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Psychosomatic

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It had seemed like such a good idea, and when pressed, Olrik will defend it. But exchanging bodies with another man has its drawbacks.

There are the very minor ones, such as the taste inside his mouth. He gets used to it soon enough, unless he thinks about it. Food is also a little off, to his disgust, though how much of that is the shipboard fare is unclear at first.

He'd been worried about clumsiness, but it seems that the body is used to itself well enough that everything works out, unless he half-consciously misjudges his height or shoulder breadth.

Olrik is not small-minded enough to let it bother him, but Mortimer is unreasonably gifted in the physical arena. Blake is a lucky man - another thing Olrik would rather know in a less practical sense.

He'd suspected something of the sort in an idle way, but till now, the exact nature of Mortimer's relationship with Captain Blake hadn't mattered from his perspective. Now, of course, it matters a great deal. Olrik is a consummate actor, but some things can't be faked.

He doesn't have many days to think about it, and is still steeling himself against reflective surfaces when Blake places his hands on Olrik's shoulders and shoves his face into the back of Olrik's head.

Don't react with shock. That's as far as he's thought ahead, mostly intentionally, but Olrik is used to improvising.

It's not as though he's a blushing virgin. Blake's breath has no business whatsoever sending tingles down his neck. It's probably this damnable body, pulling the same trick as it did earlier, keeping him from tripping over his own feet.

"Philip," whispers Blake, and he's already used to the name - an alias is an alias - so he works with it. "Mhm?"

Blake doesn't seem to want to talk, though, instead pressing a kiss against the side of his neck. His arms wrap around Olrik, hands drifting down the chest, the stomach.

He certainly knows his way around this body, and to Olrik's immense irritation, it responds. It's not as though he can see Blake. There's no hiding it, and Blake chuckles in his ear before seizing hold of him in a bold way he'd never have associated with the straight-laced Captain.

This sensation, too, is slightly disorientating, but damn it! He's in far too deep now.

It should be much worse. He blames the body. They're not even undressed, not that he wants to be, but Blake's hand on this thing is warm, and the same thrill again is running through these bones, combined with the more familiar thrill the forbidden always gives him.

The fingers trace the outline of his-Mortimer's-who-knows' erection lightly. Teasing. Then firmer, the hand most of the way round, slowly stroking all the way up, and down. The rhythm matches his breath, which he's doing an excellent job of controlling, thank you very much.

Blake presses closer to him, hard as he is. Stroking him in earnest, now. A thumb moves over the tip, and he realizes that he's soaked entirely through the Professor's hideous trousers.

He feels one of his buttons go, and that breaks the spell. Olrik has done and is prepared to do nearly anything, but he will not come in Captain Blake's hand. The devil take him if he enjoys it! He wriggles free in a less-than-dignified fashion.

"If you don't mind," is the best imitation of Mortimer he can come up with under the circumstances, and he turns to face the music.

Blake only looks hurt, then aghast. Not suspicious.

"Of course… I'm so sorry, dear. I shouldn't have, not after… the Princess."

Right, he'd gathered Mortimer had once been involved with the woman. If he were Mortimer, he'd probably be upset over it. An excellent excuse.

"I think I should get to bed," he says, doing his best to look a little pathetic, which is easier than it should be.

"Of course," says Blake again, and adds, "If you'd like to talk?"

"I'd rather not," says Olrik, and turns to make good on his earlier threat. Blake nods, swallows, and prepares for sleep without another word. Olrik avoids his glances.

This will hurt, and fairly soon. He debates relieving himself when Blake is asleep, but pride wins out. He goes to sleep cursing Mortimer, his stupid cock, and these damned sarcophagi that dropped him into this mess.