Summary: A little verbal slip-up leads to Wade going down on you. It's the only way to shut him up. (Female Reader)
Word Count: 1,092
Warnings: SMUT (Minors Do Not Interact). Explicit Sexual Content. Oral (Female Receiving). Sort Of Sub! Wade Wilson. No Y/N. No Deadpool and Wolverine Spoilers.
Crossposted on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58067737
A/N: My friend I watched Deadpool and Wolverine in the cinema a few days ago and it re-awakened my crush on Deadpool. This is my first time writing a reader insert for Deadpool, please be nice. This contains
NO SPOILERS.
---
“I could just eat you out.”
“Out?”
“I mean, eat you up. Sorry, verbal autocorrect.”
“No takebacks!”
That was what had led to this, had led to you leaning back on your sofa, legs spread with Wade kneeling between them, holding onto both your thighs as he kissed the insides of them, teasing you as he got closer and closer to where you wanted his mouth. When he once more stopped just short of your clit you groaned and gripped onto his shoulders.
“Stop teasing me, Wade.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He grinned up at you before sinking his teeth into the flesh of your thigh, making you whimper quietly. “Now where’s that smart mouth you always like to run? Come on, speak up.”
“I run my mouth? Have you-- Have you listened to yourself lately?”
With that, you used the heel of your foot pressing into his upper back to bring him closer, releasing a sigh of relief when his mouth finally connected with your dripping folds. You watched him blink in surprise but then quickly, he shrugged his shoulders and ran his tongue up between your lips, making you gasp in pleasure.
“Finally!”
His small chuckle sent vibrations right through your core and you moaned out, legs clenching around his head as your nails dug into the flesh of his shoulders. “This is great. I’ve always loved tacos.”
“If-- If you call my pussy a-- a taco one more fucking time, I’ll kick you out.”
Wade pulled back at that, cocking his head to the side and giving you an affectionate grin. “And punish yourself? Please, don’t make me laugh. I get you so wet that the first few rows in the cinema will need a flash warning.”
“Do you ever shut up?”
“You could make me.”
With that, you used both the heel of your foot against his back and your hands to pull him back until his lower face was buried inside of you. And thankfully, he did shut up for more than five seconds in favour of properly eating you out, tongue lapping at your folds, fingers digging into your thighs and nose brushing against your clit. It didn’t take long for you to dissolve into a moaning mess under his ministrations, your nails leaving small crescent shapes in the flesh of his shoulders as your thighs clenched and quivered around him.
Every clench of your tighs around his head got a moan out of him that send vibrations right into your clit and you gasped out almost in unison with the noises he was making. When he moved on from lapping at you to gently wrapping his lips around your clit you let out a high-pitched whine, making his eyes widen. You didn’t know whether or not he knew this noise to be one of pleasure or if he thought he’d hurt you but you didn't care either way. Before he could pull back even an inch you stopped him.
“Don’t-- Don’t stop, please.”
That was all the encouragement he needed as he began his gentle suckling of your clit, his lips periodically parting to make way for his tongue so he could circle it around the small bud of nerves. Pleasure shot through your body and you all but choked Wade with your thighs which unsurprisingly made him even more eager in his ministrations. His lips moved along yours, tongue circling your clit and the obscene slurping noises he was making were pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
“Wade, so-- so close!”
You had expected him to say something because when had he ever not kept his mouth shut but he kept quiet, pressing his face further into your core with such vigor that it made your head spin at the sight alone. He was so eager, lapping at your folds, tongue switching between exploring your pussy and licking at your clit while his hands clutched at your thighs.
“Fuck, please don’t stop. You’re so good at this. So good, Wade.”
One of his hands left your tigh, disappearing down his body and you heard the noise of a zipper being undone but he didn’t say a word, mouth much too occupied. The other hand now also left your tigh and you gasped loudly in surprise when he plunged two of them into your pussy, scissoring them.
“Deeper, please. Almost there.” You gasped out as Wade put another finger inside of you, angling them in just the right way. “Fuck, you’re so good, Wade. So good.”
Another keening moan tore from Wade’s throat at your praise and that, combines with a particularly precise thrust of his fingers and his wet tongue pressing tightly against your clit made you stumble over the edge. Your orgasm ripped through you in waves, legs quivering, pussy clenching around Wade’s tongue and chest heaving. Vaguely, you registered him moaning against you, his eyes falling shut as he worked you through your orgasm.
When you eventually came down from your height and felt him still lapping at your pussy, you brought your foot off his back to use it to shove him off you, too sensitive to let him continue. With a kiss to your clit he relented, drawing back and resting his cheek against your tight as he grinned up at you, chin and lips glistening with your juices and eyes hooded with pleasure.
You sat with him for a few moments, hands behind your body and leaning back onto them, eyes locked with Wade’s as he stared up at you in utter adoration. The hand he’d previously had inside of you came down to wrap around your calf, fingers gently digging into your flesh. When he nuzzled against your thigh you moved one of your hands to his face, cupping his cheek and stroking your thumb over it. He released a soft sigh and turned his head to kiss your palm.
“Nothing to say, Merc with a Mouth?” You asked softly, getting a small chuckle out of him before you nodded your head toward where his other hand was still resting down his body and out of your sight. “Want me to return the favour?”
He shook his head, bringing up the hand so you could see that it was coated in his semen before he wiped it at his pants. “No need.”
“I keep forgetting how quickly eating pussy shuts you up.” You chuckled affectionately, still stroking his cheek gently. “I should ask you to do it more often.”
A quote by Rene Descartes, in Latin, which translates to “I think, therefore I am”.
Descartes used this quote to assure of one’s existence. If you think, you are something, and if you are something, you exist.
I do not feel as though I exist right now. I have not felt like I’ve existed for a long, very long time. I have been trapped in this ice for what feels eternal, and now, I’ve been freed. It has been many, many years since I have lived like this.
They say being free is chains being broken. They may be right, physically, but not really. The people who liberated me would’ve truly put me out of my suffering, the same suffering my creator put me through.
Victor. Victor Frankenstein was his name. And as I tell the humans this, they give each other weird looks, as if my creator’s name was something unknown to them.
“What is your name?” One asks me, looking up, and I hesitate. My creator gave me no name—a reminder of the machine he thought of me as, not as an actual human, not as a being of his creation of skin and blood and bone—yet, a name comes out of my mouth.
“Adam.” I say, with the shaking voice of a creature encased in ice for only God knows how long.
Adam. The first man, the son of God, the husband of Eve, he who had been extricated from the paradisiacal Garden of Eden, who was many firsts at once.
Adam, who was created, yet ostracized. A rebellious perfection, a creation of beautiful suffering.
---
Soon, I learn more about the world, the world that had changed around me in the nearly 2 centuries I had been encased in my frigid dungeon of hell.
The men, who I find out are scientists, tell me that it is 1957. They have a strange accent, which they tell me is from the United States of America. They tell me that I am 168 years of age.
“166 years…” I grimace. 166 years since my creator had died, 166 years that the world had been through.
“Don’t worry, Adam, you look like you’re as old as my daughter’s boyfriend,” One of the scientists, Albert, tells me. This was apparently quite risible, as the scientists laugh.
The scientists tell me that two wars, between the laws of nations, have happened in what is known as the 20th century, and that there is another hostility, between their country and another country, known simply as the Soviet Union. When having the Soviet Union pointed out onto a map, I am confused.
“Is…This is where the Russian Empire is, is it not?” I ask.
“Adam, well…”
“Well? Is dear Empress Catherine of Russia not well, Scott?”
---
Whoever Yakov Yurovsky was, he also needed to count his days.
“Why would you kill the emperor, Nic-nick-
“Nicholas, Adam.”
“Okay…the second emperor, but also the empress, AND their children?!”
“They weren’t royalty anymore, Adam-”
“WHY WOULD THE CHILDREN BE MURDERED, ALBERT?!”
I suppose I am a hypocrite for saying this. The death of William Frankenstein, a mere child, the dear sibling to my creator, Victor, was of my own fault, and—to quote a phrase from Scott—the blood is on the hands of mine own. It was not as fanciful as my wording, I suppose, which the scientists, now friends of sorts, point out…many, many times.
In the past 2 hours, I have learned a lot about humanity now, being near the scientists. They have educated me on the affairs of the world, fed me, even draped a blanket over me—things my creator would not have done, and did not do, seeing me. To him, I was yet another reminder of the failures in his short life.
They do not just tell me stuff, but they ask me questions. “Who are you?” is the first inquiry. It comes from Evan, the scientist who records everything in the group, and who treated me with the most kindness seeing me.
The second question asked is “Why are you here?” I did not answer. I wanted to speak, but how must I tell of the concurrent tragedies of me and my creator, both cursed from the day we came to this life, to longer than time itself? How must I tell the scientists, who looked as inquisitive as my creator, that I was a mistake, that I was reborn only to prove a point?
If I do tell, there might be a chance I may be accepted, that this, not when Victor created me, shall be my rebirth, the renaissance of my life. But would I sacrifice the freedom and inconspicuousity for a new chance at my life?
I do not speak. That is why I do not speak, do not answer, to the scientists’ inquiries upon my form, but I stay quiet. Eventually, the scientists stop asking, and that relieves me, but only slightly, for they will start up again.
“Adam,” Scott, a scientist, says, getting up. “Get some sleep. I find that it works when facing new things.”
---
a/n: adding dividers and stuff, still getting used to this haha :)
“Scott, is there something you require? I am busy at this moment.”
Scott appears from his tent, into mine, his smile shining bright. I sigh.
A few days or so ago—time flies, and I have been staying with the kindest scientists for around a year—I made an error. As Albert would say, a clerical error.
I needed to get notes of findings from Scott, which Albert requested. I trudged through the snow, one step after another, and made it to Scott’s tent. I went inside, to see Scott…crying?
“Scott.”
He looked at me, and froze like a deer.
“Adam…”
He wiped his eyes, and then laughed.
“Adam?”“Yes, Scott.”“If I did this outside…do you think my tears would freeze up?”
I sighed. What had humanity come to, asking frankly absurd questions to hide their sorrow?
“Scott, you are not okay. You are shaking. You are not who you are.”
I reached for him, he pulled away. Scott was never like this. We started bickering, slightly:
“Get away from me, Adam.”“What are you feeling?”
“Adam, I am not in the mood-”“SCOTT.”Scott looked at me, eyes watery.
“I…my dad…he died when I was young. It is the anniversary of his death.”
I felt a chill, but yet also a pang of…something I could not name.
Victor’s death. He, who was not my father, yet created me. His death, which affected me in ways I could not explain.
“Adam…”
He sniffled, and I came closer, wrapping my arms around Scott, who embraced me back almost immediately, unsurprised that I had done this. I began to speak again.
“Scott…I once lost someone once. One who had created me from scrap parts, yet who left me, disgusted with me, the creation he had botched. He died. 166 years ago, he died, and I cast myself into the ice prison I thought I deserved.”Scott sniffled.
“Your old man…—Victor, right?—sounds quite interesting.”
Scott pulled me closer, as if I was some sort of canine, and then he realized.
I, Adam, who had rejected physical contact, afraid I would harm the scientists, was embracing Scott like it was an everyday thing. Scott started to smile concerningly, and that is when I started to regret what I had done.
“You…”“Scott, no.”“...Guys…”“Scott Traley, I forbid you from telling the others that I-”But Scott had already rushed off.
Sighing, I got up.
He would always be like this. Naïve, comedic, but a wonderful friend.
Although what I say, I do not regret enveloping my favorite scientist, for Scott Traley, as smug as a man can be, is still a good friend of mine.
---
a/n: is this buns chat, does ANYONE read this, someone comment pls
The soft chords above drift gently through the water to his ears, rather than cutting through it like his own song does. Where his song is cold and demanding, the notes that float above his favorite cave every so often are sweet and warm and seem to be soaked in longing. In all his life, he’s never heard a song so innocent. A song begging to give rather than take... it’s freakish yet interesting.
He supposes that’s why he comes here everyday. There isn’t much in this world that piques his interest.
As Fran pushes off the slab of rock he had been lounging on, he wonders once again what the human creating that music could be longing for. He breaches the surface before he can go through all the possibilities.
The sun is especially hot this day, making it its mission to cook whatever skin he exposes to its rays. Forehead already burning, slowly turning boiling red, he keeps the surface of the water just under his eyes and swims towards the rocky cove before him.
Pulling up close to the short, jagged wall of dusty orange boulders, he listens.
“...Like a river flows, surely to the sea... Darling so it goes, some things are meant to be...” the human sings, voice barely above a whisper despite there being no one around to be shy of. Their words are accompanied by an odd, yet pleasant twanging.
Fran notices, in his place pressed against the blazing stones, that the human has gotten better at ‘twanging’ (as Fran has no idea what to call this unfamiliar musical phenomenon) since they’ve started coming by, at least by his standards as he’s not really sure what the right way to twang is. All he knows is that the twanging has started to match their singing more, and that it’s much more enjoyable to hear.
‘It seems interesting. I kinda wanna try.’ he thinks, though he has no idea where to start. He doesn’t even know what a twanger looks like, spending everyday only listening to the human’s and never daring to steal a glance.
He’s usually more daring, but it’s the death penalty for anyone stupid enough to get caught by a human and (though he doesn’t particularly love living) Fran would rather not die just yet...
But it is tempting.
“Take my hand...” The twanging grows sweeter as the human continues to sing. Fran can just taste the sound. “Take my whole life too...”
A peek couldn’t hurt if it’s only once, if it’s really quick. It would only take a second really. Just long enough to see what a twanger looks like.
“For I...”
Fran grips the edge of the rocks and slowly begins to lift himself up. He won’t necessarily have to climb to sneak a look, but the rocks stand at least a foot above the water’s surface, so it’s a bit of a stretch.
“Can’t help...”
The skin on his back quickly bubbles as it greets the sun. He knows he’ll have burns he won’t be able to explain when he gets home tonight. Squalo’s sure to cuss him out.
As he inches closer to the top, he wonders how he’s survived this long without any impulse control.
“Falling in-” With one big tug, Fran pulls his head up above the rock line and the first thing he sees are wide, brown eyes.
‘Ah.’ he thinks as the human opens their mouth to let out a scream. ‘I get it. It’s because I’m supposed to die right here.’
Fuuta’s so startled by the creature in front of them they drop their guitar (their baby, the thing they saved for months to buy) on the rocks, its strings crying out in pain as it lands roughly against the boulders. Their pick flies out of their hand, dropping to the water with a would-be satisfying Plop! as Fuuta scrambles backwards on their ass.
The creature, a smooth skinned being with an almost-human face, dives down head first into the ocean, a dazzling green tail flicking up from under it before quickly following its head into the icy water.
Everything, save for the gentle ocean waves lapping at the side of the rocky cove, is still.
Fuuta licks their lips as their heart hammers quietly against their chest. They get on their hands and knees and pad over to the edge of the rocks, carefully bypassing the guitar, trying hard not to make a sound.
Swallowing the spit collected in their mouth, they peek over the edge.
They’re in perfect sync with the creature, who resurfaces right as they look down.
It hesitates, only the very top of its head in view, before lifting its head up so its shoulders are in view.
Taking a closer look, the creature is definitely abnormal, but not necessarily frightening.
Its hair falls from its head in wet tendrils, the dripping ends barely kissing its pale shoulders. The sides of its slender neck are decorated with six flapping gills, three on each side. Its nose doesn’t protrude out like a humans, instead melting in with the rest of its smooth skin, only a small bump visible where its thin nostrils sit. Fan like flippers sit on either side of its head, as if in place of ears.
The white of its eyes are nonexistent, its milky, green irises ending only where their dilated pupils begin.
Its gaze makes a chill run up Fuuta’s spine as they lock eyes once more. They watch as the creature lifts a slender, pale arm out of the water.
In its webbed hand, sat a thin, blue rounded triangle. Fuuta’s guitar pick.
“Are you-?” Their voice cracks and they have to clear their throat. “Are you... trying to return it?”
The creature glances at their palm then Fuuta then back again to their palm. After a moment to consider its options, the creature shuts its palm and dives back down into the sea.
“Oh-Hey-!” Before Fuuta can worry about whether they’ve scared it off, the creature returns, this time with a small, pink mollusc shell the size and shape of a screw. It holds the shell out towards Fuuta in its palm, nodding its head towards it as if urging them to take it.
Fuuta lets out a nervous chuckle. “That’s pretty, but you were right the first time. Could I have that back?” they ask, pointing at the creature’s other hand, which still held their pick.
The creature glances at the pick and pulls it close to its chest. It holds out the shell more insistently, swimming a little closer to the rocks. Its cold fish eyes bore into them.
They blink, laying down flat on their stomach, letting their arm hang off the rocks, dipping into the water. They let out another shaky chuckle. “You... want to trade?”
It nods.
Fuuta sucks in a shocked breath. For some reason, despite speaking to it normally as if it were another person, they didn’t actually think it would be able to understand them. “Um...” they lick their lips and look around. No hidden cameras or people around.
This isn’t a prank, and if they misjudge how harmless this thing is...
They bite their lip and nod.
“Yeah, okay, let’s trade.”
Curiosity killed the cat, and Fuuta can only pray it doesn’t kill them.
They reach out, but the creature, eyes dilating even bigger, seems to remember or realize something and snatches its hand away, shifting a couple feet back in the water.
It stares at them, gills flush and shoulders tense as if suddenly realizing Fuuta might be a threat.
Fuuta throws their hands up, trying to show they’ve nothing up their sleeve. “It’s okay. I won’t get close then. You can...” They think for a second before slowly letting down their hands and cupping them together and holding them out over the rocks. “You can throw it. I’ll catch it.” Maybe. Their hand-eye coordination isn’t that great.
The creature looks like it doesn’t believe them either. The little lump their nostrils sit on shifting up a bit, as if it was wrinkling its nose at them.
“It’s fine. If I drop it, you can have the pick for free.”
The word ‘free’, for some reason, makes the creature perk up.
Without a second thought, it sends the shell towards Fuuta with one sloppy underhand toss.
To both their surprise, it lands neatly in their hands.
The feeling of the shell hitting their skin, the point digging into their left palm for a moment, tells them this isn’t a dream.
They pull their hands back and sit up, inspecting the damp shell in their hands with wonder, as if they haven’t seen thousands just like it over the course of their short life.
“Thank you.” they say as they glance back up, a little breathless.
The creature gives them a hesitant nod in return.
“You don’t talk much do you?”
The creature, of course, says nothing.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to talk.” they say, speaking as if this weird sea creature would be insecure about being a little asocial.
They pull their handkerchief out of their breast pocket and carefully wrap the shell in it before stuffing it all back in. Their eyes never leave it eyes, and again, Fuuta can only see milky, green irises.
“Uh, I don’t really know what to do at this point.” they admit, letting their hands fall into their lap. “Should we introduce ourselves? I’m-”
About twenty or thirty feet back, near one of the cove’s land entrances, something thuds against the rocks, letting out a scream.
The creatures bony shoulders tense and it dives down into the water, swimming down until even its shadow disappeared from view. “Hey, wait!” Fuuta calls much too late.
With the creature gone, they look back towards the direction of the sound and can see some figures in the distance. Humans, probably, judging by their silhouette. They can just make out some of their outfits. Khaki shorts and cabana shirts.
Fuuta shivers as they blindly grab for their guitar. ‘Oh no.’ they think, finally wrapping their hand around the instrument’s neck. ‘Tourists.’
Securing their guitar strap on their shoulder, they rush to the exit in the opposite direction, glancing back at the water just once.
The shell in their pocket feels heavy and hot as they hike up the cove towards the road home.
Patting it through their shirt, they wonder if they’ll ever see that little critter again.
“Would you look at what you did? They’re gone now!” one of the ‘tourists’ snaps at his companion as he adjusts the hat on his head, not offering to give him a hand up.
On the ground, his friend glares up at him before checking his arms. There’s a new gash on his right elbow and another one running up his left forearm. More injuries for his pathetic collection. “As if I wanted to get banged up again.” he snaps, before lifting himself up onto wobbly legs. The rocks weren’t sturdy at all and, coupled with how clumsy he is, they’re basically a literal pathway to disaster.
“It’s not my fault you can’t walk properly.” Hat Man says breezily, before pointing his attention to where Fuuta once sat. He stares out into the water, wondering if the little beast they spotted might appear if he looked long enough. “So now what, the kid’s safe, but that little monster is gone too.”
Boo-Boo Arms sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Set up a schedule to monitor the area. It’ll come back eventually. The sightings date back a couple months, and it seems to be trying to lure people in a secluded area. It’ll be back after a couple weeks of hiding.”
“Right, ‘boss’.” Hat Man salutes him mockingly.
Boo-Boo Arms sighs again as he turns around, stomping back towards the road they came from. “Don’t ask me what to do if you’re gonna be an ass about your orders.” he mutters, leading his ‘friend’ away from the cove.
Walking with their back towards the sea, they don’t notice a head of green hair poking up from the water, scanning the rocks for something (or rather, someone) before sinking back down into the water in disappointment.
this is the worst thing ive ever written and i think its also the longest (whoops, lol!)
“C’mon Lambo, it's not that bad.” I-Pin said, stomach twisting at the obvious lie.
She couldn't tell her friend the truth, though. It'd shatter him; he's been staring at the mirror since they woke up this morning, eyes completely fixed on one point on his forehead.
Lambo had a zit.
“You're lying; you know I can tell when you're lying.” He's distraught, close to tears yet again. His fingers prod at the tender, red skin surrounding the pus filled bump.
“Stop touching it.” I-Pin swats his hands away from his face. “It’ll just get worse. C’mon, just wash your face and cover it with you bangs, no one will notice.”
He pouts a bit but does as he’s told, brushing his bangs to cover the spot as soon as his face was dry. He blinks at his reflection. “Maybe... maybe people really won’t notice.”
She smiled and grabbed his shoulders, squeezing a little courage into them. “Of course they won’t, it’s such a tiny little thing. And we’re on break anyways, it’s not like we’ll see anyone from school will see you.”
“You’re right.” Lambo smiles, allowing his best friend to lead him out the restroom and downstairs for breakfast. “And I guess no one in the family will make fun of it. Right?”
“Right.” I-Pin says firmly, squeezing his shoulders again. “You’re home, with your loving family that would never make fun of you for your physical appearance. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
She releases her grip on him and heads into the kitchen ahead of him. “Uh oh.”
Her arm flies out, preventing Lambo from taking a step into the kitchen and stares at the familiar bent figure digging around in their fridge.
Finding something that pleased him, the figure straightened up, revealing a head of green hair.
“Lambo,” I-Pin whispers, pushing him back with one arm. “Go back upstairs.”
“You’re right.”
He turns to sneak up the stairs but is stopped by Fran lazily calling out to him. “Not gonna say hi?”
Lambo’s lip quivers. “Please, Fran-”
“Shut up and turn around.” There’s a sick smile spread on Fran’s face, cold delight in his eyes.
“Don’t be too mean, Fran.” I-Pin gives him a warning glare that he ignores.
“C’mon, Lammypoo, turn around; let’s see it.” Fran orders, placing his elbows on the back of one of the chairs at the dinner table, swirling a bottle of Fuuta’s favorite marble soda in his hand.
Lambo clenches his fists and turns around, eyes trained on the floor. He takes a deep breath and looks up, moving his bangs just as Fran took another swig from the bottle.
Fran spits out his drink.
“Holy fuck, what kinda mountain is your face giving birth to?” he says, as he wipes a mixture of spit and soda off his chin with the back of his hand.
“Shut up!” Lambo’s eyes are watering, he stomps his foot in frustration, hands flying up to cover the blemish. “I-Pin! You told me it wasn’t that big!”
“It’s not; I promise!”
“No, no, it is big. God, that thing is fucking magnificent.” Fran sets down his half-empty bottle of soda to come around the table and cup Lambo’s cheeks, moving the other boy’s head to get a better look at the object in question. “It’s like a work of art. It’s right where Harry Potter’s lightning scar is.”
Fran let out a fake gasp. “You’re like an alternate universe Harry where Voldemort is living in his head instead of Quirrel’s.”
“He does have the hair and eyes for it.” I-Pin mutters.
“Both of you leave me alone!”
“Lemme pop it for you.” Fran offers suddenly, one of his twitchy little hands moving towards Lambo’s forehead.
“NO! You’ll make it worse!”
“I pop Fuuta’s all the time. C’mere, let your dear brother Franny get that for you.”
“You’re not my brother.” Lambo’s nose wrinkles with disgust.
Fran’s lips pout, but it doesn’t fit the rest of his otherwise inexpressive face. He puts his hands on his chest, acting like a heartbroken mother. “Wow. Am I not part of the Family?”
“You’re only Varia, that’s not enough to treat you like a brother.” Lambo slaps his cheeks a bit, glad to be out of Fran’s grasp. “You’ll have to marry in the main family or fix your attitude for that. Both of which are impossible.”
Fran thinks for a moment before glancing at I-Pin. “Care for a quick marriage of convenience?”
“Hell no.”
“Then,” he glances up the stairs behind Lambo. “Fuuta, marry me.”
“Maybe if things don’t work out with Cassie.” they reply as they reach the bottom of the stairs, adjusting the athletic bag on their shoulder.
“Fuuta, don’t encourage him. He’s being mean to Lambo.” I-Pin protests.
Fuuta sighs. “What’s going on no-Oh my God!” their worn out reply is cut by their own worried crooning. They gently cup Lambo’s chin and tilt his head up. “Oh, you poor thing, that must hurt, it’s a big one.”
“Fuuta!” Lambo shoves their hand away and starts crying.
“Aw, don’t be upset, Lambo.” they squeeze his shoulder before pulling out their phone. “Fran and I are meeting friends at the pool, but when I come home we’ll put some astringent on it, okay?”
I-Pin looks at Fran and his thin, white shirt, disliking how flat everything looked. “You’re going to the pool?”
Fran covers his chest with his arms and sniffs at her. “I’ve got a swim top on underneath. It’s not like I’m getting in the water, anyways.”
“What? Then why are you coming?” Fuuta asks, opening the front door for him.
Fran snatches his soda off the kitchen table and makes his way through the door. “To cockblock you and Cassie.”
Lambo’s playing The Sims on the living room couch when his vision suddenly goes black.
He grabs around where his face should be and feels something in what appeared to be a plastic bag. Pushing it away, he tilted his head and looked up at I-Pin, who smiled back down at him. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“No, but I can help you.” She easily hops over the back of the couch and lands neatly beside him. She sets down the shopping back in between them and starts digging around in it. “I looked on the internet for ways to cure acne and found a whole bunch of DIY face masks we can try together. I got all the stuff for it.”
Lambo looks in the bag and wrinkles his nose for the second time that day. “Is that milk?” he asks, sticking a hand in the back and rummaging through it. “A tomato?”
“I hear it works wonders!” I-Pin grabs the bag of ‘goodies’ in one hand and lightly smacks her friend’s arm with the other before jumping onto her feet. “Let’s do it; we have the kitchen and house all to ourselves with Bianchi out on a job and Mama on vacation.”
“Alright, alright.” he turns to save his game and notices his whole Sim mansion was on fire from the pancakes Sim-Lambo was trying to make. Sim-Lambo’s husband, Oki, was not able to make it out due to a dirty plate on the floor. “Fuck! I-Pin, you made me kill my husband.”
“That’s not my fault.” she says breezily, walking towards the kitchen. “You were a negligent spouse.”
After mourning his husband for a good 10 minutes and taking an hour to create a new one, they get straight to work.
Lambo’s sitting on the countertop, butt numb and back aching from not having moved in a couple hours.
“I-Pin, are we almost done?” he whined, straightening up and sighing in relief as he felt his back pop.
“Just one more mask!” She cuts a tomato in half and scoops a bunch of its guts up with her hand.
Lambo looks at his best friend, wary. Around the fourth or fifth mask, she stopped applying them to her own face. He was a little peeved he’d be the only one smelling like milk and spaghetti, but he doesn’t whine (too much) because he knows she’s just trying to help.
He reminds himself, over and over, that I-Pin is just trying to help as she slaps a glob of tomato on one side of his forehead before spreading it onto his face child.
“Simmmmbaaaaa.” she whispers, earning herself a kick on the knee.
“I knew it; you’re just playing around, aren’t you.”
“No, just because I’m having a little fun doesn’t mean I’m not taking this seriously.” She rubs her elbow on her laptop’s mousepad to wake it up and squints at the home remedy site they were using.
She smiles, pushes away some stray hairs in her face with the back of her hand, and heads towards the sink.
“You keep that on for just five hours and then we just have to rinse it off.”
Lambo threw his head back and groaned, wincing only a little when he smacks his head on the cabinet. “What am I supposed to do for 5 hours?” he asks, sliding off the counter.
I-Pin shrugs, wiping her hands with a dish towel. “We can play games, watch a movie, maybe bake something?”
She tosses the dish towel and grabs a disposable shower cap from the finally empty shopping bag. She holds it up to his head, eyeballing some kind of measurement, and cuts the top off with some kitchen scissors left behind from mask #37.
“We’ve probably got until Fuuta get back, hopefully not with Fran, so we should probably start with cleaning the kitchen.”
She pulls what’s left of the shower cap over the top of his head and snaps the band right where his eyebrows start, making a weird plastic sweatband.
“Figures, you torture me and then have me clean up the evidence.”
I-Pin smiles even brighter, grabbing the rest of the tomato and dropping it into Lambo’s hands, before chirping, “That’s how a good assassin works.”
When Fuuta (and, unfortunately, Fran, who immediately runs into the kitchen to rummage through the fridge and cabinets) return, Lambo and I-Pin are curled up watching the Lion King, I-Pin’s head in Lambo’s lap because she doesn’t want her hair to be anywhere near his forehead at the moment.
“You two look comfy.” Fuuta comments, though their eyes are locked onto Lambo’s tomato-band. “I don’t know if I get the new look you’re going for with that headband, though.”
Lambo yawns, blinking away some sleepy tears. “It’s a face mask. Or, at least, that’s what I-Pin’s been telling me.”
I-Pin rolls over onto her stomach to welcome Fuuta properly. “We’re on treatment hour four right now. The website says it’s supposed to stay on for five.”
“No it doesn’t.” Fran walks in from the kitchen, balancing I-Pin’s laptop on his arm and a popsicle in his mouth.
“Hey, get off my laptop, you nosy-” I-Pin rolls off the couch onto the floor and scrambles over to reclaim her laptop.
Fran holds it just out her reach. “It says you only have to have it on for five minutes. Do you not have your contacts on or something?”
Lambo jumps up and snatches the laptop out of Fran’s hands. There it is in black and white: “Let it rest on the affected area for five minutes before rinsing.”
He drops the computer, and I-Pin barely has time to snatch it out of the air. He’s frozen, screaming a bit on the inside. Fuuta pulls him into a hug.
“I’m sure leaving it on longer won’t make it worse.” They bury their face in Lambo’s curls and sniff a bit. “And, if it makes you feel better, you smell a little like Mama’s special lasagna. It’s a good smell.”
Lambo cries in Fuuta’s arms.
“Will this really work, Fuuta?”
“No.” Fran answers from his place on Fuuta’s bed, not looking up from the magazine in his hands.
“Yes.” Fuuta sends Fran a glare before returning to their work, dabbing an astringent soaked cotton ball on what Fran has ‘affectionately’ dubbed Mount Fuji Junior. “Yes, it will. I use it on my zits all the time.”
Lambo sits with his back against Fuuta’s bed, his forehead still stained orange and his hair still smelling like Nana’s lasagna after thirteen baths and one very hot shower.
He’s exhausted. His face, aside from the patch of skin surrounding Junior, tingled from being scrubbed so much. Lambo wasn’t in the mood for any more nonsense or lies.
“Fran says he pops them for you.”
“Puddin’, you’re not supposed to tell people that!” Fuuta snapped, glaring at Fran who still couldn’t be bothered to look up.
Fran drawls as he takes a quiz on what kind of cupcake he is, “Shy about your zits, Starboy? Are you being a good example for this impressionable and insecure baby boy here? You were just telling him that no one’s going to care about a little pimple.”
Fuuta coughs a bit before turning their attention back on Lambo, their ears burning. Quickly, they put on their most adult face and continue dabbing astringent all over Junior. “Because it’s the truth, no one cares about a little pimple-” Lambo wonders if they care about a giant one. “-like this. And I don’t let Fran pop mine. He does it himself when I’m not paying attention.”
“God, I wish the two of you weren’t paying attention right now.” Fran flips the page in his magazine and studies a page on hot yoga. “Junior’s looking pretty ripe right now.”
“Fran! I told you not to name it; you’ll get attached.” Fuuta scolds him as if they’re talking about a stray animal and not a growth on their baby brother’s face.
The astringent feels weird on his skin. Hot and cold, a little tingly in a manner different from how the rest of his face is tingling. Lambo tries to poke Junior with his finger, but Fuuta swats it away.
“Don’t go touching it now that I’ve put the astringent on.” they say, screwing the cap back on the bottle of astringent and setting it on their desk. “Go to sleep right now, it’ll be gone in the morning.”
“And if it’s not I’ll remain hideous forever.” Lambo moans melodramatically. Fuuta rolls their eyes and flicks his nose.
“You’re not hideous because of some zit. Everyone gets zits-”
“Fran doesn’t.”
“Okay, everyone who doesn’t make deals with cosmic entities and various demons gets zits sometimes. It’s just a part of life and growing up and all that dumb gross stuff.” Fuuta says, waving their hand a bit at the ‘life’ part. “No one’s ugly for it. And anyone who makes fun of you over something perfectly natural is a real jerk.”
They give Fran a pointed look. Fran just shrugs, already knowing he’s an asshole.
They roll their eyes and take Lambo’s hand, squeezing it. “It’ll be gone by morning. And even if it isn’t, no one in this house will make fun of you for it.”
“Promise?” Lambo asks, squeezing back. He feels a bit like a baby, clinging to Fuuta’s hand like this, but he needs the comfort.
“Promise.” Fuuta says, letting go of Lambo’s hand and ruffling his hair. They don’t stop until Lambo starts laughing.
Placing a quick on the top of Lambo’s head, they swat his back, signalling him to get up. They smile at him as he moves to the door and they move towards the bed.
With one quick yank, Fran’s sprawled on the ground and Fuuta’s tucked under their covers, shooing Lambo away with a single word and a warm look. “Bed.”
Lambo smiled back, hopeful, and made his way out.
He closed the door behind him, saying goodnight to Fuuta just before shutting it completely.
Lambo stares at the mirror, blank faced.
It's still there. Not only that, but it's bigger, filled with more pus. He swore he felt that part of his face pulsate, like the thing was just itching to blow.
He's disheartened to the point that he can't even cry.
He washes and dries his face, noticing how red the skin around Junior was, before steeling his nerves and walking downstairs.
“Good morning, Lam-” Bianchi stops mid sentence to give Lambo and Junior an expressionless stare. She hadn't seen him since four days ago and seeing he had such a large new ‘friend’ was a bit of a shock.
She sets her spatula down and turns off the stove gas, and they both just stare at each other and have a brief moment of silence. Neither of them are particularly religious, but they both send a quick prayer for him, knowing Fran was probably upstairs right then waking up with a fresh mind ready to talk a lot of shit.
“Lambo, did your zit go-” I-Pin immediately shuts her mouth when she slides in front of Lambo and sees his face.
She joins them in prayer.
Lambo hears Fuuta and Fran leave Fuuta’s room before they even make it to the stairs and quietly seats himself at the breakfast table. I-Pin follows suit, sliding into the seat in front of him.
Fuuta and Fran are joking about something when they’re coming down the stairs, but they’re caught in the dreaded silence as soon as they entered the kitchen.
“Dear God, who fucking died in here?” Fran asks as he moves to get a drink from the fridge behind I-Pin.
Fuuta takes the seat beside Lambo and sighs when they see Junior still present on his face. They clear their throat, readying it yell at Fran at any moment’s notice.
Fran slams the fridge shut with Fuuta’s favorite milk drink in hand and turns around, meeting Junior’s gaze.
He tears his eyes away for a moment and locks eyes with Fuuta before screwing his eyes shut.
“I’m not going to say anything.” He seats himself and just sips at his drink.
That’s when Lambo wails, covering his face with his hands.
“L-Lambo, he didn’t even say anything!” Fuuta doesn’t understand what’s happening anymore, and they pull a bit away from Lambo, worried he’ll go back to his childhood coping mechanisms and fire the Ten Year Bazooka or throw a grenade.
“Exactly. It’s so big and ugly that even Fran has nothing to say about it.”
He slams his head on the table and something Squish, pop!’s.
He freezes, going silent in an instant.
Everyone knew what just happened.
“Oh. My. God.” Fran whispers into his drink.
Lambo lets out a labored breath as Fuuta comes around behind him and places their hands on his shoulders.
Swallowing their spit, Fuuta pulls Lambo into a sitting position. A mix of blood and watery pus Pop!’d as Lambo’s skin was pulled from the table, a nasty red puddle the size of a baby’s fist sat where his forehead once did.
I-Pin gagged and pushed away from the table. She looked at her best friend before echoing Fran’s words. “Oh. My. God.”
Junior sat on Lambo’s face, half-flat and leaking.
They all were silent for a while, just staring at each other, at Lambo, at Junior.
Fran, of course, is the first one to speak. “Well, now you have to let me pop it.”
“No.” Fuuta lets go of Lambo’s shoulders to rush around the table and pinch Fran’s cheeks. “You were mean to him yesterday, so now you don’t get to pop the big zit. Bianchi can do it since I-Pin looks sick and I have to keep you away.”
“Bianchi doesn’t want to mess with something that gross. Just lemme do it.” Fran’s words slurred from the way Fuuta’s tugging at his cheek.
“No, I’ll do it.” Bianchi says, cracking her knuckles as she walks up to Lambo. “The pus may make a good ingredient.”
I-Pin darts out the kitchen towards the bathroom. She could handle the stench emmitted from Gyouza Ken; she could handle being an assassin and taking the lives of many, their faces burned forever in her mind; but she could not handle the thought of someone eating Mount Fuji Junior.
As his best friend threw up in the bathroom and Fran and Fuuta argued in the corner and Bianchi milked Junior into a small bottle, Lambo sat in thought.
‘Next time,’ he thinks to himself. ‘I’ll cover it up with makeup.’
