#uhhh are there cw's I should add

[bulletbilltime]

Whoever invented biting the inside of your mouth turn on location. I just wanna talk.

[intotheelliwoods]

Whats that? A DTIYS??? Where I can draw a rat demon in any style I please??? 👉👈🥺

Dont mind if I do~ @sharkfinn

Version without all the fancy glow effects:

[cucumber-icepop]

Siblings

[aptericia]

due to my hand injury I haven’t been doing much finished art recently, but here’s a random doodle collection from the past week or so

featuring: chibi Lin, Xiao, Shang, and Dan Fei done with my non-dominant hand; angsty and silly Temenos doodles; the Dark Entity; Tomoe from Moonlit Fantasy; an OC illustration wip; and everyone’s favorite murder housewife Harue Shigima

[fell-is-suffering]

Wanna have a shooting time -Gun!Dust

"uh...sure? shoot me in the skull, and i'd be good, bud."

"but maybe not right now."

[nyxypoo]

venom endo

[ineffableigh]

hooo lord the brain be spicy today my kingdom for a med to turn off the uterus that doesn't make my brain try to immolate itself a few months in, like jesus christ

[void-chara]

first finished piece of lifesteal fanart yaayyy!! I. I started this during the second round of the mcytblr sexyman contest. Why does art take me so long. I finished most of it a while ago but the scythe just took forever because I couldn’t figure it out and kept redoing it. I think it turned out good though!

[silvr-skreen]

the bros :)

under readmore due to severe burn scars

[dandyshucks-moving]

proship ppl don't always like the shit you mentioned. You meant comship lol.

This is the only thing I'm ever going to answer or say about any of this subject on here. This blog is literally just a very silly and self indulgent space where I'm having fun, and I despise this subject in its entirety. The only reason I am answering this is to have something to point to in case it ever comes up again so I don't have to say anything further.

I could not give less of a hoot about the label somebody uses. If you think fiction has no affect on reality, and/or if you think creating (in any form) jerk-off material about kids is even remotely okay or normal, then I need you to leave and block me. Doesn't matter what label you use - just block me so I do not interact with you. I'm not interested in arguing; at the end of the day, underage and incest fiction make me incredibly uncomfortable, and that's reason enough to avoid it.

The reason I specified any label at all in my pinned post is because I think sometimes people skim through pinned posts to find that word specifically so they know if somebody is safe to follow or not. I included it to be easily visible so people will know I'm safe to follow. I'll probably take it out honestly at this point to avoid ... [gestures at this ask] happening again, and if someone can't be bothered to read through the post and see my clearly laid out stance, then that's on them.

[codecicle]

I wish I could find a way to truly show the way it looks on stream right now but alas I only have shitty screenshots from my phone and photos of my laptop screen

[what-have-i-unleashed]

You hate me? You hate poor little Silly anon? You remove my rq from yyou inbox :( (very much /j of course) Lucky I have the tumblr outbox extension hehehehehehe (i mean i remembered anyways but still :3 ) This was what I sent: "If you're uhhh still taking the MTT flash-fic RQs. May I ask 14 + Cry (or tears)? No pressure of course :3"

i'm so sorry silly anon for deleting your asks waaaaaaaaaaa

please accept this as my apology..........

14. w.d.y.w.f.m? - the neighborhood

Maybe you're right, maybe this is all that I can be But what if it's you, and it wasn't me? What do you want from me? What do you want from me?

aaaaaand i'm gonna add another song, just because this delicious prompt reminds me of its existence too >:3

cry for me (english ver.) - twice

I want you to cry, cry for me The way I cried for you, baby, cry for me Make your rain fall, cry for me But again Somehow you keep me goin' round and round All the walls I built around me come crashin' down Makin' excuses, gotta drown 'em out I want you to, I want you to, I want you to die for me

PROMPT: CRY

⚠️ so just a warning: this thing is heavy, okay? like, i think even heavier than the horrordust one i did before, so mind the tags here ⚠️

(cw: toxic relationship, implied self-harm, verbal abuse, probably ooc - they're all assholes in here)

the door slams open, the sound reverberating through the apartment like a gunshot. murder stumbles in, face flushed purple, a stagger in his walk. he smells of booze and fire. his jacket is torn, some parts charred. and yet, there’s a manic look on his face when he stares into the eyes of horror and killer, who are rushing to the hallway to see what the commotion is about.

“what the-” horror says, his voice sharp, his eyes narrowed. “murder, what the hell did you do now?”

murder lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, throwing his jacket on the floor with more force than necessary. “what the hell did i do?” he echoes, his tone wild and shaky. “i survived, horror. barely. isn’t that what you wanted?” his gaze darts from horror to killer, who leans against the wall all nonchalant. “for me to barely keep living while you both stand there and watch the show?”

killer looks murder up and down, his mouth curved downwards. “you’re drunk,” he says flatly. “and stupid, apparently.”

“yeah? and you’re an unfeeling statue,” murder snaps, his voice rising as he points a finger at killer. “you always sit there on the sidelines, watching, like none of this matters. like i don’t matter.”

horror steps forward, placing himself between them. turning to murder, he says, “ok, you need to calm down. you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“oh, i already tried that.” murder’s words come out bitterly, his lips curling into a manic grin. “almost drove myself off the cliff. you should’ve seen it – it was spectacular.”

horror scowls. “that’s not funny, murder.”

“what? so making jokes about killing others is fine, but you draw the line at my attempt to off myself?” murder spits, his bi-colored eyes blazing and wild. “maybe i should do this more if this is the only way to make you care!”

“we do care!” horror says quickly, the words coming too fast. “i care, okay? you don’t have to throw that in my face every time something goes wrong.”

murder laughs, a sharp and broken sound. “that’s rich coming from you. you’re so good at tearing me apart with your words, but the second i need you to actually be there, you disappear.”

“what?” horror clenches his fists, his soft tone swiftly gone. “why do think that’s the case, huh? i can barely breathe around you without you demanding more, like i’m some kind of bottomless pit.”

“because you never give me anything!” murder screams, leaning into horror’s space, his chest heaving. his eyes brim with tears of frustration. “i am drowning, horror! i am bleeding out for you, and all you give me is venom instead of a cure! what the hell do you even want from me?!”

“i want you to stop acting like you’re the only hurt one here!” horror’s voice booms in the cramp space. for a moment, the apartment feels like it might collapse under the weight of their shouting. “you think it’s easy for me?! to care about someone like you?! someone who’s all or nothing, who’s willing to break your own arm just to make a point?!”

“i wouldn’t have to hurt myself if you’d meet me halfway!” murder shouts back, his voice cracking. “i’d die for you, sans. for both of you. and all i get is this- this emptiness!”

horror flinches, his jaw tightening as his glare softens for just a moment. he looks away from murder’s fiery gaze. “i’ve never asked you to kill yourself for us. but,” he squints at murder’s slightly smaller form, “you don’t know how to do anything else, do you?”

killer sighs, finally stepping forward. “maybe if you both stopped shouting long enough to say what you need, this wouldn’t be a disaster.”

murder whirls on him in an instant, laughing bitterly. “oh, great. killer, the voice of reason. except, you never do a damn thing to help!”

“i’m not the one constantly crashing out and sleeping around just because i can’t handle my emotions,” killer replies coolly, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“angel, you’re both impossible!” murder screams, his hands holding his skull as if he wants to break it apart. “do you even want this?! do you even care – either of you?!”

horror hesitates, his mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something but unable to. killer, as always, is the first to answer.

“i care enough to stay,” killer says, his tone even and detached. “that’s more than you give me credit for.”

“that’s not enough!” murder screams, tears spilled over. he shrinks into himself, his body trembling with the force of his sobs. “i can’t be the only one who feels this! i can’t be the only one who cries, who loves, who bleeds in this forsaken relationship!”

horror steps forward hesitantly, his hand twitching but not daring to touch the vibrating ball that is murder. “sans…” he starts, his voice softening. “i… i don’t know how to fix this.”

“then why are we even doing this?” murder whispers, his voice full of anguish and desperation. he looks up at both of them with his tear-streaked face. “why do i even love you when it’s killing me?”

neither of them answers. the silence blankets all of them, heavy and suffocating.

after a while, murder wipes at his face, breaking the fragile quiet. “it doesn’t matter, does it…? this is all i deserve. all i’ll ever have, like you said.” he laughs, a manic sound. “stars, i just wish…” he hiccups, as another sob threatens to tear through his vocal cords again. “i just wish you’d cry for me. just once. just like i do for you.”

horror looks away, gritting his teeth, while killer stares down at murder, face unreadable. and murder realizes, with a sinking feeling in his nonexistent stomach, that they never will.

[oceanofsinners]

Yan mental hospital patient x their sweet, oblivious therapist<3

[mdni, or do, i really couldn’t care less i’m not your parents. uhhh tw/cw for: violence, attempted murder i guess?? one small suggestive comment i had to add lmao, manipulation, general yandere stuff y'know? lmk if i should add anything else. also first post omg??]

Dakota was tired of the plain white walls, the doors with locks from the outside only, and the constant surveillance and prying eyes of the place he grew to see as his “home” because of his very frequent visits.

He constantly went to the mental institution, leaving for only a few days before coming back.

Younger kids and visitors looked up to him, and he enjoyed their company, despite not understanding why they did. He let them touch his scars and braid his hair. He was an excellent role model, despite it all.

Dakota found the schedule of getting up, getting vitals checked, going to breakfast, doing group therapy and so on annoying, as anyone would.

Some days, he lays in bed — till a security guard comes and drags him out — wondering, “how the hell is this boring, horrible, stuffy place supposed to fix people?”

He never understood. And he doubted that he ever would. Till you came. Then, it seemed, like all his old problems solved themselves and fresh problems arose. [including the one in his pants.]

He's been through multiple therapists, older and younger, brand new and those who've been here for years. None can help him. Instead, he just lies till he's released. And then comes back within days. [always having to be restrained by multiple cops, coming back kicking and screaming that he's going to kill himself and everyone else.]

However, as soon as he saw you, his day brightened immediately. Other staff members were reasonably shocked that the gloomy, mean, depressed, easily upset, violent Dakota seemed...happy for once.

Except, you're not his therapist. He's pissed. Of course he is, you're the first person he's ever liked in this stupid fucking place! [don't mention the fact the two of you haven't even met.]

With a little asking [blackmailing.] around, he learns who's your patient. His name being Quinn, it's around 3 pm, around the time where everyone's free to do whatever, and just before therapy starts. Perfect!

He walks up to the guy who's your patient, swiping a pencil off the kids' table. [none of which protest, knowing by now that it's best they don't.]

Dakota taps Quinn on the shoulder, making the shorter guy turn around, his mouth open to say something, before a sharp scream escapes instead.

Dakota has a crooked grin on his face as he forces the pencil further into the guys eye socket, yanking it out as Quinn drops to the floor, and he stabs the — now broken — pencil into his throat, just a couple inches from his artery.

Quinn chokes on his own blood, while security guards force Dakota off the smaller boy, forcing him to solitary confinement. Dakota laughs as they pull him away, while nurses do their best to keep Quinn alive.

“Stupid fucking homicidal maniac.” One guard growls as they shove Dakota into his cell, while Dakota grins the entire time, uncaring of what the others say.

A couple hours pass, and Dakota once again grows bored and weary of the bleak walls, the uncomfortable bed, and the never-ending silence.

Eventually, the door opens. He's laying on his bed, looking up at the plain white, boring ceiling. He doesn't cast a look at the intruder, and couldn't care less who they are.

“Your name's Dakota, right?” Dakota flinches at the sound of your voice. His head snaps over towards you, where you stand in the doorway, and he can see one of the guards watching carefully.

You step further into the room, accessing the room with a frown. You seem to be just as upset as Dakota with the way the room looks.

“I saw what you did to Quinn — my patient —, and I asked if I could become your therapist instead. They agreed, of course. Which is why I’m here.” Dakota’s distracted by just how sweet you sound, and the kind smile on your face despite it all.

He has a hard time wrapping his head around it. You saw him attempt to kill someone, and yet, you're being kind to him? It doesn't make sense. You don't make sense.

You sit down opposite of him on the bed, and begin asking the normal questions. Instead of lying like he normally would, he actually tells the truth. It shocks both you and him.

“What do you go by?” “He/him.”

“Why are you here currently?” “I tried to kill myself and a friend.”

“Do you feel regret for what you did?” “No.”

The questioning goes on for hours, and the two of you talk for hours, far longer then your supposed to. Therapy ended a long time ago.

No, now it's more like a chat between you two, the way you two connect is like two pieces of a puzzle.

You glance up at the clock, eyes widening when you notice the time. You apologize for having to leave so abruptly, and Dakota frowns in response.

[silly, silly you, thinking you could leave him so easily? as if.]

Dakota grabs your hand, tearing up as you glance down at him. “Ple-Please, don't leave, I—I...I’m afraid of being alone...pl-please...” He closes his eyes, swallowing thickly.

You pause, taking pity on him as you sigh, nodding as you sit down on the creaky bed once again.

He lays his head on your chest, making you tense up as you slowly put your arm around his shoulders.

“Y’know, we really shouldn't be doing this. Isn't this going against some law?” You mumble against his ear, and he shrugs.

“I—I don't know...Y-You don't have to stay.” Dakota’s voice trembles, tears sliding down his cheeks as he squeezes his eyes shut, wrapping his arms around your waist.

You bite your lip, glancing at the door, he was right. You could leave. But your job is to make him better, leaving him would only make it worse...right? You shake your head.

“No, it's fine, I’ll stay. But I have to leave early in the morning, kay, Dakota?” You glance down at him, your eyes meeting bright green ones. He nods, smiling against your skin.

“That’s okay! Just, don't leave yet, please?” You nod once again, and the two of you talk while you slowly nod off. Eventually you lay down, him still laying against your chest.

You fall asleep with the red haired boy laying on your chest, a sick, crooked grin on his face. He moves out of your grip, straddling your hips.

He plays with your hair as he watches you sleep, oh so peacefully, by the side of an attempted murderer. It's almost insane how you fell asleep, knowing he was by your side and you two were alone.

He leans down, his chapped and bloody lips meeting yours, it's delicate, barely even a kiss.

He giggles giddily, pulling out your phone and rolling to your side, head on your chest and phone in hand as he goes through it.

He deletes anyone in your contacts who may threaten your relationship, takes photos of you two, amongst other things.

Slowly, his eyes grow heavy, and he stuffs your phone back into your pocket, closing his eyes as he curls around you possessively.

The two of you sleep like that til someone comes in the morning, and sees you and him curled up, the thin blanket thrown on the floor by Dakota so when it got cold you'd curl around him.

Dakota’s eyes are already open by the time the nurse walks in, giving her the middle finger and that crooked grin on his face while her eyes widen, and she slowly walks out, closing the door.

You're completely unaware of the monster you're supporting, and it's going to stay that way, whether you like it or not.

[earlgreygirlfriend]

sunnflower content BIG POST 🌻

first of all, ao3 !! i really just wanted some good, nontoxic sunflower fanfiction because both sunny & basil deserve to be happy after the shit they've gone through! also, i wanted to feel better because BASIL IS CLEARLY HEAD OVER HEELS FOR SUNNY AND HE DOESNT KNOW IT (video by nerdy arty) hdjvhdjvhdn he JUST LIKE ME FR!!

ive categorized them by AU / canoncompliant with additional tags! completed fics are marked with 🌻, long fics (5k+ words) are marked with 💡

canon compliant:

Culinary Conversations by ShardOfHope💡

A Mug of Sundrops in a Wave of Sadness by karma_kalanchoe💡

The First Day of the Rest of Your Life by smiles2m

Suddenly, Sunny by diagnosed_shitposter

Bloom Later by witheredahlia💡

Catch a Glimmer of Your Star by UdonPuddle 🌻💡

au / mari lives:

Secondhand Sequitir by Soppypup💡🌻

He's Impossible by HowardR💡

to bask in your warmth by im_clo💡🌻

Flower Language by mirror_to_the_past💡

hmestwbf by ME (yes yours truly)

next up is yt animatics because uhhh idk i really like watching homo idiots!! i have 🕹️ that indicates the video depicts some omori plot involving spoilers for the game (the accident, angst, etc) or covers the entire game happening.

OMORI MV - Eine Kleine by Bear🕹️

Try Again by eggsoupery🕹️

OMORI MV - Love Me by white_tulips_

Nonsense Speaker by Nerdy Arty🕹️

in defense of sunflower: (major omori spoilers here cw!!)

why are people antagonizing them this badly? seriously i don't get it. they were children when the accident happened and gameplay shows that both of them got shittons of trauma

"what the hell were you guys thinking when you decided to ship two mentally unstable teenagers that participated in the same manslaughter??"

it was an accident. looking at the incident, i firmly believe it was very seriously fucked up, and they weren't in the right state of mind when it happened. consider the situation, the person you love most in the world is gone forever. in this situation, sunny completely closes in on himself and creates headspace. basil on the other hand sees sunny (his childhood best friend and the one he describes as 'perfect' and puts on a pedestal) completely having a mental breakdown. basil panics, not knowing what to do, because both of the people he idolize are gone - mari is dead, a part of sunny died with her. obviously he has a mental breakdown figuring out what to do, too?

obviously we should also consider basil's mental state at this point - pure speculation here, but basil, due to his feminine gender expression, would have been a victim of bullying, and the gang would have been his first friends. and basil photographs things he cherishes. that would mean he sees himself losing his friends when mari dies because sunny is most likely gonna be legally convicted of manslaughter right? in his disoriented, panicked mind, he wanted to protect sunny, the friend he most likely did have feelings for but was unable to admit them due to already being bullied, (that's just my hc dw) and did something that is super fucked up — he did more harm than good, but i believe he was just trying to fix everything back the way it was. we're absolutely going to talk about why Basil knows how to tie a noose, which adds to my point — basil might already have been mentally unwell (no doubt taking more shit from life than one is supposed to) BEFORE he met his friends, and he was desperately trying to salvage what little happiness he had left.

i cannot deny that sunnflower has full potential of being a very unhealthy and toxic relationship, but i might add that the true + secret ending has both Somethings disappear, implying that both of them are capable of healing. thats why i ship them manyyearsafter-canon or AU, bc therapy can fix shit ive seen it myself

ill end this little rant by a comment from j0kerclash on reddit:

Pairing them together is the implication that they are able to completely heal from their trauma, the actual dynamics of their relationship isn't toxic, it was the circumstances of their interactions combined with the context of the event itself. Sunny and Basil aren't permanently fucked up, I'd say it's quite harmful to imply that people are forever broken and can never truly recover. Considering the choices in the game are about confronting, accepting, and moving on from guilt and trauma, the best scenario for both Sunny and Basil, is if they were truly able to let go and not become triggers for each other, which is illustrated by them being unaffected by the potential toxicity of their past.

sorry for the rant! here are some links also defending the ship

if you enjoyed, i also have another sunflower headcannon post

from diagnosed_shitposter

idfk how to link the original text im sorry

this

[mawbwehownets]

this gif is entirely @happyrosswoods fault

[butchdogthing]

wrote a garashir fic check it out

title: Accommodations

summary:

"I have autism." By the delivery of it, it felt as though there was an expectation that Garak should know what that meant. — Julian asks Garak to make him a new uniform.

5k words, general audiences (but heed CWs below), garak and bashir silly flirty friendship shit. julian is autistic.

notes:

references to major spoilers through early season 7 - takes place between s07e03 “Afterimage” and s07e21 “When It Rains…”

content warnings: big warning for anti-autistic ableism and child abuse. eugenics and so-called “treatments” are discussed. some language is used which may be considered outdated, pathologizing, or not-preferred, but there are no slurs. i’ll tell you that it ends on a positive note.

also available on archiveofourown. if you enjoy it go hit kudos on there! you dont need an account to do so. and uhhh idk, i likely won’t use this blog for anything really, follow me on twitter, art account is butchdogthing and star trek account is omicrontheyta

story under the cut. some more notes at the end.

"Alterations are one thing, Doctor, but to craft an entirely new uniform?"

"Are you saying you're not up for the task?"

"Not at all! I'm merely surprised - aren't there regulations against that sort of thing?"

This earned Garak a skeptical scowl from Doctor Bashir, who pushed off from the shop wall against which he'd been leaning. "From what I understand, you were happy to make a uniform for Nog ." There was a definite tone of accusation to the statement, but he took it in stride, waving a hand dismissively in Bashir's direction.

"No one looks at a lowly Ensign long enough to even tell his species , let alone notice that his uniform is cut from Bolian cotton rather than Terran polyester." - he made a point of eyeing the doctor up and down, from head to toe - "But the Chief Medical Officer of a space station? The station at the head of the war against the Dominion, no less? Everyone's got their eye on him . And I'd like to keep my tail attached, not add it to some austere Admiral's trophy collection when the question arises of just who aided and abetted in Doctor Bashir's dismissal of uniform code."

Bashir crossed his arms. "Garak, please, you're being beyond overreactive right now."

"Oh, am I?"

"No one pays attention to that regulation anyway. It's just meant to deter officers from looking flashier than their superiors. It's an ego thing. So long as the materials are sufficiently resistant to fire and corrosion, no one will so much as bat an eye. That goes for me as well as my supplier ."

"Hmm..."

Garak put on a show of giving the reassurance a great deal of thought.

"Please?" - Bashir's voice dropped to a gentler tone.

One of life's greatest joys, Garak thought, was to push his dear friend into a position of pleading for something Garak had already intended on providing to him all along. First came Bashir's proposal. Then the reasoning. Then Garak would play at refusal, usually citing his busy schedule, and Bashir would dutifully take the role of the reasonable man, the scientist, presenting logic against Garak's reluctance. Without cooperation, finally logic would give way to begging, until he left Garak with no choice but to either paint himself the unreasonable villain or to reluctantly, mercifully concede.

And Bashir's face during the pleading was Garak's favorite part.

"I may be persuaded."

Just as quickly as he'd crossed them, Bashir uncrossed his arms and gave a critical squint toward Garak.

"You're not afraid of being reprimanded by starfleet, you just wanted to twist my arm into haggling with you!"

Being caught in the game made it no less fun. Besides - the doctor was smart, Garak reasoned, surely he caught on from time to time that he was being toyed with. Yet he still played along.

Garak turned to face him. "Nonsense, Doctor! What gives you the impression that I'm not simply being difficult for sport?"

The question apparently did not deserve to be dignified with an acknowledgement. "What's your price?"

Garak allowed him to stew for a moment.

"Only that you finish reading ‘In The Heart of The Devil’ ."

" ‘In The’ - what, the judicial romance novel? Garak-"

"If my culture so disgusts you, Doctor, I'm sure there are innumerable human tailors in this quadrant, in this sector even, who'd be more than willing to take your business."

"I'm not disgusted, Garak, I've read dozens of Cardassian works." Garak said nothing in return, only stared. Bashir held steady for a moment - then, sure enough, cracked and crumpled. A shame that it was over so quickly, Garak thought, he'd have to find some time to give the good doctor a lecture in fortitude. Apparently defeated, Bashir continued: "I, I found it boring. I fell asleep reading that dreadful book."

"But you hardly made it past the post-prologue!" He placed down the piece he'd been working on and threw his hands up in the air. Bashir scoffed at the display, but Garak only shook his head. "I don't see how you expect to enjoy it without even giving it a chance. It's really quite a cerebral story, especially once you've surmounted the second act."

"And if I read the whole book, then you'll make me the uniform?"

"Free of charge. In fact, you don't even have to read it first . Get started as soon as possible, and I'll have your garments ready by the end of the week. I trust you'll keep your word."

"Really?"

"Would you rather I took the offer back?"

"Well, no. It's just that you haven't exactly got a reputation for being..." - He turned his hand over in front of himself, searching for the right word, until Garak offered -

"Generous?"

" Trusting. "

"Ah, how disconcerting - maybe that counselor friend of yours is making more of an impression than I realized." Garak frowned. "But in any case, Doctor Bashir, I've found that a happy client makes for a happy businessman."

Until that point, Garak had been working on small tasks around the shop, but now stopped to get his equipment for working on Bashir.

"I'm not sure that ‘happy’ describes how I feel at the prospect of keeping up my end of this bargain." Despite what he was saying, the doctor smiled and appeared at ease.

"So, tell me - what are you looking for? A brighter hue, a tighter waist perhaps?"

Bashir blushed and looked down. "No, the color and the cut are fine, it's the material."

Garak deflated upon hearing this - he would have loved the chance to exhibit some artistic liberties with Bashir's fashion, but his frequent offers to pretty the doctor up were always either turned down or had drab and nullifying limitations placed upon them.

He reached out to catch the sleeve of Bashir's Starfleet jacket between two fingers and a thumb. He felt the material of the outer jacket, then slipped his fingers under the teal sleeve below. When his scaled knuckles brushed against Bashir's wrist, Garak found his human skin to be smooth and delightfully warm. "What's wrong with it?"

Bashir pulled his hand (and, by extension, his sleeve) away from Garak and held it close to himself, again turning it in a circular motion as he seemed to search for his words. I hope I haven't bothered him.

"Actually - I suppose the fit could use some work. This jacket is stifling." After a nod from Garak, he continued. "The material, it's... Too..." - Bashir squinted - " Catching . It clings to my skin, as if electrically charged."

This was not the impression Garak had gotten from the fabric. "And a different material would be preferable?"

Garak eyed the doctor carefully. Not with caution, or delicacy, or suspicion - just with the careful and attentive gaze one would lend to a curiosity, or to a friend when you're just getting to learn something new about them. He wasn't sure if Bashir would notice the change in demeanor, but then again, his perceptive nature had, at times, surprised Garak in the past.

If Bashir saw how Garak was looking at him, he wondered, then how would he interpret the look? Or the touch, for that matter? If their literary discussions were anything to go off of, his ability to accurately read meaning into implicit gestures was greatly impaired, by Cardassian standards, or at least unconventional.

Bashir nodded. "My old uniform was much better..."

The new uniform's rollout was fresh in Garak's mind. He was quick to ask Bashir (or, rather, his changeling doppelgänger) for an opportunity to take a closer look at its construction. Careful investigation revealed the previous blend of natural and synthetic fibers had been retired in favor of wholly synthetic material. Apparently, supply issues led Starfleet to reconsider how they clothed their officers, and mass-replicated textiles proved most practical. Despite all the millions of man-hours of research put into the subject since the replicator's inception, by chemists and agriculturalists and animal farmers and Garak's own tailor brethren, the structure of animal- and plant-based fibers had yet to be adequately recreated. Growing it the old-fashioned way was still the only option, and made it inconvenient for such large-scale operations as these.

Quieter this time, Bashir spoke again: "I miss my old uniform."

"The one you wore in the prison camp?"

He knew the answer, but asked anyway. There was a need to explicitly acknowledge that fact between the two of them, to establish the timeline.

"Yes." - quieter still.

"Why, that was two years ago, and I haven't had any of my other Starfleet customers come to me with complaints about the material."

"Well, I'm not your other Starfleet customers."

"No, your taste is much more discerning. " Garak smiled at Bashir, and he weakly smiled back.

"I suppose so."

"With the war going on, many of my suppliers have run dry, but - I may have the right material in my stores already..." Leaving his side, Garak turned, deeper into the shop, searching.

The dreary manner was gone from Bashir's voice as he spoke up from behind, usual affectation of self-assuredness (or self-centeredness) in its place. "You can ask, you know."

Garak turned around. "I'm afraid I have no idea what you're referring to, Doctor."

This wasn't entirely truthful: he could sense something was peculiar about Bashir's demeanor today, from the moment he'd walked in the shop. Initially, Garak had suspected it was to do with the fact that the shop was even open for business at all - meaning that he was taking on tailoring work again, something which Bashir would likely have opinions about - but as their chat moved along, he started to feel that this wasn't the case. Then his curiosity had been piqued by the ‘catching’ fabric comment, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was some sort of connection, a thread tying it all together.

Now, that thread had presented itself, and all Garak had to do was pull.

"It's unusual, and I figure you're curious about why I hate my uniform so much when no one else cares. So I'm telling you - you can ask me why." He put on a gentle smile, like the one he always used on his pediatric patients. "I won't be offended."

But it wasn't as fun when the thread was quite literally asking to be pulled. The investigation, the interrogation, was the real thrill of it. But once it laid itself out in this way there was no enjoyment left in even trying to make a game of it. He'd have to give Doctor Bashir yet another lecture about subtlety, as well.

Noting that his itinerary was filling up at an alarming rate, Garak gave in, and turned back to his selections of cloth. "Alright. Why?"

"I have autism."

By the delivery of it, it felt as though there was an expectation that Garak should know what that meant.

He knew enough at least to sense that a few seconds' pause - of ‘dawning understanding’ - was likely appropriate.

"Oh... I see."

"Until - until recently, I never wanted to... Acknowledge it. Finally telling people, talking about it," he sighed, "it feels good."

"And you didn't want to, because?"

"I suppose I thought I could power through it. And that it was something to be ashamed of."

"What's the prognosis, then, Doctor?"

A genuine question, but easy enough to pass off as a joke if needed. But the doctor just laughed and said, "Well, I'll always be autistic."

Grabbing a few bolts of cloth, blends similar to the constituents of the old uniform, Garak returned to Bashir and laid the materials on a table.

The initial impression he'd gotten was that this ‘autism’ was a disease, perhaps of the skin. Garak had had the rare client or two in the past who broke out in rashes when exposed to certain animal hairs. But then Bashir's use of ‘autistic’ - an adjective? Something significant enough to one's position in the world that it needed its own descriptor? - had thrown off the dermatological illness hypothesis. Unless it's terminal, he thought, slow-progressing enough that he feels it won't significantly impact his lifespan.

Or he could be dying as we speak, and doesn't have the heart to tell me.

But Garak brushed this thought aside - surely the doctor had more sense than to try ‘powering through’ a terminal illness. That couldn't be it.

A lesson Garak had resisted learning on Cardassia was the need to back down at times, and to admit to a conversational partner that he didn't follow what was going on. Vulnerability was a danger, betraying his lack of information carried severe consequences, and stubborn adherence to a persona of understanding had nearly always served him well. These schemas never posed a problem until well into his time on Deep Space Nine - his non-Cardassian acquaintances seemed to be constantly calling him out on his lies, and worse still was that some of them seemed hurt by the behavior. It was a hard habit to break, but Dax encouraged him to practice as much as possible.

A version of her voice urged him now to put that skill to the test.

"...I must admit, I'm unfamiliar with this human..." - ‘disease’? Was it a disease? It stung to be this honest - "...Concept."

"Oh." It seemed to take a moment for him to fully realize the meaning. "Oh! Of course you would be."

Glancing from his friend's eyes down to the selection of fabrics on the table before them, Garak waited. Bashir reached for the farthest one and stroked it.

"Autism is, um... People with autism have differences in brain function, so they - we - experience difficulties in cognition, language, executing social behaviors, and... Sensory processing. Hence, the uniform."

"Ah, a mental disorder, then."

"Yes. Well," he furrowed his brow deeply and frowned, vigorously fiddling a corner of fabric in one hand, a face of concentration but lacking that same focus in voice, "it's not that simple, I suppose. But in a sense, it could be considered... A mental disorder." He seemed to regain his senses and treated the cloth with more care. "...I like this one, for the interior."

Pulling a few feet from the roll, Garak held the fabric in front of Bashir's body. "The color isn't quite right. I'll have to source some in a bluer shade."

"I think that'll do quite nicely, Garak."

Garak beamed. For all the hassle he liked to give Bashir, it pleased Garak to please him.

"So, um - do you have any questions?"

"Will you take off your jacket, Doctor?"

"I meant, about-"

"I understood. I do have some things I'm curious about." Garak paused for a moment. "These ‘cognitive difficulties’ - is that why you were unable to finish ‘In The Heart of The Devil’ ?"

Bashir grinned as he pulled the zipper down. "I think there's a fair number of factors we can blame before we pin it on autism."

"Oh, such as?"

"It's not cognitively taxing. I told you, it's just boring! " As it always did when he raised his voice, it sounded like Bashir had never yelled before in his life and was holding back for fear of hurting himself. He handed over the black and gray jacket.

"How does that human expression go - ‘there's no accounting for taste’?"

"Explain to me, where does the ‘taste’ lie in a forty-page monologue detailing The Conservator's entire life history of staunchly abiding by the law?"

"You should know by now, the-" Garak began, but was interrupted.

"I know, I know, it would be irresponsible -"

" Unconscionable! "

"- to leave any shadow of a doubt that the main character is a pristine example of an obedient Cardassian citizen."

When he finished, the room went completely quiet. Even from the other side of the Promenade, cries of ‘Dabo!’ could be heard. After several seconds of perfectly orchestrated dramatic silence, Garak spoke again.

"Wait."

"What?"

"Before we get any further in this discussion, tell me -" He held out a hand and touched Bashir's upper arm, "just who do you believe to be the main character of the novel?"

"Now, what kind of a question is that?" Bashir jerked away slightly, but the expression on his face seemed more playful than truly bothered.

"Humor me, Doctor."

"The Conservator! Obviously!"

"Of course you would think that." Pulling his hand away, Garak located an autoripper and ran it along several of the jacket's seams. He'd make the appropriate adjustments on this one, and use it as a guide in assembling the new one from scratch.

"What do you mean by that? " The doctor scoffed.

"I mean no insult, Doctor - your intellect is clearly intact - but your worldview reeks unmistakably of the culture in which you've lived." It took all the resolve and strength of will in his being to not add ‘Or perhaps I should say the lack thereof.’

"Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!"

Garak blinked. "The pot and the kettle?"

"Earth idiom, meaning ‘to point out a quality in another that the speaker also possesses’." He poked Garak squarely in the chest to drive home his point. " Hypocrisy ."

Huffing, Garak continued. "Obviously, one must be inevitably shaped by his environment, no matter who he is. But the difference between you and I, Doctor, is one of choosing to expand one's horizons once he has been shaped. I find you Federation types are all too pleased to let your horizons stay just where they've always been." He handed the garment back over to be tried on. "Ironic, for a group that so prides itself in its quest for diversity ."

"You know, Garak, you always make such a point of, of positioning Cardassia as an other to the Federation, to draw upon our differences," Bashir paused until Garak hummed acknowledgement, with pins now held between his lips. "As unlikely as it is, I can't help but imagine what you'd do if Cardassia ever were to join the Federation. Half of our lunchtime debates would fall flat then and there."

Garak lifted a hand to his mouth to remove the sewing notions. "I shudder at the thought! You shouldn't even joke about the idea - for all you know, I might even lose my concentration enough that I could stab you with one of these pins!"

At this, Bashir laughed a little - a nervous and stuttered little noise, as if he wasn't sure whether to take the threat seriously - and squirmed under Garak's touch.

"...Why, accidentally , of course. Stop moving." Garak grabbed his friend by the shoulders, steadying him, then looked up to meet his eyes and smiled his best non-threatening plain and simple smile.

At this gesture, Bashir relaxed - marginally, but relaxed nonetheless. The ease with which the doctor would let his guard down, the minimal display of friendliness that it took, had always fascinated Garak. Such a demeanor would have made for a terrible operative in the Order. But, Garak supposed this unrelenting pleasantness was one of the factors that had most intrigued him and drawn him in to Bashir's acquaintance after the thrill of meeting wore off.

I still wonder if those holosuite programs of his are rigged.

"So if I'm wrong, about the main character," - He paused while Garak made an adjustment - "then why don't you enlighten me?"

"I don't recall telling you that you were wrong." Bashir opened his mouth, presumably to object, but Garak continued, "You really must hold still right now. Besides - the narrative's unraveling is its charm, I'd hate to spoil the story and rob you of the chance to experience it for yourself."

"Certainly." He held in a deep breath and spoke quietly, trying not to move as much as he could help it, but the sarcasm came through in his tone regardless.

For a while, Garak worked in pleasant silence, adding and removing pins around Bashir until the jacket fit just right - or, as close as he could get it, considering the material. In addition to rebuilding the inner components of the uniform from scratch with an analog of the old uniform’s material, he wanted to rebuild the jacket in a looser fit as well. For that, he had a particular fabric in mind, more breathable than its current construction but thicker and sturdier still than the inner material.

Eventually, Garak broke the silence.

"You say you have this ‘autism’. What is the social standing for humans with this disorder?"

"Well... That's sort of hard to say. Today, on Earth, autistic people are granted the same rights under the law as anyone else. I'm not big on history, but it used to be quite terrible, from what I've heard, in the pre-contact times... Now, in practice, it all depends on how well each individual is able to blend in or to make themselves useful. Some of our greatest scholars and artists have been on the spectrum." - Garak inferred that this phrase related in some way to autism, but made a mental note to ask about it later regardless - "But if you can't act normal and can't contribute, you won't get far."

Garak processed this for a moment.

"On Cardassia,” he began, “children with mental disorders are seen as a burden to the family. If an embryo is found to be defective, it's generally destroyed before viability. Those who are born tend to live out their lives in institutions."

"That's horrible." Bashir’s expression was a mix of sadness and disgust.

"Hm. We should both be grateful you weren't born on my homeworld, or the two of us would never have had a chance to be acquainted." Garak felt he was out of his element here - comfort had never really been in the repertoire of interactions modeled for him. "...For as much as my opinion is worth, you seem very ‘normal’ to me, Doctor."

Bashir stiffened a bit -

"That's because I've had my whole life to practice the act. And it comes at a price."

- And he didn’t seem at all pleased as he said it.

Garak wondered if he’d said or done the wrong thing. He didn’t understand why it would be the wrong thing - being normal was good - but he didn’t see any other apparent explanation for Bashir’s response.

"What is that price?"

" You've paid the price, Garak. Think of how cold it is here, and the havoc that that chronic stress wreaks on your body. Think of having to put on a face for your customers. Or having to pretend -" He searched for his words, "pretend to be an entirely different person than you are, never dropping the façade."

It’s no easy feat, but that’s simply the way life is, the way it has to be.

That’s what he’d been taught, at least.

You just have to suck it up.

Garak thought of his talks with Dax, though, and what she had said about the so-called flaws in his traditional Cardassian upbringing, and how he’d supposedly been ‘traumatized’ by it. She still didn’t have him fully convinced, but in the interest of respecting other cultures he felt it would be prudent to humor her here and not give voice to these critical thoughts.

"It seems it's been... Hard for you."

Bashir scoffed. "You don't know the half of it."

"Surely there are ways of treating the condition at its source."

"Oh, they tried. That's what the genetic enhancements were for."

"But they didn't work."

"Well, the treatments certainly changed me, there's no denying that. Before, I couldn't even pretend to be normal. Couldn't follow most conversations. It rid me of some of my difficulties. Gave me some new ones, as well. But as I said, I'll always be autistic. At the core, it's not something that can be... Extracted. It's just who I am."

"I see.” He wasn’t sure he truly did, but he was trying to. Plus, it seemed what his friend needed right now was to feel understood. “And those genetic enhancements - that is the only treatment option?"

"More or less. If you can even call it a ‘treatment’. Of course, there's also the option to just try to bully and torture the disability away. My father gave me a plentiful taste of that .” As if sensing that Garak was going to say something on the choice of words - he wasn’t - Bashir continued, “I mean - what, what he did wasn't quite tantamount to torture, on a physical level, but... I've heard stories."

The work on the uniform had been paused and forgotten by now.

"The method I believe you're describing is seen as the golden standard for those Cardassian children who are well enough to avoid institutionalization but who don't quite conform to societal expectations."

"Somehow I doubt the Cardassian parents who employ it would recognize it as bullying." Bashir’s voice turned from that aggrieved and hurt tone to something a little softer, sweeter - bordering on sympathetic in a way that made Garak’s scales crawl.

"What we would call a stern hand has often been labeled ‘abusive’ by outsiders."

Meant to be a deflection, Garak’s statement seemed to have the opposite effect. The doctor’s sympathy now appeared as full-blown compassion across his face, and Garak found himself wishing desperately that he hadn’t turned the conversation in this direction at all.

He worried for a moment that Dax had forgotten her vow of confidentiality as a counselor, that she’d spaced out like she always did and let slip Garak’s tales of childhood woe, that Bashir’s unsolicited care here stemmed from pitying Garak in the knowledge of what Tain used to do to him.

But, he reminded himself, Tain likely already appeared as a less-than-ideal father in Bashir’s eyes - even aside from the issue of the closet. That was probably the reason for the sympathy, and that was a somewhat more tolerable explanation.

Still, it made him uneasy. He decided to change the subject.

"There's another thing I don't understand, Doctor."

He felt that he was treading on unsteady ground here, perhaps throwing knives at the vole’s nest, but he wanted to fully understand the issue, and as it was he barely understood.

He could also tell that Bashir had some mixed and unspoken feelings on the matter, and may need a well-placed push in order to work through them. He took in a breath and continued.

"You struggle due to your autism." Bashir nodded in acknowledgement. "And your suffering is compounded as well by your efforts to deny your autism." He paused again - now Bashir did not nod - and he continued, "Your parents - your father - made the decision to have you altered, in an attempt to fix you - arguably, a decision made with your well-being in mind."

Bashir shifted uncomfortably where he stood. He didn’t meet Garak’s eyes. Garak continued:

"Had it gone as they'd wished, you'd be free of this affliction. Yet you resent your parents for what they did. Why?"

"Well, they haven't ever given me a good reason not to resent them! What kind of a thing to say is that? What kind of a question is that?" Bashir had been so quiet before, seemed so perturbed, that when he spoke now Garak startled. Preparing to explain his rationale, Garak opened his mouth to speak, but Bashir interrupted him. "No - I know this is new to you, I don't fault you for that. And that's hardly the first time I've heard the sentiment."

It was a small comfort, at least, to know their relationship’s standing had not been injured. Bashir’s voice rose - again, with that quality of trepidation - as he carried on.

"It's because it was my life and body and future, and they made the choice for me without any regard for what I wanted. And- and I know it's different, on... On Cardassia... But on Earth there are these expectations for how a child is to be treated - with respect, as if they were an adult, and with patience, gentleness, care, and love, because, because they are a child. "

He stopped only long enough to take a breath.

"There was no respect in that decision, no respect at all for my autonomy, my capacity to think or to have my own desires... Even if it was in a different capacity than other children. No patience to see what kind of person I could have become... They said it was because they loved me, and I'm sure they think they do - Oh, I bet it really feels like love, to them at least - but it's not a love that I recognize. And..."

After this trailing off, Garak stood there, and waited. The pause stretched on, Bashir’s face turned away to look at something on the other side of the shop, until Garak began to wonder if he’d even had anything more to say at all, or if maybe he’d simply forgotten to keep talking.

When he did pick up again, the sound of it was low and sorrowful.

"...It's not a bad thing. To be autistic. To have a child who is. I thought it was, for so long, because of all this. You know, you hear about it," - at this, Garak thought to himself, he didn’t hear about it, but he understood the meaning behind it - "you hear someone's just found out their little girl has autism, and you're supposed to feel sorry for them, pity them, grieve everything she's holding her family back from doing. And her subjective experience? Even if she's a healthy and happy and joyful child, it doesn't matter. It's ‘tragic’, only I don't think it really is."

Bashir sighed. "I've friends who are autistic, too, except they're not all augments like me. And I don't think anything - not a single thing - is wrong with them. As, as people, that is, of course there are sleep disturbances and digestive disorders, and - but, as people , they've as much a right to exist as anyone.” He raised his voice again as he said this. Despite feeling like a stranger to the nature of the conversation, Garak couldn’t help but admire Bashir’s passion. “ We have a right to exist. I do, and I don't have to pretend I've risen ‘above’ autism somehow to acknowledge that, I think. And I damn well don't have to be thankful to the people who tried to make me into something I'm not."

He turned back to face Garak again, seeming to have finally lost his steam. "I don't know... I'm sorry for blowing up on you like that, Garak."

"If that's the worst you have in store for me when ‘blowing up’, I should consider myself lucky." He delivered this with an easy smile, but then felt perhaps it wasn’t appropriate. I don’t know what else to say . Garak cleared his throat. "...Evidently, this is something which you feel strongly about."

After a moment, Bashir nodded. "It is. It's confusing, too - because I still don't feel good about it. I know that it's right. That being like this is just another way to exist, and that it's not a lesser way of being. But I suppose the damage's been done and I can't seem to internalize it for myself. I treat patients who are autistic. I told you, I have friends who are. They're proud of it. And at the same time, they're people who are whole and complex. When I think about - about Doctor Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Officer... I don't know. It's different. I can't imagine being taken seriously."

Garak wrapped his fingers loosely around Bashir’s wrist, hoping the reassurance in the action came through. "I won't claim to entirely understand the position you're in. You are... Aware of the differences in our cultures."

People who were disabled, and people who otherwise failed or refused to conform, didn’t exist in the public eye in Cardassian culture. Those who were in any way different had to make a choice between hiding it (and hiding it well) or living on the fringes. Anything less would place too much power in the mind of the citizen - power that came at the expense of the state.

They both knew this, though. To point it out anyway, though intended to illustrate his point, could be construed as rubbing it in.

It made him uneasy to show sentiment and vulnerability, just as it had stung to be honest, but there was no one else in the galaxy that Garak would rather be so sentimental toward. He continued.

"Should anyone judge you for a congenital difference, let them judge. Your merit as a doctor and as a friend will more than prove that judgment to be a reflection of their own character rather than yours."

"...You really mean that, Garak?"

He nodded - using such explicitly caring vocal language would have been too much in that moment. Being this open was beginning to wear him down, and the line had to be drawn somewhere. He let Bashir’s wrist fall from his grip, and gestured to take the jacket in his hands. "... Are you familiar with the Vulcan philosophy of ‘Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations’?"

"Passably familiar." Bashir smiled. "It hadn't occurred to me to apply that philosophy here."

"Some Vulcan you are."

Bashir’s optimistic little smile turned to a grin, and he chuckled boisterously, wrestling the jacket off without dislodging any of its pins. "Thank you."

"What did I say about happy clients?"

"Still, you didn't have to... Do this. It means a lot."

It was true. He wouldn’t do this - act this way, be so willing to talk and to truly listen, be so friendly - with any other client.

"Hm." He smiled. "Now, tell me, my dear Doctor - what has brought this all up all of a sudden?"

"I'm glad you asked. Recently, I received a subspace message from a friend of mine serving on the Enterprise, Commander Data -"

"The android?"

With palpable enthusiasm, Bashir nodded and continued.

Garak had a feeling the conversation would prove to be very interesting yet.

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end notes:

1) julian’s feelings here are largely reflective of my own point of view regarding autism back when i was a teen. i knew it was something normal and value-neutral that i had to accept about myself, but at the same time i felt fine calling it a disorder/illness and i heard sentiments from others that made me feel ashamed of it, so my feelings were very complicated. having since made more autistic friends and engaged more with online disabled (+ disability activist) communities as a whole, i have a much healthier happier viewpoint/understanding of my autism now. hopefully julian can obtain that as well.

2) mega thanks to my handsome genius wife for giving me the idea “julian goes to garak for help getting some sensory-friendly clothes for his autism”. accordingly, i wanna dedicate this story to my beloved schizospectrum brethren. no one has made me feel as understood, as worthwhile, or as human in my autism as they have.

3) i actually wrote up several paragraphs about ‘in the heart of the devil’ detailing its premise, because at first i thought it would be a lot more involved in this story - here’s that, if you wish to see.