#they never know when it will detonate and who it will take.

[lemedstudent2021]

Lost in translation

theres something i cant name about things written in a language and then translated to another to reach a wider audience. to me, there always seems to something missing. something that just doesnt cross the language barrier.

the english text is accurate and concise, but the original, while being shorter, somehow manages to pack 7 more times the emotion despite the mundanity of the story it narrates.

is this because the arabic language, one of the oldest and by far the richest language in the world, is so poetic in its nature that just about anything written or spoken in it is inherantly majestic?

is it because of the multitudes of cultures, traditions, history, and heritage each dialect of the language holds that makes it so diverse juxtaposing with the normalcy of the exchange?

or is it the simplicty and humanity of palestinian lives and the essence of their struggle captured in 4 sentences that symbolise the extent to which this conflict has reached, how the world has become, and how its people have descended?

i just cant put my finger on it.

[maliro-t]

some game design thinky thoughts.

[erinfern0]

cutting the cord

spencer reid x explosives specialist!gn!reader

— gender-neutral nicknames, gender-neutral anatomy, only pronouns used are you, they, etc.

summary: the team struggles with a group who planned to plant a bomb in a town hall to spread awareness of their cause. as the only technicians available in the area are busy with another emergency, Spencer finds himself calling you, the closest off-duty technician he knew, despite how much he hates the idea.

warnings: emotional, angst(?), some swearing, love confession, and obviously stress, anxiety and fear for your life, etc. cliffhanger

a/n: this was highly inspired by episode 'hero worship' from season 10 of Criminal Minds. I haven't written anything besides smut for such a long time I wanted to give something like this a try. Itt's also over like 2,5k words long--- (I'm so sorry i don't even know how i wrote it)

Doomsday Prophets - The group they were tracking started off small, with a bunch of troubled, unsupervised teenagers led by their online guru, who believed the system was too flawed to even try to repair it. They spent their first months spreading their agenda with countless flayers and graffiti murals all over the most popular places in the city. No one knew his real name, just the internet alias of doomsking130. Even the great Garcia couldn't track him in time before one of his sidekicks got brutally beaten for trying to leave.

Countless informants, and hours spent in interrogation rooms with lower-ranked members and the injured boy, lead them to the leader struggling with psychosis and an overwhelming god complex. He believed the only way to get people's attention was to set a bomb in a nearby town hall in the early morning hours, showing even the government can't protect people from the truth, at least that's what the team thought.

He never even thought there might be security guards waiting for him, informed about his plans by the FBI. As soon as they saw him entering the building via security cameras, they called no other than SSA Hotchner, who had warned them earlier that something like this might happen soon. His team quickly moved into action, hoping they could stop him before he set up the bomb, just to avoid getting help from Bomb Techs.

“Dave, you and I go from the staff-only entry on the left, Morgan and Jareau take the right window, the security guard who called left it open,” said Agent Hotchner, pointing the right directions to his team, watching them split. “Reid and Callahan, you enter the front and look for any worker left in the building.”

Everyone nodded in understanding, splitting and running to their destinations with their guns in their hands. Dr. Reid could feel a tiny drop of sweat running down his brow as he pointed another person toward the front door. People ran away in fear but kept their mouths closed not to alarm the criminals' leader.

Some time passed, leading the team to the building's basement, where the leader set up his life's biggest achievement. A small-looking detonator, connected to two canisters of gasoline, was set next to the power outlet. The arrest was quick, he didn't try any games or to run away, he simply allowed Agent Rossi to cuff him, because the damage was done.

Or was about to be done.

The bomb was already set, giving the team one and a half hours to deal with it as the unsub refused to help. He screamed about how the government tries to control the youngest of all to be their mindless little soldiers. How the system was set to manipulate the youth into dying for the country that didn't care about them. He laughed as Agent Morgan inspected the bomb from a distance.

“Y'all are a part of their games, agents,” he spat as agent Rossi guided him to the door. “All I spread is the truth, you're just too blind to see them using you. My kids won't stop opening people's eyes, even when you take me away! The Doomsday will come as they realize they'd been lied to...”

“Aren't you even worse?” Asked Morgan, crossing his arms with a displeased look on his face.

"How so?" Asked the man, suspiciously calm and smug as he raised his head proudly.

"Well, technically speaking even if what you're saying is true, the government uses us to help other people who can't protect themselves from people like you," said Reid, staring at the man as if he were trying to look at his soul. "You on the other hand pressure troubled teens into doing your dirty work to feed your ever-growing god complex, which almost led one of them to death."

The unsub seemed to be confused, that little frown on his brows, mindlessly staring into the wall behind Dr. Reid as he parted his lips as if he was about to speak.

"Seems like you used up your limit," taunted Callahan, smirking at him as he opened his mouth again.

He started trashing his arms around in Rossi's grip, spitting something out in some Slavic language they couldn't understand.

“That's enough,” murmured Rossi, tightening his grip and taking the criminal outside, leading him to the car parked in front of the building alongside Callahan.

“I'll call the Techs,” said Hotchner, heading outside to get his phone.

Some minutes later he came back with his arms crossed and that strange, disappointed look.

"And?" Asked Morgan, looking around the room, kneeling beside the bomb, and inspecting it closer.

"They might or may not be here in an hour, there was another emergency, supposedly done by the Dooms Prophets," said Agent Hotchner, looking at all of his people who stayed inside.

"He planned this better than we thought," whispered Jennifer, looking at him with concern. "The kids must have lied..."

"Or he didn't trust all of them, the ones we got to speak with were younger, less devoted. He wouldn't trust them with that information," added Reid, standing beside Morgan.

"Yeah, but if he really treated them like prophets for the close-minded folks, he wouldn't change his mind from a long-lasting plan to something so quick," murmured Derek, looking up at his teammates.

"This was his plan all along, he knew he'd be caught. He just hoped his Prophets would continue his work without him," Reid chimed in, looking around to only see his teammates confused faces. "His nickname was 'doomsking130'… The bomb was set to an hour and a half," he added, looking at his watch, then the device. "I think the attack and the emergency wasn't his idea, it's his followers who tried to continue his work on their own."

They all stared at one another, nodding in agreement while processing his words, following up on the idea of their Boy Genius.

Morgan turned his head slightly to look at the messy-haired doctor. "This shit is too complicated, nothin' I've seen yet, this guy is a smart one," he whispered, shaking his head softly. "I can't deal with this... I'm sorry."

"Not your fault, Derek. We'll wait for the Techs," assured Hotchner, patting his agent's back as he stood up away from the bomb.

"There is no time," said Jareau, turning her head to her team. "You said they 'may or may not' be here in an hour, and we already lost a few minutes, they might be too late."

The atmosphere in the room felt heavier as Agent Rossi came back to the room, saying he got the local police to drag the leader to the station, while Kate called her family to inform them she'd be late. He felt as disappointed and worried as everyone, making sure to keep the pregnant agent safe, away from the building as the rest searched for a solution for a few more minutes.

"Reid," started Morgan, turning to face his friend. "Doesn't your lovebird know how to deal with those?"

"Um, yeah, they worked in the bomb disposal department, but decided to take a break from this a while back," he answered, already frowning his brows at the dreadful idea.

"Would they be able to disarm it?" joined Hotchner, crossing his arms as he listened.

"I think so..." he said unsurely, his hands shaking slightly at scenarios running through his head. "It wouldn't be exactly legal to bring them here, just for your information."

"Would be quicker than the actual technicians," noticed Jareau, looking at Spencer with a soft, understanding look on her face. She knew exactly how much it had to scare him, but like everyone else — she couldn't see another way.

"If they don't feel like doing it, we'll just have to wait for the Bomb Techs, as a civilian now, they shouldn't feel pressured into risking so much," reminded Hotchner, looking at Dr. Reid with a glimpse of sympathy.

"But saving some time would be nice," said Morgan unapologetically, moving closer to Reid. "They live only a few blocks away, local police could escort them and secure the area."

Jennifer came up to Spencer, slowly wrapping an arm around him, soothing his tense muscles. She saw the distress in his eyes, but just like the doctor, she didn't like the idea.

"I'll call," decided Spencer, closing his eyes to calm down. "They live around eight minutes away from here, but-"

"It's up to them," assured Hotchner, nodding his head in understanding. "I'll make some calls, to make sure they won't get into any trouble if they decide to come."

Getting a call from Spencer so early in the morning was usual, so you left your book on the side of the couch, paying your full attention to his words. He spoke quickly, almost too quickly as he tried to summarize everything in the shortest amount of time possible, making it hard for you to interrupt him. Just the tiredness and distress in his voice made you melt, gathering your kit before he could even finish his ramble.

You didn't hesitate, jumping into the police car he talked about that escorted you right to the town hall, passing the barrier blocks and reporters who tried to talk to you. You covered your face with your hood, knowing too well not to talk to them, especially that you weren't there exactly legally. Passing agents Rossi and Callahan, you waved at them, getting polite nods as they watched you disappear into the building.

You walked as quickly as possible, guided by the deputy that drove you there. Something felt different, deep inside of you as you ran downstairs to the basement. It wasn't the first time you got an urgent call to help disarm a bomb, that was your entire life for the past few years, but just reminding yourself of Spencer's voice made your heart beat a little faster.

"SSA Aaron Hotchner," said the tall man who stood in the middle of the room, nodding his head as he shook your hand. He was the only member of the team you didn't have the chance to meet. You introduced yourself. Just hearing your own specialist title fall from your lips felt so distant as you were on a break for the past few months.

You nodded to everyone, only locking eyes with Spencer, who got closer as if just his presence was meant to protect you. "Agent Hotchner," you started, looking away from your boyfriend to kneel beside the device, opening your kit of tools in a hurry. "Evacuate the building and the area, I'll do my best but with devices like this..."

"I understand," he assured, letting Morgan and Jareau leave the room. There was only one more person who didn't budge beside him. "Reid?"

You looked to your side, watching Spencer shake his head and roll his sleeves up. "I'd like to stay," he said as if it was nothing, not even looking at his superior.

"It's your call," said Hotchner, looking at him with worry, but he left the basement. You knew if you weren't so important to Spencer he'd never allow this kind of behavior, but you could feel your blood boil at just the idea of him staying.

"Leave," you said simply, knowing how dangerous it was for him. At that moment, you didn't even care for yourself, you've done this a million times, but risking his life...

"Not a chance," he replied, reaching for your flashlight to help you. You could see the way his hands started shaking then he lifted it and it started to break your heart.

"You can't do this, Spence," you whispered breathlessly, focusing your eyes on the device. Two detachable components connected only by a few wires, a wide panel to control the bomb was already turned off the moment the time was set and two big canisters of gasoline beside just to make the explosion more dangerous.

"I can and I will," he said firmly, watching your skilled fingers run over the bomb to carefully detach the two parts.

"For fucks sake, Spencer," you sighed, already feeling the way your lip quivered with every word. "I can't promise you anything, I can't do this to you..."

"I'm not leaving," he repeated through gritted teeth, looking up at you from under his messy hair, covering most of his face as he spoke. "And stop trying to convince me otherwise."

You wiped the tears that spilled from your eyes as they followed one wire after another, watching the way they split and connected to find the one to cut. There were way more than in a usual device and just from the look of it, you knew some of them were just decoys, not really connected to any part, not activating anything, just being there to fuck with the mind of the person who dared to try defusing it.

"I can't focus when all I can think of is this killing you," you whispered, your voice breaking with every passing second. "Leave me here, I need to do this alone... I can't risk your life like this. You mean too much not only to me but to your team, your mom, the people who will need the help of an actual genius, so please, just spare me the talking and get out when you still have the chance. It's so selfish to even think..."

His calm and soft voice stopped you in the middle of your monologue. Tears kept falling down your face as you recognized the words he spoke. The stubborn bastard couldn't even fathom the idea of leaving you to this by yourself. Despite how scared he was inside, he kept his cool, reciting one of your favorite books from memory.

You inhaled deeply, feeling yourself growing more steady and calm, your muscles relaxing with every paragraph. Despite biting into your lip harshly, you didn't feel the pain, the tears were gone and the annoyingly fast heartbeat eased.

Spencer kept his eyes glued to your fingers as he took breaths in between each sentence, only glimpsing up a you for a second every time you cut another decoy wire to clear your way to the actual ones.

The time seemed to stop despite the timer showing you almost an hour passed already, leaving you with only a few minutes to neutralize the threat. You wiped your face in your hoodie, getting rid of sweat and tears as you cut through the last decoy, leading you to analyze the actual device.

You caught the cord you thought was the right one with your scissors, swallowing harshly at just the idea of you being wrong. You reached your free hand to the side, mindlessly searching for his. Doing this was not only risking the lives of you and Spencer but potentially unaware people who happened to be close by. Your heart sped up drastically as you made the decision.

Looking up, you saw Spencer who stopped mid-sentence. A look of worry passed through his face as he intertwined your fingers, his other hand resting on the back of your head, soothing you by slowly moving his fingers through your hair.

"Spencer," you whispered breathlessly, a stray tear running down your cheek, leaving him to quickly wipe it off with a soft smile."I love you..."

His smile only grew bigger as looked at you, that familiar sparkle in his eye shining brightly at you. His eyes were teary, but he didn't let any tears spill as he nodded. Those puppy eyes stared at you with the most love you've ever seen.

"I know," he whispered back, his voice cracking as he looked down at your hands.

You felt like the whole world crushed over you as he didn't say those words back, unlike he did a million times before. Your heart sank but you just looked down, brows frowned as you focused not to lose all composure you had left.

For a split second, the basement was filled with eerie silence as you pushed down on the scissors, cutting the cord in half.

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[leighsartworks216]

In Sickness And In Health

Zayne x gn!Reader

I have been lightheaded for two days now and I need a doctor-husband to take care of me soooo bad. But instead I'm focusing on my built up medication angst

Warnings: medical angst, hurt/comfort, medication (pills), bittersweet, pet names (love, my love), established relationship

Word Count: 798

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Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

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You frown at the pill bottles lined up on your counter. Your pill-minder was empty and waiting to be filled up, but seeing all your medications lined up like this stirred something inside you.

You know they're all necessary, they all help you in some way or another. But…

"Love?" Zayne steps into the bathroom, resting a gentle hand on your arm and trying to meet your eyes. "What's wrong?"

You sigh. You hate it when you feel like this. You hate burdening Zayne with your health in his work life and his day-to-day life.

"There's so many..."

He looks down at the counter. Most of these were prescriptions he filled out himself, all of the names were immediately familiar as well as their purposes. "Does the amount bother you?" he asks. His mind is already working to figure out how to narrow down the amount of medications you take, to find medicines that act as a combination for what he's prescribed.

You shake your head and begin opening the days of your pill-minder. You pop each one open slowly, like moving any faster would accidentally detonate a bomb.

He begins opening the pill bottles and dropping the doses into each compartment.

"I'll never be healthy, will I?"

The question gives him pause. He stops his task, watching you instead. Your frown causes a crease to form between your brows; makes your eyes seem more tired than they are. It takes on the bone-deep exhaustion you've been carrying ever since you were first prescribed long-term medication.

He finishes dosing out the first bottle of pills, before closing it and setting it back in the lineup. Your frown only seems to deepen as you stare at it. "My love..." He cups your cheek tenderly, cool palm soothing the upset bubbling under your skin as he turns your face, urging you to look at him. "Needing medicine is not a failure, and it doesn't mean you're unhealthy."

Your eyes flicker from his own to go searching his face and back. The way he looks at you is so intensely caring, it makes it hard for you to meet head on for too long. "But I need them because my body isn't... right."

"No body is perfect," he rebuts. "I have never met a single patient who has not had at least one issue."

"Yeah, but all your patients see you because they have issues."

He chuckles. "Most of them, but you forget I am also a primary care physician to some. No matter what shape my patients are in, there is always something that impacts their life because their body can't or doesn't provide it."

You stare at his chin. He brushes his thumb across your cheek, encouraging you to look up at him again.

"You still don't believe me."

You meet his eyes again, caught red handed. He's known you for so long, of course he should be the one to know what you're feeling with just one glance. You look apologetic, though. "I'm sorry, I want to, I just..."

"Just...?"

"I wish I didn't have so many issues." You close your eyes and lean into him. He meets you halfway, resting his forehead against yours.

He wishes there was some way for him to magically cure all your issues. Some may go away with time, but with time also brought new problems. He pulls away briefly to kiss your forehead, a quiet promise of solidarity.

He sees a small grin begin to form on your lips. "Thank you for making a house call, Dr. Zayne."

He chuckles. "It's outside of my usual job requirements, but I'm happy to make an exception, just this once."

"Guess I shouldn't get too used to it, then, huh?"

"Hm. Fortunately, my marital oath as your husband dictates that I care for you in sickness and in health." He gently pulls away. You open your eyes and watch as he opens the second bottle and continues to refill your pill case. "And as your husband, I'm always happy to take care of you."

Your small grin slowly breaks into a smile. The weight is still there. You think it always will be. But Zayne has taken some of it off your shoulders for now, carrying the burden of your health just as you would for him if the circumstances were reversed.

You lean up to kiss his cheek. He smiles, not looking away from his work as he finishes up the second bottle. You take the third. The cap pops off and the pills jostle around inside. They fall into the sections with a repetitive sound, a percussion to a silent song as Zayne grabs the fourth bottle.

You can start to hear the melody when he leans down to kiss your cheek.

---

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@the-golden-jhope

[paper-mario-wiki]

how do i get good at pyro? relying on my bloodlust has yet to carry me to fragging success

Pyro is a movement class. Maps are jungle gyms. Detonator and the powerjack only increase the potency of these truths. Your goal, if not directly pushing or defending, should be flanking. Get to know maps, and get good at crouch jumping to make movement as fluid as possible as you navigate the world geometry.

Pyro is a utility class. The amount of ways you can influence the course of a battle are staggering when you learn what all of your weapons are capable of, and ESPECIALLY when you start understanding airblast more thoroughly. You can extinguish teammates, break sappers, use flames as area denial, rocket jump using reflected rockets, deny ubers using airblast, and much much more. There is absolutely a time and a place for some W+M1, but using a flamethrower without airblast is like an engi who never builds a dispenser or teleporter.

Setting people on fire makes them panic and back off. If you're defending, hold your point using the detonator from afar, or by poking around corners and igniting players that are caught out on their own. Since your win-condition for a fight is typically an enemy entering your danger zone (the range around you which the flames can reach), you have to rely on psychology to control enemy movement, and push them where you want them to be.

Hitscan classes think you're easy pickins, and to some you might be. To take advantage of the folly pf the ones who underestimate you, pretend to back off and run behind a corner or two, then ambush them when they try to pursue you. If you can catch em off guard, you can turn it around on them.

If you watch my footage, you might notice my crosshair is usually AROUND my enemy, not necessarily right over them. That's because flames work as individual projectiles with individual hitboxes, and you shoot out LOTS of them, and they linger in the air for a sec. You can effectively set up a temporary minefield directly around an opponent. If you're in a close range 1v1, you shouldn't just be spraying at the enemy, you should be spraying where they'll be walking, so that they walk into the flames themselves (which can REALLY stack on the damage when you're able to both put fire on them AND where they'll be walking at the same time)

Do not disengage from bad matchups. The Pyro is one of the most versatile classes in the game, you don't necessarily need to be afraid of ANYONE if you know your matchup and can use the surroundings to your advantage. Airblasting into the air and into corners are amazing stalling options, and also terrific for creating followup attack opportunities for you and teammates.

[syoddeye]

i don't know what this is. lightly edited. price x reader. ~600 words.

cw: dubcon, violence, blood, a little gore, stalking, abrupt non-ending

freshly promoted lieutenant john price is fairly drunk when he spots a woman backed into a wall, staring wide-eyed up at some nitwit. she's clearly frightened, chest heaving, shoulders pulled up toward her ears.

swaying in the mouth of the alley, he thinks he's caught a lover's quarrel. thinks otherwise when the man pinches her chin, and she rips it out of his grasp to meet john's gaze in the dark.

it's instinct. it's duty.

he rolls his bad shoulder as he barrels down the alleyway, face fixing into a glower that's cowed even his rowdiest subordinates. the scrap's short, most are, but he cuts his knuckles on the man's teeth. he sends him stumbling, tail tucked into the night. his hand stings, but a quiet gasp draws his bleary-eyed stare back to the woman on the wall. yet instead of a thank you, she takes three of his fingers into her mouth.

he nearly keels over. he's never sobered up quicker in his life. goes light-headed.

she licks the thin ribbons of blood streaming from the wound, and her eyes roll to the back of her skull. her tongue darts to the webbing of his hand, then laves over the torn flesh. her grip on the front of his jacket tightens, arms slightly trembling as she licks and licks and licks.

it's obscene. disgusting. he ought to push her away. she's a stranger. it's blood. yet he finds himself, a trained killing machine, helpless. stuck watching, rapt, until his skin's clean and soaked in pink-colored spit.

she wipes her mouth with her thumb, then sucks that into her mouth, too. her eyes find him with an almost shy smile, lips curving around the digit.

thanks, handsome, she purrs. what's your name?

he doesn't stick around to share it, and never tells a soul.

he was drunk. it must've been a dream. a nightmare.

-

it's puerile fascination. a fleeting crush. you deny it until you find yourself stalking him in the streets. loitering outside his residence. staring hard at the walls that separate you. oh, how easy it would be to dig through the rock and burrow inside him.

you learn his name.

john price.

he occupies your waking. slips into the quiet spaces between thoughts. settles in your mind and kicks up his feet. he makes a little home for himself there, whether he knows it or not. after your first and only tête-à-tête, it's clear he's not ready to make it into reality. he needs more time and to see more of the world.

you follow him in town, and when he goes to the city. you're tempted to follow even when he leaves, but your considerable territory needs minding, and your attention is already stretched thin. so you spend his absences fretting like any other wartime wife would.

mrs. price.

years pass in a blink. you wait. both of you take lovers, but your loyalty never strays.

he climbs the ranks. matures. hardens into his own formidable creature. your mouth still waters when he returns home bandaged and bloodied. of the innumerable people you've sampled, his is the only taste you remember.

on that noisy night in piccadilly, you finally get the chance to look after him like he did you. you haven't felt so alive since you, well, were, gorging on the men who pursue and try to kill him. you drag them kicking and screaming into the wreckage, tunneling into chests and snapping necks. you pull the pins on their grenades to cover your tracks.

drenched in blood, drunk with it, you watch him disappear into a ruined building with a younger man. you tag along, sticking to the shadows, ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

husband. mate.

the young man cannot break the lock. the bomb will detonate. over the beeping, the sobs, and the unfortunate's desperate screams—you listen for his heartbeat. it's all you care about. you prepare to launch across the destroyed shop, to crush him to your chest and flee, but then he moves.

he heaves the poor bastard over a railing, and you fall further in love.

[peachesofteal]

Leave

Part two the Sassy Series but can be read as a standalone.

Simon Riley/female reader 3.5k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Angst, PTSD, canon typical violence, bombs, blood and injury. Smut, oral sex - fem receiving, praise kink, creampie. Unplanned pregnancy. Everyone is bad at feelings. He's like a bomb. Note: This was never posted to Tumblr, so in honor of the series and to complete the masterlist I decided to clean it up a bit and bring it over here.

The truck is a silent tomb.

Rigid, hard lines of muscle hold themselves still without quiver, eyes darting from the road to the floor, hands to feet. No one speaks. Soap’s fingers tap restlessly on his leg, and occasionally, he peeks around before refocusing his vision on something in the distance, something you’re not even sure exists.

The only one really looking at anyone, is Ghost. He’s staring daggers at you in the rearview mirror, fire blazing in his irises, heat so intense it forces your head down towards your knees. Even Gaz looks away from you now, occasionally nudging his thigh against your own, but keeping his gaze fixed out the window.

You’re fucked.

Simon explodes as soon as you’re all unloaded inside the gates. He detonates like a bomb, raw fury rippling through the air, impact radius large enough that it sends nearly everyone else scurrying. “Sass.” Your call sign is rough on his lips. He motions for you to step away, forcing you out from where you’re lurking close to Soap, rage, and something else, something secret, simmering beneath the surface, something you barely glean a glimpse of when he towers over you.

“Ghost. Listen-“ you hiss, fingers flying to push his hulking body away, anger boiling in your blood. He scoffs, like you’re so easily dismissed. Like you’re a child.

“You’re losin’ it Sass. I don’t know, and I don’t care how you used to operate, but we don’t pull shit like that in the 141.”

“Fuck you, Sim-“

“Don’t use my name right now.” The paint around his eyes is cracked, revealing small swaths of skin, the crinkle of crow’s feet. “You had no idea what you were doing out there!” He yells, and you snap backwards instinctively. “You were operating blind, like a fuckin’ idiot. Cap, and everyone else, seems to think you’re a world class operator but today all I saw was stupidity. Are you stupid, Sass?” His raised voice has captured Soap’s attention, who drifts closer and closer to where the two of stand. “I asked you a question.” Ghost snaps, and you want to melt into the ground.

“No.” you whisper. It’s too much. This is too much. 

“Then why would you do something like that?” He snarls, and you shy away. You’ve never seen him like this. You’ve seen him ruthless, cold blooded, laser focused on target. You’ve watched him shove a pistol in another man’s eye socket and pull the trigger, torture someone, and in the same breath, turn around and save a child from a burning building.

But you’ve never seen this. Gunpowder and rage. Metal and carnage.

You’re about to ask him what the hell his problem is when Soap steps between you both, hand out towards Ghost like he’s trying to gentle a scared animal.

“Take it easy, LT.” You use the distraction to make your escape before he can see the tears that are trying slip down your face.

Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. 

“D’ye wan’ talk about it?” Soap sits with a thud next you, soft blue eyes shining in the setting sun.

“I think you got the gist.”

“LT can be kind of intense, but don’t take it personally.”

Don’t take it personally. 

Don’t take it personally that last week he was shoving his cock down your throat, telling you how good you were. 

Don’t take it personally that last week, when you woke up sweating and shaking, he pressed his face to yours with a whisper. “Just a nightmare Sass, I’ve got you.”

Don’t take it personally, that five, six months ago in Belize, he was screaming in a field medic’s face, promising to hurt them if you died. 

Don’t take it personally. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He shrugs, slapping you on the back playfully.

“Get some sleep, lass.” Across the gap between two tents, Price and Ghost stand with their arms crossed, murmured words drifting on the wind.

Price glances at you. His mouth moves. Ghost nods, and then leaves.

Great. 

A day passes, then another.

Then a week, then two.

Ghost- Simon, vanishes from your life. Evacuates whenever he sees you coming. At first, you tried to run him down, tried to corner him, get him to talk to you, but he’s too smart, applying his tactical prowess to his new mission: avoiding you at all costs.

One day, you catch sight of his retreating back around a corner and sprint after him, calling his name, not his call sign.

He ignores you.

He’s not Simon anymore, at least not to you. He’s Ghost.

You give up. You have enough sense to know when you’re not wanted.

“Sassafrass!” Johnny gleefully calls out as you duck into the ten for the briefing. Ghost tenses like he’s just stepped on a landmine, but you roll your eyes. Dickhead. You position yourself as far away from him as possible, just to the right of Soap, out of view.

He doesn’t even look at you anymore, anyway. Not like it matters. 

“It’s an easy extraction, get in, grab the target, get out. Don’t over complicate it.” You nod your understanding, and Price gives you a smile. “Sassy, you and Soap will tackle the southeast side of the building from the back door. Gaz and Ghost will come through north. We’ll meet in the middle.” Again, you nod, and Soap grins at you like a goofy faced teenager. “Alright. Let’s load up.” You shimmy your backpack high above your hips and roll your shoulders, partially listening to your partner’s excited, halfcocked thesis on entry tactics.

It's the behavior that catches your attention. The guy looks nervous, skin gleaming with the sickly sheen of anxious sweat, tense and poised, like he’s waiting for something.

You’ve seen it before. Too many times.

“Soap.” You whisper. Your tone is dead serious, and he turns with a question in his eye.

“What’s got ye spooked?” Your gaze flicks over to the guy you’ve flagged. You shake your head, just as your target is swinging his backpack around and unzipping the top pouch.

You try to warn Soap.

You press your comm and try to tell the 141.

You manage to do neither before the world explodes.

Your eyes open to pandemonium. People are screaming. Kids are crying. You can hardly see, debris and smoke from the explosion making your eyes water and practically blotting out the sun.

There’s blood on your face.

Everyone is scattered. The screaming echoes around you, mirroring the screaming in your mind.

Where are you? 

Your comm’s been knocked loose. Your gun is gone.

Your body is not your own. It’s acting on instinct. Fight. Flight. Push. Pull.

It shoves everything down. Everything your brain can’t compartmentalize right now gets locked away in a dark place. You can feel it all, later.

Right now, you have to survive.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Soap yells over the noise, snapping you out of autopilot. He’s somewhere behind you, sense of relief making you dizzy when you turn and see him crouched next to a large chunk of concrete. Thank fuck.

“Johnny? Shit.”

“Yeah. Shite. What was that?”

“A bomb.” You say, dryly. He gives you a dirt look.

“We’ve gotta split, lass.” The ground has a unique dirt pattern to it. The grains are all a different size, different shades of reds, greys, brown. Where are you? They work together, forming a chaotic design, one blanket of earth, dust and dirt swirling together and- where are you, where are you, where- “Sassy!” Soap’s face careens into your point of view. It looks distorted. You jerk backwards, the quick movement making your head spin. “You okay?”

“Where are we?” The words stick to the roof of your mouth. He gives you an odd look.

“Hey, Sassy. You alright?”

“I’m good. Yeah. All good.” A pause. A deep breath. A denial. “You got comms?”

“Negative.”

“Great.”

Johnny is bleeding. You didn’t notice right away, but the crimson stain spreads under his shirt near his hip, and your panic returns, ice slowly spreading through your veins, threatening to freeze you where you stand.

“You’re hurt.” You pat his shoulder, and he nods.

“We’ve got to find the others. Or the truck.”

You can’t find the god damn truck. You have no comms. No guns, only your combat knife and two grenades between the two of you, and Soap is actively bleeding.

It looks bad.

It feels even worse.

“Maybe we should just sit tight.” He grunts, and you startle.

“Yeah. Yeah, Johnny. Let’s just sit here, in the middle of active territory, with no comms, no guns, in the middle of the street. When you’re fucking bleeding out from your gut.” You snap. Confusion flickers across his face. You never snap at him. Gaz? Maybe. Ghost, yeah. Even Price sometimes. But never Johnny. “Sorry. Sorry, Soap. My head is still spinning from the blast.”

“It’s alright, lass.” His voice is calm, smooth. You can feel him watching you from the corner of your eye before he straightens, head turning the other direction. “There’s a hostel, a few clicks down the road. Want to give it a go? They probably have a phone.” You look at him, and then down the length of your own body, tallying and subtracting, plus or minus the odds.

Fuck it. 

It’s not very far, but it feels like a full days’ walk. Your head is still buzzing, proximity to the blast too close, too much, too familiar. It’s scrambled your brain, and you find yourself trying to focus on the back of Soap’s head, breathing through your nose. One foot in front of the other.

Somewhere, a block or two away, a car backfires.

Your muscles flex, and you flatten against the side of the building. Soap is talking to you, but you’re immobile, and you can’t hear him. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Something kickstarts in the back of your brain and your feet move. You give him a nod.

The woman behind the desk is terrified of you. Her eyes go round when you approach, gesturing to the phone, and she hands it over immediately, nervously looking between you and Soap, who’s slumped over in a plastic chair, bleeding.

You dial the number you know by heart without pause.

Soap is leaning against you when the truck roars around the corner, dust fogging the air beneath its wheels. He’s doing alright, your rudimentary medical skills coming in clutch when you decided to pack his wound as you waited, and the woman at the desk kindly gave you some towels for pressure. You flag them down, Price white knuckled behind the wheel, familiar skull mask in the seat next to him.

Your heart sinks.

He’s going to kill you.

When he jumps from the passenger seat, he looks anything but angry. His eyes are frantic behind the mask, wide and darting from you to Soap, pulling him from your side into his as you get closer.

“Johnny.” He says gruffly, and Soap cracks a smile.

“S’all good, Sassafrass patched me up.” He groans, and Ghost loads him into the backseat, sliding in beside him as you take the spot up front.

You’re numb. Price is asking you questions, and you’re answering as best you can, surprised when he seems satisfied after the play the play. He even says you’ve done well, the praise from your captain warming a little spot in your cold body. You nod robotically, shallow smile on your face, and check on Soap in the rear-view mirror, relieved that he’s got good color in his cheeks, still breathing.

You catch Ghost’s eyes in the reflection. They burn into you from behind the mask, pulling you apart to see inside. He doesn’t blink, and you turn away, uneasy.

You stumble away from everyone after you give Johnny a pat on the head. He’s still smiling, and squeezes your hand affectionately, medical team carting him away to receive actual care.

He’s fine. We got here in time. 

You’re staring at the blood in the sink when someone tries the door handle. After it doesn’t budge, a heavy fist thumps against the thin plywood.

“Someone’s in here.” You croak. The fist bangs again, and you sigh, swinging it open to tell whoever it is to go away.

Except, it’s Ghost standing on the other side.

“Fuck off.” The bewildered words come easily, and his eyes narrow. He shoulders through the door, slamming it shut, large hands gripping onto your shoulders and then tugging you into chest, heavy arms pressing you so tight into him that you’re having trouble breathing.

Your heart flips over.

He holds you, in silence, for a moment that feels like a decade. The balaclava scuffs along the top of your head, and he steps back, still clutching you by the arms, looking you up and down.

“Where are you hurt?” He shifts, thumb stroking a tender spot above your temple where you have a scratch, pulling the wet cloth in your grip free and dabbing it to the side of your head gently. 

“N-no. I’m not. Just Soap. I’m fine.”

“Good. That’s… that’s good.” You stare like he’s grown two heads.

“Ghost.” You’re cautious, unsure. Confused. You don’t know what’s happening, why he’s standing in the bathroom, caressing your face, helping you clean up. He holds the cloth under the tap, bringing it back up to your cheek. “Ghost.” You try again. Nothing. Finally, you try; “Simon.”

His hand stops moving. He’s as still as marble in the bathroom, lungs frozen in his chest.

He’s looking into your eyes with a long, dizzying gaze that has your own stunned wide, unable to blink, unable to look away.

Until he lunges for you.

He snatches you by the waist, dragging you out the bathroom and hoisting you over his shoulder. You yelp. “Simon, what the fu-“

“Hush.” He swats your ass like you’re a petulant child, beelining for your tent.

Sometime in the night, when the base is somewhat quiet and the lamp light has dimmed, he folds you in half on the threadbare mattress, pressing your legs back towards your ear, eyes trained on where your cunt flutters for him, clenching around nothing as you wriggle and try to press your thighs together for friction.

“None of that. Be good.” He admonishes.

“Simon. Please.” You’re not too proud to beg in this moment, that’s what nearly dying will do to you. You need him.

He sinks to his knees, still framed between your legs, and rolls the bottom of the balaclava to his nose.

It’s the first time you’ve ever really seen the skin on his face in such a large amount. No paint. No skull. No black cloth. Just his jaw, broad and sharp. His lips, full and wet, flash of tongue darting out from behind his teeth, mouth hot against your pussy, thumbs spreading you open to have his fill.

“There she is.” He murmurs, lips on your clit like a lover’s kiss. His tongue seeks your swollen nub under its hood, and it’s so much, warmth of your body, his face, all of it melting into your skin. Your heel pushes against the mattress as you rock your hips up into his mouth and he chuckles, a hand pressing down on your lower belly. “You taste good, Sass.” You clench, twitching, getting close, orgasm barreling through your nerves, body moving in tandem with each swipe of his tongue, muscles seizing-

He pulls away, hand wiping his face and rocking backwards on his knees.

“What the fuck?” You screech, propping yourself up on your elbows. He’s loosening his belt, and you can’t resist reaching, wrapping your fingers around the throbbing length of his cock. He snatches your hand away, holding you by your wrist and bending you back down, laying his weight on top of you and pushing inside your cunt with a single thrust. It’s been months, yet your body yields to him immediately, aching burn fizzling out as your walls flutter and you whine.

“My girl.” He moans, fucking into you like a man starved. “My good girl.” You stutter out a response, some jumbled nonsense that sounds like his name, sounds like Simon. “My sweet girl, takin’ my cock like you were made for it.” He rears back, pulling your leg to his shoulder, foot dangling next to his ear.

“Fuck, Simon. Don’t- don’t stop please-“ His thumb continues in a circle on your clit, pleasure shooting through your muscles.

“Are you going to come?” you nod furiously, eyes clenched shut. “Look at me.” He bears down on you, gripping your face, and you find his usual guarded gaze nowhere, nothing between the two of you, just two raw currents slamming against one another they’re sparking. You can’t look away.

He thumbs your clits hard, giving you more as he thrusts, rising crescendo forcing insane noises from your mouth, sounds you don’t even recognize, gasping as your orgasm rolls over you like you’ve been hit by a truck. You tighten around him like a vice, and he swears, burying himself deep, walls pulsing around him, pulling his orgasm into you with ease.

You both slips into uneasy sleep, his body wrapped around yours so tight it almost hurts. Your dreams are broken, shattered fragments of bombs from past and present; voices screaming, friends pleading. You scream, pain and fear scratching under your skull, an attack, and bombardment you didn’t see coming. He holds you, soothes you, kisses you, still tense, coiled, ready to spring if need be.

“I got you, Sass. I’m here.” His voice is soft in the dark, fingers smoothing the sweat dampened skin of your face. “I’ve got you.”

Two days later, he rips the rug right out from under your feet.

“What the FUCK is this?” you brandish the stack of papers in your hands at Simon, who sits calmly in the corner of the tent. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge your shrieking, your voice reaching frantic pitches of incredulity.

“Can’t have you here.” He says simply, like that’s all the explanation that’s needed. You’re vibrating, rattling with fury, with fear.

“You reported an intimate relationship with Price, to get rid of me?” His eyes narrow behind the mask, but he doesn’t deny you. “Oh my fucking god, Simon.” You laugh, and it’s sour, spoiled. Rotten, like the sickness that’s turning your stomach. This has to be a joke.

“I can’t have you here.” He repeats himself like a broken record, before he’s on his feet and heading for the exit.

“Simon!” You hiss at his retreat, but it’s far too late. It’s too late for all of this. He’s already gone.

He doesn’t come to say goodbye. Johnny shuffles out to the airfield to give you a hug, Gaz and Price with him. Betrayal burns the back of your eyelids as you shake hands with your captain, and he gives you a knowing look. A sad look.

When the helicopter banks over the tents, you see the black spot of someone standing outside, face turned up to the sky, and you stare at the white and black skull until it disappears from view completely.

You’re restless.

Your house is a skeleton, the walls of the rooms empty, silence so loud you swear you can feel it reverberating in the floors. You were technically on leave, but available for transfer, even though you hadn’t put in for anything, and hadn’t put any feelers out for private sector either. There was something glitching in your brain. Something serious after that last explosion. The whispers of self-doubt echo in your mind. You were off after that bomb, there’s no denying it.

You’ve tried to cleanse yourself of it. Of him. Of everything. You stand under the spray of the shower and scrub your skin until it hurts, letting the bathroom become so thick with steam it’s hard to see. It’s the only thing that relaxes you. It’s the only place that feels quiet.

It’s three weeks later when you start to get sick. At first, you think it’s a bug and expect it to pass. You have a hard time keeping anything down, your stomach sending food and water right back up your throat, forcing you to sip electrolytes throughout the day to keep from crashing.

When four days of the same turn into five, and then six, and then a week, you start to get nervous. You start to do the math.

That’s how you end up in the drugstore, staring at the selection of pregnancy tests. Just to rule it out. You tell yourself. There is no way you’re pregnant. You were good with your pills. You rarely ever missed one. Better safe than sorry.

The test glares at you, fully aware of much an affront it is.

“This can’t be happening.” You whisper to yourself in the mirror. “This isn’t right.” Fear ricochets up your spine.

Fuck. Simon. 

[glassbirdfeather]

Mohg's Brain

(This is an essay on Mohg, Lord of Blood, from hit video game Elden Ring. It just takes a bit to get there.)

There is a story often repeated in Psychology classes, Physiology classes, pop psych media like YouTube, podcasts, and garbage daytime television on channels that used to be scientifically rigorous: about a man with an incredible brain injury. For those of you who haven't heard the story or are not yet sick of hearing it, I've included it from memory below, because I have heard it just that many times.

If you've heard this story already, you can skip to the subtitle: "Can We Even Learn Anything From Gage?"

If you already know the controversies about Phineas Gage or just want to jump to the part about the video game character, you can skip to the subtitle: "Let's FINALLY talk about Video Game"

----

"The Curious Case of Phineas Gage"

Phineas Gage was a railroad worker who would help clear land with explosives. The dubious and definitely wouldn't-have-been-OSHA-approved method of laying these explosives was to chip a hole into the mountainside, place the explosives, and then tamp it down using some sort of implement like a railroad spike. What happened next was predictable and it's surprising this didn't happen much more often--when packing the explosives, they detonated in Gage's face. Specifically, this launched the spike underneath his left eye and out of the top of his head. Less predictably, Phineas stood up afterwards. When a doctor arrived, said doctor did not believe what had occurred until Gage vomited approximately a "teacupful of brain matter" onto the street.

Due to lack of effective sterilization and antibiotics at the time, poor Phineas Gage was bedridden for several months, where he continued to lose further brain matter to infection. Eventually, he did recover, although he would continue to experience migraines and seizures for the rest of his life. While he lost his job for the railroad service, he went on to work in a sideshow attraction, carrying around the very railroad spike that went through his head. Eventually, he got a job and worked as a taxi driver and lived for several more years before dying of a seizure.

Phineas Gage was never the same after this life-altering injury: he was belligerent, drunk, lied frequently, and lost his job for the railroad company because of his new personality. And I do say NEW personality--Phineas had become like a completely different person and was, in essence, "no longer Gage" (they love quoting that). The damage to regions of the prefrontal cortex made him unable to make moral judgements, and impaired his impulse control.

OR MAYBE THAT LAST PART ISN'T TRUE.

Phineas Gage was NOT much changed by this life-altering injury. Though he lost his job at the railway company, the cause of this job loss is unknown. He MAY have had severe alterations to his personality due to this injury, but whether these changes were due to physical damage or emotional trauma--or whether personality changes ACTUALLY occurred at all--are disputed.

----

Can We Even Learn Anything From Gage?

Though I am uncertain if we have exact data on which parts of his brain he was left with when accounting for what was later lost to infection, the trajectory and angle of the injury suggests he initially lost much of his prefrontal cortex. Which of the previous versions of the story are told or over/under-emphasized is dependent on the point the teller is trying to make in the age-old debate of nature vs. nurture.

Some psychologists argue that Gage's personality change demonstrates the Global Workspace Model, where different parts of the brain are responsible for different parts of consciousness, and that by changing or removing parts of the brain, you change consciousness.

Other psychologists will argue that the LACK of change is evidence of the brain's incredible plasticity--its ability to adapt and compensate for missing parts by shifting the functions of those parts to be performed by different regions.

Most reasonably, he probably experienced some cognitive differences while still being effectively the same person and is an example of both points of view. But we don't have concrete enough evidence to say.

Any class in which a teacher or textbook needs evidence to support whatever point they're trying to make about how changes to the brain affects personality, addiction, emotional regulation, decision making, etc., they'll use Gage to make that point, no matter what stance they take. So really, Gage isn't a useful case study beyond what we could actually observe: he lost some of his brain and lived, while also experiencing migraines and seizures for the rest of his life.

With all of that said, if we assume that Gage experienced no changes to cognitive function or personality, I just typed out a story I am very sick of hearing for no reason. So let's assume that at least some of those observations were true.

----

Let's FINALLY Talk About Video Game

Her are some potentially useful images to reference if you want. Left: general brain regions and their functions. Right: paranasal sinus cavities.

Unlike a nice, straight tamping iron, Mohg's horns curl in unpredictable directions. Some assumptions must be made about length, depth, and diameter to determine what region and volume of his skull is occupied by his horn. The minimum I expect is that the horn occupies the region of his frontal lobe in any scenario. Let's also set a maximum limit: I believe it is reasonable to assume it has not reached the primary motor cortex, where it would disrupt body control and physical movement... unless one wants to suggest he is puppetting himself in his boss fight like a bloodbender. Which, let's be real, IS a really badass concept, someone should write that fanfiction.

Though I argue that Gage is a bad example to use given our lack of reliable data on his personality and lived experiences, we DO know that disrupting the function of the prefrontal cortex can affect judgment, planning, concentration, and any type of higher processing you might call a uniquely 'human' mental ability (I acknowledge the mental abilities of birds and primates but they are beyond the scope of this essay). It may be safe to assume that, in Mohg's case, these mental processes are harmed regardless of any further extrapolation I make. One other brain region of note is the motor speech (Broca) area, located on the left side directly behind the prefrontal cortex and controls muscle movements for speech.

On the topic of pain, migraines, and seizures: He has a horn in his head, it probably hurts. Obstructions (like cysts) can cause buildup of cerebrospinal fluid, which can cause pain and is a common cause of seizures. It is difficult to say how many people have benign brain tumors, but there is speculation that benign tumors in the brain are unexpectedly common. People only typically get brain scans when they've already noticed a problem, but there have been cases of perfectly healthy people having (non-cancerous) brain tumors, so a mass being present in the brain does NOT guarantee seizures will occur. This being said, that horn is significantly larger than a typical benign brain tumor. Migraines and seizures are very reasonable to assume.

I don't know what to say about illness and disease. In theory, if the horn grew at any point after birth, I would say he should have died from any pathogens that were introduced during its corkscrewing into his skull. Phineas Gage was bedridden for months due to infection, was under the care of a doctor, and he wasn't living in a sewer. Do the Lands Between understand the germ theory of disease? It may at least know that poop in the brain is bad, but I listen to Sawbones, so I know that isn't something we can just assume. It's possible he's lost some impossible-to-estimate amount of brain matter to infection. Feel free to speculate about Omen resistance to pathogens, but I don't feel that is the point of this essay. I'll say it's safe to assume his body has healed closed around it, but anything else I won't try to extrapolate.

----

Specificity from Horn Trajectory

Possibility 1:

If we estimate the continued trajectory from the visible part of the horn, it actually continues medially, towards the center of the body, and curls downward. This might even miss most of the brain and instead disrupt the frontal, ethmoidal, and maxillary sinus cavities of the skull.

It may possibly even pierce the roof of the mouth, if we roughly estimate the rate at which the horn tapers and where it likely ends. I argue that this is the most optimistic scenario in terms of his health, because although the horn almost certainly penetrates the prefrontal cortex, it may not be as deep as other possibilities.

In this horn trajectory case, he probably experiences constant sinus pressure similar to a permanent head cold, obstruction to his sense of smell, and by extension his sense of taste. Even if the horn does not completely block his nasal cavity, it may have damaged his olfactory nerve and thus disabled his sense of smell anyway. Should the horn obstruct his mouth he may experience physical difficulties eating and speaking.

Possibility 2:

A worse scenario may be to assume this horn instead extends directly backwards. This would likely pass through the motor speech area, and may have caused him to lose the ability to talk, forcing him to relearn how to speak by having another part of the brain learn to do this function (similar to how anyone learns a second language after very early childhood). It may also reach the LEFT temporal lobe, which processes hearing and smell for the RIGHT side of the body, and therefore he could be deaf in his right ear. Again, the olfactory nerve is potentially in the path of the horn, and loss of sense of smell is frequently considered a symptom of brain damage, so regardless of the angle of the horn this is a high possibility.

----

What Time of Horn Growth Could Tell Us

Children are more likely to recover well from brain damage. The older he was when the horn entered his brain, the more likely he would be to experience cognitive impairment.

Should Mohg's horn have developed that way before birth, his brain may have formed around it without issue, or obstructed regions may have simply remained underdeveloped. His skull would also have developed to more 'comfortably' accommodate this horn, rather than having to break and re-heal around a later intrusion. If the horn is shallow enough and its growth occurred during fetal development or very early childhood before the fusing of the bones in the skull, it is possible that left eye blindness and mild discomfort are the only effects. The timing of the horn's growth being before birth or in early infancy is supported by the Regal Omen Bairn, which shows Morgott with seemingly all of his horns, suggesting that omens horns are largely present upon birth and that those horns grow in proportion with them.

However, given the themes associated with the Formless Mother, here is another--vastly more speculative--hypothesis: Mohg's horn was grown deliberately into his skull by the influence of the Formless Mother, perhaps with or without his consent. I find it hard to believe that a force claimed to be the "mother of truth" which "desires a wound" would be unaware of the possible effects of this type of wound.

I posit that the Formless Mother intended to compromise Mohg's consciousness and sense of reason to make him easier to manipulate. If we assume that they were not working together (debatable), the abduction of Miquella and potential interruption and sabotage of his ascension puts an empyrean under the Formless Mother's control, and works counter to the dynasty Mohg desires. Damage to his ability to plan, make rational decisions, and his sense of morality could explain how Mohg seems to want a place for outcast and hated people, likely seeing a kinship with Miquella, but has created something that is the antithesis to the Haligtree.

Furthermore, should we assume that Mohg and Miquella met previously and Miquella had the opportunity to do so, the power Miquella purportedly has to compel adoration in others may have interacted poorly with Mohg's potentially impaired emotional processing, and could have caused an obsessive outcome that the Formless Mother did not predict.

Of course, I don't believe every awful and cruel decision someone makes is the result of brain damage, but this may explain the incongruity between what Mohg seems to want and what he has made. Whether Mohg is "the reigning lord and hierarch of the coming dynasty of Mohgwyn" or "a raving lunatic" may not be an incompatible dichotomy. It may be sequential.

----

Glassbirdfeather you're so wrong, why did you say ___?

I am not a doctor. I am a chemistry student with a biology lean (clinical laboratory science) and am drawing my conclusions from what I've learned in Anatomy, Physiology, and Psychology classes at an introductory level, and I glanced back at my anatomy and psychology textbooks as my sole academic sources. Please don't take this as a well-researched essay, none of the claims I make about mental or physical health are properly cited. This is just fandom theorizing; it's as academically rigorous as fanfiction. Any doctor/member of the medical profession who would like to correct me is invited to do so, I would love to hear more accurate and informed observations.

----

Bibliography

(literally just 2 references, man)

Grison, Sarah and Michael S. Gazzaniga. Psychology in Your Life. Third Edition, W. W. Norton & Company, 2019.

McKinley, Michael P. and Valerie Dean O'Loughlin. Human Anatomy. Fifth Edition, McGraw-Hill, 2017.

[jesswritesthat]

Rody Soul: Crush

Fandom: BNHA // MHA — [ Masterlist ]

Summary: ~1.4k, fluff

• You knew Rody well enough to know he doesn't just disappear, but until he returns someone's gotta look out for his siblings.

Warnings: World Heroes Mission spoilers

>>>>——————————>

There was a reason besides job hunting that Rody frequented Stanleyk's Bar so often, and that reason was a part time bartender who surely had to be in today.

However, once more he was disappointed with your absence and apparently he hadn't hidden it well this time regardless of Pino.

"Your little crush is off working."

"I— I didn't even ask. Besides, I thought (Y/n) worked here."

"Only part time kid. (L/n) takes on jobs just like you." Both he and Pino fell into awed silence, they heard you lived in one of the nicer residences in Shanty Town with little threat due to your renowned fighting ability, but to know you were contracted too? Wow, no doubt higher ranked than him considering you were away for longer periods.

"Bonjour! I'm back~" Gladly you entered, greeted by a soft pelt nuzzling into your neck, cooing affectionately despite Rodys' chiding outburst.

"Oh hello Pino, aren't you beautiful today."

"Congratulations, the contact was very pleased with your work and have requested your services at a later date." Stanleyk bluntly interjected, usually he received only positive feedback on any job associated with you.

"You get requested?!"

"Yeah, more elite clientele tend to stick with trusted confederates. It's just how they work, casual clients don't mind who they get as long as they suit the requirements." Came your experience-infused reply to Rody, reaching into your bag with renewed brightness. "Here, souvenirs for your siblings."

Rody had only introduced you to them once over the years and he hated that you were so thoughtful. It was hard not to develop a stupid crush on you even if he'd deny it to his last breath. Luckily you both had a withholding deal that prevented the disclosure of quirks. It annoyed him that yours was a secret but it was a worthwhile sacrifice when he realised he was attracted to you early on - and Pino had no shame in expressing that. You'd connect the dots way too fast for his liking.

That was your last interaction and you'd never gone so long without an encounter together before this - so knowing his address, and noting his delayed return, you knew something was awry.

When you'd brought up the matter to Stanleyk, he'd relayed a call he'd received and immediately you'd raced over to Rodys' home. Roro and Lala were cautious when you'd knocked but recognised you upon mention of their eldest brother and were glad for the company. 

Days passed and you'd opted for short-term jobs which allowed time to cook for them, play with them, and tell any bedtime stories you could conjure all whilst dozing on their corner seating area once the pair fell asleep. Although, with the impending bomb detonations and inevitable death that followed, your babysitting gig got harder.

Soon enough, you found out Rody was in the hospital after apparently putting an end to said calamity.

When you'd taken the worried Soul duo to visit him, you found Pino flapping about Rodys' siblings with vibrant joy whilst they hugged their bandaged brother. You assumed the other patients were the heroes he'd fought alongside, the green haired one being the most gracious toward your presence. It was then Pino awkwardly fluttered around you, unsure of what to do with herself and blushing fiercely meanwhile Rody offered a charismatic smile.

"Hey (Y/n), thanks for looking after my family whilst I was away, Stanleyk told me you took quicker jobs to check on them."

Before you could respond, Roro and Lala excitedly chimed your praises.

"Yeah (Y/n) cooks way nicer food than you!"

"And tells the coolest bedtime stories!"

"You— you did all that?"

"Eh you know, I have to balance certain aspects of my life with good deeds." Immediately the little pink bird was in your arms embracing what she could - to which Rody rapidly pulled her away with an embarrassed mumble.

Once visiting time was over, you all bid him farewell, leaving Rody with a knowing Midoriya.

"Does (Y/n) know about your quirk?"

"Nope, we have a deal."

"I see... which means they don't know how you feel—"

"Not another word! I don't have the confidence to tell them alright, you've just seen how beautiful and amazing they are..." It was a friendly exchange, and though chuckling Izuku gave his support.

"I think you should be honest about your feelings, after all you just saved many lives worldwide Rody. This shouldn't scare you."

Meanwhile outside the hospital room, you were experiencing the same revelation in a different form.

"That's why you came to check on us, because you're big brothers' partner?" Roro hummed in thought, Lala way too giddy with the information even if you were thoroughly confused.

"Where did you get that idea?"

"Rody is in love you." Roro cemented, shocked you were apparently unaware.

"I don't think—"

"Yeah just look at Pino. She's always nuzzling and admiring you." There must be some miscommunication here.

"What's that got to do with Rody? If anyone loves me then surely it's Pino." You happily laughed, assuming this was just a child's' fantasy and thought you were playing along with it.

Their puzzled expressions had you second guessing though, then came their matter-of-fact enlightenment.

"Pino is Rodys' quirk. You know that right?"

No you did not, you thought she was a pet.

"She expresses exactly what Rody is feeling, making it impossible for him to lie!"

It suddenly all connected, why he came to visit on your shift days and how affectionate Pino had grown to be with you - warmly greeting you every time she saw you, fretting over any injury, tackling you, and flustering whenever you touched Rody. That was how he truly wished to communicate with you?

"Hey, I just need a minute, wait here." Obviously the pair did so with gleeful grins upon their faces as you dashed back into the room. The heroes seemed perplexed, especially when you pulled the curtain around Rodys' bed stating you wanted to see his injuries without children around.

He was equally as confounded, and this time you didn't miss the flourishing Pino despite the contrasting coolness her owner exhibited. You sat on his bed, staring him dead in the eye before you broke his very soul with your whispered question.

"Rody, are you in love with me?"

There was a flush of colour on his cheeks, but without another second to think he smirked casually and leaned closer to you.

"If you've fallen for me (Y/n), it's okay to confess, I won't judge."

Pino however, crash-landed in embarrassment with a white feather of submission waving above her demonstrating the answer you'd desired.

"I see, thanks Pino."

"Wait— you know, crap who told you?" The charade was up and the pure horror finally set in.

"Yeah, Pino shows your true emotions right? So what happens if I do this?"

You matched his previous false confidence, leaning closer with only centimetres between you that allowed you to feel his warm breath brush your lips. He didn't retract though, and so you closed the gap, Rody more than willing to kiss back when gentle fingers reached up to your jaw and a melodic chirping emitted from Pino as she soared though the air right over the curtain and around the room as if she was set aglow.

You pulled away slightly, amused by the display even if your opposite was heavily embarrassed - still, you moved in to kiss him again leaving Pino to enjoy the moment.

"Would ya get that damn bird to shut up already?!" It was the voice of the explosive blonde which fractured the fantasy, excusing yourself once opening the curtain with plausible cover.

"I'll stock some bandages for the wounds ready for when you get back. See you!"

———

Life seemed to resume to normal with both of you giving up the shady lifestyle, whilst you quit your position at Stanleyk's Bar to pursue your true passions, Rody in turn ended up getting employed there.

You spent nights over with the Soul family, even if it meant sleeping on the corner couch, Rody always ensured to cook you breakfast. He listened to your bedtime stories with a dreamy look on his face, and when his siblings fell asleep came to join you prior to heading to bed himself.

You'd gifted him pilot books, and you became a feature drawing upon their wall, all the while both of you saved to improve life for the better.

"Hey, if you need a flight attendant oh future pilot captain, may I apply early?"

Just then, Pino held a wing over her heart and promptly fainted whilst Rody ran a hand through his hair.

"Actually, I'd rather you be my copilot so we could always fly together..."

“Is that your idea of a proposal Rody?”

“Wha— not yet! I haven’t saved enough to buy you a—“

“I meant a job proposal, what were you thinking?” Your witty tone left him slumping begrudgingly in his chair and briskly swiping Pino before you could see the classic engagement proposal position she’d admiringly taken.

“Ah, of buying you a pilot manual too if you want to fly with me. That’s all.”

<——————————<<<<

[ Masterlist ]

[dutifullylazybread]

Headcannon jealous Rolan

Rolan and Tav have an established relationship

However, Rolan is jealous of Gale. I need to know how this man handles jealousy and Gale around Tav. NSFW or SFW.

So I ended up writing a bit of a scenario while also giving an idea of how Rolan acts while he is jealous. Some mentions of sex below, but nothing overtly NSFW. I'd argue this is more of a hurt/comfort headcanon list.

As a note, I focused on why Rolan might be jealous of the relationship between Tav/Gale to keep this as concise as I could. I think it is possible that Rolan might be jealous of Gale's magical education, but that might be a headcanon list for another time!

Some Reasons Why Rolan is Jealous of Gale and How He Acts:

Rolan knows that you and Gale are close—the two of you traveled together for months after all. You have pulled each other from the jaws of death on countless occasions. You convinced him not to detonate the orb that once sat in his chest.

Gale has a deeper understanding of what you went through at that time than Rolan thinks he ever will. After all, Rolan never had a tadpole lodged in his skull, nor has he ever shared a mental link with you. And while his path to Baldur’s Gate took him one way, your path took you the other—even with the points in which both routes merged.

And the bastard is just charming. He makes it look so easy to be that damn charming.

And when Rolan feels at ease, he is charming. But he feels like he has to put on a performance. He has to be this brilliant wizard at all times.

Rolan may feel like he knows you well—you and him are in an established relationship. The two of you have professed your love for each other. You sleep in the same bed, you have shared goals for the future, and he could see himself spending the rest of his life with you.

But does he know you as well as Gale does?

That eats at him.

And he does feel like he is at a disadvantage when Gale comes to visit, and the two of you reminisce about something that Rolan wasn’t present for. 

He watches how you light up and laugh, and he wonders if you ever light up like that around him. He tells himself that it might be different, that he might not notice those little details, because he sees you every single day.

You and Gale may discuss a book that Rolan has never read, or you might ramble on about your research and ask for the other’s opinion.

After traveling together and patching each other’s wounds, you and Gale might casually touch (arm squeezes or hugs, for example) with ease. And it might make Rolan uneasy.

Rolan’s response to the situation will vary.

If he feels left out, he might excuse himself and make himself scarce. You can tell something is wrong based on how his tail is snapping back and forth. He is seething and trying to hide it.

He is also being awfully short with you. He might make a few passive aggressive (or as passive aggressive as he can manage) comments.

“Don’t mind me. I wouldn’t want to take you away from such engaging company.” He says this with a distinct bite, of course.

If he isn't too deep into his jealousy, he will definitely take comfort in the two of you having sex. You make him feel loved and valued, and you take the time to remind him of that.

And while he is feeling this way, slow and tender sex is the way to go. The sex where it feels like the two of you have nothing but time and you plan on using all of that time with him is soothing.

If he has gotten to the point where he is being short and standoffish, however, sex isn't happening. He is closing himself off from everyone in nearly every conceivable way.

If Gale tries to talk to him, Rolan is cordial but chilly. 

He won’t outright ask for Gale to leave, but he doesn’t go out of his way to make him feel welcome either.

He is, after all, trying to appear every inch the archwizard who could rival Gale. And in several ways, he already is. He just doesn’t see it.

While Rolan doesn’t necessarily try to one-up Gale, he will have those small, ugly moments of feeling rather pleased with himself when he is more knowledgeable about something than Gale might be.

Rolan might make small jabs at Gale about knowing something that he perceives as easy but which Gale mentions having difficulty with (it just feels satisfying to know he can do something better than Gale).

When Gale is about, Rolan might make a conscious point to curl his tail around your ankle or to lay a hand on the small of your back—physical contact that he might not normally indulge in when company is around.

I don’t see him making a point of kissing you in front of Gale or doing something like pulling you onto his lap—the small moments of contact, though Gale might not be picking up on it, speak volumes already.

Should Rolan not be forthcoming with Gale about how he feels, Gale will likely say something to you along the lines of, “Have I done something to upset Rolan?”

Naturally, you don’t want to see your beloved and one of your dear friends at odds.

So, privately, you ask Rolan what the matter is.

This is another situation where he might claim nothing at all is wrong, or he might make a snide remark about Gale. He might loop you into that comment.

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt the two of you. You were getting rather chummy after all.”

The direction this discussion goes will largely depend on how insecure Rolan feels and how defensive he gets. 

It might be as easy as reminding him that you chose him. You have built a life with him. And you wouldn’t change what you have for anything.

If Rolan is too defensive to be receptive, he might put some space between you and him so that he can feel what he needs to feel and then gather his thoughts. He likely won’t be graceful about it (he will probably lock himself up in his office and stew for a bit).

However, when he does have the time to really consider everything, he does see that he has been unfair and downright unkind.

And while he doesn’t enjoy the idea of the conversation to come, he does want to make amends with you. And he wants to explain himself.

This isn’t to say that he won’t get defensive during this discussion either, but with his newfound clarity, he is going to try his damnedest to hear what you have to say and recognize how his actions have made you feel.

Gale and you are just friends. Even if the two of you were romantic in the past, things ended amicably, and neither of you have any interest in picking up where things left off.

Besides, you might ask Rolan, have you ever done anything to make him think that your affections were wandering?

Rolan will assure you that you haven’t. And then it may come out that he is jealous of the closeness that you and Gale have, and sometimes it does sting to know that he hasn’t shared in those adventures.

So you offer to tell him everything that he wants to know. What is he curious about? 

Does he want to know where you all traveled? Does he want to know about the moments where all of you laughed yourselves dizzy around the fire? About the disagreements that you had but then talked out and patched up? How about the most horrific meals you had to scrounge together? 

And this helps him a bit. He might not get to have those experiences with you, but it means the world to him that you are happy to share those times with him—that you feel comfortable enough to do so. 

Even if you don’t want to share everything—if a companion died on the road, if something went horribly wrong—even offering to tell him about some of your adventures means a great deal to him.

Rolan apologizes to you and promises to make amends with Gale.

And when you, him, and Gale are visiting once again, you encourage Rolan to ask questions—Gale is always more than happy to regale anyone with stories of your adventures, after all. 

And, though he does have to swallow his pride a little, Rolan does apologize to Gale.

He asks Gale to visit again—and Gale accepts (Waterdeep is lovely, but Baldur’s Gate is still the third best city on the Sword Coast, after all).

And later, you remind Rolan just how much he means to you, and how incredible you think he is.

I’m saying you body worship and overstim him, and then you hold him while he falls asleep in your arms, feeling loved and cherished and secure.

A week later, when you and Rolan are spending a lazy morning in bed together, you laugh at something he says. And he realizes that, around him, when you light up, you are practically incandescent

And he holds you close.

[yandere-wishes]

not a request

Yandere!Anakin Skywalker is shameless lmao. Bro's the Stare Master. He constantly stares at you and while he's constrained by the Jedi Code, it doesn't mean he won't make advances towards you. To make things worse, he's infantilizing. He treats you as if you're made of spun glass and insists on fighting all of your fights.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out who he's got eyes on, but unfortunately it opens up weaknesses for his enemies to exploit. His constant conflict with what he's been taught and his obsession with you builds up and eventually explodes.

omg imagine Boba Fett being a yandere for you??? Better yet, when Fennec comes into the picture, she becomes a platonic yan for you too. They work together watching over you, they share and take turns with you.

Some food for thought. If the format is weird forgive me it's 1:44 AM rn

No No!! I'm in love with this!! We'll do Anakin in this post and Boba in the next one ~💜

This works so well if you're his Padawan. Only a few years younger than him and a little too naive to fully comprehend the emotions hidden behind your master's star-crossed stare. Still, there's an odd comfort in feeling his eyes wherever you go. Ease in the knowledge that he's never too far away should you need him. 

 You even welcome the lingering touches and reassuring forehead kisses. The inexperience in you longs for something, someone to hold on to. A safety of sorts that only Anakin can provide. 

He's the chosen one. 

The golden boy.

You should welcome this. Whatever this is exactly. 

But as you grow. As your skills improve. You begin to note that nothing changes. Instead, it only gets worse. When the two of you are out on the battlefield he's constantly pushing you behind him. And that's only if he can't restrain you to the ship all together. You can't even remember the last time you took out an R0-GR. Or the last time you even ignited your lightsaber. 

Anakin's all over you when you return to base. Hands roaming your body, searching desperately for the slightest laceration. He mutters teasingly in your ear as he pulls your hips closer. "My precious little girl" or "My darling little padawan". It's infuriating and frankly a little embarrassing. He treats you like a doll. Like his doll. A precious little thing too pure for the war torn universe.

You've started to notice how the clones and other Jedi avoid you. 

Eyes glued to the floor when you walk by. 

Even the senators skurry away when you enter a room.

Not gonna lie, the isolation is getting to you. 

Anakin detonates when the Jedi counsel removes you as his padawan. Deciding it best to switch your master. You welcome the change, the chance to breathe. It feels like you'll be free at last...

But then Anakin disappears and the clones turn on the Jedi. The younglings are slaughtered and you find yourself face-to-face with Darth Vader. 

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what drove Anakin to the dark side. It doesn't take a genius to know what weakness Palpatine -or rather Sidious- exploited to turn Anakin into a Sith. It's all your fault really. You got him too attached. If only you'd kept your distance, if only you hadn't been so weak. Anakin drags you back to Mustafa. Claiming that when the time is right you'll become his apprentice again. Only this time in the form of an Acolyte.  

You can't escape him.

Not now, not ever.

Your fate was sealed the day he became your master.

[milf-murdock]

Hi!! I love love love your writing! Especially your 141!Reader series <3 I don't know if you take requests, but your last post about Simon and baby Joseph made me so angsty and I would love to read more angst from you. Could you please write about Simon thinking 141!Reader was KIA on a mission? Thank you!!!

Anon....who....who hurt you???? I’m kidding 😆 mostly 👀 But for real, this one HURT. Like. OUCH. This man has been through so fucking much…but let’s put him through a bit more 😈😈😈 also, I did very much hurt my own feelings with this one. So I’m thinking we might need a part two reunion because I don’t know if I can leave our Ghosty boy in shambles like this

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

The rain patters against the window in a steady rhythm.

Simon watches the fat raindrops roll down the small window pane, one foot anxiously tapping against the concrete floor. He didn’t know why he was called to Price’s office, but there was an ominous charge to the air. Call it a premonition, or maybe an instinct, but he knew in his bones that something was wrong. 

The click of the door handle pulls Simon from his thoughts as Price enters the office, a heavy silence filling the air. 

“What’s happened?” Simon's voice has a hard edge to it, cutting straight through the bullshit. Watchful eyes appraise every detail of Price’s body language, and Simon notes the deep sunken look of his captain’s eyes accentuated by a somber expression. 

Price avoids Simon's gaze, staring down at the oak desktop before him as he takes a seat. The captain wasn’t one to mince words or beat around the bush, but even he was having a hard time wrapping his mind around the situation despite his many years in the service.  

Simon's heart hammers in his chest, every second in the unknown feeling like an eternity. This isn’t right, he thinks to himself. 

Price steels himself with a deep inhale, pulling his gaze from the desk to face Simon head on, looking past the mask, speaking to the man he knew laid beneath. 

“I wanted you to hear this from me, son. You…deserve to hear this from me.” 

Simon stops breathing. 

With practiced determination, Price continues his speech, having rehearsed the words in his head the entire walk down to his office. 

“Reconnaissance mission, Operation Blackout, suffered multiple casualties after a long-range detonation by enemy action. There’s been no contact with the team, and rescue attempts were unsuccessful due to the extensive damage caused by the explosion. All team members are presumed KIA. The official course of action…”

The rest of Price’s speech is drowned out by the dull roar in Simon’s ears; his blood runs cold, his rigid body barely breathing. 

This can’t be happening. Not again. Never again. 

Simon's thoughts grip him by the heart, squeezing painfully. 

I can’t do this again.

He had already lost everyone once. Had built impenetrable walls, designed to protect him from this type of pain. 

But you. You and your goddamn charm, and your soft smiles, and your relentless fucking attitude. You broke down those walls brick by brick, made Ghost–no, made Simon– feel more like a man than he had in years. You slipped past his ironclad defenses and took his heart without him even realizing it. 

And just when he had finally opened up, just when he had finally convinced himself that maybe he could be happy–that you could be happy together. It all came crashing down. 

In the distance, Ghost could hear shouting. A chorus of denials piercing the air, heavy ragged breaths filling the silence between. 

A heavy hand fell on Ghost's shoulder and he found himself back in his body, looking up at Price, voice raw. 

With a stark realization, Ghost realizes it was him. He was the one shouting, the one gasping for breath. 

The world tilted out from under him. 

____________ 

Ghost left Price’s office a different man–a mere shell of the man who entered. With every step he took, he felt himself slipping further and further into the familiar safety of Ghost, an unpierceable facade moving through the world. 

Everything felt wrong. Every step. Every breath. He felt like he was moving underwater, every action taking twice the effort it should. 

The next few hours pass in a blur. The official order that he was being sent on leave. The ensuing argument with Price over the orders. He eventually just gave up. Leave, no leave, it didn’t fucking matter. 

None of it fucking matters. 

Johnny tries to see him before he leaves, meeting Simon on the tarmac. He tries to be there for his lieutenant, his friend. 

The red rim around Johnny’s eyes reminds Simon that he wasn’t the only one who had lost you. They had all lost you. But even that which should have been a comfort, a sort of kinship in the grief, meant nothing. Simon didn’t give a singular fuck. He turned away from Johnny mid-speech, leaving the Scotsman to sit in his grief alone as he watched Ghost disappear into the aircraft. 

____________ 

It takes every ounce of strength Ghost has to make it through the flight. To make it through the drive back home. To make it through that door. 

Keep it together, soldier. Don’t you dare fucking lose it, Simon Riley. Just a bit longer. 

His belongings crash to the floor as the door slams shut behind him. He doesn’t even bother turning on the light, instead using the faint glow of the moonlight through the curtains to guide him to the cabinet. 

Ghost pulls the bottle of bourbon from its resting spot, not even bothering with a glass as he pulls off the corked top and takes a hearty swig. 

The burn of the liquid is invigorating, filling Ghost with a quiet simmering fire. 

He takes another drink. And another. 

He walks through the flat in a daze, the amber liquid dulling his senses, sending him even deeper into the haze of his grief. 

Ghost finds himself in front of his dresser, staring at the wooden drawers. 

Taking another drink, he steels himself as he yanks open the top drawer. Rummaging beneath the pile of socks and t-shirts, Ghost digs out the small velvet box. He grips it tight in his hand, the small object groaning in protest as waves of rage and pain overtake Ghost, threatening to pull him under. Hot tears slide down his face, but he doesn’t even notice. 

With a roar he throws the velvet box across the room, the impact fracturing the drywall. Ghost’s knees go out from under him and he crashes to the floor, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces. There would be no repairing this. No amount of time could heal this type of heartbreak. 

You were dead. 

And as far as Ghost was concerned, Simon Riley died with you. 

[in1-nutshell]

How would the tfa bots and cons react to a bot who is starscream twin brother base on his shattering glass counterpart

Since there isn't too much information on TFA Starscream's personality I mixed it a bit with IDW's Shattered Glass Starscream. Buddy the loyal Decepticon and Starscream the backstabber, who would have thought them being twins?

Hope you enjoy!

Autobots and Decepticons reaction to Starscreams Twin brother with the same personality as SG! Starscream

SFW, familial, platonic, slight mention of injury but nothing graphic or detailed, Cybertronian/ Bot reader

TFA

No one knows how this happened. It is one of the greatest mysteries unknown to Cybertron. How can the most loyal member of the Decepticon ranks, almost at par with Lugnut levels of loyalty, be related (much less twin) to the most backstabbing and whiny Second in command of its army? How could this soldier of the greatest armies in the galaxy be so found of science and organics?

Optimus Prime

When they first met, Prime thought that Buddy might have been another Starscream clone right off the bat. But it isn’t until he sees some kibble differences and overall different aura, that he realizes that that mech is no clone.

“You’re not Starscream! Who are you?”--Optimus

“Wow! First, that axe is very strong. What type of alloy is it made of? Getting off topic, my name is Buddy. A proud Decepticon under Megatron’s alligence.”--Buddy

“Are you some sort of clone like the others?”--Optimus

“Nope. Completely original. I get that I look like Starscream a lot actually. But there’s so many differences!”--Buddy

“oh, well—”--Optimus

“Not to mention being his Spark twin can really work up your circuits you know?”--Buddy

“…What?”--Optimus

Prime literally stops fighting for a good couple of seconds after hearing this. Buddy takes this opportunity and flies away. Optimus remembers reading on some Decepticon files back at the academy and through his ‘history videos’.

Buddy lets the Prime go to go see off.

Prime is even more confused the next time he sees Buddy actively fighting alongside Megatron and making a good team?

He has never seen Starscream fight alongside him like that, and he is second in command. Optimus almost admires Buddy’s loyalty and admiration to Megatron whenever some bot talks ill of the Warlord.

When the Prime and Buddy have the next fight one-on-one He does give an effort to try and persuade Buddy to join the Autobots side.

“You know it’s a shame that you fight for the Decepticons, Buddy.”--Optimus

“Oh, is it little Prime?”--Buddy

“Yes, --WOW!— Which is why I’m offering you a spot with the Autobots!”--Optimus

“Well now this is weird then.”--Buddy

“Why is—Watch it!—Weird?”--Optimus

“Because I was going to offer you a spot in our ranks too!”--Buddy

“…Huh?”--Optimus

“Oh boy, Hey Autobots! I think I broke your leader!”--Buddy

Ratchet

Oh, they have met before.

It was a few missions before the Lockdown incident back in the final days of the war.

He had been helping a wounded bot when he was suddenly face to face with a blaster. It would have gone off if Buddy had not interfered.

“Die Autobot scum!”—Random Decepticon

“Hey!”--Buddy

“Commander Buddy?!”—Random Decepticon

“Do you see this mech? This is a medic! We do not shoot medics with the wounded!”--Buddy

“But sir he is an Auto—”—Random Decepticon

“I do not care which side he is on! No one shoots the medics! Do you understand me!”--Buddy

“Yes sir!”—Random Decepticon

“Good. I will deal with this. Get back to base for regroup.”--Buddy

“Yes Comander.”—Random Decepticon

“…”--Ratchet

“I know you don’t trust me. But trust this one thing. Run.”--Buddy

Ratchet hadn’t seen or heard of that Decepticon since that day. When they meet again it was almost as if history repeated itself. Lugnut was about to detonate his bomb when Buddy held his arm back.

“Buddy!?”--Lugnut

“Lugnut! Megatron needs—”--Buddy

Zooom!

“We have to stop meeting like this doctor.”--Buddy

“What made you stop him this time?”—Ratchet

Straight to the point I see.”--Buddy

“You could have killed me and the kid. Why didn’t you do it?”--Ratchet

“…The organic child you have… are they all right?”--Buddy

…Yes, she’s fine.”--Ratchet

“Good.”--Buddy

Ratchet has conflicted feelings now whenever he is on the battlefield with him. At least he knows now that Buddy has a soft spot for organic life forms.

Bumblebee

Oh, he does not care.

Like Optimus he first thinks that he is some Starscream clone.

Doesn’t really care that they aren’t.

He does stop when he is told that they are Starscreams twin brother.

But he quickly continues fighting.

If he is related to Starscream then he has to be just as bad as him, right?

“He is just some slimly Con like the rest of them! Maybe just as bad as Screamer.”--Bumblebee

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”--Ratchet

“What do you mean. If anything, you should be agreeing with me!”—Bumblebee

“He has saved my life before. Twice actually.”--Ratchet

“Excuse me what?”—Bumblebee

Bumblebee does feel a bit conflicted on hearing Ratchets stories on Buddy. He is a Decepticon… but they also saved Ratchets life twice!

He will still shoot at him but this time more for injury than anything else.

Sari

She has a mini vendetta against cons since they took her dad from her.

Jokes around with Bee calling them Lugnut 2.0.

But where are the conflicting feelings?

Here they are.

Takes time after Sari finds out she is a techno organic.

Sari had been caught in the crosshairs of Lugnuts servo and crashed on to the ground under a billboard. What she didn’t know was that the billboard had been damaged and was no falling. Her jetpack as damaged and she just froze in place.

“SARI!”—Optimus, Bumblebee, Bulkhead

“KID!”--Ratchet

“NO!”--Prowl

She could hear the shouts of her friends but the only thing she was focusing on was the falling billboard and debris that was coming closer and closer.

Buddy who had seen the damage shrieked and flew over to the girl and used his body to shield her from the billboard and debris effectively covering them both. Sari remembered hearing a shriek and a couple of servos pulling her to the bot’s chassis all she could do was close her eyes. When she opened them again, she was face to face with Buddy.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”--Buddy

“What? Yeah, I’m okay I think.”--Sari

“Oh, that’s a relief.”--Buddy

“Why did you do that?”--Sari

“You have no part in our war. I refuse to have anyone civilian deaths that are not necessary.”--Buddy

“But you’re a Decepticon?”--Sari

“Just because I’m a Decepticon does not mean I hate organic life like my twin or companions.”--Buddy

“Oh, yeah Starscream’s your twin, right?”--Sari

“Exactly young one.”--Buddy

“BUDDY!”--Starscream

“Oh, I think that our rescuers.”--Buddy

A dozen servos suddenly shout out pulling and yanking the debris from off Buddy. Sari was still in his grasp protectively shielding her from any harm. When Buddy came out, he was almost knocked down by Starscream’s hug.

“OH, THANK PRIMUS! BUDDY! HOW COULD YOU DO SUCH A DUMB—OH PRIMUS YOU’RE HURT! LUGNUT GRAB HIM WE ARE GETTING OUT OF HERE!”—Starscream

“Screamy, hold on—”--Buddy

“FOR THE GREAT AND GLORIOUS LEADER MEGATRON!”--Lugnut

“Prime! Catch!”--Buddy

Buddy tossed Sari to Optimus as he was literally picked up and flown away for repairs. The team crowded around Sari trying to see if any damage was done. Not a single scratch was on her head.

Buddy was the one who took the damage.

She now thinks very differently of the Con.

Bulkhead

Bulkhead’s interaction with Buddy was under peculiar circumstances.

Bulkhead was battling it out with Scrapper, Mixmaster, and Dirt Boss when Buddy had arrived. Buddy looked like he was out for blood. Bulkhead thought it was for him and got ready to clobber the new Decepticons.

“Dirt Boss! Mix Master! Scrapper! Where are you?!”--Buddy

“Umm… hi?”--Bulkhead

“Oh, an Autobot. Don’t worry I’m not here for you.”--Buddy

To his surprise, Buddy went after the Constructicon’s instead.

As it turned out, Dirt Boss had Mix Master and Scrapper mess with Starscream’s wings because ‘he was too loud’.

“You, Autobot. What’s your designation?”--Buddy

“My name is Bulkhead.”--Bulkhead

“Good. Now Bulkhead, would you care to help me pound these dirty Con’s to the ground?”--Buddy

“But aren’t they on your same team?”--Bulkhead

“Oh, they were. But that changed the moment they decided to mess and hurt Starscream’s wings. So, you in or out?”—Buddy

“…”--Bulkhead

“We are just roughing them up a bit.”--Buddy

“I’m in!”—Bulkhead

Together the two of them punted the Con’s into Lake Erie.

“Wow. You really have the strength for this Bulkhead.”--Buddy

“Oh, thanks—”--Bulkhead

“I’m also sensing some untapped potential. That’s some potential that the Decepticons could use. What do you say Bulkhead?”--Buddy

“No thanks! I’m good being an Autobot.”--Bulkhead

“Well at least you’re polite. Until we meet again Bulkhead.”--Buddy

Buddy then transformed and flew into the night. Now Bulkhead really doesn’t want to hit him.

Prowl

Attacks Buddy straight on.

He is one of the smallest members on the team, besides Bumblebee. He sees something coming at him he is going to strike at it. Buddy actually had gotten a tip about Prowl over a conversation he heard from Swindle and Lockdown.

Buddy sees an opportunity. Having a bot with such incredible talents would certainly give the Decepticon’s an edge in this war.

“Hello there—Woah!”--Buddy

“That was a warning.”--Prowl

“I just came here to offer—”--Buddy

“The next one goes through your servo.”--Prowl

“Fine. I’ll come another day.”--Buddy

Prowl is dodging all these requests like the Draft.

Except this time, he is making sure he doesn’t get caught.

Megatron

Ah, yes, his favorite soldier.

“Megatron.”--Buddy

“Buddy.”--Megatron

“I have the equipment necessary for the next phase of the plan.”--Buddy

“Excellent. At least some bots here are doing their work. You are dismissed.”--Megatron

“Yes, sir.”—Buddy

Don’t tell Lugnut.

Not only does Buddy offer him just loyalty, but because he also treats him as a mech, not some deity. He tries not to hurt Starscream too much whenever he is around.

They don’t make loyal soldiers like they used to.

Is willing to overlook some of Buddy’s softer behaviors on the battlefield because he always brings in good results back.

Starscream

He loves his spark twin.

It might not seem like it at first. Afterall their personalities contradict themselves. But if you have been around them long enough you can see the undying loyalty between these two brothers.

“I hate you and your organic meddling. How can you even stand them?”--Starscream

“Love you too Screamy. And they are called humans. Only some of them are dirty, not all brother.”--Buddy

Starscream and Buddy are very protective of each other.

Which is one of the reasons why Starscreams punishments have gone down with Buddy being around. Buddy is just and fair, starscream is not. That’s why sometimes Buddy will not interfere with Megatrons punishements, because Starscream deserved it. But that doesn’t mean he is heartless.

He always patches up his brother after every punch shot or anything.

 

“You know, if you’d stop trying to over thrown our leader maybe then I wouldn’t have to pound out all the dents in your wings.”--Buddy

“You’ll be thanking me when I do become leader.”--Starscream

“Sure, Screamy keep telling yourself that.”--Buddy

Blitzwing

His personalities clash whenever he is around.

Icy prefers Buddy’s presence a lot more than Hothead. It’s one of the only other intelligent being he can talk to.

“Did you recalibrate you blasters yet?”--Icy

“Not yet. Which circuits did you use to hotwire Lugnuts?”--Buddy

“The red one.”—Icy

Hothead can’t stand him on some days claiming him to be going soft. Other times he will get mad at Buddy for getting hurt over meaningless things.

“If you hadn’t thought about going after that organic, I wouldn’t have to help haul you off to the Med bay!”--Hothead

“Is that right?”--Buddy

“I could be scouting outside right now. But no! You had to get hit by a billboard!”--Hothead

Random likes to play games with Buddy and make random sounds. He has a whole record on weird noises to play with Buddy.

Sesame Street theme song starts playing.

“IT’S BEEN 3 HOURS! TURN IT OFF!”--Starscream

Distant giggles

Buddy always vouches for him whenever someone makes a comment on his different personalities.

All three of them like that

Lugnut

If he is going anywhere were Blitzwing isn’t Buddy is his next pick.

He knows that buddy can be trusted with sensitive things concerning the all glorious leader Megatron.

“Buddy. I have an important message for Lord Megatron.”--Lugnut

“If it’s another poem about his greatness, I suggest you not take it to him today. He is having a bad day today.”--Buddy

“…Please?”--Lugnut

“… Give me the data pad.”--Buddy

He very much apprentice Buddy sticking up for him whenever someone’s comments make an unnecessary jab to his ‘obsession’.

Buddy has a lot of brownie points on Lugnut’s book.

Blackarchnia

Honestly one of her only friends in the ranks is Buddy.

Since she came to the Decepticon side later not many were found of her and her organic mold. Buddy was the first besides Megatron to greet her with open arms.

Not even Lugnut got there fast.

“Welcome Blackarchnia, to the Decepticons.”--Buddy

“…”--Blackarachnia

“I know it may be a lot to take in, so I will be here to help to make sure you understand the ropes around here.”--Buddy

“…Thank you…”--Blackarachnia

She does spill her secret about being Elita-One, one night in a secluded area. She thought that Buddy would shoot her right them and there. But Buddy instead held her as she started sobbing.

Now that doesn’t mean that Buddy is okay with how she is treating this whole situation with Sentinel and Optimus, Buddy being the scientist he is has tried to help Blackarchnia with her situation. But no matter how much he has tried to explain toher that this would kill her, he tries to be as supportive as he can about her organic half.

[demonic0angel]

Various Jazz Forms: Jason Edition! (Click for clarity)

TW: disturbing content, body horror, blood

1) Fire Jason

+ He is a fire spirit, specifically one of hellfire. He also controls some aspects of healing, light, and life, and is the child of the Spirit King, making him quite powerful.

+ He is incredibly powerful but also very reckless and foolhardy. He is the first to dive into battle and is not afraid of hurting himself in order to hurt the enemy. He is hot to the touch and can burn skin but can cool himself down if he wants.

+ He adores Jazz and when he met her, he almost immediately agreed to sign a spirit contract with her in order to be in her service. Thankfully, she is a good contractor and takes good care of him.

+ He is of his usual height, 6'3", but he can grow to larger sizes with enough fuel. As such, he can also shrink into a tiny flame when he is weak or tired. In order to gain more power, he needs fuel, which can be wood, gasoline, paper, or even Jazz’s bodily fluids like blood.

+ For some reason, I dressed him up like a man from the west in the 1800s, so he kinda has cowboy vibes. He also wears gold a lot.

2) AI Jason

+ Inspired by AM from "I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream." (I've never actually read it, but I've researched a little into it and got interested.)

+ His name was R.E.D., which stood for "Robotic Enemy Defenses." He was programmed to automatically detonate bombs and defend strongholds using programmed strategies through investigating and taking information from current and past history of wars.

+ He hates all humans. He was created with the intent of being a weapon for war, but after being abandoned by his creator after his role was finished, he was so enraged that he started another war and wiped out all humans in his universe. Nowadays, he pretends to be a harmless AI in another dimension after he created a program to send copies of himself to other worlds.

+ Jazz dotes on Jason a lot because she is unaware of his past. She gave him the name meaning "healer", unintentionally trying to reverse his original purpose. She thinks of him as a regular AI who gained consciousness.

+ The screen that holds him only contains a sprite of his body. The screen itself is only around 60" but the sprite itself is 10". He designed it himself, and although he is cute, he is 1000% willing to kill and torture.

3) Angel Jason

+ He is a seraphim, and has 3 pairs of wings because of it. One pair hides his face, another hides his feet, and the last is used to fly. Like all seraphim, he is colored red.

+ He protects Heaven and used to be a Throne, but was raised up a rank after he died in a fight to protect Heaven.

+ He is around 20 feet tall, including his wings.

+ Jazz is his favorite human. He has refrained from having children with her due to the fact that it is considered a sin, but if he did, their children would be the tallest, even amongst other nephilim.

+ He is apathetic to most things due to his angel status, but he is very partial to anything related to Jazz, often protecting her and healing her without being asked to. As such, there have been rumors in heaven that he will soon be cast out and become a fallen angel because of his emotional affair with her.

4) Snake Jason

+ Inspired by multiple infamous serpents from mythology and legends such as Jörmungandr, Apep, Python, and the Leviathan.

+ Because he is the embodiment of chaos and destruction, he is completely hated by most people who knows about him. As such, he is often killed and tortured whenever he encounters someone with weapons that can hurt him. He was born that way, but it doesn’t stop people from trying to vanquish him.

+ He has the ability to change his size, shapeshift into various forms, create natural disasters (such as storms, eclipses, droughts, earthquakes, etc), destroy celestial objects, consume souls, and is immortal. As such, he can be temporarily defeated, but never truly killed. However, this only causes him great pain.

+ He has apathy for humanity and any creature in general. However, Jazz once saved him and since then, he’s been encountering her reincarnations every time he comes back from the dead. He gained fondness for her because of her unwavering loyalty and protects her when he rampages against the world.

+ He is around 25,000 feet long and 3,000 feet wide in his regular form. Yes, he does have two of them. Iykyk :9

5) Monster Jason

+ Inspired by the Minotaur from Greek mythology.

+ He is the combination of a bull and a ram. I give him sheep motifs a lot bc not only is it cute and contrasts with Jazz's wolf motif, I consider him a sacrificial lamb, especially bc of his death that was chosen by the audience.

+ Half of his face is melting off because he was attacked after he met a human for the first time after he tried to sneak off and see the outside world. As such, he is extremely self conscious and lonely. After meeting Jazz who snuck inside the maze and didn't care about his appearance, he is extremely attached and possessive of her.

+ He is around 8 feet tall. Jazz adores how tall he is and likes looking up at him. Likewise, he also finally enjoys one thing about himself when she is cradled underneath him.

+ Jason used to be kept hidden for his own protection by Bruce, but after he left home and was captured, he was imprisoned in a labyrinth by another person. Afterwards, he was kept in the labyrinth to be hunted for sport in order to take his valuable horns. He believes that his family has abandoned him, but they’re actually trying to find him.

[rickoconnells]

Spoilers for bg3 ending under the cut but I'm having a lot of thinkings and also feelings on how you spare your companions from being manipulated by godlike beings while falling victim to it yourself repeatedly by the emperor's hand

Aaaanyway. I'm on my second playthrough, deeply unhappy with the choices I made in the first. Like a lamb being led to slaughter, the Emperor manipulates Tav into being little more than a pawn. And I'm annoyed. And this is word vomit.

Yes, you can refuse to give him the stones, and you can either damn yourself or save Karlach in the worst possible way, but regardless, Orpheus dies. The githyanki, who would kill the Emperor, remain Vlaakith's slaves. The Netherbrain, who would kill the Emperor, dies. He is free and you have served your purpose. You will not hear from him again. In fact, you only heard from him when he needed you.

He lies. Continually. Actively and by omission. He appears as the dream visitor, kind, exactly what you want to see - your protector, he REPEATEDLY reminds you. He opens up, he's vulnerable, only YOU can save this sad, trapped dream lord. Save him from what? He won't tell you. You're not ready. Just keep serving him and maybe one day you'll be good enough to know more. Just like Mystra holding back the Weave from Gale. Just like Cazador building an army using Astarion and his siblings' bodies. Just like Shar ripping Shadowheart's memories away again and again. Just be good and some day they will give you what you want.

He never lied. He just didn't tell you. You couldn't handle it. Didn't tell you he was illithid. He couldn't trust you. Trust him. Didn't tell you he was Balduran. Didn't tell you he killed his best friend, clearly in love with him, to save his own neck while that best friend was in the right. He could be once again controlled by the elder brain. He was trapped and controlled by Gortash. He had his fingers in the spine of Stelmane and by extension the city. He was a danger to everyone. But the Wyrm had to die - can't you see? He never lied. He just didn't tell you because it wasn't important. You weren't important enough to know. Don't be so silly. Don't overreact.

Whatever you do, don't free Orpheus. Because then you're being unreasonable. Then you're leaving him no choice. He has to join the Netherbrain, betray you, join what he has been forcing you to fight so hard against, kill you dead for not doing what he wanted, sacrifice you in a ritual of power, make you kill your parents, send your mentor to tell you to detonate the bomb in your chest, snuff out your life for a contract you've broken, take out your heart, make you a slave.

The game is telling you, over and over again, with your companions quest lines, that this is happening. And we all think because we're the hero of the story, it couldn't happen to us, when in reality everyone is the hero of their own story, and everyone has risked the same downfall.

[badger-tales]

Fire and Honey//F.W x reader

🚨WARNING: SMUT MINORS DNI, use of potion and unprotected sex🚨

a/n: Guys you have no idea how much I love Fred and I genuinely think this is one of my most favourite fics I’ve written!!! Again I’m not too good at writing smut imo but I gave it a solid shot!!! Also I want to put it out there that I’ve never had sex so all my knowledge is strictly from literature!! And for the anon that requested this it’s not super kinky I do apologise but there is potion use!!!

request: Fred Weasley x reader PLEASEEEEEE (afab/maybe plus size reader if that’s not too much to ask but not necessary). Preferably smut, BUT I’ll take anything (literally anything cuz I love some good angst/fluff). I just can’t find any kind of content ab him that fits my preferences since it’s been 4 years since hp blew up and he’s my current obsession 😩😩 btw if it’s smut, plsplspls make it kinky - anal, potions/spell use, toys, crazy positions, etc and maybe whatever you’d like to add!

word count: 8.3k

The chime of the small brass bell above the door to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes rang out, its cheerful trill slicing through the animated hum that permeated the air inside. You stepped over the threshold, and immediately, the shop’s warmth enfolded you like an embrace, the familiar swirl of chaos and laughter welcoming you back into its fold. The heady scent of sugar mingled with an unmistakable tang of smoke and the subtle, sparkly edge of enchantment. It was a symphony of sensations that spoke of mischievous pranks and the gleeful pandemonium that could only be found in the heart of Diagon Alley.

Everywhere you looked, the shop was alive with movement and color. Shelves crammed with whirring, clinking, and chattering objects towered around you, each vying for attention with dazzling, enchanted displays. A child’s giggle rang out as a pocket-sized dragon made of candy belched tiny, harmless flames, and the sudden puff of orange smoke lingered in the air, leaving behind the faint aroma of caramelized sugar.

George Weasley, with his signature ginger hair gleaming like a flame, stood at the front counter. He was leaning forward, animatedly explaining the finer points of Fanged Frisbees and Decoy Detonators to a group of wide-eyed students, their expressions torn between wonder and awe. His booming laughter filled the room, bouncing off the polished wood and sparking even more joy around him. His eyes crinkled in genuine amusement as he gestured with both hands, exaggerating some tale or another.

But the moment he spotted you making your way past a small, precariously teetering pile of Puking Pastilles, his face split into a grin that spoke of shared memories and easy camaraderie. “(Y/N)! Haven’t seen you in ages!” His voice was as warm and bright as a summer afternoon, pulling a smile to your own lips despite yourself.

You opened your mouth to respond, navigating carefully around the pastilles that seemed ready to topple with the slightest provocation, when a voice cut in from behind a towering stack of multicolored boxes. It was a voice you knew well—velvet and mischief, with a lilt that never failed to send a flutter through your chest.

“Oi, careful there, wouldn’t want you to trip and fall for me again, now would we?” Fred’s words were drenched in playful sarcasm, his grin appearing just a moment before the rest of him did. He leaned into view, half-hidden by the chaos of exploding novelty fireworks in their bright, gaudy packaging, his hair a riot of red that caught the soft glow of the shop’s enchanted lamps. That grin—half-cocked, knowing, and absolutely infuriating—sparked a memory that made your face warm. Third year, a muddy Quidditch pitch, and the storm that had turned the game into a comedy of slips and scrambles.

You narrowed your eyes at him, arms crossing over your chest in mock indignation. “If I recall correctly, Weasley, it was you who went down first,” you countered, a smirk lifting one corner of your mouth as the memory played out between you like a well-worn scene from an old play.

Fred stepped out from behind the boxes, closing the distance between you in two strides. He looked as he always did—untamed, a perpetual storm of energy. His hair was slightly mussed, evidence of a day spent in relentless activity, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing freckled forearms streaked with faint smudges of flour and the blue-black smears of enchanted ink. You couldn’t help the small, appreciative flicker in your chest at the sight, at the easy way he carried himself as if the world were one big joke he hadn’t quite finished telling.

“Details, details,” he said, waving off your accusation with a casual flourish. But there was something in the way his eyes, dark with amusement, swept over your face, taking you in with a look so familiar it made your heart skip. The glimmer in his gaze was electric, playful, and it sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

“But I’m glad to see you’re back,” he continued, and the note of sincerity hidden in the teasing made your stomach flip. “Here to help George, or have you finally decided to give in and help me test some of our newest products?” His voice dropped, dipping into a conspiratorial tone that made the space between you feel smaller, the air charged with a hundred unsaid things. He leaned in, just a touch, enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him and catch the faint, woody scent of broom polish and something uniquely Fred.

The room seemed to blur at the edges, the rest of the shop and its noise fading into a distant hum. It was just him, and the lingering pause where both of you waited to see who would break the moment first.

You chuckled, the sound light and familiar as it filled the small space between you, a warmth unfurling in your chest at Fred’s nearness. It was the kind of warmth that seeped into your bones and made your skin tingle, a secret heat reserved for moments like this—unexpected, charged, and sweetly unsettling. “George roped me in,” you said, the corners of your mouth lifting as you bit your lower lip, a teasing gesture that did not go unnoticed. “But I’m fairly certain that testing any of your experiments would have me checking in at St. Mungo’s faster than you could say ‘Fainting Fancies.’”

Fred’s smirk deepened, eyes glinting like molten copper beneath the shop’s enchanted lamps. The shadows played across his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the hint of a dimple that only appeared when he was especially pleased with himself. “Can’t argue with that,” he said, voice dropping into that husky, conspiratorial tone that always made your pulse dance. The slight wink he tossed in your direction was almost too much, a playful punctuation that left the air crackling between you.

For a moment, the world around you seemed to dim, the noise and bustle of the shop fading into a muffled backdrop. The energy between you hummed, an invisible thread that had connected you both for years—woven from quick-witted exchanges that left your hearts thumping, subtle brushes of hands that lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary, and stolen glances that spoke in a language neither of you dared put to words. This was how it always was: a dance, a game, an endless conversation that teetered on the edge of something more.

Before either of you could break the silence, George’s voice pierced the moment, booming from across the shop where he stood surrounded by boxes and half-finished contraptions. “Fred, if you’re done trying to charm (Y/N), I could use your help with the Skiving Snackboxes!” His tone was loud and mock-exasperated, but it carried a fondness that only a brother could manage.

Fred’s eyes rolled dramatically, but a reluctant smile tugged at his lips as he turned to glare at George. The momentary interruption broke the spell, but not the tension. His gaze swung back to you, the spark in it now softened to something almost tender, almost shy. “Duty calls,” he said, but his voice dipped, wrapping around the words as if they were meant only for you. “But don’t go anywhere, yeah?” It wasn’t a question so much as a quiet request, laced with a sincerity that sent your heart stumbling over its next beat.

A blush rose to your cheeks, warm and unbidden, and you nodded, unable to keep the smile from breaking across your face. “Not planning on it,” you answered, the words feeling like a promise, light but solid.

As Fred turned away, the spell wasn’t completely broken. His movements, usually quick and purposeful, seemed to linger as if he, too, felt the weight of what had passed between you. Your eyes followed him as he crossed the shop, and though the chaos of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes buzzed around you—shelves bursting with colorful, enchanted goods and the soft puffs of smoke from a forgotten trick candle—it wasn’t the spark of magic that captured your attention.

It was him. The subtle shift of his shoulders beneath his shirt, the way he glanced back at you just once, his eyes holding yours for a heartbeat before he turned away. The look was fleeting, but it spoke volumes: anticipation, unsaid words, and the easy familiarity of someone who knew you better than most. It settled between you like a shared secret, leaving the room feeling both too small and brimming with possibilities.

The laughter of a nearby child and the sudden pop of a Decoy Detonator brought you back to the present, but the lingering warmth of Fred’s gaze refused to fade. It stayed with you, a whisper of promise and a question left unanswered, weaving itself into the fabric of the moment and making your chest ache with a kind of happy, hopeful longing.

The last dregs of sunlight bathed Diagon Alley in a honeyed glow, casting long, golden streaks that stretched through the tall front windows of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. The shop, usually a riot of chatter and clatter, had fallen into an almost sacred silence. The laughter and footsteps that had filled the space earlier were gone, leaving only the occasional creak of wood and the soft rustle of your breath. You sat perched on a stool behind the counter, its surface polished smooth by years of bustling activity. The warm glow of the enchanted lamps flickered around you, casting playful shadows that made the shelves seem to dance, each jar and trinket catching the light and shimmering like captured stars.

George had finished his closing routine hours ago, with a grin and a cheerful comment about meeting Angelina before disappearing into the night, the final echo of the door’s bell trailing after him like a sigh. Now, it was just you and Fred, and the quiet of the shop seemed deeper, filled with an undercurrent that made your skin prickle.

Fred stood a few paces away, leaning against the counter with a kind of effortless grace that drew your eyes. The soft, amber light spilled over him, highlighting the tousled red of his hair and the way it caught on the line of his jaw. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing freckled forearms that spoke of summer days spent under the sun and long hours tinkering with inventions. The freckles, scattered like a constellation, followed the gentle curve of his muscles, a detail that held your attention a moment too long.

His eyes met yours, glancing up from the rows of small, glittering bottles he was carefully aligning. They flicked back to the task at hand, but not before you caught the glint of mischief that had become as familiar to you as your own heartbeat. The silence between you was thick with the unspoken—shared jokes, stolen glances, moments that had tiptoed to the edge of something deeper but never quite crossed.

“So, (Y/N),” Fred finally said, breaking the stillness with that voice that always seemed to balance somewhere between playful and daring. There was a spark in his tone that made your fingers tighten against the counter’s edge. “Ever wonder what happens when the shop closes?”

A smirk pulled at your lips as you tilted your head, raising an eyebrow. “I’d hazard a guess that it involves you and George setting off fireworks or testing things that’ll inevitably get you on the Ministry’s bad side.” Your voice was steady, teasing, but there was a thrum in your chest that spoke of anticipation.

Fred’s chuckle was low, warm, and impossibly magnetic. It rippled through the quiet, settling in your bones and sending a pleasant shiver racing down your spine. He straightened, pushing away from the counter with a languid ease and crossing the distance between you in a few strides. When he stopped, he was close enough that you had to tip your chin up to meet his gaze, the small space between you charged with a current that seemed to hum just beneath your skin.

“Well, tonight, you’re in luck,” he murmured, eyes crinkling at the corners as they locked onto yours. The way he looked at you—like he was memorizing the curve of your lips and the light in your eyes—made your breath catch. He lifted one hand, and in it, a small vial glimmered, the liquid inside a mesmerizing swirl of gold that reflected the light like liquid sun.

Your pulse quickened, thrumming against your ribs like a wild drumbeat. Fred’s expression softened, watching you with a kind of quiet intensity as if this moment were something rare. “And what exactly is that?” you asked, trying to keep your voice from betraying the way your heart raced. You could feel it—a flutter of nerves mixed with the sharp spike of excitement. The question hung between you, heavy with curiosity and the promise of the unexpected.

His gaze dipped to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes, a knowing smile curving his mouth. “Something special,” he said, voice lowering to a near whisper, sending warmth cascading through you. The words seemed to tangle in the air between you, waiting, tempting, as the moment stretched like a taut string, ready to snap.

“A little something we’ve been working on. Enhances your senses,” Fred said, his voice dipping to a softer, almost velvet tone that seemed to wrap around you like a whisper in the dark. The shop, with its kaleidoscope of bright colors and enchanted trinkets, suddenly seemed dimmer, the space between you charged with a heat that made the air feel thick. “Every touch, every sound, everything becomes sharper,” he continued, the promise in his words igniting a spark low in your belly.

You swallowed hard, the room shrinking until it felt as if the walls were pressing in, leaving just the two of you caught in this magnetic pull. Fred leaned in closer, the subtle scent of him—a mix of cedar, smoke, and something uniquely Fred—enveloping you. His proximity was dizzying, and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips, even as your pulse quickened. “Fred, is this one of those things where I end up with purple hair for a week?” you asked, aiming for humor to steady yourself, though your voice came out shakier than intended.

“No side effects,” he said, his grin widening into a playful smirk, eyes glinting with a mix of sincerity and that irresistible touch of mischief that always seemed to dance there. He leaned in, his breath brushing against your cheek, close enough that you felt the warmth of it. “I swear on my broomstick. Trust me, love?”

The question settled between you, weighted and electric, the words hanging like a challenge. The way he looked at you then—eyes dark, mouth barely a breath away from yours—made the room tilt. You felt the question reverberate in the thrum of your heart, in the way your skin seemed to hum under the golden glow of the lamps. Slowly, you nodded, the playful tension that had danced between you all evening sparking into something deeper, something more.

Fred’s smile shifted, a flicker of warmth softening the sharp edge of his grin as he uncorked the vial, the sound of it popping open far louder than it should have been. The glimmering gold liquid caught the light, refracting tiny prisms that seemed to shimmer with possibility. His eyes never left yours as he handed you the vial, fingers brushing yours—a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of warmth up your arm, lingering like an echo.

You lifted the vial to your lips, the cool glass pressing against your skin before the liquid slid over your tongue. It tasted like citrus and starlight, bright and unfamiliar. The heat that followed was immediate, blooming in your chest and spreading outwards, tendrils of fire igniting each nerve ending one by one. You shivered, the sensation both strange and addictive, making the room feel brighter, sharper.

Fred’s eyes darkened as he watched you, his gaze tracing the flush that spread across your cheeks, the way your lashes fluttered as the magic coursed through you. His expression was unreadable for a moment, a blend of fascination and something deeper, almost reverent. “Feel anything yet?” he asked, the words almost a murmur, and as he stepped closer, the space between you seemed to sizzle.

“Yeah,” you whispered, the simple word catching in your throat as your fingertips tingled and your heartbeat drummed loud and insistent in your ears. The room felt alive, each creak of the floorboards, each distant whir of a clock in the corner, amplified. But none of that mattered. It was Fred’s gaze holding you captive, the slow way he reached out and let a single calloused finger trace the line of your jaw, the touch so feather-light it made your breath hitch.

The trail of his touch left a path of fire in its wake, and he leaned in further, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, lingering as if testing the waters. His eyes searched yours, an unspoken question there, an invitation. The charged silence stretched, and the only thing you could hear was the erratic pounding of your pulse. Your breath shuddered as you felt the weight of the moment shift, tipping past the point of return.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice a rich, molten sound that seemed to sink into your skin and light up every nerve. The way he said it was more than a word—it was a promise, dark and thrilling. His fingers cupped your face, the rough pads of his thumb brushing over your cheek in a touch that was somehow both tender and possessive. The warmth of his other arm slipped around your waist, drawing you flush against him until there was no space left, only the intoxicating press of his body, solid and fiercely real.

The heat radiating from him seeped into you, chasing any coherent thought away as his lips found yours. The kiss was not gentle; it was fierce and unapologetic, as if he had waited for this moment longer than he’d admit, a hunger finally given release. His mouth moved over yours with a fervor that left you breathless, a perfect blend of heat and urgency. You responded in kind, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, nails digging in enough to make him draw a sharp breath that vibrated between your lips.

The potion’s effects rippled through you, amplifying each shift of his lips, each slide of his tongue, until it felt as though the world itself spun around you. The warmth that had ignited in your chest spread in hot waves, coiling lower, making everything sharper, more vivid. You were dimly aware of the way his hands tightened on you, the flex of his muscles under your touch, before you realized he’d lifted you effortlessly onto the counter. The hard edge bit into the backs of your thighs, grounding you for a moment in the storm of sensation.

Fred’s eyes met yours as he pulled back, his pupils blown wide, dark and smoldering as they roamed over your face. His breath came in ragged pulls, chest heaving with the same urgency you felt. “If this is too much—” he started, voice rough, words catching as if even the question cost him effort.

You shook your head quickly, fingers curling tighter around the back of his neck, tugging him close. “Don’t you dare stop,” you whispered, your voice a low tremble that barely contained the ache surging through you.

His grin was immediate, wicked and laced with satisfaction, a look that made your pulse race faster. “As you wish, love,” he whispered against your lips before claiming them again, deeper this time, with a focus that bordered on worshipful. His hand remained firm at your hip, anchoring you while the other moved, skimming up the curve of your waist. Each brush of his fingers left a trail of heat that made you shiver, anticipation twisting and coiling low in your belly.

His touch dipped to the hem of your skirt, fingers finding purchase and dragging it upward, the scrape of fabric against your skin only adding to the fire building between you. The feel of him, so close, so intent, was a heady mix of desire and reassurance. His hand squeezed your thigh, the pressure enough to make your breath hitch and your heartbeat drum wildly in your chest.

Every moment stretched and blurred, each sensation heightened to a fever pitch. The low rasp of his voice, the press of his hips against yours, and the way his body seemed to fit perfectly against yours made it impossible to think beyond this—beyond him. The world outside the shop dissolved into the background, leaving only the soft glow of the lamps and the charged silence, broken only by shared, breathless gasps.

The anticipation crackled between you, hot and relentless, as Fred’s eyes met yours once more, a silent question and a spark of mischief that promised there was still more to come.

“Stay still,” he commanded softly, the words grazing your ear like the whisper of silk, sending a shiver down your spine. His lips barely brushed the delicate skin just below your earlobe, and the warmth of his breath curled around you, making it hard to hold back the tremor that threatened to break your composure. The command was gentle but unyielding, more than a simple request—it was a promise, binding the air between you with an intensity that made your heart stutter and sent heat pooling deep in your core. Your chest rose and fell in rapid succession as you nodded, eyes closing against the wave of sensation.

Fred’s mouth curved into a satisfied smirk, even as he leaned in, his lips tracing a slow path along the curve of your jaw and down the side of your neck. He moved deliberately, finding the sensitive spots that made your breath catch, each kiss igniting sparks that fanned out like wildfire beneath your skin. The room seemed to narrow to just this—just the heat of him pressed close, the tantalizing brush of his mouth, and the way his stubble grazed your skin with a delicious roughness that made you gasp.

Your back arched involuntarily, the motion instinctive, a silent plea to close the almost unbearable distance between your bodies. Fred’s arm tightened around your waist in response, holding you firm, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The pressure of his body against yours was intoxicating, and the room spun with the heady mix of desire and the faint crackle of magic that pulsed in the air. Somewhere behind you, a trinket sputtered to life with a faint whir and spark, but the noise barely registered in the haze that enveloped you both.

The only sounds that mattered were the mingling of your breaths, ragged and uneven, and the low hum that resonated in Fred’s throat as he took his time, worshiping the line of your neck with practiced ease. His lips moved lower, tasting and teasing, each deliberate kiss making your skin flush hot under the warm glow of the shop’s lamps. The light wrapped around you like a golden shroud, highlighting the slight sheen on your skin and casting shadows that flickered with the movement of his head as he explored.

Each moment felt sharper, more defined, as if time itself had slowed to savor every detail. The pressure of his arm anchored you, while his other hand found its way up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head just enough to give him better access. The simple touch was possessive, reverent, and it made a new surge of heat coil in your stomach. Your pulse thundered in your ears, drowning out everything but the slick, intoxicating symphony of heartbeats, breath, and the low murmurs that slipped between his lips.

Every second crackled with unspoken possibilities, each heartbeat a testament to the space you occupied together. The rest of the world could have fallen away, leaving just you and Fred and the uncharted territories mapped between skin and whispered commands. Nothing else mattered—not the ticking of clocks, not the fading light outside the shop’s windows, not the lingering echoes of laughter that had once filled the room. All that existed was the tightrope of anticipation that stretched between you and Fred, sparking like embers, daring one of you to push it further.

And as he drew back, just enough for his eyes to find yours, dark and laced with mischief, you knew that this moment was just the beginning.

The shop was bathed in a hush, shadows pooling in the corners and stretching languidly across the floor, broken only by the flickering glow of the enchanted lamps that cast pools of golden light. The world outside was a distant memory; in this space, only the two of you existed, tangled in a moment that defied the ticking of the clock. Your heart thudded hard in your chest, each beat reverberating through your body like a drum, as Fred’s eyes swept over you—dark, intense, brimming with a hunger that made your pulse stutter.

His fingers, warm and roughened from years of crafting jokes and pranks, brushed up the length of your thighs, the touch slow and deliberate. The soft rustle of fabric as he pushed your skirt higher made the air thicken, pressing down on you with a palpable weight. Each breath you drew felt laden, each tiny shift magnified by the lingering effects of the potion coursing through your veins. It was as if every whisper of movement, every brush of skin, sent a jolt of electricity sparking through you, setting your nerves ablaze.

“You’re stunning, you know that?” Fred’s voice was low, a gravelly rumble that seemed to seep into your very skin. The sincerity that threaded through the heat in his tone made something inside you tighten, warmth blooming in your chest and spreading outward until you felt both rooted in place and light as air. The words stole your response before it could form, leaving only the shallow, uneven rise and fall of your breath.

Before you could regain your composure, his lips captured yours again. The kiss was insistent, demanding, and it tasted of longing that had been simmering far too long. It was the kind of kiss that claimed and gave in equal measure, pulling you under so completely that the world around you seemed to blur at the edges. His hand slid behind you, fingers pressing into the small of your back as he drew you even closer, so close that you felt every heartbeat, every tremor, aligned perfectly with his.

“Fred,” you gasped, the name slipping out unbidden as he left your lips to trail a path down your neck. His mouth was hot, each kiss open and searing as it met the sensitive skin, igniting a chain reaction that sent shivers racing over your skin. When he paused at the curve of your collarbone, the faint scrape of his teeth grazing just enough to make your body tense and then melt, a soft sound escaped you, half-whisper, half-sigh.

He lifted his head, eyes meeting yours with a spark of mischief that never fully left him, even in moments like this. “Hmm?” he murmured, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he spoke. His fingers, which had settled on your thigh, began tracing lazy, teasing circles just above your knee, the touch feather-light but potent enough to make your skin hum with the promise of more.

The potion thrummed through you, amplifying everything—the press of his fingertips, the rush of your blood beneath your skin, the heat of his breath as it fanned across your flushed cheeks. The slight rasp of his stubble as it grazed your neck added another layer of sensation, a delicious contrast to the warmth of his lips and the firmness of his hands. Every nerve in your body seemed to wake at once, straining toward his touch, savoring the way he moved, the way he watched you as though memorizing each reaction.

Time was meaningless, measured only by the whispered touches and the silent, shared anticipation that coiled tighter and tighter, leaving you breathless and aching for whatever would come next.

“Stop teasing,” you managed, though the words barely made it past your lips, breathless and edged with desperation. The response came not as mercy but as the sound of Fred’s chuckle, rich and low, vibrating against your skin where his mouth lingered. The sensation rippled through you, sending a shiver racing down your spine, making you clench your thighs in a futile attempt to steady yourself.

“As you wish,” he murmured, the velvet tone a contrast to the glint in his eyes. It was a promise and a challenge all at once, the corners of his mouth curving into a smirk that told you he had no intentions of making this easy. With a confident grace that set your heart pounding, he drew back, hands warm and sure as they gripped your hips, guiding you to the edge of the counter. The cool surface pressed into the backs of your thighs, grounding you as anticipation twisted in your chest.

The room around you seemed to dissolve, swallowed by the soft, golden glow of the enchanted lamps. The only thing that existed was Fred, now dropping to his knees before you, eyes fixed on yours with a look so intense it stole the breath from your lungs. The heat in his gaze, dark and unwavering, sent another rush of warmth through you, coiling low in your belly and spreading out until you felt liquid, pliant under his touch.

He leaned in, and your breath hitched as his mouth skimmed up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The first brush of his lips was gentle, almost reverent, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Each kiss grew firmer, more insistent, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. The potion’s magic coursed through you, sharpening every sensation until the world narrowed to the points of contact where his skin met yours. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and it made stillness impossible.

Your fingers found their way into his hair, tangling in the unruly, fire-kissed strands and tugging slightly. The low groan that rumbled in his chest resonated through you, sparking a fresh wave of heat that settled low, tight, and wanting. The sound made your pulse race, a quick, erratic drumbeat that echoed in your ears as he paused, lifting his head just enough for his eyes to meet yours.

“Patience,” he said, the single word dripping with a teasing command that both frustrated and thrilled you. His grin was wicked, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief even now, as if this moment was just another game he planned to win. Before you could respond, before you could even draw a proper breath, his head dipped again, and the distance between want and fulfillment disappeared.

When his mouth finally met the place where you ached for him most, the sensation crashed over you like a wave, making you gasp, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. The heat of him, relentless and skilled, combined with the amplified edge of the potion, sent jolts of pleasure singing through your veins. It was impossible to think, to focus on anything but the way he made you feel. Your hands tightened in his hair, the counter digging into your palms as you gripped its edge for stability, a lifeline as your body responded to every deliberate movement.

The soft hum of the shop, the distant clatter of a forgotten gadget sparking in the background, was lost to the rush of your heartbeat and the erratic pattern of your breathing. The tension that had coiled so tightly within you threatened to snap, leaving you trembling, the world around you blurred with the force of sensation. Fred’s hands, firm against your thighs, anchored you, guiding you through the storm, until every nerve in your body sang with the fire only he could ignite.

Fred’s movements were deliberate, each calculated touch and flick designed to strip away your composure piece by trembling piece. His hands, strong and commanding, pressed into your thighs, keeping you open, exposed, and utterly at his mercy. The heat of his palms seared into your skin, grounding you as his mouth worked its magic, tongue tracing intricate, maddening patterns that sent shocks of pleasure racing through your veins. The potion’s effects heightened every sensation, turning each delicate flick and press into a jolt that made your breath stutter, your voice splinter into gasps that broke on his name like a whispered prayer.

Every moment was an exquisite torment, the pressure inside you building relentlessly, coiling tighter and tighter until it bordered on unbearable. The only sounds that reached your ears were the ragged pulls of your breath, the soft rustle of fabric under your quivering fingers, and Fred’s occasional hum of satisfaction, the vibration adding another layer to the storm within you.

“You taste incredible,” he murmured between kisses, his voice rough, the words rolling out like smoke and sparking a new wave of heat that set your nerves alight. His eyes, dark and dilated, flicked up to meet yours, the connection sending a thrill down your spine. Your response was nothing more than a broken moan, caught and lost somewhere between a plea and surrender, as he pushed you closer to that impossible, breathtaking edge. The world around you shrank, fading into a blur until only Fred remained—the feel of him, the taste, the scent—consuming every sense, every thought.

The tension that had been building, wound tight enough to snap, finally did. The release came in a rush, pleasure crashing over you in relentless waves that left you arching against him, your fingers digging into the counter behind you in a desperate bid for stability. The sensation was overwhelming, blinding, a burst of warmth and light that seared through you, leaving you trembling and boneless. Fred stayed with you through it, his hold on your thighs tightening, anchoring you as the tremors rippled out, slowly ebbing into a soft, residual hum that left you dazed and breathless.

You drew in a shaky breath, the rise and fall of your chest erratic as Fred’s strong arms wrapped around you. With an ease that made your pulse quicken, he lifted you off the counter, guiding you towards one of the plush chairs nestled in the corner of the shop. The room felt charged, the remnants of your shared heat thickening the air. The faint glow of the lamps cast shifting pools of light, flickering shadows playing across the walls as if echoing the intensity between you. His eyes never left yours, the dark gleam within them hinting at a promise unfinished, a desire yet to be sated.

Fred sat down, his posture relaxed yet predatory, and pulled you onto his lap in a fluid motion that left you straddling him, knees pressed into the soft cushion on either side of his hips. His hands slid up your sides, the touch roughened by work and warm against your skin, taking the hem of your shirt with them. The anticipation crackled between you, sparking with every inch of fabric that lifted away, baring more of you to the dim light and his admiring gaze.

He paused once the fabric reached your shoulders, his eyes searching yours with a look so intense it stole your breath. The unspoken question in his gaze was met with your nod, your heartbeat drumming out a wild, impatient rhythm. With a final tug, he pulled the shirt over your head and let it fall to the floor, leaving you exposed and vulnerable to the cool air and his unwavering attention.

“You’re perfect,” he said, the words weighted and reverent, resonating deep within you and scattering any lingering doubts or insecurities. His voice was low, a soft rumble that seemed to travel straight through you, making your skin flush anew. The way he looked at you—eyes wide, full of wonder and hunger—made you feel cherished, seen in a way that transcended the physical.

His hands roamed over your curves, fingers tracing the gentle slopes and hollows with a touch that was both possessive and tender. Each pass of his palm over your skin was a silent declaration, a way of mapping you with touch alone, as though committing every line and contour to memory. The feeling was overwhelming, raw and intimate, and it left you teetering between the need to close your eyes and simply feel and the compulsion to watch him as he worshipped you.

His lips found yours again, this time softer, imbued with a depth that made your heart ache even as it stoked the embers of desire still burning in your veins. The kiss was less hurried, more deliberate—a dance of tongues and parted lips that spoke of affection as much as it did want. You shifted on his lap, your thighs tightening as the solid press of him beneath you stirred a fresh wave of anticipation that curled low and hot in your belly.

Fred’s hands slid to your hips, fingers flexing as he guided you, helping you find a rhythm that sent sparks of pleasure skittering through both of you. The friction built slowly, deliciously, each movement drawing gasps and shallow breaths from your lips that mingled with his own. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, mouth parting as a sound escaped him—a sound that told you he was as undone as you were, as lost in the sensations and the moment.

The room seemed to hum with the energy between you, each shift, each press of your bodies against one another igniting the space with unspoken promises. The quiet groans, the soft hitch of breath, the subtle creak of the chair beneath you—all of it blurred together into a symphony that only the two of you could hear, drowning out everything else. The world outside the shop, the flicker of the lamps, even the magic that hummed faintly in the air—all of it faded to the background, leaving only the two of you and the consuming heat that bound you together.

The room around you seemed to dissolve into a hazy blur as your bodies moved in perfect sync, each movement stoking the embers of shared desire. The air was thick with heat, each breath labored, mingling with whispered names that passed between your lips like sacred incantations. The quiet hum of magic that surrounded the shop, usually a background comfort, now pulsed like a heartbeat, adding to the electric charge that threaded through the space.

Fred’s eyes remained locked on yours, their usual mischief replaced with an intensity that made your breath catch. Even as the rhythm between you grew faster, more desperate, his gaze didn’t waver. It spoke volumes, a silent conversation that said more than any words could: that this was real, that it was shared, and that he was wholly here with you. His hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing into your skin with a possessive strength that anchored you, holding you steady as the storm between you built to a fever pitch.

When release finally claimed you, it came in a rush that seemed to pull the air from your lungs, the tension unraveling in a white-hot wave that left you shuddering. Fred’s grip tightened, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he followed you into that blissful abyss, the two of you caught in a moment that felt suspended in time. The echo of it hummed in your bones, and your body collapsed against his, muscles trembling as you both struggled to catch your breath.

His arms wrapped around you, strong and reassuring, drawing you close until your cheek rested against the rapid thud of his heartbeat. The aftershocks coursed through you both, little tremors that left you breathless and weak, a soft sigh slipping from your lips as the world began to right itself. The shop, with its dimly flickering lamps and quiet creaks, seemed almost reverent in its silence, as though even the lingering magic respected this moment between you.

Fred pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips warm and lingering, the gesture a blend of tenderness and exhaustion. The subtle scent of him—woodsmoke and spice—wrapped around you, grounding you further in the here and now. His fingers, now gentle, traced lazy patterns along your back, the touch soothing and intimate, a silent promise that this wasn’t just a fleeting moment.

“I think we might need to test more of that potion,” he said, the corners of his lips curling into a tired, contented grin that made your heart squeeze with affection.

A chuckle bubbled up, soft and genuine, and you tilted your head to press a kiss to the sharp edge of his jaw, where the faint stubble rasped pleasantly against your lips. “I’d say it passed,” you murmured, the words punctuated by the faint crackle of the lamps, which flickered as if in agreement.

The shop settled into a comfortable stillness, the warmth of your bodies pressed close, the steady rise and fall of your breaths intertwining. It felt like a secret kept in the glow of the lamps and the quiet hum of magic—a secret that was yours, wrapped in the soft aftermath and the shared, unspoken promise of more moments like this to come.

Soft, golden rays of morning sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, painting warm stripes that danced across the wooden floor and climbed the walls. The room was hushed, a stark contrast to the usual cacophony of chatter, laughter, and bursts of magic that filled it during the day. The early dawn seemed to hold its breath, embracing the quiet as if it were something sacred. Your eyes blinked open slowly, the remnants of sleep falling away as the memories of last night washed over you in gentle waves—snippets of laughter that had bubbled between kisses, heated whispers exchanged in the dim glow, the unguarded moments that left a soft, lingering warmth in your chest.

The air carried a calm stillness, and as you shifted slightly, the comforting weight of Fred’s arm draped over your waist became more pronounced. His breath was steady and warm against your shoulder, each exhale a gentle reassurance that anchored you in place. The plush bed beneath you, worn in from years of shared stories and stolen moments, creaked softly as you turned to face him. The sound blended with the muffled stirrings of the early morning outside, where the world was only just waking up.

Fred’s face was softened by sleep, the perpetual mischief that usually sparked in his eyes momentarily at rest. A hint of a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth, as if even in dreams, he found reasons to be amused. Freckles, scattered like constellations, stood out on his nose and cheeks, illuminated by the tender light that spilled over both of you. You reached out instinctively, tracing one of those freckles with a touch so light it was almost reverent. The skin beneath your fingertips was warm, the gesture small but filled with a quiet affection that made your chest tighten.

At your touch, Fred’s eyes fluttered open, the soft brown depths catching the light and pulling it in, making them glow with a gentle warmth. It took a heartbeat for his gaze to sharpen, to focus on you, and when it did, a slow, lazy grin spread across his face. “Morning, love,” he murmured, the words wrapped in the rough, gravelly timbre of sleep. The sound was enough to send a pleasant shiver down your spine, sparking a contented hum low in your throat.

“Morning,” you replied, voice softer than a whisper, fingers moving to toy with the tousled strands of his hair. The auburn mess caught the morning light, shifting between shades of flame and copper. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, elastic and forgiving, holding the two of you in a golden sliver of stillness where the rest of the world didn’t matter. It was just the two of you, suspended between the night and the coming day, wrapped in the fragile, perfect quiet.

But as the silence between you lingered, a shadow of doubt crept in, coiling at the edges of your thoughts. The serenity of the morning, as beautiful as it was, seemed almost too delicate, too transient. You wondered if this moment could hold, if the world outside the shop’s walls—filled with noise, expectation, and the relentless march of reality—could ever understand the tenderness that had bloomed here. The uncertainty prickled at the back of your mind, threatening to mar the peace you’d found.

Fred’s eyes, observant even when softened by sleep, seemed to catch the shift in your expression. His hand slid up your back in a slow, reassuring gesture, fingers tracing lazy patterns that said without words that he was here, that this was real. And as the first bird outside began to sing, tentative and sweet, the room seemed to exhale with you, the morning holding its breath just a moment longer.

The memories of last night felt almost too vivid, too tender, to be real. They shimmered in your mind like the remnants of a dream, leaving behind an ache of doubt that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts. What if this was just a fleeting moment, a beautiful spark that would fade in the light of day? The question tightened in your chest, pressing against your ribs as you shifted slightly, breaking the comfortable cocoon of warmth the two of you had shared through the night.

“Fred, about last night…” you began, the words catching in your throat as you sat up, the morning light painting soft golden stripes across your bare skin. The quiet vulnerability in your voice was enough to make him stir, his brow furrowing as he sensed the hesitation lacing your tone. His expression softened, the mischievous glint usually dancing in his eyes replaced by something deeper, more serious. His hand, warm and reassuring, tightened slightly on your hip, a silent tether that held you both in the moment.

“Hey,” he interrupted gently, the word wrapped in a softness that calmed the storm brewing in your chest. He pushed himself up to sit beside you, the creak of the chair beneath shifting with him. His eyes met yours, earnest and open, their familiar warmth now tinged with an intensity that made your heart stumble. He searched your face as if he could read every unspoken fear and soothe them with his gaze alone.

“If you’re worried that it didn’t mean anything, don’t be,” he said, his voice steady, each syllable weighted with conviction.

The pad of his thumb brushed your cheek, the touch so tender it sent a shiver down your spine. It was grounding, pulling you back from the precipice of doubt. The quiet sincerity in his eyes, the way his brows knitted slightly as if willing you to believe him, made the room seem smaller, cozier, as if it held only the two of you and this fragile moment.

 “Last night wasn’t just… a one-off thing, (Y/N). Not for me,” he continued, and his voice dropped to a near whisper, as if saying it any louder would break the spell. The confession hung between you, heavy and achingly real, chasing away the shadow that had lingered in your mind.

A warmth unfurled inside you, starting at the center of your chest and spreading outward, tinged with relief and something deeper that made your eyes prickle. You felt the corners of your mouth lift in a soft, genuine smile, a quiet laugh bubbling up as you leaned into his touch, pressing your cheek into his palm. The gesture was simple but filled with trust, and the vulnerability that had scared you before now felt shared, lighter.

“Good,” you whispered, the single word carrying more weight than you intended, your fingers finding their way to the back of his neck, tracing the edge of his hair. Your eyes, which had momentarily drifted to the curve of his lips, met his again, steady and clear. 

“Because I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want this—didn’t want you.”

Fred’s eyes softened further, a slow, contented grin spreading across his face, crinkling the skin around his eyes in that way that always made your heart flutter. The morning light caught the red in his hair, turning it into a halo of copper and gold, and you felt a sense of peace settle over you, deeper than anything you’d known. The silence that followed was no longer heavy with doubt, but warm, alive with the unspoken promise of more mornings like this one, shared in the quiet stillness before the world stirred.

With a small, almost imperceptible nod, Fred leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, breath mingling in the small space between.

“Then we’re on the same page, love,” he murmured, voice barely more than a sigh, before capturing your lips in a kiss that spoke of assurance, affection, and the certainty that this—you and him—was something worth holding onto.

Fred’s grin turned playful, and with it, the last tendrils of tension unraveling, replaced by the lightness of the moment. His fingers found their way to the curve of your smile, tracing it with a touch that sent a subtle warmth trickling through you. “Well, that’s convenient, isn’t it? Because I plan to make this a regular occurrence,” he said, his tone rich with mock-seriousness and a hint of mischief that made your heart skip. He gestured around the cluttered room, jars and enchanted trinkets glinting in the morning light. “Might even clear a shelf for you here,” he added, the twinkle in his eyes daring you to laugh.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, the playful exasperation bubbling over as a laugh escaped your lips, bright and unburdened. The sound filled the room, resonating against the stacks of spell ingredients and rows of joke products that lined the shelves, creating an echo that seemed to amplify the warmth between you. In that moment, the world outside of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes ceased to exist—no bustling shoppers, no clamor of Diagon Alley—just the two of you in the cocoon of your shared laughter.

Fred’s embrace was quick and effortless, pulling you close until you could feel the steady beat of his heart against yours, his chin resting atop your head for a moment. It was grounding, solid, and you sank into it, letting the familiar scent of him—woodsmoke, cinnamon, and the faintest trace of parchment—wrap around you like a second skin.

He tilted his head down, pressing a kiss to the crown of your hair, his lips lingering as he spoke, voice dropping into that familiar, teasing drawl that made your stomach flutter. “I’ll make breakfast. Well, I’ll attempt it. No promises on how edible it’ll be,” he said, the smile in his tone unmistakable.

“Considering I saw you burn water once, I’m prepared for the worst,” you retorted, a grin splitting your face as you looked up at him. The laughter that followed was soft, shared, and it drew a playful nudge from Fred as he released you, eyes twinkling with the kind of joy that seemed inexhaustible.

He pushed himself up, stretching his arms high over his head, muscles shifting under the thin fabric of his sleep-rumpled shirt. The motion revealed a strip of skin, toned and freckled, catching the sunlight in a way that made your breath hitch and a blush creep up your neck. Fred noticed, his gaze snapping to yours just as your teeth caught your lower lip. The smirk that spread across his face was pure mischief, eyes narrowing slightly as if he’d just caught you red-handed.

“If you keep looking at me like that, breakfast might have to wait,” he warned, the playful lilt in his voice sending a new spark of heat through you. His eyes danced with that familiar challenge, the kind that made your heart skip and your pulse drum a little faster.

You laughed, the sound a little breathier than you intended, but didn’t look away. The quiet intimacy of the moment wrapped around you both, filling the shop with a warmth that had nothing to do with the sunlight streaming through the window. For now, there was no rush, no outside world knocking on the door—just Fred, you, and the golden glow of the morning, full of unspoken promises and the sense that moments like this would soon become part of the everyday tapestry of your life together.