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#Kira Kira * Music Hour

twigternetarchive · 8 months

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for my rentry (unused)

#games #kira kira pop princess #kira kira music hour #pinky street #pinky:st #image links

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debbeh · 5 months

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Live posting my reaction to this playlist bestie sent me:

ooh what does NIN stand for??

hey, that one Nine Inch Nails (ooohhhhhh) song is on here! I hope their other songs are just as good....

Sin- OOHHH MYYYY SHIT THIS SHIZ SLAPS

Sanctified- KIRRAAAA STOP GETTING ME HOOKED ON UR MuSIC RAAAAAAAHHHHHHH

Terrible Lie- all of these would work for negatus edits >:0

Kinda Want to- OOOOHHH :O OOOHHHH :O MY EARS ARE VERY HAPPY. TASTY SOUNDS, 10 /10 OH FUCK ITS DOIN THE THING AGAIN- ANYWAYS, THIS SONG IS LIKE AHHHH VERY GOOD. THIS SONG IS LIKE A Q-TIP FOR MY BRAIN

never taking my headphones off now

so crunchy

so tasty

FINISHED MY STATS HW BIATCH!!!1!!!

Ringfinger- The crunchy sounds have returned!!!!

Ok nothing's gonna top this album (right?)

annnnnddddd Spotify has crashed :|

Stay tuned to see if my socks are blown off once again!!

#KIRA CORE #BESTIE YOU ARE A MUSIC WIZARD #UM THIS IS MY NEW FAV BAND WHAT??#TIMI ROCK PHASE???#I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY TO YOU IN APPROXIMATELY 12 HOURS #NIN

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comic-sans-chan · 10 days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But which part..."

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

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

"He did blow up his shop once."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tanett!"

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

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

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

Julian covers his ears and walks faster.

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

"The one the Cardassian tailor wrote about?"

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

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

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

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

He reads well into the night.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No doubt."

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

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

Garak isn't looking.

—

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

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

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

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

Garak rests his head next to the surveillance screens.

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

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

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

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

Terrible man.

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

Beautiful man.

"Goodbye, Mr. Garak."

Goodbye, Doctor.

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

—

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

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

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

“Ass?” Jadzia offers.

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

“That’s true.”

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

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

“He did not.”

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

Kira’s jaw is hanging. “Were they?”

Jadzia grins and shrugs. Kira laughs.

“That’s ridiculous.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ouch.”

“I know.”

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

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

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

“He’s gone.”

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

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

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

—

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

“What’ll you have?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quark!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Quark...”

“Okay! All right. Consider it done.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s near.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Garak!”

Oh, for the Union’s sake—

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

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

There.

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

“Where’d you hear that?” Kira asks.

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

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

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

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

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

“Clearly!”

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

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

“He made his choices!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Garak smiles pleasantly. “I would be delighted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kira glares at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That gets a reaction. “Vigilantism!”

“Well, what would you call it?”

“Self-defense.”

“They attacked you?”

“Possibly.”

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps that is why Dr. Bashir blindsided him.

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

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

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

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

Garak looks around for another food stall that serves alcohol.

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

Oh no.

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

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

No, no, no.

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

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

Oh, fuck no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

“Explain,” Sisko commands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Garak bites out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure.”

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

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

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

“I–I don’t–”

“Lke hell you don’t! Thirty-seven.”

Garak blinks several times. “What?”

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

Garak’s face shutters.

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

“What would you have me say, Doctor?”

“I would like you to admit it.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Garak,” he starts to say.

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

Julian goes unnervingly still. “Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doctor?”

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

“Doctor–?!”

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

Oh.

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

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

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

He feels insane.

“Doctor, you cannot truly be this naive.”

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

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

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

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

Garak sucks in a wet breath.

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

His head is spinning. “Doctor?”

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

—

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

—

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

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

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

“About Miss Leeta…” Garak begins.

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

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

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

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

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

“So you were together then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, hello there,” he says warmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jadzia,” Julian barks. She laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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dylobilysmomg · 3 months

Text

Cabin Fever

𝗙𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗺: 𝗧𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗪𝗼𝗹𝗳

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗦𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘀 𝗦𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗸𝗶 𝘅 𝗙𝗲𝗺!𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀: 𝟯.𝟭𝗸+

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪 𝗵𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝘂𝗯 𝘀𝗲𝘅, 𝘀𝗲𝗺𝗶 𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗰 𝘀𝗲𝘅, 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗽𝗻𝘃, 𝘂𝗻𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗲𝘅 (𝗪𝗥𝗔𝗣 𝗨𝗥 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗬 𝗕𝟰 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗚𝗘𝗧 𝗦𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗬!)

𝗢𝗻 𝗥𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗮𝘁: 𝗩𝗼𝗶𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗡𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝗯𝗼𝗿𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗱

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗚𝘂𝘆𝘀 𝗜’𝗺 𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗧𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗪𝗼𝗹𝗳 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗜’𝗺 𝗼𝗻 𝗮 𝗦𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘀 𝘀𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗲. 𝗜’𝘃𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗶𝗰 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗹𝗼𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺. 𝗜𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀, 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴! 𝗖𝗵𝗲𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 (𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗵 𝘁𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗰𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀!) 𝗠𝘆 𝗟𝗶𝗻𝗸𝗧𝗿𝗲𝗲. 𝗡𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗟𝘂𝘃 𝘆𝗮!!

𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙢𝙮 𝙜𝙞𝙛! 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙚𝙧!

Going to Lydia’s cabin over spring break was by far your favorite thing about break. It was a tradition you all started sophomore year. As soon as you guys could drive, it was cabin every spring; and it was always a blast. Lydia’s cabin was gorgeous, and huge! It wouldn’t be dramatic to say there were like 10 bedrooms in that thing. It was massive, complete with a pool, hot-tub, and of course the lake that the backyard deck overlooked.

It was about 6 pm by the time you and your friends arrived. You and Stiles rode in your car, which was quite the hassle. Stiles doesn’t like to leave Roscoe unattended for so long. However, he couldn’t fight the fact that your car was newer (a lot newer) and therefore more reliable to go the 3 hour drive down to the cabin. So, Stiles drove your car. You two pulled up to the cabin and parked behind Scott and Allison in the roundabout driveway; Lydia and Kira in front of them, and Malia and Isaac behind you.

“Finally!” You groan, unbuckling and opening the door to climb out. Stiles does the same and you both stretch after being cooped up for 3 hours. The others park and get out of their cars, grabbing their bags and making their way toward the front door to the cabin.

“Y’all ready to do this?!” Scott tells from the porch, bags in his hands. Your friends woop in unison. “Every year, baby!” Stiles shouts back, grabbing his totes bags. You grab yours and follow your friends inside.

Once inside, everyone disperses, chit chatting while deciding which rooms they’re picking, how long the drive was, how excited they are, etc. You leave Stiles to chat with Scott as you catch up to Lydia and Kira to chat with them as they walk to their room for the week. Allison trots up to you girls, leaving Scott with the boys and Malia.

“So I see you three survived the drive.” You say to them as you three enter Lydia and Kira’s bedroom and they drop their bags to the floor. “Barely, Kira slept the whole time, I was practically asleep at the wheel!” Lydia counters, Kira giggling. “Hey I was catching up on some zzzs for the party we’re having tonight.” Kira replies. “Exactly! I’ve been dreaming about this trip for weeks, I’m dying to party! Allison says excitedly. “I wouldn’t call it a party, Allison.” Lydia says, “I would! You don’t need the whole school to throw a party. All you need is some alcohol, some music—“ “And me.” Lydia interrupts, flipping her hair and giggling.

“So, what’s the deal with you and Stiles this year, things are different.” Allison asks, nudging my shoulder with here. Though this is our third year as a friend group coming down to the cabin, this is the first that me and Stiles are attending as an item. “I don’t think it’ll feel any different than how we are at home. I mean, it’s not like we don’t have sleepovers or party together in Beacon Hills. Why would this be any different?” You say. “Becauseeee it’s a romantic getaway, with a side of friends and fun of course!” Kira interjects.

You scoff at her, playfully rolling your eyes in response. “Oh come onnnnn Y/N, this is the perfect time to make a real sexy move on him.” Lydia chirps in. “Oh please, being sexy is definitely not my thing. That charm doesn’t come that easily for me as it does you, Lyd.” You answer, and Allison giggles, but nonetheless agreeing with you. “I don’t believe that for a second. I know for a fact that Stiles has said how sexy you are just about a million times.” Lydia interjects, and you laugh. “Well yeah, of course he thinks I am, but that doesn’t mean that I think I am.” How did we even get to this topic? “Why don’t we drop this subject, we gotta get ready and pregame.” You say, changing the subject. “Yeah, and God knows you and Lyds need 3-4 business days to get ready.” Allison says, and the four of you laugh.

You leave the girls to unpack and make your way down the hallways to the room that you and Stiles usually stay in. Though this is your first cabin trip as a couple, you two have shared this room since the beginning. You pad into the room to see Stiles already unpacking his clothes and stuffing them into drawers.

“Hey babe, you can have the closet.” He says, glancing over to you briefly while putting his things away. “Thank God, I did not wanna have to play you in rock, paper, scissors.” You say, plopping your bags down on the bed to begin emptying them. “Why, because you always lose?” Stiles asks. “No, because you always cheat.” You reply, and he laughs. “You can’t cheat in rock paper scissors Y/N.” He says. “That’s what a cheater would say.”

“So what’s your plan tonight. What’s this I hear about a girls only pregame?” Stiles asks, baffled at such a thing. “We want to do our makeup and gossip before the bonfire tonight, so we’re just gonna pregame just cuz.” You reply, getting out your makeup bag.

“Why do you guys want to do makeup? We’re not even going anywhere?” Stiles asks, no grasp on the concept. “Stiles, we don’t have to be doing anything special to do our makeup. It’s just something to do for fun, make us feel pretty.” You roll your eyes playfully.

“Well I think you’re pretty all the time.” He says, still finishing up unpacking, but you stop in your tracks.

“Awe, Stilesssss.” You drawl, and he turns to you. “You know what? Nope, no I take it back!” He tries to escape your advances but he’s too late, you’re already wrapping your arms around his neck and peppering his face with kisses. “You’re so adorable.” You say, placing one final kiss on his lips. “I know, it’s part of my charm.” He smirks, and you roll your eyes, turning to finish unpacking.

After settling into your room, you begin to search for your outfit tonight. You all plan on having your fun out on the deck in the backyard that overlooks the lake. And of course, taking advantage of that pool and hot-tub. You pull out one of your bikinis, your chosen outfit, and your makeup bag before walking over to Stiles, who now sat on the bed on his phone. He looks up at you as you approach, and you give him a peck. “I’m getting ready in Lydia and Kira’s room, I’ll see you out there, stud.” You say, and Stiles laughs with an “Okay, have fun,” before you exit.

Cut to you, Allison, Lydia, Malia, and Kira all getting ready for the night. You sit on the floor doing your makeup, Lydia curling her hair in the connected bathroom, Allison and Malia debating outfits, and Kira getting shots ready for the pregame. It’s nice to spend some girls time together without it being supernatural for once.

“So, you and Stiles, huh? Any spicy plans?” Kira asks from beside you. “Why must you guys always insist that me and Stiles fuck every time we’re here?” You ask, recalling many instances through out the years that the girls have tried to hook you up with Stiles. “Because now that you two are finally exclusive, we actually have a reason to expect some devising.” Lydia yells out from the connected bathroom.

“Oh come on, Y/N, haven’t you at least thought about tonight?” Allison asks, settling on some black jean shorts and a gray tank top. “I mean yeah, sure, but I really don’t see the point in day dreaming. You guys act like me and Stiles have never fucked.” You argue.

You finish your makeup and grab your dark green bikini. “Did you at least bring a super sexy bikini to send him overboard.” Lydia asks, strutting out of the bathroom in her scrunchy red two piece. Malia whistles at her and the rest of you laugh. “Lydia, I brought the same bathing suit I wear every year.” You reply, holding up the dark green fabric. Lydia gasps, snatching it out of your grasp. “Y/N you are NOT wearing this. That is practically social suicide. Are you trying to put his dick to sleep?! Not to worry, I have just the thing for you.”

You sit down on the bed by Allison, “Lyds, seriously, that green one is fine.” Malia laughs, “No offense, Y/N, but if I had a dick, it would definitely be soft if you wore that thing.” You just groan in defeat. Lydia grabs a new bikini for you from the bathroom and holds it up for all the girls to see. Everyone whistles and woops but you can’t help but be silent in shock. “Lydia how am I supposed to even fit in that! There’s barely anything covering the top.” You laugh. taking it into your hands. “That’s the whole point, babes. Now let’s hurry up and get this party started!” She says, and as if on cue, you all eek with excitement.

Next thing you know, you’ve got the perfect buzz. You and Allison are the last ones to make it to the back deck. You’re wearing your beat up shoes, some blue jean shorts, and the bikini top, bottoms underneath the shorts. You and Allison step outside to see the boys and Kira already in the pool playing with a volleyball. You two join the girls by the side of the pool and you dig through the cooler for a drink. “Who’s winning?” You ask as you watch Scott and Isaac team up against Kira and Stiles. Malia laughs, “Not sure, can’t keep track over Scott and Stiles’ shit talk.”

You, Allison, Lydia, and Malia talk and drink by the poolside while you guys watch Stiles and Kira get destroyed by Scott and Isaac. The music plays loudly as you turn your head away from the intense volleyball game, “I don’t know about you guys but I’m getting in.” You say, finally past the point from buzzed to tipsy. You stand up, and the girls follow your actions. You take your shoes off and pull your shorts down. And as if almost immediately, Stiles’ eyes are on you. His mouth is practically hanging open at the sight.

You and the girls jump into the pool, screaming from the slightly cool water. You swim up for air and you’re met with Stiles. It seems as if the volleyball game has come to a halt. “About time you joined me.” He says, hands on your waist. You slide your hands up his chest to wrap your arms around his neck. You giggle, “What, you miss me?” He smiles, leaning his head down a little, “Always.” He replies, dipping his head down to envelope your lips with his own.

You two have seemingly forgotten all about the volleyball game until you hear Lydia quip, “Get a room or get your heads in the game!” She shouts, causing you to finally separate from Stiles.

After some volleyball, marco polo, and some racing, you all decide to gather around the fire pit on the deck for a drunk game of Never Have I Ever.

You sit on the deck floor with Malia and Kira, not enough chairs to go around, not you you three minded. “Okay okay, my turn, my turn.” Allison slurs excitedly, “Never have I ever had sex at school.” She says, and everyone looks around as Lydia drops a finger, as well as Stiles and yourself.

“No way!” Kira exclaims to you, Scott and Stiles sharing a high five. “I expected Lydia, but you Y/N?! Who are you and what’ve you done with my best friend?!” Kira yells, Allison crying from laughter. “I knew it!” Alli yells.

“Okay okay, enough!” You laugh, “I’ll go, I’ll go! Never Have I Ever gotten caught by my parents.” You say, watching as Allison and Scott drop a finger, as well as Stiles’. “Hey you’ve been caught, drop it.” Stiles points, and you hold up your hands, “Hey we got caught by your dad, not my parents. Doesn’t count.” You argue, and Stiles laughs.

After a long night of games and talking by the fire, everyone slowly retreats to their rooms for the night. All except you and Stiles, who now sit by the fire alone.

“You ready to head in?” Stiles asks, standing up from his seat, finishing the beer in his hand. You stand up as well, and Stiles is under the impression that you’re about to walk inside til you start to undo your shorts buttons. “No way, I wanna test out the hot tub.” You say, sliding your shorts down your silky legs agonizingly slow, practically teasing Stiles.

At first Stiles isn’t convinced to join, “Babe, it’s getting late. We have a whole week to test out the hot tub.” He says, watching in defeat as you walk over and sip a foot into the steaming tub. You step in and make yourself comfortable, eyeing him from afar.

“Oh come on, Stilinski. You really gonna tell me no?” You poke at him, and he shakes his head before walking over and jointing you in the hot tub.

As soon as he sits down beside you though, you’re already standing up in the tub to move and sit in his lap. Stiles is a little take back by your forward actions, but is in no place to complain. You straddle his lap, arms sliding up to grasp his shoulders.

“You’ve fallen into my trap.” You slur, clearly more drunk thank Stiles. Stiles looks at you with hooded eyes, hands moving to splay along your thighs, lightly squeezing whenever he felt necessary. “Well what’re you gonna do now that you’ve lured me in here.” He asks you, his voice low and husky.

You don’t answer, instead dipping your head to connect your lips with his. His large hands wander all over your body, two handfuls of you will never be enough.

You grind into his lap, earning moans of his that slip into your mouth. His mouth peels away from yours to attack your throat, “Stiles,” You let out breathlessly, “no hickeys.” You say, and Stiles hums in response.

Stiles trails his lips from your neck down to you chest, methodically placing wet kisses between the valley of your breasts. Your hands move to tug at his wet, brown locks. Stiles’ hand wisps to your back and up to your neck, pulling the string that holds the two triangles of fabric up.

Stiles pulls the string, watching as your bikini top flips down to reveal yourself to him. Stiles moves your long hair from your shoulders, flipping it behind your back so he can view you in all your glory.

He envelopes a nipple into his mouth without warning, swirling his tongue as he does so. He’s got a free hand groping your other, your nimble fingers yanking at the hair at the base of his head.

You’re grinding down into him hard, and you can feel his boner pressing deliciously between your two swim bottoms.

“Stiles, I need—“ Stiles cuts you off with a searing kiss to the lips, “I know what you need, baby.” He answers, his hand moving down between you two.

Your breaths are harsh and shallow with anticipation as his long fingers move your bottoms to the side, swiping his middle finger through your wet folds agonizingly slow. You moan out, arching into his touch.

Stiles dips his finger into your heat, giving you a few pumps before adding another. You drop your head to his shoulder, your moans right in his ear. But soon enough, his fingers aren’t enough. You need more.

“Stiles, please.” You plead, your hands reaching for the waistband of his swim trunks. “What is it baby, what do you want?” He asks you, taunting you. You grind down on his fingers, “Please, fuck me, Sti.” You beg, and he smirks, hearing exactly what he wanted.

Stiles then pulls his fingers from your heat, and you’re about to dip your hand into his trunks when he stops you. He moves you from his lap to stand in the waist-deep water. You’re not entirely sure what he’s doing until he pushes you towards the edge of the hot tub. He places his hands on your back, pushing you down til your hands grip the edge of the hot tub.

Stiles’ hands leave your body, pulling his trunks down to release his aching erection. Then he’s lining himself up with your entrance, teasing you at first with only the tip. You’re about to whine out for more when his hands find your shoulders, aggressively pushing your front down onto the edge of the hot tub.

Stiles starts to ram into you relentlessly, gripping your shoulders tight as you throw your head back in pleasure.

“Fuck, yeah you like that? This what you wanted, baby?” He dirty talks you from behind, your mouth agape as you let out the most delicious sounds.

“Oh Stiles, yes, yes, you fuck me so good.” You tell him, his cock kissing that special spot inside you with every thrust. Stiles snakes a hand down to where you two meet, his fingers moving to abuse your swollen clit.

It’s not much longer before you’re a complete moaning mess beneath him, your release quickly approaching. “Stiles, I’m close.” You warn him, and he speeds up his pace a bit, chasing his high. His fingers work in circles on your clit until you’re shaking under his hold, orgasm swallowing you whole.

You’re squirming beneath him as he abuses your cunt, riding out your high and his approaches. “Oh fuck, Stiles! Cum in me, please Sti.” You moan, your hands gripping the edge of the hot tub.

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. He plows you from behind, hips slapping against you til he’s hunching over you, moaning into your ear as he spills himself into you. “Awe, fuck.”

After a moment, he slows his thrusts before slowly slipping out of your heat. You turn to finally face Stiles, completely fucked out. He yanks his trunks back up and you re-tie your bikini top.

Stiles grabs you by the waist to pull you into his arms, “We should definitely do that again. Soon. Very soon.” He says, placing a kiss to your swollen lips. You agree with him, “Let’s go inside before someone realizes we’ve been out here alone this whole time.” You suggest, and Stiles releases you from his hold and you two step out of the hot tub together.

You saunter in front of him, your ass providing the perfect view for your boyfriend. “Round two upstairs?” Ask as you approach the door inside, Stiles behind you. “All day.” He replies. He watches as you skip your way inside, taking his time strolling behind you.

“I’m so winning this bet with Scott.”

𝟏/𝟐𝟑/𝟐𝟒

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mysticficti0n · 10 months

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HELLLOOOO can you write about the reader being at a house party (she's like 17-18 ish) and Toms her ex and uno CUT on Youtube and they play beer pong with the dares, so Tom and Georg are in a team and Y/n and make a friend up are in a team and when Y/n makes their cup the dare is 'French kiss your opponent" and Tom sits her on the tables and stands between her legs making out with her 😀

thank you bebe 😏

L-O-V-E

(and I saw your other request do add that the still love each other so don't worry 🤭)

Beer Pong romance

(all my attention will be back soon but I'm taking time to do some request as I have so many and all you guys have such good ideas!)

∞༺♥༻✧✧༺♥༻∞　　∞༺♥༻✧✧༺♥༻∞　

warnings- swearing, drinking

words- 1.5k

"Y/n come on you've been getting ready for like fucking hours!" Lilly cried storming around my room "you look sexy now lets go!" I loved Lilly but she was a family friend- and those friends you can't get rid of...

"will you give me a fucking second I'm doing my lipstick and then we can go alright-" I snapped back seeing her huff "thank you" I finished my make-up and got up from the desk, my jeans clung to my hips just covering my heals, my tube top strapping around me, hair ironed and make-up as perfect as I could get it I was ready "come then" I said thudding down the stairs hearing her follow closely behind "Bye dad- be back soon" I waved seeing him just blow a kiss

"come on we need to hurry-" she began as I started my engine "its on Burns street" I nodded pulling from the drive and making our way to the party, music blasted through the car and we sung along to every song we knew until we finally saw the house "fuck thats lot more than what Henry said their would be"

"no shit-" I parked up and locked the car, Lilly and I walked in smiling to people we knew and made a bee line for the make-shift bar

"Y/n! Lilly!" a voice shouted over the music that was booming everywhere, we looked to find Henry the man himself holding a bottle of vodka loosely between his fingers along with a cigaret that wasn't lit

"hey babe" Lilly smirked walking over and pressing kiss to his cheek "thanks for inviting us" he held her waist whispering something into her ear making me roll my eyes as I poured some liquid into my cup

"I'll let you guys do whatever this is and I'll find you later alright" the girl nodded but I knew she wasn't listening, she was always so all over Henry it was repulsive, I moved through the crowd until I saw a familiar face smiling to me "Kira!" I hugged her, Kira was a friend that I just loved being around, she was just pure but dirty all at the same time

"hey hun! where's little Lilly?" I pointed back to the bar and she nodded "shagging her playmate?"

"of course" we laughed hitting our cups and taking a swig "who are you here with?" I asked leaning closer so she could here me

"oh I came with ..oh Georg! Georg come here!" Georg and Kira were like brother and sister but just not related and had a lot of sexual tension.. so not really like brother and sister but you get the gist. I watched was the long haired boy wondered over winking at a few girls until he reached us

"hey y/n" I smiled "looking good" he was always a flirt "anyway wanna come play a game of beer pong? we need two players" I looked to the girl who nodded grabbing my arm and dragging me as we followed Georg through a sea of sweaty teenagers, people shoved and yelled as we walked past and all I did was spit curses at them until we made it to the kitchen where the island had been made into a ping pong table, I saw Georg fist bump a boy and my eyes met with his

"fuck" I spoke seeing Tom- he was different now though, hair In long, black braids, bandana around his head and a huge coat covering his body

"oh- I forgot to mention he's with us" I fluttered my eyes agreeing to her words finishing my drink and putting the empty cup to the side "okay who's starting"

"ladies first" his voice hit my stomach, it shouldn't have had made me feel so uneasy, Kira grabbed the ball and went to throw "and and also you have to do a dare for every cup the other team make" of course, Tom couldn't play any game without some sort of consequence

"fine" she through the ball and it missed the table "shit" I laughed as she stomped her foot on the ground, Georg picked it up and through it straight into our cup "you're joking- whats the dare?" the boys looked to each other and whispered a few words before agreeing

"drink the cup at the same time" me and Kira rolled our eyes grabbing the cup and putting it between our mouths, beer spilled down our chins, rolling down our chests "nice view" we pulled the cup away and Kira chucked it at the boy

"perv" it was my turn, I lifted the ball and moved to the middle of the island, lining my hand up and with a small count down it landed in the centre cup "Yes Y/n!" Tom took it out looking to me waiting for me to speak

"take off that god awful coat Tom- and Georg you can drink" Tom huffed slipping his coat off revealing his toned arms against his black shirt and Georg didn't hesitate to drink. The game carried on until we both only had 3 cups to go, me and Kira were now stood in our bra's and I had Tom's bandana around my thigh, the boys however had no shoes on, Georg's hair was tied in a bun and Tom was having to have a bow in the end of his braid, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Lilly looking sweatier than before and lips redder "hey!"

"ohh beer pong!" she cheered

"were doing it with dares, wanna do the dare if Tom makes this shot, she hummed standing between our sides with a face that screamed she'd just been fucked somewhere in the house, Tom flung the ball and it landed in our middle cup

"woo!" he clapped watching as I took the cup to my lips, chugging the beer until it was empty "whats their dare?"

"erm... ah- Y/n French with Tom for...3 minuets!" my stomach dropped, head snapping to her "come on!" I looked back over the table waiting for Tom to interject but he wasn't there

"wha-" I felt hands go under my thighs and lift me onto the island, I looked down to see Tom stood between my legs looking up to me "are you crazy?"

"sure... come on you lost and the dare is you've gotta kiss me, not me kiss you" I sighed thinking through ever decision I ever made, that being becoming friends with Lilly and agreeing to come to this party

"come on Y/n you've got this!" Kira called standing next the Georg who came to watch "at least its your ex not a total stranger!"

"oh yeah because that makes anything better!- fucks sake" my hands came to cup his jaw and I leant down "we never speak of this again alright?"

"just get it over and done with sweetheart- it's only me" he smirked and before I could even looked at his shit eating face anymore I pressed my lips against his and everything came flooding back- every kiss, hug, every time he held me, every time I slept between his arms, I felt locked and I never wanted to let go Tom's arms curled around my stomach pulling me closer, I finally let myself relax into him, hugging his neck. I felt him smile as he took a breather before diving back in again and I couldn't help but smile back, it felt.. nice being so close to him again

"Time!" Lilly called hitting my leg but I didn't let go, and nor did Tom "hello! guys you can stop now"

"I think they may need to have a few moments" I herd Kira laugh and she was right- I'd missed Tom so much, everyday I'd look back on all our photo's, the videos, the times I went to his concerts, when he came to the airport to pick me up after not seeing him for weeks, I missed him too much. The group had walked away leaving me and Tom still intertwined with each other the kiss came to a natural end, our foreheads knocked together while we both panted for air

"I- I love you" Tom spoke through breaths making my heart flutter "we shouldn't have broke up, it was so stupid- I need you in my life Y/n" I couldn't speak, words wouldn't form and my head was cloudy of his voice saying he loved me "nobody has ever compared to you, and they never will"

"I love you too" with the mix of alcohol and adrenaline my whole world seemed to brighten when Tom smiled, not one of his side smiles or smirks, his real smile "kiss me again" his hand held my jaw loosely as he leant up to kiss me again, our lips fit like puzzle pieces, it all felt so right

"come here" his voice was breathy as he lifted me off the counter and to the floor, I forget sometimes how tall he is- he was towering over me, I craned my head up to meet his again, before I could reach he pulled off a little, his big brown eyes looked into mine before he spoke again "be mine again?....please"

"of course" I wrapped my hands around his back and slid my hands into his pockets dragging his body closer to mine, our faces met and a soon as they did our lips were attached again... maybe this party wasn't so bad after all

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gamevecanti · 13 days

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Concept art from "Pop Town"/"Pinky Street: Kira Kira☆Music Night" (DS) & "Pinky Street: Kira Kira☆Music Hour" (DS).

#video game #import game #nintendo ds #ds #Pinky Street #キラキラ☆ミュージックナイト #キラキラ☆ミュージックアワー

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t-saan · 7 months

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Terok Nor gothic

Since the original post seemed to have made a few people happy, here is part 2.

• There are voles in the acces tunnels. You get rid of them. Sometimes, you hear things moving in the walls. There are voles in the acces tunnels.

• There is a major Bajoran holiday coming up. Every time you ask someone what is it about, you get a different answer. Most of them are contradictory. Eventually, the day comes. Kai Winn is fistfighting Commander Sisko on the Promenade. People are cheering.Major Kira says that it is the will of the Prophets. Gul Dukat is also there for some reason.

• There is one replimat on the Promenade which always gives you a serving of yamok sauce with your order. It is not programmed to do it. In fact, all the replimats operate on the same system and only this one does it. You slowly begin to like yamok sauce.

• The Cardassian anthem is blasting through the intercom system. Everyone is on the thin edge between a complete mental collapse and hunting Chief O'Brian and the entire engineering crew down with a laser torch for their inability to fix it. The Cardassian tailor denies hearing anything at all, but he is humming along the entire time. Someone calls Gul Dukat. The moment he beams onto the station, the noise is gone. He leaves, complaining about Federation pranks. The second he is gone, the music is back.

• The security systems are running amok. Commander Sisko calls Gul Dukat. Bajorans are demanding some long lost artifact back from Terok Nor, but nobody knows where it is. Commander Sisko calls Gul Dukat. Commander Sisko struggles with his love life. He calls-

• You are stationed on Deep Space 9. Your mailing adress is Terok Nor. Terok Nor doesn’t exist any more. Your mail is always delivered on time. You are stationed on Terok Nor.

• The water in the shower has two default settings - hot and hotter. You manage to turn it down, eventually. The concerned voice of Gul Dukat begins lecturing you on the risk of space pneumonia from the intercom. There is a cup of hot tea and a blanket in the replicator. Trurly, the State cares for you.

• You cut your arm badly while crawling through an access tunnel. You go to the infirmary to see doctor Bashir. He is not there. You go to look for him in the Cardassian tailor's shop. He is not there either, but in his absence, the tailor offers to stitch you up. You politely refuse. He insists. In the end, you get a new shirt, stitches, and a crash-course in hotwiring shuttlecrafts. Doctor Bashir shows up eventually. He is dressed for tennis.

• There is a saying on Terok Nor, that if you say Gul Dukat's name three times in front of an intercom, he will appear. Everyone, including Dukat, is at loss as to why it happens.

• The one time someone spilled the Chef of Security onto a carpet during a surprise fire drill is not discussed. Ever.

• Most of the station is not in use. It is easy to get lost in the corridors, or the ore processing facilities, or the old interrogation rooms. There are no interrogation rooms on Terok Nor. There have never been any interrogation rooms on Terok Nor.

• Everyone is secretly jealous of the Cardassian uniforms. They are OSHA compliant, fire resistant, have pockets and don’t look like pajamas. You also don't have to entirely take them off just to go to the bathroom.

• You saw a tailor take out twenty armed men with a toothpick and an empty kanar bottle. He was drunk and bickering with Gul Dukat the entire time. Nobody back home believes you.

• Something is curating your literary experiences. Onr day, you leave your PADD with 'Sweet love on Andor' open. When you pick it up a few hours later, it's changed to 'The Never Ending Sacrifice'. In original Cardassian. You read it anyway. It’s been a few years since that would have made a difference.

• One time, you had to go through the wormhole ten times in the span of an hour. When you came back, all socks in your drawer had the seam the other way round. You asked your friend about it. They said all socks always looked like that. You are quite sure you switched universes at sone point that day, but you didn't do anything about it. The new socks are better by far.

#terok nor gothic #ds9 gothic #deep space 9 gothic #star trek deep space nine #star trek gothic #star trek ds9 #cardassians #star trek headcanon #star trek fanfiction

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admiringlove · 5 months

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[1:00] . . .

as the dim evening sun cast long shadows across the college campus, you found yourself reluctantly attending a party, all thanks to atsumu’s incessant pestering. the day had been nothing short of a nightmare, and your mood was about as gloomy as the approaching night. the barista had gotten your order mixed up and in the process of getting your right drink, you’d embarrassingly walked into class late. then, you’d embarrassed yourself again by slipping and falling in the middle of the cafeteria—simply because you hadn’t read the sign that said the floor was wet.

the bass-heavy music thumped through the house, drowning out any semblance of conversation. you felt out of place and awkward, clinging to the solitude of a corner, clutching your red cup with a weak smile in a white sweater and jeans.

atsumu had disappeared into the throngs of people, leaving you alone to fend for yourself. you should have known better than to trust him with your night, but you didn’t have the heart to refuse him. your eyes darted around the room, seeking refuge from the growing discomfort.

you were aware of familiar faces around you. perhaps you convinced yourself that the girl you exchanged smiles with in the hallway was someone who knew you, or that the guy who once kindly retrieved your dropped pen had some awareness of your name.

you wanted desperately to leave. yet, dealing with atsumu meant dealing with someone with an uncanny ability to catch wind of events happening clear across the country. he could rival a news station or an international radio, for all you knew. the prospect of leaving without him knowing seemed futile; either someone would spill the beans, or atsumu would uncover the information in his uniquely unpredictable way. understanding the ways of that guy's brain was a feat beyond comprehension.

you wish osamu was here. or suna. but god knows where those two were.

"oh my god, it's you!" you felt someone tap at your shoulder. you turn, seeing someone from high-school. no, no, no, this is not what you expected when that piss-haired setter said "all the cool people will be there" or something like "how long will you sulk at home".

"hi, kira," your voice falters as you meet her gaze. she used to share managerial duties with you back in the high school volleyball club. memories flood in of the numerous times she'd relentlessly targeted you just for your friendship with the twins and suna. her animosity persisted even when you extended kindness. there was that one instance she trapped you in the broom closet post a volleyball match, and you'd sat in there surrounded by cleaning supplies. osamu eventually discovered you, with your hair plastered to your face from hours of confinement and sweat.

"look who made their way to tokyo," she grinned, "didn't know you had it in you."

you almost scoff. after the dreadful day you'd had, you didn't want to deal with her. this wasn't high-school anymore. you were adults. hopefully, she'd grown a brain by now.

"yeah, i'm trying to pursue physiotherapy," you nod along. she rolls her eyes, "what, so you wanna follow around atsumu for the rest of your life? don't you have your own interests?"

"i'm sorry?" you furrow your eyebrows, "where did you get that from?"

"everyone knows that the only reason you even have a social life is because you grew up with the twins," she says, matter-of-factly. you grit your teeth, clutching your cup. you'd had enough for today. you really did. you were trying your hardest not to say anything back.

"in fact, the only reason osamu never went for me is because of you," she takes a sip out of her cup, "i wonder why he even looks at you like that when i'm literally right here-"

emphasis on 'trying' your hardest. fuck that, you think.

"look, i've had enough of your bullshit," you spit out, "either get a life or leave me alone. not everyone wants to fuck their friends. now, if you'd excuse me-"

that's when she does it. spill her wine all over your white sweater. you look down at the stain, wool sticking to your skin. horror fluctuates through your face for a moment before you say, "god, real mature of you, kira. ruin someone's sweater just because they don't want to be near you. fuck."

"good luck getting the stain out, you little shit," she whispers in your ear, walking away. people give you stares, and suddenly you feel like you're back in school. whispers fester themselves into your ears and you feel small. you wish you could tell atsumu off right about now. that this party would suck and end up making your already shitty day worse. but he was nowhere to be seen and your eyes felt heavy. you weren't even sad—just stressed and angry that your sweater got ruined.

osamu gave you this sweater a few months ago for christmas. you hated that you wished he could've been here to save the day or something. you hated that you always wished for that. for him to see you, care for you, or save you. the weight of the day, the wine-soaked sweater, and the longing for someone who wasn't there pressed on you, a symphony of discontent crescendoing in the backdrop of the party's superficial revelry.

when were you going to learn that no one would come to save you?

and so you ran, out from whoever's house this was. tears threatening to drop, you sniffed in a sharp breath as you clutched yourself. your throat felt dry, and when your eyes landed on a smiling suna who widened his arms to say hi, you turned the other way. he seems confused, calling out for you—but you keep walking. you should've never come.

when you reach your apartment, closing the door behind you swiftly, is when you finally let yourself cry. why couldn't you simply walk away? why couldn't you ever pick yourself in a group of people? was it really that important for you to stand there after the first insult about how you made it to tokyo? why was she even there, anyway? as you collapsed onto your worn-out couch, the weight of teenage angst pressed against your chest. the city lights flickered outside your window, mirroring the turmoil within. tokyo, with its bustling streets and neon signs, felt like a maze of emotions, and tonight, you were lost. suddenly, everything about your home seemed suffocating too.

your phone rings. you ignore it.

but then, notifications start piling in out of nowhere. you hear the specific 'ding!' of the groupchat around seventeen times before you pick up the phone.

videos, texts, and calls stare back at you. two videos that suna had sent, then spammed the chat along with atsumu. calls and texts from osamu, asking for where you were.

the doorbell rings.

you look up from your screen, blinking profusely. lips parted and brows twisted into a knot, you walk up to the door—still in the soiled sweater and black jeans—and open it. a panting osamu stands in front of you, holding the side of your door for support as he looks up and says, "hey."

"hey," you mumble, "what are you doing here?"

he narrows his eyes at you, standing up straight, "what do ya mean 'what am i doing here'? i texted and said i was comin'. didn't you check your phone?"

"not really, no. i was just about to, though," you shake your head then you look down at your sweater,, "i've had quite the shit day."

"i see that," he chuckles, "can i come in?"

you swing the door open wide, and he slips off his shoes at the entrance, shooting you a sheepish grin. "might wanna check the group chat now," he suggests.

with a sigh, you retrieve your phone from your pocket, fingers dancing across the screen to open the groupchat first. suna and atsumu's inquiries about you fill the screen, but as you scroll further, a wave of emojis and messages like "DESERVED LMAO" catch your eye. and then, a video.

you tap on it, and suddenly, the screen is alive with the sight of miya osamu vehemently berating the woman who had insulted you. the clip unfolds with him ordering her to leave, or face even harsher consequences. a barrage of swear words fills the air, leaving you almost breathless as you try to process the intensity of his acts.

"what's wrong?" he asks, when you toss the phone onto the coffee table. you shake your head, "you don't have to come rescuing me every time i'm in trouble."

"well, honey," he smoothly looks at you. you shake your head, "no. do not use that word. you've lost pet name privileges."

"hey, that girl trash talked ya and terrorized ya for all o' high-school. and now she ruined the pretty sweater i got ya. that's the first gift i gave ya after i confessed!" he says defensively.

"no one even knows about us, 'samu!" you chuckle. he looks at you judgily, as if asking whose fault it is that your relationship is so private. you pout, changing the topic, "although i'm sad about the sweater. it's all pink now."

"i'll get you another one," he groans, walking to you, "i'm learning how to crochet from ma on video-chat every weekend. granted, i can only do granny squares for now, but i promise you'll have a new sweater in no time."

"you're going to make me a sweater from scratch?" you coo, "what a great boyfriend you are."

"stop cooin' at me like i'm yer childhood dog," he grunts, "let's get this sweater off and you in the shower."

"what, so you can join me?" you raise an eyebrow. he gives you a cheeky smile, and you shake your head, "i feel like shit. maybe afterward."

"pizza and movies?" he immediately suggests.

you grin, "that too. maybe some hot chocolate."

"on it."

note: headcanoning that atsumu and suna come to reader's apartment and find osamu there the next morning and wreak absolute havoc.

#haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x reader #haikyuu angst #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu hurt comfort #haikyuu imagine #miya osamu x you #miya osamu fluff #miya osamu x y/n #osamu miya fluff #haikyuu!! fluff #haikyuu!!#haikyu #haikyuu #haikyuu headcanons

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decorafilth · 2 years

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I <3 kira kira music hour!!

#decora #decora kei #kidcore #scenecore #scene #gyaru #kawaii #kawaii aesthetic #jfashion #gyaru fashion #cute #harajuku

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twigternetarchive · 8 months

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for my rentry (unused)

#games #kira kira pop princess #kira kira music hour #pinky street #pinky:st #image links

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dykelawlight · 8 months

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dykelawlight/sharptoothed death note fic masterpost

The official and regularly-updated list of every Death Note fic I've ever written. Here it is.

Please find my derivative fanwork permission statement (for work based on/inspired by my fanfic) here!

Offensive Maneuver | L/Light | E | 11.5k | ⚢

Nothing else — not obedience to her insane demands, neither friendliness nor the cold shoulder, not even outright rage and physical violence — has been able to shake L off the trail she’s dragged everyone along on, the one with a neon sign at the end only she can see that proclaims Light to be Kira beyond the shadow of a doubt. But this; this might do it. Light proposes an encounter to L. For strategic reasons.

Part of an ongoing series, Strategy Games; sequel forthcoming.

Hear No Evil | L/Light, side Misa/Light | E | 4.5k | ⚢

Misa presses the elevator button and heads up, up, up, all the way to Light's room on the sixteenth floor. She gets halfway down the hall before she realizes that something is off. "Please," someone who sounds very much like Light is saying, from behind Light’s bedroom door. Misa pays her girlfriend a surprise visit after-hours at the Kira Task Force headquarters, and overhears what she believes to be a brutal interrogation. After a tense bout of worried eavesdropping, she intervenes to save her. Light puts the "light" in "gaslight." L is also there.

Though I've Closed My Eyes | Light/Mikami, past L/Light | E | 3.3k | ⚢

Light had begun to require she wear the blindfold after the first time she’d fucked her. Mikami’s eyes had been wide, worshipful, pleading, and it should have done something for Light, to see all that lust and devotion in her face. Instead, it had shaken her, more than she’d care to admit. She’d seen her own face, all of eighteen, overwhelmed and wet and desperate to please, kneeling on the floor for — She is not thinking about that. Anyway. It’s easier to fuck her when Light can’t see her naked adoration. Light likes things to be easy, these days. Light and Mikami have a regular sexual relationship, which provides Mikami a further outlet for her tendency to relish obedience. L is not part of it. Light doesn't even think about L anymore.

Solid and Full | L/Light/Mikami | E | 5.8k | ⚢

She wishes very much that Light was here, guiding her, or L, even — she doesn’t know anything about this kind of thing, not really, beyond her own personal research (which was thorough, but prior to a month or two ago purely theoretical). But she had asked if Light could come with her, when Light gave her this assignment, and Light had smiled, calm and benevolent, and said absolutely not. Either way, Teru is currently standing here, by herself, on her day off, in an extremely kinky sex shop in Roppongi. It is dark and there is music and colored lighting. She is profoundly uncomfortable and she is on a mission. Death Note Kinktober 2023, day 1: toys.

to love and be loved by me | L/Light | E | 3.2k | ⚣

Always, it ends up with what is undeniably the press of someone’s cool, bony hand or scrawny denim-clad thigh or soft, once-warm mouth against him, making him twitch and shudder and whine. Always, it ends up with Light rutting into his own hand or grinding himself against his mattress or some other unseemly bit of animal behavior Light should be well above, by now, because on its own it isn’t enough, but it’s enough to get him to the uncomfortable pulse-point at which he starts to need. And he hears it. He hears it. That’s very good, Light, murmurs a low, soft voice from six feet underground. Death Note Kinktober 2023, day 11: praise kink/spectrophilia/frottage.

speak through fingers | L/Light | E | 8.1k | ⚣

The Yagami boy is leaving his room less. An interesting choice, for someone who knows his room is being watched. Light spends a lot of time pacing, now. Clutching at his hair. L watches him cycle between his bedroom and the bathroom, over and over, almost never going anywhere else. When his father goes home and Light knows that he, at least, is not watching him, he spends a lot of time scrubbing his hands. When L zooms in on archived footage, he’s able to track the progression of deep, dark circles under Light’s eyes that rival his own. Oh, and of some significance — Light’s hands, starting with his palms, have become ink-black and stained, taking on a peeling texture akin to the crust of charred meat. Death Note Kinktober, day 17: teratophilia/masturbation.

Who Shall Be Debased, And Who Exalted | Light/Mikami | E | 1.2k | ⚣

Who is a God like you, who pardons iniquity and forgives transgression …? He does not maintain his wrath forever, for he desires kindness … He will again show us mercy, he will suppress our iniquities; and you will cast all their sins into the depths of the sea. The Talmud says that between a man and God, confession must be conducted in private; to do otherwise is shameful, a display of disrespect. So they are alone, wholly alone. Death Note Kinktober 2023, day 21: hierophilia.

You Have to Understand the Way I Am | L/Light | E | 2.4k | ⚣

He is foreign to himself. He can’t believe he’s been running around playing the innocent ingénue all these months, giving so little consideration to the traps L’s laid for him since the beginning. Offering L trust, and friendship, and, most unbelievably, the use of his body. The sick part is that stupid, earnest Yagami Light, who pinky-promised he wasn’t Kira and just wanted to get to the bottom of this oh-so-terrible situation, hadn’t thought to weaponize that particular tool at all. At all! The end of L's life is rapidly approaching. Light is going to make him pay for all of the embarrassingly sweet and willing sex he's been handing over for the past three months. In spades. Death Note Secret Santa 2023 fill for MONAKISU.

Currently in the works (stay tuned):

Defensive Tactics (sequel to Offensive Maneuver, L POV ⚢)

Of Other People's Love for Each Other (L/Light/Mikami, post-Kira AU, established Lawlight, first encounter at a kink club, Mikami POV ⚢)

To Slide Through Doors Ajar and Untouched (sequel to above; L/Light/Mikami but mostly Light/Mikami, office sex, pining, semi-established relationship, Mikami POV ⚢)

sorry for the slow update x__X (L/Light, no-note AU, Light is a prolific anonymous writer of very explicit fic & L, an avid lurker, has tracked down his actual identity, Light POV ⚣)

#no one asked for this but it's here now #I'm also not good enough at graphics/etc to make a header for this so y'all are gonna take this plain text and enjoy that instead

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lydiablack-m · 11 months

Text

I want her to stay |Near x Reader| (platonic)

Pairing: Near x Reader (platonic), Mello x Reader (mentioned)

Warnings: angst, loss, hurt/slight comfort. The story takes place 4 years after the end of the Kira's case, reader is from Wammy's house

Word count: 1.5k

The story may be considered as an afterword for this imagine. You may also read other parts of the storyline here

A/N: you may listen to "Child in time" by Deep Purple, while reading ('cause it gave me the vibes in a way)

On the 50th floor of one of the many skyscrapers in New York the sound of a phone call rang out across the large hall.

A soldier-like man at the control desk with countless computer screens immediately switched the system to call tracking mode.

"The signal is coming from a phone booth at the Mare Island Causeway, Vallejo, there are no cameras in the area."

"Put it through."

A young man was sitting on the floor, folding pyramids of different heights out of little glass animal figurines. His snow-white hair fell in tangled curls down his waist. He seemed absolutely calm, as if he knew exactly what was going to happen the next minute.

The agent at the desk frowned, glancing down at him, and hesitantly pressed the microphone button.

The phone kept silence, broken only by the distant rustle of bird voices and passing cars on the background.

"Identify yourself," the agent demanded in alarm.

No answer. Just the distant melody of a passing by ice cream truck.

"Do you know where are you calling?"

Silence.

The next second they heard a sudden sigh at the other end of the line, and the pay phone's receiver clattered onto the lever. Long-drawn beeps echoed through the hall.

"Should we... call back?" The agent asked perplexedly, turning to the white-haired man. The latter made a vague gesture with his hand, which the agent concluded as an approval. After typing a few lines on the keyboard, he pressed the microphone button again.

On a deserted street near a wasteland where cars, rusted from years of rains, found their piece, a phone rang in a sun-drenched phone boх. For a long minute, the silence of the hot air was broken by a monotonous ringing, while a lone figure with an unsteady step, moved away from the source of the sound until disappeared in the deserted lanes.

"What might it mean?" Agent turned to the guy, who calmly arranged the final row of figures, sitting with his back to the monitors. The man couldn't see it, but at that moment a sly smile flashed on the lips of the white-haired.

"I think we'll find out very soon."

*******************************************

Summer streets of New York were filled with the noise of cars, laughter of people and the sounds of music from the open doors of cafes and shops. The central district was bustling with life and it seemed that every person at that moment had a clear goal, which he knew for sure - to enjoy life and be free of all problems.

A person stopped at the atrium of one of the skyscrapers. Pedestrians, carried away by their own happiness, walked by without noticing a small oddity. No one entered this building, as well as no one left it for hours. The office skyscrapers nearby were full of traffic, while in the depths of this atrium, only a lone security guard sat at a long empty registration desk.

The person at the entrance did not attract the attention, although his figure stood out strikingly against the crowd. Despite the summer heat, he was wearing a long black hoodie, the wide hood of which completely hid his face. The silhouette of the person spoke of his severe fatigue, his shoulders periodically twitched.

Finally, he abruptly shook his head and stood onto the steps of the building. His hand reached for an inconspicuous call button and pressed it. He shrugged his shoulders, straightening up, pushing away the remnants of doubt.

A man's voice sounded on the intercom.

"Speak up."

The figure on the doorstep sighed, quietly grinning and threw off the hood.

"Long time no see, Near... Can we... talk?'

A young girl of about twenty was looking into the intercom camera. Her whole appearance spoke of a lack of sleep, as well as severe exhaustion. There was barely a glimmer of interest in what was happening in her tired eyes. Her dry lips trembled as she spoke.

"We can't let her in here!" One of the agents said indignantly. "She and Mello killed all our people, what if she came to take revenge now!?"

"Don't be absurd," the white-haired man grumbled irritably. "Rester, let her in."

After a moment's hesitation, the man addressed by the guy nevertheless reluctantly pressed one of the many buttons on the panel, and on the screen could be seen how the sliding doors of the building opened and slammed again after the figure of the girl crossed the door line.

"Up to the 50th floor, please. The elevator is on your right," the monotonous voice of the guard echoed through the empty hall.

The girl obediently followed in the indicated direction and with trembling fingers pressed the button with the sign "50" in the iron elevator.

A tense silence hung in the hall. The agents watched expectantly at the figure of a thin guy sitting in the center of the room in the white, hospital-like clothes. Before him the drawings were randomly scattered on the floor. Each drawing repeated the others and seemed to be made by a child. Four human figures could be distinguished on them, holding hands, as on a paper garland. Long white hair covered the guy's face and he continued to calmly draw a pencil across the sheet, reproducing the unchanging plot.

The doors of the hall silently opened and the agents, whose nerves were tense with expectation, involuntarily shuddered.

"Hello, Y/n," the white-haired said keeping eyes on the drawing.

"Near..." whispered the girl, starring in confusion at the guy.

"You wanted to tell me something," the young man named Near said emotionlessly.

"Yes... I wanted to," the girl lowered her head, fumbling with the edge of the fabric. She tried to find the words, but all rational thoughts flew out of her head and she stared at the floor with unseeing eyes, like a guilty schoolgirl.

"You don't look well," concluded Near, without raising his eyes. "It's been 4 years..."

"I ... tried to come up with something..." The girl muttered, as if justifying herself. "I tried to make a plan, but it didn't work out. I tried to start a new life and go my own way, but... I can't do anything by myself anymore... I'm... I'm terribly useless."

She shuddered all over and hugged herself.

"I was sure that he would always be able to come up with a plan that everything would be fine... I believed that he could... that he could survive..."

Her voice trailed off and she took a ragged breath. Near's hand froze over the sheet, he carefully listened to her words.

"I don't know where else to go, I don't know where else I can be useful, only here... I would like to work for you Near... I don't think I can want anything else anymore."

She looked up at the guy with exhausted eyes, which were filling with tears against her will.

"Besides you, I have no one left... but... If you think I'm pathetic, if you don't want to see me anymore, I'll understand. It's only for you to decide. And... Near... I never meant you any harm. I guess you know it yourself, but... I tried until the very end to convince Mello to work with you, and the murder of your team... He did it without my knowledge." The last words sounded firm, but doomed, like the last justification of a sentenced to death.

"I know," Near said softly. "Halle, take Y/N to her room."

The tall blonde woman addressed by Near calmly nodded and headed for the door, letting the girl go ahead. When the doors closed and their footsteps faded into the corridor, Rester glanced at Near with concern.

"Did you know she was about to come all this time?"

"It had to happen sooner or later," Near replied indifferently, tracing the paper with a pencil.

Rester sighed in annoyance.

"Near, are you sure this is the right decision? What if she..."

"No," Near interrupted him. "Despite the fact that Mello's death broke her, despite the fact that she lost the will to life, she still remains a valuable asset that cannot be allowed to go to waste so easily. She was one of the smartest students of the Wammy's house and despite that she has always been kind to me and never tried to compete with me.

She loved Mello and genuinely cared for Matt. So did I.

I want her to stay."

His tone was peremptory, Rester knew that when the decision was made, he could not be persuaded. Taking one last look at the white figure in the center of the room, the agent turned away, returning to work interrupted by the sudden intrusion.

He didn't notice how Near put aside the new drawing he made while they were talking. Two figures of people holding hands remained on it, and around, as if in a frenzied fit, countless tombstone crosses were scratched.

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by-ethan-fox · 1 month

Text

So I saw Gundam Seed FREEDOM...

... and honestly it defies analysis.

I will avoid spoilers for major plot elements in this write-up.

I'm a huge Gundam fan. This shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who has followed my work for a long time, as I frequently bring it up, even in entirely inapplicable situations.

But even though I've been a fan since the late 90s, I'd never had a chance to see any of it in the cinema - so when AllTheAnime organised a special short run of the movie for UK theatres, I jumped at the chance.

What I saw surprised me.

To clarify, I'm not one of those Gundam fans who hates SEED. Sure, I love the UC, but I'm not gonna lie, Wing was my genesis within the fandom so I'm as likely to watch G-Gundam as 08th MS Team, though I do lean towards the grittier side of the franchise, with War in the Pocket being my favourite entry.

But most relevant to this is that while I enjoyed SEED, I've always been critical of Destiny for some really bizarre plotting that, frankly, kinda left the CE timeline in a mess. Like many fans, with the show having been off the air for nearly two decades, I gave up on the idea the movie might exist literally years ago.

With all that out of the way...

The movie does exist. Finally. And is it good? Bad?

The weird thing is I don't know what to say, and that's weird for a writer.

It's awesome. It's terrible. It's goofy. It's clever. It's idiotic. It's bizarre.

But it's over 2 hours long and, honestly, I was never bored, which I guess is a success?

Perhaps most surprisingly, the movie expends ZERO ENERGY on helping you if you haven't seen the near-100-episodes of CE anime which came before this. Like, if you haven't seen SEED and or Destiny, you are just utterly fucked. The show wheels characters and plot-beats from the prior material in-and-out in a manner I could best call aggressive. I last watched Destiny about ~7 years ago, and I'm a self-admitted Gundam nerd; but even I had to look up a few things on my phone afterwards.

Then, fan-service. Of both kinds. All sorts of things get pulled out of cold storage for the movie... But it works. Though that also stands as a testament to how this is, in the truest sense, a 2004 anime throwback. I actually heard some people in the cinema groaning at some of the Gainax Bouncing going on; but then given the jiggly silhouette in EVERY OPENING TO SEED, frankly it would've been stranger if it had been absent.

I think the movie has loads of problems. Even by CE standards, some of the storytelling was really goofy and dare-I-say-it, "cringe". It recycles probably too much and certainly doesn't stand on its own as a piece of media (though that's not so much a failing as a clear, conscious choice).

Also... It has that "anime movie" thing where the plot feels a bit filler. The first time you have this new guy on the scene with shock-white hair, being all edgelord as he talks about war and destiny and fencing or some other weird metaphor you kinda see the entire movie unfurl before you. If you're a longtime anime fan this isn't so much your first rodeo as your daily commute.

From there, the story takes numerous predictable turns, dips liberally into melodrama, sets up some great Mobile Suit fights, with relatively few surprises (note, however, I'm not saying "no surprises", as there are some, and also, I'm not suggesting it's tedious).

And yet...

It's fun.

It's really, really fun.

That's the crux of all this. That's what really matters. And honestly, when that new theme comes out of the speakers, sounding in perfect key with the types of music that ran through SEED's run, and Kira's onscreen, and he's locking onto a dozen targets and beams are spamming everywhere and everything's exploding in that weird pink way that things in SEED explode...

Have you ever tried to play a videogame from the 90s that you haven't played in years? And do you know how touch-and-go that is?

Gundam Seed FREEDOM is, if I'm to compare it to anything, like that.

But thankfully, it's one of the times when your memories might have been optimistic, but they're not wrong. That game may be a bit crude, a bit rough around the edges, and have more boob and ass jiggle than you recall... But it's good. So good that you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of your console, grinning like an absolute loon, until it's 2am and you can no longer feel your feet.

If you have fond memories of the SEED era of the Gundam franchise, don't miss it.

#featuretag #Gundam #gundam seed #gundam seed freedom #gundam seed destiny #anime

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