Chapter 3 - Shower Thoughts

Fyn: Int. Fyn’s Apartment, Night

Maybe it's the drug and alcohol combo, or maybe it's their daily med crash, or maybe it's just concern for the friend currently occupying their shower, but it takes Fyn half a dozen trips up and down the stairs to the building’s laundry room to actually get the laundry started. They put Teddy’s lab coat in its own load with bleach – you're supposed to use bleach on white things, right? Fuck, their phone is upstairs – and everything else in a mishmash.

They realize they’ve forgotten the laundry soap after the second trip, forget what they meant to grab when they're in their apartment and come back down with dryer sheets – useless – and go back for the laundry soap again, only to discover they never did pick up a new bottle after they ran out last time. Right: the whole reason they haven't done laundry.

They end up stealing detergent from some rando who left their's in the laundry room, because all Claire has is some lavender linen sea breeze shit and Fyn has a vague notion that Teddy needs something unscented and for sensitive skin. Then it's back upstairs, where they belatedly realize that Teddy is likely to get done showering far before the towels will finish drying. They raid Claire's bedroom again and find a clean towel that doesn't stink of air freshener too much, and run it back to the laundry room to throw it in the dryer to try and bake the smell out or at least warm it up a bit.

And then…they wait.

They try not to pry, at first. They really do. They plug Teddy's phone in and don't even type in the passcode that they already know (it's his birth year, and he uses it as his password for everything.) They'd have a reason to look, after all. Maybe someone's found his keys and wants to get ahold of him. Maybe that guy has texted, and Fyn can internet stalk him and find out if he has some kind of record they can exploit.

But there aren't any new messages on the lock screen, and so with a great effort Fyn takes out their own phone and tries to play the few games they still allow themselves to have. It doesn't help. They're too distracted by the sound of the shower, waiting for it to stop.

They could…jerk off? They do that when they're bored. No, no, Jesus, they can't do that while Teddy is in the shower and needs their help, even if the idea is sort of thrilling. Fuck, that was a bad idea, now they're thinking about it. He wouldn't have to know. Except if he asks what they've been doing, and what the fuck are they supposed to do, lie? Okay, they're still thinking about it and it's making it worse.

When their alarm goes off for the towel they were heating, they take the steps down so quickly that, in their half-inebriated state, it feels like flying. They lose a bit of time on the way back up, which would be more interesting if they didn't have a Problem to occupy them already, and find themselves with a new dilemma.

The shower is still running, which is good, because it means that Teddy isn't standing there waiting for them. But it also means that they need to get the towel into the bathroom somehow. This feels altogether insurmountable for a solid minute, where they realize they've zoned out staring at the doorknob of the bathroom.

They could knock. But then Teddy would have to answer without a towel. They could knock and just walk in. They could just walk in, put the towel down, and leave. That's probably the best route.

They open the door a crack. On second thought, if Teddy just finds the towel when there wasn't one, that's worse, right? Because then he’ll know they came in without telling him. That's worse.

“Knock knock!” they sing-song, pushing the door a bit wider. “‘Then forth, dear countrymen: let us deliver. Our towel into the hand of Theodore, putting it straight on the sink,’ as the Bard proclaimeth.”

The room is practically a sauna. Steam billows over the top of the curtain, and condensation drips down the completely fogged mirror. There's no answer from Teddy. Fyn frowns.

“Teddy?” Fuck. “I swear to god, if you’ve fallen and died in my bathtub on Halloween I'm going to kill you.”

There's the sound of shifting. “No, I’m— everything's fine.” Teddy sounds hoarse, even worse than before, and sort of weirdly muffled. “Thanks.”

“‘Course,” Fyn says. They hesitate, staring at the shower curtain. “You need anything else?”

“I'm good,” Teddy replies unconvincingly.

If anything, the assurance makes Fyn feel worse. Obviously Teddy is not doing good.

“Laundry will be a bit,” they say. “But the towel is warm. Don't know how long the hot water will last, it's finicky as fuck.” They glance around. They fidget. They step back to the door, taking off their wimple at last to wipe their humidity damp curls off their forehead.

That assurance is eating at them. They struggle with it for a moment longer before saying, almost petulant, “you're not good.”

“What?” Teddy's voice returns after a pause.

“You said you're good. You're not. You’ve been–” crying. Right. That weird, muffled sound to his voice through the shower curtain; the sound of someone's nose plugged and throat too tight for being in a room that's 95% humidity.

They lean against the doorframe and then slide down it, legs akimbo. They knock the back of their head against the doorframe gently a few times, biting their lip. It's really fucking hot in this room, and they're already not thinking clearly.

“I'm a good listener,” they say abruptly. “You know my friends, I've heard a lot of shit. I don't really get shocked by anything, y’know?” They pluck at their robe, realize how close their hand is to their crotch, and tap their nails on the floor instead. “I can be listening Fyn. Problem-solving Fyn can back off. I'm not a mandatory reporter or anything, this can stay here.”

They hear the faintest rattle of the shower curtain, and look up to see Teddy's hand gripping the edge of it. "It's not—"

He cuts himself off, the conversation balancing on a scale. Fyn watches his fingers uncurl, hand disappearing back behind the curtain. He's doing that thing again where he thinks too hard, they can just tell. Usually it just gives him a migraine without actually solving any problems. Lots of things give Teddy migraines, though.

"…Not…?" they prompt carefully. They don't want to make him shut down now. Not when they're so close, when they can taste an explanation on the tip of their tongue—

"Not…" Teddy says, sniffles, "not like that."

Fyn keeps their mouth carefully closed, palms pressed flat against the cold tile. They're so close. They're so close. "Like what?"

"Like that," Teddy says, sounding a bit more irritated at the interrogation then on the verge of tears. That's good, Fyn thinks. Anger is good. Just keep gently prodding him out of his shell.

"I— Sam didn't— I…I asked for it," he says, the last part coming out barely a whisper.

“Mhmm,” Fyn hums. Now they're getting somewhere. And they have confirmation that it has to do with…Sam? Whoever that is. Still no confirmation that it is sex, or worse. “I'm sure Sam was an absolute gentleman, and you're just an emotional wreck who can't handle losing his apartment keys, that's all. Is that right? I found you sitting in the library like a lost puppy because you got a bit drunk and lost your keys?”

"That's not— no, I don't mean—" They can hear his frustrated sigh even over the shower roar. They open their mouth to argue when they hear him shift and move around. A moment later, the water turns off, the residual dribbling out through the tub faucet until it turns into an even drip.

Teddy is quiet for a moment. "He asked," he says, too softly, too raw. "He asked and I said okay."

Fyn wants to pick apart that statement letter by letter, lay the letters out on the floor and rearrange them into some sort of secret decoded message. They consider getting closer. They stay by the door.

"Sam,” they clarify.

“Yeah.”

Fyn doesn't think they know a Sam. Either that, or Teddy's talked about him and they just haven't been paying attention. Usually when they run into Teddy in the library late at night they're trying to walk off that feeling of the world sloping on its axis the wrong way, and they just need to get out of the house. It's hard to pick out the important parts of those conversations and staple them properly to their brain sometimes.

Then again, Teddy isn't much one to talk about his classmates, anyway — they're always "a guy from genetics" or "the tall one in lab" — and Fyn hasn't quite determined if that's just because he's excruciatingly introverted or that personalizing his stories is just a completely alien concept to him. Evidently, he is not meant to be a playwright.

They know Miles, at least, and Ren, from California. Oh, and the trans girl who definitely has a crush on him — Callie, they think? — but they're not sure that Teddy has caught onto that fact yet.

They hear Teddy shift back to the other corner of the tub. "He's older," Teddy says. "Third year."

“And you just met him at this party, or…?”

“It doesn't…no, I knew him before. I-I mean, we’d been introduced. Acquaintances. He– he TA’d one of my classes.”

“Ooo, an older man,” Fyn teases automatically, and Teddy makes a grumpy noise in response that makes them grin.

“By a few years. You don't need to make it sound so– so inappropriate.”

“Okay, so. What. You like him?”

“Everyone likes Sam,” Teddy mutters, sounding surly.

Fyn raises their eyebrows. “Jury’s still out on that one, babe. But okay. He asked if you wanted to fuck, you said yes, and? Was he any good?”

“Fyn!”

“What? You tell me everyone likes this dude and he wraps you around his finger with one attempt, and you think I'm not going to ask if it was worth it?”

“Wh– of course it was– I'm not going to– that's private!”

Fyn sighs. “Did you even come?”

“Wh– y-yes!” Teddy's voice goes thin, defensive. “I did!”

“Hm,” Fyn says doubtfully, but leaves it for the moment.They squint, trying to imagine having sex in a shitty frat house. It has some appeal as a porn scene– some sort of gangbang scenario, maybe– but practically speaking it just sounds uncomfortable. “Please tell me the mattress was on a bedframe and not the floor. Wait, there was a bed, right?!”

“Yes, there was a– a bed! Why do you need to know all this?” Teddy asks, more a plea than a demand.

“Because–” Fyn flounders slightly, “because it was obviously an Event and you might as well get a good story out of it! C’mon, set the scene for me.”

“It's not a story,” Teddy says, sounding weary. “Sam asked if I wanted to hook up. He-he recognized me. He said– look, he actually flirted with me, okay? A-and–”

“See, that's part of what I'm having issues with,” Fyn interrupts. “What's Sam's motive? He sees you at this party and hits you up. What were you doing, standing in the corner? Petting the cat? And this super-popular guy sees you and thinks–” they do finger guns that Teddy can't see, “‘--that’s the one.’ Why?”

There's a pause. “Thanks a lot,” Teddy says, hitting a tone between sarcasm and resignation, like Fyn’s said something he already was thinking.

Fyn waves Teddy’s answer away, frustrated. “No, no, stop that. I don't mean it doesn't make sense because you're not fuckable, you obviously are. But c’mon, you can't tell me you usually go around advertising yourself as DTF. And you don't know know this guy, so it's not like he’s a friend who already knows you're a catch. So, what?” They ponder this, rubbing the sparse whiskers on their chin. “He sees you as a conquest, maybe. A guy who's hard to get.”

“I don't know,” Teddy replies, starting to get frustrated. “I don't know why he wanted me, okay?”

He shifts again. Fyn remembers that he's sitting there damp and gets up to grab the towel. They walk back to the tub and hold it out against the curtain, face turned away.

“Here. Towel. I'm not looking.”

There's a moment before the casters rattle and then the towel is tugged out of Fyn's hand. They wait for the sound of the curtain closing again before sitting down, this time with their back to the sink. They pick idly at the fuzz on the microfiber bath mat.

“Can I still borrow clothes?” Teddy asks hesitantly.

“They're in the wash.”

“Oh. I guess I could just put mine on again.”

“Those are in the wash, too. They were a mess.”

There's silence for a long moment. Fyn doesn't know what they've said that could have thrown Teddy off so much. Did he think they were going to let him shower and then send him off in dirty clothes?!

“Ted–?”

“The condom broke!” Teddy bursts out, and Fyn sits upright, more startled at the tone than the subject. “I-It b-broke, and it wasn't Sam’s fault b-but it still made me f-feel awful, and I don't know if my blood cell count is up enough to matter for blood poisoning, and it was just a mistake and that's all!”

“...fuck,” Fyn says mildly, when it seems Teddy is done with his outburst. They decide not to pry into the blood thing, that sounds like a Teddy spiral original. “Yeah.” They take a deep breath, processing. “Yeah, okay, that sounds like shit.”

Teddy makes a vaguely confirming grunt. Fyn runs over some worst case scenarios quickly and snorts.

“At least you don't have to worry about pregnancy,” they say, ticking that one off their list.

There's a pause, and then Teddy makes an odd noise.

Oh, shit. “Because you don't do PIV stuff, right?” Fyn adds cautiously. “Teddy?”

“It wasn't. It…we couldn't…do it like I-I wanted.”

The red flags that had just started to lower are raised to full-staff again. “You told me you prefer anal. We had a whole conversation about it.”

“Wha–?! When was that?!”

“Christmas? Last year? Doesn't matter. Has that changed?”

A longer pause. “No,” Teddy says quietly.

Fyn clenches their fists and presses them into their thighs, working to keep their voice even. “So TA guy tells you you're a hot piece of ass,” they begin.

“He– that's not what he said!”

“--and invites you to go to some shitty frat bedroom that may or may not be his, and…? Convinced you to have sex you don't like having? And then fucked it up?”

“What do you want me to say, Fyn?” Teddy asks, sounding a bit choked up again. “He had reasons. I still said yes.”

Fyn is angry. It's not a common emotion for them, and they find themselves reveling in it a bit. They're angry at Teddy, which isn't fair but doesn't stop it from being true. They're angry at themselves, and even more at Teddy’s friends, for not clocking what was happening and interfering– even if it would have made Teddy embarrassed and furious at the time. Mostly, they're angry at this Sam fucker who ruined their best friend’s night and made him feel like it was Teddy's fault.

“Did he even have the decency to be charming about it?” Fyn erupts. “Romantic one-liners?”

“He's just a normal guy. Not everyone has one-liners for every situation.” That one is pointed.

“So I'm prepared,” Fyn retorts, dogged. “I'm not looking for Hafiz here, I just want to know if he made any effort. Did he get you off?! Please, please tell me you weren't kidding about that.”

“He–! He…tried,” Teddy says. Fyn can basically feel Teddy’s wince, and they wince in commiseration.

“Oh, baby.”

“H-he finished before I– I was using my hand, and h-he offered to, after he was done, but then– then the condom broke, and I couldn't– I had to leave.”

Fyn tries to imagine the guy they'd seen with Teddy, and they imagine him in a shitty little room with bad lighting, offering to get Teddy off with hands that are far too rough, already satisfied himself and not really caring. And Teddy– their sweet, reserved Teddy– naked and used and discarded. It's such a clear image in their mind. Maybe that's the drugs, again. They can almost smell the sex in the room, the stink of long unchanged sheets, the sweat.

They swallow hard, and flex their fingers before they poke holes in their own palms with their fingernails.

Go back. Rewind. Watch Teddy and Sam enter the room. Watch Sam lean over and say something in Teddy's ear, Teddy flushing and cringing away, ignoring his own discomfort.

“What did he say to you?” Fyn asks, eyes still closed.

Teddy doesn’t answer. After a moment passes, Fyn cracks one eye open, a pressuring glare that they hope he can feel through the curtain, and finally hear him mutter something under his breath.

“What was that?” they nudge.

They’re certain Teddy’s cringing from the shower when he speaks. “It’s not— it doesn’t matter.”

Fyn takes a slow inhale through their nose. “Teddy.”

“It just—” The casters rattle faintly as he knocks into the curtain adjusting his seat. “He— he brought me a beer, okay? And said that the party was kind of dull–” weaponized relatability, Fyn thinks, “--and said we could always ‘go upstairs and make our own party.’”

Fyn snorts. “Strike one,” they mutter to themselves.

Third year. Over-confident. Popular. Probably rich, given the area and the school, and used to getting his way.

“Did he know you were trans?”

“H-he’s gay, so– yes? I-I mean, he didn't seem…surprised.”

Teddy passes better than he thinks he does. It helps that he's tall and willowy. But it's reasonable to imagine Sam knew. Maybe that was part of the appeal of Teddy over any more available options. Maybe he knew Teddy would be desperate for the validation. Another roil of anger: deeper, fiercer, possessive. Strike two.

Fyn runs the tape in their mind forward. Sam and Teddy, fumbling each other out of their clothes. Kissing– lots of tongue, lots of teeth. An uncomfortable amount of time spent on Teddy's breasts, making Fyn wince to imagine it. And there's a whispered comment, or a question about surgery; humiliation on Teddy's face as well as the desperation to prove himself.

Sam pushes him to the bed and maybe it could have been recovered at that point, but Sam and Teddy have a whispered debate between kisses about placement and genitals that's making Teddy even more uncomfortable and desperate, and then Sam rolls his eyes as he fumbles through his discarded jeans for a condom that he puts on wrong, and Fyn makes a noise of disgust.

“What?” Teddy asks from the bath, sounding hurt.

“No, it's–” It's not real, what they're imagining. They're high and prone to flights of fancy. (That's what their mom always called it, before there was a diagnosis to make Fyn’s ability to create realities in their head seem more sinister than creative.) “It's not you.”

They try to picture it another way, and they can't. The playthrough in their head sees Sam ignoring Teddy’s discomfort, pressing him, assuring him that everything is good as he half-asses the one thing Teddy insists on.

And then what? Sam: arrogant prick, older but not wiser, proving himself some sort of dumb shit alpha gay. Fyn tries, desperately, to picture him being a giving lover and can't.

“Please tell me he at least used lube,” Fyn says.

“I—" Teddy closes his mouth with an audible click and remains silent.

Fyn stares at the curtain in abject horror. "Teddy."

"It's— we didn't— p-people don't usually carry that on them, Fyn." He seems more ashamed of this little tidbit than the fact that he slept with this guy. "That's why we couldn't…y'know."

Fyn bristles, anger surging in their belly. Right, right, go to a party and cart Teddy, their Teddy off to fuck in some dirty frathouse bedroom smelling of beer and weed, and this fucking Sam guy doesn't even bother to come prepared. They can practically see it, can hear the smug tone as Sam reassures Teddy that they don't need it, that he's wet enough already, and that's it. Three strikes, Sam is out. Fuck him. Fuck’s sake, he probably thought he was doing a great job, and Teddy will never say anything, and–

“If he was going to cart you off to some room to assault you, he could have at least been cognizant of it, Jesus Christ.”

They don't register that they've spoken out loud until Teddy says, quietly, “he didn't.”

“No, he did something worse,” Fyn snarls back, because, okay, they're just saying things now, apparently. There's something cold and dark and hungry sparkling through their blood, and in the one bit of their mind that's still sober they make a mental note to ask what, exactly, was in that joint Em was passing around. “He could have had some fucking panache about it. Didn't even give you the excuse to go talk to a therapist about it, because, oh, it was just some disappointing sex wasn't it? Why don't you try being less frigid? He could have at least tried to be a little villainous, had some fun, given you something to really hate him about.”

The shower curtain yanks open a foot, enough for Teddy to stare out. His skin is lobster red where it's visible under the towel, his expression incredulous and more than a little angry.

“This isn't a play, Fyn,” he says. “It’s my life. And it's n-not dramatic, or full of exciting characters, it's just…normal people, a-and normal, shitty things, and that's it. I'm sorry, but that's all it is. There's no secret plotline here for you to unravel!”

His eyes fill again, and he wipes at them angrily. Fyn sits, fists pressing into their thighs, heartbeat too loud in their ears. They should feel bad. They should back off. Teddy's right, they're making up stories to make themselves feel better, and it's making things worse– per usual. Shut up, finish laundry, give Teddy their bed for the night, sober up on the couch and apologize in the morning. That's all they need to do.

They open their mouth.

“All the world’s a stage, Teddy,” they say. Teddy huffs, looking away. “Life’s what you make of it. So make it a better story. You know what Sam did wrong, first of all? He really should have picked you up with a killer line. Like, when else are you going to have the opportunity to tell someone, ‘I saw you across the room and I had to have you.’”

Teddy sighs and rubs his eyes. “Fyn…”

“What, that doesn't work for you?” They lower their voice to an evil scientist whisper and try again. “Hey, hot stuff.” Teddy snorts– just a bit of a laugh, but enough to goad Fyn on. “I have an experiment I'm working on in my back room, and I need an assistant. You look like just the man for the job. Come, follow me into my lab…”

Teddy shivers briefly and pulls his towel tighter. “That's terrible,” he says. “I thought you were coming up with something better than we can make our own party.”

“I still can't believe that was his convincing line,” Fyn says, hand going to their heart. “Oh Teddy, baby, no.”

Teddy shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “He didn't have to be that convincing.”

Yes, alright, that's something to work on later. Fyn frowns as they play back the series of events again. They imagine Sam being suave and chivalrous, or at the very least camp, and then they push his mental image out of the way and take the role themselves. That's better.

Their eyes drift close again as they focus. “So I'm your super hot, super popular TA and I’ve swayed you with my incredible powers of persuasion–” they pause for Teddy’s snort, which they receive, and grin before continuing, “--and we’re off to my dirty-ass bedroom.”

They warm to the role, and the feeling that they're watching what actually happened crystalizes a little more. Time for some better direction.

“You know what? Scratch that. It's not my bedroom, it's a random room in this house because I’m going to debase you on some random bed that probably has someone else's cum stains all over it, and you’ll fucking like it.”

The Teddy in their mind’s eye gives them a scandalized, doe-eyed look at that. The bathroom is conspicuously silent; the type of silent where you can't tell if the tension is from a disgusted audience or an approving one, but either way, it's fully engaged. Fuck. There's a bit of gravel in Fyn's voice when they go on.

“I tell you to strip. I'm not taking my clothes off.” They see, again, Teddy desperately kissing a shadowy figure like he doesn't want to give them time to look at him or reconsider. Fyn wets their lips. Not in this version. “I take your glasses off for you and put them in my breast pocket. You know. To keep them safe.” They pause for effect. “And to keep you hostage, of course.”

They swear they can hear Teddy breathing. They can't tell if it's the one in their head or the one sitting across from them in their bathtub.

“You tell me–” Fyn begins, and their imagination takes over.

“W-wait,” Teddy gasps, trying to catch Fyn’s hands as they move over him, grabbing his ass to grind their cock against his crotch. “I– I don't. I don't do PIV stuff. I– we can do– we can do whatever else, I-I can–” he fumbles for the slit in their robe, starts to sink down like he's going to his knees. Fyn catches him.

“--and I tell you that you don't get to decide.” They watch the shadow of Sam whining out assurances, excuses, and they push him and his words aside. No– no excuses, this time. Teddy will know he's wanted.

“You're my bitch now, and I'll take what I want.” Fyn watches Teddy protesting, starting to reach for his clothes, and they grab his arm with bruising force. “You agreed. You wanted this, didn't you? You think you're going to go back to that party and just act like nothing happened? I'll tell everyone what a slut you are.” Fyn smiles victoriously. “Blackmail. It's low-brow, but efficient. And you know if you just stay quiet this will be over quicker, won't it?”

The version of them in their mind leans forward, a hand slipping down Teddy's ass, between his legs. Their mouth is at his ear. “And I can make it good for you, don't worry,” they murmur.

The Teddy in their imagination flinches, sucks in a sharp breath, and they feel a tell-tale flood of warmth over their fingers–

“Crap–!”

There's a sudden clatter of bottles from the tub and Fyn startles, eyes flying open, broken out of their reverie. Teddy is wild-eyed and bright red as he tries and mostly fails to catch Claire's eight-bottle shower skin routine that she keeps on the edge of the tub.

“Are you okay?” Fyn asks, sitting up. Their fingernails are dug into their leg. They flex their hands, wincing at how tight their joints are. Everything feels a bit unreal.

“Fine, I'm fine!” Teddy says, lining up the bottles. “I'm just a bit– that was–”

Fyn doesn't think they’ve ever seen him blush so hard. They cock their head to the side like a different angle will help them read him better. He's steadfastly not looking at them.

Fyn closes their eyes briefly to try and remember what they've been saying, and they immediately flash back to the darkened, dingy bedroom, the hunger, the power to do whatever they want. Warmth floods through their body. It takes an effort not to grab their leg again– or anything else. They lean their head back against the sink cabinet and force their eyes open a crack, looking at Teddy from beneath their lids.

Something that must be their voice floats out of them. “Do you want me to keep going?”

They watch Teddy worry his lip, his eyes trained on his knees. The towel has slipped down from his shoulders to his elbows, and they watch as his chest rises and falls in shaky breaths. They wonder if he's replaying the scene in his head too, now.

Sam leaning over him, pushing into him as he squirms and protests, telling him to keep quiet. Spilling inside of him, leaving Teddy to pull on his clothes with semen still running down his leg. Sam probably didn't even bother to clean him out, did he? That fucker. Fyn lays out the film strip in their mind, reaches for their scissors, and methodically snips away Sam's face from every individual frame.

Teddy picks at the fibers of his towel draped around his elbow, then asks very softly, "What do you do next?"

Fyn shudders. They shouldn't feel more drunk than when they started. They feel a surge of dizziness, the dream-like unreality overtaking them in a rush. What do they do next?

“I didn't bring lube,” Fyn says, keeping to the original story, “and I didn't bring a condom, either, so don't bother to ask. That just means I have to make sure you're ready for me. I push you onto the bed, and tell you that you can scream all you want– no one's going to hear anything over the party.”

It doesn't feel like they're fully in their apartment anymore. Their blood is pounding so loudly in their ears, it might as well be the bass from the subwoofers in another room. Through their eyelashes, the haze of red from the shower curtain lays over Teddy like a rose-colored filter.

His expression is bemused, troubled, wary. They never understand why people seem to think he's so stoic– all those microexpressions are so obvious on his face.

“I suck you off,” Fyn says, still watching him, and sees the flicker across his face, the betrayal of interest and the immediate shame that comes from it. “I do it right. It's not for you, even if I like hearing you gasp for me. Your body is mine, and I don't care if you want this or not; it responds to me. Maybe I fuck you with my tongue, if you're not wet enough. Maybe I stick a finger or two up your ass, just to claim that too, to remind you that I won't take you that way, that it would hurt. You’ll be grateful I'm using your front hole.”

“Jesus,” Teddy says weakly. He looks horrified, disgusted. His eyes are fixed on Fyn like he can't look away. They realize they're absentmindedly kneading at their legs, a steady push-pull like they're kneading dough.

“You come,” Fyn tells him, voice dropping pitch, “once, maybe twice, before I do anything with your pussy. I'm a big guy, right? Stronger than you. Maybe I've got a big dick to match. Maybe you want it to hurt, after everything. It doesn't hurt enough, because you're so wet for me. Maybe you beg me to wait, to stop, and I don't, because I don't care what you want. No– I know better than you. I hear your no's and your please’s and I don't stop.”

Fyn scrunches their eyebrows, surprised at themselves. That's not one of their kinks, but it feels like it fits in this moment. They look back at Teddy, and he's open-mouthed, eyes wide. He seems even more naked than he should, somehow, and it takes Fyn a moment to connect that it's because he's not wearing his glasses. His towel has slipped all the way down. It’s only now that they notice there’s a hand between his legs, not moving, but waiting.

They make eye contact before continuing. “Maybe, maybe, you come from it anyway– on my dirty prick shoved all the way up in your guts.”

Teddy tenses. There's a climax coming, and Fyn feels the familiar teetering of being on the edge of the denouement. They need to wrap up the plotlines.

“And only once I've had my fill of your cunt, when you're tired and sore and your throat hurts from crying for help that won't come, then I'll flip you over and take your ass so hard you’ll limp for a week. I'll come in you. I’ll tell you how I'm breeding you like a slut, here in this dirty bedroom, and you’ll thank me for it. I’ll leave my cum inside you and tell you to let the next man you whore yourself out to lick it out. I’ll tell you–” they lean forward, grinning in triumph, “see you in class.”

Teddy sucks in a sharp breath, eyes scrunching shut, then freezes. Fyn freezes. They're almost afraid to blink, as if the curtain will fall the moment they do, but finally, finally they let their eyes fall shut. When they open them again, the opposite occurs.

The walls of the bathroom fall away, replaced by the wide expanse of a stage, the heat of the spotlight on their back. They see Teddy, still sat in the tub — he's not wearing stage makeup, skin bare and flushed redder than they've ever seen it before, but it doesn't matter. The expression he makes isn't for the audience, face twisted up into a knot, mouth caught in a silent gasp, curls clinging to the frame of his face. His body tenses. His hand freezes from its furious rubbing between his legs. The moment hangs beneath the sweltering heat of the spotlight, the applause is imminent—

Teddy lets out a choked, frustrated sound, and the exhale splutters all of him all at once. He slumps forward, strings cut, head thumping against his knees. "Fuck."

Fyn blinks for what feels like the first time in ages. The spotlight is gone, replaced once more with the balmy heat of the bathroom. All at once, they're more aware of their own skin than they've been all night, picking at the edges of the robe rhythmically. "Did…Did you just…?"

Teddy doesn't open his eyes, still folded over his own knees, but still his face twists — fear, anger, despair. A broken noise from the depths of his throat precedes his answer. "No," he says weakly, sounding so frustrated he could cry.

"Oh, baby," Fyn says sympathetically. Teddy lets out a sniffle, raising his hands and rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Fyn needs to get closer; they tuck their legs up underneath them and rise to their feet, take two weighty strides across the bathroom, and sit down on the edge of the tub beside him.

They hold open their arms. It takes a few moments before Teddy looks up. A look passes between them. Fyn has offered this before, and when Teddy made it clear he wasn't interested, they left it. They're happy being friends. This doesn't have to break that.

“You don't have to ask for it,” Fyn says quietly, guessing the reason for the hesitation. “Just come here.”

Teddy screws up his face again.

“Come here. Let me help.”

Teddy crawls awkwardly out of the tub, losing his towel in the process. He lands heavily on his knees and falls immediately into Fyn's lap. Fyn grunts as they catch his weight.

“Right, okay, sit up,” Fyn says, strained. “I don't have any arm strength when I'm sober, let alone…whatever I am right now.”

Teddy resituates with some difficulty. They end up slightly tangled, with Fyn's knee pinned between the tub and Teddy's back, and both his legs hooked over theirs. Fyn’s gaze falls to Teddy’s chest. Teddy flinches back, knocking his elbow into the tub before crossing his arms across himself.

“Oh, don't hide,” Fyn purrs, hiding nerves behind familiar teasing. They put a hand hesitantly on his knee, and when Teddy only looks at them with wide eyes, they rest it there fully.

They don't remember the last time they were so nervous that they forgot how to breathe. Maybe opening night, playing Hamlet at the black box. No searing lights, no pit to separate them from the audience, no caked on makeup, and the worst stage fright they’d experienced in their life up until then, coming on without warning. There's that same adrenaline high now, too; that same sense of floating through a dream, outside of themselves, as captive to their own performance as the audience is.

They slide their hand a little further up Teddy's thigh, and take a shuddering breath when he does. Teddy's lips tremble.

“Just look at you,” Fyn says. Teddy's arms tighten a bit more across his chest. “Handsome boy. Is this what you wanted?”

Two fingers creep up the inside of Teddy's thighs, stopping just short of his crotch.

“Y-Yeah,” he answers weakly. “Yeah. Yes. Of course.”

Fyn gives him a sharp look. Teddy avoids meeting their eyes. They flick their fingertips across his sex and can already tell how wet he is – though that could be water, not slick. They’ll have to actually spread it between their fingers to tell.

“Don't lie to me,” Fyn says.

Teddy frowns, knees raising a bit, posture even more defensive.

“I'm not lying.”

Fyn scoots a little closer. Their fingertips trace lazy circles over the insides of his thighs, never quite making their target.

“Dear,” they say, “darling; I want you to listen very closely to me. No matter what you say, it's not going to stop me from stuffing you with as much of my hand as you can take.” They grab Teddy’s arm to keep him from pulling away, gripping hard, maybe even hard enough to bruise. It's hard to tell anything in this heated, dream-like space. “Now, listen. I am asking you a question. Do you want this?”

Teddy breathes rapidly, his eyes flashing wildly around, looking for escape; the portrait of a trapped prey animal. He makes the mistake of looking into Fyn's face. His expression twists from fear and discomfort to complete, frank vulnerability. He shakes his head once. His eyes fill. Something akin to grief overtakes his face all at once, and he bends double over his knees.

“No-no,” he chokes out. “I don't. I don't want it.”

“And what about earlier?” Fyn insists, voice quiet. “Did you want it, then?”

“I– at first, I-I– but then– but I didn't tell him t-to stop.”

“Oh, babe,” Fyn sighs, sympathetic and encouraging all at once. There's an implicit I believe you in their tone, a complete and undeserved confidence in him. They mean it. Something in them is sated just hearing him admit the truth to himself.

Fyn's hand rests firmly on the crease of his hip and thigh. Their thumb makes grounding, possessive circles on his skin. Teddy stares somewhere over their shoulder. He's shaking, making aborted little sounds as he tries to control his tears.

“I didn't tell him to stop,” he repeats, like it's a lifeline. “It was my choice.”

The look Fyn gives him is level. It's judgemental in the purest sense of the term: a scale, weighing his heart against a feather. They want him to feel that judgment. He cringes, a hand grabbing their shoulder, face twisting.

“Do you think,” Fyn says, quiet, the words offered up on the shiny plates of those scales, an answer already decided, and Teddy gasps between his teeth and grips their shoulder even tighter, “do you think it would have made a difference, if you'd told him no? Do you think he would have stopped? Or did you not try because you didn't think he would?”

“I don't know,” Teddy whispers. “Maybe. Yes. He would have…he would have stopped.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Teddy is silent again. Fyn’s thumb presses a little closer to his entrance, and oh, yes, he is wet. He's dripping. Teddy tenses.

“I'm not going to stop,” Fyn reminds him. It's a promise. Teddy makes a shaky sound, not quite recognizable as a laugh. “Now, let's practice.” Fyn leans in. Their hand inches closer. “Do you want this? Do you want me to touch you like this? You want more?”

“I– Fyn, this–”

“Do you want it? That's all I'm asking. Do you want me to fuck you?”

Teddy flushes red from hairline to sternum. “This isn't– I–”

“Do you want this?” Fyn snarls, and makes a clumsy grab over Teddy's cock.

Teddy flinches back like they've slapped him across the face. He takes a stunned, gasping inhale.

“No!” he cries out, “no, I don't– stop!”

He doesn't push them away, but he flails a bit and ends up grabbing their sleeve.

A grin curls up Fyn's face. A bit of that adrenaline, that tension, breaks over them. With it comes the confidence of finally tapping into an audience; breathing together, hearts beating together, emotions raw and close enough to the surface to play like an instrument.

“Good boy,” they croon.

They press their palm over Teddy's crotch, shifting closer again to get a better angle. Their fingers slip between his folds, and they press the heel of their hand against his prick. He bites back a cry. Fyn beams up at him, hungry and triumphant and proud.

“I don't want it,” Teddy repeats, voice coming out in cracks and heaves. “I don't want it, I don't, stop it–”

Fyn hushes him gently, pulling him against their chest. They continue to grind their hand against his prick.

“That's right,” they murmur. “Good boy. Thank you for being honest with me.”

Teddy tucks his knees up as much as he can, gripping at Fyn's robe, face fully pressed into their shoulder. He flinches and sobs and struggles weakly as Fyn works him slowly but inexorably towards climax.

“No, no, no, no, no–!”

Fyn hooks a knee around him and slips two fingers into his cunt. Teddy wheezes.

“I said no…I said no…” Teddy whimpers into their arms.

“Such a good boy. Doing so well. You're communicating perfectly, thank you. It's alright, sweetheart.”

“I don't– I don't, I can't, I– nonono stop stop–!”

“I'm not going to stop,” Fyn says, and clutches Teddy tight as he keens and scrabbles at their arms, hiding himself in their embrace as he spills over their hand. He clenches, hard, hot, and Fyn gasps as the heat goes straight to their clit. “Ohh, there we are, sweetie. Oh, good boy.”

They remove their fingers. Teddy has his arms around their neck, Fyn’s robe bunched in his fists. He tugs at it with each aftershock of his orgasm. Fyn absently licks a bit of the wet dripping down their wrist and wipes the rest on their robe. They wrap their arms around Teddy in return.

“Good boy,” they murmur into his hair, rocking him gently. “Good boy.”

Teddy quiets relatively quickly. He pushes himself up, sits back against the tub, hair mussed and bleary-eyed. Fyn reaches over and spins some toilet paper from the roll onto their fingers, and offers it to him. He takes it and blows his nose. His eyes and cheeks are red.

He reaches over for more toilet paper, folding it in his hands, and then hesitates. Fyn sees the way he's carefully not looking down at himself and makes a quick decision. They’ll let him do a little of the cleanup himself, give him a moment to catch his breath. They wonder if the rest of Sam's cum is out of him, yet.

Fyn smiles at him and stands, brushing their robe down.

“I'll be right back,” they promise. “Grabbing some water.”

Teddy nods, looking lost.

“Stay there,” they add, as if Teddy might somehow find his legs and bolt in the twenty seconds it takes them to get to the fridge and back.

Fyn makes their way to the kitchen without bothering to turn on the light. They pause once to lean against the wall, hissing a curse. Their clit is throbbing where it's tucked away between their legs. Fuck, they're in so much trouble.

They collect water and leftover cut fruit from a department soiree. The initial burst of adrenaline is starting to ebb away, replaced with that low, steady thrum of a performance underway just beyond the curtain and an expectant audience waiting for their character to return. They rest their forehead against the freezer door, staring down into the open fridge, and laugh in quiet incredulity to themselves. Maybe this is all a drug trip. That would make a lot more sense than it being real.

In the meantime, in whatever this is, Teddy is waiting for them.