Chapter Text
Umblemished
By knivesandteeth
Title image by Runavik
While Dr Julian Bashir was by no means what you would call “chaste”, even Julian had to admit this was getting excessive.
It had started as restlessness.
At the best of times, Julian was restless. His nurses had always joked that he was always in motion – constantly tapping or fidgeting, even while researching, giving verbal orders while writing up different orders, swanning about the infirmary if he felt particularly fretful. It was one of the things that Chief O’Brien had disliked most about him when they first met. It was something his parents had never been able to program out, despite their best efforts.
So, to feel particularly restless, was not very notable. Especially with the recent stress of the internment camp and his “outing”. Councillor Trelnorri had said that some anxiety was to be expected, if his psychological profile was to be believed. There had been a troubled, judgmental tone to his voice when he said it, a distant fear in his eyes. As though this deception meant he’d been deceiving them in all other areas.
It had started around then. When it started, he’d struggled to sit down. He’d struggled to concentrate on the minutiae of write-ups. He’d taken to pacing. So, he’d turned his sizable intellect into the crutch that he’d relied on his entire life. He’d done his write-ups as he paced. He’d stopped hiding his reading speed and flipped through pages as they loaded – reading them in an instant, relieved to be finally free of the stress of hiding his comprehension speed. He’d messaged Chief O’Brien to ask if he was up for a racquet ball game and a drink after shift.
He'd been relieved when O’Brien said yes.
When they’d made their way down to the bar, panting and red-faced, Bashir was not ashamed to say that he’d not been gentle with the Chief. O’Brien looked like he’d run the gamut but there was a self-satisfaction, beneath his ruddy tone, that spoke to pride for keeping up. They stank of sweat, despite having wiped down their limbs. Bashir had felt euphoria buoying him up, endorphins flooding his system in response to the exercise.
The temperature of the promenade was turned down as the station entered its nighttime cycle. The cold bit into the exposed skin of Bashir’s legs – having finally traded out his “offensive” tennis jumpsuit after Garak had finally taken him aside and questioned his sanity. It felt strange to have so much flesh on display, after having spent so long hiding it. The gazes of the crowd, that lingered on his long legs, were not unwelcome though. It made him feel present beneath his skin in manner that had been lacking recently.
The nighttime crowd at Quark’s hit like a wave as they entered. The noise, the smells and crush; an assault on the senses as they fought their way to the bar. Sharp elbows, sharp clothes and cloth-softened exoskeletons bit into Bashir’s unarmoured sides as they made their way forward.
“I think I see a free table on the second level!” Miles shouted above the din, “Get us a whiskey and I’ll go nab it!”
Bashir looked back and Miles was gone, already fighting his way up the staircase. The roar surrounded Bashir on all sides and he had nowhere to go but forward. So, forward he went and found himself even more jostled for the struggle. He used his lithe frame to press between the bodies like a wedge and soon found himself staring down at a harried looking Ferengi Bartender.
“A double-shot of whiskey and a beer!” He shouted down.
The unfamiliar face nodded acknowledgement and reached for the chip machine. He pressed it forward into Bashir’s face but, before Bashir could react, a green hand reached into his field of vision and pressed their thumb down onto the print reader. The machine beeped acknowledgement.
“It’s on me,” said a deep baritone in Bashir’s ear.
He turned to find an Orion man beside him. He was pressed in close enough for his breath to brush Bashir’s lips and the scent of cheap liquor hung on it. His teeth shone white beneath the flashing bar lights. He was handsome, in a rugged, wild sort of way. Bashir felt something clench in his gut and his pulse rush downward. The restless feeling surged up and his mind filled with a myriad of images. He wondered whether the man’s mouth would taste like alcohol.
He smiled loosely back, “Thanks.”
The Orion man pressed impossibly closer, “Anything for an ass like that.”
Bashir felt his face heat and, inwardly, knew he should chide the objectification, “Does that line usually work?”
The Orion’s smile broadened, “Depends on if the guy’s interested.”
“I’m here with a friend.”
The man brought his hand up to trace the underside of Bashir’s forearm, “Just a friend?”
Gooseflesh shivered up his limbs and he clamped down on a rabid urge to press the man against the bar, to learn the taste of the man’s mouth. The heat of the man’s blue eyes burned into his. He nodded.
The Orion man nodded back, his smile unwavering, “Well, if your friend feels like having an early night, I’ll be here.”
Bashir nodded, dry mouthed.
He’d had too much to drink.
His augmented metabolism meant it took a lot to have too much to drink. Matching the Chief drink for drink was enough to get even an experienced alcoholic tipsy. They were more than a score of drinks deep and he’d had to quickly switch to whisky early on to save himself a lot of hassle getting to the overcrowded bar bathroom. He was pointedly ignoring his mind’s urge to actually calculate the amount of alcohol he’d consumed, to calculate the absorption rate, to calculate the rate excretion based on his eGFR, to count the blood alcohol concentration as it ticked up then down.
It was two hours later and the bar was still crowded. The intoxication had blurred the racket and blinding light; softening it. The movement of the crowd was at the edge of his awareness, there but no longer bothersome. His head felt heavy on his neck and his limbs sluggish. His cheeks ached from smiling.
This was when O’Brien, finally, sighed, “Sorry, mate. I should be getting to bed, got an early shift tomorrow.”
The same restless burned bright beneath his skin and something skin-hungry pushed its way beyond. He gave Miles a rough one-armed hug, “Need me to help carry you home?”
Miles laughed the way he did when was trying to not let discomfort show, “I think Keiko might murder me if I let you and your singing anywhere near our quarters. Can tell your parents didn’t get that augmented.”
Bashir felt something twist in his gut at the mention of his augmentations and he kept his grin plastered on his face to hide the burst of shame. He scoffed good-naturedly and gave O’Brien a shove towards the upper promenade door. He watched O’Brien stumble out into the night and then took out a personal pad to send a message to infirmary group chat; asking them to have an anti-emetic and analgesic ready for O’Brien in the morning.
Jabara responded with the Bajoran pictorgram for ‘Ok’ almost instantaneously. He grinned down at the response, feeling her exasperated fondness. Even in this though, the agitation remained. The shame from having his augmentations mentioned, so casually, still clung to his form like a scratchy woolen coat. He felt his fingers twitch and begin to tap a random pattern on the table.
He turned to the bar.
It was still as crowded as before. Dabo vendors and passing traders and crewmen intermingled beneath flashing lights and amid chrome. Their forms clashing off each other forming a distinct emulsion. People laughed and cried and loudly yelled conversation to each other, forcing others to increase their own volume to compete. The chaos of it all seemed to blur in his intoxication – the commotion of it all softened from the usually overstimulating roar.
He smiled down.
Then, a handsome, green face smiled up at him from the bar.
Contrary to popular opinion, Bashir did not “hookup” nearly as much as Jadzia and O’Brien liked to tease him about. It was not for lack of trying. Skinny and wordy just wasn’t exactly everyone’s type. So, he usually settled for what he could get. Right now, said “what” was a burly Orion man dragging him by intertwined fingers towards the bathroom.
The world around him was spinning. His augmented coordination could only barely keep his feet beneath him and it was only his ability to manually suppress serotonin production keeping his nausea at bay. The flashing lights of Quark’s blurred as they pressed through the crowd. People smiled knowingly at them as they passed.
This was a terrible idea.
The man pulled him into the familiar bathroom: a dimly-lit, narrow room with a squat toilet, a sink and wide counter space. The room was covered in the familiar decades-old graffiti, that even phaser-cleaners couldn’t budge. It stank of guano, urea and ammonia. Usually, he struggled with the smell, the riotous stimulation – now the smell set bile rising in his throat. Public toilets were disgusting wherever you went.
Quark would still charge for them, if they’d let him.
Then the Orion man was kissing him. He found himself pressed hard against the counter, the cool metal biting into the exposed flesh of his thighs. The man’s hands roamed, sliding beneath his shirt and up overheated skin. Julian moaned against an invading tongue as the room span around him. He clumsily brought his hands up to pull the man closer. Then those roving hands were clutching the back of his thighs – tipping them up, seating him on the bench and giving the Orion ample space to crowd between his legs. Julian whimpered prettily as his liquor-soften dick pressed hard against the other man’s erection.
The man pulled back. His heavy head tipped back. The blurring, overhead lights came into view above him, hypnotizing. A hand tangled with his sweaty hair, yanking his head back further. The man’s hand slipped between them to palm his soft cock.
“Stars, you’re such a slut,” the man growled into his ear, “Can’t even get hard and just begging for it.”
Julian clenched his thighs around the man’s hips. The rough handling of his manhood sending sparks up his spine. The man’s other hand left his hair to clench around his throat. The room spun around him. His vision tunneled.
The man pressed his lips against Bashir’s gasping mouth, as his lips began to tingle. The hand below roughly yanked his shorts down, pushed his shirt up. Dry fingers kneaded into his twitching hole. Pain registered as a gentle gasp.
In a very far away place, Bashir knew that this wasn’t exactly a great situation. That most men didn’t let themselves get molested and assaulted by strangers in bar bathrooms. That, if he were to witness this treatment foisted onto another individual, he would intervene – he would object. That place was a very far away place.
In the more immediate space of his oxygen deprived brain, was the heady relief of touch. The relief of inhabiting his skin, of being wanted however that looked. The relief of this man looking at him and not seeing a monster, even if all he was seeing was a useful object for sexual gratification. So, he let the man touch his fill as he floated in hypoxia, that dark tunnel closing in around him. He let the man pressed the fleshy appendage of an Orion phallus inside him. Let it pulse against his prostate until…
His vision, finally, went dark.
Reality crashed back, slamming into him bodily. His entire form shaking with sensation: clammy hands gripping his thighs, animalian grunting by his ear, something hot and hard filling him. His flesh felt hypersensitized; fire ran beneath his skin. His head hung heavy on the man’s shoulder as he whispered things into Julian’s ear.
“Fucking slut,” the man grunted, “Bet that hole’s seen more action that this fucking dumper.”
It was a stupid thing to do, but between the hypoxia and the adrenalin, he couldn’t help it. It was such an absurd thing to say. He laughed. A soft, muffled giggle that quickly turned hysterical. Silent tears rolled down his face and into the man’s shirt.
Thankfully, the man was too caught up to notice his laughter.
Finally, the man’s moans reached a frenzied pitch. His body shuddered against Julian’s. Against his hole, Julian felt the man’s phallic sphincter clench and sever the man’s endophallus – shooting his penal bulb and ejaculate deep inside Julian. Julian shuddered against the alien sensation. Internally, he sighed – resigning himself to sneaking into the infirmary to use the medical transporter.
The man pulled back shakily. He pressed a soft kiss to Julian’s lips, as he fumbled with his pants.
“Thanks.”
Then, Julian was alone in the tiny room. His pants around his ankles, a shirt smeared with star’s know what and an endophallus lodged in his sigmoid colon.
Alone with his dissatisfaction, self-loathing and that same wretched agitation.
That was how it started.
He was back the next night. Then the next. And the next. Again and again.
He knew he should stop. He knew this wasn’t healthy but, every night, he’d go back to his quarters. He’d sit alone in the quiet and the desperate hunger would gnaw at his hindbrain. A starving itch that ate into his mind until it was so all-consuming that it filled him from tip to toe. It was inescapable.
He’d scan himself, alone in his quarters. Tricorder scans indicated heightened endorphin and hormone levels. The levels similar to any number of species’ estrus cycles. He was too frightened to more in-depth scans in the infirmary – aware of how tenuously his commission had been saved. He didn’t know how far the acceptance of the “augment” would stretch. He didn’t know who to trust. There was nothing in the scans to indicate significant pathology anyway. Why bother?
So, he’d go to Quark’s. He’d drink until he couldn’t stand straight, until he didn’t notice the way people stared at him now. He’d gaze hungrily across the bar, looking to catch the eyeline of anyone who didn’t stare at him with fear and contempt.
First, he’d take anyone that offered.
Then, he’d offer it to anyone.
He’d use his augmentations to keep himself hard when biology failed him. He always made sure the other party left satisfied. It scratched the itch but never satisfied. Days became weeks. He lost track of the days. He lost track of the faces.
Another night, another drink. He was three whiskeys in. He barely felt it. He wasn’t really drunk enough to justify his current situation.
The situation being: stripped naked in Quark’s bathroom’s (again), bent over the sink being fucked by a rough, handsy Klingon, and bored out of his mind. The desperation rolled beneath his skin like a second pulse and this was barely touching it now. He was hard as a rock. He wasn’t even particularly attracted to the man – he was just warm and willing and there.
The man slurred something in his ear, too unintelligible for the universal translator to pick up. It didn’t seem particularly important to the encounter though considering the man gave two rough thrusts afterwards, groaned deeply and sagged against Julian.
Dissatisfaction bit into him. He swallowed it. He dropped his blood pressure to kill his erection – a trick he’d been pulling increasingly at work. His head spun in response.
“Qatlho’” the Klingon man grunted in his ear, as he slid his flaccid members out of Bashir’s overstretched hole and gave him a congratulatory smack on his rear.
Bashir shivered at the sensation. He affixed a friendly smile to his face and spun to face the man. He pressed a long indulgent kiss to the man’s fanged mouth. The man’s squeezed his flanks appreciatively.
Then he was gone – scrambling for his clothes as he went, leaving Bashir naked and unfinished. The Doctor sat slumped against the bench. He pondered his next move: it was still early, he had plenty of time to get drunk enough to forget the hunger burning beneath his skin. Something in him rebelled against it but to change course was to condemn himself to a sleepless night with equal amounts of dissatisfaction.
A knock sounded on the door.
He sighed: time to face the world, “Just a minute.”
He took another deep, steadying breath and turned to face the sink. He began to wash his hands free of bodily fluids and he felt cum fight to drip from his overtaxed hole. The water was cool and calming on his overheated skin, a balm as he splashed it up into his face. He was sobering up.
The knock sounded again, louder.
“Just. A. Minute,” He snapped through the door.
Then the door slid open.
He scrambled to bring his pants up. As he leant down, he swayed from the intentional hypotension. His vision whited out for a moment. He frantically kept his manhood covered as he fought his way back to himself. His mind spun as seconds became an endless eternity and he returned to himself. The cool station air bit into his exposed flesh. Finally, his vision righted itself and his mind comprehended.
Garak sat at the open door, his expression blank and eyes impassive.
His, still reeling, mind screeched to a halt.
Garak's tongue darted out, wetting his lips. His eyes widened, “Hello, my dear.”
“Hello, Garak.”