#i should write poetry more often

[m1d-45]

And you, teddy anon (and midas ofc), never fail to come up with scenarios that my mind is all too happy to jump on. ❤️

Imagine then, after the Creator has finally been rescued and tended to, they finally wake up after sleeping for a very long time, they see that they’re in a painfully familiar, urban place. Upon realising that they’re not in, say, a hilichurl camp or are otherwise in the wilds, they panic and scramble to try and leave (they think that they’re still being hunted). Then in comes one of their characters (or they bump into them in a corridor or sth).

Off the top of my head, I see a few directions that this could go:

1. Creator tries to plead with the character to let them leave, or are otherwise trying to find an opportunity to escape. Due to their panicked state, they interpret their character’s gestures as hostile or are otherwise trying to trick them into lowering their guard. Maybe they were betrayed by someone (or that one in particular) during the hunt (I can see characters like Kaeya and Ayato doing this) and they’ve been very guarded against similar tactics since. Bonus points if they have the ability to teleport like the Traveler does.

2. Creator tries to defend themselves with their budding elemental power that they are just starting to learn to control.

3. Creator outright gives up. They shake their head, thinking themself foolish for ever believing that they could escape forever, that this was their just desserts for even trying to defy fate. They smile at their character and tell them that they win, and to go ahead and end them. More likely if said character had been extremely persistent in hunting them (e.g. Kaeya). Imagine then that they’re bracing themselves for the final blow, but then they feel warmth. They open their eyes in shock and realise that the character is hugging them close, whispering, “I’m sorry”, or “Forgive me” over and over again. Maybe the character even cries a little.

- cryo anon, whose brain can actually come up with fluff occasionally

oh my god cryo anon my dearly beloved

they’re kinda just merged together because i kinda went off so

you maybe waking up in the estate, sitting up on shaking arms. you don’t remember much, mostly just a blur; thoma shouting at you, a white kimono and a sharp, commanding voice. the details are a haze, and the room you’re in is unidentifiable. there’s a potted plant in a white and purple vase, a dark wood closet, the sheets soft- or maybe they’re not, and you’re simply used to dirt and scratchy sacks?

you don’t know. you have a headache. the door opens, and you delay so long in turning that the person has a chance to shout something down the hallway—does wonders for your migraine—before coming in. when you do look, you wish you hadn’t.

ayato is the last person you want to see on inazuma. you’d met him once before, banged up and hiding near inazuma city. he’d seen you, you thought, seen your blood, your dirty bandages and knotted hair, and you thought he’d known that you couldn’t be a threat.

you didn’t hear what he said, but you pull away from his hand when he reaches for you anyway. where are you? why are you here? your hands were wrapped, your aches had ceased, the room is cool and his eyes are warm-

“i mean no harm,” he says quietly, but all you can think of is the past, of the bustling streets behind him when he found you tucked in an alley, bruised and bleeding.

you don’t want to believe him. you don’t anyway.

if it weren’t for the fact that your legs were broken, you would have run away.

[oedipuscomplexes]

mating rituals (diseased) by Oliver A. H.

[muslimintp-1999-girl]

I think that love is fragile

And maybe that's why the fate that connects us

Is represented by a thread

Is it worth it to weave a daydream out of it

I have only worn armours of steel

Before the day you gifted me these gloves you had knitted out of a yarn ball

I love how no matter how strong steel is it can never be as warm as these gloves you gave me on that winter morning

[steelycunt]

honestly the thing. that helped me be ok with my "poetry" ( if you could call it that) is that anything, literally anything can be poetry. obviously not by academic standards ofc but literally writing a bunch of words that make sense to you in some way or feeling is poetry. heaping phrases together so that it teeters on prose?? STILL POETRY I MY BOOKS.

yes i love that!! i definitely get the teetering on prose thing, it is simply not in my nature to be concise which i think is one of the things that makes me so uncomfortable trying to write poetry!! but there is definitely space for rambly poems as you say it helps to remember that while some poetry may have conventions it doesnt really have rules!!

[vi-visected]

i have this thing that i do over on my priv twitter called “today’s journal entries” where every day i post the poems that i wrote in my online journal. it’s not always 4 (but most of the time it is) but it’s at least one every day. unfortunately this means sometimes i wind up writing them very late because i’ve forgotten to post for the day, and last night i was about halfway asleep when i finally got around to it. i don’t remember writing any of these.

[icantlivehereanymore]

You swear when I need something. Awfully bad tempered. Rusted over at the first touch of rain, a mess of metal I'm unsure what to do with. This was never beautiful to anyone, hopeful, quenching any sort of thirst. 

The only difference between a machine and a clump of parts is purpose. Which does that make us? 

[thatone-churro]

one of these poem ideas is not like the others.

[dira333]

Big Stretch - Kenma x Reader

@luvring you cannot post a Kenma hc and think I won't find out and marinate it in my head until I have to write it

Haikyuu taglist: @lees-chaotic-brain

"Oooh, big stretch."

Kenma turns to glare at you, arms not fully extended yet. He folds in again, pouting slightly. "I'm not a cat," he says and you cock your head to the side to observe him.

"Could have fooled me." You tease.

He huffs, face growing red as he looks to the side. Oh no, did you go too far?

“Hey,” you lean in, try to catch his eye, “That was meant as a compliment. I like cats.”

He hums low in his throat, turns his amber eyes back to the paper in front of him.

“Can we just go back to work?” He asks and you nod. “Yeah, sure.”

-

“Oooh, big stretch.”

Kenma sends you a pointed glare. The guy next to him, hair dark and disheveled, chuckles low in his throat.

“Your friend?” He asks and Kenma makes it a point to shake his head exaggeratedly.

“Should I turn around so you can finish stretching?” You ask, leaning into your seat, “Or can I stay to enjoy the show.”

Red blooms on Kenma’s face as he ducks behind the collar of his shirt.

“Stop,” he whines, “There are people around.”

“Ah, young love,” the guy next to him whistles and Kenma digs an elbow into his side. “Stop it, Kuroo! I don’t even know them!”

“Liar,” you call him out, “You love me.” And though it’s said as a joke you can’t help but think that it’s more of a manifestation. If you say it often enough it will come true.

-

“Oooh, big stretch.” 

Kenma huffs. He stops moving, frozen for a second before he throws his arm around you, rests his head on your shoulder and fakes the loudest snore you’ve ever heard.

“Long game, huh?” You ask, eyes finding Kuroo’s who’s got the usual knowing smirk.

“Aren’t you tired too, dear manager?” He asks.

You shake your head, heart bubbling in your chest with how close Kenma is. Even if you had been exhausted, you couldn’t be anymore, not with him cuddling into you.

Out of sight of his teammates, his ankle crosses yours.

Truly, feet-holding is so much cuter than hand-holding.

-

“Oooh, big stretch.”

Kenma blinks, sleep settling heavily into his skin. He makes grabby hands, calling you in, and even though teasing him is as necessary to you as breathing, you cannot stay away when he’s cute like this.

You settle on his lap, lean over him, hands on either side of his face as if you’re kabedon-ing him into the mattress.

“Slept well, little kitty?” You ask and he smiles, hair fanned out around his face. 

Instead of answering he hooks one hand around your neck and pulls you in, his lips soft and a little chapped, writing poetry into your skin.

-

“Oooh, big stretch.”

Kenma glares, lips stretching into a pout at your words. You can tell he’s not fully done stretching yet, but he’s unwilling to stretch again just because you commented on it.

“In my defense,” you tell him, nudging his back with your socked foot, “You are napping like a cat.”

“‘m not.”

“Am too. It’s cute.”

“Your mom’s cute.”

You snicker. “I’ll tell her you said that.”

He groans. “Look away,” he says, “I need to stretch.”

“Mhm, no, I got full staring rights when you said ‘I do’.”

“Should have read the fine print.”

“Should have, yes.” You lean forward, fold yourself in a way that’s making your back ache, but now you’re face to face with him, able to press a kiss to his nose. 

“Now you’re mine.”

He smiles, unable to keep up the pout, ducking his face behind his long hair.

“‘m yours.”

My Kofi if you want to tip me

[wlw-imagines]

It’s Not What It Looks Like - Eloise Bridgerton/Reader (Bridgerton)

request: “can you make like a eloise bridgerton and her lover get caught?” - anon

a/n: very excited to have the time to be writing again, happy days -- set at beginning/mid season 2 ig?? also regency homophobia? pft the bridgertons are above that shit (mostly... so this is a sprinkling of regency homophobia warning ig but more gay pride really !!)

back to new fresh writing from this year (how is it 2024 wtf) - word count is almost 6k yo + no editing because i do not want to

The two of you giggled like little children as you raced one another up the stairs. Eloise pulled on your arm in an attempt to overtake you but you just about managed to beat her to the spot - despite her cheating tactics. 

You tangled your fingers with hers, holding onto her hand as you opened the door to her room, “We should cause a nuisance to your Mother more often.” You looked over your shoulder and made eye contact as you spoke, grinning mischievously. 

Her cheeks turned a sweet rosy colour as she mirrored your smile, letting go of your hand in favour of wrapping her arms around your waist from behind, her hands rested on your hips.

“Hmm, what a punishment to get sent away to be together.” Eloise expelled an over-dramatic sigh before letting out a light laugh. “After all, we are just doing what we’re told.” She shrugged innocently and moved around you, sitting down and landing on her bed with a bounce.

You laughed, letting your gaze linger across her room, acquainting yourself once more with Eloise’s own space and all the small things that had changed since you were last here, “It seems extremely unlike you to ever do what you are told, my love.” She rolled her eyes with a smile, before patting the space next to her.

“Come here, sit.” She smiled and shifted slightly to the side, “Perhaps close the door first.” You let out a small laugh and turned around, gently pushing the door shut.

Turning back to Eloise, you quirked up an eyebrow and smiled, taking a few steps back to stand in front of her, “Is the door shut so we may have further deep discussions about the poetry you leant me? Because if so-”

As soon as you were close enough, Eloise interrupted you and pulled your body between her legs, pressing against her front. Before you could try to finish your sentence, El had her hand resting on your jaw and had pulled you towards her to kiss you. 

Her kiss was, as always, full of emotion and meaning, though today it was also a kiss with a hint of urgency. You let yourself relax into her as she kept your body firmly against hers in as many ways as possible - craving your touch.

You pulled away gently and rested against her. She closed her eyes and smiled, “I must admit to wanting to do that for the longest time.”

Putting your hand back under her chin, you whispered, “You may do it again, if you so wish.” 

She wrapped her arms around you, rolling and pulling you onto the bed so you were lying on top of her and she giggled, peppering your face with kisses.

“We should be careful, my love.” You said, pursing your lips and glancing at the door as you pushed yourself up. El sighed and pulled you back against her, a slight pout on her lips.

She jutted her chin up slightly in defiance and her pout gave way to a soft smile, “Maybe I do not want to be careful.” 

You let out a small snort and gently raised an eyebrow again, “Hmm,” You pressed a few soft kisses to the corner of her mouth, before moving yourself so you were laying next to her with your legs still across her lap - ignoring her protests. You felt something crackle beneath you and moved to grab it and, upon realising it was the newest Whistledown, you held it out to Eloise, “Did you read the latest gossip?”

She groaned lightly in frustration at your distraction tactics but humoured you all the same, rolling onto her side and propping herself up on her elbow, “I may have been distracted half way through. It arrived just before you did.” Her hand came to rest on your stomach and she gently traced her fingers over the material of your dress.

“Where did you get to?” You asked, the gossip already opened as you re-read the pieces you had seen earlier in the day. Eloise raised her head slightly to look at the paper in your hand and gestured to the third paragraph of the first page.

“Perhaps around there?” She shrugged slightly.

Your eyes widened, “Oh, but you completely missed the best bit!”

“Read it to me?” Eloise asked, looking to you through her eyelashes. You smiled, blushing at the intimacy of the moment. 

“Surely there are more romantic things for me to read to you?”

She just hummed and rested her head against your shoulder, “My heart is so full for you that anything you do makes it beat faster.” 

“You’re very soppy, you know that right?” The blush on your cheeks increased tenfold and you couldn’t resist pressing a soft kiss to her lips, brushing your noses together before moving back slightly.

Before you could get another word out, Eloise’s door burst open and Hyacinth fell into the room, a broad grin on her face. Her eyes skipped around the room, looking for the two of you, “Hello? Sister, please - please may I borrow your silk ribbons for m-

You did your best to scramble up and put a bit more platonic space between yourself and Eloise, “H! Good afterno-”

Eloise lazily rolled over, glancing over her shoulder to see her sister, “Hyacinth? Go away. We were in the middle of-”

Hyacinth cleared her throat and had already begun retreating backwards out of the room, her face bright red, “Oh... I didn’t- Sorry, excuse me.”

Your heart was beating faster now and you called out in an attempt to stop her. You wanted to try to explain that it’s not what it looked like at all, “H, wait-”

“Don’t, just let her go. Stay here with me.” Eloise took your hand and tried to pull you back into her again but you resisted this time.

“No, El, what if she tells someone?”

Eloise sat up next to you with exaggerated effort and huffed, “What would she say? Besides, I still want to do this...” She leant towards you, her hand brushing against your hips as she gently connected her lips with yours, “And you were going to read to me?” She whispered, mere inches away from capturing your lips with hers once more.

“What would she-? Really, my love? What would you say if you were to see... the Duke, for example, practically straddling your sister?”

“Straddling? We weren’t straddling, we were just- It’s not...” The realisation dawned on her as she looked at you and considered the close proximity - her hand on your lower stomach, your legs tangled together. Her face went pale as she whispered, “Oh, fuck. Hyacinth! Sister, it is not what it seems.” She untangled herself from you and jumped off the bed, gathering her skirts as she chased after her sister. “Hyacinth!” 

You took a second to panic before pushing yourself off the bed and you followed El out the room, almost crashing into her back on the landing outside, “Where has she gone?” You asked El, who shrugged and you could see the similar panic in her eyes, mirroring your own.

“Mama!” Hyacinth’s voice drifted to you from below. Your head snapped round to the stairs.

“Bloody hell!” Eloise muttered under her breath, running around you to get to the stairs. She thundered down them and, if you weren’t worried about Hyacinth, then you would have laughed at her complete unladylike stomping.

Hyacinth’s voice wailed again as she looked around for her family, “Mama!”

“Oh my, whatever is the matter?” Violet’s voice joined the mix once Hyacinth had found her, evidently exasperated with all her children’s drama.

“It was Y/N and Eloise! They were... together.”

It felt as though there was an audible eyeroll before the two of you heard a response, “Well, yes, I sent them both upstairs to talk about their books and other such stuff. They were too loud down here with all their... chatter.” Just as she finished talking, both you and Eloise hurtled around the corner and into the sitting room, in which the whole family was sitting.

Eloise quickly - and loudly - voiced her objections to whatever accusations she had been picturing her sister making, “Mother, whatever Hyacinth has just said... she is lying. She is withholding the truth from you, as she often does, and-”

Hyacinth’s nostrils flared slightly in annoyance, “I do not!” She interrupted, frowning over at her sister, who quickly (and childlishly) responded right back.

“Do too!”

“Eloise, be kind to your sister.” Lady Violet quickly put her hands up to signal for the two sisters to stop talking and to find some kind of peace, “Besides, she has said nothing but that the two of you were talking.” She shrugged and began to turn back to the rest of the family but Hyacinth piped up again, more confusion and irritation lacing her voice this time.

You quietly and quickly prayed to any deity listening that Hyacinth’s words wouldn’t be utterly discriminating, you still had a chance to wriggle your way out of any current accusations.

“No, I don’t mean talking.” Hyacinth rolled her eyes and her cheeks turned red, “Mama, you must believe me. They were... together!”

Violet let out a deep breath and shrugged apologetically, “Darling, I do not know what you mean.”

You clear your throat and try to shrug nonchalantly, but ends up an awkward flail, “No one does- I mean, it’s fine. Let us all go back to what we were doing, how about that?” You try to move the conversation on - desperately, you must admit.

Simon raises an eyebrow and tilts his head ever so slightly at you, you blush and shake your head. This immediately causes a smirk to break out on his lips, which he clearly does his best to suppress or to hide but this just brings Daphne’s attention to him. You are sure your blush is a permanent feature now.

“Hyacinth, you always cause such a rush and a chaos, running down here to announce nonsense. What do you mean ‘they are together’?” Daphne herself chooses to chime in, frowning at Simon with a questioning glint in her eye.

Eloise lets out a breathy chuckle and shakes her head, “I rather think she means nothing, so-”

Anthony sighed deeply and in an over-exaggerated manner, leaning his head on his palm before snapping, “No more breath need be wasted on this subject. They were together, so what?” He shrugged, clearly bored of the conversation and fuss, and dropped his hands to his knees.

Eloise brightened up and gestured towards him as she looked and nodded to the rest of her family and then focused her gaze back to Anthony, “Well said, brother!” 

“Eloise!” Colin gasped and you did all you could to suppress a groan of disbelief. Anthony immediately straightened in his seat, a fresh interest lighting up his eyes.

“What?” She looked to you with slight alarm, sensing she had done something wrong.

“Agreeing so vehemently with Anthony? I never thought I’d see the day!” Colin leant forward, looking between Anthony and Eloise. He shrugged, raising an eyebrow, “Well, if my suspicions weren’t first raised by Hyacinth screaming the house down - now they well and truly are.” 

Eloise took a deep breath in and shuffled her feet slifghtly before rolling her eyes, “Sometimes... I occasionally might agree with what he has to say.” She folded her arms tightly across her chest, staring defiantly at Colin.

“No, you don’t.” Anthony challenged, bringing everyone’s attention back to him.

Eloise frowned and gritted her teeth, “Yes, I do.”

He let out a scoff, “No, I am sure that you do not.” 

“I simply insist that I do!” 

You let out a small sigh and sunk down into the armchair next to Simon and Daphne. Simon sent you a glance that, at first one may think was sympathetic, but, upon further inspection, showed he was clearly enjoying your public annihilation. You just glared at him, which made him simply smile. Infuriating man.

Colin stood up between the two of them and gestured to Eloise, “Now look! You can’t even agree as to whether you agree.”

“So, what, pray tell, is going on?” Daphne raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Simon and clearly clocking the looks you were giving one another.

You reluctantly cleared your throat, deciding now was a good time to take the heat off from Eloise who was clearly struggling, “I promise, nothing untoward is happening here. We were just playing games, weren’t we H?” You smiled over at Hyacinth, begging her with your eyes to just go along with it.

Hyacinth’s eyes lit up, “Like Daph, and the Duke!” You audibly groaned this time. This kid would not take any hints.

VIolet hesitated, her eyes flitting from one daughter to the next, Hyacinth to Daphne to Eloise, before letting out a confused- “What?”

“They were together... like them!” Hyacinth looked slightly triumphant as she pointed across to Simon and Daphne.

Simon raised an eyebrow and shook his head before muttering under his breath, “Oh, no. Please don’t drag us into this.” You wanted to turn to him and stick your tongue out, but realised that was probably not the best move to play in this very moment.

“Well, I rather think we should let the two in question answer us.” Daphne stared pointedly at the two of you. 

“Here, here!” Simon quickly chimed in, wearing another annoying smirk on his face as he looked at you.

You were about to attempt to protest but as you opened your mouth Eloise defiantly piped up, “Fine.” She shrugged, as nonchalant as she could be.

“What?” You asked in a low voice with a bit of urgency, looking up at where she was standing above you.

You locked eyes and she nodded, clearly trying to convey a message (of which you had  speaking slowly. “Y/N and I were...” She hesitated and you started to panic, knowing you had to come up with something in order to save her.

“Arguing.” Eloise said at the exact same time as you interjected with- “Dancing.”

Eloise swirled back around to look at you, “Dancing? Why in the heavens would we be dancing?” She all but hissed and you looked at her with equal confusion.

“Your sister and her husband dance together... I don’t know?” You rolled your eyes before gesturing at her as you stood up, “Better, in my lowly opinion, than arguing.” 

“I had a plan! If you just let me say it then we would be fine right now.” She lowered her voice - as if that would stop everyone (who all had their eyes glued to the pair of you) from hearing your conversation.

You shook your head, “Eloise, you were floundering!” 

“I was not.” El all but stomped her foot, “I was... pausing for dramatic effect.”

“No, you always do that long pause whenever you are moments away from coming up with a lie. Everyone knows that!” Your voice rose slightly and you gestured to everyone in the room. In your peripheral vision, you could see Daphne raise her eyebrows before nodding. Even if you couldn’t keep the two of you a secret any longer, at least you had the vindication of winning that single point.

You watched as Eloise tried to come up with a rebuttal but, as already established, you were clearly correct. You grinned at her, utterly triumphant, and she just sighed before fondly rolling her eyes and letting her own smile mirror your own.

A clearing of the throat broke the brief silence and Colin’s voice soon followed, “It doesn’t take a genius to understand that the two of you are clearly lying but... really, Y/N? I mean, I must agree. Dancing? Eloise doesn’t dance lest she makes Mother believe she wants to be married off to the unlucky suitor.”

Eloise quickly shifted her glance to Colin and frowned, “I dance.” She insisted at the same time as you moodily grumbled out, “We dance.” and sat back down. To which Colin simply raised an eyebrow and opened his palms.

“Well, in that case, maybe Mother should marry her off to you.” He said and, seconds later, his gaze shifted to one of understanding. He went to open his mouth and shut it moments later.

Hyacinth let out a loud, frustrated sigh and pointed at Colin, “That’s my point! They were behaving like they’re married!”

“Right... I see.” Violet sat up stiffer in her chair and glanced down at her entwined hands before looking up to her daughter, “Hyacinth, go to your room.”

“But-”

Hyacinth went to protest but was quickly shut down with a steely one word response from her mother - “Go.” Reluctantly (and rather sulkily), she retreated out of the family room and stomped up every single stair before shutting the door to her bedroom rather loudly.

Throughout this, Violet’s eyes restlessly moved from her hands, to Eloise, and back, before eventually landing on Eloise completely. “Now, Eloise, I will only ask you this once. Were you- What was it that the two of you were... Tell me what Hyacinth means by...” Her mother danced around the subject, her hands working at the fabric of her dress, until Daphne sighed loudly and moved her body to sit facing Eloise.

“Mother remains to lack a certain skill of talking directly about... certain things. May I ask instead... are the two of you fucking?” She kept eye contact the whole time, hardly reacting as her mother physcially flinched and gasped, her cheeks turning rosy.

“Daphne!” Violet spoke, aghast.

Daphne eventually turned to her mother, “What? You cannot dilly-dally around with such a subject.” She shrugged and turned back to the two of you.

“I... yes. I guess perhaps... that is what I was getting around to in a way.” Violet’s gaze evetually settled on the two of you as well. 

You knew this direct line of questioning (and outing by Eloise’s sister) was going to be slightly harder to avoid than previously. And even then you hadn’t managed to do a convincing job of it. Still, the two of you bravely (stupidly) fought on.

Eloise vehemently shook her head, “I- no! We don’t...” She put her hand on your shoulder, which would normlly be soothing, but you pushed it off, hoping no one saw (they clearly did). “I mean we weren’t-”

You squirmed in your seat slightly. Explaining your relationship with El’s family was not what you had planned for the day, “What Eloise is trying to say is-” Eloise shook her hand at you, trying to forge on with her own sentence.

“To say ‘fucking’ is too-”

Your eyes widened at the way in which this conversation seemed to be going, “Eloise!” You cut her off, cheeks ablaze.

She looked across to you with innocent eyes, “What! I-”

Before she could land you in it even more, you tried to steer this into safer territory - desperate not to have to talk about sex in front of Eloise’s family, “Okay, listen-”

Again, Eloise managed to charge on. You slumped back in your chair, exhausted from trying to keep Eloise under control and away from the topic of fucking, “You know, I find it very interesting that... pleasuring a woman is deemed purely a male pastime and not-”

You let out a groan of frustration and sighed, taking hold of Eloise’s hand and squeezing softly, “El, my love, not the time.” She kept hold of your hand and turned to you. You took this as an opportunity to actually talk, “She meant we were not doing anything of the... sort. We would not even perchance dream of-”

Before you could finish your sentence, yet another Bridgerton was interrupting you. You involuntarily squeezed Eloise’s hand, tense at having to fight off more allegations, “They definitely are... surely. Look at them.” Daphne spoke.

You looked around the room. To Simon, who looked in pain at how much he was having to hold in a laugh. Daphne, who looked victorious. Colin, who still had an annoying, clever (but not unkind) smirk on his face. Anthony, who - in all honestly - couldn’t look much more like he was living a nightmare - perhaps tortured was the word. He was probably not feeling up to dealing with yet another Bridgerton scandal or another duel at dawn (which, for the record, neither were you). And Violet, who had started to return to a more normal colouring in her face, was looking slightly more relaxed - although you still couldn’t really read the woman.

Then... Eloise, who, since you had interrupted her, had been gazing at you. You were fools to believe that you could keep this under wraps. You finally saw her as if you were looking from the outside in and she had the most ridiculous, overpowering, gorgeous love-eyes you had ever seen. You melted in your chair slightly. You’d do anything to not have to give this up.

Eloise squeezed your hand gently and enveloped you in a hug as she was still standing and as you were still sitting, squeezing you into her side. She took a step back and held out both her hands. You hesitated but nodded, slipping your hands into hers.

With her gaze holding yours she nodded, “Yes, fine, we’re fucking.”

“Eloise!” You gasped, letting go of her hands and swatting at her head. She let out a laugh as she ducked away from you. Simon, next to you, finally let out the laugh he had been holding and Daphne quickly joined in. You turned to them, with red cheeks once more, “It’s not funny! Eloise, you’re being crass. And an ass. And anything else that rhymes!”

“I’m just answering the question I was given!” She grinned cheekily, stepping close enough to tempt another attempt at a hit from you, before dodging it just in time and letting out another laugh. You couldn’t help but start to grin at the absurdity of the situations, Eloise laughing wildly as she jumped around you, Simon shaking with laughter next to you. Even Anthony may have let out a small laugh. Maybe.

“Okay, stop, everyone.” Violet’s voice interrupted the slight moment of insanity, “How long has this been going on for?”

Eloise, still slightly puffed out from dodging your attacks, shrugged the question off, “Mother, it’s not-”

“How long?” Violet’s eyes were steely as she raised an eyebrow, tutting when Eloise let the silence stretch on a bit too long.

“Perhaps just a handful of months? Two? Or three. Maybe four?” Eloise’s smile shrank with every word.

“Under my roof?”

You slid back into your seat and quietly mumbled, “Under many a roof, in all fairness.” Although Violet had clearly heard as she frowned.

“What is this?” She asked gesturing between the two of you.

“What do you mean?” Eloise asked, stubborn as always, pushing her mother further than perhaps necessary.

Violet sighed and her eyes raised to the ceiling, “Eloise? Is this just your way of rebelling away from what is expected? From society? From me?” She asked, eyes landing back to Eloise.

“Mother-”

You wished you could bring back the laughter from moments ago. You gritted your teeth, annoyed at the woman you practically saw as your own mother. You hadn’t planned on telling anyone. Really you were going to try to live your whole lives together without anyone finding out. Which, in retrospect, had seemed a bit foolish. But you had hoped that Violet, and the Bridgerton family, of all people would be slightly more free-minded than this.

You stood up, putting yourself between Eloise and Violet, “This isn’t a rebellion.” You huffed out, angrily and frowned at Violet to really prove the point that you were angry at her. As the silence drew on and Eloise didn’t voice her approval of your input, you started to doubt yourself. You slowly turned to Eloise, eyes soft with sudden worry and feeling of self-consciousness, “Is it?”

“Of course not.” She frowned in dismay, shaking her head as she held your chin in her hands for a few moments. She then moved forward so she was shoulder to shoulder with you, “Mother, I- I don’t work to society’s rules. I’m not... it’s not my fault. It’s just me.” 

This was it. This was the make or break. You took in a deep breath and interlinked your fingers with Eloise’s. Stronger together. “El-” You whispered, your heart hammering. Violet had to accept you. She had to.

Violet’s voice came out slightly wobbly, “Eloise, of course it’s not your fault, you just-”

Before Violet could say anything more Eloise interjected, “I love her, I do. I love Y/N. Like you loved Father.” She sniffled slightly. You took a long sideways look at her and squeezed your eyes shut. Come on Violet. “I remember watching and wanting and yearning for what you had, ever since I was young. And I couldn’t understand why I could not even fathom that with any man in the ton. I haven’t known who I am. But I have that with Y/N, I do. You cannot blame me for finding that kind of love with her just because she is not a man, please.” Eloise’s eyes became glossy. You had to give it to her, she always pulled out a good speech. Well... not always actually. But this one was a good one. You squeezed her hand and didn’t stop until Violet answered.

“No, Eloise, I would never.”

“I know it may not seem right to many, but it’s... it’s not my fault... it’s who I am.” Eloise trembled slightly. Violet was on her feet before you knew it.

”Oh, my Eloise.” She herself had watery eyes. You could breathe a bit more easily as she swooped forward and brought Eloise into her arms. You let go of Eloise’s hand to let her wrap her hands around her mother’s waist. After a few moments, Violet pulled back, “Look at me. I know who you are. You’re a Bridgerton. You are one of the strongest people I have ever known. You are not at fault. How could you be when there is nothing to be at fault for?”

“You really think so?” Eloise asked.

Violet held both of Eloise’s clasped in her own, “Of course I do. A love like mine and your father’s, a love like yours, is rare so you have to hold onto it, yes?”

“I will.”

“Come here,” She hugged her again. “You too, Miss Y/L/N. Y/N.” She smiled at you and your face broke into a broad grin as she enveloped you into the hug too. You knew you could rely on her, always. Even if it took a little bit of time. “The two of you deserve the world.”

From the middle of the hug, you heard a soft clearing of a throat and Anthony once again piping up, “I don’t suppose you’ll be providing a dowry?”

Eloise pulled away from the hug, wiping at the tears grouping at the corner of her eyes, “Oh, shove off, Anthony.” She let out a half laugh and a half sob.

“I jest!” He grinned, “Unless...?” He turned to you, raising an eyebrow, a twinkle in his eye.

“I’m sure I have a few pennies to my name.” You smiled and Eloise’s arms circled your waist from behind.

“And I love her for more than just those few pennies!” She shouted over your shoulder, pulling you into her front.

Anthony put a hand on your shoulder and ruffled Eloise’s hair, “I am happy for you.” He finally admitted, a brotherly pride shining in his eyes.

You shifted away, letting Eloise and Anthony have a brief sweet moment (before one of them made a biting remark and it turned to hostility again). You decided to reclaim your seat next to Simon, who, with something akin to brotherly pride, put his arm around your shoulder.

“And I thought Daph and I caused quite the stir.” He grinned, bringing his arm back around to his side.

“Don’t, I’m embarrassed enough as it is.” You wriggled deeper into the settee, willing yourself to forget the majority of the embarrassing things that has just happened. The two of you watched as the present members of the Bridgerton clan all talked at the same time, spitting out jokes and jostling at one another.

Simon followed your gaze to Eloise and let out a deep chuckle, “You’re a rake!” He exclaimed.

You gasped in fake outrage and turned to him, “I am not!” You protested, a smile forming as he continued to laugh and elbow you in the ribs.

“You so are! Worse than me, you rascal.” He smiled, his own gaze settling on his wife, who was tormenting Eloise with ‘girl talk’.

“Stop! I’ve heard the stories of you and Daph. You’ve out-rascaled me ten times over!” You smirked.

He shook his head, “The big rake competition of 1815.” He hummed. You smiled as Eloise came to join you, making you squeeze up to fit herself next to you, as well as letting Daphne fit in her original seat.

As silence descended and everyone started to calm, Violet let out a contended sigh and leant back in her chair, her eyes turning to the settee the four of you were currently squabbling over, “I must say, I’m quite good at this love matching malarkey, aren’t I?” She asked. Everyone immediately stilled and there was a heavy pause before the noise began again.

Anthony raised an eyebrow, “Well, I wouldn’t say that you-”

Daphne let out an exasperated, “Mother!”

Eloise snorted, “You have done nothing to help our love matches!” 

Colin sighed and shook his head, “God help the rest of us...”

Violet decided to ignore all her children and smiled serenely. And at that moment the doors swung open.

“Good afternoon one, good afternoon all, how are we?” Benedict swanned in, immediately clocked a plate of biscuits and helped himself, taking the whole plate in his hands. He munched for a few moments before looking around for an answer. When he didn’t get one from anyone he smiled, “What?” He finished his mouthful and wiped his hand clean before going for another biscuit anyway, “Well, have I missed something?”

There was another long pause before Violet almost burst with the answer, “Y/N and Eloise are together.”

Benedict’s eyes swerved to the two of you, practically sitting in each other’s laps in order to fit on the settee together. He paused before nodding and gesturing in your direction, “Yes, I can see that.”

Violet smiled and shook her head, leaning forward in excitement, “No, like, together together.”

The crease in Benedict’s forehead deepened as he glanced at you again, “Yes... as I say, I can see that quite clearly.” He let out a small laugh, looking around to see if there was some joke he was missing. “Is everyone okay?”

“Oh for goodness sake, can no one in this family communicate properly and succintly?” Daphne fumed, “They are fucking.” 

“Daphne!” You groaned, having prayed that this day couldn’t get more embarrassing for you. And yet there was still more embarrassment to bloody experience. This family was torture (you still would do anything to keep them in your life though, that was clear).

“Okay, can we stop with the crude language?” Violet cast a look to Daphne, before looking at the two of you again with pride, “They are lovers.”

You felt Eloise recoil next to you, “Gross, Mother, no.” She shook her head and only stopped when she saw you looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “What? I mean, I love you but- lovers? Really?”

“Sorry, that’s the big news?” Benedict’s laughed again and his smile grew as he whirled around to look at his whole family again before shaking his head, “Well, obviously! These two are the least subtle ‘lovers’ in the whole bloody world.” 

“Again, with the ‘lovers’.” Eloise muttered next to you.

You smiled and whispered back to her, “Shut up, you love me.” She squeezed your thigh quickly in answer.

“Does anyone actually pay attention to what goes on in this house?” Benedict walked over to the settee you were occupying and leant his elbow on the back of it, taking another biscuit and spreading crumbs as he went.

“Well, I thought we did a splendid job.” Eloise shrugged, removing her hand from your leg and crossing her arms over her chest.

Benedict shook his head, “I’ve seen you kiss at least seven times.”

“You’re counting?” You quirked an eyebrow up, teasing him as he threw his head back to laugh.

“No!” He protested, “I simply mean-”

You jumped up, ready to be the teaser rather than the teased, and grabbed a biscuit of his plate, “Do you keep a little notebook of each time we encounter one another?” You grinned, now finally the one who gets to revel in someone else’s embarrassment.

Eloise snorted, “Dear diary, Eloise and Y/N held hands for seven minutes and forty-two seconds today-”

“Leave me be.” Benedict rolled his eyes good-naturedly and swatted at Eloise as he started to walk away, back out of the family room.

You followed him, taking another biscuit, and continuing Eloise’s joke, “They kissed twice but one was simply a kiss upon the cheek so cannot be counted-”

“And here i was going to offer to be your beard.” He grunted. The rest of the family stayed seated, listening to your conversation.

Your laugh ringed out, “Total kiss-count to date: three.” You mimicked his voice.

“Now that you are essentially a sibling, I am not afraid to kick you down the stairs, you know.” Benedict’s muffled voice came from the bottom of the stairs. Your voices got quieter as you walked to the dining room and Violet looked around the room, smiling brilliantly.

“How marvellous. The family grows!” She winked at Eloise who sighed and left the room, not wanting to be without you now. Violet watched her go and hummed before turning to the rest with a frown, “What is a ‘beard’?”

Anthony took in a deep breath and quickly stood to his feet, “I think dinner is ready.” He cleared his throat and walked out, leaving the rest to slowly join him, and the three of you, at the table.

[r0ugesun]

I just found your blog but I was wondering if you could write something about Aemond being friends with Aegon’s wife, them forming a bond until eventually the wife gets fed up with Aegon’s mistreatment and goes to Aemond for “comfort” and eventually falls pregnant? Whether Aegon finds out can be left up to you. ☺️

Thank you so much for sending this request I hope I was able to write what you had in mind :>

(Also heavily inspired by Ivy by Taylor swift)

warning nsfw under the cut

Aegon wife! Reader x Aemond Targaryen

Prince Aemond had always been a man of few words, preferring to sharpen his mind with books and hone his battle prowess in the training yard, a stark contrast to his brother’s revelry and indulgences. Yet, he found himself drawn to you, Aegon's wife, you were beautiful as you were wise.

Initially, your bond was forged out of mutual respect and admiration. You were intellectual equals; you admired Aemond's discipline and resilience, while Aemond found solace in your gentle wisdom and kindness. You spent hours in the library, discussing histories and poetry, your conversations flowing easily despite the tension that often surrounded you in the Red Keep.

One afternoon in the library, you looked up from the book you shared and smiled at Aemond. "This is fascinating, truly. I can hardly put the book down," you said. "How did you come across this one?"

Aemond, sitting next to you, glanced up. "I spent a great deal of time here in my childhood. When my brother and nephews were in the dragon pit, I chose to study as much as I could," he replied. "It's been my refuge from everything else."

Your smile faltered slightly. "I understand… It's become mine as well."

Aemond furrowed his brows slightly. "What do you mean?"

You sighed and glanced down at the book. "It's Aegon... He spends more time in Flea Bottom than he does with me. He barely stays in my bed before he's off again..."

Aemond gently interrupted, "I understand. My brother overindulges, it's true. But he loves you, and I am grateful for your devotion as his wife."

You managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Aemond. That's very kind of you."

Aegon, meanwhile, remained oblivious to the blossoming feelings of more than just friendship between you and his brother. His nights were spent in ale houses and brothels, leaving you to endure his neglect and occasional drunken sex. It was during these lonely nights that you sought out Aemond, finding comfort in his unwavering support.

Your relationship, once innocent, slowly began to change. You found yourself confiding in Aemond about the pain and frustration you felt because of Aegon. One evening, after one of Aegon's drunken rages, you found yourself standing outside Aemond's chambers. You knocked hesitantly, and Aemond opened the door, his expression softening when he saw your tear-streaked face.

"Y/n," he said gently, stepping aside to let you in. "What’s happened?"

You took a shaky breath. "It's Aegon. He's been unbearable tonight. I couldn't stand it any longer, Aemond. I can’t do this anymore."

Aemond's jaw tightened. Idiot, he thought to himself. He led you to a chair. "Sit. I'll fetch you some wine."

As he handed you the goblet, your fingers brushed, and you felt a warmth spread through you, one you’d never felt with Aegon. "Thank you, Aemond. Your company has been… a great comfort for me."

Aemond sat beside you, his gaze intense. "And yours as well. You should not have to endure this. I'm sorry my brother hasn’t been behaving as gallantly as is expected of him……You deserve better." He said in a low voice, he held your chin gently and looked at you deeply, leaning in slightly.

You turned away, your fingers tracing the embroidery on your dress. "Aemond….he’s your brother. I am married to him…. I made vows."

Aemond sighed and dropped his hand. "I know... I know," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "But I cannot pretend I do not see you suffering. I see the way you put on a brave face and I die a little inside." He scooted closer to you. "Had it been me you married, I would’ve spent every day in your bed."

Your breath hitched, but you shook your head. "This cannot happen, Aemond. It would only bring more pain and scandal that wouldn’t be fair to you."

He reached out, his fingers brushing against your hand. "I would endure any scandal, bear any pain, if it meant I could have you the way I want."

You hesitated, the weight of duty and desire fighting within you. "Aemond, please... we cannot."

He sighed dejectedly, he released your hand, withdrawing slightly. His gaze never left yours, he looked at you with a mixture of resignation and deep yearning.

For a moment, silence hung between you, heavy and charged. Then, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was soft, hesitant at first, then deepened as the floodgates of your suppressed emotions burst open.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and trembling, Aemond's eye searched yours. He pulled you on his lap, straddling him, and he kissed you hungrily once again.

He lifted your dress, letting it pool around his lap then seized your hips, guiding you to grind against his clothed cock.

“Aemond” you gasped softly

“Can you feel just how much I want you?” He moaned, his hot breath against your ear.

You bit your lip, looking into his eye “I want you just as much” you whispered back, the friction between you intensifying deliciously.

You felt him reach under your dress, he freed his cock from his breaches and moved your small clothes to the side so that your pussy was exposed “let me show you what you deserve”

You gasped as you felt him grip your hips and impaled you with his cock, every thrust igniting a fire within you.

He moaned deeply into your ear at the feeling of your pussy gripping his cock tightly. You leaned in, capturing his lips with yours, moaning desperately in each others mouths, you could feel yourself losing yourself in the fire he’s lit within you.

Your bond, once purely platonic, deepened into something more intimate. Comfort turned to desire, and that night you crossed a line that neither could return from. You tried to tell yourself it wouldn’t happen again but stolen stares across the dinner table turned to clandestine meetings, and those turned into nights spent in his bed.

The affair was passionate and consuming, driven by a need to find solace in each other.

One night, as you lay entangled in each other's arms, you whispered, "Aemond, what will we do If Aegon finds out? I fear head burn the entirety of the castle..."

Aemond tightened his hold on you. "No” he furrowed his brows “I would never let that happen” he promised. "I will protect you, no matter the cost."

As the days turned into months, You met in hidden corners of the castle, stolen moments filled with declarations of love and fervent kisses, Just like all lovers do in the dark. Each tryst only deepened your bond, binding you closer together.

It wasn't long before you discovered you were with child. The knowledge of the babe growing within you brought a mixture of fear and anxiety. You knew the consequences if Aegon were to discover the truth, yet you also felt a strange sense of peace, knowing that the child was conceived out of love and not duty.

One morning, as you stood by the balcony, Aemond approached you, his hand gently resting on your shoulder. "You look troubled," he observed.

You turned to him, your eyes filled with worry. "Aemond, I'm with child”

Aemonds face fell and he looked down “I’ll have to congratulate my brother” he said, lips pressed tightly.

“Aemond” you whispered desperately, he looked at you, he knew. You both knew.

Aemond swallowed thickly "I promised you that I would keep you safe…. And I will" he assured you.

As the months passed, and you welcomed the babe into the world, Aegon oblivious to the true nature of the affair, grew increasingly proud and affectionate towards his "son." He would often take the boy in his arms, cooing at his small features and the bond he believed they shared.

“My boy….You sleep so well because you know you are loved” he said just above a whisper, Aegon's newfound love for his child brought a bitter ache to your heart, knowing the truth that could shatter this fragile peace.

One evening, as Aegon was playing with his son in the nursery, he noticed something strange. The baby's eyes, a piercing shade of violet, were unmistakably Targaryen—but there was something more. Something that reminded him of someone else.

Aegon glanced at you, who was watching them. "He's got the dragon in him," Aegon said proudly. And then he narrowed his eyes. "But there's something more”

Your heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Aegon frowned, deep in thought. “The way he looks at me, it's almost like.….. like Aemond's gaze."

You tried to laugh it off. "Aemond? What are you talking about?"

Aegon kept his eyes on the babe, his expression growing more serious. "Yes. It's…. It’s his eyes, It's like Aemond watching us."

Your stomach dropped as you tried to keep your composure. "Aegon, it’s just the features that run in the family.

Aegon shook his head slowly, the pieces of a puzzle falling into place. "No, it's more than that. Everytime there is a gathering…. You and Aemond are always missing…. The two of you…. Always at the same time.”

You felt a cold sweat break out on your skin. "Aegon….."

Aegon turned to look at you, filled with a dawning realization. "This isn't just any targaryen features…..my boy is…. is Aemond's son, isn't he?" The intensity in his eyes made your heart freeze, like he could see into your soul.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you couldn't find the words to deny it. The truth hung heavy in the air, impossible to escape.

"Aemond," Aegon repeated, his voice rising in anger. "He's the father."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded, the weight of the secret finally breaking you. "Yes” you gasped out.

Aegon's face twisted in fury. He stood up so abruptly that the chair he was sitting on crashed to the floor. “MY BROTHER, YOU SLEPT WITH MY BROTHER??” He screamed furiously.

You flinched, cowering in your chair "I'm sorry," you whispered, tears streaming down your face. "I never meant for this to happen."

"SORRY?" Aegon roared, sweeping a vase off a nearby table. It shattered against the wall, fragments scattering across the floor. "SORRY DOESNT FIX ANYTHING!"

His rage was palpable, the air thick with the betrayal. He grabbed a goblet and hurled it across the room, where it smashed against the wall. “YOU MADE A FOOL OF ME! YOU LIED TO ME!"

The noise drew Aemond, who burst into the room, his eye wide with concern, seeing Aegon's fury was something he hadn't anticipated. "Aegon?? What’s happening?? calm down," Aemond said, his voice steady but urgent.

Aegon rounded on his brother, his eyes blazing. "YOU!” Aegon grabbed at his clothes shaking him with anger.

Aemond trying to keep his composure. "Aegon, listen—"

"DONT TELL ME TO LISTEN, I WILL NOT HEAR YOUR FILTH" Aegon screamed, grabbing another object and smashing it against the wall. "YOU BETRAYED ME! MY BROTHER!"

"Aegon" Aemond said, his voice pained, realizing the meaning behind his brothers rampage. "I never wanted this to hurt you."

Aegon laughed bitterly. "Too late for that. You've both made me a fool."

You stepped forward, reaching out to Aegon. "Please, Aegon, we can find a way through this."

Aegon slapped your hand away, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. "My son…my boy…."

Aegon held his chest as though he’s been stabbed through the heart. “Get out both of you…”

You and Aemond looked at him for a moment

“GET OUT! AND GET OUT OF MY LIFE!”

You gathered the baby in your arms, tears streaming down your face. Aemond hesitated, but then followed you, his face ashen. The echo of Aegon's rage lingered, a reminder of the fragile bonds that had been shattered and the uncertain future that lay ahead.

[cruentaquevivere]

My Assurance

A triolet

Some days the words are hard to come by

to explain to you how much I care.

No matter the strength of my love, I find

some days the words are hard to come by

to assure you my love’s not a lie

and so I am here making you aware

some days the words are hard to come by

to explain to you how much I care

20 November 2022

[yanderenightmare]

your vocab is really rich, what's ur secret

oh! uhm... excellent question!

Read! And every time you stumble upon a word you've never noticed before or know but don't often use, put it in a list, write down its meanings, and try using it the next time you write! (I'll put my list after the cut)

Read different things! Different authors and different styles, especially poetry! I mean, if you're looking to fatten your vocab, reading poetry is one of the best ways to do it. Poetic writers must search far and wide for the perfect words to create rhymes and rhythms and audibly pleasing sentences---they practically do all the work for you! Honestly, I am so serious about this. One of the best things you can do is buy a fat compendium of poetry with all different authors and eras. Get you some Edgar Allen Poe, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, and Shakespeare if you want to hurt your head. Also! The same goes for music! Try listening to the lyrics---you'll probably hear some words you've never thought of using in your writing.

Here's a cheap trick for bilinguals---write something in your own language and put it through Google Translate. Honestly, I've found so many words just by doing this.

Every time you feel you've used a word too much, or anytime a word bores you to read, search up its synonyms and try using something you've never used before---don't stop the search until you're satisfied. Sometimes, it takes me more time to find just one word than it takes to write an entire post. Not only does this enrich your vocab, but you've probably just written a whole other sentence with newer meanings and more nuance!

Make your own synonym lists! Seriously! Because you can only find that many creative synonyms by searching up "word+synonyms."

Additionally! Think outside the box! Often, the best synonyms are those words that aren't actual synonyms at all. If you read poetry, you'll see poets use unorthodox words in place of something all the time---it's called a metaphor. Take flesh, for example---you can use fat, meat, muscle, brawn, beef---but you can also use cake, down, plume, pillow, softness, etc... I find this one especially useful for writing erotica, as you have to describe a lot of the same actions and body parts over and over and still make it interesting. (I'll add my synonyms list after the cut)

Also! This one is trickier, but instead of using words and synonyms, try making sentences that can replace the word instead---such as longer metaphors and fuller descriptions! This aligns with the literary device of "showing vs. telling." Of course, outright telling has its uses too and should not be disbarred entirely from writing, but often, it's showing that persuades the reader more. For example, instead of saying nervous, make sentences that describe how the character in question showcases nervousness---does their throat close up, do they sweat, do their eyes go wide, do they stutter, do they fiddle with their fingers, pick their nails, bite their lip, kick the ground, hunch their shoulders, look away, blush, flush, cry, run away or do they feel stuck? Describing these things helps the reader better understand the type of nervousness the character is experiencing. Hence, it makes for not only more interesting writing but also clearer writing!

A similar literary device is "focus and expanding," which slows down the reading or puts focus on certain aspects of the text by describing something to a great extent. If, say, this nervousness the example character is experiencing is of great significance, then that's what the readers' takeaway should be. But the reader won't think too much of it if the text simply states that they're nervous without underlining it. Luckily, there are plenty of ways of doing that, firstly through showing vs. telling, such as in the examples above, then metaphorically, such as "the ground seemed to swallow him up, down the guzzle of a monster with an appetite for disaster---darkness ensued like a storm cloud, cold and clawing with a weight heavy enough to nail him to the spot---all eyes were on him, unblinking and all-seeing, no matter what, he couldn't escape, he was stuck, glued to the ground by the soles of his shoes." I mean, the options are truly endless. These metaphors piled together are also a form of focusing and expanding, but you can take it even further than that by focusing on a small detail and giving it significance. For example, say the character is sweating because he's so nervous---you might focus on a single droplet of sweat instead of everything else, "A chill ran down his back. No, not a chill--sweat. Cold and creepily tracing the rigid bones of his spine. He can't move--if he moves, then they'll see. The sweat will seep into his shirt, and everyone will know what a sweaty and pathetic wreck he is. So, he can't move. No, yes, leave it alone. The droplet continues, running down the cold skin of his clammy back, sliding undeterred until meeting the band of his boxers and disappearing in the fibers. He swallows thickly and sighs with relief--only for another to pill at his nape, tracking the same course as the former. A vicious cycle is forming. He needs to get out of there!" And that's focus and expanding, folks! Focusing on something minuscule and expanding it by using it to describe what the character is feeling. It's a way to have a fresh take on something that's been written a thousand times before, such as "he was nervous."

Anyway, I might have gone a little above and beyond, but really, all these literary devices are ways of "expanding vocabulary" or at least giving an impression of it.

NEW WORDS

Manically---like a maniac

Despotic---like a dictator, having unlimited power over someone, often using it unfairly and cruelly

Chasm---a deep fissure, like a ravine, wound, or metaphorical rupture

Shunts---track-change basically, scoots to the side

Dearth---a scarcity or lack of something, a shortage

Raucous---making a harsh or loud noise

Innocuous---not harmful or offensive---harmless and safe, but also bland and unremarkable, maybe even a little boring

Lanyard---the woven necklace of a festival pass

Gossamer---fine spiderwebs, almost mesh

Cossetted---care for and protect in an overindulgent way

Beribboned---decorated with many ribbons

pupil-fat---cool way of saying enlarged pupils

Chitters---snickers, like a bird

Decadent---corrupt, depraved

Blotting---either soak up and absorb, or stain, or obscure

Barbell---a bar “pole” with attachments on each side

Bunting---of animals, when they butt or rub their head against you

Garnet---red

Cherubic---angelic, plump cuteness, quality of a child

Haunches---hips

Sodden---soaking

Waxing poetic---speaking in a flowery or poetical fashion

Inkwell---a container for ink---a dark well

Rend---tear in two, or more pieces

Ebb---recede, go back, like a tide wave

Webbed---like a duck's feet

Cloying---sickly sweet

Saccharine---oversweet

Apple of your cheek

Swathes---wrap, swaddle

Shroud---obscure something

Moonstone---to describe something grey and dusty, but pretty

Kinked---tangled, messy

Leaden---heavy, dull, slow or the colour of lead, grey

Stygian---devoid of light and brightness, hellish

Flaxen---of hair, champagne colored---ashy blonde

Tepid---lukewarm

SYNONYMS

Related to sucking cock:

Swallow

Glug

Drink

Eat

Guzzle

Receive

Take

Suck

Suckle

Slobber

Gargle

Gurgle

Drool

Gulp

Gobble

Stuff

Glut

Choke

Gag

Lap

Lick

Kitten-lick

Slurp 

Allow entry

Related to kissing:

Kiss

Lock/brush lips

Tongue-feed

Suck faces

Smooch

Peck

Snog

Canoodle

Related to biting:

Bite

Graze

Nip

Nibble

Sink teeth into

Chomp

Related to crying:

Whimpering

Mewling

Bleating

Whining

Snivel

Sniffle

Cry

Sob

Bawl

Hiccup

Spluttering

Blubbering

Coughing

Croaking

Related to pre-cum:

Ooze

Leak

Weep

Well

Drip

Dribble

Flow

Drain

Bleed

Sweat

Seep

Pill

Pearl

Cry

Related to fear and panic:

Hysterical

Wild

Manic

Uncontrolled

Unrestrained

Frantic

Frenzied

Restless

Hectic

Sporadic

Swivel-eyed

Related to screaming:

Scream

Yell

Wail

Yelp

Yip

Yammer

Squawk

Howl

Squeal

Shriek

Related to moaning:

Moan

Whine

Yelp

Purr

Hum

Croon

Related to overstimulated moaning:

Mumble

Croon

Warble

Quaver

Burble

Bumble

Hum

Slur

Ramble

Mutter

Whisper

Stammer

Stutter

Scramble

Jumble

Muddled

Babble

Blubbered

Splutter

Blurt

Related to groaning:

Groan

Grunt

Growl

Grumble

Grouch

Hiss

Guttural

Feral

Rusty 

Throaty

Wet

Sloppy

Related to angry noises:

Howl

Roar

Bark

Grizzle

Grump

Related to surprise or fear:

Gasp

Gulp

Choke

Suck in a sharp breath

Flinch

Jump

Jostle

Wince

Hiss

Pull back

Related to comforting:

Coo

Fuss

Comfort

Hush

Shush

Tsk

Mollycoddle

Nurse

Cuddle

Babying

Consoling

Soothe

Loving

Smothering

Hug

Hug tight

Cocoon

Snuggling

Swaddling

Rock back and forth with

Cosseting

Petting

Overwhelm

Related to begging:

Beg

Pleading

Pray

Bargain

Related to soreness and pain:

Ache

Sore

Throb

Swollen

Fattened

Welted

Related to taking cock inside entrance:

Swallow

Receive

Take

Suck inside

Stuff

Fill

Allow entry

Submit to

Ease inside

Bully inside

Squeeze inside

Force inside

Push

Pry

Related to how the hole squeezes:

Kissing

Fluttering

Hugging

Pressing

Squishing

Squeezing

Tightening

Pulsing

Related to a wet hole:

Slush

Squelch

Squishy

Creamy

Sloppy

Wet

Soaked

Slosh

Sop

Cry

Slick

Weep

Drool

Gush

Swollen

Velvety

Gummy

Cotton

Silken

Satiny

Related to thrusting:

Squeeze into

Pound

Jam

Ram

Rut

Loll

Rock

Thrust

Stuff

Bottom out

Fill

Fit

Nestle

Cram

Prodding

Poking

Kissing

Hammering

Jack-hammer

Smack

Slap

Ream

Related to pleasure:

Ecstatic

Opium-eyed

Euphoric

Elated

Thrilled

Blissed-out

Rapturous

High

Cloudy

Numb

Related to overstimulation:

Overstimulated

Outdone

Aching

Burning

Sweating

Feverish

Delirious

Febrile

Numb

Immobile

Dazed

Dull

Related to being dumb, high, or overstimulated:

Ditzy

Dumb

Clumsy

Silly

Foolish

Giddy

Brainless

Dizzy

Fuzzy

Dopey

Whimsical

Fickle

Featherbrained

Daft

Hare-brained

Awkward

Graceless

Blundering

Bumbling

Klutzy

Clueless

Cloddish

Dense

Related to the body and the flesh:

Tender

Supple

Soft

Creamy

Plush

Doughy

Cakey

Downy

Pillowy

Malleable

Squeezable

Biteable

Pliable

Touchable

Putty

Plume

Related to cuteness:

Cute

Cherubic

Adorable

Sweet

Soft

Precious

Darling

Lovable

Endearing

Baby

Related to weak or smallness:

Breakable

Brittle

Weak

Fragile

Dainty

Delicate

Frail

Flimsy

Vulnerable

Petite

Small

Little

Tiny

Feeble

Defenseless

Powerless

Helpless

Worthless

Hopeless

Related to struggling:

Struggle

Winding

Striving

Straining

Toiling

Playing

Wriggle

Wiggle

Twist

Shake

Tremor

Shiver

Quake

Related to men:

Vulgar

Loud

Oafish

Rough

Rude

Rustic

Gruff

Gross

Doltish

Barbaric

Bearish

Beastly

Churlish

Coarse

Swinish

[topazadine]

Writing Post Masterlist

All my posts about writing - plus some I absolutely loved by other writers.

Masterlists by Other People (all good)

"Writing Tips Masterpost" by @deception-united - Deception-United has an incredibly wealth of resources available, far more comprehensive and detailed than mine. Go check it out!

"WQA Post Master Lists" by @writingquestionsanswered - Another fantastic and wonderfully comprehensive resource that covers damn near everything you need to know about writing. Genuinely one of the best free resources on writing that you could find on the internet.

General Advice for a Happy Writing Life

"The Myth of the Martyr Artist" - An incredibly important post, perhaps my most important one ever, that discusses why mental illness is a burden, not a benefit. I have no idea why this even needs to be said, but it does, apparently.

"Advice to Beginner Writers: The Good, the Bad, and the Unpleasant" - How long it takes to become a good writer, what to focus on when learning, and why fanfic is such a useful tool.

"Mindset Shifts: Fanfiction -> Original Fiction" - What fanfic writers should know about deciding to take on original characters and stories.

"Defeating Protracted Writer's Block" - What to do when you find it impossible to write for days, weeks, or months at a time.

"Five Common Anxieties of Newbie Writers, Demystified" - Explorations of five mindsets that can set younger writers back as they learn their craft, including overcompetitiveness, overdescribing, and fearing they're "too old."

"Good Motivations for Continuing to Write" - Why it is crucial to have a passion for writing beyond fame and fortune.

"Extremely controversial writing opinions that will make you mad (but I'm going to say them anyway)" - Things you really don't want to hear, but need to be said. A bit of tough love, including the insignificance of ideas, the cold hard truth about how non-writers react to your writing, and the essentiality of having a well-rounded life.

"Why Mindfulness Is a Key Practice for Writers" - On the need to slow down and let our brain rest - plus some options that are categorically not sitting there in dead silence (boring).

"Writing When Happy" - Wherein I hijack someone's question to discuss the Myth of the Martyr Artist, why we might self-limit because of it, and how to do the impossible: write when we're happy.

"The Neurodivergent Writer’s Guide to Fun and Productivity" by @bookishdiplodocus - Excellent advice on how enjoying the process and reminding yourself that writing is supposed to be fun can help you stay motivated and productive, even when your brain is not cooperating.

"The Glorification of Self-Deprecation in Art/Writing Spaces" by @nicolkoutoulakiauthor - I've discussed before how crucial it is to have a healthy self-esteem when writing, but Nicol does it even better here. Nicol also includes some excellent reframing tactics so you can stay motivated.

Generalish Writing Advice (multifactorial)

"'How Do I Start Writing?'" (Or; A Psychoanalysis of Newbie Writer Fears) - Inspired by the dozens of Reddit posts that ask this exact same thing, often with useless responses. So why do people ask this? I offer my theory.

"How to improve your writing style : a 5-steps guide" by @writer-logbook - Especially great information on why reading widely is so helpful for your craft!

"Some Writing Advice" by @whispers-whump - Especially great discussion of why you shouldn't write what you mean.

"Practical Writing Advice Part 2" by @so-many-ocs - Does what it says on the tin. Simple, easy-to-follow advice that can break you out of writer's block.

"25 Prose Tips for Writers" by @thewriteadviceforwriters - I absolutely love the emphasis on sound and harmony here. As someone whose entire book series revolves around the magic of poetry, of course I think this is incredibly important advice!

"Pacing and Show Don't Tell" by @mylordshesacactus - Two for one deal! First, learn more about why pacing is important; then, look at some examples of the classic advice "show, don't tell." The post does a great job on breaking down what show don't tell actually means and what is not a violation of this guideline so that newer writers aren't confused.

Writing tools

"How to Build a Sustainable Writing Habit Through SCIENCE (Fuck Off, NaNoWriMo)" - Why NaNoWriMo doesn't actually motivate young writers and how to do better through a spreadsheet (yes, really, a spreadsheet). It also explains the importance of intrinsic motivation!

"'I've Outlined Too Much and Now I Can't Write!' (Or: the Double Outline Method for Overanxious Plotters)" - Some of us tend to go absolutely ham on our outlines, to the point where they're practically their own books. But then we also tend to not actually do the writing attached to said outline. Does this mean outlining is useless? Of course not. My method lets you have your outline and eat it too. (.... Wait.)

Worldbuilding

"Stop Making Everything So Damn Complicated!" - Why fantasy (and scifi) does not need to be dizzyingly intricate to be enjoyable.

"Grounded vs. Airy Fantasy" by @aethersea - Excellent breakdown of different levels of groundedness in fantasy and why it's important to understand your own approach.

"Fantasy Guide to Building a Culture" by @inky-duchess - Thorough and methodical analysis of what can create a compelling fantasy culture, including those things that many fail to think about when writing.

"Writing tip - Research" by @pygmi-cygni - Fantastic assessment of the importance of research, including for fantasy stories. As Pygmi-Cygni said, a lot of people claim that they don't need to do any research for fantasy novels, which isn't true! Any parallels to IRL need to be realistic, or you will lose credibility.

Plotting

"How to Find a Plot When All You Have is Characters and Setting" by @rheas-chaos-motivation - This is a common problem for many writers, when you have cool characters or an intriguing setting. This short post can help you kickstart your ideas for how to create an intriguing plot that has built-in tension.

Description

"Remembering Perspective When Writing Descriptions" - Key factors to think about when describing other characters or settings from your POV.

"Description, Momentum, and Tension; Or, How Not to Bore a Reader" - Why, when, and where to put description so that people don't skip over it. Hopefully.

"Writing Notes: Seasons" - Each season has both benefits and downsides. In this post, we look at the negatives and positive aspects of each so you can decide how a particular season may strengthen your themes - plus some descriptions to help inspire you.

"How to Write Smut?" by @unfriendlywriter - Wonderful examples of how to write heartstopping smut.

"How to pull off descriptions" by @fictionstudent - Fictionstudent has a ton of great posts, both about film analysis and about the art of writing. I especially liked this one because it discusses how important perspective is for descriptions and the importance of filling in the details as a character would rather than just throwing it all at the reader at one time.

"How to avoid White Room Syndrome" by @writerthreads - Fantastic and focused advice on how to ensure you're offering readers just enough setting to help them envision the world.

Characterization

"Writing Relatable Characters; Or, Using Human Failures to Your Advantage" - Explaining how you can use character flaws and human needs to create a relatable character. Also explains the basic development of a plot, which is about equilibrium.

"How NOT to Write a Character" - Wherein I give you some examples of annoying characters we want to punt off a cliff so you can watch yourself.

"Writing Strong Female Characters" - Why you should give your female characters a secret goal, as well as how to avoid common 'strong female' stereotypes.

"Writing Compelling Trauma in Fiction: Dos and Don'ts" - How to avoid melodrama and create intriguing emotional wounds for characters.

"Quality Assurance Checks for Character Development" - Thought exercises that can help you differentiate characters, prune down unnecessary characters, develop true chemistry between LI and MC, and avoid having too many POVs.

"Developing Character Agency (Or; Cutting the Plot Strings)" - A discussion of character agency and how to ensure your characters are not bound by the narrative.

"Writing Notes: Thought Distortions" by @literaryvein-reblogs - Some psychological concepts you can use in your writing to add depth to characters.

"Questions about your character’s perspective on love and relationships" by @luna-azzurra - Excellent questions that can help you delve into your character's attachment style, what baggage they may bring to a current relationship, and how to create conflict through mentality.

"How to Write a Confession of Love," also by luna-azzurra - Perfect discussion of how to create tension, the utility of setting, not making it perfect, and including the other character's response.

Revisions

"Common Writing Issues that Reduce Readability" - Examples of fixes for four common issues: double describing, long sentences, overexplaining, and head hopping.

"Differential Diagnosis When Your Writing Is Getting Worse" by @ariaste - Fantastic explanation by a professional writer about why you might feel like your writing is getting worse and what to do about it.

"How to Make Your Writing Less Stiff Part 3" by @physalian - Physalian's whole blog has some excellent advice, so definitely give it a look!

"How to Improve Your Writing" - Also by literaryvein-reblogs, this offers some excellent exercises to help with sentence-level issues, such as modifiers, parallelism, and details.

Publishing

"How to promote your book online : a discussion about social media (and few tips)" by writer-logbook - Great tips about how to get more interest in your book. I especially enjoyed the emphasis on patience and consistency. Writer-logbook has some excellent info overall about the nitty-gritty of writing, so I definitely recommend poring through their blog in general. (That's why they're included here twice!)

Specific Research Advice

"Assassination Methods Through the Decades: A Writer’s Handbook" by @hayatheauthor - A thorough review of different assassination methods, including a section discussing common assassination methods by region!

"How to Write Someone in a Wheelchair" - A group effort! This is a reblog chain discussing body language in manual wheelchairs, the mechanics of power wheelchairs, wheelchair propulsion methods, and a reminder that just because someone is in a wheelchair doesn't mean they can't walk short distances.

"Writing Research Notes: Caves" - Oh caves how I love them. Caves. Let me tell you about them if you want to write about caves. Blessed.

"Writing Research Notes: Horses" - A beginner's guide to horse mindsets, whether horses like working, approaching horses, how to ride, and tips on training.

"Writing Research Notes: Bipolar Disorder" - Written by me, a writer with bipolar disorder! This shares basic facts about bipolar, offers a list of symptoms you can use, and cautions you against spreading misinformation through poor characterization or myths.

"Stop Doing This in Injury Fics!" by @pygmi-says-hi - Discusses some common errors when writing whump/angst. The fever part was especially helpful for me!

"Writing US Military Characters" by @lookbluesoup - An explanation of the habits and mentality of US military characters. Many of these were quite helpful for my fantasy military characters, so you can get a lot of mileage out of these for soldiers in other militaries too!

Little Funsies

"What Painting Style Is Your Writing?" - A short exploration of different writing styles to help you better understand your own approach.

I'll be adding onto this as I continue to scroll through my old likes and, of course, as I find more resources.

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

Another thing I adore about OFMD is how the discussion of masculinity is so nuanced. It's like - the best way I can think to describe the depiction of gender in OFMD is it's like the opposite of the recent Barbie movie, if that makes sense? I thought Barbie was fine but its understanding of gender was very basic to the point of being almost reductive, and the whole movie just screamed "this was written by cis people!" OFMD has the exact opposite vibes, you can TELL there were trans writers in the writing room.

So often, when we see gay relationships in media, there's an attempt to force the characters to be "the feminine one" and "the masculine one" in a very transparent showing of how they're too scared of queerness so there have to be some gender roles shoved in there. Ed and Stede turn that trope right on its fucking head.

Because Ed and Stede both have different and complex relationships with their own masculinity, and they're both feminine and masculine in different ways. Stede worries about being seen as soft and struggles with what a "man's work" should look like, but even in more practical clothes he loves his little accessories and he just adores showy, campy clothing. Ed feels forced into an ideal of hyper-masculinity, but he also loves wearing soft robes, painting his nails, and writing poetry. He painted a bride cake topper to look like himself as an expression of his deepest, most tender dreams and it's never made into a joke. OFMD's thesis statement is that "the things we're taught about being a man are wrong," and it shines through in every angle of the show. The men on the show are allowed to be tender as hell and it's a fucking strength.

It's such a lovely, queer thing, to see both of these characters get to express feminine traits in their own masculine way, without the narrative telling us they're any less of a man for it or asking us to laugh at them.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Jason with an Author!S/O and he worships the ground they walk on. he’s almost always begging to read drafts and small pieces, regardless of the content. he treats his copies of his partner’s publications like just the smallest trouble will destroy them. and if his partner writes about him? sappy love poetry about HIM?? he might as well die again, this time happily.

(the creative writing major brain is going bonkers.)

I’ve left this on the back burner for far too long, sorry about that and I just wanted to add on the stuff you’ve already said with things of my own cuz I like this idea so much!

Jason w/ an author!s/o who must add a character of his likeness and personality into almost every book they’ve ever made but changes his name to keep people from catching on. Jason however noticed this and gets a little flustered at the fact that he has been inserted into everything you had ever written, but he’s flattered too as he’s teasing you about how great this character you made up sounded from time to time.

Jason w/ an author!s/o who asks him for advice on how the story should continue and where certain characters should be by the end of it. Jason is more than happy to help you with the new novel however he could, which often leads into you both stayed up late brainstorming ideas until you got the one that suited your story just right.

Jason w/ an author!s/o who leaves heartfelt and personal messages inside of Jason’s own copies of your published works just to see him smile and smother your face in kisses out of pure happiness. He loves them dearly but refuses to touch them now in fear of bending and or ripping the cover by accident.

Jason w/ an author!s/o who often writes about him in your spare time and in the most romantic of settings too that it was enough to have Jason blushing up to the tips of his ears. He keeps them tucked in a box somewhere to read to himself later on while you slept peacefully against his chest. He loves these mini stories you’ve created for him more than anything and felt blessed that you even went out of your way to do something as sweet as this.

Jason w/ an author!s/o where you always have him in either your acknowledgments or dedications of each of your books, siting him as your inspiration and your motivation to keep writing when you felt like giving up because you punctuated a sentence wrong. Jason has never felt more appreciated in his entire life when you do this for him as he felt as though he had died (again) and went to heaven.

Jason w/ an author!s/o who thinks that your writing style can’t compare to the authors that Jason has read before and feels a little insecure about your own writing, thinking that it’s bad, but Jason will always pick you back up by saying he loves your method of writing stories as it allows him to escape reality for a while and that’s all he needs for a story to be good. That and he had an unhealthy bias towards you and Jane Austen. He won’t read anything else unless it’s by your hand. He vows this but you think he’s being dramatic. (He’s not, he’s very much not.)

[comic-sans-chan]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But which part..."

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

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

"He did blow up his shop once."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tanett!"

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

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

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

Julian covers his ears and walks faster.

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

"The one the Cardassian tailor wrote about?"

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

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

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

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

He reads well into the night.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No doubt."

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

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

Garak isn't looking.

—

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

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

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

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

Garak rests his head next to the surveillance screens.

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

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

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

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

Terrible man.

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

Beautiful man.

"Goodbye, Mr. Garak."

Goodbye, Doctor.

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

—

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

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

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

“Ass?” Jadzia offers.

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

“That’s true.”

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

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

“He did not.”

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

Kira’s jaw is hanging. “Were they?”

Jadzia grins and shrugs. Kira laughs.

“That’s ridiculous.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ouch.”

“I know.”

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

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

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

“He’s gone.”

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

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

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

—

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

“What’ll you have?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quark!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Quark...”

“Okay! All right. Consider it done.”

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s near.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Garak!”

Oh, for the Union’s sake—

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

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

There.

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

“Where’d you hear that?” Kira asks.

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

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

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

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

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

“Clearly!”

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

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

“He made his choices!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Garak smiles pleasantly. “I would be delighted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kira glares at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That gets a reaction. “Vigilantism!”

“Well, what would you call it?”

“Self-defense.”

“They attacked you?”

“Possibly.”

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps that is why Dr. Bashir blindsided him. 

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

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

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

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

Garak looks around for another food stall that serves alcohol. 

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

Oh no. 

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

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

No, no, no.

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

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

Oh, fuck no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

“Explain,” Sisko commands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Garak bites out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure.”

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

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

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

“I–I don’t–”

“Lke hell you don’t! Thirty-seven.”

Garak blinks several times. “What?”

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

Garak’s face shutters. 

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

“What would you have me say, Doctor?”

“I would like you to admit it.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Garak,” he starts to say.

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

Julian goes unnervingly still. “Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doctor?”

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

“Doctor–?!”

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

Oh.

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

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

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

He feels insane.

“Doctor, you cannot truly be this naive.” 

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

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

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

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

Garak sucks in a wet breath.

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

His head is spinning. “Doctor?”

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

—

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

—

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

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

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

“About Miss Leeta…” Garak begins.

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

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

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

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

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

“So you were together then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, hello there,” he says warmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jadzia,” Julian barks. She laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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