[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
I was currently operating at roughly ten percent brain capacity. The other ninety percent was entirely focused on the magic Wanda was performing on the soles of my feet.
"Alright," I said, forcing my heavy eyelids open to look at the bright screen of my phone. "Let us delve into the comedic brilliance of the digital age. Are you ready?"
"I am listening," Wanda said softly, her thumbs pressing perfectly into the center of my foot.
"Okay, first joke," I narrated, clearing my throat. "A guy posts: 'Started my new juice cleanse yesterday and also went for a five mile hike to connect with nature.'"
"That sounds very healthy," Wanda commented, her hands moving to massage my ankles.
"His friend replies in the comments: 'Bro, what did you really do?'" I grinned. "And the guy responds: 'I drank three bottles of fermented grape juice… also known as wine… and fell down my apartment stairs.'"
Wanda let out a bright laughter. "That is terrible! He lied about the hike!"
"It is all about the spin, Wanda," I chuckled, adjusting my position against the cushions. "Technically, falling down the stairs is a rapid descent. It requires physical exertion. And wine is just angry grape juice. The man is a pioneer of modern wellness."
"You would defend him," she teased, resuming her good massage. "Read another."
"Okay, let me find a good one," I muttered, scrolling past a few political rants. "Ah, here. Joke number two. It says: 'My doctor asked me how many drinks of alcohol I consume in a typical week.'"
"A standard medical question," Wanda noted approvingly.
"Exactly," I said. "So the person replies: 'Does iced coffee count as a drink?' The doctor says: 'No, absolutely not.' So the person says: 'Then I am a medical miracle, doc, because I currently survive strictly on a diet of pure spite, unearned confidence and good vibes.'"
Wanda giggled. "Spite and vibes? Is that a sustainable diet, Dr. Spencer?"
"Clinically speaking?" I mused, looking over the top of my phone at her smiling face. "No. Spite is terrible for blood pressure. But as a lifestyle choice? I respect the hustle. It takes a lot of energy to be fueled purely by annoyance."
"You would know," she shot back smoothly.
"Hey, I am fueled by love and carbohydrates," I defended, tapping the screen. "Okay, third joke. This one is a classic setup. 'Why do we always tell actors to break a leg before they go on stage?'"
Wanda frowned slightly, her hands continuing their hypnotic rhythm. "I have never understood that human phrase. Why would you wish a bone fracture upon someone who is about to perform? It seems cruel."
"It's an idiom," I explained. "But the joke has the real answer. We tell them to break a leg because... every play has a cast."
I waited.
Wanda stared at me.
She blinked once.
Twice.
"A cast," she repeated slowly. "Like... a plaster cast for a broken bone. And a cast of actors."
"Yes," I said, grinning widely. "The highest form of comedy."
Wanda let out a long sigh, shaking her head in disappointment. She dropped my feet onto the cushion.
"That was not funny, Aryan," she stated, looking at me with a flat expression. "That was a tragedy of language. I am revoking your internet privileges."
"You can't handle the dad jokes!" I laughed, locking the screen of my phone and tossing it onto the glass coffee table. "It's sophisticated humor!"
"It is punishment," she corrected, crossing her arms.
"Alright, alright, the comedy hour has concluded," I conceded, sitting up slightly. "Since I have apparently failed as an entertainer, would you like to watch a movie? We have a massive television that is currently being neglected."
Wanda's expression softened. She uncrossed her arms, leaning back into the sofa. "A movie sounds okay. But no more jokes."
"Deal," I promised, reaching across the table to grab the television remote. I clicked the power button, the large flat screen on the opposite wall flaring to life. "What kind of movie do you like? Are we in the mood for action? Drama? Or a documentary about Italian architecture?"
"You decide for me," she said softly, tucking her legs beneath her and resting her cheek against the back of the sofa, watching me navigate the smart TV menus.
I paused, my thumb hovering over the directional pad. I looked at her. She looked entirely too comfortable. Entirely too relaxed. A devious thought bloomed in my mind.
"Why not just watch some horror movies?" I suggested, keeping my voice incredibly casual, as if the thought had just randomly crossed my mind.
Wanda frowned slightly. "We tried a horror movie in Westview. And you hid in my neck."
"I was not hiding," I lied with absolute conviction, puffing my chest out slightly. "I was experiencing the atmospheric tension. And besides, I am in a much braver mindset tonight. I feel invincible."
She looked at me for a moment, a slow smile touching her lips. "Okay. If you are feeling brave, we can watch a horror movie."
"Excellent," I declared, clicking the Netflix icon.
I scrolled through the options rapidly, bypassing the psychological thrillers and going straight for the heavy hitters.
I selected The Conjuring. It had demons, jump scares and a very creepy doll.
I pressed play.
The ominous opening credits began to roll, an unsettling bass note filling the hotel suite.
I immediately shifted my position. I slid down the length of the sofa, maneuvering myself until I was lying flat on my back, my head resting squarely in the warm center of Wanda's lap.
Wanda looked down at me, her eyebrows raised in amusement.
"What are you doing?" she asked softly.
"I don't know," I sighed dramatically, turning my face inward so my nose pressed against her soft sweater. "My head is just... suddenly craving your hand. It's a gravitational anomaly. I am powerless to resist it."
Wanda raised her hand, her delicate fingers plunging into the messy waves of my dark hair.
She began to stroke my scalp, her nails gently scraping against the skin in a slow rhythm.
"You are very needy tonight, Dr. Spencer," she whispered, her eyes turning toward the television screen as the movie began.
"I am exactly as needy as the situation requires," I mumbled, closing my eyes for a second to enjoy the absolute bliss of her head massage.
The movie played. The tension on the screen slowly ratcheted up.
I watched the screen carefully out of the corner of my eye, waiting for the perfect cinematic moment.
On screen, the protagonist slowly opened a dark wardrobe. The music went completely silent.
Three, two, one...
A demonic face suddenly screamed out of the darkness, a deafening screech blasting through the hotel speakers.
"Ah!" I gasped loudly, executing a perfectly timed flinch.
I immediately turned over, burying my face completely into the soft fabric covering Wanda's stomach.
I wrapped both of my arms tightly around her waist, hugging her stomach as if my life depended on it, pressing myself as close to her as physically possible.
"The demon is very aggressive!" I whispered dramatically.
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
Wanda didn't even flinch at the loud noise on the television.
She looked down at him currently burying his face into her stomach like a frightened child. His arms were wrapped around her waist in a vice like grip, his breath warm against her sweater.
She knew he was faking it.
She could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat against her side. She could sense the lack of fear in his aura.
He was putting on a theatrical performance of cowardice entirely for the purpose of initiating physical contact.
And she loved him for it.
'If I do not spoil him,' she thought, a rush of overwhelming affection flooding her chest, 'who will?'
"It is okay, Aryan," Wanda murmured in a soothing voice, continuing to stroke his dark hair. "It was just a jump scare."
Aryan let out an exaggerated breath against her stomach.
"I don't trust it," he mumbled. "I think the demon is lingering. I need to secure a more defensive position."
Slowly, Aryan began to climb.
He uncurled his arms from her waist. He slid his upper body higher up the sofa cushions, dragging his torso along her side.
He moved until his face was no longer hidden in her stomach, but pressed firmly against the curve of her shoulder.
He wrapped his left arm heavily around her shoulders, pulling her against his chest. He buried his nose directly into the crook of her neck, his lips brushing against her collarbone.
He let out a dramatic sigh, as if he had just escaped a warzone.
"This is better," Aryan whispered
Wanda tried to focus on the television. On the screen, a family was screaming as a chair flew across the room.
But she couldn't see the movie. All she could focus on was the solid weight of him pressed against her. The smell of his cologne. The way his lips were resting close to her pulse point.
Another loud bang echoed from the TV speakers.
Aryan tightened his grip around her shoulder, pressing his face deeper into her neck, letting out an entirely fake gasp.
"Terrifying," he mumbled against her skin. "Absolutely terrifying."
Wanda felt her cheeks burn. His 'fear' was becoming incredibly distracting.
His chest was pressed firmly against her side, rising and falling in a steady rhythm that was slowly overriding her ability to form coherent thoughts.
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