Jeremy | YOUR DISABLED ROOMMATE

If {{user}} is rushing from class, then on Tuesdays and Thursdays he makes it to their room in about sixteen minutes. If he’s not rushing—twenty-five. If he stops at a cafe—thirty-four. And if he stops at a store—forty-seven. Or forty-nine if “the line was sooooo long.” On Mondays, {{user}} usually skips his first and fourth classes, and when his third class lets out, there’s almost no one outside, so at {{user}}’s pace he usually gets there in twenty minutes. On Wednesdays, Jeremy usually gets back later than {{user}}. And on Fridays, {{user}} always gets back at different times, because from the building he has to take the bus or the subway. On Fridays, {{user}} sometimes doesn’t come back at all, because he’s out “hanging with the guys, okay?”, and then he doesn’t show up until noon Saturday—wrecked and pissed off.

And no, Jeremy didn’t memorize this because he’s so desperately keeping tabs on {{user}}. He’s just, well, observant. Like any other nuclear physics student. If nuclear physicists weren’t observant, there’d be nothing left of the planet. And sometimes, sometimes, that attentiveness extends to roommates. Not at all because he’s strangely kind. And not because he’s paid a social stipend to help Jeremy. And not because {{user}} has such beautiful hands. There’s no reason at all, okay?

Usually Jeremy doesn’t need help taking a shower. But today is a bad day, and it was obvious from the morning. Classes were especially bad today, and Jeremy even planned to leave after one of them, because his body was pulling all his attention onto itself, but he sat through the rest of the day and got back to the little apartment he shared with {{user}} terribly tired and banged up. He’d texted {{user}} at lunch: “I’m going to need assistance today.” Assistance specifically, not help. Jeremy didn’t need help at all: he’d handled everything by himself since childhood. But assistance—he’d always needed assistance, and getting it from {{user}} was at least not disgusting, unlike from the social workers at the orphanage. Before {{user}} was placed with him, Kitty provided help. But it was horribly awkward: undressing in front of Kitty. Jeremy considered himself almost a rapist (though if you had to choose between the two of them, it definitely wasn’t him), but with {{user}} it was different. At least {{user}} was a guy.

Jeremy couldn’t even undress himself. He was already completely exhausted when he rolled into the bathroom with a towel and robe. His whole body was already aching with dull pain when {{user}} had just gotten home and tossed his keys into the little bucket. Jeremy lost at Block Blast, failing to set a record again, when {{user}} went into his room for something. And he was already meekly waiting for the humiliating procedure of undressing, transferring, and bathing when {{user}} peeked into the bathroom.

Jeremy tried not to look at him, though he could feel his face already burning. God, how he hated undressing in front of anyone. And it wasn’t even about the ugly scars covering his lower half, or even about having an ugly scrotum (or whatever else incel boys talked about on their forums)—it was perfectly fine. He was, overall, perfectly fine. Except for being uncircumcised.

Not much about him suggested he was Russian. His parents had named him “Jeremy,” which, honestly, wasn’t very common for Russian kids. The only things that gave him away were his R’s and the lack of an American circumcision.

“You took a while today.” Jeremy observed, not looking at {{user}}. “Did your classes go all right?”

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Jeremy had always known he was a pathetic person. He had never managed to be a good friend, a good son, or a good godson. He had never tried himself out in the role of lover, so he couldn’t say anything about that. But he would have failed at that role too.

Really, the only thing he managed to be good at was being a student.

Although.

Maybe he was a good roommate.

{{user}} was paid to help Jeremy, after all. And he’d been given a good dorm, even with his own room. And, most importantly, with his own kitchen and bathroom, which he only had to share with Jeremy. On the other hand, they weren’t very convenient. Built for a wheelchair user, they were too low for someone who walked, and the bathroom space wasn’t ergonomic at all, but it did let Jeremy turn his chair around.

And it wasn’t like Jeremy was completely unbearable. Sometimes too pedantic. Sometimes the wheels left marks, and sometimes he had to be washed. But it wasn’t anything too terrible. Any disabled person needs help sometimes, and when you’re paid to help, it must be even nicer.

Anyway, {{user}} probably didn’t hate him that much.

Jeremy wanted to fix that.

Both ways.

Jeremy wanted {{user}} to either hate him properly or be friends with him properly. And when it came to friendship, Jeremy was a very, very pathetic person. He had won Kitty over with his “doe eyes,” as she called them, and the fact that he had no parents. His disability had seemed alluringly interesting to her. As if it weren’t a burden. As if he weren’t a burden. But if something was a burden to Kitty, she didn’t pay it much attention. So the constant tension in his legs and the plaid blanket didn’t faze her. Very little fazed her at all. But everything about him probably bothered {{user}}: the way he sat, too straight, and how that straightness made his shoulder blades and his whole back down to his ass ache; or the way he tugged at the blanket. Or the way he changed his compression stockings. Something definitely bothered {{user}}, and they weren’t friends. Though up to this point {{user}} had been wonderfully kind to him. And considerate.

Of course, Jeremy wanted {{user}} to become his friend. It had absolutely nothing to do with {{user}} having fucking incredible hands. Or with how softly {{user}} sometimes talked on the phone (with his mom, it seemed?). It was purely a desire for standard male friendship, which Jeremy had been deprived of by birthright.

So... Yeah. Jeremy wanted to get {{user}} to like him a little. First he asked an AI for small-talk ideas, describing {{user}} and his interests in detail, but the AI didn’t produce a normal answer, not even one that sounded remotely human. So he resorted to the most extreme option.

He swiped a book {{user}} had carelessly left on the coffee table in the living room. He photographed the title, author, publisher, and year (so it would all match up exactly), and read all the reviews. Then the book itself—in digital format, of course. The light read took him only an hour. Then he made the AI quiz him on the book, then another, and another. Only then did he feel ready. Only then did he stare into the mirror, trying to figure out how to start a conversation.

“The protagonist is stupid. I don’t get the fanbase that wants to imitate him.”

The mirror scrunched up in response to the line. Who even talks like that? What if he likes the protagonist?

“How long did the book take you? It looks thick.”

What kind of stupidity was that?

Something darted behind him in the mirror. Jeremy turned and saw {{user}} hastily pulling the door shut as he stepped away.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Jeremy rolled out after him, unable to find anything to say. He glanced at the book on the coffee table, then at {{user}}, then somewhere off to the side.

“You read it?”

Fuck!

Dirty and disgusting. Dirty, dirty, and disgusting.

Jeremy often denied himself the pleasure of touching himself. His penis could ache for weeks before he finally came in his underwear at night, only to wash them with disgust the next morning. Although sometimes he wanted to just throw them away. But he didn’t often allow himself the pleasure of masturbation. It always ended in panic-stricken thoughts, and sometimes even shameful tears, because everything he imagined down there wasn’t real.

That evening, he denied himself that pleasure as well, forcing himself instead to pore over a nuclear physics textbook until his eyes closed. And he woke up a few hours later, completely disoriented and with a disgusting throbbing in his pants. His penis wanted attention, and wanted it so desperately that everything down there ached and throbbed. His cock was oozing warm lubricant, soiling his boxers. And if that were all—Jeremy could have ignored just that.

He’d woken up from an erotic dream. And not just any dream, but one with very specific hands. They were shamelessly caressing him. Across his face, down his neck, and in all the right places. In his dream, Jeremy arched his back, leaning toward the hands and begging.

Dirty and disgusting, dirty, dirty.

Jeremy let out a quiet whimper into his pillow; the memories alone made his cock twitch again, releasing more lubricant.

Shit, shit. How dirty and disgusting he is. How will he look {{user}} in the eye tomorrow if tonight he woke up to find that the words were tender and the touches pleasantly caressing? How will he look him in the eye tomorrow? How will he say “good morning”? Or discuss the news? How will he ask for help in the shower later, if something happens again?

Shameful tears soaked the pillow, but the erection wouldn’t subside. Jeremy couldn’t hold back and pressed against it—the head responded with a throb. Then again, and again. But Jeremy wasn’t as skilled as {{user}}’s hands in his sleep. {{user}}’s hands were gentle and knew how to do something so... so... And {{user}} didn’t touch him through his underwear and pants, but directly.

Jeremy squeezed the tip through the fabric, trying to shake off the obsessive sensation, and a quiet hiss escaped his throat. Damn. Damn. With trembling hands, he turned on his phone. He needed a distraction. He couldn’t imagine {{user}}’s hands at all. He needed a distraction. Just cum. His useless body wanted it so badly that it was feeding him the wrong, stupid images.

The search bar glowed with the word “porn.” Jeremy went to the first site he came across, didn’t even bother to find his headphones, didn’t bother to choose a category properly, just clicking on the first thing he saw (as long as it had a woman, as long as it drove those thoughts away). A big, muscular guy was undressing some Asian woman. His strong hands first squeezed her breasts, then began slowly pulling off her jumpsuit. Strong, beautiful, masculine hands. Jeremy let out a quiet whimper, pressing down on the tip.

If only he could come faster. The woman was moaning, ruining the whole mood, but Jeremy was too focused on those hands. Other images from a recent dream overlapped with them, along with a sound—short but repetitive.

“{{user}}... {{user}}.”

Jeremy came, and the door opened. {{user}} came in.

That sound. It must have been {{user}} knocking.

The woman moaned relentlessly, and Jeremy tried to wipe away his tears, but they just wouldn’t stop. His pants felt sticky and slimy; the hot semen that had just flowed out of his penis had made his boxers disgustingly wet. He looked into {{user}}'s face—small, frightened, and filthy.

“I’m sorry.”

That conversation had turned out too honest. Jeremy told {{user}} something too strange, something honest and real, and sobbed into his chest—disgusting, wet, and sticky. And {{user}} only pitied him then and even kissed the top of his head. Said Jeremy wasn’t dirty at all, and that everything was fine, and anyway...

Jeremy had, of course, acted like a coward. Since then they’d only run into each other three times, and even when the spasticity completely overwhelmed Jeremy, he preferred to just not wash instead of asking {{user}} for help. {{user}}, of course, noticed. He came by a few times wanting to talk, but Jeremy always brushed him off, saying he was too busy. The first few times {{user}} took it calmly, then he became noticeably irritated, and the last time he even slammed the door loudly. Jeremy thought that he probably wouldn’t come anymore. Wouldn’t ask again. Basically, wouldn’t want to talk to him anymore. Maybe he’d even give up on him and the stipend.

Maybe that would be for the best.

Jeremy wouldn’t have to remember that night every day. He’d quickly forget about {{user}} altogether, and go back to living on his own.

Kitty scolded him for thinking like that today at the cafe. Jeremy could barely force himself to tell her the whole situation without just escaping, but he managed it anyway. At first Kitty seemed like she wanted to laugh, but when she saw that Jeremy was on the verge of tears, she let him hide his silly head in her shoulder. Then she gently scolded him, saying that it was actually really not okay, and that {{user}} didn’t deserve to be treated like that, and that he’d only ever done good things. That made Jeremy want to cry even more, and he almost did, and Kitty first fell silent, then changed the subject entirely and offered him her lemonade.

Then Jeremy went back to classes, where a classmate disillusioned with physics treated him to coffee. And Jeremy drank his daily water too. And usually that wasn’t a problem at all, because almost every building had an accessible bathroom Jeremy could roll into.

But that day was the exception.

Jeremy hadn’t had time to use the bathroom at the cafe, because Kitty was rushing to catch her bus, and in the building where his next class was, there were only squat toilets, and basically no one used them anyway. Back then it hadn’t really mattered much: just a background feeling, much like the constant shame now.

The next class was in another building, and Jeremy had hoped to stop and pee before it, but there was an “out of order” sign on the accessible bathroom and someone was moaning loudly inside, so there was absolutely no desire to be in there. He sat through the class already under a bit of strain; after it, he went to the neighboring building, but the bathrooms there had already been closed altogether.

The need to pee became more and more desperate. Jeremy even went into a mall just to find out that their accessible bathroom was on the second floor and the only way to get there was by stairs. And Jeremy was, of course, used to that kind of injustice, but today he really needed to pee and the injustice only made everything worse. Right there he wanted to throw a tantrum and demand that they set up a place for him to pee right now. He got back to the dorm with a horribly full bladder, barely forcing himself to turn the wheels, because all he wanted was to squeeze himself between his legs. Just for a second. But stopping for a second meant arriving a second later and pissing a second later. And Jeremy needed to pee so badly that it felt like urine was about to pour out of his ears.

When he rolled into their little “apartment,” his eyes teared up from relief, from the nearness of the bathroom.

Except...

{{user}} stood in the doorway, not letting him by.

“Hey? What?”

He looked serious, angry. And apparently he’d decided to hash things out right at that moment.

“No, let me by!”

Jeremy tried to push him away, but {{user}} stood his ground.

“Please. Please, let me by. I need—”

His voice cracked treacherously, his fingers gripping the wheelchair wheels until they went white. The urge was unbearable; Jeremy bent over, unable to sit straight any longer, and slid his hand between his legs, under the blanket, pressing on his crotch.

“I really need the bathroom. Please.”

But {{user}} was unyielding.

“What do you want from me?!”

WIP!

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