"Hgh-" The abortive syllable twists its way out of him when Niall presses him harder against the wall, too caught between fear and grotesque exhilaration now to struggle at all. His lips part a little wider, almost inviting, not quite tonguing at the doctor's finger. He's been so effortlessly wrecked upon this, this lighthouse of a man, how did he get here?

"I," he breathes, stuttering again, all too easily. He does, of course he does, he dreams about it obsessively, sometimes in terror, sometimes in this messed up cocktail that he's feeling now. And yes, he wakes up hard, he always does, who doesn't, but even after those dreams, even then, especially then.

"Yes," he gasps, finally, looking up, pleading, begging, who knows what for. "Yes."