DS9 FanFic, "Marked," G/B, [R/NC-17], 1/6
Here's my first attempt at fanfic. It's pretty long - about 15,000 words, and it's posted in six parts. Hope you like it. I'd love feedback!
Here's Part 1 of 6:
Title: Marked, Part 1 of 6
Author: PrelocAndKanar
Series: DS9
Code: G/B
R/NC-17 (though not graphic) for semi-consensual and consensual m/m sex, torture and angst. Don’t read unless you’re into this sort of thing.
Disclaimer: I fully acknowledge that Paramount has exclusive rights to the Star Trek universe, All Rights Reserved, and that all characters and locations are the property of Paramount television. No infringement is intended. STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures. Paramount owns all. I own nothing but my twisted mind.
approx. 15,000 words
This is my first attempt at fanfic. Purple prose alert. Comments, constructive criticism, and other feedback are very welcome!
Canon-breech alert. I have tried to explore how Cardassians differ from humans, and in addressing Cardassian anatomy and customs, I have of necessity strayed from canon, because we have, sadly, a dearth of naked Cardassians to examine. And because it’s true that good Cardassians are hard to find, (as well as the corollary that hard Cardassians are good to find!), I have had to rely on my imagination.
Gul Dukat had many enemies, and hated many men, but one stood out above all others. The one who had interrogated, no, tortured, Dukat’s father and then killed him. Garak. There were other reasons why Dukat hated Garak, but that one reason was more than enough. He had promised himself that one day he would take revenge.
When he discovered the runabout with his enemy inside, so far from its home base, he knew the moment had come. He seized it. The second passenger hadn’t been part of his plans. Still, he hadn’t gotten to the position of power that he had once held without knowing how to improvise…
Eagerly, he entered the cell where the prisoners were being held.
“Strip him!” Dukat ordered Garak. Garak let out the smallest of sighs. This was, of course, quite the traditional way to treat prisoners. Stripping them of clothing helps promote the stripping away of self, of pride, of strength, helps reinforce the notion of the prisoner as a non-person, no, as less than a person. As a human, Bashir was already considered to be sub-Cardassian. (All non-Cardassians were all seen as inferior, although it was often politically necessary to mask that feeling). Now, the human would be treated as though he were property, or an animal.
Garak was interested that Dukat wasn’t holding them separately, having them both stripped and isolated and interrogated individually. That’s what he would have done, if the goal was to break them. Why was he having Garak process Bashir, as if they were working together; why wasn’t he doing it himself, or having one of his soldiers do it? Dukat hated Garak; he should be treating him the same as Bashir. Information meant everything to Garak. Knowledge was power. But he didn’t have any. Yet.
His mind was racing, though; he had instantly switched into operative mode. He had noticed every detail of his captors (number, weapons, perceived level of competence) and surroundings (conventional exits, possible alternate exits, possible improvised weapons). He had already catalogued Dukat’s weaknesses (ego, over-confidence, inability to control his emotions, tendency to get lost in the details…). All this was calculated in a flash without any external sign.
What did Dukat have in mind?
“I’m waiting.” said Dukat with an exaggerated tone of patience. “Surely it hasn’t been that long, that you’ve forgotten how to do this.” He allowed a slight sneer to ooze onto his face. “Just how soft have you become, living so long away from your own kind?”
Was Dukat testing Garak’s loyalty? Despite his personal hatred, might there be larger politics at stake? Dukat was capable of putting aside his personal feelings if ordered, or if it would be to his advantage... Garak did not know the big picture, but his instincts and training told him to play along, enthusiastically. Bide his time. Then, he thought, we will see… But he had better make it look good.
Garak stepped up close, very close, to Bashir. For some reason, this made him feel uneasy. He could smell the human’s scent. And not just the Human scent; he was particularly aware of this specific human’s scent. Despite the circumstances, he couldn’t help breathing a little deeper, and then, against his better judgment, (don’t, don’t do it, keep it rational, keep it up top!) he let himself indulge in a quick bit of stitking.
He sucked in air through clenched teeth, and then rapidly tapped his tongue against the scent receptor at the top of his palate, behind his teeth. The scent, brought in by the air and carried by his tongue to the receptor, suddenly flooded his senses, a thousand times as strong as what his nose could discern. Of course, his stitking was subtle and silent, but the effect was immediate. For an instant he was lost in a memory…
He had been having lunch with Bashir, one of the first times, and had been shocked when Julian had blatantly, loudly, obviously stitked at him! He had actually clicked his tongue, wagging his finger at him, and had gone on to chide him for something… he couldn’t recall what, he was so shocked at this display. Eventually, Garak had learned that this “tsk, tsk”ing was something humans did as a light and friendly reprimand. It was hard to believe - it sounded exactly like a middling’s first attempts to emulate the way adults stitked, silently and within the mouth, and leave behind the obvious tongue-showing and clicking of younglings.
When a middling made an slight but audible clicking sound, it was cute, but coming from an adult, it was an outrageous form of flirting, something to do only in the most private of circumstances - yet among humans, it was permitted even in the most formal company! Once he understood this, and realized that humans, or at least Bashir, had no inkling of all this, well, he couldn’t contain his racy delight in stitking overtly, loudly, at Julian whenever he dared, right there in public, at the Replimat, in the middle of the promenade, anywhere! Oh, it used to bring such a evil smile to his face…And poor, oblivious Julian, so unaware… who even occasionally let his tongue show for a moment now and then, not realizing that this was another outrageous come-on, even beyond-
Julian looked at his friend and found himself frozen by the intensity of Garak’s gaze. Garak’s eyes pinned him; he couldn’t move, and his breath caught in his throat. For all the world, Julian felt as though Garak were a cobra, a hooded cobra, and Julian the mouse, frozen in fear. No brave Riki Tiki Tavi, he… Just… prey. And now, for a second, there seemed to be a very slight smile ghosting on Garak’s face, a tiny but very disturbing smile… Garak stepped closer… He could smell Garak’s scent, a mixture it seemed to him of zatar and curry and pepper, with an underlying sour-but-not-unpleasant aroma… maybe like yogurt. His lips were unbearably dry; nervously he licked them-
Garak snatched himself back to the present, miserably aware that his ridges were slowly deepening toward charcoal…and his scales were even rippling slightly beneath his tunic. The scent was overwhelming. What was happening to him? He, once the star of the Order, Tain’s own! He, the master of control, of deception, of the mask, reacting like this. Bashir! Garak had enjoyed playing with him, toying with him, for years, but underneath it all, he’d been aware that he… Couldn’t let it- he’d had to always hold himself back…
How could this mere human affect him so? How dare he bring him so close to losing control! And now! Even now! Look what he’s doing - He had the audacity to show his tongue!!! Appalled by the intensity of his reaction, terrified by how close he was to losing his grip on himself, outraged, inflamed, and trying not to think about what his anger was trying to mask- he growled savagely and reached for Bashir.
Julian swallowed, then with frightening speed, Garak viciously ripped his clothes away; they were thrown to the floor, then his skivvies, and Garak approached even closer. Shaking slightly, Julian backed up, not recognizing his friend, backed up at far as he could, until he tripped on the bench and fell clumsily into a seated position. Garak reached down and tore off his boots and socks.
Julian, gasping, reacted instinctively, and brought his long legs up, folded in front of him, and clasped his arms around his knees by his shins, like a protective wall. Idiot!! he thought, what an undignified position! You should just stand there and show that it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t bother you… But while he was thinking this, Dukat smirked, turned on his booted heel and exited, follow by the guards.
The clang of the door closing and the sound of a bolt faded into silence. After a moment or two, Julian hesitantly lifted his gaze to seek out Garak. His friend was panting slightly and looking off to the side, avoiding Julian. And now he was hunched over, resting his hands on his thighs, taking some of the weight of his torso. He even dropped his head, closing his eyes. What had triggered such an intense reaction, Julian wondered. It was so unlike him. Garak had not been simply following orders; he had momentarily lost control, and - attacked him! However, whatever it was, it seemed to have passed now, and Garak appeared to be recovered, though winded. So… what now?
Well, thought Julian, this is silly; we can’t pretend I’m not naked, and I can’t spend the whole time huddling in a corner, all wrapped up and hiding… So I’m naked, so what? We’re two adults here. Of course, it was Garak he was naked in front of, not, not, well, not anyone else. It seemed more - problematic, somehow, that it was Garak… Still, he felt absurd, huddling in the corner like this. Oh, well, thought Julian, here goes…
He unfolded himself and rose to his feet. Standing there, he willed his arms to stay loosely at his sides and to stand up straight and tall. Pretend it doesn’t bother you, he told himself insistently, pretend you don’t even notice… But, even though the temperature was set at Cardassian comfort levels, he felt a shiver run down his spine.
“Are you all right, Garak?” he asked. Garak’s breath seemed to steady, and he straightened up, disgusted at himself. Apparently he had lost his edge, to let himself get so- He looked at Bashir, and his breath stopped. After all this time, all those very-public lunches, and a starvation diet of stolen glances… His pupils pulled to the vertical, and he drank in the sight of him; his eyes were filled by the sight of him. He was beautiful: smooth skin the color of dishtak, or of terran caramel; long legs, and - he willed himself to pull his eyes to Julian’s face, away from the body he’d so often fantasized about. But this left him no choice but to look deeply into that face: that soft mouth, those dark, warm eyes, so trusting, so concerned, so unaware of what he was capable of… This would not do. He wasn’t strong enough. Did Dukat somehow know…? Anything but this.
He plastered on his brightest, least personal smile, his “tailor’s face,” did a rashata breath, and turned away oh so casually, suddenly interested in the door. “Well, doctor.” His fingers fumbled at the neckline of his tunic. “I know these Cardassian environmental settings are probably uncomfortably warm for you, but perhaps you might, nonetheless, like to have something to,” he faltered just a bit, but recovered swiftly, “cover up with a bit?”
Julian had been studying his friend’s face, had seen his face grow ashen - how literal that phrase was, he thought, when it came to Cardassians - and his pupils become cats’ slips for just an instant, before he recovered, and turned away. Puzzling. Garak seemed quite distressed… Yet he must have been in worse situations than this before. How unlike him, to be so rattled.
Garak was removing his tunic and offering it to him. Of course! Brilliant! Julian accepted it gratefully, and pulled it on, fastening the strip.
It was an overwhelming sensation. First, he was overcome by the scent. If he thought he could smell Garak’s distinctive Cardassian scent when Garak was standing close, well, that didn’t begin to compare to having the subtle waves of scent wafting upward from his own torso into his nose. It’s not that the smell was so strong, it didn’t stink, but alien aromas were always, well, insistent. Without being aware of it, he breathed it in deeply.
Garak was stockier and more muscular than Bashir; the tunic dropped loosely about his torso. Bashir’s arms were longer, though; the sleeves stopped short, exposing his wrists. As he finished sealing it closed, he became aware of something else. He was taller than Garak, and this tunic wasn’t long; it reached just to the upper thigh - oh shit, was it long enough? He breathed in relief: just barely, it seemed. The material was heavy, padded and stiff. He felt simultaneously overwhelmed by it, like a child playing dress-up, and overly revealed, like a -
Luckily, Bashir wasn’t looking at Garak. Garak’s eyes went wide and his pupils slitted again, looking at the human. Was this even worse than before? Seeing his clothes, his tunic, on Bashir -! The way it was both too big and too small! Those delicate, disturbingly fragile wrists, those legs! How much of them showed, and wait! Was that - when Julian moved, was there a hint, a wink- Julian apparently wondered, too, how much was showing, and turned around. Oh, how close the tunic came to showing the slight curve of cheek!
Julian turned around again, to face his friend, and shrugged. Even that slight motion created a, what did the humans call it, a “peek-a-boo” situation. Have strength, Garak told himself. You’ve faced interrogation, you’ve dealt with Tain, you’ve survived when few others have. Why should this situation be so - he stopped, but made himself whisper the word in his head - frightening?
He had no fear of Dukat. But being locked in this cell with Bashir? Like this? He was terrified of losing control, and he hated it. It was not a sensation he was used to. It was not useful, either. And yet, and yet… if only the circumstances were different… He forced himself to relax a little. What a delightful situation this would be. Why fight it? Why not enjoy what he could? He let go of the fear. He felt his whole body loosen. Deliberately, he let his eyelids close a bit; through half-lidded eyes he watched the doctor move about, examining their enclosure, and he hissed - very, very quietly.
Bashir was trying to get used to the situation. Every time he moved, he wondered if he were exposing himself. He resisted the urge to continually tug on the hem. And it was just so odd, to be wearing the shirt off Garak’s back. It felt - intimate. And, as exposed and vulnerable he felt, in some odd way, being barefoot was almost the worst. Garak had his pants and his heavy, serious boots. Being barefoot and barelegged made him feel, well, trivial. Decorative. Like a harem girl, he realized, grimly.
He glanced at Garak. His entire demeanor was different now. He looked like a lizard basking in the sun, his eyes half-shut. He almost expected to see a tail flicking lazily this way, then that.
Julian took what he thought was Garak’s lessened attention to casually study Garak’s upper body. Of course, he knew all about Cardassian anatomy, and had in fact examined Garak himself many times - well, maybe a few. But when he examined as a professional, he held himself off from any feelings. Now, he dared a moment or two to look in a more - personal way.
He thinks I don’t know he’s looking at me, thought Garak almost sleepily. Let him look. Let him think I don’t know. He held still.
Garak’s compact torso was roped with muscle, although Cardassian muscle presented itself slightly differently than human. Still, muscles were about mechanics, and the basic design was the same. Julian was surprised to see that his years on the station hadn’t given him a little soft layer of fat, but evidently, Garak’s protestations to the contrary, he had been vigilant about maintaining his form. Julian remembered Garak’s once proclaiming that he was “putting on weight” and Julian offering to give him a workout program. Apparently, this was just another of Garak’s little lies.
Garak’s neck ridges had almost faded back to the soft grey of his normal complexion. They tapered off at the shoulders. Ridges appeared in intricate patterns on his chest, with the familiar spoon taking center stage. His flat belly bore the scales which disappeared into his trousers.
Garak held back a smile, and casually turned slightly to allow Julian a back view.
Julian was disturbed to see an assortment of scars of many sizes and shapes in various parts of Garak’s torso, back and front. Most were old; some, more recent. There were faded lines that may have been straight cuts, ragged ones that may have been tears and some that appeared to be bites. There were not as many scars as Julian had seen on Bajorans who’d had bad luck during the occupation. Still, there were… enough.
(continued in Part 2 of 6) Look for Part 2 in next entry...