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There are a few things Scott Pilgrim knows very well.
He knows how to lay down a killer bassline — at least if you ask him.
He knows the winding streets of Toronto, that’s for certain. He can see the entire city laid out in his mind like a map…or maybe half of it, if he’s being generous. A quarter of it, if he’s being realistic, but he’s got those few blocks completely memorized.
And he knows how to recognize when Wallace is getting laid.
They’ve shared a mattress on the floor for so long that Scott hardly remembers what having personal space is like. He’s used to it, feeling the radiant warmth of another human being beside him, feeling Wallace sling an arm over him whenever he starts having cuddle dreams, and it’s something he’s comfortable with. At one point in his life, he may have found it embarrassing or emasculating, but he’s well past that phase now. Wallace has been a constant presence in his life for ages. Feeling that kind of lame embarrassment almost feels like an insult to the man who’s provided him with food and shelter for years, even if that man is a total bastard most of the time.
But some nights, they aren’t in bed by themselves.
It’s not exactly difficult for Scott to figure it out; he’s more attentive than most people give him credit for. When Wallace comes home alone, he doesn’t knock. He unlocks the door with a quick twist of his keys, makes some cutting remark about Scott, and goes about his business. It’s five steps to the bathroom, the door opens, it closes with the weak click of a lock that doesn’t work anymore.
When Wallace comes home with someone, he knocks twice, three times if he’s tipsy and four if he’s drunk. It takes him a minute to find his keys, and there’s no trip to the bathroom. He stumbles through the darkness and lands hard enough next to Scott to make him grunt in surprise.
There’s a guy with him, and they hit the futon together in a tangle of sloppy limbs and even sloppier kisses. An arm — God only knows which one — hits Scott upside the head, and he grimaces. Life is hard, and he’s exhausted, and the last thing he wants to deal with is Wallace getting uncomfortably freaky right next to him. Scott folds his pillow over his head and sighs, trying to ignore the bed rocking and the increasingly labored breathing beside him.
It isn’t a guy Scott recognizes, that’s for sure. Wallace tends to keep to the same pool of hookups, to the point that Scott knows them even in the dark. The guy’s breathing is unfamiliar, and a strange, spicy cologne tickles Scott’s nose. The faint rattling of a metal zipper suggests that someone is wearing a heavy coat; that assumption is proven correct as soon as Scott hears it go flying across the apartment.
“Fuck,” he hears Wallace whisper breathlessly. “Fuck…”
It’s been a while since Scott has heard his roommate like that.
Someone hisses air through gritted teeth, and someone else chuckles. There’s the wet sound of skin being licked, followed by a bite and a cat-like yowl of pain and surprise. The kissing resumes with gusto, and Scott swears he can hear tongues entwining. Two pairs of denim jeans go soaring to join the coat, and all of a sudden, the heat radiating off of the wrestling bodies next to him grows more intense.
There’s a whimper, and Scott knows it doesn’t belong to Wallace.
That’s a first.
Wallace isn’t usually the one who gives it — he proudly describes himself as a “power bottom”, whatever the hell that means — and it’s rare to hear the other guy making such soft and submissive sounds. The guy tries to speak, or at least Scott assumes he does, before his voice is promptly snuffed out by what sounds like a hand being wrapped around his throat.
Scott feels his face heat up.
He hates to admit it, but he’s spent a fair amount of time observing Wallace, more than any purely straight guy would. Wallace always moves with such precision and composure that even his drunken mannerisms are far less clumsy than Scott’s. He’s like a viper, sly and efficient and profoundly deadly in a way Scott can’t entirely explain. It’s no wonder Wallace brings home guys with such ease; seduction runs in his blood.
Scott really does hate admitting that.
He bites his lip, trying to hold onto his annoyance instead of acknowledging the mix of emotions that’s blooming in his belly. He hears Wallace’s teeth click together as he gnaws at the exposed skin of the whining man beside him. The man squirms, nudging Scott in the back, but it’s hard for Scott to notice while he’s slowly and nervously sliding his thighs together.
Despite Wallace’s complete lack of give-a-shit, Scott doesn’t have the ability to be so blatant in his movements. He slips a hand into the front of his underwear and presses down on his aching cock, trying to will away his growing erection. He nearly gasps when his fingers graze the tip. Scott sandwiches his dick between his thighs and clamps his teeth down on his bottom lip, desperate to avoid giving himself away to the writhing pair beside him.
They’re inches apart, so close that Scott can feel the hair on Wallace’s forearm brush against his skin. Every motion sends shockwaves through Scott and drives him deeper into unexpected lust. He chances a whimper when Wallace pulls himself on top of the other guy, using the rustling of the blankets as cover. A shiver passes through him, and his body squirms in anticipation. The stranger's breath hitches as Wallace has his way, and possibilities dance behind Scott's eyelids.
There’s a drunken laugh, a thrust, and a sigh. The bed rocks into the wall with a solid sound that makes Scott twitch as he tries, and fails, to maintain his composure.
The sound of Wallace’s voice almost makes his heart stop. “Fuck, you feel so good.”
Wallace grinds smoothly into the stranger, and Scott reciprocates by rolling his crotch against his palm. He throws caution to the wind, wracked by arousal. Wetness begins to pool and stick between his fingertips.
He's heard Wallace make love before, and it's nothing new, but the sultry sound of Wallace's voice has always scratched something in a distant and primal corner of Scott's brain. The flash and twinkle of Wallace's eyes when he's proven right about something, the acidic tone in which insults roll off his tongue, the way his nimble fingers curl around glasses and coffee mugs, and the way that Scott has always envisioned those fingers wrapping around him instead…it's almost completely overwhelming.
This isn't the first time Scott has envisioned himself beneath Wallace. It won't be the last.
Scott pictures himself pinned beneath the warmth of Wallace's body, feeling the wet heat of liquor-laden breath upon his neck. He imagines Wallace smiling against his throat and licking wet stripes across his flushed skin. Beside him, Wallace slaps a hand over the stranger’s to stifle a sinful cry of delight, and Scott nearly loses control. His cock throbs with every new sound and every new motion.
Scott turns himself over ever so slightly, disguising it as the action of a restless sleeper. The lovers beside him don't skip a beat; they're properly fucking now. Wallace's thrusting is measured and rhythmic, the practiced movement of someone who's used to self-restraint. A leg is thrown over Scott, resting against the back of his calves, and he tenses. Either the pair truly think he's deeply asleep, or they simply don't care.
He's hard as a rock and pent-up beyond measure. The soft and lewd slapping of Wallace's hips against the other guy's ass is like gunshots in the otherwise silent apartment. Scott moves his hips experimentally, grinding himself into the bed, and fire blooms in the pit of his stomach; it’s just what he needs.
It's humiliating, and Scott knows it. He's fantasized plenty about Wallace, of course, and there's something embarrassing and emasculating about trying to get off in such a fashion while Wallace gets laid properly right next to him. He envisions the length of Wallace's cock based on the gaps between audible thrusts, and he pictures himself biting the pillows, choking on moans and screams as Wallace splits him open.
It's too much.
Scott's breath picks up at the same time Wallace's pace does. Wallace's heavy balls begin to audibly slap against the stranger's body, while Scott's lie trapped between his trembling thighs. He cocks his hips and arches his back, carelessly slipping his arm behind him and pressing two fingertips to his hole. He'd give anything for Wallace to throw away the blankets as he'd thrown away the coats and claim Scott as his own. It's the culmination of weeks of fantasies.
And as Wallace buries himself in his hookup and climaxes to the tune of two soft, harmonized moans, Scott's load dribbles between his fingers and into the front of his underwear.
Scott's as breathless as the other two, soaked in sweat and shame and fading arousal. He freezes when he hears Wallace pull out and the other guy murmur soft words of praise.
And then a hand falls on Scott's shoulder, and nimble fingers curl against his skin, lighting his nerves on fire. “We're gonna go for round two,” Wallace whispers. “You in, you little pervert?”
Scott's body moves before his brain can catch up.
And by the time the sun rises, there are a few more things that Scott Pilgrim knows.