#Julian Slink

[mikhalson]

My best relationship started because of these two

[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

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Hi again!! I was wondering how would the m6 react to seeing mc completely devouring a cake? Like just imagine hearing the plastic container opening, walking in and mc is just

To a cake -jelly

The Arcana Mini-HCs: M6 find MC eating cake ferally

Julian: sees you. slinks away. slinks back in. confirms that he is not, in fact, hallucinating. wonders how to trigger this apparent feral side ~

Asra: you know what, they're just happy that you're so happy. and curious about whether eating like that really makes it taste better ...

Nadia: she has never in life seen anyone eat food like this - well, except Volta - and she doesn't know if she's amused or alarmed

Muriel: slightly alarmed that this means you haven't been eating enough and resolving to make sure you have extra food in the future

Portia: absolutely delighted to see how much you love her baking and already making a mental list of all the cakes she'll bake you next

Lucio: hey HEY HEY LEAVE SOME FOR HIM, WON'T YOU??? it must be the best cake ever if it's making you act like that! give him some!

[thedemonofcat]

Hanahaki, but it only activates when you feel intense love and rejection from your soulmate. The flowers are said to be your body’s attempt to win your soulmate back. That’s why they’re the person’s favorite.

Jaskier contracts Hanahaki while stumbling down the dreaded mountain. He hadn’t thought his situation could get much worse.

A part of him wants to march back up the mountain and yell at Geralt, “Look how you’ve ruined me!”

He won’t do that though. Because he loves Geralt and wants the idiot to be happy, he’s going to slink home and die quietly.

It was rare for Geralt to find himself near Bremervoord, let alone in Lettenhove. But needing to keep Ciri safe—and responding to an unexpected summons from Viscountess Pankratz—had brought him here.

“I called for you to help my brother,” the Viscountess said, looking Geralt over with a steady gaze.

“Your brother?” Geralt asked, noticing a familiar emblem on her ring. He was trying to remember where he had seen it before.

“Yes, Julian. He’s always traveling, so I rarely see him.” The warmth in her voice was unmistakable. “But recently, he returned home with some curse that’s left him bedridden.”

“Are you certain it’s a curse?” Geralt asked. Noble families often faced illness from their limited gene pools, after all.

“I’m certain,” the Viscountess replied firmly. “Perhaps it would be easier for you to see him yourself.”

As they walked through the manor, Geralt’s gaze lingered on a Pankratz family portrait in the hall. The painting was old, showing the Viscountess as a child beside a young boy—presumably Julian. Something about the boy’s face seemed oddly familiar.

“Here we are,” the Viscountess said, knocking on a door. “Julian, I hope you’re decent. We have a guest.”

The door opened, and there, sitting up in bed, pale and fragile as porcelain, coughing a mix of flowers and blood, was Julian Pankratz—or, as Geralt knew him.

“Oh, must you bring people around?” Jaskier sighed.

[ectogeo-rebubbles]

Garak tries to call Sisko 'daddy' in bed (something he learned from his extensive research while pursuing Julian) and sisko Does Not Like it

Oh idk if this is what you meant but that’s really super duper extra funny if it’s not even a kink garak has either, he just thinks it’s a thing bc it was in the first human porn he happened to watch. No-sided daddy kink. I’m cracking up. 😂💕

But yeah Garak absolutely gets kicked out of Sisko’s bed for that mistake and has to slink back to his own quarters to finish himself off pathetically. (That’s all right though bc he IS into humiliation, I’m sure of it)

[taduki]

M6 w/ a skittish MC

Skittish as in jumpy and playful. The definitions also add frisky, but we ain’t doing allat tonight… I added in something calling squeaking to these hcs. What I mean is like a little “eep!”, when someone gets scared.

Asra

Squeaky toy fan #1.

Hugs you tightly in an attempt to hear the squeak. Other than that, doesn’t pay much attention to it.

They’re way more interested in this child-like, playful side of you. Once the shop closes, it’s playtime!! You and Asra play Find the Faust and run around the shop looking for a familiar wriggly tail or head. It’s always full of giggles, especially when Asra jumps out of shadowy corners to spook you for no reason.

Both of you try to keep tame when going into the heavy traffic parts of Vesuvia, but once something gets you guys started, there is no going back. It could be anything from Asra slinking behind you and going invisible to Faust playing peekaboo in the rafters.

Neither of you can EVER get pickpocketed when you’re together. You’re high alert and Asra is like a magic buffer for you. In the shadier areas of your travels, people attempt SO often, you two find it different ways to mess with the thief each time. Examples including: making an army out of eating utensils at an outdoor restaurant, bringing armor stands alive, and making an invisible wall where the thief runs away to.

On nights when you can’t sleep and horsing around doesn’t help, they’ll meet you in your dreams so you both can get rest and you can play to your heart’s content with them.

Your getaways are the best vacations because they’re like dreams. With Asra, it feels like any magic is possible, and they want to explore it all with you.

Julian

You are running around everywhere in the South End. He can’t keep up! Are you on a sugar high?! Why are you so jumpy…?

Alright, a trip to the Rowdy Raven for you!! Let’s get all that energy out with a dance party and a fancy drink !!

Sometimes it’s fun for him, like when you. Other times, he’s very worried for your safety even when you reassure him you can handle yourself. You really just want him to have fun with you, so you played one prank on him, dyeing his one of his coats pink. Then, he played one on you, acting like he was a burglar (before you trapped him in a closet and he unmasked himself). It then escalated into a prank war, because where else would it go? He would never let you get away with a prank!

(He is ticklish GET HIM !!)

Mazelinka’s immediate reaction is “Oh god, there’s two of them”.

Also purposefully startles you just for the “eep!”

Also also makes him want to protect you from things you’re scared of. He’s a bit of a worrywart when it comes to you… Even despite your clearly powerful capabilities, he still worries, but he’s working on it. He just doesn’t want you to get hurt…

Portia

Squeaky toy fan #2.

Also compares you to Pepi. She says you look like a puffy cat when you’re startled.

Occasionally, Pepi will scare YOU just for funzies and it turns into a zoomies race every time. All Portia hears during it is just, “EEK!!”, and “prrrbt!!”

Luckily, her cottage is a huge space to mess around. You’re super excited at first to see all the cool plants and run around the open field, but after a day or two, you realize wow, there’s like nothing else to do here.

Portia’s response? A list of things you could try like journaling, gardening, tie-dying… TIE-DYING?? All of your white clothes are now as colorful as the rainbow. Oops.

You realize the list soon becomes a bucket list, and you intend to check everything off it, and Portia walks in to you’d doing the craziest things like, “MC, why are you doing cat yoga?” Okay, she wrote that one just to humor you, but Pepi seems to be enjoying it…

She starts joining in on some of the hair-brained things she pulled out the depths of her imagination and actually finds some of them lots of fun!! She’d never tried abstract painting before, and she still doesn’t get it, but she’s more interested in how the paint got in her hair.

When you two finally reach the end of the list, a celebration is held, and she asks what sorts of things you plan to do now. So, you ask her what’s the first thing to come out of her mind, and that ends up being the next new adventure for you guys.

Nadia

Sort of surprised at first, but loves your enthusiasm and energy. Melts her heart.

She’s used to a long life of self preservation and refinement. She is unfamiliar with your type of playfulness, so you compare it to like how the kids in the streets run around and play. Hearing this, she tries buying you toys you might like. If those fail, she tries toys she had as a child like ribbon dancing ribbons and puzzle boxes.

If you like dress up, she will get SO excited. She loved playing dress up as a kid too!! It escalates from stuff in her closet to asking if you’d like the palace tailors to take a hand at your design ideas. If you’d like it to go that far, you grow new relationships with the tailors and Nadia is very pleased with everything you design. If word gets around to her sisters, get ready for sudden maximum involvement. Nasmira is excited about the new ideas, Natiqa wants one in her size, Navra is amazed with the colors, and so on.

Catches you doodling on a notepad during a boring event/meeting and just smiles knowingly at you.

Palace? More like PLAYHOUSE !! This is the best place to get lost and run around. Okay maybe not run around… For the sake of the chamberlain’s heart, please. The garden might be more suitable !!

If you are easily startled, the palace servants notice quickly and quietly. Nadia has no need to tell them what to do. She is sure they are aware enough.

If you are away from the palace, however, and something shakes you up, she’ll be on her feet to protect you and reassure you if needed.

Muriel

Unstoppable force (playful MC) versus Immovable object (Muriel).

You tried playing Chase MC!! But he would just slowly walk over to where he last saw you and grunt. He thought you wanted to show him something……..

He thinks it’s cute that you run and jump around a lot, but he’s worried about you getting hurt, so if he thinks you’ll fall or trip, he’ll stand there with his arms open, waiting for you, and you just plop into his arms because they were open. He is flustered but keeps doing it because he secretly loves it…

You find yourself very restless living at Muriel’s hut, seeing as there’s not much to do… but at least you have INANNA!! She LOVEESSS to run around and play with you outside when she gets bursts of energy. There is a very nice nap time afterwards and Muriel, he loves you, but he also appreciates the peace and quiet of the post-playtime.

He suddenly realizes he’s dating Snow White because every animal in the forest is your friend. Sometimes he’ll come back to the hut and you’re just kinda having an animal tea party outside with nuts and berries in bowls.

The first time you squeak, he thinks there’s a mouse in the hut, but his ears led him to you. You hurriedly explain to to him best you can and he’s just like, “Cute…”

If you’re startled by certain things, he’ll take note and be more careful around them. Inanna and some of the forest animals are aware too, and will actively avoid those things if you’re with them. What? Nooooo he’s not jealous of the animals!!

Lucio

Thinks it’s so funny.

He claims you act like the dogs when they’re excited, except you’re way cuter and you make playtime much more interesting. 👀

You and the dogs look like cartoon characters when you peer around a wall. All he sees is two long snouts and a bundle of hair.

Once of the first things he ever saw you do was jump a foot into the air when Mercedes and Melchior followed you into the abandoned wing. Seeing as it was like the first possibly funny thing he’d seen three years, he never forgot it and brings it up whenever it happens super often.

If you squeak, all the thoughts in his brain go to mush for a second. Like, if he’s in the middle of talking, something startles you, and you make that noise, he will loudly trail off his sentence and stare at you. If you don’t like him pointing it out, he’ll try his very best to brush over it with awkward laughter and “Where was I?”s, but if you let him do whatever, he’ll call you cute before teasing you that you sound like a chew toy.

It happened once with Morga over. Much to Lucio’s dismay, Morga was invited to the palace by Nadia conveniently on the same day you two dropped in for a quick lunch. While Lucio was talking about something, a servant in the hall dropped and shattered a dish, startling you two and making you squeal. Morga was deeply unimpressed, but mainly because she thought Lucio was scared by a plate. She’d met you before and is knowledgeable about this quirk of yours, but not Lucio’s reaction to it. If you explain to her in private, she says nothing and just tells Lucio he’s obviously never done the dirty with you before.

Now it bothers him even more than before because that statement is all he can think of when it happens.

[roseofithaca]

Hidden Away

A little hurt/comfort fic requested by @idiotwithanipad . Hope it's okay. 🥰

-

"You seen Stompy? Just seen guy in staff room open new drink with big M on side, thought she like to come sniff."

The caveman asked Humphrey the question when finding the head on the receptionist table, as had become the Tudor's usual hangout, other than Higham Suite or Amy's bedroom when she wanted his company.

"Not since this morning. Don't think she's feeling all that bright at the moment." He replied with a touch of paternal concern; "I asked her if she wanted to come on a walk with me to judge some of the golfers but she said she just wanted some quiet time with Silver."

The pink haired Pagan still had another week until she awoke to grace them with her chirpy, New Age presence again. But when Amy wasn't feeling up for human interaction, she could either be found in her bedroom or beside her sleeping friend's memorial.

Robin gave a grunt, frowning.

"But me just check on Moonah Girl hour ago. There no sign of Stompy?"

Humphrey blinked.

"You sure?"

"She pretty hard to miss, Head! Black and pale figure against all pretty grass and flowers." Robin scoffed; "Only other one there was owl near tree and that not her, unless she have cool new ghost power me no know?"

Not as far as he was aware. Had she lied to him? That didn't seem like his Amy.

"I haven't seen her come back in and I've been sat here all day watching comings and goings." He muttered.

"Ehh, flashy news, ghosts no need to use front door-"

"Yes, I know that, thank you Robin!" Humphrey tutted; "But Amy knows I'm usually here and usually finds me when she comes back in! I 'spose she could have gone up to her room using the staff staircase if she still wanted privacy."

"No, me already check there. Room empty. Except scary clown. He worse when she not there." The caveman shuddered and Humphrey tried not to snort. It always gave him a little hit of joy to see his oldest dead friend get scared by anything.

"Well...I'd like to know she's okay. And...Oh God. Oh, you don't think-"

"She not go Up."

Humphrey felt his chest deflate with relief, despite it being god knows where.

"You sure?"

"Yes, me sure. Her smell too thick to miss." He flared his nostrils wide, "She definite in house...somewhere...You want me to track her down?"

"Oh, give me some credit, as if I'm about to become some sort of paranoid helicopter dad who needs to know where my kid at all times just because of a piece of paper."

"....That yes?"

"Yes, please, just let me know where she is. Discreetly! If you know what that word means."

"Think Disco not till Friday night."

Never mind.

He watched the ancient human slink away, following his nose to hunt Amy down, disappearing through the wall next to the fireplace.

Humphrey tried to keep himself calm. He'd seen a variety of reasons by now for what often caused his adopted daughter to go into an emotional funk when she wanted to be on her own. Maybe Julian said another inappropriate comment in her earshot, though mostly he was too afraid to utter a word in her presence. Maybe a visitor to the hotel had drank too much or one of the managers had been too harsh on the new staff.

He'd like to think they were at a point where Amy could come to him with any problem that she had. But he was aware that teenage girls were anything but easy. He just hoped that she wasn't hiding away in some dark corner on her own. It didn't matter if she chose someone other than her dad to talk to, so long as she wasn't alone.

"She in basement." Robin informed, returning less than two minutes later; "Heard voice through door, she talk with Nigel."

"Nigel? Who the bloody hell is Nigel?!"

And why was she talking to him and not-?! Okay, chill out Humphrey, bordering on jealousy now.

"Nigel one of Plague ghosts." Robin gives him an incredulous look.

"They have names?!"

-

The basement had been expanded upon ever since the renovation. While the actual plague pit now had a spa where the clutter and electricals had once been, there was still a set of hallways and a much nicer and cleaner utilities area beside it. Meaning the ghosts usually had to deal with more traffic coming through from bellhops grabbing towels or someone checking the electrics, but they were actually glad of the company.

Amy sat on a barrel, hood up, fists curled inside her sleeves as she listened to Agnes finish her story about the two men having a serious debate that turned rather angry in the steam room, which turned out to be about which My Little Pony character was less problematic.

"Knock knock!" Came a voice on the other side of the door.

The ghosts all frowned at each other.

"Was that meant for us?" Asked Mick.

Amy froze. She recognised the voice right away. Shit, she was cornered too. The walls here just lead into solid dirt.

"Uhh....'ello? We don't do Cold Callers!" Replied Jeff, who then turned back to the others; "Get it? 'Cause of the pneumonia!"

"Ah, yeah, good one!" His friends chuckled back, after which Sharon fittingly coughed.

"No, uh, it's just Humphrey. Humphrey Bone? One of the upstairs lot?"

They all murmured, frowning at each other.

"I'm the one without a head."

"Ah, yeah, Humphrey, 'course!" They chorused. Amy just rolled her eyes, remaining quiet, though she knew why he was here.

"Don't mean to trouble you, just wondering if Amy is with you guys?"

They turned their eyes to the teenager. It was up to her if she wanted her presence down here to be known.

Agnes gave her knee a pat.

"C'mon, love, it ain't kind to make your dad worry, is it." She whispered.

That made her squirm with guilt.

"I'm here. I'm just...hanging out with some friends." She announced.

"Aww, ain't she sweet." Smiled Mick.

"Right....Nah, that's cool, uhm...Can I just have a quick word, Poppet? Please? Then I'll leave you to it."

Another huff and Amy slid off the barrels. She gave a knowing look to the other ghosts before going out the door, hands in the pockets of her hoodie, still up around her head.

Humphrey was outside the door, in one piece, after Robin helped to wrangle his body back to reception.

"What's up?" She didn't quite meet his eyes, her focus on the adornments of his cloak.

"Just wondering if you're all right, Poppet."

She shrugged; "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You said this morning you wanted to be alone with Silver for a bit. Robin said he hadn't seen you around there when he checked in on her?"

Her expression hardened.

"You keeping tabs on me now?!"

"What? No, love, sorry - I get how that sounded-."

"I did go to sit with Silver, for like two hours, but there's only so long a one-sided convo can go on for when your mate is in her month long coma! So I came inside!"

"I get it, that's fine, I just....These guys? Really?" He asked, doubtful.

"Walls are pretty thin, mate!" Called Nigel from the other side.

Whoops.

"What's wrong with them?" Amy shrugged; "They're all right."

"Yeah, yeah, they're lovely, they're just a bit, uhm..." Humphrey considered his words.

"Oh here it comes." Tutted Agnes loudly.

They must all be listening in at this point.

Sod it, Humphrey threw up his hands; "Grotesque."

"Honestly, that's fair."

"Yeah, can't argue with that, really, can we."

While the ghosts seemed to not be too offended, the same couldn't be said for Amy.

"What, because they've got all those sores and stuff from when they died? You think that makes them gross?" She challenged, her expression flinching between anger and...something more personal.

"Now, I didn't say gross!" The Tudor objected.

"It's the same thing!"

"Actually, though the etymology of the words are linked, grotesque means abnormal while gross is saying the abnormalities are revolting-" commented Jeff.

"Oh listen to Stephen Fry over here!" Harked Sharon, as the others jeered.

Humphrey ushered Amy away from the door and down the corridor, away from the commentators of what's supposed to be a father-daughter conversation.

"I didn't mean to insult your friends, Poppet, I just wondered why you were hiding yourself down here with them is all."

"Well maybe I feel at home with the 'grotesque' more than you lot sometimes."

"Hey, come on now, you're talking to a guy who's a strong gust of wind away from his head falling off his shoulders!"

Amy shrugged; "It's not the same."

"Come on, what's this really abo-." He went to put a hand on her arm only for her to flinch back.

That stung, as did the quick look of fear interrupting her usual pissed off expression.

"Amy? What is it?"

"It's nothing! Just go back upstairs, I'll find you later. Or if you're really curious, get Alison to explain it."

"Explain what?" Alison was currently on holiday with Mike and she'd left a request not to be interrupted unless urgent, or until she can call them.

Amy sighed. She could see he wasn't going to let this go.

"Fine. Come to my room."

Once they were up the two flights of stairs and inside her private little suite, with the ICP poster as their silent protector, Amy told him the truth.

"Hidradenitis suppurativa." She said.

"...Gesundheit!" Humphrey replied with a chuckle, then stopped when he could see by his daughter's glare she was in no mood to joke; "Sorry. Uh, what's that?"

"It's a..." She took a deep breath, "Probably easier to show you."

Amy wriggled her arms inside her hoodie until they were against her torso and then pushed it off over her head, her hand keeping a tight grip on it. Ghosts usually had a good minute or so of being allowed to remove or change their outfits before they 'corrected' themselves.

The Tudor blinked at the vest top she wore beneath that he was glimpsing for the first time. A black top with a skeletal hand on the front giving the world its middle finger, with two rude words across the top just in case the message wasn't clear.

"Oh. Right. Well, I'll take the hint-." He turned to leave.

"No, D- Humphrey, wait." She yelled; "The top ain't what I'm showing you!"

Thank God. He turned back around, wondering what else she'd been trying to reveal.

It was odd to see her frame without the bulk of the hoodie. Christ, she really was a little thing for nineteen. She didn't seem much bigger than Sophie when they'd got married, although his wife had always been tall for her age, even before puberty hit them both properly.

"Wh-what am I looking at?" He asked, cautiously.

She nervously raised her arm up, revealing a cluster of painful looking welts and reddened scars in her armpit.

"Oh! Well...well that's-."

"Grotesque, right?" Amy scoffed.

He blushed. The pieces were coming together now.

"What are they? What is...Hydra dental, no wait that's teeth-."

"I just call it HS, it's easier. It's this fucked up skin condition I've had to deal with for years." She sighed, putting her arm back down, just in time for her hoodie to rematerialise back on her top half. Good, she needed her hood back up; "I get these sores come and go on my body now and then. You'd think being a ghost would mean I'd be free of them but I guess because I died on the brink of a flare up, I'm stuck with them forever!"

"Do they hurt?"

She nodded.

Humphrey felt like he'd been winded; "Oh, Poppet, why have you never said? All these years you've been with us now..."

"Didn't wanna bother you with it. I mean...Alison knows because Mike's sister has it and she brought it up one time. Silver knows, only coz I was venting to her about it one night and thought she was asleep but forgot it was a full moon. I didn't mean for anyone to know..."

"Why not?"

"Because it's embarrassing!"

Humphrey couldn't resist chuckling at that; "Poppet, we share a house with a bloke who walks around without any pants on."

She shuddered. Probably not the person she wanted to be compared to.

"That's why you were hanging out with...the downstairs lot?" He asked.

"They are actually really cool. But...yeah. They've had hundreds of years dealing with painful sores all over them. I know I ain't as bad as them but they still welcome me into their 'club' when I get a flare up."

"That's nice of them. But, sweetheart, you shouldn't be feeling ashamed or thinking we don't want you around just coz you get sick now and then." He tried to console her. "Did you really think I'd think less of you because of this?"

Amy shrugged and went to sit on her bed, hands shrinking back inside her sleeves again.

"Did Alison or Silver treat you any different?" He attempted.

"No. But Alison is desensitised to weird shit at this point. And Silver is about sixty percent weed and sugar. She spends most nights staring at spiders and beetles, thinking they're beautiful."

"Perhaps. Or maybe they're your friends, they care about you and it doesn't make any difference."

His daughter seemed reluctant to believe that, despite it clearly being the most logical conclusion.

Humphrey dared to sit beside her, a slight gap between but not too distant as if it looked like he was afraid of catching something.

"Is there nothing that can be done to make you feel better?" He asks.

"Can't exactly pop down to Boots and get me some relief cream, no." She snarked.

"I meant like...no exercises or...massages?"

"Less touch the better." She says, "That's why I've been swerving a bit when you or...the body bit, tries to hug me. Sorry if it seemed like I was in a mood. Well, I was, but-."

"I get it. Air hugs it is!" He mimed putting his arms around her with a goof few inches of space.

That made her laugh.

"Hey! I got a smile! It's my lucky day, after all." He grinned at her.

"Shut up." She blushed.

"Honestly, love, don't feel like you have to hide anything like this. I'm your dad now, remember? It's my job to know about these things and to be the one you feel safe to come to." He said.

"I know. I'm just...still getting used to what having a dad means, I guess."

"M'still getting used to being one. We're both learning as we go, ain't we."

He threw his cloak around her shoulders and placed his hand to her covered head, gently tilting her closer, moving in to place a kiss on top.

He stilled; "No sores on the scalp?"

She smiled and shook her head.

"Good. C'mere, you." He planted a rather sloppy kiss on her hood before resting his head atop hers.

She reached her hand across to find his, interlacing her fingers around his.

"Thanks, Dad."

[sunflowercider]

what was the bullying incident in tged?

ANON IM SORRY HOW LONG WAS THIS HERE <- someone who never checks the inbox

Im guessing this is about how i said bullying wasnt a problem for Suho in this post.

It didnt make it into the webtoon (for pacing I can kinda see why), but Kim Suho was bullied exactly Once (1) in his school days. And then he made sure it Never Happened Again.

The incident is brought up when Lloyd meets Julian for the first time at the academy, and witnesses his bullying. Suho thinks about how Seoul had rampant bullying issues. He escaped any bullying in school... until one day a known bully orders Suho to get him some food from the cafeteria. Suho says hell no, and gets slapped around. So he slinks off. But instead of doing as he was ordered to do, he goes and finds one of those long florescent lightbulbs that was left out to dispose of later, comes back into the classroom, and slams the bully in the head with it, glass shattering everywhere. Suho isnt done, and then throws a chair at him. Then he tramples him. Bully gets sent to the hospital, and Suho gets suspended.

No bullies ever bother Suho again his entire school life. Other victims of the bully also speak out after that too, and the apparent damage is to the point where multiple families actually sue to get the bully into juvenile court.

The ends justify the means here i guess, and I can't argue with results, but i was truly not prepared to be told that Suho at 14(?) beat the daylights out of another student with a lightbulb and a chair. Not like I have a better solution to surviving rampant bullying, but still. Wow.

[impashableimagines]

(I dont know if you do these kinda of requests, but) Could you do Asra, Julian, Muriel, and Lucio seeing their new born baby for the first time?

I absolutely do these kinds of requests!! This is such a sweet idea, I love it!

ASRA

Asra is with MC throughout the labor, from start to finish, and is probably going to be the first (besides MC, of course) to hold their newborn daughter.

As Asra looks down at the little bundle in their arms, they can't help but soften visibly. They're quickly realizing that they would do anything for this child, to keep her safe and happy.

They coo at her, waggling their fingers at her and bringing Faust and MC's familiar over to meet her. Faust is smitten, as much as Asra is, and gently curls herself around the baby to cuddle her and keep her warm.

JULIAN

Julian is literally delivering this child, and so is the first to see and hold her as she arrives.

He takes his time cleaning her up and wrapping her in her swaddling blanket, taking great care not to upset her or hurt her.

He cuddles her close, pressing little kisses to her cheeks and forehead, before passing her off to MC to hold.

Malak perches close by on the ledge of MC's bed, standing vigilantly to watch over the mother and baby as they rest, ready to signal to Julian if anything is wrong as he takes care of MC's needs while she rests.

MURIEL

Muriel waits outside the birthing room during the process, although not by choice. Inana all but prevented him from entering the laboring room to give Portia the space and focus she needed to help MC through her labor.

As soon as the baby's first cry rings out, Inana and Muriel are both inside the room to check on MC and the little one.

When Muriel sees the baby for the first time, and holds her in his arms, he observes her in complete awe. He just can't believe that she's half of him, she's so small and frail looking.

Inana curls up next to MC on the bed, pressed into her side to keep her warm and safe, and Muriel rests the baby in the crook of MC's arms.

LUCIO

Lucio waits outside the birthing room because he can't handle the sight of the birthing process, and Nadia doesn't want him passing the fuck out.

But as soon as he sees Melchior and Mercedes slink out of the room, sitting at his feet with their heads held high and proud, he knows it's time to enter.

He sees MC holding the little bundle that he presumes is their child, and he can't help the proud smirk that graces his lips.

As soon as she places the bundle in his arms, he's struck hard with the thought that this is his child. His blood. His life. And he'd do literally anything for her. He'd raze the entire world to the ground for her, if needed, just to destroy anything that hurt her.

[kodamark]

The Monument - HASO on AO3

Chapter 7: Devouring.

“I like this one.” Julian grinned, squatting down in front of the largest tank.

“That’s moon.” Jae said, following Julian’s lead and kneeling beside him as they stared at the massive snake slinking around the enclosure. “She’s like, almost ten years old or something.”

“Can I hold her?”

Jae blinked in surprise, a jolt running through his skin at the question. Jade’s parents… probably wouldn’t like that. He remembered reading something about not handling them frequently… but he hadn’t taken any of them out since week one. Besides, Julian had proven himself to be good with animals. He said he liked lizards… if they washed hands beforehand it should be fine, right?

“You’re not scared?” He asked, perhaps hoping to discourage Julian’s curiosity about the giant black snake. “She might be nonvenomous, but she can still bite.”

“I’ve been bit by worse.” Julian said casually, ignoring Jae’s bewilderment at such a statement. His eyes glittered with excitement as he watched the snake through the glass, likely looking to find her head within her masses of giant coils.

“What else has bit you?” He asked, incredulous.

Julian rolled his eyes. “Cats, dogs, horses, other snakes. A whole bunch of stuff.”

“I, uh, I guess you can touch her. If you wash your hands first.”

“Of course.”

There was a small metal sink installed in the room already, which made it easy to quickly wash their hands before Jae carefully pushed the sliding glass door open. “Well… here you go.” He muttered, waving a hand for Julian to reach in.

“Hey, girl.” He whispered excitedly, brushing his fingers over the dark scales. He flinched backwards as she moved under his hand, an anxious giggle bubbling up from his chest as he leaned in again, cupping his hand over her body. “Oh, you are beautiful.”

“You like snakes.” Jae mumbled, almost in shock over Julian’s pure joy.

“I’ve seen this snake at the Smith’s reptile house before, but I’ve never seen her this close. She’s amazing.”

“They’ve never invited you over to see the animals? You guys are neighbors.”

Julian shrugged, leaning back as he closed the glass door himself, wiping his hand on his jeans. “We don’t really talk much. I was friends with Jade, and I know them, but it’s not like me and Mr. Smith share beers on the weekends.”

’We did.’ Jae thought absently.

They got to work after that, preparing and feeding each snake or spider it’s own meal one by one. The rats and chinchillas were easy enough, fed daily with simple meals from a bag. The spiders were fed live crickets which was more difficult sure, but today was especially taxing since the snakes were being fed too.

Snakes didn’t get fed every day. The… ’meals’ they ate were massive compared to their body size. Thanks to that they only needed to be fed once every two weeks.

“The snake food is in the fridge.” Jae instructed, pointing to a small silver refrigerator under the sink counter. “It’s…they’re mice. Big mice.”

“I know what snakes eat.” Julian said simply as he opened the fridge door. “Do I need gloves to touch them?”

“Uuh- I mean they’re clean. But I wore them last time.” He watched as Julian contemplated it momentarily, before grabbing a pair of blue nitrile gloves from the counter, and removing the white styrofoam box from the cooler. “Bring it here.” He instructed, taking a pair of clean metal tongs and reaching into the box, pulling out one of the mice by it’s middle and gently setting it in the snake’s enclosure.

Julian watched with great interest as the snake, one of the king snakes, investigated its meal. Its tongue slipping quickly in and out of its mouth. “Don’t they get bored, eating something that’s already dead?”

“Do you?” Jae asked, side-eyeing him as Julian chuckled, the two looking back at the snake in interest as it struck the mouse, beginning its slow methodical devouring.

[psychocharlie]

I love this so fucking much, thanks my dear @mikhalson, you’re the best!!❤️‍🔥

[inafieldofdaisies]

WIP Wednesday | Tagged by @adelaidedrubman <3 | @thesingularityseries @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @euryalex @strafethesesinners @strangefable @nightbloodbix @aceghosts @madparadoxum @g0dspeeed @trench-rot @josephseedismyfather @josephslittledeputy @theelderhazelnut @purplehairsecretlair @jinfromyarikawa @shegetsburned @clicheantagonist @locustandwildhoney @fourlittleseedlings @poisonedtruth @vampireninjabunnies-blog @cassietrn @wrathfulrook @jacobsneed @voidika @harmonyowl @schoute and anyone with something to share <3

This week, I'm treating you all with two snippets: first one is a bonus POV of the confrontation between the unlucky Peggie and Zorro (as part of Chapter 10 because it was floating around in my brain way too vividly not to write it all down; I can picture the whole thing as a cartoon scene and can't help but cackle at poor Owen's fate. Now, I didn't fully snap and write it from Zorro's POV, thought it would have been hilarious.), the second snippet is from Chapter 11 where we go back to John and Sabrina (tension, something, something).

*in my best Julian Slink voice*: Enjoy the show, folks.

obvious warning for the first snippet about descriptions of a racoon attacking a cultist.

"I don't think the Sinner would show up.", Owen muttered as he sat down in one of the old chairs, trading places with William at patrolling the perimeter around the cottage. "We have orders, Owen. Or do you feel like finally facing the fact you ain't cut our for this job?", Constantine smirked at him, lounging back in his seat, clearly enjoying the fact they were faced with another uneventful night shift. Owen was the youngest and most recent recruit between the three of them and the man sitting next to him had spent every waking second in making his life hell since being assigned to work together a few days back. "I know, brother. But don't you want to be out there delivering Sinners to brother John instead of sitting around when the Reaping has begun?" "Are you questioning John's orders?" "No, of course not.", Owen retorted quickly, knowing full well what happened to those that disobeyed the Herald. Constantine only grunted in response, and they sat in silence, watching William do his routine check of the grounds in the distance. Two more of their people were stationed down the road that connected to the property, keeping watch in case the Deputy finally decided to make an appearance at his home. Minutes passed where Owen found himself close to drifting off, overworked from all the long shifts, then a loud noise came from inside the cottage, making him jump in alarm and causing the sleepiness to fully leave his system. "Go check that out, Owen.", Constantine ordered. "Uh-, what if it's the Sinner?" "We're here to capture him, are we not?" "I, just, should I go alone, brother?" "Yes." Constantine was in no mood for arguments, staring at him impatiently and when he saw no movement from the young recruit, he pointed with his thumb behind him, muttering, "Chop-chop, Owen."

Owen couldn't help but think of the stories he had heard about the Deputy taking out every capture party sent his way. He knew he had to follow John's orders because that was the Will of the Father, but it still didn't help the primal fear he experienced at the idea he might come face to face with the one they were tasked to catch. "I will go.", he whispered as he got up and headed for the front door with convinction, the rifle shaking slightly in his hand. Constantine didn't bother with a reply and he wondered if the man would even come to his assistance if something was to go wrong. Owen pushed the door open quietly, his eyes struggling to make anything out in the dark living room, the only illumination came from the porch light and it didn't go too far inside. He stopped at the threshold, listening for any sound and when he came up empty he passed through the doorway with a simple goal in mind: to turn on one of the lamps that he could distinguish as a silhouette ahead of him. The door shut with an unsettling click the second he let go of it to proceed further in and he wondered if it had done it on its own or Constantine was pulling another trick on him. Just as he reached for the switch, he felt something bump into his leg, but he told himself he was just on edge, imagining things. I'm bigger than my fear. Joseph said God will protect us. The words worked at calming his nerves until a sharp pain came in his pinkie as teeth closed around his hand, making him scream out and drop his weapon. He managed to clumsily turn on the light with his other hand and his eyes shifted between his bloodied fingers and a raccoon on the ground, its menacing pose foretelling Owen of more trouble to follow. Shock overtook him as his gaze landed on a bloody piece of sausage at his feet, then moved back to his hand instinctively. No. It wasn't a sausage, but his pinkie. He looked at his hand again, counting his fingers in dread, refusing to believe what he was seeing.

One.Two. Three. Four. No. And no matter how many times he counted, he came up short with one finger.

"OH MY GOD!", Owen shouted, his voice springing the raccoon into action and before he could react the animal launched itself at him, grabbing onto his shoulders. The crazed look in its beady eyes made his blood freeze. Tiny claws dig into his skin through his sweater. "Brother, HELP!", he screamed over and over again as he ran around the room in an attempt to shake off his vicious attacker. Disoriented and in a complete state of terror, he kept spinning in circles and knocking into various pieces of furniture. His feet couldn't stop slipping on the blood gushing from his injured hand, hindering his movements. To his horror, as much as he tried to remove the hellish creature off his body, it continued to hold on with a ravenous look on its small face as it bared its teeth at him. The whole time it produced the most haunting noise Owen had ever heard in his life, it was between a snarl and scream, and he had no doubt it would haunt him in his nightmares. At one point he inevitably stumbled over a chair, finding himself unable to catch his fall since his hands were too busy grabbing at the racoon in desperation to unlatch its claws. The frenzied animal wasted no time when he hit the ground, aiming its attack at his face next and Owen closed his eyes in last last ditch effort to protect his eyes, knowing John would have no use of him if he loses his sight. Save me, Father. God. Anyone. Please.

But no matter how much he prayed, help refused to come and the Devil's pet remained on top of him, nimbling on his long hair, its angry snarling getting closer and closer to his ear. God, it's going to eat me. This isn't how I want to die. "What are you screaming about like a little girl, Owen?", Constantine asked in annoyance, entering the cabin, his sudden appearance making the raccoon finally release its hold on Owen and scurry off towards one of the unlit rooms of the cabin. "It-it bit off my finger. It re-refused to let me go.", Owen stuttered out, holding out his hand, the pain coming to him at once as the adrenaline abandoned him. The sight of his injury and red-hot sensation in his finger made him feel dizzy. Blackness was taking over the corners of his vision quickly and he couldn't understand why Constantine's lips moved but no sound was reaching his ears. "Owen.", was the last thing he heard before he passed out.

"You won't disappoint me, would you, Owen?"Joseph's voice played on repeat in his mind, getting louder and progressively more accusatory as he fought darkness. Those same words were spoken to him on his official acceptance as one of John's Chosen before the Reaping's start. He had felt hope and believed he would be helping the Project to save people's souls, instead he had ended up on cabin watch duty with a partner that hated his guts for no reason. "He's not cut out for this, brother. Can't you see. Defeated by a RACOON.", John's maniacal laughter was deafening and coming from all directions as the racoon's beady eyes and sharp teeth flashed in his memory. "Owen. Owen. Owen.", his name echoed, then he felt a sharp pain in his face. "He won't wake up like that, Constantine.", a voice scolded. "Be my guest then, William. Wake the Sleeping beauty up." The arguing brought him back to reality, the bright light coming from overhead blinding his eyes for a brief second as he forced them open, then they adjusted and took in his two "brothers" looming over him as he laid on the floor. "What happened?", he asked in confusion, then everything came back to him. "You passed out, Owen.", Constantine narrowed his eyes, shaking his head as he muttered, "How did you even make it through your Confession?"

"I bandaged your hand, brother.", William interjected, pulling him to his feet. He eyed him over with concern as he asked, "What happened? Did the Sinner do this? Your face is all scratched up." "Thank you.", he said in a small voice, trying to ignore the blood at his feet and the pain he felt as he stumbled outside, sitting down in one of the chairs again, "It was a-a-a racoon." Constantine let out a guttural laugh, "Oh, mercy me, wait until brother John finds out about this. You couldn't even deal with a racoon? Hope you like roaming in the fields, boy, because you're going to be an Angel soon." "Cut it out, Constantine, or do you feel the need for another Confession?", William sent him warning look as he sat down too, "Show some concern for our brother, will ya." Owen took a deep breath, the throbbing in his hand making him feel nauseous, "I think I need to see a-a doctor." "Our shift isn't over, Owen.", William reminded him quietly, "We can't leave the cabin unattended in case the Sinner shows up. We would have to call this in and it won't end well for you with John." "But-" "You have an issue, take it up with brother Wyatt or John himself.", Constantine gritted out, as he went down the stairs leading off the porch, "I'm going out on patrol next."

The downstairs area was empty, silence ruled over the whole house as she made herself a cup of coffee. She eyed the untouched plate that was still on the table with disappointment and without a second thought she threw away the food, knowing it would hurt Savannah if she finds out when she wakes up that John hadn't eaten the dinner they had prepared. Fresh morning air seeped in through the open window above the sink when she leaned against the counter, holding her almost finished cup of coffee. If she closed her eyes, for a second she could pretend nothing had changed, that Ms. Darcy or Cal would soon knock on the door, stopping by for breakfast. Instead any of that happening, minutes later John finally appeared, entering the kitchen quietly. He was already dressed for the day, wearing a pair of jeans and thin dark sweater with its zipper down, showing off the strange scar on his chest again. "Morning, Deputy.", he muttered as he beelined to the coffee machine. His arm brushed against hers when he grabbed an empty mug from the dish rack and poured coffee into it, not bothering to add any sugar or cream. "Morning.", she responded, her voice was even despite the fact he was standing unnecessary close and his presence that had taken over the room the second he appeared. His eyes darkened, darting to her collarbone, then his hand reached out, fingers grazing her skin as he moved her T-shirt's neckline back into place until it wasn't slipping off her shoulder.

His arm retreated then, but she could still feel its warmth at the place of contact and the way her body reacted to the simplest touch. You're calling this keeping your distance? "Are you feeling like telling me about your tattoo yet?" "What's to tell?" "A lot, Deputy. People usually ink their skin for a reason and what they choose reveals even more about them." "And what if I just got drunk, stumbled into a tattoo parlor and pointed at the first thing I saw as design? What then, John?" "Now, we both know that would be a lie." His gaze remained on hers, the intensity making her clear her throat and blurt out the first thing that came to her mind, in hopes of changing the subject, "I'm going to wash the shirt you gave me and return it-" Amusement flashed in his eyes before he said, "Keep it. But I'm holding you to the promise about my jacket, Deputy. I'd like to wear it again, you know." When he didn't say anything else as he picked up his cup and headed towards the door, no doubt planning to go to the Bunker straight away, Sabrina spoke up. "You promised we'd talk. Are you running off to your "happy place" again?" He shook his head, not bothering to look back at her, "I'm not. I'm going to grab something, I had no idea if you're awake yet with how quiet everything was." John climbed back upstairs as Sabrina took a final sip of her coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, wondering how long he would make her wait on him this time. To her surprise he returned shortly after, placing a black notebook on the table before he took a seat across from her.

Sabrina flipped through it, empty pages greeting her, as he said, "It's for your visions. Whatever comes to you, you write it all down as usual. This time for me." "And if it's nothing of significance? I have no control over what I see or-" "I understand that you can't force them. Just note them down, I will be the one deciding what's important." "Okay.", she sighed.

Deep down, she knew she had an advantage in the situation: the fact he had no way of confirming what she'd actually seen and as result she could in a way control what information he receives. John raised his cup, taking a sip, before saying with a faint smile, "I can sense all the questions bouncing around in that curious mind of yours, Deputy. Shall we get this over with?" I might as well try. "Whitehorse, Joey, Pratt… do you- do you have the others?" His eyes narrowed, making her wonder if she just ruined whatever good mood he was in, "Remember what I told you before?" "That I should worry only about myself?", at his nod, she added, "That's not the type of person I am, John." "They refused to listen to your warnings, Deputy.", his gaze darkened as a frown took over his features, "Then they left you behind for me to find, wounded, if I may say." "After your people made our helicopter crash and-" "Did you even stop to ask yourself why Whitehorse wanted you to arrest my brother. Why he or that arrogant Marshal wouldn't do it instead?" "It's not my place to question his orders." Her words didn't stop him, instead a dark smile appeared on his face, "For years, he chose not to get in our way, "keeping up the peace", he'd call it. But, Sabrina, he was afraid. He knew my brother was right, that there's nothing he could do to stop what's God's Will." "God's Will". There was nothing more she hated than those words, how people hid behind them as they hurt others. She'd seen it so many times. When she said nothing, John continued, probably believing he was getting through to her, "And when "evidence" finally appeared, when old Earl had a warrant, what did he do?"

"Just-" "He put you in the center of everything, Sabrina, basically threw you to the wolves. Did you think he had no idea how an arrest would unfold and what consequences it would bring? You're not that naive, Deputy. Deep down, you know." In a way he was doing what she had tried to do back at the cabin: convince him what he believed was misguided, dangerous. Yet where her words came from a place of concern for him and the people he would hurt in attempts to appease Joseph, here John wanted her to stop asking questions, accept the Project and overlook all the red flags surrounding his brother's ideas. "It wasn't my first arrest, John. I've faced so many criminals, some would make your brother look like a saint. Do you expect me to join the Project and leave all my collegues in Joseph's hands, free to do whatever he decides with them?" "You've been here for what, two months… you owe them nothing, Sabrina, worry about your sister and keeping her safe." Of course you'd say that. "Loyalty isn't determined by time, John. I've made a vow." A vow to her father. To herself. That she would protect people, just like he had done his whole life. Still, Sabrina knew the conversation would lead nowhere, she hadn't expected much anyway. "And Ms. Darcy?" "What about Darcy Harris?", his face was unreadable, the mask refusing to slip even for a second. Sabrina let out a frustrated breath, "Where is she? Locked in that bunker of horrors? I know you two had bad blood." His blue eyes shone at her questions, "My Gate. Are you asking for my alibi, Deputy? And again, you should-" "Worry about myself? NO. You told me to ask questions, I'm doing just that." "They're all where God wants them to be. It's all unfolding according to His plan. That's all you need to know."

"God or Joseph's plan? Because to me, they're two different things." John gave her a warning look, "Sabrina. I'm not getting into this with you." She took a deep breath, knowing she had to be careful how much she pushed, so she kept her silence as her fingers clutched the notebook. "Should I remind you that you're the one that should be providing information according to our deal, not the other way around?" Sabrina fought back a smile at his tone, "I feel like I should have my lawyer present… is this where I demand my one phone call?" John let out a chuckle, "You seem quite capable at negotiations on your own, Deputy." "A compliment? Careful, I might start to think you're impressed by a Sinner." "Impressed?", he licked his lips, "That doesn't seem like the right word to me." "What would you call it then?", the question slipped before she could stop it. "A complete bewitchment.", his intense gaze didn't waver from hers, "When it comes to you, Deputy, I just can't help it. I want to know more." She forced herself to look away, eyes darting up to the window while she attempted to ignore what his tone and the conviction in his words did to her insides. The air grew heavy with tension as he pushed back his chair and stood up, coming to stand next to her, the sudden move making Sabrina scrunch her face in confusion as she stared at him. In a blink, he was cradling her cheek with one hand, the move shocking her not only because of how unexpectedly it happened, but because of the gentleness lurking behind it. "You have no idea about how much danger you are in, do you? You still worry about everyone else but yourself. You're good at pretending, but not good enough to fool me." She tried to keep her emotions in check, but her breath hitched at his next words, his blue eyes pulled her in as his fingers stroked her cheek, "Did you even sleep last night?" She shook her head, hoping his touch would retreat as she did, but it remained, the heat from his palm spreading across her skin as the seconds ticked by. "I'm fine." "I'm not convinced, try again.", that all-too-familiar look was hiding in gaze, holding a dark promise. I have to stop this before you drag me into dangerous waters. "I'm fine.", she repeated, ignoring the giddy sensation she felt as she grabbed his hand and how a part of her wanted to hold his palm to her face, instead of removing it. 

John backed away, grabbing his coffee, smirking as he said, "At least you took care of that wound for me. That's progress." Sabrina cleared her throat, moving onto her next question while willing her heart to slow down, "I wanted to ask… What did you mean by staying on the premises? Savannah wanted to go play outside yesterday, but I had no idea what to tell her." "You can go out, Deputy, just don't leave the property or go running off to-", he stopped himself. "Who?" He shook his head, "Nobody." But his face said otherwise, clouded by something she couldn't place. What were you about to say, Seed? "Thank you then.", she mumbled. He turned to the door without replying and was almost out of the kitched when she spoke up again, "Are you headed back there? Will you resort to avoiding me again, now that you've kept your promise?" As much as she tried to ignore the thoughts about what was going down in the bunker, what he was doing… she couldn't, and she swore she'd find a way to stop it. Find a way to get through to him. "They all have a light in them, monkey, sometimes you just have to look very hard until you find it.", her father's words came to her as a reminder that she had to have hope, keep pushing.  Seconds passed in silence before John turned, "No, Deputy." No to which… Sabrina gave him a questioning look, forcing him to elaborate, "I'm staying here today, I have some things to take care of." "Oh. Then should we expect you for breakfast?" He gave her a nod, followed by a small smile, "That would be nice." "Savannah will be thrilled, she kept waiting on you to arrive yesterday-" A tired breath escaped him as he whispered, "I'm sorry. For being no-show, when you had dinner ready-", he stopped, eyes darting to the table in realization, "Where's my plate?" "I threw the food away." "Sabrina-" She waved him off, hiding the shock at his apology, burying it deep, "I'm used to it, my mother-", she bit her lip before the rest of the sentence could slip out, knowing saying anything further would provide information on her life. How it would feed his curiosity further, make him crave to hear even more. The less he knew, the better, especially when he viewed secrets as currency. "Your mother what, Deputy?", John raised an eyebrow. "Nothing." "There's something there, I can tell. All you have to do is open up, let it all pour out. I'm a good listener, I promise." "Pass.", she deadpanned. "The offer remains on the table.", he shrugged before heading back upstairs.

[txemrn]

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x f!OC (Tatum Erikson), with special appearances by Tobias Carrick and Julian Santiago (m!OC)

Word Count: ~2473

Warning: 🔞for mature audiences only 🔞 NSFW (little squirts of 🍋); fairly fluffy; smallest sprinkle of angst; strong language

A/N: Some characters and plot points belong to our friends at Pixelberry; this fic was not beta'd or pre-read. Please excuse my errors.

A/N 2: I am participating in two different prompt challenges this week. This is my submission for @choicesflashfics, where I am using Prompt #3: "I am nothing if not consistent." "Yeah. A consistent pain in my ass!" I am also submitting this to @aprilchallenge with the following prompts: Love is in the air, love, kiss, hug. Thank you for allowing me to participate, and thank you for hosting these events! All prompts will be in bold.

~🖤~

The warmth of his breath tickles the back of her neck.  His fingertips dig possessively into the soft skin of her bare hips while the rise and fall of his chest against her back lulls her into a soothing comfort of home. And just like that, waking up at 5AM doesn't seem so awful to Tatum Erikson. 

She and Ethan Ramsey made things official over three months ago. Their blooming relationship grew strong quickly, their physical chemistry becoming hungry. After exploring their bodies in the most playful of ways with kisses and hugs, the young couple finally took things intimately a couple of weeks ago, the connection terrifying them in the most exhilarating way.

Finally crossing that threshold, Ethan and Tatum discovered they barely had time to feed their new found desire. Last night, however, was Tatum's first time to actually stay the night at Ethan's, and even though they barely got any sleep, everything about it felt perfect.

Seeing the time, Tatum slips out of Ethan's arms, finding an old t-shirt of his to wear, and sneaks off to his shared bathroom.

"Well, lookie what we have here!" A familiar baritone chirps behind her, just before she can close the door.

She rolls her eyes. "Carrick."

He puts his hand on the door, preventing her from closing it for privacy. He stands there, staring at her intently in his boxers, shirtless.  "I didn't know we were having a slumber party."

Tatum sighs, ensuring the hem of Ethan's shirt hangs past her bottom as she glares at his roommate. "What do you want?"

Tobias tisks. "Now, now, Miss Erikson, I was just saying good morning." He looks her up and down, his lip curling into a smirk. "Just know… you're always welcome here." He chuckles as he slinks back to his room.

With a huff, Tatum shuts the door, locking it before getting ready for the day.

Moments later, she emerges, hurrying back to Ethan's room. Noticing him still slumped over in bed, Tatum quietly giggles to herself, padding lightly to his side as she takes off the shirt she borrowed. She crawls in behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

"Time to wake up, sleepyhead," she mewls before nibbling on the shell of his ear. 

A soft, raspy chuckle floats from Ethan's chest as he turns onto his back, putting an arm around Tatum before pulling her into a kiss. "Hi."

"Hi," she whispers back, her lips finding his again as his large hands find her curves.

"I like this," he titters into another kiss, his grip becoming stronger, massaging the swells of her ass.

"Don't start something you can't stop, Mr. Ramsey," she croons, biting her lower lip.

Ethan slowly flips them over, pinning Tatum down against the bed. Her ankles naturally cross behind his back as his morning desire presses firmly into her swollen core.  "Who said anything about stopping?"

Ethan nips at her pulse point, his hands wandering the slopes of her full breasts. Small whimpers tumble off her lips, as she begins to grind herself into his hardened length… when all of a sudden, there's a loud bang on the door.

"Ramsey! Clinical! Let's go, bro!"  The door abruptly swings open, leaving Ethan and Tatum frozen in the act.

"Julian!” Ethan barks, “what the hell–"

"Oh my God!" Ethan’s third roommate Julian Santiago walks in with a beaming smile on his face, looking back and forth between the couple. "Awww, look at you two all–” he laces his fingers together. “Love is in the air!” He lowers his voice, nonchalantly waving to an embarrassed Tatum. “Morning, sweetie."  He leans his shoulder against the doorway, crossing his arms. "So… when did you two lovebirds start… you know?"

"Juls–" Tatum starts, pulling a sheet over herself.

"I swear to God, if you don't get the fuck out of here, Santiago–"

"Okay, okay," Julian holds his hands up in surrender. "I'm leaving."

Ethan sighs, laying his forehead on Tatum's shoulder as they both fall into awkward snickers. Without warning, Ethan feels a slap across his rear end. He reaches back to find a long accordion of foil-wrapped condoms.

"That's it," he snarls, climbing off of Tatum and chasing after his roommate.

"Damn, Ethan," Julian looks down, his eyes widening, "I figured you were packin', but daaaa–"

"Get the fuck out!" Ethan throws the stack of condoms at his roommate before slamming the door. 

He huffs, leaning against the door, combing his fingers through his hair with frustration.

"Hey," Tatum slinks towards Ethan, placing her hands on the firm planes of his chest.

He takes her hands in his. "I am… so sorry about that. They can be so… and they like getting a rise–"

"Shhhh," she places a finger over his lips, silencing him. "It's fine."

"No, it's not fine–"

Ethan's words abruptly falter. Tatum's slender fingers wrap around his girth as she begins to stroke him, her thumb pressing tenderly under the head of his cock. 

"Is… this fine?" Her voice softens, a sensual gravel in it as she continues to work Ethan's hardened length.

"Tatum," his breath catches in his throat, his fingers brushing back her blonde strands. "Y–yeah, baby, that…" he swallows thickly, "that feels… God–" 

"How… about now?"  Tatum falls to her knees, her eyes sparkling with hunger as her gaze remains on him. She licks up his length to his tip, her tongue savoring his precum as her hand continues to pump him languidly.

"How… about…?" Tatum takes him into her mouth, allowing him to sink fully down her throat before she’s pulling him back out for another swallow. Over, and over.

"Fuck…"

------

It was a busy morning in the research clinic, between lectures and laboratory assessments. When the group finally broke for lunch, it was after 2 o'clock. The guys were walking to the bookstore to grab some snacks when Ethan notices Tatum already making herself comfortable on the planters in the commons.

"Hey," Ethan calls out to her with a wave, "can I get you something?"

She shakes her head, "I'm fine."

Watching her stick her head back into her study material, Ethan could sense something was off. He calls out to Tobias and Julian, "Hey, I'll catch up with you guys."

"Sure, you will," Julian mocks as he looks over and notices Tatum alone. Tobias clues in and pretends to hump the air.

Ethan flicks them off as he jogs to Tatum's side. "Hey, you," he grins.

"Hey," her eyes widen in shock, "what happened to snacks?"

"You just… seemed off," Ethan shoves his hands in his pockets. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she feigns a smile, turning back to her notebook. "I'm fine."

Ethan bends over, waiting for Tatum to meet his eyes. "But…"

She snickers. "But… I think I'm getting a cold or something–really, I'm fine though–"

"Oh yeah?" Ethan sits down next to her. "What's wrong? Maybe I can get you some–"

"No, no," Tatum waves her hand. "My throat has a tingle like it’s getting sore, and my tonsils feel swollen."

"You still have your tonsils?"

"You don't?" They fall into titters, Ethan knocking his shoulder into hers.

"Let me see."

"What? No," she chuckles.

"Why not?" He jokes.

"Because," she blinks her eyes, trying to come up with an answer, "that's… weird. I don't know."

"C'mon, Tate," he laughs, "it could save your life."

"My hero," she sasses. "Fine." She opens her mouth wide, Ethan reaching into his satchel for a pen light.

"Oh. Ohhh–"

"Huh?" Tatum mutters, her mouth still open.

"It's awfully big in here. No wonder you talk so much–"

"Ethan Ramsey!" Tatum shoves him away, closing her mouth.

Ethan chuckles to himself as Tatum playfully glares at him. He continues. "But your tonsils are pretty swollen. They even have petechiae on them."

"Seriously?" She runs her fingers over her neck. 

"Hey," Ethan's voice grows soft, serious. "Just go to the infirmary on campus. They can swab you for strep."

"You think it’s strep?" Tatum frowns.

"Or flu," he shrugs. "But the sooner you can diagnose–"

"--the sooner you can treat. Right." She nods in understanding. "I'll give them a call."

After making a doctor's appointment for the next morning, Ethan and Tatum head back to class to finish their afternoon of lectures.  Usually their evenings consist of studying, either individually or in their study groups, but with her sore throat getting worse, Tatum decides to call it an early night, and heads back to her place. 

The next morning, Tatum arrives early to her appointment. While she waits for the doctor, she examines her own throat with a mirror, flashing an otoscope light into her mouth. 

Shit. The bruising has gotten worse, explaining why it was so hard to swallow.

Explaining everything to the doctor, the older gentleman decides to order a routine blood test while also obtaining swabs of both her throat and nose.  "Miss Erikson, do you bruise easily?"

"No, sir–I mean, I’ve never noticed before."

He kindly points to a few spots on her arms, legs and back. "I'm going to ask you some personal questions, is that okay?" Tatum nods. "Are you in a relationship?"

"Yes, sir," her lips begin to curl at the thought of her boyfriend.

"Do you feel… safe with him?"

"With Ethan?" She gives the clinician a peculiar look. "God, yes. He's great."

"Has he ever hurt you?" 

She emphatically shakes her head. "No, never."

He scribbles down a few notes before turning his attention back to Tatum. "Would you describe yourself as accident prone?"

She giggles. "No, sir. I mean–I can be clumsy at times, but nothing noteworthy."

He hums, writing down more information. "If it's okay with you and depending on your WBCs and platelet count, I would like to also test some clotting factors."

"Clotting factors? Like, hemophilia? I'm twenty-three; wouldn't I know that by now?"

"Not unless it's caused by…" he stops himself. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he cordially smiles before leaving the room.

Cancer. He was going to say 'cancer.' And she thought the worst that could happen today was a strep diagnosis… but cancer?

Nerves get the best of Tatum as her knees bounce incessantly while she picks at her cuticles. Waves of nausea rush to her stomach, and she's unsure if it's because she's worried or if she's getting sicker.

She finally pulls her knees up, hugging them to her chest, resting her head on top of them as she closes her eyes. She takes a few deep breaths and drifts off.

"Miss Erikson?"

"Yes," Tatum jolts up, rubbing her face. "Do we have the results?"

The physician nods, smiling kindly as he pulls up a chair. "Everything… is negative. No strep, no flu, no staph. Your crit and platelets are all fine, and your WBCs are normal–"

"So… no cancer."

"No," he titters, “no cancer.”

"And no infection?"

"That we can see. Even if there was one, your body seems to be taking care of it without having to enlist a ton of help."

Tatum nods her head slowly. "I guess I don't understand. I mean, why else would my tonsils be so swollen? Why is the back of my throat so… so bruised?"

The doctor purses his lips, deep in thought. "Do you chew your food all the way before swallowing?"  Tatum scoffs into a chuckle, nodding her head as he continues. "Have you recently choked? Or maybe…" he titters, shrugging his shoulders, "... I don't know, maybe… some… blunt trauma?"

Tatum screws up her lips, thinking about anything unusual that may have happened in the past few days. 

And then she freezes.

Her eyes widen in horror. 

Oh. My. God.

------

Tatum hurried back to her lecture, already missing the first two hours due to her appointment. She saw several of her colleagues outside, getting some fresh air during their professor-granted twenty-minute break. Glancing around, she instantly finds Ethan, chatting with his roommates.

"Hey," she taps him on the shoulder before waving a hand at Julian and Tobias.

"Hey," Ethan puts his arm around her, tucking her into his side. "How are you feeling?"

She nods agreeably. "I'll be fine."

"Wait, what happened, sweetie?" Julian's eyebrows knit together. 

"Oh, um, I wasn't feeling well–"

"Her tonsils were huge," Ethan interjects, "with, like, marbling of petechiae–"

"--we don't have to talk about it–" Tatum mutters.

"They're bruised?" Tobias clenches his teeth, his face contorting with disgust.

"What did the doc say?" Concern etches across Julian's features.  All three men turn their attention to the blonde, waiting for her to answer.

"Well, I, um," she stutters, "everything came back negative, and, uh… so I need to… rest my throat," she lowers her voice, "and not talk about this anymore."

"So it's not strep?" Ethan raises an eyebrow. "And not the flu?"

"Open up, and let me see," Tobias motions for Tatum to step forward. "Maybe it's the mumps–"

"You idiot," Julian playful chides, "she has to be up-to-date with her MMR to be in the program–"

"But vaccines aren't 100% effective–"

"It's not the mumps!"

"They probably didn't even test her for that–"

"They had no need to! Look at the differentials!" Julian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You just always have to be oppositional, don't you, Carrick?"

"Oppositional?" Tobias sardonically chuckles. "I am nothing if not consistent."

"Yeah. A consistent pain in my ass!"

"Will you two–" Ethan stops himself, taking a deep breath. "Just stop." He turns his attention back to his girlfriend. "Tate, did the doc have… like, an explanation? Something?" 

"Can we maybe talk about this later?"

"I want to know if you're contagious," Tobias jokes, holding his hands up, turning up his nose.

"Dude, shut the fuck up," Julian shoves Tobias shoulder while Ethan glares daggers into him.

"Fine," Tatum huffs, "you really want to know? Fine." She crosses her arms, planting her feet. "Blunt. Trauma."

"Blunt trauma?" Ethan repeats.

"What? Like you shoved something down your throat?" Tobias gives an inquisitive look.

"Oh," Julian takes a step back, covering his mouth. "Ohhh." He looks away, shaking his head before staring back at Tatum in disbelief. "God… damn, girl!" He belts, falling into snickers.

"What?" Ethan looks to Julian nervously. 

"Oh, hell naw," Tobias chimes in, his eyes wide as he looks Tatum up and down. "Hello, Miss Erikson! Fuck!"

Tatum rolls her eyes before she stomps off back to the lecture hall.

"What just happened?" Ethan looks confused, looking back and forth between his friends and his girlfriend. "I don't get what's–"

"Dude," Julian wraps his arm around Ethan's shoulders, slowly guiding him back into the building. "I knew those condoms were going to be too small for you."

Ethan glares at him with humor budding in his expression, wondering where Julian was going with this.

"Apparently… so is Tatum's mouth."

~🖤~

Thank you so much for your support! Every like, comment and reblog means the world to me! 🖤

~🖤~

[dxppercxdxver]

another thing for that collaboration with @chiropteracupola!!

volta (take him by the teeth)

A cold October night at Teufort Manor found Julien pacing its labyrinthine halls with great trepidation, occasionally casting harried glances at the darkness outside through the torchlight flickering in the glass. His footsteps echoed uncomfortably around the corridors. The wooden flooring, glossed to a perfect mirror shine, spoke much to the extent of the Paulings’ wealth, but was of no great service to him, especially when he rather preferred not to be seen.

This particular cold October night boasted the specter of defeat, haunting every corner of the mansion and saturating its very framework with a grim atmosphere. The paintings, the tapestries, even the patterns in the wallpaper seemed to scowl upon Julien with something resembling disapproval, and the Lord knew he deserved it. The mission had been a complete and utter failure, and Julien was largely to blame.

He had stumbled, let slip a piece of valuable information to the wrong person, and before they knew it, the entire crew was engaged in frantic defensive strategy, more focused on leaving the General’s home alive and without espionage charges on their heads than returning with the intelligence they had been sent to gather in the first place. Everyone had trickled out of the party, graciously in one piece, but they had gone home to Lady Helen empty handed. Her iron stare in the face of their disappointment was a cruel one indeed, and Julien found himself slinking off to his private drawing room feeling like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Of course, he could hardly remain idle with such a disastrous performance looming over his head, and after only one halfheartedly enjoyed drink, he took to wandering the Manor itself, basking in every last detail. Julien would be more prepared next time.

He had to be.

With the late hour, most of his compatriots had retired for the evening, as evidenced by the chorus of snoring filtering from the line of doorways that made up the troops’ quarters, although Julien had made the mistake of listening too closely in the past, and hurried along before anything more unsavory could reach his ears.

Teufort Manor was much larger than he felt it ought to be. Not only from the outside, which cloaked itself in a deceptively ordinary facade, but also from a more philosophical standpoint. Julien had never been much for morals, but such splendor standing relatively untouched amidst a bloody war somehow rankled at him in a way he was uncertain he knew how to contend with. Safety was all well and good, but there were battles to be fought, and instead they were taking tea with the last remains of colonial aristocracy.

“Mon ouille,” Julien scoffed, passing a grand portrait of Lady Helen in her youth; once a striking woman, with high cheekbones and raven-black hair. The whole thing was framed with gold, and while he had always had a taste for the fineries the world had to offer, on this night, the only emotions springing forth were mild disgust and a bone-deep sense of exhaustion.

Stifling a yawn, Julien idly tugged at his wig. It was beginning to itch, and after only a moment’s trepidation, he pulled it off, adjusting a few stray hairs, before thinking the better of himself and fitting it once more against his scalp. Even stranded in the depths of the mansion, Julian felt far too exposed without it, as if the building itself was watching him.

It was time, Julien mused with a wry smile, to find his way back to a soft mattress and blessedly dreamless sleep.

In his wanderings, Julien had somehow pulled himself deep into the belly of the beast. This section of the house seemed frightfully unfamiliar to him, although he was certain he could navigate after a few minutes of retracing his route. Pivoting sharply on his heel, Julien struck off in the direction he had come.

It became abundantly clear after several half-remembered turns that he was actually lost in Teufort’s vast gilded maze. The clock was swiftly advancing toward midnight, and Julien cursed under his breath. He had let himself lose focus. Again. And now he was stuck in this horrible manor until a servant woke up and discovered him unconscious on a throw rug.

Pursing his lips, Julien picked his way toward a foyer-esque room, if only to try to get his bearings, but as he walked, he became distinctly aware of the whisper-faint echoes of boots on the floor. He kept going, but his fingers were on the handle of his knife now, just in case.

The foyer proved to be remarkably unhelpful. He barely recognized the damn thing, and it only offered one more exit, but Julien readily slipped through it anyway, bereft of any option that would not push him back toward his mysterious enemy. All this time, the footsteps continued, pulsing quietly in his wake. He wanted so badly to dismiss them as the noises supplied by an exhausted and overworked mind, but whenever he glanced behind, a shadow darted around a corner, or flickered just out of sight, and he could not bring himself to let go of his blade.

When it was obvious his pursuer was in no business of revealing himself, Julien snorted, whipping around with his knife at arm’s length, tucked into a narrow hallway of the mansion.

“Who is there,” he snapped, casting his eyes around for his stalker. “I am not of the mind to suffer these kinds of games.”

For a horrible breath, all was silent, but then the figure emerged from a dark patch, and it took only seconds for Julien to recognize the tall, gaunt man approaching him.

“Monsieur Mundy.” Setting his jaw, Julien quickly re-sheathed his knife in his sleeve, and fixed the team’s resident sniper with his best withering stare. “What a pleasant surprise. Do you make it a point to follow your own teammates in the dark like some kind of harborside harlot?”

To Julien’s chagrin, Mundy remained characteristically silent, barely cocking his head. He looked even worse than usual in the firelight, dirt stains made darker by the shadows, weathered face hollowed and skeletal.

While he was still dressed in his day-to-day rags, Julien noted, with some relief, that his rifle was conspicuously absent.

Sighing, Julien said, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this… midnight liaison?” Of course, Mundy did not respond, and Julien began to grow nervous, not that he would let Mundy know. He should have been in his element, in this hazy backroom type of conversation, but that required there be conversation at all. Julien had almost never lost, when he could work a room, work one man, as he did, but somehow Mundy knew just how to cut right to the heart of the matter. After all, Julien was only so good as his words—and that was really quite good—but with none to fall back on, to build off of, he was stripped bare, alone inside a mansion that wanted nothing more than to swallow him whole.

“Well, not that I am not having a simply magnificent time, but I really must be going.” Julien hoped this would inspire Mundy to be out with whatever it was he wanted, but even then, he only shifted his weight, blinked, and let out a soft exhale through pursed lips. With the setting, with that look in his eyes, Julien found himself rather unpleasantly reminded of a mouse staring down a cat. He was cornered, after all, and Mundy had the upper hand of purpose and territory. Even now, in the firelight, his hollow eyes flickered, and it took very little to imagine the glint of teeth like razors tucked behind his chapped skin and day old stubble.

Mundy, the wolf, and Julien… trapped.

Squaring his shoulders, Julien held up his hand in a vague waving gesture.

“Bonsoir, bushman.”

Drawing the curtain on their conversation was meant to be easy; a quick goodnight and then he’d see neither hide nor hair of Mundy til the morning, til the harsh crags of his face reminded Julien less of an animal ready to rip him apart. He was deadly, and Julien knew it, and feared it, and admired it, and refused to admire it all the same.

So when Mundy took a neat step into Julien’s path, drawing himself to his full height, it was only logical that Julien’s heart should begin to race, his pulse quickstepping, tripping forward with all the clumsiness adrenaline required. He swallowed.

“Monsieur, it is late.”

Still, Mundy remained, looming over him, expressing utterly unreadable. It occurred to him only then that this whole scare tactic may have been payback for his mistakes of the day, that Mundy had taken it upon himself to sharpen his skills by force, and in that instant Julien was fuming.

“Is this about the mission?” he hissed, leaning in so that Mundy’s face was but inches from his. He would not show that man how terrified he really was, how tired, how overcome. “Is that what you want? To gloat? Is this some sort of game to you?”

Julien prodded Mundy’s chest with a finger. “Come, bushman, tell me how you would have done it better. Tell me how you would have saved us all by—” he took a step, pushing Mundy again, “—by hiding in a tree and waiting. Because I’m sure we would all love to hear it.”

While Julien was dreadfully aware of how closely he was toeing the cliff’s edge, or perhaps charging right toward it, once his mouth opened he found he could not make himself stop. Mundy was right there, and the words poured out, and Julien could see every single line in his skin and every smudge of dust and sap smeared across his face, and this close, a woodsy aroma enveloped the both of them.

“You are a coward, sniper, and I think you know this,” Julien sneered, lacing his words with as much venom as he could muster. “You would rather step aside and let the rest of us do all the real work, and this mysterious loner persona will not offset how piss poor of a fighter you are, and—”

In an instant, Julien’s tirade was abruptly cut short.

One moment, Mundy was staring down at him, gaze cool and intense as a blade, and Julien was almost certain he was set to be devoured, but then his hands were around Julien’s face, leather on one cheek and rough calluses on the other, and he was drawing Julien into a kiss.

Julien was almost stunned into stillness. The blood pounding in his ears drowned out everything except the gentle pulse in Mundy’s wrists pressed hard against his throat, and his mind ground to a shuddering halt. Kissing him was unlike anything Julien had ever experienced, all roughness and gracelessness and pressure, and Julien was immobilized in his grip, but… In spite of everything, he would be lying if he said he wanted it to end.

Letting out a slow breath through his nose, Julien closed his eyes, tentatively reaching his arms up to cradle Mundy’s head and let him hold him there, in that kiss. Any thoughts of danger vanished, bleeding out from his body, relaxing into Mundy’s arms.

And then it was over.

Mundy stepped back, absently wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, and eyeing Julien curiously.

“You’re good when you’re quiet, spook,” he said, nodding with a self-satisfied air. “‘Night.”

With little ceremony, Mundy about-faced with a soldier’s form and marched down the hallway, disappearing around a corner, leaving Julien standing agape. His hand hovered over his lips. He was half ready to wipe away the memory of the kiss, to shake off the aberration he had just experienced, but was somehow traitorously unable to fully commit to doing so. Thus, his lips sung, and his mind was racing, and all around there was only silence.

Left like this, with no company and certifiably stranded, Julien should have been afraid, but all he could bring himself to focus on was the dwindling scent of pine sap fading in the autumn air.

[the-blackridge-family]

The Writers Index

Under construction

@cadaverschaoss - Julian Slink, Adriana Slink, Lavinia Shol, Jessica 'Jess' Abrams, Mira Kano, Crowley Synth, Raven Synth,Maverick Scourge, Alyssa 'AJ' Jameson, Salem [REDACTED], TEKERU 'Hatter' Danna, Aguni Morizono, Locksley 'Lock' Kain, Charlotte 'Shock' Kain, Bennet 'Barrel' Kain,Ena Amane, Gin Toni, Bacardi Jeeves, Perseus Blackridge, Castor Blackridge, Pollux Blackridge.

@luckboundedstate - Atticus-Edgar Slink, Selene [REDACTED], Cheyenne Rae, Edmund 'Bunny' Edgar, Arbor Macllhenny, Father Ezra Finlee, Carver Blackridge, Ambrose Slink.

Gem -Zhīzhū,Lena,Alex,Remi,Reese, Trick, Treat

Bev - Dante Foster, Lillian Ashmore, Mavis Dean,

Rayne - Dominique-Marionette Hearst

@angelicaisaka - Aisaka Morizono.

@iminloveweveryone - Adina

Ru-

[senashenta]

Don't You Forget About Me

Title: Don't You Forget About Me

Pairing: Lambden, Geraskier mention

Rating: T

Warnings: Language, Graphic Violence

Summary: Lambert is out on a solo Hunt when his wereWOLF turns out to be a PACK of wereWOLVES. Things go bad fast and he's forced to summon Aiden for aid-- he nearly dies, but Aiden goes to Kaer Morhen to get help, totally blowing the cover off their relationship in the process. Aiden thinks it's a fair trade for Lambert's life. Lambert thinks Aiden doesn't know his FAMILY.

Notes: More Witcher SPN AU. Man, I used to be better at writing fight scenes than this. What happened to me? I guess if you don't use it you lose it. Anyway. Back to proper order for these fics. The next one (Rewarding Heroism) should be up in a couple of days. It's porny, maybe more people will like it. *shrug*

More Lambden in this one. They are still (and will always be) my favorites in this AU, though I’m not entirely sure why. There’s just something about their dynamic that hooks me in. Don’t get me wrong, I love Geralt and angel!Jaskier (and Julian), and Eskel with familiar!Lil’ Bleater, but Lambert and crossroads demon!Aiden will always be my precious loves in this AU, I think. Haha.

DON’T YOU FORGET ABOUT ME By Senashenta

Lambert hated Chicago. It was cloudy and blustery and he could definitely see why they called it The Windy City. While he was there it always seemed to rain constantly, which didn’t help matters, especially since he didn’t own an umbrella (and probably wouldn’t have used it even if he did.) The buildings were crowded too close together, the city was too grey, the people were rude, and it took him an hour to find a decent bar his first night in town. (That last one was just the cherry on the cake as far as he was concerned.)

Lambert hated Chicago even more when he was out on a Hunt in the fucking rain and his simple werewolf job turned out to be a much more complicated pack of werewolves job.

It wasn’t as if Lambert hadn’t done his due diligence with the case. He’d spent nearly two weeks leading up to the full moon tailing the suspected werewolf that Eskel had tipped him off to and the man had maintained a schedule you could set your watch to. He lived alone, didn’t appear to have any close friends or work acquaintances, and stayed in on Friday nights.

Everything Lambert was seeing pointed to a solitary werewolf, which, while uncommon—in his experience wolves preferred to run in packs—happened from time to time. One werewolf he could handle. Vesemir had been right to just send him.

On the nights directly before the full moon, Lambert began sitting on the man’s apartment starting at sunset and going until sunrise the next morning. There was no way to tell at what point in the lunar cycle around the full moon a werewolf would start shifting, or what time of night it would happen, since it only happened when they were asleep, so he had to cover his bases.

He was getting pretty tired of sitting on stakeout in his car—though he fucking loved his car, a 1967 Shelby GT500CR Mustang in rust brown, classic, unlike the beat-up pickup trucks his brothers both drove, he just didn’t want to live in it—especially alone. It was dull. He privately wished Aiden was there to keep him company. It would have helped to pass the time, at the very least.

His (im)patience was finally rewarded on the night before the full moon itself. Around three o’clock in the morning he was just about to nod off out of boredom when the beast crawled out of one of the apartment windows and scaled down the fire escape to the sidewalk below.

Lambert watched it look around for a moment and then slink down the block—and then turned his car on, idling for another long few seconds to make sure the werewolf had some lead time before following it, slowly, at a distance. It was moving with purpose, going somewhere specific, that much was obvious, and Lambert wanted to see where it was headed before he finished it off.

The streets were vacant anyway, so it wasn’t like his curiosity was putting anyone in danger.

In the end, the creature ditched the main roads fairly quickly and Lambert had to dump his car and follow on foot with his silver sword strapped to his back and a pistol full of silver bullets tucked in the back of his jeans. After countless side streets and alleyways and some pointless backtracking, Lambert found himself in the meat packing district, watching the werewolf enter a particular warehouse through a first-floor window.

Lambert waited a couple of minutes to make sure the werewolf wasn’t directly inside the window and ready to pounce—then climbed in after it. As soon as he had eased through into the building, he dropped down to his feet lightly, already reaching for his gun just in case. When nothing immediately jumped out at him, he relaxed ever so slightly—but not entirely. His guard would stay up from here on out.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been in a meat packing plant, and there was a certain organization to how they were all laid out, so it was easy enough to navigate the building. Lambert crept along the corridors, following the werewolf’s scent—musty and wild and wolflike, familiar but not at the same time—down to the production floor and then farther, deep into the building to where the meat lockers were located.

He carefully cracked the door to the first locker, but a quick once-over found it empty, hanging cow carcasses aside. Lambert exited swiftly and moved on to the second, which proved to be just as werewolf-free. The third locker, however, had its’ door hanging open just a little bit—the slightest crack—and Lambert quickly tucked his gun away again and unsheathed his sword, steadying himself before stepping inside.

Four pairs of luminescent eyes lifted to stare intensely at him, and Lambert swore under his breath. “Oh, fuck me.”

An entire pack of werewolves wasn’t exactly a One Witcher Job, but here he was, standing in the doorway with his sword at the ready, blocking their only escape route, and things were about to go bad. They were literally trapped animals. But they were trapped animals that had to be exterminated, regardless of the situation he found himself in, so Lambert dug in his heels and braced himself even as the first of the werewolves dropped the carcass it had been scavenging from and leapt at him with a snarl.

Lambert blocked the abrupt attack at the last second with his sword, pushing with the flat of the blade until the werewolf fell back a step, a brief reprieve before the rest of the pack rushed forward, claws slashing and teeth snapping.

What followed was an absolute clusterfuck. Lambert lost his sword almost immediately—it was sent flying out of his reach by one of the werewolves that was aiming to tear his heart from his chest. Lambert fell back just long enough to pull his gun from the back of his jeans—but that only gave him twelve rounds in the clip plus one in the chamber. He would run out quickly. He also yanked his buck knife out—it wasn’t silver, but it was better than nothing.

Before he could even get a shot off, one of the werewolves lashed out, catching him across the chest with its’ claws, cutting deep furrows into his flesh. Lambert grunted and spat a curse, stumbling backward and bringing his gun around, taking his first two shots. They both missed but he didn’t have time to be pissed, he was too busy dodging to the side to avoid another frontal attack, his fresh wounds flecking blood across the ground as he moved.

But dodging to the left just put him in the path of another werewolf, one that was just as committed to him seeing a bloody end as the rest of its’ pack. Lambert brought his pistol up but before he could get a shot off, he was effectively backhanded, sending him flying into the nearest wall. He collided hard with the concrete, the breath completely knocked out of him, his head bouncing off the floor when he landed. His vision swam and his gun fell from his grasp, skittering across the room.

The next thing Lambert knew a clawed hand was grabbing at his ankle and he was being yanked across the room, tossed into the middle amongst the half-eaten cow carcasses. He didn’t even have time to get his bearings, to clear his spinning head—before he was completely disembowelled, his guts splattered all across the floor.

Lambert grit his teeth hard against the unimaginable pain and fumbled with one hand for his wallet, panting heavily as he pulled out Aiden’s card and swiped his thumb across it, leaving a bloody streak behind and trying valiantly not to die in the meantime. The werewolves were sniffing around, getting closer again, and he was in imminent death territory, here—

“LAMBERT?!”

Aiden’s voice. Thank the Gods. Lambert would have laughed, but all he could really do was wheeze pathetically. For Aiden’s part, the demon took one look around the room—and then his expression hardened and his eyes flickered to black.

Lambert couldn’t see what happened next, but he could hear the howls and shrieks of the werewolves as Aiden tore them limb from limb, until, finally, the commotion died down and the demon waded through the bloody corpses over to Lambert’s side. He shoved one of the cow carcasses out of the way and dropped down onto his knees, hands hovering uselessly over Lambert’s injuries.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, I can’t fix this! Not without making a deal!”

“So… so make a deal…” Lambert managed to cough out, spitting blood the entire time. “I’ll… I’ll make a deal… I trust you…”

“No fucking way, Lambert, I’m not doing that to you, not ever, I—I—” Aiden stood again, all his clothes covered in blood and gore, and told Lambert urgently, “I’ll be back. Just. Two seconds. I’m going to get help.”

Then he blinked out of sight, leaving Lambert laying in a growing pool of his own blood, surrounded by werewolf corpses and very quickly working his way toward death. Aiden was only gone for maybe two minutes, but it was the longest two minutes of Lambert’s life, and when he blinked back into existence it was with Jaskier at his side—and oh, Gods, he had gone to the bunker.

“Lambert!” Jaskier hurried to his side and knelt down next to him, then just placed his hand against Lambert’s forehead—and just like that he was completely healed, though he felt like he’d been hit by a sledgehammer. Lambert groped at his stomach just to make sure everything was whole again before slumping back for a moment and taking a few deep breaths.

“Thanks, Jaskier.” He managed gruffly, after a pause, and then; “Aiden.”

Aiden and Jaskier both helped him to his feet, and he quickly gathered his weapons, all the while Jaskier was chattering away as usual, “your demon friend popped into the bunker, scared us all to be honest. But he swore you were in trouble, about to die, so I said I’d go with him. Good thing I did… honestly, Lambert, four werewolves? What were you thinking?”

“Wasn’t supposed to be four.” Lambert grumped. “All the intel said one, not a whole pack.” He paused to pick up his gun from a pool of blood, grunting softly when he straightened up. He may have been healed, but he still ached where he had been injured, and he had been gravely injured this time around. If Aiden hadn’t gone to get Jaskier… well. It all would have been over for him, that much was for sure.

He wiped as much of the gore off his gun as possible and tucked it into the back of his jeans again, then retrieved his sword—just in time for Jaskier to pat a hand on his shoulder and teleport them back to Kaer Morhen. All of them, even Aiden, which came as a surprise when Lambert looked around the bunker and saw the demon standing just a couple of feet away from him. Aiden seemed as surprised as he was—but quickly moved past it, stepping closer to look at Lambert with obvious regret in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He apologized, though what for Lambert had no idea, “I know I shouldn’t have come here, but I couldn’t help you, not without making a deal, and I swore to myself ages ago that I wouldn’t ever do that to you, I—”

“Aiden, stop.” Lambert’s reply was quiet and gruff but with feeling behind it. He lifted one hand to grasp the side of Aiden’s neck, squeezing there firmly, grounding. “Why are you apologizing? You saved my life. You risked your life to save mine. They could have killed you the instant they saw you—or exorcised you, anyway. That’s—”

“Ahem.” Geralt’s voice. Lambert jerked slightly. He had almost forgotten where they were. He shifted on his feet, eyes flitting around the room and back to Aiden before landing on Geralt, who was standing in the entryway to the living area and demanded, simply, “explain.”

Aiden took a step back from Lambert, who let his hand drop away from the demon’s neck. He licked his lips absently, tasting coppery blood, and gave a little grimace at that before he finally spoke. “Aiden and I… met a while back. Back when Geralt was injured on that wendigo Hunt, and we couldn’t…” Trailing off, he glanced sideways at Aiden again, then continued, “I went to a crossroads and made a deal. For Geralt’s life.”

“You what.” This came from Eskel, who was seated at the dining table with Lil’ Bleater half-hiding behind him. “Lambert.”

“What was I supposed to do? Geralt was going to die!” Lambert defended, “and that was before Jaskier came along, I—I did what I had to!”

“How many years?” Vesemir spoke up, his tone grave.

“Ah—no. It wasn’t like that.” Lambert shook his head and chanced another glance at Aiden—and was the demon looking amused, now? Gods, he was going to fucking kill him. “We reached another, uh… arrangement.”

Geralt quirked an eyebrow. “Arrangement?”

“I wanted him for his body.” Aiden piped up then, making Lambert squawk and smack a hand into his arm. Aiden ignored him. “I got to fuck him, and you got to live. No bartering for souls or years. Simple.”

There was a long, long silence after that, Lambert glared daggers at Aiden the entire time while everyone else just… digested what they were being told. Then Jaskier started to grin—and finally giggle to himself, and that seemed to break the tension. The angel snickered as he wandered over to stand by Geralt, leaning up to drop a kiss by his cheek lightly. “Lambert literally got fucked to save you.”

“Oh my Gods, Jaskier, shut up.” Lambert muttered under his breath.

“But this,” Eskel nodded between Lambert and Aiden, who was grinning himself now, “is obviously more than a one-time thing.”

It was said as a statement, but really more of a question, Lambert shifted on his feet some more, awkwardly, because how was he supposed to explain to his family that he, a fucking Witcher, was in what amounted to a long-term relationship with a Godsdammed demon? He didn’t think they would take it well. But there wasn’t really any denying what was between them, either, not after Aiden had zapped himself in there to get their help in saving his wretched life.

“We’re—” Lambert began before breaking off and clearing his throat, glancing at Aiden and wishing he would stop fucking grinning, Godsdammit. He felt like a child being interrogated by his parents, and here Aiden was enjoying the entire thing. “We meet up. Sometimes.”

“Define ‘sometimes’.” VesemirLambert asked from the kitchen doorway.

“A lot. Every couple of weeks or so, lately. Basically whenever Lambert is on Hunts by himself.” Aiden put in his two cents again, and chuckled when Lambert swore under his breath. “What? They’re going to find out. Might as well come from you. Or, I mean, me, I guess.”

Eskel regarded his brother dubiously. “You’re fucking a demon.”

Lambert gestured toward Geralt, “he’s fucking an angel!��

Geralt just gave him a flat look. “You and I both know that’s two entirely different things.”

Lambert had to give him that, but still. He looked at Aiden for a moment before heaving a sigh and shaking his head. “I’m not going to try to explain myself. You’re just going to have to trust me that you can trust him.” And then a quick glance down at his clothes, torn to shreds and soaked in blood, and he added, “if you don’t mind, we’re going to go get cleaned up now. I literally just had my guts ripped out. I need a few minutes.”

There was another long silence and then Vesemir spoke up again, nodding toward Aiden; “don’t let him wander around by himself.”

Lambert just nodded before grabbing hold of Aiden’s arm and steering him out of the dining area, down the corridors to his room. Once they were inside and the door was firmly shut behind them, he glared daggers at Aiden, who just grinned and held his hands up in a placating manner. He, too, was still coated in blood and gore.

“You just can’t leave well enough alone, can you?”

“What? I was helping!”

“I never wanted them to find out about our deal, back when we first met.”

“Look, they weren’t going to take ‘I’m fucking a demon just leave it alone’ for an answer, Lambs.”

“They’re never going to look at me the same way again.”

“Is that a bad thing? They still trust you, obviously, or they wouldn’t have let you bring me farther into this… bunker… thing. What do you even call this?”

“Kaer Morhen.”

“That is not really an explanation, but okay. Kaer Morhen it is.”

“Aiden, this place is sacred, you can’t—”

“Tell anyone? Please. I’m not going to blab about your secret bunker. Which is surprisingly not demon-proofed.”

“It is, just… clearly not well enough. And if I want you to be able to keep coming around, we can’t up the warding, either. Fuck.”

“You want me to keep coming around?”

“Well—I just—I mean—”

“It’d be nice. Not to always have to meet up in shitty dive bars.”

“…yeah.” And then, “thank you. For today. If you hadn’t come, I would’ve—”

“I always come when you call, Lambs, and I always will.”

Lambert gave a tired looking smile. Being healed by Jaskier was miraculous, yes, life-saving, definitely, but had left him tapped for energy. He needed to clean up and then rest, preferably for a good, few hours. To that end, he did a quick cleaning of his sword and gung, set them aside once he was done, then quickly stripped out of his ruined clothing and headed for the little bathroom that attached to his bedroom. (It wasn’t much but it had a shower so he didn’t complain about the size.)

Aiden just watched him quietly—until Lambert stopped in the doorway and half-demanded, “you’re not getting in my fucking bed covered in gore. So, get your clothes off and get in here with me”—at which point the demon’s grin widened even more and he began pulling his own clothes off as well.

“No funny business.” Lambert told him, grumpy, as they climbed into the shower together. “I’m too tired.”

“Whatever you say, Lambs.” Aiden replied, still smiling, “whatever you say.”