#this is mostly based on actual birds

[clumsypuppy]

couldnt decide on drawing fish or horsies

[mossypidder]

I have more reasons but I don’t have the energy to write them right now.

But yeah, I’ve been thinking about what I’d be if I were in Faas and Enya’s universe and I thought I’d be a changeling as well for a while for many reasons, but upon further consideration I think I was wrong. So here’s the first concept art for a my avian persona.

As for the songs (which was one of the main influences on why I started thinking about avians because I realized that over the last six months the majority of songs I’ve been obsessed with have bird centric undertones at the very least) you can find them here

[burnsopale]

Childermass & Segundus - it sounds very well

So one day the York Society of Magicians receives a new member, and Childermass is like okay, no big deal, those guys never do anything interesting anyway.

But then, right, then the new guy and one of the old guys writes to Mr Norrell and asks if they may have the pleasure of waiting on him sometime, and Mr Norrell is like "No" but Childermass is like "Actually yes" because he's intrigued, or because the cards have told him something is about to happen, or because Mr Norrell is years overdue to go to London and revive English magic and Childermass figures this might jostle him into doing something. We don't know what exactly happened, but it seems likely that it was Childermass who made the visit possible, because the idea of Mr Norrell ever wanting visitors is impossible to accept.

So these two theoretical magicians come to Hurtfew Abbey, and Childermass is in the library waiting for the visit to end and Norrell to show up and tell him what the men wanted, but instead, when the door opens, there they are, the visitors, having been invited to see the library and what the fuck did they say to old Gilbert to make that happen?? Not that it matters, they're not gonna remember anything by the time they get home, the enchantments will see to that.

Mr Norrell introduces Childermass, and the new guy gives him a look like Childermass facinates him, but Childermass is used to that. He figures he'll just hang out until they leave.

Except the new guy, who is a dark, timid-looking little man named John Segundus, keeps looking around like he can sense the spells lighting the room, keeps looking out the window like he's not happy with the orientation of the walls, keeps blinking like the magic is making him a little dizzy. John Segundus is clearly magic sensitive. No one in the York Society is magic sensitive, Childermass knows that for a fact. This is suddenly intriguing.

So Childermass ends up keeping half an eye on Mr Segundus as he explores, until Mr Segundus notices, sensitive as he is, and their eyes meet. Childermass reads longing, need, delight and confusion on the man's face, but Childermass is without pity; by the time Mr Segundus gets home, he won't remember what he's seen. It doesn't matter; no one in the York Society ever did anything interesting anyway.

But then later, the letter from Dr Foxcastle comes, and Mr Norrell is Upset and Offended, and Childermass realises that the Revival is about to start at last. And because Mr Norrell is fearful and Childermass is pitiless, they send a lawyer with their demands.

Mr Robinson the lawyer returns to Hurtfew a little perplexed. Oh yes, they all signed, just like you said they would, every one of them ... except ... except one. Childermass is a little surprised to discover that the timid little man had a spine after all. Mr Norrell wants Mr Robinson to go back and demand the last signature, but Childermass says "Wait". And at this point, we do not know what he is thinking. Perhaps he simply thinks that they will need someone to write to London once the miracle has been done, and Mr Segundus is more likely to be amiable if he has not just been deprived of his calling. But then, Mr Honeyfoot, the other visitor, would definitely be happy to write, even though he WILL be deprived of that same calling. Perhaps, Childermass thinks that this is a strangely fateful twist, that the one member of the York Society who has an actual talent for magic is the one person who refused to give it up. Maybe he remembers a time when he himself was full of longing for magic, when he could sense it all around him but was unable to grasp it, when he too would get dizzy in Mr Norrell's library. He may not feel pity, but he can be intrigued. He convinces Mr Norrell to let Mr Segundus be.

Childermass laughs inside when John Segundus doesn't recognise him outside the cathedral, but then startles when the man almost recalls after all. He is not supposed to be able to break the enchantment. Thankfully, the moment passes, and after the magic is done, Mr Segundus turns out to be exactly as easy to manipulate as Childermass thought he would be. The polite ones are easy, especially when they are full of need and longing, and keep looking at Childermass like he has the answers they are searching for. Maybe Childermass uses a little bit of magic to persuade the man to write to London, or maybe he just smiles, and waits, and lets John Segundus come to him of his own accord.

Childermass returns to Hurtfew Abbey and says to his master "Go to London. Go now." and because Childermass knows about these things, they go.

And nine years pass in London.

But occasionally during those nine years, Childermass turns his attention to York, to see what timid little John Segundus is up to. Mostly it's not much.

Until Jonathan Strange happens. That he happens at all is rather extraordinary, but how interesting that he should come to seek Mr Norrell on the advice of John Segundus? For sure there are many people with an affinity for magic in England, but how many of them are magicians? Too few, thinks Childermass. How likely is it that two of them should meet at random? He wonders if this is another fated twist.

So he continues to keep half an eye on York, just in case Mr Segundus should discover how to actually grasp the magic that surrounds him. But when Strange returns from the war in Spain, his conversation tells Childermass that even with the learning, even with actual spells to hand, their timid little man in York cannot make the magic work.

John Segundus begins taking on pupils. Childermass keeps it from Mr Norrell. Childermass has been the instrument of many a theoretical magician's destruction, Childermass reads the hearts of men and feels no pity for them, and yet Childermass keeps John Segundus hidden from Mr Norrell. Maybe, just maybe, John Childermass is beginning to feel a little bit of pity after all. He was once the one longing to master the powers that often overpowered him. He too loves magic so much, enough to endure servitude and secrecy to be near it.

But then John Segundus wants to start a school. Well, if he is going to be that silly, then Childermass cannot help him. Mr Norrell finds out, Mr Norrell panics, and he dispatches Childermass to York to put a stop to this evil plan. Business as usual in other words.

Childermass sits quite comfortably on the steps of Starecross when John Segundus comes home. Childermass delivers his message.

"You know me, Sir," he says, completely forgetting that while he has always had half an eye on John Segundus, John Segundus has not seen Childermass for nine years. Maybe, just maybe, Childermass is a little embarrassed at his mistake. But the errand is completed, and Mr Segundus is easy to manipulate, because he is so very gentle and polite.

Childermass may or may not have noticed that he has been manipulated in turn, because he, who has no pity for any man, lets Mr Segundus know that he regrets that the school cannot be, and he is willing to do what he can to keep Mr Segundus' dream from failing entirely. Although of course, he knows that a regular school is not at all the same as a school of magic.

Childermass knows what it's like to long, but he has found, if not the answers to his questions, then at least the tools by which to hunt them down. He can do the magic.

Then Mr Strange and Mr Norrell quarrel.

And then Lady Pole tries to shoot Mr Norrel. The lady walks with one foot in Faerie and one in London, and for a while, so does Childermass. Something is not right with the lady, but Mr Norrell won't tell him what magic he employed to bring her back from the dead. She'll be sent away somewhere where Childermass will have no chance to discover the truth. Unless of course he decides where she goes. Perhaps for instance to one whom Childermass knows will feel the Faerie winds blowing about the lady, someone who will be able to carry on the search for the truth, whether he knows that he's doing Childermass' work or not. Mr Segundus is easy to manipulate.

Childermass recommends to Sir Walter that he send his wife to Starecross in Yorkshire. How fortuitous that the master of that hall has just decided to open a madhouse there. Surely the visions that gave him the idea were entirely coincidental.

Mr Norrell and Childermass quarrel.

Jonathan Strange Returns magic to England. The Raven King returns to England and rewrites his book.

Mr Norrell and Mr Strange disappear into Faerie.

Suddenly, Childermass is the most experienced magician in England. No one has read as much, has practiced as much, or knows the spells he knows.

But he thinks that there is one man who will not be far behind him in achieving similar results. And maybe Childermass wonders sometimes if it was not all meant to be this way, that it was fate, that he himself was meant to come out on the other side as a student of the two great modern magicians of the age, and that he was meant to bring with him, sheltered under his wing, a dark, timid little man with an extraordinary sensitivity to magic. The books may be gone, but through his instruments, the Raven King has made sure that the new generation of magicians are both capable of and eager to read the magic written on the sky. It will take sensitive men, full of longing, and isn't it fortuitous then, that all those years ago, in the library at Hurtfew Abbey, Childermass recognised another like himself in John Segundus, and decided to keep half an eye on him.

[birdricks]

normally i dont ever think abt nicknames or like “pet names” ig when it comes to pairings i like but i do truly in my heart believe rick is the type of person to end up calling bp by like 100 different cutesy names without even realising. like he’ll say smth as a joke once but like also serious. and bp always takes it in such a way that rick just keeps using it bc he feels like he can get away with it without being cringe or whatever

[sophieswundergarten]

I can't stop thinking about that Wing AU and Sticky plucking his feathers...

(Weird, angsty ramblings that might require some knowledge of bird anatomy to fully understand to follow)

(Basically, when birds grow feathers they start as "blood feathers" which are basically just little sacks of blood and growing cells. After this, they are "pin feathers", and the blood is all inside where it belongs, leaving the feather all rolled up and covered in this papery stuff that rubs off and leaves a fully grown feather. Also, Primaries are the big "pointer finger" feathers at the tip of the wings, Secondaries are the medium sized ones from the "wrist" joint to the "elbow", where they get smaller and are referred to as Tertiaries. That should be it :>)

Because, in real life, it's quite common in pet psittacines (Parrots: so, macaws, cockatoos, budgies, lovebirds, etc.) especially when they are stressed. And it can get out of control really fast and take a long time to train the bird out of even though it's very obviously hurting it.

And I just keep thinking about how young he was when he started being on TV. And for a while the fluffy little baby feathers were cute but an entertainment industry seeking engagement instead of connection demanded he grow up too fast.

And so the make-up/wardrobe department for any competition he was on started pulling some of the downy feathers. There weren't that many left at this point regardless, but they assured him it would make him seem more mature and appeal to a wider audience. And it would be fine, it wouldn't really hurt him, especially since he was growing in big feathers anyway.

So it went. With Sticky being so self-conscious and anxious anyway, he probably kept his wings tucked in tight behind him no matter what people thought about them.

He had never put that much consideration into how he looked, but now he can't stop thinking about it. He doesn't know why it's so important, but apparently it matters to people. He doesn't want it to matter. He doesn't want to be seen or recognised. He just wants to be left alone.

He starts fidgeting with the pin feathers that will one day unfurl into adult primaries, and even though he knows it's counter-intuitive because removing the casings will only free the feathers sooner, he can't help it. A few times he goes too far and starts picking at blood feathers, and even though the red coats his finger tips more often than he'd like, he still can't stop his hands from scratching and pulling and yanking as he grows more and more agitated.

And then he ran away

He ran and he couldn't keep his hands off his wings for more than a few minutes. Tugging and raking his fingers through the feathers in a futile attempt to calm down. The first couple of times, it's an accident.

The first couple of times he's so caught up in soundless panic and all he can hear is his own breathing, it's only later that he notices a small cluster of secondaries, close to his body and almost never seen with how rigidly he holds himself, are missing. Small pieces of the night sky littering the alleyway ground where he'd been hiding.

His wings are so dark in colour, not to mention unkempt after a few weeks hiding and running and flitting from place to place trying to find safety, that the other kids don't even notice anything wrong.

It isn't until a few days later, when they're all in the backyard attempting to practice their Morse Code, and Kate does something that startles him that they really see what kind of a state his wings are in.

Most birds, when scared or on edge, will carefully spread their wings. Maybe not a lot, but they are preparing to fly away or make themselves look bigger in hopes to scare off the threat. (I imagine Milligan having great big owl wings that he puffs up to try and guard the children when the Recruiters come after them in the maze)

But Sticky just draws them in closer to his body. When he is scared, which Constance would note is often, he holds his wings so tightly to his back that they seem half their size. This would be considered odd and in some ways handicapping himself or keeping him from being able to react properly.

But this time, as Kate wobbles unstably out of her cartwheel and lets out a shriek of laughter, landing on the ground right next to him, Sticky jumps. He starts off the bench he had been sitting on, hunching his shoulders and reflexively spreading his wings.

And instead of the fully extended mix of fully grown flight feathers and occasionally wayward piece of down the other kids have, Sticky's wings are a mess. They have a skeletal quality, with just enough plumage that when they are folded in it's hardly noticeable, but when they are extended it's clear there are significant gaps. The remaining feathers have the dull, stunted quality of someone who has been under an incredible amount of stress without nearly enough nutrients to fuel them, and indeed Sticky looks rather like a feral cat in that moment: Spooked and curling in on himself as if expecting a fight.

He quickly realises his overreaction, and then processes that the girls are staring at his wings (Reynie's eye did dart up, but quickly returned to looking at Sticky's face), so he jerks them back into a resting position. Though there's nothing particularly restful about how stiff his posture is, back ramrod straight and muscles so tight he's beginning to shake.

However, this is something that the others know he doesn't want to share yet. And he doesn't need to. Not until he's ready.

So, Kate grabs the flashlight from where it had fallen to the ground, a sheepish grin on her face as she apologises for scaring him.

Reynie suggests they all go inside, take a break and get something to eat before they begin again.

Constance glares at Sticky suspiciously, but right as she opens her mouth she seems to think better of her questions and simply shrugs.

And Sticky is grateful for his friends, grateful that he has these people who love him enough to trust him with his secrets, even though they don't know each other very well yet. So he follows them inside, and if Kate dumps a little bit more food on his plate, and Constance doesn't try to swipe his juice glass this time, and if that night (for the first time) Reynie shyly asks if the two of them could take turns preening each others' wings, when it's just the two of them alone in the room, Sticky thinks he might be able to trust them too.

[aeyumicore]

please & thank you

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: sylus x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with very little/no plot, porn with feelings

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 7.5k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, SLIGHT spoilers to the lore (with some of my own interpretations and theories), oral m!receiving, fingering f!receiving, face/throat fucking, finger sucking, kinda rough, size difference, cuffing/tied up (m!receiving), sylus kindaaaa/degrading mean but in a tasteful way, he’s also very soft for reader, sylus has a FILTHY mouth, orgasm denial (f! and m!receiving), mirror sex, improper use of Evol, use of Y/N, cute petnames hehe (little dove, little bird, sweetheart, doll, etc), slight predator and prey, choking (kinda breath play??? not really), some references to lore (main storyline + midnight stealth), kinda sub!reader, dom!sylus, THIS IS FILTHY YALL IDK WHAT ELSE TO SAY

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: ao3

━ ✧.˖ A/N: hi guyssss she is here <3 MY FIRST ever sylus fic, first of many me thinks bc i am so utterly infatuated w him im sorry zayne LOL

i did NOT end up making this connected to ‘midnight stealth’ OR ‘no defense zone’ (although some midnight stealth plot is referenced a tiny bit in the beginning). any resemblances to these two memories are purely coincidental, mostly similar because there’s use of cuffs/restraints in all three. this is purely a standalone filthy fic

this has veryyyy little plot, i decided to keep it that way so im sorry to those who wanted to see plot in this ;_; i didn’t want to burn out, which i likely would’ve because pivoting from what i had (5.6k words) to a more plot based fic would have taken me a few more days and probably double the words and i just couldn’t do that to myself. 

i appreciate you guys for supporting me and i really respect each and every opinion so i hope i didn’t let anyone down by not doing the plot version. there will be plenty of opportunities for that i promise <3

pls enjoy :) any comments or reblogs r greatly appreciated (and loved) by me <3 they help me keep motivated to keep writing and truly make my whole week.

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ .

You were playing with fire.

Actually, what you were doing was definitely more dangerous and infinitely more idiotic than playing with fire. 

It was downright deranged. 

It appeared the silver haired man beneath you agreed, his jaw ticking dangerously as his deep crimson eyes crinkled in warning, “Are you sure this is a game you want to play?” 

You knew the answer was definitely no. But the mere glimpse of the Onychinus leader beneath you, at your mercy, was enough to make you push through the thrilling fear coursing through your veins.

With Sylus’s chiseled body unwillingly sprawled out before you, you situated yourself in between his thighs. Though his words and expression were laced with a cautionary edge, his legs spread open for you. 

His wrists were bound with the two silver cuffs you’d purchased at a novelty store on girls day out with Tara, each hand simultaneously locked to the steel beams of your bed’s headboard. With his arms bound above his head, his button up shirt rode up to expose his pale and scarred skin and the defined outlines of the chiseled pelvic muscles that lead to his manhood.

It wasn’t a stretch to say you’d planned this, after all you did buy the cuffs with Sylus in mind. And you’d never forget what Luke and Kieran had told you, in what felt like a lifetime ago. 

“Boss is most vulnerable when he’s sleeping.” 

Except now you weren’t binding him for the purpose of incapacitating him to find that damned brooch he’d taunted you with. Now, when he’d dozed off after you’d forced him to marathon the Harry Potter series with you, you tied him up with only one goal in mind.

Well maybe two. To tease and to punish.

Snapping out of your thoughts, you watch the way Sylus’s naval rises and falls irregularly, a subtle sign of his boiling anticipation. His exposed pelvis is dusted in a faint path of hair, trailing to where his pants hang dangerously low on his hips, after you’d taken his belt off. 

Sylus watches you with a careful eye as your hands find his waistband, tugging his bottoms and his boxers down in one motion. He tuts disapprovingly, even as his body lifts every so slightly to assist you in undressing him, “I’ve already warned you once. I won’t warn you again.” 

And yet, there’s an undeniable amusement in his voice that lets you know it’s safe to keep going. Your eye contact never breaks as you tug his clothing all the way down, until they rest at his ankles. His hardening cock springs free as you do so, the thick mushroom head already leaking a shiny streak of precum. As it slaps against his abdomen, Sylus’s carmine irises darken, but he refuses to make any sounds. The screech of steel rattling against steel is loud in the tense air, the formidable man’s fists clenched so tightly his nails threaten to break his skin. 

You bend down slowly, torturously languid, until his masculine scent invades your senses. You shiver in pleasure, positively addicted to every part of him. Sylus’s stomach heaves as he curses you inwardly; you were the only devilish minx that could even fathom rendering him into this vulnerable state. The only person he’d ever allow to see him like this. 

“You’ve become quite bold, little bird. Perhaps I’ve been too lenient with you.”

His cocky attitude makes you want to shiver, but you find the strength to retort back, “Perhaps you have.”

Not wanting to give him a chance to respond, and a chance for you to lose your courage, you let your tongue run over the thick tip of his erection, collecting his arousal on your tongue. You make a show of savoring his taste, letting your eyes bat at him while you lick him clean. 

Sylus is hypnotized, crunching up to watch you. His wrists pull against the metal restraints, growing irritated with being held back. Of course, if he’d wanted to, he could snap the cuffs with a mere tick of his fingers, but he found it amusing to watch his mischievous little bird believe she had control. 

When you take his head fully into your lips, Sylus’s hips involuntarily buck up into the heaven that is your mouth. Though surprised, you do your best to accommodate the extra inches, tongue twirling around his leaking slit as your jaw unhinges to take in his fat girth. 

“Fuck.” 

Sylus’s dark eyebrows are scrunched as he fights the urge to destroy the cuffs to get to you, wanting nothing more than to sink his fingers into your hair and push you down until you couldn’t breathe. But he prided himself as a man of patience, even if he despised being tested. 

And you were absolutely testing him. Your puffy lips caressed his sensitive veins, tongue assaulting every flaming nerve of his massive length, delicate and soft fingers leaving no inch of him untouched. Yet you moved so languidly. Deliberately testing how far you could push him, testing his resolve. Not that he would ever beg, but he desperately wished you’d move faster, take him deeper. 

“My love,” he purrs, deceptively calm even as your filthy tongue lathered his most sensitive parts, “I implore you to release me. While I’m still feeling generous.” 

Doing your best to shut him up, you take him into the back of your throat, fingers shifting from the base of his manhood to his heavyset balls. You’re only half successful in your antics, as you do cut off Sylus’s demands, only to be replaced by an inexplicable string of curses. The daunting leader of the Onychinus, whose name evoked fear itself to most, unraveled at your whims. A man who had no weaknesses, save for one.

You.

With his head thrown back, hair tousled and matted with a thin layer of sweat, he began to pant heavily. His neck bobbed deeply to the rhythm of his gasps, hands pulling against the restraints you’d locked him into. The sound of metal clashing against metal is almost deafening, your head snapping up to his arms bound above his head. 

For a second you’d feared he’d snapped the steel cuffs, his biceps rippling and forearm veins bulging with the sheer strength of his arms. But fortunately for you, his wrists were still firmly bound, a red angry circle forming where the metal met the pale skin of his hands. 

“Do you really think – hah – this will end well for you, dove?” Sylus considers this your very last warning, crunching up once again to watch you, your mouth full of his cock, saliva dribbling down your chin as you try to accommodate his thickness. He swears under his breath at the sight of you, his woman, the only person he’d ever even consider letting his guard down around, pleasuring him so sweetly and enthusiastically. Even if you were so foolish that you thought you could get away with typing him up. 

You look up innocently at him, fluttering your eyelashes as you fuck him with your mouth. Though you let him hit the back of your throat every time, your rhythm is intentionally and torturously slow, edging him without making it obvious enough for punishment. And although each intentional motion elicits the most mind numbing grip from your gag reflex on his throbbing erection, he’s losing his mind from how much more he wants. How much more he needs. 

“Faster.”

You nearly choke as you giggle at his demands, releasing his cock with a resounding pop. Of course, even tied up, Sylus didn't use the word ‘please.’ The man of unthinkable power was absolutely used to getting what he wanted without even batting an eye. It was a habit that he rarely relented on, and when he did it was only for you. 

“What’s the magic word?”

Sylus glowered at you, jaw twitching dangerously as he did his best to hold himself back, “Watch it.” 

It was truly taking every ounce of willpower he had to not rip the cuffs off the steel beams of your bed, taking your headboard apart with it. All so he could have more.

“Sylus,” you pout, still using your hands to gingerly stroke him with a featherlike touch. Nothing intense enough to get him off. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to say ‘please’ when asking for something?” You give him a pointed squeeze, thumb stroking the underside of his swollen head. 

He curses, pelvis thrusting up into your fist to try and chase the pleasure you’re withholding from him, “Fuck, if you’re going to act like a brat, I’m going to treat you like one.”

“I just want to hear the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Please. See how easy that is?”

“Y/N, my heart,” Sylus purrs lowly, eyes glinting dangerously, “I won’t tolerate any more disobedience.”

“Well then you don’t get what you want.” As soon as the words left your mouth you knew you’d regret them. 

Before you can even blink, you find yourself pressed firmly into the mattress, your head hanging off the side, hair dangling freely. The air feels strangely brisk, and you can vaguely feel your nipples hardening. It’s then you realize you’re naked. But you hadn’t felt Sylus lay a single finger on you.

His Evol.

You’d become so accustomed to Sylus’s Evol that you no longer felt its slightly suffocating  invisible web when it touched you, unlike when you’d first met him in the N109 zone. The countless times he’d use his Evol to guide your lips to his, your hand into his larger ones, or to undress you, had actually made you quite fond of the touch of his Evol. 

Little did you know that Sylus had actually been practicing lightening up the intensity of it, for you. He’d always detested seeing the uncomfortable scrunch of your eyebrows, the hostile goosebumps that would raise where his Evol touched you. So he’d absolved himself to train the claws of his Evol to soften, instead becoming that of a gentle caress. Only for you, of course. For everyone else, they got the skin-shredding talons that parents warned about in cautionary tales to their children. 

Hanging upside down, the glint of the ceiling light against the silver cuffs hanging off your headboard catches your eye, snapping you from your thoughts. The metal loops were still completely intact, but unlocked. Of course you knew he’d use his Evol to escape eventually, but it still surprised you how he managed to do it so effortlessly. Graceful in everything he did. 

You try to sit up, but Sylus’s hand wraps itself softly around your throat and holds you back down. He tsks scornfully, a playful warning in the swirling glowing cerise of his eyes. His grip is gentle enough where you can still speak normally. Rough enough where you want more.

So you pout childishly, “It’s just like you to use your Evol for such cheap tricks.” 

From beneath his towering frame, you can just barely see him raise his perfectly arched eyebrow. Most of him is obstructed by his massive erection pressed at your nose, menacingly imposing before you. “Cheap? Doll, there’s nothing cheap about me. And nothing cheap about the things I’m going to do to you.”

You shiver involuntarily at his threats, your thighs clenching together in anticipation. Sylus’s words were always harsh, but when it came to you there was always such a profound sincerity and gentleness behind his actions, even when he was brutally devouring your body. So the danger edged into his words only served to excite you, fueling the dampness that had formed between your legs. 

And of course, his perfect cock dangling in front of your lips, still glistening with a sheen of his arousal and your saliva. Hanging so closely to your waiting tongue, but never touching. That definitely did not help the throbbing ache in between your thighs. 

“I think you’ve had enough fun, don’t you agree?”

Feeling daringly bold, you playfully curse him, “Screw y–” But before you can finish getting the words out, Sylus grips your jaw, shoving himself into your waiting mouth. The force he uses is enough to make your eyes roll back, the feeling of being full of him making you forget what you’d wanted to say to begin with. You’re careful to pull back your teeth as he finds his way to one of his favorite places, the back of your throat. 

“Let’s give that mouth something to do, other than run itself, hmm?”

You groan in response, letting the vibrations of your throat speak for you. Sylus grunts, removing his hand from your throat and weaving it into your hair like he’d wanted to earlier. His grip is strong, just hard enough that you feel an immense pleasure from the stinging pull. With a firm hand on your scalp, he fucks into your face, his meticulously groomed hair brushing against your nose at every thrust. 

His speed and vigor is relentless, not that you’d complain even if you could. The feeling of Sylus driving in and out of your throat, like you were a fleshlight, had your body vibrating with need, clit throbbing in ecstasy. How you could feel this good just sucking his cock was beyond you. Your unrestrained moans were an absolute orchestra to his ears, the vibrations running through every nerve ending in his erection, causing him to release a string of his own sounds 

“You’re so – hah – exquisite like this, dove. Choking on my cock instead of your words.”

You whine at him, so unbelievably turned on by the filthy way he speaks to you. His skin slaps against your wet mouth, and an obscene amount of drool mixed with precum drips off your cheeks and onto the carpeted floor beneath you. You loll your tongue out to try and catch his copious dribbles of precum, not wanting to waste any part of him. 

“I can see my cock in your throat, sweetheart,” he cooed, using a hand to brush against your throat, where his erection bulges against your neck each time he fucks into you. 

Tears streamed from your eyes as Sylus’s pace increased, gripping onto your hair for even more leverage against your beautiful face. 

“Crying already? Not feeling so bold anymore, my love?” 

You ignore his patronizing words, trying to focus instead on your own pleasure. With one hand still gripping the hard muscles of his bubbly rear, your other hand wanders to the quivering area between your thighs, fiddling with the bundle of nerves that was slick with your arousal. You desperately seek to relieve some of the tension building up in your gut, all from just Sylus’s cock in your mouth.

But before you can give yourself any inkling of pleasure, you feel a familiar force of energy pulling your hand away. 

“I don’t recall giving you permission to touch yourself.”

You nearly sob at his words. You want to speak, plead with him to touch you, or at least let you touch yourself, pride be damned. But his unbelievable girth makes it impossible to do anything but devour him repeatedly.

The white haired man above you watches you carefully, swearing at how your tear soaked face makes his resolve to punish you crumble ever so slightly. Taking pity on you, he brings your hand to his, weaving his long fingers into yours. You hold his hand tightly, enjoying the way his much larger hand clasps into yours, fingers digging into your sensitive flesh.

“Good girl,” he coos in praise, voice tinged with a condescension that makes your skin crawl in excitement, “You don’t touch what’s mine, unless I say, hm?”

You look up at him with wide wet eyes, nodding obediently as he continues to ravage your face. He pressed your hand deeper into the mattress, his thrusts becoming so intense that you knew you’d have a hard time speaking tomorrow, your throat battered and bruised. 

From your position, you don’t see the glowing light that emanates from your joined fingers. But Sylus does, and he watches in a concealed wonder at the way you can so easily resonate with him now. You didn’t even need to try, a single touch was all it took. It was a testament to how much you’d grown to trust him. 

No, it was a testament to the deep love and respect you’d both come to hold for each other. You’d both definitely come a long way from when he’d captured, or when you let him capture, you at the N109 zone all that time ago. The thought of that threatens to make Sylus shiver as he continues to ram himself deep into your warm wet throat. He watched the way you took him so eagerly, hand gripping his for dear life, your other hand coming up to stroke his heavyset balls as they slapped against your face. The way your poor little throat bulged every time he thrusted into it, the bump so visible to his hungry crimson eyes.

Oh, how you ruined him. He’d fucking marry you.

Your jaw ached, having been open as widely as possible for far too long now, but you did your best to continue to take him. The feeling of him using your mouth was more than enough to keep you growing wetter, needing more. Your thighs squeezed together, as you rocked into nothing, wanting nothing more than to feel any friction between your legs.

Sylus watched as you pathetically tried to find pleasure in the empty air, nearly growling at how arousing the sight was. He was fueled with such an intense desire and love for you, nothing like he’d ever felt before. And that love and desire was enough for him to concede, if even just a little bit, for you.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling…charitable today, my dove,” he murmurs, releasing your hair and bending over your body. His erection never leaves your mouth, but he hovers so that your sight is filled with the view of his solid abdominal muscles. You cry out against his member when the familiar feel of his fingers finds your clit. You gasp out, choking on him, your hips jolting up eagerly to meet his torrid touch.

Sylus chuckles, a satisfied smirk making its way onto his unfairly gorgeous face, “Look at how eager you are…all this just from the taste of cock?”

Not able to respond, you hump up into his hand, squeezing your eyes shut in embarrassment of how desperate you were for him. Sylus only gives you a pointed thrust into your throat, making you gag deliciously around him again.

“Such an insatiable little bird,” he murmured, fingers expertly toying with you.

“You’re so beautiful, sweetheart,” his skilled ministrations never stopping, “I wish you could see how lovely you look with your mouth full.” 

Your eyes rolled back when he entered you, one finger at a time. He cursed at how tightly you gripped just one of his fingers. He had half a mind to just bury himself into your perfect cunt right then and there. And that’s just what he’d do. He was never used to not indulging in what he wanted, why stop now?

You felt the familiar shift in energy, a gentle hold on your body, until you found yourself laying on the middle of your bed, Sylus situated between your knees, fingers still toying with you. Your neck screaming in relief at the plush surface, mind reeling from the sudden shift. 

The white haired man bends to hover over you, free hand caressing your jaw, his frighteningly beautiful face before yours, “Hello, my love.”

Your voice is hoarse, sounding unfamiliar, “Hi.” It’s nothing more than a pitiful squeak.

Sylus chuckles, his chest rumbling warmly at your adorably vulnerable state, “How’s your throat?”

You glare at him, trying to steady your raspy voice, “Don’t patronize me.”

He smirks, not the least bit apologetic, but says, “Forgive me, love.” He doesn’t give you a chance to sass him further, instead bringing your chin up to his. His lips slot onto yours, deceptively slow at first and quickly progressing to a vigor that matched the way he’d rammed himself into your throat. 

The bruising intensity of the kiss made your mind muddle, your hands coming up to grasp his neck to ground you. You gasped at the feeling of his heartbeat pounding so forcefully in his neck. The familiar feeling of an earth shattering orgasm edges into your numbed mind, every heightened sense filled with Sylus and only Sylus.

You finally break away, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him scissoring in and out of you, enough to have you on the brink of climaxing, “Sy-Sylus, I’m–”

Sylus reads you like the back of his hand, withdrawing his fingers and roughly grabbing your face to look up at him. You sob at the loss of friction, looking up at him with teary questioning eyes. 

The ceiling lights illuminate behind Sylus, forming a halo like ring atop his head. He was so hauntingly and terrifyingly beautiful. Not unlike that of a fallen angel, whose sole purpose was to ruin you. 

And just as you’re admiring him, Sylus looks down at you. Unbeknownst to you, he also considers you to be his very own angel sent from the heavens. Bringing light and salvation to the shadowed crevices of his soul.

But even then, he can’t help but tease you, the urge to see you ruined at his hand. An angel with tattered wings, so utterly spent with lust. “You don’t cum until I say, hm?” As if to punctuate his point, he puts his fingers, wet with your slick, in between your parted lips. The taste of you is strong on him, enough to distract you from Sylus, who’s lining up his more massive than ever erection with your weeping slit. 

“Come on, sweetheart. Suck. I know you can do better than that.”  

He presses his fingers harder onto your tongue, relishing in how warm you feel around him. At your adorable pouty glare, he pushes his leaking tip into you.

You yelp in surprise, biting down on his fingers in your mouth. Sylus hisses, but the pain only further arouses him, making him shove into you suddenly. Your hands come up to grasp his forearm, the veins bulging under your touch. 

The feeling of him entering you is so overwhelming, the only thing grounding you to the present was the way his fingers felt and tasted against your tongue. And so you devoured him in earnest, much to his satisfaction. 

It’s not long before he bottoms out, his head kisses your cervix, just enough to have your eyes rolling back, sparks of hot white pleasure clouding your vision. 

Sylus removes his fingers from your mouth, bringing his thumb to his own lips and brushing it across his parted mouth, his other fingers outstretched as he licks across his thick thumb. You whimper at the sight, so unbelievably seductive he has to be doing it on purpose. 

“You always taste divine.” His movements have all but halted completely, his thick girth just sitting inside of you, brushing against your womb. And even though the stretch is enough to practically compress your lungs, you want more. 

“D-Don’t tease Sylus,” you whine pathetically, “Fuck me.” 

The smile on his face is as cocky as ever, the corner of his lips curving up, as sharp as his edged jaw. 

“So bold. Do you really think you’re in any position to make demands?”

He gives you just one pointed thrust, cockhead nestling so deliciously into your sweetest spots, but stopping just at that. You cry out, fingers gripping the comforter so tightly your knuckles turn white. 

“If I recall correctly…someone once told me something about saying…what was it? ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’?”

He grins down at you, bending forward so that he hovers right over your face. He would never let you know but the pouty grimace on your lust glowing face was nearly enough to have him caving into your every whim, punishment forgotten in the wind. 

“Hm? So what do we say, sweetheart?”

With his cock situated so perfectly in you, it’s impossible for you to do anything but follow his every command, no matter how much it bruises your ego.

“P-Please?”

His smirk deepens, fingers cupping your chin up to face him, “You can do better than that, Y/N.”

You groan as he shifts, giving you just the tiniest bit of friction where it mattered. You do your best to find the confidence, “Please Sylus.”

There’s the faintest flicker of darkness in his eyes, a twitch of unraveling at the way you effortlessly purr his name. If you had any idea the things you did to him, the mighty and fearless leader of the Onychinus, it would be his absolute undoing. 

“Please what, my dove? Come on, use that beautiful voice of yours.”

Before you can let out your snarky response, his fingers travel to your neck, stroking your sensitive pulse gently before pressing down to compress your airway. 

“Or is this throat only good for taking my cock?”

You whine at his words, patience absolutely gone. You wrap your legs around his waist and force him closer. A pathetic attempt to get him to thrust into you. Your hands come up to the back of his neck, and your tear glistening eyes search his pleadingly. He’s taken aback by the sudden shift, a small gasp escaping his parted lips. In his surprise, he lets himself be guided to you, his forehead falling to lay atop yours, his breath fanning against your own. 

“Please Sylus, please fuck me. I’m sorry, I’ll be a good girl. Please.”

The curse that leaves Sylus’s voice is barely perceptible as he drinks you in. Your cheeks were still streaked with tears, your eyes wide and glassy. Your lips were puffy from his bruising kisses, and cheeks heated with desire. There was absolutely nothing in the universe that could match how utterly gorgeous you were. His gorgeous woman. His to ruin. 

His voice low with longing and hunger, “Fuck, okay love. I’ll give you what you want.”

He manipulates the energy around you, raising your arm above your hand. His slender fingers dance up your exposed skin, until they find your fingers. His nails graze your inflamed skin, fingers toying with yours. For a brief moment, he enjoys how much smaller your hand feels in his. His delicate little bird.

“Hold on tight.”

Your fingers grip his, your nails digging in when he finally pulls his cock out, leaving only his head still snuggly inside. Without giving you a second to breathe, he’s plummeting himself back into your sopping cunt. Your combined slick ensures there’s zero resistance, only the sounds of wet slaps filling the space between you. 

Sylus’s forehead still rests against yours, his free arm bent above your head, helping support him as he fucks you with a painfully delicious intensity. Your cunt milks him perfectly, the warmth far too inviting and the tightness much too constricting. His fingers grip yours forcefully, trying to offset the way your pussy tries to suck the living soul out of him. 

“Sy-Sylus,” you cry out, nails digging crescents into his skin, your other hand coming up to rake red scratches into his back, “Slow – ngh – slow down!” Your brain is a jumbled mess, confused at the words your tongue lets out when your body only wants more.

Sylus’s chuckle is low and almost sinister, his pace never relenting, “That’s funny. I recall you saying you’d be a good girl.” He shifts his weight to his knees, moving his palm to your naval, pressing down. You squeal at the feeling of his palm pressing into your stomach, your sensitive walls being compressed into his cock spearing in and out of you. 

“And good girls take what they’re given, hm?”  

Moans and whimpers are the only thing you’re capable of producing, his pace brutal, like he was trying to find his way into your throat from your cunt. You don’t notice his hand traveling further south until his thumb presses into your swollen clit, flicking hard. You screech, your back arching off the bed, giving him further access to your dripping cunt. 

“Answer me when I speak to you, sweetheart.” 

“Yes! Yes, I’m a good girl, I can take it!” you all but screamed, spine so arched you felt like you were levitating.

The erotic cries that leave your lips make it difficult for Sylus to think straight, so he doesn’t. He fucks you with a ferocity that was nothing short of animalistic, the only thing he can think of is how many different ways he can and will make you cum. 

He presses your joined palms deeper into the mattress, eyes searching yours desperately. For what, you were unsure. But as his scarlet irises bore into yours, you felt an overwhelming sense of emotion catch in your throat.

Propping yourself slightly on your elbows, you pressed your forehead to Sylus’s, his sweat dampened bangs fluttering against your eyelashes.You reach up to cup the back of his head, pulling him towards you. His right hand never leaves your clit, his left staying tightly clasped with yours.

He takes the opportunity to press his lips to yours, forcing his tongue into your mouth. You moan into him as he claims you fully, thrusts moving in tandem with his tongue. It’s a torrid clash of tongue and teeth, enough passion to have the Aether core in your heart throbbing dangerously erratically. 

“Syluuus,” you slur as you pull away to breathe, “I-I’m..I’m gon–” You can’t get the words out, the tip of his cock against your cervix and fingers on your clit bringing you into another dimension, one filled with him. The scent, the sound, the feel, the sight of him. 

“I know. Getting so goddamn tight,” he grits out, jaw locking as he tries to steady himself against your vice grip. Sylus was a man of boundless stamina and restraint, but when it came to you… When it came to the absolute heaven that was your body, he could hold nothing back. 

Just as you neared your orgasm, Sylus stops again. You find your body being moved again, but this time Sylus’s hands are lifting you, and not his Evol. His strong arms lift you so that you’re sitting on his lap, your back pressed against his muscled chest, and his back leaned up against the bed.

He does however use his Evol to drag over the gold arched full-length mirror you had propped up against the corner of your bedroom, so that it sits right in front of the bed. Your vision is filled with the gleaming reflection of you, naked on Sylus’s lap, his arrogant smirk right by the top of your head. His muscular arms are draped over your thighs, spreading open your glistening folds, fully exposing you before the mirror. 

“Sylus s-stop. It’s embarrassing,” you whine, averting your gaze at the lewd sight, and the even filthier sounds of his fingers against your copious slick. But he grips your jaw firmly, turning you back to the mirror. 

“Look how beautiful you are,” he murmurs, lips pressed against your ear, “Look.” 

You puff your cheeks, fighting against his fingers.

“Look, love. Or you don’t get to cum,” he purrs in your ear.

You mutter sulkily, knowing full well his threats are anything but empty, “You’re evil.” 

But you obey diligently, letting his fingers guide your face forward. The sight before you is so unbelievably filthy, Sylus’s long fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread open, his other fingers playing with your swollen lips. Even on his lap, he was a head taller than you, His soft white hair is matted with sweat, his cheeks dusted a peachy red with how vigorously he’d just been fucking you.

As your eyes meet in the mirror, Sylus lifts you from underneath your thighs, and spears you onto his cock. You cry out at the feeling of being stretched open again, Sylus’s own ecstasy fueled grunts in your ear.

With you atop him, his cock reaches so unbelievably deep inside you that you feel the tears returning. Your eyes screw shut as his tip repeatedly brushes against your cervix, the familiar pain quickly dulling into an intense pleasure. 

Suddenly you feel Sylus’s teeth at the crook of your neck, and arm coming across your chest to enclose over your entire throat. His sharp canines dig into the area where your neck meets your shoulder, biting just hard enough to make your eyes fly open to face his in the mirror. His eyebrows are quirked at you, amusement evident in his sharp ruby eyes.

He doesn’t speak, instead keeping his mouth attached to your pulse point. But the dark sultry heat swirling in his eyes that you can see reflected in the mirror is a clear and wordless command. 

Watch.

And who were you to disobey him, when his body brought this much pleasure to your own. 

So with your eyes locked on his in the mirror, Sylus begins to bounce you in earnest on his lap. And while you moan and whimper as he springs you so effortlessly on his cock, like you weighed nothing more than a mere toy, his own noises are muffled by his teeth that are sunk into your fluttering neck. 

His eyes never leave yours in the mirror, darkened underneath his eyebrows, glowing with red hot lust. The way he watches you is so intimately primal, like a predator toying with its prey before the kill. 

With his hungry gaze locking yours in place and the lewd wet sounds of slick skin pounding against one another, you feel the alarmingly rapid tightening of your abdomen that signals your orgasm. Sylus feels it too, your walls tightening so intensely that the outline of his veins might imprint into you. Your grip coaxes his own cock toward release, his jaw tightening as to keep himself in check. 

He releases your bruised skin, admiring how breathtaking you look with his marks on you. His hand leaves your clit to rest on your tummy, stroking the skin there. You can feel him use his Evol to keep you in place, only the raw strength of his thighs and abs keeping you in steady motion on his length. 

“Look,” he croons in your ear, teeth grazing against your sensitive earlobes, “Can you see where I am, dove? I’m allll the way here ” His husky voice drawls, hand on your abdomen pressing down. You can definitely see the distinct outline of something large thrusting in and out of you. Your eyes widen at the mirror, mesmerized at how your bodies connect, almost resonating on their own. Sylus’s eyes are also glued to the way the base of his cock, shiny with a ring of arousal, forces your tiny fluttering cunt to take him in all his glory.  

“Tell me how it feels, hm? Tell me how I make you feel.” When you don’t respond, too lost in the sight in the mirror, his fingers come back down to squeeze your clit,

“Sylus! – ngh – feels ssoo so good,” you simper, panting through the hold he still has on your throat, the pressure quickly becoming far too addicting, “I-I…”

“Hah,” he groans into your ear, “You what baby? Tell me.”

“M’gunna cuuum,” you wail as his angle shifts just slightly, cock driving into your g spot. Sylus knows just how to play with you, his fingers sending you to heaven and back repeatedly. He was so thick that you felt like he'd split you in two, your cunt and thighs being stretched to their limits against the sloppy friction.

“Hmmm, is my beautiful girl going to make a mess on me? Does she deserve to?”

The mere thought that he might deny your climax again has you sobbing, tears of anguished ecstasy rolling down your face as his pace picks up even further.

“P-Pleaaase – unghh – please let me. I’m a g-good girl, I’ll be so – hnngh – good, I promise.”

Sylus had no intention of denying you again, but now he physically couldn’t. Because now, watching the fat tears roll down your cheek and hearing your beautiful pleas, he too could feel himself pulse with the ache to fill you up. As he watched your breathtaking form in the mirror, he cursed the Gods for sending the only thing that could ruin him. 

You.

And yet, being ruined by you felt so damn good.

“Good for who, my love?”

Your vision has become clouded by your tears and the black spots that blot your eyesight. But the possessive purr in Sylus’s voice reaches you, through all the blinding pleasure, and makes butterflies flutter in your chest.

Your hands come up behind you to grasp behind his neck, and you strain yourself so that you turn just slightly to face him. For a second Sylus looks taken aback, but he quickly composes himself, the confident smile returning to his lips. 

“Nggghh – for you, Sylus.” The sincerity of your shaking voice wipes the cocky smirk off his face, his thrusts faltering ever so slightly. For a brief second, Sylus can’t feel anything. He can’t feel the way your cunt, on the precipice of release, squeezes so forcefully that it threatens to break him in half, the way your soaking thighs ripple against his lap as he pounds into you, the way your fingers play with the hair at the back of his head.

Fate had played a cruel trick on the two of you. Two tragically entwined Aether cores. Two birds of a feather, trapped in the cage destiny had built. 

But now, there is only you and him. Fate and destiny be damned. 

“I’m yours Sylus. Always yours.”

Your words, delicate and simpering, pull him back to reality. All the sensations he’d briefly been numbed to came crashing back. The torturously delicious way you felt around him, atop him, and against him swarmed back all at once. And to top it all off, the sight of your fluttery wide wet eyes, hazed over with a fog of lust, staring at him with such wonder and adoration. Your eyes alone were practically making love to him.

It made him absolutely feral.

You squeal, thighs doing their best to grip against Sylus’s lap as he bounces you with an unprecedented vigor, his hand holding your throat to keep you somewhat steady. You watch his muscles bulge, his much larger frame very much on display behind you. Powerful and imposing – a true god-like glory. 

“That’s fucking right, you’re mine,” he hisses in your ear, jaws clenched to hold back the moans your pussy threaten to pull from his body. 

“Gonna cum in you, yeah? Would my slutty girl like that?"

“Y-Yes!” you squeal, so close to coming undone, “Pleeease Sylus!  I-I’m s’close, I’ll do anything please!” You were quickly losing your voice amidst all the screaming and vigorous activities.

You can see Sylus devilish smile, releasing your throat to tilt your chin towards him.

“Anything? You’re making a deal with the devil, little dove.”

With your face so dangerously close to his, he can’t resist. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, his lips crashing onto yours, locked in the sweltering passion of your bodies. The feel of his tongue claiming every inch of your mouth is just enough to send you headfirst into the orgasm you’d been on the brink of for so long.

And because of that, your body couldn’t hold back the gush of excitement that squirted from where Sylus was connected to you. It’s so messy you can’t help the way your cheeks burn in embarrassment, even amidst the short circuiting of your pleasure-numbed brain. 

“Jesus fucking christ,” Sylus bites out, the tautening of your orgasm stricken cunt nearly squeezing him into unconsciousness. He fucks you through your blissed out state, and it isn’t long before he follows your lead. 

Like everything Sylus does, the way he cums is frighteningly powerful. Your body involuntarily shivers at how hot he is, but more so just how much there is. You can both clearly see the thick milky white seed seeping down Sylus’s cock, even as he continues to fuck into you. His thrusts are slower now, but more intentional. Conveying every ounce of passion into the way he rocks into you. Overstimulation quickly grips you, and you weakly tap at his thighs.

“Sylus, no-no more. S’too much.”

“M’not done,” he groans into your ear as he continues to thrust into you, and it’s then you feel his cock still shooting ropes of his hot spend inside you. He does, however, release your clit, shoving his fingers in your mouth, knowing it'll give you something to ground yourself amidst the sensitivity while he rides out the waves of his climax. 

You gladly accept his fingers, grasping his forearm and sucking like his arm was a dessert. The taste of your mixed slick helps distract you from the intense aftershocks that wrack your body. It’s all enough to have Sylus spurting out everything he has, drained completely empty, milked utterly dry. 

When you feel him finally still, you crack your eyes open, almost scared to see the aftermath. 

The waning sun bounced beams of golden sunlight off your sweat, tears, and cum slicked bodies. Your own body was also littered in pretty little bruises, in the shape of Sylus’s teeth and fingers. Bruises in places you hadn’t even felt Sylus sink his teeth into. They quite literally looked like swirls of paint against a blank canvas. 

Your hair was a mess, and your tear stained face was no better. The area between your thighs was red and puffy, leaking an obscene amount of white cream, all the while still stuffed to the brim with Sylus’s softening member. Even half hard, he stretched you absolutely full. 

On the other hand, the man in question looked absolutely ethereal as he loomed above you in the mirror. His hair sat lusciously soft, gently blowing with the breeze entering through the cracked window. His muscles still flexed gently as they recovered from the vigorous activities, strong chest rising and falling rhythmically with his steadying heartbeat. 

And finally his eyes that watch you back so carefully, the carmine orbs half lidded with satisfied bliss. His lips stretch into that signature Sylus smirk when he catches you staring, nothing short of heart stoppingly arrogant.

He’s so unbelievably handsome, your cunt quivering again just at the sight of him. Wincing at the feeling of his cock inside you stirring back to life at your involuntary throbbing, you panic and tap furiously on his thigh. 

“Sylus, put me down.” 

Sylus chuckles, mischief coloring his scarlet eyes, “What, no ‘please’?”

You whine, not able to withstand the feeling of him stirring back to life in your absolutely spent core. Yet you can feel yourself fluttering in anticipation. And you know he can feel it too. 

You silently curse your traitorous body.

“Please.”

He laughs warmly and obliges. His strong hands grip the underside of your thighs, lifting you off of him. You cry out at the feeling, your cunt clenching at nothing, seeking him once more. Sylus inhales sharply, craving your tight warmth again. But he holds you gently against his chest, shifting so that his erection rests between his abdomen and your thigh, with you sitting sideways on his lap. 

You nuzzle your head into his chest, and Sylus’s lips come down to the top of your head, breathing in your scent and ghosting kisses into your hair. Your hands reach up to weave into his silver tresses, playing with his soft locks and delicately massaging his scalp. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, voice muffled against his skin.

When Sylus doesn’t respond, you pull away from him and look up at him expectantly. He appears to be lost in the feeling of your fingers. 

“You never said please, you could at least say thank you,” you tease, poking his soft cheek with your finger. 

Sylus looks down at you, amused danger flickering in the deep orbs of crimson. His hand leaves your thigh, slowly and tortuously crawling up your skin until he cups your face. You shiver, suddenly feel like you’re staring into the face of danger. 

“Hmm, isn’t it customary to say thank you after eating?” 

You crinkle your brows in confusion at his cryptic words, waiting for him to elaborate further. Sylus’s smug grin widens, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, basking in the excited fear brimming in your bleary eyes. 

“I’ve yet to finish my meal, little dove.” 

© aeyumicore 2024.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

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[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Pt 2 forever teen Danny adopts post-JJ Tim. Tim accepts he has a new dad.

[Pt 1: here][pt3: here]

Tim has known Danny a month, and he can say it has had a positive effect on his life. He's super understanding and accepting of all Tim's weird quirks. And when he ran away back to the Bats (which was a train wreck. B and Dick seemed relieved for 2 seconds, then tried to throw him in Arkham. Between him not selling out "Phantom" and still having JJ traits, they found him unacceptable.), Danny let him go, understanding, before accepting Tim back as easy as breathing when he came crawling back. He helps Tim break into Drake Manor directly after, revealing the invisibility and intangibility Tim thought he hallucinated to get clothes, toiletries, his phone (there's 20 missed calls, 5 are Dick, 2 are Bruce, 2 are Barbara, 1 is his parents, and the rest are his school.), his photographs, camera, and the card linked to the allowance his parents send every 2 weeks. Tim took the last thing because he doesn't want Danny to suffer for taking him in and help with expenses, Danny frowns before giving him a lecture about that not being Tim's responsibility when he finds out. Tim still buys groceries and gets them both new laptops when Danny isn't looking.

Danny modifies any electronics to be untraceable, showing Tim the whole process, so that Tim can contact his school with a fake doctor's note, a fake kidnapping story (some thugs heard what Joker tried to do with Robin and tried their own hand at it. Harley squawked about the JJ thing and how a new meta called Phantom killed Mista J, so it's all over the news. (A fake police report magically appears in the GCPD)), and how Tim won't be able to physically be at school for a while and if they could please send his schoolwork over. Tim holds off on contacting his parents, curious to see if they notice anything, and can't find it in himself to be disappointed that they don't (not even when they stopped by the manor a few days ago, they texted him exactly 1 time to scold him about the lack of food in Drake Manor).

When Tim's physical injuries are mostly healed, Danny moves them from the shitty 1 bedroom apartment to an equally shitty 2 bedroom apartment, still in Crime Alley. Tim feels slightly guilty about Danny refusing to let him sleep anywhere other than the bed, taking the floor or couch before he moves a second bed into the new apartment. Tim isn't sure what to do with the level of care Danny showers him with, but he loves it.

Danny, while disapproving and disliking Tim wanting to continue being a vigilante, doesn't actually stop him (something about being a hypocrite if he says no?). Tim designs a new costume since he can't be Robin, and Danny helps create it! Tim isn't sure how Danny got the nearly indestructible materials that need specialized cutting and sewing materials, but it's awesome!

The costume's base is black. Black cargo pants, an armored turtleneck, black domino mask. But he decides that since he unfortunately can't get rid of all his JJ traits (the laughing fits, the scars, his hair is growing green??, the (bipolar depressive/) manic episodes, etc.) and the Bats won't accept him anyways, so why not lean in. Over the black base, he adds a gothic tailcoat vest. It's very dark purple with bright Kelly green lapels and buttons. The lenses on his mask and his combat boots are the same shade of green. He feels like the green ties his new vigilante look to Danny's ghost form. He also finds the whole fit awesome and a giant fuck you to both Papa J and the Bats.

This does lead to his current dilemma. He needs a new name before he debuts his new vigilante identity.

"I refuse to be Joker Junior!" Tim huffs at Danny, who's calmly making dinner.

"Like I've said before, then don't be."

"But what should I call myself? I can't use a bird or bat name either. I've never had to think of a name for if I was an independent before!" Tim flops on the floor. The kitchen and frontroom is basically one room, so Danny can still see him being dramatic without Tim getting underfoot.

"Name yourself a ghostly name."

"Huh?" Tim sits up to look at the slightly blushing man trapped in a child's body.

"I mean, you're already connected to my ghost form, since everyone is going to connect you to your old vigilante identity, so why not pick something ghostly or supernatural." Danny turns to do something Tim can't see, but Tim knows he's just trying to hide how embarrassed he is about sharing the suggestion. "You don't have to. You could pick something more personal, like Shutterbug or Mania or something."

"Huh... That would work. It'd really rub in the Bats' faces that they basically killed 2 Robins." Tim mutters before twisting himself into a pretzel. "Any suggestions?"

"Depends. What do you want people to get from your name? And what annoyed do you want people who know both your IDs to be? Phantom was a literal pun off my lastname."

"How is Phantom a pun off of Kronokori?"

"Kronokori is Jazz's last name, mine's Kronoyios."

"Huh??"

"And those are our lastnames because Clockwork, or I guess Kronos, adopted us. Our original lastname was Fenton."

"You got adopted by a god?"

"Basically, yeah. Don't worry about it. It's probably one of the least weird things to happen during that time, but that's for a different time. What do you want from your name?"

"Uhhh..." Tim takes a moment to really think about it. "It should be something loud and chaotic, but not necessarily good or evil? I don't really care if it would make people eye roll or groan if I share my ID. Maybe something that is angry? I definitely feel angry."

"As you should." Danny affirms and thinks a second. "Wraith? It's a vengeful spirit seen shortly before or after death."

"Mmm... No."

"Sprite? It's a-"

"No way!" Tim pauses and thinks on his violent reaction. "... Sorry.. It just feels childish and like I'm a 2 dimensional game sprite. Not something that can grow with me or demand respect."

"It's fine, Tim." Danny flashes a reassuring smile. "How about Bashee? They scream to warn someone death is near."

"Aren't they all women?"

"Not necessarily. Kinda like selkies, there's more myth about the women, but there's men too." Danny starts plating the food he made. "Apparition? They're closer to an after imagine of the dead."

"But are they loud?"

"Not usually...hmmmm" Danny hands Tim his plate while scrunching his face in thought. "Let's see, Dullahan, Kelpie, Sphinx, Shade- Oh! Oh! I know! Poltergeist! They're loud, chaotic, usually malicious, they bite and scratch and slam things! It also doesn't sound childish, so you can keep it for as long as you need."

Tim munches on his dinner while thinking it over. "I think that would work. Hehe! A Poltergeist under the care of a Phantom."

Danny smiles, "Glad to help, kiddo."

Tim sets his mostly empty plate down and launches himself at Danny. Danny used to the behavior, quickly gets his own plate out of the way and catches him in a hug.

"Thank you, Danny." His tone indicates he's thanking him for more than just the name.

"No problem." Danny kisses the top of Tim's head. They stay like that for a moment before Tim pushes himself up.

"I think I should talk to your sister." He grabs his plate and sits near Danny on the couch. "I don't want someone to trigger me with a dumb comment or something."

"I'll tell her tonight." Danny says, "She's been wanting to meet you. Mostly because she wants to know her new nephew, but also because she likes to psychoanalize hero types. She finds us fascinating, but is still usually chill about it. Unlike when we were teens."

"What happened when you were teens?" Tim asks curiously.

"So Jazz has always wanted to be a therapist, and unfortunately, that means she knew a lot on the topic, but had none of the tact in implementing the knowledge." Danny looks absolutely fond. "She'd corner me to try and force me to talk about my feelings. "You can't keep it all bottled up, Danny." "You're hurting yourself and others by not talking." It was very annoying for an angsty teen to hear. She was right, but her methods needed work. And she's definitely put in the work since then."

"Any chance she's going to be anything like Harley?"

"Not a chance. She hates clowns and isn't one for jokes that aren't well thought out. You have to be really clever to even get a chuckle at a pun." Danny explains, taking their empty plates to wash them. "She isn't opposed to dark humor, but only if she knows the reason for it and knows it's not your only coping skill."

"So you got in trouble with her a lot, didn't you?" Tim teases, knowing Danny still uses dark humor as his main coping mechanism.

"All the time, but I started listening to her advice when I was.. 30? 32? Somewhere in my early 30s." Danny admits. "I got really tired of wanting to die all the time. And her advice has definitely helped minimize the want, unfortunately, mental illness doesn't truly go away."

Tim thinks about that. He knows you can't cure the types of mental illness he has, and Danny has been very open about his own issues, but he can't help his disappointment.

"Hey, on the plus side," Danny speaks up as if sensing Tim's thoughts, sometimes Tim is positive the man can. The man isn't facing him currently, so it's definitely not because Tim was making a face or something. "You're legally a person, so Jazz can get you meds. At least for your bipolar. I know you've been struggling with the whiplash between your extreme emotions."

"That's good..." Tim stares at the back of Danny's head. "You're not legally a person?"

"Nah. In the eyes of the government, I'm dead. It's why I've been hiding out in Gotham. The government has no place here, and as much as I hate the guy, Bats keeps the people hunting me down away." Danny pauses. "You know, I wonder if they think I faded? I haven't made an appearance in nearly 20 years. Then again, Harley snitched to everyone in existence, so I might have to start dodging ghost hunters again. At least the Anti-Ecto Control Acts got repealed, so I won't be taken to a secret government lab to be experimented on again. Shout out to Amity Parkers for clawing their way into office."

"The dad lore of your life is extensive." Tim jokes.

Danny chuckles. "Being a lab accident made ghost child vigilante with a portal to the infinite realms in his basement and ghost hunter parents and the government after you and the other ghosts visiting your town will do that. You'll have your own out of pocket stories to tell your kids one day, well, if you want kids. Otherwise, shocking friends is just as fun. Just imagine telling someone about the last 2 months. "Yeah, hi! My name's Tim! I was the 3rd Robin because a furry couldn't get his act together and then the Joker kidnapped me and I got adopted by the dead guy who showed up and killed him!""

Tim giggles. "I don't sound like that!"

"Maybe, maybe not, but it's still something you could say." Danny grins at him, drying his hands. "Do you need any help with your homework?"

"Yeah, there's a chemistry problem I don't understand-"

Tim loves living with Danny. It's everything a Tim pre-Batman would daydream about. Just a dad taking interest in his life and interests and taking care of him.

[neopianbiologyproject]

Transparent Pets and the Transparent Chia

for background, Transparent is a cosmetic option one can change their Neopet to. for the mostly mammalian cast of Neopets, this typically shows the internal anatomy of the Neopet as if their skin and cartilage were transparent, displaying their skeleton and visible internal organs.

there are some notable examples among them: the Transparent Lenny has bones in its primary feathers, explaining their hand-like dexterity with those feathers! (other bird Neopets, like the Pteri, do not have these bones).

there's also the Grundo's alien organs, and the Ruki, which is an insect and thus has an exoskeleton, has a much different internal structure from its mammal counterparts

there's a lot we could get into here with the perceived anatomical correctness of these designs; the number of bones and placement or lack of certain organs is definitely not one would expect in a detailed anatomical diagram. but none of that is really important beyond what these designs signify about the species classification-wise, and the one new major outlier: the Transparent Chia

the Transparent Chia is unlike all other Neopets who have received Transparent designs. it is green; it does not have bones; it has unique organs; it resembles a plant cell.

below is my attempt to label the Transparent Chia as if it were a textbook diagram of a plant cell. I'm only an amateur biologist, so I discussed with some friends, including professional biologist @stackedcrates who taught me a lot!

(footnotes are below)

1 - Root Hairs: As I've been told it, root hairs would typically 1) comprise the full green shape of the hair and not just the pink inside, and 2) a cell with root hairs would not have chloroplasts. So if we accept the hair as root hairs, this is either a "novel evolutionary adaptation" or possibly the Chia is comprised of two to four large cells and potentially a colonial organism, which I find exciting.

2 - Vesicles, Peroxisomes, Lysosomes: It's impossible to actually distinguish these things from each other so I labelled them half based on evidence and half arbitrarily. Lysosomes are typically larger than peroxisomes, but both could also be most any other 'some. (Vesicles are not 'somes but they look similar in this type of diagram).

3 - The Endoplasmic Reticulum & Large Central Vacuole: In normal cells, the endoplasmic reticulum would touch the nucleus, so this ER is in a very unusual if not impossible spot. We floated the possibilities that we were wrong about the nucleus, the nucleus was actually what we'd labelled as the LCV, and even that our ER was just the rough ER and the yellow noodles (now labelled "Cytoskeletal Structures") were a very unusual smooth ER. But it seems overly likely that we're correct about the LCV and the nucleus, so I preferred this admittedly unsatisfying option compared to the rest.

4 - Chloroplasts and Mitochondria: You might notice that the chloroplasts as labelled have two different designs: one is striped while the other is simply green. The committee found the two similar enough to group them together, and I'm told it's common for the chloroplast to be depicted either way (I found more than one diagram that this art seems to be cribbing colors and design choices from). As for the mitochondria, it's possible that we have the chloroplasts and mitochondria swapped, and it's just as possible possible one of the three labelled is some other plastid that we didn't consider.

5 - Cytoskeletal Structures: We have no idea what these are. They're not really the right shape to be skeletal structures. Oh well!

6 - Amyloplast: @stackedcrates suggested this was an amyloplast, for storing starch, but that it could be another kind of plastid.

this attempt has many issues, but the real purpose of it is to prove that the Chia very closely resembles a plant cell, rather than correctly identify each part. @stackedcrates also emphasized that biology is full of exceptions, and with the Chia necessarily representing an unusual example, it doesn't behoove us to be beholden to statistical typicality. a few mistakes or professional disagreements are okay! in the end, it matters more that the parts are roughly represented.

I think we did well!

What does this mean for the project?

we'll be hereforth categorizing the Chia as among Plantae rather than Animalia. there was evidence for this before as the Chia is the only Neopet to have the unique Magical Chia Pop colors. the Maraquan Chia is also an anenome, which is an animal, but definitely the most plant-like of the aquatic animals.

maybe one could argue the Chia is a fungus, or even an animal-plant hybrid! where does that go in our taxonomy? I don't know! but science is exciting, isn't it?

[qlossytbh]

𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 - 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 in which you and spencer almost say i love you four times and one time where you actually do.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 16+ minors dni!, fem!reader, established relationship, spencer is down bad, so is reader tho, idiots in love, they’re both lowkey rlly hormonal bro, pet names (love, handsome), this one’s a rollercoaster, fluff, angst, lots of suggestiveness because reader likes to tease lol, allusions to smut (didn’t actually write it tho sorry!) fighting, spencer kinda acts like a bitch, makeoutshesh, mentions of reader being insecure of her physical appearance, mentions of typical cm content, mentions of blood, mentions of reader getting hurt, protective!spencer, derek and reader have a cute friendship, lots of mentions of maeve so spoilers on that end, pls let me know if i forgot anything!!!,

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 8.1k (damn)

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 so i had many cute loose concepts and i kinda meshed it all into one fic. this is also loosely based on birds of a feather by billie eilish! im in love with this piece ugh

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The first time

“You look different,” Derek mumbled, mostly to himself, but loud enough to catch on. You turned towards his voice. The only thing different was that Hotch had let you come in later than your usual schedule since you had a random doctor's appointment— Oh, and the recently purchased light-blue button up you were wearing.

Your brows furrowed at Derek, one hand adjusting the strap of the purse that hung loosely on your shoulder as a light brown bag sat comfortably in the other. “Different..?”

Emily followed Derek, joining in as she glanced over at you from her own respective desk. “Actually he’s right,”

“I’m wearing a new shirt..?” You fiddled with the first button of your shirt, pursing your lips in bewilderment.

“No—“ Emily squinted at you. “It’s something else..”

Your mouth hung slightly open, not really sure how to respond to their prying eyes. They both were glancing at you, then at each other, then you again, but this time up and down—

“I hope it’s a good difference,” You commented as you waltzed past them and towards your boyfriend's desk. Spencer was hunched over at his desk, eyes practically burning holes into the files that sat in front of him.

His lips were pursed familiarly, just like he always did when he was so concentrated, along with the familiar furrow in his brow. His hair was tousled, a strand or two falling flat in front of his forehead. He looked so good it made you dizzy.

An instinctive smile had already reached your face once you made it to his desk. You leaned over him, slapping the brown bag on top of the files he was reading. He flinched slightly, but nevertheless, was finally pulled out of his deep concentration pool. You placed your palms on his shoulders, running them down his chest as you leaned over to hug him from behind.

You placed a kiss underneath his ear. “Hi handsome,”

He sank in his desk, realizing it was only just you and immediately easing. He hummed placidly, entranced by the sound of your sickeningly sweet voice. You pulled away to which he took the opportunity to glance over his shoulder at you.

You gave him a soft smile, one you used that made his heart soar. How your eyes grew lenient and lips curved gently upwards as you scanned as much of his features as your brain could possibly take in.

You placed both hands on his shoulder and nudged your chin towards the bag. “Brought you your favorite,”

His hands were already on the bag before you could say anything else and when he looked inside he was in fact correct on his suspicions when he saw two chocolate sprinkled doughnuts.

They smelled heavenly and he knew they were enough to cure his very major and very much present sweet tooth he had woken up with this morning. A large uncontrollable smile slapped right onto his face as he opened his mouth. “I—“

He stopped, clamping his mouth shut abruptly.

Thank god. He swallowed those three words that had nearly left his mouth, pushing them right back into the back of his throat before the damage could be done.

It wouldn’t necessarily be the first time this week where he let the confession accidentally slip. He realized that as of recently, he would catch himself with more and more of a necessity to tell you how he felt.

The two of you started seeing each other romantically about six months back. It was completely out of nowhere when he asked you out for the first time. The second— and third, and fourth and continuing times after were more than expected.

It didn’t take much for the two of you to realize how much of an importance the other partook in your day to day basis, even despite being friends for so long prior to the dating.

And everyday he saw you he felt this big tightening in his chest that made it actually impossible for him to breathe. He felt all this pent up emotion that was getting harder for him to manage with every passing day.

It scared him, how much he cared about you. How much he wanted you to be a part of his everyday life and how much he wanted to tell you how it made him feel— how you made him feel.

But that fear was exactly the reason why he’d clamp his mouth shut every single time he felt like he wanted to tell you.

“I—uhm,” He cleared his throat. “Thank you, really I—“

You watched him, titling your head to the side with a prying gaze. “Have I ever told you how amazingly perfect you are?”

You purse your lips, leaning over his shoulder and pretending to be deep in thought. “I’m not sure— I think you’re gonna need to jog up my memory.”

He shook his head, huffing a laugh as you leaned down and pressing a long kiss onto his lips. You hummed in contentment, feeling the fuzziness in your chest reach every nerve in your body.

“Hey,” You pulled away, glaring over at Derek from Spencer’s desk. “Calm your hormones or I’m telling Hotch to hit HR up,”

“Actually hormones aren’t something you can consciously control, they’re a biological response to situations we find—“ Spencer quipped, earning a loud groan from Morgan.

You rolled your eyes, looking down at Spencer and reaching a hand up, running it ploddingly through his thick brown curls. “Are you coming over tonight?”

He nodded. “Yeah,”

“Looking forward to it,” You pecked his lips once more. Before rounding his desk and making a b-line for your own.

Spencer scanned you up and down as you waltzed away, not realizing you were wearing the shirt you bought last weekend. The one that enhanced the beauty of your hair and skin color, mapping a perfect picture he wanted to get lost looking at. He also couldn’t fail to avoid the way the shirt deliciously hugged every curve and bump your body had to offer. And those dress pants—

He squeezed his eyes shut, groaning internally. He then thumped his forehead onto his desk, cheeks blazing with heat, knowing he was more screwed than anyone in this whole building, a lost cause if you will.

As you strutted past Derek and Emily’s desk towards your own, Emily gasped loudly. “I think I finally got it,”

“Yeah, I completely agree with you,” Derek followed. You looked at them both quizzically.

“Could it be?— No,” Emily gasped once again and you immediately noticed that it was fake, alarming you of whatever game they were getting at.

“Yeah, I think it’s finally happened.” Derek leaned back in his chair, clicking his tongue and smirking over at you. “Pretty girl here is in love,”

Your cheeks turned hot, as your eyebrows shot up defensively. “What?”

Derek liked to say the two of you were still in your ‘honeymoon phase’ and you couldn’t disagree with him— it was the most accurate description of your relationship with Spencer.

But saying in love triggered something— physically and emotionally.

“No wonder she looks so different,” Emily tutted. “She’s got that ‘happy in love’ glow to her.”

“Shut up,” You have the strap of your purse on a death grip as you opened your mouth to protest but failed miserably as all the words died in the back of your throat. Thank god Spencer seemed preoccupied with the donut you had just given him.

“I’m—“ You shuffled, slapping yourself internally. Way to give it away. “You guys need to find a better hobby.”

And with blazing cheeks, a dry throat and a concerning pattering heart blaring against your throat, you stalked your way back to your desk.

The second time

“But that isn’t fair Spencer!” You groaned, gripping your bag as if your life depended on it. “You can’t expect to save everyone and then blame yourself when it doesn’t go well,”

There had been a sensitive case today, clearly an unsuccessful one. Spencer, like usual, jumped at the first opportunity to start blaming himself— for not being quicker, for not being smarter.. Whatever reason he could nitpick at, he was currently doing so.

You tore your purse off your body and tossed it into a small basket by your front door. You roughly tore your heels off, slightly relieved at the feeling off the palms of your feet on the wooden floor.

“There were flaws in the profile— flaws in the geographical profile,” He huffed, frustrated, filling every fiber of his words. He tore his satchel off his body, grabbing his files from it prior and slapping them onto your coffee table. “We couldn’t even correctly pinpoint the Unsubs M.O before he started sadistically killing again, we couldn’t—“

You felt for him, you truly did. Spencer was one of the most kind hearted, considerate people you knew, but that came with a lot of self-demands. He had to be everything at once, and be there for everyone at once and if he didn’t reach the bar he’d set up for himself, this would happen.

He pushed past you and towards your kitchen. “Spence, we aren’t going to solve every case, no matter how good our work may be.”

“You think I don’t know that? The average percent of homicides cleared or "solved" is 60 to 65 but around 35 to 40 percent go unsolved.” You opened your fridge, grabbing a pitcher of water and grabbing a glass from your cabinet as you listened to Spencer.

“35 to 40 percent, do you know how high that is?!” He stressed. You realized his irritation was heavy because he was reaching his peak of rambling.

Spencer just couldn’t stand when things like this happened. When people did horrible things and got the luxury of roaming free— he couldn’t help but feel like he was at fault for that. If he was just quicker, or smarter maybe they would’ve caught whatever bastard was terrorizing people.

“I know you know that!” You huffed a breath of frustration. “But that’s the way this job works Spence!”

“What would you know about how this job works?” He turned, hot on his heels, facing you with an indescribable exasperation pooling around his eyes.

You stopped in your tracks, looking up at him sharply and setting the still empty glass of water and pitcher back onto the table “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His eyes were deeply upset— cold and hard and so much different from the soft and welcoming gaze of your partner. “You wouldn’t know the first thing about being a profiler. You joined the team around three years after the rest of us.”

You stared at him with incredulity. When in a relationship with somebody, as well as learning all of their admirable virtues, you also learn their defects. And one of Spencer’s defects was that he had no filter whatsoever when he got angry. He just said the first thing that came to mind and spit it out and towards whichever person was unlucky enough to fall victim.

Not that the two of you fought often because you quite literally never did— but you’d see him pissed at people and his petty side sometimes felt the need to make an appearance.

You, however, had never had to experience this firsthand. You’d seen it happen at work, with JJ, with Derek, with the press. But two of you had never spoken to each other the way you were doing now. And if he thought you were gonna let him slide, he’s got another thing coming.

“What about Rossi?” You challenged as you crossed your arms across your chest. “I was accepted into the team just months after he was, you’re gonna tell him he wouldn’t know the first thing about being a profiler?”

“That’s different—“

“How?” Your veins were pumping with adrenaline. Your fingers shook violently, and the back of your throat suddenly burned with the need to cry. “I had jobs before getting called into the BAU, and I busted my ass off in college—“

“It’s not the same!” He spat. “You had never worked with the team before, it took you months to learn how we processed things, how we handled them.”

You could visually see Spencer bite down on his tongue only now attempting to reel himself down back to earth. And if you didn’t know him better, you wouldn’t be able to recognize the identifiable regret that appeared in his eyes while you continued on.

“And who are you to hold that against me Spencer?”

He swallowed thickly and let out a heavy sigh. You ran a frustrated hand through your curled hair. “All i’m saying is that—“

“I know what this job is like, which is why I’m telling you to get out of your goddamn head.” You didn’t scream at him, but there was a firmness in your voice that could scare practically anyone off.

“The things that have happened, happened today or will happen are never going to be in our control,” You told him. “Never.”

“Just because you’re angry and pissed does not give you a free card to attack me,” You slammed the glass cup onto the counter and pushed past him, making your way out of the kitchen. Spencer didn’t follow you to your room, he knew it wasn’t a smart idea.

So as your bedroom door slammed shut, he stalked over to your couch, opening up the paper files onto your coffee table, and rerunning them once again. He wasn’t able to concentrate at all though, knowing you were in the other room tossed in bed and probably crying because of him.

A few long hours later, Spencer closed his files and looked over towards your door. There had been no noise emitted whatsoever from your room, which he wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

He felt like an idiot. Presumably so, he was so stupid for just lashing out like that on you. Your intentions were never ill intended, yet he still pushed you away and he hated himself for that.

He stood up, making his way into your kitchen and grabbing the empty glass. He poured some water into it and went over to your door.

You were lying down, blankets wrapped around you protectively as your back faced him. He couldn’t help but smile, feeling the endearment tighten in his chest.

You stirred in your sleep as the bed sunk beside you, groaning softly. Spencer hovered over you, setting down the glass of water on the nightstand beside your head.

“Hey,” His voice was very soft, maybe even enough to send you back into the nap you were in— until you remembered what had happened earlier and thought that maybe talking to him was a better idea.

Your eyes burned and your head hurt. You sniffed away the buildup that the crying had caused. You then blinked away the grogginess from your eyes, along with the slight burning sensation due to the tears you had shed earlier. “Hey,”

Your sleepy voice was enough to send Spencer into a whirlwind. It tugged at the strings of his heart and all he wanted to do right now was grab you in his arms and hold you there forever.

He laid on his side beside you, running a soft hand across your arm with the encouragement for you to turn around and face him.

A slight sense of anxiety was coursing through him. He was scared that a part of you was still mad at the way he spoke to you, and the worst part was that he couldn’t blame you, because he had in fact acted like an idiot.

You blinked up at him from over your shoulder. “What time is it?”

“Around nine?” You hummed, flipping on your side and turning to face him. Spencer slapped at the nerves inside him and shifted slightly in his position.

“Hey,” He reached his hand over to yours and intertwined his fingers with your own. “Were you crying?”

“Yeah,” His tone hadn’t been patronizing or ridicule intended, it was more so concerned. You reached up to rub your eye.“You were pretty fucking mean.”

Spencer wanted to kick himself. Truly. There wasn’t anything else to say but how utterly stupid he had been for causing you any type of harm when his main promise was to prevent you from any of it.

“You should drink some water,” He lifted himself up by his elbow, hovering over you again and reaching for the glass.

“I’m not thirsty,” You mumbled, snuggling closer into your pillow.

“You should still drink love, you haven’t had a single drop of water since we got here and you’re probably dehydrated,” You didn’t look at him. “I added those watermelon electrolytes you like so much.”

You peered at the glass, suddenly feeling deathly thirsty. With a huff, you reached for the glass. “Fine,”

You downed the whole drink in a matter of seconds, melting at the taste of the sweet watermelon tartness on your tongue. Once you finished the glass, you handed it back to Spencer who set it on the opposite nightstand.

“Can we talk?” You nodded. “I’m sorry,”

You looked up at him, opting him to continue. “I shouldn’t have snapped the way I did. You were trying to help me, and by attempting to push you away I said stuff I really, really shouldn’t have and I’m so sorry,”

With a few seconds of silence, you reached down, intertwining both of your hands. Your thumb glided over his knuckles as you listened to him.

You mumbled. “It’s okay Spence,”

He shook his head. “It’s not, honestly. I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

Yeah, good point.

“I know,” You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “But you said that you're sorry and next time we’ll learn how to manage these things a little more efficiently.”

You quickly pulled his arm over your body and scooted forward, too tired to dwell in an emotionally exhausting conversation, nuzzling your face into his neck while his arms instinctively tightened around your frame. “We’ll get the hang of this, okay?”

There was silence after that. One that could’ve been filled by anything, honestly.

Those three words were all you wanted to say right then and there. It had been on your mind a lot recently, how Spencer was making you feel a ton of scary and big and complicated feelings— all amazing but terrifying. And those three words felt the most accurate when it came to telling him how you felt about him.

You really wanted to tell him at that moment. You don’t know where the necessity came from but it hit you like a tidal wave. Strong and capricious. Uncontrollable almost.

But then the fear settled in and you’d obstruct yourself from doing so.

So you didn’t say it, even though you may have wanted to.

Instead you just held him tighter and nuzzled into him as close as you physically could, hoping that somehow the message would get across. He placed a kiss onto the crown of your head. “Okay.”

The third time

You smiled into the kiss, tugging at his hair as you leaned back, supporting yourself solely on his grip around your lower back. Your legs rested on either side of him, sitting in his lap while his hands raked across your back in a way that made you feverish.

His lips moved swiftly across yours. He squeezed your hips, fingertips slipping just slightly underneath your shirt. You shivered at the contrast of his cold fingertips against your blazing skin. Spencer pulled away, voice breathy. “Is this okay..?”

“Yes,” You whispered back before pulling him onto your lips again.

Your relationship with Spencer was something that made your heart feel so light and airy— something so pure and easy. It made you grow dizzy just thinking about his hands on you and all the sweet things he’d whisper in your ear constantly. How he was always so considerate and sweet and perfect.

You were staying the night at Spencer’s apartment, too tired to drive back to your own apartment after work. But some things lead to others and well— yeah.

When having to restrain so much physical contact at work, strictly wanting to remain as professional as possible, you could merely blame yourself for needing him like this once back at eithers apartment.

You hummed against his lips, raking your hands slowly through his hair. The kissing hadn’t stopped for the past half hour or so— honestly you lost track of time.

Spencer pulled away breathlessly and placed a few messy but calculated kisses on your jaw and neck. You smiled almost stupidly. He pulled away, looking at your dozy face and feeling his chest tighten.

Your lips were slightly pinker than usual, and puffier. Your hair was just slightly tousled while your cheeks glowed a beautiful red hue. Your fingers remained tangled in the locks of his curls.

“You look pretty,” He was saying that as if it was another one of his scientifically proven facts, as if no one could say or believe otherwise. You tucked a small curl that had slipped onto the side of his face behind his ear, humming passingly. However, you never found his eyes, only focusing now on the curls that sat comfortably framing his face.

Spencer’s eyes narrowed, fiddling with the hem of your loose shirt. “You do that often,”

You look down at him, questioning him with a hum. “Do what?”

“Overlook the things I say when I compliment you,” He remarked. “Like you don’t believe me.”

You still didn’t move your attention from his curls. You didn’t believe him most of the time.

You weren’t an insecure person, not entirely anyways. You put a lot of focus on your physical appearance, always maintaining your clean look intact to the public eye. To many, you were considered extremely attractive. But unlike popular belief, you had many insecurities that you always tried to overlook. Sometimes it was hard though.

It was just hard for you to understand how he saw you so perfectly, like you had not a single flaw. ‘Beautiful’ and ‘breathtaking’, just like he always says when he sees you at work or back at your apartments. How he’s able to litter you with a million compliments

“I don’t overlook your compliments,” You let out an airy laugh, pulling back slightly to look at him properly, hands resting on his shoulders.

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t..!” You laughed, cupping his cheeks and pulling him into a long kiss. He drew away, only by a few centimeters, desperately trying to get his point across because god forbid Spencer keep his thoughts to himself.

“You’re deflecting,” He whispered over your lips before you laid another feather-like kiss into his lips. You hummed dismissively, assuring him that you weren’t avoiding anything.

But god, if you didn’t stop kissing him so softly and so painfully slowly, if you didn’t stop shifting around on his lap the way you were and if you didn’t stop your hands from wandering their way across his shoulders and chest— he was going to have a hard time remaining composed.

“You’re—“ A kiss.

“trying to—“ Another kiss.

“distract me,” It was as if you were a magnet he was so desperately trying to detach himself from, but failing miserably. Gravity itself pulled him towards you, he couldn’t help nor control it. He couldn’t blame himself either.

“Is it working?” You whispered, voice dangerously close to a taunt. Your hands began fiddling with the buttons of his dress shirt, popping the first two undone.

Spencer found himself growing dizzy as his hands dug into your hips. “Unfortunately,”

You kissed his jaw, and Spencer let out a stifled groan. With the willpower of the gods themselves, he reached up and grabbed your hands into his own, stopping their mission at undoing his shirts buttons. You pouted with a glare, pulling away from him as his thumb gilded affectionately across your knuckles.

“So wait,” You pulled back. “Is this your way of saying you don’t want to sleep with me.?”

Spencer choked. “What?— No!”

Spencer groaned as you stifled a giggle. Oh, how you loved teasing and getting him all flustered. “That’s not— No.”

You tilted your head. His hands rested on your hips, as he sighed looking up at you. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

You blushed. “You tell me often,”

“I know you’re beautiful,” He shook his head and sat up, trailing his hands across your back. “Do you?”

“People tell me often,” You smirked and when he glared at you all you could do was kiss it off him. “But I only like hearing it from you,”

“I asked you something,” He let out.

“Sort of,” You admitted meekly, finally responding to his question. His hands came back to the hem of your t-shirt, tugging at it as his lips found yours again.

“You’re probably the most beautiful person I know,” He whispered above your lips matter of factly.

“Probably..?”

“Definitely,” His hands gripped at the plush flesh of your hips in a way that was making you want to fall to the ground and melt into a puddle of goop. It was so gentle yet there was a specific urgency to it.

He pulled away, kissing your cheek immediately after. “You’re also so smart and kind,”

He kisses traveled across your cheek, to your temple, towards your jaw and that damn spot on your neck that he knew drove you crazy. All while whispering sweet nothings into your ear. Your witt was slowly melting away with any trace of self control you had left in you as you closed your eyes, arching yourself into his addictive touch. ”And funny,”

“Spence..” You warned.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” He looked back at you, reaching up and cupping your cheek in his hand. “I—“

His words failed him as they whipped all the way back into his throat, daring not to leave his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to say it, there wasn’t anything else he wanted to say to you, because no matter how much he’d wash you in compliments, those three words were the closest thing to allowing you to understand just how much you truly meant to him— hell, it didn’t even feel like enough sometimes.

And that scared the shit out of him.

Which is why he quickly thought of the closest thing to those three words and spat them out, avoiding any growing suspicions. “I love the way you make me feel.”

You weren’t gonna lie, the first two words had gotten your hopes up in ways that were too pathetic to admit out loud. But his words had other intentions, so it seems, and you had to force yourself from slouching your shoulders foward in disappointment.

Beside, it’s not like the things he was saying weren’t causing a wonderful heat to pool in the pit of your stomach— and among other places.

You watched him, for a second or two, trying to maybe tell him with your eyes what you couldn’t tell him with your words. But it still wasn’t enough, and if you didn’t release the neediness that was starting to take shape within you, you'd quite literally explode.

You tangled your fingers within his hair and pulled his mouth onto yours in a steady but desperate kiss. He responded pretty well, given since his hands found your waist instantly and tugged them towards himself in a feverish manner.

He began pulling at the bottom of your shirt, signaling he needed it off of you and pulled away, whispering breathlessly. “Can I?—“

“Please.”

The fourth time

“Ouch,” You hissed as Morgan dabbed a piece of gauze onto the now stitched up cut on your head. “Are you trying to give me another concussion?”

Derek deadpanned at you, slightly relieved that you still found the energy to pick on him after being whacked in the back of the head with a pipe by the Unsub.

The team was searching for a local Serial Killer that targeted young women around the area, per usual. You and Morgan were put in charge of entering the Unsubs apartment since Garcia had been able to track it down while you and Morgan were on call.

It wasn’t anything past ordinary. This was your job, you had done this more than a thousand times before— much less carelessly and it wasn’t like you to be so careless. But sometimes you get so comfortable and cocky with your job that you forget about the actual risks of it.

Eventually that cockiness would have turned around and bit you in the ass.

When you and Morgan busted down the door, guns in hand, you split up, each directioning yourselves into different rooms of the apartment— in hindsight that was a horrible idea.

When you walked into what seemed to be an empty room, you stupidly failed to check the back of the door. Which was why a second later, when you opened your mouth to inform Morgan that the room was clear, something solid and cold wacked you across the back of the head, knocking you out unconscious.

You weren’t aware of what happened after that, given how the blunt force had knocked you out profusely and you really couldn't recall anything prior to the attack when you regained consciousness. All you knew is that you were alive and the Unsub had been caught, which was all that mattered honestly.

Derek was now wallowing in the self inflicted guilt of not knowing better. But to be completely fair, you didn’t know better either— you were as much to blame as he was.

But Derek was convincing himself that because of his lack of observation, you had ended up with a concussion, six stitches and a bruised cheekbone.

“Derek—” You pleaded, watching him dump the ice pack onto the counter of the back of the ambulance with an angry toss.

All he was doing right now was huffing in anger. “Come on,”

He turned to look down at you. Shot him a stiff thumbs up and a smile, signaling that you were more than okay. Sure, your head was throbbing, but you weren’t dying.

“Stop doing that,” You rolled your eyes and squashed your eyes shut, attempting to relieve your headache.

“Doing what?”

“The sulking,”

“I’m not sulking,” Derek scoffed. Now it was your turn to deadpan him. He opened his mouth, intending to jump instantly to his defense.

“Where is she?” A panicked voice from the depths of the crowd caused you to grimace, immediately recognizing it to be Spencer’s. Derek suddenly felt dread when realizing he now had to face him.

Spencer could be rather ardent when it came to you and your safety— you knew you were fine, but having to convince Spencer that you were fine as well was a tougher job.

Spencer pushed through the vast amounts of people, finally breaking through the last line of them and finding you sitting placidly in the back of the ambulance. The panic Spencer felt coursing within him was something he wished upon no one.

When Hotch told the team that you were down, Spencer couldn’t help but freak out. He hid it well, knowing he had to stay focused on the case, but god was he slowly crashing. His usual sharp intellect was fogged, and he couldn’t concentrate on anything but your wellbeing. His head was flooded with questions and worries and he needed to know that you were okay.

He strided over to you, quickly crouching and taking your cold hands into his own. His distressed eyes flew all over your face, scanning it as his hand came up to cup your cheek. His thumb gilded gently over your bruise and the deep furrow in his brows was enough to tell you that his mind was going haywire.

“Hey you,” You said, humor glistening your tone while smiling sweetly and oblivious to the gravity of the situation. Spencer forced a weak smile to spread across his own face.

“Hey,” He cooed. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine actually,”

Spencer straightened himself out, turning to Derek. “What did the paramedics say?”

“They gave her six stitches for the superficial cut on the crown of her head and some ice for the bruised cheekbone,” He crossed his arms. “They say it’s probable she has a concussion.”

Spencer felt his blood run cold. “A concussion?!”

You could tell Spencer was trying his hardest to remain calm. It was evident in the deep breaths he was taking and the tapping of his fingers against the side of his leg. He was doing a horrible job at it though, although you wouldn’t tell him that because he’d just freak out some more. His voice was getting all pitchy and his shoulders shook feebly. He sucked in a deeper breath, closing his eyes and attempting to regain his composure.

“Spencer,” You didn’t need him panicking more than he already was. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, probably to scold you or maybe even defend himself, Hotch's stoic voice cut through.

“We need to deliver a statement. Morgan, Reid,”

Spencer looked down at you. But you pushed him to head over to wherever your chief needed him to be. “Go. You can—“

“Hotch, I’m going to stay,” He told the chief, almost finally.

“For the first 24 hours after the injury, it’s important for someone to stay with her to keep an eye out for any new symptoms that develop.”

You clamped your mouth shut and looked at Hotch, who remained neutral watching the two of you. You offered him a shrug, and the two of you knew there was no getting through to him. Hotch hesitated momentarily, but knew Spencer would be more of use if he wasn’t with him worrying about you.

Spencer was as smart as they came but god could he be stubborn.

With a final nod from Hotch, he and Morgan pushed through the group of press. You followed Spencer’s movements with a sweet smile glued onto your face. He sat next to you, close enough so that you could feel the side of his thigh warm against yours.

“How are you feeling?” Spencer asked again, voice small, worrying that if he spoke too harshly or too loudly it would hurt you further.

“Surprisingly good for someone who was smacked in the back of the head with a metal pole,” You shrugged indifferently. Spencer, however, did not find your humor amusing.

“How sleepy are you on a scale from one to ten?” He asked urgently. You pulled back, pursing your lips quizzically.

“Like three? I slept like shit last night—”

“How about your neck? Does it feel stiff?” His hands reached up, cupping the sides of your neck as his thumbs traced your jaw.

“No,”

“Are you unable to move any part of your body?” His questions were spewing out of him uncontrollably, and it was getting hard for you to keep up.

“I don’t—“

“What about your pupils? Did the paramedics check them?”

“Spence,” You whined, slumping your shoulders forward while your face still rested in his hands. “The bright lights and harsh noises are giving me slight headaches, but that’s it.”

He stared at you. Long and hard, he just looked at you and wondered what he wanted to say out of all the things swirling around in his head.

“What were you thinking?” He asked finally. You stared at him and his eyes hard with annoyance, but still shining an amount of concern. His voice was barely above a whisper. You let your shoulders fall, licking your bottom lip.

You reached up, grabbing his hands steadily from your face and lacing your fingers with his. “We weren’t,”

“We jumped in head first and didn’t think coherently,” His frustration was rational, but to a certain extent. You really wanted to validate his concern, but he was not allowed to get mad at you. “Spencer.”

As you called his name firmly, he only looked away, jaw and shoulders tense and constricted. You sat there, silently waiting for him to react however it is he needed to in order to process.

“I should’ve gone with you, I should’ve—” His head ducked low. His voice was full of frustration, at himself mostly. It didn’t have to be because this was not something he could have prevented.

“Spencer,“ You gave his hands a firm squeeze and tugged on them slightly. “What did we talk about when it came to personal prevention?“

He remained silent. “I’m serious, there isn’t anything we could’ve done to prevent this.”

Spencer couldn't call to mind the last time he had felt this strongly about someone. Maybe Maeve, but he knew deep down it wasn’t the same. He was almost positive he really hadn’t ever felt this way about someone— he’d been in love, but never like this.

Your entire existence ameriolated his entire being. There wasn’t a moment in the day where he didn’t think of you, where he didn’t wonder what you would think of things, where he wasn’t excited to see you every morning for work. A life without you didn’t exist to him anymore— he didn’t want it too.

That could be the main basis as to why Spencer felt so implausibly terrified at the idea of losing you.

His hand left yours, replacing it with a cold emptiness. His free hand flew up to his eyes urgently, pinching them simultaneously to get rid of the minor tears that had welled upon them. He ducked his head low, not wanting you to notice that he had started tearing up.

Immediately, your whole face softened at the realization that he was crying. It tugged on the strings that held your heart up and made your stomach churn in the worst way possible. “Spence…”

Seeing him cry, possibly because of the fear of losing you, made you feel— funny. It gave you this airy feeling in your head that caused you to feel lightheaded and filled your chest with blithe. You weren’t sure if it was your concussion or the affection you felt towards Spencer that made you feel this way.

You smiled meekly, fondness across every one of your features. Spencer cleared his throat and spoke, voice wobbly and unsteady. He sat up, trying to recollect himself. “Sorry, I— I don’t know what i’m crying for—”

You looked into his eyes, eyebrows swooped downwards. At that second a million thoughts ran through your head, but only those three freaking worlds were the only ones that felt adequate enough to say in that moment.

“I—“ You started.

It was right there. It sat in the back of your throat irksomely. You were ready to jump off the edge, to slip into the abyss— to say those words that you’ve been holding off for the past weeks, months even. Spencer watched you, simultaneously growing nervous because he could tell by the way you swallowed thickly that you were about to say something.

“I think I’m seeing double,” You opted. Just the way his eyes blew wide was enough to make you giggle.

Next time.

“What do you mean?! Like actually double or are you—“ His voice died down at the sound of your snort and soon enough you began laughing. He blinked a few times before he glared at you.

“That is not funny.” It irked him massively how you had the capacity to always joke when he wasn’t at all in the mood to. But it also unraveled the itching anxiety that had grown in his chest and replaced it with a deep affection that surged throughout him entirely as he watched you laugh. “I’m serious.”

“Did you know that you look so cute when you’re mad?” Your hands reached up, cradling his face in your palms. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips.

When you pulled away his frown was still present. The pads of your thumbs rested on both corners of his lips, pushing them upwards and creating a makeshift smile.

“I’ll let you baby me these next few days all you want,” Your voice was soft and sweet, making his head spin as you hovered your lips over his, placing another slow kiss there. “But right now, I’m promising you that I am fine, okay?”

His jaw clenched, eyes flying down to avoid your prying one’s. “Spence.”

You were saying his name one too many times that he was finding it increasingly hard to compose himself. He glanced up at you, nodding weakly. “Okay.”

The fifth time

You leaned forward in the mirror of Spencer bathroom, poking at the scarring on the crown of your head. “It feels weird,”

“It’s scarring tissue, it’ll feel weird for a bit, love” He watched you silently from his seat on the edge of his bed.

“Do you think it’ll leave a scar?” You mumbled, voice tight with concern. “The bruising on my cheek is fading but god help me, if this leaves a weird bump on my head I’ll physically seek this psycho out in jail and give him his own bump to worry about,”

Spencer stopped himself from laughing, finding your pouting adorable.

“After an injury, the inflammatory process signals fibroblasts to lay down new, protective tissue in the form of scars,” Spencer quipped. “But it won’t be noticeable since it’s hidden underneath the rest of your hair.”

You huffed, poking at the bruise on your cheekbone and admitting. “It’s hard to feel pretty when I’m all busted up.”

“You always look pretty,” You continued to poke at your cheekbone to which Spencer stood up, walking into the bathroom and planting himself behind you.

“Stop poking at it like that,” He scolded, reaching behind you and grabbing your wrist. You focused on your face, huffing a breath of frustration.

This past week has been utter hell for Spencer. A newfound persistent anxiety managed to find him after your injury and sink its teeth into him, claiming him victim. You've been staying with him since your concussion, ensuring him that you were safe, but he noticed he’d grown more vigilant to his surroundings when he was at work, more possessive when it came to you and your wellbeing and more conscientious.

You didn’t obtrude, since you understood it was a perfectly normal reaction for him to have.

But he hated it. He hated this clawing anxiety he was having. He hated having the persistent fear of losing you. He tried to decipher whether it truly was all related to the recent events or if there was something deeper. But he knew for sure that the thought of you getting hurt was making him sick to his stomach.

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. You grabbed his arms, rubbing soft circles onto it with the soft pads of your thumb.

“Bruises make me feel ugly,” You miffed. “Except the ones you give me, I love those,”

Spencer looked up from your neck, catching your gaze and watching your mischievous smile lighten up through the mirror as he cocked a brow at you. You giggled out a laugh.

Spencer zoned out. He just looked at you, watching your pretty eyes latch onto his through the mirror, seeing your body safe and warm and alive in his arms. His throat tightened and as much as he hated it, his mind immediately thought of Maeve.

Not because he was comparing, of course not. He could never— the two of you meant very different things to him and they were very different relationships.

But he could remember how he wasn’t able to tell Maeve that he loved her— he wasn’t given the chance.

And it made him think about your recent accident, and all the times he'd been stopping himself from telling you. Fear, worry— whatever it was, he had been stopping himself time after time from telling you how he felt.

The thought of him losing you before he could ever tell you how he truly feels is something that made him want to throw up.

“Hotch said I could go back to work on Monday,”

“I love you.”

He said it because he could, he said it because he meant it, and he said it because he didn’t want to live a second longer without you knowing how he felt despite its reciprocity.

He won’t ever forget the way your face just fell. Just stopped moving, mouth hanging open and eyebrows shooting upwards. How your mind just went blank. God, his heart was in his throat and your silence wasn’t helping.

“What did you just say?” You asked, mostly in disbelief— entirely in disbelief.

“I love you.” He’d repeat it for you as many times as you wanted him too. He’d do anything for you.

You turned and his grip around you loosened. Now facing him, your eyes shot around every fraction of his face to determine that this wasn’t a lie or a joke or something cruel he was planning.

“Say that again,”

“I love you.”

And it definitely wasn’t.

You pushed yourself onto the tip of your toes, leaning up and wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him into a suffocating kiss. One that was desperate, and urgent and full of passion and all over the place.

He pushed you against the marble counter, quickly hoisting you up onto the cold tile as your mouth moved along his perfectly. Your hands dug themselves into his hair, your legs wrapped around his waist, tugged at his body, pulling him impossibly closer to your own.

He pulled away breathing over your lips. “I love you,”

He kissed you again before pulling away and whispering once again. “I’m in love with you.”

He rested his forehead onto you, reaching up and tangling his hands in your hair. The two of you heaved. Your chest was hammering against your rib cages, the oxygen wasn’t fully reaching your head or lungs and you were pretty sure you were going to faint. It was too much. “You are?”

You both peered your eyes open, looking at each other deeply. He whispered, voice crackling slightly. “How could I not?”

You kissed him, this time slowly and softly, wanting to show him how much you loved him back— needing to tell him how much you loved him back.

“I love you,” You said, wavering an unsteady laugh. He opened his eyes and pulled away, looking at you and infatuated with every part of your existence.

“Really?”

“Spencer..!” Your voice cracked in a protest, ludicrously referring to such a stupid assumption— you’d love him till the day you died. You pulled him closer. “It is physically impossible for me not to love you. Don’t act so surprised.”

He smiled. A big, wide and stupid smile that probably made him look like a kid on christmas morning. He kissed your forehead. “You have no idea how much of a relief it is to say it.”

You perched up, hands falling onto his chest. “How long have you wanted to say it?”

He cringed bashfully, letting his hands fall to your waist as he shook his head shamefully. “Too long,”

“Well that makes two of us then,” You leaned forward, placing a relaxed kiss on his jaw. “Was there a point you realized?”

He shook his head. He’s pretty sure that after a month of going out on dates and seeing you consecutively outside and inside of work, he knew he’d fall in love with you. How could he not? “My breaking point, however, was the day you were wearing your new shirt,”

He kissed your neck, giving your hips a tight squeeze. “Which by the way, looked absolutely incredible on you,”

“Is that so?” You mumbled, lips curving up in a smirk.

“I love how it looked on you,” He admitted. “I love you.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I’m never going to get tired of hearing you say that,”

“I’m never going to get tired of saying it,” He responded. “When did you realize?”

“It was either that time after our first big fight or on that night on the couch when we,” You shot him a sneaky look, to which his cheeks turned pink, recalling the events of that night. You shrugged. “You know.”

You were going to be the literal death of him.

He kissed your jaw twice more. He loved you and you loved him. It seemed like something too good to be true. “I think I’m going to need you to jog up my memory,”

You giggled at the reference, heart doubling in size at the amount of affection you were feeling towards him at that moment. He wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, emitting a loud shriek followed by a string of laughter as he hoisted you up and carried you over to his bed.

[sunderwight]

Moshang AU where Airplane transmigrates into a demon NPC from one of the fanservice clans he created, rather than into Shang Qinghua.

So basically, there was a point in time where a lot of PIDW chapters were just Luo Binghe running around propelled by political plots and rebellions from the demon kingdoms, and most of that actually just ended up being Luo Binghe collecting wives with cute animal ears and tails and various abilities that Airplane used all of once and then completely forgot about. They covered the usual bases of the sexy cat girls, sexy fox girls, sexy bunny girls, sexy bird girls with wings, etc, before moving into more, erm, niche animal hybrid demon territory.

Which is all a roundabout way of explaining Cute Hamster Boy Shang Qinghua in his faithful-to-canon clan of Hamster Demons, whose primary skills include cute squeaking noises and digging abilities.

In the process of making his braindead written-in-a-panic-at-3-am "world building" on this front actually function in a real version of the setting, there has got to be a way for the otherwise-unremarkable fanservice demon tribes to actually survive the incredibly hostile environment which Airplane otherwise described, though. Like yeah sure when you're writing a book you can just say in one breath that the demon realms are incredibly brutal and cutthroat, and then in the next that this tribe of bunny girls with no visible skills at self-defense has existed here for thousands of years, but if you actually tried to set that up in some kind of a simulation the bunny girls wouldn't last one year, let alone one thousand.

In that case of Airplane's hamster tribe, their digging skills are so supernaturally prodigious that they are able to construct massive underground fortifications in otherwise hostile terrain. But that still doesn't solve all of their problems, because they still need to acquire food, and for that they mostly do have to go up to the surface. Some of their weakness is mitigated by sheer numbers -- they have a lot of kids to offset the high mortality rate. However, to further increase the survival rates, the hamster demons also try and make contracts with some of the local liege lords or ruling clans whenever they expand into a new territory. In exchange for protection, they send some of their extraneous family members out as servants, to either cement alliances through marriage (that high fertility is helpful and was indeed the crux of Wife #whatever's acquisition in canon) or to work as diggers or even high-level architects.

As the like, twelfth son of the Hamster Demon chieftain, this is Airplane's fate. On the one hand he's highly positioned enough to get an education, and his plot knowledge helps a lot. On the other hand, he's not high enough in the hierarchy to be kept around, so it's either go work for some other clan or else risk his neck doing missions on the hostile and deadly surface. Neither seems great, but Airplane would rather try his luck as a sycophant than a warrior.

Luckily (or unluckily, depending on his mood when he thinks about it) when Airplane reaches sixteen years of age, it's around the same time that the Hamster clan's tunnels have expanded towards the Northern Desert. Airplane ends up being part of the "hiii~ pleasedon'tkillus let's be friends~" tribute to Mobei Jun's father.

Mobei Jun's father tosses him to Mobei Jun, so Airplane dutifully latches onto him in order to avoid being eaten by any of the other retainers. Airplane has been educated in various subterranean building skills and is under the impression that he's been given to MBJ in order to build him his own palace or something?

Everyone else assumes that the Hamster demon is a concubine.

Mobei Jun also thinks that's what he's been given, but he's too busy bristling in teenage offense at being given a concubine by his father to actually consider taking Airplane to bed. So when Airplane starts doing other things for him, he just sort of bemusedly lets it happen.

Gradually it becomes apparent that Airplane himself isn't interested in being a concubine. No. Clearly, this Hamster is gunning for future empress of the Northern Desert! How else would one explain all the lengths he's going to not only to win Mobei Jun's favor, but to secure his position and ensure his future rule? The system also wants Airplane to ensure the Abyss plot arc happens in the future, too, which means Airplane helps Mobei Jun win and instigate conflicts against the righteous cultivation sects too.

Obviously, Airplane wants power. Mobei Jun knows that if he gets an heir off of Airplane that will be that, the wily minx will use any children to secure his position, and MBJ is not convinced he could control himself well enough to prevent that sort of eventually. Airplane is fiendishly attractive, and he clearly knows it, and Mobei Jun is not sure if he wants to accept what increasingly seems to be the inevitable. He won't be a ladder for someone else's ambitions! But... as long as Airplane remains loyal to him, he will consider it. Even if Airplane never harbors any true affection for him, and simply considers him a means to an end. If, by the time he ascends the Hamster has not betrayed him or tried to elevate himself by flipping over this uncle's side, or seduced any of his other relatives or any of the highly-placed lords all salivating to steal MBJ's would-be empress, then Mobei Jun will grant his wish and make him the second most powerful demon in the North.

Airplane, meanwhile, just wants a snack and a nap. Maybe if he builds a secure enough fortress and amasses enough of an intelligence network and hoards a few advantages for himself, and figures out how to stop pissing off MBJ, he'll survive long enough to retire. Somehow.

[soulcaketuesday]

Eight of Pentacles 🌤️

Eight of Pentacles symbolises diligence, self improvement and learning new skills. Miki sits peacefully in an overgrown sunlit garden, having spent all day painting birdhouses. Instead of chasing his nostalgia, he's honouring it by creating something practical and new. Sometimes you need to let go of perfectionism and just enjoy the act of creating - it might not be a masterpiece that perfectly captures the magic of childhood, but putting a lot of effort and sincerity into a project will always be worth your time.

this is one of my pieces for a zine that was unfortunately cancelled. the other piece is here, go look at this kid winning the cycle of violence. drafts and notes below

will you guys make fun of me if i over-explain this to death 🥺👉👈 so um the inspiration for this is the start and end of ep26: starting with kozue trying to save a birds nest as a tree is being cut down, and ending with miki putting up a bird house to replace the tree. the bird house doesn't repair their relationship - they don't speak in the moment except to insult each other - but when we see them next in the finale they're a lot more comfortable with each other! is miki's birdhouse an empty gesture or is it the first shaky step to finding an understanding? idk 😊 i think its neat

i thought itd be nice if he was approaching art and creativity in a more relaxed way, just enjoying learning a new skill. repeating the same song over and over will only get you so far <3 i think this boy needs a new hobby <3

some things:

the designs of the birdhouses are based off the twins' bedroom. they start off a bit more messy and simple but get more detailed towards the bottom. he's getting better thru practice! and the last pentacle is still a work in progress

the fireflies were originally going to be flowers, and i think i spent like 20 minutes googling native japanese wildflowers that would grow in a setting like this and also had the right flower symbolism i needed 🫠 but anyway in one of the early check-ins someone said they liked the fireflies and i thought sure!!!! sounds good lmao :D imo they imply a late summers evening and a long day of outdoor work which probably works better than me struggling with flower symbolism lol

the shoes looks good as hell before i remembered i had to cover them up with grass and the frame. now they just blend in to the piano a bit. sad!

for some reason i did all the line art for this and then painted it anyway. why did i do that.

i'm still kinda fond of the first one with miki studiously leaning over a miniature rose garden while the actual garden grows wild around him... one of the interpretations of eight of pentacles (reversed) is being so focused on details that you overlook the bigger picture, which i think really fits miki as the student councils Bloke Who Does Fuck All. he has the appearance of someone who's very analytical and sensible, but he's so locked in his own tiny perception of the world that he mostly just comes up with whatever conclusions suit him best, regardless of any harm he might be ignoring or outright causing. HOWEVER that's kind of an ungenerous interpretation for a relatively chill card 😌 also i had no ideas for a background and the composition didn't work with the border so rip to that idea

i liked the stopwatches as pentacles so tried to reuse it in the third design but was out of ideas by then. the seconds thumbnail with the birdhouses and the piano kind of came naturally so that's what i went with :) and it more or less stayed the same in the final result. i was thinking of adding some kozue presence, like empty milkshake cups or a birds nest or graffiti on the side of the old piano, but imo that would have made it too cluttered. i literally did forget to add paint pots tho OOPS

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Fault Lines Ch. 2

request: wanted to know if you could write something where the reader is a ex-winter solider (just like bucky, but maybe she doesn't lose her arm) and how she struggles to accept Joaquin. An overall angst to fluff.

pairing: joaquin torres x ex-super soldier!f!reader

contents: canon typical violence, illusions to abuse and torture, ptsd and other mental illness, enemies to lovers, angst

wc: 1,383

an: this series is based off of this request here! this is definitely a slow burn/fluff if you squint type beat so just bear with me <3

fault lines masterlist

The safe house is quiet, save for the low hum of the overhead light and the occasional rustle of movement from Joaquin as he leans against the wall opposite of you. He knows better than to box you in—that’d only make you more restless than you already are.

Post-meal and shower, you sit on his cot, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere past him like you’re already planning your exit. The space smells of antiseptic and metal despite the warm paint and comforting art. Someone had tried to make this as home-y as they could and failed.  

He doesn’t doubt that you are.  And you are. You’re on edge, always hypervigilant for the worst. That the two men in front of you that promise to stand on decency and honor are liars just like everyone else you’ve ever encountered. 

There’s only one door and a few windows, but you had immediately noticed the door under the rug in the bathroom. Its doable.

Sam’s outside, making calls, searching for loopholes to clean up the mess you’ve already made. That leaves Joaquin with what he does best—talking. But tonight, that skill is failing him.

Something about you is making the words sticky in his throat, unable to flow as usual. He doesn’t know what to say to you to make you understand, to make you change. Though he’s not really sure that’s his goal given what you’ve suffered.

“You look like you wanna be anywhere but here,” he observes, arms mirroring yours.

“What a shocking observation, baby bird,” you mutter, voice steeped in sarcasm.

Joaquin exhales through his nose, tilting his head. “Ok, ouch. But let’s be real—you could’ve run already. Hell, you could’ve fought harder. So why are you still here?”

Your fingers curl in your lap, like the truth will slink into your hands if you don’t force it out; it isn’t something you're ready to touch. You flex them once before stilling. “Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I trust you,” you say eventually, voice quieter, more measured.

“Fair.” Joaquin watches you, gaze steady. He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you unless he has too– he chalks it up to your dangerous capabilities and nothing more. “No one’s asking you to, querida. But you want something. You can tell me what that is, I won’t use it against you.”

Something stirs at his pet name, something you thought was dead and rotted. Its easy to shove it back down in the wake of what you see is a lie. He would use it against you, that’s what everyone does. If he didn’t then Sam would. You know the game. 

You let out a breath, eyes meeting his. “You’re after Hydra and so am I. But I don’t trust that you’ll actually do what needs to be done. In fact, I know you won’t.”

Joaquin frowns. He knows what you mean but asks anyway, “And what’s that?”

“You tell me,” you challenge. “You really think you’re gonna dismantle them by playing by the rules? By arresting a few low-level pricks and calling it a day? Hydra isn’t just an organization—it’s a disease. One that’s smart enough to outmaneuver every cure. You cut off a limb, and another grows back.” Your voice lowers, darkens. “I go for the heart.”

Joaquin studies you. The shadowy certainty in your tone. The way your hands have curled into fists, nails pinching into your skin before you even realize it. He should be alarmed, maybe even afraid of you and what you can do with those hands. But mostly? He just feels tired for you and all the baggage you have to carry. He wishes there were more he could do more for you, but he knows the oath he’s taken. His values, his morals—they won’t be compromised.

“I get it,” he says, voice softer now. “You think we’re a waste of time. That we’re too soft.”

“You are,” you say, like it’s obvious and with no remorse. “Your Captain? He’s trying to lead a world that doesn’t even know what to do with itself. One that hardly wants him. He’s gotta play politics. Me? I don’t have to play anything. I owe nothing to no one but myself.”

Joaquin shakes his head. “That’s not a life. That’s a war you never get to leave. That darkness won’t let you go.”

Your jaw tightens, and you look away. You don’t deny it.

For the first time since bringing you in, Joaquin feels like he has something solid to work with. You know that your past is controlling you but you won’t let it go. With their help, you could finally be free. He lets you sit with his words, grabbing a water from the mini-fridge before settling across from you on Sam’s bunk.

Silently, he offers it. Begrudgingly, you take it, careful not to touch him.

“Look, I know what it’s like to be made into something you didn’t ask for,” he says. “To be trained to survive, not to live. And I know that once you start thinking like that, it’s almost impossible to stop.”

Your fingers tighten around the bottle, the plastic nearly giving out under the pressure. The sound brings you back to the present and you loosen your grip letting the bottle fall to the ground. Joaquin says nothing, letting you be.  When your eyes meet again, he can see that you recognize that. That you believe him when he says that he understands. You let it fade away as quickly as it appeared.

Joaquin presses forward anyway. “You don’t trust us? Fine. But what if we can help? What if we can end this without you burning yourself out trying to do it alone?”

You shake your head. “God, baby bird, you don’t fucking get it.”

“Then make me fucking get it,” Joaquin challenges, matching your energy. He hopes that in doing so you'll level with him.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The space between you is heavy with something unspoken, pressing down on your chest. Your breath is too sharp, and his is too shallow, like being stuck in each other's gaze has sucked all the air out of the room before either of you could even think. You exhale sharply, pulling back, re-centering yourself just as another presence fills the doorway.

"There's a name," you mutter, almost reluctant. "One of the last remaining heads of Hydra. He’s been running a black ops division off-grid. And if you think what was done to your precious boy was bad, what they’re doing is worse."

Joaquin barely has time to process before your gaze flicks past him, landing on Sam, now standing in the doorway, arms crossed.

The two men exchange a look. “How do we know you’re not leading us into a trap?” Sam asks.

You scoff. “I’m not like them and you thinking I would walk you into a trap is like them. If you don’t believe me, I can happily do this on my own. And I wouldn’t have either of you slowing me down.”

Sam meets Joaquin’s gaze again; its pleading, laced with the idea of giving you a chance. A long beat of silent communication passes between them.

Sam rolls his eyes, exhaling reluctantly. He knows what its like to be an advocate, the one who’s seeing more than others. He’ll let Joaquin take his chance on you. “You’re lucky he likes you,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward Joaquin before turning back toward the door. “We’re wheels up in an hour. Try not to make me regret this.”

Joaquin looks back at you, and you could swear that you see some warmth in his cheeks. “That makes two of us.” He barely catches it—the slight quirk at the corner of your mouth. It’s smug, not quite a smirk, but it’s something. An attempt at humor. He softens again, seeing the effects of what Hydra put you through.

What had they done to you where you can’t even smile? Laugh? See yourself as more than just their pawn? The thought makes him sad, yes, but it also makes him angry. You deserve better than that.

“Three of us.” You shake your head, pushing to your feet. You’re tired of being cooped up. “Guess we’ll see.”

let me know if you'd like to be on the sfw joaquin torres taglist!

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes , @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9, @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath1998, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @moonymeloncholymoney, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967

> ch. 3

[batsandbirdbrains]

The Flock

Based on this lovely addition by @lemonfizzyy

Dick is Peregrine (18)

Jason is Rook (15)

Tim is Sparrow (11)

Damian is Robin (still in training) (7)

Timeline for yj moves way up. Dick was 13 when all the season 2 shit happened, it was still just the og team but the reach shit was happening. Dick ends up getting ripped apart by the JL for plans he came up with that saved everyone, and even though no one died, they’re so hard on him for what happened. And Dick just gets pissed. And he packs his shit in the middle of the night and leaves. Goes back to Haly’s Circus, who mostly tours Europe and Asia now. They stop in America every couple years.

And while he’s performing in the circus, he becomes the Skydancer, named after his mom’s act before she became a Grayson. He’s an instant hit. Everyone loves him.

And on the side? He takes on a new hero name: Peregrine. He mostly protects the circus and anything that might harm them. Stops smuggling rings, human trafficking rings, mob families that try to extort businesses like the circus. Things like that. He's careful about when/where he goes out - it's not at every stop the circus makes, and sometimes he hacks a zeta to go to a different city, especially if it's to revisit a previous stop because he hadn't quite wrapped up all his business there.

Then after a year, he runs into a kid named Jason. He ran away to join the circus, and Dick takes him in. Teaches him how to be an acrobat, and eventually Jason joins the circus and the two have an act together. Dick is still mostly solo as the Skydancer, but he has some duet stuff with Jason to get him on the roster. He informally adopts Jason, and everyone in the circus refers to Jason as a Grayson now.

Jason eventually finds out about Peregrine, and insists he help. Dick trains him, passing on the name Robin while he’s still in training. He trains as Robin for a few months before Dick allows him to come out with him at night.

Once Jason is ready to soar, he picks the name Rook. He likes that a rook is both a bird and a chess piece.

Then a little boy named Tim is forgotten by his parents at a stop near the circus. Dick and Jason spend days trying to figure out how to get him home, but Tim doesn’t actually want to leave. This is the most fun he’s ever had. Plus, his parents left him in a foreign country, and their vacation was supposed to end shortly after Tim got left at the circus. They aren't coming back. Tim doesn't really want them to come back. He's happier with Dick and Jason. They end up adopting him too, and now there's a third Grayson brother in circus. He doesn't join the acrobat act right away, Dick wants to train him properly before allowing him to perform in case he gets hurt. For the most part, Tim helps out the workers who sell popcorn and souvenirs.

Tim is Robin for longer, considering he’s so much younger. After at least a year and a half of training, he too graduates from the Robin mantle. He becomes Sparrow.

Then there’s another little boy who’s running from something horrible. His name is Damian and he’s five and he’s terrified. The brothers take him in without question. A fourth Grayson brother now roams the circus, and no one bats an eye. Dick takes care of his brothers, looks after them, and treats them as if he's known them all their lives. They all return the favor.

Damian is still Robin, because he’s so little, and Dick can’t wrap his head around how Bruce ever let him out when he was only a few years older than Damian. It’s absurd.

But it's now been two years since Damian joined the family, and the League of Assassins is after them. Damian is the son of Talia al Ghul, they figure that much out fairly quickly. But Damian had never actually met his mother, not that he could remember. It's why he had no problem leaving the League and latching onto Dick. Dick is nice. Jason is nice. Tim is nice. Dick trains him to be an acrobat and to work on his self-defense and never ever hits him or screams at him. Sometimes Dick might raise his voice, but it's usually because he's scared one of them will get hurt. He gets angry sometimes, but very rarely is it at one his brothers. And if it is at one of the brothers, it's usually because they were doing something stupid that they knew they weren't supposed to be doing in the first place.

But Dick is now only 18, and he has no legal claim over any of the boys, and he certainly isn't a match for the entire League of Assassins. As much as he loathes to do it, he eventually packs the boys up and hacks a zeta to get them all to the Watchtower. They need help. They just had a brutal fight with the League of Assassins the night before, and they'd been on the run for weeks, not wanting to drag the circus into any of this mess. Dick is tired and he's hurt and he's desperate to keep his brothers safe, and even if the heroes in the Justice League can't stand him, he likes to think that they won't turn his brothers away just because of him. They're innocent, after all. They don't deserve to be hunted like animals.

They're all wearing their vigilante suits (modified circus costumes, really, but Dick managed to find a tailor that would use Kevlar), and they're all wearing domino masks. Damian, as Robin, is in one of his acrobat costumes. It's green and red and yellow, and he has on a mask and one of Dick's hoodies on (bright green with a faded circus logo - it's old, and each brother has stolen it at some point to claim for himself, it's Damian's now). Dick even went so far as to hack the zeta to announce their vigilante names, but it wasn't until Robin was announced that the JL members really made themselves known.

Except, it wasn't the Robin they were expecting.

"It's the Flock," they hear someone whisper, and Dick pulls his brothers closer to him. He's seen the name before - the Flock - it's what their fans call them. What newspapers call them. He thought it was kind of dumb, really, but the boys thought it was funny. Jason, when he was still new to being Rook and the name was first thrown around, thought it was hilarious "because it sounds like fuck, Dick!" and Dick had just rolled his eyes. It had become something of an inside joke for the boys to use the phrase "what the flock" instead of the usual "what the fuck" whenever they were out on patrol. Dick will never admit he thinks it's funny; he has an image to uphold as the responsible older brother, after all.

But now Batman is standing in front of them, scowling at them. Dick pushes his brothers behind him, but he holds Damian tight in his arms. He'd figured it out fairly quickly after the Talia reveal that Bruce was Damian's father. He has no interest in passing over his baby brother, though. He's here solely for protection.

"The League of Assassins is after us," is all Dick says. "We can't take them on our own. And I refuse to let my brothers be taken by them."

"How did you even get up here?" someone asks. Dick can hear Tim and Jason huffing behind him.

"How the flock do you think?" he hates that he slipped up with that stupid phrase, because now Tim and Jason are laughing and it's going to make them look like they're taunting the Justice League. Shit.

"Robin," Batman starts, still glaring, but Dick cuts him off.

"Peregrine," Dick snaps. He hikes Damian up a little further against his hip and says, "He goes by Robin, now."

Several people seem to come to the same realization at the same time, and Dick is actually a little surprised. He didn't think he was all that subtle about graduating from Robin to Peregrine when he left and joined the circus, but it seems Batman hadn't shared all of his information. Typical.

"You've been missing for five years," Batman starts again, but Dick just shakes his head.

"Does it really count as being missing if no one wanted me around?" he questions. "I wasn't hiding. You knew exactly where I was. You just didn't want me here."

Batman says nothing. Dick almost wishes that Bruce would continue arguing with him, because the silence is worse. It means Dick was right. He had been hoping he wasn't, this whole time.

It's Superman who steps forward and asks for more information on why they're there. Dick explains again that the League of Assassins is after them, that he knows they can't take on Ra's and Talia on their own. That he wants protection for his brothers.

They're offered protection on the condition that Peregrine rejoins the team, along with his brothers. Dick isn't happy about it, but he obliges.

"Fine," he says after a long discussion with his brothers. "But Robin is still in training. He doesn't go out in the field until I say so. And that won't be for a few more years."

"He's capable, isn't he?" Batman asks. "You said he'd been trained by the League."

"He's seven," Dick spits. Then he turns to Superman. "And I want legal custody of all three of them. We've been a family for years, and I want it in writing and legally recognized."

"We can arrange that," Superman promises.

None of the brothers let anyone else know that Damian is most likely Bruce's biological son. They won't risk him trying to take custody of Damian.

A few weeks later, the brothers are all legally Graysons, and Dick has custody of all three of them. They're living at Mount Justice for now, but Dick and Jason are looking for a place in Happy Harbor to settle down. They're given a stipend by the Justice League, but Dick still wants to get a day job. There's a gymnastics studio in Happy Harbor, maybe he can be an instructor. The other three will have to start school eventually, though, even if Jason insists he can get a job and skip high school. Dick refuses to humor that idea.

[literaryslapshot]

LUNCH ⎯ C. Berzatto

carmen interviews a new girl for the recent waitressing job at the bear, and she's been the recent reason for his journal entries the past two weeks.

carmen berzatto x fem!reader

warnings: sexual themes (18+ MDNI), cuss words, carmen being super whipped but also kind of a perv, reader is kind of a ditz but so am i, reader has tats because i do too, reader also doesnt have much dialogue bc it's mostly from his pov.

word count: 1k

a/n: not really based off any specific episode or season in the series. i just love carmy so much <3

"Chef i need you to take over for at least an hour, i got an interview in 10." Carmen instructed Sydney, walking into the office as the kitchen staff began to prepare for open. The staff- mainly Sydney, Richie, and Carmen desperately needed a waiter in house. With how busy the restaurant was beginning to get they needed more than Nat out there.

"Are you gonna hire her?" Sydney asked; Carmen had briefed her about the applicant a day prior. He sat down, refreshing himself on the resume before meeting with her.

"Well she's the only applicant so far, so I don't really think I have a choice chef," before he could finish his thought he heard the chime of the entrance door. Glancing down at the time it read 10:51.

Early, off to a good start, he said to himself quietly. He gave one puff of cologne on his neck to try and musk the smell of kitchen before going out into the front of house to start the interview. Carmen forgot how to breathe for just a few seconds when he saw her- easily the most beautiful person he's seen walk in his restaurant.

"Um- Hi I'm Carmen Berzatto, the owner, you must be Y/N?" He introduces through a deep breath and a shaky hand that he extends. She takes it with a smile, following his lead. The soft taps of her high top converse against the tile floor, the flow of her skirt twirling as she turns in front of him slightly. It's exhilarating.

"Can I get you something to drink before we start? Water, a soda, coffee?" He offers, standing tall next to the table side. She grins and shakes her head denying his offer, her sweet sounding voice making butterflies flutter around in his stomach. That hasn't happened in a while.

They make small talk for a little while, Carmen asking pre-thought out ice breakers before getting to the real questions. But if he's honest with himself he isn't even listening to her answers. He's too focused on the way her lips move and how she purses her lips when she thinks about an answer.

He's taken great notice of the tattoos she has on her arms, in similar places to his own, all black outlined like his too. one is written in french, he assumes, right above her wrist on her arm. One is two small birds on the inside of her forearm. He wants to pause the interview just to talk about what they all mean to her. Partially because he wants to hear her voice for the rest of his life. He wants to press record on his phone and listen to her talk about whatever she wants to, her voice is that angelic.

"Can I ask you what the tattoo on your hand means?" she asked and he thought he was going to faint because she grabbed ahold of his hand gently to get a better look at it. She giggled when she got a better look at the artwork.

"It's to remind me to be careful when I chop vegetables, essentially," Carmen explained with a chuckle. "What does the one on your wrist mean?"

"Terre à terre, down to earth. I dont want to stray too far from who I was raised to be, so that's a reminder. I also have a couple more in french- my grandmother was french so I have a lot of french things in my life." She pulls up the sleeve of her shirt to reveal another tattoo, "étoile filante, shooting star. The first time I saw a shooting star was on my sixteenth birthday, my worst birthday actually."

He reminded himself to close his mouth because he knew he was about to start drooling, hearing the way her silky voice sounded even better in a foreign language.

He breezed through the interview, Natalie insisting that even though there are no other applicants and she'll probably get the job, do it the right way. "I'll give you a call by the end of the week, Y/N. It was a pleasure having you today." He shows her out of the restaurant, walking her to her car for safety, of course."

When Carmen got back inside, before he got to joining the team in prepping for the lunch crowd he pulled out his journal that he started to carry with him. It was full of various things: different dinner ideas to try out on the menu for a special, addresses, phone numbers, and other journal entries. he's made a habit of journal three times a week and he has a feeling he's going to be doing it a lot more with Y/N joining the team.

-

I could eat that girl for lunch. She smelled sweet like fuckin brownies or something, rich and delicious. Her tattoos, her gold necklaces, her smile, her skirt. I feel like a perv but god i know her skin would be so soft, and she'd have the best blind reactions to recipes, and i bet she'd taste good too. I'm closing the applications, this Y/N chick is gonna be the death of me.

-

"Hi Y/N, this is Carmen from The Bear, how're you?" he couldn't even wait a full 24 hours before he hired her. Embarrassing. "I just wanted to call and let you know that we're offering you the job if you are still interested." He bit the cap of his pen with a grin hearing her cheer and laugh on the other side of the phone. "Yea- yeah that's great, listen could you start Monday? I'll get you trained n'all that."

Carmen ends the phone call and moves some papers around on his desk, printing the papers for Y/N and putting them in her folder. He couldn’t stop grinning like a kid from hearing her excited voice over the phone.

Instantly he’s thinking of a million things to write in his journal about her. But he doesn’t have time, he needs to prep the special for tonights dinner service before anything else. Carmen will be thinking of her, however. Thinking of how soft her hands must be, or how sweet her chapstick tastes. He'll think of how it'll be nice to have her around, not just the help but to have someone with a softer tone around the place, too.

He thinks about Y/N while making glaze, mixing everything together to get that perfect spicy honey taste, he's imagining how her face lights up when she laughs. He doesn't even really know her yet but he's already making up what a first date would be like. He'd take her out for coffee, go see a movie, then go for a walk. But not too late, though. Even if she might be a night owl it's still inappropriate to keep a girl out past ten, at least that's what he read in some magazine a long time ago.

"Chef you ready to prep the team for tonight?" Sydney asked, interrupting his thoughts. He stumbled, dropping the spoon into the bowl and biting his tongue.

"Fuck- yeah, yeah I am."

-

"'M gonna go over the menu with you, if m'goin too fast then stop me." He pulls up a chair and tucks his hair behind his ears. Setting the laminated piece of paper in front of her, explaining each dish to her in firm detail. Carmen watches as her french tip acrylic nails trace along the menu, guiding along the words that he says from memory.

She's impressed, shocked even that he came up with this himself. She jokes that she can't cook and it gains a laugh from him.

"I'll teach you a few things, if ya want." He didn't mean for it to come out sounding like he was hitting on her...but secretly he was. Since when was he that slick with words?

-

I can't stop thinking about her. She's on my mind all the fuckin' time. She smelled really good, must have been her shampoo. I would love to just sit with her there, not sexually. Just be. I bet she's really calm and chill. I'd love to get ready with her in the mornings, again not sexually. To spend time, to laugh, to talk. I could eat that girl for lunch.

-

When Carmen walks into the front he catches Y/N taking pictures in the mirror by the entrance. He chuckles, watching her pose and smile. She turns around and gasps, cheeks getting darker when she realizes she's gotten caught.

"Sorry, the mirror is just so aesthetic."

"That? Um, okay? Guess we have different opinions of what aesthetic is." Carmen guides her to the back counter, teaching her how to count inventory of everything.

He feels out of place- no, he feels gross when he watches her bend down. He sees a peek of white lace stick out from the band of her jeans and he knows he shouldn't stare, but he can't help his mind from wandering. He wanders about what other types of underwear she might have, if she has any special ones, what they'd feel like wrapped-

"Carmen!" Sydney snaps him out of his daydream. "Sorry to interrupt, but you have a phone call from the AC guy." He's pulled away, for the better, but he knows he's going to write about this as soon as he gets the chance.

-

I'm interested in more than just being her boss. I could eat her alive, i'd let her take a seat on me wherever she wants for however long she wants. She'd taste like....like sweet watermelons on a sunny summer day. Yeah, something like that. She can't be real can she? I don't know how long I can keep acting professional. I just know she'd be the one for me.

・。♡.・゜✭・.・✫・゜✭・。. ♡・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜♡・。

feedback | masterlist

[post-punk-revival]

Hi this is a positivity post regarding alterhuman diet dysphoria versus actual biology

(unless you already know these things)

To herbivore nonhumans who don't want to/can't do a vegan or vegetarian diet but feel dysphoric about being able to digest meat:

Herbivorous animals are not unable to digest meat.

Animal matter is actually easier for a body to process than plant matter, and herbivorous species need very complex digestive systems in order to support their lifestyles. This is why cows have four stomachs; why horses practically go into critical system failure if they get even a little bit sick. Animals that live mostly by grazing actually still do need nutrients that carnivores and omnivores get through their natural diets, which is why farming supply stores sell salt licks for animals. In the wild herbivores will quite often find ways to sneak some meat into their diets by eating bugs or small vertebrates, if you didn't already know about the fun fact of deer eating baby birds. "Obligate herbivore" meaning an animal that can ONLY physically digest plants is not a real ecological term the way "obligate carnivore" meaning animal that can ONLY physically digest meat is, though you might see it in other usages (i.e., referring to an animal that relies on a plant-based diet for all of its nutrients).

If a wild deer was given access to human society, they would probably not opt for veganism for connection with their true species; they would more likely appreciate having a way to get sodium so easily. This isn't to shame anyone who does choose a vegan/vegetarian diet for species euphoria reasons, but more to reassure folks who can't, you aren't less of an herbivore.

To carnivore nonhumans who feel dysphoric that their body can't digest raw meat like wild carnivores can:

It can!

The reason you don't want to be eating raw meat like a wolf or stoat or monitor lizard is because you will get sick or you will contract a parasite, which might sound like just a different reason to feel disconnected from your species, but here's the main two things:

1. The actuality is that wild wolves and stoats and monitor lizards DO get sick and contract parasites. This is often how wolves and stoats and monitor lizards die in the wild and why ones in captivity, being fed parasite-free meat and having illnesses treated, live longer. There are raw meats you can eat safely, you just have to know where they're sourced from and that they're guaranteed not to have risks! That's why sushi is a thing, and why people say you can technically eat raw cut (not ground) beef but not pork or chicken. Cooked meat is also often tastier and easier for the body to process (cit.: Grug et al. 780,000 BCE) so that's why humans have loved their medium-well steak since they came up with it. And 2. wild predators are "able to eat raw meat" mostly because they killed it, so it's fresh and hasn't been sitting around able to pick up bacteria, the way raw meat you get at a grocery store would have. This is why a lot of prey animals have a "play dead" defense mechanism: most predators do not want to eat something that's already dead, because it might get them sick.

If a wild owl was given access to human society, they would probably not desire only the rawest of meats for connection with their true species; they would more likely appreciate having access to food that had all the pathogens cleaned and/or scorched out of it.

[killerlookz]

hiii!!<3 if you’re thinking abt writing for joost, can u pls write some thing abt an established relationship fic based off the song birds of a feather by billie eilish if u can! love ur writing!

Hi anon! thank you sm for the request <33 this song is so sweeeet omg!!! also... technically an established relationship, but i do recap how reader and joost met :-)

Birds of a Feather | Joost Klein

description: gn!reader reflects on all the special moments in your and Joost's relationship following an unexpected proposal.

content: so insanely cheesey! sorry! pure fluff! + lots of crying (mostly happy tears) literally the most tiny smallest sexual reference this fic contains rpf, do not continue if that makes you uncomfortable

word count: 2426 (this was supposed to be under 1k words but i got soooo carried away)

/I don't know what I'm crying for / I don't think I could love you more/

Shaky fingers fiddle with the cold metal looped around your ring finger. Your hand flexes outward, watching as the light from your window reflects onto the small stone. Something warm rolls down your cheek- a solitary teardrop, caressing the skin of your face. Your hand reaches up to wipe away the tear, but it's too late, you can feel more welling up near your waterline, any sudden movement now would send tears streaming down your face. You look up, your eyelids brink rapidly in an attempt to prevent the inevitable waterworks.

You hadn't seen an engagement coming- in all the years you'd been together, it still seemed like a milestone that had felt so far away. Until Yesterday.

You and Joost had been nearly inseparable since just about the moment you had met- A nervous 20-year-old studying abroad in the Netherlands for your second to last semester of university. You sat on the stairs outside of the apartment building that stood as your temporary housing for the semester, on the brink of tears, your randomly assigned roommate had been a real piece of work. You were on your third argument that week alone, and, saying you were fed up was an understatement. You contemplated at that moment packing your things and just going back home.

"Gaat het?" (Are you ok?) A voice calls out, a goofy-looking blonde standing at the bottom of the stairs. He looks vaguely familiar, you think you may have seen him in the elevator of your apartment once or twice.

You furrow your eyebrows at him, "Ik spreek niet veel Nederlands," Using one of the few Dutch phrases you knew to tell him you don't speak Dutch. You shake your head, kind of hoping he would get lost, not wanting to be bothered.

"Ah," He nods, "Do you speak English?"

You stare at him for a moment, unsure if you should lie, after all he was a stranger but something is telling you to tell him the truth.

"Yeah," You sniffle, attempting to remove any emotion from your face.

"Are you okay?" He asks again, this time you understand.

"I'm fine," You weren't exactly searching for a deep conversation about your current struggles in someone you didn't know.

"People who are fine don't usually sit outside their apartment building crying."

You bite your lip, contemplating engaging the kind stranger in what was ailing you at the moment. You sigh, having a feeling he would probably keep pestering you if you continued to insist you were feeling in a way you actually weren't.

"It's just my roommate-"

Two months after your first encounter with the blonde man at the bottom of the stairs, you were standing in front of a mirror, doing a final check of your outfit before going on your first date. You had learned his name was Joost, he was 21, and lived in an apartment two floors above you.

He was unimaginably kind, with a wit unparalleled by anyone you'd ever met before, and truthfully, he was very cute- so when he had initially asked you out, you couldn't get a "yes" out fast enough.

It seemed a little inconvenient, given that you only had one more month left in the Netherlands- but he knew this, and didn't necessarily seem like he had been looking for anything too serious. Besides, it would be nice for you to have a good connection with someone outside of the people you saw in your classes.

There's a knock at the door, and your feet are quick to start shuffling under you, you're practically running to go open it.

You stop for a moment as you get to the door, letting a deep breath fill your lungs to capacity, before letting it out, whipping the door open as you do so.

Joost is standing behind it, a smile plastered on his face, hands behind his back. He's dressed up, now that you thought about it, you never really saw him in anything other than a sweatshirt or t-shirt and some jeans. It was a pleasant change- a white button-up shirt and some dress pants even if both articles of clothing had been obviously wrinkled.

"Hey," He greets, removing his hands from where they rest behind him, revealing a bouquet of flowers in an outstretched arm, "These are for you- I didn't know what kind of flowers you liked so I sort of just guessed." He's unsure of himself, in an entirely endearing way. He was trying.

"For me?" You grin, "Aww, Joost!" You take the flowers from his hands, "Let me go find something to put these in."

A month later you're sitting on Joost's couch after what you assumed would be your last date together. Your study abroad program was ending in three days, and you'd be returning back home.

There is an air of sadness that surrounds you, one that you hadn't expected to feel- you'd only known the man for three months, yet somehow it felt like you were leaving someone you had known your whole life.

Gentle fingers grab onto your jaw, Joost is turning your head to force you to look at him.

"You know," He starts, "I've really been enjoying our time together."

"Me too," You agree, a small smile peaking onto your face, you try not to give way to the sadness you were feeling.

"And," He says, "Y/n, I really like you, and I think if I don't ask you now, I'm never going to get the chance to ever again."

"What?" You perk up, your heart suddenly beating much faster, your breathing quickens, unsure of what he's going to say next.

"Well- I- what I'm trying to say is, do you want to go out with me? Like- officially- like dating." His voice is trembling, you'd never seen him so anxious before.

"Joost I-" You sigh, the reality of your situation crashing into you harder than it had before, "I'm leaving soon- we'll be hours away, when am I going to see y-"

You're cut off by Joost's lips crashing into yours, your thoughts suddenly disappearing the second your lips connect. You're entirely overwhelmed with emotion, every wire in your brain is fried, this move was an utter surprise, up until this point your relationship had been entirely chaste; the furthest you'd gone was sharing a hug at the end of your dates. Still, you kiss him back, your hand finding its way to his shoulder, tugging at it, begging him to come closer to you.

It had been seven and a half months since you had last seen Joost, but the two of you had talked at length each and every day during that time. By now, you had finished your degree in University and were ready to really start your life.

You could remember the cheer of excitement on the other end of the phone when you told Joost after a month of job hunting you had secured a job in the Netherlands.

"Does that mean you're coming back here?"

"Yeah, the job starts at the end of next month ."

A month and a half didn't necessarily give you much time to plan things out to the extent you would have liked, but Joost was more than ready and willing to help you out.

He had posited moving into his apartment- but the suggestion while sweet- was quickly thrown out. It wouldn't have been an ideal commute to your new job.

So the two of you got on to looking elsewhere, he had been kind enough to take the time out of his days to go to apartment showings for you near where you'd be taking your job, keeping you on Facetime as he viewed the places.

Eventually, you had found one you absolutely fell in love with, in perfect distance from the job. The problem had been- it was quite a ways out of your budget. You were heartbroken, it had basically been your dream apartment.

Joost, always swift with solving problems, suggested that the two of you move into the apartment together, that way he could cover the rest of the rent that you couldn't afford. And while you were over the moon about his offer- you worried about what living together would do to your relationship, the two of you had known each other for less than a year- would living together be such a great idea?

But as you're standing in the doorway of your bedroom on the first night being in your new apartment, staring up at Joost, who's leaning against the door frame- you just know you made the right decision.

A careful hand glides across your cheek, resting at the back of your neck,

"Thank you for coming back," Joost muses, gently massaging the spot where his hand resides. You lean into his touch,

"There was no other option" There's an undeniable twinkle in your eyes, admiring the man who stood above you, tired and messy from a long day of moving.

"I've been waiting to tell you this in person," His grip on your neck suddenly becomes still, rigid, "And- even if you don't feel the same yet, I just wanted to say that I love you." He's talking fast, simpering after he finishes his short words before resuming the gentle massaging motion of his thumb against your neck.

The breath is almost entirely knocked out of you- he loves you.

The words just about run out of your mouth, "I love you too,"

"You do?" His pupils are blown wide, "You love me too?"

You nod fervently, never having meant a statement so immensely in your life.

Joost is leaning down now, his head tilted so his lips can perfectly interlock with yours. It is possibly the hungriest kiss the two of you had ever shared, with the obvious implication of love now behind it. If Joost hadn't snaked his free arm around your back, you probably would have fallen straight to the ground, your legs tingling with excitement.

He pulls away, looking into your mostly empty bedroom, a smirk appearing on his face,

"What do you say we christen that bed I spent all day putting together?"

Five years later you're still living in that same apartment, the once-empty space now fully decorated with beautiful memories.

And now, the most crystal-clear memory sparkled in your brain, almost as bright as the ring itself. You'd been crying in intervals since then- since it happened since - You replayed it in your head.

"Do you remember when we first met?" Joost's fingers interlock with yours as the two of you walk down a familiar street- You were unsure of why Joost had insisted on taking you here, to the town where you both had lived when you met.

"How could I ever forget?" You grin, "Feels like just yesterday I was crying to some strange Dutch boy about my roommate issues."

"And how you told me, you never wanted to see the Netherlands again?" His words are slow as he looks deeply into your eyes, glimmers of adoration shining from every feature on his face.

"God, I was so dramatic- wasn't I?" You look away from him, scoffing as you look down at the pavement, thinking about your old self, looking back on it- it was a stupid decision to let one person ruin almost two months of your life, but back then it seemed like the biggest deal in the world. "Funny" You shrug, "The decision I made to talk to you on the day I was most certain I was just going to pack up and leave forever led me to making the Netherlands my home." You shake your head, "I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't met you on that day, but I don't think there's a reality that exists where we aren't together."

"Don't make me cry," He chuckles.

"I mean- I don't mean to be all sappy, but it's true- if soulmates are real, I can guarantee you're mine."

He's grinning now, you'd been so lost in your thoughts you barely noticed where the two of you had ended up, back at your old apartment, right in front of those very steps the two of you had met on.

He's pulling you up the stairs, and needless to say you're confused about this trip down memory lane.

"I think it's only appropriate that I do this here," His voice is low, and he's blinking more rapidly than usual. His hand slips from yours, and falls into his pocket- you watch anxiously for his next move. There's something in his hand now, and he's slowly bending down onto one knee.

The tears start nearly immediately, before he says a single word, you're cupping your mouth with your hand

"Y/n," He looks up at you, through the lenses of his glasses you can see there are tears in his eyes too, "Wil je met me trouwen?" (will you marry me)

"Joost," You choke out a sob- "Yes, Yes!" Your whole body is full of a tingling sensation, and your heart feels like it occupies more space in your chest than it did before, swelling with an overwhelming amount of love.

Joost grabs your trembling hand, caressing it tenderly with his thumb before slipping on the ring. You let him hold your hand for a moment more before you're pulling it away, desperate to see. You outstretch your hand in front of you, looking at the glimmering stone that sits on your finger. A visual confirmation of what had just happened.

He's barely stood all the way up before you're reaching for him, knocking into him with an embrace so energetically that it nearly knocks him over. As he catches his balance he wraps his arms right back around you, pulling you into him.

If you were to have gotten any closer, the atoms that make up each of your bodies may have actually fused together. Though you wish you could, despite how you fully braced Joost's body it doesn't feel like enough you want him closer to you.

Still, you're so warm in his tight embrace, letting out choked tears of joy against his chest.

A gentle kiss falls on the top of your head, followed by your favorite words to hear out of Joost's mouth, "Ik hou van jou." (I love you)

You shut your eyes, basking in the moment, you could absolutely get used to hearing those words every day for the rest of your life.

/I'll love you 'til the day that I die / 'Til the light leaves my eyes/