Icon by @ThatSpookyAgent. Call me Tir or Julian. 37. He/They. Queer. Twitter: @tirlaeyn. ao3: tirlaeyn. 18+ Only. Star Trek. The X-Files. Sandman. IwtV. OMFD. Definitionless in this Strict Atmosphere.
It’s pleasant to dwell in the nostalgia of it, even temporarily, and he holds onto it until it seems to pass, waning to give way to the present. When it does, he continues: “But seriously, Garak, this looks like deleted personal logs from an officer on a Federation starship?”
“Not simply any Federation starship.” A smirk. “Tell me, Doctor, what do you know of the Illyrians?”
The first time Garak realizes he’s taken Bashir for granted is when the Doctor cancels their plans for lunch at the last minute. It is not the first time Bashir has been called away on some emergency or another. But when he receives the message, he feels a flash of irritation. He had expected to spend time with the man discussing La Belle Dame Sans Merci, a poem by a human poet named John Keats.
It’s the irritation that surprises him. The idea that he had felt entitled to the man’s time. That he had simply expected his company, that Bashir was a given in his life- like a rule in a logic puzzle. Always unyieldingly true.
Elim Garak is an exile, a spy, and, apparently, still a fool.
Barely able to keep his eyes open, Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “This is our stop. You with me?”
Aziraphale bit his lip, expression anxious again. As if he was unsure whether this was the right thing to do. But then he exhaled slowly and smiled. “Yes, my dear. Always.”
Crowley returned the smile, although it was hard to get his mouth to cooperate. His legs, too, objected to the movement, wobbling underneath him as he rose and followed Aziraphale off the bus.
It was a damn good thing they were holding hands. Because despite the dangers ahead, despite all the things they needed to discuss, Crowley was drained.
Aziraphale stayed close beside him as they headed up to the flat, not letting go of his hand even once they were inside. “Oh my. This has all been…”
“A lot,” Crowley finished for him. The world was almost foggy, but his heart was still beating way too fast. Gosh, he really didn’t feel well. More alcohol, that’s what he needed. Would at least take the edge off the tension, make him less keyed up. “Let’s have some more wine, yeah?”
He snapped his fingers to miracle a bottle. Absolutely nothing happened.
I think Garak gets in one good crack about humanity’s reputed oral fixation before Julian goes down on him until he has to physically tap out. Just full on, pinning Garak’s hips to the bed, you-can-pull-my-hair-but-there’s-no-escaping-this, you’re-going-to-cum-as-many-times-as-I-say-so-oral-sex. Then once Garak is primordial ooze on the mattress, Julian switches to some sweet tender missionary and breaks Garak’s rule about no hand holding during sex and Garak learns about kissing human-style until he loses all sensation in his hands and feet and most definitely his thighs. His lower back has never been so relaxed. He sleeps for nine hours and stumbles out of bed at 8 AM to find Julian attempting to make sense of Cardassian appliances and the concept of using a kettle to make tea. Julian then simply never leaves
Picture this: You are young and charismatic and very intelligent and you are so, so alone. Through no fault of your own, you have had the responsibility of a secret balanced upon your shoulders. It’s not your secret, not really, you never had a choice in the matter, but if it gets out your life will be ruined. So, from childhood, you’ve known you couldn’t let anyone too close.
But you are young. You are young and weighed down with secrets and you meet a man who wears his deception like great gilded armor. You don’t know what lies beneath, but you watch him stroll through the Promenade and you know as well as he does that he is untouchable.
You have lunch once or twice a week. You trade novels and sharp remarks and at some point you realize you know him better than anyone else on the station. You realize you don’t know him at all.
You know he thinks he knows you. You know he doesn’t know you’re lying.
And then suddenly he’s fading in front of you, maybe dying because of his secrets and you realize all at once that he was never wearing armor. He’s like you, forced to tell lies since before they could fit properly into his mouth, and at some point someone took the loose ends and wove them into a cage.
There is a man in your life who is just like you and he is dying in your care. He tells you stories of his life and you know none of them are true, you know there are some secrets a man carries to his grave. He tells you stories and you can hear the truth in every word and you can’t help but ask him why he’s telling you all this.
He looks you straight in the eyes, the bastard, and the answer rolls off his tongue, smooth as honey, soaked in fear he dare not speak aloud, I need to know that someone forgives me.
You know this man better than anyone. You do not know him at all. He has bared his soul to you and he was lying through his teeth. You look at him and see yourself and you make a decision.
It’s not the first time Julian’s come home injured from a shift at the bombed out building that serves as the home for the weekly pediatric clinic in the city’s poorest neighborhood, but it’s the first time he’s come home to him in such a state.
“Where does it hurt?” Garak asks, leaning over Julian where he has seemingly collapsed on the couch.
The smallest smile appears on Julian’s lips. “That’s my line.”
“Dearest, please.”
He hates the note of pleading in his voice. Gently, he eases himself down onto the sliver of couch next to Julian’s hip. He has no great practice in being comforting, but he raises a cool hand to Julian’s bruised and mottled cheek and feels something release in his chest when Julian sighs, eyes fluttering closed.
“A wall collapsed,” he murmurs. “I held it up for as long as I could, but the concrete crumbled.”
A wall fell on him.
Garak feels the clench of claustrophobia in his gut, his mind rapidly cataloging all the ways Julian could have been trapped, or crushed, or killed. Just barely, he doesn’t flinch when Julian lifts his hand to rest over Garak’s, pressing his fingers down into the space between Garak’s knuckles.
“I’m alright,” he says, and Garak is almost shamefully relieved that Julian keeps his eyes closed. He doesn’t want Julian seeing him like this, so unable to moderate the expression on his face. “I swear. Just sore. They wouldn’t let me leave until they cleared me with the tricorder, but we’re too low on supplies for them to heal non-critical injuries.”
“Julian…”
Slitting his eyes open, Julian rubs his thumb over the back of Garak’s hand. “I’m fine. I told them I was coming home and would be in good hands with you.”
A sound he doesn’t recognize punches out of his throat. “Oh? Is that so?”
Nodding, Julian settles down more deeply into the couch cushions.
“My dear doctor,” Garak sits down to lunch that week smiling in the only way he seems to know how, a conspiratorial smirk, with bony brows arched high and electric blue eyes alight with mischief, “should I be offended that you did not see fit to introduce me to your parents last week?”
Julian sighs and grips his cup a little tighter. “Feel whatever way you like about it, Garak, but don’t take it personally. I tried very hard not to introduce them to anyone.”
“Worried that they might slip word of your childhood ‘procedures’?”
I feel like Garak gets called to retrieve Julian from a shift he’s overstayed and informs Julian that he’s going to be fucked to sleep and Julian can pick whether it’s in their bed or an on call room at this point but thats it
Oh for sure, there’s times where staffing is especially short or the crises are especially dire where Julian just shows up for his shift and then doesn’t leave for two, three days, especially before children enter their household. And he just energizer bunny’s his way through whatever’s happening, crashing on a gurney in a storage closet or when an on-call bed is finally free, until either the crisis is over or one of his work friends texts Garak telling him to come get his man.
They tried getting Julian to leave once. It did not go well. I feel like everyone has tried getting Julian to leave once, but he just fully launches himself into CMO mode and says that they can’t order him to stand down or something equally obnoxious so they just make it Garak’s problem that Julian is about to crash and someone needs to hit the reset button by sedating him one way or another.
For the record, Julian has never had sex in an on call room or his office and he’s very proud of that.
But he has absolutely gotten marched home, stripped, and shoved into the shower to have his hair and body washed while Garak grumbles about how one day, he finally won’t be able to just go like this and can’t keep treating his body like a carnival ride. Julian tries to bring up the irony of that statement, but gets stared down while Garak conditions his hair. Eventually Garak deems him Clean Enough after spending three days steeped in hospital germs, and wraps him up in a robe and guides him to lay down on their bed before wringing an orgasm out of him that’s so intense that Julian’s brain makes the Windows 95 shutdown noise and he’s out cold before he can even think about asking to cuddle.
But Garak spoons him aggressively anyway for the next five to ten minutes because it ensures that Julian will stay asleep and not because he likes to be close to him and definitely not because he missed him and worries about him when he’s working in the emergency department ever since he got stabbed that one time.
I want the readers to know that I read this, and immediately turned my body all the way to the right to stare at my wife, sitting on the other end of the couch because the syntax immediately gave this away as her. As if she could ever be anonymous to me.
It’s a nice evening. Balmy, just hot enough that the air has a stickiness to it, and Lucius feels like a cat lazing in sunlight as he relaxes back between Pete’s legs, feels his knees curving in against his shoulders.
He feels good.
Loose, completely relaxed, the world coming to him in a pleasant haze, and he’s comfortable having Pete’s legs against him, is absently stroking one of his calves as Stede keeps reading.
Izzy isn’t with them, is standing up on the focsle with his elbows rested on the rail, and he’s not actually paying attention to Stede or the rest of them, it doesn’t seem to Lucius, actually has his gaze focused on the reflection of the moon in the water. Lucius is fascinated by that faraway look he gets on his face sometimes, the way his jaw slackens and his eyes just look kinda sad instead of angry.
He normally gets that look after a quiet word with Edward, which isn’t any of Lucius’ business, which makes it delicious.
“Hey,” says Roach, standing at the base of the focsle, and he taps Izzy’s good foot, holding up the joint.
“No,” says Izzy. “Thanks.”
The sarcasm drips off the words, all the sibilance on the s.
Roach chuckles, and then takes a drag from the joint in his hand, long and slow. Lucius watches as Roach climbs on the barrel, puts his hands flat on the focsle’s deck, and hauls himself up with all the strength in those arms of his, no matter that he had to sew one of them back on - he does it with his mouth full of smoke and the joint primed between two fingers, and Izzy steps back slightly, puts his hands across his chest and arches an eyebrow at him, refuses to look even remotely impressed as Roach settles his feet on the edge of the deck, his elbows resting on the rail, and gestures with one hand to his face.
Izzy laughs this time, and it’s quiet, a huff-out of amused sound that Lucius can’t hear, but he can see the movement of his face, the slight shake of his head.
He does hear Izzy say, “I haven’t done that since I was a kid.”
Roach leans forward on the rail, smiling close-lipped, and Izzy rolls his eyes, but he leans in closer, and although he jolts when Roach puts his hand on Izzy’s waist to pull him closer, he does go. Lucius’ mouth is dry watching the way Roach hollows out his cheeks, blowing out smoke, watching Izzy’s lips move as he inhales.
“Reliving your youth,” says Roach.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Fucking liar.”
Roach laughs. “Forty.”
Lucius expects him to climb around the railing, but he doesn’t, stays there hanging from the fencing with his feet on the deck edge, hanging right off, but as Stede keeps reading (and Lucius can tell he’s noticed, because he keeps glancing up at the focsle now and then, and has nudged Ed twice), Roach and Izzy share a second toke, a third.
Lucius doesn’t think he’s ever seen Izzy look like this, limbs loose and relaxed, lips curved into an almost-easy smile instead of a strained frown, and what he’s definitely never seen is the way that Izzy stands closer to Roach, the rail between them, or the way that Izzy puts his hand on Roach’s chest and splays his fingers, catches his mouth under his on the fourth toke.
“To which the captain r-replied, Good… Good Lord,” mumbles Stede, interrupting himself, and they all turn to look at what Lucius is looking at, Izzy with one hand on Roach’s chest and the other curved around the back of his neck, Roach with his hand fisted in Izzy’s leather vest. They’re kissing slow and easy, the movements all but langurous, and both of them are blowing out smoke through their noses at the same time, like two dragons necking.
When they pull apart, Roach is giggling, Izzy’s laughing, is stroking one finger down the back of Roach’s neck, glancing down at his lips before he looks up at his eyes again.
“You see it?” asks Lucius, tipping his head back against Pete’s knee and looking up toward his face, and Pete looks away from Roach and Izzy to Lucius.
“Okay,” he admits. “That’s pretty hot.”
“Are we the fucking entertainment now?” calls Izzy. “Or what, you see one good kiss and you forget how to read?”
“That’s, that’s really not,” splutters Stede, “I do– Doesn’t that hurt? Blowing it out of your nose like that?”
Roach starts laughing so hard he nearly falls, and Izzy’s hand whips out pretty fast despite the high, grabbing him by the shirt and tugging him back against the railing to encourage him to climb through.
“Ed,” Izzy says.
Ed’s already moving, and Stede looks fucking destroyed with love as Ed blows into his mouth, then puts his hand over Stede’s mouth to keep him from exhaling.
“Don’t cough, mate,” says Ed. “Just exhale through your nose, do it. Yeah, yeah, that’s it.”
He doesn’t exactly do it as gracefully as Izzy and Roach, gives one cough as he goes, but he manages it. Lucius looks back to see if Izzy and Roach are impressed, but they’re not even paying attention - Izzy has Roach back against the railing and they’re dead to the world as they kiss.
“At least we know where his off-switch is now,” murmurs Jim, and Stede abortively goes back to his reading.
For the snippet prompts: something with leather care/bootblacking? Could involve Blackbeard or Izzy from OFMD, but original characters would be super cool too
Ed had brushed it off as not much of a big deal, just a thing that Izzy did for him from time to time, and Stede hadn’t precisely known what that had meant at the time. He’d thought it funny, but interesting, that Ed should bring it up, hadn’t been able to envision it as something he ought be jealous of.
Perhaps that was why he asked to watch.
Not that he doesn’t trust Ed – of course he does – and while he doesn’t trust Izzy, it isn’t as though he thinks Izzy would do something untoward to Ed, either. He’d simply been curious, and now, that curiosity is being rewarded.
Stede sits back on the other side of the couch, his book in his lap ostensibly to hold his concentration, but he isn’t so much as glancing at the page, chin resting on his hand as he stares down at Izzy at work.
Ed is sitting back with his arms over the back of the couch, and he’s staring down at his first mate with a smoky look in his eyes, but Izzy isn’t looking back – Izzy is concentrating on the work, his jaw set, a sort of solemn look on his face and his brows furrowed. The silence in the room is thick, the air pregnant with it, and Stede has to keep reminding himself to breathe – the only sound is the whisper and gentle scrape of Izzy’s brush on Ed’s boots.
“I thought he’d look a bit happier about it,” says Stede to Ed. It’s not idle, exactly, but it’s not as catty as he’s capable of being, as catty as he often finds himself being where Israel Hands is concerned even before he’s thought about it, more just conversational, and Ed looks over at him.
That scary, grim look he’d been wearing to look down at Izzy fades slightly, the eyebrows going up and the lips going down, and then he constructs a different mask, sort of sly.
“You think I should make him happier?” he asks. There’s a rumble in his voice that Stede really doesn’t hear very often, not directed at him, and Stede’s mouth is dry.
He glances at Izzy, who’s leaning further forward, rubbing the brush in circles over Ed’s boot, still. The stuff smells, and Stede really doesn’t care for it, but he likes Izzy like this, Izzy quiet and concentrated and really almost-tame, even if there’s a darkening flush showing in his cheeks, underneath that kiss tattooed on his cheek.
(Not a kiss. Ed’s signature. When Edward had thrown that out, so casually, it had only been a few weeks after their reconciliation – Izzy had stiffened up like a corpse, and Stede had broken the sherry glass in his hand, had snapped the bowl and the stem as his fist tightened all of a sudden.
They’d never fucked, he and Ed. Edward had told him so. But Izzy had known precisely what Stede would think of it, even though Ed hadn’t given it a thought.)
“Just that I thought he would be, that’s all,” murmurs Stede. “Isn’t this an indulgence? Letting him black your boots like this.”
“Would you rather do it?” asks Izzy.
Ed moves so fast Stede just sees him as a blur of black, hand whipping out, but he hears the sound of it, the sharp crack of Ed’s palm across Izzy’s cheek and the way it rings in the room, his head snapping to the side.
He’s breathing heavily, and the new redness blooms from the smack rather than the blush Stede knows Izzy would never admit to.
“Are we fucking talking to you?” asks Ed.
Izzy sets his jaw.
“Still think I should make him happy?”
“You’re indulging him,” Stede says resolutely, feeling a sort of warm anticipation gathering within him, one that’s rather unlike the anticipation that goes with him into the bedroom with Ed, but isn’t entirely different. “Why not indulge him all the way?”
Izzy stares at Stede, his eyes wide and his lips twisted, and Stede gives him a warm, honeyed smile that he knows (Ed’s told him, often whilst on his knees or scrambling to get into Stede’s breeches) doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Go on,” says Stede when Ed looks at him too, and Izzy hisses as Ed extends his leg, pressing the heel of his boot against Izzy’s crotch, and Izzy’s hands tremble, his eyes fluttering closed, his lips open. “Did the captain tell you to stop working, Mr Hands?”
“Fucking… Hell,” mutters Izzy, but he opens his eyes, breathing heavily, and puts his trembling hand back to finishing up, brushing in smooth little circles.
“Is this alright?” asks Stede in a sudden whisper.
“Shut up, Bonnet,” Izzy retorts.
Stede takes that as a yes, and gives Ed the nod to press harder on his crotch, until Izzy groans.
ALT
