Chapter Text
Stood in the center of the living room, Scott Pilgrim outstretches his arms like he’s about to take flight, fingers flexing with anticipation. Across from him, Wallace Wells lounges on his armchair, footrest swung out, jostling the ice in a cup of tap water despite this first post-work hour being one where he would usually opt for a beer.
“Okay, I know you’re sad for me about the whole Ramona breakup situation. But check it out: the subspace highway thing I told you about? I think I got it.”
Subspace energy gathers around Scott’s being, emanating a faint glow, and he closes his eyes. The living room becomes a conduit for his imagination, and the apartment flashes for a split second, every color inverting itself like negative film before everything returns to how it was, but different. Static flickers across the TV, even though it isn’t on. Dreamlike whirring stems from the HVAC, just outside the range of normal hearing. Outside, the window shows the same Toronto skyline, but the CN Tower seems taller now, bent slightly, as if tilting to get a better look inside… while the late afternoon sunset has cooled into purple, endless night, peppered with distant stars.
Wallace squints at the surrealist setting, then the bobbing ice cubes in his glass. "…Did you drug me?"
Scott shakes his head and extends his hands. Shimmering footprints melt into the floorboards as he approaches Wallace, and for once, the other man shies away in the recliner in concern for what Scott could be capable of. He’s never seen anything like it.
“Scott.” Sternly, Wallace warns him, staring inside his cup. The liquid inside circles counterclockwise, and his voice grows wary. “What the actual fuck are you doing?"
Eyes sparkling, Scott opens his palms and gestures: "Subspace."
One second, he’s Scott Pilgrim. The next, he’s still very much Scott Pilgrim, but now with dog ears that sprout from the top of his head. Triangular, fluffy, tawny, folding over themselves but perking up at the slightest sound. Behind him, a matching tail unfurls from the seat of his pants and sways from side to side, his jeans conveniently accommodating the appendage with a small opening.
Ease washes over Wallace when he realizes Scott isn’t about to morph into an evil version of himself. Just a dumber one. “You’re— ?”
"Yep!" Delighted by the successful transformation, he reaches up to rub the soft fur between his fingers. "Dude, I can feel them. Like, I can hear stuff better. And this?"
He gestures at his tail, which wags a bit too fast, audibly whipping through the air. "Totally real. I can control it!”
Using a napkin as a coaster, Wallace sets the water glass onto the coffee table before him, not trusting himself not to drop it as he absorbs the information. His eyes drift over the apartment-turned-fever dream, brows knitted together. Scott told him how Ramona would use his mind as a subspace highway, an easily accessible shortcut to get from place to place… he supposed it would make sense to cut out the middle-woman and learn how to control it himself. "So, what, you’re a god now?"
With as much humility as Scott can manage, he rubs the back of his head. "I mean… not really. I’m not that good at it. Ramona didn’t explain it that well… this was mostly something her ex could do, but the way she explained it, I can sort of understand it. It’s like… activating dreams, and willpower, and the more you know about yourself, the more you can change your—“
Wallace interrupts with a lifted hand. “No, look, I get it. You and Ramona broke up. You cried. A lot. It was Envy all over again. But I took care of you, and we got you cleaned up, and I thought the worst of the healing was over, but now you’re regressing and looking for words of validation by turning yourself into a dog because you want to be called a good boy.”
Scott outwardly flinches at the suggestion, but his tail thumps against the back of his knee as if corroborating what Wallace said. “That’s– that’s not true. You’re making it weird.”
“I’m making it weird? You’re making it weird,” Wallace counters, not missing the pleased reaction behind Scott’s back at all. Not that Wallace needed a built-in check-in system to gauge his roommate’s feelings, but if it was easy before… he’s an open book now.
Wallace waits suspiciously, unsatisfied with Scott’s response. The scrutiny weighs down on Scott, unable to keep from shifting his weight and wringing his thumbs together. “Look. Okay, yeah, Ramona and I didn’t work out. And that sucks. It really, really sucks. But…”
The room around them settles into their normal, day-to-day setting, save for the slow drift of deep space outside a la Jumanji. “I learned a lot from it. It’s like, yeah, you can do whatever you put your mind to… within limits. This turns off those limits.”
Wallace blankly squints at him. Cogs turn inside his head, assessing Scott's stubbornness to change the topic (or revert his physical appearance). So be it. Drumming his fingers along the armchair, he delivers, completely flat: “Okay. Then bark.”
Incredulous, Scott huffs, the sharp, airy sound not too different from a puppy sneezing. “I’m not gonna bark.”
Wallace shrugs with one arm, as if Scott’s the unreasonable one. “Feels like the next logical step.”
Groaning, Scott drags his hands down his face. “Oh my god, I hate you.”
That gets a smirk out of him, but there’s something thoughtful in Wallace’s gaze now. He leans back into the easy chair, one leg hitched over the other in consideration. “So… you can make anything in this little dreamspace of yours?”
Scott gestures vaguely. “Sort of. Why? You got a request?”
Wallace smiles wryly. “Yeah. Be a good boy and get me a martini.”
Caught between offense and confusion, Scott falters, and he can’t decide if it’s because of the good boy comment or the mundane demand. “What?”
Wallace motions like it’s obvious. “You said you can bend reality now, yeah?”
“Well— sort of? I mean, I’m kind of in your head right now. Or maybe you’re in mine. So it’s more like—“
“Uh-huh.” Wallace claps his hands dismissively. “Martini. Dry. Make it dirty. Chop chop.”
Scott moans, begrudgingly obeying the command. “Fine.”
Mild curiosity tints Wallace’s expression as Scott closes his eyes, shoulders squaring, fingers flexing like he does when he’s about to warm up with his bass guitar. The air blurs between Scott’s hands, and then…
Pop!
A martini glass materializes out of thin air. Translucent green and garnished with a speared olive, swirling against the inner rim, just the way Wallace likes it.
“Huh.” He holds out his hand, eyes lit up, and Scott steps forward to surrender the cocktail. Wallace doesn’t hesitate to lift it to the lips, and it tastes just like how his favorite bartender makes it: cold, floral, and savory, balanced to perfection. Wallace swirls the glass, then glances at Scott.
“Damn, guy,” he exclaims. He enjoys another sip, sinking into the familiar comfort of the recliner’s headrest like he’s about to retire for the night already. “This might be useful after all.”
Scott frowns. “I created matter from nothing and all you have to say is it might be useful?”
Amused, Wallace hums and sets the alcohol down on the coffee table next to his water. “Well, you’d be a lot more useful if you sit.”
Confusion pulls Scott’s thick brows together. He cocks his head at an angle, dog ears going lopsided. “Huh?”
Wallace taps the arm of his chair, as if coaxing a puppy to join him. “You know. Sit.”
“Wallace…”
Doubling down, Wallace pats his knee. “Come on. You’re already halfway there.”
Arms crossed, ears folding backward in annoyance, Scott glares, but that’s fine. Wallace can wait.
Neither says anything else for a minute.
Scott’s tail swishes while his weight shifts from one foot to the other, pursing his lips into a thin, frustrated line. This is stupid. Begrudgingly, he moves, but he’s half-tempted to take Wallace by the hand and lead him out the door back into reality that’s in the center of the room. It’s a physical safe word, of sorts: a lone, white door they can exit through at any time.
Planting himself on the arm of Wallace’s chair rather than the seat itself like it’s a protest, he pouts with a stiff posture and folded arms, awaiting his dismissal. “Happy?”
Of course he is. Rather than answer, though, Wallace reaches up and scratches his back. Scott tenses, combative, eyes wide while his spine goes rigid… but after a few seconds, he melts, and Wallace fails to hide his smirk as he experiments with the touch. The scratches run deep and satisfying, following the curve of Scott’s back right between his shoulder blades. He pays close attention to the way Scott instinctively leans into it, the way his ears flick in sync with each drag of Wallace’s short nails along his body. Despite all Scott’s best efforts, even his tail starts to sway, nudging at Wallace’s arm in contentment.
Wallace makes a low, thoughtful sound. “Interesting.”
Scott shifts, clearing his throat. “It’s just— it’s just nice, okay?”
His teeth catch his lip and he shuts his eyes, little blotches of red burning into his cheeks, but he does everything to stay in Wallace’s range and melt into the scratches. His tail wags incessantly against Wallace’s side, thoroughly pleased. “Shut up, maybe.”
Wallace does not shut up. Mischief lights up his eyes, and he plucks his wallet out from his pocket.
Scott doesn’t notice until Wallace holds it up, fingers pinched around the worn leather edges.
Frowning, Scott looks at him, though his ears stand straight up. Ready. “What are you—?”
And then Wallace throws it upward.
It arcs cleanly through the air, flipping once, twice—
Liftoff. Scott’s back straightens up while his teeth clamp down on the wallet. It dangles there as time stops, both men staring down one another while Scott’s brain catches up with his body. His pupils shrink, and his hot spit already begins to soften the leather. He spits the wallet out as soon as the realization hits, scrambling off the arm of the chair so fast he almost knocks over Wallace, but the older of the two manages to secure himself just in time.
“Wallace!?” Scott’s voice cracks, wrist wiping at his mouth furiously, as if trying to erase the last five seconds. “Why did you— why did I do that?!”
Poor Scott glares at the floor, steam wafting off his burning face, a distinctly doglike whimper creeping up the back of his throat as Wallace laughs at him -- shoulders shaking, teeth flashing, only barely composing himself enough to wipe the tear at the corner of his eye. “No, no, I love it. You actually caught it. You make a great dog.”
Scott pouts, dragging his hands down his face as his tail tucks around his leg in shame. Wallace leans forward, chin propped on his hand, uttering his friend’s name with sing-song cadence. “Scott.”
Scott refuses to look at him. “No.”
“Scoooott.”
“Nooooo.”
Wallace dangles the wallet high between them, shaking it in front of Scott’s pink-tinged face as if entertaining a baby with keys. “Wanna fetch?”
Swallowing hard, Scott tries not to look, but his ears spring upward and flick with intrigue. Only a moment passes before Wallace throws the wallet, sending it skidding across the hardwood floor.
The instant it leaves his hand, Scott’s body lunges after it, instincts overriding every shred of dignity he thought he had left. He drops, palms slamming onto the floor, and his legs kick off in a scrambling sprint. His tail blurs into a cartoonish smear-frame as he chases down the wallet, tumbling to a stop just before it crashes into the baseboard. Furious at the newfound lack of autonomy, Scott’s about to grab it and confiscate the credit card inside to hold hostage, but Wallace’s playful chiding stops him in his tracks.
“Ah-ah,” Wallace taps a finger against his martini glass as he picks it back up. “Dogs don’t use their hands.”
Horrified, Scott turns his head. “Wallace…”
Only lifting an eyebrow in return, Wallace takes a fresh sip. Compromise is not on the table.
Scott waits for the punchline, holding out for the moment Wallace cracks and goes, haha, just kidding, wouldn’t that be crazy? but it never comes. Wallace means it.
Scott’s throat runs dry. His tail thumps the floor behind him, uncertain but definitely annoyed. Exhaling sharply through his nose, he locks eyes with Wallace, trying to will him into backing down, but subspace doesn’t change who somebody is. Wallace is Wallace, and there’s not a single thing Scott can do about that.
Besides groaning, maybe. “You suck.”
Slowly, reluctantly, mortifyingly, he leans down and picks up the leather between his lips. Yuck. Scott’s ears flatten as he lifts his head, and his tail, to his great chagrin, gives one small, unconscious wag before he locks it in place. He marches back over to Wallace’s side, absolutely simmering with humiliation, and he spits it out with enough force that it falls with a wet splat against Wallace’s thigh.
His Cheshire grin beams even through the apartment's dim light. “Good boy.”
Reaching out as if nothing is amiss, Wallace skims his fingers through Scott’s hair, scratching behind one ear, dragging his nails to shoot traitorous shivers down Scott’s spine.
Scott hates how good it feels. Betrayed by his whole body, his ears flick, his tail wags, and his body melts, sinking into the motion and reacting in ways he can’t control. As quickly as those bassist fingers can strum, they’re useless now, splaying out blissfully when Wallace kneads away the knots in his back. “Mm— mnn…”
Naturally, Wallace notices and leans in, his haughty voice warm and soothing as it crackles in Scott’s hypersensitive ears.
“It’s cute,” he murmurs, scratching a little deeper, watching the way Scott’s eyelids flutter for half a second before he catches himself. “I mean, it’s a shame that you had to set up all of this exposition and pretense just to let yourself go, but it’s cute.”
Scott jerks away, ears burning, tail absolutely going haywire despite his best efforts. “Dude!”
Wallace just sips away, utterly unbothered. He polishes off the rest of his glass and, as easily as it came into existence, it vanishes. Scott scowls, scrubbing his hands down his face. “I came over here to tell you about the cool subspace stuff I can do, and you don’t even care at all. You just— you’re just—”
Tutting at the ornery dog-boy by his side, Wallace just tilts his head and drags his fingers down Scott’s back again, playful and reassuring. “Who said I wasn’t interested?”
Scott shudders before he jumps away this time, swatting Wallace’s hand violently and wholly betraying himself in the process.
“You’re– can you just– rrrrrf!” There it is. He growls, on the cusp of barking, backing away toward safety. Ears red, tail flicking furiously, Scott sits directly on the floor by Wallace’s feet out of range of back-scratches… though the optics aren’t really helping his case. He’s supposed to be excited about the cool powers he can now access, but Wallace has made it impossible.
Dramatically, he taps his face against Wallace’s leg, kneeling before him.
“Can you please let me finish, Wallace?” he exhales, forcing his tone back into normalcy. Wallace glances down at him, eyes half-lidded with amusement.
“Oh, sure,” he says, lazily crossing one leg over the other. He cups his cheek in his hand, smirking into it. “Tell me everything.”
With a great sigh of relief, Scott lowers his guard and spreads his thighs apart for comfort. “Okay, so— I think anyone can use it. You just ha- aaa–”
Wallace’s foot presses right between his legs. Grazing up against the inseam of his jeans, he stamps on his crotch, applying and confiscating pressure like a gas pedal.
Scott stiffens. All his thoughts go missing in the filter between his mind and his mouth, stuck in his throat, body locking up before his brain can process what’s happening. Wallace adjusts his posture too, becoming more intentional with the firm drag of his heel between Scott’s thighs, rubbing his cock strategically and pulling away anytime the bassist tries to chase the pressure.
Twitching his fingers against his own knees, Scott squirms. The rosy hue of his cheeks deepens, and he looks up as Wallace encourages him to continue speaking. He’s hard, bashful, unsure of what to do with himself as Wallace plays with him so casually.
“Oh, really?” Wallace drawls, stretching his leg out to let his heel rub a little harder against the musician’s crotch. “That’s fascinating.”
Twin bluescreens replace Scott’s eyes for a second, and his overheated face takes the cue to redirect the blood much lower, meeting Wallace’s touch with a defined outline between his thighs. Wallace hums conversationally. “All you have to do is think about it? Even I could do it?”
Scott’s voice cracks. “Uh. Yeah. B- Basicall— b…”
Forgetting how to breathe, Scott tries to get his brain back on track after the entirely unfair thing Wallace just did with his foot. Words are hard, and Wallace doesn’t seem to really care anyway. The bassist ruts against the air, embarrassed, letting instinct take over. “Bark…”
Wallace tilts his head, suddenly feigning confusion. “Sorry, what?”
Scott blinks, too consumed by need to respond. “Nn…”
“I can’t hear you,” Wallace proclaims, his fingers hooking into the front of Scott’s shirt before he pulls.
A sharp yelp squeaks out of him, wholly caught off guard as he’s dragged, and Scott loses his balance and falls forward deep between Wallace’s legs. With his face now in front of Wallace’s lap, he shivers, not at all blind to the fact that Wallace’s cock curved downward… and outward, trapped in little more than the thin barrier of boxer-briefs since they’re at home. Warm pressure meets Scott’s cheek, and the bassist’s own cock thickens in his pants, arousal concentrated in the pit of his stomach.
Nonchalantly, Wallace keeps Scott right there, rubbing the back of his head as the dog-boy’s tongue lolls out. “There we go. Go ahead, guy.”
”A— ah…” Scott freezes up, paralyzed for choice until Wallace’s heel rocks against the ridge of Scott’s trapped cock. Rubbing up and down, forward and back, Scott’s teakettle whine rises in the enclosed space that is between Wallace’s thighs. He can feel his cock pushing back against the pressure, and eventually his pelvis join in – a hypnotic roll of his hips into Wallace’s touch, only outmatched by the strain of Wallace’s own cock in real time.
Cheeks burning, Scott nuzzles his face against the tent of Wallace’s boxers, twitching every time the clothed tip catches on Scott’s lips. “Mmm…”
Scott can’t remember what he was going to say. He can’t remember how words work at all. He looks up to his roommate with drunken eyes and parted lips, and Wallace meets his gaze, only to squish his face against the older man’s cock. Dragging his wet tongue against the outline, he mouths at the length of it, suckles through the threadbare cotton, does everything in his power to taste as much surface area as he can anytime he isn’t humping the most minute part of Wallace’s leg.
“Wall–...W… Woof…”
Something about the humiliation fries his brain, but it’s okay. His toes curl in his socks, and his lips go soft and puffy from the kisses against Wallace’s bulge. It’s painfully hot, and Scott finally works up the nerve to grab Wallace’s waistband for more leverage, more cock, when he finds himself denied his treat.
“Roll over.”
There’s no time for Scott to process before Wallace pushes the sole of his foot against Scott’s stomach and tips him over until he’s sprawled on his side. In one smooth motion, Wallace sits with him, meeting him there, settling beside him on the floor. Scott looks devastated, staring between Wallace’s boxers (now thoroughly soaked with Scott’s spit and Wallace’s precum) and Wallace’s face – but something tells him that the blush climbing Wallace’s ears means he’s going to make up for it.
“That’s a good boy.”
Wallace’s fingertips reach out to press lightly against Scott’s stomach and rub slow, absent-minded circles. Scott responds with a shudder and a wag of his tail, sweeping the hardwood beneath them. Innocent at first, Wallace sweeps his palm forward and back in lazy, gentle belly rubs, the kind of thing that would be condescending if it weren’t for the fact that it feels so nice in Scott’s newfound mental state. Scott’s muscles relax beneath the warmth of Wallace’s palms, his back arching into the touch before his mind can stop it.
And then Wallace’s hand drifts lower, skittering along Scott’s cock in between softer touches to his ribcage, just to keep him on edge.
Thighs twitching, cock throbbing, Scott is insatiable, unable to focus on anything but Wallace’s fingers skating above his waistband. Flat on his back, breath shallow, he’s powerless against the cruel back-and-forth of innocent touches against his stomach and fleeting grazes against his cock, entire body alight as Wallace teases him.
So much so that he can barely even make out the words that leave his roommate’s lips.
“Think you can get rid of these with your little subspace tricks?”
Scott’s brain stutters, and he blinks up at Wallace, dazed. “Wh…?”
Eyes glazing over Scott’s wound-up body, Wallace drifts his focus toward the obvious problem between his legs.
“Your jeans,” he says, palming at the firm imprint of Scott’s pants. He’s leaking, saturating the mid-thigh. “You can summon things with subspace, right? Think you can unsummon those?”
“I– I don’t know— ww— woof…” he admits, breath hitching. He can barely form coherent sentences, let alone concentrate.
Circling his thumb along where the tip would be, Wallace asks, “Why don’t you give it a shot?”
Scott lip catches on his teeth, audibly biting back his pleasured whines, but he shuts his eyes, and, despite the distractions, channels all of his focus into the task.
Poof.
Just like that, his jeans are gone.
“Oh,” he smirks, unable to hide the pleasure creeping into the edge of his voice. Wallace’s eyes flick down, drinking in the sight of him. Sprawled across the floor like a proper mutt, all the way down to his twitching ears, rising chest, and eager eyes.
“That’s a good trick,” Wallace muses, reaching down, fingers skimming over the newly bared skin of Scott’s hip. The overstimulated dog-boy’s begun to drip down to his thigh, the lustful sheen catching the light above.
“Since you’re so good at manifesting things,” he says, snapping the newly exposed elastic of Scott’s boxers against his waist, “maybe you should put a collar on yourself next.”
That’s a touch too far. If Scott had a shred of self-respect, he’d heed the hammering heart and screaming instincts that tell him to stop listening to Wallace. This submissive space is too new, too unfamiliar, and lending itself far too easily to the easy, doglike-instincts that he hasn’t fully mastered.
But god, does he love listening to Wallace.
Another moment of focus passes. Scott writhes, tail curling around his leg and thinking about what he truly wants, and in an instant, a magical weight settles around his throat.
“Is it good?” Scott asks, smoothing his fingers over the dog collar he’s just manifested, all other concerns left to the wayside in favor of pleasing Wallace. That’s his new job.
The metal buckle is solid beneath his touch, and Wallace lifts a single finger to hook beneath the thick, sturdy material and pull Scott toward him to examine further.
Something catches Wallace’s eye. “Very. Good boy— Oh? What do we have here?”
He tilts Scott’s chin up, getting a better look at the side of the collar. Wallace murmurs, his voice downright gleeful. “No one told you to add this.”
Blinking blankly, Scott looks up, confused, until Wallace rubs his thumb over the embossed words he hadn’t even realized he’d added.
“PROPERTY OF W.W.? Didn’t realize you were so sentimental, buddy.”