complicating the problem

by MK_Marlowe

Summary:

An environmental control breakdown leads to shameless smut.

Notes:

• For Visa/Mastercard.

Visa/Mastercard, please get fucked.

Chapter 1

…

Garak wakes up warm.

Gloriously so. Without his having noticed, he has tossed his blankets to the floor and is breathing deeply and openly, moisture heavy and luxurious in the air.

So that’s a problem.

He dresses lightly, for the first time since his exile. Loose fabric, hair unstyled and left to fall as it will. The air feels like silk on his scales, warm and welcoming.

Bajorans are wilting like dying flowers in the Promenade.

Constable Odo can’t be much affected, he thinks, shapeshifter that he is. The Ferengi won’t notice much, though they might have to shed layers as Garak has.

He doesn’t know how Terrans are affected by heat and humidity.

…

There’s a general evacuation. Captain Sisko’s voice is as calm as it ever is, announcing the environmental control breakdown, and Garak thinks they must be fine, those Terrans. Those Hew-mons, as Quark declaims them. But then he sees, through the slow movement of bodies to the docks, the O’Brien family, and they are not fine.

Little Molly is wearing a slip of some sort, dragging her little stuffed targ and dripping with sweat, her face dull and posture drooping. Professor O’Brien is wiping repeatedly at her face with a cloth, arms and legs bared to all, and those glisten with moisture. Chief O’Brien, red-faced and listless, is similarly lacking in proper attire — no, the Terrans aren’t taking this well at all.

Garak moves easily around the sluggish crowd, heading to the Infirmary.

There, he sees the nurses handing out wet cloths and ice packs, drinks packed with electrolyte solutions — he doesn’t see Doctor Bashir. Unnerved, and unwilling to be subjected to medical advice, Garak turns and almost runs into his quarry.

“Fine day this has turned out to be, hasn’t it?” Bashir asks him cheerfully, sweating and shining in the bright Infirmary lights. “Bet you’re not suffering though, Garak.”

“Neither do you seem to be,” Garak points out, although — “Is that actually regulation, Doctor?”

“It’s an older uniform type, but yes, the skant is still regulation,” Bashir says, cocking his hip to display a long, long leg for Garak’s perusal. “I think I wear it well, and trousers are really not going to cut it in this heat.”

“Doctor Bashir!” one of the nurses calls, and Bashir grips Garak’s shoulder in a goodbye before bustling over, confident and comfortable despite the suffering the other Terrans displayed. Over such light fabric, Garak is able to savor the warm imprint of his hand.

…

As the residents pack into ships that must be, for them, blessedly cool, the Promenade empties. Garak stands near the Replimat in the warm, delicate silence.

Bashir is still in his Infirmary, having fortified the last of his patients for evacuation only minutes ago. The temperature has been creeping steadily, and the air retains a lovely, laden humidity.

“Mister Garak,” Captain Sisko greets him, having himself finally left Ops, “shouldn’t you be moving along?”

Sisko has dressed down to accommodate the heat, wearing loose, light-weight fabric that seems designed for the exact factors giving the other Terrans so much trouble — and, like Bashir, he is gleaming with sweat but not overcome.

“Why would I move along?” Garak asks. “This is the most comfortable I’ve ever been on this station.”

“It’s warm now, but who knows? The computer could just as easily start dropping the temperature.” Sisko gestures down the Promenade. “We’re keeping minimal staff on board until this is fixed.”

“I saw Chief O’Brien evacuate.” Garak pauses, simply for the dramatic effect. “How do you plan to fix this without him?”

Bashir almost bounces out of the Infirmary, all long bare limbs and shimmering skin. “Captain Sisko! The Infirmary is clear.” He smiles at Garak after wiping at his face with a thin gray towel. “Garak, are you helping us with the environmental controls?”

“I believe we discussed who is staying on board earlier, Doctor,” Captain Sisko chides lightly, affecting complete innocence of Garak’s gaze suddenly gone roaming. “And I distinctly remember saying that uniforms aren’t required while the situation is ongoing.”

“If I’m going to ruin anything with sweat, it might as well be a uniform,” Bashir says practically. A droplet of said sweat runs from his temple to his jaw. Garak carefully bites down on his tongue.

…

Garak stays on the station.

Captain Sisko has never been one to be above making threats, so being offered a bribe is a rare treat. Garak is partnered with Doctor Bashir and equipped with his very own comm badge to keep him honest.

Chief O’Brien, directing the effort from the SS Xhosa with thanks to Captain Yates, is not entirely sanguine with Garak’s involvement — so much is clear despite his far livelier and less florid expression — but he readily assigns them to reset the environmental substation in the lower core.

“You’re coming up on 34 degrees, humidity at 83 percent,” he warns, directing his attention to Bashir. “You know better than me what that’s going to mean for your health, but comms will be spotty while you’re that close to the reactors. Be careful, yeah?”

The sweat notwithstanding, Bashir doesn’t look like a man in distress. Garak watches him out of the corner of his eye, noting a confident posture and easy step.

“You’re staring,” Bashir says then, teasing apparent in his tone. They’ve made it to the turbo lift and Bashir presses the call button with the lid of his rather hefty water bottle.

“How is it that some of you Terrans are fine in this heat, and some were among the first to be evacuated?” Garak asks bluntly.

“Earth has a fairly varied climate, and Humans are fairly adaptable. Captain Sisko hails from a region with weather quite like this, actually, and I’ve spent enough time in similar regions to acclimate.” Bashir shrugs, the movement making light gleam down his arm. “I wouldn’t say either of us is fine, though. Miles isn’t worried for nothing.”

Garak eyes him suspiciously. “So I’m here to watch out for you as much as you’re here to keep an eye on me?”

Bashir precedes him into the turbo lift, turning to grin at him. “Seems like a safe bet.”

There’s plenty he could say to that, but Garak finds himself unable to muster a reply; the relatively open spaces of the Promenade, of Ops, have failed to prepare him for Bashir’s sweat-driven scent in this proximity. Heady is not the word. Dizzying, perhaps.

The fabric Starfleet has chosen for their uniforms has a tendency to neutralize odors, but he’s noticed that it doesn’t work quite as well for Terrans. It’s the sweat, Garak realizes now, his mouth filling with saliva. The moisture weakens the material’s odor barrier, allowing Human pheromones to break through.

And with so much of Bashir bare, every shift of his legs carelessly releasing more and more of that rich, hot scent, sweet like cream with a heavy touch of spice, there’s no chance for the uniform material to soak it up or lock it away. He’d sip the air, drink it in, if he could without drooling and thus disgracing himself.

How is he going to manage this?

…

The turbo lift opens and Garak almost runs out of it, swallowing heavily and wiping discreetly at his chin, just in case.

“Garak, are you — are you mad at me?”

Mad, yes. Not at him, and not in the way Bashir is meaning, of course. Garak takes a breath before he turns, managing the weakest of smiles, and taps lightly at his nose. “My dear, I’m afraid the turbo lift was getting a bit, ah, close.”

Bashir, slinking out of turbo lift, stops dead. “Are you saying that I stink?”

“Don’t be dramatic, Doctor,” Garak tuts. “You don’t stink; the scent just rather filled up the space.” He waves his hand vaguely and swallows again; said scent is seeping out of the turbo lift now in a slow, inexorable wave.

“Well. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it, while this is ongoing,” Bashir says, scratching at the back of his neck. “Just another Human foible, I guess.”

“One of many,” Garak mutters, and has to rub his hand over his face. “Let’s just get this done.”

He leads the way to the environmental substation with more annoyance than is necessary, but it’s better to press the point than diminish its force. Maybe if they hurry, if Bashir just keeps a little distance and stays quiet —

“It’s not my fault, though.”

The man will literally not stop. Garak’s claws dig into the handle of the substation’s door. “I never said it was,” he snaps, and finally turns to face his unwitting tormenter. Bashir’s arms are crossed over his chest and his chin is set high in pique. “Would you like to give your authorization, so we can get inside?”

“Would you like me to remain outside?” Bashir snaps back. “Since your vaunted Cardassian discipline apparently can’t handle a single Human’s sweat.”

Garak freezes in place, scales flaring at the cattiness, the heat in Bashir’s voice. “You can do as you like, but we really ought to finish our mission, don’t you think?”

Bashir sighs loudly, dropping his arms. “Look, Garak, I’m sorry. It’s just — it is rather hot for Humans, and heat can make us irritable.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say something about how Humans would never last on Cardassia, but that’s true, isn’t it? Smelling like that, getting irritable and snappish… they’d never make it out unscathed.

So he says instead, “Let’s get this fixed, then.”

…

The environmental substation is a fairly large room that contains, among various monitor consoles and testing sub-sites, the main back-up for the life support systems. A manual reset of the substation will simply kick the main back-up online, bringing the station back to its original environmental and life quality controls as set by the original Cardassian command. It should also reveal from where the new command, the one driving the temperature and humidity in the station to unsustainable levels, is being issued.

Now, information on how to actually go about resetting the back-up would be nice.

“Chief?” Bashir taps his comm badge. “Come in, Chief.”

There’s no answer, and Garak resists the urge to try it himself. “He did say the fusion reactors might block our comms.”

“I can try from the corridor,” Bashir says, and heads for the door. Garak looks around the room again, with a somewhat dismal hope that they’ve simply overlooked a large, well-marked ENVIRONMENTAL RESET button. “Um. Garak.”

“I promise you, if that door is stuck,” Garak begins, actual fear cutting low and cold through his body. He turns to see Bashir staring upwards, not even at the door yet.

“I think that’s the reset,” Bashir says, pointing up.

Recessed into the ceiling, a full meter beyond either of their reach, is a very well-marked handle, labeled in the original Kardasi, with Federation Standard carefully lettered around it.

“Why is it in the ceiling?” Garak demands, walking over to stare up at it from below. Bashir likewise stares upwards, hands resting on his hips.

“Is there a ladder?” Bashir asks finally.

“Am I supposed to know?”

Bashir glares at him. “Well, this is a Cardassian space station. Excuse me for thinking the only Cardassian resident might have an idea.”

Between Bashir’s tempting scent beginning to conquer this room, too, and the still-intensifying warmth of the station soaking into the deepest muscles of Garak’s body, relaxing them from years of cold-driven tension, it takes an almost inconceivable strength of will not to hook a claw in that sweat-soaked skant and rend the fabric in two.

“Look.” Bashir pinches the bridge of his nose and then stares determinedly at Garak. “If you climb on my shoulders, you’ll be able to reach it. So let’s just—“

“I hardly think you can carry me, Doctor,” Garak interrupts, holding out his hand. Bashir swats at it and Garak snatches it back quickly. “You’re a bit slight to be holding up someone of my stature.”

“I was very nearly a professional athlete,” Bashir says, puffing out his chest. “I think I can manage. Now—“

“Cardassians are far heavier than Humans, you know this,” Garak interrupts again. “It’s not going to work.”

“Then you can carry me!” Bashir cries out, holding out his arms wide. “I don’t see any ladders, or anything we can climb to reach that handle, so let’s just work together, shall we?”

…

Garak is going insane.

Bashir is sitting on his shoulders, his bare, slick thighs pressing on Garak’s ridges, his long legs braced over his chest and feet hooked around his ribs. Garak has to hold him, to put his bare hands on those bare thighs, so that Bashir can focus on yanking the ridiculous handle in the thrice-damned ceiling, forcing it to turn.

All the while, Garak is surrounded, permeated by the sun-hot scent of him, and his ridges are swollen to the point of aching. He can’t keep his mouth closed, is actively gasping for breath, and his teeth ache to sink into that perfect, shining skin.

“Almost — have it,” Bashir grunts, muscles flexing in his legs and core. Garak is going to devour him. He’s going to swallow him whole.

There’s an abrupt click and Bashir cries out in surprise, then starts to fall backwards, legs only tightening around Garak’s neck. Garak flails backwards, Bashir windmilling his arms wildly, and they crash against the wall, Bashir’s back taking the brunt of it.

His vision is blue. The skirt of the skant, pulled back so that Bashir could straddle him, has fallen over Garak’s head. He’s openly salivating, tongue flicking out and dragging that delicious aroma into his mouth, again and again. His hands are flexing, kneading the heated muscles beneath them.

“I’m so sorry—“

The skant is pulled from his face and Garak blinks at the sudden light, growling under his breath at it. Bashir’s thighs open wider, sliding along his shoulders and rucking the fabric of Garak’s tunic, and his hands land on Garak’s neck, putting intolerably sweet pressure on his ridges.

“Here, just let me—“

Bashir slides down behind him, between his body and the wall — the full, slick, warm length of him — Garak snaps like a dry branch. Mounted, marked, and scented. He’ll give as good as he gets. He’ll give better. Before Bashir’s feet touch the ground Garak has turned around and is on him.

“Wait! Garak!”

Bashir grunts as he’s pushed, nearly thrown onto the ground, mouth opening and head falling back in a display that makes Garak want to scream. His hands come up in supplication, but Garak is beyond reasoning now; he falls on him, pushes that skirt up as high as it can go as he pulls Bashir’s leg up and ruts against him, latches onto Bashir’s pretty throat and sucks.

The smallest part of him, a whisper of terror and doubt, tries to speak up, to point out that this is a bad idea and a worse actualized plan, but it dies an unlamented death when Bashir’s arms clamp down around his back, his chest rises to meet Garak’s, and a throaty moan saturates the air around them. Now his hips rise in clumsy, uncoordinated thrusts, and he grabs Garak’s hair, pulling him up desperately to crush their mouths together.

It’s not enough. The sweet searing heat of him, the encapsulation of this entire bizarre episode, impossible warmth and inescapable wet, all concentrated in this beautiful, hungry mouth — no, it’s not enough. Garak wants what he’s been teased with for an hour or more; he wants Bashir’s legs wrapped around his ridges and Bashir’s cock pulsing on his tongue.

So he pulls back and slides down the man’s writhing body, focusing on removing briefs already soaked in sweat, already scenting of sex, while Bashir curses and begs and completely fails in coordinating his damnably long legs in the effort. But Garak can work with this, will rip the briefs to shreds if he has to, and it isn’t long before he takes Bashir’s cock in his mouth, swallowing him almost completely, so hungry for it he almost chokes.

Sucking, swallowing, stroking him with his tongue. Then he pulls off, and bites the inside of Bashir’s straining thigh so hard he leaves indents in the skin.

The scream that bursts from Bashir’s throat then does nothing to stop the frantic undulations of his hips, the wild and trembling caresses of his hands over Garak’s head and face. Garak takes Bashir in his mouth again and then hums in perfect, eye-closing pleasure as Bashir pets his crest, pressing the soft part of his palm into the center of it.

The humming does it: Bashir grabs his hair and tries to pull him off, garbled nonsense spilling from his lips as he comes. His whole body shakes with it, leaves him sobbing, and then he flops bonelessly to the floor, chest heaving, both hands sliding away from Garak’s buzzing scalp to land silently on either side of his body.

Round one to him, then. Garak smiles, sucking contentedly until Bashir whines and gets strength enough to lift a single hand and push at him, and then he rises to his knees, looking down at this beautifully spent Human who has no idea what it means to push a Cardassian so far.

“Is it still a bit warm for you, my dear?” he asks with clearly faux sympathy, and gives into his desire to rip the skant from collar to hem in one slash of his claws, making Bashir’s entire body jolt in what his shocked, mesmerized expression reveals is arousal and acceptance.

He lets the sides fall, looking over the entirely of Bashir’s slim form, and slides his hands from hips to chest, sweat easing the way. As he pauses over Bashir’s pectorals, gently circling his nipples with the tips of his claws, Bashir grabs both his hands, lips parting in another gasp.

“Let me help you with that,” Garak purrs, and switches his grip so that their hands are clasped, fingers twining, as he leans forward and stretches Bashir’s arms over his head. A lovely little gulping noise leaves Bashir’s throat as he swallows hard, staring at Garak’s mouth, tongue peeking out to touch his lips.

“Oh please fuck me,” Bashir begs suddenly, wriggling under Garak’s hold. The heat in Garak’s blood leaps, becomes brilliantly and briefly incandescent, but he hisses, holding back, leaning close enough to share Bashir’s desperate breaths.

“I don’t think you’ve earned it yet,” he taunts, switching his grip again to hold Bashir’s wrists with one hand. The other he uses to trace Bashir’s collarbone. “I think you’re spoiled, and ought to learn to work for what you want.”

That makes a spark of defiance appear in those pretty dark eyes, and Bashir twists himself, drawing on some unforeseen well of strength to get his legs up and around Garak’s waist, pulling himself up. Garak has to brace his hand on the floor next to Bashir’s head, to keep from collapsing on top of him.

“If we had time, I might,” he hisses back at Garak, grinding his newly hardened cock against Garak’s increasingly swollen pelvic ridge, “but in case you’ve forgotten, we are going to have to report soon. So fuck me, and we can play your game later!”

His arms tense and Garak lets his claws prick Bashir’s delicate skin, warning him to stay still, even as he aches to evert and answer the Human’s demand. But there’s no time left, none at all, because Bashir’s comm, muffled as it is by being tossed indelicately to the floor, is connecting.

“Doctor Bashir, come in. This is Sisko.”

…

 

…

Miles O’Brien, half an hour into yelling at Julian for having sex WITH GARAK while ON DUTY: And another thing! It was too bloody hot for that! You could have been fucked right into heat stroke!

Julian Bashir, Secret Augment: …I’ve been doing hot yoga lately… I’m acclimated…

…

Chapter 2

…

It’s a bit warm yet for a full uniform, but Julian doesn’t really have a choice. He’s not about to stand in front of Captain Sisko, Constable Odo, a fourth of Engineering and any number of Ferengi volunteers — not to mention Miles, having only just returned from the Xhosa — with bite and claw marks visible all up and down his body.

“Temperatures have reached Cardassian presets, and they’re scheduled to keep dropping for the next four hours,” Miles is saying, focusing mostly on his Engineering team. “We’re going to manually test on every level, every quarter hour, and do a thorough code crawl. Anything looks even a bit fatigued by the temperature change, we’re replacing. Any temperature fluctuations, any AT ALL, even just a tenth of a degree warmer or cooler than scheduled, you report it. All right?”

He can feel every bite, every scrape of Garak’s claws like they’re still being made on his skin. Can still feel the pressure of his hands on Julian’s wrists, the rough but compelling texture of his tongue—

“Dismissed,” Sisko orders, and Julian shakes himself. This is not the time or place. Especially not with the Captain approaching him, and Julian desperately hopes that his high collar is hiding what Garak did to him. “Doctor? Are you all right?”

“I think I might’ve pushed a little too hard,” Julian says with a weak grin. “Might need to lay down a bit after hydrating.”

“You’re not helping matters by immediately going back to full uniform,” Sisko points out. “I did say it’s not required until the situation is resolved.”

“Yes, well.” Julian shrugs, and tries not to wince at the pull in his shoulder. “I’m accustomed to wearing my uniform while on duty, sir. I feel a bit naked without it.”

And that isn’t the right thing to say, and he definitely blushes after it, but Sisko only shakes his head a bit and tells him to get some rest, then. Julian’s job here is done for now, anyway, and there may be a guest waiting in his quarters.

And if only he knew what he feels about that!

…

But Garak isn’t there, and Julian takes a moment to slump against a wall and just… breathe.

Because he’d begged Garak to fuck him. Said “please” even. And when Garak told him he hadn’t earned it—

Julian is going to ruin another uniform at this rate.

He moves dazedly to the refresher, dropping bits of said uniform along the way, and shivers at the first touch of lukewarm water. He hadn’t been ready. Of course he already knew what Garak’s scales felt like, generally cool to the touch, and stiffer than skin, somewhat pebbly in texture, except that when aroused—

He’s tracing the mark on his thigh, already almost fully hard. Garak’s scales had gotten plump, separating a bit, warming and becoming disarmingly soft, an even greater contrast to his sharp claws, his teeth. And then the sweet give of his ridges, puffed up and blue, so very blue, dark and distracting, Julian hadn’t even had the chance to bite them, and he wants it so very, very much, so much he’s taken himself in hand and he’s stroking himself just thinking about it.

That, and the warm electric fizz when he pressed his hand against Garak’s crest.

“Fuck,” he says, into the water, and he blushes brilliantly even though he’s alone, because that was a whimper. Julian is whimpering at the thought of touching Garak again, of making him moan, of making him smile like that again around Julian’s cock.

And that’s the one that does it, Julian shudders and leans on the wall, orgasm rolling through him with a bit less hysterical speed than when Garak had sucked it out of him—

“Fuck!” he says again, with more intensity, because the memory makes him shake. He’s not satisfied, not by his own hand. He wants to play Garak’s game, and maybe turn it around on him, make him whimper while Julian sucks him into a pleased and pliant state.

And he’s not here. Julian scowls and steps entirely into the spray, getting to the business of cleaning up. Fine. Garak isn’t here. There aren’t too many places he’s likely to be, and Julian is off-duty, barring some Engineering mishap.

And he doesn’t have to wear a uniform. Surely there’s something else he has that Garak would like to rip off him.

…

Garak is in his own quarters, which is excellent, because that’s the first place Julian thinks to check and even now he’s starting to get cold feet. It’s starting to feel like maybe he should be more cautious, should wait a bit before demanding Garak make good on his threat to edge Julian into sexual oblivion. Maybe he should ask him out to dinner first. Maybe he should negotiate a safe word.

“Doctor, do come in,” Garak invites him, polite and cheerful, and Julian tries to keep his confidence up, because Garak had thrown him on the floor and had his wicked way with him. Right? That wasn’t a just a dream he had; that had actually happened, not even an hour before.

If he brings his hands together to press down on the scratches on his wrist, well, that’s his own business. (They’re still there.)

“I’m sorry you’re still experiencing some disorientation from the heat,” Garak says, ushering him to a small sofa. “Should I get you water? Something else?”

“Disorientation?” Julian repeats, and then sighs and rolls his eyes. “Garak, you made me this outfit.”

“For the Gratitude Festival, not for daily wear,” Garak says primly, and comes back with a glass of springwine. “And I certainly didn’t include a scarf with it.”

“Yes, well,” Julian says, and unwraps the scarf. Garak’s eyes immediately hone in on the bruise flowering on the left side of his throat, the blue in them darkening. “I can’t exactly walk around like this, can I? I’m not sure how to answer any questions I might be asked.”

“Why not simply heal it?” Garak asks, sitting down in the chair opposite.

“Because, nevertheless,” Julian pauses to take a sip of the springwine, lowering his gaze, “I like it.”

The hiss that leaves Garak’s throat has every single hair on the back of his neck standing up, and Julian swallows hard before looking up again. Garak is leaning forward, lips parted, the claws of his left hand digging into the chair arm ever so slightly. His ridges are getting dark again and Julian itches to touch them.

But he has to earn that, right?

“I imagine Cardassians can’t be marked so easily,” he says, looking down again, as if inspecting his glass. “Scales versus skin.”

“Not in all circumstances, it’s true,” Garak answers readily, still with more hiss in his voice than he typically allows. Julian lets his gaze to flicker up, watches Garak tilt his head, trail a claw down one dark blue ridge. “But when engorged, pressure can create a similar inflammation, and leave certain scales tender and swollen.”

Julian draws in a sharp breath and holds it. He could leave those scales tender, leave them aching for days, if he could just get his teeth on them.

“As you can see.” Garak shows the other ridge now, drawing his claw similarly down its line. “I’ve two on this side, and one on the other.”

“You—“ He’s already marked? Julian doesn’t realize he’s put his springwine down and stood until he’s already at Garak’s side, hand hovering over Garak’s neck. But Garak leans back, smiling his most irritating smile, smug and mysterious.

“Don’t act surprised now, Doctor. You aren’t a heavy man, but you certainly aren’t light.”

“I marked you,” Julian breathes, his whole body ringing with the shock of it. He brings a hand to his throat, petting over the bruise. “So this was revenge. And this…”

He splays his other hand over his thigh, his index finger pressing to just the edge of the bite mark there. Garak’s hand joins his, and his thumb presses hard in the center of the mark. Julian chokes back a groan.

“Do you like this one, too?” Garak asks, pulling Julian around to stand in front of him. He grasps Julian firmly by the hips, the tip of his tongue peeking from his open mouth.

“Oh, yes,” Julian gasps, putting his hands over Garak’s. “Can’t decide which one is my favorite, really.”

“Let me complicate the problem,” Garak murmurs, hands sliding up and under Julian’s shirt. Julian’s eyes flutter closed, but—

Just as Garak leans in, tongue flickering over Julian’s bared navel, Julian presses his palm to Garak’s crest once again, sliding his thenar eminence over it, and cradles Garak’s jaw in his other hand, tilting his face up. It’s Garak who moans now, a soft, thready little exhale, eyes closing in pure bliss.

He’s beautiful, ridges dark as midnight, blue spreading from the center of his crest like ink. Julian takes Garak’s face in both hands and presses an open-mouthed kiss to his crest, the gentle electric buzz like carbonation on his tongue, and he lays his tongue flat in the heated depression. Garak’s hands have fallen back to his hips, claws digging through fabric and ripping slowly, and he hisses endlessly, in and out, every breath.

A new, warm and somewhat salty scent fills the air, and Garak squirms. Julian releases him and looks down, tries not to shout or laugh in triumph, because that sudden, tempting bulge in Garak’s lap can only be his penis, everted and aching for Julian’s touch.

“I think I’ve earned it,” he declares.

…

Before Garak can recover, Julian pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere. He pulls Garak up, tugs him to his feet, and kisses him again, smiling all the while.

“Sure of yourself,” Garak mutters, ghosting his claws up Julian’s spine.

“Sure of you,” Julian retorts, and finally, finally bites Garak’s neck ridge. Claws dig into his back then, bright sparks of sensation — he can’t even call it pain, isn’t sure anything would register as pain right now — as Garak snarls and bites back. And everything is hot and sharp and radiant, an aching sort of pleasure that he has to press into with his whole body.

He can feel the swelling Garak was describing in his scales, the heated give of each bruising scale as his blunt teeth worry them. Garak has stopped clawing him, has dropped his hands to Julian’s trousers—

“Oh no, you don’t,” he gasps, breaking free from Garak’s embrace even as the fasteners on said trousers start to part. Ignoring Garak’s affronted gasp, he tugs insistently on the man’s tunic. “It’s my turn. I’ve earned it.”

“So you keep saying.” Garak can’t exactly retreat, not without climbing over the chair, and so Julian is able to poke curiously at the fabric of Garak’s tunic, trying to find a button or zipper or, or anything, really. “It’s layered, Doctor. Stop.”

“Do you think you could call me by name, now that we’ve had sex?” Julian grumps, but he controls himself, choosing to stroke Garak’s hips as he waits impatiently for the man to undress.

“Is that an invitation?” Garak asks blandly, but the minute little pause, the quick dart of his eyes to Julian’s face — oh, this is important. Julian’s heart speeds up just a bit.

“Call it an ardent request,” is what he manages to say. “Please. Call me Julian.”

There’s silence, and Julian curses himself in it, because he always does this. He always asks too much, too soon; he can’t exactly say he knows Garak’s name already, and Garak’s obfuscations make it nearly impossible for him to offer it. And what if he doesn’t want to? What if he didn’t want that invitation, was trying to head it off?

And then he says it. Garak says thoughtfully, slow and meditatively, “Julian.” Like he’s sounding it out. Like he’s tasting it.

Helplessly, Julian sucks in a breath, inadvertently whining. His hands clench hard on Garak’s hip, too hard, with more strength than a Human should normally display, but Garak’s already murmuring “come here” and kissing him again, playing his tricks, nipping at Julian’s lips so that he can push briefs and trousers halfway down Julian’s thighs with a self-satisfied little smirk.

“Sneak,” Julian accuses, and tugs hard enough on the outer layer of Garak’s tunic to stretch threads.

“Take them off,” Garak instructs him, pushing him back just a step and attending to his own clothing. He gives Julian one severe look when Julian hesitates, watching him, and adds, “Don’t make me produce a seam ripper.”

“Didn’t think you needed one,” Julian says smartly, but he strips, remembering at the last second to remove his shoes, not falling over himself at all, or at least not much. He’s in a hurry: Garak is moving with deliberation, care and attention to the removal of his lighter but still complicated getup.

And it remains that Julian is a doctor, the Chief of Medicine on DS9, and he’s seen Garak in several stages of undress before. None of it matters. None of it compares. The shrug of Garak’s shoulders, gilded as they are now in blue, the swell of his chest, the gradual thickening of his ridges until, oh, until —

“Please let me kiss you,” he begs, and Garak’s expression goes from amused confusion to honest surprise as Julian sinks to his knees, putting one hand on Garak’s thigh.

“How do you go so swiftly from impertinent to sweet?” Garak asks him, extracting his leg from his trousers, putting a hand on Julian’s head to keep his balance. Julian can’t fully suppress his laughter as he does, because the offhandedness of it, the simple expedience, is incredibly appealing.

“Sit down and let me suck you,” Julian says, clarifying his demand, and runs his hands down Garak’s legs and over his — Julian is buzzing with delight, squeezing his thighs together in his kneeling position and trying to alleviate the pressure in his cock, because Garak is wearing knee high stockings, beautiful silken things, thin enough that Julian can feel his scales with each greedy sweep of his palms. They thicken at his feet, presumably to offer cushioning and protection for his claws, and at some point Julian is going to get his mouth on those, too.

But first, the indigo jut of his cock, thick and twinned, the two shafts of his hemipenis standing lewdly away from his body. Small spines cluster near the base of each in delicate formation. Julian is salivating. Garak sinks back into the chair, Julian making sure he doesn’t bring his thighs together, shuffling close and boldly taking hold of the root.

“My dear,” Garak begins, soft and still surprised, resting a hand again on Julian’s head — but Julian’s patience is gone. He takes the shaft to the left in his mouth, drawing his closed hand up along the right, and hums in satisfaction as it fills him up, fitting neatly all the way to nudge at his throat as the spines tickle his lips, and swallows.

The sound Garak makes, a vocalized hiss, harsh and obscenely loud to Julian’s ears, drives him to swallow again and again, gagging himself on Garak’s cock until he’s tearing up and Garak’s legs have wrapped around him. He hears Garak’s claws rip the upholstery even as his hand on Julian’s head remains gentle, shakily combing through his hair in tender sweeps.

He holds Garak’s thigh with his left arm, continues to stroke with his right hand, and thinks through the haze of want and need that he could do this forever, for forever and a day.

It’s Garak who can’t, who is trying to pull away, so close to coming that Julian refuses to let him, only allowing himself to be pushed back enough that when Garak does come from the left shaft he doesn’t choke on it, but can let it fill his mouth thick and wet, warm and salty, maybe a little fishy, but not so much that he dislikes it. In fact, Julian doesn’t mind it all, might even like it a bit, but he wants to be sure before he says anything, right? So when the shaft in his mouth finishes he abandons it with a quick kiss to the tip and gets the other in his mouth before Garak can do anything to stop him.

This yields a full, vocal shout, both of Garak’s hands ripping up the upholstery now, and Julian has to press his hand to his own cock, rock up into it, and finally take himself in hand, because Garak’s silk-encased calves are rubbing up and down his back and he’s crying out, thrusting weakly, shaking through bliss and desperate arousal, as Julian sucks and groans and finally, finally, gives Garak everything he deserves, everything he has earned.

And he does like the taste of it, actually.

…

He wakes up abruptly as the computer announces, “O’Brien to Bashir.”

It’s freezing. Julian can see his breath in the still air. There’s a blanket over him and Garak, of course, a few of them actually, and Garak has burrowed half underneath him, completely hidden from sight.

“Bashir here,” Julian says, blinking around the dark room in horror. Garak feels warm enough underneath him, and grumbles when Julian accidentally pokes him in the face, trying to check his temperature.

“I don’t know that you noticed, but the environmental controls are still broken. Sisko wants to know if Garak needs to evacuate.” Miles sounds tired and frustrated, but there’s concern there.

“I mean, we’re, um. We. I have it under control for now?” Julian tries to lift the blankets, to get a glimpse of Garak, and gets a hiss for his trouble.

“Julian.” Miles sounds very suspicious. “Transporters are working. We can beam him to a ship—“

“That would not be advisable at this time,” Julian says firmly. “What’s your estimate on fixing this?”

“Julian, what did you do?”

“The best way to transfer body heat is skin to skin, all right? What do you want me to say?” Julian demands. Garak slithers further underneath his body, nipping at his shoulder.

“You have got to be—“

The comm ends, from Miles’ side. Julian is going to get such a talking to later.

…

 

...
Jadzia Dax, waiting until Miles is done yelling: You weren’t worried he could die in those temperatures?

Julian Bashir: I was more worried he would kill everyone on whatever ship he was transported to naked.

Miles O’Brien, pre Empok Nor, scoffing: He isn’t that scary, Julian.