Received: from [66.218.66.30] by n44.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:52:26 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 24837 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:52:26 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.167) by m24.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:52:26 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta6.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:52:25 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3qEfP031755 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:52:14 -0500 Message-ID: <003801c43642$3da6cea0$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:52:39 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 5/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 5/12) ------------------------------------------- "So there's nothing you can do?" O'Brien sighed and rubbed his tired, itching eyes. He hated hearing that note of dejection and carefully concealed disappointment in Julian's voice. "Nothing, really. The implant emits a quasi-stable distortion field that adapts to whatever sensors we try to scan it with. If I can't see the insides, I can't turn it off." "And we don't know what turning it off would do to Delemek," Bashir said, interpreting between the lines. "Well, I guess that's it. I'm going to release him this afternoon, if nothing new crops up." "It doesn't seem to do him that much harm in general, though. Better let sleeping dogs lie, Julian." O'Brien glanced at Serka. "So it's voice activated?" Bashir nodded and tapped the analysis screen with a long, slender finger. "Garak's voice, specifically." O'Brien frowned. "That's odd...have you figured out what the connection is?" he asked, looking at Serka more closely. The Cardassian was deep in hushed conversation with his young companion, both seated on the biobed with their foreheads almost touching. A father and a son? Brothers? Comrades in arms? O'Brien couldn't quite puzzle out their connection. "Judging from the scarring on the hypothalamus and brainstem where the implant attaches, I would say this device has been in his head for years, if not decades," Bashir said. The tone of professional objectivity he was obviously striving for didn't sound quite genuine to O'Brien's ears. "I think it dates back to the time Garak was working for the Obsidian Order." "Wait, I thought he was a gardener on Romulus?" O'Brien said and shared a sarcastic glance with Bashir. "So it's a torture device?" Bashir grimaced. "More like a restraint device." He paused for a moment and when O'Brien glanced at him, he saw how unfocused his eyes were. "But there's more to this than meets the eye. There's a personal connection between Serka and Garak. I'd bet my reputation on it." O'Brien scrutinised his friend, taking in the firm set of his jaw and the glint of the hunt for information that always appeared in his eyes when he was this way -- Julian, the enemy of enigmas. "What're you thinking?" "I'm thinking there are sides to Garak I haven't seen before. Things I need to find out to unravel this puzzle," he said, nodding towards Serka. "Are you absolutely sure you want to learn some of those things?" Bashir turned to him, frowning again. "What do you mean, Miles?" O'Brien thought the question for a moment. What indeed was he protecting his friend from? The truth? Perhaps. To O'Brien the problem was that he'd met men like Garak before, mostly during his time as a crewman on the Rutledge. They were men for whom the taking or sparing of a life was no more complicated a decision than deciding on what to have for lunch. There was that moment of calm consideration regarding needs and possible preferences, followed by a cool-headed decision and swift, sure action. A lifeless body; plomeek soup with extra cumin. The truth about such people, the darker shades of grey in their world that ran the gamut of shades, could be a dangerous weapon. O'Brien wasn't sure his friend's still optimistic, somewhat rose-tinted view of people could handle the full truth about Garak, and while he personally might not like Garak, but the worldly, wordy tailor was obviously a person of great importance in Bashir's life. Why, O'Brien didn't know, and it really didn't matter, because all he cared about was Julian's well-being. It wouldn't do to have the rest of his noble illusions about the base nature of humanity -- alien or not -- shattered. "I just don't want you to get hurt, Julian," O'Brien finally said, deciding to go for the oblique in the interests of staying as neutral as possible. Bashir frowned, obviously not grasping what he was saying. "Hurt? Miles, why would I--" He was interrupted by the comm as it chirped. "Quark to Bashir," came Quark's voice from his combadge. "Bashir here." "I've got your merchandise waiting, doctor." "Quark, you devil of a Ferengi," Bashir exclaimed and stood up so quickly O'Brien wondered how he didn't pass out because of it. "I'll be right there. Bashir out." The comm channel broke with a chirp. "What merchandise?" O'Brien asked, narrowing his eyes. Doing business with Quark was something Bashir rarely did, holosuites and dartboards notwithstanding. "My missing puzzle pieces, Miles," Bashir replied, his smile fairly beaming. "Please excuse me." With that, Bashir rushed out, leaving O'Brien standing in his wake, his toolbox in hand and a look of confusion on his face. "Be careful, Julian," he muttered to the empty infirmary. "Be very careful." * * * * * * * * * * The infirmary was quiet at the hour of the wolf save for the steady hum of the machinery around him and the slight rasp of his breathing. There were no patients to tend to, no-one to distract him during the hours since he'd released Delemek Serka to Thuli's gentle, doting care. "Computer, pause output." Bashir raked a slightly shaky hand through his hair and blinked. His eyes felt like someone had poured sand into them -- the not entirely unexpected result of quiet hours spent staring at his computer screen. It had been... "Educational," Bashir said out loud, tasting the word and the roughness of his own voice. No, educational didn't even begin to cover it. Quark had come through that very afternoon and he'd been speed-reading through the files as if they were pornography, constantly glancing over his shoulder and hoping he wouldn't be interrupted until he was done. And he wouldn't be done for a long time unless he tried a more organised approach to the mountain of data. "Computer. Search files for Lower Sixth." After a pregnant pause, the computer replied in its pleasant tones, "No matches found." Bashir frowned. "None?" "Affirmative." Surprised but not defeated, he plowed on. "In that case, search files for *ha'kem*." "3,602 references to *ha'kem* found." "Well, now," Bashir crooned, surprised and delighted at the large number. "Classify references, order by decreasing frequency." "2,158 references in Cardassian literature indices. 819 in medical texts. 214 in cultural anthropology texts. 122 in..." "Halt," he groaned, pressing his knuckles into his aching eyes. "I get it, I get it." While he found it curious there was no mention of the Lower Sixth that Garak had referred to, it also made sense in the context of taboos -- after all, they were the unwritten rules of any society, and thus unlikely to be referred to in print. *Ha'kem*, however, was a concept as commonplace as marriage or war in the small amount of material he'd gone through. It was the subject of copious poetry, research, and doctrine and as it stood, it seemed homosexuality was, if not universally approved, all but institutionalised in Cardassian society. Now, what Bashir found curious was that he'd never come across the term before in all the Cardassian literature he had read during the years he'd been acquainted with Garak. He could think of two reasons for it: either Garak abhorred the practice, or it was a subject he'd not wanted to discuss for whatever personal reasons he had...and Bashir had an inkling Delemek Serka had something to with those personal reasons. Both options raised some uncomfortable questions. "So, Garak," Bashir muttered into the semi-darkness of the Infirmary. "Are you homophobic or just being your usual secretive self?" He added the question to his mental list of questions he'd like answered, but this time, the reasons were almost too personal to say out loud. Bashir pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Obscene, his desires were. His cock disagreed cheerfully and to his consternation, Bashir found himself hardening as he thought back to the texts of Cardassian sexuality he'd plowed through. Endless erogenous zones. Rituals almost Tantric in nature. Pheromones. The taste of Cardassian semen, the shape of Cardassian breasts. *Rak'tal*. Flirtation through argumentation. Ridges. Scales. Positions that defied anatomy and gravity. On and on and on. The texts had been clinical in nature yet Bashir had found himself lingering over them, learning pressure points and the right words and things that made him blush even as he felt his cock throb in anticipation. He groaned. Apart from the occasional dalliance to the male side of the equation, he tended to like them perky, female, and harmless. When did his dick start to like them dark, vaguely sinister, and smooth-talking -- not to mention alien, somewhat reptilian, and the farthest thing from harmless he could think of? "And that's the problem, isn't it, Jules?" His words seemed strangely loud in the quiet space, even though he'd whispered them only to himself, much like the secret he was now forced to admit to himself. He didn't want just any Cardassian. He wanted Garak. At that, Bashir mumbled expletives, embarrassed beyond belief but also relieved. It was a truth he'd avoided for years, stumbling across it at the most unexpected moments -- over lunch with Garak sitting across from him, alone in his quarters during idle moments of masturbation, as he passed by Garak's shop and overheard his sing-song voice discussing alterations with a customer -- and always wanting to avoid it like the coward that he was. For five years he'd tried to solve the Garak enigma, and in the process, had fallen under his spell. "I want Garak," he said out loud, testing the words and finding them acutely uncomfortable, yet infinitely true. But why? He couldn't quite figure out what it was that was so attractive about Garak. By human aesthetic standards, Cardassians were an angular, predatory race that still held on to so many qualities of their reptilian ancestors -- scales, ridges, cold-blooded physiology -- but of course, it was unfair to judge them with such Human bias. Garak was an individual and deserved to be regarded as such. Maybe it was the full pout of his lips, a shape so in contrast with the hard, sharp angles of his face. Or perhaps it was the way light hit him, hiding his eyes under the browridges and bringing out the texture of his skin -- slick and so smooth it was like silk. Bashir wondered where the scales ended, whether they tapered off or meandered down his back only to stop abruptly at an unknown point? Would his very human hands be cold, or warm? Would they be rough or gentle, clever as they were in coaxing secrets out of people as well as conjuring up fashion from fabric? The hands of a torturer were surely skilled in all types of art. Desire scaled down Bashir's spine at that thought, warm with embarrassment and his unabashed lust for such knowledge. He imagined Garak as he'd last seen him when he'd come back that evening for a follow-up call on his forehead cut. He'd seated himself in one of the visitor chairs and smiled with that familiar, cruel twist to his mouth that made Bashir uncomfortable when sober and gave him pleasant shivers when drunk. It was not the smile of a kind man, or really a smile at all, but it still managed to make him absolutely weak in the knees every single time. Under the deep shadows of Garak's brows, there had been nothing but the reflection of light and his voice had been a quiet caress, urbane and rich. They'd talked, but for the life of him, Bashir couldn't recall the exact topic because there was something quite unsettling about anyone who maintained unblinking eye contact when conversing. It was flattering, too, in its own way, to so feel as the centre of the universe for that person, in that moment. There was more pain than pleasure in his groin now, his pants uncomfortably tight as they both confined and stimulated his erection, his senses overloaded and needing, wanting, begging to have release. Bashir held his breath, fearing that if he let go of it, he'd not get another. There were things he wanted to do to Garak, all those obscene things. He'd like to tilt that damn cool, Cardassian equilibrium just a little, ruin the neat perfection of his hair, make Garak lose that which he treasured most: control. He would make the economy of Garak's body and moves disappear into shivers of uncontrollable delight, make him scream out his need in that sonorous, rich tenor of his. He wondered how the pheromones would affect him, how Garak's sharp tongue would feel on his skin, and how a Cardassian cock, scales and all, would feel in his mouth. At that thought, Bashir finally exhaled, the sound almost as violent as his relief was. "Oh god," he hissed, trying to force out the thoughts that so turned him on. He found himself failing. Placing a hand over his throbbing erection, now making quite an unseemly bulge in his uniform pants, he groaned in suppressed need. This wasn't just curiosity that needed to be satisfied, no -- it went far beyond that. This was intrigue, pure want, a need to touch and be touched...to love and be loved. The chafe of his clothes over the sensitised skin of his aching hardness was pure torture and so he unzipped his pants to let his cock out, sighing in relief when the pressure eased. In the end, it took him no time at all. The mere touch of his hand on his rock-hard erection, combined with the thought of it being Garak's hand, was enough to bring him into a shuddering, breathless orgasm that clouded his vision with stars. He came all over his work console, biting his lower lip to blood so that he wouldn't cry out Garak's name in his release. Breathing in great, open-mouthed gulps, Bashir leaned with one hand against his desk and touched his hot semen now coating the glossy, black screen of the console. His heart was racing and the flush he felt on his cheeks came as much from his arousal as it did from confusion. "I'm so fucked," he whispered into the quiet infirmary and his only answer was the hum of the station power grid, agreeing with him. He needed to talk to Garak. Immediately, before he could talk himself out of it. ------------------------------- End of part 5/12. [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] ------------------------ Yahoo! Groups Sponsor ---------------------~--> Make a clean sweep of pop-up ads. Yahoo! Companion Toolbar. Now with Pop-Up Blocker. Get it for free! http://us.click.yahoo.com/L5YrjA/eSIIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? 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