Note: Believe it or not I actually made it a point to get an early start on this chapter so I wouldn't be posting so late... And then I ended up deleted everything I wrote and redoing it cause I didn't like it. Anyway, I don't care what Ginsberg says about "First thought best thought" I like this better. So yeah, more Garak/Bashir action and man was this fun to write. Still more dangerous banter and warning for sexy times sorta. Thank you everyone for reading and for your support. C&C is of course welcome.
The tension in Doctor Bashir's fingers is what he feels first. That is, the first sensation that he registers outside of the lips pressed to his own. It is the first sensation that is separate from the hot wet tongue shoved unceremoniously into his mouth battling his own to a gasping drowning, head tilting, half breathless sparring. There is a faint scratch of facial hair, too hard to tickle, a scrape of a brush igniting the sensitive nerves around his mouth. No, until he feels the grip of those fingers shift there is nothing else that Garak registers outside of the vibrating thrum of a growl, of Doctor Bashir breathing a heaving breath to his mouth, passing into his own lungs followed by a quick, vicious suck to his bottom lip. There is a series of small bites following, an unintelligible murmur against him that he silences with a tighter grip to the doctor's scalp that makes a brilliant biting clash of teeth, of a sharp incisor inciting a rush of blood when it nicks him roughly.
That is when he feels that tension and it becomes remarkable only because he can tell there is a very distinct correlation between that unconscious body motion and the quick smack of Doctor Bashir's free hand to Garak's on his hair. A pressure point? No, he only needs a twist. Even without any extra human ability it's easy to twist the wrist in the proper motion. Garak separates, mouth still just long enough to be sure not follow the motion as the doctor twists, forcing his hand away. He hisses, not a hard feat, the line between pleasure and pain blurred as his other wrist is released. Garak follows as his hand is pulled back towards Doctor Bashir, as they step away from the table, that motion forcing him to step in, his mind a constant whirring process, acutely aware of the doctor's position, his presence, as those spectacles slip down and there's a quick seemingly hypnotic gaze that catches his.
Garak allows it, eyes a carefully constructed fabrication to the doctor's pupils, right eye perfectly attentive but the left just a touch higher, a focus to the open eyelid instead. He doesn't particularly believe the doctor to possess any extraordinary powers of manipulation but rather a careful study of manipulative psychology, of body language instead. And there's a draw of shoulders, a squaring, a straightening of the spine that increases that marginal difference in their heights to a downward look. Garak doesn't strive to meet it but rather takes a slight step back- seeming submissive, body squared, that tilt of his head causing a surprisingly predatory flicker in those eyes boring carefully into his.
"You shouldn't underestimate me, Garak," The doctor whispers, an extra enunciation of those soft, slightly swollen lips that allow for no mistake in hearing or reading. His smile grows and he tastes just a faint tang of blood in his mouth that may be his own.
"I wouldn't dream of it, Doctor," he all but purrs as his wrist is pulled back just a bit further with the obvious intent of overbalancing him. He has an absent thought to complete the motion, to turn, to free his wrist easily and give the doctor's terribly tempting rear a good hearty smack as he's often read in those dreadful pulp trash novels Jadzia's been inflicting on him recently. A smack, a squeeze, a good lusty worship of that ass he's never particularly considered until "Lust in the Desert" provided a rather enlightening and decidedly human view of the matter. But rather he plays the game carefully, feeling the grip on his wrist ease with that faint shrink of his stance. "In fact, I believe you're holding my far tighter than is comfortable." The lie comes easily, but as soon as the words are spoken, the doctor lets go of him completely. Perfectly read. After all these years you can tell he's still too conscious, still too careful, too afraid of his own strength. He had to know he wasn't hurting you but there was that doubt, that carefully cultured fear that he was.
"I know you're playing with me," Doctor Bashir insists with an overly compensatory steel in his voice. There is a slight certainty lacking there, a hesitance that might end the encounter entirely should Garak allow it. Which is exactly what you should be doing. You're due a progress report in less than two month's time and you've barely begun the task at hand, Elim. Now just let the doctor leave, let him believe this game some overly done fantasy of his played with nothing but a slightly clever but otherwise unremarkable man who is likely a tailor at heart. Or some variant that you can scrap after all the ridiculous intrigue you've fallen into. But in spite of that recrimination, Garak looks away, a brief glimpse to his work table, his mind already debating the feasibility of allowing this to progress to it's much needed heated conclusion. Really, should this progress further it would really be better to settle upstairs in the one half heartedly furnished sitting room rather than this close to several days of work.
Don't do this, Elim... Ah, but who are you kidding? To come this far to back down? To slink off like one of those other dullards married to their work, Guls, you've always been more than that. You wouldn't be here otherwise. And you cannot deny that thrum of excitement, that desire to test, to push, to see just how far Doctor Bashir is willing to go, how far he can match you. You know you want to see whether or not he'll break or bend. Garak of course is a master of a slippery twine around tight until the trap is set. He can bend, he can bow when needed, but nonetheless, there remains that primitive desire to fight for dominance, to throw down, to take a much more brutal grip to the nape of the long neck and press it against that pristine work table, to watch the doctor claw, beg, violated, loving every moment... My, Elim, you really must stop reading those ridiculous books before bed. No, those tales have hardly done much for his control in light of the revelation that the doctor has been watching, studying, Garak's insipid imaginings some nights that those eyes watch him from the window- impractical as that may be- as he takes himself in hand, messily, breathlessly palming himself to completion... Yes, definitely not reading any more of that pornography masquerading as literature.
He can feel the heat of his face, that heat spreading, the flush dark of his scales, of the dip below his throat, and Garak silently curses his lack of restraint. But is it really? How many weeks, how many months have you been dancing around each other? How many near misses have you had? How many times have you felt that body pressed to yours, smelled that heat, felt that tremble beneath your fingertips only to be denied time and time again. Really, when he considers it in that context he's had the puritanical restrain of some staid Bajoran holy man. Especially the way those eyes watch him hungry, lustful, warring beautifully with some violent, fearful, self preserving impulse that Garak just cannot help but want poke at. He knows even as he speaks there is a carefully coiling of preparation, ready to strike like a cornered snake, but Garak cannot help but see where that response will lead. Well, you did say when you accepted this assignment that you were ready for anything. Surely this was hardly the scenario that Tain envisioned when needling him with that offensive inquiry and Garak feels for just an irrational adolescent moment the elation of picturing expression on that face seeing him now.
"You never did answer my question, Doctor." Garak notes that Doctor Bashir's heavy breaths come to an abrupt halt as his body shifts back to alert, and he doesn't even need to look for that blink to know there is some esoteric preparation which precedes the slow removal of spectacles. It does create a rather dramatic picture combined with the tussled hair and those faintly parted lips. But it isn't fear he senses, that he smells. Oh certainly buried beneath is that fear of death prevalent in all animals, but it's nothing beneath the faint danger the doctor himself sets off.
"I don't think you want an answer to that question, Garak." Another low drop, sensual, a step in, height difference emphasized once more only this time he doesn't allow himself to be submitted. There is sex that radiates off the man in waves, an interesting accompaniment to the clear that that his every gestures attempts to exude.
Sex and death intertwined, the story of your life, Elim. It's no wonder the human French say "la petit mort" as a euphemism for that peak. Garak allows a dangerous smile to cross his own face, completely certain the Doctor Bashir fully intends to marry the two beautiful cousins when he takes another step. Garak takes a circling step, feeling the work table pass from his side to his back.
"Do you think I make it a habit to ask questions that I do not wish answered, Doctor?"
"Call me Julian," lower, breathier, closer.
"Are you on a first name basis with all your would be assassins, Julian?" Two hands behind hold the edge of the table, his body thrumming with excitement.
"You want me." Declared. Decided. Demanded.
"Do you think that would prevent me from killing you?" He allows himself to be amused at that childish notion even as he allows that faint suggestion to take hold. Yes. Want. Want is indeed a very powerful motivator.
There's a faint falter, a slight break in that charade as if he may have miscalculated but Garak maintains his demeanor flawlessly even as the doctor... even as Julian steps on forward leg between his, trapping, taking, hands clamping down over his with a flash of white teeth.
"No, I don't," he says breath to breath before turning away, mouth instead seeking Garak's neck, finding it bared, bait that he takes eagerly with a hard fasten of his mouth to that sensitive juncture that makes Garak's body wash with heat anew as Julian turns into him with a thrust of his hips and a soft moan, that seeking contact the balm that only scratches the surface of some built up agonizing ache. And he feels that ache, feels that hardness pressed to his hip his hands trapped as far as Julian is concerned. Garak groans and finds in some mortifying quick slip of time that tighten of his groin, that urge, that impulse to allow that slit to part, to allow that eversion to relieve that bursting ballooning tightness that he feels when Julian wiggles and moves his mouth some series of sucks to that exposed hollow tongue circling the rim with painful delicacy.
Garak debates the ease with which he could extract his hands but find Julian's hands moving already to steal around, to begin pushing that heavy shirt up, his hands thankfully only slightly cooler than Garak's own hot skin.
"I want you... Garak..." is stammered to his skin and he isn't certain he was meant to hear at that low volume. But the pitch is low enough that his ears catch it, far better attuned to soft low sounds than the highs. "I want you... so bloody badly..." again spoken with an accompanying shiver only just barely heard. Garak tilts his head to the ceiling a faint calculating smile on his face. Well that makes this much easier then, doesn't it? He sighs, curious to see when the weapon will reveal itself, knowing that if Jadzia was the one who trained him ten it will make itself known only when the time comes to strike. In spite of himself he holds that brief bit of memory, letting it come fondly just for a few seconds as Julian drops to his knees clearly not wasting any more time on preliminaries.
She moved with him fast, hard, allowing her wrists to be pinned to the floor just long enough to let him feel properly dominant. Jadzia let her hips move, tilt, let him thrust deeper, let his head bow down just a little further until his face was buried to her shoulder, his eyes closed, the world narrowing away from his usual all consuming awareness. It was the feel of heat, the sound of her voice breathing his name the soft caress of her hand that cause him to relax that grip, to free her left, the non dominant hand to claw at his back until he was certain that's all there was to it. And that was when he felt the hand to his hair, felt something removed and he remembered just as he avoided a sharp stab to the back of his neck that she was a master of sleight of hand. And of course while he might make a careful study of every inch of his body he would never think to do the same with his own, and as he caught her wrist again, slamming it back to the floor hard, he heard the clank, felt another clench, and decided that he'd have to keep his guard up around these people on Westworld.
That memory causes him to absently examine his hair again, take careful stock of his own body as Julian looks up, shirt unbuttoned two more buttons, half slipping off from his shoulder, that scruff of short beard quickly giving way to nothing but smooth caramel skin, to tight slim muscles and Garak sees those long fingers working the last two buttons, the shirt falling down to a pile that may or may not contain something hidden. He kicks it just out of reach with his foot seeing the slight furrow of brow, the slight consternation coupled with a bite of his lip.
"Just let me do this," soft, almost begging, as if his hands hovering above those trouser buttons were about to unlatch the greatest treasure chest the galaxy has ever known. As if Talen in Parmalat's final novel had in fact laid his hands on his uncle's greatest file box instead of falling to his death, impaled on a sharpened fountain sculpture. Ego, of course it is that base ego that look and those eager hands appeal to, and Garak curses himself for being ten times a fool even as he nods, one sharp jerk of acceptance.
By the State, if he bites it off you deserve every bit of that humiliation before you die, Elim. He silences that voice, with an intense focus on those steady fingers easing one button after another until there's a count of four and a slow slip of Julian's hand beneath that parted fabric rubbing, coaxing that eversion through the fly opening just barely parted. Garak groans, head bowed, breathing heavier as Julian strokes him through the fabric, as he presses down, letting that cotton start to soak. He places those pressured pads perfectly, hitting every sensitive spot right around that slit, forcing a soft swearing bit of Federation Standard that he cannot believe passes his lips. There are not in fact words in proper CardĒsda to quite express the full range of vulgar thoughts swirling in his head when Julian dips his head and seals his mouth to that growing wetness breathing out hot welcome breath through the damp cloth. No, his native tongue is far more dignified than the stream of fuckfuckshitsuckme that comes to him unbidden as Julian breathes again, the promise of that mouth forcing his cock to slowly emerge with a low growl.
"Yes, that's a good boy," Julian whispers, the heated tone the only saving grace to such a patronizing murmur as he feels the soft cotton slowly part, a secondary slit as his cock comes to full aching bloom before his eyes and Julian's lips. He watches the faint draw back, the faint widening of those eyes at the emerging of that full length, still moving, growing, hard pulsing, the temperature differential of the air the only hindrance. "Oh..." Just "Oh". Just a simple "Oh", an unspoken my, an appreciative tremor of Julian's shoulders speaking volumes about just where Julian's thoughts lay at this exact moment in time. That is of course unless the augment brain is so vastly different than the normal human one that it can process the same way that his own might, but as Garak sees a faint glassy sheen to those eyes, he somehow doubts it. Garak finds to his chagrin though that his own mind rather than being properly divided between that face and any murderous attempts is oddly wont to flicker to vulgar passages of those Gul's damned books.
He doesn't care how much his "vulgar vernacular" has improved, he's never touching another one of those things as long as he lives. The taint of those insipid metaphors creeping into his head will surely haunt him for the rest of his days and he's thankful that Julian chooses that moment to give one final glance up, mouth hovering just at the tip of his waiting prick.
"Are you ready for a little death, Garak?" Julian teases; at least Garak decides that it is merely some playful sexual double entendre rather than a true threat. He smiles back with equal ardor.
"Do you worst, my dear," he answers voice not entirely steady, that last breath turning to a loud groan as he's swallowed completely to the root in one fluid motion. Julian's hands capture his hips faster than he'd have thought possible, forcing him to the table, forcing him still with a taste of his true strength just as Garak's body jerks with that aborted snap, wanting nothing more than to thrust wildly into that tight vacuum sealed mouth.
And that's when he turns his head and sees the blonde woman watching him through the window.
