A moment passed.
Then another.
He braced his hands on the cold porcelain, stared himself down in the mirror like the world’s least-qualified motivational speaker, and tried to will his insides into order. His cheeks were still red, not the cute, flushed kind, but the splotchy, uneven mess that screamed to anyone with eyes that he was a walking, talking embarrassment.
God, this was mortifying. He could feel it. Not just some vague awareness, either. The plug was there, stubborn as a bad decision, pressing up against something that definitely should not have anything pressing up against it. Every shift of his weight made his skin crawl. He squeezed his thighs together, as if that would somehow magic it out of existence.
Spoiler: it did not. He exhaled shakily, knuckles white on the countertop. The bathroom tiles were ugly and yellowed, the kind of retro that was less “vintage charm” and more “crime scene.” It felt appropriate. He was definitely the victim here.
Okay. Deep breath. He could do this. He reached behind himself, fumbling. (Why did he have so much ass? Not that he was complaining, but holy hell, this was not helping.) His fingers trembled, slipped, found the base of the plug, a hard, unyielding disc, slick and alien-feeling under his touch. He pressed, tried to angle it, but it wouldn’t budge. The base was wider than he expected, a stubborn little bastard, and it felt like it was fused to him.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He swallowed, tried to breathe through it, but the sensation was so much more intense than he’d let himself believe. He pressed again, firmer this time, and felt a sick little ripple of pressure inside him. His guts did a somersault. The plug didn’t move, but the rest of him sure did, the muscles in his thighs tensed, his knees almost buckling.
Jesus Christ, was he going to pass out in here? He could picture it: found crumpled on the bathroom floor, pants half-off, fingers up his own ass like some kind of deranged raccoon. He’d never live it down. He gritted his teeth and tried again, this time really feeling for the edge of it. There was the rim, flat and unmoving, anchored like it had been welded on. He dug his finger in, hunting for leverage, and the feeling was so foreign it made his stomach lurch.
Was it supposed to feel like this?
He pressed harder. The base was definitely flared, and it wasn’t going anywhere. He tried to relax (ha, good luck), but his body was locked up tight, every muscle screaming in protest.
He kept thinking about the stories you hear online about things getting stuck. “Don’t go to the ER,” they always said, “they’ll laugh at you.”
He was not going to the ER. He’d die first.
Another shaky breath. He circled the base with his fingertip, careful but desperate, trying to figure out the physics of extraction. It didn’t make sense. It was supposed to come out, right?
“…Logan?” he called quietly.
The door opened almost immediately.
Logan stepped in, calm as ever. “Yeah?”
Tommy looked over his shoulder, sheepish. “I might need help.”
Logan smiled, not teasing, just warm.
“I figured.”
He stepped closer, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. There was something deeply unfair about how calm Logan managed to look, even standing in this hideous bathroom with Tommy half bent over the sink like a malfunctioning Roomba. If Tommy had to rate his current dignity on a scale, it was somewhere between “wet cat meme” and “local man dies of embarrassment, details at eleven.”
Logan didn’t seem fazed. Maybe he’d expected this. Or maybe Tommy had just finally reached his final form: public humiliation, now with bonus audience.
“Okay,” Logan said, his voice low and even, the kind of tone you’d use to coax a nervous animal out from under the bed. “Let’s try something.”
Tommy nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His face felt like it was about to combust. He was sweating in places he didn’t even know could sweat. If there was a world record for the most mortifying bodily function, he was about to break it.
Logan motioned gently toward the toilet. “Best place for this is probably over there. Gravity’s your friend.”
Tommy wanted to sink into the linoleum and never be found. Instead, he shuffled awkwardly to the toilet, jeans already half-off, underwear joining the party somewhere around his knees. He sat down, the seat cold and immediate against his skin, and tried not to think about the fact that Logan was basically supervising his most undignified moment since middle school gym class.
“Just relax. Try to push, like you’re… you know,” Logan said, leaning against the grimy counter like this was a normal Tuesday.
Tommy braced his hands on his thighs, took a breath, and tried to do as instructed. Nothing happened. Well, not nothing. There was a weird, pressurized feeling inside him, like his insides were holding their breath. He pushed again, harder this time, and…
Oh god.
A loud, unmistakable blast of air escaped, echoing off the toilet bowl like some kind of cartoon sound effect. The kind of noise that would haunt a person’s nightmares. Tommy’s entire soul tried to exit his body via his toes.
He stared straight ahead, mortified.
