Icon from a picrew by grgikau. Call me Tir or Julian. 37. He/They. Queer. Twitter: @tirlaeyn. ao3: tirlaeyn. 18+ Only. Star Trek. Sandman. IwtV. OMFD. Definitionless in this Strict Atmosphere.
After three years in a labour camp, Kelas Parmak is released, but he is not free. He is remanded into the custody of his sister, and the incarceration has left him scarred. Still his belief that the Cardassian state needs to be overthrown is as strong as it was before he was apprehended. As he tries to recuperate, his views threatens to disrupt his family’s lives, and his very presence changes how others see that which once was beyond reproach.
why did i have a customer that hole punched his credit card’s chip out, because “he didn’t want a chip”, and then didn’t understand why I couldn’t process his transaction
Anonymous:
Oh my god now I need to hear more about Julian finding out he likes to be called a sloppy whore during sex 😂🥵 If that’s not too weird!!
Fear not, I have received much, much weirder asks AND I’ve answered them. (Also like. I feel like every time I enter a fandom I eventually get known for being the married lesbian who’s very into BDSM and other things we’re not going to get into here.) But anyway, not too weird at all.
So like my Julian Bashir hot take is that up until Garak he likes to take charge during sex, likes to be on top all the time, wants to be in control and give his partner pleasure because it’s how his brain conceives of getting a good grade in sex, something that is normal to want and possible to achieve.
Like I absolutely believe that he overcomes his complete dorkiness and inability to be smooth even one time with like, intense pussy eating game and top notch fellatio skills and never has any problems in finding the clit/comparable bundle of nerve endings no matter what race or gender his partner is, he’s gonna do it, he’s gonna make them cum and feel so proud and accomplished.
And then he invites the professional mind fucker that is Elim Garak into his bed and finally has sex with someone who is his match in literally every way and can overpower him in a few of them, both mentally and physically, which to super secret augment Julian Bashir is the equivalent of doing a line of sex pollen off a mirror in some party girl’s living room and then going to play seven minutes in heaven. Garak is someone he respects deeply, and someone he knows can get the jump on him and let’s be real, ever since simulation!Garak threw him up against the wall and asked him to do espionage with him, Julian’s wanted to replicate that moment. So they go back to Garak’s quarters and probably not the first time, or the second, or the third, but Julian finds a way to get himself thrown against the wall. And he likes it. He really likes it. And Garak listens to him moan, watches his pupils dilate and his breath change, smells the pheromones his body pumps out and scents blood in the water. He knows what he’s going to give Julian – but first, he’s going to make him beg for it.
Because for a man like Garak, that’s the ultimate indulgence, to reduce a man like Julian to begging. It’s caretaking authored by brutality. To make him a shivering, trembling mess with one hand on his cock and the other pinkening up his ass and thighs. To tell him to keep his hands on the headboard if he knows what’s good for him, and slide two fingers in until he’s massaging his prostate. To bring him to the edge again and again and again until he’s begging to be fucked, begging to cum, begging to keep feeling the sensation he’s filling him up with to the top over and over and over. Garak’s never made anyone beg like this, and it’s addictive. Not in the way the wire was, or kanar, but it’s a feedback loop of pleasure and denial and Julian pulls him in with him, rolls over and brings Garak into the cradle of his thighs and his arms. It’s overstimulation writ large, the kind of spectacular high that can only be followed by the most content kind of delirium, by peace, by silence.
For Julian, it’s the first time his mind has ever been quiet during sex. Really, and truly quiet, every thought subsumed by want that is quickly eclipsed by filthy, debauched, sloppy need. And once he’s in it, he doesn’t want it to stop. He’s not sure it can stop, not without things proceeding to their natural conclusion. And god only knows if it’s a testament to how naïve or maybe how hubristic he is, but he trusts Garak not to drop him. He trusts Garak to take care of him. Garak does take care of him and his body floods with more endorphins than he’s felt in his entire life.
i have this half-formed thought about how no one in succession ever really wins anything but they also almost never really lose anything or face any consequences and in the end both of these are psychologically damaging because it means they’re not real people. they’re forever trapped in a purgatory of an existence that lacks meaning or impact. whether you feel pride or guilt it will never be truly validated by the world. you will not receive either the rewards or the punishment you think you deserve. everything is a game, it’s a playground, it’s actors on a stage. none of it is real. none of it matters as much as you think it does. as much as you wish it would
Clint takes a sip, expecting the burned-black bitterness of gas station coffee, and he’s hit, instead, with sugary chocolatey sweetness. He double-takes and then glances up at Bucky, who’s pokerfaced but turning red, just a little, along the blades of his cheekbones.
“I put some hot chocolate in it,” he says, mumbling it out. He doesn’t sound ashamed, exactly. Embarrassed, maybe.
“Oh,” Clint says.
Years ago, when he couldn’t stomach anything bitter, he drank his coffee this way. He drinks it black now, doesn’t have time for anything that dilutes the pure rush of caffeine, but he finds that he is not at all inclined to pour it out and go back for stronger coffee.
He wonders if there’s anyone else in the world who remembers – or cares – that Clint used to drink his gas station coffee mixed with hot chocolate.
