Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newshosting.com!nx01.iad01.newshosting.com!yellow.newsread.com!news-toy.newsread.com!netaxs.com!newsread.com!POSTED.newshog.newsread.com!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Sender: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: From: "Penumbra" MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEML@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEML-owner@yahoogroups.com Subject: NEW DS9 Dark Stone of Souls 2/3 (G/B) [NC-17] Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 447 Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 18:55:05 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.198.142.218 X-Complaints-To: Abuse Role , We Care X-Trace: newshog.newsread.com 1092077705 209.198.142.218 (Mon, 09 Aug 2004 14:55:05 EDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 14:55:05 EDT Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:82558 X-Received-Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 11:55:10 PDT (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Please see part 1 for codes, warnings and disclaimer. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Dark Stone of Souls, part 2/3 by Penumbra (c) 2004 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- When Bashir exits, he automatically searches the crowd for Garak. He spies him across the Promenade: he's sitting at the Replimat with a cup of something steaming at his elbow and a padd in his hand. Bashir makes a beeline for him. "Ah, there you are! The Yigrish cream pie the replicator makes has improved remarkably in my absence. Or perhaps you'd like some Tarkalean tea?" Garak asks, gesturing at his cup. Bashir can still feel the dull ache of his grief and wonders how Garak can be so cheery and so nonchalant on a day of mourning. "Do you not feel anything?" he asks with little asperity. He seats himself at Garak's table. "What, pray tell, should I be feeling?" "Melancholy. Anger. Maybe some acute distress." Bashir gestures vaguely around them. "Hell, anything. It's a funeral. It's Kira." Saying her name wounds him more than he expected. "Julian," Garak says and puts the padd down. The use of his first name, so unusual for the former tailor, deflates Bashir's indignation in its infancy. "What makes you think I don't feel anything?" "Well, if you are, I certainly can't tell what it is by looking at you." "And this would surprise you, why, again?" Bashir snorts, amused despite himself. "Touche." When Garak smiles, Bashir finally sees the sadness in him, in that smile that knows too much about life and the ugly reality of life on a knife's edge. He realises that his friend knows a side of Kira he never did: the unwilling saviour of a people she hated with a passion. "You wear your heart on your sleeve, Julian, but if you didn't, you wouldn't be who you are." "Thank you, I guess." Bashir taps his fingertips against the table; he needs to get his mind off Kira. "So you want to tell me how the hell you came to bring Odo here, and what that business was with Picard and Gotenka?" "Odo's story is his own, so he can enlighten you regarding that. As for Gotenka, well," Garak says and pauses to glance towards the nearest gaggle of Starfleet security. "Years ago, when I first met him, he went by Gul Lemec and had some, shall we say, unfortunate dealings with our good Captain Picard. For a man of your vast mental acuity, unravelling the rest should be a small chore -- let's call it homework." "Homework?" "Homework." Garak's eyes are on him again and they almost twinkle with his particular shade of mischief. Bashir sighs as he sits back. His first impression still held true: to his eyes, Garak is not much older, only different. The years have made him leaner and somehow deadlier still, yet they have not taken away any of their intimacy. Their friendship still feels more than that to Bashir; he can still count the notches of Garak's ridges and hear the cultured cadence of his voice in his sleep. Bashir wonders if Thomas Haynes Bayly was right -- wonders if it's only absence that has made his heart grow fonder, or if it's something else entirely. Kira's senseless death has given him new urgency, because he has learned how random death can be; for the first time in his life, he truly understands mortality. He needs to know before it's too late. Decision made, he stands up. "Come with me." "Where?" "Please?" Extending his hand, Bashir smiles. "When could I ever say no to you, my friend," Garak says, and it's more a statement of fact than a question. He takes the offered hand; Bashir is startled to realise how warm Garak is to the touch. * * * * * "Your quarters? How disappointing -- I had hoped our tour of nostalgia would've been over by now." Bashir smiles and slaps the entry pad of his door a bit too hard. "Well, you said I have research to do, yes?" "What does that have to do with me?" "While I research Picard and this Gul Lemec you mentioned, you'll sit quietly there," Bashir says and points at his sofa as they step in, "and answer any questions I might have on the subject." Garak's look is genuinely humoured. "I will?" "Yes, and don't think I'm going to let you go before you tell about Odo, too," Bashir says firmly and all but steers Garak to the sofa before taking a seat in front of his computer console. "Computer, search all Starfleet databases for 'Gul Lemec'. Order by proximity to 'Picard'." "Searching. Please wait," the computer intones pleasantly. As he waits, Bashir turns in his chair, his hands nervous on his thighs and a strange, disembodied set to his mind. On the sofa, Garak is once again engrossed in his padd; the thick, gleaming fabric of his uniform rustles as he crosses his legs. He's thought of Garak every day, sometimes twice a day. He can't help it. Garak is always with him, like a bad habit. "Three matching entries found. Clearance code required." Startled out of his reverie, Bashir swivels back to the terminal. "Clearance Bashir theta-five-six-seven-alpha." "Permission denied." Bashir frowns at the display. "What do you mean, permission denied?" "Permission denied. Level eight Security clearance required." "I didn't realise Starfleet would be this paranoid," Garak notes with obvious approval. He startles Bashir; he hadn't heard him stand up. "If I may?" Bashir waves for him to proceed. "Break a leg." Garak gives him a sly, humoured glance. "Clearance code Allentown omega-six-zero-zero-pi, confirmation password 'magniloquent'. Display." Suddenly obedient, the computer beeps in approval, not surprising Bashir the least. "'Magniloquent,' Garak?" "Quite apropos, I thought." "Yes," Bashir mutters. "Couldn't have put it better myself." He selects the first of the files and quickly scans the text version. He's peripherally aware of Garak re-seating himself but that awareness soon fades as the contents of the file register in his mind. When he reaches the end of the data, he switches the display off and sits quiet for a moment. The silence in the room is not oppressive, merely contemplative. "There was a familiar name mentioned here," Bashir finally says and taps the now black screen with his fingers. "My name?" "No. Not quite. 'Obsidian Order,' which happens to ring a bell." "Ah," Garak says. The lone syllable rasps deep in his throat. "Known as the Intraplanetary Security Agency these days, incidentally enough." "Is that their uniform?" Bashir asks, nodding towards Garak. "What makes you think I'm wearing a uniform?" Bashir grins. "In my life, I've spent a lot of time with a tailor and in various uniforms. I know one when I see one. Don't dodge the question, Garak." "I wouldn't dream of it. The answer to your question is, no." His manner indicates further probing into the character of his outfit would be unwelcome. "Please, do enlighten me as to your findings and subsequent conclusions." Bashir suppresses a shiver. He really doesn't want to think of the things Lemec and Gul Madred did to Picard. "Gul Lemec was...your friend? A colleague?" Garak makes a displeased sound. "Hardly. Lemec is a dilettante, an amateur too enamoured with his imagined cunning and nonexistent skills. That he survived the war and made a legate is a sure sign of how unjust the Universe can be when it really tries." "Somehow, I don't think Lemec'll be a legate that much longer." "Mmm. Good of you to notice," Garak replies. His smile is like a straight razor, sharp and burnished. "Knowing you as I do, that wasn't so hard," Bashir says, knowing he doesn't have the full truth yet. He pauses for a moment, thinking. "Are you hungry?" Seemingly unsurprised at the non sequitur, Garak cocks his head in consideration. "Always," he replies. Bashir has a feeling he's not talking about just food. "Have dinner with me, then? Just you and me and the replicator. I want to pick your brain some more." "Offer me a good glass of port wine and I might be tempted." "Don't know about port wine, but I do have a bottle of decent kanaar stashed away." Garak's browridge twitches. "Oh? You do?" "Yeah. It seems you taught me more than to look for dark clouds in every silver lining, my friend," Bashir remarks, smiling. Garak's smile mirrors his. "If only you meant it." * * * * * If not the mediocre vindaloo, then at least the replicator's approximation of naan bread pleases Bashir. He is also pleased when he locates his lone surviving kanaar bottle. After Garak assures him that kanaar never goes bad and Bashir expresses his alarm over this miracle of preservation, they retire to the sofas. "So what will come of Gotenka or Lemec or whatever he's called?" Bashir can hear the slight slowing of his speech and makes a note to watch his kanaar intake. "He'll either face a Federation war crimes tribunal or a Cardassian court. Either way, his days of glory are long gone." "Your little game turned out the way you planned?" Garak smiles and takes no offence at his choice of words. "I did." "You used Kira's funeral to make a political play. This doesn't strike you as somewhat...blasphemous? Or disrespective?" Bashir's voice is inflectionless, because all his anger he keeps inside. He knows yelling at Garak won't change anything and somehow, that makes Bashir resent him all the more. "Opportune circumstances occur so very rarely," Garak says and shrugs. Bashir stands up and stalks to re-fill his glass lest he say something unwise. Tears blur his eyes again and the kanaar bottle shakes in his hand when he hears Garak move to stand behind him. "You used her, Garak." "She was -- she is a hero to me, Julian." Bashir notes he doesn't deny the accusation. "There are bigger things in play than the mortal passing of one person, even when she's the saviour of my people. All I can say is that I did it not for myself, but to honour her memory." Bashir frowns and turns to face Garak. "I don't understand." "One day, you will." "I could understand right now if you explained it to me." Garak's smile is unfathomable, yet somehow reassuring. "One day." Wiping his tears away with a clumsy, angry gesture, Bashir wonders how he's always the one to cry. His sorrow is eating away at his heart as if his blood has turned to lye; yet somehow, Garak's presence makes the pain inconsequential. He realises that in Garak, he has a man who can be silent during despair, who can tolerate not knowing and not healing, who is there only to help him face how powerless he is. Through the contemplative silence, Garak reaches out and touches his wet cheek. His hand is warm and impulsively, Bashir mirrors the gesture. Garak's skin feels like liquid metal; his breath brushes Bashir's wrist. "Please make me forget," he whispers, because he needs an excuse to touch him. "Please. Make me forget about today." "Do you know what you're asking, Julian?" He smiles. The feel of Garak's hand, sliding into his hair, is electric. "I've known for fifteen years, Elim." Bashir doesn't know where his glass lands and doesn't give a damn, because Garak is kissing him. Desire scales his spine as he tastes the heady flavour of kanaar and hunger on Garak's lips. They are softer than he expected; in his arms, Garak's body is harder than he has ever imagined -- and imagined he has. "Why do you want to forget?" The rasp in Garak's voice is suddenly more pronounced and infinitely more erotic to Bashir's ears. "I don't. I lied," he breathes and pushes Garak against the wall. "I want to remember this for the rest of my life." Garak's pupils have dilated to hungry, inky black wells. "Be careful what you wish for, Julian." As he unfastens Garak's collar, Bashir smiles in reply. Despite what Garak thinks, he knows very well what he's wishing for: a fire to play with. Underneath the uniform jacket Bashir finds only naked skin. His breath hitches when he pushes the dark, heavy material apart to reveal the wide expanse of Garak's chest, knotted with muscles and heaving. He touches the scales in wonder, watches them shiver, and traces their patterns down to an octagon of dark stone embedded into Garak's abdomen, spanning three of his transverse ribs. "What's this?" he asks, touching the stone. Its pitch-black surface is cool to the touch and full of intricately carved patterns. "Right now, do you really care?" "But--" When Garak's hand grasps his already distended cock through his uniform, Bashir forgets all about the stone. Pushing the jacket off Garak's shoulders, he exhales a startled moan against Garak's lips. Warmth floods his bones and muscle and he sways. "Oh, Elim," he murmurs, spreading his hands across the smooth landscape of Garak's torso. Resting his forehead on a neckridge, he fights to breathe. "What is it that you really want, Julian?" Garak's breath is like fire on his cheek and his touch burns. "Tell me." What does he want? Not release, and not oblivion, either. What he wants is to feel wanted again. He wants to know what he has not had despite wanting it for fifteen years. He wants Garak's mouth on him, everywhere. He wants to learn if Elim Garak tastes like danger, as he should. Lifting his head, Bashir meets Garak's gaze. He knows what he wants. "I want you to fuck me, Elim. Tonight, right here." Garak's exhalation sounds surprised, or perhaps it's excitement. For the span of a breath, he doesn't move except for his grip on Bashir's cock, which tightens until it's almost painful. When he finally speaks, the dark timbre of his voice makes Bashir's heart race. "Take off your clothes." Bashir's hands shake as he obeys, peeling off the many layers of his uniform until he stands naked, shivering from the strength of his arousal. His erection sways in the cool air with each breath he takes. "And now what?" Garak's appreciative gaze travels the length of him, from head to toe. He smiles and to Bashir, the smile is as hypnotic as the map of ridges and scars on his exposed torso. "Come here," he says, reaching out. One hand on his jaw, the other curled around his cock, Garak is both keeping him upright and turning his knees to pudding. Panting against Garak's lips, his tongue tasting the cool, heady mouth, Bashir fumbles with the fastenings of Garak's trousers. They refuse to give way, so he pushes his hand down past the waistband. For a few, terrifying moments he feels like a virgin again, when nothing he touches seems familiar. But when Garak's cock uncurls -- slick and hotter than molten steel in his hands -- and he makes a groan with a universal meaning, Bashir's hesitation vanishes. He strokes the hard, thick length he holds and the slide of scales against his palm is the most erotic thing he's ever experienced. "Elim, please," he moans. His hips jerk at the pace of Garak's hand on his cock. The touch is skilled, stroking him with intensity that makes him see stars. "I want you inside me...oh god, please...inside me." "Julian...*shelk'ta, mek*. I don't -- I don't think I'll last that long." From the tension in Garak's voice and from the pleasure coiling in his abdomen, Bashir recognises their first time is going to be a hand job. If it didn't feel as heavenly as it does, he would regret the fact. But he doesn't; the things Garak's hand is doing to his aching, weeping cock rob him of words and all thought. Moaning incoherently, Bashir rubs his cock against Garak's fingers and the coarse fabric of his trousers. Garak's mouth is on his neck, teasing and biting, and he can feel his low growl vibrate against his skin. Sharp fingernails graze along the underside of his cock, making him quiver with ecstasy. "Please don't stop...please. I'm so close. Oh god..." "Come for me, Julian," Garak says, his breath harsh gasps. "My Julian." "Oh, Elim, I'm--" Bashir comes into the tight grasp of Garak's hand, screaming out gods he doesn't believe in. Through the sheer bliss of his release, he feels Garak jerk and thicken in his hand, the delicious textures of his cock becoming slicker still. Warm, silky wetness floods his hand and it stains his fingers and flows down between them. When he can finally see and breathe again, Bashir staggers a step backwards. He pulls his hand from within Garak's trousers and licks his lips when he sees the translucent pale blue that coats his fingers. Cardassian come -- or perhaps it's just Garak -- tastes like burning leaves. Fire and warm metals and autumn frost, Bashir thinks hazily. Garak leans back against the wall. "I wanted to ask you, why now," he rasps, "but I'll ask it later." "Why later?" Bashir breathes, still weak-kneed from his orgasm. Garak unfastens his trousers and lets them drop. His erection is as black as the stone in his chest and still as hard as the look of want in his eyes. Bashir swallows. "I see." His sphincter clenches in fear. "You have a bed somewhere, I assume." He nods towards the bedroom doorway, his eyes never leaving Garak's groin. "Back there." "Excellent," Garak croons and kicks off his shoes and trousers. "Come with me." As he follows Garak towards the bedroom, Bashir finds that Garak's ass is as riveting as the magnificent proportions of his cock. With a smile, he decides to make a valiant effort to do as ordered and come with him. ----------------------------- End of part 2/3. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML. NewMessage: