th3-3d3n-g4rd3n

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

최수빈 ───〃TRUTH OR DARE...

"soobin," you whisper to him, breaking the kiss. soobin was breathless as he hopelessly chased after you, eyebrows furrowed as he stares at you. his cheeks were flushed and lips swollen, he looked so pretty. "do you want to take this to my room?" you ask, bringing your hand around to trace your thumb along his bottom lip, soobin's tongue sneakily licking your finger as he nods.

── synopsis: i needed to request sub!soobin whos ur best friend and has had a big fat massive crush on you for the longest time and you’re having a little house party with you and the rest of txt and you’re playing truth or dare and beomgyu is asking all kinds of freaky questions and soobin gets insanely flustered and the rest of the group knows about soobs crush on you so someone dares you to kiss him and you do and it gets pretty steamyyyyyyyy and then the rest of them make an excuse to leave so that soobin can get railed! i love soobin.

⋆˚꩜｡ pairing: sub!soobin x dom!reader ⋆˚꩜｡ genre & word count: smut || 4.8k+ ⋆˚꩜｡ tags: friends-to-lovers, soobin likes you a lot, whiny soobin, he blushes a bunch, kissing, some praise, riding (wrap it up!), etc. ˚꩜｡ notes: a request that took wayyyy to long (i apologize !!!), but i'll be honest the smut is pretty short cause i had so much fun writing the pre-smut than the actual thing.

“how about truth or dare,”

it’s been about an hour into the small party that you and your friends decided to have on a whim. finals were coming up and you figured a small gathering could help relieve some stress from constantly studying. it wasn’t much anything major, just a little drinking, munching on some snacks, and catching up on any daily happenings that we happened to miss.

you were all standing around in the kitchen, sipping on different flavors of soju. once the alcohol started to hit is when beomgyu got bored of conversation and wanted to play a game, “guys, let's do something funnn.” he whined into yeonjun’s ear, poking him in his side from where they were leaned against the counter.

yeonjun scowled, raising his hand in a threatening manner but didn’t harm the boy. he just rolled his eyes and sighed, “what's your idea of 'fun'?”

beomgyu pushed himself off the counter and smiled, his eyes locking onto an abandoned bottle next to the stove. he grabbed it and headed towards the living room, motioning for us to join him as he goes. he claims his spot on the floor in front of the couch.

with weary glances towards each other, you reluctantly shrug and go along with beomgyu's shenanigans. you locked eyes with soobin last, he was huddled by the fridge across from you, his bottle of soju almost gone. he blushes profusely when you make eye contact with him and shoot a small smile at him. he hurriedly follows behind taehyun who walked between the two of you, breaking the moment.

everyone gathers to sit in a circle, soobin timidly takes a spot between you and beomgyu. you could feel soobin’s eyes on you so you turn to say something, but he quickly looks away with dusty pink cheeks. you don't question it, you don't even get the time to as beomgyu begins talking.

“so,” beomgyu starts with a clap, he then holds up the empty bottle of soju. “we’ll spin the bottle and whoever it lands on blah blah blah, we all know how truth or dare works, right?”

kai jokingly raises his hand, “i don’t…” but quickly drops it with a laugh when beomgyu shoots daggers at him. he places the bottle on the floor and points at himself.

“i’ll spin first.” he twists the bottle and you all watch as it goes around twice before landing on you. everyone turns in your direction and you smile.

“truth or dare?” beomgyu asks.

you quickly reply, “truth.”

beomgyu puts on an exaggerated thinking face, tapping a finger against his mouth as he formulates a question. “mm, how many people have you kissed?”

the whole circle erupts in “ooohs”, except for soobin who slowly drew his legs up to his chest, arms wrapped around them as he stares at you. he waits expectantly for an answer, eyes wide and nibbling on his bottom lip.

“only two,” you say confidently and look at soobin. you don't know why that was your first instinct, but you couldn't bother to wonder when he reacted so cutely. he quietly gasped, pushing his head into his knees, hiding his face. he mumbles something that you couldn’t quite hear, the furrow to his brow adorable.

you reach in to spin the bottle, this time it lands on beomgyu, funnily enough, and he chooses dare. you dared him to chug an entire bottle of soju, and he did in record speed. he hiccups as he yells, “my turn again!” this time it lands on soobin.

“soobin soobin soobin,” beomgyu says, eyeing soobin with squinted eyes. “truth or dare?”

“t-truth…” he pretty much whispers, his fingers drumming against himself. he was scared admittedly, beomgyu was always up to something. beomgyu smiles, a knowing one before he asks his question.

“when was the last time you masturbated?” beomgyu asks and makes everyone laugh. it was like a joke that you weren't in on, confusion apparent on your face. soobin flusters, stammering and fumbling over his words as he shifts, crossing his legs in front of him and he flails his hands.

“i-i don’t wanna answer that…” his eyes cut to yours before he quickly looks away, blushing furiously now.

“come on soobin, it’s a simple question.” taehyun teases, he was sat across from soobin and he reached over to hit him on his leg. soobin shakes his head and wishes that he could get out this, what felt like to him, interrogation.

it wasn’t until you placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed it, you were going to tell him that he didn't have to answer and it was just a game. soobin tensed under you and his eyes widened before he blurted out, “y-yesterday.” slapping his hands to his face as he said it and everyone erupts into laughter. you didn’t though, instead you softly smiled and rubbed along his thigh.

“ya soobin, i didn’t know you were so naughty-” kai teases.

“did you have someone in mind?” beomgyu pushes further, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. soobin looks at him, eyes going wider and shaking his head wildly, causing another eruption of giggles from the others.

“t-that’s two questions,” he argues and takes the initiative by grabbing the bottle and spinning it, it lands on yeonjun. he picks truth, and like the sweet boy he is, soobin simply asks him what his biggest pet peeve was.

yeonjun rolled his eyes and called soobin a buzzkill before saying, “people who chimp out while playing truth or dare.” and grabs the bottle for the next round.

as the game continues, you noticed that whenever beomgyu got the bottle he would ask more provocative questions than the rest of the group. especially towards soobin, who now sat cross-legged with his hands in his lap. his face was red from alcohol and the excessive amounts of blushing he's been doing all night. his neck, exposed by the loose shirt he wore, had a layer of sweat on it and glistened in the light of the living room. his hair attractively messy, eyes crinkled in the corners, and smile wide as he laughed at something taehyun did.

it's not like you haven't noticed soobin before. you knew he was handsome, you always thought he was ever since you became friends. but looking at him now, you can't help but want to grab him by the face and kiss him, mess up his hair that looked too perfect and make his eyes crinkle with another kind of feeling…it must be the alcohol making you think this way.

you're brought back to reality by taehyun, who spins the bottle and it lands on soobin. he sighs, all laughter gone from his face as he tilts his head back and waits for another absurd question that would no doubt make him nervous.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･

soobin was having a hard time right now. between this stupid game that he swears beomgyu only wanted to play to torture him and the way he's trying to ignore how you have been staring at him all night, he's struggling. he's trying his best to not to make eye contact as you bore holes into the side of his head. he didn't understand why you were staring at him so intensely, but he wished you would stop.

not because he didn't like it, but because he loved it. a lot.

it's not a hidden fact, at least to the guys, that he has a crush on you. they have known since the beginning, claiming that he always get googly eyes when you're around, which he didn't believe at all.he wasn't that weak, was he? but it got so bad that taehyun, yeonjun, beomgyu, and kai came up to him one day and simply asked the big question, "you have a crush on her, don't you?"

he couldn't even deny it if he wanted to. his face instantly turning pink as he turned his head, the rest of them laughing in his face, he didn't even have to say anything for them to know the answer. and since that day, they have made it their duty to tease and make fun of him for his crush, this game of truth or dare being no exception.

so getting this much attention from you, even if it was just staring, was making him delusional. he couldn't stop himself from getting just a little bit flustered.

when beomgyu asked him, "what's your biggest turn on?" he had to bite his lip to hold back what he wanted to say, which was when you looked at him, touched him, spoke to him… he could feel his pants getting a little tight at his thoughts and he had to place his hands in his lap to cover his growing hard-on.

he would take the safe route and just say, "kissing." looking at you, eyes drifting to your parted lips. it was a vague enough answer to get past the group and makes beomgyu hum. he would quickly look away from your mouth, embarrassed that he was getting turned-on just from his active imagination. maybe it was the alcohol…

soobin would then spin the bottle and have it land on kai, who chooses dare and he makes him grab him a water bottle from the kitchen. kai huffs, but a dare is a dare and he does it. it was really for soobin to wet his dry throat and cool down his heating body, pressing the cold drink against his skin.

when soobin gets another turn, after beomgyu admits that he has in fact accidentally sent a nude to someone and yeonjun gets dared to serenade the person to his left, which was kai, he's tense when he gets asked:

"soobin, is there anybody that you've thought about kissing?" he fights the urge to look at you, your eyes already on him. he swallows and his hands fidget where they rest in his lap. he doesn't have to answer who the person is, just if he has ever thought about it.

so he nods, face on fire and he slaps the cold bottle to his face and hopes it will bring the color down that he knows rose on his cheeks.

the boys all share a collective look, one that soobin isn't sure what it means but he gets nervous. his eyes flittering between their faces as they come to some sort of agreement. when soobin reaches for the bottle to spin, beomgyu grabs it before he could wrap his fingers around it.

"i want to spin again, just because it's fun!" he says, making soobin raise an eyebrow but he shrugs it off, thinking it's just beomgyu being drunk and lets him take his spin.

it felt almost calculated as he spun it, the bottle only turning once before it comes to a stop in front of you. he notices beomgyu crossing his fingers in hopes of something, when he asks if you would pick truth or dare. and he whispers a "yes" when you reply dare.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･

you were a little taken aback at first, that was the last thing you were expecting beomgyu to say. your mouth dropped open in shock and your head immediately looked over to soobin whose expression matched yours.

"i dare you to kiss soobin." he had said with a smirk on his face.

"ya, b-beomgyu!" he shouts, looking at him with his jaw tense and a question in his eyes that you couldn't comprehend. beomgyu only smiles and leans over to pat soobin on the shoulder. you were honestly a little offended at soobin's reaction.

"okay," you say and soobin's head snaps towards you, his mouth opening and closing and eyes flittering as he tries to come up with words to say. "unless you don't want to, i won't make you do it."

"no, i-!" he starts, jumping in his spot and turning his body towards you before he lowers his voice, taehyun snickering at his outburst. "i-i just wasn't expecting him to say that…" he whispers this time, bowing his head to hide his embarrassment.

you turn your body to face him and reach a hand out, hooking a finger under his chin and lifting his head so he is looking at you. soobin's breath hitches and his cheeks felt like they were on fire. your eyes drift down to his pink lips that were parted, soobin's soft breathing could be felt on your fingers. everyone's eyes were on you, you could feel it, but you couldn't look away from soobin who looked absolutely fuckable right now.

soobin swallows when you lean in, mouths inches apart, his eyes squeezing tightly shut as he waits for you to make the next move. his heart is hammering in his chest, his whole body felt hot and his hands are shoved into his lap where his dick twitches. is he dreaming?

when your lips touch, tingles go down soobin's spine and it makes his back arch into the kiss. he pliantly opens his mouth and tilts his head, allowing your mouths to slide together. his lips were plush and soft against yours. you wanted to taste them.

tentatively, as to not scare soobin, you allow your tongue to trace along his bottom lip. when he quietly moans at the lick, you take the opportunity to shove your tongue into his mouth. the kiss was getting heated and quickly, as a sudden rush of need spreads through you.

you bring your other hand around soobin's neck and slot your fingers into his nape, not allowing him to push away from you.

and soobin is absolutely gone. he felt weak, his body like jello as he lets you attack his mouth, licking around and swirling your tongue with his. his hard-on in his jeans was almost painful as it pushed against the zipper. it was taking everything in him not to grind up into the palm of his hand. it wasn't until he let out a tiny whimper when you bit his lip gently that someone decided to say anything.

beomgyu cleared his throat, making soobin startle with his eyes flying open. when he comes back to reality, rapidly blinking his eyes and looking around, he's mortified when he remembers that he was a party, playing truth or dare…and he moaned, like an idiot, in front of his friends.

you let him go, removing your hands from his hair and face and awkwardly laugh. beomgyu and the others either had a blush on their face or where looking with mouths agape.

"hey, so i just remembered we had another exam to study for and i think we should go and get some rest so we can do that tomorrow," beomgyu explains as he stands up and gestures to the others with his eyes, eyes darting from them to the door. you miss the way kai, taehyun, and yeonjun all nod at him as they also start to get up.

"wait-so suddenly?" you ask, getting up and walking to beomgyu.

"uhh, yeah! we totally forgot about it and don't wanna fail, you know?" he scratches the back of his neck as he speaks, avoiding eye contact with you. all you could do was nod, since you understood, you also had exams to study for.

they all make their way to the door and put their shoes on, soobin trails slowly behind them. you stop him before he could bend down to put his on, placing a hand on his arm. "you're leaving too?" you look at him with faux sadness on your face.

soobin flusters, his face once again going pink as he pauses, his eyes sliding over to his friends who were all shaking their head in unison. beomgyu making an 'x' with his arms in exaggeration.

"i-i don't have to, i'm not in that class with them…" he says.

you reach up and brush some hair that had fallen into his dark brown eyes, making soobin's heart race and his legs feel like jello, "i don't want you to go." you almost whisper and soobin bites his lip to hold back a whine that was crawling up his throat.

"okay, we're gonna head out now! see you guys later!" yeonjun says before speeding off, the others close behind as they make way to their respective cars. you can hear some claps and snickering as you close the door and turn back to soobin.

he was rocking on his heels, fiddling with his fingers. he cheeks were puffed out and his eyes dart everywhere around the room. you saunter towards him, getting close enough to where your bodies were pressed together and he had no choice but to acknowledge your presence. he angles his hips back a bit as he felt his dick throb at the feeling of your breasts pushing against him.

he was taller than you when standing so you had to tilt your head back when you asked, "shall we continue where we left off, i was really enjoying that kiss…" softly smiling and sliding your fingers up his arm, leaving a trail a goosebumps behind.

soobin couldn't believe this was happening, it was all he has ever longed for. he never thought he would get to this point. he was content with being a hopeless loser, never confessing as he was too shy to speak about his feelings. there was no words in his brain, he couldn't think with you this close to him. he instead would nod, his breath stutters as he did so.

wrapping your arms around his neck, you rise up on your tippy toes to be able to reach his mouth. your lips finding each other easily, kissing like you never even stopped.

it didn't take long for tongues to be swapped and the wet sounds of your lips smacking against eachother become almost obscene in the quiet house. soobin's hands eventually find your waist and every now and then his fingers would tangle in the fabric of your shirt, when he felt a little too dizzy.

he would bring you almost impossibly closer, hips against hips… his hard-on rubbing against you as he gently rolls them forward with a breathy moan into your mouth.

"soobin," you whisper to him, breaking the kiss. soobin was breathless as he hopelessly chased after you, eyebrows furrowed as he stares at you. his cheeks were flushed and lips swollen, he looked so pretty. "do you want to take this to my room?" you ask, bringing your hand around to trace your thumb along his bottom lip, soobin's tongue sneakily licking your finger as he nods.

no time was wasted as you take him by the hand and walk him down the hall to your bedroom. you were glad that you decided to clean the space earlier this week, you weren't expecting company in here. you especially weren't expecting the company to be your long-time friend.

he follows your footsteps, stumbling a little in excitement. he can hardly contain himself. his heart was beating wildly and his dick painfully hard.

once in the room, you whirl soobin around and gently push him onto the bed, he lands with a grunt. you climb and hover over him, sliding your hands up his body as you make your way up to find his mouth again. as you clash lips, you bring a hand down to place it over his bulge. soobin's hips twitch into your touch, his breath getting caught in his throat as you run your fingers along his prominent length.

with the same hand you unzip his jeans and before you make the next move you ask soobin, "is this okay?"

his eyes were glazed over and he slowly blinked, shaking his head and saying, "you have no idea how long i've been wanting this." you don't quite understand what he means, but he gave you the consent you needed to continue. you were a little too impatient so you pull soobin's dick from the pocket of his boxers, instead of completely stripping him, and start to stroke him slowly, spreading the pooling precum down his length.

"fuck," soobin hisses, thrusting his hips up into your hand to get more friction. his hands flying to rest on your waist, his hold on your tight. he tilts his head back, his eyes fluttering from the pleasure.

just watching him makes the ache between your legs intense, it was becoming hard to ignore and soobin looked so good under you that you wanted more…

you stop touching him, earning a whine from the boy, but you ignore him as you strip out of your bottoms. soobin watches with wide eyes, his cheeks getting darker as you take off your pants. you would've laughed at how his dick twitched at the sight of you if you weren't trying to be on top of it.

once off, you climb back over him and hover just above his tip. soobin lets out a needy moan when his tip drags along the wetness of you, grinding up against you.

"ready?" you ask, aligning him with you. he eagerly nods, his hands on your hips and he was almost tempted to push you down himself, but he could be patient. he didn't want to ruin a moment he thought he would never get. bit by bit you sink onto his dick. he loudly gasps when he first enters, eyes rolling back at how warm and tight you felt around him.

it's everything he's been wanting since he first met you and he… he was about to blow it! as soon as you reached the base of his cock, ready to move he could feel his orgasm fast approaching. if you move so suddenly, too quickly, he'll…

"wait!" he shouts, his grip on your hips almost bruising as he taps his fingers against your skin and wiggling his toes as a distraction so he wouldn't completely ruin the moment.

you look at him and then at his hands, puzzled. you tilt your head, asking what's wrong with a slight movement of your hips that makes soobin whine. he doesn't speak right away, he takes a second to calm his breathing down. he cracks his eyes open when he thinks he's chilled out enough, but it's quickly lost when he catches sight of you on him, looking down at him with that worried expression that for some reason turned him on and made him aware that his dick was currently deep inside you.

"just… give me a second." he quietly says, slipping his eyes back shut.

you catch on as you feel him continuously twitch inside of you. you have to hold back a laugh as the realization hits you. "are you…close to cumming already?" you tease him, a little laugh escaping. soobin lets out a sound between a groan in embarrassment and a moan of pleasure as your laughing caused you to move slightly.

you get close to his face and poke him on the cheek, right where his dimple would be. he opens an eye and gets startled by how close you were. you laugh, smiling widely and soobin has to turn away, biting his lip and praying that he wouldn't cum.

"so, what did you mean earlier?"

"hm?" he hums.

"when you said 'you have no idea how long you've been wanting this'?" you quote him and watch as soobin's face gets visibly pink. he brings his hands up to cover his face, orgasm forgotten as he gets shy. you move his hands from his face, grabbing them by his wrists and holding them above his head.

he mumbles at first, turning his face into the pillow and letting his voice get muffled through the fluffy material.

"what was that?"

he huffs, squeezing his shut once again. "i said, i may have had a crush on you…for a while now." he whispers the last part.

you were taken aback. soobin had a crush on you? how did you not find out about it, how did you not notice, how did the others not tell you they are terrible at holding secrets?! you think back to when you first met soobin and how he would act towards you leading up to this moment and gasp. even tonight, during the party, the way gets timid around you, always following you or stealing glances in your direction. but that would also mean…

"so when beomgyu asked who you thought about when ma-"

soobin cuts you off, "when i masturbated, yes it was you…" he confesses.

your heartbeat picked up and you felt tingles spread down to your toes. soobin worried his bottom lip as he tried to read your reaction. were you upset or angry with him? he wishes he could hide or runaway right now, but he can't when he's trapped under you and his hands were still pinned above his head.

he starts to get worried and goes to say something, an apology first. but gets shocked when you lean down to kiss him once again. even if his lips hurt from all the kissing, he wouldn't complain. a loud moan gets poured into your mouth when you start to move, raising your hips and slamming them back down onto soobin. you start to move in a constant rhythm, each roll of your hips driving both you and him crazy.

"s-so good, it's so good…" he constantly moans out, his own hips starting to move upwards and meeting yours. his hard thrusts punch out tiny moans from you that only spur him on.

you let go of his wrists and place them on his shoulders from stability as you fuck him, his hands flying to caress your sides and breasts. the combination of soobin thrusting into you, reaching the deepest parts of you and his hands rubbing along your body brings you close to your orgasm.

you look down at soobin, he looked so lewd. all messy and losing himself under just from some riding, it was huge turn. "you're making me feel so good, soobin," you moan into his ear.

soobin could feel himself getting closer and quickly, his thrusts getting sloppier and his moans sounding more desperate. "fuck, 'm gonna cum…" he brokenly moans.

his eyes don't leave you, watching every expression that passes across your face. he doesn't want to miss any part of this, focused on making you feel as good as you were making him feel.

"me too, you're fucking me so good." you moan out, kissing him once again and letting him take control, pounding into you quicker and harder. it only took one particularly hard thrusts for you to cum and the sound of you loudly moaning makes soobin reach his orgasm, his breath hitting your face aggressively. his hips twitch as he fills you with ropes of cum, his legs shaky underneath you.

"holy shit…" he sighs as he comes down from his high, still thrusting weakly into you even though he was sensitive. he didn't want it to end, it felt so good.

you breathily laugh, catching your breath while massaging soobin's shoulders. you peck his face, making him smile and so you leave a kiss on his dimples. god, how you loved his dimples.

you pause and lean back to stare at him. soobin mouths 'what' still smiling.

"i like you too." you say what soobin couldn't, brushing soobin's hair back gently as you say it. soobin's eyes brighten up and his smile grows wider at your words, his dick twitching while still inside you. "maybe i always have…" you add.

soobin brings you down into a hug, pressing your body tightly against his in a tight embrace. you both laugh and then freeze when the movement brings you both back to the position you were currently in.

you look at each other.

"want to go again?" he asks with a smirk, rocking his hips up into you.

©lucidwntrr est. 2025

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

ain’t that the truth

no one will know which one it is.

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

don’t really like fics where the girl is sub, like,i wanna see men cry not bossing women around

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

From 68 Kill, MGG is so hot here

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

in love???? what????

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)

────────────

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.”

────────────

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.

────────────

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.

────────────

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?”

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

im gonna need u to hmu if u look like him

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

Shy boy this, Shy boy that.

What about a loud and goofy boy that completely shuts down at the first sign of affection????

A golden retriever that turns into a whimpering mutt as soon as you reach to pet him???

A brave boy, pretending to be a functional adult, all the while secretly begging to become a drooling slut for the one person who makes his heart and his brain melt?????

Please just choose me already I have no other analogies 😔😔😔😔😔

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

pretty much

Who up yearning?

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

memory rick just likes to listen to club classics

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

that’s so funny i’m gonna start doing that

I enjoy seeing your post and sometimes I almost reblog until I read your endings that have "poggers" or "skibidi" and it ruins your hot posts and gives me the ick. Everything else is so good though so I can't bring myself to unfollow you.

LMFAOOOO

AH FUCK IM GONNA DIE THIS IS MAKING ME LAUGH SO MUCH

I do that on purpose 😭 i feel like sometimes my thoughts are pretty fweaking outrageous so like. The skibidi or awesome sauce or whatever is to remind everyone that i know what im saying is crazy 💔

Adds a level of irony 🤓☝️

Anyway. Sorry.

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

banger

thinking of sukuna and bimbo!reader who people assume are a pair of kinky fucks. They see Sukuna’s aggressive demands and your quickness to follow them and think he’s the meanest dom and you his pretty little sub. His to tie up, spank and berate while you mewl and whimper pathetically for more.

well, the two of you are definitely kinky…

…no one would believe that the huge and terrifying Ryomen Sukuna liked to be used and tied up. With pretty pink ropes that you use to bind his thick muscular thighs to his ankles and his arms to his wrists. They wouldn’t believe the way your pretty doe eyes light up sadistically as you edge him till he growls, promising vengeance.

“you wanna cum, ‘kuna?” You ask sweetly, dragging the sparkly peach acrylic of your nail up his twitching, leaking cock. “if I don’t get a response, I’ll leave you here and you’ll have to find your own way out of these ropes.”

“you wouldn’t fucking dare.” He snarls, red eyes leering at you as best as he could in his position. “I’ve had enough, make me come. Now.”

what a brat, you think, though this is standard for him, his dominant attitude and general sense of authority and entitlement. Despite the fact that he was literally trembling with need, cock forming a pool of pre all over his stomach.

“now that’s not nice, ‘kuna,” you pout, nails digging firmly into the hardened length of his cock. Sukuna jolts and grumbles out a curse, come spurting out of his abused cock pathetically. You watch it all with a tight smile, as he comes ropes and ropes all over himself all the while grunting and groaning your name.

“awww, you came,” you coo, loosening your grip around him, “without my permission.” Sukuna could still see your smile through his blurry gaze as he came down from his high, the crazy sort of look in your eyes. He’d done it now.

“just from the feeling of my fingers digging into your cock.” You trace the fading crescent imprints of your nails along his veiny length, humming at the sight, “such a slut for pain aren’t you, ‘kuna? Despite how much you pretend you’re not.” Your right hand once again circles his cum-soaked cock, left stuffing fingers into his mouth to silence him as you stroke him through overstimulation. He immediately bites down on your fingers and growls, straining against the ropes binding him as his cock aches deliciously.

“you asked to come, didn’t you?” You say, “I’m letting you come, ‘kuna.” You giggle as he thrashes against you, drooling all over your fingers as he tries and fails to glare at you through the intertwining pain and pleasure ebbing through him. the ropes feel too tight but the chaffing against his skin only makes his cock harder. he wants to stop—no, he needs to come.

his second orgasm tears through him, his groans soothing out into pathetic muffled moans. But of course you don’t stop, crazy woman. Your hands tighten and squeeze as you stroke him with no remorse. It hurts so good and you fucking know it, know he can’t resist his bottomless need to feel pain.

“do you want me to stop, ‘kuna?” Usually his pride would keep his lips sealed shut, but you’ve fucked everything out of him, loosened his sharp mouth. He doesn’t know how many times he’s come at this point. “Be good and ask nicely.”

you take your fingers out of his mouth and he hates the way he misses the fullness, “don’t…” he croaks, “stop.”

“god, you’re a freak.” You giggle, resuming your movements, relishing the slight whimper in his voice as your hand circles his throat, nails digging into his neck, and force another impossible orgasm out of him.

fuck, sukuna loved hated you.

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

now i’m thinking i don’t think ik any lesbians

ik a fuck tonne of bisexual girls tho

femme/butch bait in a platonic way too because we all generally need more dykes in our lives

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

🌙⭐☀️

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

Hey!! Just wondering if you’d be comfortable writing timebomb x reader smut??

i am :)) feel free to leave a req 🫶

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

no one will know which one it is.

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

i fear this should be common

Okay seriously. Reblog if you're OLDER than 11.

[th3-3d3n-g4rd3n]

i was giggling the whole time drawing this