#reply shortcuts

[iggykoopa666]

Get High And Think Of Me

[minecraftrelatedrandomness]

Where there is pow, I see you XD/silly

As for the requests, Can you doodle Mabel and Dipper from pirates smp :D?

i gave you a bonus dandi and isla as well!

thank you for voting kuna brothers (apo & will) in the @mcytblingsbracket!

[brie-draws]

whats a folder cap? :o

it's a way to customize the look of folders!! Like so:

[loop-deloo]

can you see my ask box from just looking at my blog. pls i’m begging you. it’s not there in the preview and it’s making me arg i want it to show up directly on my blog not through the top right clickies how does one go about such an amendment (if necessary)

[clonerightsagenda]

anonymousalchemist yesss malevolent is so good im [eyes emoji] about your takes

I'm actually remarkably unspoiled for this one beyond knowing that irl work of literature The King in Yellow is relevant somehow and that most of the fanart I've seen is highly reminiscent of this website's Venom phase. So you can all enjoy me flinging spaghetti at the wall.

[obsessivelollipoplalala]

I visit your blog so much it's the second shortcut in chrome, so apologies for clogging up your inbox 💀

Lol that's okay, I consider that as a sort of compliment

[poswiecenia]

@fatesweave - "You know I love and care about you, right?" (Khalid to Haitham, Formula 1 AU) \ in case you didn't know

( 📜 ) IT HAD BEEN a long six months without him. without the normal phone calls that would have nicked the worry out of his gut while khalid worked in japan. after their messy break up the night before he left he hadn't been able to get his head on straight ; falling behind in pole position and making a fool of himself on the track. not that he cared , racing was important but not as important as blowing the only relationship that had been his longest.

WITH THE JAPAN prix over he'd ignored the press that had tried ( and failed ) to get a statement or question him on his fifth position in the race he made his way to where he recalled khalid's last residence to be. he'd been right , of course , if the conversation held between the two of them was anything to go by.

THEY BOTH SIT on the bed , al-haitham's arms wrapped around khalid's waist as his face pressed into his stomach as he listened. he nods , though the action rather hard to note due to where his head was positioned. ❛ I DO. ❜ its muffled but he hopes he understands.

[seullovesme]

SDITD PT 2 TN AHHHHHHHHHHH

I'LL BE POSTING IT SOON AFTER I WAKE UP 😍😍

[heavenlybodies333]

Fuck Around and Find Out -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader

The BAU bullpen was unusually quiet for a Tuesday morning. Quiet—except for the unmistakable sound of Spencer Reid laughing. Honest-to-God laughing. Loud enough that Penelope Garcia had poked her head in from her office like a prairie dog, wide-eyed and clutching her oversized glitter mug.

The reason? You, standing frozen by your desk, half a scream still lodged in your throat, face flushed, heart hammering. A small airhorn—rigged expertly beneath your rolling chair—had gone off the second your weight touched the cushion. Spencer had timed it perfectly. You’d jumped six inches off the seat like you’d been tasered, papers flying.

Spencer was doubled over by the whiteboard, flushed and wheezing behind his hand.

You blinked at him. “You’re dead.”

He smiled sweetly. “You were the one who said you couldn’t be scared.”

“You know I only said that because you said you’d profile me into a fear response.”

“Which I did. Successfully.”

“You bastard.”

“Oh, don’t pout,” he said, brushing imaginary lint from his cardigan sleeve like the smug bastard he was. “It was scientifically sound. You’re most startled when your focus is fragmented—coming back from coffee, headphones in, already multitasking. Classic misdirection. And you’ve been smug about getting everyone else with pranks all month. Frankly, it was overdue.”

Yeah, there was no fucking way you weren’t getting revenge. You went easy at first. Psychological warfare. Little annoyances to lull him into overconfidence: Switching his sugar packets with salt. Changing the shortcut on his BAU laptop so every time he typed “unsub,” it autocorrected to “Daddy.” Leaving cryptic post-it notes in his books like “ask Garcia about the rash.” Until, Reid programs your ID badge to display “Dr. Spencer Reid’s Assistant” temporarily and you didn’t know how to change it.

That really annoyed you so you began to hit harder. On Thursday, his pens were replaced with identical ones that wrote in invisible ink. On Friday, the audio on his Bureau laptop randomly played recordings of you saying things like, “Dr. Reid, you’re so smart,” and, “You were right again, Spencer,” every 13 minutes. Loudly. In front of Hotch.

The kicker? You programmed the audio clip to be labeled “File: Lila.mp3.” Just for the look on his face. The following hour, he leaves a note in your file folder that just says “Nice try. MIT wasn’t even my hardest degree.”

The team caught on quickly. Morgan looked between you and Spencer during a morning briefing and narrowed his eyes. “Okay, how long have you two been hate-fucking?” Rossi raised an eyebrow but didn’t object.

“We’re not—” you started, just as Spencer said, “That’s not—”

“Wow,” JJ muttered. “That was in sync.”

You both shut up after that, but the damage was done. Even Garcia started keeping a whiteboard in the tech office with “Reid vs. You Prank Tally” scrawled across the top in glitter marker. But no one—not even you—expected the war to detonate the way it did.

That weekend, while on a stakeout in Denver, it came to a head.

You’d both been posted together, alone in the SUV, surveillance gear buzzing softly in the back seat. It was two a.m., freezing outside, the heater running on low to avoid drawing attention. You were in one of his FBI windbreakers, swamped in the sleeves. He smelled like coffee, ink, and his mother’s perfume—that subtle powdery scent that always lingered on his shirt collars, like the past was stitched into his clothing. And he wouldn’t stop smirking.

“What?” you asked, suspicious.

“Nothing,” he replied innocently. “You’re just… tense.”

“I’m cold.”

He turned toward you, eyes dancing behind his glasses. “I think you’re nervous.”

“You wish.”

“No,” he said softly, “I think you’re waiting for me to make the next move.”

“Is that what this is?” You gave him a sweet smile, your eyes narrowing. “Foreplay?”

He looked at you for a long beat. “Maybe.”

You blinked. The shift in tone was so subtle you almost missed it. His posture relaxed, but his gaze was pinning. Heavy. You didn’t move. Neither did he. Eventually, you turned and stared out the window. It didn’t die down after that.

The next morning at HQ, he dropped a file on your desk with the phrase “Checkmate, sweetheart” scrawled on the cover. Inside were ten pages of surveillance photos.

You. Switching his sugar packets with salt.

You. Programming the audio file on his computer.

You. Changing his pens. Wearing gloves as if you were stealthy.

He'd been documenting everything, always one step ahead of you. The smug bastard. And somewhere deep in your chest, something cracked open like a fault line.

The knock came just after ten. You had just stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around you, when a knock came at your door.

You opened it without thinking. And there he stood. Spencer Reid. Wearing his FBI windbreaker, rain dripping from his hair, holding your misplaced badge and house key between two fingers.

“I assume this fell out of your bag in Quantico,” he said. “Or maybe you left it on purpose.”

You blinked. “Why would I—”

“Because you wanted me to come over.” There was no accusation in his voice. Just fact. You stared at him. You realized you were only wearing a towel. He realized at the same time. And yet—he didn’t move.

“I came to call a truce,” he said quietly. “But that might’ve been a mistake.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to call a truce.”

You stared at him for a moment before replying, “You gonna stand there or come in?”

The door clicked shut behind him. You didn’t speak. You just looked at each other for one long, slow second. His eyes flicked down your body. He exhaled shakily. There was no one else around. No Garcia keeping score. No Morgan making jokes. No Hotch in the corner giving the two of you side-eye like you were one “Daddy” autocorrect away from being fired.

Now it was just you and Spencer. Alone. No whiteboards. No excuses.

“I’m not here for a prank,” he said finally.

You tilted your head. “No?”

“I wanted to call a truce. That was the plan.”

You took a step toward him. “And?”

His eyes dropped to your collarbone. Your towel had started to slip. “And now I don’t want a truce.”

He didn’t move. Not until you reached for the zipper of his jacket and pulled it down, slow. Peeling it off his shoulders, letting the rain-damp fabric drop to the floor. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers twitching.

“You’re wet,” you murmured.

“You’re—” His voice cracked. “Wearing less than usual.”

You smiled. “Observation skills still sharp, Dr. Reid?”

“Terrifyingly so.”

Your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt. “So what happens now?”

His answer was not verbal. He surged forward—suddenly, finally—and kissed you like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Years, maybe. You gasped into his mouth as his hands slid up your waist, firm and wanting, towel falling to the floor as he backed you toward the wall.

His mouth was on your throat then, hot and hungry—sucking, biting, tasting. You let your head fall back, a soft gasp escaping as his hands roamed. His touch was worshipful but firm, like he was imprinting every inch of you into memory. His fingers cupped your breast, thumb brushing your nipple—slow at first, then faster, until your knees nearly buckled.

“Bed,” you whispered.

He swept you there like it was nothing. Your legs hit the mattress and you fell back, pulling him with you. Spencer climbed over you like a man possessed—crawling between your thighs, kissing down your collarbone, dragging his mouth across your sternum and lower.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, pausing at your navel, voice hoarse. “I mean it.”

“Reid—” Your hand tangled in his hair. “Don’t stop unless the building’s on fire.”

He groaned. “That’s a reasonable threshold.”

And then his mouth was on you. Hot, careful, devastating—his tongue circled your clit with the same concentration he gave to serial profiles and rare languages, and Jesus Christ, you had underestimated him. He licked and sucked until your hips were arching off the bed, thighs shaking around his shoulders, breath breaking into gasps you couldn’t control.

“Spencer—fuck—” Your hand fisted in the sheets. “Don’t stop—”

“You’ve been like this the whole time?” he asked softly, like he was marveling, the fucking menace. “When you were programming my computer? Or when you were planting that Lila file? You were this wet?”

You let out a little whine. “Reid—”

He groaned, shifting above you, and then you felt him—the hot, heavy drag of his cock against the inside of your thigh. One slow thrust and he was teasing you with it, rubbing along your slick folds but not pushing in.

“Beg,” he whispered.

You almost laughed—almost—but then he gave a tiny roll of his hips, barely nudging the head of his cock into you, and your pride crumbled like sugar glass.

“Please,” you hissed. “Fuck, just—please.”

He pushed in slow, groaning into your neck, both hands braced above your head as he filled you.

You clawed at his back, your ankles locking behind him, his name falling from your lips in broken syllables.

“You feel—” he whispered, panting, forehead against yours, “you feel so fucking good, I can’t—”

“Harder,” you begged, nails raking his spine. “Please.” He was deep. Thick. Stretching you in the best kind of way. You arched beneath him, clinging to his shoulders, breath stuttering.

Pushing in to the hilt and staying there, letting you feel every inch before pulling back. Then again. Again. Your body rising to meet him, gasping for more.

Your fingers clutched at him, his chest slick against yours. You could feel the taut pull of muscle in his back, the trembling restraint in his hips as he tried not to come too fast. The way his mouth found yours again and again, greedy and messy, like he’d never learned how to stop.

“Fuck, you’re so—tight,” he rasped. “I thought about this—god, I thought about this so many times.”

You bit his shoulder, gasping as he drove into you, angle perfect now, hitting that spot that made you see white. “You waited too long.”

He shifted his weight, one forearm bracing beside your head as the other hand snaked between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with the precision of someone who cataloged sensations like data points.

“Fuck,” he muttered, watching your face contort with pleasure. “You look so pretty like this.”

Spencer’s name ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit hard, you came around him hard, mouth open in a silent cry, walls clenching, trembling. “You feel so amazing—” His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, and then he was groaning deep in his chest, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he came with a ragged, helpless sound. You felt it—the hot rush of him, buried deep—and the way he trembled above you, forehead dropping to yours, breath shattered.

The room was silent except for your gasps. Then, after a long, aching moment, he moved—carefully rolling off of you, still panting, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t not touch you.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. The silence stretched for a beat. Two. His fingers drifted along your back, soft and absentminded.

Finally, you broke the silence with a muffled, “So… truce?”

Spencer let out a breathless, wrecked laugh against your hair. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

You lifted your head. “Excuse me?”

“We’ve gone too far. The war is eternal now.” He kissed your temple. “We’ve crossed the Rubicon.”

“You’re quoting Caesar after fucking me raw in my own bed?”

He grinned against your skin. “Would you expect anything else?”

You groaned, flopping back against the pillow.

Spencer turned onto his side, propped his head up on one arm, and stared at you like he was studying something rare.

You tried not to squirm under the weight of it. “What?”

“I think this might’ve been inevitable.”

Your voice was dry. “The sex?”

“This.” He gestured between the two of you. “The… whatever we are.”

Your heart thumped. “You saying you want this to happen again?”

Spencer leaned in and kissed you—soft, unhurried, less like a demand and more like a promise. He pulled back just enough to whisper, “I’m saying I already know it will.”

a/n: 3 PhDs and not one in self-restraint

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[perries-things]

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Everyone knows that Seongje bites, and you are smart enough to know better. But around you, he wags his tail. Told myself to finish this today so that i would have less drafts. •°○

Genre: a complicated relationship

Warning: Violence, language and gangsterism

W/C: 738

═══════════════════════════════════════════

You had always been known for your mind. Reserved, unreadable, brilliant. You preferred the quiet—you liked control. The kind of girl with a spine of a steel. You had a reputation and it made people respect you from afar. So imagine their surprise when someone like you—would choose to date someone like him.

Geum Seongje.

It didn't make any sense, not even to you.

══

You just left the school gates, checking your phone again. You had messaged your boyfriend, Seongje, hours ago. Of course, no reply. Usually, he'd answer within minutes. Sometimes seconds.

- 금성제

R (Where are you?) delivered 2hrsago.

You scowled, shoving your phone back into your pocket. Gosh. You then took the shortcut near Ganghak's back wall, like you always did. The alley was narrow, barely lit by the dying sunlight.

Thud

Rhythmic thuds echo against concrete, a chorus of pained groans and the distant laughter of boys. It sounded like fist meeting flesh. You then turned to the corner and saw him, Geum Seongje, mid swing.

Seongje's voice tore through the air, sharp and unfiltered. "You think you're fucking slick? Huh?" Seongje spat, driving his knee onto the boys stomach. "Bet you can't even piss right after this." His gang stood around, watching in silence. He laughed, now dragging the boy by his shirts neckline—slamming him against the wall.

Your boyfriends red school blazer was unbuttoned, exposing the edges of the inked graphic on his long-sleeved shirt underneath. A nasty grin is painted on his face as he slammed his fist into the boys guts again. "Didn't i say i'd fuck you up?" The poor boy could only groan. "God, you look terrible!" Seongje exclaimed, his eyes wild.

"Seongje." You called, voice firm and sharp.

Seongje glanced over his shoulder. He didn't react. Not at first. But you saw it—how his grin twitched wider. "Tch. You're lucky my girls here." He muttered to the boy, slowly stepping back. "Or i would've left your ass breathing through tubes." With that, the boy limped off— you only stood still as he limped past you, clutching his side. And he hardly dared to glance at you.

You met your boyfriends gaze with a blank expression, arms crossing over your chest. "Lucky bastard. I was about to rip his teeth out." Seongje muttered under his breath. His gang now stood a few paces back, laughing. "Oi. Specs," He called out. One of his gang members then tossed him his glasses, and he caught them with ease.

"You done?" You asked, voice laced with irritation. "You really can't go a day without this shit, can you?" He laughed, loud—cocky, and utterly unbothered. You then turned to his 'minions' and jerked your chin. You command, "Go," eyes cold as you looked at them.

Then a voice pipes up with a joke, 'Goodboy, Seongje,' making the others stiffle their laughs.

"What, you guys need a fuckin' map?" You snapped, brows furrowed. Seongje's jaw clenched as he shot them a glare, making them fall silent quickly. "Hey, quit clowning around and listen to the woman." After that, they cleared out. You stepped closer, your arms remaining crossed over your chest.

He only gave you that grin, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket. "Missed me?" You only stared as he lit the cigarette slowly. "You ignoring me?" You asked, voice low. "Shit, my bad. I was going to reply, plus—i was busy beating the fuck outta that bitch." He grinned, dragging the smoke between his teeth.

"C'mon." He playfully says. "You know me, baby. I'm allergic to boredom." You didn't say anything. Only giving him that look—eyebrows raised and eyes flicking briefly to the cigarette like it personally offended you. One he didn't miss. You hated the smell, and he knows that. He noticed.

He paused.

He only held your gaze for a second—then sighed, pulling the cig out with a muttered, "Fuckin' hell, babe." and crushed it between his fingers, flicking it away like trash. You scoffed, walking past him—disgusted. "Whew, that look's a killer," He commented. Then, with that stupid cocky grin, he draped his arm around your shoulders.

"I hate you." You muttered, brushing his arm off. "Oooh," he let out, dragging the sound teasingly. "Fuck, i love it when you get mad." You didn't respond back, just kept walking. Seongje shook his head and chuckled as he trailed after you.

"Hate me all you want, baby. I'm still yours."

═══════════════════════════════════════════

Masterlist + Taglist

[misctf]

Wrong Side of Town

Kyle sighed heavily as he stepped out of the sleek high-rise building, his Italian leather shoes clicking against the pavement. Another grueling 12-hour day at the office, pouring over spreadsheets and conference calls. All he wanted was to get back to his luxury penthouse, pour himself a stiff drink, and unwind. He pulled out his phone, opening the Uber app with a practiced swipe.

“Let's see... Request ride.”

He tapped in his usual destination - the upscale neighborhood where all the wealthy elite resided. Kyle hit submit, satisfied. In just a few minutes, a shiny black luxury car would arrive to whisk him away to comfort and familiarity. He straightened his designer tie and waited impatiently.

The Uber arrived promptly, a modest sedan nothing like the luxury vehicles Kyle was accustomed to. The driver, a burly man with a thick beard, eyed Kyle suspiciously as he climbed into the backseat.

“You sure this is the right address, pal?” the driver asked gruffly, glancing at the navigation system. “This ain't exactly the part of town I usually drop off fancy types like yourself.”

“Of course I'm sure,” he replied, “I've used this app a thousand times. Just take me their, please.” The faster he got home, the better. He needed a break after another long day.

The Uber driver glanced at Kyle through the rearview mirror, eyeing his crisp dress shirt and expensive watch. A wry smile tugged at his lips as he drove through the bustling city.

“You know, I grew up in these parts.” the driver began, “Rough side of town, not like the fancy neighborhoods yuppies like you are used to.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

“Yeah, well, everyone's gotta start somewhere,” Kyle replied dismissively, shifting in his seat.

He ran a hand along his jawline, feeling the unfamiliar rasp of stubble against his fingers. Strange, he could have sworn he shaved this morning. Must be his imagination playing tricks on him after such a long day. The driver continued his tale, seemingly oblivious to Kyle's confusion. 

“It wasn't easy, let me tell ya. Fought tooth and nail for everything I got. Not like these pretty boys with their daddy's money and cushy corporate jobs.”

Kyle squirmed uncomfortably in the backseat as an intense heat began to radiate through his body. His muscles twitched and strained against the confines of his tailored suit, growing tighter by the second. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the strange sensations overwhelming him.

“What the hell...” he muttered under his breath, flexing his hands. They looked thicker, more calloused than before. Kyle's mind raced with confusion and a growing sense of unease.

The Uber driver droned on, still lost in his own memories of a hardscrabble youth. "...and let me tell ya, kid, there ain't no shortcuts in life.”

As the Uber crept through unfamiliar streets, Kyle's heart began to pound in his chest. The houses here were rundown, the sidewalks cracked and littered. Where the fuck was this guy taking him?

"Hey sir, I..." Kyle stopped, "What the fuck?"

Panic started to rise in his throat as he noticed his once crisp button-down shirt and slacks had been replaced by rough work pants and a stained wifebeater. His arms on full display- each muscle contracting and relaxing as they grew larger and larger.

"...We barely had enough to scrape by. No fancy clothes, just whatever we could afford..." The driver continued, ignoring Kyle's panicked voice.

Slowly, almost in disbelief, Kyle lifted his arms to examine the changes. His biceps bulged, now corded with thick muscle. Dark hair sprouted across his forearms and across his chest. He could smell the acrid scent of cigarettes clinging to the worn cloth.

“No, no, this isn't right.” He winced at the sound of his voice- rougher and with an edge more befitting of the type of people who grew up in the neighborhood.

“It ain’t easy out there and...”

The Uber driver's words faded into background noise as Kyle's muscles swelled further. A full, dark beard sprouted along his jaw and neck, itching as it grew. Coarse hair spread across his broad chest and down his newly defined abs. To his shock and growing arousal, Kyle felt his cock twitch and harden in his work pants. The rough denim rubbed deliciously against his sensitive flesh. He shifted, trying to ease the pressure even as a primal urge surged through him - the desperate need for nicotine burning in his lungs.

“Yes sir, this here's the real world,” the driver said, pulling up to a stop outside a dingy apartment complex. “Hope you're ready for it, pretty boy.”

“This...this can't be right,” he stammered, his new rough voice cracking. “I live on the North-East side, not-“ He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look up at the decrepit building looming before him. Graffiti marred the brick walls and a flickering neon sign buzzed weakly above the entrance: Sunset Studios.

The Uber driver turned to eye Kyle curiously, “You okay there, buddy? This IS the address you put in, yeah?”

Kyle looked down at his phone and gasped, “No! I... I must’ve put in the wrong address, I...”

The Uber driver scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Put in the wrong address? What kinda dumbass mistake is that?”

His words seemed to echo in Kyle's mind, the insult striking a chord deep within him. Something inside clicked, shifting...rewriting...Kyle blinked slowly, his eyes dulling. Memories of a privileged life, of penthouses and boardrooms, began to fade. In their place, fragmented images flashed - calloused hands gripping a hammer, sweat-streaked brows wiping grime from a weathered face, the bitter taste of cheap whiskey and cigarettes.

“Yeah, guess I really fucked up this time.” Kyle mumbled, his words slurring slightly as if drunk on exhaustion.

He stumbled out of the car, nearly tripping on the cracked sidewalk. The cool night air filled his nostrils, carrying the mingled scents of motor oil, stale beer, and desperation. Kyle fumbled in his pocket for keys, his movements clumsy and unpracticed- part of him questioning where these keys even came from. As he shoved open the door to the studio, he barely registered the peeling paint and rusted hinges. Inside, a single bare bulb illuminated a cramped space dominated by a sagging mattress and a rickety table strewn with empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays.

“This feels wrong...” Kyle whispered, “I...” He slowly removes his clothes, basking in the cool air of the apartment against his freed skin.

Naked, Kyle catches a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror. Gone was the polished businessman with the toned physique and baby-smooth skin. In his place stood a rugged, almost feral-looking specimen of masculinity. Kyle's chest was a dense forest of wiry hair, a trail leading down to his navel and beyond. Powerful pectorals and biceps on full display. Between his legs hung a thick, semi-erect cock nestled in a thick patch of curls. Kyle watched in detached interest as it began to swell further- his thoughts consumed in a horny bliss.

“Fuck.”

Some primal instinct stirred deep within Kyle's core, a baser need clawing its way to the surface. He reached for a pack of cigarettes, fumbling to extract one with trembling fingers. The click of the lighter seemed obscenely loud in the small room. Falling to the bed, his free hand drifted lower, calloused palm dragging over the planes of his abdomen, eventually wrapped around his hardened dick. As Kyle lost himself in the haze of nicotine and self-gratification, the last vestiges of his former identity slipped away. With each stroke of his calloused hand, each drag of the cigarette, Kyle embraced his new reality.

Spent and sated, Kyle drifted off into a dreamless sleep, the final threads of his old life snapped, leaving only the shell of the man he'd become. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new struggles - but for tonight, Kyle rested easy in the knowledge that he was exactly where he belonged.

[thechekhov]

Did you seriously reblog a post defending the sanctity of life of pedophiles?

You did not read that post.

I understand that it might be difficult, because of the knee-jerk reaction we all have when it comes to this topic. I admit I also had the emotional first-response of disgust. But I urge you to go back and try to read it again, when you are cool-headed.

Stating that 'murdering people we find disgusting is not the moral high ground it feels like', is not the same thing as 'defending the sanctity of life' of anyone.

And while it feels good to emotionally say 'we should kill all (people who do bad things that cause harm to others)' this does not actually accomplish what our brains think it does.

From the post:

denying the humanity of people who do horrible things accomplishes exactly three things:

give cover to people who haven't been caught yet by allowing them to use their humanity as "proof" of their innocence

silence any criticism of societal structures and institutions that facilitate those horrible things by putting the focus on individuals who are assumed to be so uniquely monstrous that the ways it was made easy for them are irrelevant

provide a shortcut to dehumanize anyone you feel like killing: simply accuse them of doing a horrible thing

Listen, to me, listen:

I know that we are all human and when we see someone committing evil things, we feel justified and good, and we want to use our teeth and claws to rip them to shreds. I KNOW it feels incredible to reply to pain and harm with equal violence.

But on an ideological level, if you EVER hope to understand how emotional manipulation and dehumanization on a social level works, you NEED to be prepared to unwrap this delicious i-can-murder-that-person-and-feel-rightous burrito.

You need to understand why it is not the swiss knife of justice that it feels like.

You need to know that it can and will be used to kill innocent people who don't deserve it, and you will not even notice.

Because if you can justify murder with a simple 'if you fit into this category you automatically don't deserve to live' then you are supporting an authoritarian regime, who can and WILL happily take the easier job of convincing you that some person that they need dead fits the description (of a person you've already agreed doesn't deserve anything but a swift and unquestionable death).

This is why, when they needed the gays to be feared and hunted, they labeled them 'pedophiles'. This is why they're now doing this to trans people. This is why dehumanization is a tool of oppression, not justice.

There is way to fix injustice in the world and protect children without becoming easier to manipulate and trick.

[glitch-but-ya]

Horror games with them.

CW: None. Pairings: Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb x Reader (seperate) A/N: Another HC because I hit a writing slump and I simply don't know what happens next in my Sylus fic series. So, uh, yeah. A hiatus for that specifically. But I'm working on other fics.

XAVIER:

[Corrected] Most likely the one recommending the horror games in the first place. Has them saved up in a private list but never got the courage to ask you until now.

The moment a jumpscare appears, he flinches, stares at the screen for a hot minute, and then pretends like it never happened. (Will act all confused when you tease him about it later.)

Needs to be carried sometimes, especially in hardcore parts like chase sequences and boss fights.

He’d probably mess up every single puzzle and objective there is INTENTIONALLY. Can you blame him, though? He just wants to spend more time fussing about confusing mechanics with you :(.

Gets HELPLESSLY lost in mazes. You rest your eyes for a minute and he's suddenly on the opposite side of the map.

He is somehow astronomically good at navigating a maze when he's actually properly reading the map and not just rushing in.

ZAYNE:

The HARDEST to scare. Period.

Is so nonchalant and unfazed that his indifference becomes scarier than the monsters.

Extremely cautious and unwilling to take unnecessary risks. Would take his time navigating the map and finding clues.

Puzzle master. Solves each puzzle with unnerving precision and focus. Really serious about the whole thing.

Unfortunately, he ends up solving the whole game in just 30 minutes so you end up missing on the actual thrill of horror games.

If he notices your pout, he might actually indulge in the game and let you take the lead.

RAFAYEL:

Oh, playing a horror game with this man is pure comedy.

He begins all smug and confident, with his head raised high and chest puffed out, saying things like, "If you're scared, just hold on to me, cutie." But the moment the game starts, he clings to you like a koala (fishie) with attachment issues.

Screeching at the top of his lungs every 2 seconds. Screams at the slightest noise or flicker of a light. Probably one of those guys who whimpers playing horror games.

If a monster is approaching, he’ll die heroically for you. But it’s useless because in the end, you both end up dying.

HORRIBLE at puzzles and mazes. He types in the code confidently and then gets offended when it’s wrong. Glares at the code input area like it's the one that messed up.

Has a death rate of 3 per second. It’s so bad that you either carry him the whole way or give up.

SYLUS:

Smug and unfazed at first. Lets you take the lead to watch as you solve the puzzles and jump occasionally. And he is NOT fun in that regard. If you ask him for help, he’d reply, "I don't know, sweetie. Maybe it's correct, maybe not?" (He, in fact, DOES know).

Master maze navigator. One look at the map and he’s already memorised all the paths, shortcuts, and safe houses. But if you’re leading in the maze, he’d just play along with a smirk as you start walking towards the wrong direction.

Basically, he knows how to do literally EVERYTHING, but chooses not to.

Will flinch a little at jumpscares, but will NEVER admit it. “It was Mephisto,” he’d claim.

Leads you to the monster on purpose.

Once, he tried chasing the monster but somehow went unnoticed.

In general, he is a menace.

Also, a God at boss fights.

CALEB:

Screams like Rafayel. Sometimes, he even screams solely to make you laugh.

Gets extremely defensive. Following you around everywhere and refusing to split up.

Amazing at timing when to make a run for the exit. Memorises the monster’s patrol patterns and manages to avoid it entirely. You don’t get chased at all when with him.

Really good at critical thinking puzzles but a bit lost in mazes. He sticks to following your lead in them.

LOVES scaring you. He’d tell you that the monster is right behind you and then burst out laughing as soon as you started running away. Would change his avatar to something scary and then pop out from random corners.

Avid lore enjoyer. If the lore is cliche or badly written, he’d complain and lose interest. He’d play nonetheless for your sake.

[skyguytoast]

ALMOST HERS, ENTIRELY YOURS: AOTC!ANAKIN X PADMÉ'S YOUNGER SISTER!READER

NEXT CHAPTER TWO

SYNOPSIS: Anakin wakes to more than just the morning light: he must now face the weight of last night with you and the quiet turmoil stirring in his heart. WARNING: none, just fluffy  WORDS: 3.5K A/N: Hello my dears, I can't even thank you enough for all the love this fic has received. Honestly, I wasn't expecting it, so it was a pleasant surprise. I don't know if you'll like the second chapter as much, but now I'm full of ideas, I thought of five chapters more or less. Feel free to comment what you think, suggestions and criticisms are also welcome, good reading ;) dividers by @/enchanthings

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬  𝐈𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧' 𝐦𝐞  𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐞  𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐚𝐝, 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐞?

The sun crept over the Naboo horizon, golden light spilling across the field in slow, deliberate waves. It touched Anakin’s face first — a gentle warmth that coaxed his lashes into a twitch, his brow furrowing as he stirred. A tickling sensation brushed the bridge of his nose, soft as a whisper. He mumbled incoherently and turned his face away.

But then it came again, a teasing flutter, and this time, a laugh followed. His eyes blinked open, still hazy from sleep, only to find you kneeling beside him, holding a delicate flower to his cheek with an expression far too innocent to be trusted.

You grinned when you met his gaze. "Good morning," you murmured sweetly, the flower dancing between your fingers. The chaos in your curls and the faint imprint of sleep still on your features made you look all the more ethereal.

Anakin smiled back, drowsy and charmed. “Good morning,” he replied, voice rough with sleep. He rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the dull ache from a night spent lying on uneven ground. It wasn’t exactly the best sleep of his life—but stars, it was worth it. Having you curled against him, your heartbeat lulling him to sleep on his chest, made everything else feel like it didn’t matter.

Until it did. His eyes widened as the realization returned like a jolt to his spine.

“Force, we need to get back,” he muttered, suddenly rushing to his feet. “Padmé. I’m supposed to be guarding her. I’m supposed to be protecting her, not” He stopped himself, guilt threading into his voice, heat rising in his cheeks. He had let his feelings cloud his judgment, again.

“It’s okay,” you said gently, reaching for his hand. “I know a shortcut.”

You took the hand he offered, your smaller fingers enveloped easily in his. His thumb instinctively traced along your knuckles, a quiet gesture of affection that lingered even as you both dashed toward the speeder.

Anakin had barely settled onto the seat when your foot hit the accelerator, the vehicle surging forward with a suddenness that made his heart stutter. You weaved through the trees with an ease that was as daring as it was reckless. He couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or terrified.

He leaned closer than necessary, under the guise of balancing, but in reality, it was just to feel the way your shoulder pressed into his chest with each sharp turn. The adrenaline sang through him, but it was nothing compared to the way your presence tugged at something buried deep inside.

By the time you skidded to a stop outside the lake house, both of you were breathless, trying to straighten your clothes, picking flowers and grass from your hair. It was a lost cause, you still looked like you’d rolled through a meadow together. Which… wasn’t far from the truth.

Padmé was already waiting, her expression unreadable, though Captain Typho’s disapproval was written clearly across his face as he stood beside her, arms crossed, jaw set tight. Anakin’s stomach dropped. He knew that look. The captain didn’t take lightly to negligence, especially when it came to the safety of the senator. And he was right to be upset. Anakin had let his heart lead him astray.

He stood taller, swallowing hard. The shame hit fast, not because of what happened, but because of how easy it had been to forget everything else when he was with you. Jedi discipline felt like an old, distant promise compared to how he felt in your orbit.

“What was your mission, Skywalker?” Captain Typho’s voice cut through the morning air like a blade, his arms crossed and jaw locked tight. His tone left no room for misunderstanding.

Anakin’s shoulders slumped, the heat of embarrassment prickling up the back of his neck. “To guard Senator Amidala’s room,” he muttered, jaw tight.

“And why weren’t you doing that?” Typho snapped, voice rising. “What could possibly be more important than the duties assigned to you? Do you think you’re above the mission? Should I call the Jedi Council and ask for someone more committed?”

Anakin opened his mouth, shame and panic warring in his chest but before he could speak, you stepped in. You moved to stand in front of him, your body slipping between the captain’s sharp words and the padawan’s stiff frame.

“It was my fault,” you said, raising your chin despite the quiver in your voice. “I, I snuck out last night. I just needed to get away for a while and ended up in more trouble than I meant to. Anakin wasn’t shirking his duty. He was helping me.”

You turned toward Padmé, eyes pleading. “I lost control of the speeder bike. I could’ve crashed, if he hadn’t been there…” you trailed off, breath catching. “If he hadn’t been there, I don’t know if I’d have made it back. Please don’t blame him, he only did what anyone else would’ve done. I’ll take all the blame.”

Padmé’s gaze flickered between the two of you, and there was a long, unreadable pause. Her eyes softened, just slightly, before she turned toward Typho.

“That’s enough, Captain. There’s no need to involve the Jedi,” she said calmly. “I think we’ve all learned something valuable today.”

Typho didn’t look convinced, but he bowed his head and stepped back. Padmé waited until he’d walked away before turning to you with a tired sigh.

“Why am I not surprised that you were involved in the trouble?” she muttered, though her tone lacked real bite. She took your arm and gently guided you inside.

Once in her room, she sat you down at the vanity without another word. You stayed quiet, watching your sister through the mirror as she began carefully removing the crushed flowers and leaves tangled in your hair.

“Why?” she finally asked, fingers working gently through a knot. “Why do you keep doing this. taking risks, putting yourself in danger?”

You blinked, confused. “I don’t understand…”

Padmé met your eyes in the mirror. “You have the luxury of choice. Of freedom. You don’t have to bear the weight of the Senate or the Republic. You get to choose your path. So why are you always looking for ways to make it harder on yourself?”

The words stung. A tightness formed in your throat as your chest began to ache. You looked down, blinking rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay.

How could you possibly explain to her, the poised, unshakable senator who bore the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders, what it felt like to live in her shadow? To want to matter in a world where she already filled every room with grace and purpose?

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I was reckless and irresponsible.  I didn’t mean to make things harder for you. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

Padmé paused her hands and stepped around to face you.

Your voice cracked, and the tears spilled anyway. “I just... I just—” You didn’t say it aloud, but it was there, in the air between you. The feeling of being invisible in her shadow. Of never being the one anyone looked to, listened to, or needed.

But before you could finish, Padmé wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her embrace. The warmth of her hug unraveled the guilt in your chest. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to. She just held you, the way only an older sister could.

You stayed like that for a while, just the two of you, breathing in time.

Eventually, your voice broke the silence, needing to improve that strange atmosphere, needing to fix the situation that you yourself created. “Why don’t we spend the day in the garden? Near the lake.” you murmured against her shoulder. It’s beautiful out today. “You could use a break and I want to spend time with my sister.”

Padmé hesitated for a second, then smiled faintly, brushing your hair once more before rising. “Alright. I’ll ask the staff to prepare everything.”

Padmé went to inform the staff to prepare everything, and you took a deep breath, standing to head to your room and change. The tears were still there, but your heart felt just a little lighter.

Outside, you knew Anakin was probably still standing where you’d left him. And despite everything… a part of you hoped he’d still be looking for you when you came back.

When Padmé returned to the garden, her gaze immediately found you standing beside Anakin, two towels in your arms, animatedly saying something that she couldn’t quite catch. Whatever it was, it made Anakin laugh, a real, unguarded laugh. His blue eyes sparkled with that boyish glint, and he shook his head as if you’d just said something outrageous.

“Senator Amidala,” Anakin said, attempting to compose himself the moment he noticed her. “I want to apologize for my”

Padmé raised a hand, gently cutting him off. “Water under the bridge, Ani,” she said with a small smile. “Why don’t you help carry the picnic basket?”

She slipped her arm through yours, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “My sister suggested we go swimming. I hope you brought wetsuits.” Anakin’s ears turned red, and he quickly averted his gaze, falling in step behind the two of you.

Out in the garden, the afternoon sun cast warm glows over the lake’s edge. You and Padmé started a game of “don’t let the ball hit the ground,” laughing as the breeze threatened to steal the ball mid-air. Soon, you dragged Anakin and one of the palace guards into the chaos, splitting into teams. You threw down the towels to mark the makeshift line in the grass—Padmé and Anakin on one side, you and the guard on the other.

It didn't take long for the friendly game to turn into a whirlwind of competitiveness. You and Anakin became the fiercest pair, diving, spinning, and tumbling dramatically just to keep the ball from falling. His focus blurred—not because of the match, but because of your laughter, your joy, the way the sunlight caught your smile like a secret meant only for him. You teased him ruthlessly, lobbing tricky throws that forced him to dive with Jedi precision.

Not to be outdone, Anakin narrowed his eyes and sent the ball arcing high above your head. He grinned, thinking he’d finally won the round, but he underestimated you. You bolted backward, determined to catch it, but your foot slid over the damp edge of the grass, and with a splash, you disappeared into the lake.

“Y/N!” Anakin shouted, his heart stopping.

Without a second thought, he sprinted into the water, plunging into the depths to find you. Panic choked his thoughts as he swam, his heart hammering wildly. He cursed himself for being careless, for not watching you more closely, for letting things go too far.

Then, through the water’s shimmer, he saw you.

He scooped you into his arms, surfacing with a gasp and rushing back to the shore, both of you soaked and breathless. He laid you gently on the shore, dripping and panicked, placing his ear to your chest, just in time for you to sputter, cough, and burst into laughter. “You little” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face in relief. “You were pretending?!”

You grinned guiltily. “It was supposed to be funny.”

“You scared me out of my mind,” he muttered, heart still racing. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, eyes sincere. “I didn’t mean to”

But Anakin didn’t answer. Instead, he picked you up without a word and ran right back into the lake. You shrieked as he jumped in with you, both of you plunging under the surface.

Padmé, from a distance, looked up from her holobook and shook her head with a fond smile. Watching her sister and Anakin splash around like unruly teenagers, a strange tightness crept into her chest. You two were a good match, she thought, but the realization sat oddly in her stomach, a feeling she chose not to examine.

Back in the water, Anakin hoisted you onto his shoulders, your hands instinctively clutching at his hair. “No, Anakin, put me down!” you cried, half-laughing, half-panicked.

“What? You giving up already?” he teased. “I thought you were the fun one!”

With a wicked grin, he flipped you off his shoulders, sending a wave of water crashing around you. You surfaced, gasping and laughing.

“You’ll be back,” you warned, narrowing your eyes in mock vengeance.

Anakin only smirked wider, until something grabbed his ankle under the surface. He yelped as he lost balance and toppled into the shallows. He resurfaced with a laugh, coughing and splashing wildly. The lake echoed with your laughter, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Anakin Skywalker felt light.

Not like a Jedi. Not like a soldier.

Just like a boy, falling fast for a girl who made him forget all the rules.

You spent long, sun-drenched moments with Anakin in the lake—swimming, splashing, laughing until your cheeks hurt. It was pure, unfiltered joy, a kind of freedom neither of you was used to. When the water finally started to cool and the scent of food wafted from the garden, you both made your way back to the grass, clothes dripping and clinging to your bodies, leaving wet footprints and little puddles in your wake.

As you approached the picnic setup where Padmé sat, surrounded by an inviting spread of fruit, bread, and fresh Naboo delicacies, you reached for the zipper of your blue frilly dress. With a soft tug, you peeled it away, revealing the white silk slip beneath—lightweight and now partially translucent from the water, it clung delicately to your form.

Anakin swallowed hard. His eyes darted to your exposed shoulders, the elegant curve of your neck, the delicate dip of your collarbone. Droplets of water trailed over your skin, sliding down your chest and disappearing into the folds of fabric he could not see past—but his imagination filled in the rest with a speed and clarity that made his cheeks burn.

He gave his head a sharp shake, sending water flying from his hair, and forced his gaze away, cursing himself for losing control.

You elbowed him playfully, catching his flushed expression. “Don’t do that,” you said, pouting a little as you pulled a stool over and plopped down across from Padmé. You reached for the breadbasket, slicing a piece and handing it wordlessly to Anakin. He blinked, a little caught off guard by the gesture, but took it with a sheepish smile before sitting beside you.

Padmé, watching the quiet exchange, shook her head with a breathy laugh. “Children,” she teased, half to herself.

“I’m eighteen,” you and Anakin answered in unison, then turned to look at each other and grinned.

After lunch, Padmé left, and Anakin followed like a shadow, resuming his Jedi duties. Yet no matter how many diplomatic briefings or serene walks through royal gardens he endured, his mind stayed tangled in you. Even when Padmé stumbled and fell laughing into a bed of wildflowers, just like the vision he’d dreamed of for years, he couldn’t stop the image of how those blooms would’ve looked tangled in your curls instead.

When he finally escorted Padmé back to her room, standing dutifully outside, she turned to him with a knowing look. “Go,” she said, gentle but firm. “Just promise me you’ll be back before dawn.”

He hesitated, offering a weak protest about Jedi responsibilities, but Padmé only raised a brow. It was enough. He understood her permission was given and her understanding went deeper than words.

This time, Anakin was the one waiting at the window.

His breath caught the moment he saw you step into the moonlight. You were wearing a blue floral dress that clung to your frame in all the right ways, the fabric catching the silver glow of the night and casting soft highlights along your skin. The delicate tone of the dress deepened the warmth of your complexion, every detail from the curve of your shoulder to the line of your waist etched into his memory in a single, reverent glance.

Your hair was down tonight, the breeze gently lifting the loose strands while a braid ran like a crown across the top of your head, tiny white flowers woven between the curls like stars caught in the galaxy of you. To Anakin, you didn’t look real. You looked like something dreamt up in one of the few peaceful corners of his restless mind.

"Waiting for me, Skywalker?" you teased, your voice warm, your smile tugging mischievously at your lips.

Anakin stood there, speechless, his lips parted as if he was trying to say something but couldn’t remember how to speak. You were breathtaking. And in that moment, nothing in his vocabulary, not even the hundreds of words he'd once used to describe a planet or a battlefield, felt worthy enough to describe you.

"You look... pretty today," he said finally, then stumbled over himself, his hand flying to scratch the back of his neck. "Not that you’re not pretty on other days, I mean, you’re beautiful. Always.”

You smiled gently, charmed by his awkward honesty. “You’re a cutie too,” you said with a wink, stepping closer. “Now how about we go for a walk?”

And just like that, the night unfolded before you.

Together, you explored the quiet edges of the city, letting the silence between you settle not with awkwardness but with ease. With every step, the weight of your lives , his Jedi code, your family name, fell away, leaving behind two people who just wanted to feel free for a little while. No rules. No expectations. Just heartbeats and curiosity and the pull of something new.

When you arrived at your destination, Anakin helped you off the speeder bike, his hand warm and sure as he guided you to the ground. Music drifted on the air, soft, rhythmic, unfamiliar. A bonfire crackled in the center of the clearing ahead, casting golden shadows over the gathering of people. Gungans played instruments crafted from wood and string, filling the night with a melody that felt both ancient and celebratory. Flowers of every color hung in garlands, draped from trees and woven into the crowd’s hair and clothes.

It felt like a hidden sanctuary. A little piece of joy carved out of the galaxy’s chaos.

“Dance with me?” you asked, reaching out your hand.

Anakin hesitated. “I don’t know how.”

“Then let’s learn together,” you whispered, pulling him into the crowd.

As a Jedi, Anakin was never taught how to dance. There were no lessons in joy, no teachings in how to laugh without purpose, or to move simply for the pleasure of movement. Leisure had never been encouraged in the Temple, only discipline, control, and obedience. Hobbies were considered distractions. Joy was something to be observed, not indulged in. So now, with your hands in his and music swirling around him like stardust, he was utterly, beautifully lost.

You led the dance with a freedom he didn’t know how to replicate. Your hips swayed to the rhythm, feet moving easily over the soft ground, a radiant smile tugging at your lips. When you tried to spin under his arm, Anakin misunderstood the cue and spun with you, causing you both to lose balance, stumbling into each other in a tangled mess of laughter. You caught yourselves, barely, and the sound of your giggle lit something in his chest that felt far too close to longing.

Still, you kept dancing, your movements light and confident, guiding him with every step. And somehow, through the chaos and the clumsy rhythm, it became less about getting it right and more about how it felt. How it felt to be alive, to be seen, to be here.

Then your eyes met. Blue locked onto yours, and for a breathless second, the world faded into nothing but the shared pulse of your hearts. There was a spark, no, more than a spark. It was a quiet explosion of recognition, of something deep and stirring that neither of you had asked for, but now couldn’t deny.

Anakin had only known you for two days, and yet, it didn’t feel new. It felt ancient, like something buried in his bones was waking up. As your foreheads gently touched, he closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Just to let himself pretend.

He imagined a galaxy where he wasn’t a Jedi. Where there were no missions or codes or rules to obey. Where there was only this: you, and the night air, and the music. Where his arms could be your home and not a transgression.

He didn’t know what to call what he felt. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel it at all. For years, his heart had belonged to Padmé or so he thought. But every glance, every smile, every heartbeat spent near you was unraveling that certainty. You weren’t replacing what he had felt. You were redefining it.

And that terrified him.

Because what if this wasn’t fleeting? What if you were becoming the gravity that held his entire world together? And what if, in choosing you… he was choosing himself?

TAGLIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld @speaknow-sw @freudsweetlamb @devilslittlehelper @seventeen-x @user-3113s-blog @glitterfittans

[gf2bellamy]

hihi :p

i was wondering if you could write at halloween, reader accidentally matches with spencer with a costume that they made!

cant wait to see what you do <33

-🦔

costume — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing a/n: hii 🦔 !! love this idea <3 also i fight the urge to mention john steinbeck in every fic but this time i didn't fight it ( also i found this in my drafts so sorry for posting this so late </3 )

Garcia had made it very clear: no one was allowed to show up to her party without a costume. And Spencer wasn’t about to miss out on those mini quiches and fancy pastries, even if the idea of sitting at home watching his favorite halloween movies sounded tempting.

So, he’d complied. 

He was dressed as a knight. Not an elegant, shining armor knight from medieval legends, but more like a knight who had taken a few shortcuts—just enough to make it work.

He wore a simple grey tunic, a belt with a fake sword slung around his waist, and a pair of metallic shoulder pieces that looked like something you'd find at a costume shop.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. 

When he arrived at Garcia’s apartment, the door swung open to reveal the tech analyst herself, in a cat costume complete with ears, a tail, and whiskers drawn on her face.

Her eyes lit up as she took in Spencer’s outfit, but then she tilted her head, a mischievous grin spreading across her lips.

“Well, well, well,” she said, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “Look who decided to show up! But, uh… where’s your Juliet, Romeo?”

Spencer blinked, momentarily thrown off by the question, as he stepped into her living room. “I’m… not Romeo,” he replied, his voice soft and slightly confused. “I’m a knight. You know, from King Arthur’s court? Chivalry, quests, the Round Table…?”

Garcia raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. She gestured dramatically at his outfit. “Sweetcheeks, you’re giving me major Romeo and Juliet vibes. Like, all you’re missing is the tights and a feather in your cap. Admit it—you’re Romeo.”

Spencer frowned, his mind racing. “No, I’m not. I’m a knight. Knights and Romeo are from completely different time periods and literary traditions. Knights are medieval, whereas Romeo is a Renaissance-era character from Shakespeare’s—”

Garcia cut him off with a wave of her hand, laughing. “Okay, okay, Professor Reid, I get it. You’re a knight. But seriously, you’re totally giving off tragic romantic hero energy right now. It’s kind of adorable.”

Spencer stared at her, his brow furrowing in confusion. “But I’m a knight, not Romeo,” he insisted, his voice tinged with a hint of exasperation, the plastic sword at his side wobbling slightly. “Knights and Romeo are from entirely different contexts. One is a —”

“You know,” Garcia interrupted him, holding her hand up , her cat ears twitching as she tilted her head. “You can’t have a Romeo without a Juliet. It’s like, basic literary law. It’s science. Or… literature. Whatever. You get it.”

Spencer opened his mouth to protest further, but before he could say anything, the doorbell rang.

Garcia’s eyes lit up, and she shot Spencer a look. “Hold that thought, boygenius,” she said, wagging a finger at him before skipping over to the door.

When Garcia opened the door, her smile widened into a full-blown grin. “Look who decided to grace us with her heavenly presence!”she cheered, her voice dripping with excitement.

There you were, standing in the hallway in your angel costume. The white fabric of your dress shimmered softly under the light, and the delicate wings on your back seemed almost ethereal. You smiled warmly at Garcia, who immediately clapped her hands together in delight.

Spencer, who had been lingering by the snack table, froze mid-bite of a mini quiche. His eyes widened as he took in your costume, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Garcia, ever the matchmaker, seized the opportunity. “Reid!” she called out, her voice loud enough to draw the attention of the entire room. “We’ve got your Juliet!”

Spencer’s face flushed a deep shade of red, and he nearly dropped his plate. “I’m not—” he started, but Garcia cut him off with a dramatic wave of her hand.

“Oh, hush, Romeo. Look at you two! You’re practically a matching set. Knight in shining armor and his angelic muse. It’s like… destiny or something. Very poetic. Very romantic.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at Garcia’s theatrics, though your cheeks warmed at the implication. Spencer, meanwhile, looked like he was trying to decide whether to argue further or simply disappear into the floor.

He settled on awkwardly adjusting the plastic sword at his side, his eyes darting between you and Garcia.

“I, uh… I’m not sure angels and knights are historically accurate pairings,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, angels are celestial beings, and knights are, well, terrestrial. It’s not exactly a common literary trope.”

Garcia groaned, throwing her hands up in mock exasperation. “Reid, honey, it’s a costume party, not a history lecture. Just go with it, okay? You two look adorable together, and that’s all that matters.”

You stepped forward, your wings brushing lightly against the air as you moved. “I think it’s kind of fitting,” you said, your voice warm and teasing. “A knight sworn to protect, and an angel sent to guide.”

Spencer’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, the noise of the party faded into the background.

He felt a strange flutter in his chest. “I… suppose you could look at it that way,” he admitted, his lips curving into a shy smile.

Garcia clapped her hands together, clearly delighted by the turn of events. “That’s the spirit! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go make sure Morgan hasn’t eaten all the guacamole. You two… mingle. Or whatever.” She winked before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving the two of you standing there.

You glanced at Spencer as you tilted your head. “So… a knight, huh?”

He nodded, his fingers nervously fiddling with the hilt of his plastic sword. “Yeah. I, uh… I’ve been reading The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights. It’s by John Steinbeck. It’s not his most famous work, but i like it.”

You chuckled softly, stepping a little closer, noticing how flustered he looked. “Well, I think you make a very dashing knight,” you said gently, trying to ease his nerves.

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, his mouth opening as if he had something to say, but then it quickly shut again, a nervous laugh escaping his lips instead. His cheeks were now definitely flushed, and his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his costume’s sleeve, avoiding your gaze for a brief moment before he finally looked up at you.

Maybe being Romeo wasn’t so bad after all. 

[pri-rp]

"Of course! I was raised by the Great Deku Tree, and... like all his children, lived surrounded by the woods. The Children of the forest, the Kokiri... The woods are designed to keep them hidden away and safe. So, a wrong turn simply turns them back to the village." and even deeper still, the woods protected the forest temple. "Most only know of the kokiri as legend, though. Even if I'll talk of my home, I won't be one to expose it." especially not with the Great Deku Tree gone. Likely why he ended up saying he'd bringing Merlin to 'death mountain' instead of this vilage in the forest.

"As for navigating the woods... you just need to know what to listen for. Follow the song, and it won't claim you, though it may not always take you where you were heading without knowing the few landmarks. there's only really one other hylian I know of who actually goes through here periodically for a distant carnival."

Merlin is quiet as he listens now. The warlock can't help it but there's a thud of sorrow in his chest for them. Children lost in the woods that had that happen to them - not that he had seen the outcome of it but from what he felt of this place; he knew it must have been some vein of magic.

Merlin did lightly clock that slight envy in that last few words, but not something he will comment on right now. However it is a slight thing he sympathises with, even if right now he doesn't know the reasons for that envy would be quite similar for them both - for in his darkest nights even Merlin felt the weight of a destiny that caused him envy on those who didn't carry such of one but could be free.

However the young boy continued to follow Link as they walked through the trees now. He had to admit that whatever the other was doing to lead the way, he was impressed and intrigued.

"I take that you've explored these woods well then to find your way around then?"

He wanted to ask how someone's playing would help - maybe it was something Link was able to clock onto, use as an anchor or something. But then again maybe it was the other's ears perhaps it was enhanced hearing or something.

But right now he's not going to push with questions and is greatful for the guide as they continue through the woods.