#Drawing to recover from exams today

[grape-souffle]

Drew more of this little guy, this time with edginess

[readingcomics-sometimeshiatus]

Sapphic Webtoon Masterlist

One day I thought that maybe it should exist a list with all the sapphic stories of webtoon since is so hard to find.

today I decided to make this list

you can also comment stories that are not listed here!

Sapphic = woman loving woman. although this name means any queer woman (e.g. lesbians, pansexuals, etc.), in this list will only have the ones where the main couple are two woman (or one is not a man).

Last updated: January 23th, 2024

please check up the reblogs to see when the last time was updated if you see this on a reblog!

Originals

Not So Shoujo Love Story (comedy, in progress)

Romance-super-fan Rei Chan is ready for her first boyfriend and she knows just who it'll be: the most handsome boy in school, Hansum Ochinchin. But her plans for the perfect love story are derailed when the most popular girl in class declares herself a rival….for Rei's heart?! This is the year her not so shoujo love story begins!

Nevermore (supernatural, in progress);

There is nothing definitive about life after death, except the involuntary enrollment at the mysterious Nevermore Academy. Now Lenore and Annabel Lee must begin their curriculum to recover the memories of their tragic demise. Between the Dean's macabre demeanor and the tell-tale dangers of Final Exams, both girls must learn to rely on one another and their newly acquired ghost forms, or Spectres, to not only graduate from the academy… but to earn a second chance at life.

Night Owls & Summer Skies (romance, completed);

Despite her tough exterior, seventeen year-old Emma Lane has never been the outdoorsy type. So when her mother unceremoniously dumps her at Camp Mapplewood for the summer, she’s determined to get kicked out fast. However, when she draws the attention of Vivian Black, a mysterious and gorgeous assistant counselor, she discovers that there may be more to this camp than mean girls and mosquitos. There might even be love.

Realta (fantasy, in progress);

When the world was new, the twelve star signs descended to bless humanity with magic according to their date of birth. Fourteen worthy people, called the “Realta,” were given a star from each Sign that allowed them to receive prophecies of the future called “horoscopes” and summon great power to defeat the Fae: beings that tormented humanity. However, much has changed since Elowen was a child. Magic is illegal, the Fae are getting stronger, and the Realta have been forgotten…until our Virgo meets a certain Capricorn.

Muted (supernatural, completed);

On the full moon of her 21st year, the young witch, Camille Severin, is expected to perform the traditional ritual to summon forth a winged demon for her families success and prosperity. But when the ritual goes wrong, it reveals the terrifying truths about herself and the secrets that threaten to tear her family apart.

Mage & Demon Queen (comedy, completed;

Adventurers seek to take the demon queen’s head, but a love-struck young female mage wishes to take her hand. Join us won’t you, for this bawdy tale of love and persistence set inside a real-life RPG.

REVEAL OUT! (romance, will return);

Eeden thought she'd missed out on life: her art career is a disaster, her landlord kicked her out, and worst of all, she's never even had a girlfriend! But life takes a turn when a chance encounter with an old crush sends her back in time. Now she's 18 again and starting college, with a chance to get everything right. Armed with a plan and a crush, Eeden knows exactly how to create the life full of joy she deserves: make it bold, make it beautiful, and most of all, make it gay!!

High Class Homos (comedy, in progress);

Princess Sapphia of Mytilene is not into princes. So, when her parents start putting the heat on her to get hitched, she enlists the help of her equally gay best friend, Prince August of Phthia. But will these two royals be able to pull off a convincing sham marriage? More importantly, will Sapphia ever land a date with the castle maids? Follow these high class homos as they navigate life, love, and (occasionally) their actual jobs.

Finding Wonderland (fantasy, completed);

In Wonderland, Alex is the Ace. When tasked with hunting down the nefarious Black Knave and his scourge of Nightmares, Alex begins to have visions of another world beyond: our world. In reality, Alex is a normal teen who has been placed in a dangerous simulation to draw out a scientist’s lost son. And time is quickly running out.

Aerial Magic (fantasy, completed);

The daily life of an apprentice witch.

Always Human (romance, completed);

This is a story about nanobots, genetic engineering, and two girls falling in love. No matter how technology changes us, we'll always be human.

Savior (fantasy, completed);

Wohn Ku is a vampire that needs human blood to survive. As a tenderhearted child, she led a tortured existence until a girl named Seyeon willingly became her steady blood source. Seyeon stood by Wohn throughout their school years, defending her from bullies. Fast forward to the present where they move in together ahead of their freshman year of college. Seyeon remains fiercely protective of her friend, but Wohn is ready for a fresh start. When a devoutly religious sophomore girl named Juyi showers her with kindness, Wohn emerges from her shell only to realize that Juyi had once been her father’s kidnapping victim, a potential blood source she had refused to bite. Juyi grows closer to Wohn without remembering the incident, fueling jealousy in Seyeon. Will Juyi prove to be a savior washing away Wohn’s guilt, or will she ruin a vampire’s dream of redemption?

CANVAS

My Dragon Girlfriend (romance/slice of life, in progress);

Christy is saved from a bad date by a dragon girl and introduced to world of magical creatures while falling in love with her savior.

Susuhara Is A Demon (slice of life/romance, in progress);

After a perfect girl encounters an infamous delinquent, her life is thrusted into a whirlwind of chaos! Strap in for a ride jam-packed with terribly embarrassing flirting techniques, kick-ass delinquents and existential dread by the buttload! Nothing could possibly go wrong in this perfectly imperfect love story.

Fatal Kiss (romance/supernatural, in progress);

What would you do if your crush was a monster?

The Pirate and The Princess (romance/historic, in progress);

Princess Kirianna has been raised for two purposes; marriage and succession. As a dutiful, intelligent, and optimistic girl, she came to terms with her fate long ago, and simply longs to be content. The last thing she expected was to be pulled into a life of piracy, by a woman in disguise who has a strange grudge against Kirianna's father, and a secret of her own to hide…. Captain is given male pronouns by me until her name drop in Chapter 10!

Eldritch Darling (supernatural/comedy, in progress);

What if we kissed and we were both girls? And one of us was an oblivious human and the other was a dark eldritch abomination creature from beyond the stars??

Deep Sea (romance/fantasy, in progress);

Atarah is convinced : she is not cut out to be a princess. And when her father tells her that the time has come for her to get married, the world of the young princess crumbles: her heart dreams of adventure, and not of an arranged marriage! It is therefore at the worst of times that Atarah meets Robin, a pirate with questionable morals and a tumultuous past. But where will this crazy encounter lead her heart?

The Siren's Light (romance/fantasy, in progress);

I was sinking, the darkness was slowly surrounding me. The depth of the sea was pulling me lower and lower, I could no longer see the moonlight that glowed from above. But, Who was this silver-haired beautiful creature with an alluring voice swimming towards me? "You are a beautiful one." Her voice was so clear and soothing. And before I knew it, She kissed me. Who was this creature you asked? A siren. A flirtatious, annoying siren that changed my life forever. Author: @roseyluv143 (wattpad)

In My Heart (romance/drama, in progress);

Sasaki Mari is a typical delinquent troublemaker whose only goal is to get a boyfriend, but due to her reputation as bully and low grades, all the boys reject her. Then she decides to change her style, and asks for help from the student with the best grades in the class.

My Devotion to You (romance/drama, in progress);

For the past five years, Catalina has spent all-nighters studying and acing exams to become number the one student and prove her place in the academy. Unfortunately, no matter how much she tried…she has been stuck as number two…all because of Valeria Graham. Valerie is tired and does not expect this year to be much different. She will maintain her Top Student title just like her family expects her to. It would be like any other year…right? And so, their final year begins.

My Cat is a Wizard (fantasy/romance, in progress);

Caitlyn is a just an ordinary, struggling student in her final year of university… Or so she thinks. After having her heart broken yet again, her cat suddenly becomes human. She must now juggle the difficulties of school, work, and all the twists and turns life keeps throwing at her: like her cat/roommate being a wizard. Can Cait still fall in love while magic slowly takes over her world?

Honey and Venom (romance/heartwarming; in progress);

An ancient Roman goddess is reunited with her priestess 2000 in the future, but she doesn't remember her! The closer they grow, the more secrets their shared past reveals, all while an ancient adversary lurks in the shadows.

Greta the Red Wolf (supernatural/action, in progress);

An injured wolf pup and an abandoned baby appear at the doorstep of a couple’s home near the woods. The couple decides to take them in, but little did they know that the wolf was actually a werewolf, and the baby a vampire! Despite their shocked human parents, Greta the werewolf and Vincent the vampire had a blissful upbringing. However, as Greta and Vincent grow older, their quiet, peaceful lives are threatened as they discover the secret world of witches, vampires, and werewolves.

RAINBOW! (slice of life/romance, in progress);

Overly imaginative teenager Boo Meadows has always escaped her daily grind by living with her head in the clouds-- for better or worse. But when she meets the girl of her daydreams, it may finally be time to face reality.

Winter Before Spring (drama/romance, in progress);

Hana has recently just fallen in love with her best friend, who just happens to be a girl. After a confrontation with her best friend, Hana accidentally blurts out and confesses her true feelings. Fearing that she would be rejected, her friend accepts her feelings graciously and they start dating. Is this a dream? Hana, overwhelmed with happiness as her wish came true- is suddenly struck down, her world crashing down as she finds out the nasty truth about her best friend.

The Hideout (romance/drama, hiatus);

Nadia is a 18 year old teenage girl that’s finishing high school and working part-time on her aunts coffee shop named “The Hideout” Nadia also happens to not be very lucky when it comes to the love department and that, mixed with overworking herself, has taken a toll on her quite heavily recently. Reading direction is left to right

The Grand Priestess (fantasy/action, hiatus);

Verashana, a powerful sorceress, delves into the past after an incident separates her from her lover, hoping to learn more about the tragedy that occurred. Her hidden memories resurface, and she unlocks a world that she didn't know she was a part of. Now, she must find out where it all started, and where it all went wrong.

Love, Lila (romance/drama, hiatus);

A one-sided love & rivalry between an aspiring ballerina and an artist. Irene comes from a strict and close-minded household which is against her pursuing a career in arts, as a result of her upbringing she became cold, insecure, and distrustful. Then she met Lila, a perfect girl who has everything and is everything Irene wishes to become. But as she gets to know Lila better, she discovers that her privileged upbringing actually hides a traumatic family secret.

Facing the Sun (sci-fi/drama, in progress);

Fear. Grief. Trauma. Guilt. Love, all seen through the eyes of a dysfunctional android prototype well past her estimated lifespan.

I LIKE MY BEST-FRIEND (drama, ongoing);

(since I'm on phone, I'm gonna put this one later)

Unleashed (romance, ongoing);

(since I'm on phone, I'm gonna put this one later)

Pick Me!! (romance, ongoing);

wip

Lotus and the Dandelion (fantasy, ongoing);

wip

The Greenhouse (drama, ongoing);

wip

I want to be your wife! (drama, completed);

wip

Warm Spring Rain (romance; ongoing);

wip

What's A Soulmate (heart-warming; ongoing);

wip

5 More Minutes (romance, ongoing);

wip

Slice of Life (heart-warming, ongoing);

wip

Our Secret (drama, ongoing);

wip

Don't Look at the Sky (fantasy, ongoing);

wip

Somebody to you (romance, ongoing);

wip

[self-indulgent-paw-patrol]

Alright guys I got some bad news.

I'm not getting better from my sickness at all, it just keeps fluctuating between moments I feel better and then my blood pressure drops like ice and I have almost passed out like three times in less than 12 hours as of now. My dad keeps constantly checking on me and last night when I nearly passed out twice, he said I'm definitely anemic, so...

I need to take a break from my hobbies/personal projects, so the only effort I'll do for the next days/weeks will be teaching/checking homeworks/applying the exams that are still left to apply and working on art commissions. I doubt I can even teach an entire class for three hours unless I do it while lying down in bed. I still gotta try anyway, every day I don't teach, it's a day less of pay by the end of the month and I need the money which is already a low pay, but we've all been unemployed in this house since early 2019 so anything is better than the alternative (this isn't an actual job, just a contract that can be stopped at any given moment 🥲).

I'll leave this blog (self-indulgent-paw-patrol)'s askbox open only for the reason it doesn't kill me to type away XD But the pups askblog (diy-fire-water-pups) will have to go on hiatus for a while so I won't be worrying about drawing for their replies.

I don't know how long it'll take for me to get better for real. It took my dad and younger bro a little over two weeks before they even began to actually recover, and as I fell sick right after that and I am the weakest from the bunch in this house... Chances are I'll take even longer. Today's only my 5th day sick yet. Yikes.

That's it for now, I guess. I'll keep you all updated if anything changes or happens. I'll also leave this post pinned on both blogs, just in case.

[amypihcs]

Hello hello! end of the story! Watson left us with him freezing deer in headlights style reading of an attack to Holmes. Let's see how things went from then on!

Of course, actions start before brain starts processing. Holmes is hurt (my fault, i shouldn't've pulled that all nighter) i need to know what happe-

Holmes, of course would get home, idiot that he is

CAB! 221B BAKER STREET. NOW. RUN.

Watson must be worrying sick. He deserves a holiday! At least the doc assures no immediate danger. At least. Watson is allowed to see him (and if he wasn't he would've gone in all the same)

H: Don't be scared, Watson, i'm alright W: You are not-who hurt you. I'll murder that man with my bare hands H: My good Watson. Just stay with me? I'll tell you the plan. W: -kissing holmes- You need to rest. -hugging holmes-

Watson is just as scared and ready to murder for Holmes as Holmes is scared and ready to murder for Watson when he's hurt. O love these two. Well, plan's on.

Don't worry, with your help and my makeup cabinet we'll re-create that scene. I'm truly sorry i'm scaring you Watson.

Watson leaves to go give false information and so on, like getting kitty safe, and Holmes of course asks for something to smoke

I will keep granada Watson's answer for this. And then Watson will just return to Holmes asap and not move from there.

Things go on for that and Holmes recovers quite quickly, it would seem and they are of course plotting together or almost together. Holmes has his own plans, apparently. uuuhm

DAMNIT! is that bastard leaving?

Watson. there to be used?

Well, Watson knows to ask no explanation to Holmes and thaqt is far better to ask Mrs Hudson for the first pot of strong black coffee of the 24 hours.

Dr Watson gets back to be a uni student who has an exam and has not studied!

You would know, right, Watson? Bet this man is mistreating his back to study just like he used to do for particularly mnemonic exams in medicine. (I study biotech, i studied more or less this way for anatomy... yes, including drawing sketches to remember stuff better)

24 hours later, he's ready!

Holmes is OUT OF BED, Watson had told him to stay in there , but since he's out he can be teased and get a little kissy. You ready Watson? Very ready, Holmes. Let's go!

Relationship development! Watson CAN act, even if not that well! Now how to approach Gruner? Propose to sell him this!

And Watson makes the clever question, What price? He truly scintillates today! And Holmes has the answer for that since #victoriangenteman he can't put a price himself!

And so Watson get to the study and meets out murderer and

WATSON WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK???!! THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO BE BI ABOUT THE SUSPECT!! Jesus, this man.

Shall we go ON? They examine the ceramic and the baron starts being insulting.

AND THEN PROPOSES TO QUIZ WATSON. Watson is understandably furious, bet that itch to thrash the hide off gruner didn't go away and is STRONGER now. Fuckit. Cover jumped.

The baron is just giving Watson an occasion to beat him to a pulp, or he would be wasn't he grabbing a gun WAIT! NOISE!

HOLMES WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE!?? YOU SHOULD BE HOME AND RE- A WOMAN? DAMNIT, THIS BASTARD IS WOUNDED!

Watson IS after all a very good doctor. And so he attends to that bastard of Gruner

Some doctoring Watson because it's always good to remember how clever this man is. Ah and it was Kitty! Good girl! Revenge against such a man. People arrive, including a policeman, of course

But Watson gets away quickly and gets back home where he asks Holmes WHAT THE HELL HE WAS GOING THERE??! Holmes confesses and they exchange info. Holmes got the book! And they give it to Sir James. It all works out (And Watson MIGHT have got the identity of the client, but SHHHH)

The aftermath is a broken engagement, Gruner quite... not at his best and will never be again. Damn, sulfuric acid is BAD. Kitty is unfortunately convicted, but she gets the lowest sentence possible, hoping she'll be out soon! Holmes gets ALMOST arrested for burglary but manages to get out clean (did also Mycroft put a good word?) and dragged by Watson in a nice vacation! To rest and recover!

[littlekatleaf]

To love what is lovely, and will not last

I come, after a long absence, with Sandman fic. Not exactly what I'd planned, but I've been fiddling with it for so long and everything else has been blocked behind it.... It's almost 3am and I'm calling it done.

To stop time when something wonderful  has touched us as with a match which is lit, and bright, but does not hurt in the common way, but delightfully ~ Mary Oliver, “Snow Geese”

Hob’s alarm beeps insistently, dragging him from the ocean of sleep and washing him onto the shore of waking - blinking, bleary. He grabs for the phone to silence it. Not even out of bed when his thoughts turn to the day’s tasks - marking long overdue, final edits of a journal article and likely several desperate calls from students wanting to earn extra credit. At least he has the solstice party after, as a treat.

Beside him, Morpheus shifts. “Time is it,” he mumbles into the pillow, voice rough, sleep-worn.

“Half six,” Hob says, tugging a shirt over his head. “Gotta get to work.”

“Are you mad? It’s only been three hours.”

As though the words remind his body, Hob yawns, then coughs into his sleeve. “Two hours too long. I’ve got at least three days’ work to pack in before the party.”

Morpheus peers at him. Frowns. “You’re still recovering from your illness. Come back to bed.”

“Don’t fuss; I’m much improved. Nowhere near my death.” Hob pokes him in the ribs, gently. Morpheus obliges with a sound that bears passing resemblance to a chuckle. “Besides the Dean’ll have my job, tenure or no, if I don’t get marks in today.” Hob forces himself to stand before the softness of the sheets and the warmth of Morpheus’s body pull him back. He more than half expects Morpheus to reach for him, attempt to draw him down.

Instead, Morpheus stares rather blankly for a long minute then abruptly turns his back, burrowing deeper into the quilts. Hob sighs. Deeply. He wishes he could say fuck it all and join him, but the fresher flu set him back significantly. No matter what he’d rather, procrastination is right out. Blasted responsibilities.

He consumes an entire pot of coffee which somehow manages to make him edgy without ridding him of tiredness. Cheek propped on fist, he works his way through the stack of final essays and take-home exams and doesn’t allow himself to move from his desk until midday. As he wanders into the kitchen, still trying to decide whether the last student really makes the argument he’s attempting, Hob catches a trailing melody from Morpheus’s studio, the echo of a beat. Something electronic - Paul Van Dyk, maybe? - better for a rave than a Saturday noon, but it’s what Morpheus prefers when he’s painting. Hob smiles; at least one of them is having fun. He pictures Morpheus in his usual pose - scowling at the canvas like it’s personally insulted him, one paintbrush in his hand, another tucked behind his ear, hair wild and paint spattered.  

Hob goes to put his mug into the dishwasher, but finds it still full of clean dishes. Sighing, he adds it to a pile of dirty plates, glasses, and another mug that’s sticky with honey and redolent of mint and chamomile. He frowns. Unusual - Morpheus drinking tea, but Hob supposes the flat is chilly. Luckily the stack doesn’t overbalance and he promises himself he’ll take care of it after the party. Stomach rumbling, he opens the refrigerator to see what leftovers might still be edible and discovers, miracle of all miracles, a sandwich so freshly made the lettuce hasn’t yet wilted. It’s his favorite - brie and green apple - and he instantly forgives Morpheus ignoring the washing up as he takes a huge bite. With fortification, he might just make it to the end of the day.

Finally the third frantic student call is patiently attended to, the last of the marks are uploaded to the university system, the email to his editor is sent into the ether, and Hob feels distinctly lighter. He clatters down stairs to find final party preparations in full swing. Gabriel’s directing Morpheus in proper placement of furniture and decorations, Mako’s checking the sound system for Geordie’s band, and Jamie’s setting up the bar. After two decades of parties, none of them need his instruction, and even his practiced eye can’t find anything out of place. He expects no less, and yet the pride in what they’ve built brings a warmth to his chest. Nothing like mulled wine, holiday songs, good food and friends to pass the longest night and welcome the sun’s return at dawn.

Hob watches as Morpheus, balancing rather precariously on the edge of a chair across the room, attempts to drape a pine garland over the doorway. As he stretches to get the angle just right, his shirt slides up, exposing a pale strip of skin, stark against the black of his jeans. Hob imagines brushing his fingertips over that expanse, making Morpheus shiver under his touch. Suddenly Morpheus flinches, sharp. The chair tips, but he manages to catch himself at the last moment, dropping lightly to the floor. 

“All right?” Hob asks, surprised at the unusual lapse of grace.

Morpheus nods as he passes, heading for the stairs. He doesn’t meet Hob’s gaze. 

Hob turns to follow, but his phone rings. Jilly’s car’s broken down, can someone give her a ride? Never one to look askance at a fortunate turn of events, he gives her Geordie’s number. There’s plenty of room in the band’s van, they’re coming from the same end of town - and if Geordie has been looking for an excuse to talk to her for weeks, well that’s just a lucky coincidence.

“Meddling, are we?” Jamie laughs at Hob’s guilty startle.

He pulls an affronted expression. “I’d never. Nudge, maybe. Hint. A bit. Never meddle.”

Jamie raises an eyebrow. 

Mako tosses a towel at him. “Get back to work and quit giving him shit. After all, worked with us, didn’t it?” 

“Maybe.” But the hint of a smile curls Jamie’s lips and he follows Mako’s orders. “Better get yourself presentable, boss. You know Lena and Emily are gonna be here any minute.” 

Hob looks down, realizing he hasn’t yet changed out of his ancient sweatshirt, then over at the clock above the bar. “Bollocks. Is it possible to be late to your own party?” “For you? Absolutely.” 

“Remind me again why I hired you?”

“Because I make the filthiest martinis.” Jamie grins wolfishly as he tips gin and vermouth into a shaker.

Mako rolls his eyes. “Filthy something anyway.”

“Pot, kettle.” 

Their good-natured bickering follows Hob upstairs where he finds Morpheus in his favorite spot, curled on the window seat. Party or no, he’s wearing his usual grey t-shirt and black jeans. In defiance of the season, his feet are bare. 

“It is beginning to snow,” Morpheus says, not looking away from the gathering dusk where fat flakes of snow are, indeed, swirling down and dusting the grass and trees.

Hob considers whether suggesting Morpheus put on something warmer would make him sound like a nagging mum. Probably would do. “It’s said to bring luck, if the first snowfall of the year happens on the solstice,” he says instead, forcing himself to pay attention to the puzzle of his own attire. He needs something appropriate to the party, but comfortable.

“Might the weather keep your friends from attending the festivities?” Morpheus’s expression is unreadable in the blurry reflection of the window, but the wistfulness of his tone is clear and it takes Hob aback. While Morpheus hasn’t whinged about the annual solstice gathering, and has, point of fact, encouraged Hob to continue the tradition, he has also tended to be solitary since he … retired. Hob hadn’t imagined he would be looking forward to a gathering, no matter the occasion. 

“Not likely. The heavy snow isn’t supposed to come until later tomorrow, and it takes more than a few centimeters to make Lena miss a party. There’ll be plenty of time for people to sober up in the morning and make their way home before the storm really hits.” He doesn’t acknowledge that Morpheus has named them Hob’s friends, as though they are not Morpheus’s as well, but he notes the fact.

“Good. I-I’ve never-” Morpheus’s voice catches on a hitching breath and he curls into himself, pinching a set of sneezes into silence. It takes him a second to recover. “Bless you. Never…?” Hob prompts, when he seems to be lost in thought.

Morpheus blinks back to himself. “N-never -” He sniffles, presses a curled finger under his nose, rubs gently. “- been to a party.” He manages to finish in a rush, then crumples again. “Httnxxt! N’xxt!  Hih-N’xxtch!” He shivers, gooseflesh rising along his arms.

“Bless you. All right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just. A passing chill.” 

Unable to resist, Hob pulls a flannel shirt from his wardrobe and holds it out. “I know, I know. It’s got long sleeves and color and everything. But as you may have heard, the weather outside is frightful and this will keep you warm.”

Morpheus heaves a long suffering sigh, then slides the shirt on anyway. The blue is almost exactly the same shade as his eyes, rich and deep as the Aegean Sea. 

“I find it extremely hard to believe that the King of All Night’s Dreaming has never gone to a party,” Hob says. He finally decides on his most ridiculous ugly Christmas jumper -  bright red, covered with black cats in Santa hats - a gift from an American student years ago. 

Morpheus glares at him through watery eyes. “Not one I wished to attend.”

“Not even in the Fey realms?” 

“You will not tempt me to speak a word against the Fey,” Morpheus says archly, then sniffles again, marring the hauteur.

“You sure you’re alright?”

Morpheus nods, but his focus has shifted. “I am…” He’s interrupted by a sneeze, then a second and third tumble after, harsh even muffled in his sleeve. “Ht’Isshuh! Hih-Issshh-isshue!” He takes the tissue Hob offers. “I am, perhaps, coming down with something,” he admits ruefully.

“Perhaps,” Hob echoes, teasing. “A foregone conclusion, considering my state these last days.” He digs through the bottom of the wardrobe. He’s sure there’s a belt in there somewhere. And at least one matching pair of socks.  

“I’m sorry. I had been. Hoping. To attend a party simply as a guest. And to better acquaint myself with those who are important to you.” Morpheus clears his throat, then coughs.

Hob pauses and looks up from his search, startled. “You’re sorry,” he asks, the apology the first thing his brain latches on to. Rare, even now, for Morpheus to apologize for a small matter.

Morpheus shrugs, gaze turned out the window again. “I’ve been telling myself I am not ill, but I can no longer deny it. Promise you’ll tell me stories of the night come morning?”

“Are you feeling that badly? To miss it?” Though Hob had spent a day in bed himself, that was mostly at Morpheus’s insistence. He’d barely had a fever and was fine to muddle through. But Morpheus had badgered him into resting after the intensity of the semester, playing into his own procrastination tendencies too well. 

He brushes a hand over Morpheus’s forehead, then his cheeks. He’s still cool to the touch, though now that Hob’s slowed down enough to pay attention, he notices the shadows pooled under blue eyes, the slight pinch between brows that indicates headache, visible even in the window reflection, remembers the tea mug, the morning distance. Morpheus must have realized he was getting sick even then and hoped to stave it off.

“I don’t wish anyone else to catch this.”

“Just don’t snog other people and they won’t.” 

Morpheus finally turns to face him and glowers. “I would never.”

“I know you wouldn’t. Come on, duck.” Hob shifts, leaning Dream against his side and carding gentle fingers through his ever-messy hair. “Everyone else has already had the crud. Even Jamie, and he never gets sick.”

“Truly?” Morpheus sighs, hope warring with suspicion in his voice. 

Hob does his best impression of innocence. “Would I lie to you?” “Without a doubt, if it gets you what you want.”

“What I want is you. It really is okay.” He leans down, presses a kiss to Morpheus’s temple. “And Mei isn’t coming, thank all that’s holy. She’s the only one who might be bothered.” “You dislike her.” Morpheus says slowly, as though he’s piecing together a puzzle. “It cannot be simply her subject.” Hob shakes his head. “I could forgive her teaching Shakespeare. I could even forgive her enjoying it. But she was unkind to you.” More than once, he doesn’t add. 

“A minor incident,” Morpheus argues, but a faint flush colors his cheeks and when they join the party, he stays close to Hob’s side far longer than usual before retreating to a chair in an out of the way corner, beside the hearth. 

With ease born of long practice, Hob threads his way through the pub, greeting the guests and chatting easily with each, while keeping a sliver of his focus on Morpheus. At first he sits alone, an island in the flow of the crowd. To the untrained eye, he seems distant, uninterested, his face impassive, body carefully rigid. Behind the mask, Hob knows, Morpheus is following the currents of conversations surrounding him. Technically no longer Prince of Stories, they still seem to nourish him.

Hob is all the way across the pub when he catches sight of Lena and Emily pulling chairs up to join Morpheus. Lena’s got a look in her eye that bodes ill for Hob - she knows too many embarrassing stories and never hesitates to share. Before he can intercept them, he’s pulled into a heated debate over whether Irish whiskey or Scotch is superior. By the time he manages to extricate himself, it’s clear that they’ve made themselves comfortable. Not surprising, but what does surprise him is that Morpheus actually seems to be equally comfortable with them. For the first time his body is at ease as he listens intently to something Lena’s saying.

“And that’s why he isn’t allowed to… Oh, oops,” she interrupts herself as Hob comes in earshot, but she doesn’t look even the slightest bit embarrassed. 

“Hello Hob.” A hint of mirth quirks Morpheus’s lips.

Hob directs an exaggerated frown at Lena. “You’d better not be telling him about the pub in Dublin.”

“She wasn’t, but now she must,” Morpheus says, his voice little more than a rasp. His breath catches. Stutters. “Ex-excuse me,” he manages to say, turning away hastily. “Hih…ht’Issh! Issh! Hih-Isssh!”

Lena and Emily chorus blessings and Hob bites his tongue on the urge to ask how he’s feeling; he’d just brush off Hob’s concern, say it’s nothing. An oily feeling of disquiet curls into Hob’s belly anyway. He tells himself firmly to ignore it. “Dammit, Lena, that means I’ll have to tell him about what got us banished from Trinity’s library and I’m not nearly drunk enough for that.”

“The night is young,” Lena says. ”Go get yourself another drink. It’s time for your boyfriend to get to know the real you.”

Morpheus catches his gaze. “I could use a drink as well.”

Hob tosses up his hands in defeat. “All right, all right. Just leave me with a scrap of reputation, yeah?” 

“I make no promises,” Lena says and her grin is wicked. Even as he walks away, Hob is certain he hears Morpheus chuckling under his breath.

“Good turnout,” Jamie says when Hob joins him behind the bar. He’s right - somewhere above fifty people, professors and students mingling with a few of the pub’s regulars. Someone’s pushed tables aside and a few brave (and inebriated) souls are dancing.  Others play cards or darts, and he’s pretty sure he can make out a couple snogging in a darker corner. There’s plenty of food, the plates and cutlery seem well stocked, the music isn’t loud enough to keep people from talking. Everything is in order. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. But maybe he should make another circuit of the pub, just to be certain…

“Gabriel’s got it under control, boss. And if anyone starts anything, Mako will handle it. Take the night off for once.”

Hob winces. “Am I that obvious?”

“Let’s just say best you avoid the poker table. Or, actually, fancy a game?” 

“Sod off; you’re on duty,” Hob says, laughing. 

“And so’s Gabe. Enjoy the party. The company.” He looks meaningfully toward the little group by the hearth.

“I will. I am.” It’s true, he realizes. Emily leans forward, gesturing emphatically, managing to interrupt Lena and take the story over herself. Not upset in the least, Lena’s expression is a little proud of her girlfriend’s audacity, and more than a little fond. Morpheus presses a hand over his mouth as he laughs, but even muffled, the abrupt wounded goose honk of it startles both Lena and Emily into giggles as well. His eyes shine, simply reflected firelight. No longer magic and yet… still his Stranger. Once lost, now found. His Friend, who has known him over so many long years, and who he is finally getting to know as well.

Morpheus straightens, moves slightly away from the others. Hob wonders if he’s offended - or hurt - by their reaction. But then he grabs a napkin from the table and his laughter disintegrates into coughing. 

“Poor bloke’s been sick a lot this winter. Better take one of these for him,” Jamie says, handing Hob two steaming mugs of mulled wine. “Tell him feel better soon, yeah?”

“Thanks. I’ll tell him.” Hob forces himself to smile, but the uncomfortable disquiet has returned. He hadn’t paid close attention, but now that Jamie’s pointed it out, he can’t ignore it. Morpheus has been ill on and off since the beginning of the school year. There are a thousand reasons for it - everyone gets sick with new germs and uni is a veritable petri dish; Morpheus hasn’t even had a body for that long, of course it would be vulnerable. But what if it’s worse? He blinks and in the darkness a flash of a body laid out on marble, covered with a sheer cloth and yet he knows who it was… he knows.

“There’s mulled wine? And you didn’t bring us any? Rude,” Lena says.

“Sorry, only two hands,” Hob hands one to Morpheus, then takes a deep drink of his own.  

“Oh, I love this song - dance?” Emily asks as Geordie and the band begin a reel. To Hob’s relief Lena agrees. She takes Emily’s arm and they whirl into the knot of dancers. Morpheus watches them go, still smiling - but the light of the fire casts the angles of his face into strange, deep shadows and Hob drinks again.

“Robert.” Though it’s still rough, Morpheus’s voice is somewhat stronger. There’s a question in it that Hob doesn’t want to answer.

He keeps his eyes on his mug. “Jamie says he hopes you feel better soon.”

“Hob.”

“Do you want to dance, too? I’m not great, but once I finish this drink…” he takes another, longer swallow. “Enough,” Morpheus says, the command no less forceful for coming through a human throat. 

Hob finally looks down to find Morpheus gazing up at him with eyes that no longer swirl with endless constellations, but are still deeper than Hob can fathom. He releases the mug and Morpheus takes his hand, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the inside of Hob’s wrist.

“What has disturbed you?” 

“I… The longest night is not long enough.” 

“No?”

Hob shakes his head. He always wants more time.

Morpheus draws him down, puts an arm around him, rests his head on Hob’s shoulder. “I believe it is true - the first snowfall on Yule is indeed fortunate.”

“Why,” Hob asks into his hair. 

“Because I have good drink. Good music. Good friends. And you. It is enough.” He presses his lips to Hob’s wrist and warmth flows through the contact, through Hob’s whole body until it feels like he glows bright as the flames.

“I suppose it is.”

[kochanski]

Study Buddy

Rimmer/Lister, rated E, no content warnings apply. Pre-accident fic. Rimmer is trying to study for his astro-navigation exams. Lister decides to distract him. (This is a repost so you can read while AO3 is down/for further archival purposes.)

"I haven't even said anything yet!" What a way to walk in the door on a Saturday morning. Lister only had a few hours to crash and recover from last night's drunken tomfoolery so he'd be prepared for tonight's drunken tomfoolery, and his roommate had carpeted the bunkroom in a colorful patchwork of neon squares. "What's all this?"

"Forget it, Lister."

"You know what they are," Rimmer hissed from the eye of the storm. "They're my revision timetables, and I was trying to organize them before you bungled into the room and destroyed an entire seven percent of all my hard work!"

Lister looked down. He'd stepped on one of the hundreds of papers Rimmer had strewn about the place.

"I thought you just failed the last exam. Don't you have months before you can retake it?"

"Exactly! I only have five months, twenty-eight days and three hours, so I have to organize my study time effectively or I'll never pass."

"Or," Lister offered, hesitant to even bring it up, "you could come out with me tonight. Me and the guys. Blow off some steam, y'know, maybe even take Kochanski's advice to heart and get laid."

"By who?" Rimmer snorted, gesturing at himself. "You've said it yourself- I have a snowball's chance of finding someone who'll put up with this."

"C'mon, man, you're not bad-looking. Just put on a short-sleeved shirt and keep your mouth shut."

"No thank you," Rimmer said. "Despite your best efforts to undermine me, Lister, I actually happen to have life goals that don't involve notches in my bedpost or setting the record for how many peanuts I can stick up my nose."

"I dunno, I think you could beat me at that second one by a long shot," Lister snickered, but he started towards his bunk, trying to tiptoe between the mess of paper and highlighters with little success. "You could do a lot of things if you just took a break from endless revisions and locking yourself in stasis."

"Forget it, Lister," he repeated. "Nothing you say or do can distract me. Go to bed."

Lister paused mid-tiptoe.

"Nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"So anything I do, you're just going to keep on drawing squares with those stupid markers?"

"Yes!" He crossed his arms, nostrils flaring. "What don't you get about the concept? I am mentally shutting out everything and everyone that isn't a revision timetable, because I have to get this done today."

"Alright," Lister smirked, and he kicked up a cloud of pink and yellow on his way to grab his guitar.

"Very mature," Rimmer retorted, picking up the lime green and trying his best to ignore the situation.

Lister sat on Rimmer's thin mattress and twisted the knobs on the top bit of the guitar until the strings were as discordant from one another as he could make them. Rimmer wouldn't be able to tell the difference- he thought everything Lister played was trash- but might as well go the whole hog, anyway, right?

"Met me a girl, straight from Mars, and she spent all my money and broke my heart," Lister sang, savoring every last little crack in Rimmer's concentration. "Then I got me a date with a bird from Jupiter, yeah, fools rush in but I was stupider-"

It wasn't working nearly as well as he'd expected it would, though. Rimmer barely winced when he sang the verse about the bloke from Venus.

"Are you done?" he asked impassively when the song was over. "I'd like to put on some Tchaikovsky to cleanse my palette now, if you don't mind."

"What the smeg is a chai cough ski? A sport you do when you're sick in the Himalayas? D'you chug a cup of tea and try to keep it down while you're slalom-ing between the trees?" He mimed holding a pair of ski sticks and waggled his feet.

"For-get it, Lister," Rimmer said a third time, standing up and starting to walk to the locker where he kept his record collection. "I'm not dignifying your pathetic attempt at a joke with a response."

"You already have responded, though," Lister said, still unsure what exactly Rimmer had said. "I've won."

Rimmer paled and stopped in his tracks. Then, slowly, without disturbing his pile of highlighters, he silently sat back down and began furiously coloring in another of his squares.

"What? You're gonna just ignore me, then?"

No response.

"C'mon, Rimmer, I was just trying to loosen you up. You don't have to give me the silent treatment."

Nothing.

Well, Lister couldn't have that. He tossed the guitar up top and got down on the floor, peering over Rimmer's shoulder. Yeah, maybe invading his space was low-hanging fruit, but Lister'd always had stubby arms.

"Two hours for reviewing spherical trigonometry? You think that's enough?"

"Brush your teeth if you're going to talk directly into my ear," Rimmer said, but he shivered a little.

Hmm.

No, this was a horrible idea. And Lister was still clearly a bit buzzed if he was even considering it, and it seemed a bit on the cruel side as far as pranks went.

But Rimmer had said nothing would distract him. And that Lister could do absolutely anything.

"I thought you weren't s'posed to pay me any attention?" he murmured in a low voice, moving closer, so that he was sure his breath hit Rimmer's ear and neck.

"I'm not. I'm- I'm simply thinking aloud. To myself." His ears were red. "It just happens that I think you reek of watered-down beer."

"Well, you smell good, at least," Lister continued, leaning in to press his nose into Rimmer's hair. "You always smell kind of like laundry." It was a totally awkward attempt at flirting, horrible, but he was tired beyond belief. Lister's last good brain cells had gone on strike, and he was left with whatever half-witted scabs the boss had dragged up to do the job.

Not that it mattered to good old Arnie. He'd actually stopped coloring for a second, the ever-turning cogs in his head grinding to a violent halt. He leaned forward, brushing Lister away, and started scribbling like a madman.

"This is a losing game you're playing. All you're doing is making yourself look stupid and desperate. Time is of the essence, and I absolutely won't get mixed up in whatever slime-brained ideas you have about my sexuality."

"Hang on, who said anything about sexuality?" Lister grinned. "I just said you smelled nice, and then I smelled you."

"Ah, I'd forgotten, you and your Neanderthal friends think this type of behavior is normal. You all smell each other's crotches and pick fleas off one another in lieu of a hello or a handshake."

"Still just thinkin' aloud? 'Cause it sounds like you're having a conversation with me now."

"Troglodyte," Rimmer spat, and nearly put a hole in the paper with the pink highlighter.

Lister touched his back, lightly, just fingertips, and Rimmer flinched for a second but tried not to react.

"C'mon, Rimmer, relax. It's a Saturday. Saturdays are meant for lazing about and recoverin' from the long work week, not for stressing yourself out over a stupid exam that's six months from now."

Rimmer really looked like he wanted to correct Lister that it was five months and however many days and hours, but his mouth stayed shut. It was almost a shame, because normally Lister couldn't get him to be quiet for five minutes on a good day.

Lister moved his hand across Rimmer's back in soft strokes. His nose and mouth nuzzled into the corner where Rimmer's left shoulder met his neck. He could feel the skin get hotter, feel that Rimmer had forgotten how to think for a moment, the annoying marker-on-paper noise stopping entirely.

"Lister," he gasped, before remembering himself. "I- Lister! Look what you've done! Six o'clock on the fourteenth was supposed to be blue, and you've gone and made me fill it in with orange."

"Come on, Rimmer, just leave it."

"Can't you just go to bed and leave me to my misery like you normally do? Why torment me like this? Why today, of all days, when I'm doing something this important?" He sounded actually exasperated, somewhere between whining and pleading, and Lister might or might not have felt a tiny pang of guilt.

"Someone has to save you from yourself. Besides, if I went to sleep in here you'd either wake me up 'cause I was snorin' too loud, or I'd end up covered in timetable when you ran out of room on the floor." Lister wrapped his arms around Rimmer's waist from behind, leaning forward. "Just admit I've won, put the markers away, an' I'll quit bothering you. We can chalk the whole thing up to me being drunk, never speak of it again."

"No."

"No?"

Rimmer set down the highlighter and pulled Lister's arms apart, turning around to face him with this strangely calm look on his face. It was the same kind of weird serenity that usually happened right before he was about to do something insane, and Lister's stomach wrapped itself in knots.

"Lister, do you know what time it is?"

"What time is it?"

"One-thirty in the afternoon," Rimmer said in a monotone, "and according to schedule, I should have finished the timetables by one. Perhaps a few minutes I could have made up here and there, but half an hour?"

"So…"

"So I'm going to have to re-do all of it. All five months and twenty-eight days and so on. I'll have to write it all out and reschedule everything. Every last bit. And you-" Rimmer reached forward, grabbing Lister by the collar. "Help me," he choked, and it was more of a plea than the command he'd probably intended.

So Lister helped him.

He pressed his mouth squarely against Rimmer's, half-surprised when there was no resistance- but, yeah, no, Rimmer'd probably been relieved for an excuse to quit making himself miserable.

Rimmer had no clue how to kiss back, but his fist tightened around the fabric of Lister's shirt, yanking him closer, and that was good as anything. Lister broke the kiss, moving his hands up to cup Rimmer's face.

"Open your mouth," he said gently, and Rimmer opened it wide like he was at his annual checkup. "Alright, don't unhinge your jaw. Just-" He grabbed Rimmer's chin with his finger and thumb, moving his jaw upward until they were both properly positioned. It felt sort of like a movie kiss, like one of those black-and-whites, and he tried to channel Cary Grant as best he could as he pressed their lips together. He wanted this to be as perfect as possible, he thought, without really thinking about why he was doing any of it.

As Lister pushed his way into Rimmer's mouth, he was met with this little whiny sort of noise. God, he hadn't expected this to be so hot, but it was- Rimmer's whimpering in this context set all his nerve endings on fire. He stroked the side of Rimmer's face, slow, keeping rhythm. The kiss was the same way- Lister would lurch forward a bit, then pull back, scraping his teeth against Rimmer's bottom lip on his way out. If nothing else, he'd never been told he was a bad kisser. He only pulled away completely when he realized Rimmer wasn't breathing.

"You-" Rimmer panted, red-faced, letting go of Lister's shirt. He'd stretched out the neck of it beyond repair. "That isn't at all what I meant by helping."

"Well, I'm not about to spend the next ten hours doing the color-by-number from hell." Lister let his hands fall to Rimmer's shoulders. "I can think of better things to do, eh?"

"If you're asking my permission to- to have your way with me, I'm not going to just say it."

"Why not? What's the worst that can happen?"

"You're drunk."

"More hungover than anything," Lister argued, "and exhausted."

"Well, exactly. You're not in your right mind, as proven by the way you just forced yourself on me, so it's better if this doesn't go any further."

"Now hang on, that's not fair. We were both having a good time-"

"Having a good time. You thought that was good?"

"Wait, are you saying it wasn't good?"

"No, I mean- you thought it was good, you kissing me? That it was something you actually liked?"

"I don't know how to explain this, Rimmer, but you're not a hideous beast. Somebody might actually fancy you someday if you'd just let them."

"So this wasn't just a prank. You… meant to do this."

"It is a prank, but I also liked it. Smeg, it can be that simple." Lister slid his hands down from Rimmer's shoulders to his chest. "Come on. Give me a real reason we shouldn't."

"It's difficult to switch bunkroom assignments. As you well know."

"Why's that a problem?"

"Well, afterward, when you regret it, and you can't get rid of me." Rimmer said it without hesitation, in his same prim tone of disdain, like it was fact. Like it was some holy scripture somebody had carved on a rock ten thousand years ago, or some kind of scientific law everyone had memorized by primary school. E equals em cee squared. Nobody will ever like Arnold Rimmer enough to shag him twice.

It was depressing, was what it was.

"Look," Lister started, uncertain. This had all been completely impulse up to this point, and he hadn't come prepared to give Rimmer a pep talk. "We've been stuck together hating each other's guts for the better part of two years, right? What if we just tried something different for a bit?"

"Oh, like what? You can't expect me to believe you're actually, genuinely proposing-" He paled. "You are, aren't you."

"So?"

"You're just doing this because Kochanski dumped you, and she was the last woman on this ship with the unfortunate lack of self-respect to sleep with you sober."

"I dunno, you're sober, and you seemed pretty happy to have my tongue halfway down your throat a minute ago, didn't you?"

"You- I- well, who can have self-respect when they've gone and ruined their one chance at acing the exam? Anyone would feel depressed after that. You're the one taking advantage."

"Right, fine, then, I give up. I'm going to bed." Lister let go of Rimmer.

"Don't do that," he protested. "I haven't properly rejected you yet."

"Well, hurry up and pull the trigger. The bars open at four, so I only really have about two hours of good sleep before Petersen calls me up again."

"Alright, I will."

"Great," Lister said, shaking his head and pushing himself up into a squat, but in the next instant Rimmer had him flat against the floor, paper rustling beneath them. "Oh," he grinned.

"Don't say a single word."

"S'that an order?"

"I… maybe it is."

"You know I don't follow those."

"What if I make you?"

"Make me?" Lister echoed, delighted. Smeg, Rimmer was going to boss him around. How far could he push this? "You can't make me do anything. You're the second-to-last rung on the ladder."

"I'm the second technician," Rimmer insisted, "which means you're beneath me both literally and figuratively. You're a worm," he continued, moving his hands up Lister's chest, "and you should be grovelling at my feet, begging for your life like the insect you are."

He was good at this. Or maybe he earnestly believed it. Either way, whatever retort Lister had died in his throat and he nodded.

"Glad we finally understand each other." Rimmer took a deep breath, clearly trying to summon something. Courage, maybe. Or he was trying to ward off his disgust. "Er- what do I do next?"

Lister shrugged- not a single word, right- and pointed at his mouth.

"Not that again- not until you've brushed your teeth," Rimmer complained. "Somewhere else."

Lister pointed downwards.

"Oh, shut up," Rimmer said, grabbing his hands. "I'll figure it out."

He leaned forward, pushing Lister's chin back until it pointed towards the ceiling. He peppered soft kisses over Lister's neck, if you could call them that. They were less kisses and more Rimmer clumsily smushing his mouth and nose against Lister's skin, but it wasn't bad. Actually, it felt sort of nice, having Rimmer's full concentration leveled at him in a way that didn't involve yelling or a trip to the captain's office. He let out a sigh of contentment.

"You like that?"

Lister nodded.

"Can I…" Rimmer toyed with the too-loose neck of his poor ruined T-shirt. "I want this off," he said, quieter with each syllable.

Lister grinned, pushing Rimmer into an upright position. He shimmied out of his jacket with some difficulty, pulling his shirt up over his head and flinging it vaguely towards the hamper.

"Better," Rimmer said. "You're so eager to follow orders, now that you think you're getting something out of it. It's frankly disgusting."

"Yeah? You want me to start disobeying?"

"No. I'm just saying, think of all the time and effort we could have saved if you'd have listened to me from the start." His hands started exploring, and Lister's skin prickled everywhere his fingers touched. They were a lot softer than he'd expected, although it made sense. Rimmer never did any of the actual work, when would he have developed callouses? "Imagine. If I'd offered to have sex with you years ago, we could have been so efficient together. Why, we'd have rocketed straight to the top of the ladder."

"You think so? That's what was holdin' you back so long, not havin' proper access to my cock?"

"I-" Rimmer froze. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"I mean, I agree. Maybe if I'd been reamin' you every night, you'd be relaxed enough to score higher than a seven on your exams."

"This is why I wanted you to stay quiet," Rimmer said, and he leaned forward and pressed a shaky kiss to Lister's mouth. His hands didn't stop, cupping and squeezing Lister's chest like they were the best pair of knockers he'd ever felt up- probably true- and grazing his thumbs over both nipples. Lister squirmed.

"Feels weird."

"Isn't this what you're supposed to do?"

"Yeah, with girls. Nobody's done this on my tits before."

"Well, is it good weird or bad weird?"

"I can't tell." It felt vaguely uncomfortable, like when you hit the wrong spot digging lint out of your belly button, but on the other hand, that electric tingle seemed to feed right into the warm arousal happening in his groin.

Rimmer scooted down and kissed one of his nipples, the dirty bastard, opened his mouth and licked it, and Lister made up his mind very quickly that this was a thing he liked.

"Keep doing that," he breathed. Rimmer's tongue was hot, and when he moved to the other side Lister could feel cold air on the wet spot he'd left. His hips moved upwards of their own volition into Rimmer's stomach. "God, Rimmer, yes. Just like that."

"Keep still," Rimmer complained, grabbing Lister's hips, and of course that didn't help things. "If you keep fidgeting I'm not going to be able to concentrate on what I'm doing."

"I'm fidgeting because you're doing a good job."

"Well, I'm hardly going to be able to keep up my stellar performance if you squirm like that," he continued, clearly not getting it. "Just lay still."

"Rimmer, I'm not going to be able to lay completely still. I'm not Rachel."

"You- how do you know about Rachel?"

"C'mon, man, you're not subtle. I always have to keep an ear out for squeaking before I come in the door." Lister shook his head. "I'm the real thing, alright, I'm gonna move and react, and it's a good thing. Means you're driving me up the wall."

"I am?"

"Yeah," Lister said, dropping into a softer, huskier tone. "I want it bad, Rimmer. I want you."

"You want me," he repeated, skeptical, but his face was going pink again. "Are you- er- clean?"

"C'mon, you know they screen us constantly for that sort of thing."

"I meant physically clean, Lister, you idiot. I'm not going to take off these trousers if it means chemical warfare."

"I just showered yesterday morning," he protested. "You were there."

"Yesterday morning was before a night of debauchery and drinking."

"If you're going to be annoying about it, I'll make do with over-the-clothes, alright?"

"No," Rimmer said firmly. "I've already completely debased myself, there's no point in doing things halfway now."

"Look, do whatever's comfortable, not what you think you have to." Lister reached up, stroking the spot where Rimmer's jaw met his neck. "We're here to have ourselves a good time, and you don't have anything to prove, right?"

"I'd say there's a lot to prove, actually-"

"Rimmer. Turn your brain off. I want you and I like what you're doing."

Maybe being blunt did the trick, because he seemed to relax a bit.

"Alright. You first, and then me. Sound good?"

"Yeah, stellar."

"Lights off," Rimmer said, then fumbled in the dark with the fly of Lister's trousers. "Smeg."

"I've got it." Lister reached down and unzipped. He took Rimmer's hand, gently, and placed it over his crotch. Maybe there was something to the whole blindness-enhancing-your-senses thing, because he swore he could hear every minor change in Rimmer's breathing. He was either incredibly anxious or really aroused, judging by the way his breath hitched. Could be both.

"Lister," he started, hesitant. "How… I mean, obviously you just- how do I-"

"Move your hand up and down," Lister sighed. "Just pretend it's yours."

"Right, but if I can't feel it, how am I supposed to know if it's too rough? What if I… break it?"

"Break it?" Lister didn't know whether to laugh or zip his pants back up immediately. "How smegging hard's your death grip, man?"

"No, I mean, how do I know if I'm doing it right?"

"Well, if I'm not screamin' at you to stop, you're probably on the right track, yeah? I'm easy to please."

"Emphasis on easy," Rimmer retorted, and Lister was about to say something back, but Rimmer was peeling back his underwear.

He tested the waters, gingerly wrapping his fingers around Lister's shaft and applying light pressure. Then squeezed gently. Then a little tighter.

"That's good," Lister said. "Right there."

"It's wet," Rimmer complained. "You're over-excited already, aren't you?" He moved his hand slowly from base to tip and back, once, twice, three times, achingly slow. "You like this."

"Yeah, I do. I do," Lister repeated, grinding his hips up against Rimmer's fist. Any extra friction, anything to get him to pick up the pace. Lister's temperature was rising, unbearably warm, and his few remaining brain cells had all but melted away by this point. The only thought he could keep in his mind for more than a second was that Rimmer- his Rimmer, his annoying bunkmate, total straight-laced prick, had him lying naked on the floor arching his back.

"Tell me… tell me you like me," Rimmer tried, voice a little softer.

"I like you," Lister babbled. "I like you so much. God, you're so weirdly sexy, I honestly didn't think I'd be this desperate, but you're just so-" Kissing. Rimmer was kissing him all of a sudden, sloppy, just kind of wriggling his tongue around in there- but it was good, even if Rimmer didn't know what he was doing in the slightest. He sucked Rimmer's tongue and was rewarded with another one of those shaky, whiny noises. Too bad the lights were off- he would have thrown away half his salary to see the look on Rimmer's face then they pulled apart.

"I'm- I'm going to try something, and you can't laugh at me if it goes sideways." His voice was a little more determined. Clearly, he'd gained confidence somehow.

"Yeah, I'm game. Anything you want."

A bit of shuffling as Rimmer repositioned himself between Lister's legs.

He hadn't really expected much of anything, certainly nothing shocking- maybe Rimmer was going to use his left hand instead of his right- but oh, oh, all of a sudden his cock was in Rimmer's mouth.

A wave of pleasure rolled through him. Rimmer's whole tongue-waggling technique was a hell of a lot more effective brushing rhythmically against his head. "Ahh- just- just watch your teeth, alright?"

"Mmph."

"Finally found a way to shut you up," Lister laughed, and that stopped Rimmer dead in his tracks.

"If I recall, this started because you wanted me to talk to you." He could picture the furrowed brow, the annoyed frown, maybe softened with a hint of fondness. Wishful thinking.

"I just wanted your attention," Lister admitted. "I like when you pay attention to me, Arn."

"You- I- shut up and let me do this," Rimmer snapped, clearly flustered. Ah- he'd hit some sort of nerve.

"I mean it," he struggled, trying to find coherent words in the tangled state of sensation his brain was in. Rimmer was licking up the length of him, exploring at his leisure, and Lister only half-managed to suppress a groan when he found a ridge on the underside to rub against. "Mmn- you're so good at this- driving me mad-"

Rimmer put him back in his mouth, sucking tight around his cock, and- his hips jerked forward- with a jolt of molten, white-hot energy, he felt himself tumble over the edge. Smeg. He'd meant to say something before shooting a load into Rimmer's mouth, but-

"Lister?!" Rimmer sounded horrified.

"Sorry, man, I wasn't- I didn't expect to-"

"I swallowed it."

"You what?"

"It wasn't on purpose! What do I do, I mean- should I try to make myself throw up, or-"

"It's not poison."

"Well, I don't imagine it's good for you, either!" A pause. "And it won't- well, of course it wouldn't- I don't have the parts…"

"You're not gonna get pregnant, you prat!" He couldn't help laughing. "What sort of sex education do they have on Io?"

"Not the same-sex kind," Rimmer mumbled, hurt. Lister sighed and leaned forward into the dark, a scrap of timetable stuck to his upper back. He found Rimmer's shoulders, then the collar of his shirt, and finally his jaw, pressing an earnest kiss against Rimmer's lips.

"It's alright. Promise I'll pay the child support."

"That's disgusting. You know what's just been in my mouth."

"So? Maybe I like it." Lister pulled his underwear back up and shifted into a more comfortable position, leaning against the bottom bunk. "Anyway, we agreed on taking turns. Come on. You're next."

"That's hardly necessary. Really. I think I've gone through my phase, I've had my experience, and I'm done."

"If you really mean that, then I'll go on and get me clothes back on, but… so far, you've been kind of shit at telling me what you really want. I mean, you accuse me of coming onto you and then jump my bones the next second."

"Well," Rimmer said, cautiously, "what if you just… held me while I did it?"

"Alright." He reached out again, swinging Rimmer's legs over his lap. Like this, Rimmer could lean against his shoulder- did, actually, and his cheek was red-hot. Lister smiled and wrapped his arms around Rimmer's waist, tight. "Feeling cozy enough?"

"Cozy." Rimmer scoffed. "Sure. Chocolate and marshmallows next to a roaring fire."

"Can I kiss you during, or is this a totally hands-off sort of thing?"

"Again, I have your… your sperm in my mouth."

"Can't be worse than what I had for breakfast."

"Fine, then." Rimmer lifted his head. "If you- if you really want to, I suppose you can kiss me."

"Brutal," Lister grinned, finding Rimmer's lips and nipping at the bottom one with his teeth. Rimmer seemed to like being bitten, the way he dug his fingernails into Lister's arm, squirmed. This was probably a first for him, right? Lister pulled away, nuzzling Rimmer's cheek, and worked his way back until he could get Rimmer's earlobe gently between his teeth.

"Lister, are you trying to eat me?" His tone was half-incredulous, but strained, and he'd dug his nails in again.

"Yeah, guess I am." Lister grabbed Rimmer by the jaw, tilting his head so that he could get at the skin of his neck.

"That…" The argument died in Rimmer's throat, replaced by a soft, meek "okay."

Rimmer still smelled good, like pressed laundry, like aftershave, though the room around them was starting to smell of sex. His skin was way softer than it had any right to be- probably the regular bathing, the constant exercise, the annoying bottles of moisturizing such-and-such that crowded his locker. Lister bit down a little harder. Maybe it felt better than it should have, ruining Rimmer's stupid perfect skin. Maybe he'd leave a mark, right above the collar, annoyingly hard to cover up without being obvious about it.

"Lister," Rimmer groaned, one hand digging into Lister's back. The other had started to move back and forth, slowly, and Lister realized with a twinge of arousal that he was feeling himself up through his pants. Smeg.

"Such a hypocrite," he murmured against Rimmer's neck. "You keep callin' me disgusting and easy and everything, but I bet you won't last more than a minute if I keep this up."

"That's beside the point," Rimmer argued.

"Which point? The part where you gave me a handjob, or the one where you sucked me off?"

"Lister-" His tone was angry, but his hand was moving faster.

"I mean it. You're a total whore, I mean, now that you finally have someone to mess around with. You've been dying for a chance to do this, haven't you? You been rubbing one out, thinking about how good my cock would feel in your mouth?"

"Yes," Rimmer choked. "God, I- there's no excuse- I just wanted-"

"It's okay," Lister said, moving the hand that wasn't supporting Rimmer down his chest. If they had time, he would have unbuttoned the ugly beige uniform, slipped his hand under the tight white cotton shirt he knew was underneath. Maybe switched the light back on so he could have a proper look. But Rimmer was probably pretty close, judging by the way he was whimpering. "You deserve this. You needed this. And I liked giving it to you. You're so handsome, Rimmer, and you're such a good lay, really," he continued. "You're so good at this. Even this- if I had a round two in me, Rimmer, be on my knees begging you for it, I swear."

"Please," Rimmer whined, probably only having processed the word begging. "Please, Lister, please?"

"Alright," Lister shrugged, and he caught Rimmer's skin between his teeth again, and Rimmer shuddered, letting out a pained moan.

It really hadn't taken much at all to get him off, and Lister was sorry he hadn't had more time to try things.

"Alright," Rimmer panted. "You've had your fun. You can go back to tormenting me now. Tell all your stupid little friends I'm desperately homosexual, take out an ad in the ship newsletter."

"Actually, this is normally the part where we get a pizza and a bunch of curries and stay in bed for three days straight."

"Ah. Right. The only times I ever got peace and quiet were when you'd bugger off to some bimbo's bunkroom for a week-"

"Well, now you get to be the bimbo." Lister really wished he could make out more than faint outlines- Rimmer's expression was probably priceless. Yeah, enough. "Lights on."

It was a disaster- Rimmer's study schedule was scattered around them, torn and wrinkled; Lister's pants were still pulled halfway down, and his shirt had somehow made it around the top of one of the chairs when he'd tossed it aside.

And Rimmer- red-faced, rumpled, his tie crooked, a definite damp spot on the front of his pants. Beautiful.

"I need a shower," he squeaked, "and before you say a damned word, you aren't invited."

"Aw."

"When I come out, I want all the paper off the floor, and I expect you to be- less naked. Then we'll… we can discuss the idea of me not immediately putting in a reassignment request."

"Works for me," Lister grinned. Rimmer started to clamber out of his arms, but he pulled him back in. "Wait."

"What?"

Lister gave him a quick peck on the lips.

"Right. Need to brush my teeth, too," Rimmer bristled, but he looked flustered-mad instead of angry-mad.

Hmmm. Lister threw his shirt back on, kicking the abandoned timetables into a messy pile by the hamper. All things considered, this had been one of the few times an impulse decision had worked out well. Maybe, when Rimmer got out of the shower, he could convince him to cuddle in the lower bunk and watch a movie or two. At the very least, he was sure Rimmer's mind was as far from the astronavigation exam as it could possibly get.

"Holly, can you send Petersen a quick message?" he asked. "Tell him I'm busy tonight. Last minute plans."

[couldntbedamned]

Nevertheless, Recover

Summary: Peter finds himself once again in Dr. Strange's office, hoping to find a reason and a cure for his latest ailment. He's come to the right place, since Dr. Strange will do everything it takes to diagnose and treat Peter. Hopefully, Peter will survive the embarrassment.

Warnings/AO3 Tags: 18+ Minors DNI, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Medical Inaccuracies, (no seriously don’t use this as medical advice ffs), Medical Examination, Sexual Roleplay, Humiliation, Dacryphilia, Sounding, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Forced Orgasm, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Dubious Ethics, Gaslighting, Aftercare, Safe Sane and Consensual, Peter Parker is an Adult, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing

<<<>>>

Nevertheless, Recover

<<<>>>

Peter sits on the exam table and his legs swing back and forth in an expression of his agitation. He’s once again in the office he’s coming to hate.

He’s tried to get another physician, but Dr. Strange is in his health insurance network, and none of the other approved doctors are accepting new patients. Technically he can go to an urgent care place, but it doesn’t feel right. He’s not dying and the thought of explaining his problem to a stranger kind of horrifies him.

At least Dr. Strange is familiar. Kind of. Unfortunately.

He can only imagine the verbal lashing he’s going to get from the man once he realizes why Peter is here. Strange already thinks he’s some kind of sexual pervert, if their last visit was any indicator.

Peter bids the doctor to come in at the strong knock and Strange walks in, shutting the door behind him.

He’s wearing dark blue scrubs that compliment his skin, bring out his eyes, and show off the leanly muscled lines of his arms. Why did Peter’s doctor have to be so good-looking? It wasn’t fair!  And the stethoscope around his neck just draws attention of the v-cut of the top… Peter closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can’t afford to get hard right now.

“Mr.  Parker,” Strange drawls. “Welcome back.”

“Peter’s fine,” Peter says quickly.

“Alright, then, welcome back, Peter.” He sits down on his wheeled stool and gives Peter his full attention. “What seems to be the problem?”

He can’t do this. Fuck, this is too damn embarrassing. He focuses on the floor and mumbles it out under this breath.

“Earning my paycheck today, I see,” Strange says before blowing out an impatient breath. “You’ve requested a consultation with me. Now, since I’m an adult doctor and not a pediatrician, I expect for my patients to be able to discuss adult things and that we’ll do so like adults. At a minimum, I expect that I will be able to hear you and that your eyes will meet mine. Now, eyes on me and speak up clearly.”

Peter looks up. He can feel the heat of the flush rising up his neck and into his cheeks. “S-sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, just look at me when you’re speaking to me. Now. What brings you into my office today?”

Peter swallows and forces himself to look at Dr. Strange. “I uh, I can’t get off.”

“When you say that ‘you can’t get off,’ do you mean that you are unable to reach orgasm?” Strange clarifies.

“Yeah. I haven’t been able to for a few weeks now.  I get kind of close and then nothing. I guess I want to make sure nothing’s, you know, broken.”

Strange’s eyebrows raise. “Okay. Well, I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this.” He rolls his stool back and grabs a notepad off of the small counter along with a pen. “Let’s start with some basic questions.”

“Basic?”

Strange gives him what’s probably meant to be a reassuring smile. Considering Peter’s history with Dr. Strange, it’s anything but. But he needs to be able to get off. So badly.

“O-okay. You’re the doctor,” Peter tells him.

“Good boy,” Strange says. “Now, when was your last orgasm?”

Oh fuck.

“It was a week after my physical,” Peter says. “So, the 31st.”

“How was that orgasm achieved? Masturbation?  Intercourse? Prostate stimulation?”

“U-um, I was, uh, I was m-masturbating.”

“And how were you masturbating? Were you stimulating your cock, being penetrated?”

Peter closes his eyes. “I h-had a dildo I was riding. And I was stroking myself.”

“Okay. This toy you used, was it stimulating your prostate at any point in time?”

He can’t stop the light flush turning red hot. Why is this so important? “I can’t actually remember.”

“If it had been, you would remember,” Strange says, unimpressed. “Trust me.” He’s writing something and Peter can’t see it from the angle he’s sitting. “Were there any external stimuli?”

“E-external?” Peter asks. “I was using my hand.”

Strange stops himself from chuckling but his expression is just a little… condescending. “I mean were you watching pornography?”

Peter closes his eyes. He just knows that if he admits that yes, he was watching porn, Dr. Strange is going to be judgy. Even though everyone watches porn. Oh fuck. What if Strange asks what kind of porn he was watching?"

“Peter?”

Peter’s eyes open and he see Strange watching him intently, annoyed.

“I don’t like repeating myself,” Strange tells him.

“Yeah, I was watching porn!” Peter finally bites out. “So the fuck what?”

Strange’s eyes narrow.  “If you feel guilty for watching consenting adults have sex with each other, that’s your problem. I’m asking questions to get a sense of what the circumstances were when you last had an orgasm in the hopes we can get to the root cause of why you’ve been unable to do so since then. If you’re going to be an uncooperative little brat, then perhaps you’re not mature enough to even be attempting to have an orgasm, let alone watch other people do so.” He makes sure Peter’s meeting his gaze. “I would suggest you watch your tone, Peter. Either you want my help, or you don’t. Stop wasting my time.”

Peter lowers his gaze, curses himself. Surely a doctor like Dr. Strange has seen and heard it all before, right? The chances of Peter being the outlier are very slim.

“I was watching porn,” he says, voice calmer this time. “Gay porn, actually. I uh, I don’t get turned on with straight porn, or lesbian porn.”

“Okay.” Strange makes more notes. “What about it appealed to you?”

He shifts. “One of the men was younger and looked like me, kind of. With brown hair and eyes. And the other guy was older and tall and not super built, but he looked nice.”

“You found the subjects physically attractive.”

Peter nods. “Yeah, but more than that they were… well, the older one was in charge, you know? Told the younger one what to do and how to do it. He was kind of mean about it but the younger guy seemed okay with it, happy even. He was really hard, at least.”

“You enjoyed the idea of dominance and submission?” Strange asks.

Peter shrugs. “I don’t know if it was exactly that. I guess it came off like the older one would give the younger one what he needed, eventually, and the younger one knew the older guy would take care of him so long as he did what he was told. And at the end they were kind of sweet with each other.”

“I see,” Strange says.  He writes some more notes. “Have you watched the same video since then?”

“I can’t,” Peter admits. “It got taken down.”

“The times you’ve masturbated to orgasm, were you watching the video?”

“N-no. Not always. The theme was kind of similar, with the older guy in charge of the younger smaller guy. And I don’t always watch something when I’m trying to get off.”

“Have you tried watching other videos while masturbating?”

“I’ve tried everything,” Peter says. “I mean, short of choking myself.”

“At least you have some common sense. Thank goodness for small favors,” Strange says. “Your most recent attempt at climax, what were you doing?”

Peter doesn’t want to answer. Hell, Dr. Strange will probably have him shipped off the psych ward and he’ll end up spending the rest of his days in a straight-jacket and eating green jell-o through a straw.

Strange sighs. “Peter, there are other patients I could be seeing right now, patients who have bigger concerns than if their penis can ejaculate. Please stop wasting my time.”

Once again, Peter feels the heat creep up his neck and into his ears, his cheeks.

“I was pretending like I was being held down,” he admits. “Like, like I didn’t have a choice. And I was pretending that the guy was being really mean when he talked to me.”

Strange’s eyes are on him, and finally he blinks. “So you have rape fantasies? Like a little over half of all men?”

Peter forces himself to keep looking at the doctor while he speaks. “I g-guess so, yeah. It’s not all the time!” he hastens to add. “But sometimes, it happens. I don’t want it to actually happen!” he insists.

“Of course you don’t,” Dr. Strange says simply. “A person’s fantasies have little-to-no bearing on what that person wants in reality. The mind has many mysteries.”

Again, the doctor makes notes that Peter is unable to read. “Frankly, I’m just surprised you actually admitted it. I thought you would have lied, for sure. You’re not exactly my most upfront and cooperative patient.”

Peter swallows. “You would have known if I was lying.”

“True. Now, are there other fantasies you have that no longer help you to climax?”

Peter takes a deep breath, and spills. He has a few, for sure. There’s the kept-house boy fantasy, where part of his duties included making his body available to the master of the house. A basic, if uninspired fantasy involving a very strict college professor, a spanking with a ruler, and going the extra mile to get an A. He stammers through the one where he’s short on rent and the suave, rich landlord suggests they could come to an arrangement. On it goes, and Dr. Strange never speaks a word, just writes. “And that’s pretty much it,” Peter finishes.

It’s a lie, of course. Kind of. Is it really lying if he can’t even admit it to himself? Dr. Strange would probably say yes. But Peter thinks he’s been thorough enough.

“That’s quite the list, Peter. When you’re having these fantasies, are you using your toys?”

“S-sometimes. But mostly I just jack off.”

“I see.” He wheels himself over to the counter and picks up Peter’s file. “During your last visit, you mentioned that you were sexually involved with another man. Have the two of you had intercourse since that visit?”

“Just once. That was the first time I wasn’t able to get off.” Peter frowns. “Not that he cared.”

“Okay. Well, there could be a few different factors at play here, Peter. Stress is a big cause of impotence. Tobacco, alcohol, and other addictions can also lead to difficulties. Peyronie’s disease could be another cause, but I feel sure a physical exam will rule that out. Given that you were here a month ago and in good physical health, I doubt your inability to orgasm stems from high blood pressure or cardiovascular problems.” Strange clasps his hands together. “We’ll do a brief physical exam and sounding, check for nerve damage, and I’ll also have a panel run to rule out any sexually transmitted diseases.”

“A-an ultrasound?” Peter asks. “I thought those were for pregnant women.”

Dr. Strange studies him as if he’s some sort of dumb puppy. “It’s for getting images of inside of the body. We can make sure there’s no swelling or infection.”

Peter nods. “Okay.”

Strange stands and moves to the cabinet. He pulls out a medical gown very similar to the one Peter wore the last time he was in the office and hands it to him.

“Go ahead and get changed. I’m going to go and grab some equipment we’ll need, and I’ll be right back.”

Great. Equipment. Were ultrasound machines transportable? Peter has no idea. And why did Dr. Strange call it sounding and not ultrasound? It’s not much of a shortcut.

Dutifully, Peter undresses and folds his clothes neatly. Why he feels the need to hide his boxers like they’re something shameful when Dr. Strange has literally seen him full of an enema, Peter doesn’t know. He pulls on the gown - and funding must be terrible if they can’t afford to replace the gowns with ones that aren’t nearly see-through from constant laundering - and sits back down on the exam table.

His feet are cold, and he wonders if there are those non-slip socks in any of the drawers. He can - no, no, he’s not going to go there. The last thing he needs is Dr. Strange walking in on Peter rifling through his cabinets and drawers. He’ll just ask.

A knock on the door is followed by Dr. Strange wheeling in a cart that has a small laptop-looking device on it. A bottle of gel is next to it and a strange looking probe-type thing connected to a cable. Underneath on a shelf is a variety of instruments he can’t see clearly - hopefully no scalpels - and a slim black case that’s zipped closed.

“You’re a lucky guy, Peter,” Strange tells him, adjusting the cart’s placement before moving to shut the door to the room. “This mobile ultrasound machine is top of the line.”

Peter doesn’t feel lucky.

He just wants to know if he’s ever going to come again.

“Go ahead and hop on the scale over by the door so I can get your height and weight. Then I’ll get your blood pressure and we can move on.”

Peter’s annoyed, but masks it as he gets off the table and walks over to the scale. He lets out a sigh as Strange moves the balance weights and then lowers the height marker to the top of his head.

“You’ve lost weight,” Strange remarks. “I’m guessing the stress from your problem.”

“It’s hard to think about food when you’re worried if you’ll ever get a boner again,” Peter says.

Strange looks at him sharply. “You didn’t say you were having trouble getting erect, just reaching climax.”

Well, fuck.

“It takes a while to get hard, when I can manage it. And when I am hard, I can’t get off,” Peter explains. “Does that change anything?”

Dr. Strange looks heavenward as if astounded. “It certainly doesn’t make this less complicated.” He narrows his eyes at Peter.

Peter steps off the scale and onto the cold floor.  Which reminds him. “Um, Dr. Strange?”

“Yes?” Strange asks with an exasperated sigh.

“Um, it’s really cold in here, and I came in wearing sandals. Are there any of those socks they use in hospitals that I could wear?” He can’t help it; he looks at the floor, feeling stupid.

“Are you asking the floor or are you asking me?”

Peter looks up. “I’m asking you.”

Shaking his head, Dr. Strange pulls a pair out of one of the cabinets and tosses it on the exam table. Peter eagerly pulls the pair on before hopping back up on the bed. He wiggles his toes, glad that they’re finally warm for the first time since coming into the office. He notices Strange staring at him and stops, flushing.

“Cute,” Strange says dryly. He sits back on his stool. “Since you weren’t honest before, I’m going to need you to tell me when you last had an erection.”

“A couple of days ago,” Peter answers. It’s humiliating, but he doesn’t feel like pressing his luck.

“And how long did it last?”

“Well, I tried to get off for about thirty minutes before I gave up. Then I took a cold shower, and it went away.”

“Before your problem started, how long did it usually take for you to climax?” Strange is making more notes.

“How am I supposed to know that?” Peter asks. “Sometimes I’d go off immediately, other times I’d try to take longer so I could get to the part where…” he trails off, embarrassed.

“Peter,” Strange warns.

“I tried to time it so that I didn’t get off until the older guys in the videos would let the younger guys come.”

Just kill him now. No orgasm is worth this.

“As fascinating as your habits are, I’m going to need some kind of timeframe as an answer.”

“Between ten and fifteen minutes if I was watching porn. Around five if I was just fantasizing and jerking off,” he admits.

Dr. Strange makes a few more notes and then stands up, the stool rolling backwards with the movement. “Okay. I’ll start with a basic physical and then we’ll move on to more targeted diagnostic tests.”

“Basic?” Peter asks.

“Not as in-depth as was required for your last physical,” Strange says. “If you would actually bother to start showing up regularly, they wouldn’t be so invasive.”

“I’m going to do better,” Peter promises before he can stop himself.

“We’ll see,” is all Strange says.

That hurts, sends shame coiling in his belly. He doesn’t know why he wants Dr. Strange’s approval so badly. But fuck, he does.

He studies Strange as the man pulls on his latex gloves with a distinct snap. And with that snap, something sparks in his groin.

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” Strange murmurs.

Peter looks down and groans in embarrassment.

He’s hard.

All because of those fucking exam gloves.

“I-I don’t know why -”

“Do you get off on these visits, Peter?” Strange asks.

“No!”

Yes.

“Hmm.” Strange looks like he doesn’t believe him but doesn’t say anything further.

A gloved hand gently takes hold of one of Peter’s testicles, rubs it and Peter can’t help but moan softly. Then it’s being squeezed roughly.

“I’m sorry!” Peter gasps out. “Look, I am, but it feels good, okay?”

“Just try to control yourself,” Strange says.

The other testicle is examined. “Nothing unusual, heavier than your last visit, but that’s to be expected with the lack of release.”

His cock is next, and fuck why does Dr. Strange have to be so impersonal about it as he feels up and down?

“Any burning or discomfort when you urinate?”

“No,” Peter answers honestly.

“Alright. I’m going to check for blockage in your urethra, but I’ll need you soft for it.”

Peter groans, knowing what’s coming. Sure enough, Strange puts an ice pack on his groin and he can’t stop the yelp he lets out. It’s so fucking cold his cock feels like it’s on fire.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Strange tells him. “You’ve been through it before.”

That memory along with the cold of the ice pack duals with the unfortunately arousing condescension from Dr. Strange. Eventually, the cold wins out and Peter feels himself starting to soften.

“H-how do you check for blockage in something so narrow?” Peter asks.

“Sounding,” Strange answers.

“An ultrasound can tell you that?” he asks skeptically.

“Probably. And I’ll do one of those, as well.”

“I’m so confused,” Peter says. And he’s worried and all he wanted was a consult to figure out why he can’t come and now Strange is going to be doing things to him again.

Dr. Strange grabs the slim black case Peter noticed earlier and unzips it. He pulls out a slim, delicately curved rod. “This is a sounding rod.”

“How is that supposed to look and see if there’s a block?”

“It goes inside your urethra, Peter.”

Peter’s jaw drops. “No!  No fucking way! There’s no way it can fit down there!”

“I assure you, it can, and it will. These are sterile rods. I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t safe and effective.”

“No,” Peter says again.

“I see,” Dr. Strange says. “I’m afraid you don’t give me much choice, here, Peter.”

There’s a tiny pinch in his neck and he starts to feel a little… off.

“W-wha?”

“Just a quick-acting, mild sedative. It’ll wear off in a few minutes. Knowing your previous behavior, I thought it was best to be prepared,” Strange tells him.

Then he’s pulling up the stirrups and strapping Peter’s legs in before pushing the things out so that he’s splayed. Then he lifts and locks two arm rests into place; Peter’s never noticed those before. Again, his arms are strapped down. Then a strap comes over his chest and is tightened and Peter’s basically bound, helpless, to the exam table.

“I’ve never had such an uncooperative, ungrateful patient before,” Strange chides. “You schedule my time, claiming to need my help, and then you do everything you can to let me know that my expertise and my professional judgement are beneath you, as if you know better.”

Peter can only stare up at him, guilt roiling in his gut.

Strange checks his watch. “You should be getting sensation back.”

He is. “Yeah.”

“Good. Now, what’s going to happen is I’m going to check and make sure there’s not any blockage that’s preventing your ejaculation. I know the rods can look scary, but I wouldn’t just shove something into you. I’ll use medical-grade lubrication and start with the thinnest rod.”

Swallowing heavily, Peter nods. “Will it hurt?”

“It will feel unusual,” Strange tells him.

He removes the ice bag from Peter’s crotch and studies the flaccid organ. He sets the bag aside and grabs a bottle of lube and a plastic syringe.

He closes his eyes when Strange fills the syringe with lube. He can’t watch. Things aren’t meant to go into his dick! Sure enough, the feeling of the lube being pushed into him is so weird, but he manages to keep from crying out.

A little hard to, considering that when he can bring himself to open his eyes, his attention is glued on the case that holds the sounds. And on Strange, whose long, blue-gloved fingers are selecting a sound.

Dr. Strange calls it the thinnest, yet to Peter it’s anything but, far too thick to even consider sliding in there.

“Relax, Peter. I wouldn’t do anything to injure a patient, even one as difficult as you.”

Peter lays his head back; he can’t watch this. This feels like a violation beyond anything he’s ever experienced in this office, and Dr. Strange had once measured his testicles!

A gloved hand gently grasps his cock and holds it steady while another begins to feed something cold and slick into his dick and fuck it’s so weird.

It’s not bad, exactly but it is the weirdest sensation he’s ever felt in his life. And it doesn’t stop. The rod keeps sliding down and down and-

“Oh!”

Strange holds him down - damn, the doctor is strong!  - and continues to move the sound around a bit and it touches something.

“What are you feeling?”

“I-I can’t describe it,” Peter says with panting breaths.

“Try.”

Peter looks up at Strange and then down to where he’s thrusting and twisting the sound in and out of Peter’s urethra. Then the gloved hand squeezes his cock and fuck nonononono…

“I feel like, like I need to go, but not,” he manages to say. “It’s this weird fullness, but nothing like I’ve ever felt.”

“Imagine that,” Dr. Strange muses.

He pulls the sound free, and Peter wants to weep because it was feeling good.

“I’m going to use the next size up,” Strange informs him.

It looks too thick and not thick enough, and he’ll never admit it, but Peter wants it in him so badly.

As the sound is slid in, and oh it’s so much and he can feel tears running down his face, he hears the distinctive sound of Dr. Strange’s derision.

“Of course, you’d be getting aroused by such a basic medical procedure,” he drawls. “At this point chemical castration might be the only chance at subduing your perversions.”

Sure enough, Peter can feel himself stirring. Only, it doesn’t feel good, it hurts! The curve of the rod is an immovable force in his aroused cock.

“Stop!” he begs.

“Just relax. I’ll get another ice pack.”

“No!”

But Strange doesn’t listen, just leaves the sound in place, steps away and grabs another two packs of hell from the freezer. One is placed on Peter’s eager cock and the other is settled on top of the remaining sounds.

He’s trying to fight the arousal, trying to keep his head, but the rod is still in him, and he can feel it as if it’s becoming a part of him. Just as his breathing is easing, as he’s growing used to the sound, Strange twists it again, thrusts it in and out, barely touching that magic place Peter had felt before. The barrage of sensation coupled with the lack of that spot and the ice pack is just… Peter whimpers as he feels tears roll down his cheeks.

“Seems clear, but I think I’m going to try one more, the next size up,” Dr. Strange says as if to himself.

He pulls the sound out, sets it next to the other used sound with a clink.

Peter’s eyes close. He’s floating underwater somehow, like waves above him are rushing him forward only to draw him back further, deeper. His nerves are on fire, and he knows he’s still got another to go.

“Oh, relax,” Strange chides. “It’s hardly torture.”

Then there’s the sensation of cold so extreme it burns, and Peter opens his eyes to see the next rod - that’s sat under an ice pack - slide into his cock.

“Fuck!”

“Hmm. That’s quite the response.” Strange takes his time, pulling the sound back and then twisting it on the slide down.

“It’s too much,” Peter whines. “Dr. Strange, you gotta stop.”

The movement of the sound doesn’t stop. “You’re fine,” Dr. Strange says dismissively. “And what I ‘gotta’ do, is treat my patient. Don’t presume to tell me my job.”

“S-sorry!”

“I’m sure you are.”

After what seems like hours, with his cock burning and struggling to get hard despite the curved rod Strange seems so happy to torture him with, the sound is removed.

“No blockage,” Dr. Strange comments. “That’s good.”

He’s almost scared to ask. “If it’s not blocked, then what could the problem be?”

Strange spares him a look as he returns the ice pack over Peter’s cock. “We’re narrowing the possibilities down.”

Peter’s scared to ask what’s next. Oh hell, there isn’t some kind of enema thing for dicks, is there? He’ll die if there is. His heart will give out, and he’ll die.

“W-what else is there to do?” He hopes it comes out as curious as he can manage. He’s scared, but he needs to know.

Dr. Strange arches a condescending brow and Peter feels about two feet tall. “I’m going check on your prostate,” Strange tells him. “Chances are slim that it’s the issue but needs must.”

Peter knows how this is going to go. At this point it might as well just happen. He can’t thwart Dr. Strange. So, he just nods.

“That’s the compliant kind of patient I love to work with.”

Hah! He’s strapped to an exam table with an ice pack on his dick. He can’t exactly not comply at this point.

In his sight, he sees Dr. Strange pull on a fresh pair of gloves and his cock, even suffering under the ice, twitches at the snapping sound the gloves make. Strange lubing his fingers doesn’t help, either. He’s had those long, skilled fingers inside of him before… he shakes his head. Now is not the time to contemplate if he’s actually turned on by visits with Dr. Strange!

Gloved fingers circle his rim, and he shudders. Or, shudders as much as his restrained body can manage.

“Hmm.  I need better access.” He removes the gloves and does something that has the table sliding inward under itself, leaving Peter’s ass exposed to the open air. “Much better,” Strange concludes after crouching down and getting a closer look.

The gloves and lubricant ritual repeats.

When he feels the gentle prodding along his exposed hole, he bites down on his lip to keep from making noise. It’s all for naught when a finger works its way in and Peter feels it feeling around. A whimper escapes just as another finger joins the first and twists.

“Sensitive, hmm?” Strange asks lightly. “That’s a good sign, at least.”

Then the two fingers are rubbing gently - so gently!  - against his prostate and the noise that slips from Peter is a mix between a moan and a shout. He needs more, needs it so bad it hurts and if only he were anywhere but here and with anyone with Dr. Strange!

“P-please…”

He’s not sure what he’s begging for at this point.  More. Less. To go home, to have Dr. Strange never stop what he’s doing, something.

Just as he’s feeling it building, something warm and delicious that he hasn’t felt in so. long... Strange pulls his fingers free.

“No!” he whines.

“Peter, how many times do I have to remind you that my exam room isn’t your personal porn studio?” Strange asks coldly. “I’m trying to diagnose your ailment, yet you continue to fight against me one minute and then use me to try and get off the next.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter apologizes desperately. “I am, really! But I can’t help that it feels good! And isn’t that part of why I came to see you? Because I haven’t been able to feel good?”

Dr. Strange continues looking at him like he’s not worth the effort it takes to lift a stethoscope.

“Try to contain yourself,” Strange says finally.

Tearfully, Peter nods. It’s not fair! How is he supposed to control what his body feels?

“Have you forgotten how to speak?”

“No!” He squeaks. “I-I’ll try to… try to control myself.”

“We’ll see,” Strange says dismissively. He turned to the ultrasound cart. “I suppose it’s time to take a look inside. Do you think you can get a grip on yourself?”

Peter clenches and unclenches his fists. “Y-yes.”

“Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.”

He grabs the probe-looking thing from the cart and turns on the laptop. “This,” he says, motioning with the probe thing. “Is an ultrasound transducer. I’ll be using this to take a look inside your rectum.”

“You’re going to stick that inside me?” Peter chokes out, horrified. “It’s too long! You’ll poke a hole up there!”

Dr. Strange lets out a long sigh and sets the transducer down.

“Unbelievable,” he says, looking down at Peter. “I have half a mind to just send you on your way and let you figure out your alleged problem on your own. If you’re not behaving like a hysteric little pervert in my office, you’re fighting me on every step of your medical care.”

Peter can’t exactly hang his head, restrained to the table as he is, but he feels lower than dirt. Why can’t he just comply?

“Tell me, are you this much of a brat to everyone else who tries to help you, or is it just deep disrespect you harbor for me in particular?”

“N-no!” Peter insists with a sob. “Dr. Strange, I’m not trying to be difficult, I swear! I-I just…”

“You just what, Peter? Hmm?”

“I-I get scared and embarrassed! I don’t know why my body reacts the way it does in here and I’m scared that something is seriously wrong with me!”

Why oh why didn’t he just learn to live with not getting off?

“And you didn’t think that communicating this with the doctor who is trying to help you was necessary?”

“I’m sorry,” Peter pleads brokenly.

“Your actions do speak louder than your words,” Strange says finally.

He pushes up Peter’s gown before picking the transducer back up, slicking it with the ultrasound gel. “Now, please remember that I, unlike you, am a trained doctor and in fact, do know more than you about this procedure.”

Tears running down his face, Peter nods.

An irritated sigh.

“Y-yes, Dr. Strange.”

The device slides inside of him and Peter gasps. Strange pays him no mind, focuses on the screen instead. He moves the transducer in and out, angles it this and that way.

Peter does his best to remain still, but on the prods against his prostate, he can’t keep his hips from canting. Strange notices - because of course, he does - and a strong, gloved presses down on Peter’s abdomen, halting his movements. Peter can’t stop the moan; he can feel the transducer inside of him and the pressure from Dr. Strange’s hand… it’s hell on earth and amazing all at once.

“I’m not seeing any masses,” Dr. Strange says, pulling out the transducer and setting it aside. “I’m going to do another check.” He connects another transducer to another port and after squeezing some ultrasound gel on Peter’s abdomen, presses it against Peter’s skin. Peter turns his head and sees the two-up display on the screen. He can see his insides!

There’s prodding at his rim and Peter lets out a gasp as Strange works two fingers inside. He can… he can see Dr. Strange’s fingers inside of him!

Strange angles his fingers and Peter’s hips jerk up.

“And there’s your prostate,” Strange tells him, directing his attention to a small gray spot on the screen. “Considering it’s still in working order, and everything is all clear on the ultrasound, I’m not seeing any physical reason for your ailment.” His fingers stroke over it again and again as he speaks and Peter moans.

“If there’s noth-” Peter breaks off because the sensation is so much. “Not physical then, oh, fuck! what is it?”

He’s close, the closest he’s been in forever and he wants to come more than he wants his next breath.

Strange pulls his fingers free and as terrible as it is to feel the orgasm cheerfully slipping away from him, it’s even worse seeing those fingers leave on the screen.

“At this point, I’m leaning towards psychological rather than physical.”

“I’m not crazy!” Peter insists tearfully.

“Of course, you’re not,” Strange says blandly.

“It doesn’t make any sense!” Peter finally says while Dr. Strange is wiping him clean of the ultrasound gel and setting everything on the cart back in order. “In here is the closest I’ve been to having an orgasm in since the problem started!”

“Hmm.” Strange pulls on another pair of gloves with a snap and watches as Peter’s cock twitches. “I wonder.”

He grabs the medical lube and slicks a gloved hand. Then he grasps Peter’s cock and begins to stroke.

Peter mind goes white for a few seconds as sensation floods him. Dr. Strange is methodically jerking him off, not too much pressure, not too fast. Just a slow steady up and down that has Peter wishing he could arch his hips into that amazing, gloved hand, get more friction… But even if he could, he figures Strange would just take his hand away leaving him desperate and wanting.

“Tell me,” Strange orders dispassionately. “Are you close to orgasm?”

Peter whines.

Strange’s hand leaves him and Peter cries out.

“I asked you a question, Peter.”

“Y-yes! I am! I’m sorry!”

“You’re going to tell me when you get close again, understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

It’s hell, heaven, as Dr. Strange jerks him off. Peter’s so desperate for it, so needy that when that cliff races towards him, he can’t keep his mouth shut.

“Fuck, yes! Right there, I’m close, I’m so close Dr. Strange, please-”

Strange takes his hand away and Peter lets out a sound like a wounded animal.

“Interesting,” Strange says clinically. “I wonder…”

He begins stroking again, only it doesn’t feel as… clinical? Methodical? It feels so good and Peter’s been denied an orgasm for so long, he’s desperate.

“How does this feel, Peter?” he’s asked.

“Good! Fuck, Doctor, it feels, feels so g-go-ow-oh!”

The hand is gone and everything good that’s been rushing toward him is pulled away like sand under a wave.

“Absolutely fascinating,” Strange comments, slowly looking from Peter’s erection up to his tear-streaked face and back again. In fact, he’s studying all of Peter quite closely as if he’s some kind of unusual experiment.

The “please” that Peter whispers, pained, settles around his gut with shame.

After what feels like an eternity, Dr. Strange wraps his hand around Peter’s cock and begins to stroke.

“Please, please, please!” He’s full-on begging for it. He doesn’t care, he’s desperate, and he’ll find a way to live with the fact Dr. Strange will forever think he’s a broken sex fiend that needs to be added to some kind of national registry after he comes. “I’ll do any-”hic“-anything!”

“I’m sure you would,” Strange says dismissively. But he keeps stroking.

Peter is lost to the sensation as Dr. Strange works his cock. Nothing has ever felt so good in his life, and it doesn’t matter if it’s all because of stupid Dr. Strange and his stupid latex-gloved hands and stupid condescending ways. He’ll deal with it because he wants to come so badly. It’s been so long…

The pleasure is building and building and fuck Dr. Strange is stroking him so perfectly, with enough of a grip to make it almost hurt in the best way.

He’s close, so close…

“You’ll be pleased to know that I’m confident I have a diagnosis, Peter,” Dr. Strange says. He’s still stroking.

“Wha-what? Real-fuck really?”

It’s there, right there, and his entire body tenses.

For the first time in nearly a month the glorious wave of release rushes over and through him and he’s coming, semen painting Strange’s gloved hand in thick spurts that never seem to end. Long shudders wrack his body with no outlet as he’s strapped down, helpless.

“Anorgasmia,” Dr. Strange says lightly. “Induced by erotophobia.”

Panting heavily, Peter tries - and fails - to process what Strange is telling him. It’s hard, when the doctor is continuing to stroke his cock as if to ensure Peter empties every drop of ejaculate he can.

“I don’t understand,” he says. The pleasure is shifting into something else. Like when he’s got a paper cut and everything around the area is too tender to touch.

“Of course, you don’t,” Strange scoffs. “It’s a much more sophisticated concept than what you’d be used to. But knowing what it is will allow me to treat you.”

The hand around his cock, gloved and slick with lubricant and Peter’s release, finally leaves his cock, which flops pathetically against his thighs.

“Isn’t that what you did just now?”

The look Strange gives him is so condescending that Peter’s face burns.

“No, everything I’ve done so far has been to diagnose, not treat.”

“But it took so long!” Peter complains.

“And whose fault was that?” Dr. Strange asks derisively, pulling the gloves off and disposing of them. “Who continuously withheld information and fought me every step of the way?”

Shame burns in him. Fuck, Strange is right.

“Well?” The question is caustic like salt in a wound.

“I did,” Peter whispers. “It’s my fault.”

“I’d say that I hope you’ll cooperate with your treatment, but even when the bar for my expectations of you is on the ground, somehow you always manage to find a shovel and dig even deeper.”

“I’ll do better, really!” He promises.

“I doubt it,” Strange replies. He walks over to his cabinets, opens a drawer, and when he turns back, Peter can see that he has a slim black box. “Anorgasmia is a type of sexual dysfunction. The individual cannot achieve orgasm even with adequate stimulation. It has a number of causes, such as injury or chronic disease, but yours is definitely psychiatric in nature.”

“I’m not crazy!” Peter insists.

“No, what you are, is afraid. Erotophobia is exactly what it sounds like: a fear of sex.”

“I’m not scared of sex, either,” Peter says stubbornly.

“No, not sex itself,” Strange agrees, pulling what Peter recognizes as a prostate massager from the box and shows it him before setting it back down in the box’s grooving. “Your fear is for what you’ve discovered about yourself sexually.”

Peter isn’t sure what Dr. Strange is talking about. He can’t get off because he’s scared about getting off? That doesn’t make any sense at all!

“Now, if you confront that fear, Peter, I have every reason to believe your little problem will go away.” Strange carefully pulls on a fresh pair of gloves with that maddeningly arousing snap.

Peter stubbornly looks at the soft light of the ceiling instead of Dr. Strange when he feels his cock twitch.

“So, as far as your treatment is concerned, it’s actually very simple.” Strange slicks up the prostate massager. “My advice to you, not that you’ve ever bothered to heed it before, is to relax.”

“Wha-” Peter can’t even get the word out before the massager slides inside of him. He feels it shift a bit and then there’s the most wonderful vibrations, right there. His cock begins to fill, blood racing.

“As far as kinks go, medical fetishism is fairly common,” Strange says as he starts to stroke Peter’s cock. “There’s actually a wide spectrum of elements that can be involved such as anesthesia, being placed in an iron lung, or just hoping for a glimpse of a naughty nurse. However, your attraction is to the loss of control you experience during medical exams and procedures.”

The vibrations are spine-tingling and with the doctor jerking him off, Peter can barely protest that ridiculous statement before another climax washes over him. It’s a hot kind of pleasure that has his toes actually curling and his chest rising and falling rapidly. He can’t believe he’s come twice so quickly after not being able to for so long.

“There we go,” Strange murmurs. He’s still stroking Peter’s cock as if determined to milk his orgasm as long as possible. It feels amazing until it doesn’t. And the massager inside of him hasn’t stopped. In fact, the vibrations only increase in power. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, though I can’t say I’m particularly pleased at your insistence on using my office for your sexual satisfaction.”

Strange’s hand continues its firm up and down grip on Peter’s limp cock and after a few minutes, somehow, Peter grows hard again. It’s too much, far too much and the vibrations against his prostate seem to affect everything deep inside of him. How on earth could he possibly come again? How could all of this even begin to arouse him?

“Once you allow yourself to admit that this is a kink of yours, your little problem should go away.” His thumb starts rubbing against the head of Peter’s cock, a maddeningly slow contrast to the heavy pulsing inside him.

“I c-can’t,” Peter manages. He can feel an orgasm building up and he’s terrified it will wreck him.

“I’m not telling you to act out your kinks, just accept them,” Strange says, not entirely misinterpreting Peter’s meaning.

The climax rips through him and he distantly hears the cry he lets out, feels the little bit of ejaculate that Dr. Strange seems intent on milking from him.

It has to be over, right?

“You’re making progress,” Dr. Strange says. He bends slightly to inspect the massager and Peter is nearly giddy with relief that it’s over. Until Dr. Strange presses a button on the base of the massager and the vibrations don’t stop. No, they change into something low and gradually buildup to a sensation that has stars flashing behind Peter’s eyes before dropping down to that low buzz. It happens again. Again.

Still, Dr. Strange resumes his stroking, only pausing to add more lubricant.

“Please,” Peter begs weakly. “Doctor, please…”

He can’t do it again. He can’t…

“Just accept them, Peter,” Dr. Strange insists.

He feels like his senses have been dialed up to eleven. The tears welling up at the overstimulation fall down his cheeks and down his temples. He can’t, there’s no way. It’s too much, too soon, and no, Peter doesn’t-

“You are aroused by medical procedures and the loss of your control that goes with them, Peter,” Strange says calmly. “You have a medical fetish. It’s really very simple.”

“I-I don’t,” Peter sniffles out. “I-I’m n-not a…” he can’t get the word out; shame is low and hot in his belly.

“Don’t lie to your doctor, Peter.” Strange’s voice is cold, stern. “Your erection is proving otherwise.”

The realization that Strange isn’t wrong, that his cock, so useless and unfulfilled for so long, is again growing erect has Peter closing his eyes at the humiliation.

“There’s nothing left,” Peter mumbles. “I can’t.”

“And yet, I must insist on finishing your treatment,” Strange says, stroking and thumbing over the slit of his cockhead. “You’ve wasted enough of my time and energy just so you can get off. The fact that you best enjoy doing so when you’re supposed to be getting medically tended to is hardly a case worthy of my particular skills, yet here we are.”

God, Dr. Strange is right. Peter’s been nothing but an inconvenience and now Peter’s fighting him again and he deserves it, deserves just how much the next orgasm - if he can call it that - is going to hurt.  The vibrations are still going from low to high over and over and with another press of a button, the intensity of the pattern increases just like his cock.

“I’m sorry,” he says.  “S-sorry-”

“Don’t be sorry,” Strange retorts, voice dripping with condescension. “Accept your diagnosis and treatment before I’m forced to take drastic measures and castrate you. Maybe then you’ll be a compliant patient, for once.”

Visions spark in his head at Strange’s cruel words. Surely the doctor would never… couldn’t…

“It would be a poetic sort of justice, my ensuring that you’ll never be able to pleasure yourself again after having been so disrespected in my attempts to help you, wouldn’t it?” Strange asks lightly.

Peter whimpers as the sensation builds and builds…

“Admit it, Peter,” Strange orders. “Just admit that you enjoy this.”

“I-I l-love t-thi-is,” he stammers out. The orgasm floods over him like a tidal wave, then pulls him back out to a sea of raw sensation that doesn’t exactly feel good but somehow, feels just this side of too much.

“Finally, there’s a good patient,” Dr. Strange drawls, hand stroking his cock slowing, stopping. He turns the massager down, and then off. Peter dimly registers his ass clenching around the massager as if to keep it inside of him, but Strange pulls it free with a squelch.

“Now, I’m going to undo the restraints and you’re going to take your time getting up,” Strange says briskly, removing and disposing of the gloves. The straps are loosened, and Peter just stays where he is, useless. “I’ll need to refer you to a therapist and put in an order for electrolyte-infused water.” He glowers down at Peter. “Try to contain your libido while I step out.”

It’s an unnecessary request, since the last thing Peter is concerned about is getting off, not when he’s boneless and sated, tingles still racing through him in the best way. The sound of Strange leaving the room and shutting the door is so far away…

“Peter, sweetheart, are you with me?” Stephen asks. He’s back and gently, carefully helping Peter sit up, ensuring he has a hand on Peter the entire time.

“Hmm? Yeah,” Peter says, still buzzed and bleary with endorphins. “Yeah, ’m here.”

“Good, drink some water for me,” Stephen insists. “Slowly now, there we go…”

Peter nearly laughs when he realized that Stephen hadn’t been joking about the added electrolytes. “You brought me the good water,” he says.

“Nothing but the best for you,” Stephen says warmly, rubbing his back where the hospital gown gaped open. “You did so good, Peter. You were so perfect.”

“I did good?” Peter does laugh. “Jesus, Stephen, you’re the one who had me coming until I was dry!”

“I didn’t go too far, did I?” He carefully helps Peter into a pair of loose but cozy sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt of Stephen’s from Columbia that’s seen better days.

“Mmm, no,” Peter assured him. “No, you were perfect, like always.” He shoots Stephen a sly grin as a sparking gold ring envelops them and they’re in their living room. “You just had to work it in though, didn’t you?”

Stephen chuckles, inclines his head. “You have your kinks, I have mine. You’re okay though?” he asks, more seriously. “Do you need anything?”

When they’re cozied up together on the sofa, Peter leaning heavy against Stephen and obediently opening his mouth to take, chew, swallow the cut-up fruit and granola bites that he’s being fed, he finally answers.

“Just hold me, like this,” he says. “And maybe promise me you’re not going to put that impotence spell on me again. Three weeks without getting off is a lot.”

“You asked for that spell,” Stephen reminds him. “Insisted on it, actually.”

“Only for the scene,” Peter clarifies. “I was probably a bit too enthusiastic about having it last as long as it did.”

“Worth it, though?”

Peter thinks back on the scene, on how Stephen had finally made him come, and then come again and again, pleasure growing and crashing through him. “So worth it!” He sighs, yawns. “We need to do one of yours, next,” he insists. “I’m kind of curious how you’d do it without actually doing it, y’know?”

Stephen laughs, drops a kiss on his head. “Let’s let you recover before we start worrying about my particular perversions,” he says. “Besides, I’ve had it planned out in my mind for weeks.”

Peter shivers but smiles and nestles in further to his side.

“Best doctor ever,” he says, and dozes off.

<<<>>>

Like in Private Practice and in It's All Routine, this is a negotiated and discussed scene and both Stephen and Peter are enthusiastically consenting.

[marlenacantswim]

hey, bestie! how are you, today?

(i love how we always tag each other in things, but have only spoken a little bit outside of that lol)

(yeah it's pretty funny lmao)

i've been better, but i did draw AND practice today, which is great! i've got orchestra rehearsal in a bit, and then i get to watch my friend record a playing exam before we go watch house of the dragon at another friend's place bc he has a good tv and internet

my saturday was great until around nightfall when a bunch of stuff happened that resulted in my first ever panic attack!!! and at the ripe old age of 20!!! thank you sensory overload and Big Feelings for this wicked crossover event!!! i've been recovering from that, so i'm below my average for How My Day Is Going but at this rate i'll be back to my usual mood tomorrow :)

😎😎😎

[weirdlizard26]

Favorite Comfort Things

THANK U @lychee-aes for the tag!!!!! ily bro :-)

Comfort Food: mcdonalds,,,,,, esp a burger + fries + milkshake combo! but really most mcdonalds stuff kasjfdf but also mom’s sorrel soup!!!!! and this other thing my mom makes that apparently. does not have an english translation kgjdfd its just pieces of chicken fillet fried in batter! i dont get to eat either of these very often tho which is sad ;w;

Comfort Clothes: a big thick and warm sweater with a full zipper,, thats where its at

Comfort Item: usually i only have one outside and its whatever backpack or bag i have with me! i cant wear those right now tho, but i do wear a fanny pack everywhere at home rn and it has become my new comfort item! makes me feel safe :-)

Comfort Character: the twinsies :-)

i mean its MOSTLY donnie akjngfdgd but leo is also there :-) but tbh any donnie from any tmnt iteration is also included here! rise donnie just means the most to me :-) he just like me fr

Comfort Song: the only individual single song i consider a comfort song is まっさら by kana-boon! but i mostly go for albums and playlists! my biggest hit is my mcr playlist akjnfg i always go straight to it when i am the MOST distressed! also the lightning thief, hadestown and spongebob musicals,,, my most beloved

Comfort Youtuber: oh absolutely brian david gilbert. cant forget my biannual dances moving rewatch! and also the entirety of bdg channel rewatch!

Comfort Videogame: hades :-))) i dreamed about it for a whole year and then my partner gifted it to me and i have NEVER looked back, ive never been actually obsessed with it but i always enjoy playing no matter what :-)

Comfort Film: i dont really watch movies bc it takes up all the spoons i have available and takes me the entire day kgdfjgfd but if i had to pick one you KNOW it would be rise of the tmnt (the movie)! i mean ive watched it at least 10 times before i had to seriously cram for my exams (which i am officially done with as of today btw!) and i will likely keep rewatching it once i recover my spoons

Comfort Show: rise of the tmnt!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! which im sure isnt a surprise to anyone akjgndfgd

Comfort Stim: ACTING OUT LINES FROM ROTMNT AND SINGING!!!!!!!! also spinning :D and touching some fabrics and surfaces but i cant remember any off the top of my head

Comfort Activity: singing :-) and most music-related activities! drawing too!!!

Comfort Book: sad to report i dont really read these days 😔 but this used to be this detective series from the kids’ section at the library i used to go to in middle school! i dont remember the name or anything about it but i was really into it as a kid akjngfd

THANK U FOR THE TAG AGAIN!!!!! i had a lot of fun doing this :D

imma tag @volt229 @mrblanchett @quee-r-code​ @pksuperred​ but ofc no pressure as always!!

[drsmokescreen]

for-the-better-and-worse" With all due respect, doctor-" That is to say, the bare minimum of what Prowl finds himself compelled to give an officially appointed medic, "I'd advise you take your time making a full assessment, before you begin keeping me here on such short notice." The effort to form the full sentence without any painful interruptions is a little bit much. Prowl inwardly curses himself for contradicting his case as he takes a full five seconds to recover, heavy exvent and all. The tactician grinds at his dentae, hard, at being told to relax and lie down. Something in his chassis tightens uncomfortably. He'd like to remain difficult today, for as long as possible." …I'm unclear on the start. The past- hff- I don't know, dozen or so years. It's difficult to tell between stress. Nothing like this." A pause. Prowl's tone goes very firm. "And if I may make a request- don't- don't touch me. Tell me what you're going to do." …Eventually, he concedes. One last uncompromising look at Smokescreen, and Prowl lies down on the medical slab, if only because his body may give out and do it itself, in a much less gentle way.

'Okay,' Smokescreen agrees to as he watches Prowl lay down on the bed, watching for any twitch that says his processor is rejecting the movement. With none, Smokescreen takes the cloth up. 'First thing, I'm going to cover your good optic so I can turn up the overhead to work,' he explains as he folds the towel into a long rectangle. 'Next will be to look at that bad patch more closely,' he says as he lays the cloth down long length along the length of Prowl's face, centered on the good optic. He turns for the light panel at the door, continuing. 'I suspect that has a great deal to do with your sensitivity to light,' the overhead exam light coming up to eighty percent. 'I cannot fix it for you, but I want to see what it is saying.' Smokescreen turns for the cabinet wall again, opening a draw. 'As for not being able to tell stress apart from headache, that's because they need to feed off each other. That's a psychosomatic feedback we can go into later, and I can help you find methods to alleviate the stress to keep the headache down.' He pulls out a handheld device with a large screen, a small joystick, and a gooseneck coming out the top edge. 'But I suspect you have more than one cause for the migraines, so we will start with the obvious cause and see what its treatment reveals underneath.' Smokescreen activates the handheld, checking the joystick's operability.

'Now I'm going to use this magnifier to look around the patch. It has a light on it so do not pull the towel off and look this way.' Smokescreen begins exploring the obvious cracks in the face plating first, radiating from under the patch, wide enough for every species of mite to get into. This is a hack job, like a field patch that was meant to get a wounded soldier closed up and transported to the rear for full repair. But Prowl didn't have this patch when Smokescreen last saw him—what? twenty-eight years ago? when Smokescreen was discharged. This is younger and ignored. Every one of the cracks are full of oxidation—and—is that a running stain? 'How long ago did this happen, Prowl? Have you noticed any discharge from it? If so, what colour?' Smokescreen asks as he continues to probe colours.

[carly404error]

Sorry for lack of content, I got sick and I lost motivation for a hot minute, I was just physically and mentally tired for like a week.

Also I forgot my material for class in my house today and I had a biology exam first hour then PE… Not a great day.

I’ve been better tbh, but I’m recovering from my sickness and I’m working on stuff and I have art ideas, so maybe art soon? Let’s hope for that.

Also wanted to draw Cellbit and people in the team BOLAS ROJAS a lot, as well as trying ti start writing more oneshots??? It’s fun to do.

Imma experiment a bit hehe. Expect stuff :].

[moony-moon-blogs]

Table of Contents 

List of Characters……………………………………………………………Page 3

Introduction………………………………………………………………….Page 4

Act I………………………………………………………………………….Page 5

Act II………………………………………………………………………...Page 12

Act III...……………………………………………………………………...Page 22

Playwriter’s Biography………………………………………………...……Page 31

Peer Editor’s Worksheet………………………..……………………………Page 32

List of Characters

August Whitlock - Main Character 

Roman Zhao - Mysterious Stranger 

Henry Bradford - Doctor 

Iris Ngoy - Friend

Dolores Whitlock - Mother

Doctor: Random Doctor

Nurse: Random Nurse

The Scenes of the Play 

Act I

Act II 

Act III

Setting 

London, England 

Time

1983

Introduction

This play revolves around trauma, around the fact that life isn't always fair. That having resentment for your parents is alright, and that not all people can be saved. Life isn't a movie where everyone gets to live happily ever after, and all we can do is embrace our little pockets of peace each and every day. August Whitlock is 24 years old and an accomplished university student. He gets into a car crash in 1982 (the present) and is taken to a hospital (in London, England) to recover. Once he wakes up, it is discovered that he suffers from amnesia and cannot recall the past 4 or so years of his life. This play revolves around his journey to recovery and discovering himself along the way. This is a story of heartbreak, pain and a boy who deserved far more than he was ever given. 

Some spoilers: Some choices I made were purposeful. August is rash. He refuses to open up to his psychologist but after losing his temper he gets scared and trauma dumps, only to regret opening up and shut down again. He’s a finicky character because he is scared and alone. Furthermore, he identifies as homosexual (gay) because I believe that this is another thing made to isolate him and highlight his character. Even after he recovers from his childhood trauma and his recent problems he will never be completely ‘normal’. There will always be something that makes him different: a fact I think intertwines with his personality well which is why I did not make him straight. (I realize going to an Islamic school this might be a taboo topic, however, writing a story about murder does not mean you condone the act itself.)

Act I

Scene I

August wakes up in a cold, stark room. Every surface is white and sterile

Nurse: Goodmorning! You gave us all quite a fright.

August: … 

Nurse: My name is Mary Ann, I’m a practicing nurse here. Do you recognize where you are? 

August: Seeing as you say you’re a bloody nurse I think I can draw my own conclusions. Cheers, yeah?

Nurse: (A bit flustered) Right, yeah, ‘course. You're in the Royal Berkshire Institution because you’ve had a bit of an accident. You’ve been asleep for a few days. Let me check your vitals before I can ask you a few questions, yeah?

August: … 

The nurse begins inspecting August

August: What on earth are you doing? 

Nurse: Oh! Um - it’s important to check a patient after they wake up, it’s a bit of a secondary inspection. We just look for dental injury, bleeding, posterior oropharynx obstruction, swelling, or edema in the mouth. And then we have a neck exam by palpating — or I suppose checking — for bony injury, crepitus, midline trachea, lacerations, hematomas, and abrasions. It’s rather important- 

August: (Interrupting) Oh. Thanks then. I’m sorry for being a bit peckish, I suppose whatever accident I got in has got me a bit prickly. 

A man in scrubs walks in, stretching out his gloves as he enters.

Doctor: Hello Mr. Whitlock, how are you today? 

August: (Deadpanned) Peachy. And yourself?

Doctor: Oh, rather well I suppose. I’ve gone over your medical history and it seems like this isn't your first skirmish is it?

August: Take a guess. (Leaning over slightly to accentuate his very large facial scar, toughened by age and is clearly an old scar)

Doctor: (Chuckling slightly) I can take a gander. Now then, it appears that you might have some trauma in your hippocampus. We scanned you in our MRI machine and have some concerns regarding your recollection. 

August: What the bloody hell is an MRI machine?

Doctor: A new machine invented, stands for magnetic resonance imaging and lets us see into your head. 

August: …. 

Doctor: What’s the last thing you remember before your crash?

August: I – I – um (Flustered) I don’t um recall the crash. Or–uh anything before it. 

Doctor: What’s the last thing you remember then? 

August: I don’t bloody well know. It’s like someone asking you what you had for dinner last week. You know but you can't just go out and say it. 

Doctor: Alright then, no worries Mr. Whitlock. Let’s try another strategy: who is the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom? 

August: Oh. (With some relief) James Callaghan.

The doctor and the nurse exchange looks, leaving the room in awkward silence. 

August: What is it?

Nurse: (Shyly, coughing slightly and saying a bit awkwardly) The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom is Margaret Thatcher, August. (She looks upset for him, a bit of pity in her eyes)

August: (Scoffing) Not bloody likely. You see this lot ever picking a bird?

Doctor: (Sighing with reluctance) I'm sorry Mr.Whitlock, we’ll need to do more testing but it seems like you have some kind of memory loss. 

End Scene. 

Scene II

A cozy room, clearly an office, but has personal touches like a comfortable couch and armchair. Feels overall very homey and has a nice throw blanket and soft pillows.

Doctor Bradford: Good Afternoon August. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. 

August: …. 

Doctor Bradford: My name is Doctor Henry Bradford. I’m a licensed specialist here to help you with your traumatic brain injury and your overall mental health. I understand it must be difficult to have to stay in the hospital for your physical and mental therapy in order to recover from your accident. 

August: …. 

Doctor Bradford: Listen, August. I’m here to help you. Your life isn't over and you can heal and move past this. Mental health is a journey, but it's up to you to take the first step. I understand how scary it must be to lose years' worth of memories, but there is a potential for memory recall. 

August: (Snorts) But you don't understand do you? 

Doctor Bradford: You're right, I'm sorry. It isn't right for me to assume I can understand your individual experience. Would you share that with me then? 

August: (Pushing his tongue against his cheek and gritting his jaw) You think we’re going to have some kind of “good will hunting” moment? Because we’re not. 

Doctor Bradford: I don’t assume anything, August. 

August: Nah, mate. When you wake up in the morning and look at the sky and see it blue and clear, you assume it's gonna be a nice day and dress accordingly. And when you come here and look at me I know it's not me you really see. 

Doctor Bradford: August — 

August: (Interrupting) Stop. 

Doctor Bradford: A thought is harmless until we truly believe it. You see, once we accept a certain truth in our minds, we forever have a certain bias attached. In reality, a pen is a pen, it's neutral. Likewise, whatever thoughts you have aren't real — they’re biases, preconceived notions you've clung to. (Sighs softly and quirks his head) You’ve been scratching that scar of yours for a bit, what do you think about it?

August: Are you mental? Nothing to think about it mate. It’s an ugly scar and that's that. I don't want to hear you go on about inner beauty and how my scar is perfectly lovely. 

Doctor Bradford: It isn't ugly. It isn't pretty. It simply is. Because in reality, it’s just what it is: completely neutral. People may like it, and others may not. But at the end of the day, they're simply thoughts, and those don't matter unless you start believing them. 

August: … (Brows furrowed) 

Doctor Bradford: I can't make you want to get better. But I can advise you that the thoughts you cling to now that make you so quick to defend yourself against an attack that isn't there will tire you out one day. You’ll decide to better yourself, to move past this accident and whatever other trauma you carry. And I’ll be here for you when that day comes. (Small smile)

End Scene. 

Scene III

August is back in his bed in his hospital room. He is currently reading a book and looks very much at peace. A middle-aged woman walks in, based on her body language it’s very obvious that she’s nervous. 

Dolores: Hey Gus. 

August: (Visibly surprised, immediately frowns) If you’re here, who’s guarding hades? 

Dolores: Gus. (Sighs) I was so worried you were hurt, sweetheart.

August: Wouldn't be the first time it happened though, would it? Don’t worry about me, the only way I’ll actually die is if you touch me and drag me across the River Styx. 

Dolores: (Visibly confused) 

August: (Rolling his eyes in exasperation)  I’m calling you the grim reaper Mother. Terribly surprised to see you here though — thought you might still be stuck under that house in Munchkinland or melted by a bucket of water. If you couldn't understand that either — I was calling you a witch this time. 

Dolores: Sweetheart, enough with the insults. I came here to check on you. 

August: You’ve never bothered before, I don't see the need for you to start now. 

Dolores: (Sighing) I got a new apartment. It’s on the twelfth floor and it has such a lovely view. Once we get you out of here you can see for yourself. I’ll take care of you. 

August: (Snorting derisively) Didn't think you would ever get that high without a broom Mum. 

Dolores: Listen, we can just leave the past in the past. I want us to move on because you're my son and I love you. 

August. No, you don't. 

Dolores: Gus– of course, I–

August. NO. YOU DON'T. GET OUT OF MY ROOM. MY LIFE. I DON'T WANT YOU AROUND.

Dolores: Please–

August: That sounds really familiar doesn't it? You didn't listen when I said it so you can bloody well bugger off! 

Dolores: Gus —

August: LEAVE! I DON'T WANT YOU AROUND. NOT NOW. NOT EVER. LEAVE! YOU KNOW HOW. 

Dolores turns away and leaves. August falls back into bed and sobs. Large, body-shaking sobs that leave him curled up and clutching a pillow. 

End Scene. 

Act II

Scene I

The setting once again changes back to Doctor Bradford’s office. They sit across from one another as August shifts around and settles in his seat. 

August: Hiya Doc. 

Doctor Bradford: August. I’m glad you seem more open today. Was there anything that particularly changed your mind? 

August: …. I don’t want to be like my sperm donor. 

Doctor Bradford: People arent black and white August—

August: I am aware of other races, thanks yeah. 

Doctor Bradford: (Chucking slightly) You’re a clever boy. My sons would do well to follow your example. 

August: Yeah, a trauma victim who would've died alone. Tell your kids that my impossibly high standards are out of their reach and to aim for something not as amazingly astounding as I am. 

Doctor Bradford: Would you care to discuss that isolation? 

August: Not much to say. My old man beat me black and blue and I look like a freak. Not the kind of person most people want to hang around with. 

Doctor Bradford: I’m very sorry for your experience with domestic abuse. How old were you? 

August: (Snorts) Not going to ask me what I would’ve done differently? ….. I – I don’t really know. It wasn't like one day he was the father of the year and the next I was a 2-foot tall pinata. It just… was. 

Doctor Bradford: I don’t think you could've done anything differently. Regardless, what happened, happened. Nothing will ever change that. Do you feel that if you had done things differently he wouldn't have assaulted you? 

August: I dunno. 

Doctor Bradford: Listen to me, August. What that man did to you as a child has nothing to do with you or your personality. It's only about him. And it's absolutely not your fault.

August: (Sniffling slightly and pursing his lips to play off his awkwardness) 

Doctor Bradford: We all have a certain self-fulfilling prophecy. We like to live up to the social mirror that surrounds us. What you've been made to believe is true will one day become just that because you were so thoroughly convinced of it, that there was nothing else for you to become. Don’t let yourself believe that you were ever at fault — you weren't. 

August: I can't ever move on. Every time I look in the mirror I have to see my mess of a face because neither one of my parents loved me enough. 

Doctor Bradford: I think they did. Love you, I mean. Obviously misguided, but to them, they really did love you. Don’t go about painting the stairs dear boy. 

August: Pardon? Have you gone mad? 

Doctor Bradford: Not yet I’m afraid. Let me tell you a story. (Shifts in his chair) There was a man who was walking about when he tripped and fell down the stairs. He gets hurt and goes to the doctor, who in turn gives him an ointment and tells him to put it on the area where he was injured. The next day a friend comes by and sees that very man painting the stairs, practically slathering them with the doctor’s ointment. He’s in shock and asks the man what he’s doing, who turns and tells him that his doctor told him to apply the ointment on the area where he was injured. Don't paint the stairs. 

August: I’m not (Indignant). 

Doctor Bradford: Your father— 

August: Nope. 

Doctor Bradford: Right then, um– your sperm donor, hurt you. But your thoughts are only yours. They may have been someone else's creation, but they're your own now. Don't fulfil a self-made prophecy August. You're far too clever for it. 

August: …. 

Doctor Bradford: You have an abusive sperm donor and a negligent — um egg donor— but you are a wonderful person. You’re smart, dedicated and I’m proud of you for trying. 

August: Not a particularly resounding accomplishment. 

Doctor Bradford: Yes it is dear boy. I won’t diminish your achievements, and I’m very much proud of you for this first step. 

August: (Birdlike tilt of the head. A small smile creeps up on his face and his nose scrunches) 

End Scene.

Scene II

August is in a dream, he goes to bed as per usual and the scenery around him changes. He is in this dream as a spectator, almost as if watching things happen on television but from a first perspective point of view. 

He sits at a desk in an expansive library, a stack of books on either side of him as he furiously scribbles on a paper. Someone approaches, turns the chair backwards and straddles it. 

???: Hey there September. Working hard?

August: Bugger off, yeah? I’ve got a lot of work.

???: What if I wanted attention?

August: Tell me something I don’t know. You’re like a dog all of the time. 

???: Woof woof. 

August: …. (Goes back to writing)

???: Come on now! You can do your work later, not everything needs to be submitted 5 years before the due date. 

August: (Sighing) Do you always do this?

???: Only when I see a pretty boy. (When only answered with an eye roll he reaches over and grabs a pen, clicking and twirling it around) 

August: Oi! Give me back my pen! 

???: Make me. 

August: Prat. (Pulls out another pen) 

???: See now you’re just ruining all of the fun. I just want to spend a bit of time with you. 

August: Why?

???: And here I was thinking you were supposed to be the clever one. That’s an awfully stupid question. 

August: (In indignation) No it’s not. 

???: Yes it is. I like you. Isn't that enough?

August: …. I suppose. 

???: (Leaning over to elbow him in the gut) No “I like you too”? You’re going to break my heart.

August: Dreadfully sorry for that inconvenience. 

???: (Crooked grin) You can inconvenience me any day September. 

August: Wrong month. Again. 

???: I like matching your name with the current month. Suppose you’re my inconveniencing calendar. 

August: (Sarcastically) I’m honoured. 

???: Come on now. Let’s go to that cafe you like. I promise I’ll buy you whatever dreadfully depressing drink you want. 

August: Right, as if your cups of liquid sugar won't kill you one day. 

???: You’re just a bitter old man who can’t enjoy sprinkles and whipped cream and deliciousness. Don’t worry geezer, I’ll hold your hand when we cross the street. 

August: You’re older than me, idiot. Don’t worry — I’m sure you’ll make a lovely silver fox when you turn 50 on your next birthday. 

???: (Snorting) Well, in that case, I need a fine young man to accompany me. I’m so old and senile that I mustn't be left alone. Such a thing could be labelled elder negligence and you’re far too pretty for prison. 

August: Alright then old man, let’s go. (He begins to pack up his school things and return the books to where they were with the man trailing after him like a lost puppy. While August puts up a bravado of being annoyed by him, the audience can see him hide a smile once or twice and attempt to cover up his blush. He is glad that the man wants to be around him. This is the first time August has smiled in front of the audience: he looks happy) 

Important note: For any readers, the man’s actor is around the same age as August. They are both university students and were simply joking around about the man being an elder. 

End Scene. 

Scene III

The audience is taken back to August’s hospital room. He is on his way to visit Doctor Bradford. His legs have not healed and he is wheeled all the way there while he leans his head back and stares at the fluorescent lights overhead. His shaggy hair exposes his forehead and eyes, he looks younger like this, being wheeled around a hospital for his next appointment. 

He is taken into Doctor Bradford’s room/office. While August is being settled in, Doctor Bradford moves around his desk and comes to sit in front of him. 

Doctor Bradford: Hello August. Welcome back. 

August: Doc. 

Doctor Bradford: How are you feeling today?

August: Fine. 

Doctor Bradford: Anything happen in particular to illicit these one-word responses? 

August: Nope. 

Doctor Bradford: August, this is a safe space. I really appreciated you opening up last time and I was initially hoping to continue our discussion. Would you care to talk about anything else instead? 

August: (Sighing) 

Doctor Bradford: August —

August: Doc, last time was a mistake. I freaked out because my fork-tongued lizard of a spawn point decided to come by. I’m not going to trauma dump because this is all a waste of time. 

Doctor Bradford: August— 

August: Don't take offence. This has nothing to do with you. But I do have some rather lovely art time I need to attend. Said to help with recollection, right? (He waves back the nurse who wheels him out: August attended his mandated therapy so he can't be forced to stay for longer. The nurse can tell he is agitated, the audience recognizes that he is not in a good mood. He exits and leaves Doctor Bradford all on his own.) 

End Scene. 

Scene IV

August is in a dream once again, he goes to bed as per usual and the scenery around him changes. He is in this dream as a spectator, almost as if watching things happen on television but from a first perspective point of view, as he was last time. 

August is walking side by side with the man from last time. In the distance, a carnival can be seen, with flashing lights and screams sound from afar. They approach the ticket booth together in order to gain admission. The worker leans over the counter when she sees them approaching: she has the kind of features girls on the covers of magazines do: petite nose, full lips and doe eyes that only went to enhance her smile.

Ticket girl: Hello there! How many tickets can I get for you today? 

???: (With a charming smile) Two tickets, please. 

(The girl turns around to grab the tickets and ring him up, but after payment, she slips three pieces of paper into his hand instead of two. Looking down, August notices that one contains a phone number that must have been hers, and is immediately filled with white-hot dread. The audience notices that August is agitated as he turns and walks away, further into the carnival. The man pockets the tickets and runs after him to catch up)

???: What’s wrong?

August: Nothing. (Shrugs and averts his eyes)

???: (In a teasing manner) Something is obviously wrong. Come on then, share with the class, will you?

August: The matter is that I will never look like I belong with you. No one will ever look at us like they’ll look at you and her.

???: (Interrupting) Her?! I met the bloody bint 5 minutes ago November. What are you on about?

August: I’m not angry or anything but you must know we are polar opposites. I will never look like I belong with someone like you. Maybe not her and maybe not today or tomorrow, but you’ll come to realize you need more than someone like me. Someone with less baggage — physical or otherwise. (Feigned indifference but the audience can see him sniffle slightly) 

???: Is that what this is about you idiot? God — bloody fu— I really don’t tell you enough do I?? (Running a hand through his hair) You’re beautiful August. And don’t you go bloody interrupting me! You’re beautiful and perfect and I don’t want anyone else — now or ever. You hear that?

August: Rome —

Rome: (Instead of replying he presses his palms into either side of August’s face, tilting it up and forcing him to look into his eyes.) 

August: I didn’t mean to make this an entire issue, let’s just go enjoy the carnival.

Rome: No you tosser! We are not moving past this until you understand just how much I love you. You are beautiful. And even if you looked like my great-aunt Mildred and smelled like her musty old coats I would love you still. (Presses his lips against August’s) 

August: I love you too. (blushing)

End Scene. 

Act III

Scene I

August is back in his room in the hospital. He’s just now waking up because of a nurse rummaging around. She eventually notices August is awake and turns to face him. 

Nurse 2: Morning sir!

August: Humph.

Nurse 2: Alright then, love. Let’s get you changed eh?

August: (Inclines his head in approval) 

Nurse 2: (Begins to switch his hospital gown to redress some scrapes along his side from the aforementioned accident, she pauses) Pretty tattoo you’ve got, innit?

August: Beg pardon?

Nurse 2: Your tattoo… it’s beautiful. 

August: I’ve got a bloody tattoo? Where?

Nurse 2: Oh! I’m — I’m um (Comes to the realization that this is the patient with brain trauma and memory loss) — It’s just on your right shoulder — yes, right there. It’s the roman coliseum, I usually tend to see a gladiator or something but yours is very clean indeed. The linework is very sharp and I suppose it’s very accurate since it’s such a discernable image. 

August: Oh. Alright then. 

Nurse 2: Have you ever been to Italy?

August: (Deadpanned) If I have, I certainly can’t remember it. 

Nurse 2: Oh — right. Sorry. Well once you get out of here you should definitely visit Rome!

August: Rome… (The audience is left to wonder if there is indeed a connection between August’s tattoo of the Roman Coliseum and the stranger whose name is now known to be Rome) 

End Scene. 

Scene II

August is in a dream once again, he goes to bed as per usual and the scenery around him changes. He is in this dream as a spectator, almost as if watching things happen on television but from a first perspective point of view, as he was last time and the time before that. 

The audience can clearly see a Christmas tree, lacking any sort of decoration yet, in the middle of a living room. It looks very cozy and warm, with throw blankets on the back of the couch and a fire in the fireplace going strong. 

Rome: I can’t bloody well believe there isn’t any snow on Christmas. 

August: It’s only Christmas Eve, maybe we’ll get some snow overnight. 

Rome: In London? Not likely with the kind of bipolar weather we have. 

August: Stop being such a Debbie Downer. I thought I liked taking the piss at everything between the two of us — don’t go taking my job, not in this economy at least. 

Rome: (Sighing) Listen — I’m not good at all this holiday rubbish. I’m not even in the mood to participate right now.

August: We both have family problems, you’ve never thought less of me because of mine, and I would never think less of you for yours. I love you. So if you want to pretend tomorrow is just another day in December, I wouldn't mind as long as I got to spend it with you. 

Rome: You're not getting it! I’m probably going to end up just like them, a toxic manipulator that sucks the life out of everything around him. We’re better off calling it quits now. 

August: And I’m the melodramatic one? (Sighing and running a hand through his hair) I don’t tell you enough, do I?

Rome: Tell me what?

August: That you’re a good man Rome. And don't you interrupt me! You’re a good person who deserves more than he's got. So unless you can look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me anymore, I’m not letting you give up on me — on us. 

Rome: (Avoiding eye contact, he seems to have calmed down from his previous turbulent emotions) Bloody twat. 

August: Prick.

Rome: Alright then, what am I supposed to do?

August: You go put on that new Christmas song and I’ll get all the baubles ready.

Rome: Only if I get to pick which colours go on the tree. 

August: (Smirking with a knowing look on his face) 

Rome: (Grumbling) Yeah, yeah no need to be so smug about it. And for your information — I have a much better palette and aesthetic, leaving you with the baubles all on your lonesome would be a bloody war crime. 

Last Christmas by WHAM! begins to play while Rome and August sort through the baubles, occasionally setting one aside while putting some back in another bin. The mood is wholesome now that August and Rome have gotten through their first official holiday together despite the trauma from their childhood that makes them reluctant in some instances. 

End Scene. 

Scene III

August is in a dream once again, he goes to bed as per usual and the scenery around him changes. He is in this dream as a spectator, almost as if watching things happen on television but from a first perspective point of view, as he was last time and the time before that. 

August and Rome are back in their apartment, in the living room while it rains outside. The audience observes the sounds of raindrops pelting against the windows and the sound of crashing thunder far away. 

August: I love rainy days. I’m going to make a nice warm cuppa, would you like one as well? It’s chamomile. 

Rome: No! These days are meant for indoor fun — not another excuse for you to read and drink tea. It’s all you ever do!

August: It’s alright darling, I don’t mind your illiteracy. 

Rome: Yeah, yeah get all mouthy with me, why don't you? 

August: Why I terribly appreciate your invitation. How ever would I continue to vex you without your coveted approval?

Rome: (Grumbling) Come on up and dance with me in the rain! Everyone always does it and it's the most romantic thing of all time. Don’t you want to be romantic with me?

August: Not at the risk of pneumonia. You're ten times worse when sick — we can dance indoors and I get to choose the music. 

Rome: (Cupping his hands around his mouth and making booing sounds) 

August brings out a record player and picks out a Smiths record. Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want by The Smiths starts playing. Readers are free to press the link below and listen along accordingly. 

August: Good times for a change…. 

Rome: (Mimes shooting himself in the head) This is such a sad song! 

August: It is not!

Rome: It bloody well is. I listen to The Smiths and most of the time I get sad. You can’t dance to this August! 

August: Humour me? (He approaches Rome and grabs his hands and positions them around his neck and puts his own hands on Rome’s waist) So please, please, please… let me let me let me, let me get what I waaaant this time. (Hums along to the instrumentals) Haven't had a dream in a long time… 

Rome: (Slips from August’s grasp and pauses the music and exchanges the record for another one, one that he obviously prefers by the large grin on his face) This is real music we can dance to, come on!

Good Old Fashioned Loverboy By Queen starts to play. Readers are free to press the link below and listen along accordingly. 

Rome: (Rome rolls a magazine into a makeshift microphone and begins to dramatically sing-along, complete with shoulder shimmies and dramatic expressions) I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things, we can do the tango just for two…. I can serenade and gently play on your heartstrings, be your Valentino just for youuuuu… Ooooh love, ooooh loverboy… whatcha doin’ tonight, hey boy! Set my alarm, turn on my charm, That’s because I’m a good old-fashioned loverboyyyy.

August: Very classy, this is your choice? 

Rome: Better than yours! Let me serenade you, yes? No interruptions! (He throws the magazine aside and grabs August)  Ooooooooh can you feel my love heat? Come on and sit on my hot seat of love, and tell me how, do you feel right after all?  I’d like for you and I to go romancinggg… say the word, your wish is my command. 

August laughs and goes along with his dramatic re-enactment of Freddie Mercury’s performance. The rain continues to patter against the window, long forgotten now in the throes of laughter and music and dancing. It’s a fun scene that makes the audience energetic, humming along with the music or tapping their foot to the beat: everyone is happy. 

End Scene. 

Scene IV

August is back in his room in the hospital. He’s just now waking up, rubbing his eyes slowly while he stretches his arms and lets out a yawn. He lays back down on the cot and smacks his mouth. 

August: Bloody hell. This probably isn't healthy, is it? Dreaming up a bloke that realistically is weird. (Groaning) I am such a git. 

Nurse 2 comes back into the room, she is holding a clipboard and walks on stage/view with a smile on her face and a pep in her step. 

Nurse 2: Good morning August! I see your name here on your file, sorry I forgot to get it last time! 

August: No worries, I don’t know your name either. 

Nurse 2: Oh I’m — 

An alarm goes off to alert that aid is required. Nurse 2 gives August an apologetic face and holds up a hand in a gesture that must mean “I’ll be right back!” in order to placate him as she turns and leaves. 

August: (Covering his face with his hands and groaning again) I am the biggest wanker to ever exist…. bugger me. Maybe I should bring up the man to the old doctor? He isn't as much of a pillock, is he? I did basically tell him to piss off though… and now I’m talking to myself too. As if I wasn't loony enough. Alright, I’m stopping that now. Ignore that last bit, yeah. Stopping now. 

August grabs a pillow and holds it against his face while he screams. The audience can hear a muted scream, muffled as it is by the pillow. It is very obvious that August is feeling conflicted over these dreams. While he is obviously happy in them, it’s clear he doesn't know how to feel or whether or not he should attempt to open up and confide in Doctor Bradford. The nurse enters the room once more with a smile on her face while August removes the pillow from his face. 

Nurse 2: Just on my way back I saw you had a visitor! 

August: If it’s my mum again tell her to bugger off, yeah? 

The nurse opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted when someone walks in. August gasps and a cacophony of emotions overwhelm him: shock, fear, distress. 

August: … Rome? 

End Scene.

Playwright’s Biography

Mouna El-Youssef is a 17-year-old high school student, currently attending Al-Risala Academy. She enjoys reading, crocheting, and painting on rocks. She currently lives with her mother, grandmother and brother. Her father and two half-siblings live in a different country but she appreciates her entire extended family. Overall, she simply wishes to live her life to the very fullest as a good Muslim. 

“I remembered that the real world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had the courage to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils.” (Charlotte Bronte) 

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading my script, I sincerely hope you enjoyed my story. 

[shorkbrian]

(Needles (aphrodisiacs!), blood, and medical paraphernalia ahead. No outright NSFW, but implied at the end)

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Latex gloves snapped as they stretched over the man’s hands.

You were nervous.

“Sign here. It’s a consent form for the vaccines you’re receiving today.” His voice was level, almost monotone as he placed a clipboard and pen onto the counter next to your chair.

Three vaccines, routine injections.

You’d been putting them off, wary of needles, wary of people having to touch your body. You knew it would be an all-around unpleasant experience, but you had to get it done sometime, no matter how much you tried to avoid it. 

Originally it had just been two shots, but the Doctor, Chisaki Kai, had called back informing you that a third injection would be necessary.

A quick scribble with the pen before the masked man was whisking the clipboard away, confirming you’d signed the papers with a quick glance. He had pretty eyes, you noted - golden iris’s visible above the surgical face mask covering his mouth and nose.

Those pretty eyes snapped to yours, the man looking significantly bored. “All’s in order.” You watched him begin assembling the injections on the counter, needles by bottles, alcohol wipes and bandaids nearby.

“The first will go in your left arm, the second in your right, and the third in your left again. It will hurt.” His bedside manner left something to be desired.

He worked quickly and efficiently, plunging the first needle into a bottle, drawing back the plunger to fill it full of liquid before removing it from the bottle. “Please roll up your sleeves.”

Then he was stepping close, needle in one gloved hand, sterile alcohol swab in the other. You were watching him like a hawk, trying your best not to flinch when the cold wipe came into contact with your exposed upper arm.

A quick glance at your flinch, the slight bit of air hissing through your teeth at nothing but the coldness of the wipe had the man cocking his head, but he said nothing.

“Uhm, can you please-uhm, tell me when you’re about to do it?” You gulp, wide eyes trained on the far wall. Just don’t look at the needle, you’ll be fine.

“You prefer to know when to expect the pain?” It was less a question, more a statement, but you nodded nonetheless. “I’ll count to three.”

“One.” A gloved hand lightly touched your arm.

“Two.” Pointer finger and thumb smoothed over your skin, keeping it taut.

“Three.” There was a pinch, immediately followed by deep burning, stinging pain that had you gritting your teeth and wincing.

-----

The scent of bitter, sterile alcohol filled your nose, harshly jerking you to consciousness. Everything smelled like chemicals, latex and bleach and ammonia - not the most pleasant thing to wake up to.

Opening your eyes was easy, lifting your head not so much. You were slumped in your seat, head resting against the counter at your side, feet planted on the ground.

The doctor was crouched in front of you, a small wipe pinched between his fingers, held up to your nose. Golden eyes studied you closely, and upon seeing your eyes open, lashes fluttering, the doctor withdrew the wipe, subsequently taking away the chemical smell.

“You fainted.”

A blink as you gained your bearings, feeling disoriented and weak. You were still in the exam room, a tiny cramped space with barely enough room for a chair beside the exam table.

You swallowed, throat feeling dry, head fuzzy. God, did you hate needles.

“Have you had this reaction to injections before? It’s not uncommon in patients.”

“I.....no? I don’t-uhm-don’t think so...” It felt funny talking, as if you weren’t inside your body.

The doctor stood abruptly, quickly discarding the ammonia wipe into the trash, stripping his gloves off as well before donning a new pair.

“Stay there while you recover. Are you up for the other two shots today, or would you like to schedule an appointment for them at a different time?”

Why the hell didn’t he just give you the shots while you were unconscious?

“I wanna do it today please.” You sighed, reaching to feel the bandaid on your left arm. “I would hate to have to come back and do this again, know what I mean?”

Nothing else was said, just a brief nod from the man before he disappeared from the room. You shuffled your feet, closing your eyes as you leaned back in the chair. 

“(Y/N)? Do you feel ready to stand?” He was back, standing in the doorway and looking at you.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” You rocked up to your feet, rolling down your sleeve as the doctor stepped froward towards the counter. He gathered up the remaining syringes, bottles, and other supplies before stepping around you and back towards the door.

Again, you did your best to not shy away when he passed you, not wanting to make contact. Your skin was so sensitive, you hated touching people, or feeling their clothes brush against your skin. The man didn’t seem to notice, but that was alright. You were used to dodging threatening sensations in your life.

He guided you through the clinic, towards the back where a small office was situated, a comfortable-looking couch against one of the walls. His name wasn’t on the door - you remember now, Doctor Chisaki. 

Or was he a nurse? You didn’t know.

But his name wasn’t on the door. Was it okay to be in this office? Don’t they usually make you wait in the exam room?

“Have a seat, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back shortly.” 

The door clicked shut behind him.

Today was your day off, the entire day devoted to getting your shots done, to overcoming this obstacle, handling the immense stress that came with it. It didn’t bother you to spend it sitting down and playing word searches on your phone. 

But still....

“Don’t patients usually wait in the exam room? Or in the waiting room?” You asked the man as soon as he re-entered the room, stack of paperwork in one hand as he shut the door with the other.

He gave you a once-over, body tucked into the corner of the couch, before he spoke. “Usually, but I want to make sure you don’t pass out where I can’t see you. That’d make me a bad doctor. This isn’t common procedure, sure, but I didn’t expect your body to be so-” weak “-easily indisposed.”

The tone of his voice kept completely level, hardly any emotions showing on his face, but still you felt... chilled by this man. There was no reassurance from him, no compassion or empathy.

“I’ll administer your remaining shots in 45 minute increments, that should give you enough time to recover between each one. You’ll have to lay down for them though, that’s why you’re sitting on that couch.” 

Polite, but it still felt like you were getting talked-down-to. He was patronizing you.

You gave him a curt nod to show you understood, before fumbling your phone out of your pocket to begin passing the time.

Doctor Chisaki sat down behind the empty desk, neatly placing his stack of papers on the wood before taking a sheet off the top and clicking his pen. From where he was sitting, you were in his direct line of sight, and you could feel him glancing at you occasionally as the scribble of his pen and the tapping of your fingers filled the silence.

45 minutes passed quickly, too quickly for your liking. You weren’t looking forward to the next shot.

Same instructions as before - roll up your sleeve, he’d count to three.

But the doctor paused after swabbing your arm clean. “You keep flinching. Am I  hurting you?”

“No, I mean, not really.” You shrugged. “I don’t like it when people touch me I guess, feels funny.”

“Well, try to relax.”

Easy for him to say, hard for you to do.

This time, with you laying down, the shot went much smoother. The doctor counted the three, you hissed in pain at the burning slice of the needle, but retained consciousness. Which frankly, was a success.

“That really hurts.” You breathed as soon as the needle slipped free from your arm. Even thinking about the thin point being in your muscles made you feel queasy. At least you didn’t have to look at it.

“That’s a common side effect. Muscle soreness because the needle is essentially causing a small injury to the fibers, and there are other reasons, but they're more complicated. You want ice?”

“Nah, it’ll be fine. I’ll just deal with it.”

The man blinked. “You have an interesting reaction to pain.”

“Uhhh...” You scrunched up your eyebrows as you glanced up at him, sitting up as you did so. “Thanks?”

“You’re extremely sensitive to tactile stimulation, like to know when you’ll be experiencing pain, but you don’t particularly care about relieving it. Have you ever given blood?”

The question caught you off guard, especially after realizing the man had been analyzing you more closely than you had expected.

“Nah. Does that matter?”

“Not particularly, I’m just curious I guess.” Doctor Chisaki admitted, once again stripping off his gloves and disposing of them before sliding on another pair.

He went back to his paperwork, and you to your phone, but his frequent glances weighed you down. Did you have something on your face? Was your hair messy?

“Could you point me to the bathroom please?” You rose to your feet slowly, making sure you weren’t going to faint as you stood up.

“It’d be better if you stayed seated.” Was his curt reply.

With a frown, you sat back down. Why couldn’t you use the bathroom? Maybe it affected..... something? With the vaccines? You didn’t know enough about how these things worked to really question it. Doctors were professionals, and they had their reasons.

Still, you’d feel a bit more comfortable if the man wasn’t watching you so closely.

45 more minutes of squirming until your next shot.

-----

Lay down.

Roll up your sleeve.

Try to relax.

Deep breathe.

“You smell.”

“What?” Your head snapped to the side, confused. You smelled?

“It’s not bad. What scent is it?”

Blinking back surprise, you relayed the scent on your shampoo and conditioner.  This doctor was a bit... unconventional. But his sudden question did take your mind off of the countdown, off of the pain. Smart.

“My nose is sensitive, most scents are overwhelming and while I like cleanliness I cannot stand the smell of bleach or most cleaning products. I chose the wrong profession for that, didn’t I?”

His version of a joke made you almost chuckle, a lazy grin stretching across your face instead. “You certainly did. You ever try Pine Sol though? That’s what I use for like, everything.”

The doctor shook his head, and you chattered on about the unoffensive-smelling cleaner, where you bought the bottle you have under your sink, how you use it. He listened intently as he plastered another bandaid over your arm.

“Alright, I can go now?” You asked, sitting up for the last time.

“No.”

“No?”

“Vasovagal syncope can still occur, I’d prefer you not faint and bash your head open on the ground. There’d be such a mess.”

Mouth snapping shut at the fancy medical term, you couldn’t help but sigh as you slumped back against the couch. 

“Bored?”

“I’ve been here for almost four hours. You don’t have other patients to get to?” You didn’t think to check the accusatory tone in your voice.

The doctor put aside his pen, folding his hands on the desk as he stared at you with golden eyes. “They’ve been transferred to different doctors. My current patient has taken precedence. I don’t half-ass things like some people, I see my  projects to completion.”

You were a bit taken aback at the vehemence in his voice, the way his eyes dropped to slits, narrowing fiercely at you.

“That’s what it means to be in this profession. I’m here to cure people. I make sure that sickness doesn’t spread between humans like fire in a barn full of hay. What I do is important and deserving of respect, I’m ensuring the survival of humanity, am I not?”

The intense tension in the air built, the doctor staring you down. “I’m close to becoming a renowned doctor. Just one, one breakthrough will finally get the world to see me. ”

He cocked his head, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled beneath the mask. “I thank your efforts in being a volunteer towards my latest project. It’s been a bit difficult to find someone who readily accepted an unknown injection.”

Unknown.. injection?

“What are you talking about?” 

“The second injection isn’t a vaccine, more like a... pet project of mine. I can’t wait to see what it does.”

“You can’t-this is malpractice, I didn’t consent to this-” Your fists clenched as you stood.

“You signed the consent papers. They’ll hold up in court. Most people receive the vaccines you got today when they’re still teenagers, and under their parents care. Lucky for me, you’re afraid of needles it seems, so you’ve been a bit neglectful. Hard to get a parent to sign over their child as a test subject, easy to get a fearful individual to listen to their doctor.”

A twinkle in his eye made you want to punch his lights out. “What the hell dude, you call yourself a doctor? What did you inject me with?”

The man rose from behind the desk, moving until he stood in front of you. “You’ll see soon enough. I’m pleased that you’re so concerned with hygiene, that makes this easier for both of us.”

“What??”

“And you can forget about calling for help, not that you’ll want to. But everyone’s left for the day-” He checked his wrist, where a nice watch gleamed at you mockingly. “45 minutes ago. So feel free to disclose your symptoms as they pop up as loud as you’d like.”

The man sat down on the couch, easily sinking into the plush material looking up at you with a malicious gleam in his eyes. He had been playing you since you’d walked into the clinic. Was this some sort of prank?

“You’re messing with me.”

“I’ve told you, I see my projects to completion. This is the testing stage, and it might be a while before it’s over. Why would I waste time messing with someone else’s dumb little life?’

Your mouth felt dry, face warm. Why did your legs feel all pleasantly tingly? There was a slowly-building heat simmering low in your core, and if you weren’t standing directly in front of Chisaki, you’d rub your legs together. What did he do to you?

“Now, sit down, and tell your doctor what's bothering you.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

May I have a scenario/imagine, whichever makes more sense, of Trey, Rook, and Crewel trying to tame some sort of wild, magical invasive species of Poison Ivy that has taken over the greenhouse?

Crewel gives me perpetually disappointed wine aunt father vibes. This piece also lowkey turned out to be Trey x Rook, but you didn’t read that from me.

This imagine’s longer than my usual 1k word self-imposed limit, since it goes out to a friend of mine that’s been supporting me through final projects and exams. I’m not sure if they’d want me tagging them so publicly, but they know who they are.

Imagine this...

To Professor Crewel’s chagrin, members of the Science Club had never had strong academic intent. In actuality, the club was a thinly veiled excuse to bake cakes (just to find the perfect ratio of leaveners and sweeteners!) and to stalk watch students in their natural habitats (nothing wrong with an impromptu observational study, right?). Instead of test tubes and beakers, the lab benches were littered with cake pans and photographs of unsuspecting Savanaclaw students.

“I do wish you two would take this club more seriously,” Crewel would often gripe, fingers massaging his temples. “Science is not a play thing, it is a powerful tool with which we can use to redefine and reshape the world around us.”

Such were the woes of an instructor--but today, he had no time to lament.

Crewel’s jaw tightened as he gazed upon a sprawling mess--the shattered glass panes of the Botanical Garden, with massive stalks of ivy reaching for the skies. Casualties lined the ground--plants and flowers drained dry of their life, all withered and decayed. The ivy writhed in glee.

(He shouldn’t have been surprised that the headmaster summoned him and the Science Club to resolve the issue instead of hiring a real exterminator.)

“How unseemly,” Crewel noted, clicking his tongue. “Running amok and ruining so many of the specimens we’ve carefully cultivated... This shall not go unpunished.”

He glanced over his shoulder.

“Clover.”

“Yes.” Trey stepped forward, his magical pen ready.

“Hunt.”

“Oui.” Rook followed suit, smoothly drawing forth his own pen.

“The time has come to prove your mettle,” Crewel announced, rapping his pointer against his palm. His onyx eyes seethed with a quiet, controlled rage. “Show this overgrown weed what the Science Club is truly capable of.”

At his command, the boys nodded and tore off toward the Botanical Garden.

Crewel held his ground. The corners of his mouth curled into a condescending smirk as he addressed the poison ivy. “Come here.”

An arm of ivy flew at him, so fast that it was but a blur.

An alive, but livid, blur.

“Heel!”

A column of fire erupted from Crewel’s pointer. His attack slammed against the plant, settings its leaves awash in embers. The rogue plant let out a sky-splitting roar.

The battle had just begun.

Trey ducked under an arc of burning ivy and threw open the door to the Botanical Garden. Tucking his limbs in, he barreled through right as more ivy snaked in to seal off the entrance once more.

He could feel the heat upon his back, the earth quaking under his feet, and Rook close behind him--yet he willed himself to keep his eyes glued ahead, even as he launched across the threshold and into a terrifying new realm.

The inside of the greenhouse now glistened with ivy--covering the glass panes, slowly strangling what few plants remained. The Botanical Garden had always been warm before, but it was unusually so today. Sweltering, and almost so humid that the floors and walls seem to eerily pulsate with life.

“Keep your wits about you, and don’t look back, boys,” Crewel had instructed them. “Just get in there, and cut it off at its source--at the heart.”

Trey’s eyes darted this way and that. Green, green, green. It all looked the same to him. Where in the world was the point of origin?

“Got any ideas?!” He glanced over his shoulder at his partner--and his protective goggles nearly went askew.

Rook had dropped to one knee, pressing a gloved hand against the floor--now a carpet of vines. “Hoooh! What a fascinating specimen!” he marveled. “Such destructive power, and yet it also sports this emerald sheen... Très manifique!”

“H-Hey... No offense, but I don’t think now’s the time to stop and sniff the roses. Or, well. I guess it would be ivy in this case.”

“Non, non! There is always time for beauty--even in dire situations!” Rook insisted, his hands continuing to grope around. His eyes suddenly creased, and his smile turned sly. “Ah, te voilà.”

“Even if you say that, that’s not going to help us fix this...!!”

“Calm yourself, Chevalier des Roses,” Rook advised with an airy laugh. He cupped a hand to his ear and beamed. “Listen closely! Surely even your own heart beckons you to still your worries.”

“Heart?” Trey straightened, adamant as he folded his arms. “Sorry, but I just don’t believe in stuff like that. Come on, Rook. We need to focus--Crewel-sensei’s trusting us with this task.”

He cast a concerned glance at the doorway, ensnared in vines. They’d have to blast their way through later--but if they stayed in this space for too long, they, too, would soon be drained of all their life force. “We can’t just mess around!”

“Ah--but you must put your faith in me as well, Chevalier des Roses!” Rook insisted, pointing to the patch of floor that he had been not-too-subtly groping earlier. “I implore you to lend me your strength!”

“You want me to attack the gr--?!” Trey froze mid-sentence. He had become vaguely aware of a gentle sensation creeping around his ankles.

In an instant, he was yanked into the air, dangling upside down like a useless rag doll. Blood rushed to his head, and his surroundings spun.

“Chevalier des Roses!!”

“I’m fine!! I-I’m fine!” Trey called--though he clearly wasn’t. “I can just--” He waved his magical pen, the air growing tense as a small ball of fire collected at his command.

“Non!” Rook warned, startling his classmate. “There is nothing to cushion your descent, mon amie! You will surely break a leg--and certainly not in the theatrical sense!”

He’s right. Trey’s fire extinguished itself, replaced by a chill crawling down his spine.

“A little help then?!”

Rook’s eyes widened. “You would give me your trust?”

“Not exactly like I have any other choice.” Trey would shrug, but it was a rather difficult motion to pull off while suspended midair--and far more troublesome, his veins ran cold. It was a sure sign of the ivy sapping his energy.

“Have no fear! Today, it shall be my turn to be the chevalier.” The hunter grinned from ear to ear, magical pen in hand.

“Please, Rook! Any day now--before I become plant food!” Trey’s voice was hoarse--from exasperation, or from the magical ivy, he wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps both.

“Just for today, I shall be your Chevalier D’amour.”

And with a confident wink, Rook plunged the ivy-covered floor into a sea of flames.

The accursed plant wailed as it shriveled to ash upon a backdrop of billowing smoke. Embers flickered and danced in the afternoon, the Botanical Garden set ablaze. Crewel took a step back, grimacing at the growing fire.

A figure emerged from the greenhouse, carrying another. The professor squinted into the smoke, pinpointing the familiar outline of his Science Club members--Rook, cradling a pale-looking Trey in his strong arms.

“Puppies.” Crewel pinched his temples.

“C’est chose faite--it is now done.” The brim of Rook’s hat eclipsed his eyes, making the typically cheery hunter appear dark to match his tone. Then he lifted his head, basking in the sunshine, and that somber moment was over. “All is well and good again, as it should be!”

“I... I thought I was going to die,” Trey groaned. “... And Rook, I appreciate you catching my fall, but you didn’t need to carry me out like you’re an action hero in a movie or something.”

“Are you able to still stand after an attack from that heinous plant?”

“Yeah. Just put me down.”

“Oui.”

Trey stood on shaky legs--and instinctively leaned on Rook’s shoulder.

“Well, boys. You’ve exterminated the ivy--as well as just about every other plant in the Botanical Garden. How exactly do you intend to atone for this?!” Crewel snapped, whipping his pointer at his students. “I believe my instructions were quite clear--destroy only the heart of the ivy.”

“The fault lies with me, Monsieur,” Rook declared, dipping into a bow. “We dallied for longer than was necessary, and in a moment of panic, I unleashed my magic.”

“Always one with a flair for the dramatic. Unfortunately, that will not serve you well in detention, Hunt.”

“Wait. Crewel-sensei, that’s not the whole story,” Trey interrupted. “Rook got me out of a pinch--and he deserves credit for that. He’s also the one that found out where the ivy’s heart was--buried in the floor itself. I didn’t realize until it was too late.”

The professor’s lips pursed into a straight line. “Clover, are you confessing to your own negligence?”

“I am.” He nodded firmly. “I’m the one that deserves the detention.”

“Trey-kun is not responsible!” Rook protested. “He is the one that attempted to set us on the right path. I refused to heed his advice, which led to events escalating.”

“I didn’t listen to Rook when he tried to tell me about what I needed to do.”

“I should have phrased it more concisely.”

“You--”

“Trey-kun--”

“Enough. It is clear to me that both of you contributed to this chaos.” Crewel sighed. “... Hunt, take Clover to the infirmary. I will put out the fire myself.

“... Are you letting us go?”

“Of course not. Once you’ve recovered, Clover... you boys will be restoring plants in the Botanical Garden for the remainder of the semester as punishment.”

“Ahhh, I should’ve known. Riddle’s not gonna like this at all.”

“Chin up, Chevalier des Roses! At the very least, we shall have each other’s company!” Rook laughs, smacking Trey on the back and sending his peer nearly doubling over.

Crewel sighed once more--he was disappointed, but not surprised.

His Science Club puppies still had a long way to go.

[blu-archer]

Let me help you..

Right. So I felt the need to attempt writing smut and sneeze inducing, so if this sucks I’m blaming it on the fact that I’ve never written this before. 

If you are under age, please don’t read this. While its not particularly hectic, it still is what it is.

Warnings: mature content. Very very mild language

Sickie: Jimin 

Caretaker: Yoongi 

-smut and fluff. 

-Also massages.

- I was bored and finished this at 2am.

Alternate universe - magic is real and Jimin is a hybrid.

Part 1 of this series.

Jimin moaned deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as a content purr filled the bedroom.

Yoongi smirked with the satisfaction of being responsible for his kittens reactions. He slid his hands up the hybrid’s smooth skin as Jimin began to squirm underneath him. Working his fingers into the hard, knotted muscles of Jimin’s upper back – smugly earning an even deeper moan of pleasure.

Yoongi tugged lightly on Jimin’s tail, aware of its sensitivities but only wishing to tease the hybrid while he had him pinned to the mattress beneath him. Jimin’s breath hitched but flicked his tail back, hitting Yoongi in the face as a form of scolding.

“I want you to feel nice, Kitten.” Yoongi answered innocently, leaning low to kiss the center of Jimin’s back.

Jimin shivered at the action, taking a deep breath before replying hoarsely. “We are not doing anything like that while I’m sick.”

“You would feel good..”

“This feels great as it is, Yoon.”

Yoongi trailed his kisses down the length of Jimin’s spine until he reached the base of his tail just coming just above the waist band of Jimin’s boxers, his hands still massaging into his boyfriend’s stiff muscles. Jimin mewled at the touches, his body betraying him and forcing him to shift awkwardly with shaky breaths as they started to move in the direction that he had very seriously stipulated not too.

Jimin flicked his tail at Yoongi again but he couldn’t bring himself to put in the same effort as before. Resulting in it falling weakly against Yoongi’s forearm. A slow heat was building through his body making him want to just melt into the sheets and as good as it felt, this paired with how Yoongi had laid him down was not helping his running nose. He was already running warm with small yet persistent fever, but this heat made him feel a different kind of weakness. One that Yoongi often enjoyed to-put him through. Yoongi worked his way down Jimin’s back once more, trailing his kisses in the opposite direction until he rested his lips against the cat’s scent gland.

“Yoongi.”

Yoongi bit down lightly on the gland, grazing it with his teeth which sent a strong enough sensation to tremble Jimin’s entire body. The younger broke out into a rough bout of coughing, reaching up to grab the closest pillow to cover so that he didn’t cough into Yoongi’s face. The warlock paused in his activities, not bringing himself to alert Jimin that he had grabbed Yoongi’s pillow to cough into – or remind the cat that they slept together and that he was probably going to get sick anyway, so there wasn’t much point in the wasted effort.

“Sorry.” Yoongi murmured, setting a final kiss to Jimin’s neck before moving off of him and sitting up. “Should I get you some tea?”

“N-no.” Jimin croaked. “Tired of tea.”

“Some warm water with lemon and ginger then.”

The hybrid pushed himself upright so that he sat next to Yoongi, leaning into the elder as he ran his wrist under his nose with a sniff. Yoongi put on arm over his shoulders, letting his hand trace along the cat’s collar bone. When he heard a light scoff, he looked at the hybrid with a raised brow only to see the cat glaring into his lap. Yoongi’s smirk from earlier returned as he saw what had annoyed his boyfriend.

“Stop it.” Jimin snapped without any real anger. “ I said no, and you continued anyway.”

“I thought it would help you. You’ve done it for me before.” Yoongi pressed a kiss to Jimin’s temple. “But I’m sorry I should have stopped… although since I’ve started and you’re clearly able…”

“No.” Jimin stated sternly with a wet sniffle, yet his brows pinched together in thought. As if he were at least contemplating the idea. “I should take a shower. A cold one.”

“Don’t.” Yoongi stood up and pulled the hybrid after him, making sure that one of his woolen sweaters was grabbed before leaving the room. “Come sit with me and we can watch movies. You said that you have been wanting to watch that animation again, the cat one.”

“The lion king?”

Yoongi nodded as he dropped Jimin’s hand once they had reached the kitchen, giving the younger a moment to pull on the white sweater – its length draping to his mid-thigh. He flicked his hand towards the kettle, automatically it rumbled to life as it got to reheating  the water.

“If you want to. I don’t want you taking any cold showers, we can deal with it in other ways my love.” Yoongi let his magic flow and a variety of a things were propelled into action. Knives went to work on chopping up a lemon and small section of raw ginger then moved on to cutting up various vegetables that would eventually be put into a broth for them later.

Jimin stretched his arms up as he failed to swallow back a yawn, almost immediately scrambling for a handful of tissues from the box set up on the circular dinner table that they rarely used for anything other Yoongi’s work – and that one time when Jimin had been too impatient to drag Yoongi back to their room…

Hih’igxeshh huh..ahh. huh’iiTTCHhiew…

Jimin let out a congested curse as he blew his nose, wincing at how tender his nose was. The blowing hadn’t eased any of the pressure in his sinuses and he was pretty sure that he was going to sound disgustingly blocked up for at least the rest of the day. Yoongi pulled two small boxed orange juices from the fridge and handed one to Jimin before aggressive stabbing a straw through the top of his own. The juices were typically targeted to kids, but the pair had never gotten out of the habit of buying them from when they had been studying.

Jimin secretly hoped they never stopped.  Their other friends often teased them about it but having the little juices always brought fond memories of times spent with Yoongi, back when they weren’t dating and had just been roommates in college trying to survive exams. They would go days without proper sleep or social interaction and there were times when food and water were not consumed as much as it should have been. Which, of course after both had found the other in moments that had scared them quite badly, the tradition of leaving random boxes of the juice and snacks in their separate areas of studying had begun.

“This shouldn’t take too long, let’s go sit down.” Yoongi encouraged, ignoring the glance Jimin made at him using his magic when he had originally said that he would need some time to recover and had agreed to lay off of the magic until then. Thankfully nothing was commented on and he gave a breathy laugh at how Jimin snatched up the tissue box and held it to his chest before moving to the lounge. “Do you want your glasses?”

“Yeah..” Jimin answered as he threw himself onto the small couch, burrowing into the soft throw pillows that Jungkook had given them after setting his juice aside. “Is Tae coming over today?”

“Tae?” Yoongi frowned. “Should he be?”

“It’s Monday… isn’t it your mentor day?”

Yoongi breathed out a heavy sigh as he found Jimin’s glasses on the counter where he had left them the night before.

It was in fact his day to mentor. He had completely forgotten. At least it was still early, the sun had barely risen, so Taehyung wouldn’t have just pitched up at the store to find that it hadn’t been opened. Yoongi would have to just send a message and tell him that he would cancel for the day.

“I’ll ask Namjoon if he can take him again.” Yoongi said and settled down beside Jimin’s head, letting the younger move up so that he rested on Yoongi’s lap.

“He’s not some file or spell casting that you can just hand off Yoon, just tell him to come by here a bit later than usual. I’ll probably be asleep for most of the day anyway.”

Jimin had a point.

He sent a quick text to the witch informing him that they would work in Yoongi’s private studio space at his house instead of the store. Taehyung wouldn’t question it – perhaps he would have even expected it. Yoongi wasn’t as unpredictable as he thought when matters included Jimin.

**

Jimin was restless.

Yoongi was almost sure that the hybrid had missed the entire beginning of the movie with how he shifted around; adjusting the pillows or removing the sweater he wore to make it into a blanket of sorts – and then into a pillow when he wasn’t satisfied, or getting up to find water and ending up dragging the duvet from their room to the couch.

When Yoongi thought the younger had finally settled down with his head resting on the warlocks thigh, Jimin began to shuffle beneath the blanket as if he just couldn’t find the right place to lie. His cute ears that Yoongi had been softly scratching, were drawn back in irritation and his tail flicked continuously against the cover.

“You okay?” He asked, looking down at the Calico’s flushed cheeks and annoyed pout.

Jimin let out a heavy puff of air, his eyes narrowed as he practically glared at the tv. Yoongi ran a hand gently down the nape of Jimin’s neck and traced along his sharp collar bone, smiling at the deep purr that started up before startling as Jimin pulled away. He was about to question the youngers actions when Jimin settled himself onto Yoongi’s lap. His pretty eyes were dilated, and his bottom lip pulled tightly between his teeth as he rocked forward, drawing Yoongi closer by putting his arms around his neck.

The warlock let out a low surprised chuckled but made no complaint against Jimin putting his lips to his jaw, beginning a journey of lingering kisses that made him shiver.

“I thought –“

“You started this.” Jimin muttered a bit hoarsely, but Yoongi couldn’t tell if it was from his cold or whatever the younger was chasing after. “Finish it.”

“You didn’t want to..” Yoongi shifted as Jimin rolled his hips hard against him.

The movie played on, music cheerfully flooding the room, yet Yoongi could barely hear it as he focused on the soft breaths and moans that Jimin let out into his mouth and neck. Yoongi’s breaths were quickly matching that of the hybrid, if not surpassing him as his body reacted to Jimin’s hands trailing his skin tenderly.

“Now.” Jimin panted out. “Now I do. Please… I can’t focus on anything else.”

Yoongi pushed Jimin off, keening at the low whine that quickly turned to a moan as he forced Jimin back into the soft cushions while he got to his knees in front of him. He pulled the blankets that had been tangled around Jimin’s legs away, taking note of his boyfriends light shivers and hooded eyes from behind his glasses.

Jimin wasn’t normally needy when it came to these private moments between them if anything he was usually the one to be in control. Seeing the hybrid lean his head back and paw at Yoongi’s shirt impatiently and letting the warlock do what he wanted to do to Jimin without complaint or direction was a blessing that Yoongi rarely got to witness. Even if it included Jimin’s mouth breathing, chapped lips and crimson tinged nose.

He was running his hands over Jimin’s tight dancer physique with almost featherlight touches only to grip and hold his hips down in place as he pushed up to try to create some type of friction. Yoongi left tender kisses on the soft inner skin of Jimin’s thighs taking his time while smiling at the soft sigh that left his boyfriend before Yoongi gradually moved an inch higher and suckled the skin there. He could feel Jimin carding his hands through his hair, giving soft tugs almost in time with his heavy breaths.

Once he felt that he had left enough marks there he pushed Jimin’s legs further apart so that he could climb and rest between them as he trailed kisses and hickeys up the hybrids torso – earning a quivering moan as he hovered and switched between nipples. Giving the sensitive buds extra attention as Jimin shivered and dug his nails into Yoongi’s shoulder. The warlock didn’t even have time to wonder if the hybrid was going to claw through his clothes, he could already feel the sharp points digging into his skin – varying in force every few seconds.

Yoongi had always delighted in the fact that his kitten was extremely sensitive when it came to skin contact, every moment was a chance to see how he would react to the most subtle of strokes or kisses. Jimin’s breath quickened as he arched to rub his body into Yoongi’s as much as possible, his body heating at the feeling of the elders own arousal pressed against him when the warlock nipped at the glands on his neck. Jimin moaned deeply, his nails moving to scrape against Yoongi’s scalp and his breath catching in his throat.

He growled as Yoongi caught the lobe of his ear with his teeth, which resulted in him turning to cough harshly to the side. Yoongi pulled back, settling down on Jimin’s lap as he did his best to ignore his own erection that fought against his sweatpants.  Yoongi slipped a tissue out of the box and rested it around Jimin’s nose and mouth, feeling his hot breaths hit his palm through the soft material as he coughed.

“Blow.” Yoongi said gently when Jimin had finally caught his breath.

“You blow.” Jimin flushed and pulled Yoongi’s hand away so that he could blow his nose himself. He wasn’t going to let Yoongi have to feel whatever grossness came out of him. Jimin blew his nose twice, but the heat that spread through his body was making his nose run and left him sniffling miserably.

“Is that what you want? Can I continue then?” Yoongi grinned as he leant closer and gently sucked at Jimin’s jaw when he didn’t hear an immediate complaint.

“Yoongi… You don’t have to. Maybe this is too much, I’m quickly realising how gross this is again.” Jimin murmured apprehensively, although his body thrived under the soft caressing touches.

Yoongi let out a breathy chuckle as he drew circles into Jimin’s v-line with his thumbs. “There isn’t a single thing about you that could possibly be gross, love. Lean back.”

Jimin shifted with an unusual amount of compliance. Yoongi merely smirked as he got to work at his boyfriend’s chest once more, priding himself at the low whines that vibrated out of Jimin. Slowly Yoongi ran a hand down between their bodies and slipped it smoothly beneath the boxer’s he had forgotten to remove to grasp at the base of Jimin’s dick. He smirked at the jolt that that trembled through Jimin’s entire body.

“Oh…” Jimin rolled his head back, his hips pushing against Yoongi’s hand with more force than he thought he could muster just then. He didn’t even bat an eye at the slick he could feel seeping out and no doubt ruining the couch. Yoongi didn’t even hesitate to start stroking at the achingly hard length, almost teasingly so, and Jimin could barely keep his pleasure contained, his body betraying his control as he shifted and mewled at the heat that coursed through him. “…ahhh… st-stop be-nnhgg.. ahh.. so-soft.”

“You want me to be harder?” Yoongi asked. His voice dipping low enough to spark a new wave of dizzying heat through Jimin even before the elder gathered some of the slick that had gradually begun to gush out of him before wrapping a strong yet tender grip around Jimin’s dick once more. Moving to pump him roughly.

“Fuck!”  Jimin cried hoarsely. His head slammed into Yoongi’s shoulder as he jerked up to meet the newly set pace, burying his face into Yoongi’s shoulder as he was driven closer to the edge.

The warlock bit at his cheek to try to bring his mind back to the present, controlling his own breathing before he drowned in Jimin’s whimpers and lewd pleas. Jimin hadn’t complained about his actions, but Yoongi couldn’t help but be mildly unsatisfied. Retracting his hand, earning sharp claws into his back as well as a hoarse whine, Yoongi moved down and yanked the boxers off of the hybrid in a hastily, swift motion. Jimin had just began to let out a low whine again when Yoongi took him in his mouth. The sounds that left them both were anything but soft and once again Yoongi was glad that their cottage was a relatively far distance away from their neighbours. He licked and sucked and hummed around the calico’s dick and the whimpers and cries set his blood alight.  It didn’t take much longer before the hybrid was spilling himself out, arching and thrusting up into Yoongi’s mouth as the elder swallowed as much as he could. He pulled back, white painting his lips as he returned his hand to milk Jimin dry, leaning up to kiss the hybrid’s gaping mouth as he did. Jimin was left a  panting and mewling mess in his boyfriends embrace, while Yoongi used the discarded boxer’s to briefly clean them off afterwards. That was definitely better than just watching ‘The Lion King’. Jimin would never be able to view the movie the same ever again.

“mmmngg…” Jimin lay a sloppy kiss into the curve of Yoongi’s neck before lightly coughing away into the air, too blissed to even try to lift up his arm to shield it.

“Content?”

Jimin gave another inaudible reply before stuttering off into a particularly vocal sneeze.

“Let’s shower, okay?” Yoongi said, flicking up his hand to shut off the movie that had still been playing. He was painfully hard, but he had expected nothing less from the sounds and reactions Jimin had been giving him. “Get cleaned up properly and eat before Tae arrives. Then you can get some rest.”

The hybrid sniffled and reached to tug at the hem of Yoongi’s pants, feeling too alone in his nudity, which caused the elder to chuckle tightly but not without affection.  He grabbed Jimin’s hands in his own and pulled him shakily to his feet.

“I don’t need any help. Let’s just get you in the shower, okay?”

There were no arguments from either of them. Even when Jimin decided that a second round was definitely in order.

**

“You should really air this place out.”

Yoongi startled at the voice, not having expected another person to be in his house. He had just finished getting food in Jimin and had gotten him to sleep, which had taken far longer than it should have and had resulted in some more deep massages to help his kitten relax. He hadn’t heard the front door open but seeing Taehyung rummaging around his kitchen shouldn’t have really surprised him. Perhaps his morning activities had sent him to a state of unawareness.

Thank god he had thought to set his magic down on cleaning their couch before leaving the room.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.” Taehyung swiveled to give a stern finger-pointing at the elder, it lost whatever effect he had tried to pull when Yoongi saw the strips of liquorice that dangled from the witches mouth. “This place smelt super musky. Its not good for Jimin to be in an unventilated area. The fresh air would do him better.”

Yoongi avoided eye contact, fearing that his smile would grow too wide if he kept looking at the witches stern disapproval. “I’ll keep that in mind. I thought he’d get cold. Should we get to work? I have a few spell books that I got in London that I thought would really benefit you.”

Taehyung grumbled lightly that his mentor should have ‘known better’ and that their roles should switch temporarily so that Yoongi could learn something about care giving from him instead. The warlock didn’t comment or correct Tae, merely laughed and waved him off as his mind tossed the vivid ‘helping’ details of his morning around in his thoughts.

It quickly became obvious that his heart wasn’t in the lesson that he should have definitely planned more for, and he realised that as soon as Tae accidentally set fire to a third of his sage collection. That was on him though, he should have known better to make an entirely clear space before letting Tae work on anything that had to do with the elements, and he should have been paying attention to what the younger was doing and saying in order to prevent such tragedies. It was entirely unprofessional to be so blatantly distracted, but Yoongi couldn’t seem to help it. A part of him kept wanted to run back into the main section of their little house – back to where Jimin was sleeping – so that he could check up on him. To see if he needed any tea, or some one to talk to, or play boards games with, or to see if he wanted Yoongi to comb his hair or scratch at his ears. Jimin loved having Yoongi scratch at his ears. And Yoongi loved doing it.

He'd missed so much in the months that he’d been gone, that the scents and the feeling of Jimin’s skin or hair or fur – the feeling of Jimin being close to him – he had almost forgotten what it was like, and he never wanted to even consider the thought of coming close to forgetting it again.

Taehyung had spent the next twenty minutes after the flames being a floundering, apologetic mess – even after Yoongi had tried to convince him that he wasn’t at fault and that Yoongi should have practiced some pronunciations with him first. His attempts didn’t seem to sink it. They both agreed on a break perhaps a bit too eagerly once they’d gone over a few pointers – Yoongi trying harder to pay close attention to Taehyung and the fine details that the witch still seemed to be getting wrong.

He let Tae help himself to some of the food that he’d made for Jimin earlier while Yoongi took the chance to peek into the bedroom to see if his boyfriend was still alright. And basically, just how Yoongi had left him, Jimin was curled into his side of the bed with the comforter pulled tightly to his body. His tri-coloured ears contrasted against the thick white sheets and seemed to be the only part of the hybrid that wasn’t completely under the blankets. As much has Yoongi wanted to go and pull them down to see the youngers face, he refrained. The soft, congested snores were enough to tell him that Jimin needed to sleep, so he dragged himself back to the kitchen and made himself the strongest brew of coffee he had to gain focus for the next few hours with his mentee.

Taehyung had just mastered a spell for plant growth and was gleefully trying to revive some of the things he’d damaged earlier when they heard the soft padding of feet coming from the entrance of the studio. They both paused in anticipation, their energy levels spiking until Jimin appeared in the section that they were in. Something in Yoongi’s chest melted like warm caramel at the sight of Jimin – he’d changed before leaving the cottage to join them in the small building outside that Yoongi had claimed as his studio space. Switching his sleep wear to a pair of Yoongi’s sweatpants as well the warlocks thickest jacket, even the hybrid’s tail was hidden beneath the warm layers. The extra padding as well as the broadness of the jacket made the hybrid appear even smaller than usual.

Jimin smiled shyly, bringing a tissue up to blow his nose before letting Taehyung bound over and hug him, his sleep-mussed hair flopping all over the place as Tae swayed him and picked him up to playfully pull him to his chest, quickly moving to ramble on about all that they’d done in the past hours that the witch had been there. Yoongi watched quietly from his high set stool, his hands fumbling around with some of the herbs he’d been planning on making charms with. He couldn’t help but notice the increase in Jimin’s sniffling. The hybrid seemed to be running a tissue under his nose every few minutes while earnest nodding to everything Tae was saying. His nose was an even brighter red than before and his eyes had that tired glazed-over look that made Yoongi think his boyfriend had only just woken up and had opted to find them straight away.

“I think I’ll be able to help Hobi’s little flower garden grow stronger. Both him and Kook have been so busy lately the maintenance of the garden has kind of downgraded a bit, and I’m usually not allowed to work with them ever since I forgot the sprinklers on that one time and drowned all the seedlings… but with this..”

Taehyung shrugged with enthusiasm, grinning widely at Jimin who was nodding along despite squinting with a somewhat dazed look. His nose scrunched up and he murmured a hasty apology before crumpling into his tissue with a desperate  sneeze that shook through his entire body. Taehyung lay a steadying hand on his friends shoulder as Jimin snapped forward once more, and again, giving a low groan and a disgustingly wet sniffle since his current tissue was no longer capable of use. Yoongi joined the hybrid’s side rather quickly after that, manifesting the box of tissues that he knew was inside their home so that Jimin could blow his nose again.

“I’b sorry.” Jimin glanced at Tae tired as he tried to rid himself of the congestion, only to find that the itch that had been bothering him was still there. Only this time it didn’t seem to want to progress further. “I was -snf- lis-listening.”

“I know.” Tae grinned and rubbed the calico’s back with nurturing intent. “Bless you.”

Jimin sniffed and scrunched his nose to try and wiggle the itch that had settled there out, but it didn’t seem to be working.

“Are you okay?” Yoongi asked softly. His hand gently tugging Jimin’s body closer to his own. With the way Jimin’s face had flushed and his eyes had turned watery, Yoongi didn’t think that he was done. “Did you just wake up?”

Jimin nodded, moving his hand to rub harshly at his nose causing his breath to hitch slightly but overall, accomplished nothing. “I ha-had a bad dre-hih-dream. snf.”

“My kitten.” Yoongi pulled him into his chest, squeezing him tightly. He could feel Jimin’s breath hitch against him and felt the rumbling groan of annoyance flood through Jimin’s body as he pushed his nose into Yoongi’s neck – seemingly no longer caring about possible contagion as Yoongi felt dampness on his skin. Although considering what they’d done that morning, Jimin probably had ruled that contagion was probably unavoidable. Jimin worked hard at trying to scent him, doing his best to try work away the ticklish feeling that left him feeling both crazy and drained, he could only whimper in annoyance.

“I ca-can’t sne-sneez-ah.. snf.”

“Sit down, Minnie.” Tae said, rubbing Jimin’s shoulders as the hybrid did as he was instructed, crumpling to the floor, desperate to try anything. “Yoongi… why… why don’t you try and coax it out. Hobi and I do it for Jungkook all the time during his allergies and colds.”

Yoongi hadn’t done it before. Jimin had always tried to do anything he considered ‘gross’ by himself, and this was usually one of those things. Yet looking down into his boyfriends teary eyes, Yoongi truly wanted to be the one to help him. Like he’d helped him that morning – well, not quite, not with Tae there, but the situation was somewhat similar. Control was being handed over.

Yoongi sat in between Jimin’s legs, grabbing a tissue and staring at it blankly before Taehyung instructed him to roll it to point – further explaining what he needed to do while Jimin coughed openly, his shoulders slumping forwards as Tae rubbed his back.

“Could you tilt back a bit, Love?” Obediently, Jimin leant back into Taehyung.

Carefully, Yoongi pushed the tissue into Jimin’s left nostril, gently nudging it around. At first Jimin merely looked uncomfortable and Yoongi was seconds away from pulling it out and trying something else – surely they had pepper or something – when he angled it and accidentally went deeper. Jimin’s expression changed to one that Yoongi was very familiar with as his breath hitch against Yoongi’s hand.

“Keep doing that and just wiggle it gently.” Taehyung encouraged.

Feeling quite studious, Yoongi pulled it out a little before returning it to that spot, giving the tissue a light wiggle. Jimin’s breath stuttered and hitched achingly until there were tears threatening to spill. Yoongi twisted the tissue with his finger and felt the sudden large inhale Jimin took before –

Heh’ ISHHTEWW! IP’SSHIEW! Hih’ih’ePISHH’uh!

Yoongi tried not to grimace – after all, the fluid that now coated his hand was a simple wash to get rid of, and his Love was clearly not feeling well enough to deserve any type of criticism – whether it was voiced or not. It wasn’t something he could fault the hybrid for. Yoongi merely grabbed for more tissues, pulling the now crumpled mess of an inducing tool out of Jimin’s nose, only to catch the next bundle neatly with his freshly tissued hand.

Yoongi murmured a soft ‘bless you’ each time Jimin was forced forward into his hand until finally the hybrid was halted into soft, tired panting. Taehyung made a comment about going to put tea on in the house and left them, leaving a soft scratch on Jimin’s head.

Yoongi took his time making sure Jimin was finished and clean before he wiped off his own hand, feeling Jimin’s unfocused gaze drawn to his actions.

“This,” Jimin cleared his throat as his voice cracked. “This is not how I hoped today would go. I’m sorry that must have been –“

“It was fine. Interesting actually.” Yoongi reassuring with a hint of amusement. “Your facial expressions were definitely something that will visit my dreams.”

Jimin’s red cheeks turned an even brighter shade as the hybrid smacked his boyfriend’s chest with a breathy laugh. “I really needed to sneeze. It felt really good.”

“I’m glad.” Yoongi placed a kiss on Jimin’s cheek. “I’ll do it again if you even need me too.”

“My saviour.” Jimin huffed with a strong sniff.

Remembering what Jimin had stuttered before, Yoongi ran a hand through the youngers hair, leaning in closer to stare directly into Jimin’s eyes so that he knew not to divert anything that was asked of him.

“What was your bad dream about?”

Jimin froze and then chuckled tightly, looking down into his lap. “It was stupid, looking back on it. I just felt really alone. It was like you weren’t with me anymore and everything was just really cold and dark, so when I wo-woke – hih’igtshh’uh ugh snf –“ Jimin burrowed into a tissue, making his voice muffled slightly. “When I woke up I had to find you, just to make sure.”

Yoongi frowned as he stroked through Jimin’s hair. Perhaps that trip that he’d gone on had done more harm than he’d originally thought. He didn’t want Jimin to ever think that he would be able to leave him. It just wasn’t possible.

“You know I love you, right? With every essence of my soul, I love you. I wouldn’t be able to function without knowing that you are alright, without having you by my side.”

Jimin nodded, but the smile didn’t reach his tired eyes.  “I know. I promise I know. And I love you so much. You are so stupidly lovable. It was just a bad dream. I always have you with me.”

Jimin pressed a kiss to Yoongi’s lips, deepened it momentarily before frantically breaking away to sneeze a double down into Yoongi’s chest.

“Argh… sorry about that. I think this entire thing is taking turns between moving to my head and chest.” Jimin leant forward into Yoongi, resting his head on his boyfriends broad shoulder.

“C’mon.” Yoongi patted him when he had started to fall asleep. “Let’s get you back inside and warm. Tae has probably finished making tea by now. You can drink it with him before I toss him out.”

Jimin hummed with a lack of interest.

“And some more medicine will probably be helpful.”

Jimin’s hum turned to a much more agreeable tone.

“Maybe I’ll even rub some of my herbal ointment on you.” Yoongi said with low teasing pitch. “I’ll be extra useful and massage all these stiff muscles of yours.”

That got Jimin laughing. His eyes crinkled before he kissed Yoongi again, wrapping his arms tightly around the elder.  Yoongi managed to stand and support his boyfriend as the younger clung onto him to be carried, making sure he was sturdy before making the short work in the cold to get back to the house. He could feel Jimin’s face against his neck, hiding from the chill as he sniffled, but Yoongi could feel the smile on the youngers face as he pressed a kiss to Yoongi’s neck.

And it must have been contagious, because when Yoongi felt the familiar scratch of teeth where the scent gland on his neck should have been, followed by a gentle press of lips, it was impossible to stop his own smile from spreading.

[glassworkspiderlilies]

delinquency

Genshin Impact | @albelumiweek 2021 Day 6 | Promise | AO3 Summary: “Just promise me you will be careful,” he says, and Lumine smiles, squeezing his hands. Notes: *spins wheel* today we get a school AU, vaguely yandere albedo, and genki delinquent lumine. sure, why not. i have no control over anything. <3

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“Lumine.”

She freezes in position, her arm half-wrapped, then turns around slowly, a sheepish smile on her face.  

“Hi, ‘Bedo,” she says, hiding her arm behind her back in vain, but his expression doesn’t soften at the use of the nickname. “Is your class over already?”

“Yes.” His eyes flick over to the roll of bandages still in sight, then sets his books down and takes a seat across from her. “And you skipped again, I see.”

Albedo holds out his hand, and Lumine sighs before putting out her injured arm. He finishes the wrapping job for her, better than she could have done alone, and the tension eases out of her shoulders when she realizes he isn’t mad—at least not at her.

“The Fatui,” she explains, his silence questioning even if he hadn’t asked verbally. “Aether and Xiao got suspended for practically destroying the east wing, so…it’s just me. Well, and a few others, but they’ve got exams coming up.”

“You’re a target now,” he says, staring into her eyes. He has not released her hand yet, and she doesn’t pull back. “It’ll only get worse. Fights have always been part of this academy, but the one shouldering so many of them does not have to be you.”

She stares back, then gives him a sad sort of smile before she leans her forehead against his.

“It doesn’t, I guess,” she agrees, “But it is. Aether and I are the outsiders, and we have a bit of a reputation. You know what they call us, right? The Travelers. It’s probably the nicest moniker we’ve ever gotten, for being expelled out of so many schools. We’re just…a little too strange, and a little too good at fighting.”

Albedo frowns.

“You are hardly the strangest thing in Teyvat.”

“But if I weren’t, how could I have caught your eye?”

“…I like you more than just your being strange, you know.”

“You are sweet, Albedo.”

“Lumine.”

She laughs.

“I’m okay, really. Once Aether comes back, it’ll be easier. It’s a lot harder to get expelled here since they encourage so much…diverse development, and we have the Student Council backing us. And our patrons. Some of the fights aren’t so bad, really, I just…I’m not used to doing so much of it without Aether.”

Albedo hums.

“You could ask for my help.”

“No way. You’re in the crux of your thesis. I need to fight so you can research in peace.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’ve been extra reckless lately?”

Her eyes widen as she realizes her misstep. He looks smug at catching her so easily and neatly, and she huffs, blowing her bangs out of her face.

“I said I’m just not used to fighting without Aether.”

He cups her cheek, brushing a thumb over the bruise that is beginning to darken there.

“You don’t have to be the savior of Teyvat,” he says wryly, “We learn to work with…excessive distractions here, and my focus will not be broken so easily. You needn’t injure yourself on my account.”

“As much as I like you, it’s not only for you,” she says, just a little teasingly. But the humor fades as she frowns. “There’s…something else that’s going on behind the scenes. Aether and I have been asked to look into it.”

Albedo raises a brow, questioning, and Lumine sighs before she leans in and drops her voice to a whisper.

“The Archons, of the old Hidden Council—Teyvat’s patrons. There seems to be some kind of rift. You know Venti and Zhongli, the spokesmen for Barbatos and Rex Lapis?  They’ve been targeted more than once. I don’t know who the others are, but…if it gets really bad, then it could affect the whole school.”

Albedo leans back, thinking.

“This is a lot for transfer students to get involved in.”

“But it’s precisely because we have no history with this place at all that we’re the best options.”

Albedo frowns again, but relents with another sigh. He is concerned, yes, but to hound her for situation that she does not entirely have control over would bring her undue stress, and she is under enough already, in her own way. He has to trust her, just as she does him.  

“Just promise me you will be careful,” he says, and Lumine smiles, squeezing his hands.

“I promise. And I promise I will come to you for help if I really need it,” she tells him, and earns a smile in return.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Oh! One more thing.”

Lumine reaches into her bag, then pulls out an odd pointy blue object, putting it into Albedo’s hands. He looks closely at it, turning it over and analyzing its characteristics by habit.  

“What’s this?”

“A tusk from an ancient whale, or something? You said that your project would be better supported if you had something like that to work with, right?”

He blinks at her.

“How…did you get this?”

Lumine twiddles her fingers.

“I…may have an arrangement with the Eleventh Harbinger…he has all these connections and if he wants to fight me every week, I should get something useful out of it when I win, right?”

She looks pleadingly at him as he stares at her in slight disbelief. He feels a mix of emotions—concern, again, that she made a bargain with a Harbinger, but also warmth, that she should remember such a passing mention during one of his long-winded musings.

In the end he laughs, deciding to simply marvel at her capabilities. She always manages to surprise him, in one way or another.

“Thank you,” he says, and is pleased when she beams at him.

A commotion outside draws their attention, and Albedo gathers up his books and the tusk into his bag while Lumine shrugs herself back into her leather jacket and swings her spiked baseball bat up onto her shoulder. She frowns when they peek outside, and the crowd that has gathered parts for her as she walks forward.

“Tartaglia,” she coos, though her eyes glint dangerously and her lips turn down, “I would have thought you’d still be recovering.”

“Oh, I am,” the boy in question says cheerfully, “You broke a rib, but I have high pain tolerance. Anyway, it turns out I got a double shipment by accident, so I thought I’d deliver it myself and catch sight of the genius prince you’re so intent on spoiling.”

The Harbinger’s eyes are searching as they light upon Albedo; he holds out the additional tusk like a peace offering, and Albedo accepts it gingerly while Lumine watches, poised to strike if she needs to.

“How apt,” Tartaglia says, after a moment. “But there’s more to you that meets the eye, isn’t there?”  

Albedo shrugs, scrutinizing the second tusk to see if it differs at all from the first. Yes, there is a lighter luster to its center, and a slight nick on the left part of the calyx—

“A number of people call me a genius, but I don’t think I’m any such thing,” he replies evenly, but the other boy looks no less deterred.

“Oh, I think it’s more than that,” he says. Albedo looks up and raises a brow; Tartaglia holds up his hands with a chuckle when he feels the nails of Lumine’s bat poke into his throat. “Alright, alright. I’ve done what I came for, and neither of us are in the right condition for another confrontation.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lumine snorts, maintaining her position. “I may prefer you to the other Harbingers, but don’t push your luck.”

“Now that’s flattering,” Tartaglia purrs, as he backs up a few steps.

Lumine interposes herself in front of Albedo, planting her bat in the ground and standing defensively, glowering. Tartaglia chuckles and takes his leave—but turns back to throw one last look over his shoulder, one last quip prepared.

However—Lumine is momentarily distracted by Albedo peeling open a bandaid to stick to her cheek, turning her head towards him.

“Don’t move,” he says gently, keeping her head still with one hand. “Your hair was covering this before.”

She obeys, glaring at Tartaglia out of her corner of her eye when she notices him hanging back.

But the prince too is looking at the Harbinger, his gaze pointed and warning, eyes shadowed. His fingers are on Lumine’s cheek, where she had been scratched during their last battle.

“…Careful,” Albedo says quietly, his gaze still direct and unwavering, and Tartaglia’s lips quirk up at the mildly delivered threat. “If this gets to be too much, I might have to look into destroying a campus.”

“You’d definitely get expelled for that,” Lumine huffs, and Albedo chuckles, glancing back at her.

“That would be a problem, wouldn’t it? I suppose you’ll have to stop me if it comes to that.”

“It won’t,” Lumine says, raising a brow and crossing her arms. She hesitates before adding grudgingly, “…The Eleventh’s not that bad.”

“The other Fatui can be though…but we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.” Albedo smiles, inclining his head towards Tartaglia. “My gratitude for your part in getting these rare research materials. I’d appreciate it if you continued to…play nice.”

Tartaglia grins as his skin prickles, and his eyes gleam with interest. But now isn’t the right time to test the prince’s mettle.

“It was nice meeting you,” The Harbinger says, his gaze lingering before he turns away, and Albedo waves while Lumine simply watches him go.

“You’re right. He really isn’t so bad,” Albedo says amiably, once the other boy has truly gone. “Even so…he’s liable to become troublesome.”

She gives him an amused smile.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she says, bumping him with her shoulder, “But if I come across something I can’t, you’ll be the first to know.”

Albedo smiles back, then catches her hand to press his lips against its back.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he says.  

They continue down the hall, the other students either staring in awe or darting out of the way.

The two carry on, unconcerned, as those likened to gods do.