#so have this little illustration as a treat

[hallowshumour]

I'm kinda like if a condemned radio tower started broadcasting weird signals out of nowhere but as a guy 📡🎙📶🛰

[evyltalks]

A little sketch of Remus being all cute and cozy

[omaano]

After everything @insertmeaningfulusername puts him through Bug gets a summer job to collect the weird looking fish from their traps in some pretty lake, spends his days stressing out his poor elderly water-averse dog, gets some new tattoos of silly little bugs, and starts growing his hair out again QnQ

[catboy-a-day]

catboy 45, average compsci major.

[blujaydoodles]

mermel 🧜‍♀️

[unproduciblesmackdown]

eddie bracken as orville wingait in summer stock (1950)

[orcelito]

minor illusion is honestly the best cantrip for someone who enjoys flavor-text (aka me). spicing up this side rp with some minor illusion work to portray what im talking about more visually. honestly it's a godsend for Fang, who's not the best at words. he can just create some lil illusions to help illustrate what he's saying. and of COURSE im gonna use this plenty. of Course.

[siriusfelis]

Having a special interest in biology is fun because you can entertain yourself for ages just by studying how your own body works and moves

[titleknown]

While I really hate the narrative of "tech bros" because of how it conflates shitty CEOs with non-shitty base-level programmers, and how it conflates Dunning-Kruger-y early adopters with people who Know Their Shit about computers...

...On the AI art issue, I will say, there is probably a legit a culture clash between people who primarily specialize in programming and people who primarily specialize in art.

Because, like, while in the experience of modern working illustrators a free commons has ended up representing a Hobbseyan experience of "a war of all against all" that's a constant threat to making a living, in software from what I can tell it's kinda been the reverse.

IE, freedom of access to shared code/information has kinda been seen as A Vital Thing wrt people's abilities to do their job at a core level. So, naturally, there's going to be some very different reactions to the morality of scraped data online.

And, it's probably the same reason that a lot of the creative commons movement came from the free software movement.

And while I agree a lot with the core principles of these movements, it's also probably unfortunately why they so often come off as tone-deaf and haven't really made that proper breakthrough wrt fighting against copyright bloat.

It also really doesn't help that, in terms of treatment by capital, for most of our lives programmers have been Mother's Special Little Boy whereas artists (especially online independent artists post '08 crash) have been treated as The Ratboy We Keep In The Basement And Throw Scraps To.

So, it make sense the latter would have resentment wrt the former...

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

Overindulgent father Astarion who tells his children they’re allergic to any kind of jewellery that isn’t made of the highest grade Dwarven crafted gold. 

It’s not even because Astarion might have a certain aversion to silver, no, he just raises his children to have standards, thank you very much. 

And it doesn’t end with shiny things, oh no… 

The Ancunín brood is known to be dressed in perfectly woven cotton, silk and soft leather clothes, no matter the occasion.

They’re seen playing with expensive toys, reading artfully illustrated books that certainly belong behind thick glass, not in children’s sticky hands. 

There’s even talk that one of the children is not as naturally inclined to music as his parents claim him to be, surely his lyre must be enchanted—the instrument certainly looks extravagant enough! 

And then there’s always this air of effortless haughtiness surrounding the Ancunín children whenever their nannies and servants are parading them through town as if they were perfect little dolls; objects to show off the wealth their parents acquired in quite the mysterious ways. 

So, it’s no secret that Astarion and Tav are pampering their children—some might say they’re even spoiling them rotten. 

And maybe they are, especially Astarion.

But he doesn’t see why he should raise them any other way, nor does he want to.  

When it comes to his children, Astarion has his own standards, and as long as Tav agrees with him nothing really matters. 

Because, these people, they don’t know anything about the Ancuníns. 

They don’t know that it’s not unusual for Astarion to wash out dirt and mud and strawberry stains from comically small finery, leaving behind only the memories of a day spent playing in the garden, chasing after ducks, picking flowers, lazing in the sun…

That any holes and tears the children’s clothes might suffer are quickly mended, making them look as good as new in no time. 

Nor do they know that Astarion doesn’t mind fashioning a brand new dress to match that of a favourite doll, either. Or to embroider a pretty vest with the likeness of that stray cat the children seem to adore, although their father would rather they don’t touch the mangy animal. 

No, those people know nothing at all...

“Not tired!” Astarion’s youngest cries; the vehement denial of her father’s earlier accusation is cut short by a telltale yawn.

The room still smells of fragrant lavender oil and peaches even when the bath water has already grown tepid, just one or two degrees above what Astarion would consider too cold to be enjoyable. 

Amused, he raises an eyebrow at the protesting toddler before he lifts her out of the copper bathtub with little effort. 

By now, he knows every step of this game.

“Tut-tut, my dear child, what did mama and I say?” Astarion kneels, quickly wrapping a soft towel around the child to keep her warm. “We only tell lies outside of this house.”

Unfazed by her father’s gentle scolding, the girl crosses her arms that haven’t yet lost their puppy fat across her chest, reminding Astarion a little too much of a very displeased Tav. 

Suppressing a sigh, he leans back to consider the pouting child, wondering what could possibly be upsetting her this time—the list is growing longer by the day, after all. 

“What’s the matter, dear?” Astarion asks gently, hoping it’s something easily fixable as it’s growing rather late. 

“Want apple!”

Decades ago, Astarion might’ve rolled his eyes—he knows exactly which stupid apple the child wants, it’s been haunting him all day—but once he started to treat his children’s problems as if they were his own, his life has grown somewhat easier. 

“Why, let’s get an apple on our way to bed, then. Would that be alright, Your Highness?” 

The girl promptly nods her head, allowing Astarion to pat her hair dry before dressing her in a clean night dress. 

She rests her cheek against her father’s shoulder as he carries her first to the kitchen to grab a fragrant apple and a knife, then to her bedroom where they settle on the cosy window seat, just like they do every night.

Soft moonlight is pouring through the windows; the child giggles at the way the knife’s blade is catching the silver light as Astarion peels and cuts the apple into even pieces.

“Here you go,” he finally says, giving the slice of apple one last examining look before surrendering it to the impatient little hands reaching for it. “A sweet treat for my little sweet. Doesn’t it taste so much better when we don’t eat it off the floor, darling?” And when it’s not crawling with ants…

The appeased toddler nibbles at the juicy fruit as Astarion carefully combs through her still-damp curls. 

Her hair’s getting long, he notices, knowing that taking care of it will become more time-consuming each day. 

Once, Astarion would’ve thought this task tedious, brushing out hair that’s not his own, oiling and braiding it for no other reason than knowing his children enjoy him doing it. 

But that’s why he loves doing it in the first place, he supposes.

Astarion can tell by his toddler’s heartbeat that sleep is about to claim her. 

The half-eaten slice of apple is still clutched in her little fist as he cradles the child to his chest, slowly rising from the window seat to put her to bed. 

He’s just about to lay the child down that the fruit drops to the floor, his daughter’s tiny hand clutching at his shirt instead.

“Thank you, papa,” she mumbles, more asleep than awake.

Astarion pauses.

He breathes in the clean, yet unique scent of the little girl that is forever engraved in his brain, the same way he knows under which exact constellation she was born. When she took her first steps, what her first word was. Soon, he will have to memorise her favourite colour, and what she likes to eat when dirty apples won’t be that appealing anymore. 

By now, Astarion knows this game by heart, knows that with every year that passes, he has something new to learn about his children.

And sometimes he wonders what it’s like to grow up with clean bed sheets and full bellies. Sleep filled with naught but warmth and happy memories. Ever open doors and tears that are dried by tender kisses. Living in a house where mistakes and anger are welcomed, safe. 

He wonders what it’s like for his children to know that their father’s love comes without conditions. Not now and not ever. 

Sitting down on the bed, Astarion holds his youngest a little closer to his chest, unwilling to let go of her, yet. 

He’s often accused of spoiling his children when most people can only just grasp the very surface of his love for them, the bare minimum of what he feels for his one and only, precious family. 

These baseless accusations are as unimportant to Astarion as the people voicing them.

He’s raising his children to have standards, wants them to take their father’s love for granted, to accept nothing less but pure devotion.

It’s the only way Astarion knows how to love them, the only way that comes most naturally to him. 

Astarion looks down at his little girl, now fast asleep, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. 

After all these years—all these children—he’s still in awe watching them sleep in his arms as if no harm in the world could ever befall them.

And it won’t—not if Astarion can help it. 

“No, thank you, my heart,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the crown of the toddler’s head. 

When it comes to his children, Astarion holds himself to the highest standard.

[verinarin]

How Ratio handles his reckless partner during a mission

I wrote this as a character study to better understand and illustrate how he treats people he respects and trusts (*´꒳`*)

So fluffiest fluff ever; in Ratio’s standards ofc

Please tell me if you guys want a part 2 of this ٩( ᐛ )و

Part Two ψ(｀∇´)ψ - Part Three (о´∀`о)

Support me on Ko-fi ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

“I often wonder how does the IPC’s HR department handles the recruitment process,” he sighs as he walks towards your body slumped to the floor as a result of your trademarked clumsiness

He stood there beside you waiting for you to sprung back to life like you usually do “How rude, for your information I aced my test,” you huff as you dust off your hands

“Is that so ?,” he replies candidly, he continues to leave you behind without much thought, he knows you possess some qualities that’s befitting for a investor but still you’re too clumsy and reckless at times

Hence why the higher ups assign him as your supervisor or so to speak, he acknowledges your lack of experience as well as your potential that’s why he agreed to be your supervisor

But he didn’t sign up to be your babysitter….

“Wait up would ya?,” you whine as you quickly jog to be by his side

He tilted his head to the side, studying you from afar to assess any damages on your body from the fall earlier “Time awaits for no one,”

“Please do think before anything else, stop making a fool out yourself while representing the IPC,” he continues his statement as he paced himself to be slightly slower for you to catch up

You huff feeling a little bit dejected by his statement but it’s the truth and from this past year of working beside him, you knew he always have your best interest at heart, well even though most of the times he verbally bullies you

“Yes yes of course Mr. Ratio,” you smile as you walk beside him, you notice that he slowed down his pace earlier, it made you smile to know that behind that rude demeanour he does care a lot

He steal a glance at your expression before resuming to look at the road ahead, he can’t help but to feel comfort in knowing that you didn’t seem to take his words to heart

He always finds it hard to express his truth towards others because to be frank the truth hurts, yet the pain itself is a important element to achieve improvement, pain used as a motivation of sorts

Most people deemed his truthful nature to be harmful yet you’re astoundingly adept in his true nature, you easily read between the lines and see his objective clearly

“Can I ask you something ?,” his sudden inquiry surprises you, it is usually you who do the asking, you deem this as a pleasant surprise

“Sure go ahead,” you reply casually while masking your excitement, he rarely does this so you’re ecstatic

“I know you’re both emotionally and intellectually intelligent, but I can’t seem to grasp why you’re so reckless at times,” he smiles as he ask this question, he’s mostly likely to remember a gamble you took a few weeks ago

Well granted you almost lose your life by gambling your life away in a literal sense to gain a dictator’s trust towards the IPC, but at least you won

Ever since that stunt, Ratio seems to respect you more although afterwards he berated your gamble for two hours straight

“Audaces fortuna iuvat,” you reply as you stare at his face, his merely scoffs as he took notice of the philosophy behind your statement

In a sudden trance he leans down towards your face, ardently reading through your flustered expression caused by the sudden close proximity “Fortune favours the bold, that’s very true to yourself,” his voice deepens as it is drenched in sultriness

Well this is an uncharted territory between you both-

He then leans back towards his previous position, smirking as he relish in your dumbstruck expression, he gently strokes your hair as a sign of acknowledgement something you didn’t knew you enjoyed before

“Now then we should get going, our next meeting is due in approximately 13 minutes,” he stated as he retracts his hand away and leaves you behind yet again but this time speechless and flustered

“H-hey !, what was that about ?,” you huff as you try to catch up with him, not knowing that he’s currently blushing himself underneath that cold exterior of his

“What have I done..” he mutters as he covers his face with his alabaster head

[zephrunsimperium]

Ford is a jerk to Fiddleford McGucket in Journal 3. Let's talk about that.

First I want to preface this post by saying that I adore Ford. He is a wonderful character who has influenced my life in countless ways for the better. All of the things he does in this list a) stem from his own insecurities that he's projecting b) are symptoms of Ford's narcissistic defense mechanisms c) or come from Bill's influence on him. However, just because there are reasons for his actions doesn't excuse them, especially considering just how many there are.

Here's the list of things he does, I'll analyze at the end of the post.

Let's get the petty things out of the way first.

The cubic's cube: I think it is just straight up an absolute jerk move to scramble this thing that's clearly a comfort to him and think it's funny.

Being in shape: It's obvious his comments here are from his own insecurity but on a deeper level it just speaks to how Ford sees him, I think.

Not telling Fidds about Bill: Obviously Bill was feeding him a lot of paranoia but it's the reasoning that he writes down that gets me. It's so condescending.

The Gremloblin & The Shapeshifter

Something I think that's worth taking note of is the way Ford illustrates both of these instances. He brushes off Fiddleford's concerns multiple times and then Fiddleford pays the price and Ford sees himself as some kind of hero and Fiddleford this helpless victim. It just leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

And then afterwards the way he handles not just Fiddleford's anxiety but the genuine trauma he went through. I know he's an old man, I know that's how he was treated, but Fiddleford is supposed to be his friend.

The Portal Test

Specifically their interaction at the diner and Ford's reaction to Fiddleford quitting the project. Fiddleford SELFLESSLY spends untold hours on this thesis for Ford because he cares about him and sees him burning out, even though Ford hasn't been great to him and Fidds has been going through his own hard things - not just with the gremloblin and the Shapeshifter, but things with his family as well. Ford does not match that selfless devotion at all. In fact, he sees it as an insult.

Analysis

The reason I've been thinking about this is because of Book of Bill and how that's influenced the shipping atmosphere. There's this weird notion that FiddAuthor is a less toxic ship but I think that's absurd. Besides their hug at Weirdmageddon, these journal entries are pretty much all we see of Ford's relationship with Fiddleford and it doesn't paint a pretty picture. Yes Ford is excited to have Fiddleford come to see him, yes Ford has that sweet conversation with him under the stars, but I don't think it's a stretch to say that all the above evidence outweighs hat. At the very least it shouldn't be ignored.

That doesn't mean Ford is a terrible person and we should hate him. I believe strongly in nuance and Ford is a character that requires nuance. I don't think he's an evil person, but I also don't think he should be babied as this perfect wittle guy who can do no wrong either. Both readings do a disservice to him.

Ford clearly had a hard childhood. He's isolated himself his whole life and he's been severely traumatized by Bill. But that doesn't mean that he deserves Fiddleford's forgiveness - Ford wasn't really that kind to him and his actions inadvertently led to the memory gun/Fidds' exposure to Bill. Ultimately it's Fiddleford's choice to make; I wouldn't fault him if he didn't want to ever see Ford again, but I think it's a testament to his goodness that he still cares for Ford as much as he does.

So what do I personally think? Man. I'm just sad we don't know more about Fiddleford McGucket than we do. He's so essential to Bill's defeat and to Ford's past and he's such a cool character but we know so little about him. I want to know what his childhood was like, I want to know how he ended up in Backupsmore, I want to know why he cares about Ford as much as he does, I want to know why things ended so poorly with EmmaMay. But we may never know those things for certain. So with the things we're left... Yeah, I think FiddAuthor is a compelling reading, one that I certainly enjoy. I just worry about the fandom babying Ford.

[whateversawesome]

Some Theories about Anya's Name

Who would have thought a short chapter would bring so much information and discussion? But then again, we're talking about Anya, agent of chaos (according to her papa).

After that chapter, there's plenty of theories flying around, so I decided to make this post to compile, explain and expand these theories 😉

Ready?

Anya is an acronym: This one is pretty clear has been a popular general theory. It means that the letters of her name stand for something else. What exactly? We don't know yet, but it probably has to do with Project Apple and the infamous lab Anya was created.

Anya...Ania...OstANIA: If you live near small children, you probably know that when they are learning how to talk, they do it by picking up words adults say and many times they say those words wrong. While discussing with some friends, I imagined those scientists constantly saying the word Ostania in front of that little girl. Maybe baby Anya thought that was her name because she heard the word OstANIA all the time, but she couldn't say it right.

Anya, the foreign princess: This one is very simple. It means that her name was spelled differently in her country of origin. This theory is vague, but I do believe a third country could be involved in all this mess. Also, it would make sense for Anya to be hiding in Ostania, if she was born and kept captive in a different country.

Anya...A N/A: This one is one of the most interesting theories! A N/A would mean something like "Non-applicable". You probably think this doesn't say much, but it really does. In the first few chapters of the story we learned that Anya was adopted and returned 4 times. Instead of a child, she was returned as if she was a piece of clothing. Even though it's been barely mentioned, we've also learned that people that participated in Project Apple didn't treat the subjects nicely (see how they treated Bond). Those people called Anya "subject 007". They didn't even give her a name. If we think about it, Anya is very "non-applicable". She was created in a lab, she has a strange power, so she's not like the other kids, she's been adopted and returned 4 times...

The A N/A and Anya being treated like an object instead of a human being fits the Spy x Family premise of the story, which is: Humans like Twilight, Yor, and Anya are used as weapons instead of being treated like humans. The story is about them regaining their humanity through love and family.

So even if A N/A says nothing about Anya, it says a lot about the story.

Look at this little girl. This illustration was heartbreaking. Do you know when it takes place? It's right before he meets Twilight. We see that it's the same filthy orphanage Twilight visited on chapter 1 and this is not Anya's first orphanage, so that means this illustration happened after she was returned again. The way she's facing the door, her body language, the way she holds Mr. Chimera by the hand is so sad. Here she is, once again, in a place she doesn't want to be, where nobody will take care of her...alone 😭

Enough of that or we'll end up crying...🤧

Some other things to take into consideration about her name:

Mr. Chimera: Since this is a visual story, that panel of Mr. Chimera tells us that this plushie is involved in Anya's name. If you've read certain fic, you know where I stand on that. In this case, I think that yes, the person who helped Anya escape gave Mr. Chimera to her. However, I don't think it was exactly that character (you know who). It probably was someone else, maybe even a new character we don't know yet. It could also be a scientist who took pity on Anya or disagreed with the use of children as lab rats, and helped her escape. We don't know yet.

Twilight: One of the most beautiful panels on that short chapter was seeing Anya's eyes lit up when her papa told her the correct spelling of her name. Did you see it? Those were the eyes of someone who had just learned something new about herself and by doing this, Twilight made her even more human.

One more thing...I've seen speculations about the next arc of the manga being about Anya's past because of this short mission. In my opinion...I don't think it'll happen yet. Why? If it was the case, this would have been a longer chapter and the actual beginning of the arc.

I believe Anya's past will be one of the last things we learn, because there's plenty of things to resolve and a lot of information we don't have. Stories are like puzzles; this chapter was an important piece, but we're not working on that part yet.

[u3pxx]

💛🕊️ Five times Aziraphale gave Crowley a gift plus one time Crowley gave a gift in return.

DID YOU KNOW THAT @contritecactite, once again, wrote a VERY GOOD fic about my bad omens spouses??? and it's so wonderfully GOOD???!?!?!!

anywhooo, a very big special thanks again to elle for writing this! it's been just a real treat talking to them and the klapollomb gomens s2 support group about bad omens 🥺 i'm really, really thankful that y'all decided to indulge me and my freakingg swap au wheezes <33

i'm gonna cut myself off here and ramble more under keep reading :0]

like these drawings? they're prints, here! | like what i do? support me on ko-fi!

seeing this get written was an experience! one of the things keeping me alive during prelim exams LOL if i remember correctly, this kind of started bc i was curious if bomens zira would actually have, i guess, a real demon equivalent the way shax (stork), beelzebub (fly), and furfur (deer) do. so i looked up the words 'crow demon' and whaddya know!

a crow demon!! and what's that? "cause Love"?

what a perfect fit for demon!aziraphale! and really, i was only messing around the first time i had the idea of "haha lol wouldn't it be funny if demon aziraphale was a crow", and then bam! all of it started to, surprisingly, fit well together pfttt (special thanks to bepo for being the one to piece it all together wheezes <33) (also, just really thank you all for bouncing ideas with me, it really does make me happy dfgdhjd <3333)

and then elle wrote a little snippet at first (IIRC) and then he just feakign!!!!!!! WOAGH!!!!!!! just, tasty delicious words, a fic that made me kick my feet like i was a schoolgirl while reading the whole thing ASKSKS <333

i'm really happy with all the spot art i drew for this! wanted it to look very uhhh, i wouldn't say storybook, but watercolor illustrations were definitely a huge inspiration! i wanted them to feel as nice and cozy as YOU would feel while reading elle's fic <3

i do gotta thank elle again for making these two fem-presenting when they were at the dowlings' bc then i get to draw butch gardener crowley. do you know how much that means to me? do you know do you do y do you know how m how much that how m b butches butches butches .

and a little bonus, one where crowley did not want to pose for the painting PFTT

i am once again putting the link here if you've scrolled this far down without reading it yet, go! go! go!!! IT'S SO GOOD!!!! <3333

[blujaydoodles]

OC-tober: Old

Milo, my SON! my BABY BOY

[lis-likes-fics]

The Sound of His Voice

Pairings: Spencer Reid x agent!Reader Word Count: 3k words Warnings: Descriptions of crime scenes/vague gore, mentions of death and murder, standard Criminal Minds stuff, fluff otherwise... A/N: I started watching CM a while ago and now I can't stop so enjoy this. There will be more, I dunno when. (Should I be working on my months-in-progress-wips? Yes, I absolutely should. Am I? Mostly. I'm trying my best)

Morgan rubs his temple, digging his fingers into the side of his forehead as he shakes his head. Tapping his pen on the desk, he tosses down his file. “But here's what I don't get,” he says, drawing the attention of the rest of the team. “If the unsub thinks of his victims as prey, even going as far as to torture the victim, why go through all the trouble of tucking them into bed?”

Hotch looks back at the picture in his own hands, where he had been analyzing the scene for the hundredth time in search of something he missed the first hundred. He shrugs, “Tucking them in can usually indicate signs of remorse.”

JJ motions to the pictures. “Yeah, but look at this guy. Does this look remorseful to you?”

You lift a shoulder, leaning back in your seat and crossing your arms. “Could be a second unsub.”

You are a relatively new addition to the team. It was your fifth case with them, but they already treated you like part of the team, like family. It was easy to sink into the ebb and flow of everything, especially when they trust your skills and instincts and let you know when you're doing something wrong so you know not to do it again.

But this case was difficult. Your unsub had a strange profile: an organized, white male, with surgical experience and the MO reminiscent of a cat. He kills men and women alike, and the only connection between his victims have been their smaller statures.

The age range itself was too wide, though there was a slight reoccurrence of ages between 25 and 35. But it was still too wide, either way, not enough to work with.

He ties up and tortures them before finally ending their lives with strangulation. He uses his bare hands to get the job done, which makes him a sexual sadist. As if that wasn't enough, he carves out the victim’s heart after death and takes it as a trophy.

He shows plenty of psychopathic characteristics, but he also fits the profile of a sociopath, so it's hard to make anything stick. His MO suggests a lack of empathy and guilt, but the bed-tucking… You always lose him with the bed-tucking…

Morgan shakes his head a little, humming. “But we already ruled out multiple unsubs,” he says. You nod gently. “Besides, if this guy is mimicking the hunting habits of a cat, he would hunt alone, wouldn't he?”

Reid’s head perks up. He points a pen in Morgan's direction as he shakes his head. “Actually, no.” He licks his lips, and he's grabbed your attention like a siren to a sailor. “It's a very common misconception that cats are loners, but it's untrue. Cats prefer the companionship of others just as much as a human being would.”

You lean toward him a bit across the table, watching him as he speaks, his hands moving to illustrate his words as he does. “People often think, because of their aloof nature, that they like to be left alone or actually despise the presence of other people, including their owners or other cats—which is why people believe them to be low maintenance creatures. But they are just as social as, say, a dog. Actually, it's interesting, big cats like lions, or sometimes even cheetahs, hunt in packs to take down larger prey. Domestic cats–”

“Reid,” Morgan interrupts, making a cutting motion with his hand to his neck.

Your eyes turn back to Spencer, who seems to retreat in on himself a bit as he gives an apologetic smile and a small nod. “Sorry,” he says, pulling his lips in a wide smile.

You set a hand on the table, shaking your head. “No, keep going. That was interesting.”

Spencer looks at you with these eyes that seem to shine. Your heart feels fonder, warmer, at the sight of him.

“We really don't have time to go through all of this,” Hotch says, his tone final.

“I mean,” you continue. Since joining the team, you've grown a certain affinity toward Spencer and his genius mind. Every time he's gone on his tangents, you've become enchanted by the words coming out of his mouth like he's put some sort of spell over you. You lift a shoulder, gesturing toward him. “If this guy is basing his MO off the hunting patterns of cats, we should…know everything we need to know about them, right?”

Hotch looks at you, his face hard and unreadable. You're unsure if he's considering your proposal or just trying to intimidate you. But then he sighs, his crossed arms loosening a little as he turns to Spencer.

“Reid?”

Spencer looks between you and Hotch, relenting hesitantly as he starts off slow. “Well…I was going to say domestic cats are solitary hunters but sociable creatures.” He picks up his normal speed once more, “They can be very affectionate, especially toward their owners and other cats within their households. They're also one of the only types of cats who play with their prey before killing them, which could be a reason this unsub tortures his victims so extensively in his murders.”

“Wait…” Prentiss says, catching all of your attentions. “You said ‘affectionate toward their owners’.”

“Yeah,” Spencer nods.

She waves her hands gently, “How do cats show affection for their owners?”

Spencer shrugs, “Um, bunting, purring, some scratch, sometimes they leave offerings, like dead rodents, around the house–”

“Right there!” Prentiss exclaims. “They leave offerings.”

You sit up, “The hearts.”

Hotch’s dark brows furrow. “You're saying this unsub is taking the hearts as an offering to someone else?”

Spencer thinks over that, nodding. “It's possible.”

JJ sighs. “But that still doesn't explain why we wouldn't have identified a second unsub earlier.”

Spencer holds out a hand, pointing with his pen. “Actually, it could. You see, cats also have the tendency to mimic the people they hold affection for. We might not have noticed a second MO because the submissive unsub may be mimicking the dominant one.”

“Or learning from him,” Morgan says.

“Learning?” Hotch asks.

Morgan glances around, “Well, if we're sticking so close to this cat thing, older cats often nurture the young and teach them to hunt.” He shrugs, “We could be looking at…brothers? Older and younger?”

“Or lovers,” JJ suggests. She points to a picture, the image of a chest carefully carved open to reveal a missing heart. “If the hearts are offerings, it could be a Valentine.”

“And the bed-tucking?” you ask.

Hotch picks up the picture of one of the victims, “safely” and securely tucked into bed…put to sleep. “Well, if the hearts are offerings for a lover, this unsub is sentimental. He could feel some type of sympathy or guilt for the victim and want to ‘put them to sleep’ after the torture.” He studies the image, a flash of unease behind his eyes that you know all too well. He sets it down.

“Okay, so how do we find them?” Prentiss asks, clicking her pen before setting it down to begin a definitive course of action.

Spencer points to yet another picture. “Look at these injuries. These incisions are surgical,” he clarifies. “So the dominant is a doctor or a—a veterinarian, which can be implied through his intimate knowledge of cats’ behaviors.”

“And the submissive might work under him as a nurse or an assistant,” you continue, adding on to his clever insight. He glances over at you, smiling almost giddily at your understanding.

Hotch turns to Morgan. “Do you think that's enough to work with?”

Morgan thinks for a moment, his shrug melding into a nod as he turns back to Hotch. “To fit in with the rest of the profile,” he hums, “I'd say so.”

“Okay.” Hotch nods firmly. “We'll present the profile ASAP. Morgan, get Garcia to search for any vets in the area with any records of assault charges.” He says this all while taking long strides toward the door, his red tie bouncing slightly with his movements.

Prentiss follows him with her gaze as he exits. “You think the unsub is aggressive?”

He turns briefly. “Look at the bruising on the neck. The torture alone is an indicator of anger and frustration, but the way the victim was strangled suggests force. Much more than necessary just to crush a windpipe. He's an organized killer with a lot of rage. If he moves more along the lines of a sociopath, our best guess is he's had some kind of trouble with the law at some point in his life,” he concludes. Glancing aside, he speaks again, a little more firmly. “Morgan.”

“On it,” he says, his phone already ready to contact Garcia on speed dial.

“And Reid,” Hotch says, focusing his hard stare on the younger agent.

He stiffens, straightening his back and awaiting his response. “Yes?”

There's a pause as Hotch examines him silently. With a single nod, he says, “Good work.”

He glances at you. A nod.

You nod back.

Hotch leaves in a hurry, and your gaze immediately and instinctively flicks to Spencer. He smiles at you, turning away as though he was shyly hiding that same smile.

~

There were two unsubs: a surgical veterinarian and his nurse. You caught them just in time, just as that knife was gleaming in the golden light of the lamps swinging above the three bodies down in the basement of the submissive unsub’s house.

And now you soared 40,000 feet above the ground with another killer put away for good.

Everyone's in their own spirit, placing you across the aisle from JJ and Spencer in their own booths, a crochet set in your lap as you continue one of your projects. Emily's eyes linger on JJ, watching the crease of her brow as she studies case files.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, setting her book to the side to shift her attention. Derek darts his eyes up from his own book, lifting his brow as he does it.

JJ looks up, breathing in and lifting her shoulder in a half shrug. “I don't know about you,” she says, “but I know that if I got an actual human heart on Valentine's Day, me and my alleged partner would have some serious issues.”

Snorts and chuckles lift from multiple places among the seats, heads shaking and attentions shifting back to their own activities.

But as soon as you hear the first lilt of Spencer's voice, like clockwork, you're a fish on a hook.

“Actually,” he begins, “if we were set back thousands of years, that would not be a very unusual occurrence.” He licks his lips quickly, “You see, Valentine's Day’s origins actually go back to a festival called Lupercal, or Lupercalia. The festival was in itself a very violent and sexually charged affair that lasted roughly three days—from the 13th to the 15th—set in Rome. Its traditions were carried out in two separate locations, firstly–”

“Alright,” JJ rises to her feet, her eyes wide in annoyance as she closes her case file in a large announcement to Spencer. “I'm getting coffee. Do you want anything?”

Spencer purses his lips, that same wide, apologetic grin covering his face as he leans back in his seat and shakes his head. “Uh, no. All good here.”

She nods, turning to walk away, “Great.”

You watch JJ leave, your eyes fall back upon Spencer, who's pulling his book back into his palms to turn his focus back on the pages. His eyes flit over the words at lightning speed, absorbing the information and moving to the next.

Taking your crochet set in your hands, you stand and plop down in JJ’s old spot. Spencer's eyes darts up to you, glancing between you and his book as you set your stuff down and readjust your yarn.

Beginning again, you nod toward him. “You were saying?”

Spencer, his eyes wide and confused and his lips parted in wonder and his cheeks a little pink, stares at you. After remembering he had to respond, he sputters in an attempt to.

“Uh, it's-it's really not that…interesting,” he mumbles, trailing off at the end as he sets his book down, his fingertips pressing against the edge of the desk between the both of you.

“Well,” you look up at him, setting your elbow on the table and tucking your first underneath your chin, “I was very interested.”

His Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. His lips form the word before it comes out of his mouth. “You were?”

You nod, “Mhm.”

Looking at him for a moment—just looking at him for a moment—you take in the pretty sight of his bewildered expression, fascination and confusion and excitement crossing his face in a flurry of emotion.

You move your elbow from the table and pick up your hook, nodding toward him before training your eyes on your work again as you await his words. “Firstly?” you prompt.

Scrambling to organize his thoughts, Spencer nods. As the words form in his brain, he smiles as he thrusts himself into another rant, speaking a little softer so as not to aggravate the rest of the team.

“Well, firstly, the uh— The-the first location was in a cave called Lupercus—named after the Roman fertility god that the celebration was dedicated to—and the second is a public meeting place called the Comitium.”

You tilt your head toward him, smiling a little. “Like the word ‘committee’.”

“Exactly like the word ‘committee’,” he beams.

Your attention, as hard as you tried to split it, becomes entirely caught up in Spencer as you forget about your project and focus your gaze entirely on him. You set your arms on the table separating you and watch as he speaks, your smile definitely too love-sick to be a hint anymore. He seems to lean in closer.

“So how did Lupercalia become Valentine's Day?” you wonder aloud.

“Well,” he starts, prompting a larger grin from you, “in the late 5th century A.D., Pope Gelasius I eliminated it and declared February 14th a day to celebrate the martyrdom of Saint Valentine instead—although it's highly unlikely he intended the day to commemorate love and passion as it is celebrated now. In fact, some modern biblical scholars warn Christians not to celebrate Valentine's Day at all, due to its Pagan roots and rituals.”

You hum, your eyes taking glances at the stretch of his skin over his fingers and the way they move when he speaks.

“Do you celebrate Valentine's Day?” you ask gently, speaking slowly.

His hands fall back down to his lap, and he shakes his head as he straightens his posture a bit. “Well…I don't usually have anyone to celebrate it with, so… No, not really.”

Feeling the shyness slipping into your veins, you set your hands on the table and let your fingers slowly inch toward him, staring at them inside of his eyes. You don't want to see the rejection if it lives there, in his eyes.

You speak slowly, emphasizing every syllable. “Would you like to have someone to celebrate it with?”

He swallows thickly, letting one hand lift onto the table, still close to him but building up courage to maybe meet you in the middle. “Like…” he clears his throat quietly. “Like you?”

You offer a right smile, finally flicking your eyes up to meet his and feeling giddy at the light blush on his cheeks, the nervous wideness of his gaze. “I promise no actual hearts.”

You watch him, and again…his eyes, his Adam's apple, his cheeks, his lips. “Uh…yeah,” he stutters. “Yeah, sure. I'll be your…your Valentine.”

You smile, a wide smile that splits your face in two. Spencer's own grin follows suit. Looking past you, he catches the eyes of Derek, who smirks and offers a cheesy thumbs up, proud of him for securing you as he did.

His gaze falls back to you when you begin to speak, your voice just as song-ish to him as his is to you. You're both equally as infatuated as the other. “You know,” you trail off slowly, “supposedly, Saint Valentine might be so commonly associated with our day of love because there are rumors that he used to perform secret weddings against the wishes of the authorities in the third century.”

He nods slowly, his brows furrowed slightly. “Yes, that's right…” Licking his bottom lip, he speaks again. “You already knew all that stuff about Lupercalia, didn't you?”

You smile, your face squished a bit as you raise your hands and close your thumb and forefinger close together. “Maybe a little,” you whisper. But then you shrug and just keep looking at him. “But I like listening to you talk.”

Spencer suddenly doesn't think you're real, but he isn't about to question it if you aren't. There's someone who enjoys his tangents. He isn't going to jeopardize that.

“Oh,” is all he says.

With your crocheting long forgotten, you lean forward on the table and give him every ounce of attention in your mind. With a fond smile on your lips and a twinkle in your eye, you rest your chin on your folded hands. “You should tell me about…” you pause, thinking, before you smile curls even more, “bees.”

His brows lift as he nods. “Okay, well,” he starts, “did you know the first civilization to practice widespread, organized beekeeping was the Ancient Egyptians, who began beekeeping around 2,500 BCE?”

Your brows lift in fascination. You shake your head, “No, I didn't.”

His smile grows. “Well…”

For the remainder of the flight, Spencer talks and talks and talks, his voice quiet and meant solely for you as he talks about whatever you want: bees and wine and marbles and Halloween. He keeps smiling at you, as you keep smiling at him. Somewhere along the way, he officially asks you on a date, and you both get off the jet together to get a cup of coffee.

You love the way he talks.

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