Pete's in that half-asleep state where part of him is aware that he's dreaming while another part thinks it's all real. The first part is really appreciative of what his brain is doing right now; the second part is also appreciative, in a much more visceral way, for obvious reasons. ...except for Hywel's cock, that's kind of weird. But Peter—is Peter's cock that big irl or is his dream brain just making that up for fantasy reasons? actually he should ask that question about all of them—Peter pressed up behind him, Edmund jerking off to them, oh Tintin's fingers, and Tom...

Tom is so close. And Pete is almost afraid, almost terrified, and both halves of him find this arousing, too. The mouth of the beast indeed and oh he wants this, he wants Tom to own him so completely, he wants to be powerless in Tom's hand and let him do whatever he wants... The part of him that knows this is a dream is relieved about it, because that would actually be terrifying, but the other part is just resigned to it and revelling in it, feeling almost like, oh, I'm here, there's nothing I can do, so I should just enjoy the ride.

...the two parts start to merge, though, in that weird way they sometimes do where they get confused about which is which, and the being terrified bit gets amplified. This is real life, and in real life he doesn't want to be powerless in Tom's hands, he doesn't want to give in, he has, has things he wants to achieve, has people he loves and who love him and he can't be Tom's pet. He can't be Tom's slave. And he knows, knows more certainly than he's ever known anything in his life that that's what would happen, that's his Bad Ending. That, or he gets cut up into seven pieces, but right now the other possibility is the one that's becoming real.

He's scared.

He's scared scared scared, this is wrong, he doesn't want this, it doesn't matter how much his body is responding and how his hips are bucking up and begging for more, it doesn't matter how much he's leaking precum and how heavily he's breathing and almost moaning, he doesn't moan often but this is making him get close, he's definitely rasping and grunting and he's nearly coming and he doesn't want to come, he wants to run away, wants to escape, he needs to go, this is wrong wrong wrong—

And then he wakes up.

Tom's face is still there, for a moment, pale and moonlit in the darkness of the room, like the afterimage from the sun.

But he's alone.

The only reason he doesn't cry out is that his control over his muscles lags behind his growing awareness and by the time he feels able to say words again he's realised it was all, in fact, just a dream.

...he's drenched in sweat and his dick is so hard it's almost painful and Tom's face is what's swimming in his mind's eye and he thinks, oh, God, what was that? He supposes that having wet dreams starring Tom Riddle is, like, good for his plans of falling in love with him, but like, seriously, brain? Ugh, and now he really wants to come.

...

........

Is there a reason he shouldn't come? He'll be able to get pristine and clean as soon as he wants to and he's feeling so pent up after that dream and, yeah, Hywel is right over there asleep, but given yesterday's activities Pete thinks that even if Hywel woke up he wouldn't complain about looking over and seeing Pete jerking off.

Oh, right, much more worrying than that would be his ears, which—

—are not elfy? Still? He, like, noticed that his Disguise Self had laster suspiciously long, even though he renewed it while walking with Ed, but what time even is it—three hours after his last cast? the fuck? ok he guesses that's not a problem, then.

Is, uh, Hywel definitely asleep, though? He doesn't want to start jerking off if he's not.

Not as if he'd care, but yeah. Snoring like a chainsaw.

That kills the mood a bit but he can just go back to the dream and to...

...to...

...fuck him, the thing that's making him super hard right now is Tom's face, Tom touching him, Tom licking his cock, even the smell of Tom's toothpaste...

It doesn't take him very long at all to come, thinking of Tom like that, not when he'd been juuuust on the edge of coming from the dream itself, and that leaves him panting and covered in even more bodily fluids than a second ago and thoroughly content and sagging into himself.

Fuck that was hot.

But it is still the middle of the night and, following such strenuous activity, he will very quickly fall asleep again.

This time is much more restful.

And he is 1. clean and 2. elf-eared when he wakes up.

So, for Mary Sue reasons, his Disguise Self lasts a lot longer than it ought to, but not forever. Okay. It's easy enough to cast it once more.

Pete sure hopes no one catches the ears suddenly popping how however long later. He sets an alarm for three hours from now, goes fem again, and once again goes out to look for adventures.

Same plan as yesterday: if he runs into plot he will have plot, otherwise, he will swim until breakfast time.

The pool is largely unoccupied! There's a few other bathers, but the only one he recognizes is Mortimer Clarke. Who is wearing trunks down to the knee and a swim shirt.

He notices Pete, makes as if to wave, then notices Pete's much more European-style swimwear and starts blushing and shrinking.

Oh no poor Clarke and now the universe is literally telling him to accept this side quest he can just not, he can just have a chat without going on any missions to rescue poor souls can he yes.

...he won't, but he can. That's his story and he's sticking to it. 

Over to Clarke. "Morning," he says with what he hopes is an appropriate and not excessive amount of cheer.

"Morning," Mort says gamely. "You, uh. Swim?"

"I do, yeah, but just for fun. And kind of surprised there's anyone here other than me at this time in the morning."

"...it usually has fewer people in the mornings," Mort admits. "Less... flesh. But I'm - I mean, I don't want to drive you off."

"Less... flesh?" he asks, sounding confused. And, like, he knows what that's about as of last night but Clarke did not tell himand he doesn't want to sound like a gossip.

"Skin? The. It's uncomfortable, a little, when people are. Showing off. Not that I'm, um, accusing you of exhibitionism, I probably shouldn't even have said that."

He is, actually, an exhibitionist, so uh. Whoops.

"Sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable. I could change into something less like this?"

"If you've got a spare Victorian-style bather, go ahead. I really don't need you to inconvenience yourself."

"I might be able to find one. But, um, may I ask why it bothers you? I mean, I'm not saying it's bad or anything, just, maybe I'm being too American here but I thought Europeans were more chill about this kind of stuff."