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ficsilike-reblogged · 2 months ago

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Shelter - 7

Summary: You saved Soap's life. And Laswell has news.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader (No use of Y/N)

Warnings For This Chapter: Continued military and safehouse inaccuracies, mentions and descriptions of suicide, canon typical violence/gore, guns, attempted accents, and more Soft!Simon

A/N: Thank you for all the love on the latest chapter. I treasure each and every comment and they really keep me motivated! Just three more chapters after this!

Previous Chapter

You spent a strange amount of time just poking at things in your room. There had been a secret door between rooms; surely there were other things for you to find. You’d given up on trying to nap after you stared uselessly at the ceiling for an hour, listening to the muted sounds of the city starting to wake and start the day. You were tired. Exhausted. Had been for weeks.

But you couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t sleep because Simon had kindly offered to show you around a library. What was wrong with you? And how many times have you asked yourself that in the last handful of weeks? And you were so mad at yourself for wanting it. Wanting to see that library with Simon. You knew all of this was temporary. Even if they managed to kill or apprehend Makarov in a timely manner, where did that leave you?

He lived in the UK (when he wasn’t off somewhere around the world doing…whatever it is he does) and you had your life here in Chicago. Sort of. It wasn’t as if you had a job waiting for you. And your lease was nearing its end. And… You really needed to stop this train of thought. It would only hurt you. So, you turned over and shoved your face into the pillow and groaned before getting up and exploring your room a little more.

To your strange comfort, it seemed like your only surprise had been the door connecting your room to Simon’s. There were no secret compartments in your closet or bathroom. The one thing you did find was in the small drawer in the bedside table: a small red button tucked just inside. You knew better than to press it—red buttons usually meant trouble and you weren’t about to test your hypothesis when you finally had a small bit of peace.

Saving you from your boredom for a moment was a new text, chirping on your phone. It was a picture of Kirby and Pauline in the back of a car, bundled up and ready to go, the tiny yellow teddy bear tucked in beside the carrier. “Off on our first adventure!” The picture was probably taken by the post-partum doula or nanny Kirby had hired. Kirby had sent you heaps of potential resumes and then felt content with the two she’d narrowed it down to—and you’d felt a little more secure knowing she had help. She had steadfastly refused any other help you offered, telling you she was determined to do everything on her own. Were you nervous about that? Of course. But she had read every parenting book her doctor recommended, attended every single mothers’ birthing class, researched endlessly about each and every bit of furniture she could buy before purchasing, and went to extra therapy sessions biweekly ever since the situation with Julian blew up.

She’d have help and the money Julian coughed up would probably make everything a little easier. They’d be okay. You could be waiting in the wings if anything came up, and Kirby knew that. Kirby needed to be Kirby. And you needed to be okay with that.

Ugh. You did not need to be having all these emotions before breakfast. You typed out a quick, “love you guys!” message and deleted the perfunctory “stay safe!” you had first added and instead just added a single heart emoji. There. Nailed it.

As if on cue, your stomach rumbled. It had been a while since you’d eaten—a burger and one half of a chocolate bar you split with Kirby before dawn at the hospital hadn’t exactly been a complete breakfast. And thinking of the chocolate had you remembering Simon had been the one to buy it—not that you could ever forget any of this. Or him. And you knew it was stupid. Stupid to hope, to want…but you still found yourself going over to the hidden door and knocking. Maybe he’d get breakfast with you.

But the wall didn’t open and you tried to ignore how something ached in your chest because of it. Well, you could still get breakfast anyway. But first, you decided to give pilates another try, queueing up a workout on youtube and regretting it only a few minutes in. By the time you finished, your arms were shaking and your legs hated you but the shower felt nice. You slathered a bit more arnica cream across your throat when you finished. It would still take time for your neck to look normal, but the red in your eyes had steadily decreased.

You turned your attention to the extensive room service menu that had been tucked beside the sleek bedside table lamp and tapped your finger against the thick cardstock, mulling over your choices. You flipped the menu over, trying to make sure you knew all your options and instead found a small history of the hotel. Apparently it had always been “family owned” since its opening right before World War I. Interesting. Had it always been a safehouse? Either way, the matcha sounded good. Eggs Benedict, too. You ordered, feeling a little ridiculous—you’d never ordered room service before—but the person on the other end of the line was nice enough. It might have been the manager, but you weren’t entirely sure.

Your throat ached as you set the phone back in its cradle. All of the excitement yesterday definitely did a number on it all. Maybe tonight you’d actually sleep well… You weren’t going to hold your breath about that, though.

A knock sounded at your door a few minutes later (after Kirby had texted you back, another picture of Pauline, snuggled in her bassinet), it was probably your breakfast, but you still checked the peephole and felt a small bit of tension leave your shoulders when you recognized the manager on the other side.

She held out the covered tray with a smile. “Excellent choices, if I do say so.”

You returned her smile and took the tray, mouth watering a little at the smell of it. “I didn’t think you’d be the one to deliver it.”

She shrugged. “We don’t let just anyone up here. And the kitchen was busy anyway, two birds, one stone and all that.”

Briefly, you remembered how breezily she checked you all in, smiling at John the entire time. She really must have seen some stuff to not care that a known terrorist was looking for people who were hiding in her hotel. “Still, that was kind of you.”

She waved that away, too. “I’m sure Laswell said you could ask for anything,” she said, a knowing smile on her face.

“She might have said that to the guys.” Not to you. You were sure the no-nonsense woman you’d met back in the UK didn’t particularly want to think about you at all. You wouldn’t hold it against her; you hadn’t made the best of impressions.

She nudged her arm into yours. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re one of them right now. Maybe it’s just for now, maybe it’s just for a little longer, but for now, you are under my care and the hotel’s protection.”

A nervous laugh bubbled out of you. “Sounds like a bit of a steep promise.”

The manager shrugged. “It is. But my family’s been doing this for generations. I know how to keep you safe.” Her watch beeped before you could even attempt to process what she’d told you and she smiled again. “I’ve got to run. Please, enjoy your breakfast.” And then she was gone, disappearing down the hall and into the elevator.

What an enigma of a woman. Again, you thought of Price’s interactions with her. Just what had happened between them? Hmm. Oh well. Probably just another question you’d never get the answer to. You settled onto the overstuffed armchair in front of the giant television and tried not to think about the man on the other side of the wall.

Simon had spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at the hidden door that led to her room. Wondering if she actually fell asleep. Wondering if her short time with her sister and niece was enough to make her happy. Or settled. She’d once asked if he had anyone to get back to after all this was over. He didn’t. And after she had told him about what she had gone through, he thought about his own family. His mum. Tommy. Beth and Joseph. And for a moment, short and aborted, he thought about telling her what had happened to them. She might understand. There could be understanding there, instead of the pity anyone else who knew his story usually met him with. But, again, Simon pushed it away.

Pushed it down, ignoring how the thought echoed and ached.

But it didn’t really matter because Price called them all to his room, telling them that Laswell had called with news. That could have been good. But Simon knew better than to think this all would be over soon. And then a strange, selfish thought struck him, too, as he followed Kyle to Price’s room. This gave him more time with her. She’d been quiet after he offered to show her the library before he watched a small smile push at her perfect mouth. And he thought about it until Price had called them.

But any sort of hope was quietly stuffed away when Price fixed them all with that look that Simon knew well. And maybe he should have been expecting this. Something didn’t feel right. It was too quiet. Simon knew Makarov played the long game. But Laswell had been briefing them about how several more of his caches had been destroyed and more of his men had been killed but Makarov hadn’t been spotted. There was no chatter from him or about him despite Laswell, Farah, and Alex all hunting for him.

Laswell was waiting for them, videoing in on the laptop Price had set up on the small table in his room. Simon stood at the back, letting the others take the chairs closer to the laptop. Price turned toward Laswell, his mouth set in a thin line. “We’re here, Laswell. What do you have for us?”

Laswell sighed. “I found who leaked your location.”

“And?” Johnny said, leaning forward in his seat. He was chomping at the bit to get some sort of revenge. Their families had been targets. No doubt Johnny had wanted to make him feel exactly what his mother had felt. And Simon knew that he hated that she had been hurt. The feeling was mutual.

“He’s dead.”

“What do you mean he’s dead?” The question had an obvious answer but it needed to be asked, if Simon was being honest.

“I don’t know what else you want me to say.” Laswell shook her head. “The man I tracked down when I figured out who leaked where your team was located shot himself.”

Price looked at Simon who looked right back. “Confirmed, then.”

“I was the one who found him, John.” Her breath crackled over the line. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

No. She wouldn’t. But this still all stank of something he didn’t like.

“I’m still tracking down who he sent his intel to, but I hope to have news for you soon.”

It was someone Laswell had worked with, not necessarily trusted, but relied on in some capacity. That was a betrayal. A deep one. Shit.

The video disconnected soon after and they all seemed to just look at each other. Silently processing what they’d just learned, calculating their next move. What options did they have? Moves to be made. Risks assessed. Before any of them could voice their thoughts, the computer beeped again. Simon watched Price type in a code and then sigh.

“I need a bloody drink.” The captain rose, in search of the morning drink he wanted, and Simon slid into the chair he vacated.

Simon didn’t blame him for wanting a drink. That was an appropriate response. Laswell had sent over a batch of pictures from the leak’s apartment. Probably taken when she’d gone to confront him. He clicked through the pictures, trying to tell himself that this was one loose end tied up in a neat bow. But there was a voice at the back of his head that kept whispering that something wasn’t right. There was more to this than one man’s apparent greed and Makarov playing him for a fool. Simon stopped, pausing on one of the photos of the man, his head back against the edge of his computer chair with blood and bone and brain spattered behind him on the white wall.

Everything on the desk was neatly arranged. Stacked. Organized. Now marred by the mess of his death. And yes, Simon knew death was messy. Could be messy. But people sometimes took care to make sure it wasn’t. And the more he looked at the surrounding room, Simon surmised that this man was a person who would take care to make sure his death wasn’t messy.

It didn’t fit.

The bruising, exit wound, and spatter might match all the hallmarks of a man seeing no other way out after committing treason. But it didn’t fit.

Kyle stepped to his side and bent down, just enough to look at the photos and Simon could see him working through it, too. He knew he would. “Staged. Someone else pulled the trigger. Held the gun beneath his chin while he hoped he could talk his way out of it.”

Simon nodded. Kyle had put the pieces faster than he had, but Simon knew he would.

Johnny was quick to take his place on Simon’s other side, reaching over him to click through a few pictures. “Is Makarov in the States?”

Simon glanced back at the picture before shaking his head. “We would have heard. Laswell wouldn’t’ve let ‘im slip by like that.”

Kyle’s mouth pulled into a thin line as he stood straight, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then there’s another problem.”

Simon almost hated that he was right. All of this just meant it was even more complicated than they had previously thought. And it already was a fucking nightmare. “There’s another person on the inside.”

Kyle grimaced. “Covering their tracks.”

Price walked in, half-empty glass of whisky in his hand and eyed them all. “So you see it, too?”

“Seems like it. Wasn’t acting alone.”

“I have no doubt Laswell saw it, too.” The glass clinked as Price set it down on the window ledge. “But she’s playing it quietly. No confirmation on anything else until she has answers.”

Simon knew that was the wisest way to do this but it still grated at him.

“How high does this go?” Kyle asked. Simon could feel the rage radiating off of him. But he always kept a tighter leash on it than Simon did. It was something Simon respected about him, one of the many, actually. And it was why he trusted him so implicitly in and out of the field.

Johnny frowned and then turned abruptly toward Kyle. “The lass’ flat was untouched, wasn’t it? When ye went to get her stuff?”

Kyle nodded. “Everything seemed fine. Wasn’t exactly looking for cameras though.”

Simon nodded, too. And everything had been in its place. He wondered how long it had taken her to make it feel comfortable. Not home, exactly. But a place she knew she could rest her head, like his flat in Manchester.

“But that bastard knew her name, no? Nearly killed her at the hospital in London. Why would he leave her flat alone?”

Simon chewed on that thought. He did know her name. And while there might be other people with her name but Makarov—or at least one of his men—knew she was American. If they’d taken her purse, it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine they knew where she lived. But why had her flat been untouched? “Laziness, possibly.”

“And he knew we were hiding her. She wasn’t going home.”

But that small fact was still a glaring part of the picture that someone knew they had been moving her.

“Do we move again?” Johnny asked.

“Moving us now would just confirm that we are here. And if it doesn’t, we are out in the open until we get to the next safehouse.”

“What other options do we have, Captain?” Kyle asked. But Simon didn’t miss the way his eyes went to him first. “She is still an asset and a target. We are still targets and Makarov is in the wind.”

Price leaned forward, mouth pulled into a flat line. “Way I see it, we can move and take our chances or we stay put and get ready.”

They didn’t like running. And the plan had always been to lure Makarov into a trap. Why couldn’t they do that here? And the silent looks between the men seemed to show their quiet agreement.

And then something whispered at the back of Simon’s mind. And then he remembered the curve of her lip. Her smile and the way she simply wanted to see her sister and her baby. “We need to tell her. Get ‘er ready for it.”

Price grimaced but didn’t refute Simon’s logic.

“She deserves to know. She’s in this with us.”

He nodded, but he didn’t look pleased about it. “If you think she can handle it.”

“She will.” Simon had watched her outmaneuver Johnny and fight like hell to live against a trained operative. She could handle a bit of book camp. He knew it.

“And the manager might want to know what’s happening. You seem to know her best, Captain. Want to break the news?” Kyle asked, face straight.

Price sighed.

You were on the last dregs of your matcha when you heard a sharp knock…on the wall. You turned and watched the hidden door open. Simon filled the space, broad shoulders brushing the sides—and no, that didn’t make your mouth water. He wasn’t even wearing any sort of gear, just a hoodie and loose joggers, swapping out the jeans he’d worn to the hospital with you and he looked better than ever. (Shut up!)

“C’mere, yeah?”

You frowned, not expecting the invitation, but stood anyway and let him shuffle you into his room.

It wasn’t that much different than yours. Same color scheme. Same layout. There was just one large, glaring difference. The closet door was open and the entirety was filled with weapons. Mostly guns, but you spied a few knives, too. There were also a few vests, that you surmised were kevlar or something along those lines. It really was a mini arsenal. This hotel kept surprising you.

Gaz and Soap were waiting inside as well and you resisted the urge to think the worst and smiled, feeling it twitch on your face. “Everything okay?” The stretched silence that followed only made your nerves start to fray, like overused yarn.

“Everything’s sorted,” Gaz said, arms folded neatly across his chest. And you wanted to believe him. You did. You could trust him and the others to protect you like they’d done before. But something wasn’t right.

You glanced at Simon, and he was already looking at you over the edge of another surgical mask. Your heart did an embarrassing little leap behind your ribs. And then you looked at Soap. There was a bit of calculation behind those unnervingly blue eyes. “C’mon, Soap. Out with it.”

He smiled, a bit of pink touching his cheeks. But the smile didn’t last long. “We’d like ta teach ye a few things.”

“Things?”

He nodded, overgrown mohawk flopping a bit. “Just in case.”

And those three words had your stomach sinking. “Something happened, didn’t it?”

“It’s just a precaution.”

And that was how you found yourself in the hidden firing range behind another false wall down the hall (apparently you had been right about there being more to your floor than a few rooms on this floor). It was entirely soundproof with a small sparring ring tucked behind it and another wall filled with guns and other weapons. No wonder the manager seemed so sure she could protect you. Kyle was patient as he adjusted your grip on the small handgun he said would be a good fit for you and patient still when your arms shook as you focused on the target. You didn’t like guns. But when he pressed, gently and kindly with hints of his megawatt smile, you promised to keep the gun in the drawer beside your bed. They were doing this to protect you. They liked you at least enough to try and give you a fighting chance. This was a kindness.

Soap was next but didn’t last very long. “Would ye like to learn how to make a bomb? Just a wee one.”

“No, thank you.” Jesus Christ.

To your surprise, Price walked into the large room next and then handed you…a crowbar. He taught you a few moves with it, telling you to aim for the neck if need be. “You might lose a gun, miss a moving target. But you can always hit them with that.” Comforting.

Then, to prove his point he turned and waved over Simon, who had been silently watching along the back wall (not that you were always innately aware of where he was in the room).

“Attack her.” The captain waved a hand at you before clapping Simon on the shoulder.

“Let’s not do that,” you said, words falling out of your mouth before you could think of something else to say.

Simon, however, stepped closer and held his hands up a bit, as if he were making sure you knew he was unarmed. That wasn’t exactly comforting. “I promise I won’t hurt you. I’d never ‘urt ya.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, and you felt every syllable wash over you. He wouldn’t hurt you but he was trusting you to swing at him with a goddamn crowbar. He trusted you. They trusted you.

Straightening your shoulders, you tightened your grip on the crowbar.

And then he moved. No one that big should be able to move that quickly—it didn’t seem fair—and you were flat on your back. You swallowed the lump in your still sore throat as you looked up at him.

“Try again,” Price called out.

So you did. Again and again. You managed to clock Simon in the arm exactly once and earned a round of applause from the other men, all of them decidedly ignoring that you were supposed to be aiming for the neck. Your arms and legs were screaming at you (again) by the time Price called him off.

“Ye did good, bonnie,” Soap said with another smile. “Proud of ye.”

Oh god, you were going to cry. Tears stung and your battered throat ached with the effort to hold them back as you handed the crowbar back to Price with an uneven smile. “Thanks for keeping me alive.”

“Fair play,” Gaz said, clapping you on the shoulder. “Kept Soap alive. Kept us from eating through the house. You’ve been good to us.”

You cleared your throat, trying to swallow down the emotions. They didn’t need to see all that. “Just trying to-”

“Earn your keep?” Price asked, blue eyes near twinkling. “None of tha’. You’ve done more than enough.”

It wasn’t many words but you didn’t think Price was a man who used flowery prose or words to anyone. But that didn’t stop it from meaning the world to you. How many times has someone said you’d done enough? You could probably count them on one hand. So, you simply nodded and murmured, “yeah, sure. Anytime.”

Gaz, Soap, and Price eventually trickled out, leaving you and Simon alone in the large room. “C’mere.”

You walked to his side, a strange jittery exhaustion pulling at the edges of your mind.

“I want to show ya how to get out of a few ‘olds. Yeah?”

Like the guy who’d try to strangle you back at the safehouse. This training made sense—and no matter how well you (didn’t) shoot or swung a crowbar, you felt like this bit was more practical. And you felt safe with Simon. Simon with his dark, warm eyes and rough hands.

He led you through a few grapples and moves to break a stranglehold—he never aggravated your throat, his grip gentle if not bordering on nonexistent. He even muttered something about getting you more cream when you finished.

As strange as it was—he was pretending to strangle you—you never felt unsafe with him. Not when he came up behind you. Not when he charged forward. Not when he bent you across a bench and coached you through how to maneuver around it while your neck was tucked into the corner of his bent elbow. Never.

“You did good. But I want ya to do better, olright?” He asked as you broke another hold.

You nodded and then the broad expanse of his palm was dragging across your throat and he was pushing you back back back until your spine collided with the padded wall behind you. You tried to ignore how your chest brushed his with every breath you took. The attempt flew right out the window when he wedged a firm thigh between yours.

“Remember whot I told ya.”

Right. Focus. You turned in his loose hold and shot your arm up, remembering the move he’d taught you earlier. But he must’ve moved or you did something incredibly wrong (more likely of the two options) because when you turned to drive your arm down, meaning to break his hold, your finger caught on something and it snapped against your palm.

You watched, a little confused, as Simon’s mask dangled uselessly off one of his ears. A scar, old and jagged, stretched from one corner of his mouth up to his ear. Another bisected it on his cheek. More scars twisted across his mouth and down his chin and-

You smacked a hand over your eyes. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry. I’ll buy you more masks. I-”

A now-familiar hand, gently pried your hand away from your eyes but you still kept them closed. He wore a mask for a reason. You weren’t about to betray him like that, even if it was an accident. You didn’t mean to. You didn’t!

“You can look. ‘S fine.”

“Not fine.” Eyes still closed.

“I’m saying ‘s fine.” But it was the gentle swipe of his thumb against your cheek that had your eyes slowly opening again. He meant it.

You watched, almost transfixed, as Simon reached up and unhooked the other side of the small mask. The simple act had your heart leaping and racing beneath the cage of your ribs. Your fingers shook with every bit of skin now exposed to you. He had scars. Some big, some small. And you had been correct in thinking his nose had been broken before but you liked how it sat, a little crookedly, on his face. His brown eyes didn’t move away from you as he shoved the small mask into his pocket.

Your hand raised and then froze, uselessly hanging in the air between you. It had been a selfish want to touch him. You hadn’t asked and he hadn’t given permission. Shouldn’t it be enough that he trusted you with this?

Before you could apologize or try to covertly play off why your hand was halfway to his face, Simon reached out and his thick, scarred fingers circled your wrist in a gentle grip and he dragged your hand up up up. The tremor in your hand ceased as soon as your fingers brushed against the warm skin of his cheek. Your thumb traced against the scar that cut from the corner of his mouth and up toward his ear. A cruel slash. And he was so handsome.

Your heart ached when you felt him press a little more into the warmth of your palm. His long blond eyelashes fanned against his cheek as his eyes closed. He was so beautiful.

“Simon.” His name was a prayer. A promise.

He moved closer, the heat of his body bleeding across yours.

And then his mouth brushed yours. It wasn’t a true kiss. Not yet. Just his lips, scarred and cold, against yours. But you kissed him, pressing your lips against his with an embarrassing insistence that you couldn’t stop. But the embarrassment did not get a chance to fester, not with how his large hands framed your face and you could feel him smile.

“Olright?” He murmured as he pulled back the slightest bit, letting his large hands smooth lightly down the sides of your neck to rest over your shoulders, warm and heavy.

Your heart fluttered. He cared. “Yeah. This is good. Y-you’re good.”

His thumb and finger hooked your chin and he tilted your face toward his again.

Next Chapter

A/N: Thanks, again, for reading! Your comments mean the world to me and really keep me motivated.

#Simon Riley x reader #Simon ghost Riley x reader #Simon Riley x you #ghost x reader #cod x reader #cod fanfic #Simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #female reader

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comic-sans-chan · 1 year ago

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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

#my posts #garashir #I wanted to post this on April 1st but LONG SIGH it didn't work out #at least it's still april. pranking people on the 1st is so predictable anyway #fics I'll never write #credits to ono no komachi cynthia cruz and pablo neruda #really weird how tumblr just lets you publish blank posts like this one #this entirely blank post with nothing in it at all #very strange

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need-him-pregnant-poll · 10 days ago

Note

The further this tournament goes, the more I've gone from bemused vague dysphoria to edge-of-my-seat mania as Stanford fucking Pines keeps beating the odds, over and over. My actual-factual blorbo of over a decade, the eighth doctor, got knocked out of the running in the second round, also by a goddamn transformer, but Sixer Pines, he for whom I've written damn near a hundred thousand words of bullshit since December, is thiiisss close to winning this damn thing, and I've been losing my shit calculating odds for weeks now as he narrows in on the endgame.

The thing currently making me wacko-nuts, however, is this. Julian Bashir, twinky Federation doctor beloved by slashers for three decades+, is going up against the reinterpreted musical version of Thee ancient wifeguy to beat all wifeguys...and will still probably win. Meanwhile, in the third poll, we have not one but TWO Niners, the equally impregnable Quark AND Garak...but Garak's almost certainly got the edge, not least of which is the slightly (slightly) harder-core and longer-running contingent of shippers. Y'know. With Julian.

The upshot of all of this delirium being, of course, that if Julian beats epic!Odysseus, and Garak beats Quark (neither out of the realm of possibility be any means) (and assuming, of course, that our six-fingered monsterfucker comes through in the next 22 hours against he-who-invented-omegaverse)...

...the G/B | Garashir vote will split down the middle. I've lived through Bush v Gore and three hellish elections featuring the orange fuckface-in-chief in usamerica, I know damn well how vote-splitting works.

ANYway, vote Ford everybody, he'll 100% get an abortion in defiance of current US law, and really, isn't a moral about reproductive justice the best thing to come out of a poll tournament about knocking up fictional dudes?

#need him pregnant poll #poll propaganda #asks #not poll #stanford pines #gravity falls

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milk-is-stable · 20 days ago

Text

The Shoot From the Hip Hunger Games: Day 4

Masterpost (<-START HERE! the posts are best read in order)

Content Warning: descriptions of violence, blood/injury, major character death

The sun rises on the fourth day of the Hunger Games, and a series of rapid cuts begins the day's broadcast.

Chip sits at his campsite and ties the handle of his hunting knife to the end of a long stick.

A bush sways gently in the breeze, sun glinting off the dark purple berries that have cost two tributes their lives so far.

Jasper bends down and drinks from the stream before splashing across, heading back in the direction of the cornucopia.

The game masters' mutt, its muzzle stained red with blood, stalks through the trees.

Peter emerges from the cave, his knapsack stuffed full of food and Caesar's trident in his hand.

A large wasps nest hanging from a tree begins to buzz to life as the insects awaken for the day.

Robin, his face gaunt from lack of sleep, begins climbing up the side of the ravine, his movements slow and precise.

The camera finally settles on the trio of Michael, Inga, and Johnny, who are breaking camp for the morning.

"I think we should go on the offensive today," Inga says as Johnny and Michael put out their fire and pack away their tools.

"The offensive?" Michael repeats, and Inga nods.

"The three of us working together stand a decent chance in a fight against any other individual tribute," she says. "And if we don't start being proactive soon, we'll leave ourselves open to an attack."

"What about our fortifications?" Johnny says. "Shouldn't that be enough?"

"Those are good for defense," says Inga. "But we can't just sit around and wait for people to wander in."

"With Caesar out of the games, now would certainly be the safest time to start thinking offensively," Michael muses. "And it's likely that other tributes will have the same idea."

Johnny grimaces, and Inga folds her arms.

"What did you dream about last night?" she asks.

Johnny swallows and looks away, and Inga raises an eyebrow.

"I saw...I saw the boy from District 8," he admits. "Running through the woods. Like something was chasing him."

"If I had to pick a target, it would probably be him," says Michael. "We got into a fight during the bloodbath over a weapon."

A popup appears in the bottom corner of the screen, replaying the moment that Robin dodged an attack, grabbing the mace before Michael.

"He's fast, and he knows how to handle himself in a fight," Michael continues. "I'd much rather face him in a team than one on one again."

"I'd rather not face him again at all," Johnny protests, rubbing his shoulder. The popup view cuts to when Robin chased Johnny through the woods and dealt him a glancing blow with the mace.

"Well, that's all the more reason to take him down first," Inga says. She grabs a few of the tree branches they've whittled to a point, and tosses one to Michael and one to Johnny.

"Let's go," she says. "It's time to start these games in earnest."

The screen splits into two views, one showing a close up of Michael's face and one a close up of Johnny's. Michael's expression is one of grim determination, but Johnny looks as though he's going to be sick. Still, when Inga and Michael pick their way through their defenses and head out into the trees, Johnny follows them, his grip on his makeshift spear tight.

The screen cuts away to the other allied team of tributes, Alexa, Julian, and Benjamin, as they break their own camp for the morning.

"Does anyone here know how to hunt?" Benjamin asks. "We won't survive solely on berries forever."

"We don't have much in the way of hunting weapons," Alexa points out.

"No, but if we get a stick sharpened, I can spear fish," Julian says.

"Here," Alexa says, handing over her axe. "Use this."

Julian takes the tool from her and starts searching around their camp for a suitable stick. Alexa and Benjamin take the opportunity to gather what little berries remain from the bushes around them. Benjamin hums softly as they work, and Alexa tilts her head.

"That's a pretty song," she says. "I haven't heard it before. Is it new?"

Benjamin stops, and shakes his head.

"No...no, it's pretty old, actually. My friend Clarissa taught it to me, it's something her mom used to sing to her."

"Clarissa..." Alexa repeats. "Wasn't she the girl who..." she trailed off, and Benjamin nodded.

"We were going to team up, to try and help each other as long as we could, but I lost track of her in the bloodbath. Then that first night, I saw her up in the sky during the anthem." He shakes his head, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I don't even know what happened to her."

"I know how you feel," says Alexa sadly. "I don't know what happened to Janusz either."

"I'm sorry," Benjamin said. "That's not fair."

Alexa shrugs.

"My life has not ever been fair, I think," she says. "I should not be surprised by it anymore, but somehow, I still am." She looks up at Benjamin, tilting her head. "Do you think that makes me a fool?"

"I think...it makes you an optimist," Benjamin replies. "And if I had to choose between being an optimist who is proven wrong and a pessimist who is proven right...then at least the first sounds a bit less miserable."

"Ready!" Julian calls, and the two look up at him. "Let's go see what we can catch."

Benjamin and Alexa stand up to leave, and the screen cuts to a shot of Robin walking through the woods, his mace strapped to his back. The camera zooms out, showing Inga, Michael, and Johnny creeping up behind him in a triangle formation. Robin pauses, turning to look behind him, and the three freeze, ducking even lower to the ground. Robin squints at the foliage around him, and the camera zooms in on Inga, who shifts her spear to her left hand and draws a hunting knife with her right. She holds her breath as Robin takes a step closer to where they're hiding, then when he moves to draw his mace, she straightens and hurls the knife forward. The weapon spins end over end, glinting in the sunlight, and Robin yelps, ducking down to avoid the blade.

"Move!" Inga shouts, but Michael is already moving, leaping up from his hiding place and running towards Robin as fast as he can.

Robin tries to draw his mace, but before he can Michael tackles his legs, sending the pair of them sprawling. Robin thrashes, and Michael grunts, leaning forward and trying to pin more of his body to the ground.

"Back us up!" Inga yells back at Johnny as she rushes in to join the fray.

She reaches Robin just as he throws Michael off his legs. She stabs down with her spear but Robin rolls away from her, pushing himself to his hands and knees. He draws a small knife from his belt and moves to strike at Inga, but a spear tip pierces the bottom of his pant leg, pinning him to the ground. Johnny's eyes are wide and his face is pale, and he looks down at the spear as though he can't believe that he is the one wielding it. Robin takes advantage of that shock and kicks back at him, sending him jerking away. Robin throws the knife at Johnny, and it embeds itself just below his ribs.

Johnny screams and stumbles back, and Michael catches him by the elbow, steadying him and helping him sit down. Robin twists, taking advantage of the distraction to reach for the mace strapped to his back, but before he can get it fully drawn, Inga plants a well aimed kick directly at the side of his head, sending him back to the ground.

"Stab him! Now!" she cries, and Michael darts forward. Inga throws herself on top of Robin's legs to pin him again, and Michael drives the sharpened branch into the boy's stomach.

Robin lets out a strangled howl of pain, and Johnny retches, turning away from the sight.

"Get your knife," Michael pants, and Inga rolls off of Robin and searches in the ground for her dropped blade. She finally finds it, and starts to put it back in its sheath, but Michael shakes his head.

"End it for him now. It's the least we can do."

Inga rolls her eyes, but she nods and leans down, and as she slashes blade across Robin's throat, a cannon shot echoes through the arena.

At the sound, the camera cuts back to Alexa, Julian, and Benjamin, who have just reached the stream running through the arena.

"I wonder who that was," Benjamin muses aloud.

"I don't know...but I don't like how quickly we seem to be losing people lately," Julian says. He frowns and sniffs loudly, glancing around them.

"Let's focus on what we came here to do," Alexa says. "We can't change what happens to the others, only ourselves."

She bends down towards the stream, cupping her hands, but Julian suddenly darts forward, grabbing her arm.

"Stop!" he exclaims."Don't drink that!"

"Why not?" Alexa asks, and he points across the stream. Washed up on the edge of the bank are the bodies of three silver fish, and further down stream is the body of a badger.

"Something's wrong with it," Julian says, and Benjamin frowns.

"How do you know it's the water that killed them?" he asks, and Julian grimaces.

"If it was just the fish or just the badger, I wouldn't be sure. But the fact that it's both? And there aren't any scavengers that have touched either body? I'd bet that the water's poisoned somehow."

The camera cuts abruptly to show Jasper, who is still walking towards the cornucopia. Sweat is beaded on his brow, and his movements are slow and sluggish as he makes his way through the trees. His eyes have lost their keen glint, and as he walks he suddenly trips over a log and flies forward, crying out in pain as a rock leaves a deep gash in his shin. Wincing, he clumsily rips off a piece of his jacket sleeve to tie around the gash, before pushing himself back to his feet and staggering onward.

The camera cuts back to the trio at the river, and Benjamin frowns.

"It was fine earlier though, I know it was. Why would it change suddenly?"

"It could be the game masters are adding more dangers to the arena, trying to spice things up a bit."

Alexa bites her lip.

"If we can't fish here and we can't drink the water, then what are we gonna do?" she asks.

Julian opens his mouth to answer, then he freezes.

"Run!" he shouts, dashing forward and grabbing both Alexa and Benjamin by the hand and dragging them forward.

The camera pulls back to reveal Chip running out of the woods toward them, his makeshift spear in his hands. The three allies run back under the cover of the trees, but Alexa quickly begins to fall behind, her leg injury from the first night in the arena taking a silent but deadly toll on her.

Julian glances back and notices her lack of speed, and he slows to match her pace.

"What– No, hurry!" she gasps, but Julian shakes his head and puts himself between her and Chip, who is gaining on them by the second.

"Go! Keep going!" he shouts. "Whatever you do, don't stop!"

Taking a deep breath, he skids to a halt and turns around, facing Chip head on.

Chip, clearly startled by this turn of events, isn't able to stop himself in time or bring his spear up into a better position, and the two boys collide into one another, both falling to the ground. Chip's spear lands a few feet away, and Julian begins crawling towards it but Chip dives forward, driving his elbow into Julian's side. Julian cries out, and Chip lunges for his knife-spear.

His hands close around it and he clumsily gets to his hands and knees, then manages to pin Julian down with a knee to the chest. He brandishes the knife, inches from Julian's face, and the other boy goes still beneath the threat.

For a moment, the two stare at each other, breath heaving and hearts pounding. Chip moves the knife closer and Julian flinches, and Chip freezes. His knuckles go white on the hilt of his blade, then he lets out a frustrated cry and rolls off of Julian's body, staggering to his feet.

Julian stares up at him, and Chip grimaces, snapping the rest of the spear handle off from his knife.

"Chip?" Julian asks, his voice hesitant, and Chip shakes his head.

"Just...stay out of my way," he says, then he turns and runs back into the woods...in the opposite direction of Benjamin and Alexa.

Julian stares after him, then quickly scrambles to his feet and takes off after his friends.

The camera lingers on Julian running for a moment, then cuts to a near identical shot of Peter, running through the woods as fast as he can. His movements are awkward and clumsy thanks to the large trident he's carrying, and his eyes are blown wide with fear. The familiar low growling of the mutt that killed Sally can be heard through the trees, and Peter looks around frantically as he runs. He approaches a tree with a few low hanging branches, and with a quick glance behind him, he throws the trident to the ground and jumps at the tree, gripping a large knot in the side of the trunk and pulling himself upwards. His boots scrabble against the bark, and he finds purchase just in time to push himself higher up and out of the mutt's reach. He hoists himself onto a branch and looks down as the creature growls up at him.

The mutt's nose twitches, and it turns its attention to the trident that Peter threw to the ground. It sniffs at the weapon, then licks at Caesar's dried blood that stains the prongs. It opens its mouth and closes its jaws around the trident's handle, then begins dragging it away into the woods.

Peter lets out a sigh of relief and slumps back against the tree trunk. Suddenly, a sponsor parachute drifts down towards him, and he sits up, reaching out and catching the parcel. Opening it up, he finds a small metal tool and a tiny rubber mallet. He looks at it for a moment, then back at the tree he is pressed up against.

"Oh!" he says suddenly. "A spile!" He positions the narrow point of the tool against the tree, then drives it into the trunk with the mallet. After a moment, clean water begins to drip from the spout, and Peter scrambles to place his canteen underneath to catch it. He frowns, looking off in the direction of the stream.

"I wonder if there's something wrong with the water," he muses aloud.

The camera cuts once more to Jasper, who stumbles out of the woods near the ravine where Robin spent the night. His face is flush and his hair is plastered to his forehead, and every movement is made with tremendous effort. He doesn't appear to even notice as he approaches the lip of the cliff, and with a final lurching step, he tumbles right over the edge. The camera zooms upward, showing a shot of his body lying broken at the bottom of the ravine, and the second cannon of the day fires.

The Capitol TV logo suddenly appears on the screen, and a voice-over begins to play.

"Ladies and Gentlemen and all other configurations of being, we have reached the point in this year's games where we are down to the FINAL EIGHT tributes! Don't go away, because after this commercial break, I, Andre Beetroot, will be bringing you the EXCLUSIVE family and friend interviews for our final contestants of the year. It's the most exciting thing about the games besides the games themselves, and you DON'T want to miss it! I'll see you all there!"

This broadcast will now break for commercial. Please tune in again soon to see what else will become of our tributes on the first day of the games!

Game Summary

Deaths:

Jasper was killed by poison/falling

Robin was killed by Michael, Inga, and Johnny(?)

Kill Counts:

Pinocchio: 2 (Maria, Jimmy)

Inga: 2 (Jim L, Scottish Robin)

Caesar: 2 (Juliet, Pinocchio)

Chip: 3 (Clarissa, Marty, Hugh)

Jasper: 1 (Pinocchio)

Robin: 1 (Janae)

Peter: 2 (Priscilla, Caesar)

Michael: 1 (Scottish Robin)

Johnny: 1? (Scottish Robin?) (honestly I'm not sure if this really counts as Johnny's kill as neatly as it does Inga and Michael's, let me know your thoughts).

Game Meta

Today Embarks on Change. And by that I mean, I think this is the first time I have put a death in the story before it is revealed in simulator. However, I didn't make up Jasper's death out of the blue. Jasper "accidentally slips on a rock and tumbles down a cliff" on NIGHT 4, but if I left his death there, then I wouldn't be able to cleanly fit a final 8 interview session inbetween a Day and Night like this, so I opted to tie the injury from Day 4 and the death from Night 4 into one series of events. I will compensate by having Benjamin get medical supplies on Night 4 in addition to his other simulated event. (I could have chosen a different Night 4 death to move up to Day 4, but I chose the way I did because I have a feeling you guys will want said character to be around for as long as possible.)

#sfth hunger games #shoot from the hip #sfth fanfiction #sfthposting #sfth #sfth alexa #sfth johnny #sfth jasper #sfth julian #sfth benjamin #sfth michael #sfth inga #scottish robin #peter steven #sfth peter #my writing

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mauvecherie-writes · 9 months ago

Text

the kaleidoscope theory: l.hamilton.

• pairing: lewis hamilton x black!oc kalani halloway

• chapter warnings: none

• w.c: 3.8K

• ru’s 💌: First thing first, I want to apologise for how long it took to post this. With school and placement taking up a lot of my time, amongst other distractions and my mental health just not being the best for a while, writing has not been my main priority, and I am trying to make up for that now. Updates will be slow, but they won’t be non-existent. Please don’t forget to like, comment and re-blog.

• tip: kofi | paypal

series masterlist

CHAPTER ONE

PRESENT DAY

“ARE you sure that you want to keep doing this with him Lani? Like I love you and I’ll always be in your corner, but I have to agree with your therapist here. What are you gaining from continuing to sleep with Malik?”

The bluntness of the question almost knocked the wind out of Kalani’s lungs. Over the decades of their friendship, she had come to know that Julian did not pull any punches when it came to honesty. It should not have shocked her that her best friend would react like this to the revelation of such news. Maybe it was the exasperation and disappointment that she picked up in his tone that made Kalani want to shrivel into herself from shame.

“Lani!” His voice boomed through the car speaker, breaking her train of thought. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.” She mumbled as her hands tightened around the stirring wheel.

“Well, are you going to answer my question or not?”

“It was a moment of weakness okay!” She exclaimed, finally admitting it to herself and to her best friend. “There was always an excuse to get me alone. To discuss the divorce or something about the kids. And he’d just … he would charm me, and I would be reminded of why I fell in love with him in the first place then I’d give in.”

“Tuh.” Julian scoffed. “Talk of the divorce like he’s not trying to distract you from the fact that he has not signed those papers.” He added, the truth causing her shoulder to sag as she leaned back into her seat.

“I know.”

“Baby, I’m not trying to make you upset —.” He sighed, speaking in a much tender tone. But it was too late. The shame that had been brewing in her stomach for so long had bubbled back up her throat.

“I just need you to really think about this. It has been two years since you have asked for the divorce, Malik keeps stalling signing the papers, under the guise of trying to make it work. But we all know that he is still with that bitch. Like he can’t have his cake and eat it too. He doesn’t have any regard for who he’s hurting and that is you and the kids. I need you to be better than your weakness for him. It’s not fair.”

His words were hurtful to hear but Kalani could not argue against them because she knew that they were true. That is why she had decided to begin therapy. She had not slept with Malik in over six months since she had started her therapy session. This round, Kalani had finally shared the truth that she had on tinted with intimacy with her ex-husband despite the separation.

“I KNOW.” Kalani sniffed as her tears threatened to spill over. The tremble in her voice could not be hidden and Julian picked up on it.

“Lani, listen-.”

“Hey, so um — I gotta go. I need to pick up Princess from my aunt’s place.” Kalani quickly spoke out as she rounded the corner into a residential street. “Talk later.”

She did not wait for him to respond as she ended the phone call. Kalani took a deep breath as she put the car into an empty parking spot. She continued to sulk in her seat as the heaviness in her chest had returned. Everything that Julian had said to her were all things that she knew and had known from the first time, she had slept with him after they split.

Stuck in the moment, every time they had done the deed had felt good. In some way, it had felt like she had been reclaiming her power. It felt good to know that in some way, her ex still wanted her. In Kalani’s need to be desired by the man that she was married to for nearly twenty years, she had momentarily lost herself and had forgotten what was important.

The happiness of her children.

So Kalani took in a deep breath and exhaled, wiped away her tears and re-applied her lip gloss. She practised her smile in the rear-view mirror until she was satisfied with a more approachable facial expression. She got out of her car and fixed the legs of her pantsuit before she walked a short distance on the pathway and onto the property.

It did not take any time from her opening the small front gate for the front door to be opened.

“Mummy!” The excited shriek of her young daughter sounded through the air as her little feet carried her as fast as they could towards her. Kalani immediately dent down to her level and opened her arms, waiting for her daughter. She dived into her arms and Kalani could just feel all of that heaviness began to lift away from her heart. As her daughter squeezed her little around her neck, Kalani immediately felt better.

“Hi, my Princess!” She smiled at Tiara. Princess’s little giggles were what she got in response as she pulled back to look into her mother’s eyes.

“I missed you so much, Mummy.”

“I missed you too! Did you enjoy school and time with Auntie Angie?”

“Mhm!” Tiara nodded her head as she played with Kalani’s earrings. “Today, I learnt what a doing word is! And then Auntie Angie baked me a banana cake.”

“The cake is for all of you, not just you baby.” Aunt Angela spoke from behind Tiara which caused Kalani to chuckle as a frown appeared on her little girl’s face.

“Emi doesn’t like banana cake as much as I do!” Tiara exclaimed.

“I know baby. But can we at least save a piece for brother first?”

“Okay.” Her small voice of defeat made Kalani’s heart swoon. She cradled her daughter’s head to her chest as she walked towards the door where Angela had been standing with Tiara’s belongings and the wrapped up banana cake.

“Hi sweetie.” Angela had greeted her as she awkwardly hugged Kalani.

“Hi Auntie.” She replied. It was like she could feel the love outpouring from the embrace. And it took all of her strength to not break down then and there.

“You okay?” Angela asked her. Kalani softly nodded her head, not trusting her words in that moment. She took a deep breath before offering a smile of re-assurance.

“Just need my baby.” Kalani replied. “Thank you for looking after her today.”

“You never have to thank me for that. I love Princess and I love spending time with her.”

After a couple of more minutes of casual conversation, Kalani and Tiara said their goodbyes and then left her aunt’s home. On the journey to pick up Emil, she sang along to the current kid bops that Tiara was currently enjoying. Her daughter filled the car with chatter about what her day at school was and repeated stories of previous adventures. Kalani did not mind at all. Hearing her daughter talk was far more enjoyable than being left with the chaos that was her thoughts.

When they had arrived at the local sports and leisure centre, Kalani noticed that by the outdoor astroturf, there was a larger crowd than there should be for a practice on an early Wednesday evening . She walked hand in hand with Tiara towards the grounds and smiled when she noticed the crowds full of young and old cheering on.

No matter how much Emil had tried to teach her, there were still aspects of the game of football that she would never understand. However, that never changed how much Kalani cheered on Emil and supported him. She knew that he had fallen in love with football due to Malik’s love for the sport, his passion came from within, and Emil had the talent to match. If Emil was willing to play, then Kalani was going to do everything that she could to make sure that he continued to play to his greatest heights.

From where Kalani stood, she could tell that it was an intense game for a practise but neither the Red nor Green sides seemed to care. When Emil touched the ball, he sprinted across the field with incredible of the ball and passing by the red players who were trying to defend. Emil then passed the ball to another green player who was open. This player then quickly shot the ball into the net, scoring the winning goal.

The crowd, including Kalani and Tiara cheered for the green shirts.

The game came to an end and with the crowds beginning to disperse, Tiara shot away from Kalani’s side and ran towards his older brother as she screamed his name. She smiled as she watched Emil pick up his little sister and throw her into the air, catch her and then spin her around.

As she proudly watched the moment, she caught a growing crowd from the corner of her eye. She noticed a man standing in the middle with the biggest smile on his face as he tried to greet every one that was surrounding him. That bright smile with the small tooth gap was the first thing that caught her attention. His twisted strands were in a ponytail, but his sides and beard were nicely trimmed in a way that brought attention to his chiselled facial features. Kalani’s eyes travelled to his large and muscular tatted arms that even with his bronzed, umber complexion, the design of the tattooed sleeves stood out. He was dressed simply, in a black, sleeveless knitted vest and what looked like black trousers. Kalani had spent too much time staring at him for her to notice that his jewellery was expensive and some of it was probably custom made.

As if picking up on her inquisitive eyes, the man looked up and stared right at her. She had never seen such an intense yet sincere pair of eyes that were the smoothest of chocolate brown. Kalani bit her lip in embarrassment at being caught looking when he smiled at her. She quickly averted her gaze to her children, who were walking towards her and tried not to think about why the stranger felt vaguely familiar.

“Hi Mum.” Emil greeted her as he placed Tiara down on her feet before reaching towards her and giving her a sideways hug. Kalani reciprocated the hg and patted his sweat drenched curls.

“Hi baby, you were great out there.” She complimented him which caused him to grin.

“Thank you.” He smiled at her.

“Any particular reason why you guys were playing like it was the finals of the Premier League?”

“Oh! The owner of the centre is here, and we just wanted to impress him I guess.”

“You were out there acting like he’s like a talent scout.” Kalani chuckled.

“He might as well be. He used to be a sportsperson, so he knows a lot of people.”

“Like Mbappa right?”

“Mbappé, Mum. Mbappé.” Emil corrected her with a roll to his eyes.

“Well, whatever his name is.” Kalani shrugged her shoulders and then picked Tiara into her arms. “Anyway, go get your stuff. We need to be home before 8:30.”

For a fraction of a moment, she saw her son’s gleeful demeanour slip. He nodded his head and then jogged away. Kalani watched as he stopped and talked to the same man that she had made eye contact with. The joy in his face was back once more and it eased the tension within her. She was sending them to their fathers’ for the weekend as she needed some time to herself to re-charge before she embarked on a large project at work.

However, Emil had made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with the man that he had once idolised. Emil confessed to enduring the visit for the sake of Tiara, who was still trying to adjust to the separation.

When he came back, they all hurdled into the car and they drove back home, not before stopping for a takeaway pizza collection.

After they had arrived back at their home, Kalani rushed her children to take their evening showers before preparing their bags.

Kalani stayed downstairs as she prepared their dinner. Alongside the pizza, she made a simple arugula salad with cherry tomatoes, feta cheese and a balsamic dressing. Once she had set the table and could finally take a sip of her white wine.

She dreaded the weekends when her children were away. Because it forced her to think. It forced her evaluate every single decision that led to this very moment that she was currently residing in.

Her hatred for Malik increased.

Memories of their past floated in front of her. Her and Malik dancing around the kitchen as they cooked whilst Emil set the kitchen table and Tiara narrating stories from her vivid imagination.

They were so happy.

They were so in love.

Where in the fuck did he ever find the time to cheat on her? She wondered.

That was a question that she never got an answer to. And it was a question, she was afraid of what the answer may be. It just was not something that she was ready to confront. Kalani was left to deal with all of that harbouring anger all alone.

“Mummy look! Me and Emi are matching!” Tiara rushed rushed down the stairs with Emil in tow. When Kalani turned her head towards their direction, a laughter full of elation burst from her when she noted that the duo were indeed matching. Tiara was dressed in a hot pink Nike tracksuit that was a contrast to Emil’s grey one.

“She wasn’t going to wear anything else.” Emil commented as they entered the large kitchen area, approaching the sink to wash their hands.

“That’s okay. Princess just wants to be like her big brother huh.” Kalani smiled as she smoothed her daughter’s hair.

“Yep!” Tiara gave them her dazzling smile. “Except, I don’t like football, and he doesn’t like banana cake!” The little girl stated before her focus shifted to the slices of banana cake on the table. “Ooouuu caaaakkee.”

“Not so fast, young lady!” Kalani spoke up which stopped Tiara in her tracks. “Can you eat some pizza first before the cake?”

“Okay, Mummy.” She pouted as she moved to sit down in her chair by the table. Emil shook his his head as he plated a slice of pizza for himself before sitting down.

They sat in silence as they ate their food, but Kalani could tell from her son’s solemn expression that something was bothering him.

“You okay baby?” She asked him as a worried expression marked her face.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He offered her a smile that she didn’t believe.

“You sure? You know that you can always talk to me, right?”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just -.” Emil stopped talking before he let out a sigh. He then turned his attention to Tiara who was focused on trying to do a cheese pull. “I’m not ready to talk about it.” He concluded.

Kalani swallowed as she tried to not be disappointed with his response. Outside of the pure anger that was palpable whenever his father was mentioned, Emil had concealed his emotions about the divorce from her, always giving her that same answer of not being ready to talk. She had offered for him to go to therapy but he refused, saying that he did not need it.

“I caught him cheating Mum, not killing somebody.” He had said to her after the therapy suggestion. She dropped it then, however as her sessions continued, the more she wanted to push for Emil to go. But she was not going to force his hand. He’d go when he was ready.

“How’s this? When you come back, I’ll take the day off work and break you out of school and we do whatever you want. Just the two of us.”

“I’d like that.” Emil replied as a small smile returned to his face. Kalani reached over and softly pinched his cheek.

“That’s my boy.” She wicked at him.

They finished dinner in a much better mood with Emil updating her on his coming football schedule so that she could make time for it in her diary. And it wasn’t long after they had cleared the table did the doorbell ring.

Kalani glanced over to the clock on the wall. It was 8:40pm.

A cloud of tension suddenly covered the serenity of their home as she realised who was at the front door. Kalani looked at her son, who was already moving to collect Tiara from her position in her play area by the living room.

“Give me five minutes, I need to talk to your father about something.” She said to him. Emil nodded his head.

“Princess come on, gotta make sure that you have all of your toys ready.” He said before picking her up and giving her a piggy-back ride up the stairs which caused her to squeal with each step.

Kalani mentally prepared herself as she dried her hands with a hand towel before she headed to the door.

With one more pep talk, she swung the door open and met her ex-husband with a close-lipped smile with her body blocking the entrance.

Standing shy of 6 foot 2 inches with a rich, tawny complexion, a shaved head and trimmed goatee – Malik was a physically handsome man. At forty-three, he kept himself fit, had an impeccable wardrobe (that she introduced him to) and a gorgeous smile that her daughter inherited. Full lips with slick words that could charm the pants off a recluse. She would know, they’d been working on her for close to two decades.

“Hi Lani.” He smiled down at her.

“Hi Malik.” Her tone was curt, which caused his cheeky expression to slip by minor fraction, but she caught it.

“How are you?” He asked. “You look beautiful as ever.” He complimented her, trying to work his charm as he had done so many times before.

It wasn’t going to work this time.

“Thanks.” She narrowed her eyes before she moved to step outside. She drew the door close and left it slightly agar.

“I need to talk to talk to you about something.”

“Are the kids okay?” He worried.

“They’re as fine as they can be. But that’s not what I want to talk about.”

“Then what?”

“When are you going to sign the papers, Malik? You’ve been putting them off for far too long now.”

“What do you mean sign?” He frowned in confusion. “I thought that we were taking this time to figure things out.”

“What things?!” Kalani sternly exclaimed in a hushed voice. “You refused couple’s counselling. Emil doesn’t want therapy and wont talk to me about it. Tiara thinks you’re working on a big project at work because she doesn’t understand that we’re separated.” As the words spat out of her mouth, the angrier she became. “Let’s not fucking forget, that little girlfriend of yours is still around and you thought that I didn’t know about it.”

“She’s not Kalani!” Malik quickly tried to shut down her accusation.

“Oh please!” She scoffed as she looked at him up and down in disgust. “Her perfume is lingering on you right now. I should know, I was washing it off for years!” She hissed.

Kalani watched as Malik tried to sniff his clothes and that disgusted her even more as she could see the gears in his mind churning up an excuse.

“Listen, it’s not like that.” He began to say.

“I don’t give a shit what it’s like. I want those divorce paper signed and delivered to my office by Monday. If not then no more nice Kalani, I’ve put up with your shit for too long.”

Without giving Malik a chance to reply, she opened the door just as she picked up on the patter of feet rushing down the stairs. Tiara zoomed past her and dove into her father’s legs, hugging them.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” She chanted, bouncing with excitement. Malik picked her up into his arms and gave him one of his practised smiles as he peppered her face with kisses.

“My gorgeous girl! You’re getting so big!” He said which caused Tiara to grin.

“Look! My tooth fell out and the tooth fairy gave me one pound and Mummy told me to add it to my piggy bank!”

“Oh, that’s so awesome Princess!”

“When all my teeth fall out, I’m gonna be rich!”

“Oh, I bet!” Malik tickled her sides which caused another high-pitched squeal to leave Tiara. In all of her rage, it was the joy of her daughter that mattered to her. Emil trotted to her side, holding their weekend bags.

“You got everything baby?” She asked him. He nodded his head.

She hated having to send him with his father, but she did not trust Malik to care for Tiara without Emil’s assistance. She brought in her son for a tight hug and kissed the side of his head. “It’s just two days and you’ll be back.”

Emil sighed at those words before nodding his head. “Bye Mum.” He mumbled before he kissed her cheek and walked past Malik without acknowledging him. She could see that Malik was trying to not let that get to him but kept a brave face for Tiara. It may be horrible to admit but it felt nice to know that there was one more person who hated his guts the way she did.

‘Right, Princess, you’re going to be on our best behaviour for your father, okay?” Kalani said to Tiara.

“Mhm.” Tiara nodded her head before Kalani placed a kiss on her forehead.

“We’ll talk about what we talked about later.” Malik glared at her.

“Unless it’s about that signature, then we have nothing to talk about.” She glared back.

Kalani waved goodbye to her children as Malik drove away. Once she shut her front door, she let out the biggest sigh of relief as her body relaxed. She had not realised just how tense she had been in the minutes Malik was here.

It had felt like hours.

With her body on autopilot, Kalani finished cleaning up the kitchen and packing away Tiara’s toys before she grabbed her bottles of wine, forgoing the glass and dragged her body up the stairs to her bedroom. As she prepared for her evening bath, she put her favourite playlist on and danced to the music as she stripped down to her bathing suit.

Once her tub was full of hot water and bubbles, she sank down, laying down her head on the towel. She took a large gulp of her wine and get the bottle down.

With only the sultry voice of Sadé as solace, Kalani let her walls down and cried to her hearts content.

reading list: @queenshikongo3 @dhlfastestlap @saintslewis @serpenttines-library @saturnville @hopefulromantic1 @cocobutterqwueen @bluesole16 @chaneajoyyy @emjayewrites @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @sapphireheaven @olyvoyl @lewisroscoelove @lh44adore @hellomadamebutterfly @scorpiobleue @laneywrld @qveenmelanink @tremendousstarlighttragedy @bekindbecoolbeyou @greedyjudge2 @itsapurrfectstorm @createdbylivingclocks @omgsuperstarg @peyiswriting @miyuhpapayuh @blowmymbackout @purplelewlew @henneseyhoe @perfecttrashface @alianovnaromanovanatalia @leilaxaliel @hotfudgeslug @iamryanl @pickingupmymercedes @eleetalks @ambs-06 @annisassintchaska @boujiestpoet @nayaesworld @nat-lh-44

#mauvecherie writes #the kaleidoscope theory:series #lewis hamilton x black oc #lewis hamilton x oc #lewis hamilton x black reader #lewis hamilton x black!reader #lewis hamilton au #lewis hamilton angst #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton fanfic #sir lewis hamilton fanfiction #sir lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fic #lewis hamilton x yn #lewis hamilton x y/n #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton #sir lewis hamilton #lh

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undying-love · 10 months ago

Note

Hi!! Could you make a compilation of all the times their relationship is compared to a marriage (or something similar), either by them or by people close to them?

"Marriage", "love affair", "girlfriend", "wife", etc: A Compilation

“I think it was like he was married to Paul. And now he was married to me so it was like a situation that he didn’t feel like he wanted to go back." (Yoko Ono)

"Why this odd little Japanese lady? The reason, many people believed, was that more than a trophy wife, a model or an actress, John needed a chum. His love affair with Paul McCartney was ending." (Peter Brown)

“That’s very hard to delve into. They were great friends, and had great mutual respect, but they were also quite different from one another. I don’t know. Human relationships are tough to analyze. It’s like trying to talk about someone else’s marriage.” (Peter Asher)

“I still think at the back of John’s mind was this fascination of wanting to get back with the first girlfriend... and that was to get back with Paul, who he had so much history with.” (Tony Barrow)

"It's like a marriage. These two broke up. And it took Paul a long time to get over it. John too, but he was just too macho to show it. But they had a marriage before Yoko arrived, although they both had girlfriends before." (Ray Connolly)

"It [Mick and Keith's relationship] had all the irrationally and passion of a love affair. Lennon and McCartney had a similar bond between them." (Marianne Faithfull)

"Paul and John kind of knew that they were growing apart, and Let It Be was almost like a marriage that’s failing, and they wanna go on their date nights again" (Giles Martin)

"There’s no hard feelings or anything, but you just don’t hang around with your ex-wife. We’ve completely finished." (Paul)

"Then also we were like married, so you got the bitterness. It’s not a woman scorned this time, it’s two men scorned — probably even worse. And I had to make way for Yoko. My relationship with John could not have remained as it was and Yoko feel secure.” (Paul)

"It was as if I was another girlfriend, almost. Our relationship was a strong relationship. And if he was to start a new relationship [with Yoko], he had to put this other one away." (Paul)

"I've compared to a marriage a million times and I hope it's… understandable. For people that aren't married. Or any relationship. It was a LONG relationship." (John)

"With Yoko present, Paul's reign as Lennon's princess was doomed."(Peter McCabe)

"In a marriage, or a love affair...there comes a point where the marriage collapses because they can’t face that reality, and they go seeking what they thought they should be having, still, somewhere else. I get a new girl, it’ll all be like that again; I get a new boy… But for all marriages, all couples, it’ll all be the same again. But what you lose is what you put into that… relationship." (John)

"..an old, estranged fiancée of mine called Paul." (John)

"Paul and John were emotional partners in a powerful, creative and loving way." (Paul Saltzman)

"Julian and Sean had lost a father; Cynthia, her knight in shining armour; Yoko, a fellow artist, contemporary and house husband … and Paul? Well, call me crazy, but he lost the wife. I’m certainly not implying anything of a carnal nature here, but to almost all intents and purposes (as John would have put it), what they had was a marriage.” (Ruth Mccartney)

"When John and Paul split up (think of them as a couple for a moment) their second mates had to stand by them." (Francie Schwartz)

"For a reason to hold a grudge [against Yoko], think about the possibility of this: She took John from him. And she didn't particularly want to share John with his "ex significant other" on certain levels." (Francie Schwartz)

#mclennon #compilation #pretty much everyone said it

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luciacaminoz · 3 months ago

Note

for the kiss prompt. trail or shoulder pretty, please, if you haven't gotten one of them yet

Cicatrix (2.2k, nsfw)

March 2021

Julian’s always tasted like tonguing a live wire.

The hacienda crouches like a gutshot animal, bones aching, in northern Nuevo León’s Great Plains.

Cracked adobe walls are bleached silver under the new moon, terracotta roof tiles shattered by cartel gunfire, the courtyard trashed and overgrown. A tiny outbuilding is in the process of caving in on itself, periodically huffs rust-colored stucco dust up into the blue night air. Two fountains dry-choke on bougainvillea and sun-baked snakeskin across the way; meters more from that, Elena finishes securing a tarp over the Camaro and Datsun, lit Marlboro dangling between her lips.

Inside the villa smells of moldering drapes, rat piss, bat shit, the cloying rot of marigolds left too long in a crypt, and Kindred barbecue.

There’d been a cell of SI keeping eyes on the US side of the Laredo borderplex, DAAE heavy all up and down on the Mexican—a dragonsbreath round had kissed the meat high on Julian’s left shoulder, shredding tacky guayabera into ashen lace, holy fire cooking flesh to sinew within seconds.

Vitae crusts the gape now, hours later, like molten obsidian. It’s a cratered mess of blackened tissue, bone shards, winking buckshot. Blood bubbles where blisters have peeled back at the edges, muscle fibers knitting and unknitting grotesquely in real time.

Faith’s a bitch when it’s seared into your spine.

Nadia’s voice crackles over the comm:

“Perimeter’s clear, for now. No drones. SI’s still chasing ghosts in Laredo.”

Julian strains to keep his voice steady.

“And the DAAE fuckers? They had to be waiting for someone with a line-up like that. Ping the Denver hub. Tell them we need satellite thermal of—“

“Already done,” she says. “I’m watching the feed. Elena’s going to rig motion sensors at the entrance too. Then—” A pause; mumbling in the background. “Oh. She said you owe her tacos.”

“Put it—fuck, Sol, gentle! Look, if we get to Monterrey in one piece I’ll buy you and Elena a fucking buffet every night we’re there, Nads—each. Just keep me posted if you see anything. Closing comms.”

Sol’s nails—precise, claw-sharp, but not yet fully distended—pluck another phosphorus fragment free. Smoke mixes with the scent of scorched-copper sweat. She works methodically, scraping holy rot from muscle, tendon, the jagged gap where his scapula should be. Julian’s knuckles bleach. Her left hand’s poised infinite with a pair of surgical tweezers, ready once the bulk of the larger debris is finally dislodged.

“Fuck,” Julian hisses. His face presses rigid against the moth-eaten chaise. He’s sweat-slick and shirtless and sickly, lying flat on his stomach, Sol sitting solid on his back. Her thighs bracket his sides, keeping him mostly still as she leans over the wound, penlight between her teeth, but he trembles like a kitten beneath her.

Looming behind are two portraits of a dead hacendado’s family, faces scratched out, one riddled with bullet holes. This room is mostly bare otherwise, apart from a termite-split side table, scattered shell casings, smashed liquor bottles, and the chaise.

A small effigy of Christ crucified, plucked from the chapel, leans crooked at the far wall, thorn rusted to scabs on his brow, plaster ribs cracked open. Chicken wire cradles a fat black kingsnake in His chest. Some fuck sprayed ¡Viva la Muerte! across the talavera wallpaper.

“One more,” she says. It’s mumbled around the plastic in her mouth. It’s also a lie—there’s at least three that she can see, cruel and glittering.

She pries out a dense shard of silver-coated fletchette engraved with Psalm 91; tosses it onto the floor with a plink. Julian’s fingers dig into the guts of the upholstery, tearing at rancid stuffing, fangs punching through his bottom lip to stay quiet.

His skin sizzles like bacon grease.

She winces.

“…Two more.”

“Oh my god, fuck you, Sol.” He’s half-laughing, half-crying, eyes rimmed red.

His muscles twitch and spasm wherever she touches—shock or hunger, probably both. Part of the shoulder continues to blister and knit, blister and knit, over and over, curse fighting consecration. The skin on his back’s fever-hot, thrumming with the effort of Blood-forced regeneration.

Her claws retract with a snickt. She flexes her fingers, then the tweezers, then removes the penlight.

“You’re lucky they couldn’t aim. A few more inches and this would’ve severed your neck. Shit. Can’t grow back a head—especially not one as big as yours.”

He mimics her voice, pitch-perfect:

“Oh Julian, who’ll fuck me through server racks now—”

She flicks his ear.

Next shard’s lodged deep in the posterior deltoid. Sol worms it loose with the tweezers, trying to ignore how his groans hitch. Her free hand braces his hip, thumb brushing the jut of bone.

“Almost.” She says it softer than she intended.

Another short tug and the shard pops free. Julian sags, panting and babbling.

“Fuck the SI,” he rasps. “Fuck their… fucking mall ninja… holy hand grenade bullshit—fuck, Sol, I’m not even Christian—”

“Shh.” She keeps drawing circles on his hip, soothing him a moment between torture.

The snake uncoils, sinuous, tongue flicking when she drops sanctified shrapnel to the saltillo tiles. Sol watches it, then Julian’s wound.

His back gleams moon-pale under the gore—taut, silk-smooth, untouched by time or sun. The rest of him is all soft, milky skin; lean frame, corded muscle, a slight dusting of babyfat that stayed into his mid-twenties. He’s perfectly unscarred, she knows, except for an old dog bite on his right thigh when he was a ten year old in ‘79.

Sol traces the wound’s ridged edges.

Julian turns his head, cheek pressed to grubby velvet.

“You’re shaking. Want me to hold the tweezers?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Cállate,” she snaps.

Julian grins, all teeth, clumsy fangs.

“Say that again.”

“Cállate la boca.”

He closes his eyes and faux-moans theatrically.

“Now say it dirty.”

She doesn’t. Instead, her mouth finds his cheek, his jaw, the strip of neck just under his ear, her nose brushing piercings—trailing featherlight kisses that make him still.

“Last one,” she murmurs.

The final fragment glints near his spine—jagged, thumb-sized. She braces one hand on his lower back.

"Do your worst."

"Bite down, princeso."

"On wha—”

She rips it out.

Julian's snarl shakes dust from the rafters, the chaise, Sol on top of him. His veins stand ropey—the tendons in his hands could cut fucking glass. Then he chokes a gasp, body falling limp, sweat beading at the corners of his jaw.

The kingsnake tenses where it’s begun curling around Christ's neck.

"Fuck. That one was deep.” His voice shakes.

Sol inspects her handiwork, chest flat against his back—up this close, the wound pulses heat like a second mouth. His insides aren’t actively cooking anymore, at least.

Her tongue flicks a swollen vein on impulse. Julian's hips jerk, a wet sound punching out of him.

Sol hesitates—then gouges into her tongue.

Her own vitae oozes syrupy thick onto the crater and she spreads it along, lapping around bitter, burnt edges.

“Sol—” Julian arches, spine bowing.

It isn’t healing, not really, but it clots the worst of what she’s torn out, sealing capillaries, cleaning tissue, puckering skin—a small stop-gap for Blood and Curse stitching meat and flesh stop-motion later, once Julian has properly fed.

Fuck, it tastes like ash and battery acid. Sol gags twice, but she’s spent a decade controlling the compulsion to purge. She spits a wad of black viscera onto the floor. Charred fibers squirm like maggots.

Again, her tongue drags vitae up the seared canyon of his shoulder, tender. Julian's good arm reaches back until he grips her thigh. His hips are grinding into the chaise, cock trapped against velvet, a low whine building in his chest.

"Solona—"

She continues wordlessly; her lips brush a half-healed tendon, but her hand slips beneath his weight, slides under his waistband, snakes between his legs. She palms him in time with her mouth mapping ruin.

Julian’s head drops forward. The noise he makes is obscene, rattling loose in his throat. She tightens her thighs around him.

The kingsnake watches, unblinking.

At the deepest fissure, Sol sucks—gently—until his own blood runs sleek; just vitae, just him; ozone-sharp, monsoon-rush; charged-manic-overclocked.

Julian’s always tasted like tonguing a live wire.

A whimper escapes him when she grasps tighter, strokes faster. His hips stutter, fucking up into her fist with a broken rhythm.

Sol’s mouth doesn’t leave his wound—she laps like something starved.

The kingsnake coils tighter around Christ’s throat, eyes reflecting the glow of the penlight where it’s rolled to the floor. Its tongue flicks, tasting the air.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck—Solona, please—” Julian’s voice cracks, high and desperate. His fingers dig into her thigh. “I can’t—I can’t fucking think—”

Aila’s gone, but the memory of tearing into her—the Elder’s vitae cold, clumped, thick as tar, bitter as bile; the hint of sumac and soaring—

Sol pulls herself back from drinking—barely.

Her fangs are suddenly uncomfortably large. She feels dazed; hand on autopilot as she unlatches and stares down at his shoulder. It’s still a fucking mess—spiderwebbing black—but the edges are angry, glistening, pink—no longer smoking and sloughing away.

Her thumb swipes over the head of his cock, smearing vitae-slick down the shaft. She presses her stained lips to the shell of his ear.

“All this big talk about collapsing the Masquerade, and you’re gonna come in your pants like a fucking teenager?”

Julian’s laugh is half-choked.

“Fuck—you’re evil—”

She twists her wrist, nails scraping lightly along his balls, and his hips slam into the chaise hard enough to splinter the frame.

She can feel his orgasm building—the way his cock jumps, the way his thighs tremble, the strangled whines he’s biting into rotten velvet.

The kingsnake—Chisme, Sol has idly named it—drops from the effigy with a soft thud.

“Sol, wait—wait—”

Her teeth close on his earlobe, sharp but not breaking skin. She sucks—hard.

Julian comes undone hot in her hand with a punched-out moan. She pumps him slow through it, thumb caressing his tip.

The hacienda breathes for them—rotted wood creaking, Chisme’s scales rasping over split saltillo.

When she finally releases him his hips jerk once, sensitive. Sol sits back and licks her fingers.

Julian lies boneless under her weight, face buried in the chaise.

She can’t help herself:

“You’re welcome.”

He huffs, stirring dust motes.

“Oh, for the half-dead hand job? Yeah, gracias mamacita.”

Sol actually laughs, bright and real and unguarded, as she shifts off of him.

Julian rolls onto his good side, sitting up with a wince, then drags a hand down his face. He’s grey-limned, pupils blown black and glassy with pain and hunger, but he’s smiling.

“Worst time and place to do it, too. Fucking… Splinter Cell level.”

“Someone needs to keep you humble these nights.” She holds a lukewarm O-neg against his lips. “Drink.”

He does, greedily, throat bobbing, wild eyes never leaving hers as she stands between his thighs. Her pinky brushes a thin trail of blood at his chin; Julian suppresses a shiver.

Once he drains it, she tosses it aside.

Chisme strikes towards the wrinkled plastic—and Sol immediately changes her mind.

“No,” she snaps, bolting to flick the snake’s snout. It recoils, hissing, and she bares her own fangs until it retreats.

Julian’s grinning while he watches her snatch up the empty bag and shove it back into the kit for decidedly later disposal. He chews his lip, fangs still sharp; looks like he’s about to say something… but then he shakes his head, black hair falling over his eyes.

His hair’s a disaster, by the way.

Sol pulls baby wipes, a change of clothes from the duffel—throws them at him. She takes the gauze and begins wrapping his shoulder in the meantime. Lupine country isn’t the place to heal agg.

His skin’s cooler now. She ignores the relief that brings.

“The safehouse is about an hour away—just inside Monterrey,” he says, more to fill the silence. “Small underground server farm we can run ops from for weeks. Cold storage. Even a jacuzzi.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Nope. Rented an apartment in the city for scouting, too.”

She snorts. Ties off the bandage.

“Monterrey’s got a night market. We could hit it after the bunker. Get churros. Sneak into a lucha libre match.”

“We’re not tourists, Julian.”

“We could pretend.”

Sol pauses.

He catches her wrist, thumb circling the scorpion tattoo.

Elena stomps in.

Julian doesn’t let go.

“Hey, we need—” Elena looks at Julian. “Jesus, put a shirt on, Zuckerberg.” Back to Sol. “We need to get moving—two DAAE SUVs headed this way, ETA forty minutes.”

“Shit. Give us five.”

“I’ll prep the cars. Again. Hurry, fuckers.”

Julian laughs a little, stirring Sol’s baby hairs.

She moves away to start gathering whatever she can find back into the kit—gauze, tweezers, penlight, the most intact piece of shrapnel in a ziploc bag. Julian’s already on the comms ordering Nadia to reroute signals. Sol grabs a baby wipe from his pack and scrubs her face.

Once they’re packed and Julian’s dressed, he shrugs on his go-bag, hissing when the strap bites his wound. Sol steps close, adjusting the weight slightly.

“Thanks,” he says softly. He presses their foreheads together. “And thank you. For… earlier. For being here.”

It hangs between them, frail and awkward. Julian never thanks. Not even after all the bullshit in Tucson. Julian asks: what do you want, kid?—transactional; gratitude deployed like a phishing scam.

She doesn’t respond.

She fists his new shirt, pulling him into a hug—too desperate, grasping. He stiffens, then arms circle her waist. He dips slightly, turns his face against her cheek; lips graze her scar, trailing it mouth to ear. Her nose brushes his ruined shoulder.

She kisses him there, once.

That already says too much.

[ previous prompts ]

#jez writing #vtm #vtm night road #throwing this to the wind now. ty jax <3 #julian sim #oc: soledad #x: exit wounds #st: new game+

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azeternasims · 1 year ago

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pride hair overlays!

happy pride month! if clothes and accessories aren't enough, here are some overlays for your blorbs to show their pride in their hair!

there are three sets of overlays (full, split and peekaboo) for @raccoonium's shaded textures, including all their newer hairstyles and all of mine! each one has a long and a short version, so the flag doesn't get cut off on short hairs.

and also, two sets of shaved sides textures for undercuts and mohawks! one version layers over the hair's scalp texture and one under it, they both have their ups and downs so try them both out. the texture is based on @simandy's Julian hair, so thanks to both of you for the generous tou!

the slots are the same as Raccoonium's and my existing overlays, the occult slots require CASUnlocks to use on human sims: ~ full head: occult eye socket ~ split: acne ~ peekaboo: occult eye lid or face scar ~ sides: occult mouth or face mole you don't get anything out of layering them, but if you want both versions of peekaboo/sides to avoid conflicts there are merged versions of both with a smaller file size too.

download: sfs ~ drive ~ tou

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

#ts4cc #ts4 hair overlay #ts4 pride #s4cc #s4mm

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heavens-crown · 3 months ago

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And They Were Neighbors Pt.12

Master List

Warnings: 18+, overbearing family, some angst, whole lotta fluff

Tag List: @starkgaryan @gabsgabsvaz @happyfestpanda-blog @gothgirl13

prev / next

A/N: If you want to be added to the tag list either comment down below or DM me!

Robby watched in amusement as Delilah argued with her Uncles about where she would be staying. They had shown up after she got her CT and Xrays back, besides a broken nose she was fine and able to leave. Each of them insisted she should stay with them, not even entertaining the idea of her staying with Robby. Which he probably should have found insulting.

“Ok I’m done here. I will be going home with my boyfriend, not either one of you.” Delilah declared, standing from the bed pulling on the clothes Cherry had brought her. All three men glared at their niece as she finished dressing.

“Your boyfriend?” Tom asks. Robby realizes then that they didn’t even notice that he was in the room. Delilah just stared at her uncles for the briefest moment before turning to Robby.

“Get me out of here,” she said quietly. Suppressing a laugh he stood up and placed his hand on her back leading her from the room. Cherry was sitting in the hallway and when she saw them leaving she popped out her chair taking up the spot on Delilah’s other side.

“I was wondering how long it’d take your uncles to realize Robby was in there,” she snickered. Cherry was almost the complete opposite of Delilah. With waist length black hair and blue eyes she was a beautiful woman. She was also about 5’8 and didn’t have any visible tattoos or piercings, which made sense since Delilah had mentioned she was a pediatric ICU nurse.

“Honestly they’re all children in men's bodies,” Delilah grumbled. “Do you still want to stay in the apartment? If not, we got a spare room in our place.” It made Robby happy that she claimed his apartment as theirs. Cherry just gave her an exasperated look.

“Girl i love you but I’ll be fine in your old apartment. Besides, your Aunt Sammi texted me to let me know she cleaned up the living room and stuff in case you wanted to go back there tonight.” She said effectively ending the conversation. Robby waved goodbye to his coworkers so they could head home for the night.

They had been home for maybe thirty minutes when knocks sounded at the door. Cherry opened the door to what Robby assumed was her entire family. As they all fussed over Delilah one of the younger men, who he assumed was her cousin, came over to Robby.

“Hey man it’s nice to meet you. I’m Robert.” He introduced himself, holding a hand out for Robby to shake.

“Nice to meet you too, I’m Michael Robinavitch but most people call me Robby.” The two men stood to the side as more of her cousins split off leaving their parents to fuss.

“Let me introduce you to everyone Robby,” Robert said. He pointed to each person gathered near them. “That’s Nick, he’s the oldest of us cousins. Next to him is my younger brother Sam. The twins are Dean and Ron. and last but not least is Julian.” They all shook his hands offering their own pleasantries.

“I’d say it's nice to finally meet you but we just found out Lilah had a boyfriend when dad blew a gasket over her not staying with us,” Dean chuckled. Robby smiled ruefully rubbing the back of his neck.

“We’ve only been dating for about three weeks now,” He admitted, stealing a glance over to Delilah who was arguing with her Aunt Mary. “How's your grandmother doing?” Robby asked. It was Julian who answered.

“She’s doing great, she hasn’t had another fall since she was last in the hospital.” He answered. Hearing voices raise, Robby looked over and saw that Delilah was getting angrier. Deciding now was a good time to intervene he excused himself from the cousins and walked over to her.

“I am not a child, Mary,” Delilah said firmly. “I am fully capable of making my own decisions, like where I live or who I decide to fuck.” Robby shook his head at her choice of words but didn’t interrupt her. Mary was a stern looking woman who just shook her head dismissing Delilah.

“Honestly Delilah, how can we trust your choice in men? Look at what happened with Spencer-” Before Mary could finish her sentence Robby stepped in.

“Ok that's it. All of you need to go. If you want to see Delilah you can set up a time to see her later.” Robby’s voice was firm. They all just stared at him like he had three heads.

“Who do you think you are?” Mary snapped. Feeling his temper rise Robby had to watch his tone as he responded.

“I am her boyfriend. You are a guest in our apartment and if you can’t respect either of us then all of you can leave,” Robby said. “Now.” His tone held no room for argument and slowly her family trickled out of the apartment. Her cousins clapped him on the shoulder quietly telling him good job, and giving Delilah a quick hug before following their parents from the room. When the door finally clicked shut he exhaled roughly and turned to face her. She was looking up at him in awe.

“No one has ever defended me like that,” She murmured. Raising an eyebrow, Robby pushed her toward the couch kissing her forehead once she had sat down.

“That's what I'm here for right?” He said. “I need to call Gloria and let her know I need a few days off. Sit here with Cherry and I’ll be right back.”

Delilah and Cherry watched as he walked into the bedroom, once the door shut behind him with a soft click Cherry turned on her with a raised eyebrow.

“I’ve never seen someone handle your family like that,” She chuckled. “I can’t wait for your grandma to tear them all a new asshole.” Delilah groaned, leaning her back against the couch.

“I can't believe she said that,” Delilah mumbled. Hearing Cherry snort she picked her head up to shoot a questioning look at her friend. “What?” Cherry shook her head while taking a drink from her water tumbler.

“I totally can. Mary’s always been a cunt to you. Granted I don’t know why she’s like that but it's clear she’s got some kind of issue regarding you,” Cherry explained. “Didn’t she also not get along with your mom?”

“Her and my mom hated each other,” Delilah chuckled. “There was one christmas that Mary called me a spoiled little bitch and as a result her and mom got into a fist fight.” Cherry tipped her head back laughing. Delilah felt a mix of sadness and happiness when thinking of her mom. It’d been eleven years since they died but thinking of their deaths even now still made her chest ache.

“So tell me more about Robby,” Cherry changed the subject. “Does he have any single friends?”

The two women sat there chatting for a little while longer, eventually rejoined by Robby who fussed over Delilah. Normally she hated being fussed over, it made her feel like a child. With Robby though she liked it, he didn’t infantize her at all. At some point Cherry says her goodbyes and heads over to Delilah's old apartment. They’re curled up together in bed when Delilah decides to break the comfortable silence.

“Thank you for getting my family out of here,” She says softly. “If you hadn’t they would’ve never left.” Robby presses a soft kiss to her temple, tightening his hold on her.

“It’s not an issue baby,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t about to stand there and let them get away with talking to you like that.” Delilah hums not answering. They lapse again into the comfortable silence, a random HGTV show playing across the tv screen. Eventually Delilah falls asleep, her breaths evening out.

Robby can hear his phone ding on the nightstand. Grabbing it he checks to see who it is.

[Jake: So when do i get to meet your new girlfriend?]

[Jack: I’m going to strangle one of these med students sooner or later.]

Snorting quietly Robby shoots off replies to them before turning his phone off. Once his phone is back on the night stand he settles back into bed and eventually drifts off to sleep keeping Delilah close.

#michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch #dr robby #fanfiction

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critterpede · 1 month ago

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It is time

THE LAND OF LIGHTS AND MOROI LORE DROP (plus bonus zgriptor info)

First, the land of lights

So, the crystals are alive, in a sense. It's kinda like a hivemind. They are able to take control of other creatures, when this happens there are two types of control.

Independent. A crystal “spore” lands on a host , once the spores sprout the host becomes a part of the hive mind. This is what Rudy and the Moroi are.

Controlled. Once a host has grown enough crystals on itself to spare a few, it can break a piece off, crush it into a fine powder and use it to “stank” people (still need a name for this world's version of stank). Then at this point it follows canon rules, though when someone is stanked crystals will form on whatever object they are attached to (if its a non physical attachment like a feeling or another human the crystals will form on the stanked victim), and destroying the crystals is enough to destank (non physical attachment will take other means to destanks).

The labyrinth is a sort of pocket dimension in the land of light, a huge labyrinth with walls made of crystals. When someone becomes a independent host they don’t instantly get taken over, their body sorta splits in two, the og and a sort of “evil ghost” (aka the equivalent of what ghoulian is) thought instead of being two separate beings and the evil one trying to replace the og the evil ghost possesses the og and then og becomes the ghost. The ghost will appear in the labyrinth and is able to communicate through reflective surfaces like the show. Whenever someone is stanked a clone of the monster appears in the labyrinth and remains until the og person is destanked. (Sorry if i explained this kinda badly aksdnajncs)

Next the Moroi

The vampires sorcerer, the Moroi. The sorcerer, the sorceress and first ninja are in a three way swap, the sorceress takes finjas place, finja takes sorcerer's place, sorcerer takes sorceress’ place. I’ll repeat some previously revealed info but, the three of them were vampires living in northern England, until their vampire clan was discovered and raided by vampire hunters. The three snuck on a ship to America pretending to be humans alongside a bunch of stuff they managed to take with them from the clan, which might have included some stuff only the highest ranking in the clan could see. One of the ancient vampire artifacts they found was a book titled the “Necronomicon”, it was filled with hundreds of spells and vampire powers the three haven’t even heard of before.

One spell in particular catches the eye of Phillip (aka finja, name might be subject to change), a spell to open a portal to another dimension. He was absolutely fascinated with the thing and he convinced the others to do it. Once they managed to open the portal red and black ribbons emerged out and started pulling Phillip and Soloman (aka the sorcerer, again name subject to change) slowly in, Nori (aka the sorceress) managed to close the portal before they were pulled in, but it was too late and the spores had already landed on Phillip and Soloman. The two were incredibly powerful once becoming hosts and Nori knew of only one way to stop them, she used a ritual in the necronomicon to seal all three of their vampirism inside a brooch. Now with the power of three whole vampires she managed to defeat the two, and yeah if u know canon u know what happens next. After they were sealed away Nori took the necronomicon and sorta “made it her own” and locked away all the bad parts like the portal spell.

Also Norrisville is named after Nori.

And lastly, extra zgriptor info

The tengus main thing is fire, while the zgriptors main thing is visions. During it and vampires fight it disorientates him with visions and illusions and once it's defeated and Julian regains the brooch he receives the power of future vision. In rc9gn a lot of the conflict is caused by Randy’s absolute dumbassery, while in js9gv a lot of the conflict is caused by Julian’s paranoia over his visions. He can mostly control when he receives these visions though sometimes they just yeet themselves forcefully inside his head and at most they go like a week into the future.

Feel free to give suggestions for names, for like the stank n Phillip n soloman

#yes I swapped the rat and plop plop #js9gv #Julian swan 9th grade vampire #rc9gn #rc9gn au #randy cunningham 9th grade ninja #first ninja #the sorceress #the sorcerer #theresa fowler #swap au #art

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alatusperegrinus · 7 months ago

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Julian (Mobile Legends: Bang Bang) x Reader Smut

Virgin!Julian, Aged-up!Julian, Overstimulation, Aquaintances-Friends-Lovers (in just two chapters), Female on top, Female reader, Marksman!Reader

Words: 5,772

—

You were Melissa's friend from your line of work as a marksman-for-hire. That's when you became friends with Yin, Xavier, and Julian.

Julian. Julian's a different story.

Julian caught your eye the first time you saw him. He's just there, shy and quiet, yet has a very strong aura (and a handsome mien). He would leave immediately when he didn't want to join with the others fooling around.

You've saw him cleaning up his weapon in the living room, or doing his daily training outside the training grounds.

One time he came back home with minimal injuries. And you, the only person left in there (because Melissa told you to stay), offered to help and patch up Julian's injuries, in which he didn't get to deny because you already rushed to him with your medical kit.

Your interactions with Julian were somewhat limited, and wordless. And it's okay, you respect his boundaries after all. Sometimes you just wish to be able to have a conversation with him.

Until the next day.

You were training with Yin outside when Julian exited their shared home (or headquarters), he noticed you and Yin sparring, clearly seeing and believing that your skills were almost on par with Yin. Julian observed your sparring session with a critical eye, noting your technique and skill level. After a few moments, he approaches you two.

"You're improving, (name). But your stance needs work. Here..."

He moved behind you and adjusted your posture with his firm hands, standing close to you. "Like this. Keep your weight balanced and centered. It'll make you harder to knock off-balance in a real fight."

His touch lingered a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back, red eyes intense as they met yours. "Any questions about form or technique? I can show you some advanced maneuvers if you think you can handle them."

Your eyes widened for a split second, as Yin stared at the two of you with a knowing smile. This was the first time Julian had come up to you and talk.

"Ah," you nodded, "this feels much better. Thank you, Julian." You smiled at him. "I gladly take up your offer to teach me advanced moves."

Julian held your gaze a beat longer, something unreadable flickered in his crimson eyes before he looked away.

"Alright. Meet me at dawn tomorrow in the training yard. Don't be late."

He turned to leave, but paused and glanced back over his shoulder. "And (name)... good work today. Keep pushing yourself."

With that rare compliment, he strided off towards the headquarters, leaving you standing there with Yin's amused grin and the lingering warmth of his touch on your body.

Time passed, and it's already the dawn of the day you were going to meet and train with Julian. You were in time when you arrived and he was already there.

"Hello, Julian. Thank you for agreeing to meet me," you greeted with a kind smile.

Julian stood motionless as you approached, his red eyes cutting through the early morning mist to fix on you. He nodded once in acknowledgment of your greeting.

"Dawn training. As agreed." His voice was low and steady, betraying no hint of enthusiasm or reluctance. "We'll start with footwork drills to improve your agility and balance. Then move on to more complex attack sequences."

He began circling you slowly, assessing your stance and posture with a critical eye. "Remember, in battle, every movement must serve a purpose. Waste no energy on unnecessary motions."

Suddenly, he lunged forward, moving with blinding speed. His hand shoots out, stopping just short of your throat. "Anticipate. React. That's the key to survival. Now you try. Attack me."

With stealth, light and relaxed movements, you sent a series of attacks in Julian's direction.

Julian dodged and deflected your attacks with fluid grace, his movements precise and economical. He counterd each strike effortlessly, his gloved hand a blur as it weaved a defensive pattern around him.

"Good. Your reflexes are sharp. But you telegraph your intentions." He suddenly gripped your wrist, twisting just shy of painful. "An experienced fighter will read these tells and exploit them."

Releasing you, he stepped back and assumed a ready stance. "Again. This time, focus on hiding your true target. Mislead your opponent with feints and false openings."

His crimson eyes bore into yours, intense and unwavering. "Show me you can adapt. Prove you have the discipline to master deception. Because in our line of work, hesitation... indecision... they get you killed."

You nodded, every word ingrained in you. You quickly adapted to his instructions. Still calm in your demeanor, confident, and light in your movements, you attacked and evaded Julian's movements. There were times that Julian landed a hit on you, yet you showed no reaction to the pain.

Julian watched you intently as you adapt your technique, nodding slightly in approval at your improved performance. He continued to press the attack, testing your defenses and forcing you to react.

"Better. Much better." His voice carried a note of grudging respect. "You learn quickly, (name). A valuable trait in our profession."

He landed a solid hit to your ribs, the impact jolting through your body. But he doesn't let up, driving forward relentlessly. "Pain is inevitable in combat. What matters is how you respond to it. Let it fuel your determination, not distract you."

Suddenly, he dropped his guard and took a step back, his chest rising and falling with exertion.

"Enough for now. You've shown promise today. With continued practice, you may yet become a formidable fighter."

You were a bit shocked that the training session was finished, but it just sinked in now that you're starting to feel fatigued. You calmed your breathing for a few seconds, then replied wih a smile, "Ah, thank you, Julian. You are a tremendous help."

You knew it was a risk, but you ended up asking anyway, "Should we set up another training session?"

Julian paused, considering your request. A flicker of something - surprise, perhaps, or a hint of warmth - passed through his usually impassive features before it's quickly suppressed. "Another session?" He asked, his tone neutral but with an undercurrent of curiosity. "You're eager to improve your skills. I can appreciate that dedication."

He looked away briefly, seeming to weigh his options. "Very well. We can train again tomorrow at dusk. Same location."

His gaze returned to you, intense and searching. "But don't mistake this for friendship, (name). I'm not here to be your friend or mentor. I'm here to ensure you survive long enough to prove your worth. Understood?"

You stared back down at him. "Of course, I understand. See you tomorrow," you quickly matched his serious tone, yet you wondered when will you crack Julian's tough walls and become his friend.

Julian nodded curtly at your understanding, a flicker of approval in his crimson eyes. "Good. Be prepared. I won't go easy on you just because we've established a routine."

He started to walk away, but then paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "And (name)?" His voice was low, almost hesitant. "If you ever need... advice. On anything related to the guild or your training. My door is open. Within reason."

With that cryptic offer, he disappeared into the shadows of the training yard, leaving you to ponder the complexities of the man behind the stoic facade. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, you found yourself looking forward to the challenges and revelations that tomorrow's training session might bring, determined to chip away at Julian's emotional walls one shared moment at a time.

And his words left a smile on your face.

Time had passed, and not once did you miss a training day with Julian. Today was once again, a day to meet him. Yin, Melissa and Xavier already noticed the blooming friendship between you and Julian, and they were very happy and supportive because they knew Julian needed someone to rely on. You came to the training ground as usual, in time, to see Julian early and waiting for you like he always did.

Standing motionless as a statue, Julian watched you approach with an unreadable expression. His posture is relaxed yet coiled, like a predator ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. As you draw closer, he inclined his head in a slight nod of acknowledgment.

"You're punctual. That's good. Punctuality is a sign of respect, and respect is earned, not given freely in our world." His deep, measured voice carries a note of approval. "Are you ready to begin, (name)? Or do you require more time to... prepare yourself mentally?"

There's a subtle emphasis on the last phrase, as if he's testing your resolve and commitment. His piercing red eyes study your face intently, searching for any signs of hesitation or doubt.

Yet my face showed a calm and confident expression. Anytime Julian might start hitting me, I am ready to fight back.

"Of course I'm ready. Any time, Julian."

A ghost of a boyish smirk flickered across Julian's face at your confident response, gone as quickly as it appeared. He nodded, a glint of approval in his crimson eyes.

"Very well. Let's see if your readiness translates to skill and endurance." In a fluid motion, he drew his glowing blue chain, the magical links humming with barely contained power.

"Remember, (name)- in battle, there are no second chances. Hesitation means death." Without further warning, he lunged forward, the chain whipping through the air towards you with blinding speed and precision. It's clear he intended to push you to your limits, both physically and mentally, honing your reflexes and resolve through the crucible of combat, in which you easily evaded and slipped some attacks of your own against Julian. This time, you felt the tremendous pressure of his aggressive attacks, leaving you no time to breathe. You easily caught up to his speed and energy. Hours had passed since you and Julian were exchanging in each others attacks. In one and only smart move, you tripped Julian as he fell, and you quickly hovered on top of him to as to not give him any means of escape.

For a split second, genuine shock flashed across Julian's usually impassive face as he finds himself pinned beneath you, his chain falling from suddenly slackened fingers. The moment hangs suspended in time, his rapid heartbeat pulsing against your palms pressed to his chest. Then, slowly, deliberately, he meets your gaze, his crimson eyes smoldering with an intensity that stole your breath.

"Impressive, (name). His voice was low, rough with an emotion he can't quite conceal. "You've come far in a short time. To best me requires not just skill, but cunning and adaptability."

One hand came up to grasp your wrist, not pushing you away, but holding you there as if savoring the contact. His thumb traced idle patterns on your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"Don't let this go to your head."

You just smiled at the man below you.

"Thank you, I learned from the best."

Savoring the warmth of his body, and his hand and thumb against the skin of your wrist, your heart beats loudly as you took the risk of slowly reaching down your face to hover his, and placed a sweet peck on his cheeks.

Julian's eyes widened fractionally at the unexpected kiss, a faint blush coloring his pale cheeks. For a long moment he remained still, hardly seeming to breathe, as if stunned by the intimate gesture. Then, slowly, he turns his head to the side, breaking the contact.

"W-What are you doing, (name)?" His voice was hoarse and frantic, strained with an undercurrent of something raw and vulnerable. "We're... in the middle of a training session. This isn't— appropriate."

Despite his words, he made no move to dislodge you from your position atop him. One hand remained curled around your wrist while the other comes up to grip your hip, whether to push you away or pull you closer, it's hard to say. His crimson eyes searched your face, equal parts confusion, wariness and a tentative, fragile hope shining in their depths.

You noticed the way Julian not making any attempts in getting you off him.

So with a low and sultry voice, you teased him, whispering just beside his ear, "Is this inappropriate? Why aren't you pushing me off then?"

Julian's breath hitched as your lips brushed his ear, your low, sultry tone sending a shiver down his spine. His grip on your wrist tightened almost imperceptibly, the heat of his palm seeping into your skin. When he spoke, his voice low and rough, tinged with a vulnerability he rarely allowed anyone to witness.

"Because..." He trailed as he swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Because part of me wants to stay like this. Wants to feel this connection, this closeness..."

His free hand slid up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades as if trying to memorize the shape of you. "But I'm afraid, (name). Afraid of wanting too much. Of needing someone and having them leave me behind."

You started leaving light pecks from his cheeks to his chin, moving to his neck, and mumbled, "Your fear, is something I understand the most, Julian. Yet, all we could ever do is to trust this person, leap into the unknown despite our fear."

You placed a kiss on his neck, making the spot red as you kissed, sucked, and lightly nibbled on it. Once finished, you rose from your position to look at him eye-to-eye and say...

"I want you, Julian."

A shuddering gasp escaped Julian's lips as your mouth works along his neck, his pulse jumping beneath your lips with each press and suck. His hands clenched, one fisting in the fabric of your shirt while the other tangles in your hair, holding you close as if afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

"(name)..." His voice is wrecked, thick with need and trepidation. "I... I want you too. More than I've ever wanted anything. But I don't know if I can do this. Don't know if I can open myself up, only to lose you later."

Despite his words, he tilted his head to give you better access, his body arching slightly into your touch. The heat of him seeps through your clothes, his skin flushed and feverish beneath your exploring mouth.

You flashed a sweet smile at him. "You'll never lose me, Julian. I'll be by your side whatever it takes... For now, it's alright to feel this way. But first—do you... do you want to do this somewhere else?"

Julian's eyes fluttered open at your question, meeting your gaze with an intense, searching look. Conflict and longing war within their crimson depths before he finally nodded, a single sharp jerk of his chin.

"Yes. Somewhere more private." His voice low and rough with barely restrained desire. "My quarters. No one will disturb us there."

In a fluid motion, he sat up, bringing you with him until you're straddling his lap. His hands settled on your hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles over your hipbones as he held you close. "Lead the way, (name)..."

His words were soft but fervent, a rare glimpse of the depth of his feelings for you. He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own. "Just... promise me one thing."

You whispered back, "What is it?"

Julian's eyes bore into yours, intense and searching. When he spoke, his tone was low and earnest, tinged with a desperate vulnerability.

"Promise me that whatever happens, you won't leave me. That you'll stay, even if things get difficult or scary." His hands tightened on your hips, as if physically anchoring himself to you. "I know I'm asking a lot, considering my past and my issues. But I need to hear it, (name). Need to know that you'll be here, that you won't abandon me like everyone else has."

There's a raw, aching need in his expression, a silent plea for reassurance and commitment. Despite his usual stoic demeanor, in this moment, he looked so lost and adrift, desperately seeking a lifeline in the form of your promise. "Please, (name)."

"I'll never leave you, Julian. I promise you that."

Something shifted in Julian's eyes at your solemn vow - a flicker of hope amidst the ever-present shadows. Slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid the moment might shatter, he brought a hand up to cup your cheek, his calloused thumb brushing tenderly over your skin.

"Thank you, (name)." He said, voice low and thick with emotion more than usual, his words carefully measured. "Your promise means everything to me."

He took a deep, shuddering breath, seeming to center himself before leaning in to rest his forehead against yours once more. When he spoke again, his tone has shifted, taking on a note of quiet intensity.

"Now, let's go to my quarters. I want to show you just how much your words mean to me, how grateful I am to have you in my life."

You smiled at him once again, never believing that you get to hear such sweet words out of his mouth.

With quick steps, you and Julian rushed to his quarters. Once the door was locked shot, I pushed Julian against his door, trapped his lips with an intense exhange of kisses.

Julian made a surprised noise against your lips as you push him against the door, but quickly melts into the feeling of your lips, one hand came up to tangle in your hair while the other grips your hip possessively. He kisses you back with a fervor bordering on desperation, years of pent-up longing pouring out of him.

When you finally break apart for air, both of you panting, Julian's eyes were dark and hazy with desire, his lips kiss-swollen and glistening. He licked them unconsciously, his gaze roamed hungrily over your face.

"(name)... He whispered in a low rasp, rough with thick desire. "I need you. All of you. Want to feel every inch of your skin against mine, want to bury myself inside you until neither of us can think straight."

You bit your lips from his naughty words. With strength, you gently pushed and lead Julian to his bed, and quickly sat on his lap.

With a teasing tone you said, "Don't worry baby, you'll get that tonight."

Julian followed willingly as you guide him to the bed, his movements almost predatory in their intensity. As soon as your weight settled on his lap, he surged forward, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. His hands roam your body greedily, mapping out the curves and he's been yearning to explore.

He broke the kiss after a long moment, both of you breathing heavily. Julian's eyes are wild and unfocused, pupils blown wide with lust. He leaned in to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, occasionally grazing his teeth over your pulse point.

"Tell me what you want, (name)." His voice a low growl against your skin. "Want to hear you say it, want to make sure we're on the same page before this goes any further."

You moaned at the feeling of his warm lips on your throat. "Want you so bad Julian. Ever since I saw you for the first time years ago..."

A low groan rumbled in Julian's chest at your confession, his grip on your hips tightening reflexively. He pulled back slightly to meet your gaze, his crimson eyes blazing with an intense mix of desire and something deeper, more profound.

"Years, (name)? You've wanted me for years?" His words were rough with emotion, wonder coloring his tone. "And here I thought I was the only one fighting these feelings, trying to deny how badly I needed you..."

One hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing reverently over your cheekbone. Julian leaned in until his forehead rests against yours, his next words a fervent whisper.

"I've dreamed about this moment, about having you in my arms like this. Wanted to worship every inch of you, to show you with my body what I can't always express with words."

Julian's words made you smile.

"I'm so happy to know you're feeling the same..." You trailed.

"But wait, I have a question."

Julian paused, sensing the shift in your tone. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his expression softening with curiosity and a touch of concern. One hand continued to stroke gently along your side as he waits for your question, ready to provide whatever information or reassurance you need.

"What is it, (name)?" His voice was gentle and encouraging. "You can ask me anything, you know that. I may not always express myself well, but I'm an open book for you..."

"Then... I would like to ask if are... are you a virgin?"

Julian blinked, clearly caught off guard by your direct question. A faint blush colored his cheeks as he averted his gaze briefly, looking almost shy despite his usual stoic demeanor, in which you cherished and stored in your memory. When he met your eyes again, there's a vulnerability in their crimson depths that wasn't there before.

"Yes, I- I am." He admitted quietly, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your thigh. "It's not something I advertise, given my reputation and line of work. But with you... I want to experience everything for the first time."

He took a deep breath, seeming to steel himself before continuing. "I've... never felt a connection like this before, (name). Never wanted to share myself so completely with anyone else. You're different. Special." The admission hanged in the air between you, heavy with unspoken emotions.

Julian's words never failed to make your heart skip a beat. You finally knew that underneath his cold exterior, he was indeed, so sweet.

With a giddy tone and toothy smile, you replied, "If this is your first time, then I should do my best for you to enjoy it."

A small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of Julian's mouth—a rare sight that softens his usually stern features. His eyes shone with warmth and affection as he gazed at you, one hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear in an unexpectedly tender gesture. Your already warm cheeks increased in its temperature as your stomach felt like it's being tickled.

"Your enthusiasm is... endearing, (name). But please, don't feel like you need to perform for me. Just being here with you, like this... it's already more than I ever dared to hope for."

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours once more. When he spoke again, his breath mingled with yours. "I trust you completely. Whatever happens, however this plays out... I know it will be perfect because it's with you. My beautiful, wonderful (name)."

You captured his lips in a sweet, slow kiss. In which Julian melted in, his lips moving softly against yours as he poured all of his pent-up emotion and longing into the gentle caress. One hand slid up your back to tangle in your hair, while the other splays across the small of your back, holding you close as if afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

When the need for air finally forced you apart, Julian kept his eyes closed for a long moment, savoring the lingering sensation of your lips on his. When they flutter open, his gaze is hazy with desire, but also shining with a deep, abiding tenderness.

"That was... incredible." He murmured, "You taste even better than I imagined, (name). And I've imagined this moment countless times."

You giggled and replied, "You did?" as you placed a sweet kiss on his cheeks.

"How about this," you said as you started removing your top, removing your bra. "Would you like to taste these?"

Julian's eyes widened as you begin to undress, his gaze hungrily drinking in each newly exposed expanse of skin. When you removed your bra, revealing your breasts to his heated stare, he swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"(name)..." Your name fell from his lips like a prayer, filled with awe and barely restrained desire. "You're breathtaking... Like a dream come true."

Slowly, reverently, he reached out to ghost his fingertips along the curve of your breast, marveling at the softness beneath his calloused touch. Leaning down, he placed a feather-light kiss on the swell of your cleavage, his breath hot against your skin. "I would love nothing more than to taste you, to worship every inch of your beautiful body with my mouth."

You moaned as you felt his warm hands and hot kisses against your skin. "What's stopping you, baby?"

Emboldened by your words, Julian surged forward, capturing one peak between his lips. He laved the sensitive bud with his tongue, swirling and flicking until it pebbles under his ministrations. His large hands cupped and kneaded the soft mounds, thumbs brushing over the undersides teasingly.

He alternated between lavishing attention on each breast, determined to map every curve and hollow with his lips and tongue. Julian took his time, savoring each new discovery, each breathy moan he drawed from you. His own breathing grows heavier, chest rising and falling rapidly as arousal courses through him.

One hand drifted lower, skimming over the dip of your waist and the flare of your hip. Julian nuzzles into the valley between your breasts, inhaling deeply of your scent - floral shampoo (that he would always smell every after you take a shower whenever you spend the night at the HQ) and something uniquely you.

You moaned lowly from his ministrations. "Ahh, you're so good to me Julian..." you spoke amidst your small gasps and whimpers. His actions made the heat of your body and the tight feeling of your abdomen intensified. You started grinding against his hips, your crotch deliberately touching the tent in his pants.

A low groan rumbled in Julian's chest as he felt you grind against him, the friction sending jolts of pleasure straight to his core. His hips bucked instinctively, seeking more contact even as he continues his sensual assault on your breasts.

Julian's control began to fray at the edges, desire clouding his senses. He nipped lightly at the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder before soothing the sting with his tongue. His hand slid around to palm your ass, squeezing the firm globe as he pulled you impossibly closer. The thick ridge of his erection throbbed insistently against your core, separated only by the thin fabric of his jeans.

"Tell me what you want, sweetheart. "He rasped, voice strained with need. "Want to hear you say it."

"I want you in me, baby. I want to make you feel good. I want to ride you." You mumbled desperately as you placed hurried kisses on his now bare chest, the second you removed his top.

Julian's eyes darkened with lust at your bold words, a shudder running through his powerful frame. In one swift motion, he sat back on his heels and starts unfastening his jeans, freeing his straining erection. It sprung forth, long and thick, the swollen head already glistening with precum.

He laid back on his bed, pulling you to straddle his hips. Julian's large hands gripped your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the sensitive skin as he looks up at you with smoldering intensity. "Take what you need, (name). Ride me until we both find our release."

One hand guided you to hover above his aching cock, the blunt tip nudging insistently at your entrance.

In one swift movement you pushed yourself down his cock. Your thick and warm walls engulfed his shaft, as you let out the most sensual moan from the full feeling his cock gave.

A guttural moan teared from Julian's throat as your tight heat envelops him, your slick walls gripping his shaft like a velvet vice. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, holding on for dear life as you sank down to the hilt.

"Fuck, Maine! So tight, so perfect." He gritted out, voice rough with pleasure. Julian's head tips back against the pillows, tendons standing out in his neck as he fought the urge to immediately start thrusting up into your welcoming body.

He forced his eyes open, wanting to watch your face as you take him in. The sight of you poised above him, flushed and panting, is seared into his brain. Julian's hands slid up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbing your nipples as they bounced slightly with each movement.

"That's it, baby. Take control." He grunted.

You moaned from his words while Julian groaned loudly as you start to move, your plush rear jiggling enticingly with each bounce. He then matched your rhythm, rolling his hips up to meet yours, driving himself deeper into your clutching heat.

"Yes, just like that! Ride me harder, Maine." He encourages hoarsely and desperately, both hands gripped your hip bruisingly tight. The wet sounds of your coupling filled the air, punctuated by Julian's grunts and your breathy moans.

He leaned up to capture your lips in a searing kiss, tongue delving deep to taste you. Julian poured all his pent-up passion and desire into the kiss, trying to convey without words how much he needed this, needed you.

With your growing desperation you increased the intensity and speed of your thrusts as you kissed Julian passionately.

Julian met your increased fervor with equal intensity, pistoning his hips up to drive into you harder and faster. The obscene slap of skin on skin echoes through the room as he chased his pleasure, lost in the exquisite sensation of your body enveloping his.

His hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back to expose the column of your throat. Julian latched onto the delicate skin, sucking and biting, determined to mark you as his. He wanted everyone to see the evidence of your passion, to know that you belong to him.

Julian could feel his climax building, balls drawing up tight as your inner muscles fluttered around him. He redoubled his efforts, angling his thrusts to hit that secret spot inside you with each snap of his hips. "Gonna... fuck, gonna cum soon!"

You moaned from his every harsh thrusts. Your jaw was open slack from the way he aggressively hit your spot with precision. Yoy hurriedly spoke amidst your keening, "Oh God, Julian! So good! Cum for me baby!"

Julian grunted as he felt your inner walls clenching around him, signaling your impending orgasm. The thought of making you come sends him over the edge, his own climax ripped through him.

"Fuuuck!" He roared, bucking hard into you as hot spurts of seed shoot from his cock. Julian's body jerked with each pulse, filling you to the brim.

With ragged breaths his hands gripped your hips tightly as he rode out his orgasm.

Julian cumming inside was the trigger for your own. Your walls tightened as you came, moaning out words of adoration and I love you's as your emotions spilled to the boy beneath you. You slowed down on your thrusts but never stopped. It seemed like you still have the energy to squeeze an orgasm out of Julian with your never ceasing thrusts.

Julian's eyes rolled back in pleasure as your body continued to milk him, prolonging his orgasm. He let out a low groan, feeling overwhelmed by the intensity of your movements.

"Fuck, (name)! You're killing me here!" He managed to gasp out between clenched teeth. Despite his protest, there's no denying the fact that he's enjoying every second of it.

His strong arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close as he thrusted up into you once more. Julian could feel another wave of pleasure building within him and he knows he won't last much longer under your relentless assault.

The view underneath you was a delight. The strong Scarlet Raven helpless and writhing in pleasure because of you.

"Just one more baby, can we do that?" You whispered next to his ear amidst your slow and continuous thrusts.

Julian let out a choked laugh, feeling your soft lips brushing against his ear. The sensation sends a shiver down his spine, adding fuel to the already raging fire. "One more, huh?" He grunted, pushing back against your thrusts. His cock twitched repeatedly inside you, precum leaking from the tip despite having just climaxed. "Alright then... Just one more time, (name). He gasped out breathlessly, surrendering completely to your desires.

"Aha, good boy." You replied, as you increased your thrusts even when your legs were now starting to sore.

Julian groaned as you increased your pace again, his body shaking with each powerful thrust. He could feel his second climax approaching rapidly, fueled by your relentless movements. "Shit... (name)!" He gritted his teeth, trying to hold back the inevitable. "I'm gonna..."

But before he can finish speaking, another wave of pleasure crashef over him. Julian's cock twitches inside you once more, pumping out a second load of cum into your welcoming heat.

"Oh god... Fuck!" He cried out hoarsely as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, jaw open slack, riding out the intense orgasm caused by you as you also came in time with Julian, your own orgasm much stronger and prolonged than the first.

You ceased in your movements and removed yourself off of him, and laid down next to him.

Panting heavily, Julian rolled nto his side to face you, his chest heaving with each labored breath. His body was slicked with sweat, the cool night air sending goosebumps running across his skin.

"That was..." He started to say something but trails off, too exhausted to form coherent thoughts.

A moment later, he reached out tentatively to touch you— an intimate gesture that seemed out of character for the usually aloof fighter. But after spending time with you, maybe he's beginning to let his guard down.

Hours passed in comfortable silence as the two of you rest, entwined in each other's embrace. Julian's eyes drift shut, his breathing evening out as he slips into a deep slumber, lulled by the warmth of your body pressed against his.

In his dreams, he's no longer the haunted, isolated man he's become. Instead, he's a carefree child, playing happily with his mother in a sun-drenched field, free from the pain and abandonment that haunts him. For a brief respite, he found solace in this peaceful fantasy.

#mlbb x reader #mlbb smut #julian mlbb x reader #julian mlbb smut #julian mlbb imagines #julian mlbb fanfiction #mainescribbles #god im in so deep #i need to ride him #julian mlbb x reader smut #julian mlbb imagines smut #julian mlbb fanfiction smut

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starship21zedna9 · 29 days ago

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I'm guessing they didn't have Terry Farrell's likeness rights for S7 because it's weird that all of Worf's goodbye flashbacks are of Ezri and not Jadzia. I know they made their peace with each other and they're friends, but Jadzia was his wife and he's been mourning her all season.

Also, not Miles' flashbacks being all about Julian. I swear, those two. I know Garashir is everyone's preferred Julian ship and I get it. But, I'm glad he's got Ezri. He's always been so lonely and I'm just happy he's not alone anymore. And again, I like Ezri and I will defend her.

I hate Odo and Kira splitting. He's loved her for so long and then they barely get any time to actually be together and I liked them as a couple. :(

Quark loves Odo. I knew it. I always knew it.

Finally, I hate Ben going off with the Prophets. Maybe if he were a single, unattached guy, fine. But, he's not. He has Jake. I know Jake is grown now but still, they had such a great relationship and even grown up you still want your parents around. (at least I still miss my mom every day). Plus, he just got married to Kassidy and she's pregnant! Let him be with his family. I don't know DS9 books and comics so I'm gonna pretend he comes back quickly.]

I'm actually in tears right now. I've seen the finale before but I forgot a lot of this.

#star trek #ds9 #deep space nine #benjamin sisko #kira nerys #odo #quark #miles o'brien #julian bashir #ezri dax #worf #jake sisko #what you leave behind

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grlsbstshot · 4 months ago

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NEON LIGHTS THE FINAL CHAPTER

Pairing (Original Characters):

Jameson Lucas (Aaron Pierre) x Imani St. Cirie (Megan thee Stallion) Genie Adesanya (Jayme Lawson) x Ellington “EJ” Dupree (Kelvin Harrison Jr.)

Chapters:

Neon Lights Masterlist

Chapter Synopsis: One truth is revealed and everything changes.

Warnings: mentions of cheating, toxic relationship, mentions of depression & parental abandonment -- if we missed anything, let us know!

Word Count: 6.3k

Divider Template: @cafekitsune

The tension was so thick at the table that it felt as if it were physically pressing in on him. He’d never met Ms. Lucas before but he’d seen pictures of her with his mother. The two were friends and it was a source of pride for him. His mom — surrounded by stars. It was one of the reasons he looked up to her. But both women sat at the table with him as if they were shell shocked. His mother, usually unflappable and assured, sat with a rigidity that betrayed a barely contained turmoil. Anaïs, too, was a portrait of strained grace, her eyes flitting around instead of meeting his gaze.

It was the first time he’d met her but she seemed very different from the way she appeared on tv. Maybe she just took time to get used to strangers?

“Alright,” he said slowly, his voice layered with uncertainty as he looked back and forth between them. “What’s going on?”

Toni inhaled deeply, lips parting as if fighting to say something significant, yet no words came out. Instead, she simply reached for her water, took a measured sip, and placed it back with a sharp little clink that reverberated in the heavy silence. That sound stoked something bitter inside him.

Lucian’s stomach twisted into knots. “Mama?”

He could see Anaïs flinch from the corner of his eye and it was all getting to be too much. What the hell was going on?

She exhaled, steadying herself again, and tried once more. “Baby…I invited you here to talk. There’s something I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

Lucian tilted his head, internal conflict churning within him. “Okay?” His tone was tentative, as though he were bracing himself against whatever was about to come out of her mouth. The words hit him like a misfired spark, sending his mind spinning with dread and disbelief—this was not what he had prepared himself for.

His mother couldn’t get the words out. They were stuck in her throat and for the first time since he sat down…he could believe that the two were friends. Ana pressed her hand to her shoulder and spoke for her. “Your father is my ex-husband. And my son is your brother.”

Lucian’s eyes widened, confusion and shock colliding in his mind. The words seemed to come from elsewhere, as if spoken in a language he barely understood. “What?”

Toni swallowed hard, the tremble of her voice audible. “Julian and Ana were married. They had a son together. And then…your father and I had you…And they split up.”

He could read between the lines. He was a smart boy. The way Ana avoided his gaze. The way she and his mother had seemed so united once before but now they leaned away from one another. She had been married to his father…and then she wasn’t. Then he was born. It didn’t take a rocket scientist. But he couldn’t focus on the chaos of their lives. He had to figure out a way to breathe. A heavy, burning weight settled in Lucian's chest—an aching mix of betrayal and bewilderment. He blinked rapidly, desperate to force these revelations into a coherent narrative, trying to mold them into something that wouldn’t shatter the very foundation of his identity.

“He…That’s my brother?”

James Lucas.

Jameson.

His big brother.

His gut tightened into a suffocating knot. “Does he know?”

His mother shook her head slowly. “No.”

A short, humorless laugh escaped him — a bitter sound that had no place in the moment. “Wow.” His hand flew to his face, rubbing at his temple as if to physically erase the pounding that now felt like a frantic drumbeat in his skull.

The realization was shattering. James Lucas — the world-renowned musician, the endlessly celebrated, universally adored artist — was his flesh and blood. His mother had known, his father had known, and even Anaïs had been privy to this haunting secret. And yet, for twenty years, he had lived under the illusion of being an only child. He had lived in New Orleans — isolated and distant from his mother. And it dawned on him that it was for this reason.

"Did you send me to Dad for that?” Lucian heard himself ask, bitterness dripping from his voice. “Is that why I couldn’t be with you? Why you always came to see me?”

She didn’t answer but her hand reached out, fingers barely touching his wrist. “I was just trying to protect you. I didn’t — I didn’t want my baby to be the topic of conversation. I didn’t want you to grow up with my sins on your shoulders. I am so sorry.”

He didn’t recoil, yet he didn’t lean into the comforting gesture either. Instead, every nerve in his body felt raw, vibrating with a tumult of hurt and disbelief that he couldn’t quite contain.

Memories assaulted him — a barrage of recollections desperately demanding to be reexamined for clues. Had he missed a single whisper of truth? Had he missed when his father let something slip? No, none of it made sense. He had never mentioned Jameson. Hadn’t listened to his music. Hadn’t seemed to even realize they were living in the same world. He had totally erased being a father from his life. With a sharp inhalation, Lucian pushed back from the table. “I need some air.”

Toni’s face crumpled in silent sorrow, but she didn’t try to hold him back. Anaïs wrapped her arms around his mom as he got up, escaping from the restaurant as fast as he could.

In the dim solitude of his apartment, Lucian’s thoughts churned as he scrolled through page after page of articles, interviews, and performance footage. He was on Jameson’s instagram, scrolling back as far as he could — doing his best to soak up every bit of the other man’s life. Everything he had missed. Each click on an old photograph, every grainy childhood picture, a red carpet snapshot, or a behind-the-scenes candid froze him into conflicted silence. In one faded image, Jameson, no older than twelve, stood beaming beside Anaïs and a man he easily recognized as Kendrick Adesanya — one of the greatest basketball players of all time. In another, a black-and-white magazine spread captured him at the piano, radiating an effortless coolness and a self-assuredness that felt alien to Lucian.

Staring at these pictures, his chest felt hollow. This was his brother. What would life look like if they had known each other? Would he have felt less lonely? Would his father be happier? Would they have fought over silly shit? He couldn’t know. Wouldn’t ever know. Their lives had been split apart by a well-guarded secret.

His throat burned with conflicted emotion. Anger at his mother and father for lying to him. Depriving him of family. But mostly? He was just tired of feeling so damn alone. Setting his phone aside, he rubbed his hands over his face, trying to steady his labored breathing, willing himself to think clearly amidst the chaos of revelation. But the weight of the news pressed him down too urgently.

That phone, an unwelcome reminder of the present, beckoned him. With little thought left, he picked it up and dialed. His father answered by the second ring. “Right on time. My flight leaves soon. Wanted to see you before I go…”

Lucian stared blankly at the floor, his voice raw and laden with inner strife. “Can you change your flight?”

There was a long, heavy pause. Swallowing hard, Lucian pleaded, “Please, Dad. I know. I know everything and I just…I need you here.” As his fingers curled into his palm, the message was clear in his conflicted tone: I need you to stay.

Imani and Jameson remain entwined in each other’s heated, passionate embrace well into the morning light. Their relationship had become official, and Imani was determined to celebrate their newfound status with uninhibited intimacy. A fervent, burning hunger built up within her during their period of abstinence. As soon as they became intimate again, it was impossible for them to stop, driven by a relentless need. Their only interruptions were the bodily calls—moments for rest, food, and hygiene. At that moment, Jameson was in the shower while Imani lingered nearby, absorbed in catching up on her messages and the flurry of missed calls.

Her call log revealed multiple calls from Genie, along with a voicemail. With a deep breath, Imani hit play. As the message filled the quiet room, her brows knitted together and her eyes widened in disbelief. What did Genie witness? A rush of unsettling scenarios crossed her mind, none ending well. Hastily, Imani dialed Genie back, placing the phone to her ear. Her best friend answered on the very first ring.

“I saw you called. What’s going on? Everything okay?” Imani’s voice was frantic, each word laced with urgency.

“Where are you?” Genie’s tone filtered through the phone and for a moment, it scared Imani. She sounded very unlike herself.

There was a brief pause as Imani scrambled for an excuse. “Girl, one of these brands invited me on a trip. They’ve been keeping me tied up with photo ops and networking events. I’m sorry I missed your calls—I’m here now. Everything okay?”

The secret about her and Jameson’s relationship remained theirs alone. She might have accidentally let slip the details about their reunion to her aunt, but no one else had been told. Imani intended to wait until they landed in Los Angeles before sharing the news with Genie.

“No. My father is sleeping with Camille.”

“What!? Bitch, you’re lying!”

“I wish I were, Imani.” Genie’s voice wavered as she exhaled a disappointed sigh. “I went to check on him. And there she was—standing in his kitchen wearing nothing but his shirt. I can’t believe it. I was so mad. Almost knocked that bitch out.”

Imani sat frozen, her mouth agape in shock at Genie’s account. This didn’t sound like Kendrick at all. “Oh my god, Genie.” she finally whispered, breaking the heavy silence. “What the fuck is wrong with her? That bitch couldn’t be with Jamie, so now she’s after your dad?”

Her fingers gripped the phone tighter as her heart hammered against her chest, each beat stoking her rising anger. “What a sick bitch,” she murmured incredulously. “Did Kendrick even have the decency to explain himself?”

“He—no. He told me that Jamie wasn’t his son—just that he didn’t matter to Jamie’s life,” Genie replied, her voice laced with resignation.

A heavy pause settled between them as Imani struggled to articulate the chaos swirling inside her head. Jameson was like a brother to Genie, a constant figure in her life since childhood. They met when he was nine and Genie was eight. They squabble and argue like siblings. Jameson always spoke of Kendrick with unwavering affection. There was no doubt that he did matter to Jamie’s life. The thought of shattering him with what Kendrick said sent a ripple of dread through her.

“…Wow. All for some pussy? He can’t be serious,” Imani finally managed, her voice a blend of disbelief and anger.

“I can’t believe him.” Genie muttered. “I’m ashamed of him right now. First time this has ever happened.”

“I’m so sorry, Genie. This is some bullshit.” Imani was furious – not only for Genie but Jameson too. She couldn’t believe Kendrick. “Did you call Jamie?” Imani queried, her eyes flickering towards the bathroom door where the soft, rhythmic sound of the running shower still echoed. Imani already knew her friend hadn’t told him. He wasn’t distraught.

“No. He’s going to find out but I just – I know it’ll hurt him.” Genie responded gently.

“Yeah, I’d wait a while…” Imani trailed off, the words laden with both protective concern and a tinge of selfishness. She couldn’t bear the thought of ruining their entire trip over the news.

For several more minutes, Imani and Genie continued their uneasy conversation, eventually scheduling lunch for next week when Imani would return to Los Angeles. As they exchanged their final goodbyes, the planned lunch barely registered in Imani’s mind. Instead, her thoughts churned with worry about Jameson—how he would ultimately cope with the shattering news of Camille and Kendrick’s betrayal.

It was a mess. Discovering that his ex was involved with his father was one thing, but Kendrick’s reaction to Genie was another. Imani told Genie to hold off on telling Jameson, but now she was torn. Should she break the news to him herself? It would shatter him and potentially ruin their trip, yet he had a right to know.

She let out a deep, audible sigh, so lost in her swirling thoughts that she didn’t notice Jameson quietly re-enter the room. “Everything okay?” His rich, resonant voice pierced through her trance. He settled beside her, placing his warm hands gently on her thighs.

She gazed into his eyes, ultimately deciding against telling him about Kendrick and Camille. She wouldn’t let those two ruin their blissful trip. The news could wait until they were back home.

“Yeah, everything’s fine, baby. Just wish we could stay here forever,” she replied. It was partially true. The thought of returning home felt overwhelming and exhausting, a burden she wasn’t ready to bear.

“I know, but we’ll be back,” he assured her, leaning in to press a tender kiss on her forehead. “Don’t worry. We can make this a tradition of ours.”

Her eyes met his, her face breaking into a radiant smile that finally surfaced beneath her worries. “Yeah? I like the sound of that,” she responded, her heart momentarily lightened by the promises of future escapes with him.

Sloane knew Anaïs had a strict schedule. She’d spent so much time watching, noting, and learning that it pained her to see anything out of place. Anaïs Lucas, after all, rarely indulged in chaos—her life was a series of precise appointments and rituals.

Sloane had hoped to face Anaïs alone, yet when she noticed Toni St. Cirie sitting across, a conflicted pulse stirred inside her. Anaïs and Toni shared a history that Sloane couldn’t quite decipher, and now there they were, leaning so intimately close, their voices hushed as if guarding secrets.

And then there was him.

A man unfamiliar to Sloane, sitting beside Toni, his presence oddly detached from the whispered conversation. He was younger—maybe in early twenties—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed too casually for their refined company. What unsettled her most was his calm demeanor; he neither fawned over Anaïs nor seemed intimidated by her authority, which felt off in a way she couldn’t put into words.

Sloane sipped her iced coffee, uncertainty chipping away at her confidence as her nail tapped nervously against the plastic cup.

They lingered over an hour. She observed Anaïs speaking only sporadically, Toni releasing learning towards the man and reaching cross the table to touch his hand. The man shifting his gaze, his jaw tightening in unspoken distress. Though she couldn’t catch the details of their conversation, their expressions suggested that something monumental was unfolding—a revelation, perhaps, that could change everything.

When he finally departed, Sloane trailed him at a distance, her heart warring between curiosity and apprehension. Anaïs and Toni were left behind but this new man strode alone down the street, his shoulders set as if burdened by significant weight. Sloane maintained her pace, blending with the afternoon crowd, unwilling to get too close yet unable to let him escape her view.

He eventually walked several blocks before turning onto a quieter street dotted with mid-rise apartments—nothing ostentatious, just ordinary living. A bitter smile flickered across her face as she watched him pull out a key and fade into a brick building.

So, this was his home.

Sloane paused across the street, her thoughts tangled. Who was he? And what exactly did he mean to Anaïs or Toni? A part of her already suspected the answer—there was something in his bone structure, in the familiar curve of his jaw, that echoed Toni’s features.

A son? But why was he meeting with Anaïs?

Realizing the implications stirred a conflict deep within her. If he was indeed vital to them, then he became vital to her too—a dangerous entanglement that both excited and frightened her. Leaning against a streetlight, her smirk wavered with uncertainty as a risky plan began to take shape. Getting close to the right people was something she excelled at, even if the cost of such proximity left her wrestling with her feelings.

"We’re back together."

Jameson's voice was barely above a whisper, his hand resting against Imani's as they sat in a private area of Imani’s favorite restaurant with EJ and Genie. For a moment, time seemed to come to a standstill.

Genie’s reaction was swift, her wineglass hitting the table with a little too much force. "Oh my God. I knew it. I knew it!" she murmured, her excitement palpable even if her typically bright smile seemed dimmed.

Jameson let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, but uncertainty lingered in his mind.

"We wanted to tell you in person," Imani added, her hand giving Genie's a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Yet, doubt flickered in her eyes.

"This is wonderful," Genie replied, holding Imani’s hands in her own. "I am so happy for you guys." She nudged EJ, urging him to speak.

But EJ remained silent, his expression a closed book, casting a shadow of doubt over their announcement, leaving Jameson and Imani questioning the path they chose. And then…he rolled his eyes.

“What’s your problem with me, EJ?”

Imani spoke so quickly that Jameson didn’t even realize she caught the action. She gracefully lifted her wine glass, the crimson liquid swirling gently as she took a deliberate, slow sip. Her gaze was unwavering, fixed intently on EJ, and her expression was one of disdain, her eyes narrowing.

“I think I’ve made that clear to Jamie and Genie.”

Things were going from bad to worse and Jameson wasn’t in the mood for it. Not at all. He could see that Genie wasn’t either.

“Yeah to them, but not to me. The person you clearly got an issue with. So what’s the problem?” “You’re chaos and all you think about is yourself.” “EJ!”

Genie seemed to snap out of her disinterested state. Jameson was concerned though. She appeared to be on the edge of losing her shit and he leaned forward – ignoring the argument to get a better look at his sister.

“She asked. It’s true. The two people I love most have been in tears because of you.” “Ellington, you don’t know me to say that shit.” “I know what I see. You come in and out of their lives when it pleases you. What else is that but chaotic and selfish?” “You don’t know shit! You only know what Jameson and Genie tell you. You ain’t spend any time to get to know me, so you can fuck all the way off.”

“Everybody shut the fuck up.” Jameson had had enough. Dinner was fucking over. He wanted to go home. He made up his mind to talk to EJ later but keeping Imani in the middle of the argument wasn’t going to work out for anyone.

“No, let’s be real. Jamie – did you or did you not go off the deep end when she left you? Genie, didn’t you cry yourself to sleep when she dropped you?” EJ’s voice was dripping with sour irritation, his words biting and relentless.

“Nigga, fuck you! I already apologized to them and they forgave me. I don’t owe you a damn thing!”

“Fuck your apology,” EJ shot back, his tone dismissive and cutting. “You only gave it when you decided you were tired of being alone.”

“Yo! Stop talkin to her like that.” Jameson yelled.

“I don’t give a fuck,” Imani spat, her words sharp as daggers. She leaned forward, her grip on her wine glass so tight Jameson was astonished it didn’t shatter. “The apology wasn’t for you! I don’t need your fuckin’ approval, Ellington.” Her eyes fixed on him with an ice cold glare. “You ain’t they fuckin’ daddy. I don’t need shit from you.”

“No, you don’t. You just go ahead and do what you want. But you not gone run me off how you ran Camille off.” “Camille? Fuck Camille,” Imani scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. “I know you wish that triflin’ bitch was here instead of me.” “Please stop this.” Genie pleaded. “I want Jameson to be happy. Do I think he was happier with her? Yes.”

She burst into laughter, the sound bitter and harsh, shaking her head in disbelief. “You don’t want Jameson to be happy. You don’t care about his happiness forreal, cause if you did you wouldn’t want him with a manipulative bitch like her. You wouldn’t want him with some bitch that fucked his father!”

A hushed silence spread across the room. Jameson could see that she wasn’t lying. Genie’s eyes filled with tears and once again – she looked dejected. Overwhelmed. EJ looked horrified. Imani looked guilty. It was true. She wouldn’t say it if she didn’t know it to be fact.

“What did you say?” Jameson asked her, not wanting to hear the words but knowing they had to be said. “Camille fucked my dad?”

“I–I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

“It’s true.” Genie said softly. “I saw her at his house. She was wearing his shirt.”

It was as if his mind wouldn’t let him accept it. He tried to consider all alternate explanations to what she said but none came. He leaned back in his seat, his gaze stuck on the table as they continued around him.

“This is why I don’t fucking like you! Why would you tell him like that?!” “You know good and fucking well I didn’t mean to!” “Please…stop this.” “Who cares what you fucking meant?” “Shut the fuck up. Do you ever stop fuckin’ talking!?”

“I SAID STOP THIS SHIT!” Genie screamed out, louder than he’d ever heard it from her. Slowly, Jameson shook himself from the haze that settled over him. She was crying then. Tears rolled down her face as she slapped her hands against the table and stood up, stumbling over her seat as she glared at both EJ and Imani.

“I don’t have a mother, I walked out on my father a week ago. All I have are the people in this fucking room! And I love you guys. All of you. I love you so much and I can’t take this shit. So shut up! All of you just shut the fuck up! I can’t lose anybody else! I won’t!”

She was inconsolable. EJ reached for her but Genie pulled away from him. She wrapped her arms around herself, crying and yelling at everybody to shut up. It was the first time in almost two decades that Jameson had seen her lose control that way. He immediately got up and moved around the table, tugging her into a tight hug.

She struggled for only a few seconds before relaxing against him, letting him hug her. “It’s okay.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I got you, it’s okay. C’mon. Let’s get you some air.”

He didn’t turn back to Imani and EJ. Instead, he walked his weeping sister out of the private room and down the back hallway of the restaurant. He didn’t know if his best friend and his girlfriend would continue arguing but in the moment, he didn’t care. Genie needed him more.

It took almost twenty minutes but eventually, she calmed herself down. He held her close, his arm wrapped around her shoulder as she leaned her head against his shoulder. The two were leaning against Jameson’s car and they hadn’t exchanged a word. Genie wiped her eyes but he could tell she was still hurting.

“They’re going to be fine.” Jameson told her softly. “We’ll make ‘em like each other.”

Genie laughed softly, shaking her head. “We shouldn’t force them. I shouldn’t have said that.” “You were upset. We understand.” “...I am upset. I’m so hurt.” She said softly. “It’s fine, G. Is it a lil fucked up? Yeah. But…it’s whatever. We’ll work it out.” “You don’t understand. Daddy is different now.” “He probably just feels guilty. It is weird.”

Genie lifted her head from his shoulder, fresh tears in her eyes as she looked at him. “Stop crying,” Jameson grumbled, hating the fact that she seemed so upset and there was nothing he could do to help her.

“He said – He said you weren’t his son.”

His heart thudded in his chest and Jameson bit back a sharp inhale. Rejection and pain hit like a blow and he knew Genie could see it all over his face. She began to cry again. “Because of Camille?”

“I don’t know. I told him you’d be upset and he just said that he didn’t matter to your life. He said it and I told him I didn’t want to be around him anymore.”

Jameson couldn’t really process the facts. Everything was overwhelming as fuck but his main priority was Genie. “Is this why you keep crying?”

Her chin wobbled and he gave her a soft laugh.

“I’m a big boy, G. It sucks but I’ll be alright.” “I don’t want you to stop being my brother.”

She said the words softly, sounding like that eight year old he’d met all those years ago.

“I won’t. You stuck with me. For life.”

Genie scanned his face and Jameson did his best not to let the pain show. He’d had one father walk away from him when he had needed the man. Having Kendrick walk away when he didn’t need him anymore wouldn’t break him. “It’s okay.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice was muffled by his shoulder. They’d driven home in silence. Jameson got undressed, showered, and flopped into bed before he could even think of a word to say. He lifted his head and turned to get a good look at her. “I’m sorry you found out that way.”

That was more like her. He knew her relationship with EJ was done, burned and buried. Neither of them was willing to back down. Both felt strongly about it…and in the moment, Jameson couldn’t give a damn about right or wrong. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t but he didn’t want to talk about it. Her hand came to his head, caressing comfortingly. He didn’t know how much he needed that. Jameson’s eyes drifted closed and he rested his head against her chest.

“Genie couldn’t stop crying,” Jameson told her softly. “Never seen her that broken up before.” Imani said nothing but the steady beating of her heart against his ear made him relax. He wanted to be strong for his sister but he didn’t have to be that way with Imani. Not right now. He needed her too much. “Starting to think there’s something wrong with me.”

Imani wrapped him up in her arms, seemingly already knowing where his mind was taking him. “Ain’t nothin wrong with you, baby.”

“I’m on my second parental abandonment, baby. Something is up.” He joked.

“Nah, ain’t nothin’ wrong with you, Jay. Somethin’ wrong with them niggas. They missed out on you.” She replied softly. “They both gone regret that shit, baby.”

It all flashed before his eyes. One off basketball games in their backyard, going shopping for spring formal and prom suits, signing his first record deal. He had done all of that with Kendrick by his side. And now? Now it was all gone. “That man shaped my life. Changed me and my mom. Saved us. And now…I’m supposed to pretend he isn’t my father?” Tears sparked to life in Jameson’s eyes and he was ashamed of them but he didn’t wipe them away. He knew Imani wouldn’t judge him.

She continued to rub his head soothingly, her other hand dropped to his back, caressing it.

“I’ll figure out a way. I will. I’ll never beg a motherfucker to be there for me.”

Her life was unraveling at the seams. The turmoil from her near-altercation with Genie and the crushing news of her pregnancy had yanked her from the warm, hazy euphoria she’d found with Kendrick. It plunged her into a distorted, painful reality that she desperately wished to ignore. For several days, she had attempted to bury the truth, using the fight with Genie as an excuse to distance herself from Kendrick. She hadn’t dared to call or text him, letting silence replace their shared connection. Yet, the persistent morning sickness and unexpected food cravings reminded her that this baby was here to stay—and sooner rather than later, she’d have to confront the inevitable conversation.

Camille found herself at Kendrick’s house, stepping into his living room with an uneasy heart. She eased herself onto the sofa, her eyes flickering between him and the room as he carefully placed a chilled bottle of water in front of her.

The condensation on the cold container mirrored her own trembling anticipation as he settled beside her. “We need to talk,” she said, her voice quavering with the weight of the impending news.

Shifting slightly to face her, Kendrick rested an arm on the back of the couch in a gesture meant to soothe. “Let me say something first,” he began, his tone sincere. “I’m sorry about Genie. The way she reacted was completely out of line, and you didn’t deserve that at all. She’s hurting right now, but I know she’ll eventually come around.”

His eyes searched hers, earnest and tender. “But even if she never does, Camille, I don’t want to end this with you. I know everything seems complicated right now—but I like you a lot. I like where this is going.”

A fragile smile tugged at her lips, causing her heart to flutter unexpectedly. For weeks, Camille had agonized in silence, wondering if her feelings for Kendrick were one-sided. His comforting words confirmed that she wasn’t alone. Deep inside, though, she knew that the next words she was about to speak would irrevocably change everything between them.

“I appreciate that. I like you too,” she replied softly. She paused, her gaze falling to the water bottle, now glistening with beads of condensation, each drop a mirror of her own mounting anxiety. Unable to bear his gaze, her eyes fixated on the bottle and continued, “But there’s something I have to tell you…something that might change the way you feel about me.” Mustering the courage, she finally met his eyes.

“What is it, Cam?” he asked, his voice laced with gentle concern.

Her words trembled on her lips. “…I’m pregnant.”

She had rehearsed the words countless times in her mind, but to say them aloud made everything too real for her. Tears suddenly welled up and blurred her vision. How could she have been so stupid?

Kendrick’s expression softened immediately as he asked with genuine concern, “What? When did you find out?” He didn’t pull away or show any sign of shock—he simply maintained his steady presence, silently offering strength.

“A few days ago,” she replied in a shaky whisper, her voice cracking under the tidal wave of apprehension. “I—I don’t know what to do.” In that moment, Kendrick shifted even closer, wrapping his arms around her in a warm, protective embrace. She pressed her head against his chest as her tears dampened his shirt.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure this out together,” he soothed, his words a brief comfort against her turbulent emotions. Yet Camille’s mind was already racing ahead to another truth too messy to ignore—her next confession would make everything even more complicated.

“There’s something else,” she said, gently pulling back to study his face, searching for any sign of understanding. “I don’t know if this baby is yours or Jameson’s.”

Just like that, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. Kendrick’s eyebrows knitted together in disbelief as he recoiled slightly, his face clouded with confusion and disgust – either at her or the situation they found themselves in. She didn’t know. “How could you be so reckless, Camille?” His tone was sharp.

“Are you serious, Kendrick?” she shot back, quickly dabbing away tears as her sadness transformed into frustration and heated anger. Her jaw clenched tightly, and her eyes burned with resentment. “If I’m reckless, then what does that make you?”

The silence that fell between them was heavy. Kendrick opened his mouth, as if to form a retort, but no words emerged. “Exactly…I’ll figure this out on my own,” she declared bitterly, snatching up her things. With a surge of disappointment and disgust, she stormed toward the door. Kendrick’s call to her echoed faintly behind her, but at that moment, her anger drowned out every word.

She slammed his door behind her, quickly unlocking her car door. She slid into the cold interior. She came into this knowing everything would turn sour between them, but she didn’t expect it to escalate so fast. In hindsight, perhaps she should have postponed calling Jameson, but she wanted to be over. She tapped away on her phone, her fingers trembling as she scrolled for his contact information.

Finally, she found his name and pressed the phone to her ear, listening as it rang again and again. She expected no answer. She had no choice but to leave a voicemail, her voice raw and pleading: “Jameson, I know I’m the last person you want to hear from, but I wouldn’t call you if it weren’t important. Please call me back.”

The world outside was deafening, yet in their little cocoon nothing stirred but peace. It was beautiful when it was just them. Jameson locked down — going into himself. Imani was fiercely protective. They sheltered in her Beverly Hills home and Jameson took the time to just process everything.

Jameson lay on her couch, phone in his hand as he scrolled through a cascade of comments on his impulsively shared photo — a picture of Imani, half-awake, nestled on his lap as an old jazz record whispered in the background. The post, unsigned and raw, had ignited a frenzied chorus from their fans.

They’re back together! Jamani FOREVER. We won. We missed you guys!

There was amusement in the moment but there was also an unsettling emptiness that settled over him. His relationship with Kendrick was radically changed. His relationship with EJ was fractured due to his constant rejection of Imani. Everything was chaos and instead of letting it sink him, Jameson decided to stick by the one person he trusted above all.

Not a single text or call from anyone had broken through the void. Genie’s concerned messages were the only ones that punctured the quiet, ensuring he and Imani were living, breathing, loosely tethered to the world beyond their intertwined lives. Everyone else could wait.

Now, with Imani seated beside him—her legs tangled atop the couch, head gently reclining on his chest — he couldn’t escape the fact that he would love to just be with her forever. Everything else was optional. Her phone lay face down on the coffee table, abandoned just as his had been until the persistent vibration of his own device shattered the fragile peace. Imani’s fingers unknowingly traced slow, soothing circles along his wrist.

"You good?" she murmured, tilting her head to capture his gaze.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to quell the inner tumult. "Yeah," he managed, though his voice betrayed him. She held her silence, aware that pushing would only deepen the unrest.

Then, his phone vibrated again, the name Camille glaring accusingly on the screen for the hundredth time. She was relentless — calls, texts, even a voicemail he’d left unopened. Clenching his jaw, Jameson knew he could continue to dismiss it indefinitely, but a smaller, nagging part of him understood that if Camille was this desperate, the matter must be significant.

Imani’s eyes drifted to his phone. "Just answer," she urged softly.

His thumb hovered in hesitation before he essentially inhaled sharply and swiped to accept. "What?" he muttered into the phone.

A shaky breath filled the line. "Jameson," Camille’s voice pleaded.

"What do you want?" His tone was brittle, resonating with frustration and hidden hurt. He always thought when they spoke again, he'd get to apologize for hurting her. Guilt still clung heavily to him when he thought about Camille but after learning she was fucking his dad? He figured they were even.

There was a heavy pause before she spoke, "I need to talk to you about…"

The moment those words landed, his grip on the phone tightened as if to anchor himself. "My father?" he snapped, the word laced with simmering anger. "Y’all are fucking. Yeah, I know. I get it. Anything else?"

But then her voice wavered, soft and unexpected. "Yeah." Something in her tone twisted his stomach into knots. "I’m pregnant." Those words hung in the air, shocking him into a momentary freeze.

He blinked, staring blankly ahead as the truth of the declaration began to seep in. Pregnant. Suddenly, the room seemed to shrink, the air growing thin with the weight of the revelation.

After an interminable silence, he forced out a hollow laugh that sounded more like despair than joy. "Yeah? Congratulations."

"Jameson," she insisted, the note of urgency unmistakable.

Closing his eyes as if to block out the reality, he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, "Why are you telling me?"

Without pause, her voice revealed the truth that shattered him completely, "Because… you could be the father."

In that instant, the color drained from his face. Imani, sensing the hardening inside him, sat up straight and watched him with anxious eyes. "Jamie?" she whispered.

His throat felt parched. It wasn’t his proudest moment but he abruptly hung up the phone in Camille’s face, tossing the phone away as if it was the cause of all his problems. Imani just kept looking at him, confused and anxious. His reply came out in a low murmur, "She’s pregnant. She said it could be mine.”

#aaron pierre #megan thee stallion #aaron pierre fanfic #megan thee stallion fanfic #aaron pierre x black!oc #megan thee stallion x black!oc #celebrity fanfic #original characters #celebrity ocs #fic: neon lights #HAPPY FINAL CHAPTER OF NEON LIGHTS #join us next wednesday for the epilogue and a special surprise

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witchlingcirce · 11 months ago

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I think there’s something really interesting about the fact that so much of Livvy & Ty’s ghostly bond being unhealthy due to the spell being poorly done, also reflecting the fact there relationship is growing unhealthy.

Should preface: Livvy & Ty love each other very much - I don’t think either is toxic to one another but I think there situation is unhealthy.

When Ty first raises Livvy, Livvy warns Ty that what he is doing is wrong. But Ty tells Livvy that all he wants is her, there is nothing without her. And she says “is that what you want”

Not what SHE wants, what he wants. Livvy knows she can’t come back, she knows it’s wrong but she would do anything for Ty. It kinda puts it into perspective, should Livvy be allowed to rest peacefully? I feel like this line is sentiment that Livvy would never put her own happiness above Ty’s. Livvy deserves to rest, but if Ty wants her back, shouldn’t she go back? He said it so. There’s nothing here without her.

Binding Livvy to this world and to Ty himself has made them develop this kind of co-dependency on each other.

Ty & Livvy have to be with one another or else they start feeling wrong. They’ve grown to always rely on each other.

Livvy doesn’t have any other options. She can ONLY talk to Ty, and Ty feels very obligated towards Livvy as well. Bringing Livvy back and how her ghostly presents work is like then tying there souls together, like there just one person.

Neither of these characters really feel as if they get to the live there own lives, again- feeling very responsible for the other person.

All of Ty’s relationships are limited because of Livvy. She’s probably his greatest sin. He literally can’t tell anyone about her. Bringing someone back is strictly forbidden in shadowhunter society. How imagine how he thinks Julian would react to the news? He probably fears that his entire family would hate him.

It’s almost as if Ty has isolated himself because of Livvy. Never really giving himself out to anyone or letting himself that the opportunity to do so.

And again, it’s the same for Livvy. She has no option but to talk to Ty. She could talk to Kit, but Kits made it obvious he doesn’t really wanna talk to her. Livvy, a character so full of life- has to watch others live the life that she wishes she could live from a far. In GOTSM, we see how much she actually hates being a ghost. But she loves Ty to much to say that.

And again: Ty & Livvy being away from each other physicallys hurts one another. There always bound to be together. And I wonder if maybe Cassandra wanted to play on the fact of those old sayings that twins have one soul split into two.

As much as I want Livvy to come back, I think there arc is meant to end as Livvy finding peace in the afterlife- and Ty finding peace without Livvy :,( my doomed siblings

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milk-is-stable · 27 days ago

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The Shoot From the Hip Hunger Games Day 1 - Remainder

The Reaping || Tribute Interviews || Day 1 - The Bloodbath

Content Warning: descriptions of violence, blood/injury, suicide and major character death

The Capitol anthem plays as the camera pans over the forested arena. Four cannon blasts echo through the arena, one for each of the four tributes who died in the initial Bloodbath. The cornucopia now stands empty, but there is still plenty of action to follow on the first day of the games.

The TV frame splits into a multi-view screen showing a handful of the tributes as they prepare for the trials ahead.

Sally and Chip, both tributes from District 12, have found one another in the forest and are working together to gather supplies. Meanwhile, Priscilla from District 7 and Inga from District 9 have also brokered a truce: Inga is helping boost Priscilla up a tree so she can gather fruit. Jimmy from District 8 has run into Jasper from District 4, and when they realize that neither of them have much in the way of tools or resources, they begin traveling through the woods together.

Other tributes begin the day alone. Janae (District 3) has found an isolated spot in the forest and is using a rock to file a fallen tree branch into a sharp point, and Janusz appears to have gotten lost in his attempt to follow Alexa, his fellow tribute from District 1, and is now wandering aimlessly through the trees.

Julian (District 4) is still running, finally stopping when he finds a large rock outcropping to duck behind. He draws his legs close to himself, attempting to become as small as possible, and his breath comes in short, panicked gasps.

Not all the tributes are content to merely gather resources. The camera cuts to a shot of Robin (District 8), who is running through the forest with his weapon out. It zooms out, revealing that he is chasing two tributes, Benjamin from District 6 and Johnny from District 3. As he closes the distance between them, he swings his mace and the blow catches Johnny on the shoulder. Johnny cries out, falling to the ground, but he rolls over and kicks at Robin’s legs as the smaller boy approaches. Robin stumbles, and Johnny gets back to his feet and staggers away.

Benjamin is still running in the other direction, and as Robin gets back up he looks between his two targets for a moment, trying to decide which way to go. He turns towards Johnny, but before he can begin his pursuit anew, an arrow whizzes past him out of nowhere, embedding itself in a tree mere inches from where he was standing. Making a split second decision, Robin turns and runs after Benjamin instead, leaving Johnny to his injury.

“Who’s there?” Johnny calls out, and Priscilla emerges from the trees, her bow in her hand.

“You’re the one who has those future dreams,” she says, and Johnny nods.

“Priscilla, what are you doing?” Inga asks, stepping into view after her, and Priscilla points at Johnny with the tip of her bow.

“He can see the future. I think we should team up with him.”

“Sometimes I can see it,” Johnny adds, wringing his hands. “I mean, the dreams don’t always happen exactly like I see them–”

“But sometimes they do?” Priscilla asks, and Johnny nods again.

“That does sound like a power I would want on my side,” Inga says. “Truce?”

“...okay. Truce,” Johnny agrees, and the three of them shake hands.

The camera view cuts back to split screen, showing four perspectives at once, though you cannot hear what is being said in any of the feeds. In the first shot, you see Caesar (District 2) approaching Jimmy and Jasper in the woods. They startle at first, but Caesar’s hands are out in an appealing gesture, and the three seem to be negotiating an alliance.

The second feed shows Michael (District 7) receiving a parachute from a sponsor. He opens the package to reveal a small photograph of himself with a short blond man and a tall brunette woman standing behind him, their hands on his shoulders. He closes his eyes, and clutches the photograph to his chest for a moment before sliding it into his pocket and continuing through the forest.

In the third feed, you can see Pinocchio (District 11) crouching low in the bushes, watching Jimmy, Jasper, and Caesar intently. He watches as they divvy up the supplies that Caesar brought from the cornucopia, then he slips away. Looking around the woods, he goes up to a tree with a growth of vines snaking their way around the trunk. He reaches for the vines, but immediately winces and pulls back. A bright red drop of blood has appeared on his palm, and the camera zooms in to reveal that the vines are artificially enhanced to have long, barbed thorns that are hidden just beneath the leaves. Pinocchio looks back towards where the new alliance is gathered, then he takes a deep breath and starts carefully pulling the vines down from the tree.

The fourth feed shows Marty (District 10) and Clarissa (District 6) fighting with one another. Neither of them have weapons, and Clarissa’s supply pack is torn open on the ground beside them. For a moment it looks like Marty has the upper hand, but he suddenly breaks out into a coughing fit, and Clarissa takes advantage of it to deliver a blow to his stomach that sends him sprawling to the ground. She rushes to gather her supplies, which includes a small, serrated blade. She looks back down at Marty for a moment, then shakes her head to herself and dashes away, leaving him hurt but alive.

The camera cuts back to a fullscreen view and shows Hugh (District 9), who is walking through the trees with an armful of edible plants. The feed cuts to an aerial shot that shows Alexa approaching him from the south, and Peter (District 10) approaching from the east. Cutting back to Hugh, you see the moment that Alexa comes into his line of sight. He stops abruptly, his eyes trained on the axe in her hands, but she quickly shakes her head.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she says, holding out a hand. “I wanted to ask…you know so much about plants and the forest…would you be willing to team up with me? So many of the others are bigger and stronger than we are...I think we would have a better chance if we worked together.”

Hugh immediately shakes his head, stepping back.

“I don’t…no, I’m sorry, but no. I’ll stay on my own, thanks.”

Hugh retreats into the forest, and the camera stays on Alexa as she watches him go. Suddenly she freezes, turning her head towards a sound. She squints, and the camera view pulls in close to her so that you can see where she’s looking. A tall, gangly figure is visible through the trees, and Alexa lets out a yelp.

She turns and runs in the opposite direction, and the camera pulls back, revealing the figure to be Peter. He runs after her, and for a moment the screen is a blur of passing trees and bushes as the two tributes run through the woods.

Just as they break into a clearing, Alexa trips over a tree branch. Her axe flies out of her hands and she falls to the ground, letting out a scream of pain. She tries to get to her feet, but as soon as she puts weight on her left ankle it buckles beneath her and she cries out again.

Peter catches up to her and pauses for a moment, catching his breath, and Alexa whimpers, scooting away from him as best as she can.

“ALEXA!”

Janusz runs out into the clearing, his eyes wide with panic. Peter turns towards him, surprise written on his face, but before Janusz can get any closer, Alexa shrieks:

“NO! Run, Janusz! Get out of here!”

“I cannot leave you, Alexa!” Janusz shouts, but Alexa shakes her head, her eyes brimming with tears.

“RUN! PLEASE!” she begs.

Janusz stands frozen for a moment, his eyes locked with Alexa's, and she nods at him when Peter takes a step his way. Blinking away tears, Janusz takes a deep breath and spins away, running back into the forest the way he came.

The camera cuts abruptly back to Pinocchio, who is crouching in the bushes several yards away from the perimeter of Caesar, Jasper, and Jimmy’s camp. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he lets out a long, low howling sound.

The boys look up at the noise and Pinocchio makes the call again, a little louder this time.

“Is that a wolf?” Jimmy asks, his voice stuffy from his broken nose, and Jasper frowns, tilting his head.

“It might be? It’s hard to tell, it sounds far away.”

"It doesn't sound much like a wolf to me," Caesar says.

Pinocchio howls again, even louder, and Jimmy nervously looks towards the sound.

“It might be one of those engineered things they make. We shouldn’t stay here.”

“Hold on a minute,” Caesar begins, but he is cut off by a piercing shriek.

“AAAAAAh! No! Get away! No! AAAAAaaaah!” Pinocchio screams, before letting out another howl.

“We have to go!” Jimmy insists, and he takes off running.

“Jimmy, wait!” Jasper calls, running after, and after a moment Caesar moves to join them.

The three don’t make it far before Jimmy’s foot twists underneath him and he falls face forward. He lets out a scream of pain as he lands, and the camera zooms in to reveal that he stumbled into a wide, shallow hole that was covered in a layer of vines…the very vines Pinocchio discovered with the artificially enhanced thorns. Jimmy tries to push himself back to his feet, but every movement only drives the thorns deeper into his skin and he flinches, unable to stand on his own.

"It was a trap," Jasper says, and Caesar curses.

“Our supplies!” he exclaims, and he turns and runs back in the direction of their campsite.

Jasper approaches Jimmy’s side and tries to help pull him up, but he is unable to do so without hurting Jimmy even more. He winces as he scraps against one of the thorns, leaving a long, shallow cut along his arm. Sighing, he lets go of Jimmy's hand and takes a step back.

“Don’t just leave me here!” Jimmy protests, but Jasper just shakes his head in apology before turning and running after Caesar.

He arrives back at the camp to find Caesar holding his trident, a glare on his face.

"The food that Jimmy had is gone," he reports. "So is the hunting knife and our sleeping bag."

"So we were played," Jasper says, and Caesar nods.

“It was that kid from Eleven," he growls. "I saw him raiding our stuff, but he took off into the woods when he heard me coming.”

“What are we gonna do?” Jasper asks.

A cannon blast signaling the death of a tribute, the first to be heard since the bloodbath, echoes through the woods. Caesar grits his teeth.

“We’re going to get him back.”

The camera cuts back to Janusz, who is still running through the woods as fast as he can. He reaches the edge of the treeline and finds himself at the top of a high, rocky outcropping just as the first cannon fires.

Tears are streaming down his face as he doubles over, trying to catch his breath.

“I’m sorry, Alexa,” he sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

The sound of a branch snapping makes him jerk his head up, and the camera zooms out to show Marty crouching at the edge of the forest, watching Janusz like a hawk.

Janusz shakes his head, and he straightens.

“No…no, I do not want to play this game anymore!” he says, backing away. His heel reaches the edge of the cliff and he freezes, looking down at the drop behind him before looking back to Marty.

The other tribute leaves cover of the treeline and makes his way slowly towards Janusz, who clenches his fists at his sides.

“I will not play this game anymore!” he shouts, before looking up at the sky, one final tear rolling down his cheek. “I’m coming after you, Alexa,” he whispers.

Closing his eyes, he holds his arms out to the side and lets himself fall backward.

Marty stops and watches as Janusz falls, and a moment later a second cannon blast sounds.

“Damn, kid,” says Marty, raising his eyebrows. “I didn’t think you had that in you.”

The camera cuts back to Jimmy’s body lying tangled in the thorns. Pinocchio sits on the ground a few feet away, his eyes hollow and the hunting knife he took from Caesar's camp in his hand, blood dripping from the blade.

One more cut, this time to a zoomed in shot of one of the black jackets that the tributes all are wearing lying on the ground. One of the sleeves is torn off the jacket, and the camera pans over to a small, trembling pair of hands as they wrap the jacket sleeve around their ankle with the practiced care of someone who has done this many, many times before. The shot zooms out and you see Alexa, pale and shaking but alive, sitting with her back against a large rock. She finishes wrapping her ankle, then carefully gets to her feet and tests balance. She winces slightly as she puts weight on the foot, but she squares her shoulders and pushes onward, limping off into the trees.

The broadcast will now break for commercial. Please tune in again soon to see what else will become of our tributes on the first day of the games!

— — —

Game Summary

Deaths:

Jimmy was killed by Pinocchio

Janusz was killed by himself

Kill Counts:

Pinocchio: 2 (Maria, Jimmy)

Inga: 1 (Jim L)

Caesar: 1 (Juliet)

Game Meta

Day 1 was a really interesting one! I was absolutely devastated that my boy Janusz was taken out of the running so soon, so I hope that I gave his death scene some emotional weight for you guys. Also a real loss to have Jimmy exit so soon, I know both of these boys are high on people's favorite list, but alas, I do not control the deaths.

I altered only one major thing for today: I had to make up something totally original happen to Johnny, since somehow my screenshot cut off what was supposed to happen to him. I chose to have him be involved in the fight with Benjamin and Robin for reasons that will become clear later in the games >:3

There are lots of little changes in regards to alliances that you may have noticed; specifically Alexa asks Hugh to team up which is not in the screenshots and Johnny teams up with Priscilla and Inga which is not on the list. Both are things that happen in Night 1, and I put them during the day so that I could set up having actual character conversations during the Night and not worry about getting them to agree to spend time with each other.

In general, I will be more flexible with the timeline of when characters interact with each other in terms of alliance forming, to make the narrative make more sense (this is also why Inga is involved in the alliance with Hugh and Priscilla even though the simulator doesn't mention that, it doesn't make sense with what her future actions are to not be part of this group. You'll see what I mean later).

Also, I want to quickly bring something up: This simulator also has a "tribute summary" at the end of each simulation that shows you who is alive, who is dead, and how many kills each tribute has. This is also where you as a creator can manually kill or resurrect any tribute, though I did not use those features.

I will NOT be using these summaries in the future screencap wrap ups, because they're not actually correct. The computer doesn't always tally things correctly, and thus my manual Kill and Death count will be more accurate (if you look at the table, you'll see that Pinocchio only has one kill and Caesar has 2...I think the simulator attributed Jimmy's death to Caesar by mistake). I just wanted to mention that for transparency's sake!

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