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vatelixx · 6 months ago

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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.

────────────

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?”

#sub spencer reid #sub spencer #brat spencer reid #spencer reid angst #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #enemies to lovers #rivals #idk they hate each other but want each other #it’s a messy situation!!#id hate to be either of their therapists #or HR who has to deal with the fallout of this

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coupsalchemy · 2 months ago

Text

Mastermind

Summary - The night he walked in, you knew Seungcheol is trouble. Famous for his fights, athletics, and looks. You shouldn’t be pining over him, desperately seeking his attention, not when he struggles with his own anger, life and himself. You should steer yourself away, but oh god, just a flick of his hand is enough to raise the white flag.

Tags: Seungcheol x f.reader, brother's friend, fluff, angst, romance, ex basketball player! Seungcheol, anger issues, pining, university au

Warnings: none for now

Word Count: 2.8k

The Night

You curl your leg underneath your thighs, snuggling deeper into the end of the couch. The music blasting from the home speakers distracts you from the book you are reading on your phone. Hiphop music, the beats make you bounce along with it even without realizing.

The flat is crowded with your brother’s friends, a party for their victory in a practice match against the rival team. Celebrating for a practice match is ridiculous, and had you throwing your brother out of your room when he informed you.

“A win is a win,” Mingyu, your brother, scoffed, looming over your bedroom door, “and against SNU,” he grins, his eyes gleaming darkly, “then fuck yeah.”

Now you are stuck in babysitting his group of friends, and the stinky players from doing something that may have you pay fines to the leasing office. Boys loom over the beer container, opening one after another, emptying it in an hour since the party started. Girls with shortest dresses you have ever seen, twirls their hair, laughing with their hands covering their mouth at something your brother’s teammates say.

Your eyes dart to the main door searching for a sign of your brother. If someone under haze decides to act out you don’t have it in you to stop a bulky huge basketball player, not when they can easily squish your head with a single headlock. You don’t think threatening will help you either.

It’s friday night, you have to be under your comfy, fresh sheets reading your fantasy series. Not sitting in a corner hoping no one joins you, and worst of it all, start a conversation.

Universe smiles upon you as soon as you think of being invisible as Hansol, your neighbor and your classmate, takes up the seat next to you. Beer in his hand, a flipped baseball cap on his head, sporting a faded rock oversize shirt.

“Cool party,” he tips his drink in your direction.

You smile in reply, your eyes darting to the door again. Where the fuck is he? You suck in a deep breath preparing yourself for the conversation he is gonna have with you.

“Tarot reading, I heard.” He screams over the blaring music, eyeing you taking a sip of his drink.

“Yeah, Hyejin wanted to try it,” you check your phone for messages from your brother, none, “she is taking classes from her reader too. You should come by,” you invite politely.

“Hyejin is predicting?” He sucks a breath through his teeth, unsure, “isn’t she a craz–” he falters noticing your glare, “cool person. Too cool to read others’ futures? Imagine her predicting he is gonna win gold,” he points his bottle in the direction of Soonyoung who is busy imitating the growl of a tiger to a girl who is equally invested in it, “he won’t even attend the practise sessions anymore. Or worse,” he looks you in the eye, “telling him he was a tiger in past life.”

You chuckle, clearly imagining it unfolding in front of you. Hyejin, your best friend, and as Hansol claims a crazy girl, can tick off someone just so she gets entertained. But you never say no to her, and when she threw the idea of a tarot reading stall for the university festival you started calculating the odds, and drew up a plan to bring it into reality.

“You never know,” you reply to Hansol. “You have to come–”

The main door opens, relief floods all over you seeing Mingyu walk in with a new case of beers, followed by two others also carrying snacks.

Hansol sucks in a breath, “oh.” His eyes train on the people following your brother.

The flat slowly comes to silence, only the music fills up the space. People looming over the empty beer container freeze in their space watching over the newcomers, the girls leave their partner with whom they were busy flirting to the three men.

Mingyu laughs, shaking his head, replacing the empty container with a new one, throwing in the ice too. A boy, with hair till his neck, drops the snacks on the table.

Your breath catches in your throat. Your heart picks up its pace following the rhythm of the song playing. The other one, bulky frame, his cream-colored fitted top brings out the broad shoulders, firm chest, and his arms alone can make a rock crack. He drops the heavy container, twisting his wrists, quirks an eyebrow at the dumbstruck crowd.

“He’s here?” Hansol looks at you in expectation of an answer.

“I don’t even know them. Mingyu said something about picking up two important people.” You answer distractedly, that man is nodding to something your brother is whispering in his ear. “Who are they?”

Hansol agrees, “they are important, but also,” he leans over whispering in your ear, “famous.”

“Famous?” You never saw them nor Mingyu mentioned them in any conversation. If they are relatively well-known as Hansol says, you would have at least known them fleetingly. “For what? Basketball players?”

Soonyoung, Seokmin, and Jisoo scream on top of their lungs, discarding their drinks and girls, rushing to the two. They should be basketball players. Mingyu is famous around the campus too, the number of girls hanging on him is a testament to it whenever he strolls to your building to meet you.

You tilt your head lost in thoughts, the puzzle pieces aren’t fitting in. How come you never saw them on campus? You did go to a few of their matches to give moral support to your brother.

Hansol continues, releasing you from running different simulations of possibilities, “yes, ex basketball players and,” he tunes up his voice so that you can hear him over the boisterous boys, “one of them graduated. While the other one,” he points his thumb over at the guy surrounded by people, the buff one. “Isn’t playing anymore—” on a second thought he adds “—more like can’t.”

“Suspended?” You guess.

The boys litter around him, laughing, chattering in loud voices about the play in the practise match. Seokmin explains his shot by throwing an imaginary ball, his wrists moving in a smooth friction. He pats Seokmin by the shoulder, his lips in a tiny smile, almost proud. Soonyoung rush in imitating the opposition’s expressions when they lost to them.

Mingyu cuts in, raising a freshly opened beer, “cheers to Seungcheol and Jeonghan.”

“Aye.” Everyone raises their drinks in union, few hollering like a wolf during a full moon. “JEONGHAN!JEONGHAN!” Soongyoung and Dokyeom lift, the one with long hair, bouncing him on their shoulders.

“Ceiling. Ceiling.” Jeonghan taps the boys’ arms to let him down. Hansol boos with a thumb down, others jump in the trend for Jeonghan spoiling the fun.

You chuckle at the ruckus unfolding in front of you, momentarily forgetting the sloshing of drinks on the floor from their cheerful movements, the cleaning you have to do tomorrow? Well, it's for tomorrow you to figure it out.

Mingyu jumps in voluming up the music, bouncing on his feet in rhythm to the beat. Hansol sets his beer on the floor by the couch rushing in to dance to the song. You shake your head at the hoard of sweaty guys throwing their all in their steps. You record this moment, your brother carelessly enjoying the moment after spending countless days and nights in the practice sessions. He is gonna regret it tomorrow when he sees his uncoordinated moves. A laugh tumbles out your lips imagining his horrified expression.

The couch dips next to you, dragging your attention from your phone screen to the person occupying Hansol’s place. Seungcheol leans back, spreading his legs, resting his hand on the arm rest watching the others dance. His hair is longer for a boy’s standard, few of his hair strands poking his eyes, his skin reflects the snow. He slowly rests his other hand on the back of the couch, his fingertips accidentally brushing your shoulder.

His eyes find yours, “Oh.” He takes off his hand, dipping his head slightly in apology.

Your heart picks up its pace, lips parting slightly at the man sitting before you. He is just perfect. From his thick eyebrows to the huge black eyes staring back at you, his cute nose that wrinkles under your attention, and his chapped lips.

“It’s okay.” You remember your words, pausing your surveillance of him.

He nods, turning back to watch the dancing. You stop recording, chewing on your lower lip lost in thoughts. Fuck. He is beautiful. Your hands quiver slightly, your mind racing about him. One more look at him, just one more look, you crumple your sweatpants under your hold, you subtly turn to the kitchen, from the corner of your eyes you see him bobbing to the music.

He is this good, he definitely has a girl back home waiting for him. Desperation claws you, dragging you to the pits of hell and missed opportunities. You need to know more about him, whether he is going to your university or if he graduated, if he has a girl or not. Hansol’s words resurface in your head, ‘he can’t play anymore.’ Why?

“Scoot.” Jeonghan nudges Seungcheol to the center of the couch. Seungcheol steals a glance at you briefly before scooting next to you, his thigh brushing yours, he mumbles sorry again and maintains a distance of thread. He is a hot furnace, your left side is warm from his body, and you catch a hint of wood scent among the stinky smell.

Jeonghan smiles at you in greeting. You greet him back, curling further into the corner of the couch, your sensations heightened at the proximity of him. You scroll through your social media on mute, drowning in post after post. Seungcheol and Jeonghan fall into their own chat, talking about the practice game, mention of someone in the opposite team being present today and Jeonghan saying the kids miss him.

Seungcheol raises his hand, motioning him to stop. “We agreed on something.” The sharpness of his words runs a shiver down your spine.

Jeonghan sighs, “you have to get over–”

Seungcheol shifts to the side, facing his friend. “Jeonghan,” he hisses, his ears turn red, “one more word and I am leaving.”

“Until when will you run away from everything?” Jeonghan snaps back, tired of Seungcheol’s antics. “One and half years, Cheol. Do you think you can get back that time? Moping around, fucking every opportunity is not how you should be living.”

You fidget in your seat unsure whether you can sit here while two friends bicker. You lock your phone, making a move to run away from the awkward situation. You freeze midway standing up, your jaw dropping down to the floor.

Seungcheol grabs Jeonghan’s collar, “you are going to tell me how to live? You?” He leans closer to his friend, “get yours together before you wander off to advise someone else.”

Jeonghan pries his hands off his collar, “this is what I am talking about.” Calmness in his voice never wavers, his gaze steady on his friend who looks a second away from losing his shit. Seungcheol’s face is red, a nerve on his forehead pops out. An alarm goes off in your head as Seungcheol fists his hand, raising it to hit his friend.

Mingyu barges in, shielding Jeonghan from Seungcheol’s wrath. “Guys. Guys.” He laughs nervously, sobering up. “Chill.”

Seungcheol gapes at Mingyu, blinking, his lips part in shock, and he looks at Jeonghan, his eyes shaking realizing what he was about to do. He lets go of Jeonghan’s collar, reeling back. “Excuse me,” he stands up with a wince, walking off into the kitchen.

Whispers burst outs as soon as he is out of sight.

“I knew it. I was expecting this to happen.”

“Seungcheol changing? Being a better man? Who are you kidding?”

Jeonghan glares at the gossipers, disappearing behind his friend into the kitchen. Mingyu rubs his temples, shutting his eyes in pain. You stand rooted in your place still processing what just happened. He was about to hit his own friend. You can never even imagine hurting your best friend Hyejin, or anyone else for that matter. Is this why he was thrown out of his team?

“Here he goes again,” Hansol appears by your side again, his hair dishevelled, and panting from dancing.

“Again what?” You ask.

“Anger issues. His uncontrollable anger tendencies made him despicable, and most hated among his teammates before,” he pauses, a downturn smile on his face, “his injury.”

“Injury?”

He nods and leaves when someone drags him back. You wanted to inquire more about this, there are so many questions raising inside you.

Mingyu smiles at you in apology. “Sorry, I put you through this tonight.” He loops his hand over your shoulder. “Were you scared?”

“A little.” You whisper in his ear in a scandalous tone, “he was about to hit him.”

Mingyu chuckles ruffling your hair. “They are good. It happens every time.” He adds seeing your unsure expression, “trust me.”

Seungcheol and Jeonghan walk out just in time. Jeonghan has his arm around Seungcheol who is still pissed but calmed down.

Mingyu drags you to them, “meet my sister.” He introduces you to them with a proud smile, “you guys scared her. She is just a baby.” Mingyu pats your head lovingly, bringing you closer to him.

Sober Mingyu is affectionate enough, but drunk Mingyu’s affection goes over the top. You struggle to get out of his iron grip, he doesn’t realise still that he is practically choking you.

“Let her breathe,” Jeonghan helps prying Mingyu off of you, “I’m sorry about earlier.” Jeonghan scratches his eyebrow with an awkward smile, “you don’t have to worry, we are all good.” He looks over his shoulder to the man who is watching us, “right, Seungcheol?”

Seungcheol diverts his attention from you to his friend with a frown line between his eyebrows. Under Jeonghan’s stern gaze he falters, nodding begrudgingly.

Your dead heart picks up its beat at the slight pout on his lips. He sulks at his friend, shoving his hand off when he reaches him to coo at the sight. Jeonghan lets out a hearty laugh.

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, stepping in front of you. “I’m Seungcheol.” He extends his hand, you tentatively accept it in a meek grip. He tilts his head a little, studying your red cheeks. “I thought you reminded me of someone but didn’t realise you are Mingyu’s little sister.”

He towers over you a little, making you look up to see in his eyes. His scent wraps around you bringing in a pleasant mood (also birthing a feral side in you).

Your sweet brother with his sweet timing appears by your side again. A drink in his hand of course. He grins at you, but it falters as he notices Seungcheol’s hand in yours. He wraps himself around you again protectively, taunting Seungcheol, “hey.”

Seungcheol raises his eyebrow, fascination in his eyes.

“My sister is out of bounds. Don’t even think of dating her.” Mingyu hovers over Seungcheol, “she is too precious for peasants like you.”

This is a perfect time to dig a grave and bury yourself.

“Enough drinks for you,” you pluck out his drink from his hand, “let’s put you to sleep.” You hold his hand in a feeble attempt to drag him, even his hair doesn’t move let alone him.

Seungcheol chuckles, nodding to Mingyu. “Understood.” His gaze flees to you for a second, “your sister is precious.” He holds Mingyu on the other side, “show me your bedroom, Mingyu.”

Jeonghan offers to let him take Mingyu to his room too, freeing you. You lead the way to his room, opening it to find two strangers making out on his bed. Ugh. They scramble off in embarrassment.

“A moment,” you quickly pull off the sheets from the bed, and put on new sheets haphazardly. Seungcheol and Jeonghan throw Mingyu on his bed roughly, earning a hey from you.

They grin sheepishly. “We will get going now, precious.” Jeonghan waves, laughing at your rapidly becoming red face. Seungcheol joins him, waving at you. He smiles, his eyes forming crescents like a soft boy stark contrast to what you saw earlier.

“Bye.” You tuck your hair behind your ears.

The door closes behind them, you fall onto the foot of the bed, clutching your racing heart.

He was suspended, had fights with his own teammates and his best friend. He might be a walking red flag, you should be scared and running away in the opposite direction.

Mingyu hates it whenever someone approaches you with other intentions, he is protective and he already gave a warning.

Yet, you groan into the palms of your hands. He is attractive, handsome and sexy. You want him. Despite thousands of warnings going off in your mind, you want him in your life.

#seungcheol #scoups #seungcheol x reader #scoups x reader #seungcheol fluff #seungcheol imagines #choi seungcheol #seungcheol fic #fluff #seungcheol drabbles #seventeen

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dredgesnails · 1 year ago

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i genuinely think the people who insist the life series is scripted just don’t understand the difference between something scripted and something that’s been given a basic premise and directives that everyone involved in agrees to play along with for the bit. like, no, specific moments aren’t scripted, but there’s a reason the series isn’t just “best pvper wins” and it’s because they deliberately prioritise entertainment over pure skill because the same person winning every time just wouldn’t be fun.

like, for the most part they’re a bunch of drama kids who have been given the perfect playground to act out the shakespearian tragedy of their dreams (some more so than others) (hello rendog) and they’re given the tools and situation to do so but everything else is just improv. and they’re also just having fun like i think we should all remember they’re doing this to have fun with their friends and play on a server where anything goes and they can grief all they want and sometimes they’ll just make stupid mistakes like walking off the side of a diving board and dying because they were so miffed about losing to a best tower competition they forgot where the stairs were, or blowing themselves up with their own tnt trap because they placed one block in the wrong place.

also i think people forget just how generally predictable people are in general, like after five seasons you can definitely start to guess how people will behave because they’re just like that. joel is reckless and he likes to poke the bear, martyn is good at staying alive but not good at keeping hearts (the difference between winning limlife and going out early in secret life), scott is good at the social game and a formidable opponent but also terribly self sacrificial, bdubs will betray anyone he’s allied with if offered something good, etc etc etc

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phoenixcatch7 · 9 months ago

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Okay but it's super interesting how

Din = Power = Ganondorf

Naryu = Wisdom = Zelda

Farore = Courage = Link.

Because Din, in the hylian creation myth, created the physical world. Naryu then created the laws - gravity, time, etc. And Farore finally created life - plants and people.

Din created the body, naryu the mind, Farore the soul.

And the triforce and its wielders so perfectly reflect that.

Ganon is physical power, he is big and intimidating and he breaks things. He is cunning and determined, but that's not what he focuses on. He is might makes right.

Zelda is wisdom and cleverness. She is stall tactics and information and team work. She is a powerful mage with a spine of steel, but that's not how she'll win. She is the pen being mightier than the sword.

Link is courage and persistence. He is the wild card sneaking behind enemy ranks, always moving, plunging into terrifying situations head first. He's a phenomenal fighter with a keen wit, but that's not what will get him through his challenges. He is bravery not being the absence of fear but the triumph over it.

They sit in perfect parallels to each other.

And ganon is reborn through his body - his resurrection is immortality. No matter how low he is cast, as long as he has a body he can claw his way back. He can cling to his power, build it ever higher.

Zelda is reborn through the magic of her bloodline. It's the accumulated knowledge handed down for generations, the unique power she must master, the skills she must develop to survive and get her kingdom out the other side intact. Even her name, the knowledge of herself, is handed down from all the way from the very first. Her ancestors knowledge of her future presence, her stability, is what gives her the edge.

Link is reborn in spirit. He is not bound by flesh or blood. Just like his wanderlust soul he can reappear in any time or place. His variation, his unpredictability, is exactly how he fights. It's what makes him so hard to pin down.

Ganons need to build strength means he can't chase after link. Links impulsiveness means zelda can outwit him. Zeldas stationary predictability means she's an easy target for ganon.

But the other direction?

Fire melts ice, ice redirects lightning, lightning burns fire.

And that's the very essence of the triforce.

#It's little details spread across the games like this that just makes it work so WELL it's SO COOL #They're all great at all parts of the triforce but they CHOOSE to focus on the path most meaningful to them #And that's literally reflected in their unique cycles of reincarnation isn't that just AMAZING #And that's why the team up is so important! If they were all working against each other they'd be locked spinning their wheels #If zelda and ganon teamed up link would immediately die and if link and ganon teamed up zelda would instantly perish #It's the link zelda team up that means ganon is the one who kicks it #Also the elemental thing was cool but they do jump around a bit. Like wind is there half the time #In botk the gerudo have lightning and the goron have fire. Farosh still has lightning tho and dinraal fire #In ss lanaryu was the lightning and faron had water like its all over the place thematically. And that's when it's only 3!#Don't even get me started on the 5/7 lots notankyu #But that's the most common group and it's also thematically accurate #Fire being the only one able to self perpetuate with fuel. Can be banked up again. Ice compresses with time but needs the right environment #Lightning go boom 👍 you can feel the static in the air but you don't know when/where it'll strike and then it's all over #Like fr it's hilarious zelda and ganon are playing the long game and link runs past eats all the pieces and while ganons yelling after him #Zelda checkmates his king. And nobody can prove she wasn't cheating because nobody was looking lmao #Ah the duality of metaphors #ANYWAY isn't that so neat???#Reason no.372 why rhoam was a terrible king he didn't just screw up he did it ✨thematically✨#If link had been allowed to run off and get dirty and if zelda was allowed to study her interest (like post kingdom fall FOR EXAMPLE)#They'd have won (like aoc) but nooooooo. I've already made a post (or 3) about it lmao I'll be quiet now #loz #legend of zelda #botw #triforce #loz link #the legend of zelda #zelda #loz botw #ganondorf #loz ganon

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rose-maidenn · 4 months ago

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Pick a card : Your 2025 , predictions based on each month

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Hey guys how are you Happy New Year ＼(^-^)／ , I know I delayed a bit (^.^) for this one but hope you enjoy this , if you resonate like and reblog and gimme feedbacks cause that's what keeps me motivated to post 🫶🦢🩷✨️

If you do like my work and would want an in depth reading please check out my :

Masterlist

Paid readings

Pile 1 :

January

I see you starting the year kind of defeated by the previous year it was really hard and tiring for you and tested your faith a lot , you had to make hard choices, I see that you are stuck in a toxic situation or obsessing over something that doesn't serve you . I see that by middle of January it will get better , I do see turmoil in the start but breakthrough is near and it's for you . You will go out to picnics by the end , water bodies will help you , avoid fast food alrighty and make a vision board baby cause this is your year alright .

February

Like I said circumstances will improve I see a quick change of mood in February, is it your birth month ? Celebrations are around . You will feel protected in February things will feel sweeter . You will make a quick decision that will prove to be extremely beneficial for you this maybe about getting in a relationship or joining therapy as well . You might learn more about emotional regulation and heal your heart chakra . You will be grounded in your body and approach life with meaning .

March

There's stubborn energy in march , you are still Taking things slow and steady , the next chapter of your life is about freedom and not in the sense of travelling places alone but in a sense of freedom from other people's judgements and approval I see that you might have a rip off with someone or hear that someone is leaking information about you this might be a fire sign person who's jealous of you hermit for a while and then make a move , plan in silence and win.

April

Now that you have learned a minor lesson of detachment you have vigor and life again, you will seek new opportunities might get a new hobby as well maybe surfing or racing are you info F1 ? You will also get serious about studies some major exam is on the horizon. Nights in April are significant maybe you will do lot of late night studies or sneak out at night or night rides will make you so happy .

May

For may you are in a mood of enjoyment and happiness but remember to work hard there's tendency of you being too engrossed in enjoying that you forget that your labour is yet to be completed, focus on long term goals and possibilities. You might start visiting the temple more often. The person who was leaking info earlier is gonna miss you a lot in may they might even come back to talk ti you again but you're already done with them , you are in a mode of benevolence but yet you know your value well if they do disturb you too much do a cord cutting .

June

Now is the true time to enjoy your fruits of labour you had done in may , your success rate is high you're spiritually aware and emotionally well regulated, you will truly be happy I see reconciliation of someone you loved when you were young maybe a friend or teenage crush kinda vibe , through instagram or something. You are soaring high , your vibrations are too you're close to the sun and your thoughts will create your destiny so think positively.

July

July is also a positive fine with new opportunities and growth in the money sector of your life, if you have a new business idea or creative idea make sure that you invest in it , you will have more energy and vigor in this month but I see you being kind of lost if it's not well decided where you wanna move next so think before you leap work in the right direction and trust god . Also I see that a feminine figure most probably your aunt will get sick so take care of her if she's important to you.

August

August will focus on healing your old wounds , what have you ignored , if you do your healing well by doing shadow work you will get a breakthrough and live well by circumstance , might get a new house , I hear a moving house as well , you also might be s*xually active a lot during this time , Choose your partners wisely. This person might be an air sign . I see you might try to numb your pain but don't this healing will liberate you so choose this .

September

In September you're not giving a fuck about anyone , you're doing what you like how you like , leaving people and situations and praying a lot , I see some sadness about things left behind this could be stuff that didn't work out in business family or love , if it is the person mentioned in August then you can avoid the pain by being cautious and not attaching yourself by simple discernment I see 1111 , you can choose what you want to happen

October

October is literally like live through the pain moment 💀 I see a hike in finances but your mental health is detoriating you're staying alone , thinking too much and explaining too much , it's necessary that you give yourself a break here okay talk to a friend please please I beg because I see these great times for you which you may fail to recognize because you're too much in your head , it's really important to focus on you in October, mute the noise and focus on you . Eat dates , go to a date and save the date because you're a star.

November

Silent night holy night all is calm all is bright energy , this year Christmas is gonna be lit and you're preparing from November haha I see you getting advent calender ordering gifts for yourself and family . You're gonna be In a supernova mode excessive focus on your goals and you're like you will destroy anyone who will come in your way energy , you're protective and calm it's like you're a mafia boss observing your opponent and waiting for your minions to attack , lol you're gonna have fun in November a lot of funn.

December

December calls for a dark night of the soul heavy reflection on your year and the endings you have had this year , despite being scared you were strong and did what had to be done and you're proud of yourself by the middle of the month . I see you cooking a lot and going to shopping a lot mostly groceries you will be more confident and feel amazing in your body if you had a weight loss goal this year drumroll I see you meeting it . Love Love , you're doing great.

Pile 2 :

January :

Fire in your heart and clear vision is what you're going for in January , I see the circumstances might not be the most favourable but you're hopeful in the midst of a chaos, the happenings have made you instill a sense of balance within oneself and clear sight for what you truly want. You will be presented with a choice in January a choice of new life a new belief a new mindset and it will lead to great outcomes , I sense some modelling offer or working in corporate sector .

February:

The opportunities of January seem to be at full action in February you're more confident than ever , you're at eagle eye view towards the things that you want , your intuition is strong now you're observing the small details and working on them to correct them . Like posture, working on a project you really consider important. The advice is to lay on grass and watch the clouds it will give you comfort. Rest and relax and let universe prepare your auspicious way .

March :

Money is incoming in March, as March is actually the astrological new year I see that you will feel it more than the offers the weight of the time and you will look forward to everything, you're not afraid to work hard and you're really admired for those qualities. I see that you might have recovered from a breakup and now you're set on this path all over again , don't be scared the universe holds your hand , it won't set something in your path that you cannot handle.

April :

You will have ample resources in April to the point that you will become detached with money because you realise that there are much more things to life. You will be more spiritual and find fulfillment in your family and spend quality time with them , a kid maybe Born during this time or you might get pregnant so if you don't want that be safe . As for your love life I sense turbulence cause by old people so don't let the oldies in. Work on healing your sacral chakra in April.

May:

In May your love life seems great tbh , movie dates , colouring together , park dates etc a lot will be happening and it's nice to see . And I see in may you might become too detached with money you may feel drained so you catch up now , multiple investments Will be made by you . One of the sectors good for you will be wine , invest in a wine brewery or gold , both will work well. If you worship Lakshmi this is the month you get serious about her cause she's ready to bless you so so much .

June :

June is full of fun with friends but also a lot of endings due to arguments , make sure you more along with the right people and don't settle because in case you're you're moving with idiots they will exactly show you why they are an idiot , might make remarks on your body and make you feel insecure not recommended. I see your partner being supportive and helping you. Ground this June and wear red lipstick man it suits you so so much it drives your partner crazy .

July :

July is a state of recovery , some of you might have felt disconnected with your high-school friends so you seeked new friends or coworkers but this month you will understand that they love you so much and they're always here for you even if it seems hard at times . You will get flowers a lot , I see a guide being extremely protective about you will be an old spirit guide . If you're a saturnian Saturn will be kind to you and you will have the courage to face anything and everything. Your mindset is good .

August:

August is the month you fall in love with the aesthetic value of the things around you , you might go redecorating your entire room or house , tip you should get a gold vase it will be lucky for you I also see some hummingbird symbolism and bells definitely great for you . Your parents will come around and you will feel connected to them a lot. For some of you around this time you might get engaged . I hear San Paolo so omg excited for you .

September :

The energy is quite similar to August, you're just very very excited in September. Might get new shoes and watch old cartoons even do some repair work in your free time . Will come across a red car and would consider even buying a car. Spiritual advancement is also seen you might have started meditating in early July and September will be the month of effects heightened awareness seeks you now . Don't take any drugs okay I see some peer pressure coming in .

October :

444 on my time zone October will be a protected month or it could mean to up your protection game mann you need a sigil to help I do see a sigil it's circle kind of arrow like , kind of reminds me of the vikings. This pile also gives me Vasalisa vibes ( fairytale) . The fire of your heart burns greater than the fire around you're the tree of life and you're the disaster of it and rebuilding of it . Omg why am I writing this one so whimsically maybe that's how you feel very whimsical very witchy .

November :

You're gonna feel really cute first of all , drenched in kisses and you're gonna party Charli xcx style, your worries are lighter your heart is bigger tbh , attending concerts can be something you do or you might start liking a new artist I hear conan gray , suki Waterhouse tbh . A month of crafts as well , creating new things like bags and cards . You seem to be on a break from work in this month or just your work is comparatively easier so you're in a state of rest .

December :

You're in worship mode in December totally offerings and affirmations are your mantra . Your year was a total up down coaster man (*>∀<*) like it had a balance of everything fun and sadness but what remained consistent is the love , romantically this year will be better for you because you have learnt from your past relationship not to depend too much on your partner and it indeed is helping you keep this one and also your mental health . Take care love love to you.

Thanks for reading 🫶

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cazshmere · 8 months ago

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Predicting the way you might get proposed to with the help of derivative astrology 💒💍

materialist🔖

In astrology, understanding the dynamics between different houses can provide insights into how significant relationship milestones, such as proposals, might occur. The 7th house is traditionally associated with partnerships, marriage, and the spouse, while the 5th house represents celebrations, romantic gestures, and joyful events.

In derivative astrology, the 5th house from the 7th house is also the 11th house. Because the 11th house is five houses away from the 7th, it can indicate how you could get proposed to as the 5th house represents celebrations and the 7th house represents partnerships.

I don’t see many people talking about it but the 11th house sign or the signs element could also indicate significant placements in your spouses birth chart (especially in their big 6)!!

Aries Rising - 11th House Aquarius 💒

💍 The proposal may take place in an unconventional, innovative setting, possibly during a social event with a group of your friends.

💍 Your friends could be the one who could help your spouse out with the arrangement of the proposal too! Or your spouse could literally be your best friend lol

💍 The gesture could be unexpected and original, possibly involving technology, a surprising twist, or a creative idea that reflects your shared vision for the future.

💍 You might feel excited, intrigued, and intellectually stimulated by the originality and thoughtfulness of the proposal.

💍 The atmosphere is likely to be lively, eccentric, and full of surprises, emphasizing freedom and individuality.

🩷 For Example : Your partner might propose with the help of technology. Maybe showcasing your memories together via a video and projecting it for you to see.

Taurus Rising - 11th House

Pisces 💒

💍 The proposal may occur in a dreamy, serene environment, such as by the water, near the beach, during a spiritual gathering, or in a place that holds deep emotional significance.

💍 There could be a lot blues, whites, sea foam greens, lavenders or aquamarines, maybe in the decorations, surroundings or just the attires you might wear.

💍 The gesture could be deeply romantic, involving poetry, music, or an artistic expression that touches the soul and reflects the depth of your connection.

💍 You might feel emotionally moved, peaceful, and spiritually connected, sensing the profound love and understanding between you.

💍 The surroundings are likely to be calm, peaceful, and imbued with a sense of mysticism or otherworldliness, emphasizing the spiritual and emotional bond.

🩷 For Example: Your partner might propose during a quiet evening by a lakeside, reading a poem they wrote for you, as the sound of gentle waves adds to the romantic and ethereal atmosphere.

Gemini Rising - 11th House

Aries 💒

💍 The proposal may take place in a lively, energetic setting, such as during a spontaneous adventure, a competitive event, or a social gathering where you’re both having fun.

💍 Your spouse might feel extra bold and confident while planning and executing this proposal.

💍 The gesture could be bold and direct, possibly involving a challenge, a playful bet, or a dramatic declaration that captures the intensity of the moment.

💍 You might feel exhilarated, alive, and full of adrenaline, with a sense of excitement about the future and the adventures ahead.

💍 The surroundings are likely to be dynamic, fast-paced, and filled with activity, emphasizing the thrill and passion of the moment.

🩷 For Example: Your partner might propose after the two of you win a spirited race or competition together, pulling out the ring in the heat of the moment to match the adrenaline and excitement you both feel.

Cancer Rising - 11th House Taurus 💒

💍 The proposal may occur in a comfortable, luxurious environment, possibly at a private gathering, a favorite restaurant, or a place that holds sentimental value.

💍 Your spouse might book a very luxurious area for this proposal. It will be surely elegant✨. Your spouse might spoil you with gifts right before they propose too.

💍 The gesture could be practical and thoughtful, possibly involving a beautiful gift, a shared meal, or a meaningful token that symbolizes your shared values.

💍 You might feel secure, cherished, and deeply loved, with a sense of being nurtured and supported.

💍 The surroundings are likely to be cozy, serene, and filled with beauty, emphasizing the importance of comfort and security in your relationship.

🩷 For Example: Your partner might propose during a private dinner at your favorite restaurant, presenting the ring along with a dessert that’s beautifully crafted, reflecting the comfort and stability you share.

Leo Rising - 11th House

Gemini 💒

💍 The proposal may take place in a lively, social setting, such as during a party, a gathering with friends, or a spontaneous outing where you’re both having fun.

💍 Your siblings could help your spouse when it comes to setting up the proposal. The proposal could also occur in your neighbourhood.

💍 The gesture could be playful and clever, possibly involving wordplay, a riddle, or a creative idea that engages your mind and makes you smile.

💍 You might feel delighted, mentally stimulated, and appreciated for your intellectual connection.

💍 The surroundings are likely to be vibrant, dynamic, and filled with conversation, emphasizing the joy of social interaction and shared ideas.

🩷 For Example: Your partner might propose during a game night with friends, using a clever wordplay or puzzle that leads you to the final answer : their proposal lol

Virgo Rising - 11th House

Cancer 💒

💍 The proposal may occur in a nurturing, intimate setting, such as during a private gathering with close friends and family or in a place that feels like home.

💍 This could also mean an arranged marriage proposal too because both the families might be heavily involved in this proposal but ofc this is just one possibility but yes family might play a significant role in the arrangement and decisions.

💍 The gesture could be deeply caring and protective, possibly involving a heartfelt promise, a sentimental token, or a nurturing act that shows deep commitment.

💍 You might feel deeply loved, secure, and emotionally connected, with a sense of being cared for and cherished.

💍 The surroundings are likely to be cozy, warm, and filled with a sense of emotional safety, emphasizing the importance of home and family in your relationship.

🩷 For Example: Your partner might propose during a cozy gathering at home with close friends, offering a sentimental family heirloom as the engagement ring to symbolize the start of your new family together.

Libra Rising - 11th House

Leo 💒

💍 The proposal may take place in a grand, elegant setting, possibly during a celebration, a party, or a public event where you’re the center of attention.

💍 There could be a lot of children present in the place where you might get proposed to. There will surely be a lot of lively and fun energy when the proposal happens.

💍 The gesture could be dramatic and romantic, possibly involving a public declaration, a creative display, or a grand romantic gesture that takes your breath away.

💍 You might feel adored, appreciated, and fully in your element, basking in the romance and grandeur of the moment.

💍 The surroundings are likely to be luxurious, vibrant, and filled with beauty, emphasizing the celebration of love and romance in your relationship.

🩷 For Example: Your partner might propose during a glamorous event or party, making a grand gesture in front of all your friends with a declaration of love that’s both bold and romantic.

Scorpio Rising - 11th House

Virgo 💒

💍 The proposal may occur in a quiet, organized setting, possibly during a private dinner, a planned event, or a moment of shared service or responsibility.

💍 A lot of planning has gone into this proposal by your spouse. They might be anxious and nervous to propose because they want everything to go perfectly.

💍 The gesture could be practical and thoughtful, possibly involving a well-considered plan, a meaningful promise, or a gesture that reflects your mutual dedication.

💍 You might feel grounded, respected, and secure in the knowledge that your relationship is well-considered and stable.

💍 The surroundings are likely to be calm, orderly, and filled with a sense of purpose, emphasizing the importance of practicality and responsibility in your relationship.

🩷 For Example: Your partner might propose after the two of you complete a shared project, perhaps during a quiet moment at home, with a meaningful ring that symbolizes your commitment and love for each other.

Sagittarius Rising - 11th House Libra 💒

💍 The proposal may take place in a harmonious, elegant setting, possibly during a cultural event, an art gallery, or a social gathering that emphasizes beauty and balance.

💍 You might already kind of know that you might be getting proposed to and “accidentally” dress fancy for the occasion 😂. This would most likely be a proposal done when you both are alone in a one on one setting.

💍 The gesture could be romantic and graceful, possibly involving a beautiful setting, a heartfelt declaration, or an artistic expression of love.

💍 You might feel deeply connected, cherished, and balanced, with a strong sense of partnership and mutual appreciation.

💍 The surroundings are likely to be refined, balanced, and filled with beauty, emphasizing the importance of harmony and elegance in your relationship.

🩷 For Example: Your partner might propose during a visit to an art gallery or museum, where they surprise you with a private exhibit featuring something meaningful to both of you, ending with the proposal in a beautifully designed setting.

Capricorn Rising - 11th House Scorpio 💒

💍 The proposal may occur in a private, intense setting, possibly during a deep conversation, a shared secret, or in a place that holds personal significance.

💍 You might have an inkling that you are about to be proposed to. Your intuition will guide you for sure but yet again you aren’t 100% sure so you just remain skeptical lol.

💍 The gesture could be intense and transformative, possibly involving a symbolic act, a meaningful promise, or a gesture that reflects the deep emotional bond between you.

💍 You might feel deeply moved, passionate, and intensely connected, sensing the profound depth of commitment.

💍 The surroundings are likely to be private, intense, and filled with a sense of mystery, emphasizing the emotional intensity and transformation in your relationship.

🩷 For Example: Your partner might propose during a private moment, perhaps at a secluded spot that holds deep meaning for both of you, with a gesture that’s emotionally powerful and symbolic of the transformative journey you’re on together.

Aquarius Rising - 11th House Sagittarius 💒

💍 The proposal may take place in an adventurous, exciting setting, possibly during a travel experience, an outdoor activity, or a gathering with friends who share your love of exploration.

💍 There is a high possibility that you get proposed to on vacation or you might think that the proposal is just a joke and laugh it off because you aren’t sure if this is fr or not 😂

💍 The gesture could be spontaneous and full of optimism, possibly involving a shared adventure, a daring act, or a gesture that reflects your shared enthusiasm for life.

💍 You might feel thrilled, free, and full of excitement, with a sense of boundless possibilities and optimism about the future.

💍 The surroundings are likely to be lively, dynamic, and filled with a sense of adventure, emphasizing the joy and freedom in your relationship.

🩷 Example: Your partner might propose during a hike, or a long walk on the beach, a party with loud music and lots of people, a tourist spot maybe.

Pisces Rising - 11th House Capricorn 💒

💍 The proposal may take place in a formal, structured setting, possibly during a professional event, at a significant landmark, or in a place that symbolizes long-term commitment and tradition.

💍 This is also giving arranged marriage vibes😭, I mean it’s just a possibility. Your spouse could be significantly older than you for sure (dilf👀?)

💍 The gesture could be serious and meaningful, possibly involving a well-thought-out plan, a family heirloom, or a gesture that emphasizes stability and long-term goals.

💍 You might feel a deep sense of security, maturity, and seriousness about the future, appreciating the commitment and dedication your partner is showing.

💍 The surroundings are likely to be elegant, grounded, and filled with a sense of tradition or formality, emphasizing the importance of responsibility and commitment in your relationship.

🩷 Example: This reminds me of those rich CEO kdrama leads who go out of their way to propose. For instance writing “will you marry me” in the sky with the help of some lights or smoke haha. Very fancy for sure!

pic creds : pinterest

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