#... because people think I'm an asshole. You need space then I'll give it to you.'

[public-trans-it2]

I think my favorite "dude is gender neutral its fine" moment was when I was hanging out with my roommates brother and his friend group, who were all just... yknow... generic dude bros. And her brother called me dude (the whole group knows I'm trans), I asked him not to, and he pulled out that defense. So I made a comment about "Oh is that why you fuck so many dudes?"

They all roasted him a bit, he dropped it and moved on, whatever, didn't come up again.

Until one of his friends mentioned to me months later that he now refuses to call ANYONE 'dude' because any time he does, they once again pull out that line on him and make fun of him for it, and wont let the joke die.

[comic-sans-chan]

Fic I'll never write where Dukat decides the biennial Cardassian Festival of Whatever the Fuck (it is never actually specified) should be hosted on Deep Space Nine as a way of bridging the gap between the Cardassian and Bajoran peoples. Sisko and Kira are both Ehhhh about it, but Dukat is obnoxiously persistent until finally the Bajoran government and Federation higher ups are like “K”, on the condition that no Cardassian military (or Order) personnel be allowed. All security for the event will be handled by Odo and Starfleet. Dukat is suspiciously cool with this, which puts everyone on alert, but soon Cardassian vendors and decorators start showing up and they turn out to be pretty chill people, so they let it happen.

While the preparations for the festival are underway, another operation has started. A motherfucker from Garak's past is doing typical motherfucker things on the station. One of these things is scouting Garak's quarters, learning the layout, tracking Garak's routine. It becomes clear very quickly that the rapidly increasing number of Cardassians on DS9 is putting Garak on edge, though, because he seems to be fiddling more with his security protocols, so the motherfucker realizes they need to make their move and they need to make it fast.

They succeed. Sort of. With the circumstances as they are, they had to get a little... creative, but it should do the trick.

By early next morning, every PADD, screen, and computer system on the station is streaming seventy-two different poems on a constant loop. Love poems. Ardent, anguished, often utterly indecent love poems, all with the central theme of being about one Doctor Julian Bashir.

Quark is one of the first to notice the problem, being the type of asshole who opens early despite this only increasing his bottom line by a fraction of a fraction. At first, he's furious that his systems have been tampered with, but after reading a few lines of what his normal menu and advertisements have been replaced with, he's laughing, and by the end of the third poem, he's on the floor.

"Odo!" he shouts, banging on the bastard's door twenty minutes later. "Odo, open up! We've got a problem!"

Odo slinks under the door and slips up between it and Quark's pounding fist with a glare. "Quark! I'm not on duty for another hour. What could possibly be so urgent?"

Quark's sharp little rat teeth are splitting his face clean in half as he holds up the PADD. "Take a look."

Odo scrolls through a couple poems, then squints and scrolls through several more. "Erotic love poetry? I didn't peg you for the type."

"To like erotica? Hoo, I thought you paid better attention than that, Constable."

Odo returns the PADD with a dry expression. "To read."

"Oh, you're hilarious." He taps Odo's chest with the PADD. "The whole station is filled with this stuff. My bar, the Replimat, the Celestial Cafe, the promenade. Someone's either desperate to make a statement, or we've been sabatoged."

Dramatic sci-fi music swells and we get a close-up of Odo’s eerily hairless face and nasal cavity.

The next few hours are dedicated to trying and failing to seize back the servers and briefing the bridge staff on the situation.

"Are we sure these are all about Doctor Bashir?" Sisko's voice booms across Ops. He's on his second cup of coffee and a pile of useless PADDs lay beside him.

Julian has remained stoic throughout the discussion and he remains so now, avoiding eye contact with anyone who's smiling a little too wide. Like Jadzia. "Oh, definitely," she says. "He's mentioned by name in three of them, and several others make a point of highlighting the subject's 'golden sand dune skin', 'aristocratic' features, and 'voice that never stops singing.' Sounds like Julian to me."

A few snickers break out, but Sisko is taking the matter seriously. Thank fuck, Julian thinks. It actually looks like it's giving him a headache, which would make two of them if Julian was capable of having headaches. The captain's rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "And the source..."

"There's a clear data trail back to Garak's quarters. Whoever did this, they wanted us to know where it came from," Kira reports. A muscle jumps in Julian's cheek.

"I tracked Garak down for his statement on the issue," Odo says, gruff, "and he told me he had nothing to do with the virus. In fact, he denied ever having laid eyes on the poems in his life. He's claiming he's been framed." He rolls his eyes.

"Okay," Jadzia says, "we all agree he's lying, right?"

"But which part..."

"Oh, they're Garak's. I've read enough Lloja of Prim to be familiar with traditional Kardasi meter and syntax, and that isn't even going into all the parallels drawn between our doctor and Prime. Sand, heat, rainforests. Bit of Romulan imagery in there, too, if I'm not mistaken. A lot of flowers and vines. Wasn't Garak a gardener?"

"I see no reason why anyone would want to embarass themselves like this," O'Brien cuts in before Jadzia can make it worse. "Even if he is trying to distract us or something, this seems counterproductive in the long term. Everyone’s watching him now, not just us. The rumor mill is running rampant. Not exactly a spy’s MO."

"He did blow up his shop once."

"Because someone was trying to kill him," Julian pipes up for the first time, looking concerned. "Do you think this might be another cry for help?"

"Oh, it's a cry for something," Jadzia quips, and Julian shuts the fuck up.

"Dax," Sisko snaps, like the good benevolent Wormhole Alien Jesus he is, and Dax shuts the fuck up, too. Sisko gives them all the stink eye. "Constable, you're nearly as familiar with Garak as the doctor is," he says, and holds a hand up before any jokes can be made. "What do you think?"

"I don't think he's behind this, sir. None of the pieces add up, and he seemed genuinely agitated when I spoke to him, in his way. At present, I believe he is as much a victim here as the rest of us."

Sisko sighs. "All right. Do we have any idea who is behind this?"

The room is silent for a time, before Odo reluctantly answers for everyone, "Not yet, sir."

"Find out," Sisko demands, "and Chief, get these damn poems off of my reports. Dismissed."

Julian is out of the room before anyone else has stood up.

The rest of the day is spent ducking in and out of his office, only treating those who ask for him by name and keeping all conversations strictly professional. Any mentions of poetry, the festival, Cardassians, or Garak are firmly sidelined, and on a couple occasions, rewarded with a none-too-gentle hypo. He skips lunch altogether and extends his shift by two hours to avoid the dinner rush.

By the time he's leaving the Infirmary, it's late. Unfortunately for him, not late enough that the halls aren't still speckled with observers to his personal soap opera. With the Festival of Frank’s Hot Dogs less than a week away, DS9 is becoming increasingly crowded with tourists, mostly Cardassian, but a surprising amount Bajoran, too–apparently this festival was a rare bright point during the Occupation, when their oppressors were not only lenient with them for once, but generous with food and drink and freedoms. It doesn't hurt that the only Cardassians on board are civilian rather than military, so the atmosphere is rather more colorful, courteous and conversational rather than cold, dark and aggressive. It would make Julian smile if he wasn't so busy being gawked at.

"I don't see it," one Cardassian man grumbles and Julian's accursed augmented ears pick up. "He's even smoother than a Bajoran."

"Oh, yeah," his companion replies, "just think of how easily he'd slide around."

"Tanett!"

"Oh, hush, Grandpa. You're just xenophobic. He's cute."

"Well, you be careful who hears you say that. That Garak fellow is in the Order, you know. Ears everywhere. You don't want to know what things a man like that is capable of."

"Wasn't he exiled? Hardly intimidating now. Apparently all he's capable of anymore is whimpering over an alien like a pakrela."

Julian covers his ears and walks faster.

But that just brings him within range of a cluster of Bajorans. "Oh, there's the doctor now," one is saying, up on the balcony. 

"The one the Cardassian tailor wrote about?"

"That poor fool. He thought they were friends, but here this whole time it was perverse. I can only imagine how much that hurts."

"Happened to my friend once. He thought a glinn was being kind because he was having a crisis of conscience and wanted to help him escape. No, he just wanted to–"

He could go to his quarters, but a flash of memory - Garak's bright eyes at the end of his bed, his figure encased in shadow - sends him in the opposite direction. Before long, he finds himself on an oft-unused Observation deck, since it offers no view of the wormhole or either Bajor or Cardassia's suns. It's blessedly empty, as usual, and Julian settles on a bench and stares into the dark nothingness of space for a long time.

At some point, he finds that his hand has retrieved the PADD from his medical bag, and the screen is lit up automatically with the first poem.

He reads well into the night.

—

The next morning finds Garak with a tall glass of rokassa juice and two eggs, staring intensely into a mysteriously operational PADD at the far end of Quark's bar. Quark pops out of his backroom like a jack-in-the-box.

"Ha! Well, if it isn't the man of the hour himself, gracing my fine establishment so soon after nearly destroying it. Do you know I've had to have menus printed, like we're in the dark ages? Do you have any idea how extensive my menu is? I ought to sue you for damages." He catches a glimpse of the PADD's screen and its decidedly unpoetic contents. "Hey, you fixed it? How?"

"It was just a simple virus. Viruses can be purged," Garak says without looking up. He barely seems aware of Quark's existence.

When no other words are forthcoming, Quark huffs. "Well, can you purge it from the rest of the station, then?"

"I gave the program to the Chief last night."

"And he didn't immediately come here to fix my bar? I'll have to file a complaint.”

Garak offers no reply. Just continues to stare into his PADD.

There are other customers he could be seeing to, but Quark can't pass up this golden opportunity. He's known Garak a long time and known of him even longer, and now that he has the guy's guts all neatly lined up on several dozen isolinear rods, he's never felt closer to the man. He makes a point of knowing things about his customers, but before yesterday, the most he knew about Garak was that he was an assassin, a tailor, a mean, weepy drunk, and friends with Bashir, Odo, and a smattering of other shopkeepers. That was it. But now...

He leans over the counter, closer to Garak's unblinking face. "You know," he says, with a smile rising slow on his cheeks, "if it's humans you like, I have a couple holosuite programs that might be just what you need."

Garak's gaze ascends as if on a motor, smooth and mechanical.

Good. He’s considering the bait. Now he just has to get him to bite. "All completely customizable. Skin, eyes, hair. You like long legs, they've got long legs. Scrawny, they're scrawny. Whatever you want. Although if you're really hung up on the one face, that can also be arranged. For the right price." When Garak just looks at him, Quark switches tactics. "Or maybe it's the uniform that does it for you? I've got 'em, but I'd suggest something out of my lingerie databases. I've still got some little Cardassian numbers filed away that I think even a man with your discerning tastes could appreciate. Just imagine, Doctor Bashir in a–"

He doesn't see the hand coming until it's already crushing his windpipe. Quark claws at it for several long, desperate moments while Garak continues to look.

Leeta scuttling over and yanking him away is what ultimately puts a stop to it, and it's while Quark is gasping in dramatic bursts of air that Leeta says in a rush, "Garak, please! Whatever he said, he didn't mean it!"

"Oh, I meant it," Quark coughs out with a high, strangled laugh, "he just didn't like it."

"Whatever conclusions you've drawn in the last twenty-six hours, allow me to dispel them," Garak says primly, as if he hadn't almost committed murder in broad daylight. "I am not a xenophile and I do not have feelings for Doctor Bashir. There are no less than two-hundred Cardassians currently aboard the station, and I assure you, none of them like me. Those poems were obviously planted."

Oh, but Quark is a little pissed now, unwise as that is. "Please, Garak," he says, "who has time to write that many poems about Julian just to mess with you? Two or three, maybe, but over seventy? If you're going to lie, at least don't insult our intelligence."

Garak's eyes flash and Quark ducks behind Leeta, repentant. Leeta sighs. "Garak, what's so bad about loving Julian?" she asks softly. "I thought the poems were really touching. It’s sweet how much you care for him."

But he's already staring into his PADD again. "I'm sorry, Miss Leeta, but I am a bit busy. Perhaps we can discuss my hypothetical feelings for your paramour another time."

"Julian and I have never been serious," she tries to assure him, but he's engrossed again, or at least pretending to be. Her and Quark share a look and leave him to it. Lesson learned.

"Let the bastard be pent up and miserable, then," Quark grumbles from the other end of the bar as he pours Table 3's drinks. A prickle on his neck has him looking up and there Garak's eyes are again, piercing, and Quark rushes off to deliver the drinks.

The three young Cardassians there are much more friendly. One has their nose stuck in one of the useless poetry PADDs while the other two smile at Quark while he sets out their orders.

"Three Raktajinos, extra bitter," Quark says, and is thanked. Polite. One even praises the drink's exoticness. Klingon coffee, exotic. Heh. "Your food will be out in a few."

Before he can finish turning, though, a hand is touching his arm. "What is the title of this anthology you include at every table?" the young man asks.

"Oh, that's not..." He sighs. "It's new. I can't remember."

"Find out for us, please," he says. "Works like these can be hard to come by on Prime and we make it our business to collect them. Whoever this author is, they're very unique."

"If these aren't banned on Prime already, they will be soon," his friend comments with a giggle.

"No doubt."

"'In my desolation, I am as weeds: Cut my roots and Let the waters take me, To drown and bloom anew, in You,'" the one with her nose in the PADD reads aloud, and shivers. "They'd burn the whole Central Archive down just for this one. It's so explicit."

"Let me see that," the boy demands, as the other one is already surging over to read over the girl's shoulder. Watching them fight over the PADD has Quark thinking back to the isolinear rods in his safe, and he hums thoughtfully, glancing over his shoulder.

Garak isn't looking.

—

Glinn Halon Duvur. Former underling of Gul Dukat. Out of uniform, vacationing on Deep Space Nine with his wife and nine children. Spends his days gambling while his kids play unsupervised in the holosuites and his wife visits old friends. 

Beloved uncle sent to trial by the Obsidian Order in 2356 and executed that same day for crimes of attempted sabotage against Cardassia.

Garak watches the man wander down the promenade sans his proud lineage, jingling a fat little bag of gold-pressed latinum and yet-unconverted leks. He wanders out of range, so Garak switches to the next camera and there that unfortunate face is again. He drums his fingers on the desk. It won't be long now.

An alert rings in his ear and he almost initiates the shockfield on impulse, but the flash of smooth, brown skin on a monitor stays his hand. The knocking comes, and that haunting voice calls out, "Garak! Are you there?"

Garak rests his head next to the surveillance screens.

Predictably, the doctor tries to input his override, but the door remains shut. There's a long pause.

"Garak..." Julian sounds irate. Garak hums. "Did you deprogram my override code? Nevermind how illegal that is, that's dangerous! What if you're injured? Or fall ill?"

He says this just after attempting to abuse his station privileges for personal reasons. Infuriating hypocrite.

"Oh, my barging in at random, odd hours is no less than you deserve, Garak," Julian says as if in response to Garak's thoughts. "You set that precedent in our relationship yourself."

Terrible man.

"Fine. I'll give you some more time, since you want it so badly, but I'll be back and when I am, that override had better work. If it doesn’t, I promise there will be hell to pay, my friend."

Beautiful man.

"Goodbye, Mr. Garak."

Goodbye, Doctor.

Glinn Duvur dies two hours later of alcohol poisoning while his wife is in bed with Gul Rilimn's wife.

—

“I just can’t believe it,” Kira is bitching. Jadzia smiles and sips her drink, looking out over the Replimat balcony at all the happy brunchgoers. “A Cardassian writing poetry about something that isn’t conquest or the wonders of dictatorial rule or, at best, the pride of the traditional family nobly bowing and scraping. I’ve never seen it.”

“It would certainly seem to run counter to Cardassian values.”

“And about Julian!” she shrieks in her inside voice, slapping her hands down on the table. “Garak the spy, writing love poetry about Julian. Going on and on about his–his...”

“Ass?” Jadzia offers.

“Eyes. His eyes! Ohhh, I knew he wanted to have sex with him, everyone knew that, but to write about his eyes like... like that? It’s practically Bajoran.”

“That’s true.”

Kira stops long enough in her tirade to eye her, and presses her lips into a thin line. “How are you so calm about this?”

Jadzia takes another sip. “I’m just fascinated,” she says. “I’ll admit, I’ve been looking at this more through Tobin’s eyes than my own. Have I ever told you that he met Lloja of Prim during his exile?” 

“He did not.”

“He did, and Lloja flirted with him outrageously. It was embarrassing, looking back. Of course, nothing ever came of it, because Tobin was always hopelessly blind to those sorts of things even without the language barrier, but his children liked to joke that many of Lloja’s poems were about him.”

Kira’s jaw is hanging. “Were they?”

Jadzia grins and shrugs. Kira laughs.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Perhaps,” Jadzia allows, “but I do wonder... Being able to call nervous, asexual Tobin the lover of Lloja of Prim would have been quite the notch in my belt. Think of the stories I could have told! And now here Julian is with the opportunity. I know it’s not the same, I mean, it’s Garak. But, you have to admit, to write about him like that...”

“He must really love him,” Kira finishes for her, stumped. “I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

“I didn’t see it, either,” Jadzia confesses. “I was still wrestling with the idea that they were actually friends. I thought their association was strictly professional and all the books and flirting were just a front.” She cradles her head in her hands suddenly and sighs. “Ugh, but those poems. The poems are so good! Kira...”

“I know,” she moans. “They’re heart-wrenching. Which one are you on now?”

“Thirty-nine. I came back home, but I came back gone.”

“Ouch.”

“I know.”

A shout from below interrupts them and they both shoot out of their seats. Below, a Cardassian man has just had a beam fall on top of him. Jadzia and Kira bound down the stairs to him, Jadzia already slapping a hand on her comm badge. 

“Dax to Infirmary, a man has just been crushed, possibly impaled. Send a medical team to Replimat and be ready for emergency beam out.”

“Acknowledged, we’re on our way,” Girani says, but already Kira is looking up at Jadzia helplessly, the man’s wrist laying limp between her hands.

“He’s gone.”

“Shit!” Jadzia hunches over, hands on her knees. “That’s the third one today. Are Cardassians always this accident prone? No wonder you won the war.”

“No,” Kira says. “They’re not. You don’t think...”

“I don’t know,” Jadzia says grimly, and looks around at the crowd that’s formed. All Cardassian, all terrified. “But we need to find out.”

—

A Cardassian is sitting at the bar. This isn’t an unusual sight now, with the Festival of 90s Funk and Beyond coming up, but seeing one so young and looking so hunted is odd. Quark approaches him casually.

“What’ll you have?”

The Cardassian’s eyes dart. “Uh...” He leans over suddenly, cups both hands over his mouth, and whispers, “E. G. Special.”

Christ, these kids are going to kill him. “Coming right up,” he says in a normal person voice, and reaches under the bar for a glass. A little drink-mixing magic later, a beautiful fizzy blue drink is sitting between them, with an isolinear rod tucked neatly in the straw.

The Cardassian takes the drink between both hands excitedly, and Quark snaps his fingers in front of him. “Oh! Right,” the kid stutters, and all but launches the latinum at Quark’s face. “Thank you!” And off he goes, out of the bar with the glass still tight in his grasp.

“Idiot,” Quark mutters to himself, crouching carefully down to pick the latinum up off the floor without dirtying his expensive pants. “You’re supposed to take the straw, not the entire glass. That’s it, I’m switching to plastic. These little rebel brats don’t deserve my ni—Oh, hello, Constable! I didn’t see you there. What can I get you?”

Odo looks as unimpressed as ever. “That’s a funny question since last I checked, I don’t drink.”

“Ah, right, because you’re a liquid. How could I forget. You know, one of these days, I ought to serve you up with a little umbrella, see how people like it. I’d bet you taste bitter.” Odo harrumphs, and Quark makes himself busy with wiping down the counter. “Well, out with it then. What nefarious scheme am I up to now? I love to hear your little stories.”

Four isolinear rods drop onto the counter, right where Quark was just cleaning. “Hey now,” he says, throwing a performative glare at the changeling. “Careful. If you shatter glass in my bar, you’re cleaning it up.”

“I just had the most interesting conversation with the Tokal family,” Odo says, steamrolling right over him. “It seems their four darling children had somehow come into some questionable reading material. They tried searching for it in the Central Archives and yet, despite it being clearly Cardassian in origin, they could not find it. And I don’t need to tell you that when a piece of Cardassian reading material isn’t in the Central Archives...”

Quark, from his plastered position on the floor, stares up into Odo’s face directly horizontal to his and smiles. “What?”

“It’s illegal,” Odo sneers, stretching his body even further over the bar and nearly sending Quark starfishing. 

“Okay! Odo! I get it! But what does that have to do with me?”

“Quark!”

“Okay, okay! Whatever it is you think I’ve done, I’ll stop! I’ll stop, okay?”

“I know you’re going to stop, because I am going to confiscate every copy of Garak’s poetry that you have absconded with and destroy them.”

Quark gasps. “Book burning? In this day and age?”

“Garak did not give his permission for you to sell his work! He didn’t even want anyone to see it in the first place! Those poems were stolen. Now, I expect a list of every person you sold a copy to and a full and complete refund to be issued by tomorrow morning. Do I make myself clear?”

Quark glowers. “You’ve made yourself something, all right.”

“Quark...”

“Okay! All right. Consider it done.”

-

Turora Lumok. Obsidian Order operative and old colleague. Usually in deep cover in the Organian sectre, but has abandoned post to explore the space station. Barren, unattached. Cold. A model agent, if you ignore her unfortunate habit of going rogue and eliminating civilians on a whim. 

Recruited into the Order by Enabran Tain’s former right hand, Euluk Bucun, who was assassinated by Elim Garak in 2341 under orders from Enabran Tain for suspicions of treason. Turora Lumok disciplined shortly afterward by Elim Garak for complaining that she had wanted to be the one to kill that bitch.

Garak watches as the woman pretends to touch up her makeup while scouting for cameras. “Oh, Lumok, you always were woefully obvious. Have you been expecting me? I wonder why.”

Satisfied with the positions of the cameras, she puts away her mirror and strolls out of sight.

Garak shakes his head. “Fool. You forget how long I’ve lived on this wretched station. I don’t need to see you every second to know where you are.”

But then, the smell of antiseptic. Starfleet issue soap. Herbal shampoo, unique, robust. Gels. Oils. Sweat. 

He’s near.

Forcing calmness with a deep, measured breath, he takes off his eyepiece and slips it into his sleeve. He pays for the food he barely ate. He stands. He turns.

And is promptly thrust into the dark, deep woods of Julian Bashir’s eyes. “There you are, Garak! I’ve been looking all over for you,” the doctor says as if it’s just a regular day on Deep Space Nine. His hot, mammalian body caging him tightly in place against the table betrays the ruse. “Who was it you were talking to?”

Garak tries to step around him. Julian steps with him. “Oh, only ever myself. Forgive me, but you’ve caught me just on my way out. I have a strict appointment at 2.”

There’s Julian’s hand now. On his shoulder. Garak is calm. This is normal. “Well, why don’t I walk you there then.”

“My dear Doctor, I couldn’t rob you of your meal. Clearly you’ve just walked in.”

“Actually, I’ve found I’m craving something a bit different now.”

Garak makes to step around Julian again, and still Julian’s steps match his. It’s like they’re dancing. He doesn’t let this deter him. He’s not sure he’s capable of letting anything deter him now, with his heart trying to pound out of his throat. He keeps stepping doggedly forward, and Julian keeps mirroring, still with that damned hand burning through his tunic. “Well, you only have so much time before you must return to the infirmary, I know. Do not allow me to delay you in securing a table at a different locale.”

“Oh, but you’ve already delayed me so long. What’s a few more minutes?” A peek of teeth, a hint of warning. “Though I will admit... I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.”

“Then don’t.” Finally, Garak manages to elbow past this madness and shoot out of the restaurant. The station is so crowded these days, it’s short work to get lost in it. In a sea of ridges and black hair, Garak slips his eyepiece back on and lets the wave take him. 

“Garak!”

Oh, for the Union’s sake—

He does not run. He does not stumble. He walks normally and not desperately, keeping his eye on both the path to the turbolift and Lumok. She’s down the corridor now, pretending to check her makeup again like an imbecile. Just a few paces more. Almost there...

“Garak, you’re the best dressed one here! You are not difficult to spot, you ridiculous dandy! Oh, no offense, Ma’am. Lovely scarf. Excuse me.”

There.

In the reflection of the mirror, Garak makes eye contact with the rogue and taps in the correct sequence on the device sewed into the seam of his pants just as the turbolift doors close behind him.

Like that, Turora Lumok is beamed into space and dies instantly, without a soul to mourn her, and Elim Garak walks back to his quarters with a hand over his mouth and a warmth on his shoulder, without a soul to mourn him, either.

—-

The Festival of Fierce and Fantastic Frogs is two days away and already it is being protested.

Outside Quark’s Bar is a growing army of dissident children with voice amplifiers and holoprojectors shouting to the stars that if they don’t get their porn back, they’ll tear it all down. Signs are projected in the air with essays cycling through them that look to be several pages each, a small holographic fire barely reaching ankle-height is lighting up the length of the promenade, and – perhaps most disturbingly – a comically inaccurate approximation of Odo is rotating at the center of the group, fitted in the typical regalia of the Cardassian military and holding a Klingon bat’leth. It is certainly... something.

“They’re Cardassians,” Quark is saying as he pours out some root beers. “They’ve probably never seen a protest in their lives, they don’t know what they’re doing. The Union puts an end to things like this pretty fast on the surface.”

“Heh,” Jadzia says, “what happens on DS9, stays on DS9.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Kira asks.

“It’s something Julian likes to say. Basically, they figure they can get away with speaking their minds here.”

Kira drums her fingers on the bar, staring into the flailing protestors thoughtfully. 

Right then, Odo arrives back on the scene. It looks like he’s trying to get through, respectfully, but the protestors are not making it easy. Jadzia and Kira come to his rescue just as about fifteen Cardassians start forming a blockade around him.

“I walked around as you do, investigating the endless stars,” one young woman is yelling at him while he stands there with big helpless baby eyes, “and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind!” 

“I don’t know what that means,” Odo says consolingly.

“Clearly!”

“Okay, okay, let him through!” Kira wiggles her way between the crowd and Odo, snatching him by the arm like a fish with a hook. “He’s not your enemy here, he was just upholding your laws!”

“The Cardassian government has no jurisdiction on a Bajoran station!”

“He made his choices!”

“Beautiful Julian would be ashamed of you! Repent! Repent!”

Kira and Jadzia manage to reel him most of the way through the protesters and he shapeshifts the rest of the journey. The protestors try to follow, but Quark bustles over to stop them. “No, no demonstrations inside! Remember who your allies are,” he says, and they all cow back. “Thank you.”

Odo ripples his form a couple times to make sure everything’s back in the right place and harrumphs. “Allies, Quark?”

“Yes, allies. It’s terrible what you’ve done to them. You can’t police art, Odo–-this is culture we're talking about here, the very bedrock of society.”

“And I’m sure this virtuous attitude of yours has nothing to do with the incredible profit you made and lost at the expense of our mutual friend.”

“Oh, I did him a favor.” Quark uncaps another bottle of Kanar and gestures back to the entrance, with its swarm of frothing Cardassian children. “Look, he’s got fans!”

“How has Garak been handling all this?” Kira asks Odo, sharing a look with Jadzia. “I haven’t heard a peep out of him since he gave us that antivirus program.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Didn’t you have breakfast with him yesterday?”

“Hmmm, that would have been routine. Except he didn’t show. When I made it back to my office, I found a message from him apologizing, telling me he’s so busy with orders he’s lost all track of time.”

“How has he been getting commissions?” Jadzia asks. “His shop’s been closed all week.”

Odo rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure the reality is he’s simply avoiding the issue. Dr. Bashir has informed me he’s been treating him like ‘the black plague’ as well.” 

“Julian’s one to talk. He practically pole-vaulted over a vedek the other day to get away from me.” 

“Speak of the devil,” Quark says, looking towards the door, and everyone turns just as the commotion starts–or, more accurately, the commotion abruptly stops. 

The protestors have all gone quiet, in apparent awe as they part around Julian like the red sea around Moses. He’s smiling stupidly as he stands in the center of them, nodding at something a Cardassian man is exclaiming. It’s an incredibly awkward scene, and Quark starts choking at some of the things his ears are picking up. “They’ve deified him,” he tells them, and Jadzia bursts into giggles at the idea, but Quark isn’t joking. “Really. He might as well be one of the prophets to them. You read the poems. You know.”

Ugh. Kira wrinkles her nose in disgust. The worst kind of blasphemy–horny blasphemy. “What is he even doing here?” she asks. 

“Getting his head inflated,” Jadzia says dryly, because now that Quark has mentioned it, it’s pretty clear from the shit-eating grin on Julian’s face that that’s exactly what’s happening. 

“Poor Garak.” Quark says it absentmindedly, but the comment gets several eyes turned on him. He’s shaking his head as he watches the scene unfold. “First, he falls for a human… humiliating… but then that love becomes public knowledge and several young beautiful Cardassians decide that he’s onto something, and now that human is going to get more action in a week than he’s seen his entire life. I’ve witnessed the rise and fall of more than a few star-crossed romances, but this might just be the saddest.”

“Julian wouldn’t have an orgy the same week the whole station found out Garak’s in love with him,” Jadzia says, insulted on his behalf.

Quark hefts a tray up onto his shoulder. “He just did,” he says as he leaves to go do his job, and Jadzia whips her head around to see Julian escorting two attractive Cardassians away from the protest. Her jaw drops.

“Bastard,” Kira spits, surprising everyone, herself most of all. Those poems must’ve affected her more than she realized.

Odo clears his throat unnecessarily. “I’m no expert on the behavior of solids, but it seems to me that neither party is handling this situation well.”

“I’ll tell you how the pakrela should be handling this,” an older Cardassian sitting at the far end of the bar cuts in, with a twitch to him that makes it clear he’s more than a few deep. “He should be settling his assets, because he doesn’t have long now. Whatever his human is doing is the least of his worries. Ha. Hehe. Being a traitor wasn’t enough for him. No, now he’s gone and corrupted the next generation with his degeneracy. Exile was too soft a punishment. Uh-huh.”

Kira opens her mouth to tell him to fuck off, but Odo touches her shoulder. “You speak as if you know him,” he notes mildly, because of course, the exact reason for Garak’s exile isn’t public record. It’s barely even private record. The Order doesn’t work that way–or didn’t, as it stands. It is interesting that this man is acting like he has classified information despite being a civilian. 

But then, sometimes day drinkers just like to spout speculation as fact.

The man looks into his glass and laughs at his reflection. “Who doesn’t know Garak these days? But that’s temporary. He’ll be forgotten soon enough, just like the Order.” He finishes his drink and gets up. He insincerely mutters some friendly Cardassian farewell and starts to walk past them, but Kira can’t let it go.

“Excuse me, but what’s your name, sir? You’ve been so informative.”

He looks at her for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says, and elbows past the protesters.

—

“Solt Mebol, left behind a widow and child six years ago when he was tragically killed in a transporter accident. In reality, he accepted an undercover mission which required him to fake his death and have his bond dissolved. A significant sacrifice. Certainly not one many Cardassians could have made.”

The Cardassian stares at Garak sitting on his couch. Turning, he tries to exit his temporary quarters, but the door won’t open.

Garak tuts. “Oh, you know better than that, Mebol.” He taps his disruptor with his forefinger, resting harmlessly against his knee. “The festival isn’t for another couple days, yet here you are. Catching up with old friends before the festivities, I assume? Only I haven’t found you in anyone’s company but your own. You must be lonely. Please, let me alleviate your loneliness for a while.”

The Cardassian sighs at the closed door. “Solt, is it?”

“I can tell you the names of your wife and child as well, if you’d like, and the city they live in. Do you know your wife never rebonded? Unusual behavior for a Romulan. Quite dangerous, as I understand it.”

Solt steps carefully into the small living space and sits in the chair opposite Garak, with the coffee table between them. “As one of the last living members of the Order, I don’t suppose you would consider letting me go?”

Garak smiles pleasantly. “I would be delighted.”

“Would you? I had a deal with Central Command and they’ve been good to me so far. You, however, have been known to…” He eyes the disruptor casually turned in his direction.

“Yes, I imagine I must be something of a mystery these days to my people. I have been… squirrely, is what I suppose a human would say, and I must as well now that I’ve been painted with their brush. Oh, it is an incredible sin, I know. That I should enjoy the company of an attractive alien while in exile.”

Solt snorts. “You expect me to believe those poems were the natural result of a fling?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything you do not wish to. I only say that it’s convenient that I should be seen as even more traitorous just as a swarm of Cardassians should enter the station.”

“What’s convenient is that you’re still alive. You have friends in high places willing to go to bat for you, in spite of everything you’ve done. It’s a disgrace. You are a selfish disloyal anarchist and no one is holding you accountable, because you just happened to be good at your job once and everyone likes the idea of having you as a potential weapon should the need for one arise. Until then, they’re content to keep you in a cabinet collecting dust and sentiment. You can wave that disruptor all you want, but we both know you make a poor operative now. You’re in love.” 

Garak is still smiling, but Solt can see the signs of a grimace. Dusty, indeed. Too passionate. Too human. “I’m hardly so foolish. You know better than I the dangers of such things in our line of work. You’re little better than a puppet now that you’ve had a whiff of the truth, Mebol.”

“You’re right.” Solt attempts to raise one eye ridge, despite it being unfit for such maneuvers, and leans forward towards that disruptor. “Pull my strings, then, and let’s test that grip Bashir has on yours.”

—

Kira crashes into Garak’s quarters and kickflips past all his booby traps like Indiana Jones’ hotter cousin.

“What the fuck, Richard?” is basically what she says, only it’s in character, so it’s more like, “What the fuck, Garak!”

Garak spins around in his maniacal villain chair with a look of surprise. “How did you get in here, Major?” Miles bustles his way in after her with his impractically enormous toolkit, and Garak lets out an, “Ah,” then, sedately, “I suppose Dr. Bashir filed a complaint about my tampering with the door codes. Of course, there’s a perfectly logical explanation. You see, it–”

“This isn’t about door codes, Garak,” Kira yells. “What I want to know is why our best suspect for the sudden influx of murders on the station was just found drowned in his own toilet!”

“Oh my,” Garak says. “What an unfortunate end.”

“Don’t play dumb. Not now. We know what you’re capable of, but we’re good people and we didn’t want to accuse a victim until we had exhausted the rest of our line-up. Only, interestingly enough, they’re all dead, so now…” she marches over with the fury of the Prophets on her heels and stands imposingly over him, her teeth clenched, “here we are.”

“That is interesting.” He runs a hand down a roll of fabric in his lap, smoothing it. “I suppose you must have some of that ironclad evidence that the Federation so treasures.”

Kira glares at him.

Garak feigns looking around. “Oh, but I can’t help but notice the good Constable isn’t here with you. What could that mean? Surely not that you broke into my quarters without due cause or a hint of warning–at your own word, not even to fix my glitching door. For all you knew, I could have been in here writing one of my vaunted Bashir epics.”

Kira’s hands are in fists now. “The evidence we have would be more than enough to have your face plastered on every viewscreen in Cardassia and you know it.”

“The Federation and Bajoran legal processes do seem a tad inefficient in moments like these, don’t they?”

“Okay,” Miles cuts in, because he has Turbo PTSD and is not in the mood for a flare up. “I think I'll just wait in the hallway, then. Holler if you need me. Good luck, Major.”

Kira and Garak spend a few moments watching him waddle out of the room and then go back to staring each other down. 

“Look, you ass,” Kira starts, “we couldn’t link every victim to the Cardassian government or some third-party organization, but we were able to link enough of them to recognize that these aren’t just random nobodies having ‘accidents.’ Someone was able to break into your computer and embarrass you and you don’t like that so you’re pitching a fit. I can’t have Odo arrest you – yet – but I can tell you to cut it out. This vigilantism isn’t helping–”

That gets a reaction. “Vigilantism!”

“Well, what would you call it?”

“Self-defense.”

“They attacked you?”

“Possibly.”

“Goddamn you, Garak! Just… don’t do this anymore, okay?”

Garak looks at her with innocent astonishment, like he’s still bewildered by her totally plausible accusations. “Well. You have my word, I suppose,” he says, bemused.

—

Gul Skrain Dukat. Blessed with a wife, seven children, two sets of living parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, minus one father. Habitually cheats with lower ranked military officials, slaves, and barely legal adults, unbenownst to his family. Father was interrogated by Elim Garak and executed by the Union over live broadcast in the year 2350 for the crime of being a piece of shit. 

Elim Garak was shortly thereafter levied with an amateurish execution attempt by Gul Dukat. It failed.

The second attempt will succeed, but at a great cost.

The Festival of Filthy Fucking Foot Fetishists has officially begun, but Garak is struggling to feel any enthusiasm. He is surrounded by his people. The station has been dimmed by 15% to better suit Cardassian eyes and misting stations have been set up in limited locations. Extinct and invented flowers crafted by Cardassian and Bajoran artisans decorate the banisters and doorways. A wash of blue, green, and sparkling gold lights up every direction. There is the smell of freshly prepared Cardassian sweets on the air, a gentle warmth suffuses the atmosphere, and children are laughing on the promenade. It’s the first time the station has felt not just tolerable, but nearly pleasant, in years. 

But then, Garak has never felt particularly welcome among his people. As a child, he was an orphan generously cared for by service workers and sponsored by a government official, and as an adult, he was a member of the Order, which granted him more fear and loathing than it did admiration and respect. Companionship, in its truest form, was a rare thing to come by and not something he was encouraged to come by at all.

Perhaps that is why Dr. Bashir blindsided him. 

In any case, Garak is delicately balanced on the line between proper misery and numbness. He gave up imbibing around the same time that he gave up the implant—or rather, the implant gave up on him—but he’s on his third cup now, wandering through the festivities with no particular direction in mind. The exact spot of this last operation isn’t important, only the timing.

He finishes his drink while a group play a spirited game of cold moba in front of him. It shouldn't be long now.

All the nearby screens suddenly flicker from the event schedule to Dukat’s sharp grin and Garak hums. There we are. He knew the bitch wouldn’t be able to resist showing his face.

“Welcome everyone to the biennial Festival of–” a baby wails, “generously hosted here on Deep Space Nine by Bajor and the Federation, and of course organized by our own prodigous Detapa Council. Ah, that wormhole… quite the view, isn’t it?”

Garak looks around for another food stall that serves alcohol. 

There aren’t any stalls in his immediate vicinity, but there is a young Cardassian couple marching towards him while making dogged eye contact. 

Oh no. 

Garak starts to make a break for it. Not too fast, it won’t do to cause a stir, but there are a number of very good reasons for him to stay far away from any Cardassians who might recognize him right now. Especially if the source of that recognition is those damn poems he was too stupid and sentimental to destroy.

Before he can make it more than a few steps, however, he looks up to see another few Cardassians working their way towards him, also making eye contact.

No, no, no.

He makes to move towards the stairs then, only for his eyes to land squarely on him. 

Him, wearing the silky green outfit he lovingly crafted for him a few months ago. Him, shining in the festival lights, casting him in an even more arresting shade of gold than usual. Him, looking determined and coming straight towards him.

Oh, fuck no.

“Garak,” Julian calls out, likely reading the panic on his face and stance and soul.

“Today, I am not a Gul, though,” Dukat is saying. “I am but a humble representative of the Cardassian Union in its totality, and as such, I would like to thank Colonel Kira Nerys and Captain Benjamin Sisko for their hand in this week’s festivities. They have been nothing if not accommodating these last few weeks while our coordinators ran rampant through their halls.”

He should have accounted for the possibility of this. Thinking of Julian had become excruciating as of late, but that was no excuse. Whatever interaction Julian had been hoping to have with him couldn’t be allowed, not now, and not only for the sake of Garak’s traitorous, disgusting feelings. Even if it would give the sweet man closure, it would not be worth his life. 

“Now, it may be a bit unorthodox, but I thought it would be only fitting if the first Reenactment was carried out by our benevolent hosts, and the Lakarian City Acting Troupe were all too happy to take them under their wing.”

More eyes are turning towards the screen now, the laughing and playing and sloshing of cups quieting down. Julian is nearly with him, his approach halted only by the gathering crowd, and Garak can only pretend to be interested in Dukat’s speech while he racks his brain desperately for a solution. Any solution. Anything.

“I trust that the history of Cardassia is in capable hands.”

The screen flickers again and changes to a shot of one of Quark’s holodecks, where a lone Bajoran man stands in a beam of red light.

A hand grabs Garak roughly by the arm, and he nearly cries with relief when he sees that it’s Lumok.

Well, Lumok with the face and attire of a Bajoran, but that ever-present spark of unchecked malice in her eye is quite unmistakable to someone who worked with her for over a decade. 

“Surprised, you ugly old regnar?” she asks under the actor’s impassioned opening monologue.

He sucks in a breath as the sharp edge of something presses into his back. “Impossible. They found your body caught on one of the station’s spires.”

“A simple bait and switch,” she purrs, pressing the weapon closer, slicing through his tunic. A pity. This was one of his nicer ones. “You’ve gotten sloppy.”

He manufactures a smile. “A knife, then? A favorite of yours, I recall, but terribly messy for such a public venue. Not to mention if your aim is even an inch off, I’ll be in and out of the infirmary within the day, as if nothing at all had happened.”

“Don’t lecture me,” she growls. “You can’t do that anymore. You’re not anyone to anyone. Your master is dead, and what did you do the second you were off leash for the first time in your life? You went and choked yourself on the first Starfleet sotl you could find. You’re pathetic.”

It took incredible effort to keep his eyes from rolling to the back of his skull. “Oh, just stab me already.”

“I’m not going to stab you. I’ve done a bit of outsourcing, in fact.” She slid the knife from his lower back to his side and looped her arm through his, pinning him in place with a wide smile. “All I had to do was suggest to my new friend that you were infiltrating the Federation. That you were poisoning them against Bajor from the inside, uniting Cardassia and Starfleet in a secret alliance under the guise of wooing the CMO. No, no, you won’t be killed by one of your peers. Your death will be at the hands of a perfect stranger. A pointless death for a pointless man.” She leans in and whispers into his aural ridge, “It always was so easy to make people hate you.”

The next few seconds are a flurry of chaos. One second he’s watching as Human, Bajoran and Cardassian actors alike are all holding hands and reciting ancient poetry and the next he’s on the floor with a searing weight bearing down on him from calf to shoulder. There are screams and footfalls coming from all directions and Odo’s voice is immediately discernible shouting over the commotion. His back is on fire, he can’t breathe, and there’s a slash in his side, but he doesn’t miss the thump of Lumok’s body a few feet away, dead before she hits the ground.

“Garak? Garak?” the weight on him is speaking frantically, pawing at his head and shoulders. The weight shifts and the hands flip him onto his back. Those same hands pat him down, blazing a path down his chest and his stomach and his sides, stopping at the superficial gash near his rib, and Garak knows who this is before he even opens his eyes.

“Garak,” Julian sighs with relief. Garak was meant to be dead by phaser blast right now, but instead Julian Bashir is smiling down at him like he’s important, kneeling beside him, his hands on him, branding him with their incredible heat. It shouldn’t be possible. No one could be that fast. 

“Doctor,” he manages on a wheeze. One of his ribs might be broken, actually.

“Dukat,” Sisko growls from the monitor in billowing robes and a long flowing wig, surrounded by flowers.

—

“Explain,” Sisko commands.

Having decided that showing weakness right now can only help his case, Garak is sitting hunched to the side, holding his reeling head in one hand. It’s through a hiss that he replies, “A woman named Turora Lumok was responsible for sabotaging the station with those poems forged with my data signature. The Bajoran woman who was just assassinated–she was no Bajoran, but rather one of the last remaining members of the Obsidian Order. She was hired by Dukat to kill me during the festival under the guise of a hate crime. No doubt because of her indomitable reputation, I’m sure. A number of Cardassian casualties these past several days were at her hands.”

Sisko walks to the viewport to stare out into the stars for a moment, processing this. “All his talk of friendship between Bajor and Cardassia…” he trails off, the ghost of a sneer on his lips as he turns back around. “His goal was just the opposite. He wanted to destroy any hope of cooperation.”

“And get me out of the way in the process,” Garak grumbles. 

Sisko hums and wanders over to Garak’s side, looking down at him thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me who assassinated Ms. Lumok?”

Garak stares at the floor through his fingers, his eyes glazed.

“Or who your informant is on Dukat’s involvement?”

“Captain,” Garak mutters, not looking up, “I have sat here concussed after an attempt on my life and shared with you everything that I know, and here you have not even told me who the tailor of your magnificent robe is.” He tugs half-heartedly at a strip of embroidery on the fabric. “I must admit, I am feeling a touch betrayed you didn’t come to me.”

Sisko flicks his eyes up to Julian, who has been standing in the corner with his hands behind his back. “Very well, Mr. Garak. I release you into Dr. Bashir’s care for now, but I expect to continue this conversation soon.” He massages his forehead. “Once I figure out what to do about this damned festival.”

Julian comes over to help Garak out of his chair, but Garak snaps upright and to the door before he can touch him. Sisko takes the opportunity to lean into Julian’s face and whisper, “Get more information out of him.” The doctor nods.

Julian isn’t angry when he steps out of Sisko’s office and sees that Garak is walking in the exact opposite direction of the infirmary, but he is disappointed. 

“Mr. Garak,” he says urgently once he’s caught up to the idiot.

Mr. Garak interrupts him in the same tone, “Now, now, my dear doctor, we both know I have a dermal regenerator in my quarters, so we need not extend–”

“And I think we both know this is about much more than a few bumps and bruises. I’m afraid the time for beating around the bush passed quite a while ago.”

“You’re right, Doctor,” Garak says, coming to an abrupt stop and rounding on him with wild eyes. “There is an urgent matter we must discuss.” Julian’s eyebrows raise, and Garak nods severely. “Oh, yes, let us not ‘beat around the bush.’ We should talk about how you threw yourself directly into the line of a lethal phaser blast on the one in a millionth chance that you might save my life. The cost of such an action being almost certainly your own life, and yet, here you stand, and here I stand. Will wonders never cease.” Julian opens his mouth, but Garak raises a finger. “Nevermind that I was in the middle of an altercation with a very dangerous, very volatile woman who would not have hesitated for a second to dispose of you. She had a nasty habit of that. Now I knew that you were naive, Doctor, Doctor! I knew that! What I did not know – what I never could have guessed after all these years – was that you are an idiot.” 

Julian stares back into Garak’s hissing face, unimpressed. Garak feels a wave of deja-vu and does not like it. It has no place here. And yet, Julian takes in a breath and smiles, raising his shoulders. “All right, Garak. If it’s really so important to you, we can talk about your suicide attempt.”

“What?” Garak bites out.

“You were going to let yourself get shot, yes?”

“I was n–” Garak starts to lie, disgusted, but is stopped by Julian stepping entirely too close. He stumbles back a step, then another when Julian attempts to crowd him again, and the familiarity of the routine has him shutting his eyes, rueful. They’re dancing again. It’s humiliating, the things this man makes him do, how effortlessly he can gain the upperhand. Most of the time without even having to lift a finger.

“You figured out Dukat’s plan and arranged for Lumok to die if she succeeded, but you expected her to. You didn’t expect to be saved,” the doctor tells his blank, unresponsive face. His eyes are still closed, his hands tense at his sides, but he knows Julian’s stepped closer again by the heat of his livid breath. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Very well. I didn’t figure it out. I was informed.”

“So, the captain was right.” He sounds bored, but Garak seizes his chance. His eyes open in a sudden burst of animation.

“Yes, I had an informant. I believe the major was familiar with him, a fellow by the name of Damoc who was recently presumed dead? Though I knew him far better as Mebol. We first met on Romulus, you see. In the event of my death, he had strict instructions to reveal Dukat’s plot in my stead and protect my remaining assets. In return, he was to receive some valuable coordinates, which by now he will have long accessed. I suppose he’s already booked passage off of the station, if he hasn’t already gone.” 

“Quick to abandon you,” Julian says, completely off-script. Garak’s carefully measured breathing stutters.

“Surely Captain Sisko would like to have a word with him.”

“I’m sure.”

“Doctor…” Garak says, lost. “There isn’t time to was–”

Suddenly there are two hands slamming into his chest like they’re iron forks and he’s a slab of meat, rocketing him back into the nearest wall with a loud thud. Garak gasps at the strength of it, astounded, but all his attention is quickly monopolized by Julian’s snarling words.

“Stop trying to distract me, Garak! Stop racing away before I can even properly get into the room, stop begging off lunch, stop ignoring my comms, and stop acting like your bloody life is over just because it was found out that you have feelings for me!” 

“I–I don’t–”

“Lke hell you don’t! Thirty-seven.”

Garak blinks several times. “What?”

“Thirty-seven. That’s how many direct references to our literary discussions are in your poems. All chronologically concordant with the dates of those discussions, and six of which from that classic Earth album I recommended to you a year ago that you swore up and down sounded like a pack of voles had been crammed into a bucket and shaken around. I knew you were having me on. You love Mitski, and you love me.”

Garak’s face shutters. 

Finally, Julian takes a step back. His hands remain on his chest, pinning him in place, but he allows him some oxygen. Exactly twenty seconds pass like this, before the doctor becomes impatient and huffs, “You can’t possibly have nothing to say.”

“What would you have me say, Doctor?”

“I would like you to admit it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve heard it from friends and coworkers and strangers and every tourist on this damn station, it feels like, but I haven’t heard it from you.”

Garak is silent for a long time. Finally, he quietly asks, “You would further humiliate me this way? Knowing what you do? My dear friend…” He, carefully, with only the gentlest of pressure, puts a hand over one of Julian’s. “Please. You’ve read everything I could possibly have to say. What more could there be?”

Julian’s hands are unforgiving, but his eyes soften at the simple lowering of the curtain. It’s not the direct confession he was looking for, the I love you completely, traitorously, ruinously that his poems professed and a deep, broken part of Julian desperately wants to hear, but it is, it is. For Garak, this is as explicit as it gets, and Julian can feel his heart trying to catch in his throat.

“Garak,” he starts to say.

Garak isn’t scowling anymore. His eyes are shining as he looks away and sucks in an aggrieved breath. “Oh, please, let us skip this excruciating precursor. I have no intention of remaining on this station.”

Julian goes unnervingly still. “Excuse me?”

“I will need time to pack up my shop and settle my lease, but then I promise, you will never suffer the consequences of my unfortunate… condition again.” When Julian only stares at him with mounting alarm in his lovely eyes, Garak grimaces. “You must know I had no intention of pursuing you.” At least, not after the implant had been shut off and he’d realized what horrors he’d stumbled into with the doctor while under its influence, and by then, it was already too late. He was too weak to stop speaking to him, but he was not a complete monster. “I wouldn’t have. My writing was never about nurturing the emotions, only managing them.” A bit of a lie, but only a bit. He does love to languish and he never could resist a good innuendo. Their friendship had been infinitely precious to him, though, and he couldn’t bear the slow death it would undergo now that everyone knew the truth.

The worsening rumors that would spread. The suffering of Julian’s reputation, career, and love life with the Cardassian spy’s drastic affections hanging over everyone’s heads. The danger it would place them both in, the damage it had already done. The way Julian would know every time Garak flirted now, it was never idle. It had never been and could never be. 

It would be a torture hitherto unthinkable. Better to sever the limb before it could rot.

Still, Julian is silent. The pressure on his chest is more a suggestion than a command now.

“Doctor, I…” he swallows back anymore hideous truths. “I apologize. Your rage is understandable, but I swear to you, I have every intention of righting this wrong.”

“Oh,” Julian says then, softly, as if he isn’t speaking to Garak at all,  “you don’t know.”

“Doctor?”

He makes a bizarre human gesture, skimming the heel of his hand off his forehead. “My God! Of course. I thought it was pride, or shame, or paranoia. Anything and everything but this, but of course you would be this ridiculous. Well. That’s an easy enough problem to solve.”

“Doctor–?!”

The hands on his chest are gone. Instead, they’re seizing him by the head and pulling him up to connect his mouth to Julian’s.

Oh.

If Julian’s touch was a brand before, this is lava running down his throat, into his stomach and down, down, down to eat through the twenty inch thick duranium floor. Slow, thorough, and final in its devastation. A transformation that cannot be persuaded. He grapples with it, hands scrambling stupidly over and across his doctor’s shoulders. Whether it’s to pull him closer or push him away, he doesn’t know. He’s too busy being brutally altered to give it much thought.

His hands settle for burying themselves in his hair at some point. When doesn’t matter. Time holds no power here. It happens, and then he knows how soft Julian Bashir’s hair feels, and there is no going back.

The loss of control becomes alarming enough that he finally manages to pry himself away, gulping in desperate, anxious breaths of frigid station air. It works. The fire and the madness that followed it calms down and he manages the strength to push Julian back, but the wet smack of their lips disconnecting will echo in his dreams for the foreseeable future, as will the dizzy grin on Julian’s face inches from his own. There’s a hand on his ass keeping him from tumbling through the hole in the floor and a couple unlucky passersby gawking at the gruesome scene and Garak is a different creature entirely, incandescent and strange, forged anew in the curious fires of mutual attachment. 

He feels insane.

“Doctor, you cannot truly be this naive.” 

Julian looks anything but naive right then. He can’t focus on that, though. He needs to focus on the fact he was nearly assassinated; the fact that the kindest man alive nearly died with him out of some misguided terran idea that all lives are of equal value and importance.

And yet, Julian is leaning in to kiss him again, so Garak puts a hand on his chest and says, “You know what I am.”

Julian’s expression turns complicated and it’s clear he understands. Garak’s roiling emotions can’t settle on being relieved or horrified. How to go on after this? After knowing intimately what he almost had, with the smoke of it still thick in his eyes and his throat and his heart?

A gentle hand on his jaw brings him back to the moment, where Julian’s eyes are serious. “I know,” he murmurs.

Garak sucks in a wet breath.

“The question is,” Julian continues, even quieter, “do you know what I am?”

His head is spinning. “Doctor?”

Julian just smiles sadly, and it's clear that there are some long conversations in their future. But for now… “About that dermal regenerator in your quarters,” Julian begins, and Garak is relieved to find out that whatever stupid, lovely thing he’s become can still appreciate an innuendo.

—

Not long after, in the middle of telling Sisko all about Mebol over Julian’s comm badge while its owner watches expectantly in a state of teasing half-dress, he’s horrified to find that whatever thing he’s become is also rather eager to please.

—

A couple days later, the two of them are picking from a generous cut of flaming taspar in the Replimat.

Or, Garak is picking, anyway. Julian is stuffing his face. Ordinarily, this would mildly scandalize him, but the fact it’s taspar, one of the most traditional delicacies of his homeworld, being shoveled enthusiastically into that pretty face makes it so he can feel only hope.

Rather than giving into that inadvisable feeling, he takes a dainty sip of his tea and tries to look nonsuspect. Cardassians from all sides and angles are staring.

“About Miss Leeta…” Garak begins.

Julian wipes his face with the side of his hand. Disgusting, but oddly compelling. “What about her?” 

“When will you be breaking the news to her?”

“Oh.” Julian smiles, bemused. “She knows.”

A tightness in his chest dispels slightly. “Does she?” he says faintly.

“She’s the one who first brought it up. We performed the Rite of Separation days ago. She said it was great timing, what with the festival and all. We didn’t even have to leave the station.”

“So you were together then.”

“Well, in a sense. We weren’t in love, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Garak takes another sip, lowering his eyes. “I wasn’t worried. Only concerned for the young lady’s feelings.”

Julian’s face is incandescent. A Cardassian to his far left is openly gaping. “Of course, of course.” He leans suddenly over the table then, moving a hand forward to rest on his knee. “So, should I take this line of questioning as an indicator that you’re open to a relationship with me?”

Garak shifts a little in his seat, moving his knee further under the table and its shadows, but otherwise doesn’t pull away. “It would be unwise,” he says quietly, without actually saying no.

The hand squeezes. “It isn’t as if people won’t assume anyway.”

“Rumors can be dispelled. Redirected. Altered.” He reaches forward to take a small saucière and pours a bright red sauce over a couple groatcakes. “There would be no coming back from a confirmation.”

Julian’s hand falls away. “Would it be so bad?”

“I don’t know,” Garak says, splitting a cake up into three neat sections. “Would it, Doctor?”

A Bajoran couple walks past their table then, and while one purposely avoids eye contact and seems to be giving them a wide berth, the other throws a meaningful glare Julian’s way. This is the fourth judgemental or pitying look he’s received since they came in for brunch. Julian calmly returns the look, refusing to be the first to look away, until finally the man averts his eyes and Julian looks back to Garak with a stern smile. Garak inclines his head.

“Be careful, Doctor,” Garak goes on. “Rumors can ruin lives. End careers.” He scoops up a bite of his cake, dripping with red sauce, and lifts it to his mouth. “Kill,” he finishes, and eats.

At that, Julian leans back in his seat with his arms crossed tight. Garak gives him his time. It’s a relief to have finally made a dent in Julian’s lovesick, idealistic conviction–and Garak can admit, after the last few days, that it is lovesickness. Julian’s decided he loves him back and there will be no stopping him from pursuing this, but there may yet be some tempering. A small, equally stubborn, sentimental part of Garak despairs at the whole horrid affair, but the behemoth of his good sense squashes this part down with little difficulty. 

It’s this moment that a smattering of young Cardassians, accompanied by one Jadzia Dax, arrive at their table. Immediately, Garak recognizes them as the ones that nearly intercepted his meeting with Lumok and his stomach drops. Julian, on the other hand, brightens back up.

“Well, hello there,” he says warmly.

Jadzia responds first, with each elbow leaned on a Cardassian’s shoulder and a knowing sparkle in her blue eyes, “Hello to you.” The Cardassians all echo with similar greetings, some shy, others giddy.

One young woman standing at the front, with her hair in three elaborately plaited braids and little makeup, is looking at Garak with particular interest. “You’re the one who wrote the poems about Julian.”

Garak looks at the girl coolly. “Do you mean Dr. Bashir?”

She goes blue. “Oh, um. Yes. I do.” She tucks an imaginary lock of hair into her perfectly coiffed hair and lowers her head respectfully. “My apologies, Doctor.”

“Hey now,” the doctor scolds with good humor, “none of that. We’re all friends here.” 

The girl throws another searching glance Garak’s way. “Friends?”

That’s enough of that. “This is certainly quite the surprise,” Garak says genially, plastering on his most pleasant smile. “Is there something you needed? As Deep Space Nine’s resident Cardassian tailor and reputed troubadour, I’m always happy to be of service.” Julian sends him a sharp look, which he ignores. 

Jadzia is looking as foxy as she ever does, with a grin nearly to her spotted ears. “Julian asked me to bring them here,” she says too happily, and Garak has to sit back in his seat to process that. Julian scratches his neck with a guilty smile, obliviously alluring. It cannot be overstated that there are, still, eyes on them from all directions and angles.

“Garak, sir,” the Cardassian woman-child begins again, earnest, “let me start over. My name is Inia Milam. I am the President of the Ivory State Liberation Library. We collect–”

“Madam,” Garak interrupts her quietly, stunned. “This is hardly the time and place.” He blinks, still shocked stupid by her brazenness, and leans towards her, peering into her distressingly young features with beseeching desperation. “And I am hardly the audience.”

Milam doesn’t appear to process his warning at all, though. She just continues to look inquisitive. She has that gleam in her eyes that is common in Cardassian women, calculating and intelligent, but there’s something else there. Something indefinable that he’s seen hundreds of times over an interrogation table, but without the fear to staunch it. Without the hopelessness. It makes his stomach flip. “On the contrary, you are exactly the sort of person we look for.” She bows her head. “Dr. Bashir promised that if we assisted him a few days prior, he would introduce us so that I could formally welcome your book of poems into our shelves. I apologize if this comes as a surprise. I wish only to thank you for your excellent contribution, E. G., and tell you that we hope to welcome many more pieces from you in the future. I’ll be in touch. Dr. Bashir.” She nods to him, returns his gentle smile, and walks confidently away. The rest of the group mirror her, voicing similar words of polite farewell and appreciation, and leave.

Garak forces himself not to track their departure and instead picks up his fork again, as if nothing world-shattering has occurred at all. The cake is tasteless in his mouth.

Julian is concealing nothing of his thoughts, however. He’s staring openly at Garak, as if he’s a bomb and he’s trying to figure out which color wire to cut.

Ultimately, it’s Jadzia that breaks the tension. “Well,” she says, “that is some harem you’ve got there, Julian.”

“Jadzia,” Julian barks. She laughs.

“I’m teasing, I’m teasing.” Uncharacteristically, her impish smile turns regretful. “Now that that’s out of the way, I do have to bring your friend in for questioning,” she says, and that explains that. “I’m sorry, boys. I stalled Ben as long as I could.”

Garak polishes off the last of his meal and takes one last gulp of his tea to wash it down. With that done, he stands with a placid, conciliatory smile.

Julian puts a hand on his shoulder before he can take a step. “I’ll come see you after my shift.” Those lovely, dark, deep eyes search his, pinning him like a moth above his fireplace. “Okay?”

Garak inhales. “Without end,” he murmurs, waits for Julian’s eyes to light in understanding, and then aloud says, “I am at your disposal, Doctor. Good day.” With that and a firm, friendly pat on Julian’s hand, he limps away.

Jadzia rather pointedly watches him limp to the exit for a few long seconds before throwing Julian a rakish grin. “Well, well,” she says largely. Julian pretends not to notice, and Jadzia pivots on her heel after Garak.

“Before we lock you up and throw away the key, could you sign my datarod,” Julian hears Jadzia asking, and he shakes his head, unsuccessfully trying to rub away his smile.

Without end Do I think of you and so Come to me at night. For on the path of dreams at least, There's no one to disapprove! Ono no Komachi

[beastofburdenxo]

Consider It Done

Tommy kidnaps his biggest enemy's daughter as payback. But, things aren't always what they seem.

Allusions of violence, mention of abuse, no smut.

You woke up in what looked like a dreary basement. Your throat was dry, and your head felt funny. All you remember is just walking down the street and having a wet rag being shoved over your face from behind. Assuming that it was chloroform, because you were knocked out immediately after that.

You hear a door being opened and someone walking down the stairs. For some reason, you dash into a dark corner, thinking that it was going to save you. An oil lamp is turned on, illuminating the space and the man before you. "There you are love, glad to see you up and alert." A cigarette is lit. "Would you like a smoke?" You ignore the question altogether and respond with one of your own. "Who are you? Where am I?"

"My name is Thomas shelby Love, but you can call me Tommy. I hate meeting like this. It's nothing personal, really, just business. Your father owes me money and isn't taking me seriously, so I did what I had to do."

Your eyes bug out at this information. Of course, your asshole father has made another enemy. And the feared Tommy shelby, the devil of small heath, at that. "And you think taking me will loosen him up? He'd rather die than give up anything of his. To him, people are replaceable, money not so much. I'm sorry that you put in so much work to get me, but honestly, he's probably glad I'm out of his hair."

"Is that right? What a shame that is." Tommy draws off his cigarette. "Such a pretty thing, kidnapped and taken to the devil's mansion, thrown in a basement never to be seen again. Surely he loves you more than that, dear."

"The man killed all of my pets when I refused to marry one of his gross friends. He has burned my clothes before, locked me out of the house. Trust me, Tommy, he doesn't care. He has never liked me and I don't know why."

"You are like a wild horse that can't be broken, and your father can't stand it. You won't bend to his will like most and from where I'm standing, it's like you are his enemy and not his daughter. I'd take it as a compliment. If he liked you, that would mean that you two are similar. I have no desire to harm you, I'll behave if you do. Give it a couple of days, and if he doesn't budge, you are free to go. I'll even give you money for a ticket anywhere you want to go."

You think for a moment. "So you don't want to hurt me? You'd rather help me out?"

Tommy nods, "I see a lot of myself in you. In fact, you promise to be good, I'll let you out of here and into the house. Take it as a mini vacation, time to think. If your father does pay up, you'll still get that ticket out if you'd like. Regardless of what he does or doesn't do, it won't affect you."

You reach for a cigarette, and Tommy obliges. "I can't just leave my mom alone with his ass. He's mean to her too, Tommy. He needs to pay for his sins sooner rather than later."

Tommy chuckles, "You'd make one hell of a peaky blinder. Fiesty and headstrong. Are you looking for a new job, perhaps?"

"Tommy, I'm serious," you reply, "I'd say my mom would give anything for him to be gone. If you took care if it, you'd get your money and then some. It would have to be discreet of course."

"Kidnap victim asking her kidnapper to put a hit out on her own father? That's a new one for me, love. It does sound tempting, I will say. Never had much use for an abusive wife beater."

You stand up with a new sense of purpose. "Either you do it, or when I get out, l will do it myself!"

Tommy comes towards you like he's going to grab you, but he stops himself from touching you. "No, I can't have that. There's no need for an innocent to have blood on her hands. If you aren't successful, he will kill you, love. He won't think twice about it."

Tommy finally reaches out and gently stokes your face, "I don't want the fire to go out of your pretty eyes. Killing a man does that to a person, and you don't deserve that. If you want it done, consider it done. Consider yourself a partner in this and not a helpless victim. My only wish is that once this is all over, I can see you again. With permission, this time, of course. Let me do things the right way. Dinner?"

"Kidnapper asking his victim to dinner once she is released? That's a new one for me Tommy."

You take the cigarette from his mouth, since yours is long gone, and take a drag as if to think about it.

"Consider it done."

[cadavercrafts]

I hate to start drama so please forgive me, but why would you create a figure of a character (Valentino) that is a rapist? Even if they're fictional, I think it sends a really bad message.

No offense taken at all, anon, but this will be a long one! I heard of other people who like villains getting similar messages but i've never gotten one myself despite all the things i've made fanart for in the past. So i'm almost happy to talk about this?

It's 100% fine to hate certain fictional characters and just not wanting to see them at all. I think many people (especially with trauma) can relate to seeing a character in media that just makes them feel sick, i sure know some! But you're also talking to a dedicated horror nerd here. I have an expensive action figure of a monster-pregnant half skinned man in my shelf, anon. Rape doesn't even BEGIN to cover what some of the characters i like have been doing in their little fake freakworlds.

I love to explore horror and dark themes because fiction gives you a space to do this in a secure controlled environment and that's why it's so wonderful. We all have different levels of hard topics we can handle but if something is too much for you you can step away, shut it off and you are free and safe. No, i would not enjoy to be skinned alive for real and i don't think it's a very nice thing to do to others either, i have zero sympathy or interest in real life criminals. But Hellraiser is still a neat book!

I'm an adult and I'm able to freely chose what kind of themes and media i want to interact with and so are you. I mean, i don't know if you're an adult, but you have the power to chose regardless. My nickname is CADAVERcrafts and i made so so so so much fanart for awful villains before, ones who did way worse things than Valentino. Ripping heads off, killing kids, eating people- you know, the usual! I'm afraid you're not gonna like many things i'll make in the future but i always tag everything so you can absolutely avoid it by putting it on your blacklist. No Valentino jumpscares on your dash from me!

To be quite honest i thought of a lot of kinda funny dismissive replies at first but i don't want to shit on people who are genuinly upset. If you want something trigger tagged in the future just shoot me a message, i like to claim i'm not nearly as much of an asshole as the characters i make in clay. And if you just can't stand it then unfollow me, throw me in the bin! I'm just some online weirdo, you don't need me in your life if my works make you sad. Toss it, it's cool, this is your playzone and you get to decide who gets in!

[piggycyberwarrior]

Ekko SWF-Alphabet

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

!not proof read!

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Ekko is the type of boyfriend that would constantely pepper your face with kisses. He knows how easily people can die- can be killed- so he tries to shower you with affection.

He likes to show you how much he loves you, because he is kinda confused with words. He is a warrior- a leader, not a big talker? he tries tho.

I would say he is pretty affectionate but mostly behind closed doors. As i said- he's a leader, he shouldn't be smooching his girl next to the firelights... he thinks its inappropriate. But in a calmer, more softer setting- boii he's all over you!!

B = Bribe (Can you bribe him?)

Yes and No.

Ekko is loyal as fuck. He would never EVERR betray the ones dear to his heart. But small and unnecessary things like

"Okay.. would you come with me if i give you one- no TWO kisses?"

Yeah. nope he would immediately jump off the couch and sprint towards you. He doesn't play there..

He kinda sees it as a payment...

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

I PERSONALLY think that Ekko likes Hugs way more than cuddles. I'll explain:

You know that one hug that hits so good? Nose burried in their neck- inhaling their scent- arms tight around the person after you saw them finally- FINALLY again and all these emotions are put in that hug.

^ He loves that so much when he comes home, tired from a mission

That doesn't mean he does not like Cuddles. I think Ekko loves to lay his head onto your Chest/boobies all the time. crushing you under his weight and laughing when you grumble because of his stupid antics

or being the big spoon (like almost never the little spoon- only when he needs comfort). he loves it that he can make you feel safe in his arms

He likes to nap while cuddling but i think he doesn't really like to sleep at NIGHT when cuddling. That! man! needs! his! space!! (Napping while cuddling is okay idk why??)

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Yes he really wants to settle down with you somewhere safe and sound- a place that doesn't exist now, unfortunately. Thats why he works so hard. maybe he can give you that home you deserve someday.

That man is a COOK. Full ass GORDON RAMSAY like its not even normal??? He even enjoys it- apron on, humming a little melody while making breakfast for the two of you.

he loves to help you at home even tho he barely has time between eating , sleeping and his duties. But you don't mind. he asks some of his people to help you out if you really need help with the chores.

is kinda shitty at cleaning- kinda never learned to do it... i mean he grew up in Zaun.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

I'm sorry but like i said he is kinda shitty with words so he tries to rip the bandaid off real quick by breaking up through text...

He doesn't really feel good about it too- feels like an asshole to be honest but he can't help it :(

if they wanted to talk about it though- he tries

he is okay with the fact that you hate him because of his break-up-style

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Ekko is a little bit scared? of commitment. He kinda doesn't wanna be "caged"- he feels as if his freedom has been pushed into a box, but in reality he just needed to find the right person.

I think Ekko needs some time to really REALLY settle with the fact that he loves his s/o and that can take some time.

But oh boi when it happens- he wants to marry you immediately!! Like mentioned he knows that life is short- so he tries to marry you as quick as possible.

But he understands it if you need time to think about it or aren't ready yet.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Ekko's kinda rough around the edges as he grew up in a rough atmosphere. Sometimes his grip is too strong- his attempts to tickle you can hurt a bit and his hands are calloused as well.

But in the end he never wants to hurt you and is extremely gentle towards you as much as he can

he is so much gentler to you than to anyone else. always makes sure you aren't stressed or anything like that.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Yes.Yes.Yes!! he loves hugs like mentioned earlier. It just fits better into his lifestyle as he can quickly but passionately hug you before or after a mission and can also do that in public. he cannot cuddle you outside on the street :/

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Not that fast. Boi has some serious trust issues and you probably have to initiate the big ol' L-Word. When he finally says it- he will never stop saying it.

He willl always shower you with 'I love you's' and expects you to also say it back. he's just a sucker for that simple sentence even tho he was kinda wairy of the concept of love

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Doesn't get jealous. Just doesn't, he trusts you completely. Period.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you?)

His kisses are like him. Sweet but passionate, as well as a sprrrinkle of roughness.

he loves the traditional way of kissing you. on the lips. he is addicted to the taste of them on his and can kiss you till dawn. (he doesn't mind that you call him a simp)

He also loves to give you small pecks on your face but mostly the side of your head when you did something cute or stupid.

Always has his hands on you when you kiss- either on your throat, back or waist.

Also grins into kisses like ahhhrgcvszdc PLEASE

L = Little ones (Would he like to have Children?)

Loves children- I mean he keeps them save in the HQ too like what did you expect...

Would also love to have children when he's older.. kinda a dream of his. Probably 3 kids. Is still okay with it if you don‘t like to have kids- respects it!

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

i kind of have the feeling that dis man is such a morning grouch :/ soooorry

like he always wants to sleep more (in other words- has a fucked up sleep schedule)

Still he loves it when you kiss him awake- and he would always and i mean ALWAYS!! roll on top of you and squish you under him with a laugh before pressing kisses on your face and getting up.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

OHH THAT BITCH IS A NIGHT OWL. He is always so much goofier at nighttime (you know that weird 3am energy?? Exactly)

He likes it when you are sitting on his lap at night though, while he is fiddling at some prototype. Your fingers lazily playing with his dreads while he nuzzled himself onto your shoulder while working

Its a mix of both energy’s- late snack runs or slow evenings.

ALSO LOVES TO SLOW DANCE WITH YOU IN THE KITCHEN AT NIGHT!!!!

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

As i said, he takes his time to fully trust you. If you grew up together- he would‘ve probably told you a lot of things already. If you didn‘t- he is kinda hesitant to tell you at first. I think he would start revealing things about himself after a good few months of dating. He takes his time with those things

still he will always listen when you have something to tell him.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

It depends. When he is frustrated- his patience is very thin- but when he is in his normal mood- it’s out of gold

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

REMEMBERS EVERYTHING. It is truly getting creepy. He knows everything???

birthday, likes, dislikes, all the family gossip you told him one day- even remembering all of your family member’s names, favorite book, favorite hyperfixation at the moment, favorite place- everything you mentioned to him once.

lol he laughs everytime you think he forgot something and he proves you wrong- you‘re just like:🧍‍♀️

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

that one hot as summer night were you were both almost naked (nothing seggsual) - sweating like a pig- window wide open- not able to sleep and just talking bout shit. -> leading to you telling him you love him.

He didn‘t mind the humid heat in the end. Just feeling so happy.

always remembers that night and feels giddy when there is a hot summer night…

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they like to be protected?)

He loves it when you defend him verbally. He can fight- and doesn‘t want you to hurt yourself in the process- but seeing you argue with someone for him is making his heart race.. <3

like i said he doesn‘t get jealous but is neverthless protective. He knows that Zaun is fucking dangerous- also knows that you can protect yourself but he wants to keep any harm from you..

always being your guard dog and even fighting people that bitch at you.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts?)

I think he always gets you something when he‘s in Piltover- books or small things that you like..

He likes to have dates in the privacy of your home- nothing extraordinary…. I am SO SORRY BUT THIS MAN ISN‘T A FAN OF ANNIVERSARIES!! He just doesn‘t get the point?? For him everyday is an anniversary.

He still plans the home dates (puts a lot of effort in the planning part)- and everytime you do something new fun!!

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Nail Biting, Workaholic, Insomnia, such a gossip girl 😭 its funny tho.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

That Man is proud!!! He worked so much, trained so much did everything to become the person he is- loves his muscles and is kinda concerned how he looks

(Have you seen that man? Face paint on the spot- dreads styled like that and always revealing that yummy bicep..)

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

yes- next question

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

100% a cat person. He loves them but will never admit it. When he first saw one as a kid- he begged Benzo to let him adopt it. Still visits it‘s grave. Kinda has a fur allergy but he doesn‘t care 💀

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

hates hates HATES it when his partner is rude or disrespectful for no reason. (Sure, its a different story when you are getting shit on) but he just finds it so bad when you insult someone for no reason (and mean it)

has no problem when you playfully call someone (him) an idiot tho…

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

He is a kicker. Like bitch, stop kicking me in the ribs while sleeping 😭. Also wakes up with his head at your feet- turns around a lot. Just an active sleeper here…

you on the other hand get many bruises from his kicking…. I am so sorry

[cottagec0relover21]

Ok so, the idea just popped in my mind and I RLLY need someone to write it LMAO

Your Chilchuck fics give me LIFE so you were me go to, no questions asked

Could I get Chilchuck with a reader (preferably male, but gender neutral is also ok!) who miscalculated the ammount of anxiety medication they had left and ended up running out in the middle of the dungeon? Reader is having a hard time with their anxiety ticks and one of the side effects of going a bit too long without them is his body starting to "shut down" and become slightly like a ragdoll. Reader is still talkative and behaves as normal besides their head going to the side aggressively, flopping to the side and body parts just going all weak when they sit, flopping legit like a ragdoll (this os very self indulgent and has happened to me once, it is not good to say the least LMAO)

I completely understand if this makes you uncomfortable to write! And if so, a reader with severe generalized anxiety would work in the place of this request!

Hii! I'm sorry if this took too long ;-; since I have generalized anxiety and therefore I'm more knowledgeable about that subject, I'll write for a reader with severe generalized anxiety. I don't want to fuck up the other option with the ticks and such, because I don't know about the condition and I don't want to offend anyone. So hopefully this is okay!! love y'all thanks for being patient!

(Also changing my POV today) I'm so glad you love the way I write, it means the world to know that💗

"A Comforting Half-ling"

[Chilchuck Tims x gn!reader]

Warnings: none - fluff

Your hands were sweaty. You had been fidgeting with your fingers for a while, feeling a pit at the bottom of your stomach that made you even more anxious that you already were. The slight pang of pain in the chest that came from time to time the more you thought about the problem at hand bothering you as you sat on the corner of one of the rooms of the dungeon that the group had stopped by. Why were you so anxious? Simple. There was another party in that same room, and the rest of the group had decided to be all social and chat for a bit as they sat down to take a break from walking around.

Gosh I must look really weird sitting alone in this corner. I think they didn't hear me when I said "hi." What if they think I'm an asshole? Or a weirdo? Or a weird asshole?! you thought, looking around the room.

—Oh yeah, and that one there is (y/n), they're kinda shy— you jumped, your head snapping back to stare at the middle of the room as Laios pointed a finger back at you. Everyone's eyes were on you. Never had you wanted earth to swallow you whole and never come back so desperately before.

As the conversation resumed, the half-foot's eyes stayed on you, a curious and worried expression on his face as he watched you fidget with your hands.

He excused himself softly and walked up to them.

—Hey, why don't you come with me for a second? I need your help with something— Chilchuck pointed to the door, and your feet hurried to stand up and get out of the room as quickly as possible. Once outside that room, and away from the hearing range of the others, he sat against the wall, patting the space beside him.— What's got you so jumpy?— he looks at you, genuine curiosity in his voice.

Looking at him, you wonder if it's okay to admit out loud how anxious you were about, not just talking to people, but almost anything that had to do with being in public.— You're always behind us when we encounter other parties, and you don't seem to want to be there. I'm starting to think you're not just "shy"— Chilchuck called you out.

Beginning to explain to him how you were always on edge around people wasn't the easiest task. Admitting that, you were afraid of not being seen as capable, but being seen as a bother or even a burden ate you up every second of your life to Chilchuck was hard but worth it, because now you had someone that understood you better than any of the rest of the group. Everyone gets a little anxious at times, but you were a little extra anxious about everything.

Sitting cross-legged and now intently staring at you as you finished your through explanation of how you felt almost all the time, Chilchuck sighed and placed a comforting hand over your shoulder.— I'm really sorry you have to feel like that. I get anxious for five minutes and I hate it, so you being on edge all the damn time must suck— he offered a sympathetic apology, understanding you easily.— Whenever you feel like that, just... uh– try and tell me, or nudge me, whatever works best for you— he smiles softly, and the look on your face makes him huff softly in embarrassment and look away, retrieving his hand from your shoulder. When you give a soft laugh at his reaction he starts protesting and huffing at you, although we all know he wasn't seriously that upset.

When you hug him, however, he falls silent and sighs, taking a moment to return your embrace.

From then on Chilchuck tries his best to comfort you and help you everytime he notices you feeling anxious.

You need to buy something but can't because you're afraid of taking too long and upsetting the line behind you? He'll go with you and hold your hand. Maybe you're afraid of the guy at the stall, selling whatever it is you want to buy. Don't worry, he'll talk for you when you get nervous and start to stutter. Or even if you don't even want to talk at all.

Afraid someone is judging you? He's jokingly rolling his sleeves up and asking "Who? Who is it? Point at them and they'll never see what got them!" (They won't but that's because he's small and he kicks their knee from behind)

If you feel like everyone is judging you, though, he holds your hand and guides you away into a corridor/hallway where it's less crowded

Ever start hyperventilating? The first time he'll panic, and he'll struggle to find the words and actions to properly help you calm down. But it doesn't take him long before he has it memorized.

You're basically the only one on the group who's got Chikchuck breaking his rules about innerparty relationships, because he's grown very close and attached to you.

You're such an amazing person, you shouldn't have to struggle like this.

He gets very happy for you when you manage to do something that makes you anxious on your own. Maybe you spoke up to a whole group of people completely alone, or maybe you went and bought something that you really wanted without struggling at all.

When that happens he's sure to give you a smile and a thumbs up or a pat on your leg (you're taller than him, don't tease him about it or he'll get all red in the face and start mumbling to himself)

Overall, Chilchuck would understand you and try to help. He struggles, and sometimes you might think you're being a bother for him, but he makes sure to tell you that "no, you're not a burden nor a bother. I'm simply... not used to comforting people that often."

+ romantic established relationship headcannons

If you tell him that having him by your side is comforting, even in the slightest, he'll cough and look away, hiding his growing embarrassment.

If you ask to borrow something of his to comfort you, he's scrambling all over his words but eventually giving said item to you gladly.

You hide your face in his scarf after wrapping it around your neck and softly inhale his scent— Ah... you smell so nice. And the scarf is so warm— so is his face. A beautiful tomato red all over his cheeks and ears as he looks at you, genuinely feeling better just by borrowing his scarf.

Or maybe you borrow his gloves (if they fit) and put them on.— Okay... but why my gloves?— he asks curiously, waiting an eyebrow as he looks up at you.

You smile, wiggling your fingers after putting the gloves on— Makes me feel like I'm holding your hand— he falls silent, and he opens his mouth to speak, but the only thing that comes out is a flustered exhale as he turns around and walks away from you as he mumbles a "you're unbelievably.... cute" that you're sure he didn't mean for you to hear.

A few minutes later he'll return by your side as you're walking and extend his hand up, looking ahead— You can just hold my damn hand, you know?— he mumbles, and you notice how his cheeks tint with red once again.

[bemygunstomyroses]

The Lost Boys riding in your car with you would include: Part 2

Summery: This is just unhinged, again.

Warnings: GN reader! Swearing, implying smut, the boys being like animals, we know the drill!

Read part one first before you read this one so ya understand it better! Love ya! ❤️

Alright, we're back in the car. Everyone is seated in their assigned spots. David is in the front passenger seat, Marko is on the right in the back, with Paul in the middle and Dwayne on the left. Double-checked and confirmed, right? Okay!

You and your boys are on the road again but this time you guys are going through the city.

Buckle up if you aren’t already because these boys are fucking maniacs once again!

The lights of Santa Carla are bright and bold as you slowly get stuck in traffic trying to reach your destination. Don't think you'll get bored because you won't. You have four dingbats with you to keep you occupied!

Marko is displaying road rage even though he's not the one driving.

“Come on! Pick up your lazy ass! We have places to be you asshole!” Marko would yell out the window with his head out making you embarrassed and keeping your head down from the eyes looking around.

Paul would probably join in the trash talk as well. Most likely will flip em’ off.

Your the kind that would keep a little basket of snacks in the back of the car in case you get hungry while driving, of course the boys are going to go through your stash and eat most of the snacks.

“Can one of you pass me that chocolate bar in the snack basket?” You ask pudding your hand backwards to get your treat. Meanwhile the basket is in Paul’s and Marko’s lap, digging through every inch of the tub.

"Oops, sorry babe, but we're out of snacks. Marko must have eaten the last one," Paul lied through his teeth, throwing Marko under the bus.

“No I didn’t you asswipe!” Marko yells, his voice booming in the car. This ends up with the two wrestling in the back seat, while bumping into poor Dwayne who is already smashed into the side of the door.

"You're both going to make me lose my temper! If you don't behave, I'll be forced to turn this car around!" You warned the two of them, shooting them a stern look.

They both mumbled a quick "Sorry" and then dove right back into snacking as if nothing had happened.

David’s hand is of course on your thigh, drawing little shapes and squeezing your soft skin, traveling his hand slightly higher making you a blushing mess.

"David..." you whispered urgently, making sure no one else could hear.

David leaned in close, tilting his head and whispering in your ear, "We can always throw them out of the car. I know I can make you fog up the windows." His teasing tone conveyed a mischievous confidence, and you could feel the smirk on his face.

You lightly smack his chest but he suddenly takes your hand and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles with ease.

While you all are waiting for the never moving traffic to move (Which is doesn’t) the two blondes take this opportunity to hop out of the car and basically do stupid shit.

Running around the car. Hopping out in front of other cars, presumably giving everyone the bird, meanwhile, the people are honking their horns and getting agitated. (I wouldn’t blame them)

When everyone is back in the car, Paul takes this time to go through your CDs and cassettes and pick out the “good music” he said.

“Baby, you need more music taste! Remind me to take you to the store”.

Paul, I'm going to throw you out of this car!

If you get too tired of driving, David or Dwayne, you know good well Marko and Paul ain’t doing shit.

As David decided to drive, you might wonder who would be relegated to the passenger seat. In reality, no one; instead, they would accommodate you by making space in the back, provided the car is spacious enough. In some cases, if space is limited, you may find yourself seated on someone's lap. The concept of seatbelts becomes minor when you are in the company of vampires!

Dudes all probably gonna pop a boner

When you sit with all three of them they are smothering you in kisses, Paul tickles your sides making you squirm and laugh loudly and Marko pinching your sides.

Dwayne being a cuddle bug and pulling you into his chest. <3

David obviously can’t miss out so he’s reaching his hand back to touch you of course.

“Hey man! You’ve been touching them all night!” Paul whined and cooed at the leader.

“Fuck off, Paul.” David barks and refuses to stop holding your hand.

As the evening unfolded, you found myself resting my head on Dwayne’s lap, with your feet reaching out to Marko, and Paul providing support in the middle.

Dwayne playing with your hair with his slender fingers making you almost fall asleep. Paul playing with your fingers and Marko massaging your feet. It’s all very relaxing, that’s until David decides he’s getting bored and break checks the car and you all go flying forward-

“Whoops, break check”. Is all David would say with a grin on his face. You all don’t take it seriously and just laugh who the boys make sure you didn’t bang anything up.

After all, David navigates the car into an open field for you all to sit and enjoy looking at the beautiful stars. Dwayne Grabs a blanket from the trunk and places it on the soft grass. Paul puts on the radio some soft rock ballads and turns the volume up just enough to head the music.

You all cuddle up on the blanket and stargaze the night away, while all the boys are stealing passionate kisses on your lips.

“Hey, the shape of those stars are making kinda looks like a giant dick-“ Paul said out loud and for a moment everyone is silent, then you all erupt in laughter, Marko and Paul then tries to find more “stars” and pointing their fingers up at them.

“That one kind of looks like a heart”. You say and you point your finger. The boys share a smile on their faces. “You’re right”. David said and he kisses your cheek.

Paul began to say, "That one kinda looks like-" but was interrupted as Marko and Dwayne playfully tackled him, and they all ended up wrestling in the dewy grass.

[angelsanarchy]

Fever Dreams: Mike x Y/N One Shot Series PRT 17

Tagging: @icarus-star @chainsawgvtsfvck @romanroyapoligist @liquidsmoothdomme @madamemaximoff06 @drazenka @blacksoul-27 @444rockstargf @kappasbbgirl @luzclarita57 @tempt-ress @starry-eyed-wild-child

Mike goes to the bar after all his drop offs are done but he doesn't approach Y/n. He watches her work from the corner of the bar, seeing how she flirts with customers and co-workers so easily. She's big on winking and putting a gentle hand on someone's arm. He obviously knew that was apart of working in a bar but he never really noticed it when they worked together.

Mike isn't a jealous person but he's absolutely a self conscious one and the little rundown he got from Leff and Sicky earlier made him feel some type of way. Sicky handed him a shot and Mike snapped out of his thoughts.

"You still with me kid or are you busy doing the lovesick puppy thing." Sicky teased before Mike snatched the shot and downed it.

"Oh it's that kind of night. This should be fun." Sicky chuckles as Mike keeps his eyes on the pool table. He manages to win about $500 before Y/n actually comes over and smiles at them.

"What are you heathens doing over here besides shaking down my customers?" She asked looking at Mike but he wouldn't acknowledge her. She glances at Sicky and he gives her a shrug.

"Ol' Mikey here is quite the billiard boy. Handles a stick pretty well, don't ya?" Sicky shoved Mike's shoulder and he gave him a jerk off gesture.

"Did someone have a bad day at the office?" Y/n tried to approach him again but he took another shot before finishing off his beer.

"You wanna get me another one of these?" He held the empty in front of her face and she snatched it.

"Just a temperature check here, are you drunk or being a fucking asshole because it's a day that ends in Y?" Y/n stepped towards him and he screwed up his face.

"I'm not drunk. I just want another drink. I thought I was in a bar and you were the bartender." Mike looked at her unimpressed. She tried to read his expression but she couldn't. He looked completely void of any emotion which she hadn't ever seen. Mike had a pretty terrible poker face.

"Sure...let me just go fetch that for you." She was giving him a pass for now but she pointed at Sicky.

"Check him or I will." She threatened. She tried to give him some space so he could play pool, blow off steam and workout whatever bullshit was making him act this way but the more he drank, the more belligerant he got.

"HEY! BEER WENCH! BRING US A ROUND OF SHOTS!" Mike's slurred speech and silly giggles made Y/n look up towards him. He now had acquired a few hang arounds, most of which Y/n knew were local call girls.

"You've been cut off. If there's money on this game, wrap it up so I can take you home." Y/n said collecting the empty glasses.

"What? It's only midnight! Don't be a buzz kill!" Mike whined as Y/n took his empty bottle.

"Wrap it up Mike. I mean it." She said sternly but he slid off the chair.

"Come on, what's a guy gotta do to get you to change your mind?" Mike smirked but Y/n ignored him.

"Come on! I'll fuck you if I need to. Maybe blow a load on your face. What does Leff like to do with you? Something tells me he's a back shots kinda guy." The mood in the room had shifted instantly. She turned with the tray of empty bottles and looked at him.

"Excuse me?" She seethed through gritted teeth.

"Don't listen to him love. He's just-" Sicky tried to interject.

"How about Sicky? He seems like a real sick fuck. What have you done for him?" Mike pressed and Y/n launched forward only to be stopped by Sicky's arm, knocking all the glass to the floor.

"WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO!?" Y/n shouts as people started gathering their things to make a quick exit.

"Apparently the local hole according to Leff. How disappointing too." Mike's attitude started o shift almost into sadness but one of the girls ran her hands into his hair.

"Take off Mike." Sicky pressed and he threw his arm arond the girl.

"I'll get you home safe baby." The girl bit her lip as she practically carried Mike out of the bar, stumbling onto the sidewalk. Y/n pushed Sicky off of her and pointed at him so hard, she left a bruise on his chest.

"You either tell me what the fuck is going on or I'm going to burn down the whole fucking warehouse with Leff inside." Y/n threatened as the bar cleared out.

[andromydagalaxy]

Rave Juice

🌻 Description: Reader goes out to a rave hoping to find a new person to dance with but ends up with something much worse. Or maybe better? (Jschlatt x reader fic)

🌻 This is a piss fic. Don't like don't read. This was written with the purpose of being a /reader fic but it's in the first person because I wanted to try something different I'm thinking I'll do more third person writing in the future.

🌻🌻🌻

I’ve been dying of boredom, repeating the same things from morning to night. Each day was blurring itself into the next. The only clarity I get is when the weekend hits and I’m getting dolled up with Kayla, preparing to distract myself with another rave. One hand holding a makeup brush caked in peach blush and the other holding a strong fruity drink to my lips. Mentally, I was hoping someone would give me attention tonight, and stick a spike in the repetitive wheel my life was running on.

“I need to go piss,” Kayla shouts into my ear, pulling me out of my drunken thoughts.

“I’ll come with you. I need water anyway.” She leads us out of the crowd. My body continued dancing to the beat, lights rhythmically synced around me. I grabbed my water cup and wobbled over to the benches in the corner, resting my legs from dancing around in my platform heels. Sweat dripped down my chest, at the same rate as some water from my cup dripped down my neck. I looked around the venue at the melting pot of people roaming around, dancing, and talking. Some familiar faces I’d seen here and at other raves, some I’d never seen before. A crowd full of potential. A crowd that gave my life some resemblance of meaning, even if it was brief.

I squeezed my eyes, stretched my legs out, and downed the last bit of water in my cup.

“Hey there, toots.” My eyes shoot open, my hand still holding the empty plastic cup up to my mouth. I felt my stomach twisted into tight, almost painful knots at the sound of that voice. ‘Toots’ echoed in my head, mixed with the sounds of overlapping conversations and intense techno music. There was no way HE was here standing above me. “You look pretty.” The heat from his breath hit my ear, shocking me out of my frozen state as he moved down to sit beside me. I swatted my hand at him like an annoying bug buzzing around me, creating more space between us. Why was he here? How did he get here? What did he want? Was it just for me? I didn’t want to look at him, yet I turned my gaze to the other side of the bench, hoping I’d pushed myself into some weird drugged-up hallucinations. My heart sank when my eyes met his body, leaning back, one arm casually thrown over the back of the bench, one leg resting on his knee, and the typical smug smile painted on his face. There he was, Schlatt, mutton chops and all.

“What the fuck are you doing here? You don’t like raves.” I crossed my arms, scooting even further away, pushing my body against the armrest. “Or crowds of people.”

“My friends dragged me here.” I rolled my eyes, feeling the familiar frustration of trying to have an honest conversation with my boyfriend. Schlatt wouldn’t do anything he didn’t feel like doing, even for the people he “cared” about. I didn’t expect tonight to be a reminder of why I’m single.

“Dragged?” I stomped my heel on the ground, turning my body towards him. “You’re so full of shit.”

“What?” He threw his hands up defensively. “I can’t try something new?” Shit was pouring out of his mouth. I could practically see it.

“I’ve tried to invite you before, but you never wanted to go.” I stared into his eyes. Even though talking with him had my heart racing, my stomach turning, and my head pounding, there was no way I was going to cower at the audacity of this man. I refused to default to being his doormat.

He chuckled, shaking his head, and reaching into his pocket.

“Well, do you wanna go smoke a joint about it?” He patted the pocket of his shorts, a tube shape jutting out. Asshole. Asshole. Asshole. He knew how to get me. He knew my weak points.

“Why do you have weed?” He slid over, now sitting in the middle of the bench, closer to me.

“I got it for you.” Ass. Hole. “Figured I could get you your favorite drug so you’d talk to me.” Manipulative asshole. I sighed, my head falling into my hands. I felt like a dumb little puppy salivating at the sight of weed. Willing to converse with my ex just for some flower. I guess if I can get a joint and a story to tell my friends out of this, then maybe it’s worth it.

“Alright, come on, asshat,” I groaned, standing tall in my heels and pulling him up by his wrist, guiding him through the venue toward the back exit.

This had to be the alcohol making me do this. Maybe a deep yearning for weed. Or maybe it was just me who wanted to be around him, missing the familiarity and craving some affection. Had I mentally wished for him? Was my life getting that boring? That dull?

I walked past the patio filled with people talking and smoking cigarettes and joints.

“Where the fuck are we going?” I didn’t fully know the answer to that, either. We could have easily just smoked in the area designated for smoking, where he expected I was taking us, but my legs were guiding me somewhere else. Part of me didn’t want to be seen with him. Another annoying, stupid, horny part of me was secretly, deep down, hoping to talk with him in a more secluded area might lead to something sexual.

I stopped at an old rusted metal bench pushed against the brick wall of the abandoned warehouse.

“Gimme,” I snapped, sitting us both down on the old bench with my palm out. If I was going to make poor decisions with this dickhead, I had the right to be a bit of a bitch.

“Excuse you. What do you say?” I rolled my eyes, reaching my hand into his pocket and grabbing the tube. I pushed the fabric of his pocket towards his crotch and the way his eyes widened and his body froze filled me with more satisfaction than any dance floor.

“You’re such a bitch,” he muttered after a moment, turning to look out at the other abandoned buildings in the distance. I opened the tube, pulling out the joint.

“You remember a lighter?” He groaned, reaching into his little shirt pocket and pulling out a red lighter.

“You’re also a fucking druggie.” He lit the end of the joint hanging from my lips. My eyes moved up to stare at his face while he concentrated on his task. The light reflected off his soft, almond-shaped eyes, illuminating the beautiful mix of brown and hazel. His hair was long, thick, and gracefully wavy; he hadn’t cut it since I last saw him, but the near-shoulder length fit so well with his round face. Despite his harsh, sarcastic demeanor, and wild facial hair, his features were soft and round. I’d forgotten how cute he was.

“You gonna take the hit or just stare at me until I burn the whole joint?”

God fucking dammit, he’s such an—-

“Asshole,” I mumbled, inhaling and removing the joint from the flame.

“Oh yeah, I’M the asshole.” Oh god, here we go.

“Can you at least wait two seconds for me to enjoy this joint before you come at me with your grievances?” Why did this have to happen tonight? I wanted a slightly awkward, intimate dancing moment with some rave girl on molly, not my ex-boyfriend to find me. He takes the joint from my finger as I’m about to bring it to my mouth. I glare at him, taking a deep inhale, smoking like he’s been doing it for years.

“Oh, you smoke now? What else has changed?” I poked and pried.

“I got hotter and I have more money to spend not having to worry about covering your broke ass.” I rolled my eyes, for like the tenth time since being around him for like five minutes. All these complaints NOW but where was it when he’d grabbed every check from my hands at restaurants way over my budget? Where was this when he’d buy me new high-end lingerie? Or pay for basically all of my weed without me even asking?

“Hotter is debatable,” I muttered. He locked eyes with me, offering the joint back to me.

“Okay, fucking freak. You probably still spend most of your day touching yourself.” I coughed up the smoke in my lungs. Stupid piece of shit. Always exaggerating everything. Always giving me shit for just enjoying myself. “You still have that piss kink?” I sat up as much as I could, turning my body fully towards him, a finger in his face, and the joint still burning between my fingers.

“Shut the fuck up about that.” My voice raised and my face started getting hot.

“Oh, you definitely still do, look how defensive you got. You’re so easy to read.” I squinted my eyes at him as my lips pressed together. I let out a long sigh, going back in to smoke his joint. I didn’t want to give him the reaction he wanted.

“Why do you care? You never seemed to want anything to do with it, anyway.” My eyes drifted up to the moon, mentally praying she could help me out of this situation I had created.

“Well, I’m here now aren’t I?” He leaned back on the bench, tossing his arm over my shoulder. His voice sounded so soft and comforting, tingles spread down my spine. I turned my gaze back towards him, trying to see if he was still joking or being genuine. Possibly both?

There was a long pause.

“Would you-” He stood up, taking the unfinished joint from my hands and placing it back in the tube. His groin was staring me in the face.

“You want that, don’t you? A sick little fantasy you can think about while you’re living the same day again and again.” He grabbed my neck and stared into my eyes. “‘Cause I know how bored you get.”

I didn’t believe what I was hearing, his words created a confusing mess of irritation and my pussy gaining a heartbeat. He gripped my hair, held my pigtails together, and pulled my head back.

“Take them off,” he gestured at his pants. I moved my eyes down to the silver zipper on his black pants, already halfway undone. I didn’t hesitate as the drinks and joint pooling through my veins begged me to fulfill a long-time fantasy, something I had joked about for years with him, but never fully committed to. He knew. The joke wasn’t as ironic as it had started.

I bit my lip, sliding down to my knees, keeping my gaze up at him while dragging the zipper the rest of the way down and undoing the button on his jeans.

“You better take them off before I piss myself.” I exhaled, imagining how it would look to see his gray boxers slowly turn dark, warm liquid dripping down his thighs and onto the floor.

“Oh, yeah? Is that what you want?” he chuckled. “You want me to piss my boxers, huh?” He tugged my braids even more, fully exposing my neck. “You wanna see them get all soaked?” My breath hitched, feeling his hand move to my throat. “Make a big mess for you to clean up?” I whined, squeezing my thighs together at his words. “I bet you’d lick it up off the ground.” I panted, like a dog, below him. Like a dumb, little bitch. His dumb, little bitch. “Then come up and suck the rest out of my boxers.”

I desperately dragged the waistband of his boxers down, his hands still holding me in place, one on my neck and the other in my hair. Despite all the pot I had smoked, my mouth drooled at the sight of his cock. I rubbed it with my hand, licking my lips, and making little humming noises. Memories of his dick deep inside me, pounding me, flooded my thoughts, and the throbbing in my pussy grew. Schlatt moved my head, placing his tip on my bottom lip.

“Open up, toots. Let me slide in.” I gently opened my mouth, sticking my tongue out a bit, letting his length slip into my mouth, graze my gums, and rest on my tongue. God, he always filled me up so nicely. “Fuck, that mouth is just as warm as I remember it.” I let out a moan at his words, his cock twitching at the vibrations. Warm liquid filled my mouth, the taste bitter and salty, similar to some shitty beer that was left out on the back porch all day during the height of summer. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to concentrate on not choking or spitting his piss all over myself.

“Hey,” his hands cradled me. “Look at me.” All I could focus on was this salty taste, the corners of my mouth growing wet. I opened my eyes and stared up at him, seeing that fucking smirk that screamed ‘What an easy submissive bitch.’

“Are you my good little toilet?” I melted into his grip at those words, a warm feeling not only in my mouth but now intensely trickling down my gut. I nodded my head.

This was going to be crazy to process later.

He tilted my head back, pulled his cock out of my mouth and squeezed his tip, letting the remains drip onto my chin. The smell and taste were getting to me, becoming worse by the second. I needed this out of my mouth, but letting it sit weirdly made me wetter. I turned, planning to spit it all out onto the ground, but Schlatt bent down and wrapped an arm around my chest. I squirmed a bit, trying to free my arms from his grasp. My eyes were watering from the scent. I started feeling nauseous.

“Wait, just listen to me. Breath, hon, through your nose,” he cooed. I took a few shallow breaths through my nose. “Listen to me, okay? I need you,” His mouth brushed my left ear, “to let it out slowly,” chills ran down my back, “like it’s coming right out of my dick. Like a little waterfall.” His voice softly ordering me around had me so wet. “You gonna do that for me, babe?” I nodded my head. I’d do anything for him.

He moved his right hand up, taking his thumb and pointer finger, and softly squeezed my cheeks. His piss dripped down my chin as a stream poured out of my pursed lips onto the gravel below. I felt like one of those statues in a fountain, water flowing out of my mouth into the water below.

“Good job, baby.” My eyes rolled back at the pet name. I didn’t let my gaze fall to the puddle below me, scared the sight would make me reconsider my actions.

As the last few drops came out, I loudly coughed out whatever was left. That salty, bitter taste coated on my tongue, in my gums, on the roof of my mouth. The smell still filled my nose, while I tried catching my breath. Schlatt turned my head towards him and pressed his lips to mine in a sloppy kiss. His tongue lapped up my lips, forced himself into my mouth, glazed all over my walls, and lightly sucked on my tongue like he was trying to clean me.

Didn’t realize he’d be so desperate for a taste.

“You taste like piss.” He smirked. I giggled, feeling such a heavy mixture of arousal and dismay. He pushed me to the ground and pulled his pants up. “See you later. Maybe.”

I watched him walk away in disbelief, relighting the butt of the joint in his mouth, a cloud of smoke forming in the moonlight right next to the corner he disappeared behind.

[dandelion-wings]

Thinking again lately about the "Kujou Sara gets sent to Mondstadt to get her out of the way of the Kujou Clan purge politically marry Jean" AU, but especially and particularly Sara and Amber. Because, like, one of the things I'm working off here (with admittedly no justified backstory beyond, a) Inazumans are pretty clearly scared of and prejudiced about most yokai, and b) Kujou Takayuki is that kind of asshole) is that Sara was strongly discouraged, if not forbidden, from flying among humans in Inazuma. If it was allowed at all it was for scouting and military operations. So any flying Sara does is strictly limited and has to be for justifiable reasons.

And then she gets to Mondstadt and not only is gliding basically a national sport, but Amber takes one look at her training with her bow in that training space behind the Ordo and goes, "You don't have nearly enough space to practice shooting here! Come on, I'll show you my personal training course!"

Which, it turns out, is a gliding-and-shooting course, because even if game mechanics don't allow it, I personally choose to believe that shooting from the air is a major Outrider utility and something Amber is very, very good at. So she of course encourages Sara to take flight, and even offers to rebuild the course so Sara can take advantage of the fact that she can actually fly, not just glide. It's embarrassing for Sara at first, and she has a lot of tension around it--especially when Amber decides that she should show this off to Jean and Eula and other people--because she's not supposed to do this so blatantly. And frankly because she's been so restricted in flying she's not any better an aerial archer than Amber despite having full wings instead of a glider. But slowly she relaxes and becomes very, very fond of Amber for giving her the space to explore this part of herself that Takayuki never allowed. :>

(There is a 50/50 chance that she actually becomes an Outrider. I have a half-formed scene in my head where she's telling Jean she thinks it would be fitting to become a knight, and they talk about the knight trials, which she insists she'll take because she does need to learn Mondstadt's laws and customs before she takes on such responsibility, and then Jean says that they don't really have archers in the knights but Sara has shown her prowess in the sword and spear as well- and Sara is like, But there's Amber?? What is Amber, then??? And Jean explains that the Outriders are an auxiliary unit, and I can kind of imagine Sara going, well, that seems a suitable intermediate step while she's training for the knight trials, at the least. TBH the main obstacle there is that I'm not sure the senior officers would want her to join the Outriders as a stepping-stone, because that's kind of dismissive of the unit and a punch in the gut for Amber.)

[clockworkspider]

Okay so I've been reading Some Desperate Glory and like...

Here's the thing. Most readers and writers will swear up and down that protagonists NEEDS to be flawed to be interesting. But most of us are also fucking cowards who only wants to see/dares to write harmless (he's stubborn but it just means he never gives up), relatable (cowardice, cynicism) or sexy flaws (she's an asshole but only because she's jaded but has a kind heart underneath, he tortures people but all his victims are certified assholes).

When you get actually have protagonist with ugly human flaws you always get a good portion of the readers being like "the protagonist is unlikable" and "I can't relate to them". (Y'all weak!)

Some character flaws are harder for readers to swallow. Like bigotry. Nobody writes queer protagonist that are fucking racist/sexist/homophobic nowadays. And if they hold prejudice they're gonna realize the errors of their ways the moment they meet an alien who's nice to them and be like "oh my gosh those who are different from me are people too I've been wrong all my life".

Not Val Kyr. Val Kyr is a real bigot. She grew up sipping the Terran patriotism and eugenics juice. She's cruel but is self-righteous about it. In chapter 1 she bullies some children for having fun. She meets a meek pathetic little alien and immediately kicks them. She is loyal to a fault and cares deeply for the people around her but has such underdeveloped empathy due to both her upbringing and who she is as a person that nobody likes her. She's fucking miserable but doesn't know it. She's a good example of someone who's radicalized by her upbringing...

Because you see... it's established from the start that aliens destroyed earth, all 14 billion people on it. The rest of humanity, living on colony planets, who have decided to co-operate with the aliens, now live in blessed harmony. Only a small terrorist cell continues to fight, isolated on their little space station, breeding super soldiers via eugenics.

So Val Kyr doesn't weep from the error of her ways the moment she realize aliens are also people. They killed her planet.

And that's just a taste of the complexity this book deals with.

And like... admittedly, through the first half of the book, I gritted my teeth and thought "this better be so goddamn satisfying once she gets some character development" because I have finally met a (non-villain) problematic protagonist who challenged the limits of my empathy but I ain't no coward. (Plus I think it's really brave of the author to write a bigot protagonist in a queer novel and I respect that.) And like... I knew from the start that this is gonna be a de-radicalization story. I am at 61% and I really like the direction this is going.

The story doesn't just dress down the errors of her ways in a moralistic way. It takes in the complexity of the situation and turns around and gives the "wrong" version of her dignity. She was the product of a toxic environment. She was cruel and vile. But her experiences were real. Her anger was real. She was a person who made decisions and that person mattered no matter how "bad" she was.

And like... I think this complexity says so much when you consider the premise. That victims of war, of genocide, are not all gonna be pleasant sympathetic people.

So... the beginning of this book is a bit of a drag but I really like where this is going. If you plan to read it, please get pass 57%, that's when things get real interesting. (I still haven't finished. I'll decide whether this is actually the worst book ever once I'm done but... so far I'm REALLY impressed by everything its done.)

Anyway I think you should join me in reading this novel if you're also not a fucking coward.

[gaykarstaagforever]

Well! Second DMing session ended with the guy who made me do it, who was going to "help" me, hanging up on me mid-session and texting

So much for "I don't care if you don't know how to do it, I'll walk you through it," I guess.

I was very clear from the outset that I think most ttrpgs, and ALL DnD rules, are arbitrary math nonsense that you need a college course to understand, specifically created by terrible people to force everyone else to put up with their infantile, unintuitive view of the universe. I told him I hate this crap. He manipulated me into trying it anyway. Guess who hasn't changed his mind, and guess who is now throwing a temper-tantrum about it? I TOLD YOU this was a bad idea.

I read the book. The 8 books. It doesn't matter. They're math textbooks written by bad writers and my eyes kept glazing over. I don't understand why any of these rules exist. I'm just forced to memorize formulas. That I don't respect.

There is no space for reputation, or politics, or combat scenario realities, or random accidents and diseases, or genuine surprises, or living in an apathetic, living, breathing world that doesn't give a fuck about your Chosen One status. It is wizards casting fire balls, because the guy doing that hates his mom, and made up a rule set where he can play his weird stupid power fantasies. His weird, stupid, RACIST power fantasies, if this last group's predilections is any indication.

I don't have patience for this. It's arcane and unrealistic and sucks the joy out of everything and it ISN'T FUN.

If you love it, great. I'll get out of your way. But it runs counter to how my brain works and I fucking hate it. I love the idea of using dice to RP events and see what happens. But at some point of complexity you are just obeying someones precious little rule-book so obnoxious math nerds who memorized it can be smug about exploiting loopholes.

Go play a video game for that. That's not a healthy social interaction. That's yet another version of a group of fucked-up people being whiney and dogmatic about random shit they made up, specifically so they can be cool in a world they specifically designed for that purpose. And what the fuck is that? I hate them, and I hate that.

My old mantra was "nerds with math ruin everything." I was always half-joking, but only half. I have zero respect for everything this is, and what people are apparently looking for from it. It is frustrating and boring and limiting and stupid to me. I don't enjoy it. And I don't even want to ever play it again, because I dread being doomed to waste my brain power sorting out weird meta game math shit that doesn't seem to take into account any defensible simulation of actual reality.

I have spent 120+ hours over the last 5 months trying to get into this. Trying to get a handle on why people like it, to figure out the secret I am missing. I have spent stupid amounts of money on stuff, to that end.

And I either lack the 3000 IQ space brain to get it, or I absolutely get it, and I just absolutely hate it. Either way, I've had enough.

I want to do a D6 system that is just "roll against opponent, bigger number wins, DM RPs what that means." That's loose and interesting and feels like real life. The rest can go jump in the river.

"YEAH BUT THAT'S UNFAIR TO PLAYERS!"

The world is unfair to life. You're not 12 anymore. I don't get anything out of playing around in a baby world made for babies. You're just mad because it isn't going to work in your favor the way I'm proposing it.

It's like Tim Cain said about programming RNG. You give them real RNG, everyone gets mad because "it's not fair." Because RNG isn't fair. They don't want RNG, they want to be autocrats of reality, then soothe themselves that they're not in fact cheating assholes by claiming "the numbers worked out in my favor."

When the reality is that the system was specifically designed over 50+ years to give them an advantage. And that isn't RNG. That isn't playing a role. That isn't being a real hero by self-sacrificing and being randomly lucky and muddling through. It's just egotistical self-delusional nothingness.

Like, maybe these kinds of games are STILL niche things for a reason? Maybe the only really popular and profitable entries are video game and movie versions where you don't see the math, BECAUSE you don't see the math? Like I don't think I'm alone in not giving a shit about this byzantine, nerfed crap.

That doesn't make me better. Do whatever you want. But if THAT'S what you're doing, count me the fuck out.

I did my time, and I'm sick of this shit.

[purplerakath]

MiyagiDo Karate and Protagonist Morality

So when I watched the first two seasons this bothered me and then last weekend I watched everything else (thus far)... and this still bothered me. So here we are.

Spoilers for all five released seasons of Cobra Kai (although I'll mainly be talking about Demetri, Sam, Danny, and Hawk).

Before I get started...

As much as I'm criticizing the writing of these characters, I don't think the characters are bad, or hate the show. I just think more could be done with them, or in the case of Sam they could have started the ball rolling sooner and she could be a better character than she is.

Except Demetri, they really screwed the pooch on his writing.

Protagonist Morality

So I guess I should explain this term. Protagonist morality is where a show doesn't question the behavior of it's protagonists, assuming that whatever action they've taken is morally correct (for the setting). In a video game, you know all those unguarded chests full of stuff for you. The ones all across the countryside and in towns and often people's houses? The ones you can loot freely and nobody cares or is concerned with all the robbery you're doing?

That's protagonist morality. If the game labels you a thief and you get run out of public spaces for your actions, then the game is labeling your actions as maybe less than a paragon of virtue, and giving you reason to think about it. (Then you do it anyway because it's really nice loot.)

So what about the ACTUAL protagonists?

Johnny, Miguel, and Robby are questioned and judged by the narrative constantly. They generally do things right for them, but not universally seen as correct. And generally the narrative is about them moving forward and making less questionable calls.

The whole point of the start of S2 is that Johnny realizes "No Mercy" is a bad motto, because it just gets people hurt, and changes his teachings to match this bit of character growth. Characters backslide, Johnny and Robby both crash spectacularly at the start of Season 3. Each needs to dig themselves out of the hole their in all through Season 3 (Johnny) and 5 (Robby).

So the show never treats them as not needing growth, as the show is all about their growth.

Daniel

Danny is a hyper-judgmental asshole due to unresolved trauma from his youth and it's a problem. But also the show would be a lot less interesting if he worked through all of this in a timely fashion. Primarily the issue is his reaction to "Cobra Kai" just being back at all, and how he never once gets pushed to question if Cobra Kai in Johnny's hands changed.

Some of this is miscommunication, which is the cornerstone of the Unresolved sexual Karate Tension with Johnny. But his absolute refusal to see good in Cobra Kai had a direct hand in breaking up Sam and Miguel in Season 1 and Danny... came out of it believing he was right.

And when he goes out of his way to try and destroy the S1-2 era of Cobra Kai, the narrative never once actively punishes him for his prejudice. He's also never forced to face why he's like this. It's kind of shit but very much a plot lodestone.

Sam

Like her father, Sam often rushes to a moral judgement on bad info and never goes back. Even if she's wrong. So much of her Season 1 behavior is swept under a rug so that other characters (Kyler, Yaz, Miguel) can be her personal villain. And the worst being Season 2 with Tory.

Sam rushed to 'all Cobras are evil' while in a plot trying to fix her friendship with her best friend, she instigated things with Tory, and blamed Tory for all of it without having to think about why she's following her father so readily. Of course, with the end of Season 2 it didn't matter what her behavior was prior, she had every justification to treat Tory as her own personal satan.

Fortunately for me, and everyone else who likes Sam, most of the later seasons focus real hard on having her grow as a person. Maybe not facing all of her personal failings, but she does grow past them in respectable ways. And while her behavior toward Tory is... still bad, Tory is her personal anxiety attack she's allowed it now. (Unlike someone else.)

She also unpacks some of the prejudice she learned from her dad. Sneaking off behind his back to learn Eagle Fang and figure out before Father Dearest that balance is better than pigheaded arrogance of your own greatness. Leading to the Season 4 finale and her mixed styles.

Demetri Hawk

Before I rant about Demetri, I need to explain why Hawk's narrative, regardless of his failures, is better. Eli starts the show with a clearly defined failing (confidence and courage), focuses hard on overcoming it (through Cobra Kai Karate), and turns him into someone new.

That new person is a loud abrasive asshole, but it's a growth arc.

When Hawk behaves badly, it's treated as a start of darkness. As he grows to love having the power his weaker nerdy self lacked. His acts of vengeance make sense as the flexing of power he's never had before. To the point he becomes the sort of bully he feared. His reactions are all overreactions and that's good writing. You understand why he beats Kyler's flunky to a bloody pulp, it's cathartic but also framed as an act of pure violence and destruction. He needs to live in his anger, his violence, listening to the whispers Kreese offers.

Season 3 is Hawk struggling to choose between good and evil, and in the end he chooses good. Leading him on the path toward balance and being better than either side of him before. Honestly of every character in the show his path is the best defined.

Now Demetri

Demetri is a anxious pessimistic leech. He feels he'll fail before he starts, and therefore doesn't try. He rides the coattails of his friends as they become cool and popular and Hawk was right to call him out. But rather than investigate that, he becomes the target of Hawk's new villain arc, and rushes to the arms of MiyagoDo.

Where he proceeds to never actually face who he was, and just... get to be a cool martial artist with a hot girlfriend as the show sweeps his negative traits under a rug and never touches them.

The narrative never confronts how 'it's fine for me to reap the benefits of your hard work' (start of season 2) or 'I can humiliate my best friend by spilling all his secrets then hide behind my badass martial artist friends' (late season 2) were bad calls, because at the end of the season he just... gets to beat up Hawk to establish the full defeat of Johnny's Cobra Kai.

Directly into Season 3 where he's just as aggressive and antagonistic as Sam is, while neither is treated as being 'over the line' by the narrative. Which is all before Hawk breaks Demetri's arm, meaning he doesn't have the extant trauma reason Sam has.

By Season 5 Demetri is a pretty cool person, but as there's no actual focus on how he got there, it feels cheap. Which really sucks.

What I'd Write-

I don't want to rewrite the whole show, and that makes Danny hard to fix. As so much of him is that paranoia of Cobra Kai. Like- best I could ask for is him going to therapy and trying to work past it (and just being bad at it).

Sam the easy answer is Aisha not forgiving her (at least during S1-2). Where Sam tries to get Aisha back, but every time she either says something about Cobra Kai, or Miguel, or Tory and Aisha points out Sam hasn't given any of them a fair shot, and that Sam has no room to talk after dating Kyler and being Yaz's friend.

Bonus points if Sam also gets taken to task for her going after Tory when Tory was working. Because Amanda already got Tory fired once, but she felt bad about it.

Demetri has a similar route of 'best friend does not forget.' A simple 'why should I ever trust you again' after Moon's party would go a long way to rub Demetri's face in what he did, how he was as bad as everyone who made fun of Hawk's lip at school. How Demetri, for one brief moment, was worse than Kyler.

I want all the characters to either get the kind of care in how they change direction that Miguel has, and failing that being absolutely perfect like Devon (the only person to join Silver's Cobra Kai and not turn evil).

[justme315]

Family 1/? (g/t parenting story)

Warning:

Mention of Foster care, fear

--------

Summary:

Mark and James are 36 years olds. They've been together since they were teens and have been happyly married for a long time. They want to be parents, that's why they have been trying to adopt from the foster system for 5 years now, but for unspecified reasons their family case is on hold and there is no child/children they could adopt despite their excellent results on the course for a foster/adoptive family.

Cain is a 14-year-old borrower who takes care of his 8-year-old little sister - Lizzie - since their parents are gone. The kids have just moved into a new house, and not knowing human's schedule, Cain can't go borrowing yet, but Lizzie has an idea..

----------

James POV:

"I can't believe it!" shouts Mark "Why are they sending a refusal again?!"

"I don't know," I say in a shaky voice. So many years of trying to adopt yet nothing. We meet all the needs of a child, we have well-paid jobs, a large house, competences, great results after the adoption course, we have everything and yet they do not want to let us become parents. They don't want us to be happy. I start crying.

"Don't cry baby" Mark says softly. He sits on the floor across from me and looks me straight in the eyes "We're fine honey. We passed all the tests, we did the best we could. They're the assholes who don't want to give us a baby but remember we are going to be daddies. We're going to have a wonderful family and we will have our lovely baby at home with us and we will love them so much."

"You promise?" i sob.

"I promise"

-----

Cains POV:

"Lizzie, please be quieter!" I yell at my sister when she plays too loudly. We just moved and in a new house, we have to be extra careful. Not that we can normally be loud, the life of the borrower does not allow it. It's hard for me to rebuild a shelter in our new hideout, but I'll manage! I'm sure it will be okay. This place seems quiet and has a lot of space. I think that in two or three weeks we will be feeling at home. Not that we really should or could feel like that way somewhere, but it would be nice to stay somewhere a little longer.. I hope there are no children or pets in this house. That would cause a lot of worry. I only saw two adult men so far, but there are a lot of toys around the house so it looks like there is a child here, although with such peace and quietness I can doubt it.

"Cain, silly, stop worrying" I hear Lizzie say before tapping my head.

"Yeah, sorry" I sigh. "But in a new house we have to be ultra careful, okay? We can't be loud. We also have to be very good because there are new people here and we don't know their schedule. That's why I can't go borrowing for now and we have to bravely endure" I say in a nice tone to my little sister, who sits on my lap and hugs me. How are we going to survive without food? But risking going out in a new house is too dangerous..

"But we don't have any food left!" says Lizzie. God, raising a little girl alone is so hard. I wish dad and mom were here. They would know what to do. They would take care of us, I wouldn't have to be afraid or worry about food, they would take care of everything. I miss them. It's been almost 3 years since they were caught. It's been almost 3 years since we lost them. It's been almost 3 years since I have to take care of my sister and myself. I'm only 14, raising a child and borrowing is very difficult at that age! But I know no other borrowers would help us. Nobody helps orphans. We have no choice. We have to live like this. I have to do everything I can for the sake of Lizzie, my only family left. She needs me.

"I can't borrow today, I have to look at human's behavior first, but I'll bring food as soon as I can"

----------

Lizzies POV:

It's been 3 days without food. Cain is afraid to go borrowing. It's stupid, you can't live without food! I don't think he knows that. He told me that as far as he knew, there were only two adult humans in the house, which is probably a good thing. I don't understand why he won't go, he's good at borrowing, no human has ever seen him. And I think humans in general are stupid. They would never catch Cain or me. Because he's so afraid, I will be brave and fetch the food myself! He will see how big I am now and that he doesn't have to be so afraid for me and that he doesn't have to do everything alone. I take his hook and go. He's sleeping right now so it must be very late. We already have a tunnel to the kitchen, so getting food should be easy. I walk out of the tunnel onto the kitchen counter.

"Easy" I whisper to myself. Why was he so worried? It is very easy-pesy. It's my first time in a completely open space. Everything is so big, actually it's super cool! Why doesn't he ever take me with him?! It's so cool outside! The only problem is I can't see any food. That's bad. I need food. I look around and see a cupboard up. It's not that far. I just need to throw Cain's hook to get to stick and climb up. Relax. I throw and it really sticks. I knew I was talented! I start climbing and reach the very top. I peek inside and see chips. I'm so hungry. They look so appetizing as if they were begging me to eat them. I try to open the cupboard door, but it won't even move. "Why don't you open?!" I gets upset. I don't like that it's starting to get hard. I try to open harder. Still nothing. Finally, I pull with all my might. Oh no. The door opens and pushes me down. I'm attached to the hook's ld cord but I get tangled. I scream as I fall. I don't think it's loud though. That means I didn't get anyone's attention, which means humans are still asleep like stupid mice. But that also means I didn't scream loud enough to wake Cain. What will I do now?! I'm tangled up and can't to move at all. I'm a little scared. It's a silly lie. I'm very scared! I'm out in the open and there's absolutely nothing I can do. Doing anything without Cain was a bad idea. I start crying. I want to go back to our hideout, to my brother.. It must be a nightmare. I cry trying to break free. I need Cain! What if humans will wake up?! I'm so scared... Right now I'm hearing something. Sounds weird. Very unheard of on such a large scale. Almost like… footsteps?! Oh no. No no no!!

---------

James POV:

It's quite early, already around 5am, even though it's still rather dark outside. I should be getting ready for work now. I could have slept 15 more minutes but I got up because I was thirsty but now I have to go to the kitchen for another reason. I don't know what it was, but I heard a noise. It was weried, almost like a scream. But that's impossible, no one can scream that quiet. And there's no way anyone else was in our house, it didn't sound like a thief. As far as I know, bugs can't scream either - but I'm not sure, I slept in biology classes - and it's impossible for any of the talking toys we bought to activate on their own. I go into the kitchen and for a moment I don't see anything strange. It's really dark, so I can't tell if anything is out of the ordinary. I turn on the light and look around the room. I really don't see anything wrong, the room looks like any other day, no one else seems to be in it but me, everything is where it should be, even the toys seem untouched. Maybe it's just my imagination? I don't sleep very well because of all the stuff going on with the foster system and I think too much, so maybe I'm finally going crazy? Has my mind started playing tricks on me? Damn, am I really going insane? That would be a new killer for me and Mark, and then I can be sure they'll take away our licenses and we'll never be dads. Sweet Universe, I know it's hard to become parents, but we're wonderful people. Although my madness really wouldn't be good for our future baby. I need to drink water and maybe take some sedatives. I go to the cupboards to get a glass of water and that's when I hear it. A sob. Wait, what? I look around the cupboards. There is something unusual about one of them. There's a little string and.. a tiny child?!

[goodluckclove]

On Being Seen

I'll warn you in advance, friends and colleagues - I might not have quite an optimistic take on this one. In advance I'll say that I'm totally all right, there's no need to comfort or fawn or worry. It's just been a pretty crazy couple of days and it's sort of left me in a kind of perturbed state of mind.

I feel as if I've developed a reputation on Writeblr as someone strongly supportive of other writers through their struggles and successes, and I figure it might be useful to see that I speak as someone who has their fair share of doubts. Consider it a show of neurosis that supports me as your steadfast advocate in creative growth and potential.

I'll put it under a read more. It's nothing triggering I don't think, I'm just a little embarrassed to have it fully visible under what I still consider to be a relatively professional space. Or at least a space for me as a professional whose brand involves not being very professional.

Nevertheless.

I debated for a long time self-publishing Blind Trust. I went back and forth every so often for weeks, and my poor wife had to deal with the brunt of my strange excuses not to do it. It really came down to one big question, which was...why?

Why am I publishing this? And for money, no less? That's weird. Why would anybody support that? It wouldn't deter me from writing if I never published any of the Songbird Elegies. I'd still write them. I've been writing stories for almost 20 years that no one has ever read and no one will probably ever read.

Sure, I have the fantasies of relative cult notoriety. People making fanart of my characters and sharing weird memes about my plot points. Finding comfort in the words and stories I've created to comfort myself. When I was still considered schizoaffective my dad gave me a copy of Flow My Tears the Policeman Said by Philip K. Dick and said that he was "like us". If that happened to someone else with one of my books it would mean the world to me.

Then again, would it? Because in my actual, real, physical life I am terrible at taking praise. It's like trying to catch a ball from the other side of a brick wall. If you ever pass me on the street I'm guaranteed to be wearing soundproof headphones and blasting music to keep anyone from talking to me. You might catch my eye and I'll smile and nod, maybe toss a compliment your way, but if you try to have a conversation and I do not know you I will absolutely just keep walking. I can't do it.

I love people and I'm terrified of people. It's always been this way.

It's easier online. I mean it when I say that I'm open to anyone here just starting a conversation with me about anything. There's already the unspoken assumption that we're all already weird, so I don't have to think too hard about your motivations. But still, large amounts of praise and positive reinforcement make me deeply uncomfortable. I've been trying to work on that for years, but I find most advice on building self-worth deeply unhelpful.

It's not like I'd prefer hate. I think I'm just not used to being noticed either way.

This is the first time I've made an honest effort to put my work, and by proxy myself (all writers are brands now, says the publishing industry as a whole) on display online. And for the most part it's been great! I enjoy the connections I've made here. The promise of making more. There are so many skilled storytellers here that it gives me a lot of hope and excitement for the future of literature.

But it's weird. It's really weird.

Most of the time I see it as another social media client. I stand by the posts I make and do them for fun, but I also do them to maintain a presence and draw in more attention. I studied to do things like this for work before. I picked like three social media management tactics that I thought I could remember when I was 18 and just stuck by them. And then occasionally I go oh wait. This isn't some nonprofit. This isn't a start-up for tech assholes. This is me.

And that's weird.

It's not a massive following I have, but it's more than I've ever had before under my own personal and creative writing. I published short stories and articles, but I never heard anything from them. There are short stories I have on online journals that I genuinely do not know if anyone has read. Here, I see people like things and I'm like huh. I feel like a mummy or a ghoul. I do not understand what people are doing.

One part of my brain takes this information and says that it's probably proof that when I publish Blind Trust, some people will buy it. People have expressed interest already. Which means they're probably interested, I think. I post excerpts of my writing and people seem to enjoy it enough to click a button or leave a comment. That's cool. I don't get why it happens, but it's very cool and it makes me happy.

At the same time there's this undercurrent of paranoia. I don't get it. And I don't think I ever will. That's essentially been my only coping mechanism for publishing at this point - I don't know if it'll work, but I might as well try and if I do something will probably happen.

I know I'm a writer. At this point it would be ridiculous to say I wasn't. I'm a professional, working writer, and experienced enough to know that saying all that doesn't say much in terms of quality.

Am I a good writer? I don't really know what that means. I like Blind Trust. I'm reading it for the fourth time as I edit it again and I genuinely enjoy it. So someone who thinks like me and has similar tastes to myself might feel the same way. I don't really know who that person might be. Statistically I imagine they have to exist somewhere. And that there's at least a handful of them.

Imposter Syndrome is real and I don't think it ever goes away. I'd like to think that it's one of those things where you think about it less and less, and this is just the first night in maybe five months that I'm really thinking about it.

I'm not expecting to make a ton of money off my first book. In fact, I probably will be sick from anxiety with any purchase I get for the first year, because it means that someone spent human money on writing I am happy to just give them for free.

But this is going to be my job. I want this to be my job so I can spend more time doing it. Because I've dedicated so much time to doing all of this, it means I get to spend a lot of my day getting other writers to write even a little bit of their own stories. And that's so important to me.

I don't know. I don't really have a neat end to this. I'm forcing myself to actually follow through with posting it, and then to continue keeping it up even though it feels incredibly vulnerable to be, in my opinion, this self-indulgent and whiny. It's insecure. I'm still insecure. I'm in therapy and on medication and there's more shit I got to do in life.

Still, I'm telling myself that my version of being a Professional Writer is to showcase emotional pitfalls like this. Newer writers might know that you can sometimes have a night where you might not be in despair, per say, but certainly deep confusion, and then come back the next day and keep on working. I stand by what I mean when I say that the craft should not be entirely miserable. It is still maybe 25% inconvenient to me, and I am currently in that less-desirable quarter.

So what am I doing? Wife got us Jersey Mike's, so I had a yummy sandwich. Kafka is sitting on my calves, just behind my laptop monitor. I'm listening to my soul/funk playlist while Wife plays Hell Divers for the first time. Later we're going to play a board game.

But for now, I'm going to keep editing my goddamned novel.

Blind Trust out in June. Get ready people, because I'm not.

[tobiasdrake]

It's over. All we can do now is find ourselves again. Then hold our heads high and walk forward. To violence.

Appreciated. This kind of mourning isn't something you can just do overnight. Some agonies can take weeks, months, or even years to get over. Some, you never do.

Though it helps to have friends with you who can share your pain. The worst impulse after a terrible loss is the impulse to bury yourself away from the people who love you.

Erlina knows what it's like to have someone so precious to you that you would scorch the world to see them safe. Someone whose wellbeing is so valuable that any indignity, any cruelty, any humiliation is worth it if it means they'll be able to smile again tomorrow.

She understands that kind of love. That kind of fear. What she doesn't understand is that kind of loss. If she's lucky, she never will. Hopefully, she'll never have to see what's surely become of Brugaves.

But I'm sure she can imagine what it feels like. It's kept her up at night for years.

So when she dies, when she's bleeding out onto the floor and staring up at my eyes full of despair and hatred, she'll understand why. Because she would do the same for hers.

The time for dismal showers is past. I'm ready to be a hurricane.

Appreciated. Is our deal fulfilled? Are you going to give us our vindictive passage?

Hold up, we're going down? I figured we were going up. Like, the Sea of Stars was a poetic term for space.

Is that not how this works? We can't access the other timelines by flying into space like Kingdom Hearts worlds?

Goddammit. ChatGPT wants me to fill out paperwork. Resh'an, is there a jailbreak or something we can use to skip this step?

See, if you'd ever bothered to fill out the proper forms for a legal name change, this wouldn't be a concern. You should think about that. Bureaucracy can be an asshole to navigate for anyone with personal information that isn't found on their birth certificate.

Yep. Lunar Monk, Pirate Co-Captain--

Serai: I never agreed to that!

--and Headmistress of Zenith Academy. Also Wheels Semi-Champion, co-Founder of Mirth, sponsor of a child labor workshop, liberator of Kiln Mountain....

...and Warrior Cook Apprentice. Just apprentice. I'll never be as good as the master but it would be my privilege to carry on his teachings.

Is that enough titles for my registration?

O.O Okay, yeah. That settles it. We are going down to reach the other timelines. This is throwing me for a loop. I did not anticipate down.

I thought the Sea of Stars would be more stars and less sea. Good thing I know how to make paths across water.

Oh, did I mention that one? Yeah, I fixed your bridge. You're welcome.

Down we go. I am excited to finally see what the titular Sea of Stars is.

These look like the crystals we can infuse with Solstice energy that we see lying around sometimes. But glowing with a power that's neither Solar nor Lunar.

And the place is protected not by creatures but... what? The idea of creatures given form and substance? Their memory?

By the moon. It's beautiful. And terrifying. And eldritch. A tapestry of realities and possibilities in a vast ocean of impermanence.

If this is our destination, then it's likely a timeline that's been completely overrun by a World Eater. It's unlikely Aephorul would make his fortress in a plane that's still in conflict. And he can't access ones defended by Guardian Gods.

What manner of world have we even--

Oh, we've crossed genres to get here. OKAY. THIS IS FINE.

My staff could use the warm-up. How about you, Zale? Blood in your eyes?

Blood in your eyes. Check.

The past isn't going to tell us jack shit about this place, Teaks. That's the wrong direction to be looking.

This is a world of technology. I. Was. Not. Expecting this. I need a moment to wrap my head around it. There's no way to predict what's going to happen here; We need to be prepared for anything.

ROBOT SKELETON OKAY I WAS NOT PREPARED FOR THAT

HI

UM

HI

BUDDY

...

I'm cool with it, I just... Of all the things I imagined your secret could be, this never even crossed my mind.

Does it hurt? Or... Wait... Are you a cyborg or an android?

YEAH I CAN SEE WHY

That's not an easy conversation to raise with people. Especially medieval people. There is a non-zero chance you would have been burned as a witch.

Hon, our ship is crewed by the Ghost of Melodies Past. This is a shock, but far from a dealbreaker.

I'm sure Teaks has a million questions for you. And I have a million questions for Teaks once she's finished. But we're as tight as we've ever been.