Chapter 4 - The Fuckening

Teddy: Int. Fyn's Bedroom, Night

The process of getting from the bathroom to Fyn's bed is a little bit hazy. Teddy remembers Fyn slipping out of the room, leaving him sitting on the cold tile floor with a wad of toilet paper. He remembers them coming back, helping him up and wrapping his shoulders in the discarded towel from the tub. Then they'd walked him to the bedroom, sat him down on the half-made sheets with a bottle of water and a tupperware of berries, and hurried off to move the laundry to the dryer. He can hear them humming some tune from here — probably some musical song, but he doesn't recognize it.

Teddy picks up half a strawberry and pops it into his mouth. He feels…he doesn't know how he feels. Drunk, still, but not as much. The world isn't as fuzzy around the edges anymore, and he's slowly gaining the awareness back of his body — namely, how sore everything is. The itch of his drying hair clinging to the back of his neck. The ache of finger-sized bruises. The dull throb of his clit between his legs in not quite arousal, but more irritated neglect after having—

Um. Well.

He pulls his legs tighter together and grabs one of Fyn's knit blankets from the side of the bed, tugging it over his lap. Teddy doesn't get…aroused, really. Well, okay that's not true, and there'd been a two week period after he'd started T at the end of last year where he was certain he was going to be the first ever person recorded in human history to die from sexual frustration, but he doesn't usually get aroused enough to do anything about it. Maybe touch himself a little to relieve the pressure, but if anything, usually he can just…ignore it and it goes away.

He replays Fyn's words in his head, dragging him off to a back room and stripping him naked. Fucking him through his cries and pleas like a toy, only letting him come once they've—

"Okay," Fyn says as they step back into the room. "Clothes, labcoat, and towels — in case you want one that doesn't smell like it's been on the floor for three days — are in the dryer. As wonderful as a nude model I think you'd make, I'll be sure to send you home with at least some clothes."

Teddy chokes a little on the strawberry he'd been chewing on, hoping that he can pass off the fact that his face is burning on the crying in the bathroom part. If Fyn notices anything is up, they don't comment as they plop down beside him and take a blueberry of their own.

"Thanks," Teddy says. He goes to pull the blanket up higher around himself when he looks at his hands covered in strawberry juice. "Do you have a napkin?"

Fyn looks over at him. It's difficult to take them seriously when they're wearing that ridiculous get-up; he hasn't even bothered to ask what they are, knowing with certainty that it will lead to some half-hour rant about the intricacies of their costume choices as an art form. Probably best to just not mention that they just look like a slutty nun.

"Just wipe them on the covers," Fyn says. "I need to wash them anyway."

Teddy's nose scrunches at the suggestion involuntarily. "I'm not doing that."

"Or lick them clean, I don't care. You're amongst friends," Fyn says, then thinks for a second and corrects, "friend."

"I'm not doing that either."

"Here, just—" Fyn reaches over and snags his wrist, then pops his index and middle finger into their mouth. A swoop of emotion drops through his gut — amusement, heat, disgust — but his brain lags behind as they pop his fingers from the wet warmth of their tongue a second later. "There, all clean."

"Gross," Teddy says, shaking the spit from his fingers to ignore the…other feelings lined up behind it. It's only then that he remembers his towel and dries the rest of them on that.

Fyn leans forward and tries to lick his cheek next, and he pushes them away with an exasperated snort.

"Cleanliness is next to godliness, dear Theodore," Fyn says, crossing their hands over their heart. "I would never let a friend walk in the shadow of sin like that."

"I don't think licking people is very clean," Teddy says, trying to sound more irritable than he actually is. "There's thousands of bacteria in your mouth— have you even brushed your teeth today?"

"Oh no, have I committed an offense against the Lord?" Fyn gasps dramatically. They lean over, digging their fingers into the blanket across his lap. "Oh Father, forgive me, I know not what I do! The wicked ways of the world have corrupted my chaste heart!"

Fuck, they're trying to make him laugh and it's working. He pinches his face into a disapproving frown and struggles to keep it there. "I'm not your father. Don't call me that."

"What about, 'forgive me daddy, I've been naughty'?"

"Don't call me that either!" Teddy protests, but he does let out a snort. Fyn grins at this widely, triumphant as they lean back with their hands clasped together in a mockery of prayer.

"Fine, I'll be the one who's the authoritative religious leader then.” They clear their throat and speak in a sonorous, wise voice. “Come, my child; I can see that look in your troubled eyes. Tell your Mother Superior what ails you."

Teddy only rolls his eyes, looking away. "You're awful, you know that?" he says, unable to keep the fondness from his voice. Christ. For the laundry list of terrible traits he could rattle off about them if prompted, it is shockingly difficult to actually dislike Fyn.

And then he sees them out of the corner of his vision just as their eyes flick down to his chest, just as they've been doing all evening, and that ease that has slowly been building over the past few minutes is all scooped out of his gut at once to be replaced with a dark, anxious pit. He winces involuntarily, then crosses his arms in front of his chest. Don't, he thinks fiercely, stubbornly, as if the universe has ever once listened to him.

"…Okay, I know you don't want me to bring it up—"

Damn it.

"But like," Fyn continues, "you should probably take care of that, right?" They nod downwards as they speak, forcing him to follow their gaze.

If he had to put it into words, Teddy would say he'd vastly prefer to go through life without ever having to think about his chest. He'd pretty much worn the tightest sports bra he could find from age thirteen up until he'd discovered binders. Most people don't bother him about it. Only once or twice has he encountered someone who tried to make him feel weird about wanting to keep his shirt on.

He doesn't know why he'd said yes when Sam had asked to play with his— his tits, but that same surge of nausea rises up again as he looks at the extent of what he'd done. The one just below his left collarbone is the worst, having broken the skin and bled a little, and it aches as he prods a careful finger at it.

“Don't poke it,” Fyn moans, grabbing his hand.

“It hurts.”

“Yeah, because you're poking it.” Fyn makes an extremely grumpy expression and flops back on the bed, only to slide all the way off of it onto the floor, their robe riding all the way up to their own chest and showing off a full set of fishnets and garters before Teddy looks away.

“Making me get up again,” Fyn whines.

“I'm sorry?” Teddy says, risking a glance back at them. They're now tilted forward, face smashed into the ground, ass in the air. As he watches, they slowly slide flat on their stomach. There's not a lot of space, and their head ends up hitting the edge of the closet as their feet go under the bed. Teddy winces. “I can get…whatever it is you're getting up for.”

“Noo, I'm the host,” Fyn says, rolling over awkwardly. “Stay there. If you move I'll…” they scrunch their face and wave their hand, “...do something. Don't…don't poke anything.” There's a moment before their grin comes back, catty and mischievous. “That's my job.”

“...What?” Teddy asks.

“That was supposed to be a sex joke. Nevermind, I'm too– too whatever to be clever,” Fyn sighs. They get to their feet and stagger to the door.

They’re back before Teddy can get anxious about sitting in Fyn’s room alone. They toss a first aid kit on the bed and press a collection of pills into his hand.

“Ibuprofen,” they explain, “and Tylenol. And Advil. Might have some Aleve, too. Don't know what you prefer.”

“Ibuprofen and Advil are the same thing,” Teddy says, though he’s not sure they’re listening. He takes two pills from the first bottle and dry swallows them.

Fyn folds themselves back onto the bed, cross-legged, and pops open the first aid kit. They tear open an alcohol wipe and lean forward.

“Here,” they say, holding it up.

“I can do it,” Teddy says, leaning back automatically. He really wishes he could turn off his blush. He's starting to feel feverish with how often his blood is rushing to his face.

“Suit yourself,” Fyn shrugs, handing the alcohol pad to him.

Teddy hesitates. He really should wash his hands. Fyn had just had their mouth on his fingers. But that means getting up, and he's still mostly unclothed. He winces at the bad form, but dabs the alcohol pad at the cut on his skin.

Fyn smears a bit of antibiotic cream on a bandaid and then smooths it across his skin.

“There,” they say, and lean forward and kiss over the spot. “All better.”

Teddy opens his mouth to say something and discovers he has absolutely no idea what to do, let alone say.

“Uh,” he says.

Fyn is already back on their feet, digging through their closet. They stand on tiptoes to reach to the very back of a shelf, and pull out a crumpled piece of fabric.

“It's not super supportive, but you shouldn't sleep in anything tight, anyway,” Fyn says, tossing it to him. Teddy unfolds it cautiously, and then stares, stupefied, at a binder tank. It's stretched out and too big to start for him, anyway, but he feels his eyes start to well up again.

Fyn is still digging through their closet, muttering to themselves. Teddy pulls the tank hastily over his head. As expected, it doesn't do much to flatten his chest, but just having the bit of support and coverage makes him feel weak with relief.

“Sweatshirt!” Fyn proclaims, dragging out a grey hoodie with a prep school logo on it. “Doesn't really fit me anymore, but you're fucking thin. See if that works.”

Teddy catches it and pulls it on. It feels weird to be wearing layers of Fyn's clothes– like their essence is right up against his skin. The tank and the hoodie smell like them, even though he knows they're clean.

“Thanks,” he says. He doesn't start crying again, which is a win.

“No prob,” Fyn says, bouncing back down beside him on the bed. “Do you want me to take a look at the other marks?”

“Sure,” Teddy says, so caught up in the relief of clean clothes that he doesn't think about what he's agreeing to until Fyn tugs the blanket off his lap. He yelps and snatches it back, only to meet their bemused eyes and remember the brutal hickey on the inside of his leg.

Fyn waits, hand raised, questioning. "Feeling shy all of a sudden?"

Teddy splutters for an answer. Why? Why? This isn't— they're not— "That's not—"

Fyn lets out a snort. They're close enough that he can feel their breath on his skin, which is definitely not doing…things to him. No sirree. Okay, so maybe he's not as sobered up as he was assuming.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," Fyn says sweetly, hand hovering closer to the blanket. They give him a look, a silent question, and when he fails to protest, fold back the blanket to expose his lower half.

"Oooooo yeah, okay. That's kind of a nasty one."

Teddy forces himself to look down. The mark on his inner thigh is…bad. Okay, it's bad, he'll admit. It's already bruising an ugly purple, and he's pretty sure he can pick out individual teeth marks framing the wound. Fyn reaches over, dangerously close to his clit, and thumbs over the mark gingerly. He lets out a hiss — it hurts.

"Was he roleplaying as some sort of animal?" Fyn asks. They sound less amused now, more irritated at having to think about Sam again. "…Do you even like being bitten?"

"What?" Teddy feels his face flare red again. "No, I— that's not—"

"You don't like being bitten?" No, scratch irritation. Now they sound angry.

"That isn't—! I-I don't know!" Does he? He's never thought about it. He knows some people enjoy it, conceptually, just like some people like dressing up in strappy leather outfits or being filled with eggs or having sex in front of others. Actually, he's pretty sure Fyn has told him that they enjoy all of that. The point still stands. "I-it's just— y'know. I guess he thought it would be…hot? Kinky, or whatever. Like the stuff you like."

"Teddy. Baby." They're giving him that disappointed look that makes him want to start spilling out excuses, even if Sam doesn't deserve them. "That's not kink."

Teddy licks his lips. "…It's not?"

"Well, okay, technically I guess, but–" they pull over the first aid kit, plucking a fresh alcohol wipe from the disorganized pile of medical supplies and tear it open, "kink is all about structure. Rules. Specifically setting them up beforehand and not springing it on someone without consulting them first. That's just being an ass." They pause, thinking for a moment. "Actually, you'd probably like it. Kink, I mean. I already know you like being an ass."

Teddy frowns as Fyn stands, wobbly, then sinks to their knees in front of him. He doesn't know about that one. He tries to imagine himself in some sort of Hellraiser-type fetish gear, and the mental image is so ridiculous that he winces involuntarily. "I don't know about that."

Fyn puts their hands on his knees and pushes them apart. He has a very good view of their piercings from here, glistening down the bridge of their nose and framing their face. They're nice to look at. He might have always had a little bit of a thing for piercings.

"Alright, let's see…" Fyn scoots closer, and then swipes the pad across the wound. Teddy jumps slightly at the cold, at the sting, digging his nails into the covers.

To his horror, his cock jumps too. He feels himself freeze, muscles tensing, holding his breath.

But if Fyn notices, they don't say anything. Instead, they reach around him, grab a bandaid and the tube of antibiotic cream, and repeat the same process as they'd done with his chest. Cream on bandaid, bandaid on skin, smooth, press a kiss to it. "Mwah," they pucker their lips dramatically.

Teddy rolls his eyes at their antics. Idiot, he thinks fondly.

Then Fyn pulls back just slightly, just enough to stare eye-level with his crotch.

"Bonjour, monsieur,” they say directly to his cock. “Lovely having your acknowledgement as well."

Teddy feels himself flush all the way to his chest, a jolt of electricity traveling straight down his spine. "Um." Fuck, fuck, what does he say to that? ‘Ignore that’? No. Ask why his dick is apparently French? No. ‘I'm not hard, what are you talking about’? Absolutely not.

He's just— he's still not really used to getting erections. Still not sure exactly what brings them on, because every one he gets seems completely random. Like, yes, he'll get hard masturbating, but the same could be said about the seam of his jeans rubbing against him the wrong way, or scratching an itch on his leg, or eating a damn ice cream cone. It's random, and it's uncontrollable, and he's currently fighting the urge to just stick his hand between his legs and push his clit back down so it's not acting like a fucking antennae to his internal turmoil.

Fyn leans back a bit, unfazed, and rests their cheek on his thigh. "Please tell me at least his mouth was better than his dick."

Teddy gawks, mouth opening and closing. "What?"

The mischievous grin on Fyn's face falters. "He didn't even go down on you?"

"He—" Teddy stops himself. He doesn't know why he's still fighting with this stupid urge to defend Sam, as if he deserves it. Somehow saying he just sucked my chest and then put a condom on sounds even worse in his head, so he says, "He…we got interrupted, but he— he probably would have." Maybe. Possibly.

"Oh my god," Fyn moans, tilting their head back. "How is everything you say about this guy worse?"

"W-well, I left after, so—"

"That's like, basic courtesy, you know? Basic courtesy! If you come before your partner you use your hand or your mouth or something! You know?!"

Teddy doesn't know. Teddy's only given oral once to a guy whose dick was too big to make it pleasurable for either of them, so his experience in the area is somewhat…limited. "Um."

Fyn sits back. They bite their lip. It makes their snakebite piercings pull a bit, and suddenly Teddy is calculating the distance between mouth and chin and the equivalent distances between his clit and entrance, and no! No, he doesn't need to be thinking about them that way.

“So,” Fyn says, looking up at him, more hesitant than he’s ever seen them before, “I'm…I'm not sober. You're–” they gesture to him.

Teddy is slightly offended, even though they're right. Then the offense is driven out of his head when they put a hand directly over the bandage they've just placed on his thigh. The pressure sends a twinge of pain up his leg, and the ache is far too similar to the ache in his clit. He curls his toes like he can force both pain and arousal away with pure tension.

“Earlier…” Fyn begins, and Teddy cuts them off.

“You were just helping me,” Teddy says quickly. “It was fine. It was–” he needs a better word than fine– “it w-was– nice.”

Fyn cracks a smile. There's something in their eyes that chills him a bit. He thinks he's seen the same, mirror-eyed focus in the lions pacing their enclosure at the zoo, or maybe birds of prey. Owls, or something. It's cold.

“It definitely wasn't nice,” they say.

Teddy shivers. “Nice was the wrong word,” he admits in a thin voice. Their hand is right there.

“We’re already breaking the kink rules,” Fyn says. Their thumb makes a circle over his bandage, pressing slightly. Teddy tries not to wince. He doesn't think Fyn's doing it on purpose, but he's not sure. “Not supposed to do things not sober. Definitely not supposed to negotiate drink. Drunk. Mm. You know what I mean.”

“I'm not that drunk anymore,” Teddy says, heart in his throat. Is he encouraging this? No, no: he's just clarifying things. That's all.

Fyn stares at him. Their eyeliner and mascara is smeared and shadowed around their eyes, and the black makes the blue pop even more than usual. There's a ring of yellow around their pupils that he's never noticed before. His hands are trembling.

“I'm not feeling particularly put together at the moment,” Fyn says, words placed deliberately as chess pieces, and something in how they say it makes it clear they're not just talking about how drunk or– did they say they were high?-- they are. They somehow make their confession sound like an offer.

Not breaking eye contact, they swallow, and their Adam's apple bobs visibly. Teddy feels cold sweat prickle all over his body. He doesn't even have the excuse of the humidity in the bathroom this time.

“We didn't finish the story,” Fyn adds, their tone darkening, that cold light in their eyes suddenly flashing razor sharp. They press their thumb into the bruise on Teddy's thigh and this time he knows it's intentional.

He sucks in a breath at the pain and hisses, grabbing the edge of the bed and doing his best not to squirm.

“What do you mean?” he asks, feigning ignorance for just a little longer.

His hair is damp. He can smell Fyn's shampoo from his own curls. He knows it's theirs because, more than the fact that it was some henna-brightening-red shampoo, he recognizes the smell from all the times they've enthusiastically hugged him and he's found himself with a faceful of their hair. It's not helping his thought process.

Fyn's eyes flick over his face, reading him, and then they bite the inside of their cheek with a coy smile.

“We only got through act one,” they say. “The part where I make sure you're ready for me to ravish you. The ravishing still hasn't happened.”

“Hasn't it?” Teddy asks, thrown, and feeling very, very out of his depth. Fyn sits up on their heels, using Teddy's legs to support themselves, and he squawks this time as they press into his bruises.

“No, no,” Fyn replies, grinning fully now. “Oh, honey. I haven't even begun to show you what ravishment means.”

He recognizes the look on their face. It's the same expression of excitement that they get when they're in the flow of telling some ridiculous story or expounding on one of their Theories of the Universe. Teddy feels the same sinking sense of inevitability that he does during those times, when it's easiest to let them go and pretend like he's not enjoying their enthusiasm.

“You said–” he says hoarsely, “you said you'd–” fuck me with your tongue. He can't say that. He searches for something he can say.

“You’re the…the Mother Superior, right?” he tries, and then instantly regrets opening his mouth when it comes out stilted and not at all sexy or confident. “Ah, don't– forget that, please–”

Fyn's grin widens even more.

“Y’know, that thing about rules and kink,” Fyn says, voice changing to one far more confident and confiding, “I've always had a bit of a problem with my vows. Poverty, chastity… obedience.” They grab his hips and pull him forward an inch.

“Fyn–!”

“I won't tell the kink police if you don't,” Fyn says. They grin up at him — wicked, irreverent, hungry — and Teddy can feel just how wet he already is. Fuck, they haven't even touched him yet and he can feel slick running down his ass.

"Mother Superior…” they murmur to themselves as if considering it, and then they laugh, bright and cackling. “Well. Why don't you set an example for me, sweet boy?" They nuzzle their cheek on his thigh, and the friction of leg hair and stubble sends a shiver up his spine. "Give mama a good lesson in obedience."

Fyn licks one of the lesser hickeys on Teddy's thigh. They don't blink as they stare up at him, rekindling that infernal heat that's been building in him all evening. This is his last chance. Last chance to back out. Call it off. He can go sleep on the couch and chalk this all up to drunk Halloween weirdness in the morning; they don't have to talk about it, it's nothing that needs lingering.

But there's that damn feeling he keeps getting in his gut. Not the arousal or the fear, either. He's cognizant to the bizarreness of his metaphor, and yet he can't find any other way to describe it other than the same feeling he gets standing over a cadaver, smooth, lifeless skin just waiting to be cut open and explored and known. He ties his mask, pulls down the overhead lamp. When he looks back to the corpse's face, they're staring at him with those same sharp blue eyes, and he knows the visual is a sick and fucked up fantasy to have and he can't help it he's excited he's so damn curious he has to know—

He has to know. He has to. Fyn's such an open book that no one else has bothered to take notes on them. He feels like a rabbit staring down the mouth of the wolf, finally getting to see the one thing he's been warned of all his life.

Teddy gives a jerky nod.

Fyn bares their teeth at him, then leans forward and gives him a long, leisurely lick over the cunt.

Teddy jumps at the contact, gasp caught in his throat. He hasn't had oral sex in— in a while. No, scratch that; he hasn't had oral sex since he's gone on T, which leaves the sensation of Fyn's tongue along his folds, all the way up to his cock that they pull into their mouth and suck to be a completely foreign sensation. Their lips are pink as they pull back, smirk caught on their face. Teddy feels the chill of metal as their snake bites brush his labia, finally toppling the whiny gasp from his lips. Fuck, fuck.

"You're quite wet," Fyn observes as they bring their hand up to pet his cock. The other is rubbing gentle, grounding swirls into the curve of his thigh. "Did someone help you get ready to meet me?"

Fuck, they want him to act too? He can barely think of anything else as they stroke two fingers on either side of his cock, pinching ever so slightly. He's pretty sure he's never been harder in his life. He tries to think of a coherent answer that doesn't make him feel like he's fumbling his lines in front of a live audience. "N-n— ah— no."

Their fingers pinch the tip of his cock — a warning. Teddy yelps in spite of himself.

"Are you telling the truth, my child?" they ask sternly, and it almost doesn't sound like Fyn anymore; they're in character.

Fyn leans back in, teasing the tip of his cock with their tongue as their index finger probes his entrance. The amount of slick he's producing goes from embarrassing to humiliating the instant they stick a knuckle in with absolutely zero resistance.

"N-no, there was—" he sucks in a breath, "th-there was another. A-a nun, who helped me, Mother." No, shit, that's not right. "Mother Superior."

Fyn hums and he feels the vibration straight to his core.

"I see," they say approvingly, smugly, even. "She prepared you well enough. My daughters do know how to care for the congregation. Now–” Fyn slips a hand up under Teddy's borrowed sweatshirt to pinch his side, drawing a gasp from his lips, “--I hear you’ve been drawing lustful attention from the other parishioners. I'm afraid we just can't have you distracting the prayerful. Luckily for you, sweet child, I have just the solution."

They wink up at him, then nudge his legs further apart just a bit so they can stroke their tongue between his folds. Their hands tighten briefly on his thighs.

The noises he's making are downright pathetic. He can't help it; he doesn't have the brainspace to string anything more coherent together. Every thought that makes it past the first neuron feels like it's sparking in his skull, a cacophony of electrical failure, and yet he can't even think of what he's supposed to actually say in this situation.

He can't tell if he's just drunk or madly horny or if Fyn truly is so insanely good at oral sex to completely turn his brain off, but he grips the sheets for dear life as they simultaneously press down on his cock and his inner walls in one concentrated pressure point and oh god oh jesus fucking christ—

"Fyn—" he chokes out breathlessly, raspily.

"Look at you. Seems like you can learn proper reverence," Fyn praises. Teddy instantly mourns the loss of their tongue inside him, fighting off the instinct to grab their hair and pull them back when he knows his shaky elbows are all that's holding him upright at the moment. They press a kiss to the tip of his cock, and he jolts. "For a slut, you're good at following instructions, aren't you? Good at taking it."

A sudden surge roars through him to protest, to fight back. He imagines them crawling atop of him, pinning down his wrists as he cries and pleads for them to stop. He doesn't want them to stop, not really, but the scene laid out in the bathroom plays over again in his mind as he whimpers. "N-no."

"No, you can't follow instructions?" Fyn says, darkly amused. "Or no, you don't want this divine gift I'm bestowing upon you?"

Teddy shakes his head. He chokes on his words, something between a sob and a pleasured cry. "Stop," he tests out, fire coiling in his belly at how right it feels, "Stop. Stop it."

"Oh, sweetheart," Fyn says. They press a gentle kiss to his thigh, just beside the bandage. "You don't get a choice in the matter. Now, whether you believe this is instruction or punishment is up to you.”

"I— Ah!" Teddy's cut off by a yelp as Fyn baps his cunt with the back of their hand, not hard enough to constitute as an actual slap, but enough to get his attention. "Please," he hears himself moan miserably.

"I know sweet child, I know," Fyn assures him sweetly. They pause their two-fingered stroking of his cock, the rhythming pumping of their fingers inside him, and think for a moment. "Why don't you say a prayer for me?"

Teddy's yanked from his blissful haze in an instant at the question, shooting them a confused look. "Wh-what?"

"Pray," Fyn repeats with a sly smile. "We're making a good little religious boy out of you, aren't we?"

A prayer? What are they— do they expect him to know how to pray? He can probably count the number of times he's actually set foot in a church over his lifetime, and none of them were long enough to actually retain any knowledge of how they work. Not to mention the fact that if he lifts his hands from the bed now, he's quite certain he won't be able to keep himself upright. "Fyn—"

"C'mon, give me a good one," they say. They lower their voice. “Beg your higher power for mercy. You won't find it from me.”

They raise their hand, pressing two fingers into his sternum, and it takes nothing for the last bastions of Teddy's upper-body strength to dissolve as he flops back into the pillows behind him. He's almost certain he's in the process of becoming the world's first human jello mold.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters breathlessly.

Fyn smirks. "There you go, that’s the spirit." It's with that that they hook their hands up under his ass, cant his hips, and grind their tongue back into his cunt. They make a soft, mewling whimper, pulling back just enough to gasp, character dropped entirely, “oh, fuck,” before shoving their face back between his legs with renewed fervor.

Teddy doesn't have a word for whatever the hell they're doing now. There's eating out and then there's driving their face into his cunt like they're actually going to eat him, and all he can do is curl his toes and grip the bedding for dear life. It's sloppy and uncoordinated. Their fingers have completely lost their rhythm as they curl inside him; their chin grinds against his folds and their nose grinds against his cock to the point where it's almost painful, almost too much. They adjust their grip, left hand coming up on his hip to press directly over the bruise left there early that night, and his whole vision sparks out in the overwhelming pleasure-pain.

"Fyn," he gasps.

"Fuuuuck, you're so good," Fyn says, their voice wrecked and breath tickling the tip of his cock. "You're so good to me." He lets out a yelp as they shove their face back into the space between his legs without warning.

"Fyn," Teddy chokes. He hasn't even done anything and yet his voice sounds fucked-out and raw as it dribbles from his lips. "Fyn. Fyn—"

Fyn hums, moans, and Teddy feels the vibration up the whole expanse of his spine. He can feel something building within him, wicked hot and nauseating, and he doesn't know whether to push them away or grab their hair and shove their tongue as deep as it will go into his cunt. He needs them to stop. He needs them to keep going. It hurts, it's too much, it's sloppy and raw and awful and perfect. He doesn't think he could force them away even if he tried; the look on their face says they live there now, between his legs. "Fyn, Fyn stop. Fyn—"

They suck his cock into their mouth, and he almost screams at the burning heat that roars through him. His hips buck into them involuntarily; he feels his pubic bone hit their nose and yet it does nothing to slow their pace, their fervor, their unrelenting hunger— they have to stop, they have to—

"I can't— Fyn, stop! I can't, I can't, please, I can't—" He feels overwhelmed tears spilling down his cheeks now. It's too much, it's too much, it's exactly what he needs and it's too much— "Fyn!"

They flick their tongue inside him just as their hand comes up off his hip to tug at his cock with two fingers, and that's it, that's it, Teddy is gone.

He's burning. It's a sharp, hot heat across his skin, crisping him, and for a delirious moment he thinks he understands why so many people have worshipped the sun. No: it's too small, to direct, to be the sun. A spotlight. Then there's soft, cool darkness sweeping up him like the shadow of wings, flicking over unimaginably sensitive places. Everywhere the shadow passes stings even sharper when the heat hits him again.

“No!” Oh god, this is going to kill him. “I can't!”

“I told you,” a voice floats to the surface of the roaring in his ears, gently amused, “you don't get a choice.”

Another long, lazy lick up his cunt, the swoop of cool, forgiving darkness, and his voice cracks as he screams.

“Two,” Fyn’s voice in his ear, even though that’s impossible when they're currently wrecking him from between his legs. “Let's see if we can get three, shall we?”

Teddy heaves for breath. He can already feel the band tightening around his eyes, the flickers of his impending migraine surrounding his brain, forking into him like heat lightning. He starts to become aware of himself again, just a bit– enough to be embarrassed by the situation, and the fact that Fyn is still lapping at his cunt like a cat– and then sensation becomes overwhelming again.

He manages a startled, panicked shout as his release doesn't bludgeon him over the head this time as much as mug him and leave him for dead. The pain-pleasure tips into something sickly. He reflexively kicks and struggles, unable to bear it, too close to dissociating into that same awful space he goes to when he's overwhelmed with school and work and everything.

The lapping, the pressure, the burning: it all stops. He gasps, floating slowly down from that scalding place under the sun and back into recognizable shocks of pleasure. The gasps turn into strangled sobs. He's spread eagle, blinking through tears and hazy black spots. His body doesn't feel like his, and it feels completely like his, and it feels like nothing at all.

The bed shifts; Fyn moving up beside him until they can burrow under his arm to wrap their limbs around him like a limpet. Their leg brushes close to Teddy's cock and he whimpers and flinches.

“So, three was too much,” Fyn mumbles into his shoulder.

“Uh huh,” Teddy manages. He wishes he knew how to stop crying.

“You…” Fyn says, nuzzling their face against his chest. His heart plummets, he's so certain they're going to say something like you're pathetic or you're pretty high maintenance or, worse still you should leave. “You're a good boy,” they finish instead. “Such a…a good boy. So good.” They sigh, voice trailing off. “Thank you, babe.”

Teddy whimpers, and then he screws up his face tight to keep from dissolving into sobs. There are still lazy sparks of pleasure meandering through him, shorting out his brain, making his body feel downright inhabitable. He shakes with the effort to keep himself together.

Fyn doesn't move except to snuggle closer to him, an arm thrown across his chest. It takes a few minutes but he manages to get the tears under control, and then the shaking, and then, finally, he can take slow, deep breaths without feeling like the slightest thing is going to set him off again.

Fyn is curled up against him. He's still wearing their sweatshirt. He's pretty certain they haven't wiped their face. He can…he can smell himself on them. He takes a few more deep breaths, quelling a panic that doesn't quite come. He's…he's too exhausted? No, that can't be right. Exhaustion has never gotten in the way of panic before. Maybe something about the oxytocin released by sex–ual contact, he finished hurriedly.

It hadn't really been sex, after all. Fyn hadn't even come. And it wasn't like with him and Sam, where he'd tried to come and hadn't. Fyn hadn't even tried. It couldn't be sex if both of them weren't trying to get off, right? Fyn was just…finishing the story they'd concocted, or whatever. They were playing a role. They were both playing roles, Teddy reminds himself. None of it was real.

He lets out a shaky breath, a weird mixture of relief and disappointment churning in his gut. None of it was real.

Teddy closes his eyes, Fyn heavy and making tiny, sleepy noises against him, and drifts.