Chapter Text
“So you can’t sleep, huh?”
The office is a normal one. White light streaming in through gray blinds, uncomfortable vinyl chairs in the corner, wood-framed diplomas loudly declaring “I’m Legit!”. It is a totally regular clinic.
The doctor on the other hand…
Steve has seen a lot of doctors about this. He’s been seeing a lot of doctors about this. Doctors and psychiatrists and therapists and naturopaths and homeopaths and drug dealers and even a somnologist at a big fancy hospital with a two year waitlist.
He’s seen basically every psychiatrist that works in the city at this point. He’d started off with the best Richard Harrington’s insurance could afford. Has gone down the list as he gets more and more desperate. Most of them have been awful. Dismissive and unhelpful, touting the same shit he’s heard since he was eighteen. The last four have all been men in their goddamn seventies who tried to gruffly sell him on counting sheep. All. Four. Of. Them.
But he hasn’t seen a doctor like this.
For starters, the dude wasn’t geriatric. He couldn’t be more than a decade older than Steve, if that. And he had this stupid swagger to him. Sauntered into the room like he was a rockstar whose tour bus broke down outside the clinic. Like he’d just wandered in and decided to play psychiatrist for shits and giggles. His hair was in a low bun, likely for some delusional sense of civility. The frizzy locks were bursting out of the ponytail’s hold like someone had attempted to groom a mangy dog. Half the buttons on his shirt weren’t done up. There was a hole at the cuff. It had like, three very noticeable, very ominous stains on it.
And frankly, despite all that, he was also like, kinda way too hot to be a doctor? Steve was secure enough in his masculinity to admit that. Doctors that look like that shouldn’t be real doctors. They should be saying dumb shit like, “I’m not a Doctor, I just play one on TV.”
But he wasn’t saying any of that. Instead, Dr. Munson was already chicken-scratching at his file, saying dumb shit like, “You’ve taken Melatonin, Xanax, Diphenhydramine, Ambien, Valium, Ativan, Methamphetamine, Ketamine– Jesus Christ, you’re like a Petri dish of every bad decision I made in my twenties.”
When the chicken scratching was done, he tapped his pen against his clipboard then hopped onto the vinyl chair across from Steve. Cheshire grin and limbs traipsed loosely across the chair arms. Squirmed around in the seat for a while then planted his feet solid on the ground.
Comfortably sat, apparently, Munson leaned in, his elbows at his knees and fingers tenting in front of his lower face, focused and intense. Doe-eyed gaze that made Steve feel like the deer in headlights. He looked Steve up and down, nodded, then grinned impossibly wider with a waggled brow. “Well! Definitely looks like insomnia.”
Steve met his smile with a chuckle. He doesn’t need to be told how awful he looks. There had barely been a day in the last year where he didn’t go out on forty minutes of sleep, red-rimmed eyes and mud-purple bags that sat as a permanent fixture beneath them.
Not to mention he could barely think straight anymore. He’d almost secured a full-time job coaching at the elementary school in his district. Almost. But then the insomnia had him mumbling the same instructions to the sixth graders five times over and dropping glass coffee pots on the lacquered gym floor.
Now he did the monkey-with-a-typewriter work at his dad’s firm. It made him feel like something out of the 1950s, some kind of bimbo secretary who only got the job cause she had a great rack. Which was– he got the job cause his dad owned the company. It was different. Still, half the office treated him like it was ‘cause of his rack, talked to him like he was a thing to be ogled.
His dad’s underlings were especially bad. Jim and Larry were VP and CFO, respectively, and they acted like, well… He was their direct assistant by name but they mostly had other employees do the actual work. Steve was in charge of coffee runs, forwarding emails, writing memos, and smiling. Jim had a habit of gluing his hand to the small of Steve’s back when he caught up to him in the hall. Larry had a habit of asking Steve if he wanted to grab a drink after work, every single day, at least three times, “You’ve been working so hard, Harrington. You should really unwind.”
He was a total object to those old men. And sure, maybe if he swung that way he’d get the appeal. It could be kinda hot, conceptually, or whatever. Older men, his bosses, pissing off his dad. But even if he was hypothetically into that, which he wasn’t, it wouldn’t even matter. The insomnia had totally wiped his sex drive.
In all honesty, as easy as the work was, it was still too hard for him most days. He was irritable all the time. His brain couldn’t string the words together for the simplest of tasks. He could barely remember the coffee order by the time he got to the shop. Not to mention, the work wasn’t exactly his sector of smart. He was smart about people, smart about being charming, and uh like, how to be attractive or whatever. And basketball! He was smart about basketball. But he wasn’t smart about numbers and words and shit.
And fuck, now thinking was so hard. Thinking was too hard. Some days he could barely get a sentence together before everything went all blurry. He just really wanted to sleep. Good and proper rest. To not jolt awake a quarter-way into a REM cycle because his brain decided to play him a gunshot lullaby. He just wanted to sleep and not have to think.
It was the only pretty thought he had. Made that ever-present well of tears blur up his bleary eyes as he considered the doctor in front of him.
He kinda had to hand it to the guy. He was definitely off-kilter as far as quacks who have actual licenses go. Nothing was gonna beat the hippie chick Robin’s mom set him up with. Who’d have guessed standing in a cranberry marsh tripping on acid wasn’t gonna cure chronic insomnia?
In all honesty, it could be a good thing. He was young. Probably didn’t think like the barrage of derisive old men he’d been seeing. Probably was learning about new experimental methods like, two years ago instead of fifty.
Steve hums, “You don’t have a miracle drug up your sleeve right, Doc?”
The doctor snorts at that. “Ha! That would be nice, huh? Nah, all I got are the limits of modern medicine. But I can tell you something you’ve probably heard a million times already: the insomnia isn’t the disease. It’s a symptom. We need to get to the root of the problem. And then we can talk miracle drugs.”
Shit. Had he heard that before? He guessed he had, in so many words. For some reason the doctors always tried to obfuscate it a bit, hide it behind their proposed cures. But for him to say it so, like, out loud. So fast. He was different– maybe– maybe that meant something.
Munson claps a hand onto Steve’s bicep. “So let’s try to get to the bottom of this, shall we?”
Steve nearly jolts at the touch, but he catches it. Nods with a yawn, eyes tearing up even more. Okay, it was a bit weird that the doctor was like, touchy. But hey, again, he’s different. All the other psychiatrists had been stiff and pretty cold. Matter-of-fact. Here’s the drugs that now get your crazy ass out of my office. But Doctor Munson was warm from the get-go. It’s kinda nice. Reassuring even.
Munson’s hand lingers for a moment longer and then pulls back, readies his clipboard and chews on the end of his very gnawed on pen, “Do you know what caused the sleeplessness?”
Steve shrugged, he’d done this song and dance more times than he could count, “I just- I went through some bad stuff as a teen. It’s dead and buried but I got a hard reminder of it about a year ago. Anniversary that sat wrong, you know? And now I can’t shake it. Makes the whole sleep thing really hard to come by these days.”
Munson reached over to turn on a small radio, his pen teetering carelessly between his index and middle finger. But the radio’s not set to a proper station. It starts buzzing white noise, “You wanna tell me more about it?”
“Can’t.” Steve chuckled cold then yawned again. Doctor Munson leaned back down on his chair, he didn’t seem in any hurry to fix the radio. “Not unless you want a bunch of suits storming your parking lot in the next eight minutes.”
He was readying himself for a longer, exhausting spiel where Munson would inevitably think he was joking and then ask again and then Steve would repeat himself and then the doctor would ask him to please be more respectful of his time maybe then Steve would start to get testy and eventually after a lot of haranging the doctor would just finally drop it, thank fuck. But he’d hold the exchange over Steve for the rest of the appointment. Use it against him. Consider him defiant.
But Doctor Munson didn’t pry. He just eyed him curiously and waved his pen with a “Hm”.
Steve could feel the relief buzz out of his shoulders. He knew it. He knew Munson wasn’t like the others. He was weird. Like really weird. Maybe it should be concerning that he didn’t pry. Maybe Steve should be looking at those “I’m Legit!” degrees a little more closely. But at least he was right. Doctor Munson was different.
Steve followed the motion of Munson’s waving pen. All that energy he’d pent into the argument that never came kind of wiped him out. The tiredness always came at the worst time. He tried to focus on the quick movements. Steady motions always grounded him when the exhaustion took over. Kept him in the land of the living. The doctor flashed his teeth as he looked up from the clipboard, caught Steve’s flitting gaze, “And you’re already on what, 60mg of Prozac?”
“Yup.”
“Got it. Are you working out at all?”
“Trying to, yeah. I used to go to the gym like, twice a day. But with this whole sleep thing–”
Munson clicks his pen, “Not so much anymore?”
“Still about four or five times a week.”
The doctor hums, “That’s really good, Steve. Better than most. It’s a really effective way to properly exhaust yourself. Plus the hormones it releases, endorphins, testosterone, gonna keep you happy and healthy.”
Steve snorted, warm air in and out of his nostrils, “Not sure if it’s making that much of a difference.”
The doctor eyed him in a way that kind of made him want to squirm. “Oh, it makes a difference. Believe me.”
Munson tapped at his pen against the clipboard. Tap, tap, tap. Then he clicked his tongue, “How’s your libido?”
“Gone.” Steve admits. Tap, tap, tap.
“And how was it before?”
Steve blushes.
It’s not that he was like a slut, or anything. He just got around. And he loved sex. And he was really good at it. And he loved making other people feel good. And he loved feeling good, being desired. And he used to be horny all the time. Fuck. He missed sex.
“Um,” He coughs, “Above average.”
“Are you still able to, you know–” Dr. Munson grinned wide at him and jerked his fist lewdly.
Seriously, did this guy have a license? He’d have to check properly on the way out. Steve raised a brow. “N– no. Not really. I can’t exactly, uh. With the– It just doesn’t work that well.”
“That’s too bad. You know Steve, the Oxytocin that your body releases post-orgasm is one the most effective natural destressors. Knocks a lot of guys right out. You ever stuck a few fingers up the old keester?”
What the actual fuck? “No?”
Munson waggled a brow. “You should give it a try sometime.” Tap, tap, tap. “I’ve gotten a lotta patients who it really helped.” He flicked his tongue between his teeth and winked. “Figured some things out about themselves too.”
Jesus, this guy. Maybe different didn’t actually mean good. Maybe it just meant wacko.
“You’re– you’re not serious?” Steve mumbled. Dr. Munson just treaded on, ignoring the question.
“Hm. So you can’t trick your body and you can’t fix your brain. Quite the puzzle there, Stevie.” He taps away at his pen. Tap, tap, tap. The radio was buzzing a little louder now. “I can think of one possible solution.”
“What’s that?”
Doctor Munson shrugs. “We trick your subconscious.”
Ha! Nope!
Guess different definitely meant wacko. Serves him right for blazing through all the city’s legit psychiatrists in one fell swoop. Munson may be like, nicer, than the others but no way he was subjecting himself to that shit again.
“Sure. It’s a pseu–“ he yawns. “A pseu–” God, he was really tired. There was a couch in the office. Dr Munson might be a little off-colour but like, maybe if he didn’t have any patients after this, he might let him take a nap. What was he saying again? Oh yeah, “–It's a pseudoscience but sure.”
The doctor snickers, eyes shining. He had really nice eyes. Like, objectively. “Ooo testy, there Stevie. The old hypnosis not your cup of tea?”
He remembers sitting in a gray old man office. Watching some stupid flickering video. Listen to some Australian lady whisper in his ear about breathing. This awful backtrack of frog drums. Thirty minutes straight pretending he could focus on anything besides the dull buzz in his skull.
When didn’t that work, obviously, the doctor wheeled out some kind of Edwardian torture device. Big clamps would hold Steve’s eyelids open– force him to watch the screen. He’d beelined it the fuck out of there.
Steve shudders, “Not at all.”
The radio buzzed louder. Munson tapped his pen and eyed him curiously. His gaze was stupid intense, “Who did it? Brenner?”
Shit, yeah. It was Brenner. He was one of the weirder psychiatrists Steve had seen. Didn’t hold a candle to Doctor Munson, but still, Steve had felt like a total idiot afterward for going along with his bullshit methods. Brenner was deceivingly uptight, way more experimental than most of the other doctors. They’d tried a few things. A more controlled acid trip than the swamp lady. A single attempt at ECT. And yeah, the “hypnotism”. Straight out of Clockwork goddamn Orange.
Steve pursed his lips. Gave a quick nod.
Doctor Munson leans in, “I’ll be honest. Between you and me, Stevie: Brenner doesn’t know shit about fuck.”
Steve turtled his neck out and rolled his eyes. Duh. “Yeah, I got that.”
The doctor snickered, slapped playfully at his knee. “Gotcha cranky-pants.” He clicked his tongue again and tapped at the clipboard. Tap, tap, tap. “Brenner’s a total hack, so I’m not surprised it didn’t take. That said, do you think that maybe you just weren’t open to it at the time?”
That was the worst part. He was open to it at the time. He was open to literally anything that would make his noisy-ass brain quiet down enough to get some zzzs. But hypnotism was bullshit. It was an orientation week gag where a man in a top hat convinced a bunch of attention seeking freshmen to act like idiots. As though that was some kind of feat.
“I mean I don’t want to be forced to dance around like a chicken.”
Munson laughs again, reaches his hand back across to rub at Steve’s arm, his stare thick like he’s letting him in on a secret. The touch is warm, calming.
“That’s a common misconception, Steve. No one can hypnotize you unless you want to be hypnotized. Even when you’re in a trance state, you can’t do anything you wouldn’t be open to when you’re conscious. It’s an effective method to get in touch with your subconscious desires, but they have to exist in the first place, they can’t just be pulled out of thin air. Think about it like being drunk. Still yourself, but a bit more inhibited, a bit more suggestible.”
Hm. Okay on second thought, maybe he hadn’t been all that open to it the first time around. Sleep was important, yeah. But he couldn’t just let his guard down. Not after what happened. People could get hurt. They could die. They had died.
And Brenner just felt like one of them. One the suits. Those heartless assholes that swept Barb’s death under the rug like she’d been no one. Didn’t even count as collateral. He could never relax around a guy like Brenner.
Munson on the other hand... Sure, the guy was weird. Kind of a freak, really. He was the kind of guy Steve’s friends would’ve kicked into lockers in high school. But he sorta just trusted him, weirdly. Felt comfortable around him. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was his eyes, so big and brown and open. Brenner’d had beady little mouse eyes, Steve never wanted to look at him straight. Looking at Doctor Munson was easy.
Steve scratched the back of his neck, “That– that makes sense.”
The doctor tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear and clicked his tongue. “But hey, listen– just because we try it out doesn’t mean it’s the only possible solution. I know this has been a frustrating process for you. I don’t want you having to keep knocking around from quack to quack with nothing to show for it, Steve. If this doesn’t work I got like ten, twenty more things we could try. But I also got a metric fuckton FDA-approved nonsense stored up here,” he tapped at his temple with a smile. Tap, tap, tap. “And I think this could genuinely work. I really think we can fix this. Finally put it all to rest. Ha! You know– like. To rest. Rest. Heh.”
Munson is grinning like an idiot. Big browns blinking mischievously. God, he’s about to agree to this, isn’t he?
He rubs at his red-rimmed eyes, pats his palms at his cheeks, then groans, “Okay. Fine. Yup.”
The grin tugs wider at the edge of Doctor Munson’s lips, “Yeah?”
Steve shakes his head. It’s a Hail Mary. He knows that. He’ll probably leave Dr. Munson’s care just the same as all the others, not able to think straight, brain still a pile of goo. But he’s been so tired for so long. And Munson’s so different from the rest of them. So maybe, just maybe…
“Yeah. Sure.” He says with a wave of his hand, “Hypnotize me.”
Munson clicks his tongue, starts up from his seat, buzzing frenetic around the small office, mouth a mile a minute, “Atta-boy Steve-O! You know I’m real glad you’re being so open-minded. I think we could really do some great work here! I’ll grab you a few waivers, okay? Homework to fill out for next time. Let’s keep this thing above board, right?”
Uh… “R-right?” Steve stutters it into a yawn. Was the doctor doing a lot of things uh, below board? Or shoot, was that supposed to be rhetorical? Jeez, he was exhausted. He was never good at telling what was supposed to be a joke when his mind was all mush like this.
“Shit– you seem pretty tired, dude.” Munson squinted at him from where he was crouched by his desk. His tongue stuck to his upper lip, goofily concentrated, pulling scattered papers out of a drawer. The guy was such a mess. It was endearing, really. “You wanna crash on the couch? You’re the last of my day and I’ve still got a lot of paperwork to do.”
Woah, it’s like he read his mind. But now that the option was there, Steve could feel that delicate bit of exhaustion slip through his fingers. Just like it always did when the prospect of actual fuckin’ sleep became plausible. Plus he didn’t want to like, burden a guy he barely knew.
Steve yawns again, “Nah, nah, I’ll make it home.”
Munson frowns, shuffling the forms into a neat-ish pile. “For sure. Just know the option is always there. Gotta take advantage of these things when they’re in front you. Can’t let ‘em slip through the cracks!” Tap, tap, tap.
The doctor makes his way back over to Steve, hands the waivers to him in a quick brush of fingers. Steve jumps at the touch, can't help it this time. Can’t remember the last time someone touched his bare skin. Just goes to show how desperately he needed to fix this. So wired up that anyone, even his fucking doctor touching him was making him feel a certain kind of way.
Munson taps his pen against his clipboard, bright sort of glint in his eye. Tap, tap, tap, “Oh, I almost forgot! One last thing you gotta do before we finish up here, Steve.”
Steve yawns again, tiredness coming back in like the tides. The radio is buzzing so loud. God, maybe he should take a nap here. He cranes his neck to look up at the doctor. Munson was hovering in his space, one hand on the back of his chair. His hair was haloed warm brown by the light behind. He looked nice. Kinda like an angel. “What’s that?”
Doctor Munson clicked his tongue and smiled down at Steve, wide and encouraging. He tapped his pen against the seat. Tap, tap, tap.
“Well Stevie, you gotta sleep.”
———
“Where are you right now, baby?”
Baby. It’d been so long since anyone called him that. He loved being called it. And Doctor Munson said it so sweet.
Where was he? He blinks around, blue neon beaming out from all around him. He was. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
He hears his voice shake. “I’m in the bunker under the mall.”
There’s a thought that flits absently somewhere in the space above him, something like, he shouldn’t be telling someone this. But it’s such a silly thought. Doctor Munson asked. Why shouldn’t Steve tell him? He’s the professional after all.
“You’re in a bunker under the mall?” The doctor repeats slow and precise. He has such a nice, deep voice.
It’s different than it normally is. He feels safer, with Doctor Munson there too. The others move like holograms. Still, he can taste the rank breath of the Soviet enforcer.
“Yes.” Steve blinks, “They have me tied to a chair. The Russians. They are torturing me.”
“Oh.” Munson breathes, eyes dark. “Torturing you in what way?”
The enforcer is grabbing his pliers now. “Punching my face in. Trying to rip off my finger nails.”
“Ha!” Doctor Munson flicks his tongue out then hums. “Not what I would’ve done with you.”
Steve blinks again, “Wha–” The noise is drawled and sleepy.
“Would’ve gotten you out of there, Sweetheart.” The doctor reassures with a click of his tongue, bringing a hand to Steve’s cheek. Somehow, in the haze, Steve gets the sense that that’s not quite true. “Now tell me baby, why are they torturing you?”
The enforcer is hovering behind Doctor Munson, wearing his snide yellow-toothed grin. God, that guy fucking sucks. Why was he torturing him again? Steve furrows a brow, “Dumbass genius I babysat cracked their code. Begged me to help him find the secret Russian base. Like we were in Red fuckin’ Dawn. We all got roped into it. Me, and my two coworkers and two of the kids I babysit. All got trapped in their freaky below ground elevator.”
He pats Steve’s cheek. It’s so nice and warm against his skin. He feels himself leaning into the touch, nuzzling against the calloused fingers. Doctor Munson seems really giddy, “God the attitude on you, even when you’re under. How’d I get so lucky, huh?”
“I dunno.” Steve retorts. He sounds kinda slurred, “All the other guys were total crap at their job?”
“Ha!” Doctor Munson’s eyes were shining again, bright and mischievous. God, they were pretty. Doctor Munson was so hot. Hot, rockstar doctor. “I oughta send ‘em a thank you note, huh? Letting you slip through the cracks like that. Hm, maybe a thank you service. Depending on how well this goes right, baby?”
“A– a service…” Steve blinks “Like a massage?” It was so funny to think about all those uptight stooges lying down for a massage.
“Well, doll, kinda like a massage.”
Kinda like a massage? Did… did doctors buy each other like… like… Happy endings? The medical community was so strange.
The doctor kneels down between his legs, lifts Steve’s chin with his fingers. “Now, tell me how you got out, baby.”
“Not all of us– not all of us did. Got caught almost as soon as we got off the elevator. The kids managed to get away, hide. But the Russians… They got me and Rob and Barb. And they– they–”
“–They tortured you?” Dr. Munson’s eyes are impossibly big. They’re flying saucers. They make the scene around him feel so far away. Like the doctor beamed him out of that awful bunker. Was keeping him safe between his thumb and his index.
“Yeah. And they…” Steve trails off. Even in the haze, it was so hard to say.
“And they what, baby?” the doctor lifts his left hand to Steve’s face, thumbing gentle at the dark circles. They were wet. Steve didn’t know he was crying.
He just whimpers.
“C’mon, doll.” The doctor’s other hand is raised now too, palm cupping at the hollow of Steve’s cheek. He clicks his tongue. “You gotta tell me what happened. It’s the only way we’re gonna get you to bed, baby.”
He feels so secure. Held like this. Only the doctor in his sightline. Like Doctor Munson is the only thing in the world. Still, he hears his voice tremble. “She– she caught a stray bullet. While we were escaping. Barbara. We were so close to getting out of there but she was getting caught behind and I was trying to protect the kids and– and– she caught a stray bullet.”
He begins to sob in full now. Crocodile tears blurring his view. They fall on the doctor’s hands, trace his fingers like rain on a window, pool heavy at the bottom of his chin. “I– I see h–her every time I cl–close my eyes.”
Doctor Munson takes one of his hands away. Steve can feel how wet his cheek is. He must be so ugly and red. The doctor is pulling away because he thinks so. He hates being ugly. He hates that the insomnia is making him ugly. Making him pale and gaunt and unloveable. He just wants to be loved.
But then the doctor brings a cloth up to Steve’s wet cheek, wipes away the salt. The touch is so gentle that it’s almost confusing. “Aw beautiful, it’s okay.” Beautiful. The doctor doesn’t think he’s ugly! He thinks he’s– he’s– Steve lets out another sob. “Hey, hey. Let’s save those pretty tears for something more fun, yeah? Thank you for telling me all that, Sweetheart.”
Steve sniffles.
Doctor Munson clicks his tongue, “You’re not in the bunker anymore.”
As he says it, the blinking neon of the dank chamber seems to dissipate. Steve blinks and he’s right back in Doctor Munson’s office, sitting upright on the plush green sofa. It’s darker now than it had been earlier. The blinds are shuttered closed and a warm orange light emits from the lamp in the corner. Everything feels aglow, cozy. So opposite to the harsh steel of the bunker. The doctor looks so handsome in this light, though the details of him are hazy. Everything is hazy.
He’s still safe in the doctor’s hands, his thumbs are still tracing circles at Steve’s upper cheeks. “Beautiful. You did such a good job, sweetheart. Gone for me in record time. So open with me. So easy. Gonna make it all better now, yeah?”
Their faces are so close. It’s almost like they’re going to kiss. But Steve knows he can’t kiss his doctor. That’d be so unprofessional. Doctor Munson would have to refer him to someone else. And Steve wants to stay here, in his hands.
“H-how?”
“Well baby, you’re not gonna remember this when you wake up, will you?” The doctor clicks his tongue and nods Steve’s head for him. He smiles as he does it. It is so nice letting him take control, not having to worry about thinking of answers. It was just so much work.
“I– I won’t?”
“No you won’t, baby. But you’re gonna wake up feeling so relaxed. Best sleep of your life. You’re gonna be so glad you decided to take up my offer of napping on the couch.”
That makes sense. He had been so tired by the end of the appointment. The doctor’s couch seemed so nice and soft. He was happy he decided to sleep there. Now he was in this lovely dream.
“But you’re gonna forget all about this conversation. All that stuff with those pinkos is gonna feel like a distant, far off memory. Instead of thinking about Barbara when you drift off, you’re gonna think about my hands.”
Wow. That seemed amazing. He hated thinking about the commies. And Barb. It was all so scary and sad. It would be so nice to focus on something that feels good. To be finally able to sleep. “Mm. Really like your hands.”
Doctor Munson lets out a snort. “Jesus baby, you are just perfect, huh?” Steve wants to laugh. He feels so happy. “So glad you like my hands, sweetheart. That’s all you’re gonna remember from this dream. How good my hand feels on your cheek, on your bare skin. Doesn’t my touch feel good, sweetheart?”
The doctor pats soft at his cheek. Steve nuzzles into it, radiates at the caress.
“Mmm. Feels so good.” He affirms. But the noise comes out like more of a moan. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he senses how choked-off and embarrassing the sound is. But he can’t help it. It does. It feels so good.
But then Doctor Munson takes one of his hands off Steve’s cheek. He hears himself whine at the loss of contact. The doctor inhales sharp through his nose, “God, you are just so needy.”
It wasn’t Steve’s fault. He knew he was needy. It was built in. Just like the way some people can fill their brains up with facts and figures. He needed to be filled up with love. With affection. Needed more than anyone else he knew. He was a fish in the desert without it, burning in the sun, unable to breathe.
The doctor’s hand settles on Steve’s lower thigh. It’s not as nice. There’s denim between them, too thick. Still, it’s something. He’s looking Steve dead in the eye. It’s almost like he can see through him– or really, like he can see in him, all his silly little thoughts and hopes and dreams.
He tilts his head, clicks his tongue with an impish grin. “Oh! And one more thing baby.” His voice is lilting, high and playful. Kinda like it was during their appointment. “You’re gonna do a little exploring tonight.”
“Exploring?” He's so confused. He doesn’t want to have to, like, go out in the woods or something. He just wants to sleep.
“‘Course beautiful, cause all those bad bad memories might be locked away but you still won’t be able to sleep, will you?” The doctor is tracing little circles along his inner thigh. It feels really nice. Sends little bits of electricity all through his body. Makes him wonder how his fingers would feel on his bare skin. “–Not until you cum.”
What? Steve blinks. “Until I.. I cum?”
The doctor chuckles, shakes his head like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Steve’s never been all that quick. “You gotta release some Oxytocin or you’ll never be able to sleep, doll.”
Oh yeah. That makes sense. The circles on his thigh feel so good, “Really?”
He shrugs his shoulders, brown eyes twinkling, “Baby, it’s the only way.”
But wait, no. He– his dick won’t get hard. Not until he sleeps. No, no, no. He’s stuck. Just like he always is. He’s stuck and he’s broken and he feels like he’s gonna cry again, “But– but. I can’t. It– it doesn’t–”
“I know sweetheart. I know.” Doctor Munson clicks his tongue, still stroking so feather-light at his cheek. He hums at the touch. He may be broken, but he doesn’t feel it in the doctor’s hold. “Luckily, there is another way.”
Steve is so relieved. He wants to sleep so bad. If he sleeps then he can rest. Then he can be beautiful and he can be loved. “There... There is?”
“Yeah, baby,” Munson breathes. His eyes are so dark now and his hand is moving higher and higher up Steve’s thigh. It lands just below his crotch. Steve parts his lips as the doctor gives the flesh a sharp squeeze. It feels so good. “You got that pretty pink asshole you can fuck.”
Steve blinks.
No. He wouldn’t. That’s not.. right? He doesn’t– he wouldn’t.
What is this dream?
He wants to wake up. Can he wake up? Steve blinks again. The office looks sharper around him. The radio is buzzing, still, louder than ever. He can see the depth of Munson’s smile lines, stark in the orange light. All the little marks on his face. Their faces were so close, holy shit. Why were their faces so close? Why was he touching him?
Munson clicks his tongue. Steve feels his eyes bulge in panic. His voice almost sounds like it’s his, “I don’t want to– Wait I– I don’t want to do that.”
Munson’s face twists mean. He clicks again sharp. Taps his pen against his clipboard. Tap, tap, tap.
Click.
Tap, tap, tap.
Click.
Tap, tap, tap.
Click.
Tap, tap, tap.
The worry dissipates, tension untwists in his bones.
The haze is settling in again. Everything is amber and gleaming. The doctor puts a soft hand back on his cheek. Steve hums happily into it. It’s so strange. He’d been panicking. Why would he have been panicking? He feels so safe here with the doctor. So good and beautiful.
The doctor smiles so bright at him and Steve just basks in it. His tone is honey-warm, “Oh Stevie, you want to sleep don’t you, baby?”
He does want to sleep. More than anything. He could sleep right here. In the doctor’s hands. “Yeah…”
“I bet.” The doctor hums, clicks his tongue. He’s raising his hand higher up his thigh. Up, up, up. “You wanna sleep so bad.”
Steve whines. He does want to sleep. But the way the doctor is touching him… He wants– he wants more than just sleep.
“But you can’t sleep till you cum.” The doctor wasn’t at his thigh anymore. He’d lifted his hand away. Steve misses the friction like air. Doctor Munson’s head is tilted, a wicked grin tugging at his lips. “Isn’t that right, baby?”
Then, he lowered his hand right back down. Rubbing higher than he had before. Above his thigh. He was– he was palming at Steve’s cock. Yes, yes, yes. Cupping him over the denim. Stroking steady through the layers and layers of fabric.
Steve bucked into the touch. He couldn’t help it. It was so good. It was all electric. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so good.
The doctor just smirked, gave him a rough squeeze through his jeans, “–And your poor dick can’t get hard all on its own, can it, baby?” He had never felt so good. But his dick… his dick was still so soft.
“N–no.” Steve feels like he has to cry again. He wants the doctor to never stop touching him, “It– It can’t.”
The doctor hums, contemplative, head still quirked to the side, still rubbing so good at his needy, broken dick, “So how are you gonna fuck yourself?”
Steve thought really hard about it. Thinking was so hard. Especially right now– orgasm building up in him with no way out. He needed release. Release and then sleep. But what could he do? His dick was broken.
The doctor ground his palm into the base of cock. It made him whine so loud he barely recognized it. It was high and breathy, like a girl’s. Fuck. He wanted to cum so bad.
He tried to think.
One time, in middle school, he and his friend, Tommy decided to watch gay porn. Like as a joke, or whatever.
And it was a joke. It was. But Steve was so entranced. Watching the fingers go in and out, swallowed up by that tight little hole, tight like a pussy. And it was a hole that he had. That he could push his own fingers into. The guy in it was so hot too. Made it seem like fucking yourself on your fingers felt even better than fucking into a warm mouth or a soaking pussy. But Tommy had just loud-mouthed the video the whole time. Went on and on about how “fucking disgusting” it was. How gross and unnatural. And Steve said so too. Repeated it over and over again until he believed it.
He thought about the guy now. Fucking himself so good. The way his lip curled, the way he moaned so loud– like it felt amazing. He could– he could probably cum like that too, right? He could probably cum really hard just from his fingers.
“With my– my fingers?”
Doctor Munson smiled so big. “That’s right, baby. So smart.”
Yes! He knew it!
The doctor stroked at his cheek. Their faces were so close together, their noses were almost touching. His eyes were so big and dark. Steve loved staring at them. He wanted to stare at them forever. The doctor clicked his tongue. “With your fingers. Gonna stretch yourself open nice and wide and fuck yourself on your fingers.”
He pushed a thumb into the plush of Steve’s lower lip, dragged it down to his chin. It made Steve feel so nice and pliable. And all his words sounded so good. “Gonna cum better than you have in your whole life- fucking yourself on your fingers. And then guess what, baby?”
Steve felt his breath hitch. He wanted to lick the doctor’s thumb. He was so excited to fuck himself. “What?”
“Then you’re gonna sleep like a dream.”