rubimemes | TEST DRIVE MEME 001

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TEST DRIVE MEME 001

⚰︎ ⍢ ⌲ ⍚ TEST DRIVE MEME:

CONTENT WARNINGS for this game include: monsters, body horror, dub-con, non-con, religion, blood/violence, and marking/branding, loss of autonomy/self, and mental influences.

This log additionally has warnings for: nudity, spiders, waxplay, character death, and references to children in proximity to sexual situations.

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Welcome to RUBILYKSKOYE — a dark, horror-smut game where player choices will drive a mod-run storyline about the world and its NPCs. For the first round, this test drive serves as characters' arrival into game.

THESE THREADS CAN BE GAME CANON if both players are accepted into the game and agree to it. However, if players who'd prefer to start fresh are welcome to reuse these prompts in their own personal logs upon acceptance into the communities.

If you have QUESTIONS about the test drive prompts, please ask HERE. Questions about the game itself or the general setting should be directed to the FAQ.

FAQ ✧ SETTING ✧ CALENDAR ✧ RESERVES ✧ APPLICATIONS

AWAKENING IN PAJAK WOOD

The chirping of partridges in the treetops rouses you. Light barely filters through the canopy, just enough to suggest warmth of the sun. By the time it reaches the forest floor, the daylight has taken on a sickly green tinge. You lie amongst the mosses and ferns, the soil cold and just a little damp on your bare skin. Wherever you were before this moment, whatever you were doing or wearing, when you awaken in this forest, you find yourself naked and helpless as the day you were born.

Fortunately, you seem to be alone. The birdsong continues as you sit up and get your bearings — aside from a brief wave of disoriented nausea, you seem to be no worse for wear than you last remember. Amongst gnarled oaks and moss, you see nothing around. No sign of civilization or sentient life. Movement flickers at the corner of your eye, but it's just a curious animal — brave squirrels or lizards who have come to see what stirs in their home.

Then, like the rippling of the horizon at noontime, the ash-gray soil around you undulates. Sea, not earth. Something else has come to greet you — their grey bodies blended in so easily with the floor, but as you stagger to your feet, you see them. Thousands of spiders roll like waves underfoot. They crawl towards you from the darker edge of the forest.

attack

Individuals who attack the spiders will find the small spiders are easy to kill, but the pheromones released by their corpses draw larger spiders in their place. Huge, blood-red spiders the size of hunting dogs drop from the treetops. In addition to their venomous bite, which contains a fast-acting paralytic, these creatures are clever: they will attempt to use their webbing to handicap any trespassers, binding limbs together or to trees. If you're unfortunate to become fully cocooned, you don't have long before this forest will be the last thing you see.

FAQ: DEATH RULES

hunt

Any aspiring monster-hunters enterprising enough to try to follow the spiders to their nest will move eastward. This way, the forest grows darker and darker — though the sun never grows warm red-gold with sunset.

In the void, the birdsong is replaced by the click of mandibles and the skitter of many legs, but soon it is impossible to see. Even with the brightest magical light does not reach further than a few inches. The air grows heavy and thick, as if it were not air at all but some more solid mass. Almost like liquid-smoke, it presses down upon you. Slowing your movements. Soon, you cannot move at all.

Turn back while you still can — collapsing out here is dangerous. The void can play tricks on your senses. You may find yourself reliving unhappy memories or hallucinating your worst nightmares.

SETTING: THE VOID

But flee the spiders westward and you will discover that the wood is well-populated with the survival resources that someone might seek — berries bushes and trees bearing stone fruits; sticks and dry leaves to aid in the building of a fire; rocks big enough to fashion into crude weapons; small animals that can be hunted or caught; hike long enough, and you might just find the freshwater stream that runs north-to-south, populated by both poisonous toads and delicious crawdads.

What's more, you may run into others with stories just like yours. Some may have already formed clumsy nudist hiking parties, others may still be naked and confused and processing how they have no memory of how they got here. They all stagger vaguely, as you do, with only the sun for a waymarker — and even that won't last long.

Now is a good time to overcome any hang-ups you have about modesty, as it's going to be a long hike. If you sneak a good look at your new companions, you may four varietals of marks on their bodies. Maybe someone will even point out that you have one, too.

FAQ: CURSE MARKS

EVERY DAY LIKE THE ONE BEFORE

Hike far enough — or long enough that the sun does go down — and signs of life come into view. The glow of fires and lights, the smooth curve of a stone wall. A town sits at the edge of this wood, a reward to the survivors.

The fifty-foot wall of beige stone protecting the town's perimeter has only a single entrance — an iron gate positioned on the southern edge. When you arrive, the gate is already open, welcoming people into town from the winding dirt road. Attentive eyes may note that the road itself bears the mark of many wagon wheels and horse hoofs, but not cars.

guards

The guards grant entry to anyone who attempts a conversation with them. However, if your character is more likely to attempt to sneak in, overcome the guards, or attack them, please reach out HERE.

Inside the wall lies a quaint, historic town with a population around five thousand. The streets are cobbled, and their signs are lit by gas lamp. Wooden shutters protect otherwise open-air windows on the buildings, which are all under three stories with gabled roofs. A number of businesses hug the main street — a clockmaker, a cobbler, a bank — while residential homes sprawl outwards towards the wall. At the far end of the main street, visible about a mile to the north now that the trees and the enormous wall is out of the way, sits a castle with three towers.

No matter what time you pass through the gate, the streets are full of people. The climate of the bustle befits a night market or a busy friday downtown — plenty of people to ogle at your exposed body. But despite any efforts on your part to hide or make excuses, the locals don't seem offended by your nakedness. Even families with children don't gawk or look twice. In fact, the further into town you go, the more you may notice that they all wear revealing clothing that, to your sensibilities, may seem sexually suggestive. Some individuals openly expose their breasts and nipples, while some others may incidentally reveal when they turn around to tend to their errands that their dress is backless — entirely! If anything, they seem to be under the impression that you're naked to participate in the evening's events with the rest of them.

Those still determined to find proper clothing will find that modern clothing stores aren't a thing here. The closest this town has is a tailor's shop, which is closed for religious observance, and a stand in the central marketplace selling scarves and blankets.

Fortunately, the people of the town are very generous! The locals will gladly share what they have with those who ask politely — but those items are as revealing as what they're wearing. You might get a mesh bodysuit or drape outfit. Remember not to be ungracious! it's only appropriate for the occasion.

steal clothing

Anyone unwilling to ask nicely for help could break into someone's house or yard to steal some of their clean laundry. Notably, inside their homes, the people of the town also appear to own some more modest apparel. Be sure to alert us HERE if your character pursues this option.

SETTING: CRIME

And what is the occasion? The locals are excited and flattered by any interest in their ordinary weekly prayer: the folks dancing and selling their wares are all offering their energies to give thanks and ask for their god's patronage! The abstractions are all familiar — fertility, harvest, peace. Smalltalk makes them eager to chat and draw you into those festivities — including some ceremonial wax-dripping on the exposed parts of your body!

Anyone who chats at length with the townspeople will gather that the locals feel it's better for the newcomers to dive into the deep-end because, since you'll be settling in here, they expect you'll want to participate down the line. They seem to be under the impression that the new arrivals are a boon from their god.

In addition, many of the locals' choice of clothes reveal the same four types of marks on their bodies as the folx who were wandering out in the wood!

ROOM AND BOARD

Once you're tired out, the locals will help you find a place to stay. The boarding house is several stories tall and spacious, accessible through an embellished iron garden gate and obscured by hanging plants, trees, and vines.

Beyond the overgrown yard is a bright red door, which opens into a spacious cottage.

The house has clearly been empty for some time — dust has gathered on various furnishings — bedding, sofas, curtains, wooden tables. According to the locals, it has remained empty since its last occupant passed away, and that's all they'll say about that!

Each floor of the house has a shared sitting room, but only the first floor has a kitchen — large enough to support feeding the entire household. Here, a few of the townspeople will help out — they stock the kitchen and help make dinner for the new arrivals.

finding roommates

Don't spend too much time in the dining room going for seconds, though. You'll want to claim a bedroom quickly because each one only has two full-size beds, and there aren't enough spaces for everyone. The last people upstairs will need to double up to squeeze in. Roommates will not be mod-assigned; players should coordinate directly with one another to determine their living arrangements.

Get a good night's rest. By the light of day, locals will help get the new arrivals set up on the coal stove with breakfast. You may notice they're dressed in a way you would almost call normal — at least, in a manner befitting 19th century Eastern Europe. As you find your way around town to get your bearings, folks are eager to help you find a place to apply your skills so you can contribute to your new home.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

This is nice. This is the easy bit, he thinks, following House (what a name) out into the crowd. You don't know anything about each other, don't know all the worst things you've done or could do, just two people who think the other is hot enough to get somewhere. It's easier with older guys — with the young women he always feels in the back of his mind like he's doing something wrong, like they're perfect and he's mucking it all up.

Probably he should be checking on his lyctors, but he feels confident leaving Ianthe to handle Harrow. Maybe they too will fall in with the spirit of this whole dinky little fucktown thing and work through their unresolved sexual tension, wouldn't that be nice for them?

He hadn't yet looked into accommodations, so once they actually get there, he comments idly: "Getting a real backpacker hostel vibe. Not that I'm complaining, better than another night in the forest."

The space between the alley and the boarding house, skirting through the festival throng, gives House some time to decide that he's going to stop thinking. He's not entirely sure what he's doing, or what he's supposed to be doing, but right now he feels like a little mindless hedonism might not go amiss. It feels like the right kind of night for it, the air full of smoke and the smell of roasted meats, songs and laughter in unfamiliar accents.

They leave most of the crowd behind as they head into the courtyard of the boarding house, then into the house proper, where a few locals and newcomers are lingering in the kitchen and dining room. House doesn't bother to play tour guide; his bone cane taps and skids slightly on the paved floors in the cool dark halls. He makes a mental note to look into finding a way to put a rubber tip or something on it or he's liable to spend half his time here on the ground.

"You say that, you should see the size of the spiders in here," House comments back over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in exaggeration. Stuffing the cup he's now apparently stolen under his arm, he throws open the door of the room he's claimed as his own -- ground floor because there's no way in hell he's using the stairs every day -- with a degree of ceremony. There's a sign on the door, charcoal on rough paper: DO NOT ENTER, SPIDER INFESTATION.

"Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's," he intones. The extent of his own occupation so far appears to begin and end with the sign; the furniture inside is still somewhat dusty.

Does that even work, that sign? Well, the room is empty, so it must have, even if it's totally ridiculous.

"Fuck, not more spiders," says John in mock-terror, coming in and looking around. Two beds, but he doesn't even have anything to put down to indicate he's going to stay. Settles for closing the door behind them. Then House can watch as he opens a cut on his own hand — not with knife or teeth, just willing his body's flesh to part and give him a little blood for a ward, knit closed again seamlessly after. It's just a smear of a lock, not even a symbol but enough to keep regular folk out. He doesn't even have the temerity to look sheepish about using blood magic, does it like it's as ordinary as flicking a lock — as ordinary as a cane made from bone.)

Then he turns and approaches, something regal in his bearing that really does evoke the Roman Empire. "Sit," he says. Plans to come claim House's lap like it's his throne.

Watching John open a cut on his hand, use it to invoke some kind of thing over the door, only to have it disappear without a trace -- well, it just about lines up with everything else that's happened lately, so House just stays where he is, swaying slightly and blinking slowly. His vampire theory has new evidence, which means he should probably get out of there. That, or he's hallucinating again, which also means he should probably get out of there.

Instead, he backs up a bit and then sits down carefully on the bed, letting the springs creak and settle. For lack of anywhere else to put it, he leans over and rests the cane against the wall, looking up at John as he prowls closer.

"You should know I haven't done this before with a.." He gestures vaguely. "Guy. So, please, be gentle."

"Don't get all tender on me," John murmurs. That earlier touch has him aware enough of why House needs the cane that he's careful not to put his weight directly on that thigh, seats himself on the other one instead, digging a knee into the bed. He's still not wearing pants, skirt of the toga riding up his thighs. This time when he touches the poncho it's with intent to remove it.

"What I'm thinking," he says conversationally, "Is I'd like to ride you into next week, but if you want we can just cuddle instead." Which sounds like he's teasing but if House wanted to slow down he'd slow down. "Or you can run some more tests, take my temperature and all that." Okay, now he's teasing.

"Rectally, I assume?" He's talking about the temperature thing. Probably. "I'll warm up my hands."

Obediently, he tugs the poncho off over his head, tossing it onto the threadbare rug on the floor. These days most of the hair on his chest is grey and he's getting a little soft around the middle, but using the cane and hauling himself around keeps his shoulders and arms in shape. He's also got his brand new tattoo high up on his left side, just underneath his clavicle.

He drops his hands thoughtfully onto John's bare thighs, investigating the novel sensation of hair and dense muscle under his palms, and pushes the hem of that toga up a little further as he tilts a look up him. Not sitting on his injured thigh is considerate, though it begs the question as to how John knows about it.

"They'd have to be.. really thorough tests. Get in," he slides his hands back and around to John's backside, his expression taking on a note of curious interest as he compares it to the catalogue of asses he's grabbed over the years, "really deep."

Spend enough time incapable of ageing, fixed in one cellular state, and you tend to find physical deviance interesting. Besides, he was into older men all the way back in uni; was how he added a professor to his little cryonics team. So John is absolutely sincere in the way he runs his hands over House's chest as it's revealed; it's hard to read anything more than intensity in those strange dark eyes, but the curve of his mouth reads as a man being served something delicious.

Besides, he's built like a substitute history teacher, a little stocky thanks to māori genetics, pretty face, mostly average body. Nice ass, though.

He leans forward and tips the ass in question up into House's hands encouragingly, wanting to get his mouth on the protrusion of Adam's apple, the rough of his stubble. "Now you're talking," he murmurs up against that skin. "Might need a prostate exam while you're down there, doc, been having some chronic pelvic pain." It's been a long time since he studied any medicine but he remembers the fun bits.

The noise that House makes as John's mouth finds his neck is breathy, appreciative, only a little shaky. He spans his fingers wide over John's ass, mapping out musculature and surprisingly soft skin. Gives it a little squeeze with both hands.

"That'll be the alkaptonuria," he sighs, head tipped back a bit to give John more room to work so he's mostly addressing the ceiling. "Causes joint pain. Starts in the, ah, lower back. It also causes stiffening of the blood vessels that can lead to kidney stones and to.. to prostate issues."

So there's definitely medical precedent, even if this is venturing rapidly towards less familiar sexual territory. He slides one hand inwards, up under the toga's edges, exploratory.

"No KY jelly here," he points out. "Might have to make do with spit and good vibes."

"I can self-lubricate," says John, because the body is a miracle and contains all sorts of useful mucus. The first time he and Mercymorn had made that happen for him he'd made a joke about omega pheromones that neither she nor Augustine had understood, and so he doesn't bother making it again now. (But he's thinking it.) "There's another fun clue for your guessing game."

If he's a vampire, now would probably be the time things got dangerous, given he's mouthing over House's neck, scraping (blunt) teeth up to his pulse. But he doesn't do anything there except smile and kiss it lightly.

"Or maybe it's another symptom," he adds. "You'll have to get your fingers in there and find out." Though for all his encouragement he's willing to let House explore, just sucking in a sharp little breath when he's touched somewhere sensitive, pressing his whole face into House's neck and concentrating on making himself accessible, even though he knows his body will eventually try and shift back to its neutral resting state. (It feels like a hedonistic way to use infinite godlike power but what else is he going to do, go ask the local fuck-festival if anyone has lube?)

"I take it back, maybe this place is heaven."

Not that he actually believes John -- he's a big fan of physical evidence over blind faith, so it's not until he slips a couple of fingertips into the warm cleft of John's ass and strokes upwards until he finds said hole that he actually considers the possibility that he's dealing with --

"God. You're not joking."

There's some sincere surprise in his voice. He circles his fingers around the edge of John's hole before testing it again, stroking those strong muscles open and feeling the breathy heat of pleasure against the side of his throat. His dick throbs in time with every gasp. He turns his wrist, angles his hand like he was taught in medical school with a slight variation to account for the unique angle -- he's fairly sure his professor wasn't anticipating this kind of situation when he taught prostate massage.

Or maybe he was. The guy was kind of a freak.

"You know, this is a great cure for hiccups," House murmurs, pushing his fingers in to the second knuckle, stroking into that tight wet heat. "And you're not running a fever. If you were wondering."

"Fuck," John murmurs emphatically with his eyes screwed shut, working himself back onto the near clinical press of those hands — the only thing missing from the fantasy is a pair of gloves, and he kind of likes it without.

There is no smart-ass escalation this time, even if he wants to quip about that offhand use of 'God'. To try and cover for the way all the words have fallen out of his head, John bites at House, but not dangerously or even particularly painfully, just needing to dig his teeth into something to combat the sensation of pressure, that need-to-piss urgency paired with pleasure that makes him rock his hips a little in search of friction, dick rapidly leaking a damp patch into his toga.

His prostate is not enlarged — and probably isn't painful if the way he's grinding it onto House's fingers is any indication. He swears again, trying to get back his composure and stop embarrassing himself, find some equilibrium in the invasive pleasure. He's still panting as he fumbles down between them to work aside stolen pants and get access to House's dick, figuring a little turnabout is fair play.

The bite does a slightly embarrassing amount for House. The little almost subvocal noises that John's making do even more. It's not the best angle for it, but House redoubles his efforts to drive the man in his lap closer to the edge, sinking his fingers in deeper until it starts to stretch the tendons in his hand, rubbing little circles over those inner muscles.

Since John can't really talk, House decides to fill in.

"Feels pretty good.. no abnormalities, no -- ahh ha --"

The borrowed slacks might be ugly, but they're at least easy access, and House is definitely glad that he hasn't had the chance to find some decent underwear. As John palms his dick, he starts to move his hand more rhythmically, matching the escalation in kind. His other hand drifts up, above John's back to bury itself in his hair, holding him close.

"The way you're moving suggests that your joint pain has, ah, cleared up, we should start you on a course of nitisinone and prednisone.."

House is going to have marks tomorrow, little half-moons in the shape of John's teeth as he bites with more deliberation, hot tongue travelling between each place he decides to sink his teeth, muffling all his little noises in skin. There's a rhythm to that now too, in tune with the movement of his palm over House's dick.

He can't pull his scattered concentration together to make it anything more than a dry human hand, worked with a rapidity that suggests he's imagining jerking himself off, giving himself some counterpoint to the demands of House's fingers inside him. Not that he actually needs it. He's about to make a mess of this toga and House's thigh particularly when House starts listing medications, somehow still capable of doctoring with John's hand digging a thumb into his frenulum.

"That's so fucking hot," he says rawly. And then, because he's not running on full cylinders: "Need a course of your dick." Probably he should just shut up and keep his mouth occupied — he doesn't even seem embarrassed by it, too busy with that last good run-up towards the edge, getting selfish with it.

He presses his whole face into House's neck, panting, each exhalation noisy with the pleasure of it. Prostate orgasm comes over him like a small explosion, clamping down on House's fingers as he cries out, low and loud. Shaking apart, dick pulsing one last flood of warmth between them, John embracing the blissful white static that's the closest he ever really gets to death.

John's responsiveness is gratifying in more ways than one. Mentally congratulating himself for being better than he thought, even under compromising conditions, House keeps up his efforts, his other hand slipping down John's back as if trying to hold the two of them steady while they work each other up those cresting waves of rising tension.

Turning his head, he breathes his own pleasure hot and hard into John's curls, taking in the unfamiliar scent of his hair with every inhale, almost nuzzling into him in turn while he finger-fucks him harder and faster. He murmurs his own version of that horny nonsense, "come on" and "fuck yeah" into John's ear as he feels him start to tense up, the movements on his own dick becoming harsh and erratic.

He keeps it up as he feels John start to come, panting hoarse encouragement and curses, an urgent tense heat building in the pit of his belly in counterpoint to the throb of pain in his leg, an ache settling into his arm down from his shoulder as the repetitive movements start to tell on him. The noise of it is obscene in the mostly empty room, but that just adds to it.

House is as surprised as anyone when his own orgasm hits on the heels of John's, something about the way he feels him tighten up around him and shudder. He grits his teeth and lets it happen, short and hard like a kick to the gut, spilling his own heat into John's fist and onto his belly, ruining their clothes a little more.

As the wave subsides, he slows the movements of his hand in John's ass, pulls out, wipes his fingers on the bedspread. His free hand drifts to John's back, stroking gentle arcs up and down as he tips his own head back and exhales shakily.

"I think that means I have to give you a discount on my consultation fee."

That makes John chuckle — money again. Smiling into the crook of House's shoulder as he rests his head there, feeling their bodies ticking down together. Toys with House's softening dick a few moments longer before he leaves him be and wipes his own hand on his toga, which is going to need cleaning either way, and then loops his arms around House's neck, apparently perfectly content in his lap.

"Sure, I'll mint a few aurei," he says. Because he's Caesar. "And you know, if you don't kick me out, that ward'll keep people out better than the spider sign." Just a statement of fact, not trying to beg to stay or anything that would require emotional vulnerability. Though he's much cuddlier now, dropping little kisses along bare skin for no particular reason.

House isn't used to getting cuddles after a handjob; usually whoever has provided that service has got other paying clients she needs to get to and is already getting dressed by the time he hits post-orgasm clarity. That tends to be how he likes it, all strictly transactional. He's very aware that the longer people spend in his company, the more they tend to regret it, so his hold on John becomes somewhat tentative as it becomes clear that the other man has no intention of going anywhere.

"I assumed you were Jewish," he says, trying to figure out how he feels about those kisses. "Trying to protect us from plague."

He lets out a breath. As the neurochemicals disperse into his bloodstream, he's becoming more aware of the points of pain awakening in his body, the stress on his cardiovascular system having kicked the proverbial hornet's nest.

"I'm not great company," he points out, finally, imagining Wilson frowning at him. Not a rejection, just a warning. "I mean, I'm not.. I'm going to be worse company than this. I'm an addict. Unfortunately, my drug of choice is about fifty years away from being invented."

He squints a look down at John as best he can. "You could do better."

At this particular halted confession John has pulled back a little, enough to be looked at. There's a fond patience to his expression: "I'm not asking to go steady. Not anything to do with you, quite like that you're a bit of a cunt, just had my heart broken pretty recently, and it's been a while since I've been able to go out and fuck around." Due to centuries of needing to keep all his genetic material safely inside his body, but House can assume he's alluding to a divorce or something if he wants.

"But," he adds. "The drug thing. We can figure that out. I mean, I don't think I can cure addiction, but maybe I can replicate the effects on your central nervous. Depends on your reasons for using."

It's weird how people keep doing this around him, saying impossible things like they're totally normal. All I can heal you and I can trick your body into thinking you're taking Vicodin, as if either of those things wouldn't get them an easy Nobel prize in a sane part of the world.

House frowns, trying to wrangle his dopamine soaked thoughts into something clever.

"My leg hurts," he says instead. "I mean, all the time. And also now."

"Yeah," John says gently. "I can feel the missing muscle. Though your whole body's realigned trying to compensate for the limp — you get back pain? Shoulder strain? Might not register under the screaming nerve damage."

Of course, that's all stuff he could have deduced from sight alone, right? He runs his hands over House's shoulders, considering the workings of his body: age and chemical abuse and ill use have done a lot of damage, stuff he can't undo. Just like he doesn't think he can regrow the missing muscle tissue where it's scarred, give the guy a functioning leg; isn't sure he wants to risk fucking with already fried nerves. And like he said, he can't solve addiction, that lives in the psychology where he can't reach.

What he can do, with his brow creased in concentration: "Gonna tweak up the endorphin that orgasm gave you, send b endorphin to go work as a natural opioid, encourage analgesia production," he narrates. "I think. Endocrine isn't my specialty, I'm better at curing death and cancer. I could take the whole leg off safely? But you'll still get withdrawals."

This time the look he fixes on John is more frank disbelief than curiosity, his frown becoming more sincere as he considers whether the man in his lap is crazy. Throwing around things like curing death and cancer would certainly fit with that hypothesis.

Except -- except as he continues, House feels a warm lassitude bloom in his body, as if he's spent the whole night fucking and doing some really great pot and now he's awash in the gentle runoff of quiet hormonal contentment. As the pain in his thigh dials back down to a lazy throb, his frown deepens. It could be a coincidence. It could be psychosomatic. In this place, it could be a lot of things.

"You're like the fish girl," he says, somewhat nonsensically. He means Mipha, who took his pain away for twelve of the best hours he's had in a while. It seems like he can't stop running into faith healers. "You can do magic."

He shifts his weight, suddenly uncomfortable, setting his own hands on John's shoulders to encourage him back off of his thighs. His ability to comprehend how the universe works is getting more fragile by the minute.

"Okay, I'm going to need you to stop touching me."

That's not the typical reaction he gets to minor miracles, so John's brows raise, but he backs off, gets to his feet. Stretches without self consciousness; there's a significant patch of dampness in his lap, and after a moment he just strips off and changes it for one of the sheets of the bed opposite.

So he'll be busy a moment, fixing himself another toga and belting it in place, fastening over the shoulder. Not magic enough to create clothes out of nothing, apparently: he only knows how to make this particular style of dress because he did Greek theatre in high school.

"If it helps," he says quietly, eyes on his hands where he's threading the sheet through a loop at his waist. "Basically every doctor in the world hated me when I first started healing people. Tried to get Oxford to revoke my PhD. Vatican claimed it counted as a miracle because I got baptised at a Christian music festival when I was sixteen. New Zealand government decided I was a cult leader. So I get that it's freaky." Unlike most other magic users and their magic user societies, fish girl probably included.

As soon as John is out of his lap -- and with a very small and unaccustomed pang for the loss of that warm, pliant weight -- House leans forward and drops his head into the steepled press of his fingers into his forehead, as if he's already feeling the hangover from the festival moonshine.

"No, it's not freaky, it's impossible." But John already knows that.

House sighs and pulls himself up again. He glances at his lap and his dick hanging out, then does a sort of mental shrug at the damp fabric and tucks himself away again. The hair on his belly is still wet; he looks around the room, then reluctantly hauls himself to his feet and limps over to the clothes chest and the washbasin and jug of water thoughtfully provided by the townsfolk, along with a cloth draped over the side.

"So when did you learn you could lay on hands and heal the faithful?" Water from the jug in the basin, cloth in the water, and he starts wiping himself clean.

"Actually, started with dead bodies. I worked in cryonics, and one day I realized I could sense them. With practice I started being able to manipulate them, and then... well, there's a reason doctors learn on corpses. Didn't take long before my team started experimenting on whether I could work with living flesh." A pause. "Probably helped that I'd studied biomed."

He's stopped fiddling pointlessly with his clothes and is just watching House now, the line of his bare spine, shift of muscles under skin. Knowing how all the meat goes together doesn't make the aesthetics any less pleasing. Anyway, he wants to enjoy it a little before he has to drop the next big bombshell, which he needs to get out of the way now, the same way House had just blurted out his addiction: "That was ten thousand years ago, though. Or a little over. Turns out being Earth's chosen one doesn't have an expiry date." Thus the Gaius, from Gaia, though he likes the Caligula homage just as much.

It all sounds very possible when John says it, very much like it could be real. House concentrates on wiping himself down, though there's not really that much to do. But he takes his time, though really he's just stroking the damp cloth down over his skin over and over, his focus elsewhere. Distantly, he moves on to cleaning his hands.

He has a choice, he realises. It's pretty simple. He can believe it, or he can not believe it. He choose to believe that he just fingered an immortal necromancer until he squirted all over his lap. He choose to believe that it's possible for someone to manipulate corpses and live for ten thousand years and in doing so destroy the foundations on which he's built his life, the sensitive warp of cellular structures, the finality of death. And if that's real, then so is everything else, the spiders and the town and the cloth dripping cold water down his wrist.

Real. Not real.

"You went to a Christian music festival?" He glances back at John over his shoulder. "Did you hate yourself?"

John laughs, surprised that this is the question — his developing crush is partially just how often House makes him laugh. "Every boy at my school went to Parachute for the same reason," he says. "Underage drinking."

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