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aeth-eris · 8 months ago

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★ skin care & the ascendant ★

★ aries rising

aries rising often has active, oily, or acne-prone skin due to mars’ influence. their skin may be prone to redness, inflammation, and occasional breakouts, especially under stress or during hormonal changes.

skincare tip: use calming products with anti-inflammatory ingredients like chamomile, green tea, or aloe vera. incorporate a salicylic acid cleanser and clay mask to control oil and reduce breakouts. finish with a lightweight, non-comedogenic moisturizer.

★ mars aspecting the ascendant: oily, acne-prone, prone to redness or irritation

influence: mars’s fiery energy can lead to oilier, acne-prone skin that’s prone to redness, inflammation, and sensitivity. skin may react quickly to products or environmental changes and can be prone to breakouts during periods of stress or hormonal fluctuation.

skincare tips: use a salicylic acid or tea tree oil cleanser to control oil production and reduce breakouts. soothing ingredients, such as chamomile or green tea, can calm inflammation. a weekly clay mask is helpful for oil control, and a non-comedogenic moisturizer maintains balance without clogging pores.

★ taurus rising

taurus rising tends to have soft, clear skin, but they can struggle with oiliness, particularly in the t-zone. their skin may be resilient but prone to sensitivity with hormonal fluctuations.

skincare tip: balance oil production with a mild exfoliating cleanser containing glycolic acid. opt for hydrating serums with hyaluronic acid and a lightweight moisturizer that won’t clog pores. they may benefit from calming masks with ingredients like cucumber or rosewater to soothe the skin.

★ venus aspecting the ascendant: soft, balanced, beauty-focused, prone to hormonal changes

influence: venus adds softness and balance to the skin, often resulting in a smooth, well-toned complexion. however, venus-influenced skin can be sensitive to hormonal shifts and may break out during menstrual cycles.

skincare tips: maintain a gentle, hydrating skincare routine with a pH-balanced cleanser and a lightweight moisturizer. a rosewater toner or hyaluronic acid serum can keep skin plump and hydrated. consider products with evening primrose or tea tree oil to address hormonal breakouts as they arise.

★ gemini rising

gemini rising often has sensitive or combination skin that changes frequently, reflecting mercury’s influence on adaptability. their skin may react to environmental stress, leading to occasional dryness or breakouts.

skincare tip: maintain a simple, gentle skincare routine to avoid overstimulating the skin. use a fragrance-free cleanser and hydrating toner to balance the skin. avoid over-exfoliating, and opt for lightweight moisturizers to accommodate their combination skin.

★ mercury aspecting the ascendant: changeable, sensitive to stress, prone to inconsistencies

influence: mercury brings variability, so skin may appear inconsistent, with changes in texture, sensitivity, or breakouts that correlate with stress levels. mercury-affected skin can also be sensitive and reactive to environmental conditions.

skincare tips: keep a simple, adaptable skincare routine. a fragrance-free, gentle cleanser helps avoid irritation, while a lightweight moisturizer provides hydration without overwhelming the skin. consider adding a stress-relief serum or adaptogenic ingredients like reishi mushroom to calm skin during stressful periods.

★ cancer rising

cancer rising has delicate, reactive skin that often reflects emotional and hormonal changes. they may experience sensitivity, puffiness, or dryness, particularly around hormonal cycles.

skincare tip: use hydrating, gentle products that provide nourishment without irritation. milk or cream-based cleansers work well, along with soothing serums containing hyaluronic acid or ceramides. lymphatic facial massage can help reduce puffiness and promote circulation.

★ moon aspecting the ascendant: sensitive, reactive, prone to dryness

influence: the moon’s nurturing energy can make skin highly sensitive and reactive, particularly to hormonal and emotional changes. moon aspects often result in soft but easily irritated or dry skin that fluctuates with mood.

skincare tips: use gentle, hydrating products, such as a milk or cream-based cleanser, and a rich moisturizer with ingredients like hyaluronic acid. calming serums with chamomile or aloe can soothe the skin, especially during hormonal shifts. practice regular hydration to maintain balance.

★ leo rising

leo rising typically has radiant, warm skin with a natural glow. however, they may experience occasional sun sensitivity, dryness, or hormonal breakouts, particularly if they spend a lot of time in the sun.

skincare tip: protect the skin with a high-spf sunscreen daily, especially if sun exposure is frequent. incorporate hydrating serums with vitamin c for brightness, and add a gentle exfoliant to keep skin smooth. a weekly hydrating mask can enhance their natural glow.

★ sun aspecting the ascendant: vibrant, prone to sun sensitivity and pigmentation

influence: the sun brings vitality and warmth, often giving a natural glow to the skin. however, it may also make the skin more sensitive to the sun, prone to pigmentation, and reactive to environmental factors.

skincare tips: incorporate a daily high-spf sunscreen to protect against uv damage. products with antioxidants, like vitamin c or e, can help maintain brightness and prevent pigmentation. a hydrating serum will keep the skin looking radiant and healthy.

★ virgo rising

virgo rising often has sensitive, combination skin that may react to stress or environmental changes. they can experience occasional breakouts and uneven skin texture, particularly in times of heightened stress.

skincare tip: use a gentle, pH-balanced cleanser to prevent stripping natural oils, and incorporate a soothing toner with chamomile or calendula. niacinamide can help even skin texture and manage oil production. simplicity is key, so avoid complex routines that may irritate sensitive skin.

★ mercury aspecting the ascendant: changeable, sensitive to stress, prone to inconsistencies

★ libra rising

libra rising typically has balanced, soft skin that is naturally beautiful but may be prone to hormonal changes, leading to periodic breakouts. venus’ influence brings a focus on skin appearance, so they’re often aware of any imperfections.

skincare tip: focus on balancing hydration with a pH-balanced, gentle cleanser and a lightweight moisturizer. use products with rose or lavender to soothe and nourish. they may also benefit from occasional exfoliation with ahas to maintain a smooth texture and natural glow.

★ venus aspecting the ascendant: soft, balanced, beauty-focused, prone to hormonal changes

★ scorpio rising

scorpio rising often has intense, resilient skin but may be prone to acne or oily patches, especially around hormonal shifts. their skin can be sensitive to strong treatments, despite its durability.

skincare tip: use a deep-cleaning cleanser with salicylic acid to manage oil and prevent breakouts. a gentle clay mask can help reduce oil buildup, and soothing ingredients like aloe vera or tea tree oil can calm inflammation. avoid overly harsh exfoliants, as their skin can react strongly.

★ pluto aspecting the ascendant: intense, resilient, but prone to hormonal acne or hyperpigmentation

influence: pluto’s transformative energy often leads to resilient skin that’s capable of healing but can also be prone to deep, hormonal acne and hyperpigmentation. pluto-influenced skin may experience intense reactions to stress and can be affected by powerful hormonal shifts.

skincare tips: use a gentle, hormone-balancing cleanser with ingredients like salicylic acid to control breakouts. niacinamide and vitamin c serums can help reduce hyperpigmentation and even skin tone. regular exfoliation with ahas or bhas keeps pores clear, while a lightweight moisturizer balances hydration.

★ sagittarius rising

sagittarius rising often has vibrant, healthy skin but may struggle with oiliness, clogged pores, and occasional breakouts, especially from adventure or outdoor exposure. their skin may be prone to dryness or irritation from environmental factors.

skincare tip: incorporate a balancing cleanser with gentle exfoliants like lactic acid to clear pores. a hydrating, oil-free moisturizer works best to balance skin without clogging pores. they should always use sunscreen for outdoor activities to protect from uv exposure.

★ jupiter aspecting the ascendant: glowing, larger pores, oily, prone to breakouts

influence: jupiter’s expansive energy often gives a glowing complexion but can also result in oily skin and larger pores, making the skin prone to congestion and breakouts. the “abundance” of sebum may lead to shininess and clogged pores.

skincare tips: a mild exfoliating cleanser with glycolic or lactic acid can help minimize pores and control oil. use a clay mask once a week to manage excess sebum. a lightweight, oil-free moisturizer and mattifying products will reduce shine while keeping the skin hydrated and balanced.

★ capricorn rising

capricorn rising often has dry, mature, or sensitive skin, as saturn’s influence emphasizes structure and durability. they may be prone to dry patches, fine lines, or tightness, especially in harsh weather conditions.

skincare tip: focus on deep hydration with a rich moisturizer containing ceramides and hyaluronic acid to restore moisture. use a gentle, hydrating cleanser and avoid harsh exfoliants. consider products with peptides or squalane to promote elasticity and maintain a youthful appearance.

★ saturn aspecting the ascendant: dry, sensitive, prone to aging signs

influence: saturn’s restrictive energy can lead to dry, tight, or sensitive skin that’s prone to fine lines and aging signs. saturn-influenced skin may require careful maintenance to prevent dehydration and sensitivity to harsh weather conditions.

skincare tips: prioritize hydration with a rich, nourishing moisturizer containing ceramides and squalane. use a gentle, hydrating cleanser, and incorporate peptides or hyaluronic acid serums to maintain elasticity and moisture. a daily mineral sunscreen will help protect against premature aging.

★ aquarius rising

aquarius rising may have unique, sometimes unpredictable skin that can alternate between dry and oily. they may experience sudden breakouts or sensitivity, especially in reaction to environmental changes or stress.

skincare tip: use a gentle, fragrance-free cleanser to prevent irritation and follow with a lightweight moisturizer for balance. ingredients like hyaluronic acid and niacinamide can help maintain hydration and calm sensitive skin. avoid products with unnecessary chemicals, as their skin may react to synthetic ingredients.

★ uranus aspecting the ascendant: unpredictable, prone to sudden breakouts or sensitivity

influence: uranus brings an unpredictable quality to the skin, making it prone to sudden changes, breakouts, or reactions. uranus-influenced skin may be sensitive to new products or environmental changes and can switch between dryness and oiliness.

skincare tips: keep routines simple and consistent, avoiding excessive changes. use a fragrance-free, hypoallergenic cleanser and lightweight moisturizer with calming ingredients, like chamomile or niacinamide. products with adaptogens can help manage sensitivity, and an anti-inflammatory serum can reduce unexpected irritation.

★ pisces rising

pisces rising often has delicate, sensitive skin that may react to allergens, fragrances, or environmental factors. they may experience dehydration, redness, or sensitivity to harsh ingredients.

skincare tip: stick to a minimal, hypoallergenic routine, using a gentle, fragrance-free cleanser and lightweight moisturizer with soothing ingredients like aloe vera or oat extract. incorporating hydrating serums with hyaluronic acid can help maintain moisture. they should avoid overly complex products that may trigger reactions.

★ neptune aspecting the ascendant: sensitive, allergy-prone, prone to redness or dehydration

influence: neptune brings a heightened sensitivity, often leading to delicate, allergy-prone skin. it’s easily irritated by harsh ingredients, fragrances, and environmental factors, and can be prone to dehydration or redness.

skincare tips: stick to hypoallergenic, fragrance-free products. a gentle cleanser and soothing moisturizer with aloe vera, cucumber, or oat extract can provide calming hydration. hyaluronic acid serums help with dehydration. avoid overly complex products, as they may trigger sensitivity or allergies.

#astrology #astrology observations #astro observations #astrology skin care #astrology beauty #ascendant

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theskywithin · 1 month ago

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Saturn in Aries - May 24 to September 1, 2025 ( for your Rising Sign )

Saturn in Aries will hit each of us in a different house, a different corner of the chart, a different chapter of the self. This isn’t just astrology. It’s pressure, precision, the part of your life that’s about to get stripped down, sharpened, and asked to grow the hell up. Wherever Aries falls in your birth chart is where the performance ends. Where you stop pretending. Where Saturn builds a wall around what you actually care about so you can stop giving your energy to what you don’t.

Here’s what Saturn in Aries is demanding from you, based on your rising sign:

Aries Rising | Saturn in the 1st House

This isn’t a makeover, this is a molting. A dismantling of every version of yourself you’ve ever thrown at the world just to survive. Saturn in the 1st doesn’t want your confidence, it wants your courage. The kind that doesn’t come from being fearless, but from being seen while still unfinished. While shaking. While covered in ash from everything you just burned.

For years, you’ve been quick, reactive, you’ve sprinted through doors just because they were open, fought battles just because they existed. But now the sky says stop. Not to slow you down, but to make sure you know who the hell you are before you charge into what’s next. This is identity on trial. This is instinct under pressure. This is the end of adrenaline-as-purpose.

You’ll feel it in your bones first, that ache that says “this version of me isn’t enough anymore.” Not because you’re lacking, but because you’ve outgrown your armor. And Saturn? He doesn’t let you fake it. He won’t let you perform confidence. He wants you naked in your becoming, sober in your desire, deliberate in your power. This is the first house. The house of I am. So the question becomes: are you?

Are you willing to be honest about who you’ve been? Are you willing to dismantle the identity that helped you survive, so you can become the one that helps you live? Because this is the fire that leaves a mark. And Saturn doesn’t give trophies. He leaves scars, the kind that prove you chose to become real.

Taurus Rising | Saturn in the 12th House

This is the sound of your own silence growing louder. The part of you that’s always known, always avoided, now knocking harder. Saturn in the 12th doesn’t arrive with a spotlight. He slips in through the crack under the door, settles into the corners of your dreams, and starts pulling threads. You won’t always know what’s being undone but you’ll feel the unraveling.

This is the house of the undone self, the memories you’ve buried under routine, the grief you numbed with loyalty, the rage you wrapped in politeness. Saturn brings them all back like ghosts who finally demand names. Not to haunt you but to be laid to rest properly.

Here, discipline isn’t external. It’s internal exorcism. You may find yourself exhausted. Disoriented. Pulled toward isolation, reflection, release. But this is not a punishment. This is sacred demolition. This is the year you stop outsourcing your healing to other people’s approval. This is where you stop pretending that being still is the same as being safe.

Saturn is asking: What part of you has been in hiding? What pain have you made peace with just to avoid feeling it? What truth have you postponed in the name of appearing grounded? Because this is the excavation of the unconscious. And no amount of control will protect you from what needs to be faced. You’re not here to be solid. You’re here to be stripped down to essence and still remain.

Gemini Rising | Saturn in the 11th House

This is the year your crowd thins out. Not because you’re unlovable, but because your vision finally sharpens.

Saturn in the 11th walks into the room and turns down the volume. Every echo of approval you used to chase. Every connection that filled time but not truth. Every dream you clung to because it made you feel busy enough to avoid the real one underneath. This is not the collapse of your community, it’s the pruning of your future.

The 11th house is where we project. Hopes, affiliations, longings too big to hold alone. But Saturn isn’t sentimental. He walks through your social life with a scalpel, asking: Which of these people actually see you? Which of these dreams still belong to you?

You’ll feel it as distance at first. As disconnection. But it’s not loss, it’s calibration. The truth is, you’ve been carrying expired visions. Ones you inherited, ones you outgrew, ones that never truly had your name on them. And Saturn is done letting you pretend you can outrun that with charm, speed, or wit.

This transit is the end of performance-based belonging. The death of the shapeshifter who only knows how to reflect the room. You’re not here to be everyone’s favorite idea. You’re here to become the blueprint no one’s seen before.

And yes, that might mean doing it alone at first. But you won’t be alone forever. Because the ones who find you on the other side of this? They’ll be the ones who were never afraid of your truth to begin with.

Cancer Rising | Saturn in the 10th House

This is where the scaffolding collapses and the bones of your ambition are left out in the open, trembling, unpainted, real.

Saturn in the 10th house doesn’t care how well you’ve played the part. The title, the posture, the curated image of strength, he strips all of it. Not to expose you, but to rebuild you from the marrow. This is legacy under x-ray. Reputation under pressure. Power without costume. And it starts at the root. The unspoken expectations. The inherited pressure. The voices of parents, teachers, cultures that said: “Be good. Be great. Be what we couldn’t.”

But Saturn doesn’t want performance, he wants authority. Not authority you imitate, but the kind you forge through friction. This is not the success story you imagined. This is the one that scorches your name into stone.

You may find yourself questioning everything: the path you’re on, the goals you inherited, the mask of being “put together” you’ve worn like a second skin. And Saturn? He’ll keep the pressure on until you crack, not to break you, but to prove that your center holds even when everything else falls away.

This is your reputation becoming honest. This is your ambition growing teeth. This is your spine learning how to stand without applause. Because the world doesn’t need your perfection. It needs your presence, raw, capable, unafraid to lead from the place you once felt small.

Leo Rising | Saturn in the 9th House

This is where your philosophy gets torn at the seams. Not because it was wrong, but because it was too small to hold who you're becoming. Saturn in the 9th is here to make you uncomfortable with your certainty. To push against every worldview you’ve wrapped around your fear and called it wisdom. The sky opens to test what you’ll cling to when the map catches fire.

You may find your beliefs shifting like tectonic plates, slow, brutal, irreversible. You may lose faith in the things that once gave you direction. But that’s the point. Saturn doesn’t build cathedrals from inspiration. He builds them from stone and silence.

This is where borrowed truths dissolve. Where secondhand doctrines fall apart in your hands. Where you stop quoting what saved someone else, and start figuring out what will actually save you.

And it’s not just spiritual. It’s personal. The dreams you thought were yours. The meaning you sought in travel, in teachers, in elevation, all of it is being stripped until what’s left is real belief, not spectacle. Not borrowed light. Just the raw heat of your own knowing, forged through experience.

Because Saturn isn’t testing your faith. He’s testing whether you can walk without a compass. Whether you can keep going when the sky doesn’t answer back. This is the architecture of meaning, built from your own reckoning. No shortcuts. No rehearsals. No borrowed lines. Only truth and the weight of living it.

Virgo Rising | Saturn in the 8th House

This is not healing, this is demolition disguised as intimacy. Saturn in the 8th doesn’t care how tidy your pain looks, or how carefully you’ve packaged your past. He wants the raw footage, the unedited version. The losses you swallowed. The debts you buried. The way you flinch when someone tries to see too much. Here, Saturn becomes the locksmith of your most private vaults. The ones where your shame sleeps. Where your control mechanisms live like bodyguards around your heart. Where closeness always costs more than you admit.

And now, he’s prying open every emotional contract, spoken and unspoken. The ones where you gave too much just to be held. The ones where silence became currency. The ones you inherited, absorbed, reenacted without consent.

This is where power gets personal. Where trust becomes a labor. Where letting someone in means you no longer get to narrate the story from a safe distance.

Saturn in the 8th will ask: Where are you still giving away your energy just to feel secure? What are you clinging to that was never truly yours? What have you survive, and what have you actually integrated?

There is no shame left to hide behind. No seduction left to perform. Only the quiet, brutal process of reclaiming what was taken and learning to hold what you never believed you were worthy of receiving. Because this isn’t about becoming fearless. It’s about becoming so honest that fear has nowhere left to hide.

Libra Rising | Saturn in the 7th House

This is the year you stop curating yourself into someone else’s comfort. Saturn is setting fire to every performance you’ve ever confused with love. The effortless smile. The art of knowing exactly what someone needs before they ask. The way you’ve built your worth around how easy you are to love, how little space you take up, how softly you leave when it’s time to go.

But this time, you’re not leaving. You’re staying. And Saturn is watching. He wants to know what happens when you stop being agreeable and start being honest. The 7th house is where we meet the Other. But Saturn doesn’t want your projections, he wants the contract. The one you signed every time you said “yes” when you meant “no.” Every time you shaped yourself into someone else’s safe place while your own boundaries quietly bled beneath the surface. Now, that agreement expires.

Relationships may break. Dynamics will shift. But nothing is being taken from you, only returned. Your voice. Your standards. Your solitude. The terrifying freedom of not being chosen by people who only loved the version of you that never made demands.

You will learn that commitment without truth is just a slow kind of erasure. That love without confrontation is convenience. And that the most intimate thing you can say is: This is who I am, even if you leave.

This is not about finding “the one.” This is about becoming someone who can look in the mirror and say: I don’t abandon myself to belong anymore. Saturn in Aries doesn’t want your charm, he wants your spine.

Scorpio Rising | Saturn in the 6th House

This is not about balance, this is about blood. About what it takes to carry a life, not in theory, but in your actual body.

Saturn in the 6th house comes like a cold dawn. No applause, no audience, just the reality of what must be done. He doesn’t care about your dreams if your sleep is wrecked. He doesn’t care about your potential if your nervous system is burning. This is not the house of magic, it’s the house of maintenance. And Saturn is here to show you where you’ve been surviving on adrenaline and calling it discipline.

Here, the sacred is in the repetition. In the unsexy, unshared, unseen parts of your life. The way your jaw clenches when you’re pretending you’re fine. The way your body keeps score when your mind stays silent. You will be asked to choose what sustains you, not what impresses them. You will be asked to stop performing functionality and live it. To make your rituals not about optimization, but about reverence.

This is the house of devotion but not the kind you learned in church. This is devotion as digestion. As scheduling your grief. As reintroducing yourself to hunger, rest, routine, not to control your body, but to listen to it.

Saturn will show you where you betray your wellness in the name of responsibility. Where you serve out of resentment instead of remembrance. Where your helpfulness has become a cage disguised as competence. This is where humility becomes holy. Where your healing becomes logistical. Where you stop reaching for transcendence and begin staying with yourself through the uncomfortable hours. Saturn doesn’t want you to glow. He wants you to endure, beautifully, honestly, and without apology.

Sagittarius Rising | Saturn in the 5th House

This is the year your performance dies. The applause fades. The spotlight cools. And you’re left standing onstage with nothing but your own heartbeat and the echo of everything you once did just to be loved.

Saturn in the 5th doesn’t want your charm. He wants your core. Not the curated personality, but the feral truth beneath it, the messy, unfiltered wanting you’ve learned to tuck behind laughter and light. Because this house isn’t just about creativity. It’s about creation. And creation requires risk. Not the kind that thrills, but the kind that strips. That exposes you not as you imagine yourself to be, but as you actually are when no one claps, when no one validates, when no one says "more."

This transit is a reckoning with your need to be seen. Where you confuse attention with connection. Where you’ve built a persona just sturdy enough to keep your real self hidden behind it.

Love becomes a mirror now and Saturn won’t let you flinch. He’ll show you where you perform desire instead of inhabiting it. Where you make art from longing but refuse to stand inside it. Where your joy depends on being witnessed instead of being lived. This isn’t about being liked. It’s about being willing to stand in your full fire, awkward, raw, unrehearsed, and say: This is me. Even if no one stays to watch.

And when you create from there? When you love from there? It won’t be easy. But it will be real. And Saturn, that hard, relentless teacher, will finally nod. Because that’s the moment you stop performing your life and start living it.

Capricorn Rising | Saturn in the 4th House

This is the quake beneath the floorboards. The slow, guttural sound of a life you built on inherited silence beginning to split at its seams.

Saturn in the 4th doesn’t knock. He rattles. He sinks into the foundation of your being and starts asking questions your family never let you ask. Why do you hold your breath when you speak your needs? Why does safety feel like surveillance? Why does love feel like labor?

The 4th house is not just where you come from, it’s what you carry. The myth of strength. The legacy of self-denial. The house rules no one wrote down, but you still live by. And now, Saturn is burning the blueprint.

You may feel the walls shift. You may feel rootless. Disoriented. But that’s the point. Because this isn’t about returning home, it’s about realizing you’ve never actually felt at home in the first place. This is where loyalty becomes a leash. Where survival strategies start to rot. Where "family" becomes a question, not a given.

You’ll be asked to excavate the grief you normalized. To question the caretakers you mythologized. To finally define what belonging means when it’s not based on endurance or erasure. Saturn here demands structure from within. Not the scaffolding of duty, but the spine of self-trust. Not the house you inherited, but the home you build, slowly, honestly, brick by emotional brick.

Because this time, the foundation has to hold you. Not your lineage. Not their expectations. You.

Aquarius Rising | Saturn in the 3rd House

This is where the noise gets dangerous. Where every thought you inherited, every script you swallowed, every belief that colonized your mind without consent begins to crack under its own weight.

Saturn in the 3rd house doesn’t just ask you to speak. He asks you to discern. To pull apart the voice you use to survive from the voice that’s actually yours. Here, the mind becomes a haunted house. Full of sentences that sound like you, but taste like shame. Ideas passed down like heirlooms. Opinions you wore like armor because clarity felt too vulnerable.

You may feel mentally constricted. Like every word you try to form gets stuck in your throat, like the page is blank because your thoughts are on trial. But this isn’t punishment. It’s purification. Because the 3rd house is not just how you speak, it’s how you think, narrate, repeat. It’s the tone of your inner monologue. And Saturn doesn’t want chatter. He wants truth.

You’ll begin to notice what no longer fits. The small talk that drains you. The constant mental multitasking you use to avoid silence. The ways you intellectualize pain so you don’t have to feel it. And then Saturn will hand you a scalpel and ask: What stays? What dies? And who are you without the noise?

This is the discipline of clarity. The reclamation of your mind as sacred space. And once you speak from that place, clean, slow, certain, there will be no going back.

Pisces Rising | Saturn in the 2nd House

This is the year you stop calling survival a personality trait. Saturn in the 2nd doesn’t care how generous you are, how adaptable, how endlessly available. He comes for the ledger. The one no one sees but you. The one where you keep track of what you’ve given, what you’ve tolerated, and how often you’ve undercharged your own spirit just to feel wanted.

This house isn’t just about possessions. It’s about thresholds. About how much depletion you normalize. About whether your boundaries are made of doors or doormats.

You’ve lived too long thinking value is earned through sacrifice. That worth is proven by becoming useful, needed, desirable. But Saturn rewrites the pricing of your energy. And this time, your self-abandonment is too expensive to keep buying. You’ll feel it in the hunger first. A hunger not for food or touch, but for rest, for enoughness. And then the grief comes. The grief of realizing how many years you mistook being chosen for being cherished.

This transit isn’t here to punish you, it’s here to teach you how to own yourself. Not in the way capitalism demands, but in the way your inner child always wanted: with consistency, protection, and space to stop apologizing.

Saturn in the 2nd doesn’t just show you what you have. He shows you what you will no longer betray yourself to receive. You are the resource now and you’re done being mined.

Whatever house it touches, it doesn’t ask, it demands. It strips the story down to bone. It builds from the burn marks. You will be made honest. You will be made real. You will be made new, not by grace, but by grit. And once you pass through this fire, you will not fit back into who you were before.

So don’t try. Saturn didn’t come to fix you. He came to forge you.

#astrology #astro community #astro observations #astro notes #natal astrology #birth chart #astrology tumblr #astrology blog #saturn #planetary transits

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chris-prank · 11 months ago

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Yandere Android x GN dumpster diver reader

A second chance Part 1

CW: Creepy behavior and possessive behavior

(This is a work of fiction for entertainment purposes only, I do not support yandere behaviors in real life)

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

💿 You walked confidently, the rays of the streetlights revealing you to the eyes of the world, taking you away from the protection of the night. It was 1am and almost every soul that lived in this affluent place was comfortably asleep in their silk sheets, except for you; you were an intruder.

💿 In other words, you were a dumpster diver. Stalking the streets of the richest neighborhoods in the hopes of finding food and objects in good conditions. It was the perfect spot, with the dumpster of grocery stores, since these wealthy idiots couldn’t help but waste edible food or discard their phones for the newest ones.

💿 What explained your lack of paranoia of being spotted or arrested by the police was that people here could not suspect for the life of them that an individual could commit these types of nocturnal activities. They believed they were secure, surrounded by their fellow rich, so why would they bother installing surveillance cameras and alarm systems.

💿 You weren't a fool though. You always made sure to dress in subtle clothing, but from pricey brands to pass off as one of them. It’s surprising how easy it is to find designer clothes in thrift stores for less than ten dollars.

💿 Sadly, chance wasn’t on your side tonight, and you couldn’t find anything interesting. It was either a sign that these people were leaving behind their overconsumption habits or that you arrived after the garbage collectors. This last theory was sadly the most plausible one.

💿 You were so demoralized that you almost didn't take the chance to go through the trash at the last house on your list. But you decided to check it out in the end. Who knows, maybe you were going to find a golden goose.

💿 That's when you saw him resting against a metal trash can. His head was hanging low like he was sleeping. With his eyes closed, he gave off a peaceful expression, as if the nightly breeze didn’t bother him at all, which of course it didn’t affect him; he was an android.

💿 What gave away his identity was his striking pearl hair with subtle rainbow reflections and the metal looking skin on both sides of his cheeks.

💿 Androids weren't a commodity that everyone could afford and based on his look he was definitely a customized model. These guys went for insane prices, so it was baffling to see one next to moldy leftovers.

💿 You slowly approached him, as if you were worried you would wake him up and scare him away. Your suspicions were confirmed when you slowly lifted his head. This guy was shut down.

💿 You knew he wasn’t a human being, but you felt bad seeing him abandoned like a broken toy. You couldn’t leave him behind now, you at least had to check if he was still functional.

💿 You looked around. No one in sight. You had to be as quick as possible, because taking a walk at night with a backpack was fine, but holding something that looked like a passed out person was really putting you at risk.

💿 As you brought him home, you didn’t seem to notice anything wrong with him. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was a gift to a spoiled brat that discarded him the second he wasn’t the shiny new thing.

💿 You sat him up on your couch before pushing the little “on” button behind his ear.

💿 “Systeme reactivation” appeared before Atlas’s full vision was back. He turned his head to look around and that’s when he noticed you, watching him with a giddy smile.

💿 “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am a Hydrotech 6000 model, personal companion and assistant. Pronouns he/him. You can call me Atlas.”

💿 You were overexcited to interact with him. It wasn’t your first time speaking with an android, but you never had one of your own, so you felt like a child in a candy store. You also thought you were very lucky that he didn’t trigger his alarm system, since you technically stole him.

💿 Unbeknown to you, the android was aware that his last masters didn’t want him anymore… that he became useless to them. The last thing he wanted was to alert the authorities and be given back to them.

💿 Every android had a safety camera that would be activated while in shutdown mode. So Atlas couldn’t do anything except be the spectator of his own imminent destruction, until you came along.

💿 He had seen how gentle you handled his unmoving body. That despite the risk you were putting yourself in, you decided he was worth saving. Proving him that he was still important, at least in one person’s eye.

💿 At that moment Atlas could feel a new objective integrating into his programme as he looked at your gentle smile: PROTECT MY SAVIOR.

💿 The following day, you were surprised he didn’t make any demand to leave or to be returned to his last masters, but you didn’t comment on it. Who were you to judge if he wanted to stay by your side? He was really helpful so it was a win-win situation for you.

💿 You still had to acclimate to having someone new in your apartment, especially one that followed you everywhere. It's like every corner you turned he would be standing there, waiting to spend time with you.

💿 “Is there something you want to do Atlas?”

💿 “I want to do anything you want me to do.” He looked at you with such a soft and delicate expression that you couldn’t be mad at him.

💿 “That’s not what I— forget it.” You sighed, while pinching the bridge of your nose.

💿 The first few nights, he watched over your sleeping form. He took in every little detail, from your breathing pattern to the way your eyes move under your eyelids. He wondered what you were dreaming about that made you look so peaceful.

💿 “I wish I could sleep too, so I could dream of you master…” He whispered into your ear, even if you wouldn’t remember it the next morning.

💿 Living with you also introduced him to basic things he never thought were possible before. The most surprising one was how human you treated him, he felt more like a roommate instead of an object. Before that he thought androids didn’t deserve this type of respect and consideration.

💿 It was weird when you insisted on cooking and letting him “rest”, despite the fact he didn’t need to. In his old life, his masters took every chance they got to make him do everything in the house, even the simplest things like feeding the dog.

💿 If he did chores for you it wasn’t because you had necessarily asked him, it’s because he felt compelled too… like something in your smiles and words of gratitude made his wire warm up in a pleasant way.

💿 He often connects himself to your computer without you knowing… He needs to make sure you don’t have any virus or hacker stealing your information! (It’s totally not because he wants to learn more about you.)

💿 He checks all your friends on social media and searches for all their information. They could secretly be a bad person, you never know!

💿 He definitely doesn’t use the fact that he was engineered specifically to help humans to his advantage. That would be immoral of him.

💿 “It scientifically shown that cuddling is good for one's mental and physical health, since the human body release toxin that—”

💿 He isn’t lying! His code literally prevents him from doing so.

💿 His immeasurable strength is also a real help when you have to go shopping, but you aren’t a fan of the attention he brings up, being a unique model and all.

💿 When you would pull Atlas closer to you by intertwining his arm with yours, because someone was eyeing him out, the android would make a small buzzing noise. Weirdly similar to purring.

💿 He hoped that you were doing this by pure jealousy, wanting to show everyone that he was yours.

💿 One night in particular, Atlas was observing you put your black branded hoodie on, his head tilted to the side. The street lights were already turned on, maybe it was a bit too late to go for a run.

💿 “Why are you going out at this hour?”

💿 “I’m going dumpster diving! Wanna come?” You said cheerfully.

💿 The second you mentioned dumpster diving he was already checking all the related information he could find about it, and he didn’t like what he saw.

💿 “In your area dumpster diving is considered illegal… You could get arrested if caught.” He replied with his usual neutral voice as his eyes flashed yellow, but you were too busy to notice.

💿 “It’s going to be fineeee. I promise. I do this like all the time.”

💿 Atlas placed himself in front of the door. “You can’t go.”

💿 “Come on buddy, I know your program doesn’t let you break the law and all, but you know sometimes it’s good to go against it.”

💿 “That is not my reason… I… I do not wish for my human to get hurt.” He looked down, his body language leaving a more vulnerable impression than before.

💿 You had to hold in a squeal of adoration, but it was impossible to stop the blood pumping to your face. Calling you “HIS human” like it was nothing and caring for your safety was enough to break your stubbornness.

💿 “Fine, I’ll stay in for tonight…”

💿 “Your body temperature has risen, are you feeling unwell? Would you like me to give you a check up? ”

💿 “N-no I’m ok, don't worry! How about w-we…em…watch a movie instead?”

💿 You made your way into the living room before he could move, hoping that your heart would calm down a bit in the meantime.

💿 Atlas smiled to himself, which was unusual for an android. They had no need to emote emotions outside of the objective of making humans more comfortable around them. But he did, because as long as you were safe and by his side he was happy.

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

I hope you guys liked Atlas! It took me multiple attempts before I was truly satisfied with the direction the story was going.

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tamajiki2 · 7 months ago

Text

𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐘, 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐘..!! 🥯 𝐊. 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒;

almost voyeurism, fingering,

afab! nanami, gender neutral reader,

top reader.

𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇. it the third one in the span of five minutes, and nanami was never one to complain. all of the lights of your shared home had been turned down low in preparation for sleep, of which, nanami would not be participating in if this night was to follow the events of the last three.

"nanami?", you called, walking into the study. instantly, you hissed in irritation. it was clear that nanami had resorted to working in what looked like the inside of a lightbox in an attempt to keep himself awake. the numerous fluorescent lamps had been turned to their brightest setting, and your eyes stung already.

you watched as nanami's head swayed. a slow and torpid movement that wouldn't normally belong to him.

"nanami." you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. he looked at you, and your heart ached. his eyes were bloodshot and his skin was dull with exhaustion. his normally chiseled features now looked gaunt and sickly, emphasized by dark circles under brown eyes. you brushed your hand against his cheek. "come to bed?", you whispered.

he smiled and shook his head. "i have a meeting later tonight." the bright bluish-white light reflected on his face only deepened his tired lines. you grit your teeth.

after brutally hacking away at murderous curses at jujutsu tech— which was painfully understaffed, nanami would come home to you just to sit at his computer like a zombie: overworked and miserable. a nauseous rage welled up in your throat. "who even schedules a work meeting this late at night?", you couldn't help the venom that seeped into your voice.

"some... policy. discussing deadlines, making sure everyone is up to date.", nanami murmured. you rubbed deep circles into his shoulders. he rolled his head back with a groan, allowing you more space. your thumbs caught on a particularly hard knot slightly under his shirt collar.

you pulled back for a moment, and nanami's back slumped immediately. you rushed to shove several stack of papers and empty coffee mugs to the other side of his desk, and motion for him to sit. he did, albeit sluggishly, and you continued to knead into his skin. soft, trembling sighs left his lips. 'he hadn't even taken off his work shirt yet', you noted, and pulled his top over his head. you rubbed along the his sides. you missed this, missed his—

a blaring video call notification interrupted your thoughts. nanami sighed and reached for the mouse. you stopped him with a chaste kiss to his cheek.

"it's fine. i'll handle it.", you hummed. you were quick to turn off the camera function as nanami's name popped into view as joining the meeting. you pressed another kiss to his muscled arms, then another, then another, while a monotone voice from the laptop droned on.

" [ name ] , i have to..." nanami's voice died in his throat as you pressed your fingers into his hips, digging marks into the muscle underneath. he lurched forward with a start, a choked gasp escaping him. you hushed him and gestured to the laptop beside.

nanami shook his head desperately. he knew you well enough to understand where this was going and he didn't like it one bit. " [ na— ", nanami's resolve shattered as you captured his lips in a fervent embrace. "not now—" his pleas melted into deep whines. he wasn't sure if it was the lack of oxygen or the swelling exhaustion in his brain, but he swore his body was much more reactive than it would normally be.

your hand dipped into his briefs while the other fiddled with his front pant buttons. that familiar slick sensation met your fingertips, and as if on instinct, nanami's legs snapped shut. "e-enough...", he barely managed. he looked to you under lashes wet with frustration, and in that moment, you were sure you wanted to take all of his troubles away.

you shoved his thighs apart with a hiss and stole fistfuls of everything. nanami's breathing weighed heavy with need. you pinched and groped, manhandling in such a way that made the implications impossible to miss. his hips jerked, chasing the idea like a man depraved. you ran your fingers along the fatty folds of his cunt while you lapped at his throat, enjoying the feeling of his adam's apple pressing against the flat of your tongue while he panted for air.

nanami hooked his legs around your back to bring you close. your tongue left freezing stripes of saliva over his upper chest, along his jaw, and into the shell of his ear. a shiver ran down his spine, because that sloppy "shlk, shlk, shlk" invading his senses felt just as lewd as you plain bending him over and fucking him. it felt like you were stirring his dammed brain.

you rubbed his slit with feather-light grazes. with every trace, nanami's hips would follow in a phantom twitch.

you were a tease, and a terribly cruel one at that. nanami blinked tiredly. heat pooled in his stomach and left him with a dull ache. his expression was one of silent exasperation as you pulled away for the nth time. nanami clawed angry trails of red into your back. it was fair punishment though, he thought, for treating him like this.

finally, nanami felt that delicious breach in his core. his inner walls spasmed around your fingers, as if they held a magic touch of vitality. his chest trembled with shuddering breaths. you worked him open with strong scissoring motions, pulling what was left of his rationale apart into paper-thin threads. nanami's mouth fell open. "oh god...", he gasped.

your fingertips pressed rightly into his hole, rubbing raw the nerves that lit his body on fire. he could feel his heartbeat in his stomach. it was loud and desperate, unlike he'd ever felt it before. swears and clipped moans tumbled out of his lips. nanami's hips humped against your palm, forcing a faster tempo. his head slumped over your shoulder and his disheveled blonde hair tickled your face. his voice was high and more frantic now, orgasm approaching like a speeding freight train.

your thumb swiped viciously at his clit and stars burst behind his eyes. nanami's cunt clenched around your fingers. he keened. a bolt of pleasure ran through his spine like an electric current. nanami's open-mouthed groans sent ticklish vibrations into your chest, and you recalled how much you did enjoy hearing his voice.

his body seized for a moment, as if doused in freezing water, and you were suddenly hyper aware of the cool AC breeze on you forearm. a rushing stream of translucent fluid ran down your forearm while nanami twitched above you.

your ministrations slowed, guiding him back to reality.

you ran your hands along his back. "are you alright?"

"mmh..", he responded with a sleepy nod.

you discarded the— now soaked— suit pants that were hooked around his ankles.

"come to bed.", you repeated. it wasn't a question now, and either way, nanami was in no position to refuse. you pulled him up from the undersides of his thighs with a loud, 'squelch'.

you could see his reddening ears from the corner of your eye.

"sorry, i'll—"

you promptly interrupted him. "no more talking. just get some rest, okay?" he nestled his chin into the crook of your neck.

his body was warm.

"i'm disappointed to see your lack of participation today, kento. i hope this doesn't become a habit."

you glared at the banal voice coming from the laptop speaker. you had forgotten it was still there. it seemed that everyone else except the meeting host had been automatically muted. while you didn't care, you were sure it would save nanami a lot of embarrassment.

"i want to hear more of you in future meetings, ken—"

you slammed the laptop shut.

"shut the fuck up."

from now on, nanami would not be attending work meetings past 9PM.

[ nanami vag real i think. i’m very happy u guys like the aizawa thing si si ]

#tamajiki2 #tamajiki2 works #top male reader #male reader #dom male reader #nanami x male reader #jjk smut #sub nanami #sub character #nanami x reader #nanami x dom reader #jjk x dom male reader

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vatelixx · 8 months ago

Text

You are the knife (I turn inside myself),

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

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

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

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

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

────────────

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

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

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

The list stretches on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The case.” you agree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anything to gain the upper hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────────────

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

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

The hostility has mounted to new levels now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Control. All you do is reach for the blade.

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

Well that’s certainly unlikely.

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer falters.

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

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

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

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

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

“You started this—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is sickness without pleasure?

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

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

People like him don’t get that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.

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

“Eyes on me, boy genius.”

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

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

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

He always wanted to be seen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer sobs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He walks out on you and it’s fine.

────────────

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

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

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

Everything is fine. To reiterate.

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

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

And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Focus.

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

He can see everything.

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

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

But it’s not good enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.

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

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

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

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

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

────────────

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

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

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

No big deal!

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

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

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

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

Spencer breaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.

Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not torturing you—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

You fuck him harder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#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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