#lovers who are rivals

[vera-deville]

Too Hot to Handle (Literally)

03/05/2025 - 03/06/2025

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x Reader Word Count: 5,010 Warnings: Bakugou-typical cursing, eating spicy food Gender: AFAB Tags: Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for Katsuki Bakugou! Notes: Wrote a lot more fluff than originally planned, but I honestly love the way it turned out!

5 times you and Bakugou competed, and the 1 time you both lost.

Being a Pro Hero was never easy. It meant dealing with danger every single day, facing villains who try to wreak havoc on the city, and saving people who couldn't save themselves. Despite this, there was a silver lining to all that chaos. Every now and then, you'd catch a glimpse of something familiar - your rival - and it wasn't just a generic villain. It was your boyfriend, Katsuki Bakugou, standing there with a shit-eating grin on his face after yet another capture.

"Ha! Seventeen! Beat that, dumbass," Bakugou's voice rang out, dripping with his usual brand of smugness as he leaned back on the recliner in the breakroom, arms crossed and his boots casually resting on the footstool.

You narrowed your eyes at him from across the room, the competitive fire already flickering to life. "Pfft, seventeen? Cute. I got eighteen. Try harder next time, Blasty~"

There was a tense moment of silence, followed by the low growl that started in Bakugou's throat, rumbling out of his chest like an angry lion. His eyes burned with frustration.

"The hell—what kind of weak-ass villains were you catching? You sure you didn't just pick up some delinquent teens tryin' to steal candy or somethin'?" Bakugou shot back, his smirk sharp and cruel.

You didn't even blink. "Jealousy doesn't look good on you, babe."

He stood up in one swift motion, towering over the table where you sat. "Jealous!? You're full of shit. You just got lucky. You probably let 'em go so you could pad your numbers!" He started pacing, not looking at you, just letting that cocky tension crackle between you two.

Kirishima, who'd been sipping his coffee nearby, sighed dramatically. "Dude, you're both pretty damn good at your jobs. Don't start fightin' over this."

Bakugou shot a venomous glare at his friend. "Shut up, Red. This is important.

You, not one to let a chance to poke fun at Bakugou slip by, leaned back in your chair, and gave Kirishima a mock pout. "You know Red, he's only mad 'cuz he can't handle a little friendly competition."

Kirishima raised his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. I won't get involved...but y'know, you should probably both give it a rest. You're both out here taking down villains left and right - you've gotta leave some for the rest of us."

You shot Kirishima a playful grin, "Don't worry, I'll leave you two some scraps~"

Kirishima chuckled as Bakugou grumbled under his breath, arms crossed and clearly still fuming, "Tch, the hell you mean scraps?"

"I meant exactly what I said Blasty. But maybe I'll just have to let you win next time so you don't throw a tantrum."

Bakugou's nostrils flared as his eyes narrowed into slits. "The hell you will—you're just made 'cuz I'm gonna crush you. I'll outdo you, easy."

Kirishima was shaking his head, trying and failing to hide his laughter. "Man, the competition between you two is intense. It's like you're always trying to outdo each other."

You leaned over and gave him a knowing wink. "Just part of the fun. Right, sweetheart?"

But before he could retort, the door to the breakroom swung open, and Todoroki entered, hands full with a pile of paperwork. Without missing a beat, Todoroki glanced at the two of you, then at Kirishima, raising an eyebrow. "What's going on now? You two still trying to outdo each other on the number of villains caught?"

You smiled innocently, shrugging nonchalantly. "Oh, it's nothing. Just a little competition. I think I'm up by one this time though."

Bakugou didn't even wait for Todoroki's response, his face turning red with frustration. "THE HELL'S THAT SUPPOSED THE MEAN!? You think I'm losing to this idiot?" He pointed at you as he stormed toward the door.

"Yes, actually~" You said without missing a beat as you sped in front of him and plopped a kiss on the corner of his mouth before running off.

Sputtering, Bakugou ran after you as Todoroki looked at the door where he just came from with a bored expression. "Those two need to chill out sometimes."

"Tell me about it" Kirishima added.

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The ticking of the clock echoed through the small office, signaling the start of yet another mind-numbing task. The stack of paperwork on your desk seemed to grow by the second, despite you diligently working to reduce the load. It was a never-ending mountain of forms, reports, and signatures.

Bakugou, as usual, was already grumbling about the whole ordeal from his desk next to yours. "This is bullshit," he muttered under his breath, scrubbing a hand through his hair in frustration. "Who the hell thought paperwork was a good idea for pro-heroes?"

You leaned back in your chair, hands placed casually behind your head. "Oh, I don't know," you said, your voice deliberately sweet. "Maybe it's the fact that we have to file reports for everything we do - saving people, capturing villains, managing assets - oh, and paperwork to prove we even exist.

Bakugou's sharp glare was instantaneous. "I know what paperwork is, damn it!" He grunted, immediately going back to scribbling furiously on the form in front of him.

You smirked, leaning over just a bit, making sure he could hear your voice clearly. "You know...I've heard that the faster you finish, the faster you get to relax." You flashed him an innocent smile. "Think you can finish it faster than me, Blasty?"

Bakugou's brow furrowed at your challenge. "What? You think I'm slow or something?" "No, no," you said, pretending to look at your paperwork in disinterest. "I just thought you were too busy grumbling to finish any of it. But hey, if you think you can win this...I'll be more than happy to take the challenge off your hands." Bakugou's expression darkened as he sat up straighter. "I'm always gonna win this." He slammed his pen down onto the desk. "I'll finish this shit in no time."

As you expected, he was already taking the bait. Typical. The playful edge to his voice gave you the perfect opportunity to tease him back, but not without some added flair. "Hmm, you really think so? Because I have a feeling you might be distracted." You leaned forward slightly, giving him a coy glance as you set your pen down as well. "Maybe something will come up..."

You brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, letting your fingers linger just a little longer than necessary, your lips curling into a teasing smile.

Bakugou's eyes snapped to you, narrowing suspiciously. "The hell are you—?"

"Oh, nothing," you said quickly, flashing him a sweet smile. "Just thought maybe you'd get distracted with, well, me." You batted your eyelashes playfully, leaning back in your chair to give him a full view of your confident smirk.

He snorted, pushing his chair back roughly. "Nice try, dumbass." But you could tell his eyes were no longer glued to his paperwork.

It was a subtle shift, but you noticed it immediately. Bakugou was still glaring at you, but there was a flicker of hesitation, as if he was debating whether or not to play along. You knew you had him right where you wanted him.

As if on cue, the office door creaked open, and in walked Kirishima, followed by Denki, Sero, and Mina. They looked between you and Bakugou, the tension already palpable.

"What's going on here?" Kirishima asked with a grin.

Denki raised an eyebrow. "You two getting all competitive again?"

Mina giggled. "Ooh, I love it when they fight. This is gonna be interesting.

Sero chuckled. "I'm betting on Bakugou to win this round, but it's clear Y/N has some tricks up her sleeve."

Bakugou shot them all a death glare. "Shut the hell up. This is none of your damn business." He was clearly annoyed, but you could tell there was no way he was going to back down now.

"Oh, it's all my business, trust me," you said smoothly, leaning back in your chair again, arms crossed. "I'm just here to see how long it takes for Bakugou to finally give in and admit he can't win against me."

You could see the fire ignite in his eyes, a familiar, dangerous glint that always spelled trouble. Without warning, he slide his pen across the table and pointed it at you like a weapon. "I don't need to admit shit. Watch me."

You didn't have time to react before Bakugou slammed his fist onto the table, making a noise so loud, the rest of the office jumped. "Alright, now it's a game, damn it-"

The whole room went silent as the challenge was set. Kirishima and the others exchanged amused glances, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

"Well, this is gonna be fun," Denki commented with a grin. "Place your bets, everyone. I'm going with Y/N, I think she's got a better handle on this kind of thing."

Sero nodded. "Yeah, she's got that calm, cool composure. But Bakugou's got that intense focus."

Mina looked at both of you in anticipation. "I don't know, this is a tough one to call. I'm excited to see who cracks first!"

You noticed that Bakugou was no longer looking at his papers at all. Instead, he was staring at you - his usual smug expression now mixed with something mischievous.

"Alright, Y/N," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Two can play at this game."

Your stomach fluttered as he leaned forward just a bit, one arm resting casually on the desk. His gaze locked with yours, the playful edge now slipping into something more heated.

"You want me distracted?" His voice went lower. "Fine, I'll show you exactly how distracted I can get."

Without warning, he slid his hand across the desk and brushed your fingers. The touch was fleeting but deliberate, sending a jolt of electricity through you. You blinked, not expecting him to fight back so quickly.

You played it cool though, tilting your head in mock confusion. "Is that really how you plan on winning this? Trying to distract me?"

Bakugou leaned back in his chair, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "Maybe. But it seems to be working."

Kirishima's voice suddenly broke the tension. "Alright, alright, enough with the flirting. I didn't sign up to watch a couple of lovebirds go at it. Can we get back to the paperwork, please?"

"Shut the hell up, Red!" Bakugou snapped, turning his glare toward Kirishima, but the playful spark in his eyes told a different story.

You smiled at him, the challenge still in the air, as you picked your pen back up, writing without missing a beat. "You're welcome to try, but you're still not gonna win, Blasty."

"Watch me, idiot," Bakugou muttered under his breath, clearly determined to come out on top.

The clock continued to tick, but for now, the competition wasn't just about finishing the paperwork - it was about who would crack first under the other's teasing. And with the others watching, it felt more like a game than work.

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The training ground was quiet except for the sound of your footsteps and Bakugou's steady breathing. The challenge for the day was simple: a high-stakes obstacle course, meant to test both speed and agility. But to you and Bakugou, it was anything but simple. This was just another competition - another chance to really outdo each other.

Bakugou stood at the starting line, already looking ready to burn through the course. He shot you a smirk, the corning of his lips curling up in that infuriatingly cocky way. "You're gonna need more than that cute outfit to beat me, Y/N," he teased, eyeing your workout gear with a raised brow.

You raised a brow right back, stepping up beside him. "Don't worry, Bakugou," you replied with a grin. "I'm sure I can keep up just fine."

"Oh, you'd better," he shot back, cracking his knuckles.

The countdown began, and before you could even blink, Bakugou was already off like a rocket. His explosive quirk lit up the air as he surged forward, his body a blur of raw power. You didn't hesitate, though - your competitive spirit flared, and you pushed yourself to keep up.

You reached the first obstacle, a series of low hurdles, just as Bakugou was flying over them. He glanced back at you, his smirk widening when he saw you weren't far behind.

"Not bad, but you're gonna have to do better than that if you want to beat me," he called out, his voice dripping with challenge.

You shot back a playful grin, increasing your pace. "Oh, don't worry. I'm just warming up."

By the time you reached the next obstacle - a narrow balance beam - Bakugou was already halfway across it, looking annoyingly relaxed as he moved with ease. You let out a breath, determined not to let him get too far ahead. You balanced yourself expertly on the beam, but as you moved across, you couldn't resist teasing him.

"You know babe," you said, keeping your voice steady, "I always thought you'd be better at walking straight. Didn't think you'd need such a big jump to get across something so simple."

"Shut up," he muttered, clearly flustered, but he quickly regained his focus. "I don't need your commentary."

You couldn't help but laugh under your breath, loving the way you could easily get under his skin. But you were too focused on winning to let it distract you.

The next obstacle loomed ahead: a rope swing over a pit. Bakugou swung across with his usual confidence, but as you reached for the rope, you decided to have a little bit of fun. Instead of jumping straight into it, you twirled the rope in your hands first, making it a little more dramatic. As you swung across, you gave a wink in Bakugou's direction.

"Bet you didn't think I could do that," you teased, landing gracefully on the other side.

Bakugou shot you a side-eyed glare but didn't say anything, instead tightening his grip on the next obstacle - a large wall he had already begun to climb. You had to give it to him: he was fast, but you weren't about to let him win so easily.

You pushed yourself harder, scaling the wall with a confident grin. As you got to the top, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

"You know," you said, trying to keep your voice steady, "I've got a pretty good view from up here. I can practically see all the way to the finish line. And guess who's still way behind?"

Bakugou's eyes narrowed, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "Not for long," he grumbled, his body moving faster than ever.

But you could feel it now - the intensity in his gaze, the competitive fire in his movements. You tried to maintain your lead, but your could already sense the inevitable. You could hear his heavy breathing behind you as he got closer and closer to the finish line.

As you neared the final stretch, you gave one last burst of speed, but before you could even cross the finish line, Bakugou was already there - his hand slamming down in front of you as he took the victory. He stood there, chest heaving from exertion, a victorious grin adorning his face.

"Told ya I'd win," he said smugly, looking over at you with a mixture of pride and amusement. "You really thought you could beat me?"

You glared at him, hands on your hips, trying to maintain your pride despite the fact he'd just beat you. "You just got lucky," you heaved back.

"Oh please," Bakugou scoffed, offering his hand. "You were never gonna win."

You made a show of taking his hand in defeat, pouting and stomping. "Fine, you win, but don't get too cocky about it."

Bakugou raised an eyebrow, his grin softening just a bit, but it was still the same proud, confident expression.

There was a pause, a moment where neither of you spoke, but the tension in the air prickled your skin. You were so close to him, the playful atmosphere still lingering between you too, and then - before you could say anything else - he pulled you into a gentle hug.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was quick, yet full of intent. It was as if the kiss itself was an unspoken challenge, a way to claim victory without words. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you just a little closer, as though he was grounding himself in the moment, the intimacy of it.

You didn't hesitate, kissing him back with the same fervor, feeling the heat of the competition still burning in the back of your mind, but now the challenge had shifted. It wasn't about winning anymore, it was about this feeling, the spark between the two of you, something more than just petty rivalry.

When you pulled back, his lips still hovering close to yours, he gave you a smug look.

You chided, "Next time, you'd better be ready."

A deep, baritone chuckle emanated from him and shook you to your core. "You won't always win Sweetheart." He teased.

"We'll see about that babe."

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The dim lighting of the living room was the perfect backdrop for the suspenseful crime movie you and Bakugou had decided to watch. You had made popcorn, grabbed some snacks, and settled on the couch, ready to enjoy a relaxing evening together. But, of course, it didn't take long for the peace to be shattered by the inevitable argument between the two of you.

"Alright, I'm telling you," Bakugou said, pointing at the TV screen, where a mysterious character was shown sneaking around in the shadows. "That guy's the killer. He's shady as hell."

You snorted, leaning back into the couch with a smirk. "No way. He's way too obvious. They always make the creepy guy look like the villain."

Bakugou shot you a side-eye, his eyes narrowing. "They creepy guy? Come on, you're just trying to be tricky. Look at how he's always lurking in the background. It's gotta be him."

"Not necessarily," you replied, rolling your eyes. "That's exactly what they want you to think. They're trying to make it too obvious so that you'll believe it's him and get distracted."

He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "What are you, some kind of murder expert now?"

You smiled, the corner of your lips quirking up. "Well, seeing as I am the one who studied forensic science, I'd say...yeah. Plus, I watch a lot of true crime, remember?"

Bakugou grunted, clearly unconvinced. No matter. "Whatever. You're wrong this time."

As the movie progressed, the tension between you two only grew. The characters on screen were all suspects, but you were sure that Bakugou was focusing way too much on the wrong person. You leaned forward, eyes locked on the screen as the detective pieced together the clues, your fingers gripping the edge of the couch.

The scene finally reached its climax, and you could see the real culprit - the quiet, seemingly innocent woman who had been standing in the background the whole time. She had been hiding in plain sight, blending in with the rest of the characters, but now it was clear as day.

Bakugou's eyes widened in disbelief as the detective revealed the truth.

"No way," he muttered, eyes flicking from the screen to you, a bit of frustration creeping into his voice. "How the hell did you know it was her?"

You leaned back, satisfied with your victory, a smug smile on your face. "Told you. It was too obvious to be the creepy guy. The real criminal was the one who was overlooked the entire time."

Bakugou groaned, throwing his hands up in the air. "Ugh, I should've known you'd be right. You're just too damn smart."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his defeated expression. "I'm just really good at reading people, Bakugou. I could tell from the start she was the one to watch."

Bakugou let out an exaggerated sigh, his arms folding over his chest in mock frustration. "Yeah, yeah. You got me this time, smarty."

A grin tugged at your lips as you leaned closer, nudging him playfully with your shoulder. "Don't worry Katsuki. You'll get the next one." You paused for a moment to contemplate. "Maybe."

You laughed at the side-eye he gave you, your fingers brushing against his as you reached for the remote, stopping the movie to scroll through a list of cheesy romantic films. "Well, since I won, how about we watch something a little less intense now? Something sweet."

Bakugou groaned, but there was a certain fondness in his voice when he said, "You know I'm not big on those sappy ass movies."

You ignored his protest, selecting one anyway, the screen lighting up with the opening credits of a classic romantic comedy. As the movie started, you turned to face him, leaning into his side with a content sigh. He made no move to pull away, and in that moment, you felt a warmth fill your chest - not just from the victory - but from the quiet comfort of his presence.

You hesitated for a moment, then pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. It was quick, chaste, and the way Bakugou's eyes softened made your heart skip a beat.

Without saying a word, Bakugou shifted, pulling you closer so that your head rested comfortably against his shoulder. His arm wrapped around you, and you snuggled into the warmth of his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

You didn't need any more words. In that moment, you had everything you wanted - his warmth, his closeness, and a little victory of your own.

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You were humming to yourself, enjoying the clam of the moment as you folded the laundry in neat piles. You had always prided yourself on your ability to fold clothes quickly and neatly. The challenge, however, was when Bakugou decided to join in.

"Ha, you think you can fold faster than me?" Bakugou scoffed from across the room, arms crossed. "You're gonna lose this one."

You smirked, taking it as a challenge. "We'll see about that, Kacchan. I've got this in the bag."

You both grabbed shirts, tossing them on the table to begin the race. You moved with practiced ease, folding each shirt with care, your motions smooth and deliberate. Bakugou, on the other hand, grabbed a shirt and threw it down carelessly, giving it a few quick overly aggressive tugs. You caught a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye, and despite his rough methods, his folded shirts looked just as good as yours.

"You're folding like you're mad at the shirts," you teased, trying to throw him off.

"Shut up, I'm being efficient!" Bakugou snapped, his voice filled with pride.

You picked up the pace, but every time you tried to focus, you noticed how Bakugou seemed to finish his stack faster and faster. He was speedily throwing shirts down, some of them even folded even better than yours somehow.

By the time you finished your stack and looked up, you found Bakugou leaning against his pile of perfectly folded clothes stacked high.

"Done already?" you huffed, glancing down at your own smaller stack.

"You sure you wanna keep going?" Bakugou raised an eyebrow, clearly relishing his victory.

You sighed dramatically, throwing the shirt you were folding back into the basket. "I can't believe you won...you're impossible."

But before you could wallow too much, you felt Bakugou's arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you into a comforting embrace. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder, and you could feel his chest rise and fall with a soft chuckle.

"Don't be so dramatic," he murmured, squeezing you gently.

You couldn't help but smile, the warmth of his touch melting away with the frustration. You leaned into him, closing your eyes for a moment, content with the quiet support he was offering. "Maybe next time."

Bakugou's hand gently ruffled your hair, "In your fucking dreams."

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You stared down at the bowl in front of you, the red broth gleaming ominously. "Katsuki," you warned, eyeing the bowl with a raised brow as the spice invaded your senses, "I really think this is a terrible idea."

Bakugou grinned smugly from across the table, "Don't bitch out now. I know you're scared that you can't handle it."

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "I'm not scared. I just don't want to end up in the hospital because of your stupid bet."

At the table beside you, Kirishima and Mina were watching with mild amusement. Kirishima leaned in, squinting at the steaming ramen. "Dude, that stuff looks straight up like poison."

Mina let out a laugh. "Seriously, it's like a crime scene in a bowl. Why are you two even doing this?"

"Shut it!" Bakugou shot back, waving them off. "I'm not gonna lose to Y/N, alright? They've got nothin' on me."

You should him a mischievous smile. "Don't get too cocky, Bakugou. You might regret it."

The challenge was set. The two of you dug in, chopsticks at the ready, ignoring the skeptical glances from your friends. The heat of the ramen hit you instantaneously, your taste buds practically screaming from the spice. You could already feel the sweat beading at your temples.

Bakugou, on the other hand, kept his composure, though you could see the tiniest twitch in his eye. "Easy," he muttered, barely flinching. "You're going down."

You took another bite, determined to keep up, but the spiciness was burning your throat. It felt like your mouth was on fire. "This is insane," you muttered, feeling the heat crawl up your neck.

Kirishima watched in awe. The two of you really were a match made in heaven. "Yo, I think you two are actually gonna implode from the spice before anyone even wins."

Mina was smirking as she leaned back in her chair. "Yeah, Y/N looks like she's about to cry, and Bakugou's face is turning red."

But Bakugou wasn't backing down.

And that meant neither would you.

Bakugou's jaw was tight as he took another bite, stubborn as ever. "Shut up you guys. I'm—" Cough "Fine."

You shot a look over at Bakugou, who was looking like he might actually win this one, even though you had your pride on the line. You weren't about to give up, but it was becoming harder to ignore the burning sensation that seemed to have spread to your chest now.

"Goddamn it," you swore under your breath, sweat dripping down your face. "I think I'm gonna pass out."

Bakugou looked at you, eyes narrowed, his own face flushed from the heat, but he wasn't giving up either. "Quit whining. If you're going down, I'm going down with you."

If you weren't so preoccupied with winning what seemed to be an impossible challenge, you would have taken the time to actually pay attention to his sweet words.

Instead, you both pushed through, despite the fact that neither of you could hide the winces anymore. The ramen had become a challenge neither of you had expected to win. Finally, you both slammed down your spoons at the same time, slumping back into your chairs. Your face was red and your mouth felt like it had been set alight with gasoline.

"Shit," Bakugou cursed, looking at his half-eaten bowl. "I can't do this anymore."

You gave up and let the tears run down your face, "Yeah—" Sniff "Me neither—"

Bakugou's usual scowl softened as he glanced over at you, clearly seeing just how much the spice had gotten to you. Without a word, he slid out of his chair and moved to sit next to you, his usual bravado slipping for a moment as he pulled you into his arms. "Quite cryin' dumbass," he muttered, his voice much softer than usual. He rubbed your back in slow circles, trying to soothe you as you sniffled. "We're both idiots, alright? You're fine." His words were gruff, but the comforting warmth of his hug was enough to run the tears to a stop - eventually.

Kirishima chuckled, shaking his head. "You two are something else. We should've known better than to let you both have at it."

Mina leaned forward, her eyes full of mirth. "Well, I think it's safe to say you both lost. You're both a mess."

Bakugou scowled at them, still holding you in his arms, but there was no denying the truth in Mina's words. He was sweating bullets, and his face had gone red from the spice.

You didn't look any better.

"Next time," you grumbled, "We're getting something mild. Like...ramen with absolutely no spice."

Bakugou snickered, still trying to cool down his tongue with his drink. "I'm okay with that, actually. But next time, I'm taking you down."

You raised an eyebrow, feeling the skin move around your eyes which had gone stiff from the dried up tears. "Uh-huh. Sure you are."

"Next time," he repeated, leaning back, still holding you, a satisfied (albeit exhausted) grin on his face. "You'll see."

Your friends looked at the two of you, still laughing at the absurdity of the situation. The Great Ramen Challenge™ had gone nowhere, but it did leave the two of you a little bit closer.

"I'm serious, we are so sticking to regular ramen next time," you said with a slight smile. "And we'll se who wins then."

Bakugou gave you a half-hearted glare, but it didn't seem as intense as before. He let out a breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Fine. But I'm still gonna win Y/N."

You just smiled more, making yourself more comfortable in his arms, the lingering heat still burning, not being able to do anything except laugh.

Author's Note: I have been on a ROLE today. Churned out 3 fics, and I'm actually proud of them? I had a LOT of fun writing this. Originally, I was just going to write about the Reader and Bakugou competing over who can handle their spice better, but then I wanted to add 3 situations where they were competitive before the spice one, but then I thought "why stop at 3?" So I ended up with 5, and that's when I realize that I basically wrote a 5+1 fic (one of my favorite genres, by the way). It's been so long since I wrote for Bakugou, and I really missed doing so. Hope you all enjoyed!

Masterlist

[vatelixx]

You are the knife (I turn inside myself),

S2!Post-addiction!Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just… balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other they’re in love).

──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.

Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly. Mention of past drug addiction.

w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)

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Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.

You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.

Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.

The list stretches on.

But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—

Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.

The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”

“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“

“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”

“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“

“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.

“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.

“The case.” you agree.

You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he��s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.

The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.

Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.

“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.

Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.

It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.

Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”

“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.

Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.

Anything to gain the upper hand.

You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”

“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.

“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”

“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.

Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?

You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.

Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”

Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.

The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”

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Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.

You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.

The hostility has mounted to new levels now.

It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.

South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.

Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.

You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.

The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”

You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.

“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.

Control. All you do is reach for the blade.

“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”

Well that’s certainly unlikely.

“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?

“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”

This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.

Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.

There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”

Spencer falters.

It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.

That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?

He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.

Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.

“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”

“You started this—“

“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”

When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.

“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.

“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.

It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.

“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.

You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.

Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.

All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.

All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.

It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.

He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.

You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.

“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.

The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.

God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.

“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.

You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?

It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.

What is sickness without pleasure?

He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.

“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.

People like him don’t get that.

He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.

He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.

But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”

Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.

“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.

He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.

He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“

He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.

“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.

“Eyes on me, boy genius.”

He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.

“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.

Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.

He always wanted to be seen.

He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.

You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.

“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.

He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.

“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.

It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.

“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”

Spencer sobs.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.

His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.

The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.

“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.

“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”

“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“

You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”

He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.

Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?

Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.

“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.

“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.

“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”

He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.

A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.

“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”

He walks out on you and it’s fine.

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Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.

Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.

When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).

Everything is fine. To reiterate.

It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?

Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.

And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.

In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.

“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.

As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.

“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)

You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.

“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”

“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”

It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.

He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).

“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.

“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).

Focus.

You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He can see everything.

Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.

He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.

But it’s not good enough.

“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.

But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.

He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.

But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).

The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.

“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.

Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.

Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ‘dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”

And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.

But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”

Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“

“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.

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French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.

The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”

You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.

No big deal!

“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.

There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.

He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.

“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“

Spencer breaks.

“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.

“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”

“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.

You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.

“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.

It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.

“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”

You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”

He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.

Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”

You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.

Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.

It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.

His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.

Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.

He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.

And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.

The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.

“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”

You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.

But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?

He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.

Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you��re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.

It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.

You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.

“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.

So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,

And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.

His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.

“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.

“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.

Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.

“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.

Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.

“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.

You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.

“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”

“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“

“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”

“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).

“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.

And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.

Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.

You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.

You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.

Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.

“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.

“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”

Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.

“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.

It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.

You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.

Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.

“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”

No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.

“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.

Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?

Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.

“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.

“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”

He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.

“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.

He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.

He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.

He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.

He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.

He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.

“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.

“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“

“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”

When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.

“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”

“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”

“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”

“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”

He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.

“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.

You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.

He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”

And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.

It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”

Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.

He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.

He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.

Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.

The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.

And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.

“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”

“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.

“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”

“I’m not torturing you—“

You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.

It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.

His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.

You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.

“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”

It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.

And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.

It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.

“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”

“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”

“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

You fuck him harder.

“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.

And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“

Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.

“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.

He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”

“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.

“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.

He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. “God, is that a promise?”

[softiedingo]

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 170

Once again on my Ras & Danny being training rivals thanks to time travel bullshit. 

Look, Danny knows about the league of Assassins, but he almost dies of laughter when he realizes it’s the modern name of the league of Shadows. He’s an adult now, has been for a while, he’s allowed to find the situation he’s found himself in amusing. Hell, his sparring buddy who is somehow still alive is laughing too. 

And no one else knows what’s going on, okay? This random man walked into their secret base, completely ignored the many assassins trying to stop him, and called their illustrious leader a “Little Bitch Man” and they are now fighting?

The fighting is familiar, but why the fuck is Ras cackling and saying things like “Ayreh Feek” back. Practically saying “Fuck you,” while laughing and oh Pit, they’re Bantering this is terrifying, why has Ras not won yet, why has this man not died yet and- bodies aren’t supposed to bend like that what the fuck- 

Ras on the other hand, has One friend, who is immortal like him, actually remembers the shit he complains about, is also down for saving endangered animals, and actually knows how to spar! It’s not a proper spar unless someone loses at least a hand that has to be reattached! And honestly, people nowadays should know that the proper greeting to an old friend is to instantly try to kill the other. 

[shartfinz]

Okay now that Laurance is back they gotta add him into the "cocomau" videos but also they have to add Garroth too when he's there because they're a pair

[whoo0isthatgrl]

The studio was quiet except for the soft hum of the speakers and the occasional click of your mouse as you worked through the mix. Law sat behind you, half-slouched on the worn leather couch with a drink in hand, watching you like he had something to say.

And, of course, he did.

“You know, if you actually balanced the reverb properly, it wouldn’t sound like shit,” he muttered, tilting his head.

Your jaw clenched. “I literally just started adjusting it.”

“Well, you’re doing a terrible job.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, turning just enough to glare at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Mr. ‘Plays-the-Same-Three-Chords’ was suddenly an expert in production.”

Law raised a brow. “That’s rich coming from Miss Overcomplicates-Everything.”

“Oh, screw you,” you snapped, pushing away from the desk and standing up. “You think you’re a genius because you can criticize, but what do you even contribute, huh?”

“I contribute the part that actually makes people want to listen to our songs,” he shot back, standing too.

You let out a dry laugh. “Oh my God, your ego is insane.”

He smirked, stepping closer. “And your attitude is exhausting.”

You stepped forward too. “You are so full of yourself.”

“And you are incapable of taking constructive criticism.”

Now you were chest-to-chest breath short, shoulders tense.

Your eyes burned into his—furious, challenging. “I swear to God, if I have to hear your voice for another second—”

“What? You gonna cry about it?” Law’s voice was low, teasing, but there was something else beneath it.

Your hands curled into fists. “Oh, I hate you.”

“Right back at you.”

Silence.

Your breaths mingled in the narrow space between you, fast and shallow. Neither of you moved. Neither of you backed down.

You saw it—the way Law’s gaze flickered down to your lips for the briefest second. Barely there, but enough.

Wait.

Were both of you leaning in?

You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, your lips collided—hard, desperate, like you were trying to shut each other up in the only way that would actually work.

Maybe you’d regret it later.

It was messy, all teeth and tension, but neither of you pulled away. You weren’t sure who deepened the kiss first—him or you—but suddenly, it wasn’t just a collision. It was a battle.

His hands found your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he was daring you to push him off. You didn’t. Instead, you fisted the front of his shirt, yanking him closer, because if he thought you’d be the first to pull away, he was wrong.

Law’s lips curled against yours, like he was smirking—even now, even like this. “Kiss like you mean it, smartass,” he muttered, voice low, teasing.

You bit his bottom lip, almost in retaliation.

Law inhaled sharply, grip tightening. “Figures. Always so aggressive.”

“Shut up.” You crashed into him again, walking him back, except—

Your foot caught on the edge of the producer’s desk.

And suddenly, you were falling.

You hit the desk with a dull thud, tangled together in a mess of limbs, papers scattering everywhere.

Law let out a breathless chuckle. “Oh, great. You can’t even make out properly—”

You shoved at his chest. “Maybe if you weren’t in my way—”

He grabbed your wrist, pulling you right back against him. “Oh, please. You’re the one who tripped.”

You were so close again, noses almost touching, breath mingling in the dimly lit studio.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You should shove him away. You should.

Instead, you kissed him again.

Law groaned against your lips, flipping you so you were the one against the table now, his hands bracing on either side of your body. His mouth moved with yours in that same relentless, challenging rhythm—like you were still fighting, just without words.

Somewhere between gasps and half-bitten insults, you managed to mutter, “You’re—so—fucking—annoying—”

Law grinned against your lips. “And you—talk too much—”

You barely had time to glare before he grabbed your hand and pulled you—

Straight into the recording booth.

You stumbled inside, nearly knocking over the mic stand. The door swung shut behind you, muffling the outside world. It was just the two of you now, the dim LED glow casting blue and red across your skin, your breaths uneven, hearts racing.

Your back hit the padded wall of the booth, and Law was there again, bracing himself over you, gaze dark—like he was still debating whether to keep kissing you or start another argument.

Your tongue darted briefly over your bottom lip, chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. “If you have something to say, say it.”

Law studied you, eyes flickering between your own and your mouth, fingers brushing against the side of your neck. His voice was quieter now, rougher.

“Yeah?” He leaned in, lips ghosting over your jaw, just enough to make your breath hitch. “Maybe I just like pissing you off.”

You exhaled sharply. “Congratulations, then. You’re great at it.”

Law smirked against your skin. “I know.”

And then he kissed you again—slower this time. Deeper. Like he was really tasting you. Like he had all the time in the world.

You hated how dizzy it made you feel.

But you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t want to.

Not yet.

[choccy-milky]

I would do anything to see Clora clobber the fuck out of Duncan fr

LMFAOO THIS IS SO FUNNY...ITS JUST SO RANDOM IT MADE ME LAUGH WHEN I GOT IT BAHAHA😭😭 so here you go anon, just for you 😌🙏

yes he is!! i headcanon that him and clora grow old together and once clora dies of old age, seb's job of protecting her is finally done so he breaks the horcrux and then follows her soon after 🥲 that means she'd die before him tho/he'd watch her die AND I HATE THINKING ABOUT THAT...SO I DONT....Kat_12739 on ao3 wrote about it in chapters 11 and 12 of every teardrop is a waterfall and in her version/story, sebastian outlives clora AND lewis and celeste, and its only once theyre ALL dead only then does sebastian break the horcrux and let himself die/meets them in the afterlife AND GIRL U BETTER BELIEVE I WAS SOBBING MY EYES OUT WHEN I READ THOSE CHAPTERS LMAOO so yes seb is immortal and will outlive clora BUT WE DONT THINK ABOUT THAT!!!!!! TRALALALALA

yandere anon idk who you are but i love you, the fact that you sent this ask IMMEDIATELY after i talked about which wip i should work on next is so funny. YANDERE SEB IS NEXT JUST FOR U, DW🫵

[doobledabbadoo]

got around making some more htf ocs!! i honestly cant stop theyre too fun to make actually

[chandralia]

“for the rest of our lives”

[sh00tingstarzzz]

rivals with benefits. or as i like to call it: klance.

[unhinged-as-hell]

"They couldn't stand each other-" there are exactly 2 scenes of them actually interacting you have no idea just how much they could stand each other.

[valyrfia]

Omg thank you for mentioning the way lestappen shipping has shifted, I felt like I was crazy for how I’d drifted away from the ship and it’s so interesting to hear that others have felt as alienated from the way the dynamic has turned and the shit being written these days!

glad it resonated. yeah i still love the dynamic and the soulmatism of it all, but fic/fanon-wise i'm enjoying landoscar a lot more nowadays just because i think lestappen fic has fallen into the trap of majorly popular mlm ship -> co-opted by people who really want to just write het stuff but are interested because it's 'popular' -> fic that should've just been het. it's doubly painful because lestappen as a concept really requires a thorough love/knowledge of racing/the hunger of the win to write properly because it's so integral as to why they respect each other and also why they have this long and complicated history. there are still gems coming out of the tag, but sometimes they get lost and it's a lot of having to sift through people using the ship because it just become a popular vehicle.

[inkyu]

Now that I've finished my |S| Page I can FINALLY post some doodles I did when making it (as a mental break)

Cookie Run.... THEY WILL NEVER MAKE ME HATE YOU SMILK!!!

[aiden-artsy]

I think he hates him frfr?!

[cyangansey]

Enemies to Lovers: they are each other’s nemesis. They hate one another and are interested in ending the fight permanently (ie death)

Example: The Doctor and Missy

Rivals to Lovers: They despise each other, but don’t want the other to die. They just want to beat them in their shared field.

Example: Cookie and Evelyn Kwong

Haters to Lovers: They don’t despise each other, they just get annoyed. They don’t wish ill on the other person and may even be happy to see them succeed, but they would rather die than reveal that to the other. Some would say they argue like an old married couple.

Examples: Benedick and Beatrice

[heyitsspaceace]

we as society don't talk enough about roberts!master going "I need the doctors body" first thing in the morning, like okay gayboy