and you both love your daughters, and they love you both too.

“daddy,” nanako calls, “where’s mommy?”

“at the store, nanako,” he says patiently, sighing. this is the fifth time she’s asked.

“when will she be back?”

“soon, nanako,” he smiles assuringly, “at least, i hope so,” he adds quietly, under his breath.

satoru hears, though—and he cackles, heinously loud, too, as he watches the scene unfold in amusement. but satoru is suguru’s best friend, and yours too. and the girls love him. he’s family—and so are their students.

it’s nice, suguru thinks, it’s nice to have something worth smiling for.

“i’m home!” you call, “is satoru here? because the door was unlocked—”

“mommy!” the girls call, cutting you off with the pitter-patter of small, excited little feet hitting the ground and greeting you.

“why hello,” you gasp excitedly, laughing as they tackle you in a hug.

you and suguru share a smile as he looks back—family, it’s what you’ve both built here. it’s slow at first, and sometimes it wasn’t easy. at one point, it was just the two of you, just you and suguru, and that was okay. you didn’t think you would ever be capable of letting it be more—but it’s nice when it grows, you think. maybe one day, you can dare to hope to grow it some more.

the scene were they got 2 beds—that was me and my sister when we first moved into our weeeee lil apartment back when i was in middle school !! we were bummed bc we couldn't paint the walls but our parents let us have 2 beds so we could pick our sheets !! it was a fond memory LOL but now i DO have a room where i painted the color except i HATE the color now bc i was still in middle school when we moved into our house and got to pick colors and middle school me and adult me are soooo different so now i have a teal bedroom that haunts me

#teepods.writings #fics.#geto x reader #geto x you #geto fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #geto suguru fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x you

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ravengards-rogue · 3 months

Text

WHAT SET YOU FREE, BROUGHT YOU TO ME BABY.

rdr2 men + short blurbs about their favorite sex positions.

ft. arthur morgan, john marston, javier escuella, and charles smith.

✧ tags : SPOILER HEAVY, fem + afab!reader, unprotected sex, light angst (in the horny post is crazy im sorry fdkjjkds), very gendered language, javier says one thing in spanish (thank u @nanamimizz), a little sprinkle of plot with each (and some canon divergency), john co-parents w abigail, otherwise just horny. 18+

✧ wc : about 1.4-8k each (6.3k total)

✧ a/n : sorry for making a multi character post for the cowboy game its cooking me to death. my john bias is showing rip. title is from rebel yell by billy idol but i listen to the bvb cover

sorry about charles and javiers but if i edit this anymore im going to level an entire city using hollow purple technique. please rb if you enjoyed i worked kind of hard on whatever this is.

sorry for . the THIRD repost of this i promise i wont after this. its just really bugging me. PLEASE

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ ARTHUR MORGAN + PRONE BONE ;

It’s an odd feelin’ for Arthur.

Wanting something, he means. Wanting anything as much as he wants you. He’s lived a less than quiet life up until now. And he ain’t the brightest, certainly, but living this kind of life teaches you many lessons. One of them being, it’s better not to covet anything. Coveting something you’re not entitled to, well—it’ll lead you places you wouldn’t want to go with a gun.

Arthur has made the mistake of coveting love before, dreamed of a future so completely out of his reach he almost convinced himself it was possible. Dreamed of it so foolishly he’d even go visit a woman he very well ought to forget. It’s his problem, his burden to bear - always desiring outcomes unsuited to him.

He’s just that sort of man he reckons. But he learned his lesson. He tries (tried?) to stay away from it after that. Tried not to pine too much for normalcy when such hopes had failed him twice. The loss of his child completely on his account and the loss of his love at the same fate.

So, wanting you - well, he feels like the world's dullest fool. Really. How is it that Arthur had fallen in love with someone again? It had all just happened so quickly. You were another woman he’d saved from the O’Driscolls, though it wasn’t like you were no damsel. A lot of those men were dead by the time they arrived. That sort of perseverance would stick with you while you traveled together. Much like Sadie, you didn’t take well to housework - you liked to earn your keep. Though you’re not nearly so trigger happy.

You’re quiet, thoughtful, well-read. Plus you’re good at making money. That’s why Dutch don't complain about you joining them, he figures.

(Arthur tries not to pry into it too much at first, but he eventually learns that you’re gambling. Which is how you’re able to make such a fast turn around. A prim little lady like you makes for a fine poker player, and you love to play men out of their money. He thinks it’s one of the funniest and most interesting things about you. He can’t help but love you a little more for it. )

When the feelings in him start to stir, Arthur tries to overlook it. Arthur convinces himself, time and time again - that there’s no way he’ll grow more tender about you. Eventually, it’ll die down. You’re a decent woman is all, a kind one - who’s easy for him to love and even easier for him to confide in. In your time together, you often come to Arthur and you always seem to have some profound wisdom he is so sorely lacking. Someone easy to love, who does not expect much from Arthur at all. It’s only natural a lonely, covetous man like him would start to dream about you. He tells himself, it will pass eventually. Should he simply let it run by him, it will pass. But Arthurs a fool, you’ll remember.

Of course, by the time he understood all that - he already loved you enough that he couldn’t bear it. It was already too late and it wasn’t going to change any time soon. Especially not while everything changed around him.

So, Arthur is undoubtedly a fool, but he’s lucky. He felt divinely blessed when you’d returned his feelings for him so politely. A coy little smile on your face, a laugh like you thought he was silly for being doubtful. Arthur tried to explain himself but you wouldn’t hear a word of it. Maybe that’s another thing he loves so much about you. There’s nothing he ever needs to explain.

In any case, all Arthur seems to do lately is want you. Wants you when it’s inconvenient. Wants you before he wants liquor or a cigarette or some other vice. Any time anything goes wrong, you’re the first thing his mind can conjure up for relief. That pretty smile and that self-assured way of living. It’s hard to get time alone in camp. And Arthur is a man in love, so any touch could be enough to set him on fire. Last week you hugged his waist a little before giving him a kiss goodbye and he had to listen to you laugh yourself into a fit as he waited for…little Arthur to settle down.

He don’t get many chances to be with you. Lay with you in that way that grown folk in love do. Though, if the two of you book it somewhere for a few days - the camp knows better not to ask where you’ve been. But it’s not often you get to really be together, where it’s peaceful to do that. Someone’s always hounding one of you to do something.

Arthur is a lucky man though, like he said. Today he had time. Today he’s alone with you in a beat up little saloon and today he gets to do as he likes. He gets to be greedy. And it’s an odd feeling for him, really, to want something so bad he disregards everything else in the world for a little while.

Feeling you, though - absolves the guilt for wanting. He’d be stupid to want you any less desperately.

Arthur’s favorite way to have you is on your stomach. Laid flat, just barely pushed up against him as he fucks you deep. You’ll fuck like rabbits for a little while and Arthur will wear you out just like this, maneuvering you until you’re pinned all underneath his weight. You lose any fight you might have, too exhausted to worry yourself with pleasing him - and when you’re like that, you let Arthur take care of you.

(He really ain’t talented at much, but he’s good with his hands. Being dexterous is part of being a talented shot. When Arthur has the time to spread you sweet in his lap and make you cum all over his fingers, he does so for as long as he can. At least until you beg him so sweetly otherwise. The same hands, soiled with gunsmoke, look so good so deep in you. At least in his eyes.)

Wet and pliable and helpless. Arthur loves you like that. He knows, he knows you’re anything but - but he’d be damned to pretend this don’t feel best. Tight, wet cunt so welcoming from all the pleasure he’s ripped out of you. Your bodies pressed together, your heartbeat pulsing through your skin. All sticky, honeyed need and animal desire as Arthur lets all of him sink on top of you. His heavy, lumbering form crushing you in - trapping you somewhere you can’t run from him. The curve of your spine pushed against his chest, ticklish.

Every inch of his body that so wholly wants for you, Arthur aches to make you feel. Burn it in you lest anything happens that risks your forgetting.

He can feel his hips meet your ass, backside squished against him - desperate for deeper friction. Whining. You’re whining to him so pretty, a pillow pushed underneath you to give friction to needy clit.

Arthur can feel how much you want more. Maybe Arthur is greedy, but he likes that look much better on you. Your pussy is sucking him in so tight, silken walls pulsing with every shallow little measured thrust. Arthur lets his arm wrap around your neck, your face pressing into his bicep. You moan again and he laughs.

“Arthur,” Your words come out in a messy slur. He lets his scruffy face press against your neck, a kiss behind your ear. He wants to kiss you all over. There’s not enough hours in the day. “Oh, god, Arthur,”

“Still feels good, then, I’m guessin’,”

“Shut up,” You huff and press your cheek into his arm. He doesn’t bother stifling his laugh. “Still feels…big. Stretchin’ me out—hicc—so much,”

You really don’t try to rile him up - but you do a damn good job of it anyway. He groans, grunts as he pulls back and pistons himself in you. A gesture half-way between a kiss and the warning shot of a gun. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes, noisy and vulgar. Arthur don’t pay it much mind. He laughs against your shoulder.

“One of these days, that moutha’ yours is gonna get me in real trouble.”

You giggle back at him

“What kinda trouble is that now?”

Even from your side glance, you’ve got that lovely little smile on you. Fuckdrunk and ingratiating, like you know he’s wrapped so tight around your fingers. And he is, like nothing else in the world could have him. A wave of possession curls up over Arthur, makes him press more of himself into you. Onto you. Another deep push of his cock, sliding against the tenderest parts of you. Staking some silent desire in you. He wants and wants and wants, and hopes that whatevers above him can forgive him for making the same mistake thrice.

“Dunno,” Arthur comments, teeth grazing your shoulder and kissing the indentations “Got our whole lives together to find out, I reckon.”

“I’ll hold you to it, Mister.”

Arthur laughs. “Hope you do, Miss.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ JOHN MARSTON + COWGIRL ;

John doesn’t say that he loves you lightly.

Hardly a thing he says can be said that way. Could never afford too. In an alternate universe where nothing goes wrong in his life, maybe - but he has a hard time picturing what the hell that’d look like. A version of himself so untainted, without all of the violence and blood and gunsmoke? Foreign. John can’t picture it worth a damn.

Who John is without a deadbeat father and a dead Ma is somewhere far beyond his reach. Ain’t nothing about his life, at any point, lighthearted.

On top of all that mess, he’s got a boy at age four with a woman he ain’t married too. And that relationship is always on rocky waters, even though John’s decided to do right by his own flesh and blood sometime ago. Most things in the world he should feel good about he doesn’t, and most things he should understand render him clueless. He’s a mess on multiple accounts, and he still doesn’t know how exactly he’s meant to approach this life of his. He knows what he should do, but nothing about how to do it.

John doesn’t come to love you easily ‘cause he wouldn’t know easy love if it hit him in his face. Quickly and painfully, but not easily.

Your return to the gang was an odd one. You were an old presence and your disappearance was an even older story. John thought he’d never gonna see you again for sure. You’d been a part of the gang back long before all of the nonsense that took place in Blackwater and you left about the time Arthur’s boy died. John don’t remember why you left exactly. He thinks it was a fight with Hosea, of all things.

Dutch weren't too happy about it neither, but Dutch back then didn’t make a show.

So you left, and John buried every feeling he ever harbored. You found all them again up in Colter, where you’d been living out your days lately. According to you, in the middle of riding, you thought you’d heard Arthur. So, somewhat recklessly, you went chasing him. Didn’t matter if he was just something your mind conjured. According to you, if it was him, it was at least worth checking to make sure. You’d reunited with Arthur and after some tears, he rode with you back to camp.

Upon your return, the gang welcomed you with open arms.

You’d done a lot in your time alone.You spent most of that time just like that, a ghost wanderin’ the planes. You weren’t gonna stay with ‘em, but Arthur insisted and Hosea did too. That wasn’t enough to compel, so John was last to chip in. You should stay, at least until Valentine.

(Silently he thought, you should stay so John can trace memories of you. It was so long ago, he should’ve forgotten all of it. You were a year older than John and always on his ass but easy for him to talk to. Didn’t fuss over his failures. You just barely grew into your womanhood when you set your sights on running away. You wanted more than this life, and John never really forgave you for it. His first heartbreak, maybe - but it’s all too blurry for that.

You understood him though better than anyone, and one day you were gone. Nothing’s really the same.)

You changed tremendously and not at all. He missed you. God, did he ever. Missed you a long time. Didn’t realize how much until you came back and everything in him felt right again. Your return stirred up old feelings and everyone noticed. He wasn’t trying to keep it a secret, but he really wasn’t trying to fall back into anything with you. Not how he did.

Just like you did back then, you read John like an open book. And just like he did back then, he loved you all too helplessly for it. It was just all too easy again, to be with you.

You stayed out of the way at first, for the sake of his family.

But, John ain’t a half-decent man even when he’s trying to be. So he set himself on being with you. It wasn’t easy - most things with him aren’t as you’ll see. Having you around again straightened what was left of his common sense, at least. He told Abigail before telling you. He figured you wouldn’t even reply unless that was all out of the way. That turned out as well as you’d expect.

It was settled between the two of you thereafter. He’s lucky she didn’t toss him into the street.

Everything works out in a way. As best they can between broken people. You make peace with each other. His boy loves you like a third parent (you’re better with him than John is). Abigail commends you for straightening out such a worthless man though she’s a little melancholy. John just tries to stay out of the way. You’ll be together in the end. There’s a plan with the five of you.

But until it all falls apart, he doesn’t get all that much time with you.

There’s moments like tonight, though. Rare ones. Together out robbin’, cooped out some place in the woods where no one is around. A place so shaded by nightfall that John can absolve himself of every sin he’s ever committed in his life and pray at the altar between your hips. John is convinced he might find worship like he’s always hearing about there whenever he touches you, the marred skin of his hands and knuckles reading the scripture of your body with careful precision.

You might turn him into a literate man yet.

John glances up at you. Only the light of the fire and the moonlight there to accompany as he watches you over him. You’re beautiful. John couldn’t picture a single thing more perfect in his life.

Your hands against his bare chest, nails digging into the flesh as you lean forward. Your palm dug into the dirt, John finds his own hands rested at your hips. John looks at you awe-struck, cock twitching at the mere sight. His heart settles in his throat, but he’s calm all at the same time. With you, he forgets. All of it. The worst of himself.

Bare naked and so close, he watches your face as you strain. You feel soft. Every inch of you in comparison to him is. A bead of sweat slides down the valley of your breasts. John cranes his neck up to catch it with his tongue, licking a stripe up to your neck - letting his teeth sink into the space between your jaw and neck. You want to make it last and John doesn’t blame you. It’s so rare you get to have each other so unrestrained. John can feel all the ways you want him, can see it in your face - all pinched with need. You’re holding yourself back, trying to get it to last as long as the night will allow. It’s cute in a way.

It’s different than how he’s used to seein’ you, all cocky or otherwise. You’re needy like this. Just needy. His stomach turns with lust, jolting through him like a strike of lightning. His cock twitches against your folds, sliding against them. Pure admiration watching the sticky mess of his pre-cum and your own arousal mix together and smear on your mound. You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, faint and tender as you fall forward just a little. John laughs against your neck.

“Darlin’,” He says with a huff. Not malice. Something akin to bliss, where he can rarely afford it “Have I done something to piss you off today?”

You pick yourself up and look down at him and frown. John kisses the corner of your mouth, resisting some crude desire to fuck up into you.

“Just,” You grunt as the tip of his cock passes over your throbbing clit, your whole body wracking to a shiver. John looks awed. “Pent up. Goddamn it,”

John figures it out quickly after that. It’s this part of it he likes. The proximity. The closeness. Feeling the tremble in your hands as they struggle to keep up right, muscles strained in your forearms. Being able to hold you, to keep the pace or let you take the lead. The clear view of your face as pleasure travels up through your spine and melts into you. He grabs your hips, the fat dimpling underneath his fingers as he moves you along. He can’t wait. You don’t bother to protest seeing John can’t seem to bear it anymore. You collapse into his chest, your tits pushed flat against his pecs.

His cock throbs near painfully, sliding against your soft cunt before finding himself lined with you. He thinks to himself that it’s this he was looking for, as he tucks your face against his neck and lets his tip stretch you out slowly. Such a vice like grip, stretching - resisting him like your whole body can’t anticipate the sensation of fullness. You gasp against his throat.

“John,”

What a sweet sound from your mouth, even sweeter as he bucks himself up. Keeps you steady and lets his cock stretch you full, feel you deep. “That’s right, my angel. Didn’t think you’d remember my name when you’re all worked up like this.”

“You’re,” You gasp and John thrusts, thrusts hard until he’s buried to the hilt. You shudder, walls pulsing around him as he bottoms out and John laughs like the terrible man he is. He fucks you again, over and over - a wicked little smile watching “Awful. Just awful, John Marston,”

“Ain’t that the truth,” He hums against your mouth as his hand snakes between your bodies, thumb rubbing against your clit. “Wonder what kinda woman that makes you,”

“A foolish one,”

John laughs.

“I sure do love you for it,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆JAVIER ESCUELLA + SIDEWAYS ;

Javier hasn’t thought about much other than surviving.

It’s been like that. Been like that for a while, probably much longer than he cares to admit. He’s sure any sane man would suffer the same plight if they lead the same life. Anything but survival is little more than a pipe-dream, so Javier tries not to go for anything too strongly. In that aspect he’s like many of the members of the gang he’s in, perhaps that’s why he sticks to them. There’s that phrase Hosea’s always saying - that misery loves company. Javier will take any decent company he can get. He’s desperate for it just like he’s desperate for most things - inwardly, silently.

Some of that desperation may be symptomatic of who he is. After he killed a man in a crime of passion for a woman he loved and ran from a government who would sooner exile him than change, Javier decided to not dream anymore. Every revolutionary who dreams too hopefully pays the price in blood.

(Javier thinks there’s probably nothing in the world as true as this. A form of gospel. He remembers the first dream he ever had after his uncle passed. Not a nightmare but a dream. He remembers the exact feeling of waking up, cold and confused. What is a dream, except a memento of survivor's guilt that loyal people cling onto fruitlessly. When hope starts to feel like a debt he’s going to waste his life paying back, Javier loses sight of everything. The beginning of the end in some way.)

His mind doesn’t occupy itself with anything bigger than that. Since Dutch found him starving, there was never a desire to try and live off aspirations. He pays his penance with loyalty and honor. Practices some form of humility and tries, not too desperately, to carve a place for him to fit. All without drawing too much attention or caring too much. If you ignore the bleeding in his fingers, his penchant for knives over guns, and his refusal to talk too long about the place he comes from - it’s nearly believable that none of it matters.

Except loyalty. All Javier honors is that. It’s the only thing he has some part in choosing, so he choses it every time. Living like that didn’t make any difference to him. He was surrounded by mostly decent people. He didn’t hate the life he was living.

It wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. His directionless-ness, his floating. Hadn’t since he joined the gang. At least not to anyone but him. He didn’t know what he’s meant to do or if he was meant to proceed with this forever. He was (is) loyal to Dutch. To the gang.

He hadn’t thought much about what comes after.

And it didn’t matter until he met you

He’d sworn off love after seeing where it got him, at least until he could love more dispassionately. When the women bring you back from their outing from Valentine and beg Dutch to let you stay, Javier doesn’t think much of it all. He thinks you’re pretty, if it counts for anything. But he doesn’t let himself linger on you too long.

But that’s the sequence with you two, really. The whole time. He doesn’t linger until he does. It doesn't matter until it does. He doesn’t think about you until it’s all he can think about.

You go for him first. And it’s in little, unimportant ways that might not mean shit to you but mean a whole lot to him. You have some kind of tenderness about you that you wear deep, runs through your blood like love ran through his once long ago. Some softness he can’t really measure with his own. It’s not that that gets him. It’s that sometimes you look at Javier like he's … someone you want to see. He forgot what that was like all together. It felt foreign to him the first time it happened. Seeing how you light up when Javier is around.

You wanted to see him. You noticed that he’s gone. If he sang by the campfire - you’d sit by him and listen. If he was out in the trees keeping guard, he’d hear the soft call of your voice to Grimshaw ask Where’s Javier? And sometimes the girls will make fun of you - but you wouldn’t deny anything they said. It’s so small and ordinary. He would’ve never considered himself simple before meeting you. Nothing is simple. Nothing.

(But then, Javier thinks of the kinds of songs he sings and the way he takes care of himself and the clothes he wears and maybe Javier has some kind of affinity for preciousness that explains all of it.)

When Javier confesses his feelings for you - he finds the affair to be like most things between you. Ordinary love, not really between outlaws but people. It’s up against a tree while you share a drink and he’s looking at the curve of your mouth and the plum color Karen’s so kindly put on you. And his head fills with kissing you so he does. A breathless confession between alcohol stains and the feeling of your hands curled in the lapels of his suit.

From there, Javier is your lover. He’s not interested in the business of secrets, but he tries not to let it show too much. Not that he doesn’t want to. He wants to show you off more than anything - at least some part of him does. But the other part wants to keep you away from prying eyes, keep his love for you only where the both of you can see. If he could keep that pretty lovestruck face you make all to himself forever he would.

When he gets a chance to whisk you away from everything, Javier jumps at the chance. Not often, but Javier makes time for you. Makes time to indulge in love he thought he’d never find again.

That’s why he’s here with you in the middle of nowhere, a ghost town where no one knows you.. A reserved room with a bed and lowlights all to yourselves.

Javier can’t keep his hands to himself and he doubts you expect him too.

For Javier, this sense of proximity is what intoxicates him most. The warmth of your bare skin in the slivers of yourself exposed. Javier is fond of finding you like this after a long day of horse riding. Of sneaking touches to your waist as you push back against him to sleep, only to find his desire for you - laid clearly. He likes hearing you whimper feeling his length poke against your back, the embarrassment when it dawns on you that he wants you after all. Always surprised, even though Javier tells you it so often. Whispers it along your neck and shoulders whenever you’re at camp together.

You like the feeling of his hands so Javier always starts with them. He squeezes your hips. Planes his palms over your chest before squeezing your chest, pushing the fat between his fingers. You like the way they look when they grope you, his chin resting against your shoulder as you spoon. In the lowlights of a cheap hotel - Javier gets the perfect view of your silhouette. Your body is sensitive over the fabric of your gown, heat prickling through you.

Javier who is always so gentle with you, rouses so deep listening to your whining as he explores your body. The suffocating closeness of a single bed intoxicates him.

“Javier,” Your voice is sweet and thin. Plays in Javier’s head like music and makes his mouth curl up into a catlike grin as you push back on him. You look slightly over your shoulder, lips pushed into a pout. “Please,”

He tugs at the fabric of your nightgown. The top half pulls haphazard underneath your tits, nipples perky and sensitive to touch while the skirt pools at your waist. What gets Javier like this is the desperation. Wanting so much but not being able to look too long. A way for you to mirror him, it’s a matter of possession. In some stupid way. Bunching your clothes up, pushing the fabric of your panties to one side, letting his arm wrap around your waist to touch and tease. All of these are imprints of his longing, tucked faithful into your side as he whispers sweet nothings into your skin.

His cock twitches as it pushes past your folds with finality, your hands curling up at your sides. You whimper softly, let your cheek rest against the sheets as Javier takes you on your side. Terribly close, you fuss as you feel him slide every inch into you slow, your hands reaching back for purchase. It’s the fit of you against him so perfect, the silent strokes of intimacy, the hush-hush giggles between the sheets that Javier loves most about fucking you like this. Too enamored with you to look too closely, he lets his eyes flutter closed. He could get drunk just being in your space.

He carves out space for himself inside of you, feels your cunt accommodate for him like it loves him. A feverishness breaks out as his forehead rests on the space between your shoulders, an uncharacteristic whiny quality in his words.

“Ser mío,” Javier says - as a reflection of what he really wants, to belong only to you. “Belong to me.”

Darling as you always are, you nod softly.

“All yours, Javier,” You whimper, finding his hand. “Forever,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ CHARLES SMITH + MATING PRESS ;

Wandering.

He’s been doing it his whole life. Not something he’s proud of. Or ashamed of either, really. Just how things have gone for him until now. Charles doesn’t think his life has been any better or any worse than anyone else's. At least not when he weighs it with the same kind of pragmatism he does most things. It’s been a hard life, and a miserable one in so many ways. Still, it’s not something Charles is too keen to dwell on.

There’s just something thematic about loss in Charles' life in a way he finds completely unpleasant. It’s more constant than anything. Loss of his home, loss of his mother, loss of his father in an attempt to find what’s best for him. It’s some overarching message that hangs over his head like a shadow. Everywhere he goes, trying to rectify his own solitude seems to come back to him. It doesn’t help that it’s an unfair world to start with, and would’ve been if he had just been black or just been native. But Charles is both, and has lived a life that reflects that specific injustice thoroughly.

There’s not really anything Charles can do about it, at its baseline. When he left his father, the name of the game had simply been survival. He was well-equipped enough for that at least. But after survival comes trying to live and trying to live isn’t something so simple. Jumping in and out of gangs who thought they could get away with slighting him or generally being surrounded by unpleasant people. Trying to find something in pages of book and scripture, or in the way water ripples when it rains.

He’s never felt any one way towards the gang. Even when he joined them all the way back in the Grizzlies. Lost in the cold, they’d crossed paths as Charles was out hunting. A lot of it feels like a blur. Of all the folks he’s met in his travels though, Dutch treats him fair and the rest of them (or most of them) are decent, honest folk. Charles stays in the Van Der Linde gang for such simple reasons as trying to stay alive and be somewhere that isn’t actively hostile towards him. He’s a good gunman, and a better fighter. The inner workings of gang politics and forging connection isn’t at the forefront of his mind, with the exception of the kindest few.

The Van Der Linde gang is just a place where he can figure out what his purpose is meant to be, even if he doesn’t find it there. He’s never expecting anything to come out from his loyalties to it.

Of all the things Charles expects of his life in the Van Der Linde gang, love is at the very bottom of the list.

Maybe it’s about time he stops being surprised by these things happening to him one or way another.

You were a member of the gang far before him, and someone Charles took to quickly. You’d joined the gang not too long after John from what Arthur tells him. Though the brunette speaks about you more fondly than he does his brother. A problem child at the start, according to Arthur - always getting into all sorts of trouble. Something you seemingly feel embarrassed about now and refuse to bring up. Charles has a hard time picturing it having only known you as you are.

The woman you’ve grown into is someone else completely, and Charles sees that in you all the time. Compassionate like Hosea but charismatic like Dutch, and clever. And you’re beautiful, too, though Charles feels a little shallow admitting that’s part of what drew you into him.

It wasn’t Charles that approached you first. You were the one who spoke to him, as often as you thought necessary but never in a way he found invasive. He doesn’t know what it is exactly about you that charms him near instantly. You’re enigmatic to a fault. It’s like you always know exactly what to say and exactly when to say it. Even more than that, you’re a terribly pleasant person to be around. Subtly warm and free of assumptions. When Charles talks to you about anything, you listen without making him feel like it’s any sort of burden to you. You don’t pry, don’t make missteps. Treat him fair, and then some.

It’s unbearably simple, just how quickly and how easily he comes to adore you. And, in some ways, Charles knows better than to believe that his purpose is loving someone. There’s more to it than that, surely - after everything.

But then, he’ll watch you do something. Watch you do some kind of menial work that he could do for you instead. Thinks of skinning animals for new clothes and chopping wood and rubbing the soap off of you and all of a sudden it makes him feel anchored. Everything he could do for you. You anchor Charles easily, with a wispy smile. Make him want to find purpose in life with you. He never wants to be somewhere you’re not.

He confesses it to you just like that, and like you do with most things - you accept and reciprocate without making too much of a fuss.

For Charles, making love is an extension of wanting to ground himself in you. A distant siren song - the intersection of lust and bone deep adoration. Like most things, you’re the one to approach first every time. A soft hand on his forearm, a whisper that you want him. It’s with ease that he draws you away. Drags from you camp during nightfall with his horse and blankets and picks a spot with the perfect view of the stars.

Charles watches you under the glow of moonlight, his vision adjusting to you easily. Naked underneath him, laid on your back with your legs folded at your knees - heaving deep breaths. He can see the sweat beading down your skin, your chest rising and falling - and the perfect view of your pussy. His hands and mouth are wet as you breathe out. He finds himself smiling at you, his own erection pressed against your thigh, pre-cum leaking out in a mesmerized haze.

You lift your hands up and he leans down, surprised as you wrap them around his neck and pull him closer to you. Your mouths meet like that, and Charles laughs against your lips as you kiss him so eagerly. You blink at him, pretty. You’re always prettier than he remembers you being the last time he looks.

“Charles,” You frown at him. “It’s impolite to keep a lady waiting,”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Sorry, my love. I don’t want to hurt you,”

“Well, I’m fine with it,” You repeat, almost petulant. Charles frowns. “‘Sides, it ain’t my first time taking you, you know?”

“Well, I’m not fine with it.”

You pout, looking at him all endeared. Charles couldn’t help but love you even if he tried. “You ain’t gonna hurt me. C’mon. Please?”

“Please, what?”

You look at him aghast before breaking out into a faux-scandalized giggle. “Now you—please fuck me. Pretty, please.”

Charles feels something tickling against his spine hearing you say it. He couldn’t imagine getting sick of you in his whole life. “Yeah, that’s good to hear.”

You make an indignant noise but it’s silenced quickly as Charles positions himself against your entrance. He has plenty of discipline when it comes to matters like these, but right now - he feels like he’s going to lose his mind. Not nearly enough patience to wait. He lets his hands go up underneath your knees just to have something to hold onto.

You make a little gasp as the tip of his cock pushes into you. Your walls are so soft, likely after all the orgasms he’d given you prior. You stop him in a shocked gasp, and Charles immediately readies himself to pull out. As if sensing his hesitance, you shake your head.

“Charles,” You gasp, the words caught in your throat and hoarse “Deep. Want it deep,”

His abdomen tightens, cocking twitching hard at your words. He agrees silently to your desires.

When it comes to sex, there’s very little Charles dislikes.

But this is his favorite. He’s simple but no other position lets him see you so close. He likes the way your eyes widen as he pushes up underneath your knees and folds you underneath his weight. How you look pinned down under him, the perfect view of your eyes rolling back into your head and the proximity from your face to his. He lets his cock stretch you out slowly, throbbing each time your nails dig desperately into arms trying to keep your composure. Fuck you feel so tight like that. Soft pussy, dripping and sticky. You suck him in relentlessly, and Charles groans as he bottoms out. You take every inch of him so well. So perfect like the rest of you.

Your eyes flutter open as he stays there, buried in you in complete bliss. You’re dazed.

“Kiss?”

Surprise followed by adoration, he abides by your request easily. Overwhelmed with it as he presses a chaste peck to your mouth, he laughs. “As many as you want.”

Anything you want, Charles thinks, he would give to you.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

#arthur morgan x reader #john marston x reader #javier escuella x reader #charles smith x reader #rdr2 x reader #rogues love letters #red dead redemption 2 x reader #THIS IS THE LAST TIME. THE LAST FUCKING TIME !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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