sapphosewrites:

Trektober Day #28: Making Up

Their fights were explosive, sharp words picking out the worst in each other, needling and nettling where they knew it would stick, shouting on the Promenade.

They made up silently, without words, Garak slipping into Julian’s quarters at night, then into his bed, sliding hands and mouths until they lost track of where skin ended and scales began.

Julian wouldn’t have argued that it was the healthiest thing, but that was not why he craved it. The explosion made the settling in the aftermath sweeter, the contrast of black night sky before the next firework. It was all very Cardassian, he suspected.

To hold without words was perhaps the only honest kind of comfort Garak knew.

sapphosewrites:

Trektober Day #26: Stranded on a Planet

“How is life crash landed on a planet treating you, Mister Garak?” Julian asked teasingly. Perversely, their Jem'Hadar fighter having been shot out of orbit seemed to have had a positive impact on his grim mood.

“Well enough that I don’t want to hear any statistics about how doomed we are, Doctor,” Garak said chidingly.

Julian looked at him sideways as they picked their way through the sandy dunes of the beach.

“I don’t want us to die,” he said suddenly. “I just don’t think we should ignore the reality. I thought that was how you wanted me to start thinking.”

His tone is light, but there’s a buried edge there too. You wanted me to be this way.

“It seems I may have misjudged.”

sapphosewrites:

Trektober Day #8: Epistolary

My dear doctor,

Through my window, I see stalks of rulot grown tall. Even though it has been years, I marvel at Cardassia’s resiliency. Once, I wondered if our soil had been poisoned forever, if anything would never grow again. But Cardassia has always been more than the soil, and her spirit thrives.

There are children laughing outside my home, and I drink in the sound like so much water. It sounds like hope.

I have grown foolishly sentimental in my old age, Doctor. You will laugh when you read this. But my heart bursts to share it with you, to see you glow in the light of Cardassia’s suns. Come back to me soon, my love.

-Elim

Elim,

You know I had to come in to the clinic today. You already convinced me to take a week off; my patients would be suspicious if I stayed away longer. I’ll be home in time for dinner. Parmak has promised to make sure of it.

Don’t be so dramatic.

Love, Julian

shakespearevillain:

shakespearevillain:

Based loosely on this idea that @cemetrygatess put up for @free-ds9-fic-ideas. 

—

(Julian barges into Garak’s shop.)

Julian: What the hell did you do?”

Garak: Good afternoon, doctor.

Julian: Don’t you ‘good afternoon’ me! What did you do to Sarina?

Garak: Whatever do you mean?”

Julian: She came to me half dead from poison.

Garak: Only half dead?

Julian: This is serious! She could have died!

Garak: My dear, you shouldn’t sell yourself so short.

Julian: Poison, Garak! You poisoned her.

Garak: On the contrary, I gave her a nice cup of tea after she came into my shop worried sick about seeing you again. If that tea made it so that she had to confront her fears a little sooner than she had planned, then all the better.

Julian: (bracing himself against the shop counter) You can’t go around poisoning my exes. We talked about this.

(Garak laughs.)

Garak: Oh, please, doctor, don’t ascribe to me the petty feelings of jealousy that you might feel upon meeting one of my former flames. A girl came into my shop with a problem and left with a solution. A quite simple solution, I might add, compared to the various plans that she was trying to concoct. Honestly, hanging around Quark’s like a lost pup. Attempting to barge into your quarters.

Julian: Our quarters.

Garak: Whoever’s quarters, doctor. The point of it is that she managed to face her fears and talk to you directly within a few hours of coming here.

Julian: Because you poisoned her.

Garak: With a poison that I knew you could treat.

Julian: And that made her throw up for a good half an hour.

Garak: A not entirely unforeseen bonus.

Julian: It was good to see her again. After the… well…

Garak: (leaning closer to him) You’re welcome. 

Goddamn double helix twisty motherfucker…

—

(Sarina appears in the shop a few hours later.)

Sarina: Garak?

Garak: (appearing from the back room) Yes? Ah. Ms. Sarina. I trust you’re well now?

Sarina: I - I just want to say thank you. Did you manage to convince him it was poison?

Garak: I didn’t have to. He came in railing at me, throwing accusations left and right. You must have put on quite an impressive display.

Sarina: I did. Kind of.

Garak: Tell me. What exactly did you put in your tea?

Sarina: Ipecac, basically. It’s an old Earth root that ancient doctors used to make people throw up. Did… Did you get in a lot of trouble?

Garak: Not a bit. He expects this sort of thing from me by now. Part of the whole “Cardassian spy” allure, I imagine.

Sarina: Well, still… Thank you. I don’t think I would have come up with that on my own.

Garak: Come now. A bright girl like you? I grant that I may have come up with the option a little quicker than most, but you would have gotten there eventually.

Sarina: Or simply worked up the courage to talk to him vomit-free.

Garak: A distinct possibility, but one that didn’t seem terribly likely at the time.

Sarina: Yeah… Well, I hope you and Julian can be happy together. He seems better than when I last saw him. More settled. Happier.

Garak: Yes. Quite a strange attitude to have in the middle of a war.

Sarina: You know what I mean.

Garak: Yes, dear, I know what you mean.

Sarina: Well, I should go to my quarters. I have an early flight.

Garak: Do come by again if you’re on the station. Perhaps next time I can manage to actually poison you.

Sarina: (smiling) You wouldn’t do that.

Garak: Oh? And why not?

Sarina: Because you love Julian too much, and you know he doesn’t like seeing people in pain.

Garak: … Good night, Ms. Sarina.     

bixbythemartian:

writing-prompt-s:

You’re a mimic. You were disguised as a chair in a dungeon when an adventurer decided to take you as loot. You’ve actually enjoyed your life ever since as furniture in a jolly tavern. So when some ruffians try to rob the now-elderly adventurer’s business, you finally reveal yourself.

Okay, so- hey, hey! Stop with the screaming, you’re gonna wake people up! Shut up! If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Listen for a minute, already.

I was just minding my own-

I am so serious right now. If you wake Bob up, you won’t like what I do. He’s not young, these days, he needs his rest.

Okay? Okay.

Anyway. I was minding my own business. I was a fairly young mimic, I’d just really sort of settled into my first good morph. When you’re really young, freshly spawned, you sort of rotate through things, and you don’t quite get it right, most of the time.

It’s like learning how to walk for people, I think. You’re small, you don’t quite know what you’re doing… it’s a whole thing.

And I went chair. Now, that’s very exciting. Chairs aren’t a common mimic morph. For whatever reason- the gods? who knows?- most mimics end up containers. Trunks, chests, drawers, wardrobes, I had a cousin who was a barrel.

Chair, though, that’s good, though. No barbarian is gonna poke through your insides looking for loose change if you’re a good sturdy wooden chair. You might get sat on, but, heck, we’re pretty sturdy as a species. No big deal. And, honestly, easier to get some food.

Wha- no, we don’t eat people. We don’t eat flesh, that’s gross. We absorb magic. It’s why we tend to spawn in dungeons, lots of magic there. Though I pity the poor mimic clans that end up in a necromancer dungeon. Ugh.

Most adventurers have magic items on them, you absorb a little energy and get sat on for a bit, no big deal, easy meal. And you get a little variety in your diet, win for everybody.

Sure, we kill people from time to time. But let me ask you this: If you were just at home, minding your own business, and some big guy with no neck bristling with swords came along, bust into your house, walked into your room, and reached into one of your orifices to find valuables, you might take averse to that, don’t you think? It’s not like people don’t know about mimics. Take a little care, you know?

Anyway, I was still pretty young. I’d just settled into my morph. And this guy comes along and, you guessed it, no neck, bristling with swords. And he claps eyes on me and just stops, and stares, and I was like- kinda panicking, right? I’m thinking I messed up the morph, and he’s clocked me and now I’m gonna have to fight this guy.

And then he nudges his buddy and says ‘Hey, hey Jim, ain’t that the most beautiful chair you’ve ever seen in your life?’

And Jim’s like ‘yeah it’s a nice chair so what?’ and Bob- that’s the guy with no neck- he says ‘no, look at it! it’s gorgeous!’

I tell you, if I coulda blushed, I’d have been cherry red from top to bottom. When you first start to settle into a morph, you feel a little self-conscious, you know? You’re just starting to figure yourself out, and someone comes along and just says the nicest things. And he went on for a while. I was so flattered, best day of my life, aside from my first spawning.

Jim says ‘well just bring the damn thing! we have shit to do!’ so Bob does! Just picks me up and straps me to his back, and off we went.

And I went lots of interesting places, met some interesting people. I even ended up doing the watch at night a couple of times. Because Jim, sometimes he has this thing where he just falls asleep, he can’t help it, it’s not his fault. I had to help them out a couple of times. I was fond of the guy, you know? And most mimics don’t get to be part of adventuring parties, it’s just not done, so it was really neat to feel like I was a part of things.

Jim and Bob and their buddy Wade, they end up saving the kingdom, and they all go their separate ways. Bob went back to his home village- that’s here- bought a building, put me in the middle, and said ‘this is gonna be my tavern’. He hangs up his magical weapons around the bar- don’t bother with that, buddy, that glass is tougher than your ax, I promise.

Anyway, I’ve got plenty to eat. I even spawned a couple of times, helped fill out the place. I figure, save him a little money, I start my own clan, and there’s plenty of ambient magic to go around, the place is lively, better than some manky old dungeon any day, right?

Bob, he never quite figured it out. I think Jim was onto me, but Bob- he’s not bright. But he’s just the nicest guy, you know? He’s always got a kind word for someone. He’ll give you the shirt off his back. If you show up here hungry with no money, he feeds you, and often he’ll make sure you get some place to sleep and a job, if you’re looking. Everybody loves Bob.

And I really like people, that’s something I figured out about myself. I like the atmosphere here, too, there’s always new stories to hear. I’ve learned a lot, over the years, I’ll tell you what.

Now Bob, he’s not young anymore, and his kids well- they’re not the adventuring sort, as I think you have already sussed out. But they don’t need to fight, you know? That’s not the kinda life they need to lead.

So, bearing all that in mind, here’s the deal. You got two options. One- put everything down- nice and easy, mind- and leave, lock the door behind you, and this never happened. No harm, no foul.

Or… you can find out just how many times I’ve spawned.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this one and want to help support me, here’s a link to my ko-fi! If like this story and you want to read more, here is my masterpost, currently updated with all of my tumblr ficlets.

If you screencap this for another website, please be courteous and link people to my tumblr.

lady-redshield-writes:

Another scifi story with a very experimental POV. This one is a bit…angrier? in tone than the last two. But! It felt good to write, and I hope you enjoy reading it. It’s a bit longer than the others as well, so make sure you have the time! Warnings for grief, loss, and a very loyal starship.

QUERY: Where is my pilot?

QUERY: Where is my pilot?

QUERY_ALL: Where is my pilot?

>_Your pilot is dead. You have been called as a witness in their posthumous corporate trial. You will answer the Board’s questions without hesitation or omission.

ERROR: I don’t understand. My pilot is good. They would never have need to stand trial.

SUGGEST: Reassessment of trial’s necessity.

>_Overruled. You will answer the Board’s questions.

Keep reading

johannestevans:

johannestevans:

johannestevans:

thinking about the crew of ds9 not seeing julian for like 2 years after his exile and he doesn’t return anyone’s comms

and then when they do see him he’s in a cardassian uniform and he’s among a Cardassian crew and he doesn’t react to them at all (because it hurts it hurts and it won’t ever stop hurting but he doesn’t have to show it hurts and give everyone the satisfaction–) and they wonder if he was ever truly one of them at all or if he was really on cardassia’s side all along

Miles stock still and staring at Julian, JULIAN, with two Cardassians flanking him, the sound of Julian’s voice so familar even as he says, “Chief O'Brien?” several times, feels it wash over him, but was Julian’s voice ever that warm and syrupy and strangely cold? Did he always speak Standard with this clipped and distant accent?

Hearing one of the Cardassians say, “I thought you said their hearing is better than ours.”

Hearing Julian say, “It’s not his ears that are the problem.”

Snapping to enough to ask, to demand, and he sounds angry even though he’s trying not to be angry but it’s been 2 years and Julian won’t even call him by his name, “What, aren’t you Human anymore?”

And Julian who meets his gaze so coldly and so severely that Miles feels like he’s being run through with the sharpness of it alone, and Julian who says in a cutting voice, “I’m not Human, Chief. I never was.”

Miles standing there with an ache and a nausea in his chest, knowing but also unable to know that Julian is feeling exactly the sake on the other side of the trench that Starfleet has dug between them

hhhh or even

“I’m not Human, Chief. I haven’t been Human since I was seven years old.”

“Seven, huh? Is that when we lost you to them?”

And Bashir who laughs, and people are looking at them in the docking ring because its not everyday you see a Human laugh like a Cardassian, the smile not meeting his eyes, the neck too flexible, the shoulders too stiff.

“My dear Chief O'Brien,” says Julian, sounds like Garak, and for the first time Miles thinks to wonder what Cardassian overtones the translator was putting in whenever Garak called him my dear, because Julian’s Standard accent never was like this - this is what Julian’s voice sounds like when Miles hears his words in Standard, but he’s speaking in Cardassian. “Starfleet didn’t lose me. It decided it didn’t want me anymore. I was disposed of - and went to where I would be respected for what I was.”

And Miles hates that it’s true, because Julian’s right: Starfleet decommissioned him and all but threatened him with stripping his citizenship too, would have taken his medical license, would have dropped him in a jail cell, if it weren’t for Cardassia’s intervention.

It makes him feel sick, to think Cardassia protected Julian from Starfleet, when he was one of their own, and one of their best.

“Well, of course they respect you, they don’t know what you’re like,” he says. “I bet you don’t let them win at darts.”

And he’s trying to offer an olive branch, trying to be friendly, trying to make it the way it was, but it can’t ever be the way it was, and Julian’s expression doesn’t even falter.

“I don’t have to let them win at darts,” says Julian.

“Cardassians are that good?”

“I have no obligation to pretend,” says Julian bluntly. “And they don’t get the hurt feelings others might.”

Hurt feelings. Miles wants to throw up.

“Are we going to do this all day?” asks one of the Cardassians impatiently.

Miles is about to bark at him, but Julian tacks on, cool and tired and just as Cardassian, just as impatient, “Are we?”

“No, sir,” says Miles woodenly, mouth tasting stale. “Let me show you the way, sir.”

And later, later, maybe he’ll let himself feel something over it, but he can’t cope with that right now.

sapphosewrites:

Trektober Day #17: Angst

In space, there is silence.

Not on stations or starships. There is incessant noise, noise, noise, of people and machines, buzzing and whirring and beeping and chirping and chatter and it whirls around and around and around.

Out among the stars, the vacuum is blissfully quiet.

Garak looks out the airlock and thinks that particular cold would be worth it, for a minute of silence. There could, at last, be rest.

johannestevans:

my twitter / / my ko-fi

garashir, trans!julian, fingering + orgasm denial

Julian tried to pull free, but his hands were tied tight at the wrist, and pinned as they were between his lower back and Garak’s stomach, his ankles fastened tight to the magnetic loops Garak had sewn into knees in lieu of a spreader bar, he didn’t have much luck.

“An inspired design, isn’t it, my dear?” asked Garak, his breath purring hot and wonderful against Julian’s ear, and Julian shivered.

“I’m not about to stroke your ego over your tailoring abilities when you’re using them to torture me, Garak.”

“Torture is such a strong word,” said Garak softly. “Stroke, though, that sounds about right…”

His thumb traced so delicately over the shaft of Julian’s clit, down toward its head, that Julian moaned breathily, his head tipping back against Garak’s chest, and Garak laughed at the way his clit jumped with the clench of Julian’s cunt, which was so wet it was dripping.

“Mmm, so responsive,” said Garak approvingly, spreading his knees a little wider and making Julian’s ankles spread wider too, his position more precarious as he tried to stay balanced in Garak’s lap.

Garak’s fingers dipped into the opening of Julian’s cunt, gathered the wetness on his fingers like he was sopping up oil on his bread, and then he traced either side of Julian’s cunt so carefully, the touch so feather light, that Julian actually groaned through gritted teeth, struggling for all the good it did him.

When he finally stopped, breathing heavily and with sweat glistening on his skin, Garak slid the flat of his tongue over the back of his neck, tasting the salt there, before nibbling in a way that did incredible things to Julian’s sense of pleasure, his hips tipping up against the air.

“Tease,” he grunted.

“I am, I am,” Garak agreed. “But you never savour your food, dear, and you never savour my touch, either. I’m teaching you patience.”

“You’re not teaching me anything, just incentivising me to murder,” Julian retorted, and then groaned when Garak flicked his thumb over Julian’s clit, an electric throb radiating outward from it and tingling in Julian’s thighs, coiling in his stomach, making his whole body twitch.

“Such a lovely young man,” Garak purred, and with his soaking wet finger and middle finger, he touched against the very tip of Julian’s clit, pressed down, and began to rub it in slow circles, each time strumming it against the bone underneath. It was painfully, agonisingly slow, each drag and release of his clit over the pubic bone making his body clench and writhe, but the pleasure that came from it was intense, and although he tried to hold back his actual moans, he was breathing heavily and kept dragging in sharp intakes of breath.

“Please,” he moaned after a few minutes of this. “Please, Garak, please—”

Garak’s fingers moved only slightly faster, but it was enough to drag a reedy noise out of his throat, thrusting his hips up and into Garak’s hand for all the good it did him.

“Faster,” Julian begged. “Faster, faster, Garak, please—”

He was close. He was so close he could taste it, so close that his shoulders were drawn in tight to his body, his hips aching with the awkward way he was trying to press them up into Garak’s hand, and he was clenching so tightly on nothing he thought he might break, but it was worth it, worth it for the heat of Garak’s infuriatingly slow-moving fingers, the electric thrill that came with every strum of sensitive nerve bundling against the bone, the waves of pleasure cresting higher and higher, so that—

Garak took his hand off of Julian’s cunt, and Julian howled his loss.

“Now, now, dear,” said Garak reasonably, beginning to delicately stroke his lips in the teasing way he’d done before, the touch so gentle Julian wanted to cry. “We’ll teach you some patience yet.”

The torture went on.

Julian wondered if he would take it as far as he had last time, when the orgasm had hit him with such brutal force that he’d almost fainted.

The idea made his body shudder, and he closed his eyes as he pressed further into Garak’s hand.

shakespearevillain:

shakespearevillain:

In the mood to rib Andrew Robinson a little bit for how he pronounces Bashir’s name.

—

“Do you just call him ‘honeybuns’ all the time or something?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Chief,” Garak said as he looked out the window. Julian had insisted that Miles and his family come visit them on Cardassia. Something about needing to see old friends every once in awhile. Garak had agreed, despite knowing that he and Professor O’Brien rarely saw eye to eye.

“It’s Buh-sheer,” Miles said before taking another sip of coffee. He had set up shop for breakfast at the kitchen table and had decided to savor his coffee rather than explore the Cardassian plant life that Keiko practically bolted out of bed to go see. 

Garak furrowed his brow. “No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I think,” Garak said, turning towards Miles. “I would know how to pronounce my own husband’s name.”

“You’d think that, which is why I think you must be callin’ him ‘honeybun’ all the time or somethin’,” Miles said before popping a bit more ikri bun in his mouth.

“It’s Bah-sheer,” Garak said.

“Buh-sheer.”

“Bah-” Garak rolled his eyes and reminded himself that he wasn’t twelve anymore. “I am not going to argue this with you.”

“Yeah, because you know I’m right.”

“Of all the puerile… my dear, how do you say your name?”

Julian, who had just walked in, cast a confused glance between his husband and his best friend. “Julian?”

Both of them groaned. “Your surname,” Garak elaborated.

“Oh. Bashir.”

“Hah!” Miles said, pointing a finger at Garak.

“Just a moment, would you mind saying that again, doctor?” Garak said. “Slowly.”

“Bah-sheer,” he said.

“No! No, no, no, I’ve heard you say it before. It’s Buh-sheer,” Miles said.

“Oh! Well, that’s a result of the vowel shift when you put an Arabic name into a British accent,” Julian said with a nervous smile. He cocked his head to one side and looked up. “In some parts of Earth, it’s Bachir.”

“Bachir? With a ‘ch’?” Miles protested, his ikri bun forgotten on his plate.

“Well, yes, but that’s not how I–”

“Thank you, my dear,” Garak said smugly, walking over to his husband and taking Julian’s hands in his own. 

“Hang on! You didn’t get it right either,” Miles protested.

“I did,” Garak said, casting a scornful glance over his shoulder at Miles.

“Actually,” Julian said with a slight wince, “the emphasis is a bit on the second syllable.”

“I see,” Garak said. He dropped Julian’s hands. “So I’ve been saying your name wrong all this time, and you refused to tell me?”

“Not refused. I thought…” He gestured at Miles. “Well, if humans have a hard time saying it, why would a Cardassian have a better chance?”

“I see,” Garak said coldly. “Well, Dr. Bah-sheer, maybe you’ll consider that we Cardassians have an extraordinary memory and a dedication to thoroughness.”

“Elim…”

“Oh, no, that won’t work, doctor,” Garak said with a shake of his head. He glanced at Miles before pulling himself up to his full height. “We will talk about this once our company has left,” he said before storming out of the room.

Julian turned towards Miles, a stunned expression on his face. “What did you do?!” he protested as soon as Garak left.

“Nothin’!” Miles said. “Just…” He snorted out a laugh. “Welcome to married life.”

“It’s Garak, by the way.”

Julian looked up from the padd he’d been reading in bed. “What?”

“My name,” Garak said. He was standing in front of the large, ornate mirror in their bedroom, applying an enriching oil to the scales along his neck. “It’s Garak.”

Julian frowned and set the padd down in his lap. “What have I been saying?”

“Gah-rack,” Garak said. He rubbed the oil vigorously into the hollow right above his clavicle. “Sounds like I’m trying to choke you.”

“You have tried,” Julian teased.

Garak stopped and gave Julian a deadly look. Julian swallowed. “Gah-rick,” he said.

“Geh-rick.”

“Ga… Geh-rick.”

Garak nodded and moved on to the sides of his neck. “Accent on the first syllable.”

“Geh-rick. Wait… Like Derek?”

“Deh-rick,” Garak said, sounding out the name for himself. He paused with his fingers halfway to the jar of oil. “I suppose it is similar enough, though I have never heard the name before.” He dipped his fingers in the oil and began working on a particularly dry patch of scales by his ear. “I assume it’s Terran in origin?”

“I had a mate in school called Derek,” Julian confirmed.

“How nice for you.”

“Not really,” Julian said. “He was a real prick.”

Garak snorted out a laugh. “And yet you continued to associate yourself with him?”

“Well, we were in the same grade at school. You know how it is.”

Garak thought of One Lubak. “Yes… I suppose I do,” he said as he finished oiling his scales and put the lid back on the jar.

“Well, Mr. Geh-rick,” Julian said, “have I been getting any of your other names wrong? Some unique Cardassian way of saying ‘ambassador’?”

“Actually,” Garak said as he slid into bed. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about the correct pronunciation of my given name.”

“Elim? I’ve been saying Elim…” He registered the slight grin on Garak’s face. “You’re joking.”

“Yes, Dr. Bah-sheer, I am.”

Julian rolled his eyes and looped an arm around Garak’s shoulders. “You’re impossible.”

“A kinder epithet than I’m generally given,” Garak quipped, before giving Julian a quick peck on the cheek, “but true nonetheless.”

“I take it we’re all square then?”

“Oh, I intend to tease you mercilessly in front of the O’Briens,” Garak said, “but, yes, our domestic spat is at an end.”

“Good,” Julian said. He kissed Garak on the forehead. “Because now you get to come with me on our hike tomorrow and explain all the plants that Keiko wants to know about.”

“I take it back,” Garak said. “I’m furious.”

“Too late. We’ve made up.” Julian turned out the light on the bedside table and snuggled up with his husband. “Goodnight, Elim.”