| Author:
Mosca
Pairing: Garak/Picard Rating: NC-17 Feedback: < [email protected] > Disclaimer: Viacom is Borg - that pretty much says it all. Notes: Part of the "Garak Fuh-q Fest" Archiving: ( Cardassian Choir )
***** I. Always start early in the morning, when minds and attitudes are fresh. ***** "Goddammit. Elim. Wake up." "Nnnrrf." Garak rolled over and buried his head under a pillow. "We're due back at the convention center in less than an hour, *Secretary.* And what with the way the transport system on this planet has been breaking down, especially during the morning rush..." Garak let out a deep yawn and untangled himself from the blankets, and in some sort of Obsidian-Order move so swift that Picard didn't feel his feet leave the ground, yanked Picard by the bicep back onto the bed. "Relax, *Admiral.*" He drew a line of kisses like tiny butterflies down Picard's neck. "It's not as if they can start without us." "I suppose not." "You know, we could send a message to your aides," Garak mused. "Tell them we're having a hard time--" he slid a warm hand between Picard's legs, presumably still fascinated with the hydraulic miracle of human erections-- "with some sensitive matters--" he ran the tip of his tongue around the circumference of Picard's nipple-- "and we require a private session." "It sounds like a fine plan," Picard managed to say. "But first, I must attend to a... potential Cardassian eruption before it gets messy." And in a swift move that represented a combination of Klingon moq'bara technique and a trick Picard had learned from a varsity gymnast back at the Academy, he flipped himself over Garak to place his head between Garak's legs, with his own cock dangling in an extremely convenient position over his lover's mouth. Garak's cock had extended almost as far as it could got from the scaly sheath that protected it. Picard had been a bit concerned during their first night together, until the charcoal-colored penis had begun to emerge; by now, this had ceased to impress him as a lesson in Cardassian anatomy, but he was still staggered by the sheer alienness of the delicate shaft, its thin skin as responsive as that of a human woman's clitoris, slick with salty natural lubricant. Now, Picard pushed his mouth over that thick cock, taking it in gradual thrusts till it was pistoning against the back of his throat, working into a mutual rhythm with his lover. Concentrating now on the caress of Garak's tongue against his own prick, the smoothness of Garak's palate as the tip of his own cock rubbed across it. Garak was making some sort of ecstatic wheezing noise through his nose; if his mouth weren't full, Picard knew he'd be screaming all kinds of flowery Cardassian expletives. Garak pushed faster now, hard against Picard's face, and came with such viscous force that Picard hardly needed to think about swallowing. Well, it wasn't a race. His mouth freed, Picard released a litany of moans and fucked Garak's mouth fiercely, that heavy warm breath circling his ass, the rough tongue still running in rococo movements, into the hot light of release, leaving Picard gasping in his lover's lap. "What was that," he asked as his breath slowed, "breakfast?" ***** II. Try to maintain a positive attitude at all times. Treat other delegates, especially those on the opposite side of the negotiating table, as if you are enjoying the time spent with them. ***** Picard's first day on Cardassia was a gray one, but, well, they were all gray days on Cardassia since the Dominion War. Mildly radioactive smog hung over the regions that had survived the Dominion's last-ditch genocide efforts, and it was so thick over the ruined cities that no one was permitted to enter them without protective gear. On the cleaner days, the sun shone halfheartedly through the gray soup of the sky, the result consisting, according to Picard's reckoning, of about 99% glare. On top of this, he had been awake most of the previous night, obsessively reviewing Cardassia's aid requirements and ecological damage, the names of its diplomats, Federation aid policy as it related to formerly hostile worlds, and anything else he could think of to keep himself from sleeping. At 0400, two hours before the computer would have commanded him to greet the morning, Picard gave up on sleep and re-read the collected poems of Akane Takahashi until the computer announced that, despite the field of glittery blackness outside the window, dawn had broken. They landed at eight o'clock ship's time, which, mercifully, was mid-afternoon, local time. At this point, all Picard wanted was a warm bed, preferably not one in a Cardassian hotel, but he would take what he could get. He certainly felt little inclination to spend the balance of the day being herded, along with his seven aides (did he really need *seven*?) from dull reception to duller reception. Worse, the seven aides (to whom, within a Cardassian day, he would have begun to refer mentally as the Dwarves) seemed to enjoy the whirlwind of alien dignitaries. By dinner, Picard was not only exhausted but angry at the whole idea of consciousness. He ate slowly enough to please his hosts, silently, reviewing his behavior over the previous hours to verify that he had not actually growled at anyone. "Admiral, would you like some more kanaar?" It was the first time all evening that the Cardassian Minister of Interplanetary Affairs had spoken to Picard. "No, thank you, I'm quite tired." He forced a smile. "It's quite good, though." "Why, I'm sorry to hear that. That you're too tired to enjoy the kanaar, of course, not that you appreciate its quality." "Well, thank you for your concern." Picard returned to his food, hoping this would be the last of the man until negotiations began the next day. "Has it been a difficult trip?" No luck for Picard. "Oh, no, it was fine. Long, you know, but no trouble." "Worried about the negotiations, then? Because if so, I can assure you that the Cardassian government will do everything it can to ensure that these proceedings run as smoothly as possible." "I'm sure it will," Picard replied. Minister Garak continued the questioning wordlessly, his eyes inquisitive. Rumor claimed that Garak had been a rising star in the Obsidian Order before his well-known exile to the Federation after the fall of the Bajoran occupation; he was certainly a master interrogator of some stripe, the way he leaned over Picard now, clearly not intending to move until Picard offered him a satisfactory answer. Picard relented. "To be honest, I had trouble falling asleep last night. I'm not sure why, it just seems to have been..." "A bad night?" "Exactly." "I ought to leave you alone, then." Picard tried not to nod too enthusiastically. "Well, then." Minister Garak broke all previous records for shortest duration of leaving a person alone. "What do you *really* think of the kanaar?" "I like it. Really. It's quite smooth." Garak's face exploded into a smile. Suddenly, ferociously, Picard wanted to tear that grin off of his face with his mouth, to rip it apart with his tongue. But no, it was not a good time to start fantasizing about sexual acts with the leader of the Cardassian negotiating team. He was probably just too tired to be thinking straight, in any case, he told himself. "I'm glad you're enjoying it, Admiral," Garak said. "It means we're not wasting the best on an ungrateful palate." "Well, thank you, but I'm far from an expert--" "But you know quality when you taste it." "Are you trying to encourage me to have another glass?" "The rest of your entourage has been drinking off-vintage swill for the past four courses. They do not appear to have noticed the difference." "At this point, I doubt they're mentally capable of such discrimination," said Picard. "Indeed," Garak said, refilling Picard's glass. "It seems that they plan to excuse themselves immediately after the meal to sample the nightlife in Tsevalet City." "That doesn't surprise me in the slightest." "Are you planning on joining them?" "Oh, no," Picard laughed. "I plan on going back to the hotel and getting some sleep." Garak's slump of dejection was so dramatic that the Assistant Undersecretary for Federation-Cardassian Relations looked prepared to call in a medical team. "You know," Picard whispered (so as to leave the Assistant Undersecretary out of the conversation), "I'm not certain I'll be able to find my way back on my own." He had no idea what he was doing. Trying to lift Garak's spirits? The last time he'd done something like this, he'd ended up fending off Vash. But he had a good feeling about this that he couldn't shake. It would only be a week or two, and he'd be gone forever; he could make it clear that this would be the end, and it would all be fine. "It would be my pleasure to escort you, Admiral." Garak did not seem to be similarly encumbered with second thoughts. ***** III. Welcome exposure to the culture of the planet you are visiting. Don't be afraid to try new experiences! ***** "That's going to hurt me, Elim." "Come, don't you trust me not to hurt you by now?" "No. For all I know, Cardassians have the most resilient assholes in the galaxy." "For one thing, Jean-Luc, I know for a fact that the Talarian asshole is the most resilient in the galaxy. For another, I've tried it your way twice now, and between my own lubrication and that goo from the tube, it was like wrestling a greased tethka." "Well, I shall hold you responsible if I start bleeding all over your floor." Garak teased one of Picard's nipples with a deft finger. "If I hurt you, you will tell me and I will stop." He kissed the bald crown of Picard's head. "And I will owe you a bottle of kanaar for your trouble." Kiss. "Good." Kiss. "Kanaar." "Deal." Picard pushed Garak back onto the bed so hard that the bedframe groaned. He pulled himself on top of Garak and began caressing the sensitive ridges along the side of Garak's neck. The sensitive scales swelled under his tongue, and Garak groped helplessly at Picard's back. "Oh-- don't-- let me--" Garak gasped. Picard had found that the only way to keep Garak from talking was to fuck him into oblivion, and sometimes even that didn't work. He ignored the protests of altruism and worked his way down to Garak's shoulders, then his thick breastplate, feeling Garak's heart pound with arousal as he stroked those ridges. Finally, he settled on Garak's smooth, scaly sheath. Although Garak's erection reached far out of the sheath already, Picard ignored it, teasing only the scales from which it emerged. He nibbled at that sheath until the lubricant from Garak's cock was running into his mouth. In desperation, Garak scooped off some of the lubricant and slipped his sticky fingers into Picard's ass. Picard bucked at the third finger and moaned, "Just fuck me already." Garak swung Picard's legs over his own shoulders and obliged, putting his slick hands to work stroking Picard's erection. Picard thrashed against him, knowing that Garak was holding back, concentrating on the rhythm of his hands and his cock, waiting for Picard to catch up. It didn't take long. Picard jerked back against Garak with a howl and came into Garak's hands; he hadn't finished when Garak let go the hot warm stream he'd timed so well. Garak rolled unromantically off the bed and headed for the basin, presumably to scrub Picard's cum off his hands before it became inconvenient. "Told you it wouldn't hurt," he said over his shoulder. "Can I still have that bottle of kanaar?" ***** IV. Sharing elements of your own cultural background will help your hosts feel at ease. ***** When Picard arrived in Garak's flat, relieved to be finished sharing dinner with Starfleet's inanest diplomatic entourage, Garak was hunched over a subspace console, looking frustrated. "I must go, I'm afraid," he told the person on the other end when he heard Picard enter. "The Federation ambassador has arrived." Picard waited until the console screen had reverted to its idle mode before drawing Garak up from his chair for a passionate kiss. "I trust you had an enjoyable meal," Garak said when Picard came up for air. "Excruciating." "If it makes you feel any better, Jean-Luc, I haven't been able to spend a quiet evening at home, myself." "What happened?" "I've been asked to stand for prime minister." "Why, you ought to be honored!" "I am honored, believe me. I'm also entirely wrong for the job." "How so? You've clearly got the support of your people, you've got a great deal of experience in dealing with other races..." "You've read the play _Julius Caesar_, haven't you? The one by-- oh, after seven years on a Federation space station one would have thought I would have learned how to pronounce it correctly..." "Shakespeare. Yes. I thought you said you didn't like any of his work." "I liked this one. All the intrigue and noble sacrifice. It's quite Cardassian." "And what does this have to do with the fact that you can't be prime minister of Cardassia?" "The two heroes of the play assassinate their leader for the good of the state," Garak explained, "only to be overtaken by Mark Antony, who says what the people want to hear, rather than what they need to hear. A prime minister needs to be that way: he must project charisma and stability, while his advisers and his ministers do the unpleasant work of the state. Brutus was a successful and respected man until he decided to step out from behind the curtain and speak before the mob. Now, I make no claims to having Brutus's honesty, nor his nobility, but I will make every claim to his idealism. I persist in my dreams of saving Cardassia, and that, my dear, is why I cannot lead her. I would make one dangerous pronouncement, and the mob would have my head." "I was always fondest of Brutus, myself. Fighting the good fight against whomever was convenient. Starfleet Command refused to promote me to admiral for over ten years because they were terrified I'd make a stink about something, demand actual change to a system that has gone soft, and they'd have to deal with the embarrassment of dissent. Finally they gave up and pushed me into diplomacy." He chuckled. "I would have turned down a desk promotion, anyway. Too difficult to tilt at windmills from there." "Windmills?" "Your doctor friend on Deep Space Nine never made you read _Don Quixote_?" "Apparently not." "Ah, well, it's probably for the better. You wouldn't have liked it. Too sentimental." "The windmills some sort of metaphor for futility?" "Yes." Picard kissed the spoon-shaped ridge on Garak's forehead. "Like this. Like us. I can fuck you and fuck you, but you will still belong to Cardassia." "Who knows?" Garak said, pulling his arms around Picard's shoulder blades. "Perhaps you just haven't fucked me enough yet." "Well, we shall never know, because tomorrow I will get back on the U.S.S. Sarek with my Seven Dwarves and belong to the galaxy." He luxuriated in another kiss, trying to remember every aspect of that tongue, those lips. "At least you've got a sense of perspective. You're just trying to save a planet. I insist on the whole damn universe." "Someone's got to hold it together, I suppose." Picard sighed. "You know, I haven't had a good night's sleep since I've been here? You've kept me awake for seventeen nights." "Oh, and I had such plans for our last night. We've got to celebrate. After all, we've negotiated a very important aid agreement." "I didn't mean to say I expected to sleep tonight. Oh, no." "Good. Because I'll let the universe have you tomorrow, but tonight you belong to me." "Hmm. I thought *you* belonged to *me*." "Well, you can have me if I can find that tube of gunk you seem to need to use to keep from tearing my insides apart." He fumbled a hand across the nightstand. "Here you go." Picard began to suck on a neck ridge. "Here's to successful aid negotiations," he paused to say. "And eighteen sleepless nights. If I may add something." Picard caressed the cheeks of his lover's ass, feeling the now-familiar sensation of Garak's cock sliding out against his own belly. "I'll fuck to that," Picard said. END [ main page || basics || pairings || list || tales || disclaimer || links ] |