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“Diantha got me this new tea,” Professor Sycamore said, in the middle of the afternoon on an otherwise totally unremarkable Saturday. “She said it’s smoky and dense; I told her I never drink tea, but she insisted I try it. I don’t want to deal with hot leaf water alone. Will you share a pot with me?” Not looking up from the book he was reading on the couch, Lysandre grunted his agreement. The Professor’s footsteps left as he headed to the kitchen, and Lysandre listened vaguely to the sounds of him boiling the kettle and making tea, china rattling in the cabinets.
“Where’s the teapot?”
“Top shelf.”
“Why is it on the top shelf?”
“Because we never use it.”
Soon enough the Professor returned with a tray, teapot, and cups. He poured for them both and took his cup back to the breakfast table by the windows where he was working through clearing out his Team Flare email inbox. They drank their tea in the quiet of whatever classical station Augustine was listening to.
“This is good,” Lysandre said, after his second cup. “A little bitter, but rich; I see why Diantha thought you’d like it. What kind of tea is it?”
“Tarry Lapsang Souchong. Diantha said it was the least tea-tasting tea she’d ever had, and I can’t deny it.”
“Do you like it?”
“I don’t dislike it.”
“High praise coming from you, Professor Sycamore.” He earned a laugh for that, and Lysandre looked up to see Augustine staring back at him, eyes warm and fond. He’d stolen Lysandre’s turtleneck because of an unseasonably cold morning, and he’d clearly been fidgeting with the collar, because he’d unrolled it halfway up over his chin. As always, he was devastating. “Would you like another cup?”
“Maybe half of one.” Augustine tilted his cup toward him, but made no move to get up. Lysandre followed the unspoken order and groaned, standing, to bring the pot over and refill the other man’s cup. “You can have the rest of the pot, if you want it.”
“Someone has to drink it.” It was hardly that much of an imposition; it was very good tea.
Midway through his third cup, Lysandre began to feel…warm. Not particularly uncomfortable but warm despite it being a cool day, and he shifted, crossing and uncrossing his legs, as he resettled his weight. That somehow only made it worse, so he spread his legs instead, stretching out his feet, toes curled into the carpet. His collar felt tight despite the fact he hadn’t put on his cravat that morning, the top button left undone.
“Has the weather changed? It feels warm in here.”
“Hmm?” Augustine paused, checking the weather. “No, same as before. If you’re warm, take your coat off.” Lysandre considered if there was a hidden order there, but it seemed entirely offhand. Augustine wasn’t even looking at him—he was glaring at his laptop. “Why does Mable insist on CC’ing me in every single science team email? I’d set up a spam filter or something but I actually do need some of these emails, but not all of them.”
“So tell her to quit.”
“I have. You tell her to quit; she’ll listen to you.”
“Fine.” Lysandre frowned again as he shrugged his jacket off and threw it over the arm of the couch, undoing the buttons at his cuffs and rolling them up to his elbows. He was about to say something else when he looked at Augustine again and found he was mouthing to himself as he read, which meant he was focusing.
Fine. Lysandre was warm, and that was that.
Lysandre was warm, but very quickly, Lysandre was hot. Even without his coat and his sleeves rolled up and his collar open, he was hot. He was hot and he couldn’t stop thinking about Augustine with the collar of his turtleneck rolled up over his face, the sleeves falling down past his fingertips, and nothing else. His dick had gotten hard and he’d gotten uncomfortably wet. He itched to resettle his briefs, but that felt somehow perverse. The was nothing going on. Why was he wet?
It did not get better. If anything, the longer he sat there, no longer even attempting to read inasmuch as staring blankly at the open book in his lap, the worse it became. Soon even his breathing was agony, as it repeatedly brushed his nipples over the cloth of his shirt—it was like before he had top surgery, every nerve in his chest lit up and his brain sparking with desire.
Lysandre set down his book. “Professor?”
“Hmm?”
“I…” He trailed off, hesitating. Looking at Augustine, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary: he was chewing on his hair, bouncing one foot across his lap. He was very slightly flushed, but that could mean anything. They were drinking hot tea. Thinking about the tea meant that Lysandre realized how dry his mouth was, and he cleared his throat, finished draining his third cup.
Within minutes it all became worse. His dick was so hard that the pressure of the zipper of his fly was legitimately painful, and Lysandre could bear it no longer.
“Augustine?”
“Hmm?”
“Does that tea have any sort of physical effect?”
“Aside from caffeine? Not that I’ve ever heard of.” Augustine tucked his hair out of his face as he straightened, and even the line of his shoulders under his turtleneck as he changed posture made Lysandre groan with longing. He was sweating profusely now, enough that he had to take his gloves off, and he followed it with his shirt because he’d already sweat through the armpits. He was burning. The sweat behind his knees was so bad he gave in and resolved to take his pants off, too, and the sound of his button and fly popping was loud. Augustine turned to look at him, one eyebrow arched.
Lysandre couldn’t see his pupils clearly. He couldn’t focus his eyes well enough. Were they dilated? Was his face red? He couldn’t tell.
“Boss, why are you taking your clothes off?”
“Need to.” He was so hoarse it was almost unbelievable. Lysandre pressed his hand over his dick, groaning. He was so hard it hurt, and the noise his fingers made as they slid through his pre was disgusting, a filthy squelching sound. “My tits hurt.”
“Your—“ Professor Sycamore did a double take. “Did you just say tits unprompted?”
“Like the scars aren’t even there,” Lysandre whined as he stood—or tried to stand, at least. The moment he stood, the blood all rushed from his head and the weight, the pressure on his legs, made his knees go out. He barely caught himself on the side of the couch before he hit the floor and the texture of the carpet against his bare skin forced a raw sob out of him. “It hurts, Professor.”
“What hurts?”
“There was—there was something, in the tea.” Lysandre was sure of it; this wasn’t any other desire he’d ever felt before. His whole body was hypersensitive, tingling with arousal, his skin all as flushed and aching, and crawling across the room was both humiliating and also so good, so painfully good, that he almost fell to the floor and ground his chest against the carpet to feel how rough it was. Like sandpaper. “Something’s…”
“Was there.” Professor Sycamore sounded…was that displeased? Disgusted?
“I’m sorry,” Lysandre sobbed, giving up less than a meter away from him, unable to move any further. “I’m sorry, I can’t—“ He looked up, almost unseeing with the force of his arousal, and the fact that the Professor looked so completely untouched, there was nothing wrong, made his brain turn the rest of the way off. Lysandre had to come or he was going to quite possibly die. If he came without permission, the Professor would hurt him.
He stared up at the other man, sitting with his legs spread, and Lysandre couldn’t see the tell-tale sign of his arousal, couldn’t smell it, nothing. He was…perfect. Pristine. Only flushed, flushed and breathing a little faster. Maybe there wasn’t something in the tea. Maybe it was something about Lysandre. He didn’t know, but he couldn’t move—he could hardly breathe, and pleaded, voice breaking, “Augustine—“
He was close enough that Augustine was able to turn and kick him in the side, right on the base of the chest atop his ribs, right over his nipples. Lysandre’s elbows gave out as he shouted, fell to his face on the floor, and almost fucking came. “I’ll come,” he cried, helpless. His elbows wouldn’t lock and he couldn’t exert the force required to lift himself back up. “Augustine, I’ll come, if you do it again I’ll—“
“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Augustine snapped, standing up. Did he wobble? Did Lysandre imagine he wobbled, that he had to put one hand atop the table to keep his balance as he took a step? He was breathing hard. He was breathing hard and he whined. Lysandre heard him whine.
“There was something,” he tried to say again, and his voice cracked as Augustine bent over in front of him, not touching him but he could feel the other man like he was gravity, his hold on Lysandre inexorable and inescapable. “Something in the tea.”
Augustine laughed a noise like he was stabbing Lysandre in the stomach and he swooned at the sound, trying to lift his head and failing as the Professor slid his hand along the base of his skull, almost, almost the back of his neck, and instead—instead of touching him right where he needed, knotted his fingers up in Lysandre’s hair. “Of course there was, boss. I put it there.”
He yanked. Hard. With all his force, dragging Lysandre up off of the floor by his hair, and he yelled as agony transmuted and multiplied manifold and hit his nervous system like he was on fire, he was burning alive. He managed one agonized shout of pitié but couldn’t wait for a response; it was like trying to stop a forest fire.
He came.
He came and it did nothing.
When Augustine let go of his hair Lysandre dropped boneless facedown on the floor, sobbing and shuddering with the force of the aftershocks. “I can’t believe you had three cups. I thought I’d maybe be able to get you to drink one before you noticed it was drugged. And you had three.” Lysandre tried to make a questioning noise, but succeeded in only a helpless whimper. “Three cups. You must feel like you’re dying.” Lysandre nodded, his body wracked with the force of his sobs. “You’re a big man, boss, but you’re not triple the recommended dose of full-strength Salazzle Sting big.” Of course it was Salazzle pheromones. Of course it was illegally concocted Salazzle aphrodisiac of the variety that got confiscated by the League. The Pokémon Professor of Kalos was supposed to be in charge of appropriately disposing of things like that.
He’d drugged them with it instead.
“Please,” Lysandre sobbed, grabbing the Professor’s hips. The other man jolted beneath his touch and surged towards him, groaning. “Please, Professor, I need you. I need you.”
“I fucking bet you do, honey.” Lysandre found himself fumbling with something even so simple as the Professor’s belt and fly—in the end, he gave up and tugged on the waistband until the other man twisted so he could pull belt, slacks, boxers, and all down. “Bet you’re soaking wet and rock-hard for me, huh?”
“Yes,” he agreed, feeling so out of his mind that he would have agreed to anything if it meant that Augustine would touch him again. “Augustine—“
The Professor grabbed him by his hair, yanked him up off the floor, and slapped him so hard across the face his balance failed. He didn’t even let Lysandre finish reeling: he pulled him back up and slapped him again, and this time, they both moaned. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, honey?”
“I can’t,” Lysandre replied, shattered. “Professor, I can’t.” Augustine slapped him again, this time hard enough to knock Lysandre flat to the ground. The Professor followed, rolling him over onto his back and straddling his chest so that he could lay into him again.
His cheeks were going to bruise, and it felt so good he was a little delirious.
Only after Lysandre had reached the point of total incoherence, unable to make words except for ragged breathing and sobbing between strikes, did the Professor stop and cover his nose and mouth with his hand, pinning his head to the floor. “Look at me,” he snarled, unyielding. He’d had to spread his hips so wide to straddle Lysandre’s shoulders that his cunt was open and pulsing against the top of his chest, slicking the hair over his sternum flat, boiling hot. He was just as wet as Lysandre was.
When Lysandre didn’t look up, staring down at the base of Augustine’s stomach instead, the Professor banged the back of his head against the floor once, just hard enough to make his ears ring. “That was an order, Lysandre.”
Lysandre looked up, and if he’d been standing, he would have collapsed to the floor: Professor Sycamore’s cheeks were flushed nearly maroon with exertion, every heaving breath made his tits press against the cashmere of Lysandre’s turtleneck, his nipples hard. His mouth was open as he gasped for breath, his black curls beginning to frizz, his eyes blown so wide open it was like staring into the center of the earth. His lips were so red they looked like candy.
Lysandre couldn’t breathe.
“If you call me Augustine one more fucking time, I’m going to get the magic wand and tape your thighs together around it and shove it on your dick and leave you here.” To reinforce what he was saying, he shook Lysandre once. Hard. “I’ll fucking leave you here, tied to my vibrator on high and I’ll stuff my ruined cunt with every fucking dildo we own and drip on your face and I won’t fucking touch you. I’ll leave you here and listen to you fucking howl until you pass out because you can’t come any more. Do you hear me?” Lysandre nodded, frantic, his dick so hard he felt like he could drive nails through the floor. “If I so much as hear you breathe my name again until I give you permission, I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born. Understand?”
“I love you,” Lysandre replied, fervent. Fervent and desperate and insane. This was what insanity felt like. “I love you, Professor.”
“I know you do, Lys. Answer my question. Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Professor.” How could he still speak in full sentences? How could he still sit up? How could he touch Lysandre’s skin and not immediately go mad with the wanting of it? “Please sit on my face.”
“Useless cockslut,” the Professor cooed in a voice like blood and thunder—and sat on his face.
Pinned between the Professor’s dripping cunt and the floor with nowhere to go and nothing to do but service, Lysandre shut his eyes and opened his mouth and began to worship. He was so wet, he was soaking, it was like trying to drink dry the ocean, and when he scraped his teeth over the Professor’s cock he yelped, clenched, and came just like that, so fast, almost untouched. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—“ Voice breaking, he cried Lysandre’s name like he was shaking down the sky and squirted. Which he never did.
Lysandre drank him dry, his cock twitching with the ache of how badly he needed—he was so wet and his hole was so empty. Swallowing, moaning into his Professor’s slick, warm hole, so soft, his, his cunt, Lysandre’s—he groaned, spreading his thighs, planting his heels in the floor and fucking the air like it would do anything to alleviate the pain of being so hard and so untouched.
Lifting up just enough so he could breathe, the Professor asked, breathless, “Need something?”
“Hurts,” Lysandre slurred. “Hurts, Professor. My hole—“
“Use your words, boss, or you’re going to get something you really don’t want.” Lysandre moaned in agony—no, please not that.
“My ass.”
“What about your loose ass?”
“Hurts.”
“So? Why is that my problem?”
“Empty.” Lysandre whimpered, bucking his hips up again. “Empty, hurts, needs—need to be full, please. Please.”
“So?” The Professor laughed, spreading his lips and planting his cock back over Lysandre’s open mouth. “You have hands and plenty of pre, if you want to stuff your sluthole, stuff it.” Lysandre moaned his wordless thanks and reached down to slick his fingers with his pre—he was soaking, wet down his thighs, enough that what little bit of his brain retained function thought that he was going to have to get the carpet steamed after this.
And then he had three fingers in his ass up to the knuckle and he didn’t care about the carpet any more. He cared about being full, being full and aching because he couldn’t come without at least some pressure on his dick and he couldn’t ask for permission like this. Usually the Professor would give him permission, but he wasn’t going to get that today—not after calling him Augustine.
Every minute that passed without being able to come made it worse, though—it was like he was a can of soda and the Professor kept shaking him to see what would happen.
Midway through the Professor coming a second time on his face, nails dug into his scalp and wailing Lysandre’s name, he realized something he ought to have realized sooner. Not that he was thinking clearly. Or coherently. At all. Or even really thinking, for that matter. It was mostly please yes please Augustine Professor please let me come let me come need to empty and none of those were thoughts.
What was a thought was that Augustine hadn’t told Lysandre to stay still, or, for that matter, told Lysandre to eat him out. He hadn’t given any orders at all, except to give Lysandre permission to fuck himself. It took a little longer—until the Professor had gone through and past overstimulation and jerked away, gasping between his teeth—for Lysandre to realize what that meant. He was still close enough for Lysandre to sit up and bite his cock hard enough to make the Professor yelp, jolting upward. That was enough space for Lysandre to stop fucking himself, grab the other man by his thighs, and flip him over in a single sharp motion.
The Professor hit the floor hard on his back, gasping in surprise, the wind knocked out of him. His hair was matted flat and almost purple with sweat, and against his flushed cheeks his eyes were stars. “What do you think you’re doing,” he wheezed, smiling as he said it.
“No orders,” Lysandre replied, shoving the other man’s shirt up his chest, uncaring of the mess that his slick fingers left. Lysandre wanted to see his pert little tits, nipples hard, sweat visible at the hollow of his sternum. “Didn’t say, Professor.”
“I didn’t, did I?”
“No, Professor.” Lysandre grabbed his ankles through his socks, squeezing down to feel the Professor squirm under him, dark lashes fluttering. “You didn’t.”
“I still haven’t,” he pointed out, and the words turned into a choked-off noise as Lysandre bent him in half, knees pinned to the carpet over his head, and finally slid his cock up and into the open, sopping-wet heat of his cunt. Augustine moaned, head dropping back into the floor, his whole body shuddering and his nipples getting harder. “Oh, Lys, your cock. Arceus, honey—“ On the first thrust Augustine’s hips jolted up into him and he opened even further with a wet gasping sound. It was so filthy that Lysandre felt like he might faint, and he redoubled his efforts, his cock slipping halfway into the Professor’s sucking, clenching heat before sliding out and skidding over where he was still-half hard. “I can feel you,” he cried out, getting his hand between them. “Lys, wait—wait. Stop.”
Lysandre froze, his whole body trembling with the force it took to do so. “Please,” he begged. “Mercy, Professor, have mercy, please have mercy please let me come—“ Augustine was biting his lower lip as he reached down between them, spreading his lips open. Lysandre felt more than saw his muscles clench.
“Lift my hips,” the Professor ordered. “Only a little—there.” Lysandre froze again, his eyes almost crossing.
He was buried to the root, down so far in the Professor’s open, soaking heat that he couldn’t breathe. “You’re so,” he doubled over with the effort it took to not so much as twitch as the Professor pulled himself wide. “Loose. Loose, loose, Professor, I can’t—“
“Wait,” he commanded again, and Lysandre began to cry, hiccoughing through his tears. “I promise, honey. You’re being so good.” His heartbeat was roaring in his ears, blood pounding, his whole body thrumming.
His cock was so hard that every time he so much as breathed it throbbed.
Finally, finally, the Professor went still, wrapping his hands over Lysandre’s on his ankles. His eyes were almost glowing as he nodded, gasping. Lysandre had to remember to close his mouth to stop himself drooling—not that it mattered, as he’d almost certainly drooled down to his chin along with the tears and slick and squirt already soaking his face.
“Now,” Augustine commanded.
The first thrust made him gasp, and the second made him groan.
“I’m in you,” Lysandre realized aloud and all at once. Augustine nodded, writhing and crying out. Lysandre had to grab his ankles tighter to keep himself upright or he was going to collapse, he was so dizzy. “In you,” he repeated, awed, and he fucked Augustine like he was going to nail him through the floor.
“Fuck,” Augustine began, and then, his voice breaking— “Lysandre, don’t stop don’t—don’t, I’m going to—“ Lysandre couldn’t breathe. His lungs had stopped functioning. There was nothing, nothing but the driving need, the impossible boiling pressure inside him, because Augustine didn’t—he didn’t have a hand—his little cock was pink and soft he was soft and he didn’t have anything touching it, nothing at all, nothing—
When Augustine wept, ecstatic, in exaltation “Lys, I’m coming on your cock,” and Lysandre felt him come with every muscle in his fucked-out gaping cunt, his orgasm hit him like dying. Rapture, rapturous bliss, euphoria, mercy—Augustine Sycamore came on only his cock, and the gender euphoria, between the heightened state and sensation of the aphrodisiac, of Augustine coming on only his cock—
White noise. Lysandre couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, could only hear the Professor wailing his name, clenching down around him, soaking around him, shuddering and throbbing and pulsing and milking his cock. Begging. He was begging. He was begging Lysandre to come in him again, to fill him again, to breed him again, to stuff him again.
Lysandre squeezed down tighter on his skinny little ankles, hard enough he felt the joints creak. This was heaven. This was paradise. Lysandre was going to fuck him until there was rug burn on his knees, and even that probably wouldn’t be enough. Nothing was ever, ever again, going to be enough, because Professor Augustine Sycamore had come untouched on only his cock and that was it. That was the only thing Lysandre was going to care about for the rest of his life.
“Give it to me,” the Professor pleaded, “Come in me again, fill me up until I’m dripping, knock me up, Lysandre, it hurts—“
And that was the end of his self control.
At some point, the Professor tried to escape, twisting away from him until his knees gave out because Lysandre caught him around the ankle and yanked so that he sprawled back on the floor. “No,” the Professor begged, tears clumping his dark lashes, “I can’t, Lys, honey, please—“ None of that, however, was stop, so he didn’t stop, pinning the Professor’s hips down until he could split him open on his fist.
Augustine wrapped his thighs around Lysandre’s head, bucked up off the floor into the mouth on his cock and the fist in his cunt, and screamed.
Lysandre wrapped his fingers too-tight around his still-hard cock, and, in time with his tongue and the push of his fist, jerked himself off. He didn’t stop fistfucking the Professor, who was so fucked-out he could only wail at the abuse, shaking and wrecked, until he’d come again.
“Please,” Augustine begged, when Lysandre pulled back, licking up slick and spit and cum from around the top of his mons. “Please, boss, have mercy.”
“No,” he replied, hoarse and hardly above a whisper, and once again took his Professor’s cock in his mouth. Listening as his cursing became shouting and escalated to incoherent wailing as he turned his Professor inside-out on his fist, Lysandre found himself practically purring with a job well done, satisfaction a low burn beneath the scalding heat of his artificial arousal.
It took two more tries for them to make it to the kitchen. When Augustine ordered him to stop and wait while he drained two glasses of water, Lysandre sat on the floor at his feet and licked his thighs clean, soaking one of his socks completely as he ground against the Professor’s ankle. He only begrudgingly followed orders to drink two glasses of water himself before he pinned the Professor’s hips back against the kitchen counter, pressed three fingers up against his g-spot, and fucked him until he squirted again, voice too blown-out even to scream, sobbing Lysandre’s name like a prayer.
Lysandre came humping his ankle like a misbehaving Furfrou, and whimpered himself into ecstasy at the humiliation of it.
Even after neither of them could come any more, worn out beyond even the possibility of orgasm, Lysandre kept going, exhausted and boiling alive under the force of the Salazzle pheromones. He lost track of everything as he finally, finally, worked it all out of his system—through the Professor having to still him despite his aching need in order to make him eat something—and only then did Lysandre, at last, collapse.
“Arceus help me,” Augustine groaned, his voice barely audible, sprawled out over him, one leg thrown over his shoulder, one hand set on the back of his neck. “Please tell me you’re done.” It took a pathetically long time for Lysandre to realize that his body had given out halfway through eating the other man out, face still buried in his trembling lips. “If you try to make me come again I think I might die.”
Lysandre made a noise like someone had filled a tire with rocks and then tried to put it into a coffee grinder.
“Okay,” the Professor agreed. “Good.” His fingers spread over the nape of Lysandre’s neck and gave what was probably meant to be a comforting squeeze but was, in their current states, more a twitch. “If you touch my dick again I’ll kill you.” Lysandre nodded. Or tried to nod, anyway. It, too, was mostly a twitch. “I have newfound respect for male Salandit.”
It took Lysandre four tries to figure out how to move his mouth. When he did, he slurred into the top of the other man’s thigh, “Shut up.”
“I’m not saying make me. If you tried to make me—” Lysandre bit him, not very gently. The Professor huffed a noise that was maybe a laugh but sounded more like a falling tree, and shut up.
They were, Lysandre realized eventually, in the bathroom. How they had gotten to the bathroom he had no idea—although he did have some vague recollection of tripping Augustine in the hallway by pulling his sock off and then trapping him in his shirt and grinding off against the boniest part of his ass, so it had to have been sometime in there. There was not a single part of his body that did not hurt. Even his eyes burned from crying.
The cool tile of the floor was a great relief.
“Bath,” he suggested, when he could do such a thing. He still hadn’t moved except to shift so he wasn’t putting Augustine’s leg to sleep. The other man grunted, stretching, and Lysandre realized he’d already been sitting up—sitting up against the side of the tub. Oh.
The sound of the faucet squeaking was loud. The room began to steam as hot water ran to fill the tub. Neither one of them moved beyond breathing and the rhymic motion of Augustine’s fingers as he stroked steadily over the fine hair matted flat on Lysandre’s neck.
Lysandre started to fall asleep.
“Why?” He finally asked, when Augustine had turned the water back off.
“Why did I turn the water off?”
“Why did you drug us?”
“Why not?”
Lysandre pondered this for a very, very long time. So long that the Professor slid out from under him and flopped into the bath like a particularly ungainly Magikarp. He leaned over the side, drooping with exhaustion, while Lysandre stared up at him from where he was laying on his back on the floor, trying and failing to process anything he saw. There was a particularly livid bruise forming on his Professor’s cheekbone, a scrape of rug burn on his chin, and his hair looked like he’d crawled headfirst through a rosebush. There were two bite marks on his right forearm. Lysandre had absolutely no memory whatsoever of biting him.
He cleared his throat. Augustine raised his eyebrows, waiting for whatever Lysandre’s response was. He over-enunciated every word, just so there was no way his statement was unclear despite the fact that his tongue felt numb and his jaw ached so much it was hard to open it. “I hate you.”
Augustine smiled, sated and very, very pleased. Fucking. Alakazam knowing everything in the world. Lysandre wondered if, like an Alakazam, Professor Sycamore’s brain would keep growing until his head became too heavy for him to hold it up. If someone had asked him that morning whether or not he would hold Professor Sycamore’s head up so he didn’t hurt his neck if his brain got so big he couldn’t lift his own head, he would have immediately said yes, of course, he would do anything the Professor ever asked him to do.
Augustine could lift his own stupid Alakazam head.
“Bastard,” Lysandre added.
“You love me.” Augustine was still smiling at him like he had all the answers. In the world. And he was going to make Lysandre beg and squirm and writhe like a Wurmple after the rain to get them.
“I hate you. Die.”
“Do you want to get in the bath, honey?”
“No.” Lysandre pouted. “Yes.”
It took both of them to get him up off the floor and into the bath. The moment he could, he sank down into the water with a relieved groan, closed his eyes, and whined until the Professor curled up in his arms, leaning on his shoulder. “Comfort item,” the other man muttered into the skin of his neck, but didn’t complain, dozing off just as much as Lysandre himself was.
When he could string more than three words together, Lysandre cleared his throat and asked again, “Why did you drug us?” Augustine snorted into the hollow of his throat. “Seriously, Professor.”
“Why not?” Lysandre pinched one of his tits hard enough to make him hiss. “I had the Salazzle Sting and I was curious what you would be like with absolutely no filters at all. Turns out you really like sucking dick. I don’t know what I expected.” He hesitated. “Should I not have?”
“No,” Lysandre disagreed. “Wish you’d warned me before I triple-dosed myself.”
“Ah. Fair!” The Professor started to laugh, shaking against Lysandre’s chest and disturbing the lukewarm water. “That was a little mean-spirited.”
“Dick.”
“Yes, I’ve got one that is now so thoroughly tuckered out that I don’t think I could get hard if you paid me.” He hadn’t been able to get hard for a while, and as per usual, Lysandre had really enjoyed fucking him (and sucking his dick) while he was soft. “Something tells me you won’t mind.”
“No.”
“Are we ordering dinner?”
“Please.” Lysandre could not have cooked. Not for love, money, or Arceus itself. “No chewing.”
“Fucked your mouth that hard, did I?”
“I love you,” Lysandre informed the Professor again, and shoved his smart mouth into his—still uncomfortably sensitive—tits. “Shut up, please. Stop flirting with me. I’m too tired for flirting.”
“Not too tired for pedantry, though.”
“Never too tired for pedantry,” Lysandre agreed, and then, because he ought to tell the truth, added, “Never too tired for you, Professor.”
The Professor made a considering noise, sitting up in his arms. He took Lysandre’s chin in his hand and turned him until their eyes met. Augustine tilted his head on the side and smiled. “No, I think this time, you might be.”
“I think I might be,” Lysandre conceded, albeit reluctantly, and they both began to laugh.