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pencil-n-pen · 5 months ago

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I’M STILL TRYING EVERYTHING

⋆° 𐙚 ₊🧦☕🧸₊°⋆ ೀ₊°⋆

previous | kofi | masterlist

post prison!spencer reid x fem!reader

₊ ⊹

I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me.

-mirrorball, taylor swift

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summary: you’ve never had a date or a relationship that either didn’t work out or end in disaster. now that you have spencer, you’re determined not to let it happen again

cw: referenced bad past relationships, very very vaguely referenced past domestic abuse that honestly could be taken a different way, referenced child abuse (readers parents are STILL not it) again this is a criminal minds fic so references to graphic violence

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort (do i even need to say this? you all know who i am) insecurity, like one line of misogyny and it’s in the past and not brought up again, spencer being soft n worried, HEALTHY COMMUNICATION, spencer is just as gone for reader as she is for him honestly he's just a sap

a/n: back by popular demand !! seriously guys, you have no idea how much the support and comments and reblogs and asks means to me 🥹 the overwhelming amount of love for the first fic made me so happy when people started asking about a sequel i knew i had to !!

read the crossword on the collage for a surprise :)

this one goes out to all my girlies who’ve ever felt like they needed to be less in order to get a boyfriend or keep one. we’ll have our soft love just the way it was meant to be

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Spencer is a really good boyfriend.

Like… a really good boyfriend. You’re not sure if this is how having a real boyfriend is or if Spencer is just like this.

He’s so good to you. He’s just so- so him. You can’t explain it. Can’t put it into words.

He’s very patient with you. You’ve never explicitly stated it, but he’s picked up on your previous relationship experience- or more accurately, your lack thereof. The morning after you’d gone home with him, night consisting of nothing but easy sleep and warmth, he’d asked you out for real. Asked you if you’d go on a date with him, and you’d agreed, a giddy smile fixed firmly on your face.

But you still worry.

All it takes it one conversation with your parents to push things over the edge.

“Yes, dad. He’s very good to me.”

A laugh crackles over the line. “I tell you, your mother and I never thought we’d see the day.”

The words twinge uncomfortably in your chest. “Hey, I’m not that bad. I’ve just been focused.”

“More like uptight.”

“Dad—“

“You know, you still haven’t come out to visit your poor old parents since getting this so-called cushy job. And now you’ve got this boyfriend. You’re too young to settle down. Don’t you think we should meet him?”

Sometimes conversations turn so quickly they leave you stranded— scrambling to pick up pieces of what you thought was going to happen and piece them together to make something new. Something for the new route the conversation has taken.

You couldn’t hold back your sigh if you tried. “We haven’t been dating for that long dad, I don’t want to spring this on him—“

“Sweetie, if we don’t meet him now, why might never meet him. Who knows how long he’s gonna stick around?”

(Sometimes, in moments like these, for just a split second, you wonder how a father could say something like that, to his daughter. You wonder why, wonder what you did wrong. And then, you imagine Hotch saying those same things, and you can’t, and it almost makes you feel a little better.)

Your blood runs cold. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“Well, you know how things have ended in the past. I’m just saying I’d like to meet him before he’s gone."

You don't dignify his words with a response.

"Come on, honey. I'm just joking with you."

"It's not funny."

"Don't be like that--"

"Goodbye."

You hang up, snapping the phone shut with a sigh.

The older you've gotten, the more conversations with your parents end up like this. You suppose it's the way you 'wasted your potential' or 'never made something of yourself.' They've always held resentment ever since you decided to become an agent. So you know not to take what they say to heart, because their words only come from a place of disappointment and displeasure. It's not a reflection of who you really are or what you've really accomplished.

Or at least, that's what Hotch told you when he'd overheard one of your phone calls. It meant more than you'd let on.

But your Dad's words linger in your head. They're irritating and sharp where they claw around in your head because they're true.

You can count on one hand the amount of romantic endeavors you've had. And from those, they all ended horribly. Your parents lost sympathy towards the end of your attempts, muttered words of needing to try harder to keep them, that you should be satisfied that somebody wanted you at all, that you should try to be less... you.

Try to be less... you, dear. The books and the facts- nobody wants those. Put some more effort into your appearance. Otherwise you'll end up all alone.

You'd tried to take their advice, of course. But the relationships that were fathered your parents direction were not loving. There was nothing soft or gentle or warm about them. You'd never felt more unlovable.

So when the incident with the shooter happened and you were lying on the lecture hall floor, blood coloring the carpet deep scarlet, you'd vowed to never let it happen again. That you were going to use your intellect and wit and passion for what you wanted to do- you'd promised yourself that if you survived, you would try to make your life your own, one step at a time.

This, of course, is easier said than done.

It's easy enough to refuse to let yourself get involved with men who are clearly only interested in your for your badge or your body --though the latter happens so rarely you really don't have to worry about it-- because you don't care about them. They're blips on your radar.

But Spencer? Sweet, sweet Spencer who makes you hot-cocoa and binge watches Doctor Who with you, even the later seasons, which you know he doesn't like as much but you love. Spencer who always has a grounding touch to offer, or a quiet command when you need him. Spencer who puts you first.

But there's a limit to these things, right? As far as you've seen, romantic relationship's are transactional, or conditional. Sometimes both. He can't just... keep doing this forever. It's too kind. Too sweet. It'll come to an end soon. Like, like the honeymoon era in early relationships. That's all it is. Plus, he's older than you, and you have no illusions about your unavoidable impulsiveness and naivety.

You've been told that your standards are too high before. "Struck by the hopeless romantic's arrow," your brother had said once, back when you were still in school, crying over a boy who'd told you that he didn't want to date you because you were too smart for a girl.

"That's not being hopeless romantic. There's no such thing as being too smart for a girl."

"There isn't," He'd amended, "But you're not going to have an easy time finding a guy. You of all people can't really afford to be picky."

He'd been right, in the end. So you're just... having a hard time figuring out how genuine Spencer's actions are. Guy's don't really act all romantic in the context of you. You've been told your whole life to be happy with what you get, and what you've had in the past is decidedly not lining up with how Spencer treats you.

It's a nasty little thing in your ear. Is it real? Does it matter as much to him?

When is it all going to end?

Rossi make's an offhand comment during a mission that you talk a lot when you're excited about the subject at hand.

JJ agrees. "It's a little unnerving when the subject is the bruising patterns of strangulation."

That little voice comes back.

Too much too much too much too much too much--

"It's useful," You protest, mouth dry.

JJ snorts, "I'm not sure about that. We need to know that the victim was strangled, not what happens to the body during blunt-force asphyxiation."

You'd grown quiet then, let the chatter and musings of the rest of the team wash over you.

Is that something Spencer finds annoying? You have always found things other's view morbid and disturbing fascinating. But JJ is right. No one wants to hear about that.

You brush the comment off, square your shoulders, get back on with the case.

Be better. Try harder.

You don't seen the furrow of Spencer's brows from where he's been watching you, or the quick look he shares with Hotch.

You'd never really thought about how clingy you can be before Emily makes an offhand comment about it while the two of you wait in line at a coffee shop. There's a couple in front of you, the girl all over her partner, kissing and giggling and hugging them close.

"Ugh," Emily groans once the two get their coffee and move on. "I could never understand the appeal of all that. I mean doesn't it feel stifling?"

A little stab of ice in your stomach.

"I don't know. I think it's nice."

"No, thank you. If I were her partner, I'd feel smothered."

You think about that conversation every time you take Spencer's hand or lean into his simple touches. They're invasive little things, the thoughts. It's not hard to pull back on all the touching. You never really ask for them in the first place- always too nervous to come off clingy. But you suppose just taking, taking, taking is just the same.

A quick shake of your head, not leaning in, a quiet "I'm fine." and that little nagging fear of smothering begins to quiet. It doesn't leave, but it does get quieter. For a little while, at least.

The hard part is trying to be less without noticeably being less. Spencer's smart- and he's a profiler. If you pull back too much too quickly, he'll notice, and you don't want to talk about this yet. You just need to make sure he'll stay. That things won't—

That you won't find out too late that you don't mean as much to him as he does to you.

That's the kind of thing that can't happen again. But ascertaining his true feelings and desires is difficult, because this is all kind's of new territory for you. You want to believe it's real. You really, really want to believe it's real.

But it's never been real before, so why would it be real now?

You've asked around (subtly and carefully, of course) about the type of girl Spencer's dated or drifted towards in the past. You know he said he wanted something soft and sweet, but you can't help but think that you're not really either, nor are you in line with his type. All things considered, you're a mess. Something tired-eyed and hollow is how you feel most days. Some sort of creature perhaps? You're honestly not sure what you are. You've spent your entire life being singled out or otherwise othered- always too smart or too different or too weird or too much or too loud or too quiet or too shy or too, too, too. Always too something. You have never been called soft or sweet. In a demeaning way, sure, but never with the quiet reverence that Spencer said it with that night.

It feels like a balancing act, a bit. Holding all those too much parts so close to your chest with one hand and shoving the ones you think Spencer wants with the other hand.

You could probably drop the one hand. The one holding the bad parts. But you're just not convinced he'll stay. You're not sure that he won't look at them with some form of disgust or pity or something else terrible.

You know the balancing act isn't sustainable— you'll fall eventually, and everything will come crashing down, but until then, you just keep trying. Trying to see if he'll stay, trying to see what to do if he won't. How to ensure he will, if that's something that's possible.

The act does not hold up for as long as you hoped it would. It comes crashing down with a glass. Literally.

You and Spencer are in the kitchen on a rare weekend off, cooking and drinking wine and swaying to some little old love song.

It should be perfect, except you're worrying that you look ugly while you're dancing, and you're probably singing off-key, and he maybe wants you to shut up so he can hear the song or dance in peace.

He reaches towards you and you just— your brain shrieks for a moment, all senses going into overdrive and you jerk backward, and your elbow knocks into your wine glass, and it falls, shattering behind you with a deafening crash.

Your entire body tenses, waiting for yelling or sighing or something, because you broke the glass, there's crystalline shards everywhere, the wine red and it looks like blood, maybe it is, maybe you're bleeding because the glass was really close to your foot when it fell but you're not sure because you can't really feel your feet or your fingers or—

"Don't move," Spencer says, voice serious, and tears well in your eyes, because this is when it all ends isn't it? "I don't want you to— honey?"

"Yes?" You croak.

His eyes are swimming with concern as he takes in your hunched shoulders, shallow breaths, and scared expression.

Understanding flickers in his features, and you resist the urge to hold your breath.

"Nothing is going to happen to you because of the glass, okay? Everything is fine. We're fine. I'm not mad. See? I'm not mad. I just don't want you to cut your feet on the glass. I'm going to clean this up and get your slippers, okay?"

"Okay." You breathe, voice hoarse. You wring your hands nervously as he leaves to retrieve the necessary supplies to clean the mess, heart beating so fast and so hard you're shocked you can't see it through your shirt.

He's not mad. He's not mad. You're not in trouble. Your parents aren't here. You're not grounded. You're not in trouble. He's not mad.

You're silent while he cleans, focused on getting your breathing under control while he babbles quietly about the history of glass making and the significance of types of wine glasses. The facts and history wash over you in steady waves, easing the tension in your shoulders bit by bit.

"I didn't think you were going to hit me, Spencer."

He continues cleaning. "It's okay if you did. I would never blame you for that."

"But I don't," You say, suddenly desperate, "I know you wouldn't, I've never been hit, not like that."

He's quiet for a few minutes. "Does this have something to do with how you've been acting recently?"

You freeze. "What do you mean?"

He looks up, leaning back on his knees. Making himself smaller, you realize. He's trying not to scare you again.

"You're dating a profiler. Also, I speak fluent you, and you've been chewing all your hangnails again. You only do that when you're stressed and pretending like you're not."

Your finger's twitch at your sides.

His hands come up slowly, and he rubs the length of your waist and hips. "We don't have to talk about it right now, but I think we should soon. I don't want you hurting all by yourself. You've had enough of that. That's what I'm here for."

He finishes cleaning up the glass, and finishes cooking dinner- he'd assured you he'd turned off all burners when the glass hit the floor, so nothing's burnt.

Once you've both eaten, he steers you towards the couch and wordlessly puts on Doctor Who.

The Pandorica is just about to open when you finally decide that if you don't start talking, you never will.

"My parents think you're going to leave me."

Spencer makes a wounded noise in his throat. "Why do they think that?"

"Because it's happened before. I'm, um. I'm not very good at getting into relationships. Or keeping them."

"But that's not your fault."

You sniff hard, rubbing your face with your sleeve. "It is though, isn't it? At least a little. I know I can be a lot. I know I'm not easy to—"

You cut yourself off, but the words hang in the air anyway; unsaid.

I'm not easy to love.

"Anyway," You say, pushing through the lump in your throat. "I just thought. I don't know. I was worried that you'd get fed up with me."

"No," He whispers, voice raw and full of something a lot heavier than fond. "No, no baby. I like that you're clingy and you ramble when you get excited, because it means that we get to talk about something together."

He shifts on the couch, sitting criss-crossed, ducking his head down to catch your gaze. "You know what else I like?"

You scoot over, mirroring his position. "What?"

"I like that you always know when I need you. Even when I don't think I do, you're there. Because I do need you. This isn't a one-way street."

His words hit you straight in your chest. "Oh."

He smiles, brows a little scrunched, brown eyes a deep pool of fondness and a splash of concern. "Yeah. And I'm thinking you need me a little more than you want to let on."

The seam of your pajama pants suddenly becomes the most interesting thing in the world. Amazing, the wonders of a sewing machine.

"Maybe."

"Mmm," He hums, "So if I need you, don't you think that you're allowed to need me?"

Your fingers pick and twirl a loose thread around. "...Yes?"

A large, firm hand covers your thigh, giving it a quick squeeze. "Yes. Not only are you allowed to need me, I want you to need me. Cause you know how you're always worried about being the best girlfriend? Well, I'm always worried about being the best boyfriend."

That makes you look up. "Really?"

He chuckles again, a little puff of air fanning your face. "Yes, really. I assure you, contrary to your past experiences, this is one of those bare minimum things in a relationship."

"That does not," He continues, immediately catching the brief flicker of doubt and shame on your face, "Mean that it is your fault at all for how you were treated in the past. You wouldn't expect me to suddenly become an expert in veterinary medicine just because I've been to the vet's office a few times, right?"

"When did you go to the vet's—"

"Shh, I'm being a good boyfriend," He holds up a hand, lips quirking up when you can't suppress a tiny giggle, "But seriously. You had no frame of reference, right? And you were being told it was your fault. But it wasn't. You didn't deserve that."

He lets his words hang in the air for a little while and allows you time to process this new information.

"What do I do now?"

"Well," He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, curls tickling your forehead, "You've got a pretty sweet deal here. Just three things. You have to keep letting me need you, let yourself need me, and one last little thing."

"What?"

You're so close your breaths are mingling.

"Let me show you what this is supposed to look like. How a man is supposed to treat a pretty girl. His pretty girl."

"Oh, well," Heat rushes to your cheeks, your stomach doing flip-flops, "That sounds pretty hard. I don't know how I'll hold up."

His hand comes up to hold the side of your face, his thumb sweeping strokes under your eye.

"You say that now, but I know what happens to you when I get romantic. You swoon."

You laugh. "I do not swoon."

"You will."

He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It isn't a kiss-kiss. He's kissing you just to kiss you; just to let you know that he's here, that you have him.

It's sweet and perfect and exactly what you need.

Letting yourself need Spencer is marginally easier now that you know he needs you. Now that you know you're not going all in for someone who isn't.

He also starts needing you a bit... louder.

It's late evening, and most people have gone home except you and a couple other members of the team, all still working on paperwork.

Except Spencer, who's decided to drape himself over your shoulders like a cat, his chin resting on your head.

"Don't you have work to do?"

"Either finished it or it can be done later."

You shift your shoulders, smiling at how his grumbles vibrate against your back.

He moves his head, pressing his cheek to your head instead of his chin, heaving a deep sigh.

"Your hair smells good."

"Like what?"

"You're shampoo. Yours always smell better than mine."

You continue to work through your paperwork, Spencer a continuous and solid weight against your back.

"Is this even comfortable for your back at all?"

"Doesn't matter. Need girlfriend time."

He can't see it, but you're sure he knows how hard you blush.

Spencer's cooking the two of you a late breakfast in the kitchen of his apartment, hair still all mussed from sleep. He's quite the sight. You can't stop staring.

You're sitting on the counter, still dressed in your pajamas, legs swinging.

"You wanna know something cool?"

"You know it,"

"Butterflies and moths can drink blood and tears. There's nutrients in them. Purple Emperor butterflies are especially known for this. It's called mud-puddling."

"So you're telling me I should make sure I bandage any open wounds before I go to a butterfly house?"

"I guess. I can't imagine they'd be able to drink enough blood to actually cause any damage."

"Maybe we'll have to go to a butterfly house. For research."

"Should we get dinner afterwards?"

"We'll deserve it, you know, for all the hard research we'll have done."

"Hmm. Yes, I suppose so."

Spencer's bed is infinitely more comfortable than your bed. You're pretty sure it's a combination of the fact that it's the only thing in the entire world that smells so much like him and the fact that he spent part of his large FBI paycheck on a fancy mattress. Back support is very important to him.

You're doing a little reading before bed, shamelessly sprawled all over him while he does his own reading. You've got a leg hooked over his hips, the other tangled with his legs, and your arms and head pillowed on his chest. You move a little every time he takes a breath, and more than once you've paused in your reading, mesmerized by the feeling.

He shifts under you, setting his book down on his night stand and making himself more comfortable.

"Should I move?"

"No," he says, voice deep and gravelly with sleep. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush to him, face pressed to the crook of your neck. He breathes deep, scruffy stubble scratching against your skin. "Like you close. Good for sleep."

Even with the lamp on, and your book in your hand, you fall asleep soon after him.

It's an ordinary evening for the two of you. Discarded dishes sit on the coffee table in front of the t.v, neither of you paying them any attention, wrapped up in each other and eyes glued to the screen.

You look up at Spencer who's watching Doctor Who with the focus of a man who's never seen it, even though you know for a fact he's seen it before, several times in fact.

"I want to know the things you like," He'd said simply, the one time you'd asked why he takes your nightly Doctor Who watching so seriously.

And tonight's no different. Tonight, he looks... well, he looks like Spencer. His face illuminated by the TV screen, his hair all mussed from you running your hands through it earlier.

And it just kind of all hits you at once. You know.

"I love you."

He looks down at you, his expression soft and surprised. When your words register, his expression is so sickeningly fond and happy you can't help but lean in, burying your face in his chest. He rubs your back consolingly, then presses a little kiss to the crown of your head.

"I love you too."

⋆⭒˚.⋆

taglist: @topsecret101 @slowdownpal @leeknowpegger @sunbl3achedfly @hiireadstuff @paige0103 @private190104 @beautyb1ade @coraline-jones353 @pleasenter-sandman @sttvrdustt @gluchie @thomasintheshadows @dessamira1001 @bbleeeeh @hufflely-puffly @bippityboppityboob1tch @buggys-space @redxfangirl @liauchiha147 @dreaming-potato @meandyoulollz @jobrosimp

#girlblogging #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #dr spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #ao3 #bau team #criminal minds fanfiction #x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #soft spencer reid #almost forgot that one teehee #spencer reid fluff #spencer x reader

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aurorawritestoescape · 1 month ago

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THE NEED

Joel Miller x f!reader || 550 words

Summary: Joel gets you ready to take him.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, pwp, fingering, f!oral, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, praise kink.

A/n: Written for @jolacheese ‘s B&B Trope Search challenge💞 Trope - ‘overstimulation’. Motive - ‘the horny’. Beta-ed by @milla-frenchy ily baby😍😘 Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Part 2 INSATIABLE || MASTERLIST

“No way you’ll be able to take my cock, darlin.”

You’re standing in front of Joel, eyes glossy with need, tears glistening on your lashes.

“I can! I… I’ve had sex before.”

Joel tuts, shaking his head.

“Nah… No one’s as big as me. And I ain’t hurtin you. ‘s not my thing.”

“But Joel,” you plead, one second away from falling to your knees and crawling to his bulge like it’s a bright beacon in the darkest night. “It’ll stretch, I know it! Give me a chance.”

You want him.

You need him.

You’ve never craved anyone this much. No one but Joel.

You are sobbing quietly, but soon your tears get bigger, your whimpers louder. Joel watches you from under his bushy eyebrows, then raises his huge hands with a sigh and motions for you to step up closer.

In a flash you’re standing between his spread legs, eager and excited, desperation in your eyes slowly drowning in hope.

“Show me. Need to see what I’m workin with.”

You pull your skirt up and your underwear down as swiftly as possible, scared that he’ll change his mind.

Joel sits up straight with a grunt, one warm hand wraps around the back of your thigh, while he begins inspecting you with the other. He pushes his middle finger between your folds and slowly drags it up and down, making you moan and tremble.

“Holy… you’re drenched. Really want this cock, huh?”

”Yeah.”

Your body is buzzing with arousal, your knees are ready to buckle, when Joel pinches your clit and rubs it lightly with the pads of his fingers.

“Oh, Joel…”

He chuckles, seeing you melt.

“Softest pussy ya got here, baby. Needs to be kissed, licked. Sure you want my big dick anywhere near her?”

“I do, I do, Joel.” There’s not a trace of doubt in your voice. “I need you more than air.”

Joel scoffs and mumbles ‘poetic’ under his nose.

You’re still standing up, one foot on Joel’s thigh for his better viewing, two of his thick fingers knuckles deep in your pussy.

He’s been examining you for twenty minutes at least, has already made you come twice, turning you into a complete mess. You’re breathing fast, fire is licking at your core, your folds are engorged and covered in your cum juices.

“Look... You’re leakin down my hand, sweetheart,” he marvels. “Sweet little pussy… openin up fast but I need more. Can’t have you cryin on my cock, can I?“

You dig your fingers into his shoulders and whimper, when his third digit finds home in your sopping cunt.

“Mmh... Good girl.”

When he leans down and kisses your oversensitive clit, you feel like your soul is leaving your body, ascending into heavens. A flick of his hot wet tongue against your twitching bud— and you explode, mewling and moaning, clenching his greying curls, wriggling against his face in painful ecstasy.

“One more finger, baby,” he gruffs, voice muffled by your pussy. ”One more and I’ll give you my cock.”

Trying to catch your breath, you slightly lean forward and watch Joel push his pinkie in your stretched hole. It’s too much but you’re revelling in this sensation. You’ve never felt so full in your life. So complete.

Finally, Joel looks up at you, his face dark with lust, and orders,

“Lie down. She’s ready.”

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!❤️

Part 2 INSATIABLE

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @thedilfdiaries @pascaltesaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40 @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name @tateypots

#trope search #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #jolacheese b&b #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #drabble #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel #tlou2 #joel the last of us #x reader #the need fic

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yoiisa · 1 month ago

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wbk reacting to you getting beaten up by a rival gang .𖥔 ݁ ˖

w/ SUO HAYATO, KIRYU MITSUKI, AND KAJI REN

part 2 with Sakura, Togame, and Uryu is here!

Tags: Descriptions of wounds (nothing too graphic, just mentions of blood and bruises), angst, hurt/comfort!

SUO HAYATO ⋆˙⟡

He should’ve seen this coming.

He’s carrying you on his back, his heart battering against his ribcage as you lie slumped over his back.

He’d been at home, completely ready for bed. Just before he tucked himself in though, he got a panicked phone call from Nirei, the blonde boy’s voice high pitched and frantic.

“Suo, come quick! [name] . . . she’s hurt really bad!”

He’d rushed out of his house, not even bothering to change or put on shoes. When he’d gotten to the location Nirei sent him, he found you hunched over on yourself, sitting on a bench. Nirei was sitting next to you, his jacket on your shoulders. Sakura knelt in front of you, checking your injuries.

You looked up, and Suo’s heart shattered like porcelain. A stream of blood leaked from your nostrils, a bruise bloomed across your throat, and your left eye was swelling. Sakura stood up and Suo quickly took his place. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks as you tremble.

“What happened lovely?” he asked, his eyes wide and concerned.

You were silent for a brief moment before you slipped off the bench and into Suo’s arms. You sobbed, “I don’t even know . . . Hayato . . .”

He pulled you into his chest, stroking your hair and kissing your hairline. “Shhh, shh, take your time, it’s okay.”

You wiped your tears and whimpered. “I think someone recognized me . . . they saw me walking with you one day . . . they . . . they had a white jacket on . . . ?”

Sakura and Nirei shot each other sharp looks behind you, before eyeing Suo, who remained stone faced. You continued softly, “I think they wanted to get to you through me?”

Suo went rigid, his breath hitching. Of course. Of course. No one knows anything about him, any of his other weaknesses. Of course they’d go through the first option they’re given. He was an idiot. He was so fucking stupid.

He kissed your forehead and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“. . . ” he removed Nirei’s jacket from your shoulders and replaced it with his. Then, with the help of Sakura and Nirei, he got you situated on his back as he walked you home, to his apartment.

“Hayato,” you whisper, your soft voice snapping him out of his recollection of the past half hour.

“Yes lovely?” he asks, turning his head slightly towards you. You gently play with a tassel, and he smiles.

“Thank you for coming. It was by complete accident that Sakura and Nirei found me, but I'm thankful they did. I was so scared, but when I heard Nirei calling you . . . I was so relieved. I love you,” and then your head droops, sleep overtaking you as you breathe in and out deeply.

Suo almost trips over his own feet. His eyes go wide and he sighs. His heart swells and he kisses your cheek.

“I love you too,” he whispers, “so much lovely.”

KIRYU MITSUKI ⋆˙⟡

Kiryu has an inkling that something was wrong since the morning. It was currently noon, the sun blaring down on the two of you. He was very close to sweating but for some reason, you were in a sweater. The two of you were walking in a strip mall, hand in hand, window shopping.

He studied you, analyzing your appearance. He’d known that you had a crop top at home that you were excited to wear once the weather got warmer, so then why . . .?

“Mitsuki?” You ask, fanning yourself with your hand. “Are you okay?”

“Are you?” He asks softly. His voice is gentle as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Why’re you sweating like this sweetie? You should take your sweater off.”

You stiffen marginally, but relax just as fast. It doesn’t go unnoticed by your boyfriend though, who pouts and furrows his brow.

“I just bought this sweater,” you explain softly. “It’d be a waste to not wear it, right?”

“Then what about the tank tops you bought two weeks ago?” He presses. “That blue looked really cute on you.”

You hum and nod. “Hmmm yeah, maybe.”

“ . . . Cut it out,” he says pulling you closer. “Why’re you lying? Are you okay? Did something happen?” He hugs you and nuzzles his face into your neck. “I’m worried [name]-ie.”

You sigh after a moment, your hand coming up to pat his head. “It’s okay, I’m okay.”

“You’re gonna die of heatstroke!” he exclaims.

You sigh and shake your head, lifting a hand up to fan your face. “Mitsuki-” you begin, but suddenly your sleeve slides down your arm, and the edge of the bruise starts to peak out from behind the cuff.

Kiryu’s eyes narrow in on it and he instantly jumps. His hand wraps around your wrist and he pulls the sleeve down slowly, revealing a nasty bruise in the shape of a hand.

“ . . . Mitsuki-”

“What happened to you?” He asks, his voice hardened by shock. “Where did you get this from?”

“. . . it’s nothing,” you sigh. “I don’t know. Some guys just kinda cornered me the other day and were being asshats,” you mutter angrily. “They . . . beat me up.”

“What?” Kiryu asks. For a second he thinks he misheard you but the more uncomfortable you look by his silence, the more he knows that’s not true.

The two of you stare at each other for a moment before Kiryu drags you into the nearest department store. He leads you to the back of the store and pulls you into the first open stall.

“Mitsuki you can’t do thi-”

“I wanna see what they did. Take the sweater off.”

You stare at him indignantly for a few minutes before finally pulling the sweater up over your head. Bruises cover your torso, your stomach displaying an array of nasty purple splotches.

Kiryu stares at you, his face falling. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?” he asks quietly after a moment.

“Because they wanted a rise out of you and I didn’t want to give them that.”

“You should’ve told me,” he grabs your arms and yanks you into a hug, squeezing you tight against him.

“I’ll heal.”

“That’s not the point,” he whispers against your neck. He pulls himself back and stares deeply into your eyes, his own a whirlwind storm of different emotions. “You always take care of me whenever I’m injured,” he whispers, lifting your wrist up to give the inside of it a kiss. “I wanted to do the same for you.”

You don’t know how long the two of you stand there in the fitting room hugging, but eventually, you’re back at his place, in his shirt, on his bed, in his arms, and you’ve never felt safer in your life.

KAJI REN ⋆˙⟡

Kaji’s sun bathing on the roof, the heat soft against his skin. Music was blaring in his ears, a tiny smile graced his face as he pictures the date the two of you are about to go on later today: go to Pothos . . . get some food . . . hold hands . . .

His smile widens as he pictures it. He can’t wait.

But he won’t have to, cuz you come to him. Or more like someone drags you to him.

“Kaji!” Enomoto shouts, yanking his headphones off.

“Ah! What the hell-”

“Look!” Enomoto shouts, pointing somewhere beyond Kaji.

Kaji sits up and looks through the chain link fence blocking the edge of the roof. At first he doesn’t see what Enomoto is pointing at, but then . . . he sees it.

Kusumi is already hurrying to your side, and scoops your limp body into his arms as he checks your injuries. More second years also rush to your body to look over you. They all know you through your relationship with Kaji, and they all see you as a sister of sorts.

Kaji is bursting through doors and racing through hallways, desperate to get to you. When he finally gets out to the courtyard, his heart is thrumming in his chest as his peers part to let him approach.

Kusumi sets you gently in Kaji’s arms, and Kaji tucks you under his chin. He looks up at Kusumi and Enomoto, who kneels by your side to assess your damage.

Kaji’s fingers dig into your arm as he growls, “What the fuck is this?”

You cough hoarsely as Kusumi says, “I got a text of a photo from an unknown number. Here,” Kusumi shows a photo of a broken you, your body in a fetal position to try and deflect the beating. You face has cuts all over it and bruises mar whatever skin is visible in the picture.

“It was probably a few stragglers from Keel who wanted revenge,” another second year theorizes.

Kaji grits his teeth and pulls you tighter against him. The fact that those lowlife scum would go after you . . . he’ll kill them all. The white hot rage that he knows all too well floods his system and short circuits his senses. He can feel it taking control of his brain. It threatens to take complete hold over him, turning his vision red.

“Ren…?” You whisper against his jaw.

And just like that, he snaps out of it. The other boys freeze as you speak. Kaji gently pulls you back so he can better see into your eyes. Your poor sweet eyes, which are teary and scared. He hates seeing you like this. Hates knowing how scared you must’ve been when you were being assaulted.

"C'mon, let's get you patched up," he mutters. He lifts you in his arms and carries you inside the school, calling for someone to prepare the nurse's office.

“Ren,” you whisper into his neck. Enomoto shouts for some food and water as you continue, “I was so scared.”

Kaji can only give a tight nod. He doesn’t know what else to do. He feels horrible, like this is all his fault. In a way, he supposes it is. When he feels you nuzzle against him, soaking in his scent, he wants to throw you far away from him, that way he can never accidentally cause you pain like this again.

Nevertheless, he carries you back into the school and into the nurse’s office, where a first aid kit is being organized, and some dorayaki and milk is brought forward to you. Some of the boys fuss over you, bandaging your cuts and pouring water into your mouth. You thank them graciously. Kaji stands off to the side, watching the ordeal unfold.

Once they’re done, everyone leaves you and Kaji alone. He holds your hand and you rub your thumb along his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks after he watches you silently for a moment. Anguish is written in his eyes.

“. . . Just hold my hand,” you whimper. "That always makes it better, right?" What choice does Kaji have but to comply?

He gives your hand a firm squeeze and you lean against him. He kisses your hair and you fall asleep, your body exhausted, but protected at last.

A/N: I wanted to do so many other characters for this, so lemme know if you want a part two!

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peachylynnie · 4 months ago

Text

what jewelry they like on you

word count: ~300-400 per lead contains: lads men x non!mc reader, established relationship, they all adore you, jewelry descriptions, fluff, suggestive themes (sylus, rafayel, and caleb), and did i mention fluff? make it toothrotting. a/n: it's midterm season so headcanons it is. again, these are headcanons so i'm not saying i'm right. just my silly little interpretations. inspired by my impulsive buy of a bracelet the other day. no, my wallet hasn't recovered. reblogs and comments are always appreciated! tagged: @vvintqz (a little headcanon for xavier, lmk if u want me to stop tagging) lads masterlist

sylus

necklaces all the way

has a preference for silver chains with red or black charms

it's his signature colors on your pretty neck

loves it even more when the charm rests between your collarbones

if you want his nose to bleed, wear a long necklace

yes, the one that goes all the way down to your chest

but if you really want to get him going

wear a choker

doesn't even have to be a chain type or have charms

if it's a choker, he'll fold, like dogs to a bone

you can't blame him

it enticingly accentuates the rest of your neck and collarbones, the two places he likes to leave marks on

don't worry if you're hypoallergenic (like me)

he only ever gets you the finest of materials, even if you point out the cost

not that you mind or anything

"sylus," you whine.

you're going to be late. again. all because of this silver-haired man who's refusing to leave your neck alone.

"sylus!" you gasp when he tugs down the choker, his dewy lips taking advantage of the newly exposed spot.

you're starting to regret wearing a choker (not really). you thought it went well with your outfit. and it did! it added a little pop to your look, and you were excited to wear it for the first time in a while.

"hey!" you squirm in his embrace when you feel the poke of his teeth. "no marks!"

"does it really matter, sweetie?" he asks nonchalantly before continuing his assault on your neck. he loves how his tongue occasionally meets with the smooth fabric of your choker. "this," he tugs on it some more, eliciting a soft whimper from you. "will cover them."

sighing, you make a mental note to apologize to your friends for being late when you meet them.

xavier

earrings

especially studs or the mini drop ones that come in cute graphic designs.

there's just something about the way the adorable little charms hang from your ears

really, he thinks they complement your face shape

and he loves to cup your face whenever

but when you wear the ones that are star-themed

he's looking at you as if you're the one who hung them up in the night sky

seriously, he's never seen anything more beautiful

it also strokes his jealousy (?) in a way (cuz yk he's all abt the stars)

but that's worth like...less than 1% of the experience

he just really loves seeing you wear them

don't worry if your ears aren't pierced

clip-ons are a thing, and he'll make sure to get that ones that are both high quality and comfortable

he also loves watching you put them on

his cheeks hurt from smiling too much. he tries to cover his rosy face when you lean towards the mirror.

you're adjusting the backing of your new star stud. furrowing your brows, you tilt your head to the side for a better look.

xavier swears he's never seen anything more beautiful in his life. here you are, making something so simple as adjusting an earring look so skillful and charming.

"done!" you secure the backing and spin around to show your boyfriend. "what do you think?"

"yeah," he nods softly. "i think you're glowing."

you giggle and embrace him tightly.

"thanks for surprising me with them," you chirp, peering up at him.

the stars on your ears shine. no different from your eyes.

"anything for you, starlight," he whispers, stroking your cheek with a thumb. "anything for you."

rafayel

bracelets

listen

we all know this man is a FIEND for our hands

i may not have all of his five-star cards

but tell me why it is that in all the ones i have, he's YEARNING for our hands at some point

jumps at every chance to help you put one on

has a thing for cuff bracelets

like the metal swirly ones that hold a jewel in the middle

they exude the sense of royalty in a way (he's a god so)

most definitely has designed some for you too

and by some, i mean numerous

what's really heartwarming about that though is that he collects the materials himself

the amount of seashells he has preserved for you

but back to him being down bad for our hands

there's something about the way cuff accompanies the bare skin of your wrist and gently presses against your pulse

he's in heaven whenever he nuzzles against your wrist and feels the cool metal graze his heated skin.

"wait," you squint at the bracelet rafayel just secured around your wrist. "did you design this?"

"yup," he answers with a puffed chest. "good eye, cutie. how'd you know?"

you roll your eyes lovingly.

"first of all, i'm your partner, raf." turning your wrist, you admire the intricate swirls of the cuff. "second of all, your works normally have a trademark."

"oh?" he grabs your wrist and pulls you to him, his lips already tracing your wrist. "and what would that be?"

you try not to shudder when his siren eyes meet yours.

"isn't this from one of your lemuria collections?" you shakily gesture towards the sapphire seashell crested on top. "you always reference lemuria in your works, right?"

"wrong," his tongue darts out, savoring your quickened pulse as punishment for your incorrect answer. "it's not just lemuria i always reference in my works."

he tightens the cuff.

"it's you, cutie."

zayne

rings

he loves the subtlety of them

especially the ones made out of thinner bands

they bring out the beauty of your fingers

he loves the way they shine whenever you move your hands too

let's say the two of you are at a cafe

sitting across from each other and reading novels

except he gets distracted (in a good way) whenever your flip a page

your ring glimmers in the sunlight that's peeking through the window

oh wow, not only is there a halo over your head, there's a halo around your finger too

he can't help but reach out at some point

and trace your left ring finger

imagining what it would be like to gift you one

a simple one that conveys an impactful message

one he hopes you'll say yes to

and bound not only both his and your left ring fingers

but also your souls to each other

"zayne? are you alright?"

he snaps out of his thoughts, lifting his chin from his palm.

"sorry," he apologizes as smoothly as he can. "could you repeat that?"

you smile endearingly. his heart beats rapidly.

"i asked if you were alright."

"yes," he answers before clearing his throat. "yes, of course. why?"

"oh, it's just," you giggle. "you're still tracing my finger."

zayne immediately retracts his hand.

"sorry," he apologizes again. this time profusely. "did i make you uncomfortable?"

"no, no," you immediately reassure. "i liked it. it's just you were doing it for a while..." you pause before continuing. "i thought you were checking for dead skin or something."

zayne blinks.

"you thought i was checking for dead skin?" he repeats incredulously.

you nod slowly. now it's your turn to be flustered.

at that, he chuckles with a shake of his head and returns to tracing your left finger, ignoring your amusing assurances about how you always wash your hands thoroughly.

yes, he's most definitely going to marry you.

caleb

anklets

this totally wasn't inspired by that one scene in the main story where he pins our leg down with his evol

nope not at all

i don't know what you're talking about

he likes the ones that come with dangly charms

this is because he can hear you whenever you move

interpret that however you want

but really, he loves how the sound gets louder and louder

because that means you're moving TOWARDS him

he wants to gift you a whole bunch of charms

specifically apple and sky themed

it's over for him if you wear it while your legs are exposed

that man is on the floor, his hands haphazardly roaming up and down your bare skin

and when he notices the anklet with the charms that he gifted?

it's over for you

his fingers are slipping underneath the anklet, wrapping around your ankle, and pulling you to him

where's his face at?

uhhhhh

you're trying to control your breathing. you really are. but it's hard to when there's a man, an incredibly gorgeous one with lavender eyes deep enough to engulf you whole, settled in front of you, specifically in between your legs.

thankfully (not really), he hasn't done anything yet. he's just kneeling there with his metal fingers snaked around your ankle and his eyes transfixed on the anklet you decided to wear.

"uhm," you start, nervously shifting on the couch. "is there something wrong with my ankle, caleb?"

he finally looks at you. you can't tell if he's angry. definitely not with your foot resting against his broad shoulder.

"nothing's wrong, pips." he speaks after an eternity.

you sigh in relief. eager to get out of this compromising position, you try to put your foot down. keyword: try.

"caleb, what-"

"when did you put the charm on?"

"oh, uh," you notice him looking at the anklet again, but more at the apple charm. it has a snake coiled around it. "a while ago? i think as soon as you gave it to me."

he breathes in sharply.

you think it's over when he releases you. you're proven wrong when he grabs both of your ankles and drags you to the end of the couch, his chin dangerously close to your core.

"you really don't make it easy for me, pips."

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