#I could see him specialising in poisonings

[yamujiburo]

Ketchum vs. Ketchum! Showdown in Cerulean City!

Woo! Finale time! I wanted to make this final battle feel special and give it more substance than I could do with just a comic. So! I got the help of @cyberwulf to write out this ending in fanfic form! Check it out here on AO3 if you prefer! If not, the journey continues below the cut~

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James Sidestory / Meowth Sidestory

A lot has happened since our Poké Moms began their journey. After a rocky start…

“*SQUAWK*”

…they’ve managed to catch some new Pokémon…

“Run! Run! Run!”

…in their own way.

“What a cute baby! You know, I have a son, too!”

With their month on the road almost up, Delia had just one more thing she wanted to do…

“I want to beat the Cerulean City Gym!”

But little did Delia know, there was a surprise waiting for her in Cerulean City!

“MOM??? JESSIE???”

“Let’s have a double battle! You and Ash versus Jessie and I!”

“You’re on! But I’m not going easy on you just cuz you’re family!”

“…What’s going on?”

Poké Mom Adventures

EP009

Ketchum vs Ketchum! Showdown in Cerulean City!

The water of the Cerulean gym battlefield glistened in the sunshine streaming through its crystal glass roof. Both teams gazed at each other with steely determination (and some lingering confusion, in Misty’s case) as above them, the Drone Rotom announced the rules.

“This will be a double battle between Gym Leader Misty and Champion Ash, and the challengers Delia and Jessie.” It projected a holographic image of both teams. “For today’s battle, each trainer may use two Pokémon. The battle is over when all of one team’s Pokémon can no longer battle.”

“All right!” Misty declared. “This is an official League battle for the Cascade badge!”

“And bragging rights!” Jessie added with a smirk.

“We’ll see about that!” Ash retorted. Misty glanced at him, taking in his clenched fists and gritted teeth. She’d seen Ash determined before, but… there was something here that she was missing. However, with the Drone Rotom hovering expectantly overhead, finding out what that something was would have to wait.

“Come out – Corsola!”

The Coral Pokémon landed on the rock in front of her, eagerly crying its name.

“This is a water-themed gym, so I’ll go with a Water-Type,” Ash remarked. “Oshawott, I choose you!”

“That’s the spirit, Ash!” Misty exclaimed. “It’s the job of a Gym Leader to help trainers learn type advantage and weaknesses by specialising in one kind of Pokémon, and around here that’s Water-Types!”

“Water, huh?” Jessie frowned as she considered the three Pokémon she had on hand. “Well, I don’t want my delicate little Ziggy to get her fur wet.” With a flourish, she tossed a Pokéball high in the air. “Go, Venomoth!”

The Poison Moth Pokémon emerged, hovering over the water.

“It’s a shame we don’t have any Grass or Electric-types,” Delia mused. “I guess we’ll just have to do our best with what we have.” Pushing her bangs out of her face, she called, “I choose you!”

Ash and Misty’s jaws dropped as the light from Delia’s Pokéball coalesced into a very large, very stern-looking Kangaskhan.

“I didn’t know your mom had such a strong Pokémon,” Misty whispered.

“Neither did I,” Ash whispered back. Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked down at his starter Pokémon. “Something wrong, Pikachu?”

“Pika…”

Pikachu gazed across the water at Kangaskhan, ears and tail up, alert to… something. But before anyone could figure out what had caught his attention, there was a small cry.

“Kangaskhan!”

The baby squirmed, spooked by the glistening water lapping all around the rock. She buried her face in her mother’s belly and cried again. Cradling her young protectively, Kangaskhan gave Delia an apologetic look.

“Oh, of course!” Delia exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. Kangaskhan, return.” Cupping her hands around her mouth, she called across the battlefield. “That doesn’t count as one of my Pokémon, does it?”

“Of course not, Ms. Ketchum!” Misty shouted back. “Please choose another Pokémon!”

“If she’s got one,” Ash said with a confident smirk. “I’m betting she’ll send out Mimey.”

“I choose you… Clefairy!”

“Looks like you bet wrong, Ash,” Misty laughed as Ash stared in surprise at the Fairy Pokémon.

Above them, the Drone Rotom moved into position.

“Begin!”

“All right, Oshawott!” Ash called out. “Open up with an Aqua Jet!”

With a determined cry, Oshawott blasted a jet of water across the field, hitting Clefairy square in the belly and knocking the Fairy Pokémon off the rock and into the water.

“Ash Ketchum!” Delia exclaimed reproachfully. “That wasn’t very nice!”

Thrown off-guard, Ash gulped. “S-sorry!” (Oh man - I can’t believe I’m actually battling my mom!)

On the opposite side of the battlefield, a wet and bedraggled Clefairy clambered back up on the rock ridge, scowling at her attacker.

“Shake it off, Clefairy!” Delia urged as her Pokémon did just that, sending a fine shower of water droplets flying from her pink fur. “Use Disarming Voice!”

With a deep breath, Clefairy shot a vortex of pink hearts towards Oshawott, taking the Sea Otter Pokémon by surprise and knocking him into the water.

“Good work, Deerling!” Jessie shouted triumphantly. “Now it’s my turn!” She pointed at Corsola. “Venomoth, use Poison Sting!”

Venomoth hovered uncertainly for a few moments, then looked back at her.

“It doesn’t look like Venomoth knows that move, honey,” Delia remarked.

“Well, Dustox knew that move!” Jessie protested. “Venomoth should know it too, aren’t they both Bug-types?”

Venomoth just blinked at her.

“You really don’t know what moves your Pokémon knows?” Misty asked incredulously.

“Of course I do, just – just let me think!” Jessie spluttered, clenching her fists. “All right, Venomoth – use Gust!”

Venomoth didn’t move.

“Whirlwind!” Jessie tried. “Psybeam! …Tackle?”

Venomoth looked back and forth between Jessie and the battlefield as it fluttered about agitatedly, utterly confused by the barrage of unfamiliar orders.

“This is just sad,” Misty muttered, getting a nod of agreement from Ash. Raising her voice, she called out, “Corsola! Use Spike Cannon!”

Corsola glowed, and a split second later a shower of glowing white spikes slammed into Venomoth, driving it backwards towards the trainer box.

“Oh, no!” Delia groaned in dismay, wringing her hands. “Maybe we should’ve practiced with our new Pokémon before coming here!”

“We’re not giving up!” Jessie snarled, clenching her fists. “Venomoth! Get back out there!”

With a trill, Venomoth shook off the spikes, and floated towards its opponents again.

“Corsola!” Misty called. “Hit it with another Spike Cannon!”

Corsola began to glow.

“Well don’t just hover there!” Jessie barked out. “It’s about to attack again!” Venomoth looked back at her, and Jessie gestured angrily towards the battlefield. “Just do something! Anything!”

Once more, glowing white spikes shot towards Venomoth. This time, however, Venomoth dove towards the attack, sweeping its wings in front of itself at the last minute. Blue blades of light cut through the barrage of spikes, one hitting Corsola and driving it back.

“That’s Air Slash!” Ash exclaimed.

“Air Slash, eh?” Jessie shot her opponents a triumphant smirk. “Venomoth! Use Air Slash on that pitiful pink Pokémon again!”

“Hang in there, Corsola!” Misty called as her Pokémon was driven back for a second time. “Use Recover!”

“Don’t let it recover, Venomoth!” Jessie yelled. “Air Slash again!”

As her Pokémon geared up for another attack, she noticed Delia gazing at her in rapture.

“You’re so ferocious when you battle, Smoochum,” Delia remarked dreamily. She lowered her voice, waggling her eyebrows. “It’s kinda hot.”

Jessie blushed and giggled. “Baaabe, not in front of the twerps.”

Misty wrinkled her nose in disgust. “…Smoochum?”

“Freak out later, Misty!” Ash yelled. Venomoth was bearing down on Corsola, and the Coral Pokémon didn’t have much left. “Oshawott! Use Hydro Pump on Venomoth to protect Corsola!”

Leaping high into the air, Oshawott sent a powerful jet of water directly at Jessie’s Venomoth. With a cry, the Poison Moth hit the floor between Jessie and Delia, bounced once, and fainted.

“Hey, no fair!” Jessie bellowed, stamping her foot. “I was distracted!” She recalled Venomoth with a scowl. “I ought to ground you for making me look bad!”

“This is really weird,” Misty mumbled.

“You have no idea,” Ash sighed wearily.

“All right, you big blue blob,” Jessie growled to her faithful Patient Pokémon, “get out there and let’s win this thing!”

Saluting, Wobbuffet waddled forward, straight into the water. Jessie pinched the bridge of her nose as Wobbuffet awkwardly clambered up onto the protruding rock.

“Wobbles can’t attack unless he’s attacked first,” Delia murmured to herself. “Oshawott is strong, and Corsola can use Recover to gain back health. That means I’ve got to make this next move count!” She looked to Clefairy, wet and winded but not out of the battle. It was risky, but…

“Clefairy! Use Metronome!”

“Metronome?!” Misty exclaimed as Clefairy began to move her fingers hypnotically back and forth. “Now anything can happen!”

“Hold tight, everybody!” Ash called, just as the Fairy Pokémon’s fingers turned white.

Razor-sharp leaves whipped through the air, striking Oshawott and Corsola. The Grass-Type move was too much for the dual Rock/Water Type, and Corsola collapsed into the water, fainted. Oshawott was driven back against the rock ridge, and Ash held his breath, but the Drone Rotom only counted Corsola out.

“Oshawott! You hanging in there, buddy?”

With a grimace, the Sea Otter Pokémon gave him a determined nod. “Osha!”

“Ha!” Jessie cried triumphantly. “Now we’re even!” She clenched her fists, calling tauntingly across the battlefield. “Who’s next, twerpette? Togepi? Psyduck?”

“She sure is cocky for being down to just Wobbuffet,” Ash muttered.

“Not for long,” Misty replied with a smirk. She plucked her second Pokéball from her hip.

“Go – Gyarados!”

Delia’s eyes widened and Jessie took several steps back as the gigantic Pokémon appeared in the water. It glowered down at both trainers, making Delia swallow hard.

(Now’s not the time to lose my nerve! Gyarados is just a Pokémon like any other. All I have to do is-)

“Hey!” Jessie exclaimed angrily. “No fair using such a powerful Pokémon! What, are Staryu and Starmie at the Pokémon Centre or something?!”

Taken aback, Misty gaped at the former Team Rocket member in disbelief. “Since when do you care about playing fair?”

“Since you decided to use that monstrosity on a first-time trainer!” Jessie retorted with a shake of her fist. “That’s cheating!”

Misty paused, almost second-guessing her choice of Pokémon, when she remembered who she was dealing with. Squaring her shoulders, she shot back, “You’re not a first-time trainer!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Ash muttered.

“I heard that!” Jessie bawled.

“It’s okay, honey,” Delia murmured, placing her hand on Jessie’s shoulder. “We can beat them. We just need to use strategy!”

“Gyarados!” Misty called out. Jessie may not have been the best trainer, and her track record with him was hit or miss, but Wobbuffet could reflect almost any attack. It might just have been luck, but Clefairy’s Metronome had taken out Corsola and left Oshawott just barely hanging on. There was only one choice of target.

“Use Hurricane on Clefairy, now!”

Rearing back, Gyarados shot a powerful blast of air directly at the Fairy Pokémon, sending her flying back to the trainer box.

“Oh no!” Delia cried. She knelt by her stricken Pokémon’s side, but it was obvious even without Drone Rotom saying so that Clefairy couldn’t continue. “You did a wonderful job, Clefairy.” Recalling her Pokémon, she rose, pushed her bangs out of her eyes, and called her second Pokémon.

“Mimey, I choose you!”

Ash clenched his fists. No more surprises – he knew what Mimey was capable of. Oshawott was tough, but he’d taken a lot of damage. If the Sea Otter Pokémon only had one move left, then Ash had to make it count.

“Oshawott! Hit Mimey with Aqua Jet!”

“Mimey, dodge it!” Delia cried out.

The Barrier Pokémon leapt high in the air, leaving Ash to watch, powerless, as Aqua Jet splashed harmlessly on the ground between his mother and Jessie. But before he could call out another attack –

“Now, Mimey, Focus Punch on Oshawott!”

There was no time for Oshawott to get out of the way. Mimey dove straight down, fist outstretched, and scored a direct hit. Both Pokémon vanished underwater. All four trainers held their breath. After a few seconds, Mimey burst out of the water, effortlessly leaping onto the rock. A moment later Oshawott floated to the surface, fainted.

“Good work, Oshawott,” Ash murmured as he recalled his Pokémon. He turned to Pikachu. “Looks like my mom’s a tougher trainer than I thought. You ready, Pikachu?”

The yellow mouse nodded, one tiny fist raised. “Pika!”

“You be nice to us now, Pikachu!” Delia cheered brightly.

Jessie was less optimistic.

“Babe, this isn’t looking good,” she murmured urgently. “I’ve been beaten by that Pikachu a zillion times! And that Gyarados looks strong. And mean! I don’t know if…”

She trailed off as the other woman took her hands.

“Now you listen to me, Jessie Ketchum.” Delia gazed into her eyes, a look of fierce determination on her face. “A zillion battles. A zillion losses. Against that very Pikachu. And you never gave up. So you’re not gonna give up now! Okay?”

Jessie stared back at her. Time seemed to stand still. Delia’s fingers were warm on her own as her words of encouragement hung in the air.

“Jessie… Ketchum?”

With the briefest of nods, Delia turned to face their opponents.

“Ash honey, don’t you hold back just because I’m your mom!” she called. “We’re going to give it our all, even if we lose!”

“She’s a lot like you, Ash,” Misty laughed. As Ash tugged the brim of his hat down to hide his blush, she raised her voice and called to the challengers. “You’re doing great, Ms. Ketchum! I’m really impressed by your abilities as a trainer. Now show me you’re worthy of the Cascade badge!”

“Hey!” Jessie yelled indignantly. “What am I, chopped liver?! My Venomoth pushed your Corsola to the brink!”

Misty grimaced. This was all still too strange – Jessie was a good guy? Jessie and Ash’s mom were… partners? She struggled for something positive to say about Jessie’s performance so far.

“Uh – yeah!” she managed. “It was, uh, really great how you figured out that one move.”

Jessie put her hands on her hips. “Ugh, could you sound any more insincere?!”

With a growl of impatience, Ash cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled across the battlefield. “Hey! Are we gonna battle or what?”

“Oh, we’re battling, twerp,” Jessie shot back. “And we’re gonna win!”

Ash grinned. “You ready, Pikachu?” The yellow Pokémon turned to look at his trainer. Ash pointed. “Quick attack!”

“Ha!” Jessie scoffed as Pikachu zigzagged along the rock ridge. “Wobbuffet, use Counter!”

Pikachu leaped forward…

“On Mimey!”

Delia and Jessie gasped as Pikachu pivoted and went straight for the Barrier Pokémon. Taken by surprise, he took the full brunt of the attack, losing his balance and hitting the water.

“A fake out!” Delia exclaimed. She beamed at her son with pride. “That was so smart of you, honey! You had us completely fooled!”

“Baaabe!” Jessie hissed. “I get that you care about him – I do too – but right now he’s the enemy!”

Delia tapped her fist against her head, grinning nervously. “Oh, right!”

“This is hurting my brain,” Misty groaned.

“How do you think I feel?” Ash grumbled.

Delia took a moment to centre herself and assess the situation. Pikachu didn’t have a Type advantage, but his Electric attacks were powerful – not to mention that Mimey was still wet. Of course, using them ran the risk of electrifying the entire battlefield, including Gyarados, but only one Pokémon needed to be left standing in order for that Pokémon’s team to win.

“Mimey!” she commanded. “Use Psychic on Pikachu!”

“Mr Mime!”

Mimey fixed Pikachu with an intense stare, his eyes and hands glowing blue. Blue light enveloped the yellow mouse as he was lifted into the air. Pikachu strained and struggled, but couldn’t break free.

Ash groaned in exasperation.

“Misty, go for Mimey!” he called. “If you weaken him, maybe Pikachu can break free. Plus, he’s a lot stronger than Wobbuffet!”

Misty nodded. “Right!”

“Hey!” Jessie objected. “Just because it’s true doesn’t mean you have to say it!” She shook her fist at them. “I raised you better than that, Ash Ketchum!”

“Wha – ” Ash took a step back, flabbergasted. “You didn’t raise me at all!”

“The heck I didn’t!” Jessie retorted. “Who kept an eye on you while you twerped your way through eight regions, huh?!”

Misty rubbed her temples. The whole situation was giving her a headache.

“Gyarados!”

The Atrocious Pokémon stirred itself and looked her way.

“Use Crunch on Mr. Mime, now!”

“Oh no, not Crunch!” Delia fretted, as Gyarados reared back, a sinister purple aura swirling around its fangs. “That’s a Dark-Type move!”

“Wobbuffet!” Jessie barked. “Get between Mimey and Gyarados and use Counter!”

Saluting, Wobbuffet leaped in front of Mimey, his body outlined in orange light. Crunch hit, hard, and bounced back twice as hard. Both Gyarados and Wobbuffet recoiled from the damage.

“Wobbles!” Delia cried out, as Mimey caught Wobbuffet in his arms.

“Don’t you quit on me now, Wobbuffet!” Jessie shouted.

Wobbuffet saluted weakly as Mimey pushed him back onto his paws. The distraction worked, and Pikachu dropped back to the rock, freed from Psychic.

“Keep the pressure on, Pikachu!” Ash yelled. “Use Iron Tail on Mimey, now!”

“Quick, Mimey!” Delia shouted as Pikachu somersaulted through the air, tail glowing white. “Use Reflect!”

Pikachu hit the invisible barrier and flew backwards, landing in the water.

“Gyarados!” Misty commanded. “Use Crunch again!”

“Mimey, keep using Reflect!” Delia shouted. “Don’t let them in!” She had to think. Poor Wobbles, he didn’t have much left – one more shot from that big Gyarados and that would be it. Not to mention that if Crunch hit Mimey, the battle would be over! She’d completely forgotten Gyarados could learn that move! Oh, maybe she should’ve used Zaggy instead…

Mimey obediently continued to use Reflect as Gyarados and Pikachu attacked from either side. Slowly the invisible barriers began to box them in, till Mimey and Wobbuffet were crowded together on the rock.

“Babe!” Jessie urged. “We have to do something or we’re gonna lose!”

“I know!” Delia groaned. “I just…” She cupped her face in her hands, pulling down on her cheeks. “…I don’t know!”

“Ms Ketchum!”

Delia lifted her head.

“You can’t let us back you into a corner!” Misty called. “Use your environment to find a way out!”

Ash shot her a glare. “Hey, whose side are you on?!”

“It’s my job as a Gym leader to help trainers to learn,” Misty explained with a smile. “Did you forget?”

“You didn’t help me when I battled you for the first time!” Ash replied indignantly, poking his thumb into his chest.

Misty glowered at him.

“That’s because you still owed me a new bike, Ash Ketchum!”

“Aaagh!” Ash placed both hands on his head, tugging his hat down. “Can’t you let that go already? It got repaired, didn’t it?”

While their opponents bickered, Delia had taken Misty’s words to heart.

“Use the environment…” she mused. There was only one place Mimey and Wobbles could go – but first they had to do something about the double attacks coming their way.

“Jessie!” she hissed, beckoning her partner to come closer. “Can you have Wobbles use Counter?”

Jessie looked at Wobbuffet, sweating nervously as he stood behind Mimey. She nodded.

“Okay,” Delia replied. She whispered quickly in the other woman’s ear. Jessie grinned, then straightened up.

“Wobbuffet! Use Counter on both those attacks!”

Without any hesitation, Wobbuffet moved in front of Mimey, body once more enveloped in an orange glow. Crunch and Iron Tail came back double on Gyarados and Pikachu, sending the two flying backwards. Both Pokémon landed hard on the rock, Gyarados almost wrapping around it with the force of the blow.

“On your feet, Pikachu!” Ash called. “It’s not over yet! …Huh?”

He blinked at the empty battlefield. Mimey and Wobbuffet had both disappeared. Ash tensed as he scoured the water for any sign of the enemy Pokémon, but the surface was still settling from the last bout of attacks. The sunlight streaming through the roof didn’t help either – it made the rippling water glitter.

Misty spotted movement a second too late.

“Look out-”

In tandem, Mimey and Wobbuffet burst through the surface, taking up positions either side of Gyarados and Pikachu, trapping their opponents between them.

“Good work, you two!” Delia cheered. She pointed dramatically. “Now, Mimey – use Psychic on both of them!”

Once more, Mimey’s eyes and hands glowed. Both Gyarados and Pikachu rose into the air, enveloped in blue light.

“Great strategy, Ms. Ketchum!” Misty called, earning a dirty look from Ash which she ignored. “There’s no point going for Wobbuffet – he’ll just Counter our attacks again.”

“Right,” Ash agreed. “We’ve gotta take out Mimey!” He raised his voice. “Pikachu!”

Misty did likewise. “Gyarados!”

Delia grinned. “Just as I thought.” She looked at her partner. “Get ready with Mirror Coat!”

Jessie blinked in confusion. “…Huh?”

“Thunderbolt –”

“Hydro Pump –”

“On Mimey!” both young trainers yelled in unison.

“Mimey!” Delia called, just as both Pokémon charged their attacks. “Drop them, use Light Screen and aim at Wobbles!”

“Aim at WHO?!” Jessie exclaimed.

There was no time to explain. Everything turned on a split second. Pikachu and Gyarados began to fall through the air. Several volts of electricity and a powerful torrent of water hit Mimey’s Light Screen and barrelled towards Wobbuffet.

The diabolical beauty of Delia’s devious plan suddenly caught up with Jessie. That pair of pathetic Pokémon were in for a –

“Now, honey!”

Jessie almost fumbled the command.

“M-Mirror Coat!”

Wobbuffet glowed, shrouded in a reflective aura. Everything seemed to slow down. The attacks hit. They bounced back at Mimey. Pikachu and Gyarados fell. Ash’s mouth opened in a silent noooo.

The timing was perfect.

Gyarados and Pikachu fell in front of Mimey, taking the full brunt of Thunderbolt and Hydro Pump, doubled by Mirror Coat. The sheer force of the attacks drove them along the surface of the water, causing huge plumes of water to rise into the air either side of them. The battlefield disappeared in a shroud of surf and spray.

“Pikachu!” Ash cried out.

All four trainers held their breath as the mist began to clear.

Jessie cried out in dismay on seeing Wobbuffet floating belly-up in the water. Ash groaned on spotting Pikachu doing likewise. Draped over the rock, Gyarados lifted its head weakly, then dropped it again.

Delia scanned the water, a smile spreading across her face as Mimey swam to the rock and clambered up, standing tall with a cry of, “Mr. Mime!”

“Wobbuffet, Pikachu, and Gyarados are unable to battle,” the Drone Rotom declared, as Ash sank to his knees. “The winners are the challengers, Delia and Jessie!”

“I… I can’t believe this…” Ash moaned.

“We…” Jessie couldn’t stop staring at the battlefield, Drone Rotom’s words ringing in her ears. “…we won?” She looked to Delia, and the joyful look on her face confirmed it. “We WON!!!”

Delia shrieked as Jessie caught hold of her and lifted her high in the air, doing a twirl before setting her back on her feet and peppering her face with kisses. “Hahahaha!” She turned to their opponents, pulling down on one eyelid while sticking her tongue out. “Suck it, twe – I mean, Ash and Misty! I knew this day would come sooner or later!”

“Jessica, I know you’re happy, but don’t be a bad winner,” Delia chided gently. “Magnanimity in victory goes a long way.”

“But baaaabe!” Jessie whined. “I’ve never had a victory this magnificent before!”

Delia just smiled and gave her a peck on the lips. “I think poor Wobbles wants you,” she remarked, nodding to the battlefield. “We’ll need to get him to a Pokémon Centre with Venomoth and Clefairy.”

Jessie nodded and went to haul Wobbuffet out of the water.

“Come on, you,” she grunted as she dragged the Patient Pokémon back onto dry land. Briefly she removed her cap and wiped the sweat from her brow. Fine, so she couldn’t taunt the twerps any more. Victory still tasted pretty sweet.

In her arms, Wobbuffet stirred and smiled weakly up at her. Jessie couldn’t help but smile back.

“How about that?” she murmured to him. “You’re a winner, Wobbuffet. I bet you can’t wait to tell the others.”

He managed a salute and a quiet “Wobba…” before Jessie recalled him to his Pokéball.

Ash, meanwhile, remained on his knees in the trainer box. “I can’t believe we lost to my mom.”

“You gotta admit, that last strategy was a thing of beauty,” Misty replied with a smile. She’d made her way out to the rock and was cradling Gyarados’s head, absently rubbing its crest. The big Pokémon opened its eyes and let out a quiet rumble. “I guess now we know where you get your battling skills from, champ!”

Stepping out of her sneakers, Delia carefully negotiated the slippery rock and fished Pikachu out of the water. A couple of vigorous rubs from his head to his tail, and the Electric Mouse Pokémon opened his eyes.

“You were great, Pikachu,” Delia murmured. She tickled him under his chin, getting a weak “Chaaa” in response. She made her way back to the side of the battlefield to find Ash, Misty and Jessie waiting. “You were great too, honey.”

Ash managed a smile as she handed Pikachu to him. “Thanks, Mom.” He gasped as he was pulled into a hug.

“That was such a fun battle!” Delia exclaimed. She loosened her hold just enough to look at him. “I can see why you like this so much.”

“Watch out, Ash,” Misty teased. “You might just have a new rival on your hands!”

Ash let out a distressed yelp.

“Oh no, I don’t have time for that,” Delia assured him with a wave of her hand. As Ash sighed with relief, she cupped his cheek and tilted his head up to look at him. “But travelling around this past month and battling with you today… it’s made me feel a little bit closer to you.”

Ash blushed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Aw, Mom,” he mumbled with a grin.

“Ahem.”

Ash and Delia turned to see Misty holding out a Cascade badge.

“This is yours, Ms. Ketchum,” the Gym Leader declared. “You made the battlefield, your Pokémon and their moves work to your advantage. I’m impressed!”

“Oh, you’re too kind, really,” Delia replied, blushing as she accepted the badge. Its blue surface seemed to glitter in the sunlight streaming in from the roof. “I’ll treasure this, always. Thank you.”

“That’s how you win a badge fair and square,” Misty teased, shooting a wink Ash’s way.

The Champion rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

All three turned to see Jessie holding out her hand.

“What about me?” she demanded. “The perfect Pokémon battle partner? Trainer of vicious Venomoth and wild Wobbuffet? Where’s my badge?”

Misty sighed. Jessie had been on the winning team, and she had won a badge fair and square, but the whole situation was still bizarre.

“I’ll give you a badge if you explain what all…” She waved her hand between Jessie and Delia. “…this is about.”

“Delia and I dating,” Jessie scoffed with a shrug. “It’s not that complicated.”

“I got that part,” Misty shot back irritatedly, “I just…” She looked from Jessie, standing with her arms crossed, to Ms. Ketchum, who had one hand on Jessie’s hip, to Ash, who looked like he was hoping the floor would open up and swallow him. “…you know what, never mind.” Reaching into her pocket, she took out a second Cascade badge.

“I can’t believe this is happening, but… you earned this!”

Jessie let out a little cry of joy as Misty put the badge into her hand.

“Oh, Deerling, look how pretty it is!” she gushed. “Do you think maybe we could just get the prettiest Gym badges?”

“I don’t see why not,” Delia replied. “With James to run the restaurant, I can take vacations more often!”

“James is –” Misty glared at Ash, who pulled the brim of his cap down and giggled nervously. “We’re going to the Pokémon Centre and then you’re telling me what’s been going on, Ash Ketchum!”

“Let’s all go to the Pokémon Centre,” Delia suggested. “Our Pokémon battled hard today, they deserve a good rest.”

It wasn’t long before Nurse Joy’s tender care had Venomoth, Corsola, Oshawott, Clefairy, Wobbuffet, Gyarados and Pikachu feeling like their old selves again. Delia squeezed Jessie’s hand, murmuring “that’ll be you one day, Smoochum” as they watched Joy work.

“Well, we should get going,” Delia declared once they had their Pokémon back.

“We were going to stay and have dinner, Ms. Ketchum,” Misty said. She eyed Jessie reluctantly, but made the offer anyway. “…You’re welcome to join us.”

“That’s sweet of you, Misty, but we’ve been away long enough,” Delia replied, to both kids’ relief. “It’s time we headed home. Thank you both so much for such an amazing battle.” She hugged Ash tightly. “Don’t stay away too long, honey.”

“You know I won’t, Mom,” Ash replied, blushing. He shot Misty a grin. “I’ll be home right after I kick Misty’s butt in our rematch!”

“Then I’ll see you soon,” Delia murmured. She let go of her son and gave Misty a quick hug and a wink. “Try not to beat him too badly!”

“Hey!” Ash exclaimed indignantly.

Delia stepped back, joining her girlfriend near the door of the Pokémon Centre. She gave her a look and nodded to both kids. With a sigh, Jessie trudged up to Ash and gave him a stiff hug.

“See you at home, kid,” she mumbled. Letting go, she turned to Misty. “Thanks for the battle and the badge, I guess...?”

The two gazed at each other for a few awkward moments, then Jessie took a step closer, slowly lifting her arms.

“Aah!” Misty hurriedly moved back, holding her hands up in front of her. “I don’t think I’m there yet.”

Jessie dropped her arms with a huge sigh of relief. “Great! Me neither.” She offered her hand instead, and the Gym Leader shook it.

Ash and Misty stepped outside the Pokémon Centre to see them off, their goodbyes ringing in the air as Delia and Jessie got on the road. Jessie slung her arm around her girlfriend’s shoulder.

“Happy, babe?”

“Yes and no,” Delia sighed. “I’m sad my journey’s over, but I couldn’t be happier about how it went. I made three wonderful new friends, foiled a nasty poacher, and that battle today –” She clenched her fists in front of her. “ – I never felt so alive! I can’t wait to tell Professor Oak and James and Meowth all about it!” She slipped an arm around Jessie’s waist. “I’m so glad you talked me into this.”

Jessie preened. “Oh it was nothing, babe, I –”

She broke off as Delia took hold of her hands.

“Thank you for making my dreams come true,” the other woman whispered. Jessie’s heart caught in her throat as she saw tears shining in Delia’s eyes. “Not just today, but every day we’re together.”

Jessie smiled, warmth blooming in her chest.

“It’s the least I could do,” she replied. Delia deserved more, so much more, for putting up with her, believing in her, loving her. Not to mention all she’d done for James and Meowth too. Maybe one day –

- but before Jessie could continue the thought, Delia leaned up and pulled her into a tender kiss.

THE END

“Oh, I can’t wait to get home to our nice comfy bed!”

“Ugh, me too. I hate sleeping on the ground.”

“…who said anything about sleeping?”

[specialagentlokitty]

Hodgins x reader - you fascinate me

Part two:

You slept through most of the day, every hour or so he would check on your wound which seemed to be doing better but he couldn’t tell.

When you woke up, you slowly sat up, looking around the room you looked behind you to see Hodgins fast asleep on the other side of the sleep.

Standing up, you groaned a little and lifted your shirt to see a bandage covering your wound which made you laugh a little.

Walking into the bathroom, you locked the door, lifting your shirt so you could slowly peel it off, seeing the wound nearly scared over.

You pulled your shirt down and left the bathroom, heading to the door to look outside at the snow that was heavily falling.

“Come on man… it’s cold…”

You turned around, closing the door.

Hodgins sat up, stretching and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Were you going to run away?”

Walking over to a chair, you slowly sat down, kicking your feet up on the table.

“I was going to find something to eat.”

“Well, I assume you do still eat normal people food right? That wasn’t a lie?”

You chuckled, shaking your head.

“Yes, I eat normal people food. There should be a place open somewhere here.”

Hodgins got up and walked to the fridge, pulling out a takeout container.

“There was a break in the snow, I got some food and some snacks and drinks. Can you eat chocolate because I’ve never seen you eat chocolate.”

“No, we can’t eat chocolate.”

“Seriously?!”

“Oh my god you idiot, no! Of course we can eat chocolate!”

“Well I don’t know I’ve never met a werewolf!” He laughed.

You smiled, taking the food from him and he moved your legs, sitting in the table and placing them in his lap.

You ate the rice, glancing at the Tv which was playing some crappy DVD.

It was quiet for a few moments.

“So, can you turn into a dog at anytime or..?”

You glanced at him.

“You really want to piss off a werewolf? And no, I don’t turn into a dog, it’s called werewolf for a reason dumbass.”

He grinned a little.

“By choice? Or does the moon force you?”

“You’ve been reading too many myths, by choice.”

“Does silver hurt you?”

“No.”

“Does your blood get all confusing.”

“No, human form human blood, wolf form wolf blood.”

“I didn’t find wolf blood at the site you were injured.”

You reached over, handing him the takeout container and he took it, eating the half you had left for him.

He narrowed his eyes a little.

“I turned back quickly, therefor human.”

He hummed a little, nodding his head.

“Why was your wound all weird?”

“Poison, I think it’s out but we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Oh god you’re not going to turn and like maul me to death are you?”

“No, I’ll be really weak. When the snow lets up I need to go.”

“Oh great, where we going?”

You turned back to the TV, trying to ignore the man sitting in front of you and he slowly set the container down.

“(Y/N)?”

“Not us, just me Hodgins I need to go alone. They don’t accept humans.”

“I’m not letting you go alone, I just found you half dead!”

“Jack if you go they will kill you, these people don’t accept too kindly to outsiders, especially not humans, but they specialise in a medicine that’ll help.”

Hodgins shrugging, sitting forward a little and he rested a hand on your leg.

You knew he had a thing for you, but because of your differences you always turned him down.

“So what, you’ll just go there? You won’t return you’ll just run away there right?”

You sighed, sitting up, putting your feet on the floor, flinching a little as a jolt of pain went through you.

“I can stay until the snow lets up tomorrow afternoon, but then I need to go. I’m sorry, but I will come back.”

“You won’t, Booth talked to your friends, they said if you think there’s a danger to them, or anyone you’ll leave and never go back.”

“Yes, but I swear to you I’ll come back, please, you just need to trust me.”

He held out his hands and you took them.

Hodgins smiled a little bit, bringing your hand up to kiss your knuckles, and he looked at you.

“You’re going to go either way, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but you have to come back. You need to.”

“I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

“You better.”

You laughed a little and stood up.

Hodgins looked at you with bright eyes and a wide smile, and you saw your vision flicker a little from normal and colourful to black and white.

“Woah, what was that?”

Hodgins stood up and you took a step back, removing your hands from his.

“That was the poison making its way through my system, I have to go now.”

“You can’t! You’ll freeze!”

You grabbed your hoodie, tossing it on and he stood in front of the door.

Walking over, you stood in front of him.

“I’m not moving.”

“I’ll come back, you have my word.”

“Don’t go..”

Walking over, you leant in, gently pressing your lips to his and you used his shock to move him aside so you could quickly get out the door.

You stood in the snow and gave him an apologetic look.

“Sorry..”

Hodgins watched was jumped down the icy steps, a cloud of black surrounding your and you stood in your wolf form, the blood still staining fur.

You turned your head back, flattening your ears and let out a whine.

“Go, I can’t stop you. Just come back..”

He watched as you turned around, running out into the snow to be lost from his sight.

It was like you told him, you were going to go either way, he just wasn’t sure how he was supposed to stop a determined werewolf from running off.

He had a hard time explaining to everyone, but they trusted his judgment, and he spent everyday waiting for you to come back to the lab.

It went from days, to weeks to months and he still waited.

“Maybe you should accept (Y/N) isn’t coming back.” Cam said quietly.

“That’s not true, (Y/N) promised.”

“It’s been months Hodgins, if she were coming back she would’ve already.” Booth said.

Hodgins glared at them all.

“She’s coming back!” He snapped.

He stormed to his office, and sat in front of the computer and stared at the screen, looking at the photo of you.

“Some people would call that creepy.”

“Holy crap!”

He quickly closed the photo and spun around to see you standing there with a soft smile.

You had clearly gone home to shower and change, but you seemed a lot healthier.

“You came back…”

You smiled a little, walking into the room.

“Of course I did, I promised right?”

He quickly stood up, rushing his way over and he crushed you in a hug which made you laugh, wrapping your arms around him.

“Woah, you’re muscled.”

You laughed again, pulling away from the hug.

“I’ve been in the wild for months Hodgins, I’ve been getting a lot of exercise.”

“So can I run tests on you now? I want to try so many things.”

“Blood test, that’s it.”

You walked over to the chair and sat down, smiling as he began to get everything ready with the upmost joy.

You hadn’t seen him in months, so you just kept watching.

He walked to his microscope and looked at it.

“Woah that is funky.”

“We have a faster healing rate, our blood clots faster. Any normal poison wouldn’t affect me.”

Hodgins looked at you with a grin.

“Can I try?”

“No you can’t poison me!”

“No! Not you!”

You both grinned a little and he walked over, looking at you with a soft look in his eyes.

“I’m so glad you came back…”

“So am I. Now, any other questions? I gotta head back and talk to my people.”

“Actually just one.”

You nodded your head, going to pick up your jacket.

“Why did you kiss me? Was it so you could just runaway?”

You slowly turned around and you gave him a little smile.

“No, it wasn’t so I could runaway.”

“Then why?”

“Because I wanted to, you needed to know I was coming back.”

Hodgins took a small step closer towards you.

“So… you could do it again…?”

You walked over, taking his face between your hands you leant down and kissed him for a second before pulling away.

“No! No come on that’s not fair!” He whined.

Hodgins quickly took your hand and spun you around.

“Kiss me like you mean it.” He grinned.

You laughed, leaning down to meet him halfway, kissing him again.

Hodgins placed his hands on your hips and you wrapped them around his shoulders, pulling away only to kiss him again.

Every time you leant back he leant forward to kiss you and finally you managed to break free from it.

You smiled softly at him and he grinned from ear to ear.

“So, does this mean we can do on a date?”

“Oh I don’t know about that.”

“Seriously? You’re really gonna do a guy like that?”

You laughed, kissing him briefly before you pulled away.

“I’ll come back later, I’ve got to go reassure my family I’m safe, but text me what you’re thinking.”

“Oh you got it baby, I’ve got the perfect date in mind!”

“I swear to god if it involves anything to do with werewolves or myths I’ll punch you.”

“It doesn’t! Don’t worry!”

You narrowed your eyes a little and left the room, and when he was sure you were gone he sat back down in his chair.

“Damnit I’ve got to change the whole date…”

[fandonnavyce]

Jason In Wonderland - Part 2

Part 1 Part 3

AO3 Link

Jason asked once again why a King in this Supernatural Dimension would have any interest in him. But the couple only gave cryptic answers before speeding away on their motorcycle. The two giggling, "You're his type", was the straightest answer he got before the couple disappeared out of view.

“OK so it doesn’t matter which way I go; it’s only a short Hunt away,” Jason tried to psych himself up. His eyes roved the unnatural expanse before him. Jason decided to pick the direction which could only be labelled as Away.

He kicked his feet and felt his body push forward.

...

Jason had been a little too busy screaming in agony and then being stuck in maddening conversation. But (as he felt his body bob along merrily) Jason realised something.

He was flying!

There was nothing solid beneath his feet; nothing was supporting him. Gravity had no hold on him. He was floating in a green-tinted void!

Holding his arms in an aeroplane pose, Jason allowed his body to tilt. And he started flying in his leaned direction. Giddily, Jason did loop-de-loops. Because he was flying! Jason did a few laps, picking up speed, getting faster and faster, circling and tumbling everywhere. Spiralling high at accelerating speed, before nose-diving below headfirst, burrowing into neverending depths. Then freezing in place. At the instant of a thought.

A massive grin was on Jason's face as he laughed in delight. How did Kyrptonians bear not just flying all the goddamn time?

...

Skulker’s Island really was unmissable.

Jason spotted the floating island with its landmark Skull and soared over. He made sure to climb high and ascended over the island. With his bird-eye’s view of the Island, like an optical illusion or a trick of the light, he could now see the Revolving River of Doors. An uncountable number of purple doors of abstract design floating in corkscrew spirals, drifting in orbiting revolutions. A swirling river of doors as far as he could see. Jason tried to spot which door might be the one to Gotham from a distance. But all the doors looked as spooky and avant garde as each other from here. He decided to get closer.

Jason hemmed and hawed in front of a purple door. Out of all the purple doors it surely did match the description, ‘A Purple Travesty to Gothic Art Deco’. However, there was one little problem. It was far too small. It was the size of a mouse hole.

Jason crouched down and patted his finger tip against it in an imitation of a door knock. The door warmed at his touch, pulsing in mirrored response. Jason blinked in wonder. “Huh. Ok. Excuse me, sorry, is this the door to Gotham? I would like to go through.”

The tiny door warmed again but this time with the whirring of a buffering electronic. Then it materialised a black bubble. Which burst and Jason reflexively caught what was inside into the open palm of his hand. It was a thimble-sized bottle. A whiskey decanter with a fancy crystallised stopper with a black ribbon wrapped around its neck which read in cursive silver,

“DRINK ME”.

But Jason wasn’t an idiot. He was a born and bred Gothamite. Uncorking the bottle he lightly sniffed it. It didn’t smell of Joker Venom, any of Scarecrow’s fear toxins, Poison Ivy’s preferred pheromones, or any of the less specialised and more common drugs and poison.

Cautiously, Jason dabbed a drop onto his fingertip and licked. It tasted like one of Alfred’s hot chocolates, thick, sweet, and creamy. In unthinking delight, Jason gulped the rest down.

As he savoured the aftertaste, Jason felt pins and needles crawl all up and down his arms and legs. Then between one blink and the next, the door was the perfect size. Jason lifted his hand onto the adorned black brass door handle and swung the door open. Arrogantly rolling with shadowy furls, thick smog languidly spilled out into his face. Jason smirked. ‘Good ol’ Gotham,’ Jason thought to himself.

For the second time that day he stepped across dimensions.

Unfortunately, it became real apparent that Jason had not returned to Gotham City, Earth.

Jason Todd sorely wished that he’d been more specific when asking for directions. For he had landed in Gotham. But it was even more obvious that he had arrived in Gotham, the Supernatural Otherworld Edition. (The sky was still a void of swirling haunting preternatural green. But there was a misty haze to everything, a blur that went beyond Gotham’s smog.) Or at least an Impressionist version of them. It was like the defined lines of reality were brushing up against each other and smudging; the glances leaving each other more indistinct with each faint touch.

Jason walked down semi-familiar busy streets amid Gothamites who were the shades of people and echoes of walking crowds; indistinct and blurry; a constructed memory re-enacted. Jason eyed up and down the front window of Tony’s. One of his favourite pizza joints, who’s owner was one of Red Hood’s. Unlike its neighbouring buildings, Tony’s was brought into sharp relief.

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

“̷̼͗My̸̜̍ ̷͎̈b̴̬͋el̷̻̉ov̸͇̌e̵͚̓ḓ̷̓ ̶͇͒Re̶̫͗d̵̬͌ ̸̩͝Kń̵̲i̷̘͌g̸ĥ̷̡t̴̮̓,̵͎̿ ̶͙̋wh̸̽a̶̼̍t̸͔̉ ̷̢̿ma̵͕͝ỳ̵̧ ̸͔̀ȳ̶͎o̶͉͠u ḇ̵̕e̴̖͊ ̵̝͒dǫ̴͘i̴n̴̠̄g̸̪͝ ̶̭́h̵̺́er̶̢̈́e̴̪̋?"(surprise, delight, wonder)

Jason spun around. His surroundings blurred out-of-focus and were swallowed up into indistinct smog. All of the reality’s focus was concentrated on the figure before him:

Lady Gotham.

There was no way else to describe them. Just like how the Statue of Liberty was Lady Liberty; this blood-headed figure begowned in the velvet black of a shadowy night’s bewitching mysteries; bedecked in the poor man’s sweat and tears turned oil-black svelte evening gloves, and adorned with the anguished screams trapped in resplendent pearls that hung like noose around her neck and dripped like spilled blood from her earrings.

Of course she was Gotham.

Jason bows. “Lady Gotham” he greets. “I seek your help. I’m not where I wish to be.”

Gotham laughs. It’s the screech of a night owl, the scrape of fork against a porcelain plate, the mirthless titter of a socialite. It puts Jason’s teeth on edge.

“Not all who wander are lost.” Gotham smiled. It was cruel. It was uncaring. It was welcoming. “A̵̍̑͜r̶̞̳͋e ̸͍͜͝ÿ̶̢̥́o̸u No̸̖̯̽t̴͘ Họ̸̅̅m̸̿ẻ̸̩͘?̷̅ M̴̢͙̜͇͓̂̑̉͝͝¥̶̖͙͖͇̳̃̿͑́͠ Sð̶͓͚̟̟͚͗̅̃̋̒ñ̸(Mine, mine, MINE)(My-Twice-Born)(My Red Knight)(My Beloved Bloody Butcherbird).”

Previous Next

[additiva]

Frechheit Ch 16 Snippy

I've reached the editing stage, which means the first baby little section of Ch16 is available for your viewing pleasure (or displeasure I suppose), under the cut.

-----

In the morning, things are better. They lay in bed for a while. Not talking, just pressed together with the sun filtering through the gauzy curtains. He traces his fingers down Charles’ spine, to rub his palm over the warm skin of his back, then up to scratch at his scalp. Any sliver of air between their bodies is eliminated, as Charles sighs into his shoulder, and melts against him. He must be cold-blooded, Max thinks. Always finding some patch of sunshine, or seeking Max out to warm himself.

Eventually, one of the cats starts pawing at the closed door, meowing, and they get up. Charles goes to meet his trainer, while Max does his own workout, then makes them an awful protein shake as always. Max’s trainer, Rupert, must have some idea of what’s going on. He’s never seen Charles at Max’s apartment, but Max’s behaviour has no doubt been very suspicious. Refusing to have him come over, asking to meet at strange times, and going through his meals and shakes much more quickly than planned.

Max makes a mental note to remind Charles to bring his own meals from his apartment. They have different weights, and body compositions. He knows Charles cares about that.

They spend the rest of the week together, between Charles’ many commitments, and his visits to family and friends. With the stress of the sponsor event behind him, Charles essentially returns to baseline, though Max can see the excitement building within him.

Monaco is Charles’ favourite track. He knows it intimately; every curve and dip, every barrier, every inch of every straight. The track is runs like an artery through the city, flowing straight into Charles. The excitement among the residents is visible, audible and palpable; Charles thrives off of it, confident and assured.

He’s immaculately prepared, Max knows. His training for this race will have been comprehensive. Ferrari will no doubt bring a specialised rear wing, to optimise their chances.

But Charles sometimes has episodes of incredible bad luck, and luck matters at Monaco, more than at any other track. A small problem in qualifying, or one misstep in the race means the difference between winning and missing out on the podium entirely.

Which means that no matter how good his preparation is, there’s still a lingering uncertainty for Charles. And as the anticipation grows, so does Charles’ anxiety. It seems to come upon him in waves, increasing in frequency and intensity as the week goes on.

He gets quiet, and sits out on the balcony a few times, staring out at the water. Other times, he gets agitated, prodding at Max, like Max will lash out, and scratch an itch he can’t reach.

Most times, he stops himself, and goes for a run to get the nervous energy out. If that doesn’t work, he comes back and hovers tensely around Max until he gathers him up and takes him out of his mind for a while.

One night late in the week, though, he comes back from a dinner with his friends, paradoxically in a terrible mood; bitchy and nasty from the second he arrives home, snarking and glaring poisonously at Max, alluring in the way a shard of glass is, daring you to touch it.

And Max isn’t.. upset, at the things he says. There’s a million things he could say if he genuinely wanted to hurt Max: about his dad, and his childhood, about how he’d only just discovered emotional intelligence last year, and only after hurting basically everyone he could reach with his idiocy.

Charles is just baiting him; he doesn’t say any of those things; but eventually, when Max is already kissing him quiet, trying to sooth him, and none of his barbs are working, he loses his patience completely and bites. Hard.

Max pulls back sharply, shocked, his lip stinging. When he flicks his tongue over it, the coppery taste confirms it; he’s bleeding. Charles watches him lick over it again, then tips his head to meet his gaze directly, and smirks.

Alright, Max thinks with total calm, as the shock fades.

If that’s what he wants.

One hand shoots up to grip tightly in Charles’ hair; he gasps a little, eyes wide, but bright with anticipation.

Tomorrow, Max thinks, they’re going to talk about this. They’re going to talk about communication again. But for now, since it’s a particularly stressful week for Charles, he’ll bite.  

[alipeeps]

Episode 37

Ahhahaaaah Wanning has gotten over her confusion from the previous ep and remembered that she specialises in exercising her power over people to humiliate them and make their lives utterly miserable.

And there's fucking nothing Li Jin can do about it. And he does NOT have the temperament and life experience of Shen Yurong... this is a man born with a golden spoon in his mouth who has known nothing but respect and power. The only person who dared chastise him was his father.

Kiss goodbye to that life sunshine, you are now the personal slave of a capricious sociopath. Enjoy!! 😁😁

Oh wait Xiao Heng is confined not just in his residence but in his room??!! He can't come out of the room? He's not just grounded, he's been sent to his room like an unruly teenager?!!

Hahahaaaaa and Xue Li takes back the cakes she has brought to her brother so she can go give them to Xiao Heng instead!! 😂😂

Oh holy fuck Xiao Heng with his hair down, I am dead.

Okay, I am revived. He is sulking in his sleeping robes with his hair down, sharpening weapons. I love this man so much! 😍

Oh gosh, I should have known. I should have seen it. This "fight" with the emperor was staged too. Of course.

I love them. I love them SO much!!

Ha, Xue Li asks about why Xiao Heng and his grandfather don't get on and Lu Ji tells Wen Ji to shut up before he even opens his mouth to speak! 😂 But Wen Ji refutes him, saying Xue Li is not an outsider. LOVE that for her.

Xiao Heng was locked up for FIVE YEARS?!! Oh man, I'm right there with you on hating grandpa Xiao, Xiao Heng.

Dude straight up has a shrine to his lost family. 😭

Oh I love her so much. She straightforwardly states that she and Xiao Heng are "lovers"/love each other (love that they have still not openly expressed this even to each other but like.. it's 100% understood. They are both on the same page here. They know exactly where they are heading). And when grandpa Xiao suggest she speak to someone but not tell Xiao Heng because he'd be upset she shuts that shit down right away. She is not going to be keeping secrets from him. Not about this. She rightly says he should get to decide if it's okay or not.

Oh god I love Wanning toying with Li Jin so much. Yes, she is a terrible terrible person nobody should be treated like this but in the context of this drama, and the things he has done or tried to do, yeah he deserves it.

You are gonna push him too far though Wanning. He is not the same as Yurong. He is used to wielding power and wielding it cruelly. Yurong would tolerate pretty much anything you did to him... Li Jin won't.

Oh look at that. i was proven right not even 20 seconds later!

But why does she keep having stomach pains? Is it.. is she actually pregnant? Is it possible that Jiuyue's drug didn't just mimic the symptoms of pregnancy in Wanning but actually enabled her to become pregnant?

Oh my god, poor Xiao Heng's story is even more fucked up than previously imagined. Both parents dead, locked up by his grandfather for FIVE FREAKING YEARS and the woman who looked after him during that time, and cared for him and loved him, was blackmailed into poisoning him... so that they could blackmail grandpa Xiao to not investigate Xiao Heng's father's death.

Ooooh Li Jin you done fucked up now!!

The way grandpa Xiao just rolls his fucken eyes when he sees Xiao Heng walk in. Yeeeah, this reconciliation if off to a great start. Honestly I don't think leaving them alone to talk is a good idea, Xue Li, I think you need to stay and mediate! 😂

Daddy Xiao was fucking BADASS!!

I was gonna say I understand grandpa Xiao not explaining everything to him when he was a kid, but why hasn't he in all the years since? But then i realised ofc... Xiao Heng has refused to even speak with him in all that time.

Xiao Heng: Come stay at my house. But just so you know, this doesn't mean anything, it's only cos I don't want to have to deal with arranging your funeral... 😂😂

If Wanning finds out the pregnancy was faked... she is going to go feral. She will try and kill Xue Li with her bare hands.

Holy shit, they're all turning on each other! Honestly though, really? Are there guards - even the Li family personal guards - that would risk going against the Princess?

The thing is right...? Shen Yurong had a way out. He'd effectively escaped the princess' clutches. He could have just stayed out of it. He was initially pressured/forced into the plot - killing Xue Li, the gold mine, all of it - by the threat against his family and that's what allowed him to convince himself he was still a good person. He didn't *choose* to do any of this, right? He had to?

But now he doesn't have to. His situation with the princess is nicely stalemated. He can profess to love her and want to be with her but she is married now so nothing can happen until Lord Cheng takes over. He could sit back and wait for that to happen and see which way the cards fall. But he's ACTIVELY choosing to support the treasonous plot of Lord Cheng/Wanning/the Li's. In intervening with the truth about the fake pregnancy, he is actively choosing to be on Wanning and Lord Cheng's side, of his own volition. My dude, you have become everything your father hated.

Oof papa Xiao shoulda just arrested Lord Cheng and tried him for the attempted murder of the emperor way back then and then we wouldn't have had all this trouble! 😂

Ahhh so the drug does have side-effects after all... it's not just the princess having abdominal pains...

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh my heart.....

[berryazule]

Being a Warlock Headcanons

So you're obviously a Downworlder

Which is easy in the shadow world

but , cool powers i guess

I see your Warlock Mark as something you can hide like pointed ears

Something like these wouldn't be too hard to hide and depending on how old you are when you stop ageing you can just say they were body mods

I believe all warlocks specialise in a certain type of magic or excel greatly in a few areas

This could be healing, battle, protection spells 

There's a list of the types of magic from the WikiFandom page at the end

Your magic will reflect your personality and the more character you have, the stronger you are naturally

This means attracting the attention of many high warlocks

But you're never to be found

Always able to escape last minute and run three steps ahead of them

You manage to bump into Magnus one day whilst running

And he immediately takes interest in you and agrees to help keep you hidden

Because who would challenge a fellow high warlock

Magnus sees your strength as a warlock and demands you allow him to mentor you

Which therefore leads you into being involved in Shadowhunter business

How fun

The End <3

Spell Types

Battle spells — spells used in battle which include attacking with fire, acid, lightning, venom, poison, among others Demon possession — the possession of a mundane human's body by a demon Dimensional magic — used to move from one dimension to another Healing spells — spells used to heal wounds, injuries and poisoning Necromancy — the use of death energy to bring back the dead Protection spells — also know as glamours; spells used to shield a person or place, often to fool mundanes into believing that what they see is something different from what is truly there Summoning rituals — the summoning of either demonic or angelic entities Tracking spells — spells used to find the location of an individual; requires any personal belonging of the individual Transportation spells — spells that magically teleport people or things from one place to another; includes the Portal

[maria021015]

As the sound of even footfalls echoing off the stone walls reached her ears, Zaida cocked her head to the side. She had woken on a thin mattress in a dark cell behind thick rusted bars what felt like hours earlier - though there was no concept of time in this place. She wouldn’t call it quiet, but apart from the deranged screaming or mumbling of fellow prisoners, there was no sign of human life. Not until now, that was.

She didn’t bother getting up to see who it was, remaining in her position on the cold floor with her knees drawn into her chest and her back pressed against a wall. She knew where she was - there was no other place in town that she could possibly be. Though it was more than that. There was a familiarity that called to her bones - one that hadn’t been there before - and that same daunting feeling as the last time she’d been here, searching for Stiles. Eichen House. What had surprised her was the Mountain Ash barrier that had glowed a blinding electric blue when she’d gone to grip the bars earlier, preventing her from doing so. She couldn’t feel anything beyond the barrier - it was as if none of it existed to her senses. Briefly, she’d wondered what else was trapped down here in this specialised wing of the institution. Werewolves? Kanimas? Perhaps worse things that they hadn’t discovered yet? She gathered that none of them would get many visitors - if visitors were even allowed - which had to mean that the person slowly approaching the end of the corridor must be there for her.

“Having second thoughts about bringing me here?” She drawled, her own voice lingering in the way it reverberated around the space. Zaida didn't need to move from her lazed position to recognise who it was when dark boots stepped into her peripheral vision. Alan Deaton didn’t bother with giving her an answer, prompting her to glance at him only to find a thin metal syringe held in the hand that hung by his side. “What is that?”

“You know what it is. I saw you looking at it,” The man answered in a steady tone and Zaida’s mind flashed back to the glass bottle that held familiar yellow buds on a shelf at the clinic.

“Giant Fennel,” Her lips pulled into a snarl instinctively, her muscles recoiling. She wanted that devil plant as far away from her as possible.

“Also known as Narthex, or Artikas,” Deaton nodded slightly, lifting the syringe to admire it as a dark golden liquid beaded at the tip of the needle. “Its interior trunk is made of a soft foam-like material that is extremely flammable, making it a natural torch. In more ways than one. It was the plant that Prometheus used to-”

“To steal the fire of the gods, yes, I’m aware,” Zaida snapped, interjecting as Stiles’ voice flickered in her ears and the smell of smoke teased her nose, as if she were there again.

Prometheus stole the gods’ fire from Hephaestus and hid it in a stalk of fennel, passing it on to humankind. When burned, the fire of the gods is released from the plant, and fire has always been the antithesis of water - and the creatures who draw from it. It’s all rather symbolic, isn’t it?

“Then you’ll also know what it does to people like you?” He stared at her with analytical eyes, his mind coming to many different conclusions as to how she’d discovered such information.

“I certainly know what it feels like,” She muttered bitterly, ending Deaton’s wandering. Zaida could tell from the softening of his dark eyes that he understood what she’d experienced in the two days she’d been missing with Stiles.

“Whilst it may feel like fire, it is also a poison.” He explained. “It will weaken your abilities.”

“You mean it will cut me off,” She chuckled darkly, already seeing their plan. “From Stiles.”

“From the Nogitsune,” Deaton corrected pointedly. “Yes.”

“And you’d thought you’d come here with that thing, and I’d just let you inject poison into me?” Zaida scoffed and pushed herself to her feet, approaching the bars slowly but not stepping within arm’s reach of the man as her agitation rose into anger. “Did you really think I’d be okay with that? That I’d want to go back to that pathetic girl held back by trivial emotions, forced to feel what everyone else feels the very moment her guards slip? That I’d want to go back to being weak?”

“No,” The answer came from a voice Zaida did not expect to hear and Allison Argent stepped into view from the expanse of the hallway that Zaida couldn’t see from her cell. Before she could blink, burning pain bloomed from her shoulder and she looked down to find a dart buried in her shoulder. “We didn’t.”

Stumbling backwards, Zaida pushed through the fire spreading through her veins, grabbing the dart and ripping from her body. But it was too late. By the time she’d thrown it across the room where it shattered, the glass compartment was almost completely emptied of the golden liquid inside. Her vision spun and blurred as excruciating pain surged through her body. The relentless inferno raged a war against her from within, flames licking at her insides. With every beat of her heart that pumped blood through her system, the agony spread. Collapsing onto her knees, her fingernails raked against the floors as a raw scream tore through her throat, forcing her gritted teeth apart. Sweat dripped from her brow, mingling with the tears that pooled in her eyes from the unbearable pain. Every muscle in her body wailed in protest, convulsing with spasms of torment as the poison ravaged her.

Allison lowered her gun, swallowing thickly at the disturbing sight of her friend’s suffering. It may not be Zaida within, but it certainly looked like her. With Deaton’s nod of approval, two orderlies unlocked the door to the cell, venturing inside while the Naiad was distracted to grip her by her arms and haul her to her feet once more.

Through the haze of pain, Zaida could hear distant voices, distorted as if echoing from another realm. She felt hands grip her biceps, firm and rough, anchoring her amidst the chaos. Desperation clawed at her mind as she fought to endure the searing torment, to cling to the last shreds of consciousness amidst the blaze. But as the flames raged fiercer, threatening to consume her whole, Zaida's strength wavered, her vision dimming as she teetered on the brink of oblivion.

“No, no,” She couldn’t hold back her weak sobs. “Not again…”

With a final gasp of anguish, she succumbed to the engulfing darkness, her consciousness slipping away into an endless abyss. Allison and Deaton watched the two orderlies drag her sagging form down the corridor, her body going limp.

“Stiles tortured her, didn’t he?” Allison asked, blinking away the tears that welled in her eyes. “He used that stuff to make her let that thing into her mind.”

“It appears so.” Deaton acknowledged with a saddened expression, his characteristically even tone wavering slightly.

“We’re going to get that fox out of them,” Allison's jaw set stubbornly and her nostrils flared. “And when we do, we’re gonna kill it.”

Zaida felt as though she was falling through the rabbit hole to wonderland - if the rabbit hole was pitch black and echoing with her own screams. With a start, she collapsed back into her own body. Instead of finding herself on a strange black-and-white checkered marble floor, when she forced her heavy eyelids open, she felt a cardboard-thin mattress beneath her. The ceiling above was cracked and a single cobweb stretched from one wall to the other as a small black spider reformed dusty silk. Cool air caressed her skin soothingly, and a muggy, wet feeling alerted her to the fact that her clothes were drenched in sweat. Like a torrent of water rushing through a broken dam, her emotions flooded her to fill the empty space - to fill the blissful void that had been.

Her chest contracted as her lungs tightened from the pressure bearing down upon her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the weight of everything she’d done crashed over her like a tidal wave. She could feel every ounce of pain, every ounce of guilt, engulfing her soul with a crushing intensity. Lifting her head from the mattress only to smash it back down again and again and again, she tried desperately to quieten the growing noise in her mind. Her hands shook as she pressed them against her temples, trying to drown out the cacophony of voices echoing in her head - the screams of her victims, the cries of the innocent, the whispers of the darkness that had consumed her…No matter how hard she wished it would all go away, there was no frightening spectre to take it from her. No, she was all alone within herself now. All alone to be swept out by the overwhelming current.

Zaida let out a guttural cry of anguish, the sound reverberating off the walls of her prison like a haunting lament. Her body was on fire, her clothes were suffocating. Bolting up from the bed she gripped the hem of her jumper, tearing it from her body and leaving her in only a sports bra. Even then it wasn’t enough. She was too hot…it was all too heavy…it was unbearable. Her body was wracked with sobs that caused her muscles to convulse as she struggled to suck air into lungs that refused to expand. Hugging her knees into her chest, she rocked back and forth consumed by the unending despair that threatened to drag her to its inky depths. Still, she was burning - burning like the flames of hell were incinerating her sins. The atrocities that she’d committed were stapled to her eyes and she saw herself bleeding Katashi and his men dry over and over and over and over…Crimson blood had gushed from their noses, their eyes, ears, mouths, everywhere… and it had been all her fault. The arrow in Coach…the bomb at the station…all those officers… Xander. Oh God, Xander…With a desperate and sorrowful wail, she clawed at her clothes - at her skin - leaving red, raised wounds in her wake in an attempt to rid herself of the stain of blood. It was no use. She felt as though she was drowning in it - choking on thick, hot liquid.

Minutes passed, or perhaps hours, until Zaida’s weeping quieted from exhaustion. She still burned, though, and the inferno that raged on within her dried up her tears before they could even form. Wiping her dripping nose on the back of her hand, she sniffed loudly and the sound was followed by a long, frustrated sigh that was not her own. Zaida’s brows furrowed as her head lifted from her knees. Her glassy eyes peered through the darkness to the figure of a girl sitting propped up in the bed parallel to hers on the opposite side of the room.

“Are you done yet?” The girl drawled, unimpressed and somewhat tired. Zaida hurried to cover her exposed upper half, cheeks flushing further in embarrassment. Had this girl been there the whole time? The brunette didn’t appear phased in the slightest. If anything, she just seemed inconvenienced by her new roommate.

“Sorry,” Zaida mumbled sheepishly in a dry croak, wiping her face and smoothing her damp hair in an attempt to put herself back together - or to at least look like she’d put herself back together.

“What’d you do?” The girl questioned bluntly and Zaida’s lips parted in surprise at her. The brunette nodded towards Zaida’s state as if it were an explanation. “That looked familiar.”

Squinting to get a better look, as her eyes adjusted to the heavy darkness of the room with no windows, the girl’s face became clearer. Dark, deep-set, almond eyes with a sloped nose and high cheekbones. The longer she looked, the more she realised that she knew the face that was staring back at her.

“Malia?” Zaida whispered in disbelief. “Malia Tate?”

“How do you know me?” The brunette - Malia - shot back defensively, leaning forward and taking in a deep breath. Then, it was as if something snapped. Malia leapt from her mattress, crossing the empty space in two quick strides to grip Zaida’s shoulders and pin her to the bed beneath.

“What the hell?!” Zaida swore and brought her knee up between them, planting her foot against the girl’s stomach and kicking her off. Malia went flying across the room and Zaida jumped to her feet in the time that it took for the werecoyote to recover.

Malia growled, baring her teeth as she swung. Her movements were aggressive but not practised, and Zaida caught her fist with ease, ducking beneath the girl’s outstretched arm and twisting. Malia grunted in pain but kicked out behind her, landing on Zaida’s shin and causing her to lose her balance and let go. The werecoyote whirled around with another punch that Zaida swiftly dodged but returned, her own blow landing against Malia’s jaw. Her head was knocked backwards from the force, disorienting her long enough for Zaida to follow up by shoving her backwards. Malia’s knees hit the edge of her bed and she fell. Zaida stepped back into a fighting stance, but the werecoyote did not get back to her feet. Instead, she propped herself up on her elbows and narrowed her eyes at Zaida darkly, knowing she was outmatched.

“What the fuck was that for?!” Zaida exclaimed, her heart thundering in her chest.

“You were there! You’re one of them!” Malia snarled with anger behind her brown eyes.

“One of who? One of the people who helped you turn back into a human after being trapped in an animal's body for eight years?” The Naiad scoffed, shaking her head at the girl’s reaction.

“More like one of the people who forced me against my will into a life that I never wanted to return to!” Malia shot back and Zaida faltered.

“You…you wanted to stay a coyote?” She shook her head, trying to fathom why anyone would want to live as an animal.

“When the alternative was to face my father and try to figure out how to tell him that the reason my sister and mother are dead is because I almost ate them on a full moon? Yes !” The werecoyote yelled and suddenly Zaida understood perfectly.

“Hey!” Banging at the heavy steel door to their room alerted them to the presence of a man outside, making them both jump in surprise. “Quieten down in there, or we’ll come in and make you!”

Malia waited until the receding sound of his footsteps stopped before she continued. “It’s not like you would know what it’s like to hurt someone - especially someone you love.” She bristled, and Zaida let out a long sigh before stepping backwards to lower herself onto her own mattress.

“Actually, I do.” The Naiad admitted in a hollow tone, and when her guilt-ridden eyes rose to meet Malia’s she found they echoed each other.

“Who’d you hurt?” Malia asked, the edge to her voice softening as her rigid posture relaxed.

“A lot of people,” Zaida snorted and sucked in a sharp breath as each of their faces swam across her vision. Katashi, his guards, the officers… “My brother…I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

“Is that why you’re in here?” The girl questioned - again, shockingly unphased. Not much seemed to bother her.

“Yeah, something like that,” Zaida nodded, her stomach twisting painfully at the swarm of memories that threatened to tug her into another emotional breakdown.

“So, you’re like me then?” Malia guessed, sitting up straighter with a curious expression across her pretty features.

“A shape-shifter?” Zaida clarified what she was asking, and the werecoyote nodded. “No, I’m not a shapeshifter. I’m something else, though - a Naiad. Sort of like a water elemental with the ability to read emotions. It’s complicated.”

“Sounds cool,” The girl shrugged, appearing slightly impressed. It was strange how a second ago she was trying to rip out Zaida’s throat, and yet now they were…bonding? If that was the right word for it…

“Sometimes it really isn’t,” Zaida said honestly, a wistful tone betraying her longing for an element of normalcy. Then when the shock of Malia’s presence subsided, she finally brought herself to question why she was there in the first place. “What are you doing here?”

“The whole ‘trying to figure out how to tell my dad what happened’ thing? Didn’t go so well.” Malia explained. “Turns out, saying I turned into an animal and then lived as a coyote in the woods for eight years sounds kinda crazy. And when you sound crazy, I guess they bring you to this place.”

“I’m sorry,” Zaida winced, her heart crying out in sympathy for the girl. “We really did think we were helping you out.”

“Helping me out would be teaching me how to turn back,” The werecoyote muttered bitterly, staring at her hands and wishing they were tipped with the claws she’d spent eight years getting used to.

“I know someone who could do that,” Zaida offered. “If that’s what you want.”

“You do?” Malia’s eyes widened hopefully, and there was an eagerness to her blunt voice that hadn’t been there before.

“Yeah,” The Naiad nodded, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand and fanning herself to relieve some of the heat that was still searing within her. “But that’s if we ever get out of here.”

“Why are you sweating so much?” The brunette questioned indelicately and Zaida mused at the girl’s forthright disposition. Though she supposed the woods was not a place where one learned social cues or propriety.

“Because, I feel like I’m on fire from the inside out,” Zaida answered honestly and Malia got up, moving to sit on the mattress beside her. Pressing her hand to Zaida’s forehead, Malia pulled away quickly with a frown.

“You’re burning,” The werecoyote stated, before leaning into Zaida’s side, causing her to stiffen in shock at the seemingly affectionate gesture.

“Uh, what are you doing?” Zaida asked, caught entirely off guard.

“What? Since turning back into a human I’m always cold.” Malia pulled a face as if Zaida were the weird one, and continued to rest her head on the naiad’s shoulder. Surely enough, Malia’s skin was ice-cold, and it actually served as somewhat of a relief to Zaida’s overheated body.

“Right," Zaida decided to drop the subject, realising that this must be another one of Malia’s animal-learned quirks. Coyotes - like many other animals - often would huddle together in their dens to conserve body heat. Surprisingly, she actually found it sort of…comforting. Though she wished desperately that Lydia or Allison were there instead.

“Now, most of the people here are okay…The violent ones are in the closed unit.” The boy Stiles was rooming with - Oliver - led him through the main area of the institution where the rest of the patients gathered during free time. He pointed people out as they went. “That's Hillary - she has OCD. That's Gary - he thinks he's Jesus Christ. Dan - also Jesus. That's Mary.”

“Mary Magdalene?” Stiles assumed but Oliver shook his head.

“No, she also thinks she's Jesus. You'd be surprised how many Jesuses we get…” He trailed off sunnily.

“Not really,” Stiles muttered, uninterested. He was looking for one thing and one thing only.

“Hey, how come you want to use the phone already?” Oliver asked him, gesturing to the old-school wall-mounted device that looked similar to the one used for prisoner calls at the Sheriff’s station.

“'Cause, after one night, I've changed my mind about this place being safe for me,” Stiles answered honestly, his voice wavering slightly with anxiety. It had only been his first night and yet he’d already witnessed a suicide up close and personally. What was worse than facing the boy’s swinging body, was the glimpse he’d caught of the familiar bandaged creature at the base of the stairwell. And even worse than that was the riddle the boy had been muttering to himself before he’d jumped from the top floor with a bedsheet tied around his neck. “Or anyone. Ever .”

“No. No, I think you're wrong. I really think I should tell them. They're going to want to know the story - the whole story. I really think they should know. Yes, I do…” A slight girl with frizzy hair mumbled into the receiver with her back turned to them, but it was the next words that came out of her mouth that struck Stiles like a jolt of electricity. “One of them is standing right behind me…”

The girl glanced over her shoulder - right at him - before hanging up and walking away. “Who was that?” He questioned, a chill running down his spine.

“That's Meredith.” Oliver smiled with an emptiness in his gaze. “She's a little weird.”

“You're a little weird. She's a lot weird.” Stiles scoffed as crossed over to pick up the phone, lifting it to his ear only to find the machine was unresponsive. “...It's dead.”

“Yeah. They turn off all the phones for twenty-four hours after a suicide.” Oliver nodded and explained nonchalantly, only increasing the strangeness of the previous girl’s behaviour. She’d been talking into a dead line as if she were having a conversation.

“Why didn't you tell me that before?” Stiles sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes as a spark of irritation ignited within him. After an entirely sleepless night, his agitation was at its peak.

“Why didn't you ask?” Oliver responded blankly and Stiles began to walk away, prompting Oliver to hurry after him like a lost puppy. “What are you going to do now?”

“I'm getting out of this nuthouse.” He muttered under his breath.

“That's not really the appropriate way to describe a facility like this…” Oliver frowned, slightly offended by the use of the term.

That was when Stiles saw her, and the breath was stolen from his lungs. Her hair was pulled up into a bun on her head, giving him a clear view of the face that was turned away from him. That straight-bridged nose, those almond eyes he could spend eons staring into, and those full lips…it was unmistakably her. The last time he could remember seeing her was in that dungy room illuminated by the orange glow of heaters and firelight. Her beautiful face, twisted in agony as she screamed. Burns bubbling across her inflamed skin as she glistened with sweat and tears, begging him to stop. Looking at her now felt like a sledgehammer to the diaphragm, but he couldn’t stop his feet from moving. Even now he was drawn to her, like the tides to the moon, desperately reaching for her.

“Zaida,” His voice emerged from his lips in a breathy whisper and her brows drew together in confusion at the sound until her head turned and her eyes landed on him. Only instead of brightening at the sight of him as they usually did, hazel filled with panic.

[little-elf-wanders]

I just had a heartbreaking dream that is piecing together Effie's origins in why she ran away to live in a bog before becoming known to the Mournwatch.

In the nobles mansion she spent most of her life in, she had herself a lover, one of the servant staff like she was before she caught the attention of the lord. They were serious, she'd always put flowers in Effie's hair that she'd get from the garden to brighten her eyes up and help soothe her through the - frankly - violence of the lord's son.

One day it was discovered, and Lini got dragged before the lord.

Effie never saw her again until her death calling powers started up. (Early before the specialisation so I'm flavouring it as she'd hear spirits and know she can communicate with them, she just doesn't know how to utilize it yet. I do believe she sings to them as a way to soothe and calm them.)

She'd start seeing echoes of Lini around the estate. Hearing her voice, the songs they'd sing together to comfort each other through hardship. She'd find that same flower in her quarters, on her pillow. And she knew. She knew what they did. Why they did it. And she knew what she had to do.

It became the same flower she used to poison the noble son and his cohorts after he tells her upfront he had Lini killed for taking flowers from the garden. And that nothing would save her from him. Nothing could take away what he wanted.

I'm also toying with the idea they'd discovered she was poisoning them too late because of this dream. One serving, and with the full intent she would join Lini, she admitted to the coughing lord's son that he hadn't won anything and in fact, his blatant disregard of her even being a player on the board allowed her to riddle his cups over the weeks with poison. Your ailing father on his deathbed? Her. Your best friend who sadly passed last week? Her. The mysterious sickness that only targeted your human Yes Men? Strange, isn't it? And now, you. They had attempted to burn Effie at the stake for it, believing her to be a witch - after all, they found her in the woods when she was little (abandoned for having her specific type of magic, she just survived the woods on her own until they discovered her and brought her as a free servant), they're very quick to jump to fear about Witches when choking on their own blood and hearing haunting tales spread through the building. Hearing her sing in the garden like a conductor for the vengeful. Things being tossed at them without a single person being around as the assailant. The rumours culminated enough. Topped with Effie's admittance to the now mortally weak son, she was sentenced to death.

So the idea, because I'm hoping I can have burns over her ankles and feet, as the time she almost got burnt at the stake but her lover came to save her in the nick of time before it spread too far up. Effie's plan was to join Lini but... she was always more positive than Effie. When she realised the flower wasn't a sign to come join her, and that Lini desperately wanted her to live on, Effie used a fraction of her Death Caller magic that day, summoning all the spirits they'd abused and killed, and the estate was in utter chaos.

I believe an elder cook fully got Effie out of the flames and helped her down. Just as the lord's son came stomping around to try to stop them.

In the dream, Effie looked possessed, it looked like she let Lini enter her to rise up and get her vengeance - and protect the cook, who he was hurling all sorts of insults towards for helping her down. Ngl, it was terrifying and dark looking. And she was fully intent on killing him, but Lini was able to let her go once she did because her hauntings wasn't about her being killed. Her goal was to free Effie of his abuse, and once he was no longer a threat, she was able to part from Effie's body and take shape.

They had a little farewell moment, and Effie got to sing the spirits off - and more importantly sing with Lini one last time. Ironically, I think his all happened because I was listening to the Spotify playlist I made for Effie and the song was Space Between - Dove Cameron and Sofia Carson.

Most of the spirits were able to let go. The one's who couldn't, the cook actually helped her put to rest. Which made me wonder about her on waking up.

I think this elder cook, who'd more or less raised Effie, knew of her abilities - since there's no way the nobles would care to teach her beyond servant work. This family was made to be a purely selfish line wanting more power and social standing, so they were all very conniving. This cook has a fond space in my brain because she did see a creepy little girl who heard spirits and said unsettling things, and instead of avoiding her or punishing her for it she taught her - being from Rivain originally maybe - about the beauty in shaman work and how her gifts, if honed, could be something so important. Teaching her not to be afraid of herself or them. (I need to come up with a fitting name for her because she's suddenly very important in her story and I love her too much to not.)

But yeah, it's dramatic but I think a lot of Effie's issues line up with this sort of dream. I might tweak things later but so far I'm liking this version.

[fierykitten2]

F-Zero racers but I give them a type to specialise in (yep, it’s another crossover post with Pokémon. Also surely I’ve done this already):

Deathborn - Dark. Is that even a question at this point?

Mighty Gazelle - Steel or Electric. That said, I do think he should have an Iron Hands on his team so yeah definitely Electric

Jody - whichever type has the most cat Pokémon. Normal feels right but given the Purrloin line, Incineroar and Meowscarada are all part Dark…

Robert - as tempted as I am to give him something like Grass, Fairy or Normal (he’s my favourite though I’m never giving him Normal), I think he has to be Fire because it means he gets Ninetales and Delphox, literally Golden Foxes. This post exists because I was thinking about Falcon as a Champion and Robert as an Elite Four member so he needs two more Fire-types I can’t think of (because somehow I’ve forgotten than Kalos is one of the only regions that does it like this (I vaguely remember Kanto in LGPE doing this too actually now that I think about it). I don’t like saying Kalos sucks or anything but you do gotta wonder what was going on in the heads of the people at Game Freak when they decided no Kalos Gym Leader has more than 3 Pokémon and no Kalos Elite Four member has more than 4 Pokémon) but for some reason Nickit (who is unevolved and pure Dark) comes to mind. He’s probably got a Flareon actually (possibly shiny because it’s closer to gold)

Baba - I’m tempted to give him an Iron Moth or a Miraidon (Iron Serpent) as a joke about his machine being called the Iron Tiger so probably either Fire, Poison, Electric or Dragon, all of which make some level of sense as Baba’s type speciality. If we wanna go with more tiger-like Pokémon… Incineroar???

Goroh - Steel because it’s where Pawniard, Bisharp and Kingambit are and I don’t want him to share a type speciality with another member of the Original Four. Water also comes to mind because of Samurott (yeah okay I’ll admit it, Samurott’s a samurai) and Greninja. Also Mantine. It’s a mantra ray not a stingray but I don’t think there are any real stingray Pokémon

Pico - Dark no question. Next!

Falcon - Flying. Also Electric because he represents the series and Electric is associated with speed (unless your name happens to be Iron Hands or Raging Bolt). Actually, so is Flying for some reason. Guess he’s undeniably a Flying trainer then!

Octoman - Water. Maybe Fighting for the Clobbopus line

Mr. EAD - idk probably Fairy but his Pokémon probably all have the Stellar Tera type

James - Dragon

Billy - Normal (no this has nothing to do with Rillaboom the Unrivaled, it’s because of Meowth)

Kate - Fairy because as far as I’m aware, that’s the type most associated with singing (maybe other than Normal. And Psychic). Her team probably consists of Primarina (probably with Liquid Voice), Jigglypuff, *looks up the move Sing to see what Pokémon can learn it* Scream Tail, *sees Lapras learns it by level up and remembers Lapras was one of the Pokémon in the Project Voltage artworks* Lapras, Cottonee (apparently it can learn Grass Whistle, which is basically Grass-type Sing) and… *is really tempted to go with Hatterene* Sylveon. I do wanna give her Toxtricity but I already decided her signature type is Fairy and Toxtricity is not part Fairy (she could have one with a Fairy Tera type though)

Zoda - You know for everyone else Mr Zero’s scared of I’m going with Dark. Zoda though I’m not so sure on. Electric and Poison both stand out as types that make sense for those who love to experiment (so he could have a Toxtricity. Cool)

Jack - Electric. His surname literally comes from the same word as Paldea’s Electric Gym city (yep, he’s definitely getting a Toxtricity)

Bio Rex - Dragon. He’s probably got half the Past Paradox Pokémon on his team (everyone saying the Future Paradox Pokémon are less original than the Past Paradox Pokémon okay tell me why all five of the Past Paradox Pokémon with higher base stat totals than the rest of them share the Dragon type while their Violet counterparts don’t share a type (well, the Neo Swords share Psychic but Miraidon wasn’t interested and that’s the only type Valiant didn’t get from its modern-day counterparts). Also the whole Past Paradox counterparts of Pokémon with two Paradox counterparts all being part Fighting while Treads got Ground/Steel, Moth got Fire/Poison and Miraidon got Electric/Dragon meaning none of their types are shared between them. Also until Wake and Fire existed the only Paradox Pokémon not to share either type with another Paradox Pokémon were Bundle and Moth (both of which seem to get featured heavily in merch - they both represented Future Flash alongside Valiant and they’re the two with those cool lights that are coming out in November. Damn I need those lights). And then there’s the animations)

The Skull - Ghost. Or Dark (probably got a Sableye)

Antonio - if Goroh has Steel, Antonio has Fire (or Fighting). If Goroh has Water, Antonio has Grass (or Electric)

Beastman - Fairy (it was the closest thing I could think of to something supereffective against Dragon without being Dragon itself)

Leon - Normal

Super Arrow - Flying

Mrs Arrow - possibly also Flying but probably something cooler like Electric

Gomar and Shioh - whatever type is the most known for having counterparts (I was thinking Electric bc Plusle and Minun but Fairy would make sense for Clefairy and Jigglypuff/Spritzee and Swirlix)

Silver - ???

Michael - I feel like Dark would make sense and he’s definitely got a Honchkrow and a Mabosstiff and possibly also a Theivul and a Liepard

Blood Falcon - Dark. Also Flying

John - Grass or Fairy

Draq - Fairy

Roger - ???

Dr Clash - Electric

Black Shadow - Dark

Don Genie - Normal, same justification as Billy

Digi-Boy - Water or Electric

Dai San Gen - Psychic

Spade - Psychic, apart from the fact he also needs a Meowscarada so probably Dark

Dai Goroh - whatever Goroh uses

Princia - Fairy no question. Actually I’m sure she could also use Psychic or Fire (Delphox?). To be fair, she’s probably more focused on Pokémon from Kalos

Lily - Steel

PJ - whichever is best at carrying others (so Dragon then)

QQQ - I’m not sure it would have a signature type. I think it just goes for turtle Pokémon like Squirtle, Turtwig and Terapagos

Phoenix - Fire. I think his theme suggests Psychic as well (*me suggesting two types and joking about them having the first Pokémon with both types I can think of* yep Delphox again)

Edit: forgot to give Silver and Roger types. I’ve just put question marks bc I still can’t think of anything

[dumuzithemessiah]

Splatoon Player Character and My Splatsona

^ Player Character draw, he will become a character in my Splatoon AU! Got to keep myself busy so even though I am a god I have creativity in me! Maybe he will be created by Commander 13/Dumuzi/Tairi’s father King Enkai[[via reborn and put back together irl]] will be responsible for creating this new Super Inkling? Maybe he made him with a some of Commander 13/Dumuzi/Tairi’s DNA? Lol idk not a bad idea though actually might actually go with that! Maybe call him just Life? As a nod to me being the God of Life as one of my many domains though Life is the biggest one I have?

Like Life in English to give an exotic feel? As Life in Japanese is Jinsei apparently? Life could be a cool nod to a game I played a long time ago but Innocent Life A Futuristic Harvest Moon which was made before the split of Natsume and Marvelous which I haven’t played much of but still would be a cool nod to that game?

Putting Life in English would give a sense of mystery for him and be a nod that he is a created life form.

^ Splatona character drawn

Just gonna link the dA pages of them to show the difference!

My Splatsona is old yet looks young as he’s a deity in cephalopod form!

Specifically a Nibirian vampire squid called “Gifunekotaki” meaning “poisonous cat like octopus like” as taki means octopus like in Nibirian used to describe vampire squids as they are called in English but vampire squids are their own cephalopod!

Gifu means poisonous in Nibirian! Neko means cat in Nibirian!

But stop claiming they should be merged as inklings! They’re their own cephalopod species that are pretty much cousins to octopuses! So they’re closer related to Octolings than Inklings! And Frye is an Inkling so guess what? She is not a Vampling! Nor does she even look close to one! Neither to my design nor to other people’s designs for Vamplings! So she’s just an ugly Inkling with a big forehead!

Plus my Vamplings being evolved from gifunekotaki don’t have regular skin tones anyways but in fact have magical skin tones a they are also yazata aka deities/god/goddess/royal angel and tenshi/commoner angel in cephalopod form! As you can see Commander 13 has icy lavender skin which is a magical skin tone!

Because he is me though he has sharkpire teeth due to me having shark as one of my animal domains as a god I have with the other two being hedgehogs and foxes which I share with the other members of The Holy Four Kosmos Deities!

The Agency is an actual working building and agents can live there! Dumuzi aka Tairi is Commander 13 which his job is higher ranking over captain and being top command!

He is close to both the Octarian Royal Family[[for generations actually]] and with Craig being one of the original Splatoon members!

Craig has a grandson named Mario Ikayama who is the reincarnation of the scientist who created Judd, Tartar, and the NILS Staue as well as another granddaughter whom died[[school fire, she was a child]] but was brought back to life in a robot made by the human scientist named Mario Ikeyama to bring back his sister but was told by Dumuzi to save it as he told him in his next life his sister would die again so Ikeyama decided to make the robot for his future sister whom is named Paula Ikayama! Which the robot body reacted to Paula’s soul and Paula was brought back as a robotic Inkling who specialises in healing and being a nurse!

Design wise both the human scientist Mario Ikeyama and his reincarnation as Mario Ikayama look like Kagamine Len but with black hair and they sound like Hatsune Mikuo while Paula sounds like Hatsune Miku! Ink colour wise Mario has rose pink ink like Commander 13 as he plays turf war with him when not on missions! Mario is Agent 0 and was modified in his life! His eye and skin matches Callie whom is his big sister!

Dumuzi/Tairi/Commander 13 sounds like Kagamine Len

High Agent 18 aka Marduk/Haku aka Dumuzi/Tairi/Commander 13’s husband[[canon irl we are in fact husband and male wife and Marduk is pronounced like Mar-duke]] sounds like KAITO

Other agents like Kosmin/Kazumo, Lumuzi/Kazuto and Geshtinonna/Seiki sounds like Megurine Luki[[Kosmin/Kazumo]], Kagamine Rinta[[Lumuzi/Kazuto]], and MEIKO[[Geshtinonna/Seiki]] but I cannot remember their numbers as of this post! But those three are quadruplets with Commander 13/Dumuzi/Tairi and all four are members of The Holy Four Kosmos Deities!

My Vampling design has spikes which is to be like an Octoling’s suction cups! They are in the same place on the actual animal regardless of what vampire squid you’re talking about!

Their highlights on their hair represents their ink colour meaning the only time Commnder 13’s red part changes is when he powers up in super form called Dazzling Dumuzi and higher forms like Moonbow Dumuzi which has rainbow ink! But only Royal Vamplings can power up like that and only Dumuzi aka Tairi aka Commander 13 can power up to Moonbow form!

Nibirians when they first came to Earth took a vampire squid species and mutated them to live on Nibiru!

This species they took is extinct on Earth now so bingo! They’re different for a reason! They became poison types with the ability to shoot out luminous neon ink!

I am going to make my player character into a character too probably! Though with a interesting origin! Maybe he was born in a lab using Dumuzi/Tairi/Commnder 13’s DNA but made into a special type of Inkling?

But I got a lot more info on the pages of the art I linked that I did!

Also that Vamp Brush he uses like a staff when in combat but not in Turf Wars as that wouldn’t be good sportsmanship lol! But yeah against enemies he will use it differently than he will in Turf Wars! He will slash with it in both as Vamp Brushes are like a cross between a Splatana and a Brush but what I meant is he spins it an smacks opponents with it like a staff or thrusts it like a Splatana and uses it also like a sword too! So the Vamp Brush is different than other brushes! His unique special is Ink Tornado which he runs and paints the floor at super sonic high speeds creating a tornado of ink sucking opponents in!

Though he also can use magic to defend himself as he is a magical cephalopod! What kind? Ice, dark. plant, poison, water, wind, icy electricity, etc! I can use a lot of magic so yeah there is a good reason he aka me is the Commander of the Agency! His power alone proved to Craig he was worthy of the title! Also the Royal Vampling Family keeps the Agency provided with what they need! Royal Inkling Family also helps! So yeah Agency is an official building in this AU!

[governmentofficial]

It was a relief to hear somebody agree with the notion that it was nigh on impossible to hold an engaging conversation with the rest of the world - especially when Mycroft could see the other man meant what he was saying. His words didn't seem to be a problem of ego either. That was intriguing and, as much as Mycroft hated to admit it, it was rather attractive too.

"What field do you specialise in?"

His interest in the field of medicine was limited - that was to say, he'd happily devour any information about it were it provided to him, but he wasn't in a hurry to seek it out specifically. However, as the conversation went on, he found himself interested in hearing more about Isaac's work, hence the question.

"Professionally, but also as a hobby if that applies too. I would be interested to hear more about the concepts that your colleagues do not understand - keeping in mind, of course, that my medical training is limited to practical first aid."

Practical first aid meaning not only the basics, but also setting broken bones, dealing with gunshot wounds, and whatever else Mycroft risked coming across in his prior line of work. In addition to that, he also had a rather solid knowledge of poisons - both for professional reasons, and because he had once spent a few days as a child reading as many books as he could find on the topic in the family library.

𝐌𝐘𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐓 & 𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐀𝐂 @governmentofficial

A smile curved Isaac's lips. Yes, Mycroft Holmes was right, humans were tedious. Watching them was like watching apes, and while he found it entertaining at times, he could certainly understand his date's frustration. On the other hand, Mycroft Holmes had no way of knowing he was not talking to a human right now.

"I understand the feeling," he hummed, "I often feel as if I am talking to monkeys when talking to people." It was not something he would usually share, but Mycroft Holmes had said it first, hadn't he? Surely he would not take offense if Isaac agreed. "Every day, I find myself having to dumb down the simplest of concepts, even to my colleagues, who supposedly studied very hard to become doctors."

And while Mycroft Holmes seemed like a very smart human, he was still a human. Isaac supposed it was not his fault, that he was limited by his own condition. "I am enjoying this conversation too," he said sincerely.

Isaac raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Am I, now? That is good to know."

[ohscorbus]

I know the fandom largely agrees on Healer!Scorpius but for entertainment value I decided to imagine Healer!Albus and here we are. An AU featuring a bumbling Scorpius ‘deliberately’ finding ways to end up in the hospital wing so he has an excuse to talk to Albus, the boy he’s been crushing on for years but has never worked up the courage to get to know. But now Albus is helping out in the hospital wing for experience and Scorpius sees it as his last chance.

Sounds like a disaster, right? That’s because it is. The flustered Scorpius and amused Albus combination always will be. It starts as an accident. Honestly. He forgot about the vanishing step on the staircase and earned himself a head injury.

“Seven years and I still forget! Can you believe... Is it bleeding? What about inside because I heard that’s bad. You can’t see inside there can you? Or can you? Wait—”

Albus promises to only check for internal bleeding, and that’s because he’s fairly sure whatever else is in Scorpius’s head is bound to come spilling out of his mouth anyway. Maybe he should check for concussion again. Or is Scorpius always like this? He holds Scorpius’s face still and tries not to smile as Scorpius fails to follow his wand light and keeps staring at him instead.

Then there was the potions incident. The few drops that touched his skin weren’t life threatening but the resulting rash really was quite unsightly.

“Yann didn’t put the stopper on properly and of course I'm the lucky individual to use it after him. You should see the state of my notes now, this stuff ate straight from the parchment.”

“But thankfully not your hands?”

“Yes! Because I need them. For things. Lots of things. Like….”

“Writing?”

“Yes! Exactly! Writing. And homework. Which is also writing. Yes. Umm.”

Albus gently holds his wrists as he applies the cooling balm before wrapping them and sending him on his way. He pretends not to watch as Scorpius fumbles with the door handle in his newly dubbed ‘medical mittens’. But as entertaining as it is, a pointed look from Madam Pomfrey has him running over and opening the door for him. It earns him a thank you… and a curtsey. He thinks Scorpius instantly regrets it because he goes so red it almost looks like the rash has spread. This boy.

Thankfully no books were harmed during the next round that Albus gleefully refers to as ‘Scorpius vs. the heaviest book in the library’.

“It was quite a heavy book, I can’t believe someone would leave it lying around so close to the edge. I mean, do they have no respect for books? Or my toes? Is it broken? It is, isn’t it? It’s okay because I brought a book, not that one, a different one, so I have something to do in case I’m here all weekend.”

“You can stay but you know for muggles, a break like this takes 6-8 weeks to mend.”

“...I may need another book.”

“Or I could go fetch Madam Pomfrey and she’ll fix it right now?”

“Oh! That’s up to you. Whatever helps you. I’m okay here. You do your thing.”

Albus gets on with his ‘thing’ and runs through his checklist in his head. The fracture will be an easy heal and so while he waits he fetches the cream for the bruise that’s already forming. His touch to Scorpius’s barefoot is feather light but it’s enough to make him squeak and giggle as his fingertips graze the bottom of his foot. Albus looks up and apologises but his smile probably gives away how little he means it. But hey, at least there doesn’t seem to be any nerve damage. It’s good to check, you know?

Albus humours him through Knarl bites and cauldron burns because he’s cute, but he does eventually catch on and asks him out himself before Scorpius does himself some real damage. Although it only takes a few dates for Albus to realise that maybe all those accidents really were just that. It turns out his boy is a genuine disaster magnet. Luckily Albus is ready for whatever life throws at him... and Scorpius.

[its-deputy-caleb]

Hiii, could i have a request for how the gang members would react to meeting a historian or explorer in the wild?? thank you! I love your blogs sm!!

anon ily <3333 i went wayy overboard with these but i regret nothing bc this was soo cute and fun to write. I hope u enjoy and i made it gn for everyone. I only did the VDL boys for this but if enough ppl like it i might do the girls with something similar idk yet?

Dutch Van Der Linde

Dutch first laid eyes on you when you were hanging off the edge of a cliff after slipping when you got too close to the edge. He immediately ran over to you, helping you off the cliff and getting you settled back on your feet.

He seemed genuinely concerned and agreed to help you safely record the rock carving that was on the side of the cliff face, keeping you from falling.

You were a historian and had been studying these mysterious rock carvings after meeting an equally mysterious man, Francis Sinclair.

You didn’t see much of Dutch Van Der Linde after that until you ran into him again in Saint Denis in the saloon. He remembered who you were instantly and started up a conversation about your work where you chatted away for hours.

You became very close after that and he often accompanied you to Museums and fancy fundraisers that you were invited to.

He’d always get dressed up and complimented your finer outfits which was such a difference to the field gear you’d have on. You’d spend all night chatting away over nice champagne and dancing together before actually engaging with other guests but you didn’t have a care in the world with Dutch in your life.

Arthur Morgan

Arthur finds you standing in the middle of a field, flipping over rocks and staring numbly at what appeared to be a map in your hands.

When he approached you he soon learnt you were a young amateur explorer about to get your big break with a treasure hunt but you couldn’t find the gold bars for the life of you.

Arthur gave you a heart warming smile and held up a gold bar after retrieving it from his satchel having felt a little bad that he’d discovered it not a week before you.

The two of you laughed about it, calling yourself a fool for trying to find it for so long when it was clearly missing— the thought that someone took it clearly never crossed your mind.

Arthur was always a gentleman however and promised to make it up to you. After taking you to dinner and getting to know him better, you spent the next few days camping out and finding a new treasure together.

You travelled through caves and through valleys of flowers to find this treasure. Sometimes it was so beautiful that the two of you just stopped by a stream to let your horses rest and enjoy the scenery.

When you finally found the treasure you gave Arthur a big hug in excitement which caught him by surprised but he happily returned. He let you keep the treasure and wished you luck with more exploring but of course that wasn’t the last time you saw Arthur again.

Charles Smith

Charles meets you one day while you’re out surveying wildlife. You specialised in conservation, wanting to study and protect animal species.

Fresh out of the university from Saint Denis you’d been dying to get out of the confining city and explore the heartlands. That’s where a kind gentleman named Charles Smith had offered to protect you and show you around the herds of bison you’d taken to studying.

You spent days together riding the over the hills and following the herd as they travelled. While you were Charles told you all about his family and the respect and love they have for the beautiful creatures.

It was amazing the array of knowledge Charles knew about bison and you couldn’t stop the smile on your face as he told you about the characteristics of the bison. You rushed to take notes in your journal, knowing that all that he told you would help you study and protect these animals.

“Do you think it’ll actually do any good? The work you’re doing?”

“One can only hope Mr.Smith but I will do everything in my ability to protect such beautiful creatures.”

Even when you had to return to the city for study you constantly wrote to Charles, staying in touch and keeping him updated with all your work. It was hard to say goodbye to someone you’d grown close to but you made regular visits to each other long after that.

John Marston

You first found John in the saloon after a long day at work, in desperate need of a drink. Being a zoologist you instantly noticed the scars on his face and would’ve guessed a wolf was the animal that caused the damage.

The two of you instantly started up a conversation and shared all kinds of stories. He told you about being up on the mountain while you showed him the scar on your arm from your run in with a cougar.

You were collecting a compendium of all the animals across the heartlands and during the months you worked on it, you ran into John more than once.

He was always curious about your work and you often spent time together in the afternoon sun, showing him the animals you’d found so far.

“What about the stray dogs in town or do you only deal with cougars and wolves?”

“Well they’re animals too aren’t they not?”

Even though you couldn’t see John all the time, he often came along with you to see the wildlife and covered you when you were around particularly dangerous animals and you enjoyed every second you had with him.

Micah Bell

When Micah met you he had absolutely no idea what you were on about. In his mind the whole idea of a palaeontologist is ridiculous and made up, much less the fact that you chose to read books and study in your spare time.

At first he doesn’t do anything but mock your work but after running into you time and time again he finally started to come around.

He grew more and more curious when he saw the drawings in your sketch books of dinosaurs and even more so when he laid eyes on the fossils. But knowing Micah, he’s still incredibly stubborn.

“Ain’t no way that thing is real.”

“One needs an open mind to comprehend what’s prehistoric Mr.Bell. It requires a certain practice.”

Every so often on your work you’d run into Micah who’d be riding around on his horse, just passing by. By now you’d consider him a friend and your face lit up as he pulled a small ammonite fossil from his bag.

It wasn’t really your area of expertise but you could tell he wanted to impress you and seemed almost nervous as you examined the fossil. Nonetheless you could tell it was real and you let him keep the small fossil as a reminder of you until the next time you saw him.

Javier Escuella

Javier meets you when you’re down my the docks, trying to capture the sunlight and noticed him fishing.

Not wanting to disturb him you kept out of his hair until you heard him cheer loudly at a catch he managed to pull in. In your particular interest in animals, you couldn’t help but ask if you could take a photo of the fish he’d caught.

From then on the two of you became friends, often running into each other as you tried to capture landscapes and wildlife.

You’d always spend the day together and you’d show him how to use a camera while he showed you how to fish and play the guitar.

When you spent time apart you’d often write to each other to fill the gap. You’d always send pictures with little writing on the back of them while he sent you poems and songs that he wrote for you, promising to play them for you next time you’d meet.

In your personal journal you have the first picture you ever took of Javier, kept safe between the pages. He’s standing along the docks, facing the away from the water as he holds up a large sturgeon and a large smile.

You and Javier always stay in touch and after he told you of his chaotic and dangerous time in guarma he made light of it by telling you about all the different wildlife he saw while he was there.

Bill Williamson

Bill stumbles upon you in the wild by accident. He’s out scouting a lead when he ended up getting lost through the shrubbery and found you examining flowers closely.

When you told him you were a botanist he looked as if you’d just spoken a different language to him because he didn’t have a clue as to what that meant. Bill always made you laugh fondly at the confused look when you told him all the scientific names of flowers.

In Bill’s mind, a flower was a flower. There was purple flowers and blue flowers and even red ones but they didn’t have their own names.

The next time Bill ran into you he brought you what he thought was a bouquet of white flowers. Instead they were actually a species of weed that was poisonous when eaten but it didn’t stop you from smiling and hugging him which was the intended purpose.

In light of that incident Bill was actually curious about some plants, trying to learn about them more. When Bill went exploring with you he pointed out some of his favourites and you picked a few to put them in the brim of his hat for him to take him back to camp.

When you run into him again Bill tries to give you another flower, this time actually understanding the plant he’d picked was a Vanilla Flower Orchid or the Vanilla planifolia but he never learnt how to pronounce it unlike you.

With a high blush Bill placed the flower behind your ear and you pulled him into a hug, being careful not to crush the beautiful flower.

[popitdontdropitwrites]

Engiespy Week (2022) Day 7 -"Dress Up Free Space"

Also available on Ao3 here

This one has to be my favourite of the lot.

Long before technology could imitate the art of disguise, Spy had worn all matter of skins and suits, be it the pungent rags of the poor, the usefully unmemorable clothes of the everyman, the inconspicuous uniforms of many, many organisations and perhaps most enjoyably, the ridiculously lavish fur coats of the rich. Every persona required a masterful understanding of how one should present themselves and the matching skill to carve a new, convincing identity. The tech neatly hidden within his cigarette case made it far too easy, too quick, so much so that anyone could take his role with minimal training. It made him replaceable, disposable, even. His skills had aged with him and now, lied on the bleak precipice of obsoleteness and someday, they may fall into obscurity forever.

But admittedly, it was not the grandeur and nostalgia of the old ways that made Spy miss them, rather, it was the restrictiveness of the new. He had a set of templates, predesigned by someone other than himself. His wardrobe, so to speak, had been limited to just a few outfits, unable to be altered and reimagined. He played the same roles, over and over, reciting all the same acts with fading passion, like a marionette on the strings of an unimaginative puppeteer.

In this endless war, he could only grasp at fickle illusions that crumbled at the slightest touch. He did not live in the life he adorned himself in. It was a mere projection, a trick of the light and a lapse of the mind. It was not anything close to the skin, cloth and very make of another, fleshed out with deliberate posture, rehearsed speech patterns and memorised history. He did not learn how to carry himself with an air unlike his own because there was no need for it any longer. He was the same forever, and while yes, he enjoyed his own form, he so missed the carefully constructed masks of his own design. He had been trapped, locked into one face, one name, one voice, one profession, one life… he was so much more.

Dorian pined for the thrill of browsing through countless stores, bartering with street merchants, and consulting specialised tailors all to design a new version of himself, one that would only ever be a fleeting fantasy, or often, a nightmare. Strand by strand, hair by hair, inch by inch, he spun himself a new face, just as a spider weaved itself a web, similarly designed to ensnare an unsuspecting victim. He had spent countless hours before mirrors of all shapes and sizes, slowly transforming into someone else, and yet, himself.

But despite his desire, he hesitated, suitcase clutched tightly in his hands. He feared that he had forgotten how to create his disguises after so much time without them. The thought of turning back rose within him like a mist laden with doubt.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Dell.”

The man he loved looked at him with such understanding and patience that it hurt. “Don’t be shy now, you’ve been doin’ this your whole life. Sure, you’re not gonna kill me with it – at least I hope not – but you’re gonna be gorgeous, I just know it.”

He couldn’t help but wonder if he would continue to be so calm once he saw the end result. “You are sure that this is okay?”

“Yeah, Dorian, whatever you’re plannin’ on, I don’t mind. I just want to see ya happy.” He placed his hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring pat. “Go on, now, I’ll be waitin’ for ya.”

“You may be waiting for some time.” He muttered, entering Engineer’s bathroom.

He closed the door behind him, going so far as to lock it to ensure his privacy, though Dell was not the type to barge in. He placed the case on the countertop, running his hand over the smooth, luxurious leather, comforting himself with its familiar texture. He did not dare to open it just yet, as he felt as though he was not ready for what awaited him, despite having already chosen his own poison for tonight.

With great reluctance, Spy undid his tie, shedding the first and perhaps the most important part of his own skin. Relinquishing his own appearance had always been the most difficult part, simply because of the consequent nakedness. Without his tasteful choice of formalwear – his source of pride – he was nothing. Regardless of the fact, he pressed on, gently shrugging off his suit jacket, hanging it off a nearby hook. He unbuttoned his shirt, which he folded next to his tie, shuddering under the cool air as he undid his belt and stepped out of his pants. Now undressed completely and by extension, utterly and devastatingly vulnerable, he looked to the mirror, to the blank canvas captured within the glass prison.

Oh, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

He picked up one of Engineer’s razors, switching out the abused blade for a fresh one. He examined his face, poking and prodding the stubble on his face. Though it was still relatively smooth and nowhere near as prickly as Dell’s, it was not acceptable for a night like this. He washed his face, applying shaving cream to his skin and with the steady hands of a surgeon, gave himself the cleanest shave he had in years. He preened himself thoroughly, ensuring he was the very picture of perfection, like a bird preparing to woo his mate.

His paintbrushes were ready to meet him, they only needed his skilful hands to guide them.

With trembling fingers, he unclipped the two golden latches on the sides of his case, slowly lifting the lid. Inside, a dress of exquisite black velvet awaited him. Its nightlike darkness had initially appealed to him, but in this moment, it had become terrifying, like the deepest, most silent void – unknown, unexplored, and alien.

He feared what Dell would think. This secret pleasure of his often came across as a sick perversion, a depraved desire beyond redemption, but it was not quite like that for Dorian. This was innocent, pure, like doves and white blossoms.

He only wanted to be pretty.

Spy stepped into his stockings and tugged the translucent fabric over his thighs, securing them with garters. He then eased himself into the dress, taking great care not to damage it as he pulled it up. Unlike an ordinary suit, it restricted him in favour of its staggering beauty. He had this evening gown imported from France, preferring this particular style than those worn here. It went down to his ankles, only showing skin above the chest and fitted his form, flaunting it. He began to tie the concomitant silk stole around one of his shoulders. He remembered the steps, but his muscles did not. He attempted and failed several times before he could get it to properly coil around him and slant down his chest with the long tail draped elegantly over his bare arm. Only then did he glance in the mirror, towards the half-complete portrait of himself. He was still imperfect, but he could see glimpses of who he would become.

He put on the matching heels, which felt rather small compared to his typical dress shoes. Like the dress, they were sleek and elegant, with tall, thin heels that clacked when he walked, almost like snapping one’s fingers to demand the attention of another. Despite being a small addition, they made him feel far more complete. But that was not to say that he was finished just yet. No, poor Dell would be waiting for some time.

He opened his makeup case, displaying a full, glorious collection of concealers, foundation, eyeliners, mascara, lipstick, and brushes. Though the process of beautifying himself was strange and clumsy at first, with time and a few do overs, muscle memory stirred from its long slumber, making it feel like second nature once more. Before this war, these had been as valuable as any blade, due to his ability to play the fairer sex just as easily as he did the other. All men had their weaknesses, and surprisingly often, a refined, exotic woman was one of them – the perfect excuse to indulge himself and experiment with skirts, dresses, blouses, and lingerie.

He was in the midst of applying his lipstick when Dell knocked on the door. “You done yet?”

“Patience, labourer, I am almost finished.” After lining his eyes with complimentary wings, he slipped his fingers into his black gloves, pulling them all the way up to his elbows and straightening out any creases in the material.

He stepped back, giving himself a full view of the stunning creature he had become. He placed a hand to the mirror, in awe as a fluttery high flooded his mind. He had forgotten this feeling, the bubbling excitement, the rush of satisfaction, the fulfilment of shedding who he had been, if just for a moment. He examined his face, in awe of how it all worked to hide his age and bring out his best features. And though his heart raced in his chest, he did not feel shame or fear, because this seemed right.

Dorian took in a deep breath, unclicked the lock and opened the door to meet his audience. Engineer froze, and Spy waited for him to turn away in disgust, but he merely stared, open mouthed and in awe. Colour rose on his charmingly pudgy cheeks at an alarming rate, so much so that he thought the poor man might faint. He sputtered, attempting to speak, but his tongue got caught on his words.

“I-I didn’t know you were…” Was all he could muster. “G…Good lord.” He breathed, his fingers knotting the sheets of the bed, steadying himself.

His reaction made it all worth it. He would not be forgetting this night, not ever. “Would you believe me if I told you that I used to do this as part of my work?”

He tugged at the collar of his shirt, playing with it as his eyes wandered all over him. “Call me crazy but you’re makin’ me jealous of those sons of guns ya assassinated.”

“You shouldn’t be, Dell.” Like this, his voice seemed to mesmerise his partner as it walked the fine, glittering line of androgyny. “This part was only ever a lure.”

“To hide your knife comin’ right for ‘em?”

“Or the poison in my handbag, the derringer in my stocking, the garrotte in my brassiere…” He trailed off, grinning devilishly at the memory. “Rest assured, I have no such things on my person.” Spy stood over Dell, his tone changing slightly. “You may check if you would like.”

He laughed nervously, looking absolutely delicious in his flustered state. “Naw, there’s no need for that… I trust ya, Dorian.” His tone, oh, how it sung to him with its sweetened, unfaltering faithfulness. It was only ever like this that he heard that deeply trusting inflection, not unlike that of songbirds professing their undying love to the morning sun.

He placed a single heel on the bed, causing the hem of his dress to ride up his leg, just enough to get his lover’s attention. He leant in closer, effectively entrapping Engineer. “You are such a fool.” He whispered, his gloved hands cupping his chin. “Now, I have you exactly where I want you…”

His lips met Dell’s, and he felt different even to himself; gentler, sweeter, poisonously tender. There was a hunger to his administrations, but like death, it was patient. Engineer was not, and kissed him hard, desperate to convey just how much he adored this new side of him and that he wanted nothing more than to explore it with him.

[leyswhumpdump]

The Larceny of Lord Liron #1

A one-off (?) haha sike short piece from this prompt post by @painsandconfusion (it’s a bit of a mix of prompts but the main one I used should be fairly obvious).

Masterlist

Tropes and CWs: Thief whumpee, intimate whumper, two POVs, tight grips and soft threats.

Lord Urien leaned against the mirrored wall, willing himself to sip the foul cocktail his wife had brought him. It did not do to drink only water at these functions, regardless of his personal tastes, but sobriety had its advantages. He lifted the glass to his lips, pretending to swallow, while scanning the ballroom to see where the boy had gone. Or more accurately, seeing which drunken fool the boy picked next.

He’d observed a pattern across the evening—a pattern that had only reinforced itself as the little sneak-thief’s greed got the better of him. Lords so plainly bored of their wives. Lords whose wives danced with younger, more attractive men. Lords who regarded their prospective dancing partner with hungry eyes. Lords who’d have preferred a woman, yet still melted from the attention. Sometimes the victims had been ladies. Bracelets had unclasped themselves, rings sliding gently off fingers, but the thief clearly specialised in picking pockets. Urien had seen his darting little hand pull things from jackets and trousers, lithe fingers swallowing up valuables without a trace. Impressive, to say the least. Urien smiled to himself as he swirled his cocktail, and craned his neck to see above the heads of the crowd.

“Lord Urien. Would you care for a dance?”

Urien nearly spilled his drink on the thief’s shoes. It had been years since someone had successfully snuck up on him like that, and a slight flush hit his cheekbones. Damn, the kid was good. He’d even gotten his name right, though it troubled Urien to think what else he might know. “Lord—ah. I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

The thief met the eye contact with a dazzling smile. “Oh, how rude of me. Lord Liron of Krogia. It’s such a pleasure to meet you—and to visit this kingdom, of course.”

To visit this ballroom, more likely. The Krogian accent wasn’t terrible, but it did slip a bit on the word pleasure. And he almost looked the part too, with his golden curls and small frame. The clothes gave it away to a keen observer. However he’d acquired them, they had definitely not been his to begin with.

“Perhaps we can get to know one another better over the course of a waltz?” said the so-called Lord Liron, his smile unwavering. Urien guessed he’d found his mark and was determined to charm his way to success. “I’ve heard you dance well, Lord Urien.”

Urien raised an eyebrow. “And what else have you heard about me, hm?”

“Only what my fellow lords and ladies tell me.”

The band shifted key, marking the transition into the next dance. Urien considered for a moment. He had to admit he’d found great entertainment in Liron’s larcenous exploits, but he owed it to the other partygoers to keep those deft hands out of any more people’s pockets.

Perhaps this little thief would offer amusement later, of a better kind.

“Of course,” he said, smiling back at Liron, and offered the boy his arm. His wife, not in tune with his plans, glared poison at them both as they approached the dancefloor.

“Quite the event, isn’t it?” Liron murmured. A subtle eye movement at waist height suggested he was assessing which of Urien’s pockets to go for first.

“Oh, quite the event,” Urien drawled, brushing his fingers across Liron’s. The kid wasn’t the only one who could act; in fact, feigning boorishness was an excellent survival tactic where courtly politics were concerned. “And let me tell you, darling, you’ve just made my evening a whole lot brighter.”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ‿︵‿︵‿︵

For some reason, he felt sick. Wren had always relied on his instincts to get him out of troublesome situations, and now those instincts nudged at him to reconsider his presence in the ballroom. He swallowed the feeling down, telling himself he’d take a wander in the gardens after this dance. Lord Urien seemed besotted enough and besides, he dripped with far too many jewels for Wren to want to pass up the opportunity.

He’d worn Lord Liron’s identity like a mask the whole evening, a mask that had gone entirely unquestioned by those he’d introduced himself to. It appeared as though no one had read up on their Krogian peerage lists, or at least not enough to realise there had been no Lord Liron for at least three hundred years. He smiled until his stomach settled. To think the nobility boasted of their superior education and how much more intelligent they were than the dregs of society. If Wren was honest, they were getting off lightly with the theft of just a few little things they wouldn’t miss too much.

“Now which role do you prefer, Lord Liron?” Urien mused in Wren’s ear.

“I usually dance the gentleman’s part.” Given his stature, that had taken a few of the lords by surprise. They’d been forced to dance like ladies, their hands at a safe shoulder height, their faces turned away from the thief that was going through their pockets.

Urien smiled, as if he’d known Wren’s answer in advance. “Then I shall be the lady,” he said as they took their positions. “Anything to dance with a Krogian. I hear you people really know how to waltz.”

“We invented the waltz.” Lord Liron’s mask was safety for as long as he kept it on. “Dancing is in our blood.”

Dancing had never been in Wren’s blood. But just like the rest of them, Urien was too drunk to care or even notice. He stumbled, belched quietly to himself, mistimed his steps far worse than Wren did. And yet discomfort nagged at Wren’s sleeve; alcohol fumes had floated off his previous dancing partner in waves, but for all his boisterous noise, Urien smelled only of faint cologne. His missteps lurched him away from Wren rather than into him, so Wren couldn’t reach a distracted pocket. And his eyes seemed just a little sharp for a drunk man, roving around the ballroom and glimpsing their reflections in the mirrors that lined the far wall.

With an effort, Wren shook the doubts clear. He’d done his prep work, researched everyone who’d be in attendance. Urien was just another drunken, entitled lord hiding his oafishness behind a veneer of glitter. Nobody Wren had spoken to had picked out subtlety as a key trait of his, nor shrewdness. He was a fool like all the rest of them—a fool that would be returning home without a few personal possessions…

He used the rhythm of the dance against Urien, his hand slipping down towards the pocket of his formal jacket. He could feel something in there. But just as his fingers slid between the folds of the fabric, Urien’s hand dropped from his shoulder and caught hold of his wrist. Wren gasped, trying to pull his fingers back, but Urien’s grip kept his arm in one place. Manicured nails dug deep into his skin.

“How curious,” Urien murmured, suddenly leading the dance. “I never knew Krogian waltzes involved hands going where they don’t normally belong.”

The heat of the room drained at those words. Wren’s heart began to flutter, and it took everything he had not to stammer. “Forgive me, Lord Urien. My wife always told me I had an issue with wandering hands.”

“Wandering is certainly the word for it. But you don’t have a wife, do you Lord Liron?” Urien pulled Wren against his chest, his breath ruffling Wren’s curls. Breath that had never smelled so sober. “Or if you do, she’s as much of a lowlife as you are. What’s her name, hmm? I’d like to say hello.”

A squeak escaped Wren’s lips as Urien twisted his wrist. “I’m not married.”

“Good, good. No one to miss you too terribly, when the guards arrive to put you in prison.”

Sweat pooled in Wren’s trapped fist. “I don’t—I’m not—”

“If you’d targeted your average man on the street, you might have earned a flogging.” More sober breaths. “A branding, perhaps. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn you’ve a few scars under those clothes that aren’t yours. But a lord… oh dear, oh dear.” He tutted sadly. “You’d be lucky if they simply hanged you.”

“Please…”

“Are you begging for your life, little thief?” He readjusted his grip on Wren, pulling him into a low dip. Nobody seemed to notice the sudden role reversal. “My, my. Imagine being foolish enough to think you’d get away with your tricks.”

Wren couldn’t move. Urien’s grip slid just enough to threaten removing the support, dumping him on the hard ballroom floor under people’s feet—then he found himself being yanked back into a dancing position. “We’ll finish this waltz, little thief. Then you and I can take a stroll out to the carriage.”

“But—but—what about your wife?” Wren whimpered, desperately grasping at straws.

“Oh, I’ll be sure to introduce you. You know, she’s been looking for a new pastime as of late.”

His warm breaths softened into a kiss atop Wren’s curls.

“And I think you’ll be just the thing.”

Part 2

[spencers-renaissance]

storm-darkened or starry bright

Summary: Spencer contracts HIV. It all falls apart after that.

Tags: angst, illness, hurt!spencer, hurt/comfort, worried derek, depression, mutual pining, getting together, angst w a happy ending

TW: vomit, implied/referenced sex and addiction, disordered thinking, depression as a result of medical diagnosis

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 6.5k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

(I've tagged my usual moreid taglist in this fic, but I won't be offended at all if this is too heavy for you!)

Title from "Where All My Books Go" - W.B. Yeats.

Originally inspired by J_Ballinger's Swift, Fierce & Obscene which is just a brilliant piece of art.

you said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud — richard siken, litany in which certain things are crossed out

It starts with the flu.

He calls into work sick and he makes himself comfortable in bed, preparing to ride it out. It is the middle of January after all, and their last case saw them in Ann Arbor, shivering their way through each crime scene and a police station with abysmal heating.

His lymph nodes are swollen, and he’s running a moderate fever — 102 the last time he checked — and the cough he’s had for a couple of days is definitely getting nastier, but he uses the time to catch up on the documentaries he’s had stored on his DVR for the past couple of months. He tries to see it as a positive: he never gets time to rest like this. Warm soup, chamomile tea, and some Nyquil should be the end of it.

He makes the most of it. He gets better. He goes back to work, and life goes on.

“It’s not like you to get sick, Reid.”

Emily doesn’t mean anything by it, it’s about as innocuous as a comment can possibly be, but something about it makes his heart stop for a second. Because the thing is, she’s right. The last time he was actually sick was the anthrax poisoning three years ago, which can hardly be blamed on his body itself. He hasn’t been sick with a virus since he was a child — certainly not anything more than a mild winter cold.

His world turns upside down in the middle of a Tuesday, a couple of them gathered around Derek’s desk laughing about nothing in particular, the easy camaraderie of a close-knit team without a time-sensitive case on their minds.

Three and a half weeks ago: a night heady with alcohol in a gay bar in downtown DC, a charged encounter with a man just Spencer’s type, a whispered invitation back to his place, not making it past the bathroom…

He pales, suddenly feeling violently ill at the prospect of what’s happened, how badly he’s fucked up this time.

“Spencer, are you okay?” Emily asks, suddenly noticing his appearance. “You look really pale… maybe you’re not ready to be back at work yet.”

Forcing himself out of his stupor, he manages to open his mouth without vomiting. “I don’t feel so good,” he says, and even to him his voice sounds weak and distant. Blood roars in his ears, and all he can think is what that blood could very well be tainted with.

Far away voices discuss something he doesn’t pay attention to before Derek’s placing his hand on his shoulder, drawing him back into the discussion. “I’m gonna drive you home, okay?” Emily isn’t standing at the desk anymore, but he doesn’t think to look around for her, just locks eyes with Derek: noticing his brows knit deeply in concern, worry clouding his dark, striking eyes.

He lets himself be led down to the garage. Later, he won’t remember any of the winding car journey home, Derek’s worried sideways glances, his attempts at making conversation, tucking him into bed, his hesitancy to leave and go back to work. He’ll just remember the weight of his realisation, the sinking acknowledgement of what this means.

What it makes him.

⭐️

The next day, he wakes up ravenously hungry. He doesn’t remember anything after the dreaded realisation, but he remembers that he came to it only minutes after eating lunch: meaning he’s gone over eighteen hours without food. Somehow, he manages to pick himself out of bed and stumble to the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. He finishes it all and doesn’t taste a single bite.

He texts the group chat Penelope had made for the whole team last year, ignoring the dozens of anxious messages from his team already filling his phone. Won’t be in.

Almost on auto-pilot, he gets dressed, picks up his phone, wallet, and keys, and walks to his nearest metro station. He counts four stops, gets out of the carriage and walks up the stairs onto the street, weaving through exactly three streets until he finds himself staring at the sign for his Urgent Care clinic.

Words — not ashes, as some small part of him anticipates — manage to spill from his lips as he tells the doctor everything from the unprotected sex he vaguely recalls having on the night of Saturday the 12th of March to his brief flu-like symptoms to his sickly realisation yesterday. Vaguely, he thinks there’s some sort of sick humour in being able to recall exactly what day he had sex, but not the details of the sex itself. Alcohol and dilaudid are the only things that have ever been able to interfere with his memory.

He obediently opens his mouth for a saliva swab, lets the nurse prick his finger and collect a drop of his blood. He wonders if she knows what they’re testing him for. He wonders if she thinks he’s as dirty as he feels, if she’ll violently scrub her hands after smiling politely at him, if she’ll roll her eyes when she talks to the other nurses, lamenting his stupidity.

The sounds of the waiting room melt into the background as he waits for the test to be conducted, and judging by the tone of the nurse who gets his attention when it’s time to return to the doctor’s office, it’s not her first attempt.

He mutters a distracted apology as he gets up from his seat, but she just smiles sympathetically. It shouldn’t get his back up in the way it does.

“I’m afraid you have tested positive for the Human Immunodeficiency Virus, Dr Reid,” she tells him, her voice gentle but straight-forward. He’s at least glad she doesn’t try and soften the blow. It’s not a blow that deserves to be softened. “I know this is a shock, but—”

“It’s not a shock.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s not a shock,” he repeats insistently; impatiently. “I knew it was coming. It’s my own fault.”

“Playing blame games isn’t going to help anybody here, Dr Reid,” she says firmly, meeting his eye. “Whether you were expecting it or not, this would knock anyone off-kilter, and I’d be remiss not to acknowledge that.”

She waits for his reluctant nod before continuing. “The good news is that we’ve caught it early enough to contain the infection. Your CD4 levels are very good, and you do not meet AIDS criteria. I’ve referred you to Dr Frederiks at George Washington University Hospital. He’s an expert in Infectious Disease and specialises in HIV/AIDS treatment. He can see you tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

He arrives back at his apartment almost $300 out of pocket, having gained nothing but a positive HIV diagnosis. The FBI has brilliant healthcare insurance but Spencer ticked the ‘no’ box on the insurance form. He can’t risk anybody knowing about this.

He texts Hotch and tells him he has a doctor’s appointment in the morning and will let him know whether he’ll make it in for the afternoon. Then he lays on the sofa, and cries.

⭐️

“HIV is a chronic illness,” the doctor explains at four minutes past ten the next morning, “a latent infection. Not a death sentence. Medications have come leaps and bounds in the last ten years, and the regimes aren’t anywhere near as rigorous as they used to be. With your CD4 levels this good, your life really won’t be much different than it was a few weeks ago.”

Spencer’s never had much interest in medicine — after all, there’s a reason he’s not that kind of doctor — but he knows this much. He doesn’t tell the doctor that he’s wasting his time explaining the basics of the disease, just stares blankly at the point in between his eyes, staring at the small crease in his skin, the way it moves as he speaks.

“It’s likely that you’ll die of something else, Dr Reid, decades in the future. When managed correctly, HIV is rarely deadly.”

This seems irrelevant: it doesn’t matter to Spencer what he dies of. Whether his immune system gives in or he’s shot in the line of duty or drops dead in the street from an aneurysm he doesn’t see coming, he’ll be dead.

He still doesn’t say anything.

“For the first six months of infection, the risk of transmission to sexual partners is high,” he continues, unfazed by Spencer’s lack of response. “Are you in a relationship?”

“No.” It’s the first word he’s spoken since he entered this office. His voice breaks. He can’t have the person he wants: this feels like the nail in the coffin of a relationship dead on arrival.

A look of sympathy crosses Dr Frederik’s face. “In any casual encounters you may engage in, you’ll need to be extra careful. Do you have the contact details of the person you contracted this from?”

His voice is steadier this time. “No.”

“Do you have any suspicion that you were deliberately infected by them?”

“No,” he answers, because he doesn’t, but it occurs to him that he’ll never actually know. He doesn’t remember if they used a condom; if he even wanted to use one. (All he remembers is his muscles and the way he pretended he was Derek, the amused look on the other man’s face when he whispered his name like a prayer.)

“That’s fine,” the doctor smiles encouragingly. It feels patronising. “We’re going to start with a triple combination of medications: tenofovir and emtricitabine combined with dolutegravir. HIV is an adaptable virus and easily becomes resistant, so it’s best to attack it hard and fast as early as possible to give you your best chances at an undetectable viral load in the next year. Which, I might add, Dr Reid, is a completely reasonable goal. At that stage, you will not be all that infectious. You’ll have bloods drawn before you leave to estimate your baseline kidney and liver function as well as overall health. In three months, you’ll have another test, and in six months, we’ll assess how well the drugs are working for you.”

Spencer nods, his eyes not leaving the crease between Dr Frederik’s eyebrows.

“Make those appointments with my secretary on your way out, and contact me if you have any concerns.” He pushes a brown paper envelope across the desk. “Inside you’ll find a copy of your positive test result, your prescriptions, and a number of leaflets on the condition as a whole.”

He squashes the urge to push the envelope back across the desk and nods again.

“Pick up the medication before the end of today and start them either tonight or in the morning,” he advises, before standing up from behind the desk and walking towards the door.

Spencer follows obediently, nodding once more and forcing a grimace onto his face, before walking down the hallway towards the secretary, another stranger he has to share his secret with. Swallowing down the urge to either scream or vomit, he fiddles with the envelope in his hands and bites the bullet.

⭐️

He tells Hotch that he won’t be in that day, and he goes home and forces himself to get it together. He showers first, the hot water washing the grime of the last few days down the drain, but he can’t do anything about the lingering layer of shame clinging to his skin. For the first time since the realisation, he forces himself to look in the mirror. A thin, pallid man with bags under his eyes and the look of someone harbouring a secret looks back at him.

His hair has grown out a little in the last few months, actual curls visible around his face (memories flash across his mind of breathy gasps; a hand buried in his hair, pulling ever-so-gently but they’re gone before they’re even remotely tangible), and he lost a little bit of weight he couldn’t afford to lose during his symptomatic period.

But, as frustrating as it is, it’s not what he sees. Not really. He sees Spencer Reid, possessor of five degrees, soon to become six, expert analyst in the FBI, the man who listens to jazz when he studies and watches documentaries for fun and solves crossword puzzles on the metro.

Something inside him shifts as he’s reminded of his humanity in that moment. It’s the most okay he’s felt in the last forty-eight hours.

He’ll take it.

He goes back to work the next day with little fanfare, getting warm smiles and ‘glad you’re feeling better’s from the team before they’re plunged headfirst into a new case, as it so often goes. They fly to Vermont, and part of him is glad for the distraction: no more talking about his illness, no more self-pity — he’s forced to try and bridge the gap between Dr Spencer Reid, Before and Dr Spencer Reid, HIV Positive as quickly and seamlessly as possible.

He does what he’s good at: offers relevant, detailed facts, profiles the victims and the unsub, cites studies that help them get to the bottom of the case, and for a moment he allows himself to forget about the virus coursing through his blood and the feeling of shame he can’t quite shake no matter how clean he scrubs his skin.

They get to the hotel late that evening and Spencer takes his second dose of medication, individually popping each tablet from it’s sheet into his hand. The pharmacist he spoke to yesterday told him that from his next medication order they can put all three tablets into a blister packet for him, but for now he’s stuck punching through three different plastic packets every night. Derek asks him to join them at the bar for a drink, but Spencer turns him down. He’s barely been able to look him in the eye.

If, in some rare and far flung universe, Derek did want to date Spencer, he wouldn’t want to date HIV positive, ex-addict, reckless and unsafe Spencer.

He wouldn’t want to date a man so heartbroken and lovesick that he got black-out drunk and slept with someone — most likely without a condom — just because he bared a passing resemblance to Derek. Contracting the Human Immunodeficiency Virus in the process.

No.

Spencer spends the evening staring into the mirror instead, desperately trying to find the man he was four days ago under the burden of broken suffering he seems to have picked up along with the diagnosis, the positive test, the sympathetic doctors.

When he hears the others come up past midnight and pile into their hotel rooms, laughing and chattering among themselves, Spencer still hasn’t looked away.

The use of the case as a distraction only works until 11am the next day. He’d had trouble falling asleep, and he’s powering through the day fuelled by black coffee and raw determination alone, but those motivators — as effective as they can be — can’t stop his legs from shaking as he stares at the geo-profile, searching for what they’re missing.

It sucks, but he’s glad for the warning the shaking gives him. He finds a chair and sits down, which is likely the only thing that stops him from collapsing when black dots swim in his vision and he’s suddenly vomiting down his front.

“Reid!” Hotch cries, running from the other end of the police station to where he’s sitting, panic clear on his face. They’re the only two from their unit currently in the station, but Hotch quickly locates an officer and turns to him. “Call an ambulance.”

“No,” Spencer manages to protest, although it only makes him want to be sick again, “‘m fine, promise.”

“What’s going on? I thought the flu had passed? Healthy people don’t spontaneously vomit and almost pass out, Reid.”

Somehow, his addled brain manages to concoct a decent enough lie. “Keep thinking I’m better,” he mumbles, leaning forward to put his head between his legs as Hotch places a hand on his back, “and then I’m not.”

“You’re sure this is just the flu?” Hotch asks, concerned but at least appearing to believe him.

“Certain,” Spencer lies.

Hotch nods once before shaking his head at the officer on standby with a phone to call an ambulance. “Well, you can’t work the case like this,” he sighs. “We need to get you back to the hotel, okay? You can rest there. God, Reid, what did the doctor say?”

“Bad case of the flu. Gave me some strong Tamiflu and told me I’d be fine in a couple days.” He gasps the words out in between intense waves of nausea, clasping his hands together in an iron grip.

He absolutely can’t let Hotch catch on. In the nine years he’s worked at the FBI, he’s managed to conceal his sexuality below layers upon layers of closeting, and he’s not about to be forced out now. It started as a purely protectionist strategy — law enforcement in the early 2000s didn’t exactly have a stellar reputation when it came to tolerance — but then he just felt forced too deep, felt the web of lies spun too tightly around him to even begin to unpick them.

Terror seizes his heart at the idea of his team knowing who he really is: not because he expects homophobia or backlash, but because he’s not sure he’s ready to live that openly yet. He’s never been good with change, and this is no exception.

It doesn’t help that the whole team is all too aware of his past addiction. He dreads the thought of them thinking he’s using again and, worse, so irresponsibly that he managed to contract HIV.

Hotch gets a rookie officer to drive him back to the hotel, and she keeps sending him nervous glances, most likely worried he’ll stink up her immaculately kept squad car with his spontaneous vomiting. Both he and the car make the journey unscathed, although he knows he probably looks as green as he feels as he drags himself up the stairs — could there possibly be a worse time for an out of order elevator? — and somehow manages to make it to the bed before he collapses.

Unfortunately, his restful slumber doesn’t last long. He’s woken up not half an hour later with the intense need to be sick again, and he races to the toilet, where he spends the next two hours: intermittently slumped over it, being sick into it, and lying on the cold tiles next to it.

It feels like a punishment. If Spencer was a religious man he’d be certain God was smiting him for his sins, but instead he’s left instead pondering karma or fate or some other theory he doesn’t really buy into either. Logically, he knows it’s just a combination of guilt and regret — he made a mistake, he’s suffering the consequences; there’s no fate or religion or karma involved — but his delirious, out of sorts mind struggles to hold on to that.

Reason doesn’t make the nausea any less crippling, after all.

Eventually, he must manage to pass out on the bathroom floor, because he’s being shaken awake by a pair of gentle hands, and when he finally opens his eyes, it’s dark outside.

“Spence?”

Shit. Derek.

His eyes fly open and he fights to sit up, to make himself more presentable. The smell of vomit lingers in the air and he remembers that he didn’t even put the toilet seat down, let alone flush it. (At least he thought to change out of his vomit-covered shirt. Thank God for small mercies.) He blushes, and thinks he must look a pretty picture of red and green as he finally meets Derek’s eyes.

“God, Spence, how bad is this flu?” he asks worriedly, smoothing his hair with the palm of his hand. Despite himself, Spencer finds himself pressing back into the touch, relishing any contact he can get.

Then it hits him: he’s dirty. He can’t contaminate Derek like this.

“You should leave,” he asserts hurriedly as he pulls away, hating that desperation is so obvious in his voice. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve cleaned everything up, and I used gloves. I’ve been in contact with you the last couple of days, so if you were going to get me sick you would’ve already. I just want to be here for you.”

Spencer squeezes his eyes closed so tightly they hurt. He wants nothing more than to fold himself into Derek’s arms, let himself be comforted by the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with. But he can’t. There are so many reasons that he can’t.

“No,” he says, not opening his eyes, resenting the tear that slips out and spills down his cheek. “You can’t. I’m… I’m not safe to be around.”

He doesn’t really mean to say it, but it escapes anyway, and he opens his eyes just in time to see the confusion cross Derek’s face. “Not safe to…? Spencer, what—”

“I just… I need to be alone.”

“No, you don’t,” Derek says softly, bringing a hand to his hair again, and he knows that HIV isn’t transmitted through sweat or vomit but he’s dirty, and Derek is so so good, he can’t be responsible for tainting him. Derek doesn’t relent, though, not even when Spencer pulls away from his touch and shrinks in on himself, leaning against the toilet. “You need to allow yourself to be comforted. You need to let me help, Spencer.”

Suddenly, he feels incredibly tired: the energy seeping out of his body, and he’s boneless against the toilet, absent even of the effort to hold himself upright.

“Come on, let’s get you into bed.” He puts his arms around Spencer’s rolled up body and lifts him, holding him close to his chest as he carries him from the bathroom to the bed.

Spencer doesn’t just let him, he curls into his embrace, clinging to the material of his t-shirt like it’s his only grip on reality.

(Later, he’ll blame the fever, but deep down he knows that just once, he wanted to play pretend, and just once, he didn’t have the energy to stop himself.)

⭐️

The side effects take weeks to finally leave, his body having a hard time adjusting to not only a deadly virus in his bloodstream, but some of the strongest drugs on the market inhibiting his natural enzyme production. Eventually, though, he’s back at work properly, selling a story about a simultaneous gastro-intestinal virus making the flu exponentially worse.

He’s not really sure everyone believes him, but nobody questions it out loud, so he avoids everyone’s eyes and takes it as a win.

Nobody gets close enough to try, anyway. He pushes everyone away, holds them at arm's length no matter how much they kick and scream and claw their way closer to him. It surprises him how persistent Derek is, and for a moment he feels a sad flutter of hope in his stomach and he’s forced to stamp it down: Derek sees him as a brother, a friend, a colleague, not a potential romantic partner.

And it would be irrelevant, even if he did. Derek wouldn’t want him as any of those things if he knew what he was hiding. Ever since his lapse in judgement on the case in Vermont, he’s refused to spend any time alone with Derek, and he hates the hurt he sees in his eyes, hates that he can’t scream at him that this is for his own good. But he can’t know. Because Spencer is still ruled by his relentless selfish desires, and he can’t let Derek go, no matter how hard he tries to.

Kept at arm’s length at least means he’s still touching his shoulders.

He muddles through the next few months on his own, returning to his quiet apartment every night and eating a sad, lonely dinner on his sad, lonely sofa before punching his way through a blister pack, taking his tablets, and going to sleep. He turns down drinks invitations, declines phone calls, ignores text messages. He pretends he isn’t home when there are knocks at his door.

He takes showers that are too hot and cries on the metro, scrubs his fingernails and his face, and when he got a shallow knife wound on a case last month, wouldn’t let a single member of the team near him. Whispering his status, shame-faced, to the attending EMT.

This is it, he thinks one night, as he opens the microwave and takes out the mac-and-cheese ready meal he’d bought on the way home that night. He doesn’t even like mac-and-cheese. It was just the only thing left in the store at 8.30pm. This is my life now. Standing in my kitchen at 9.15pm, not being able to remember the last time I was actually happy.

(He does remember, really. It was Sunday the 13th of March, 9.37am: Derek had ruffled his hair and joked with him as they waited alone in the conference room to find out what was so urgent they were being called into work on the weekend for. Spencer could still feel the aftermath of his Saturday night tryst, and pretended for a brief few minutes that that encounter was with Derek, and those jokes were actually flirting. But then the case took over, then the flu symptoms, and then. Well.)

Before he can carry the mac-and-cheese into the living room, though, there’s a knock at the door. Everyone had mostly given up on turning up unannounced, so it catches him off-guard, and something in him, some vain flicker of hope, or maybe a masochistic desire to hurt even more, propels him forward until he’s opening it and coming face to face with Derek Morgan.

“Spencer,” he says urgently, and panic immediately grips Spencer as he wonders what could be so wrong that he’d need to show up out of the blue, but Derek must see it on his face. “Nothing’s happened, don’t worry, I just… I need to speak to you.”

A knot of something that Spencer can’t quite place tightens in his stomach as he stares at the myriad of emotions playing across Derek’s face, but he steps aside to let him in anyway. He closes the door behind them and feels a flash of embarrassment at the state of his apartment. It’s completely clean — his already rigorous attitude towards germ and cleanliness have only intensified in the last few months as paranoia plagued his mind relentlessly — but it’s barren of any joy, and it couldn’t be more obvious.

The furniture is drab and Spencer’s packed away all the photos and trinkets that used to litter the entire place because they just made him too sad to look at. The only life that remains is his books, and the sheet he’d hung to cover them up in a fit of rage a couple of weeks ago still hangs there limply. He hadn’t wanted to see his books: didn’t want the temptation of touching them and tainting them. What if he got a papercut on one of the pages and his virus-ridden blood spilled across the words he treasures so dearly?

He watches as Derek surveys the place with a sad expression on his face, before recollecting himself and turning back to Spencer.

“I know you’ve been pulling away from us, Spence,” he says, almost breathless as he takes a seat on the sofa. Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his body, so he settles on remaining where he is: stock still facing the couch, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. “We’ve watched you become a shell of who you used to be, and we’re all worried about you—”

“I don’t—”

“No, just let me speak. Everyone is worried, and I am too, but… I’m also… I’m hurt, Spencer. You’re pushing me away, turning me down every time I try to get close to you, and it’s painful because you’re my friend. You’re my best friend, and you mean the world to me.”

I wouldn’t if you knew my secret, he thinks miserably, but he doesn’t say anything.

“More than anything, though, it hurts… because I’m in love with you.”

Spencer stares. He’s hallucinating, he has to be.

“And I know — well, I don’t know because we’ve never talked about it — but I know you’re probably straight and even if you were interested in guys, too, who’s to say you’d be in love with me back? But I had to tell you because our relationship is heading south anyway, plummeting straight for the ground, and I figured it couldn’t hurt, I just… say something? Please?”

He doesn’t mean to say it.

“I’m HIV positive.”

It’s Derek’s turn to stare. Spencer can’t meet his eyes, and suddenly feeling like he needs to Get Out, he rushes to the kitchen and picks up his rapidly cooling mac-and-cheese. He gets a fork out and faces the countertop, away from Derek, as he starts to shovel unsatisfying bites into his not-hungry stomach.

It can’t even be a full minute later that he hears footsteps behind him. “You have AIDS?”

He sets the mac-and-cheese back on the counter. “No,” he answers, not turning around. “I tested positive for HIV; I don’t meet AIDS criteria. My CD4 levels are apparently very good, and the medication I’m taking is proving effective in controlling and managing the virus. I don’t have side effects anymore, and I don’t feel any different than I did before I contracted it.”

There’s a beat of silence. “And this is why you’ve been pulling away from us?”

Spencer hesitates before nodding shamefully, his eyes burning a hole in his dinner. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone, and I—” He’s cut off by a heaving sob. It catches him by surprise, but suddenly he’s choking on emotion: everything he’s been through, everything he’s been dealing with alone for so long a burden he no longer knows how to carry.

“Oh, baby,” Derek breathes, rushing forward and turning Spencer until his face is pressed into his neck and their arms are wrapped around one another. The nickname only furthers his emotion, falling apart completely in such a way that makes him unsure he’ll ever be put back together again. “I’m so sorry.”

He lets Spencer cry it out until his sobs recede and his tears slow, and he feels confident enough to pull away and meet Derek’s eye properly again. It feels like a reconnection; a reconciliation of sorts, and his breath catches at the emotion on his face. He’d expected a meddle of sympathy and disgust, but all he finds is compassion and love, tinged by a sadness Spencer supposes probably comes from watching the man you’ve just professed to love fall apart like that.

Oh wait. Derek just told him—

“You love me?” His voice comes out quieter and shyer than he’d hoped, and not nearly as incredulous as he’d intended, but Derek softens anyway.

“Yes,” he says emphatically. “So much. And if you think you telling me this is going to change how I feel even a bit, then you’re dead wrong, Spencer.”

It’s suddenly too much to think that everything he’d feared happening for the last few months was wrong, and he’s gasping for breath again, sinking to the ground to bury his face in his hands.

“Spence?” Derek asks worriedly, following him to the floor. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No… please, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He takes a deep breath, trying to recenter himself, ground himself in the reality that’s unfolding before him, no matter how different it might look than that of his anticipation. “You know, the man. Um, the man I… contracted this from. I slept with him because he looked like you.”

He looks up and meets Derek’s eyes again, searching for anything in them to confirm that he was thinking all the thoughts Spencer feared and coming up empty. “I was so heartsick that I got blind-drunk and slept with a complete stranger because it was the closest to you I ever thought I’d get and then I was just so scared of what everyone would say when I found out. I know logically that HIV doesn’t make someone dangerous or unclean, but I just couldn’t shake this feeling of shame, you know? I was constantly panicked that I’d pass it to one of you. Besides, I’m not even out to the team, and I know the implications of a disease like this: gay or an IV drugs user — I didn’t know how to deal with the fact that I was both. I’m clean, and I’ve stayed clean, I just…”

“Hey, I get it,” Derek says gently, reaching out a hand and cupping Spencer’s cheek gently. “I think if I was in the same boat I probably would’ve reacted in exactly the same way. You can’t be blamed for bowing to a social stigma this heavy, Spence. I’m just sorry I didn’t realise what was going on sooner. And even sorrier, for that matter, that I didn’t tell you I was in love with you before this even had a chance to happen.”

Spencer smiles a little at that. “Hey, I didn’t tell you either. I don’t blame you at all. Neither of us were out and confessing something like that is no small feat.”

“I suppose so.”

Spencer shifts a little in his position on the floor, the raging storm of emotion that he’s been drowning under for the past four and a half months quieting for the very first time. He breathes deeply for a few seconds before working up the courage to ask the question he really wants the answer to. “I know you said that this doesn’t change the way you feel—”

“And it doesn’t.”

“Yeah,” Spencer nods, because suddenly he gets that. He isn’t sure what took so long. “But does it make you not want to be in a relationship with me?”

“Spencer, no.” Derek’s voice is urgent as he makes intense eye contact with him, raising a gentle finger to his chin. “It doesn’t change a single. thing. I don’t know much about HIV, I’ll admit, but I do know that these days you can get to a point where it doesn’t transmit to partners. And we can be really safe about it. I’ll do all the research to make you comfortable, but Spencer, even if it did mean that we could never have sex, I’d still want you. I want you so badly, pretty boy.”

He can hardly believe his ears. “Really?”

“Really.” He swipes his thumb across his cheek, catching a falling tear. “I’m hopelessly, desperately in love with you, Spencer. I have been for years. You can ask, Penelope: she’s been putting up with my pining like a saint, but I’m not sure she could’ve taken it much longer.”

“I’ve been in love with you for years, too.” Another tear falls as the prospect of what’s about to happen really sinks in.

“Can I?” Derek murmurs, as he inches closer ever so slowly.

“Please,” Spencer whispers, barely finishing the word before their lips are colliding and a flurry of butterflies break out in his stomach as his chest glows with the warmth of a kiss he’s long been aching for. Derek’s hands find his waist, his jaw, his cheek, his hair, exploring his body ever so softly as he kisses him with the same inquisitive gentleness, managing to take him apart with just his lips and his hands.

“God,” he whispers as he finally pulls away, pressing his forehead to Spencer’s as he struggles to hide his wide grin. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve dreamed of that. I’m gonna be like a teenage girl tonight, running my fingers across my lips as I remember every minute of it.”

Spencer giggles at that. “Well you can rest easy in the knowledge that I’ll be doing the same.” He pulls away slightly and looks down for a second before looking back up into Derek’s earnest gaze. “I’ve never been kissed like that before.”

“I’ll kiss you like that every day for as long as you’ll have me.” He doesn’t hesitate to lean back in, connecting their lips again as they melt into one another’s touches, and it makes Spencer laugh later that the most intimate and passionate encounter of his life so far happened on the kitchen floor.

They pull apart as soon as it heats up a little bit, and pain flashes across both of their expressions at the thought of why.

“There’s this thing called PrEP,” Spencer says, still a little ashamed of his situation, that Derek has to be protected against him before they can take this any further. “It’s medication that you take before and after sex with a HIV positive person that blocks the virus from entering your bloodstream if you were to somehow contract it. And we can wear condoms. And once I reach an undetectable viral load, it means the virus is untransmittable, and you won’t contract it even if we’re unprotected.”

Derek blinks. “Wow, that’s… that’s better than I thought.”

“Really? You’re still okay with all this?”

He softens. “Pretty boy, I am so okay with all this, and I’m sorry that you spent so long thinking otherwise. We have time to figure all this out, but what matters is that right now, I have you next to me, and we love each other. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” He smiles, and leans forward to kiss Derek chastely. “I do.”

“Now, how about we bin that disgusting mac-and-cheese and order some Chinese?” he suggests, matching Spencer’s smile. “We could eat it in bed and watch one of those documentaries you’re always talking about.”

Spencer laughs fondly. “You want our first date to be eating takeaway and watching a science documentary in bed?”

“Well it sounds perfect to me.”

“Yeah, it sounds pretty perfect to me, too,” Spencer whispers, the happiness in his chest feeling warm and inviting, begging him to bask in the moment for as long as he can.

They’ll work out the specifics later — they’ll get Derek started on PrEP and attend Spencer’s appointments to measure his viral load, they’ll have important and serious conversations about the risks to both of them, they’ll work out what their relationship means for work, how they’ll begin to repair the damage the last few months have done to Spencer’s mental health — but right now, none of that matters.

All that does is: the buffet of Chinese food Derek lays out on a blanket on Spencer’s bed, the documentary about bees playing on the TV, and the thrilled little glances thrown each other’s way, the stolen kisses and casual touches, the love palpable in the air around them. And later, when the food is eaten, and the documentary is playing the credits: Spencer’s tired head resting on Derek’s loving chest, and the syncing of their heartbeats as they fall asleep to the sound of each other.

This shouldn't have to be said but please do not use fanfiction as sex education and PLEASE practice safe sex. As far as I know, all the information included in this fic is correct, but I have no personal experience with HIV/AIDS, and this is very much written from an outsider's perspective - albeit a thoroughly researched one.

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