Chapter 5 - Hunger

Fyn: Int. Fyn's Bedroom, Night

Fyn is not particularly good at oral sex.

Like most things, it all comes down to how much they enjoy it, and oral just isn't typically their favorite. They get bored easily, and it's uncomfortable on their jaw and their neck. They like performing oral, as a sort of favor for their partner or, on the few occasions they've gotten to indulge their exhibitionism, for someone watching. They don't mind being forced to it.

So they have no idea what sort of ravenous need it was that that made eating Teddy out the best fucking experience of their life. They feel sated in a way that feels fundamental, like a piece in their very being just clicked into place. Even their aching jaw feels right. Fuck, they're understanding a lot of things about face-sitting and the phrase ‘living between their thighs’ right now that they thought were just hyperbole.

When their laundry alarm goes off, they groan and crunch closer to Teddy. He whimpers and shifts in his sleep. That's what finally gets them to move. He deserves the rest, and clean clothes to wake up to.

They bring up half the laundry and leave the rest for the morning. No one else is going to use the machines at fuck-all in the morning. They stand with their arms full of sheets, habit disheveled and body still thrumming with satisfaction, at the side of their bed.

“Teds,” they call softly. “Hey.”

His face is crinkled up in consternation, even in sleep. Fuck. That shouldn't be making their chest hurt like that. They lean awkwardly over to shake his shoulder, sheets bundled beneath them.

“Asshole,” they say gently, “c’mon. Wakey wakey.”

“Nooo,” Teddy groans, pulling his arms up to hide his face. It's a normal, sleepy grumble, not a sexy begging one, but it still goes straight to Fyn's clit.

“Just for a minute. You can go to the bathroom while I change the sheets. Clean sheets, Teddy!”

Teddy cracks his eyes open. He looks like a grumpy baby bird. Fyn giggles.

“M’ fine,” he mumbles.

“No, you're not. C’mon, babe. Go take a piss, you can fall back asleep after that.”

It takes a little leverage to get Teddy out of bed, and he wobbles like a newborn foal, bare legs like toothpicks poking out from the borrowed sweatshirt. He tugs it down self-consciously, even half-awake, and stumbles to the bathroom.

Fyn changes the sheets quickly. They find Teddy’s towel from the shower and wipe their face. They finally pull off their habit, leaving them in a black slip and their fishnets, and then they sit on the bed and eat fruit until they start to get worried about how long Teddy's been gone.

Just when they're about to go check on him, he returns, looking only slightly more alive. Fyn pats the bed beside them. Teddy hobbles up and then drops so heavily that he knocks into their shoulder.

Fyn snorts and pushes him upright.

“Here,” they say, handing him a half-full bottle of water. “Drink this, and then you can sleep.”

“M’ fine,” he says again, but sips at it.

“You're still drunk, babe. You're going to regret not drinking enough water when you have a migraine in the morning.”

“Already have one,” he replies, somewhat petulant, like he shouldn't have to drink water when he's already suffering the consequences.

Fyn winces, an idea of why Teddy had taken so long occuring to them. “Did you throw up?”

Teddy shakes his head and then grimaces, putting a hand to his temple.

“Do you need to throw up?”

“No. Please stop asking,” Teddy says.

“Just want to make sure.” Fyn puts a hand on his shoulder, feeling for tension. As usual, Teddy’s muscles feel like poured cement. “You think you can eat something, too?”

Teddy makes another face. Adorable. Fyn wants to laugh, not because anything is funny, but because there's some sort of hollow balloon expanding in their chest that's too much to handle otherwise.

“Okay,” Fyn says, scooching back on the bed so they can get both hands on Teddy's shoulders. “You drink your water, then.” They rub at his neck, trying to warm up the muscles there before they try to unlock any of that tension. “You should really see a neurologist, y’know.”

“It's just headaches,” Teddy says. “Everybody gets those.”

“Everyone does not get those, and they're not just headaches. Stupid idiot genius,” Fyn says affectionately. He bats their hand to shoo them away, but the attempt is purposefully weak. "Do you at least have meds you could take?"

He goes to shake his head, then seems to remember that that's not a good idea, and says, "At home. But I already took ibuprofen." He takes a sip of his water. "Actually, do you have anything caffeinated? Not coffee."

Caffeinated but not coffee. Maybe it's the fact that they're still a bit drugged up that they struggle to remember what actually has caffeine in it. "Yeah," they say, hopping up to their feet. "Yeah, be right back."

The fridge is still as empty as it was when they'd come to get water, and they hang off the open door as they try to decide what fits the bill. Claire has a few energy drinks stashed in the bottom drawer, but it's probably too late for one of those. Actually, what time is it? Doesn't matter. Late. Early. This is going to fuck up their med schedule for a week.

They shove aside a carton of expired milk to find a single bottle of Dr. Pepper in the very back — likely also Claire's, considering Fyn only ever buys ginger beer — and grab that. It's probably flat, but the caffeine isn't in the bubbles, right? They go to shut the door when they spot a package of unopened slice cheese and grab that too. Teddy said he didn't want to eat, but cheese is good with fruit. The packaging says it expired two days ago, but turning it over doesn't seem to reveal any mold, so they think it should be okay. Actually, maybe they could make sandwiches. Grilled cheeses, maybe? Aren't you supposed to eat greasy stuff with hangovers?

In the end, between a broken toaster oven and a pile of uncleaned cookware in the sink (fuck midterms), they opt simply for cheese sandwiches. Fyn doesn't know how long they've been gone by the time they bring their spoils to the bedroom, but Teddy looks like he's on the verge of falling back asleep, having folded limply over at the waist with his arms hanging off the bed. Idiot, Fyn thinks affectionately. They kick him lightly in the shin, earning a surprised squawk.

"Wake up," they say, setting the plate down before climbing onto the bed next to him, "I know you said you didn't want to eat, but it'll make you feel better."

Teddy lets out a sleepy, unintelligible grumble.

"Here," they say, pressing the cold bottle against his forehead. He flinches away from the contact, one eye prying open in offense, but as soon as he seems to realize what they're giving him he pushes himself up to sitting position. He takes the bottle with clumsy hands, cracks it open, and takes a sip.

"Thanks," he says hoarsely.

"No problem," they say, pushing the plate closer. "Eat something too." He gives them an annoyed glare, which isn't too far from his normal, baseline expression, but picks up one of the sandwiches and nibbles on the crust.

Fyn's pretty sure that Teddy's clothes are still with the pile of laundry they left in the basement dryers, so they go about picking through what they do have as he eats. All their pants are probably too big for him in the waist, so they rummage through until they find a pair of black briefs and toss them his direction. "Here."

Teddy's expression is puzzled as he picks up the garment, holding it up to see what it is. It takes a moment before understanding sets in, and he shoots Fyn a confused, uncertain look. "What?"

"To cover your ass," they clarify. God, is he that drunk? "In case you don't want to Winnie-the-Pooh it. Sorry, yours are still in the dryer." When Teddy keeps staring at them, they add, “These are clean, oh my god. I know I'm not inspiring a lot of confidence in my housekeeping skills but I'm not that bad.”

Teddy looks down at the underwear, nose crinkled in…not disgust, but— uncertainty? Maybe? There's a blush creeping across his face as he opens his mouth to say something, but seems to think against it. Instead, he puts his soda aside, takes the underwear, and tugs them on. They're too big for him, but they both have the same flat ass, so they don't look like they'll fall off.

"…Thanks," Teddy mutters after a moment of silence, like he isn't sure he should be thanking them for this.

"No problem," Fyn says with a grin. They climb back on the bed beside him and take the other uneaten sandwich.

Teddy sits beside them silently, one hand on the bottle of soda, the other on his knee. They can't be sure if he's thinking about something extremely deeply or if his head is just hurting him, given the tight knit of his brow. Probably both, honestly. He's going to give himself stress lines if he hasn't already.

"I'm gonna have to get the pill," he says, sounding resignedly miserable.

Fyn quirks an eyebrow at him. "The pill?" they say, mid-bite of their sandwich. "I thought you were on the pill." They're certain they've seen the little pill packets lying on his bathroom sink before, along with every other medication he takes or has ever taken — even though Teddy is typically a bit more on top of his laundry than them, they share about the same level of disorganization.

"Not that one," Teddy says, "the— ugh, the emergency one." He frowns. “At least, I think you’re supposed to…?”

"Oh," Fyn says. Admittedly, they're a little out of their depth here, considering they don't favor the types of sex where pregnancy could be an issue. Then again, they suppose Teddy doesn't either. "…Now?" They're not sure any pharmacies are open at fuck-all o'clock.

"No," Teddy says, rubbing his palm into his left eye. "Just…sometime in the next twenty-four hours. Or maybe forty-eight, I don't remember."

Okay, that's…reassuring, at least. They didn't exactly want to go out and scour the city for some twenty-four hour pharmacy, if those even exist out here in the boonies, but they would if Teddy had said he needed it. "Okay then." They nudge his arm reassuringly. "I'll take you to the pharmacy in the morning."

"And I should…I should get tested," he continues, grimacing. "I don't know if— we didn't talk about— about if he had anything, so…um. Actually, you should probably get tested too, just in case, because—"

"I get tested regularly," Fyn reassures him. Okay, if he's overthinking this much, he must be feeling at least a bit better. "I don't have anything."

"Yeah, but, i-if I— if I gave you—"

"Okay, fine," they interrupt him before he can continue his doom spiraling, "we'll go to the pharmacy and then we'll both go to the doctor's, okay? And then we can go to the veterinarian. And then the chiropractor, and then the tattoo parlor—"

"Fyn," Teddy snips irritably.

"Teddy," Fyn retorts, shuffling around behind him to put their hands back on his shoulders. God, his muscles are like rocks; no wonder he's like this. "Look, it is ass o'clock in the morning. We can't do anything now, so stop thinking so much. Relax."

The back of his neck is already hot enough that they're not concerned about warming up his muscles anymore. They knead at him for a minute, then frown and reach around to put the back of their hand to his forehead. Teddy flinches back, almost smacking them in the nose (which is rather sore, now that they think about it) and then he goes carefully still.

“What are you doing?” he asks, as if Fyn is doing something insane and possibly dangerous.

“Checking to see if you have a fever,” Fyn replies.

“I don't,” Teddy says.

“Is that your professional medical opinion, Dr. Price?”

“Yes,” Teddy says impatiently. He pushes their hand away. Fyn catches his wrist and is immediately distracted from their play fighting.

“Jesus,” they say, unable to help themselves. It feels like Teddy's skin is full of taut metal cables. They feel their own hand just to compare, and no, tendons are not supposed to feel like that. “Fuck’s sake, babe, no wonder you get migraines all the time. I’m adding a massage therapist to the list of appointments tomorrow.”

They follow the lines of tension from his palm to his forearm, then his elbow, then gently pull his arm backwards towards themselves. Teddy has been conspicuously quiet, but he hisses at this and crunches his shoulder forward.

“Alright, up,” Fyn orders. They move back on the bed to give Teddy room. “Put your sandwich down. You can have it back in a minute.”

“Why?” Teddy asks, suspicious, even as he moves a little further onto the bed. He looks around for someplace to put his sandwich, and then places it on the side table, nose wrinkling.

“Because you are five million knots in a trenchcoat, that's why. C’mon, lay down.”

Teddy looks at Fyn, and then at the bed where they're patting to encourage him to lay down, and he flushes again. “I don't like massages,” he says quickly.

“Tough titties,” Fyn says with aggressive cheer. “I will fucking tackle you.”

Teddy lowers himself to the bed very cautiously for a man who’d just had his cock sucked there naught but twenty minutes ago.

“Head here,” Fyn says, moving back to giving him room.

“I don't know if–”

“Teddyyyyyyy,” Fyn moans. “I'm tired. You're tired. Just do this so we can both go to bed.”

Ha. Take that, Sam. You're not the only one who can weaponise relatability.

Teddy gets an expression on his face that says that he Does Not Approve of any of this, but he lies down. Fyn slides their hands under his head to his shoulder blades, then drags them back up along his spine to find the base of his skull. Teddy is blushing again, sweet boy. It'd be complementary if it didn't happen literally all the time.

“Okay, just…let your head rest,” Fyn says.

Teddy starts to lift his head at once. “What are you–?”

“I said let it rest, oh my god. Just don't move.”

Teddy instantly tenses all over. Fyn sighs.

“Don't make me get out my guided meditation voice.”

“I'm lying here!”

“Close your eyes, and imagine a beautiful forest,” Fyn intones. “In the forest is a path. Walk towards the path.”

“Shut up,” Teddy mutters, but he finally loosens his neck enough for Fyn to pull his head towards them.

They dig their fingers into the soft space between skull and vertebrae and lift. Teddy makes a punched out groan that is definitely not going to haunt Fyn's pre-sleep daydreams for the foreseeable future.

“See?” they say, shifting to get better leverage. They cradle Teddy’s skull in their hands, noting with satisfaction when he finally lets them hold the full weight of his head. “There we go, baby.”

“Wha…what are you–?” Teddy asks, voice soupy.

Fyn would preen if they had their hands free. Making Teddy scream had been one victory. Making him melt is definitely another. Hm. They make a mental note to examine why this feels so satisfying at some point when they're less intoxicated.

“Shhhhh,” they say out loud, smug. “No asking questions right now.”

Teddy makes a quiet, confused noise but doesn't protest further. When Fyn's hands get tired, they rest Teddy’s head on their ankles, sitting cross-legged again, and go back to trying to massage the tension out of the steel rebar he has in place of a neck.

"There we go," they say softly, mostly to themselves, "that's it." There's a fiery satisfaction in their gut at just how easily he turns to goop under their touch, head lolling with each movement of their fingers.

Okay, so maybe they need to get him a therapist along with a masseur and a neurologist. It's not healthy for someone to be this damn stressed all the time. Fyn gets stressed, sure, but not often, and certainly not the buildup of daily occurrences that have seemingly led to him developing concrete in his muscles. They knead at his shoulders, and Teddy lets out a whimper so soft it's almost inaudible.

"That hurt?" Fyn asks, not stopping their prodding.

"Just— just a little," Teddy says sleepily, dazedly. His eyes are heavy as he looks up at them. Fyn bonks him on the nose with their index finger, earning an annoyed glare, but it's worth it if not for the fact that they can smooth it away in the next second just by continuing what they're doing. He looks sweet like this, all mushy and blissed out. His curly hair clings to his forehead from residuals of the shower and sweat; his lips twitch under his wispy mustache. It's easy to see why people like him, even if he is a bit of an ass.

They readjust, shifting him higher into their lap so that they can reach the tight lock of muscles between his shoulder blades. It'd be easier to flip him over, but they're afraid they might lose him completely if they do that. They work their fingers up to the base of his neck, right to the area they know is worst off even before they can touch it. With the amount of time he spends hunching over his textbooks, it's a wonder that his spine isn't permanently C-shaped.

"Ah," Teddy says, face scrunching up into pain. "Okay, that one hurts."

"'S cause you're tense as a fucking tightrope," they say, readjusting their position. "Hang on."

"I'm not sure you should be — mm — pressing on it l-like that."

"Who here is the one with a spine like a pretzel? Let me work my magic," they retort. “I'll have you know, everyone wants to be in front of me for the massage train at rehearsals.”

"Fyn, I don't think — ahh — Fyn, I— eep!"

There's a satisfactory pop of something in Teddy's neck, and a few things happen in quick succession:

One, Fyn feels his shoulders unlock and turn to jello in their hands. In fact, his whole body turns to jello, sagging into the bed and threatening to melt right into the covers. Two, pre-jellification, he jolts like a startled rabbit, limbs spasming, head thrown back into their lap. It's not forceful enough to hurt — they're pretty sure Teddy couldn't hurt a fly even if he tried — but definitely enough for the both of them to feel as he bumps up against their crotch.

“Ow,” they say automatically, before their brain can catch up to let them know they aren't actually in pain. “Jesus. Are you okay?”

“Are– I'm sorry, I–” Teddy gasps, getting his elbows under himself to look up at them. If there'd been any hope that Teddy hadn't noticed what's happening under their slip, it disappears with the absolutely flaming blush on his face.

“Fine!” Fyn says quickly, “I'm fine, it was an automatic reaction. Please don't stress, you’ll ruin all my…” Teddy is staring at their crotch. He's staring at their crotch and they are absolutely not tucked anymore, “...hard…work…”

“Y-Yeah,” Teddy says faintly. He realizes what he's doing at last and looks away. “I…sorry, I should have… Do you–? Do you want me to–?”

Christ. Fyn doesn't know if this is hilarious or painful. They settle for something in the middle, grimacing as they laugh.

“Babe, you don't have to do anything,” they say.

“But do you want me to,” Teddy asks, suddenly stubborn. He's still not looking at them, and he's still blushing, but his brow is furrowed in determination.

Fyn takes a breath. Ah, fuck. They were hoping to avoid this. If Teddy thinks this is some sort of quid pro quo, or, worse, like Fyn’s been angling for this all along…

It's a direct question. They're really, really bad at deflecting direct questions, let alone lying to them.

“Yeah, babe,” Fyn says at last, voice weak. “I mean, yeah, I– I'd like that. But it's not– that's not why I–” Fuck, as if they weren't getting off on what he was doing before? “I don't want you to feel obligated–”

Teddy lays back down slowly. He slowly scooches up the bed until he can rest his head just below their lap again. Then he slowly, slowly, reaches up and rests a hand on their knee.

Fyn doesn't think they're breathing. Teddy's never reciprocated anything they've done together. Of course, it's always been different– stress relief, a bit of exhibitionism, stolen moments in the library or, on one memorable occasion, outside at the Dartmouth skiway.

A spike of real, raw fear goes through them– the sickening kind, not the exhilarating kind. They’ve had an illusion of control, so far. If they let Teddy do this, and he wants more, then…that's it. That's the friendship, done for. They don't date for this reason: they stick with being the third (or fourth or…etc) for polyamorous friends, and they have one-night-stands, and they do kink. Sex is fun. It's flippant. Sometimes it's cathartic. That's all they want it to be.

Fyn rubs between their eyes with a wry laugh at themselves. Teddy's anxiety is rubbing off on them, if they're this worried about a potential handjob. Or…

“Do you know how to suck a clit?” they ask abruptly.

Teddy's hand freezes. “Ah– well, I've–”

“Doesn't matter. You're not in any shape, anyway,” Fyn decides.

They roll over and shimmy out of their panties– they're lacy enough to deserve a word like panties– and fuck, fuck, yeah, they're actually hard. Like really, truly hard in a way that rarely happens, like, ever. They catch Teddy watching them from the corner of their eye and slide their fingers over their tip, spreading the drops that have gathered there, and see him swallow in response. All of a sudden, they need his mouth.

“Here,” they gasp, positioning themselves cross-legged again. Their slip falls over their erection and instantly leaves a wet spot through the satin. “No, don't get up. Just– just put your head here, on my lap.”

“Um,” Teddy says, “this isn't really– I can't really do much? From here?”

“She's sensitive,” Fyn breathes. “It's alright, just– just–”

They push their clit down until it can brush over Teddy's lips through their slip. He looks up at them, wide-eyed. God, they're already shaking. They brush their tip against his lips again, and he shifts just a bit to meet the pressure.

Fyn stares at Teddy as he closes his eyes and nuzzles his face on their lap to adjust. He gets just close enough to get his nose under the edge of their slip, and then gentle, damp heat envelopes the tip of their clit.

They take a silent, gasping breath and exhale it slowly. Teddy makes a quiet sound and starts to move his head to take more of them in, but Fyn puts a hand on his temple to stop him.

“No, that's enough,” Fyn says. “Ah, fuck, babe. That's good, just– just like that.”

They wait until the trembling leaves their hands before they lay their hands back on Teddy's neck and shoulder and continue their massage.

It's a slow, inevitable build. They so rarely fuck this way– no tools, almost no movement, no mood music or sexy lighting. Teddy makes quiet, half-asleep sounds on occasion. His tongue flicks against their slit every once and a while, or smooths around their head, but eventually he stops even that and just…lays there. Melting into their lap, making his tiny, contented sounds as Fyn massages him.

Fyn continues until the third time they realize they're not massaging Teddy anymore, just resting their hands on him and gasping quietly. He isn't really even doing anything in return — his eyes are closed, mouth not so much around their clit anymore so much as vaguely encircling it, fingers having fisted loosely in a bunch of their costume. He might be asleep, now that they look at him closely. It almost seems wrong to see his face without all of its trademark worry lines, but his skin is smooth and soft as his hands as they run a finger down the slope of his nose, through the little wispy hairs of what's trying very hard to be a mustache.

That stubborn little kindling of emotion roars up within them once more, tight and unnameable. They like labels. They like names for things. Their backpack has four nonbinary pins, two pronoun pins, and an aromantic flag patch sewn over the hole they'd ripped in the side, none of which are exactly perfect and all of which they hold fiercely like a banner, like a badge of honor, like a warning sign. They aren't shy about telling people their hobbies, or what they think, or why they don't do relationship relationships. They keep their boundaries clear and concise and outlined and bolded and underlined, just for good measure.

They know Teddy doesn't like labels, how he gets squirmy if you needle him too much. He's a guy, if you press him. He doesn't really care about his partner's gender. He dates sometimes but sometimes doesn't, and sometimes he hooks up with people and dates them afterwards, and the casual ambiguity is enough to make Fyn's brain boggle. They worry about that sometimes — that Teddy might start to think they're something more than friends, that all of this is going to nosedive because of course, here's one fucking good thing in their life, so it must be on a time limit. But he hasn't. He doesn't. He doesn't want to have sex the way Fyn or him have sex with other people. He doesn't want to be their boyfriend.

Fuck, they don't love him and yet they love him so much. They love him so much and they don't have a word for it, just this coiling mass of emotion sitting firmly behind their face.

Maybe Teddy is rubbing off on them more than they thought.

Teddy makes a soft, sleepy noise in his throat, the vibration going straight through their clit like electricity. It'd be…it'd be easy to finish now, probably; easy to use their hand and push themselves over the edge, just dribble a bit into the warm wet heat of his mouth, but—

Fyn lets out a sigh, a soft, affectionate smile creeping across their face. They carefully open Teddy's jaw wide enough to extract themselves, then roll him like a sheet of dough off their lap and onto the freshly washed comforter. He makes a little noise of not-quite-awake confusion, but mostly just lies there like a slug as they reach for a blanket and pull it up over his bare legs. He'll thank them when the A/C kicks on and he wakes up cold in a few hours. God, he's such a dork.

Teddy cracks an eye open as they shift to get off the bed. "Wh're y…"

It's a good thing they're fluent in Sleepy Teddy Speak, with all those long nights in the library.

"Gonna sleep on the couch," they say with a smile, running a finger through his messy hair, "since you're so keen on taking the whole damn bed." Okay, they might be projecting a little there.

Both his eyes are open now, but they meet Fyn's with a dazed, cloudy uncertainty that says he's not fully aware of what he's seeing. "D'you…?"

“I'm alright,” Fyn says, but he paws at where they'd left the bed with a grumpy noise.

“‘Mere,” he mumbles.

“Good night, Teddy.” They hobble to the doorway and flick off the light.

“Fyyyyyyyyyyyn.” It's vocal fry more than anything, and muffled in the bedspread, but Fyn sways and sighs and returns at once.

“Teds,” they say disapprovingly, but they crawl back onto the bed. Teddy adjusts just enough that Fyn can see the smug, pleased little smile on his face even through the gloom. He tugs sleepily at Fyn's slip as they awkwardly crawl back up to him, and they nearly collapse over his leg.

“What?” they demand, giggling despite themselves. Fuck, whatever, they're drunk. They try to sound affronted anyway. “What are you so pleased about?”

“Mm,” Teddy hums instead of a response. He tugs their slip again, not noticing when one of their tits pops free. Fyn gives into gravity and flops down beside him.

“What?” they ask again.

Their noses are an inch from each other, which means they can just make out the glint of Teddy's eyes. He's blinking at them, each one getting slower, that funny little pleased smile still on his face. They squirm. They can't leave for their own shower, where they can zone out and get off the rest of the way, until Teddy is done being uncharacteristically needy.

Just when they think he's drifted off, he lifts a heavy hand and, with exceeding care, boops their nose the way they’d done to him earlier. He makes a deeply unattractive snort of a chuckle, hand falling limply between them.

“You're not ‘s…smart as you think you are,” he mumbles happily.

“I'm plenty smart,” Fyn whispers back. “I get better grades than you.”

“In theater.” Teddy turns his face into the pillow to do his awkward little wheeze-laugh-choke this time, like he knows he shouldn't laugh in their face but he can't help himself. “Asshole,” he adds, almost inaudible through the memory foam.

“Idiot,” Fyn whispers back, just as affectionate. “Fuck you, give me back my bed. You can go sleep on the couch.”

Teddy turns his face back, smiling sleepily. He pads at them with just his fingertips.

“Where are my glasses?” he asks, or Fyn interprets, at least. It sounds something more like ‘whermglazze?’.

“In my pocket,” Fyn tells him. “You’ll get them back in the morning.” Teddy pats at them some more, with more intention. He's getting dangerously close to smacking their tit. That, more than anything, reminds Fyn that they're not wearing anything with a breast pocket. “I'm kidding, babe,” they say, to cover. The pocket had been an invention of their little story, earlier. Remember what's real. “They're in the bathroom, still. You don't need your glasses to sleep.”

Teddy replies with something unintelligible, just as he lands his hand on their half-hard clit. Fyn swallows their reaction, screwing their eyes shut as he manages to pat it a second time.

And then, mother of mercy, his wrist goes limp and his hand is still there, resting on them, his fingers twitching slightly. Fyn doesn't trust themselves to exhale through their mouth without whimpering. They focus on taking tiny breaths through their nose while they wait for Teddy to either realize his mistake or move his hand naturally. They listen to his breathing slow, incredulous, increasingly fatigued and increasingly unable to even imagine sleeping.

Oh, god, please, baby, they plead silently, face screwed up. Please, don't do this to me. Teddy's hand twitches and they swallow a whimper, tipping their head forward to knock gently against Teddy’s forehead. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’ll just…get up. He’ll only be bothered for a second. Not a big deal, right? I can wake him up.

They don't move.

Teddy shifts, hand sliding off them at last. Fyn’s hips jerks reflexively but they manage to stay silent. They're just about to take their chance to wiggle away when Teddy speaks again.

“Y’r…good friend,” he mumbles, then sighs and rolls over so his back is facing them, a good foot of space between their bodies– and for some godforsaken reason that's it. Fyn cums at once, one hand clutched over their mouth, eyes watering with the effort to keep silent while that gentle force sweeps them from head to toe in an unbearably sweet wave.

When they can think again, they crawl under the blanket to wait out their aftershocks– they might as well enjoy the belated orgasm in comfort– and then wake suddenly, disoriented, some time later. Some hours later, they discover when they stumble up to use the bathroom and check the time.

They bundle up extra blankets for a makeshift couch nest, pull their costume back on as a sleeping gown– despite the sequins, it's comfortable, and it's warm– and pass out on the couch until morning.