brainfreeze711:
OMG THAT ONE PETTING THE OTHER ONE!!! AHHHH~~~
trekual-innuendos:
“Thank ye Lieutenant…nearly broke me neck on tha’ bolder, Ah did!”
“Oh really~? You mean this ’bolder’…? The one that’s about a foot tall…?”
"Aye….a slippery bolder, it was…Ah might’a twisted me ankle! Ye might have’ta carry me alllll th’ way back ta th’ meetin’ spot~<3”
"You’re lucky you’re cute…”
macpye:
Kitten, Garak, and worried Bashir for tinsnip.
anunfinishedman:
16. During their morning ritual(s)
Disheveled morning Garak, uniform adjusting, hair fixing and goodbye kisses
wheeze
spicyshimmy:
petimetre:
Scotty/Uhura
She did always want to live forever. Eternal youth; eternal beauty. Well… In a manner of speaking. But as she grew older—not so much older, mind, but certainly wiser—she learned the ins and outs of that restless desire.
Because, perhaps, immortality was the closest thing a living woman of flesh and blood, of arched eyebrows and private smiles, could ever get to being a living song.
She hummed over their first dinner together; over his shoulder in a shared bed; over a set of translations; early one morning, late the following night.
Those familiar songs changed when he hummed with her.
‘When I was younger, I enjoyed symphonies,’ she told him. He touched her hand. 'Now, I believe I prefer duets.’
'As do I, lassie,’ he replied.
There was a melody in everything. His soft snoring. Her sore shoulder. The shifting of the sheets; the hum of a turbolift; the silence in a decommissioned starship. There was a melody in dark matter and in supernovae, in transwarp equations, in particles disassembled and reassembled, in how far they’d been across the known universe and how close they’d grown together.
And, of course, the lilt of his voice when he called her—wrinkles and all, laugh lines and the etching of every joy’s equal sorrow—lassie even now, the gray and his fingers in her hair.
ladyyatexel:
I was feeling really terrible, so this is Garak in white with a kitty who looks suspiciously like my kitty
