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Bashir took a sip of his wine, leaned back in his chair, and took in the scene before him, vowing to commit it’s every detail to memory. Garak sat in front of him, discarded plates and glasses pushed aside, studying his face with a faint smile. The dim light cast a shadow over his features that accentuated the ridges on the left side of his face. It struck Bashir that he looked especially content, almost serene. He slid his hand across the table, reaching out for Garak, if only to anchor himself in the moment. Garak looked down and seemingly softened his gaze. He clasped Bashir’s hand with both of his, rubbing small circles into the palm with his thumb. This had been Bashir’s most pleasant birthday in recent memory. It had been a quiet day on the station and he had been able to leave his post slightly sooner than usual. He and Garak had gone straight to Quark’s for an intimate dinner tucked away in a corner of the second floor, away from prying eyes or the bustle of the bar crowd. It had been a quiet dinner, aside from recounting the day's events there wasn’t much of anything new to be said between them. It was a soft and comfortable silence though, and most of what they did have to convey to each other were things that need not be said with words. This, Bashir had come to realize, was Garak’s prefered mode of communication. In this way he could be as transparent as he was capable of, with nothing between them to guard his intentions or manipulate into obfuscation. He had also come to find that Garak was prone to this relatively newfound transparency particularly after a big meal. He theorized that maybe it was the soothing drowsiness that it induced which had this effect.
Bashir enjoyed these moments of unguarded connection between them so much that over the past year or so he had found himself encouraging the circumstances which created them with increasing regularity. So often in fact, that Garak had put on quite a bit of weight. Additionally, they had also made a habit out of rendezvousing in Garak’s quarters after Bashir was done for the day. He’d excuse himself from his post for the night, slip away to the replimat, and show up at Garak’s with a nice dessert or treat. It began as a thoughtful surprise that had evolved into a ritual. The weight gain, though not entirely unexpected, was unintentional at first. Bashir supposed everyone put on a bit of weight when they were newly in love. Cardassians are naturally stocky, afterall. What he hadn’t at all anticipated were the feelings it would spark in him. Beyond the much more open line of communication he had found it formed between them, he also found himself rather enjoying Garak’s new shape. After Garak’s initial small and accidental weight gain, Bashir had realized he was increasingly intoxicated by the pressure of Garak’s soft body on his. He had also come to appreciate the curvature of Garak’s hips and rounding belly, reveling in the feeling of soft and enveloping flesh, so eager to give way to his touch. He soon discovered that he wanted to keep this weight gain going. That it excited him in ways he had never quite experienced before. He had never thought of himself as into that sort of thing, but eventually the midnight treats became more for him than they were for Garak. He knew he shouldn’t enjoy it as much as he did, but he couldn’t help himself. He loved watching Garak gorge himself into a drowsy contentment. He had never felt more connected to anyone than in those moments.
And for Garak’s part, he seemed to enjoy the weight gain almost as much as Bashir. He had all but stopped complaining of the cold. And of course Bashir had always known he had a bit of a sweet tooth, one which hadn’t waned even with all the indulgence. While in a food induced bout of transparency, Garak once confessed to him that their sordid meet ups were the best part of his day. He had told Bashir how he’d spend the better part of the afternoon fantasizing about what kind of dessert Bashir would bring. How it would taste, and how Bashir would touch him as a gentle reward once he was through. The whole affair always left him with the distinct feeling of being worshiped, he had said. He certainly enjoyed watching Bashir squirm at the sight of him caressing his new soft expanse of flesh. Garak did have a small sadistic streak afterall, and he had taken to satisfying it by teasing Bashir in public. He had always thought he was especially cute when he was flustered. He loved to watch Bashir sweat with the effort of containing himself as Garak ate with gluttonous abandon across from him, leaning back in his chair with a deep sigh and resting a comforting hand on his full and heavy belly once he was finished.
And of course, tonight was no different. Even though they were usually careful not to be overly affectionate in public, most people knew of their relationship. And those who didn’t know would as they left Quark’s practically intertwined, drunk and full of lust. Garak, as was increasingly common now, had had far too much in an effort to rile Bashir up. As a result he was moving slower than usual, faintly groaning and sighing with every breath, causing Bashir to be forced to exhibit a great deal of self control while still in the middle of the promenade. He couldn’t even begin to try and keep his hands off of Garak. Bashir felt a vague twinge of guilt at parading his personal life around the station as a senior officer, but it was his birthday after all, surely he was entitled to a bit of irresponsibility on today of all days.
“Doctor,” Garak began, his voice just above a whisper as he looked around amused, “I do believe we’re attracting quite a bit of attention.”
“I don’t care.” Bashir said. It came out low and husky as he briefly butted his forehead against Garak’s temple as they walked, one hand on the small of his back, the other lightly running along the roundest part of his gut. Garak’s eyes widened, then fluttered at the sensation of Bashir’s hot breath on his neck, the scent of springwine and sweat washing over him.
After what seemed like a far longer walk than usual, they were finally in front of Garak’s quarters. They could barely contain themselves on the cusp of privacy, and as soon as the door whoosed closed behind them, they were on each other in a frenzy.
“Julian…” Garak was able to hiss in between fevered and desperate kisses. “My dear, I do believe… I may have overdid it tonight,” Bashir ignored him, breaking their kiss to trace his tongue and teeth down his warm and swollen neck ridges before settling on his chest, sucking and kissing the exposed flesh and scale of his collarbone as low as he could before being cut off by Garak’s neckline. Garak’s stomach, straining his ever tightening shirt, acted as a sort of barrier between them. Bashir didn’t mind however, and kept his hands busy caressing and grabbing at the soft flab, which was now threatening to spill out from the bottom of his shirt. Time to size up, again, Bashir thought, a giddy sense of pride only inflaming his desires.
“Julian, honestly, I have to sit down.” Garak said halfheartedly as his eyes slipped closed, panting even harder than before but still making no real effort to push him away. At this Bashir finally pried himself off, chest heaving in his heightened state of arousal.
There was an intense and predatory look in his eyes that Garak almost never saw, making it all the more exciting to him when he did. Bashir let his hands wander around from Garak’s underbelly to his hips. He gave him a last sloppy kiss on the corner of his open mouth before spinning him around and giving him a light shove toward the couch.
Garak threw himself down with a soft moan of relief, his head still swimming from the wine. He found himself idly cradling his gut, helping to ease the discomfort of his heft. He looked up at Bashir, feeling exceptionally vulnerable and absolutely spent. Vulnerability was not a trait Garak thought suited him, but in certain circumstances he rather welcomed the loss of control and the respite from the curated and tightly held mask that accompanied it. These circumstances seemed to be getting more and more common, however. Bashir stood before him now, appearing almost crazed. A glint behind his eyes suggested a sort of madness and desire was consuming him. His actions being guided by forces beyond his control.
“I do hope you saved room for dessert,” he said in a cool and calculating tone that was jarringly composed considering his appearance.
He crossed the room to the dinner table, never taking his eyes off of Garak, who was absolutely frozen and exposed under his gaze. On the table sat the birthday cake Garak had presented him with before they had departed for the evening. It had been a genuine gesture of love and tenderness that Garak so seldom exhibited in such an unbridled way. And now it sat there as a kind of lascivious threat. Garak groaned at the sight, feeling a new awareness of how full he really was.
“Don’t tell me you made such a pig of yourself that you can’t even share my birthday cake with me.” Bashir said, a smile creeping from his eyes down to his mouth. It was not a kind smile.
“Really Julian, not even in The Order did I experence this kind of torture.” Garak balked, trying to keep his composure and hold on, in vain he knew, to the last vestiges of control he had over this encounter.
Bashir was not dissuaded. He found a fork in a nearby drawer and stuck it into the cake with a barely tempered savagery before crossing the room back to Garak, who had a look in his eyes that Bashir, much to his delight, registered as a mix of distant fear and rising excitement. He said nothing as he mounted Garak’s ample lap and brought a forkful of cake to his lips. Garak, reclined and heavy, was in no condition to protest with any real vigor. The cake hovered there in front of him for a moment, Garak’s breath catching in his throat. He looked it over with trepidation, then to Bashir, who was waiting expectantly, almost vibrating with anticipation. It was clear that ‘no’ was not a viable answer. It is his birthday, afterall, he thought. He looked back to the cake again, resigning himself to submission, like slipping into a warm bath. Finally, he opened his mouth in gentel, tentative obedience, half resenting his compromised position and half reveling in it. Bashir was careful to reign himself in as to not be too forceful, and fed him with a tenderness that was not all together devoid of a clinical undertone. What a wonderful bedside manner, Garak thought.
As the cake touched his lips the sensation that hit him first was a wave of nausea. He closed his eyes in saccharine agony. As he chewed, he couldn’t help but be overtaken by the taste, and soon all other sensations, save for Bashir’s touch, melted away. Another bite was raised to his mouth, and he complied with more eagerness than he thought possible in his current state. A few more bites, and now he was mindless, the only things to exist in his world were the sweetness of the cake and the soothing rubbing of Bashir’s hand on his stomach, which had snaked up under his shirt, exposing his distended and swollen gut. He could tell, somewhere in the back of his mind, just how ready to burst he was, but it didn’t seem to matter. In this state it was a dull throbbing pain that transcended into pleasure.
He hardly realized when Bashir lifted the cake from its place on the couch next to them and handed it over to Garak before dismounting and settling on the floor before him. He only faintly registered that it was now his own hand shoveling the cake in with growing desperation. The only thing he could focus on was the next bite. The need for more. It wasn’t until he felt Bashir tugging at his buried waistband, struggling to get his clinging pants off, that he understood what was happening. He vaguely thought to help Bashir, but he was in a trance. It didn’t even occur to him that putting the cake down was an option. When Bashir finally began to lick and nibble on his chuva he almost choked on the bite of cake in his mouth. He tipped his head back, eyes shut tight, with pleasure assaulting him from all different directions. In one deft motion, Bashir swirled his tongue down to the base of Garak’s prUt, guiding it fully into his mouth, using his lips to massage the irllun. A strangled moan escaped Garak’s lips. When had he even everted, he wondered with as much thought he could devote away from his two dominant sensations. He looked down and to the side so as to see past his gut, eyes wide and mouth still full. Bashir pulled away suddenly.
“You stop and so do I, do you understand?”
Garak nodded back in affirmation, suddenly feeling like a child, and continued chewing, this time with a renewed fervor. Bashir buried himself in Garak’s soft thighs and crotch, licking at the soft folds of flesh and scale as he found his way back down. Garak, in response and through another mouthful of cake, let out a low and guttural moan.
They stayed this way for what simultaneously seemed like forever and just a few minutes. Time was slipping through their consciousness in this state. Bashir, entombed by strong yet flabby thighs, was especially struggling to breath. It was the one aspect of Garak’s weight gain which he was not a fan of, at least initially. But as time wore on, he had come to find that there was something intoxicating about the prospect of suffocating under Garak’s soft expanse. One he had such a large part in creating at that. He had learned that to be able to suck in enough air as to not suffocate he had to create a gap with his hand around Garak’s chuva, caressing it in tandem with his lips. The space his hand created propped Garak’s sagging belly up enough for a small respite of air to come through. It was like breathing through a straw. It was objectively unpleasant, yet he couldn't deny there was a sacred sort of suffering to it. He was able to distract himself from the constant and mildly exhilarating threat of being smothered by focusing on the job at hand, and listening to the greedy moans and soft, desperate whimpers coming from Garak above him. His free hand roaming from the tight flesh and scale at the top of his stomach to the wobbly, excessively soft overhang of fat under it, massaging wide and sweeping circles as he went.
Finally, without anticipating it, Garak had finished the entire cake. He set the empty plate down on the couch, hiccuping softly, his last forkful poised at his lips before he had even finished chewing the one before. He let out a pained groan as he swallowed his last bite, his senses creeping back into his consciousness. He felt himself set the fork down and, subconsciously, his hands gently went to the sides of his aching gut, trying desperately to soothe himself. He was afraid to touch it or even breathe for fear of exacerbating the pain. He could practically feel his skin stretching and his scales flaring open.
His first coherent thought was one of regret for having done so much damage, he wasn’t sure how he was going to manage the prolonged and intense pain that he knew he was in for. His second was a brief pang of shame. It quickly melted away however, evolving and taking shape to form a sick sort of gratifying humiliation. The opportunity to be completely exposed and washed away by impulse was something he hadn’t experienced since his early childhood. It was liberating in a way. Through his pain he realized, in a distant part of his mind, why he enjoyed this act of being fed as much as he had come to. He began to settle into the exquisite mixture of pain and pleasure, allowing the feelings to intermingle and wash over him until they were throbbing their way into the recesses of his consciousness. The sensation was so thorough and all consuming it almost transcended recognition. He was suddenly overcome with a feeling of gratitude for his lover, and he vaguely thought about the wire he had removed from his brain all those years before. He smiled to himself at the thought, marveling at how he could have never anticipated how sweet the pain could be.
He reached down and absentmindedly intertwined his fingers in Bashir’s hair, completely raptured in the rush of his carnal agony. This delicate and languide touch, twinged with palpable, rolling bouts of ecstasy, is what broke Bashir in the end. There was a heavy, dreamy look in Garak’s eyes as Bashir finally released him. It was almost as if he had been drugged. He left a parting kiss on his chuva, causing Garak to shudder, and worked his way up between his legs, suckling on his exposed flab until reaching the expanse of skin pulled so taught there was no give to do so. Instead he began to stroke his bloated and painful belly hard and deep, crawling back onto the couch, laying against his lap, and pressing the side of his face to Garak’s body as he did. This caused Garak to gasp, harsh and sharp. Bashir knew this was an immeasurably sensitive spot, but he also knew it was the fastest way to soothe Garak’s tremendous discomfort. He gave him a few more firm strokes until Garak’s muffled whines were too much for Bashir to bear. He arched himself up and back, cupping Garak’s face in his hand, before closing in for a deep kiss. Garak was completely surrendered, and kissed him back with a greedy hunger that was not at all dissimilar to the kind he had just displayed. He tasted like chocolate birthday cake. Bashir was absolutely overcome at the sight of him. This creature, splayed out and absolutely debased. He thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, incomparable to all the stars and distant planets in the galaxy, even the breathtaking sight of the wormhole couldn’t hold a candle to what was before him now. And it was all his. He held the universe in his arms then. He couldn’t possibly hold himself back any longer.
He broke the kiss to rush Garak out of his top. He complied with the unspoken command as Bashir helped to undo the strained clasp. The fabric fell open, exposing Garak’s chula, as he wriggled his arms out from the constricting sleeves. In an instant Bashir was straddling his lap again, pressing his erection into Garak’s gut. Garak responded by wrapping his arms around his delicate waist and pulling him in closer, the pressure of it causing Garak to moan in heightened discomfort. With one hand wrapped around the back of Garak’s neck to steady himself Bashir hurriedly pulled off his own uniform top, rutting his hips into Garak’s firm belly all the while.
“Take me Elim. I want to feel how heavy you are.” He whispered into Garak’s ear on another shuttering upthrust.
All he got was a ragged and hitching inhalation of breath in response. He knew this would be no small feat for Garak in this state, but he was determined, and for god sakes it was his birthday. He pushed his calves up under Garak’s thick thighs, securing the maneuver by locking his ankles in place. He then slid his arms under Garak’s shoulders and around his back and threw them both back onto the long side of the couch. Garak had braced himself for this and caught himself on his hands and knees. That, however, did not stop his enormous heft from crashing onto Bashir’s thin frame with a solid and heavy whack of skin on skin, knocking the wind out of him. In fact neither of them had taken just how full and heavy Garak currently was into account. He was feeling positively ill. He swallowed hard, fighting back the rising bile in his throat and gasping for breath after the sudden and forceful displacement. He had never felt larger in his life. They stayed still, Garak looming over Bashir, until they had both regained their composure.
“Well, Julian, does that satisfy your curiosity?” Garak finally managed to say between gasps of air. He only received a winded smile in response.
As Garak settled into this new position, still panting hard, he looked down at Bashir’s firm and slender body. His heavy, straining gut was hanging between them, resting gently on his naval, threatening to envelop him. In a moment he would be absolutely pinned under Garak, and now it was his turn to be vulnerable. How easily he could crush him, Garak thought. How easily he could destroy this beautiful boy that lay before him. His beautiful sweet Julian, looking up at him with innocent eyes, clouded only by lust and love. And instead of the urge to abuse or exploit this fragile being under him, Garak was overcome with the need to protect and nurture this sweet thing who was so willingly giving himself over. So eager and so trusting of him. He tried to think of a time in his life where anyone was so giving, so unguarded with him. No relationship had come close. It struck him that he had spent decades of his life trying, and failing, to squash his own sentimentality. It seemed to be a skill he could never quite master. He spent years building walls and barriers within himself to keep those liabilities at bay, afraid to even acknowledge them for fear they’d all come rushing out, never to be put back in place. And this young, hopeful, gentel little soul had come along and torn them all down with an unnerving swiftness.
Bashir slid a hand between them and wriggled out of his pants and underwear, the last vestiges of fabric between them. Before he retracted his hand from its depth, he reached up and under Garak, sliding two fingers into his ajan. At this Garak was ripped from his thoughts, almost going weak and having to catch himself before falling onto Bashir again, this time with less warning. His moan was hoarse and unanticipated. Bashir lingered there for a moment, letting his fingers probe and explore the inside, brushing lightly against the sensitive, ever so slightly flared walls. Garak’s whole body was wracked with involuntary shudders. Finally Bashir retracted his slick fingers before gliding them around his prUt to remoisten it. He had been everted for some time, it was a welcome sensation. Bashir pulled his hand out from between them, clumsily fumbling against Garak’s chuva as he did so, causing one last shudder to course through him.
Bashir now prepared for that task at hand, digging his fingers into the pudgy flesh of Garak’s hips and waist, he scooted lower until their bodies lined up perfectly. He had become accustomed, just as he had with his breathing, to accommodate Garak’s ample size during this type of maneuver. He rolled his weight onto the middle of his back, raising his hips just enough for insertion. He wrapped his legs around Garak for stability and leverage, silently hoping he was balanced enough in his still painfully engorged state that this wouldn’t bring them crashing unceremoniously down. He braced himself for the possibility anyway. The only sign of strain Garak gave was a small grunt. Satisfied that they were stable, he reached down and guided Garak into place, his legs helping to guide his hips to the right angle. Properly positioned now, Garak lowered Bashir’s hips down first, inching up with him as he did so, and waited. His prUt grazed Bashir’s warm, electric skin. Garak bit his lip, his brow ridges coming together at the sensation. Anticipation hadn’t gotten the better of him since he was young, except where Bashir was involved, he thought. Although, he had to admit there was a certain thrill in being so casually disarmed. Bashir pulled the guiding hand back and gingerly held Garak’s soft belly up and out of the gap between them as he did so, clearing a space for him to lower himself prone onto Bashir. He always loved how it wobbled in his hand, bulging out from between his fingers, spilling over. He marveled at how heavy his doughy flab was. And God, he was so soft. He could just die under it, he thought. He tightened his grip with his legs, pulling Garak closer and closing most of the gap between them. They shifted slightly, taking care to arrange their upper bodies in such a way so as not to cause any pinching or discomfort for Garak once they began. It was important for there to be as little space between them as possible. He could feel how full Garak still was, and with his free hand he gently caressed the round mass under the layers of fat. At last, Garak lowered himself the rest of the way onto Bashir, sliding in as he did so. He was careful to be slow and controlled, which at present required a great deal of effort. Everything was now in place, and their breath hitched in unison. They fit together beautifully.
Garak was heavy. With his full weight settled on top of him now, Bashir was finding it difficult to breathe. The pressure was immense, and it was a divine feeling, being absolutely enveloped by this quivering mound of corpulence now spilling over the sides of his frame. He felt safe in ways he didn’t know were possible. Without thinking he grabbed for one of the bulges of fat that was being pushed out from between them. He squeezed and groped at it, feeling the sagging weight in his hand. They were face to face now, and he allowed his legs to loosen from around Garak, shifting them lower on his hips, allowing him a deeper angle. Garak took in a sharp breath as he settled in completely, exhaling slowly, the warm breath dampening the side of Bashir’s cheek. It was an exquisite sensation. Garak wrapped his arms under Bashir's shoulders so as to cradle the back of his neck, buried his face in the warm space between his shoulder and jaw, and began writhing on top of him, deliberately and gently. The head of Bashir’s cock twitched under the soft and cushioned friction as Garak’s chuva flexed itself around his shaft and was pressed down on it under the weight. It took all of his self control to not buck up in reflex, ostensibly destroying their carefully constructed positioning. Instead he began to squirm under Garak, throwing his head back and kissing whatever exposed flesh and scale his mouth could find. He tried to stay in tempo at first, he knew Garak could only go so fast when he was so full. But he couldn’t restrain himself and Bashir began to pick up the pace. Garak was struggling to keep up, and the sweet moans and sighs in Bashir’s ear became more labored and strained. Before long hiccups began to punctuate the uneven breaths. This did not encourage him to slow down, however. A debauched place inside Bashir loved to hear and see and feel him struggle under the weight of his own gluttony. He reveled in it even. He could feel the moisture of his sweat and precum begin to build up between them. He was close, and judging by Garak’s hands frantically clenching and unclenching the back of his neck and shoulders, he was close too. Bashir pulled a roaming hand away from the rounded crests of Garak’s plush, ample sides and hips and grabbed hold of his exposed neck ridges. Garak hissed through a gasp of air, his tightly closed eyes shot open. He craned Garak’s neck so that they were brow to ridge. Bashir looked deep in his wide, bewildered eyes, his own an unflinching mix of violent lust and fervent devotion.
“Tell me you love me.” He demanded. His voice was even but urgent.
“I love you Julian. I love you with my dying breath. I love you through all eternity. I love you with nothing left to give.” He said in a strained voice, his throat tightening. He was only millimeters from Bashir’s face. Garak pulled away and Bashir allowed his grip to loosen, now merely cradling the back of Garak’s neck, encouraging him to lean in close. In one quick motion, he buried his head back down, biting into the velvety skin of Bashir’s warm neck with a little more force than intended. The metallic taste of human blood seeped into his mouth. Bashir could smell it, he could feel it wetting his hair. He jolted, crying out in a mix of surprise and primordial desire. The pain came oozing in, building and coming into focus gradually. It took a moment for him to truly comprehend. His thoughts were a jumbled, disorganized mess, ebbing and flowing like tides. The moment his blood touched Garak’s tongue he felt the shuddering, violent wave of climax crawl up his spine. Bashir could feel the twitch of Garak’s ejaculation swell up inside of him, and soon felt himself fall off the edge of his own pleasure. He spasmed under Garak, being as careful as he could manage to not buck him out. He could feel his own ejaculate spurting out between them, warm and sticky, smearing into their skin as he convulsed. Garak murmured a half spoken word that Bashir couldn’t quite make out through the headrush of orgasm, but he felt the wet pressure of lips pressed to his forehead as the room spun.
Garak went limp on top of him, heaving and wheezing into his bloody neck. Bashir was struggling to catch his breath, he could feel the muted panic of his lungs and ribcage being compressed as his senses slowly returned to him. In his afterglow he couldn’t care less, all he wanted was to feel the soft weight of his lover's body close to his. To feel his deep racking breaths stinging against his wound. He didn’t want to move. He reached up a hand to cradle the back of Garak’s head, gently holding him in his position, clinging onto him as if he were all Bashir needed to breath. After a few minutes of this he really did feel on the verge of passing out. His vision was tunneling and he felt the room begin to spin again. He began to try and squirm out from under Garak, making his first real attempt to breathe. Garak quickly caught on and rolled to the side, pushing him free in one arduous, heavy movement. Bashir took in a great lungful of air as he slipped out from under him, rising to sit on the edge of the couch in a fit of coughing and sputtering on his exhale. Garak, still mostly unable to move, flopped down on his back and looked up at him, putting a steadying hand to Bashir’s back, helping prop him up for the duration of his fit.
“I’m ok,” he managed, settling back onto the cushions beside Garak after some time. “Thank you.” Room on the couch was now limited, so Bashir curled up to Garak, his arm draped over his thick scaly chest. Garak buried his arm under Bashir’s waist, holding him close, equal parts an attempt to keep him from falling off the couch and simply to not leave any space between them. Drying blood was smeared over Garak’s lips, and he idly licked at it, the taste sending a wave of affection through him.
“Well, did you have a good birthday, my dear?” Garak asked, looking over at Bashir knowingly, studying his face up and down in a way that would have been unnerving if Bashir hadn't been so accustomed to him.
Bashir only scoffed, giggled, and shook his head in response. His head was still swimming and he frankly didn’t have the strength or presence of mind to come up with a response.
They laid there for some time, still except for Bashir’s hand, which absentmindedly stroked and prodded at Garak’s chula. Garak hummed softly in response to the stimuli. Utter contentment flowed out of the both of them. Bashir suddenly became aware that he was drenched in various fluids, and that he was now smearing them all over Garak and his couch. He scrunched up his face and looked over to Garak, wondering if he was growing annoyed at lying in their filth but was being too polite to force Bashir up and into the shower. Garak was placidly staring at the ceiling and didn’t seem to mind, however. Bashir laid his head back down.
“I’m sorry about your couch.” He finally said, still somewhat in a haze. Garak only shrugged.
“It was about time to replace it anyhow,” he turned his head to look at Bashir now. “Besides, until I do it can serve as a cherished memento.” He said, widening his eyes as a smile played on his lips. Bashir grinned and looked absently towards the ceiling as Garak continued to watch him. “Your neck looks like it hurts.” He said after a while, much more amused than he ought to be.
“Yes of course it hurts, Elim! You bloody bit me, what do you think!” He said through a fit of giggles. Garak continued to look back at him, eyes sparkling with delight at his false umbrage.
“I am sorry about your neck Julian. I’m, er, not sure what came over me.” He said finally, turning back to the ceiling, clearly pleased with himself.
“Well… I suppose that’s what dermal regenerators are for. Besides, I clearly didn’t mind,” Bashir said, looking up at him so as to see his face without having to move. Garak only moved his eyes to meet his, smiling in an not altogether innocent way. Bashir ran his hand from its position down the protruding expanse of Garak’s body, lightly groping at his softer bits on the way down. “how are you feeling?”
“Oh much better now,” he said, waving his concerns away. A split second later he caught himself. He could never make things easy for anyone, least of all Bashir. He propped himself up suddenly, darting his eyes down at Bashir. “But really Julian, I understand that it’s your birthday but it’s quite unbecoming of a doctor to be so sadistic. I have half a mind to report you to Commander Sisko,” he said with mock disapproval before settling back down. “I do hope you don’t treat all your patients this way.” Bashir chuckled, giving him a light pinch on his soft underbelly before being swatted away.
“Oh believe me I don’t, just the ones I really like.” He replied as he cozied back up to Garak, sleep creeping into his voice.
“Well, how reassuring.” Garak mumbled through a yawn before curling up away from Bashir to face the back of the couch, grabbing a hold of his hip so as to bring his leg over on top of him as he did so. Bashir followed, practically melting into his wide body. He nuzzled his face into Garak’s hair, breathing in their combined scent. He draped an arm around his waist, lightly tracing patterns over the scales that adorned his sides. He felt endlessly, immensely lucky. “The couch is already ruined,” Garak said softly, apparently already on the verge of sleep. “We can deal with all this mess in the morning. Computer, lights off.”