#xreader fic

it was messed up, you realised, how much this turned you on. how greedy and slutty of you to want not only one, but two boyfriends to fuck your brains out. your skin tingled in anticipation. you tried to tug on your restraints, elbows attempting to clamp down to your sides.

your arms didn’t budge. at all.

“too tight?” steve, ever the sweetheart, asked softly. you shook your head no, shooting him a preemptive, nervous smile. he returned it, sickly sweet and loving, and it made you fall right back in love with his puppy dog eyes.

“okay, are you two done flirting or can we get started now?” jonathan teased, a dimple pulling at his cheeks before steve grabbed his face and smothered him with kisses.

it was hot. the way the two brunettes’ toned arms traced each other, jonathan’s fingers finding steve’s perfectly styled hair and tugging, once, twice as a moan escaped his mouth. desire pooled between your legs.

they broke apart, two pair of brown eyes finding their way up your stretched out body and meeting your gaze. suddenly, you felt so incredibly exposed. again, you tugged on your restraints with no avail.

“are you ready, baby?” jonathan asked teasingly, as he made his way to sit on your ankles.

through your peripheral, the cold, red blinking of the camera made your throbbing clit worsen. you swallowed nervously, nodding, an anticipatory smile tugging at your lips. steve, still perched your hips, began to trace his nails around your body.

the intolerableness of it all drove you mad- almost instantly, a stream of uncontrollable giggles spilled from your mouth, shaking your head in ticklish agony. jonathan, upon hearing this, stroked a finger from the bottom of your foot to your arch, adding one, then all his fingers, gently clawing around your feet.

“fuhuhck!” you groaned, ankles jerking in ticklishness.

“aww, what’s wrong sweetheart?” steve asked mockingly as he crawled his fingers up to your ribs. “are you too ticklish for this?”

“i’m sure she’s not,” jonathan teased. “after all, she asked for this.”

you flushed, arching your back with a squeal when steve scribbled quickly at the back of your ribs, while jonathan was still tracing gentle patterns on your soles. the different sensations sent your head spinning, and you squeezed your eyes shut, squirming fruitlessly on the bed.

“plehehease,” you whined. “i- i cahahan’t.”

“can’t what?” jonathan leaned back to pinch your kneecaps.

“cahahan’t-” you cut yourself off with whimpers when steve pressed sloppy, ticklish kisses over your ears, hands still wandering around your stomach.

“i think we broke her, byers,” steve laughed and jonathan hummed in approval.

“she’s so pretty when she’s tickled out,” jonathan mused as his hands found your thighs, squeezing mercilessly.

you opened your eyes to find that steve had paused, just admiring your euphoric state. hair messy, eyes glossed over with mirth, face a rosy pink. soft giggling exploded out of you when jonathan placed ticklish kisses over the inside of your thighs, as you tried and failed to curl up.

“hey, no fair, i wanna look at her too,” jonathan grumbled. 

steve rolled his eyes, turning to squeeze jonathan’s sides. he screeched. nevertheless, they swapped positions, jonathan now flitting his gaze over your exposed upper body eagerly, mapping out a plan of attack. you could feel steve practically glowing at the sight of your ticklish feet.

jonathan turned, whispering something incoherent to steve and before you could question it, you felt it- two pairs of large hands squeezing and scribbling everywhere, drilling into your hips, swiping along your legs, methodical and cruel.

“fuhuck yohu!” you squealed before pulling desperately at your restraints, bending your knees, anything to escape.

they both laughed mockingly, a mixed, low sound that sent heat to your cheeks.

“you’re too ticklish for your own good, doll,” jonathan tutted, eyes laced with fondness.

“so are you, byers,” steve snorted and you laughed in earnest.

jonathan widened his eyes in mock disbelief. “i think you’re forgetting what kind of predicament you’re in right now.”

“noho-” you sniffed hysterically when jonathan renewed his efforts- you didn’t realise he was holding back, but now that steve was scribbling frantically at your soles and jonathan’s hand was darting up and down your sides with precision, you realise how fucked you were.

they finally let you go when they got tired. and that took a long while, for them to draw out enough pretty, pathetic sounds from their baby girl. they clambered off of you, steve carrying you out to the couch and handing you a glass of water, jonathan removing his tape and playing it on the tv.

you sat between them, flustered to high heaven as steve and jonathan analysed the video with teasing remarks.

“hey, that spot got her howling.”

“aww, she looks so pretty here.”

occasionally, they would get bored of the muffled laughter from the cheap tv, their eyes meeting and hands suddenly on your torso in sync, while surprised giggles burst out of you.

you were keeping the tape, though.

Volo's face twists in a sneer, turning back around and giving the flute another, shakier playing.

He's... under longer this time, and after almost ten minutes of standing, stretching, and huffing annoyance you walk back up the stairs.

He jolts again, stumbling forward this time, and for a split second, you could swear something like steam wafts from his back. When he regains his footing, Volo whirls on you.

"Why," he growls, "am I fighting Arceus?"

Your brows jump. A glance away, then a vague gesture to the rubble and debris around you, "I mean, it kind of tracks."

Volo throws up his hands, turns, and has to draw a long, calming breath before he can steadily play the flute again.

Now, you're curious. And curiosity had seen you fill out pages upon pages of dex notes to be compiled by Professor Laventon later. In comparison, waiting around is no great feat.

Still, you're not about to do it standing.

You fold your legs to sit crisscross on the cold marble and, after another few minutes just watching him twitch and breathe harshly, plant your chin on a fist set against your knee.

Volo rouses again a moment later, not stumbling but panting as he turns. "I can battle it, why can I –"

He stops, looks down to meet your gaze, and, huh, that's a shiner all right.

The sight of your scrutiny has his jaw setting stubbornly again, freehand clenching. You note that his sextet of pokeballs is still at his waist, just above the spot where the metallic jut of gold splits off. The odd accent swings a bit when he once more ignores you.

When he goes under once more, you contemplate reflecting on everything leading up to this, but in all honesty, most of the betrayal and hurt had been worked out of your system in that grueling battle. So, reminded to heal up your team, you instead start puzzling out what's going on here.

The first strange fact is that he needed your flute. Whatever he's doing now, it was meant for you. Was it lucky or unlucky you had been training up a mid-stage evolution on the way up Mt. Coronet? The poor thing hadn't stood a chance against Volo's team, so battling Arceus probably wouldn't have gone great for you, either.

But, as he resurfaces and dives twice in the next half hour, it certainly seemed like something you could... keep trying at. Hell, with Lord Wyrdeer you could have gone to camp, switched out team members and returned in this same span of time twice over.

Volo doesn't seem the type to have many bench picks. Each of his pokemon were either a powerhouse or set-up players, tasked with paralyzing or hypnotizing. It's damn efficient, but you could likely counter it easily now.

He emerges next to immediately bend at the waist, hands on his knees as he struggles to catch his wind.

"Wanna rematch?" you ask, and he barely glances back before snarling wordlessly and diving again. In a mutter, "so-or-ry mister hates-god-so-much he's gotta cosplay about it."

Speaking of, that wack updo seems to be taking some strays, wilting, and now beginning to frazzle at the paler blond tips. That wisp of steam wasn't unique either; the flare of fabric off his left shoulder has been singed something fierce from behind.

Your harried quelling of Lord Arcanine springs to mind; Cyllene had to replace your entire uniform, leaving your first week in the highlands a miserably cold experience. Ol' Ingo had even lent you his tattered jacket.

Your head cocks, and you straighten a little as some pieces fall together. In facing great Palkia, you barely had time to question the sudden appearance of a sack of balms to hurl at it. That first charge was killer. 

Volo returns and it's not pretty. A few scattered drops of blood have you looking up sharply just before he gasps awake, immediately grasping his face and throwing his head back. 

"Don't move!" he barks at the barest shift of your legs against the stone. Around his now limp bangs, you see him pinching the bridge of his nose, and the drip of blood is stemmed. He doesn't dive again immediately.

"Are you huckin' balms?" 

"What?"

"Balms. The li'l sacks of whatever that helped quell the nobles," you say. You pinch the fabric at your ankles to keep from fidgeting further. "I had to use them on Palkia, too, remember?"

Volo's shoulders hunch. In silence, he waits another few minutes before hazarding to relax, and then still stays mum until he dives again.

By now, it's been long enough for the shadows among the rubble to shift and finally peeved enough at his refusal you stand up, dusting yourself off some. You walk over, a little wary now that you know what he's capable of, and walk around to Volo's front.

Definitely a nosebleed. There's still some tacky drying blood on his nostrils, a smear below it where he's cleaned some away. It doesn't look broken, and other than some new singeing and tears in his baffling outfit he looks no worse for wear. You take a step back, just in case, but after a while his face twists in concentration, eyes flicking about behind his lids, and you assume he'll be a while.

Coronet is still frigid, and the sun is starting to tick down toward the horizon. The cloud cover below the peak is thin enough that you make out the edge of the eastern sea carving into the shore in its myriad bites, like a wurmple munching leaf litter. 

After crossing your arms, tapping your foot, and finally huffing a sigh, you find where he had haphazardly thrown his uniform and pack on the far stone lip of the dais. The latter is far heavier than he ever treated it, and you're just beginning to help yourself to its contents when he seizes into waking.

"Fuck," he bites out, follow by a spit and a small splat. "Fuck, fuck, fu– what are you doing?"

You turn to find honest bafflement on his face, which you return when you see the state of him. In the mere moments you were turned away, he looks like he’s been dragged down the face of Mt. Coronet.

His tunic is dirtied, threadbare at the hems, the metal pieces at his hips scuffed and dull, and his strappy sandals in shambles. From what you can see, he’s got something like rug-burn on his forearms, and the blood he spat looks to have come from a split lip.

The pecha berry you’ve pilfered from his supplies falls from your mouth, painting the dais with a different shade of red.

“I was– you–,” you stutter out, dropping the pack to bark, “what the hell is happening to you?!”

He glances down, seemingly taking in the changes for the first time. He remains struck dumb as you cross the dais toward him, looking up sharply when you stop within arms’ length. Lip curling, he says lowly, “Going to stop me?”

“I don’t need to,” you say, jaw setting, “I doubt I’d have to see the ‘other guy’ to know you’re losing.”

“I’m not,” he snaps, and how the hell did you manage to forget the way he looms over you, brow shadowed and gaze sharp as a filleting knife. ”I’m adjusting strategies. The more often I battle it the faster I can wea–”

He stops, scowling.

Your patience runs out. 

“Oh, by all means,” you laugh, throwing your hands up, “keep your secrets, Volo!”

You can see his molars grinding. “Why are you still here?”

As much as you try, you can’t avoid the deafening pause that gives you. Then, with a jut of your chin to his occupied hand, “To take that back.”

The unspoken, when you fail, has him hackling. His hand swipes out at you as if to lift you by the collar, but you’re fresh-faced in comparison and dart out of reach. What stops him, however, is you palming a pokeball.

Above a bruised smear, his grey eye lingers, and you wonder if – assuming everything is transferring between here and there – his team is weakened; if he’s even able to heal them.

And damn, damn, damn you, you feel a pang in your chest. His pokemon don’t deserve this, whatever this is.

Without responding, his gaze shutters, ignoring that you’re right in front of him to play the flute once again. His knuckles are bloody, and one of his fingers might be sprained or even broken going by the shade of burgundy.

He’s under before you can get another word out.

You bellow something wordless and sharp, and feeling your tension lighten (and seeing he doesn’t react) you decide to seize a rare opportunity.

At the peak of Mt. Coronet, in the ruins of a temple that’s outlived her people, you let loose a railing, cursing tirade that falls just short of therapeutic. It leaves you raw and ragged, and your throat roughened too, and even after half an hour the bastard still isn’t back.

The sun is really dropping now, dipping below the cloud-cover and its warmth and rosy-copper glow with it. Early-bird stars begin to peak out of the darkening sky, and just before you throw his bedroll down to colonize it for your own you find yourself sourly throwing his fur-cuffed coat back over his shoulders. The chattering of his teeth diminishes.

Over the course of another hour, you sit, then lounge, recline, and finally lay back on the bedroll, and start tossing your partner’s pokeball up and catching it. You contemplate letting them join you, for all this about-face might beffudle them, and then allow yourself to actually consider his question.

Why would you stay, after all this? He’s used you day in and day out ever since he sicced you on that Vespiquen like some over-zealous houndour, and now he’s gotten what he wanted.

And yet, especially when his actual success has yet to manifest, some childish part of you thinks he might still come back around.

It was – it was fucking nice, alright? Having an actual companion these last few weeks, rather than crisscrossing the region with nothing but your team and a pokedex. Hiking hither and yon, hearing his rambling accounts of old legends over a campfire, waking up to just see him – every little thing helped distract you from the fact you had a direct line to Arceus and still had to wonder if you were ever going to remember your old life, if you were going to die he–

Volo collapses to his knees.

You’re upright in a heartbeat, eyes like saucers as he casts the flute aside to begin slamming the meat of his fists against the marble.

After a chance to find air, pulling it in like something half-drowned, he lets out a cry to rival your own.

In the moment before he finds the control to speak, you realize his tunic is in tatters, blackened at every edge and pocked by burns as though he’s caught stray pyroclastics while ascending Firespit. His metal adornments are bent and broken at his hips, and the cuffs are warped and dented – likely crushing his wrists. His sandals are unsalvageable.

“Why, you beast?!” he roars, coming out grating as it bounces directly off the marble beneath him. He hammers his fist again, and this time leaves a smear of scarlet behind. “The Celestica live in me, so why – why do you strike me down, again and again?”

You roll off the cushion, palms and knees on cold stone as you venture to approach. You feel like a raw nerve, and he a live wire – any word, any touch and you’ll both catch fire.

And you don’t want to fight him, you realize. Not again. Not any longer.

“I devoted myself to you, worshipped you as highest creator, even as your silence stretched year after year,” he snarls, and his knuckles drill into a seam in the marble pushing more and more blood to the surface and finally breaking skin. He shudders, but doesn’t stop, fading to a weaker moan, “After everything I’ve done…”

“H-hey, it’s– it’s gonna be–” you start, and his head jerks upright.

Around the grey iris and pinpoint pupil, a bloom of crimson creeps into the white of his eye, a stain that takes you a moment to realize is blood within the cornea.

His nose bears a small horizontal split and weeps red, spilling over his lips and staining his teeth when he bears them at you in something hair-raising, something feral.

"You," he snarls, his next words flinging red-tinted spittle, "you outsider, cast down to stop me and couldn't even manage that. Wh-why do you have the blessing of Arceus?!"

"Do you call this a blessing?" you ask, shocked by your own cool tone when it feels like a stone has been chained to your chest. You gesture sharply at him, even as you're still cataloging the bruises, the split skin on the right side of his scalp, "Do you think I would fair any better, even if I succeeded?" 

Volo pauses, but sneers still as he reaches beneath the coat to pull that smoky, purple plate from the remains of his gilded belt.

"Rebel beast," he growls, ignoring you once more, "sovereign of Distortion, come – come and aid me in this final stand."

The imperious timbre is lost to the slow dribble of crimson, painting the plate yet inspiring no shaking of the mountain or unearthly arrival.

The twilit sky does not shatter, nor do shadows spill forth; the quiet broken only by the animal keen Volo makes as he slams the plate against the stone. Once, twice, and not a scuff or chip earned. Finally he throws it away as well and buries his tacky-stained hands into his hair, hiding his face.

"Discarded even by the banished, bastard child."

"Hey now," you mutter lightly, "no need to impugn anyone’s honor. Not the time for making new enemies."

Volo rocks back onto his knees, dragging his hands away and tipping his chin. Even as starlight seeks out its silver, his gaze finds the heavens in a grotesque of bitter mourning.

"You… you're a fool," he says, dully. "Of all people, Arceus chose you. It's…"

"Fucking tragic, innit?" 

His eye flicks down to find you and even swaddled in sorrow the look is so deeply droll as to set you snickering. It builds to laughter as you tip backward onto your rump, wiping at your dewy eyelashes once you recover. As you do, you see Volo frowning down at himself, fingering the hem of the coat flung over his shoulders.

In a fit of pique, you catch him off guard with a half-earnest kick at his shoulder, spilling him onto his ass as well.

"That's for tricking me," you snip at his scowling affront. "Be glad we both failed in the whole ending-slash-saving the world, you prick."

Volo's fine-boned features contort further as he bristles into another furor, snapping, "I have not failed yet, you little–"

"And I'll stop you again," you sniff, tossing your arms over your knees in a petulant spread. "Or, y'know, God will. Mysterious ways and all that shit."

In the face of unimpeachable insolence, his face drops into little more than a curled lip. Leaning back on the hands he'd flung out to catch himself, his slackening posture is dramatic, even for him. Once again, even with the coat his airy tunic and loose-fit pants set him shuddering with cold.

After a moment, he mutters, "Do you mean to tell me this world, as foul and cruel as it can be, doesn't need to be remade?"

"Well," you say, sing-songing the word as you swivel to get your knees under you again. You shuffle toward him, and begin to hem-and-haw, "I think, if I'm so bold to speak on multiple behalves, that what's being said is… whether or not it needs to be, whether or not it can…"

You trail off, seeing him hang on the answer enough to surge forward. The moment you tuck your arms under his, he spreads them in shock. You worm into his space, angled so you’re at least not in his lap, and his shivering ceases. He stiffens but doesn't pull away, and as his arms cautiously find your shoulders and back, you can hear the note of wetness in his breathing.

"We're saying it shouldn't be," you finally surmise, hiding a grin in his chest as his massive frame turns to cotton in your arms. "And what things should be changed can be done together."

It was a long day at school as usual. Me and my boyfriend, Kirishima, have plans to go get our minds off stress and school. As I was walking to the dorms I get stopped by Bakugō. 

“Oh, hey, bakudude!” I say trying to piss him off. 

“Quit acting like shitty hair.” Bakugō growls. 

“You got it wrong Bakugō, he calls you Bakubro, I called you Bakudude,” I reply. 

“I don’t fucking care about the difference, dammit this isn’t why I’m talking to you! I’d want you to make sure shitty hairs alright.” Bakugō growls. 

“What do you mean?” I ask. 

“Shitty hair’s acting weird,” Bakugō says. 

“Ok, I’ll check on him. Thank you for letting me know.” I say as I walk past Bakugō. I start speed walking to his dorm, my anxiety getting the best of me. Once I reach his dorm I knock on the door. 

“Kiri, it’s me,” I say softly. 

“Oh! Uhm, give me a second!” Kirishima calls back. I stand at the door, looking patient but my mind was a whirlwind of emotions. How did Bakugō see that Kirishima wasn’t himself but I didn’t? I hear a click and the door opens. 

“Hey, pebble,” Kiri says. His skin looks paler than usual. 

“Hey babe, can I come in?” I ask. 

“Ye-yeah sure, come on in,” Kirishima says as he moves to the side to let me in. I walk in and do a quick scan with my eyes. Nothing is out of the ordinary, his dorm room is messier than usual but that’s the only thing wrong. I look back at Kirishima. I scan his body for anything. He’s wearing a red tank top and black sweatpants. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, not cuts or bruises. 

“What’s wrong, Kiri?” I finally ask. He takes a sharp breath. 

“What do you mean, beauty-cool? I’m fine.” He says with his usual smile. Something was off with how he said ‘I’m fine’ and something was definitely wrong with the way he smiled. It was forced. I sit on his bed and pat the spot next to me, signaling him to sit next to me. He cautiously sits next to me, sitting farther than usual. I try to scoot closer but he scoots away. 

“Ok, tell me the truth. What’s wrong?” I ask looking into his eyes, his beautiful red eyes looking duller. 

“I told you, I’m fine,” Kirishima replies. 

“Kiri, I can’t be a good girlfriend if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. Bakugō said something was up, I walk in here and I see there was something wrong as well. Don’t say you’re fine when you’re obviously not, babe. I’m here to help.” I say softly as I take his hand. He takes a deep breath. 

“With school being harder than usual and all the other guys having a seemingly easier time doing stuff I just...I don’t know I just feel like I’m not good enough.” He says with a slight sigh. I grab his face, making him look at me. 

“You are good enough Kiri. Just because everyone seems like they’re getting it quicker and overall seem like they’re getting better at things quicker than you are doesn’t mean anything. That’s their growth rate. Your growth rate is something different, something that fits Eijiro Kirishima.” I say as a look into his eyes. He bites his lip and looks down. 

“What did I do to deserve you…” he mumbles. 

“Everything. Kirishima, I love you without a doubt.” I say as I hug him. Kirishima hugs me back and buried his face in the crook of my neck. 

“I love you so much baby shark.” He says while holding me close. 

“Wanna watch a movie to cheer you up?” I ask. He quickly pops his head up. 

“Guardians of the Galaxy!” Kirishima yells. I giggle at his childishness. 

“Because you miss him? You guys were together for years – you know you’re allowed to miss him, right?”

For the first time since you’d started this project, Jade fell silent. Her eyes were locked on the ground in front of her.

After almost a minute of silence, you decided to speak.

“I know you’re a great writer, Jade, and I’m not so bad myself. If you actually put some effort in, we would totally get a higher grade than Beck and Robbie.”

You saw her head tilt slightly, and she raised her eyes to meet your gaze.

“Instead of making him feel bad by killing a metaphorical version of him, we could outsmart him.” She spoke slowly, musing over what you said.

You nodded along, afraid to say anything that could jeopardize the somewhat-amicable conversation you two were having right now.

“Alright!” she exclaimed suddenly, making you jump. “You’ve convinced me! Let’s make this the best damn scene Sikowitz has ever seen.” 

Almost 4 hours later, the two of you had successfully put together and rehearsed a scene that had just about everything, and you were damn proud of it. It had a plot twist, a fight, a moment of potent pathos, while still keeping in a tiny bit of shade towards Beck – you couldn’t fully convince Jade. There was pretty much no doubt in either of your minds that this would beat Beck and Robbie. Hey, they didn’t stay up until 2am writing theirs!

“We did it!” you yawned, half-heartedly punching the air. Jade grinned as you collapsed onto the couch, scrolling through the script on her laptop.

“Actually, Y/N – Y/L/N,” she corrected herself, shaking her head. “Can we go over that fight scene again?”

You groaned, throwing your arms over your face. “Whyyyy?”

“Because, as funny as it would be, I don’t want to actually hurt you.” She started to pull you off the couch as she spoke, and you felt your heart skip a beat when her hands closed around your wrist.

“Fine,” you grumbled, yawning again. “From, what, two lines beforehand?”

She nodded, and you couldn’t help but smile slightly as you watched her morph into character.

You cleared your throat. “Valerie, this isn’t you!”

“Oh, Maia.” As per the blocking, she began to slowly walk towards you, and you had to force yourself to stay in character.

“This has always been me.” She finished the line, and so the fight scene started.

It was well choreographed, Jade’s intensity pairing nicely with your more placid style. You went through the steps as if it were a dance: swing, catch, turn, kick, duck –

“Wait, hold on.” Jade stopped, and you kicked out at nothing, stumbling. She chuckled as you regained your balance, rolling her eyes. “Can we change that part? It’s awkward to grab you by the shoulder.”

You shrugged, nodding. “What would be better?”

She paused, her hands moving slightly as she gestured out the motions of the fight.

“Okay, like –” She reached forward and grabbed at your waist, surprising you. You jumped backwards, gasping slightly.

She squinted at you. “What was that?”

You tried to keep your cool. “Nothing, sorry, you surprised me.”

Jade seemed doubtful, but let it go as you returned to her. She demonstrated the move again, only making it a couple of seconds longer before she felt you flinch.

She had her arm locked around your waist for the next move now, pulling you close to her, and she glanced down, her eyebrows raised.

“Seriously, am I hurting you or something?” She would never have admitted it, but there was a hint of concern in her voice.

You shook your head, pressing your lips together. “No, no, it’s fine.”

She let out a light laugh. “Alright then – we just have to figure out how to get from here to the end.” Her brow furrowed in thought. Just like before, she began to gesture the motions with her hands, her fingers gently flicking against your skin as she puzzled it out in her head.

You froze, looking down at her hand that was still firmly secured around your waist. Her fingers were in constant, absentminded motion, her nails tapping along your side and hip. A tiny squeak escaped your lips. “W-West!”

“Huh? Is something wrong?” She looked down at you again, her fingers still moving. You tried to splutter out a coherent response, but all that you could get out was a mumbled, “No…”

For the first time, Jade seemed to notice what she was doing with her hands. She shifted her gaze to her fingers, which were still marking out patterns on your skin. Your head was pressed to your chest, and you were squirming almost imperceptibly in her grip, not wanting to alarm her. But, alas, it wasn’t enough.

“Oh, I see now.” She spoke slowly, drawing out the words, and to your dismay you felt the tickling at your side become more deliberate. “You’re just ticklish.”

Before you could speak, she’d spun you out of the hold and had reached both hands down to scribble at your sides. You let out a surprised shriek, biting back laughter.

“Jahahade!” You batted at her exploring hands, refusing to meet her gaze. “We need to figure out the scene!”

She was grinning now, finding it all too easy to pin you down onto the couch and straddle your waist.

“Yeah, but that was before I discovered this.”

Despite your valiant efforts to stop her, she managed to wrestle both of your wrists into one hand, pulling your arms above your head.

“Wait!” you squealed, shaking your head madly. “This – don’t – I swear – please –”

You were cut off by a determined scratching between your ribs, and the giggles finally spilled out. 

“WEHEHEST, LET ME GO!” you shrieked, squirming around as much as you could.

“West? I don’t know a West, I’m Valerie Sinclair, and I just love to tickle my dear friend Maia Lahey!” She had put on that stupid southern accent you loved so much, and as she tickled down to your stomach you felt your face heat up.

“That’s not how Valerie speaks!” you managed to squeal amidst your laughter.

“Well, that sure as hell ain’t how Maia laughs but look at you go!” She released your wrists, but you were so weakened by the tickling and teasing that you didn’t get a chance to fight your way free before she started to knead her thumbs up your sides. You threw your head back in mirth, and even though you couldn’t see her, you could hear the smirk in Jade’s voice.

“My oh my, I do declare we’re discoverin’ a tickle spot,” she teased, fluttering her torturous nails under your arms. You squealed again, clamping your arms to your sides.

“I’M GOHOHONNA KILL VALERIE!”

Jade gasped, wiggling her trapped fingers at a frightening speed.

“My goodness, that’s not how I remember this scene goin’!” she exclaimed. You were beginning to lose your breath, and you could only let out a half-whine, half-hysterical-giggle as she relentlessly tickled you, nails scribbling across your stomach and sides with no indication of stopping. 

After a few more unbearable minutes, your laughter began to turn silent, and she decided to let you go. You kicked her off the couch, curling onto your side, giggles still streaming from your lips as you tried to get rid of the lingering sensation. When you finally worked up the courage to look up, you were met with a very smug Jade West, the corners of her lips upturned and her eyes crinkled.

“Well that was fun,” she remarked, tilting her head at you. You glared back at her – and if looks could kill, this one probably wouldn’t have been that effective, what with your small smile and red face.

“You sounded like Tori,” you eventually grumbled, pushing yourself up off the couch. You were startled by a loud clap, followed by an even louder cheer.

“Because you said that, Y/N, and only because you said that, I will not exploit your weakness for the rest of the night!”

You raised your eyebrows at her.

“What?” she defended herself. “She doesn’t think it sounds like her.”

“Just the rest of the night? That’s it?”

“Don’t push it, Y/L/N.” She wiggled her fingers menacingly, and you blanched, shooting her another glare.

“So, um –” you cleared your throat – “Where were we?”

“Valerie, this isn’t you!”

“Oh, Maia. This has always been me.”

As the fight scene began, you could see Cat in your peripheral vision on the edge of her seat – just the reaction you and Jade were hoping for. It had only taken one more hour to perfect the scene last night, and it had ended with the two of you sleeping at awkward angles on the couch, so now your neck was sore and your arm hurt if you bent it the wrong way – but it was worth it.

You felt Jade grab your waist as she pulled you into the next move (you were prepared this time) and you made eye contact. She tilted her head ever so slightly, and you felt the slightest twitch at your side before she let go, and the scene continued.

By the time you were on the last few lines, you could see your entire class clearly engrossed in the story. 

“Maia, I’m sorry, you were right. I let all of this get under my skin. I should never have hurt you.”

“No, I’m – I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have rushed you like that.”

And, finally, the end was upon you. You took Jade’s wrist and went to pull her into a hug (her idea, it mirrored the opening tableau), but suddenly, you felt her stop, her hand on your shoulder.

Before you could register what was going on, she was moving even closer, and her hands were cupping your face, and your eyes were closed, and she was kissing you – and you were kissing her back.

You were pulled from the moment – the so, incredibly perfect moment – by the sound of applause, and Cat’s cooing. You both pulled back, smiling at your classmates as if everything was normal, but she squeezed your hand as you took your bows.