#metal wire bar stools

[eluascinnamon]

San Francisco Kitchen

Trendy dark wood floor and brown floor open concept kitchen photo with flat-panel cabinets, white cabinets, mirror backsplash, a peninsula and stainless steel appliances

[kurare13]

Great Room - Contemporary Kitchen Trendy dark wood floor and brown floor open concept kitchen photo with flat-panel cabinets, white cabinets, mirror backsplash, a peninsula and stainless steel appliances

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 14/?)

Silco's presence is carved into your body, crawling over your skin like a mark that never fades. Maybe it should hurt, maybe you should resist—but you can't bring yourself to care. And that should terrify you.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 9,8K

Warnings: sexual tension (a lot of it actually), revenge plans, possessive behavior, Silco being a tease, jealous Silco, dagger cuts, breath play, choking, blood and violence, canon-typical Silco violence, almost death (not exactly, but you'll understand), references to deaths, Silco POV

Things get a little intense in this chapter, but it's all consented to by the protagonist. If you're uncomfortable with violent situations or intense acts, PLEASE DO NOT READ.

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 13

Self-destruction.

You knew that concept well.

Psychology would define it as harmful behavior, a way of coping with negative emotions—anger, sadness, frustration. But to you, it was something deeper, more visceral. It was a cycle, a spiral that always threatened to pull you back in, no matter how many times you tried to convince yourself you were fine. You liked to say, almost with pride, that you had overcome it. That you were in control now. But deep down, a small, nagging truth whispered in your mind: you were always just one step away from falling again.

Maybe that was why Powder's presence helped keep you sane.

The little girl had a peculiar energy—intense and chaotic, yet at the same time, genuine. She had actually asked Silco to hire you, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And, predictably, he had firmly denied her. But what truly caught your attention wasn't Silco's response—it was hers. Powder wasn't discouraged.

There were no arguments, no tantrums or childish pleas. Just a shrug and a determined look, as if she had already expected the "no" and had an alternative plan in mind. Now, the two of you had this little ritual, a shared habit that took place away from Silco's watchful eyes. Not that you were naïve enough to think he didn't know.

Of course, he knew.

Men like Silco always knew. He had eyes all over The Last Drop, and even if he wasn't interested enough to intervene, he had surely been informed by some of his men. But the fact that he hadn't interfered meant that, for now, he was allowing it to continue. Even though he had been the one to threaten you to stay away from her, and you had no idea why he had suddenly gone back on his threats.

Sometimes, when you arrived at your room, you would find a small metal monkey resting by the door. And that meant only one thing: Powder would be at the bar that night.

The little ritual between you would repeat itself once more. You would head down to the bar, where you'd find her already waiting, perched on one of the stools, legs swinging impatiently. You'd make her a juice, and then she'd pull her bag onto the table, and the two of you would begin working on her bombs.

As her small, skilled hands assembled pieces, connected wires, and adjusted tiny gears, Powder would talk about her day. About Silco, about Sevika, about Silco's men, and her little routine of blowing things up or practicing her aim. You would listen, absorbing her words, sometimes asking questions or making short remarks, but for the most part, you would simply let her talk. It was a simple act, almost mundane, but there was something comforting about it.

Curiously, Silco had left you alone these past few days. No provocations, no forced conversations. He hadn't mentioned what you had done—or rather, what he had influenced you to do. But you knew.

His silence wasn't forgetfulness, nor was it a gesture of respect. No. Silco didn't leave loose ends. If he hadn't brought it up, it meant that, in his mind, everything had gone exactly as planned. Some part of his scheme had fallen perfectly into place.

You just didn't know which one.

And honestly, you didn't want to find out what else he was planning for you.

No matter how much you had accepted that you had killed Cayden—after hours of guilt-ridden turmoil and countless attempts to justify or rationalize your actions—in the end, you had to admit that not everything had been Silco's fault. You could have left. You could have chosen something else.

But you didn't.

Cayden's blood was on your hands, and you would have to live with that, accept your guilt. Still, accepting didn't mean forgetting. And something inside you still wanted to punish Silco—after all, he was the one who had orchestrated the whole thing. But how do you hurt a man like Silco?

Simple.

You take from him what he thinks he controls.

And if there was one thing you loved more than claiming small victories against Silco, it was making him realize he had lost before he even had a chance to react.

It was the fourth and final week of the month—a detail he had undoubtedly overlooked when he restored your privileges. Your agreement with Silco guaranteed you an entire week of total autonomy, no permissions, no escorts. But that wasn't the most important part. The true advantage was the other clause: during those seven days, Silco couldn't demand anything from you. No orders, no favors, not even a displeased look—and most importantly, no touching.

And you fully intended to use that to bring hell to his doorstep.

He probably only realized it when you stepped into his office that evening.

The room was bathed in dim lighting, illuminated only by the soft glow of the desk lamp and the faint shimmer of smoke rising from the cigar smoldering in the ashtray. Silco was hunched over the desk, scanning some documents with that usual air of perpetual bored patience. But when you crossed the doorway, his eyes flicked up—just for a second.

The dress you had chosen left little to the imagination, and you knew exactly what kind of impact that would have.

Silco didn't move a muscle. His face remained unreadable, but you noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers slowed slightly as they turned the pages. The amused glint in your eyes was immediate.

You moved slowly through the office, making sure each step was audible, the click of your heels echoing against the polished wooden floor. But Silco, stubborn as always, pretended to ignore your presence. Maybe he thought that if he didn't react, you would give up.

Bad bet.

With a subtle smile, you walked over to the desk and, without ceremony, perched yourself atop it—right in his line of sight. Silco didn't lift his gaze from the papers. But you saw. You saw the slight clench of his jaw. The almost imperceptible way he inhaled through his nose, as if he needed a second to maintain his self-control. You even caught how his eyes lingered just a fraction too long before returning to his reading—a hesitation so minuscule, yet undeniably real.

"Don't think for a second that this little stunt will work, dove."

Silco's voice was low, drawn out, laced with that dangerous patience that only fueled your amusement. You tilted your head slightly, a playful smile ghosting your lips.

"Oh, I have my doubts."

Your gaze drifted across the desk, feigning indifference, until it landed on a scattered pile of letters and documents. One in particular caught your attention—an envelope, black and refined, far too expensive to be a simple message. Without haste, you reached for it. And, purposefully, you made the motion as theatrical as possible.

As you leaned forward, your neckline dipped directly into his field of vision, exposing your skin beneath the dim office light. You felt his gaze on you, hot as fire. It was impossible for him to ignore. From that angle, he could see everything. The subtle and enticing curve of your breasts, the delicate slope of your collarbone, the way your skin seemed to glow in the room's muted glow. It was almost cruel.

Almost.

Because the real cruelty lay in how he held himself back.

Silco was a man of impeccable self-control, but even he had limits. You saw it when his fingers, once steady over the papers, twitched ever so slightly. You saw it when his breathing slowed just a fraction. The most fascinating part was that he didn't retreat. He didn't look away. He simply watched, absorbing every detail with that predatory intensity. And you pretended not to notice.

Toying with the edge of the envelope, you turned it between your fingers, taking note of the wax seal—an intricate rose embossed into the surface. Refined. Important.

"May I open it?"

"Well, you already seem to be doing as you please." Silco gestured lazily, dismissively. "Opening my private correspondence without permission hardly seems beyond your boundaries at this point."

You smirked, utterly unrepentant. He wasn't going to stop you, and both of you knew it.

With careful movements, you retrieved a small blade—not the dagger Silco always carried, but a finer, more delicate one—and sliced through the wax seal in a single, clean motion. The envelope parted smoothly, revealing a handwritten letter in exquisite penmanship, so refined that, for a moment, you were genuinely impressed.

It was the first time you had ever seen something so... elegant.

he letters flowed with perfect balance, the dark ink contrasting against the expensive cream-colored paper. You began reading, your eyes tracing over the words with growing curiosity. However, as you delved further into the content, your brows furrowed slightly.

"Well, this is unexpected."

Silco merely raised an eyebrow, waiting for you to finish the thought.

"You've been invited to a masquerade ball." You finally announced, your voice carrying a note of genuine surprise. Then, you paused dramatically, holding his gaze before continuing. "In Piltover."

You watched closely as Silco's eyes widened slightly while he took the letter from your outstretched hand. His sharp gaze scanned the elegant handwriting, his brows knitting together as he absorbed the carefully penned words. The mention of a masquerade ball in Piltover had clearly captured his immediate attention.

The two of you knew exactly what kind of people would be in attendance. The elite of Piltover's society—those who pretended Zaun was nothing more than a cautionary tale meant to frighten wealthy children. But also the few from Zaun who held enough influence to be tolerated within Piltover's lavish halls of marble and gold. In this case, Silco.

"A masquerade ball..." Silco murmured, the corner of his lips curling into a slow, calculating smile. He turned the letter between his fingers, as if weighing its implications. "And hosted by a Noxian organization, of all possible hosts. How... intriguing."

You tilted your head slightly, lazily crossing your legs over the table as you continued watching him.

"I'd call it suspicious."

It was clear this wasn't just any event. This wasn't about philanthropy or some trivial social gathering where the wealthy flaunted their extravagant masks and waltzed beneath crystal chandeliers. No. This was a political move. Noxians in Piltover under the guise of goodwill? A tasteless joke bordering on irony... This unknown organization was certainly up to something. Perhaps they wanted to stir the waters, or provoke a shift in the delicate balance between Piltover and Zaun. The fact that a Zaunite industrialist like Silco had received an invitation could only mean one thing—someone wanted his attention. Or, more likely, his cooperation.

"Obviously." Silco admitted, his tone indifferent, though the sharp intensity in his eyes betrayed the thousand calculations already running through his mind. "But I suppose I have no choice but to attend."

He folded the letter with precise movements and set it back onto the pile on his desk, as if his decision had already been made. Then, his gaze returned to you, a nearly amused smile dancing on his lips.

"And you, my dear dove, will be my companion." His voice carried that same poisoned sweetness he always used whenever he was orchestrating something behind the scenes—something that others wouldn't realize until it was far too late. "I have a feeling this ball may prove to be... enlightening."

"I don't even have a dress for an event of this level." You remarked vaguely, as if that were a real obstacle, before adding, more sincerely, "And the idea of going to Piltover doesn't appeal to me in the slightest."

Silco sighed. By now, he had to understand your reasons for hating Piltover.

"Nor to me." he admitted at last, his voice a low murmur, laced with restrained irritation. "But if this organization went through the trouble of inviting me, of insisting on my presence, then it's only logical to assume they've been watching us very closely."

You had to admit: he had a valid point. If Piltover was the stage where pawns moved in predictable patterns, Noxus played the game differently—brutal, ruthless. And now, they were extending a hand to Silco. But was it to offer an opportunity or to tighten a noose around his neck?

"And naturally." Silco continued, leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk, "it's always better to know your enemies. To understand what they want and what they're planning. Before they have the chance to catch you off guard."

A half-smile tugged at your lips as Silco's gaze flickered downward. He let his eyes wander to the generous neckline of your dress, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. A clearly wicked thought crossed his mind, because a slow, lazy smirk curled his lips.

"I'm sure we can find a dress... suitable for the occasion."

The heat in his tone made your chest rise and fall in a slow, steady rhythm, but you held your ground, meeting his gaze with a defiant arch of your brow.

"You just want to show me off to those pompous, arrogant idiots in Piltover, don't you?" Your voice carried a teasing edge as you leaned forward, fully aware of the effect it would have. If Silco was already shamelessly admiring your neckline, then you were going to make damn sure he got an even better view. His eyes gleamed with something between arrogance and desire, a sharp, calculating glint—but at the same time, indulgent.

"Can you blame me for wanting to show off such a stunning woman?" His voice slipped through the air like silk, a low, smooth purr dripping with intent. "You are a rare jewel. Something meant to be seen, admired, desired by those who dare call themselves the elite."

Your breath caught for the briefest moment as Silco lifted a hand, fingers trailing slowly along the edge of your neckline. He didn't quite touch you, only grazing the thin fabric of your dress, as if teasing both himself and you. A ghostly caress, charged with an electric tension that made your body tense ever so slightly.

His fingers drifted until they reached the cold pendant of your necklace—his gift. He rolled it between his fingers in a seemingly absentminded manner, but you knew better. Nothing about Silco was ever truly absentminded. Every gesture, every word, every glance was deliberate.

"If parading you on my arm is an act of vanity, then so be it." He tilted his head slightly, eyes locked onto yours. "Consider it part of my privilege, dove. The privilege of being the only one to claim you. To call you mine."

A shiver ran down your spine, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing his effect on you. Instead, you smirked slightly, tilting your head just so.

"You're a damn smooth talker, Silco."

"I prefer to think of it as... persuasive."

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers leaving you to tap against the polished wood of his desk in a slow, contemplative rhythm. The silence between you wouldn't last long—Silco's brow furrowed slightly, his head tilting to the side as he studied you with a critical, almost appraising gaze.

"You seem to be in an... unusually good mood, dove." he observed, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble. "I have to say, I'm surprised. After what happened with Cayden..."

You knew he would question you. From the moment you stepped through that office door, you had been subject to his scrutiny over something neither of you had truly discussed. For a brief moment, you considered dressing up the truth. But it didn't take long to realize that lying wouldn't matter. Not to Silco.

He was the one who had unlocked the floodgates, the one who had pulled the strings that unraveled the last remnants of hesitation in your mind.

"You were right. He deserved it."

The words left your lips without a tremor, laced with a sharp certainty. You didn't regret it. Not even when that small part of you—the one still clinging to Vander's teachings—twisted in anguish deep in your consciousness. But you wouldn't torture yourself over a decision that couldn't be undone.

Cayden's death still weighed on you. Not as an unbearable burden, but as a reminder. You had your reasons, and no one could take them from you. Vander would understand, wouldn't he? He wouldn't judge you for something done in pain. After all, after what they took from you... after what was lost... you had the right.

Besides, there was no way for him to be disappointed now.

"He made his own fate." your voice came out steady, laced with something between contempt and resignation. "I gave him a chance."

The words lingered in the air for a moment. It was strange... because, for an instant, it felt as though you were hearing another voice instead of your own.

"I gave her a chance."

The phrase echoed in your mind, the memory of that moment intertwining with the present like a dark shadow. The same words Silco had used to justify Kate's death. The same tone, the same certainty. He had spoken them that day with such conviction, without a trace of hesitation.

And now, here you were, repeating them as if they were yours, as if they were a natural thought.

In the end, you and Silco weren't so different.

That thought should have unsettled you more than it did. You should have felt disgusted, maybe even afraid. But instead, all that remained was a quiet recognition. The choices you made had brought you here, just as his had brought him to where he stood. You now understood the weight of certain decisions, the price of every concession.

It wasn't about right or wrong. It was about doing what needed to be done, even if it turned you into something you didn't want to be.

"He chose to waste his chance. Threw it away just like he threw away his own life."

You tilted your head slightly, watching his expression, searching for a reaction. But Silco only stared at you, his single pale eye analyzing your posture, your words, your intent. You couldn't tell if he was satisfied with your answer or simply waiting for you to say more.

Silco's pride was obvious in his eyes.

"You should be proud of your actions. You did him a favor, ending his miserable existence with a mercy he didn't deserve."

He stood suddenly, the chair creaking with the abrupt movement, and before you could react, he was between your legs—when you parted them on pure instinct—closing the space between you to mere inches.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, not just from the unexpected proximity, but from the way he made it feel so natural, as if it were a right that had always belonged to him.

His warmth radiated against you, a silent reminder of the tension that always lingered in the air when you were together. An electric current crackled between you, charged with something unspoken, something that had been building with every lingering glance, every unanswered provocation.

But Silco was a man of words, and even though he had leaned in so close that you could feel his breath ghosting against your face, he still didn't touch you. His hands rested on the edge of the table, one on either side of your thighs, fingers pressing lightly into the wood as if he needed something solid to ground himself. He still kept to his side of the unspoken contract, no matter how much you tested his limits, no matter how hard you pushed him beyond the edge of his patience.

His gaze drifted slowly to your lips, so close yet still out of reach. For a moment, Silco remained there, as if deliberating, as if battling the instinctual urge to simply close the distance between you. But then, his eyes lifted back to yours, and the hunger burning in them was impossible to ignore.

Desire pulsed in those mismatched irises, a slow-burning heat that never truly faded, no matter how much he tried to conceal it. He was consumed by it, drawn to you, challenged to take what he wanted—what you both knew you needed. You called him closer without saying a single word, and he was there, almost yielding, almost letting himself fall.

His voice dropped into a low, intimate rasp, the rough edges of it brushing against your skin like a whisper of flame.

"If you don't resent me for what happened with Cayden... then tell me, dove, what is it that you're truly after?" His head tilted slightly, gaze locked onto yours as if he could unearth the truth from your very soul. "Why go to such lengths to provoke me, to push me to the brink of my restraint... if not to punish me for my past transgressions?"

You smiled—a crooked, wicked smile—as you watched him dismantle your plan with ease. Of course, he saw through the intentions behind your actions—that was what made it all the more interesting. The more Silco understood the game, the easier it became for you to move him in the direction you wanted.

Your body leaned toward him subtly, as if something invisible were pulling you closer, as if the gravity around Silco was different, heavier. If this were any other day, your hands would already be on him, just as his would be on you. The desk between you would have become an improvised bed, and the world around you would have faded away. But not today.

Today, you were trapped in this silent war, this clash of wills where neither of you gave in first. A battle fought not with blades or bullets, but with glances, words, and the promise of something far worse than surrender—yet just as delicious.

"Oh... I am punishing you." Your voice slipped easily into that scornful tone, every syllable dripping with venomous provocation. You saw how his eyes narrowed slightly, a glint passing through his heterochromatic gaze, but Silco didn't interrupt. He was waiting. "You made me kill someone... someone who deserved it, no doubt. But a death is still a death."

He leaned in closer, until your breaths mingled—warm, charged with electricity—until the space between you was practically nonexistent. So close that you could see every detail of his heterochromatic irises—the blue, cold and placid, a shade that reminded you as much of the sky as of the treacherous waters of a river; and the incandescent orange, threaded with black, a living shadow devouring any light around it. Many times, you had likened that eye to an abyss, but now... now you could say it was a black hole.

Lethal. Inescapable. Indescribably beautiful in its own way.

"You think you're punishing me, dove?" His voice came low and cutting, every syllable laced with that ever-present, veiled threat. "With this?"

Silco's gaze swept slowly down your body, every detail absorbed in his meticulous examination. He always did this—analyzed, pondered, cataloged your every reaction, as if deconstructing a complex mechanism just to understand its weaknesses—weaknesses he was already well aware of.

His face remained impassive, cold, as if nothing he saw impressed him. Pure performance. You knew it. You could feel the latent tension in his gaze, the way his breathing grew imperceptibly heavier, the way his fingers pressed against the wood of the desk, almost as if they wanted to move... but couldn't.

"Do you really believe that tormenting me with a glimpse of what you won't give is enough to make me lose control?" His laughter came low and sharp, a rough, dry sound devoid of humor. It was a warning, a provocation. A reminder that, in the game you played, he had always known how to be patient. "Oh... you underestimate me."

His fingers lifted toward your chin, pausing midair, just a hair's breadth away from your skin—so close you could feel the heat radiating from him, a heat that shouldn't be so intense, so suffocating. But he never touched you.

Perhaps it was its own form of punishment. A silent retribution for the game you had started. Or, worse, a cruel reminder that Silco had always had far more control than he let on. But whatever his intent, the movement made your body react on instinct. Your chin lifted, a conditioned reflex after all the times Silco had done this exact same thing.

Your own body had already learned to respond to him—even if your mind refused to admit it.

"Then go ahead, dove. Keep testing me, keep pushing me past the edge of what I can endure."

His voice dripped with provocation, tinged with an almost amused arrogance. A challenge disguised as indifference.

"But know that every moment you spend tormenting me, every second you deny both yourself and me what we already know we want..." He leaned in a little closer, the tip of his nose nearly brushing against your skin. Just enough to make your breath falter for a brief moment. "Is a moment wasted."

His breathing deepened, slow and measured, as if he were holding something fierce inside himself. But his eyes?

His eyes burned.

"A moment that could be spent on something far more... pleasurable."

Your tongue flicked over your lips, your mouth suddenly dry at his words, because you knew this wasn't a bluff. Silco always knew how to provoke back. He didn't enter the game to play—he entered to win. To consume you completely. But just like him, you were terrible at losing.

Slowly, you leaned in closer, shrinking the space between you until only a thin sliver of distance remained. Close enough to feel his breath, to almost taste the memory of his lips just from proximity. The familiar scent of smoke, whiskey, and gunpowder filled your senses, bringing with it a wave of excitement and danger. All it would take was for him to give in—to lower his head just slightly—and his lips would be on yours.

"Who's underestimating who here, Silco?" you taunted, your voice dripping with challenge, laced with the insolence of someone unafraid of consequences. "Do you really think this was my plan? How naive of you..."

Your eyes gleamed with mischief as a smirk curled at the corner of your lips.

"Call it... an appetizer."

You closed your eyes and, with cruel slowness, let your mouth ghost over his. A phantom touch, a taste of what he couldn't have right now. A game of patience that both of you knew was a ticking bomb, ready to detonate.

You smiled as you felt his breath hitch for just a second.

"The main course will be served later."

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Silco should have learned by now to always expect the improbable when it came to her. Never bet on the card he thought was the right one, never trust the rules he knew. Because when it came to her, the game always changed. And he, fool that he was, still found himself falling into that illusion—that treacherous habit of believing he had her in his hands.

It was easy to cling to the trivialities of the everyday. To the silent certainty that, when their eyes met across a crowded room, it was him she was looking at. That when she smiled in that wickedly teasing way, it was for him. That when she let her attention drift to someone else, it was nothing but a fleeting whim, a meaningless game, because at the end of the day... it was always him. Him and no one else.

But then there were moments like this.

Silco gripped the iron railing of the balcony, his knuckles turning white under the pressure. Her laughter rang out from below—exaggerated, theatrical—a sound that made his teeth clench. She leaned back, tossing her head lazily, feigning interest in some insipid comment from that damn punk who had the audacity to grin like he had said something of worth.

The thought that someone like him could elicit a genuine reaction from her was laughable. And Silco knew that. But what irritated him wasn't the scene itself—it was the way that, even as she laughed, even as that fool spoke, her eyes always found their way back to Silco. Always seeking him, testing, probing, as if making sure he was watching this grotesque performance.

Ah... she wanted to throw him into the fire.

Her so-called punishment had started off lightly.

Their encounter in his office had been tolerable—calculated provocations, lingering glances, subtle insinuations. A game Silco knew well. But then she began coming back, day after day, always with that same defiant air, always toeing the fine line between teasing and outright defiance.

And when The Last Drop came alive—when the golden lights cast uneven shadows on the brick walls, and the scent of smoke, liquor, and desire hung in the air like a sickly sweet poison... that was when Silco was condemned to his own personal torment.

She descended into the bar as if she owned the place, slipping into that eccentric, flirtatious persona—an enchanting spell that captured gazes, drew smiles, and stole breaths. A siren's call designed to drag men to the depths of the sea and leave them there, drowning in the illusion that they could ever have her. It was a game—he knew that. A childish little game meant to provoke jealousy. But that didn't make it any less torturous to watch her glide through the room as if she belonged there as much as the very fumes of Shimmer. As if she didn't know exactly who was watching her from afar, consumed by a silent rage.

Perhaps it was the experience she had gained at the brothel that made her stand out in the crowd—the way she moved, the way she laughed, the way she tilted her head when someone spoke to her. Or maybe... maybe it was just Silco's eyes. Only his eyes, seeing her in that crowded room, as if she were the only thing that existed.

Of course, she never crossed the line. Never stepped beyond her little bubble of provocation. She only drank, danced, let the men around her believe they had a chance before brushing them off with a soft laugh. And, of course, she stole sidelong glances in the direction where Silco remained, always in the same place. Like a king on his throne, watching the performance that was put on for him, and only him. You could call it a simple punishment, but for Silco, it was torture enough.

Five nights.

Five nights in a row where anger and frustration mixed dangerously with something darker. Something Silco knew far too well. Possessiveness.

The music exploded from the speakers, deafening beats pulsing through the walls and shaking the floor like an erratic heartbeat. The lights flashed in a chaotic frenzy, alternating in neon tones that blurred the vision, making it difficult to focus. It was Friday, the club was packed—a sea of bodies moving in erratic waves, smothering any trace of logic or sanity. And then, in the middle of that chaos, he saw her.

Or rather, he saw her being pulled onto the dance floor by that punk.

The bastard was too close, holding her by the waist, whispering something in her ear as if he had the right. His filthy hands roamed over the thin fabric of her dress, trailing down the curve of her hip—bold, confident.

That was enough for Silco.

The path to the bar area was taken with haste, and by the time he reached the stairs, his two guards were already waiting. Almost as if they had known he would come.

"Get her out of there." His voice cut through the noise of the music, cold and impatient. "And make that son of a bitch disappear."

A simple order. Simple, but absolute.

The guards nodded, efficient as ever. They moved through the crowd, pushing and clearing space until they reached them. He watched as one of them grabbed her arm, pulling her away from the punk with a firm yank. The bastard had the audacity to try and pull her back.

So predictable. So stupid.

The second guard didn't give him the chance. He grabbed the punk by the collar and yanked him back forcefully. The movement was swift—a blur between the flashing lights—and in the next moment, the fool was being dragged toward the exit, kicking and protesting, unaware that he was fighting the inevitable. And if Silco knew his men—and he did—that punk would never step foot in The Last Drop again. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

As for her... she was escorted in a different direction.

To Silco.

Silco stalked towards his office, his strides long and purposeful, his jaw clenched tight with barely contained fury. He could hear the pounding beat of the music fading behind him, replaced by the sharp click of his heels against the polished floor. The guard matched his pace, one hand firmly gripping her elbow, steering her along in Silco's wake.

Silco didn't spare her a glance, didn't utter a word. He was too consumed by the red haze of rage that clouded his vision, too focused on the image of her writhing against that punk, her body pressed close to his, her lips curved in a way that made Silco's gut clench with a mix of jealousy and lust. He wanted to rip the bastard limb from limb, to paint the club walls with his blood, to make him pay for daring to touch what belonged to Silco.

But more than that, he wanted to bend she over his knee, to redden that pert little ass until she was sobbing and begging for his forgiveness. To remind her, in the most primal way possible, that she was his. His to touch, his to fuck, his to claim as he saw fit.

They reached his office door, and Silco shoved it open, not waiting for the guard to do so. He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the room before settling on the plush leather couch that dominated the space. He turned, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of she, her cheeks flushed, her chest heaving, her lips still swollen from that bastard's kisses.

"Inside." Silco growled, his voice a low, menacing rasp. He didn't wait for her to obey, simply watched with a dark, anticipatory gleam in his eye as the guard escorted her inside, his grip on her arm tightening just shy of bruising.

Once she was within the confines of his office, Silco turned to the guard, his expression grim. "Leave us." he ordered, his tone allowing no room for argument. He watched as the guard bowed his head, his eyes flicking briefly to she before he turned and exited the room, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click.

"Did you have fun, dove?" Silco asked, his voice a low, dangerous purr. It was a simple question, but there was nothing simple about the way he said it, about the way his eyes bored into hers, searching, accusing, demanding the truth. "Dancing with that... boy? Grinding against him, letting him put his hands on you, his filthy paws all over your body? Did it bring you the satisfaction you were looking for?"

She smiled, that same infuriating smirk that had been haunting him for days, a cruel little thing that held no fear—only amusement. A deliberate provocation, as if she weren't even slightly concerned about the storm brewing beneath his skin.

"Oh... believe me, that brought me more satisfaction than you can imagine." she replied smoothly, her tone a blade dipped in honey. She barely spared him a glance, as if his growing anger was nothing more than an amusing side effect of her game. "Especially now that I've seen how jealous you get."

Silco's eyes flashed with a dangerous light as she sauntered around his office as if she owned the place, as if she hadn't just deliberately provoked him in the most blatant way possible. He watched, his jaw clenched tight, as she help herself to one of the glasses from the tray on his desk, the crystal catching the dim light as she turned it in her slender fingers.

When she bent down to retrieve a half-empty bottle of his finest sippin' whiskey from the drawer of his desk, Silco's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents in his skin. He wanted nothing more than to grab her, to yank her up straight and pin her against the desk, to remind her in no uncertain terms who she belonged to, who she answered to.

As she straightened up, the glass and bottle in hand, Silco took a step towards her, his eyes narrowing as he approached. He stopped a mere foot away from her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her body, close enough to catch the scent of her perfume mingled with the musk of another man's cologne.

He reached out, his fingers wrapping around the glass she held aloft, his thumb brushing against her own. Silco tugged the glass from her hand, the liquor sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He brought it to his lips, downing the contents in one long, smooth gulp before slamming it down on the desk behind him.

"It wasn't jealousy." Silco said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. "It was a matter of maintaining order, of reminding the rabble that there are consequences for overstepping their bounds. After all, what kind of man would I be if I allowed my woman to be pawed at by some two-bit punk?"

She laughed. The sound was soft, breathy, and yet it struck him like a slap.

"Such a complex explanation just to avoid admitting the truth." she mused, tilting her head. "That you weren't just just irritated, you were seething. That every touch, every glance, every moment I spent in someone else's arms drove you mad."

She finally turning to look at him, and the glint in her eyes was nothing short of wicked.

"That you can't stand the idea of anyone else having me."

She leaned in, just enough for her breath to ghost over his lips, just enough to test the limits of his restraint

"That it kills you to know you don't own me, Silco."

Silco's eyes flashed with a dangerous light, his patience finally snapping in the face of her brazen taunts. He surged forward, his hand shooting out to wrap around her slender throat, his fingers sinking into the delicate flesh hard enough to make her gasp.

In one swift movement, Silco slammed her against the desk, the air whooshing out of her lungs as her back hit the polished wood. He kept his grip on her throat, his thumb pressing hard against her windpipe, not quite cutting off her air but close enough to make breathing a struggle.

Silco leaned in close, his face mere inches from her own, his breath hot and furious against her skin. He could see the way her pulse jumped beneath his fingers, could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat as he tightened his grip. But more than that, Silco noticed that she didn't fight him. She didn't struggle or claw at his hand, didn't try to pry his fingers from her throat. Instead, she went limp against the desk, her body molding to the unyielding surface, her breasts heaving with each labored breath.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" Silco growled, his voice a low, menacing rasp. "Touting your little victory, gloating about how you've gotten under my skin?"

He tightened his grip, not enough to cut off her air entirely but close enough to make breathing a painful chore.

"You want me to admit that I'm jealous? That the thought of another man touching you, tasting you, fucking you... makes me want to put a bullet in his brain and paint the walls with his blood?" Silco's voice dropped to a dangerous hiss, his eyes blazing into hers with a feral intensity. "Is that what you want? To hear me confess my so-called jealousy, to acknowledge that the very notion of you belonging to anyone else makes me want to destroy everything and everyone in my path?"

Silco leaned over her. He stepped between her splayed legs, forcing them further apart and his hand remained tight around her throat.

He searched her face, his gaze raking over her features, taking in the way her chest heaved with each shallow breath, the way her lips parted slightly, as if inviting him to take what was his. But it was her eyes that caught him off guard, that made him pause, his brow furrowing in confusion. He expected fear, anger, a spark of defiance perhaps... but not this. Not the slow, sultry smile that curved the corners of her mouth, the one that seemed to dare him to do his worst.

She seemed to be... amused. No, more than that. She looked thrilled, exhilarated by his outburst and the show of dominance. It enraged him, even as it inflamed his lust.

"Shall I carve my name into you for you to remember you're mine?" Silco snarled, his voice a low, menacing growl. "I think you've forgotten who you belong to."

She was breathless beneath him, her chest rising and falling in quick succession, her lips parted as if she wanted to say something but was weighing the risk. For a fleeting moment, he thought he had won, that she'd finally understand the mistake of challenging him.

And then—

"Do it."

Two words. Quiet, but unwavering. A order, not a plea.

Silco stilled. At first, he thought she was delirious, by the intoxicating blend of pain and pleasure that always seemed to dance between them. But then he felt it—her fingers ghosting over his waist, subtle, seeking something. Silco moved with deliberate slowness, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of his dagger as he drew it from its sheath. The quiet rasp of steel against leather was swallowed by the weight of the moment, by the anticipation thick in the air.

He held her gaze, unwavering, as he lifted the blade between them. The cold metal caught the dim light of the room, glinting dangerously as he traced the tip down the center of her dress. He didn't press hard—he didn't need to. The satin gave way effortlessly, parting beneath the blade like flesh under a scalpel.

A breath hitched, not his.

The fabric slid from her shoulders, pooling at her waist, baring smooth, unblemished skin beneath. Silco's mismatched eyes flickered over her form, sharp and assessing, waiting. For hesitation. For resistance. For some last-minute flicker of doubt that might make him stop.

It never came.

Instead, she held his gaze, unflinching. Expectant.

He pressed the tip of his dagger against the delicate skin just above her heartbeat. He could feel it thrumming beneath the blade, could see the way her chest rose and fell with each shallow, agitated breath. For a moment, he simply held it there, the sharp point digging into her flesh hard enough to leave an imprint, but not yet drawing blood.

Then, with a deliberate, almost tender motion, Silco began to trace the initial of his name into her flesh, the razor-sharp edge of his dagger leaving a thin, stinging line of red in its wake. He started at the top of her breast, the point of the blade resting just above her collarbone, and slowly, carefully, he began to carve, his hand moving with a steady, unyielding pressure.

Droplets of crimson welled up along the path of his dagger, beading for a moment before spilling over to trickle down the slope of her breast, the blood painting a macabre trail in his name as he worked. Silco's own breath was coming faster, hot and heavy. His grip on her throat tightened, but not enough to cut off her air entirely. And when he had finished, Silco pulled the blade back, admiring his handiwork. The 'S' stood out starkly against her skin, the red lines already beginning to blur and run together

He felt her hand slide up, dragging his focus away from the fresh mark he had just carved into her skin. Her fingers wrapped around his own, the ones still curled around her throat, and then—she squeezed. A silent request. One that Silco did not hesitate to grant.

His grip tightened, firm, cutting off her air with a calculated precision that only he could deliver. He watched, enthralled, as her eyes fluttered shut, her lips parting in a soundless gasp. It was intoxicating—the way she surrendered to him, the way her body arched ever so slightly, as if welcoming the darkness creeping at the edges of her vision. But then, something changed.

The moment her breath truly left her, her eyes snapped open. And he saw it.

That glow.

Silco recognized it instantly—the same luminous, eerie sheen that had burned in her gaze when she had wrapped her hands around his throat in Singed's lab, when she had nearly choked the life out of him in a fit of untamed rage. But now, instead of that ghastly, pale white, it was something else entirely. Vibrant. Alive.

Purple.

She did not move to strike him. Did not retaliate with the fury he had expected. Instead, she merely stared—deep, piercing, searching—as if peeling back the layers of his very soul. That eerie glow in her eyes seemed to strip him bare, exposing sins she should never have known about.

The violet shimmer in her irises pulsed, and for a fleeting moment, Silco wondered: Had she figured it out? Had she somehow discovered what he had done? That he had been the one to introduce Shimmer into her veins. That, without her knowing, he had altered her. Tainted her.

Was this her way of haunting him for it?

Then, just as quickly as it had come, a thin trickle of blood slipped from her nose, and Silco let go.

She gasped, her body convulsing slightly as her lungs rushed to reclaim the air he had denied her. The glow faded, receding like the tide, until her irises returned to their true color. He glanced down at her chest—the mark he had left there only moments before was gone.

No scar. No wound.

Only dried blood and the ghost of the "S" he had carved into her skin.

Silco wiped the blood from her nose, his touch unexpectedly gentle despite the storm simmering just beneath his skin and the tense feeling that existed in the office. The silence between them stretched, thick and charged, until she finally broke it with a soft, breathy laugh.

"You broke your part of the contract." she murmured, shifting slightly as she pushed herself up to sit on the edge of his desk.

He didn't flinch, didn't look away, only exhaled a quiet, measured sigh. "I did."

She tilted her head, amusement flickering in her gaze like a flame teasing dry paper. "Do you remember the consequence?"

Silco leaned back slightly, appraising her with that sharp, knowing look of his—the one that had dissected men and left them bare with nothing but a few words.

"You get a favor." he acknowledged, voice smooth as ever. "And I assume you already have something in mind, don't you, dove?"

The slow, wicked smile she gave him was answer enough.

Trouble.

There was always trouble with her.

"There's someone I'd like to see again."

[...]

Silco's office was bathed in the dim morning light filtering through the window. In front of him, Marcus stood tall, proudly displaying the sheriff's badge on his chest. Despite the usual seriousness etched into his face, Silco noticed—with a faint, cynical smile—that there was a glimmer of satisfaction in the man's eyes. The promotion was something Marcus had been chasing for years—and Silco knew he owed at least part of it to their arrangement.

Marcus, posture rigid, held a stack of documents in his hands. Documents that, to Silco, were more than expected. He had been anticipating this meeting for some time, knowing that with his new rank, Marcus would gain access to even more valuable information. So, on that Wednesday morning, Silco welcomed him into his office after receiving his letter requesting a meeting.

"Congratulations on your promotion, sheriff." Silco teased, his voice dripping with polished sarcasm as he reached out to take the stack that now hovered over his desk. Marcus, long accustomed to Silco's tone, merely grunted in response, maintaining his rigid stance and vaguely aggressive stare.

Silco already had a good idea of what he would find in that neat pile of documents, but, as always, he needed to confirm the details. The air in the room grew heavier as he scanned the first page—a police report, stamped with Piltover's crest in the corner.

The location: The Piltover Institute of Ascension and Progress. Supposedly a charitable initiative meant to give Zaunite youth a chance to rise in Piltover. It had been the site of a massacre years ago. More than twenty dead. The list of names seemed endless, mostly staff—scientists and professors. On top of that, the institute had been set ablaze, making the recovery of physical evidence even more difficult.

The following pages detailed the investigation conducted after the slaughter. The reports pointed to a student as the primary suspect. A young girl who, according to witnesses, had displayed increasingly erratic behavior in the months leading up to the attack. The details were a mix of speculation and fact, but one thing was certain—she had not only been accused of orchestrating the massacre but also of killing her own father before fleeing to Zaun.

Silco leaned back in his chair, slowly swirling the glass in his hand as he read. He remembered the weeks following the massacre all too well. Piltover's enforcers had descended upon Zaun like vultures, scouring every corner in search of her. Not that Silco could blame them—he had been hunting for her too, though for very different reasons.

He had to give Singed credit for that, after all. It was the scientist who had first suggested that finding the girl might just be the golden ticket they had been searching for.

Singed had been recruited by that organization that called itself the "Institute"—a name vague enough not to raise suspicion, yet grandiose enough to mask what truly went on behind its walls. Singed himself, in one of his rare ramblings, had told Silco that the members of the Institute had been deeply interested in his research on "conquering death itself." But, as expected, his questionable methods had ultimately condemned him.

The reaction had been predictable. Heimerdinger had not only ensured Singed's expulsion from the city but had also severed all ties between him and the Institute. Keeping him around would have raised too many questions, and Piltover liked to pretend its conscience was clean.

Hypocrites.

Still, the little that Singed had seen while he was there had been enough for him to reach a conclusion: that girl—now a woman—was a product of the Institute. The result of years of clandestine research. The problem was, no one knew exactly what she had been created for.

The next set of papers contained forensic reports. Silco flipped through them carefully, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed the details. Her body had been found weeks later, floating in the river that connected Piltover and Zaun. It was in an advanced state of decomposition, making visual identification nearly impossible. The reports described how her facial features had been completely lost. What remained to confirm her identity was her hair—partially preserved—and her eyes, their shade a perfect match for the suspected.

But what truly sealed the identification was a metal choker, more akin to a collar, that had been fastened to her body. The dried blood found on the piece matched the girl's genetic material. There was no doubt, at least for the forensic examiners, that the body was hers.

What Silco knew to be untrue.

Though he was certainly curious as to how she had faked her own death and managed to disappear for so long.

Silco raised his glass to his lips, savoring his drink with an unsettling patience. His gaze shifted to Marcus, who looked mildly uncomfortable in the stifling air of the office. The greenish glow from the window cast soft shadows on the walls, as if the room itself conspired to feed the tension.

"This Institute... is it still operational?" Silco asked casually, though there was something almost imperceptible in his tone that made Marcus straighten, as if about to answer to an invisible tribunal.

"No." the sheriff replied, trying to maintain his composure. "At least, not on record. Everything related to it was officially shut down. The financiers and administrators dissolved the organization right after the massacre. There are no active administrative traces."

Silco tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the words. He swirled the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid shift lazily before taking another sip.

"And the founder?"

"He remained anonymous." Marcus replied, his tone harsher than before. "But you know who his representative was. The man who, coincidentally, turned up dead a few weeks ago."

"A tragedy." Silco said with icy irony, as if he hadn't personally arranged the so-called "tragedy." His mouth curled into an almost imperceptible smile, but his eyes didn't follow suit.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, and pulled one of the documents he had skimmed earlier. Flipping through the pages, he stopped when he found what he was looking for. His eyes scanned a note scribbled in the margin before looking back at Marcus.

"It says here that you were one of the officers assigned on the day of the massacre." Silco pointed out, his words carrying a weight that seemed to press down on the room. "Did you happen to see the girl?"

Marcus hesitated, and that pause was all Silco needed to know something was wrong. He didn't answer immediately, his gaze flickering away for a moment before returning to meet Silco's.

"No."

Silco remained silent for a few seconds, simply watching. The sheriff tried to hold his gaze, but it was like staring into an abyss—he blinked first.

"Do you think she's dead?" Silco asked, his question sounding more like a challenge than a request for confirmation.

"She is." Marcus answered quickly, but his haste only fueled suspicion.

"Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me everything, Marcus?" Silco murmured, his words rolling effortlessly off his tongue. He stood slowly, walking around the desk with the grace of a predator. "It's an unsettling feeling, I must say. As if something... is being hidden."

Marcus cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone neutral. "I've given you everything I have, Silco. If there's anything more, it's not in the official reports."

"Official reports..." Silco repeated with a hint of disdain. "You and I both know they rarely tell the full story."

Silco stopped beside the man, leaning in slightly, the scent of tobacco and whiskey thick in the air between them. "You know, Marcus." he began, voice barely above a whisper, "Omitting information isn't all that different from lying."

The sheriff held his rigid posture, but sweat had begun to bead along his hairline, betraying his discomfort. He could try to feign composure, but Silco had already dismantled him piece by piece—he didn't even need to ask the question he already knew the answer to.

"You saw her." Silco murmured, his voice smooth, almost pleased. It wasn't a question; it was a statement. "Now we're getting somewhere. Tell me, she didn't look like a student, did she?"

Marcus clenched his fists, clearly unhappy about being cornered, but he didn't argue. "No."

"Then why all the theatrics in the official reports?" Silco raised a brow, tilting his head slightly. "We both know that Institute was anything but a place to help Zaun's youth."

Marcus closed his eyes for a brief moment before letting out a weary sigh. "Because, at the time, one of the councilors got personally involved in this case." he revealed, his voice low, as if afraid that someone other than Silco might hear him. "And that made everything disappear."

"And who would this oh-so-diligent councilor be?"

Marcus hesitated, and Silco noticed the tension in his shoulders. He knew that by answering this question, Marcus would be crossing a line he couldn't return from. But there was no choice anymore.

"Torman Hoskel."

Silco tilted his head slightly, indifference gleaming in his expression, though inwardly, he was surprised by the information.

"Keep an eye on him and report back if he does anything out of the ordinary."

Marcus clenched his jaw, and Silco immediately saw that he was about to argue. But before the sheriff could utter any useless protest, he cut him off.

"You're the sheriff now, Marcus. You answer directly to the councilors... So don't disappoint me."

Marcus, reluctant, swallowed hard and nodded. Silco could see the hesitation on his face—a useless remnant of pride that still refused to die—but in the end, the sheriff simply obeyed. He turned to leave but didn't make it more than two steps before Silco's voice sliced through the air once again.

"I have one more question."

Marcus stopped instantly. He didn't turn around right away, but Silco noticed the way his shoulders stiffened, as if he already knew he wouldn't like what was coming next.

"Every single person who met with her that day is dead..." Silco tilted his head slightly to the side, studying the tension that rippled through Marcus' body. "So explain to me, Marcus, how the hell are you still here?"

This time, the silence was heavier.

Ah.

There it was.

Silco watched as the vein in the sheriff's temple throbbed dangerously, almost as if it would burst at any moment. He was exhausted. The conversation had already dragged on longer than he would have liked, and now, cornered, the man in front of him looked like a trapped rat, pressed until there was no more room to escape.

For a second, Silco wondered if Marcus would make the mistake of trying to lie. But whether out of good sense or fear of testing his patience, the sheriff finally opened his mouth.

"She let me live." The words came out low, almost rushed, as if he were spitting something bitter. "Told me to run back to Piltover."

Silco remained silent for a moment, simply watching Marcus. The man before him still held his shoulders rigid, fists clenched at his sides, his gaze drifting to the floor as if searching for a way out of this conversation with his skin intact.

"Did you do anything to her during this little encounter of yours?"

Marcus hesitated. Ah, so there was something. Silco said nothing, merely tilting his head slightly to the side, waiting.

"I shot her." the sheriff finally admitted, his voice nearly swallowed by his own breath. "But she didn't go down. She kept coming, even with a bullet lodged in her chest."

He ran a hand over his face, exhausted, and let out a short, humorless laugh before continuing.

"That's when I knew something was wrong with her." Marcus then exhaled a heavy sigh and looked at Silco, as if finally freed from the conversation. "Am I dismissed?"

Silco only smiled. A smile that brought no comfort.

"Actually..." He moved to sit back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other with an easy, unbothered motion. "I promised someone a reunion. So, I'm afraid you'll have to stay a little longer."

Before Marcus could react, there was a firm knock at the door.

The sheriff's expression changed instantly.

"Oh." Silco tilted his head slightly. "And it seems she's arrived. Come in!"

The door opened.

And Silco saw—not just saw, but felt—the exact moment Marcus lost all the color in his face.

The terror in his eyes was not an ordinary fear. It wasn't the unease of a man realizing he had made a wrong choice or that he was facing a predictable danger. No. It was something primal. A visceral dread that clenched his throat and made his legs tremble. 

Marcus took a step back. Then another. The muscles in his body locked into high alert, like a cornered animal that had caught the scent of its own death. His chest rose and fell erratically, his wide, trembling eyes those of a man who had just glimpsed his own personal hell taking shape before him. His fingers reached for the gun at his holster, as if it would help. As if anything would help now.

Not against her.

Silco smiled again, this time genuinely.

"Meet my baroness."

Part 15

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The scene between her and Silco was created from the quote "Shall I carve my name into you for you to remember you're mine? I think you've forgotten who you belong to." which happened to be spoken by Silco's voice actor, where he says these words in Silco's voice (I have the link if you want to hear it too, send me a message). I thank the reader on Ao3 who posted this information in the comments, this chapter is for you. Also, a little breath play but in my own way, also suggested by a reader. The chapters are already planned, but you can always suggest an idea but I don't promise if I will use it.

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[aamputation]

Villain's Day Off

⫷ PREVIOUS ⪡ ║║ ⪢ NEXT ⫸

When their favorite minion Aubrey had pointed out the surprisingly empty day on the calendar after reviewing the month’s planned Villainous Events, they’d decided it was well past due to take some time for themself. It felt wrong to ignore all their professionally-inclined projects to instead focus on other things—personal things! Heavens! Their work ethic is crying—but it was also an exciting prospect. A free day in their usually packed schedule is a rare blessing, and they’re not going to squander it. 

Aubrey had been thrilled when they’d announced their decision to take the day off, so to speak, but when the favorite minion realized the Boss had planned to simply spend their elusive spare time in the lab on a personal project, rather than say, taking a well deserved break at a spa or something relaxing of that nature? Well. Needless to say, Aubrey was driven to tears of despair; practically chewing on the hem of the uniform.

Oh well. 

Villains make people cry, don’t they? 

Guess that’s something. 

Their day off starts in the lab, tinkering around with their prosthetic arm. It’s actually great fun when not being frantically pieced together with slapdash engineering: duct-tape, shoddy soldering, and a prayer. Having the time to improve upon the already sleek design is not something they’ve often been able to do. The tech that makes up their prosthetic is beyond what’s available on the global market, and certainly not FDA approved in any capacity since they’d done the grafting themself—not having access to human testing means they’d had to be the test subject—and the anchors are secured tightly through their skin into the scapula and clavicle. Nano-electrical technology threads into the surrounding muscle fibers and fascia, allowing a connection between the machinery and their nervous system. Being able to disconnect the apparatus from the base anchors to repair the actual prosthesis as needed was critical to the design, but it meant the actual installation procedure would be experimental at best and suicidal at worst. It had been excruciating and left horrendous scarring around the entire shoulder joint, but it was worth every agonizing second in the end.

The nanobots that they’d had to program and inject after grafting the anchor base was a secondary project, but an exceptional addition. The nanobots are what allow internal improvements around the anchor’s base without requiring them to surgically dig out all the deep tissue intrinsic makeup. They also act as monitors for active issues without requiring external diagnostics to be run weekly, avoiding hours hooked up to machines for maintenance scans. Additionally, and blessedly, they function as a secret weapon of sorts; nobody expects the Villain to heal so quickly—so capable of being throttled by the Hero and still managing to stand up again. They may not be physically strong, (barring the mechanics of their prosthetic, of course) but their endurance knows no bounds. 

Their lips quirk up into a crooked grin as they stare down into the internal wiring of their prosthesis. All the minute details wrapped up in an impenetrable metal sheath is a work of art in their eyes, even if no one but they will ever see such beauty. Their toolkit sends off sparks that reflect in the lenses of their goggles as they modify the reaction time of the finger flexion. Dexterity is no laughing matter, after all.

They love their lab; it’s one of their favorite areas of the Lair they’ve built over the past six years they’ve been active as a Villain. It’s not the innermost scientific sanctum, instead one of the more outer sectors of the Lair. There are two halves: divided down the center into medical and mechanical. The Villain is currently perched in one of the metal work stools in the mechanical section, although they’ll migrate back and forth as they test the functionality of the prosthesis’ improvements over the course of the day. There are already a few scorch marks decorating the hem of the left sleeve of their long lab coat, the empty right sleeve knotted off and pulled out of the way as they work. Thankfully, they’re ambidextrous, otherwise they’d never have been able to continue their work after losing their arm eight years ago. 

They woke this morning with the sun, energized and moving through their morning ablutions with a contentment they haven’t had in quite some time. Despite getting an early start with all the excitement thrumming in their veins, their zeal hasn’t faded even though it’s well past noon and quickly approaching dinnertime. The Villain hums under their breath as they tinker away, floating gleefully in their little bubble of mechanical fulfillment, drifting in a place where everything is tranquil and perfect, untouchable and impossible to damage—

—but the shattering of one of the mirrored external windows immediately disabuses that notion.

The Villain pauses where they’re hunched over their prosthetic, blinking behind the dark lenses of their safety goggles before straightening up and setting down their tool. They slowly turn to face the direction of the shattered window, pushing their goggles up onto their forehead almost robotically to reveal their unquestionably unimpressed, deadpan expression.

“I have a front door, you know.”

The Hero straightens from what is undoubtedly supposed to be a dramatic, flashy landing pose, gesturing sharply at the Villain with a furious expression—as though this idiot hasn’t just broken about three separate laws barging into the Villain’s private property like this…

“Villain! The Authority knows you’re behind today’s slew of robberies, so surrender quietly and I won’t rough you up too badly when I take you in!”

The Villain blinks slowly as one brow raises higher with each word out of the Hero’s mouth. They shut their eyes with an exasperated sigh, deflating and pinching the bridge of their nose. What sort of nonsense–!

“Aubrey!” they call loudly, knowing their favorite minion is doubtlessly within earshot.

“Yes, Boss?!” barrelling through the doorway like a bat out of hell, Aubrey freezes at the sight of their unexpected guest.

“W-Who-oaah, shit, h-hey, Hero!!” Aubrey stammers nervously, eyes like dinner plates and clutching that ever-present tablet-clipboard close to the chest. It’s only a matter of seconds before the absolute mess of shattered glass strewn across the floor of the Lab sends poor Aubrey into despair and wrathful fury all over again. “W-What have you done to the window?!”

“The Hero has decided to eschew doorways, Aubrey. For some godforsaken reason it seems I am being blamed for some asinine, puerile incidents—robberies of all things—that have occurred today. I am, for once, completely innocent of these claims as my schedule can attest. As such, relay my schedule for the day to the Hero, if you would please, Aubrey,” they command, gesturing lazily and pulling their goggles back down over their eyes as they get back to work on their prosthetic. They pause, raising their chin to add:

“Oh, and put in a work order for the window.”

“Of course, Boss!” Aubrey chirps, perking up immediately from the despair spiral.

“... you’re serious?” 

The Villain pauses their soldering, peering up at the flabbergasted face of the Hero, staring gobsmacked amidst the minefield of broken glass. Their eyebrow raises upwards again.

“Deadly.”

“Boss has a very comprehensive schedule, Hero, and don’t you forget it! Today is a rare free day, so Boss hasn’t had anything planned, see? Oh, wait—I should show you the redacted version, haha, can’t show any big plans to the enemy! One sec, let me pull that up…”

The Villain returns their attention to their project halfway through Aubrey’s explanation, certain that their most competent minion is no doubt flawlessly using that thorough schedule on their tablet-clipboard to defend their alibi. The Villain quickly loses themself back in their work, finding the presence of the Hero in their Lab irrelevant to the task at hand; it’s not like they’re currently working on anything that could be thwarted, after all, and they severely doubt that the Hero has any sort of engineering or mechanical knowledge that could allow for sabotage of their prosthetic. With zero threat, the Villain feels perfectly safe letting Aubrey rip the Hero a new one, letting the brightly-colored do-gooder poke around while they work. 

They’re in the middle of testing a circuit to check how quickly the upgraded lock-pick kit tucked into one of the fingertips springs into activation when they sense a presence hovering at their side. They continue working as they address said presence.

“Can I assist you in some way, Hero? Surely you’re convinced I had nothing to do with your paltry robberies as proof dictates I’ve been in my lab all day, after all.”

“Ah,” the Hero sounds surprisingly sheepish and out of the corner of their eye they can see the way the Hero rubs the back of a reddish-orange hair-covered neck. It’s a… cute gesture. 

Hm. That’s a new thought.

“Yeah, I uh. I’m sorry about your window… I can um. Pay you back for it, if you send me the invoice?”

“I am perfectly capable of paying for my own repairs, Hero.”

“No, I-I’m well aware, Villain, god, I’m just trying to be nice!”

The Villain hums, amused at the frustration and embarrassment coloring the Hero’s voice, their left hand pausing where it’s in the process of retrofitting the external protective plating of the prosthetic so they can reattach and test it with its new improvements.

“I am fairly unfamiliar with the concept, forgive me.”

“... I don’t know whether to be saddened by that statement or to just feel disgusted by it.”

A tiny smirk flits across the Villain’s lips at the disgruntled Hero, entertained by the clearly irritated responses they’re managing to elicit. Perhaps they should consider teasing their Hero more often if these are the types of reactions they get from such behavior.

“Perhaps you ought to examine that dichotomy more closely at a later date, Hero. If you’ll excuse me,” they push past their Hero, prosthetic in hand as they walk over to the medical side of the Lab. They hook themself up to the simple monitoring system—blood pressure, blood oxygen, EEG, EKG—before reattaching the prosthetic and resolutely ignoring the steadfast shadow the Hero is proving to be.

They run through their standard tests while monitoring their vital signs, recording everything in their encrypted files. They attempt some specialized movements next, noting down successes and failures—thankfully the successes vastly outweigh the failures—and by the end of the trials, the Villain determines the upgrades safe for continued use. A quick rotation of the prosthetic in the base elicits a jolt as the nano-electrical anchors re-establish a few musculoskeletal connections, their nervous system lighting up like early Christmas decorations. A soft hiss escapes from between their clenched teeth as they massage the muscles around the anchor base.

“I-I didn’t realize it was an actual prosthetic,” the Hero speaks quietly, tone serious.

“Hm? What sort of assumptions were you making, then?” the Villain replies, more out of general politeness than actual interest; they don’t want to hear platitudes, least of all from The Hero.

There have been far too many comments over the years about their disability and quite frankly they’re sick of it. Past Heroes they’ve gone up against as a fledgling Villain have said things to them like “oh, I’d have been easier on you if I’d known you were crippled” or “I didn’t realize you had it so bad, you must be suffering” and other variations along those two lines of thought. It’s exhausting to be reduced to a limitation when it’s obvious that it doesn’t actually define who the Villain is in any way shape or form. Bad enough that their family started to write them off as a loss when their arm had been destroyed after being caught in the crossfire of that one fight years ago; they don’t need their adversaries not taking them seriously just because of a few measly missing pounds of flesh and bone.

“I–Well, I thought you’d made like, an exoskeleton or something,” the tone sounds embarrassed, and the Villain risks a glance at their Hero and is surprised to see a rather fetching flush decorating those rounded, yet defined cheekbones, “or-or that maybe you were just really dedicated to an aesthetic or something.”

The Villain snorts, charmed by the Hero’s naive interpretation of such an obvious disability, “No, certainly nothing so fanciful. But I applaud you for an interesting take.”

The Hero smiles: a quiet, soft, bashful thing that makes the Villain’s chest feel like it’s full of effervescence, warm and overflowing.

“I’m actually really impressed you’re so strong even with such a–an injury? I, I don’t actually know why you don’t have a right arm—you could have been born without it, I suppose!” The Hero bites at a slightly chapped, plush lower lip, awkwardness settling over a once-vibrant and energetic form into stillness.

The Villain sighs, “Your first assumption was correct, yes. It was an injury. And no, I will not tell you about it.”

The Hero brightens, a broad grin stretching across a soft face, and the Villain immediately feels as though the universe has righted itself. It’s a feeling that definitely needs to be re-assessed at a later date because it’s not something they’ve ever experienced before.

“Well, then yeah! I’m definitely impressed you’re as strong as you are despite such an injury—in spite of it? Or maybe even because of it,” the Hero says, suddenly thoughtful, “I don’t know you well enough to figure either way, I guess.” 

The Hero scrubs a hand through bright hair, ruffling the already disheveled strands, “Y’know, and quite frankly I’d be worried if I did know you well enough! What kind of Hero gets to know their Villain like that?”

The Hero’s laughter feels like a hug while the use of a possessive before the Villain’s title makes them feel decidedly short of breath.

The Villain wants to keep the Hero, to possess their Hero entirely, and keep their Hero all for themself. 

Forever.

… bit not good, that.

“Hm. Wouldn’t mind being someone’s anything,” they muse quietly and mostly to themself, flexing their right fist and making note with a pleased smile that all the joints move smoothly against one another without any abrasion or noise. They almost miss the soft choking noise that comes from their Hero standing beside them. They tear their eyes from the prosthetic, glancing down at the shorter Hero, only to marvel at the obvious surprise, longing, and the deep, dark blush painting those softer, rounded cheekbones.

Unable to resist a little playful bullying, they reach out,—slowly enough that their Hero could move away if so desired—grasping their Hero’s chin gently in their prosthetic grip. The action elicits a soft gasp from between plush, red-bitten lips.

“Tell you what, my darling Hero,” they drawl, voice low and rich, eyes lidded and locked onto the wide ones belonging to the stunned, flustered prey in their gentle grasp, “I for one have surprisingly enjoyed your company outside of our, hm, working hours, so to speak.”

The Hero’s swallow is audible and the lazy smirk that pulls at the Villain’s lips feels so right. “If you have any interest in perhaps continuing this, ah… parley if you will—feel free to come back next week. I’m sure I can have Aubrey get my thoroughly redacted schedule to you somehow. I have plenty of resources at my disposal, after all, and well… evil never sleeps, now, does it..?”

Their voice has dropped into a rumbling purr by the end of their short monologue, the Hero’s breathing rapid and pulse like a frantic hummingbird’s wing-beats against the sensors in their prosthetic’s fingertips. Gently, they let go of the Hero’s chin, a soft brush against flushed skin seeming to act as a jolt to the Hero’s system, causing the blushing fool to throw every ounce of bodyweight backwards. The bumbling Hero stumbles wide-eyed against tables and lab equipment in the mad dash to get to the door without turning around, fleeing as fast as possible.

The Villain watches their Hero run from their oh-so-tender clutches, buoyed with the knowledge that without a doubt they’ve succeeded in accomplishing something they’d never considered possible before.

They’ve caught the attention of Their Hero: not with cunning, or power, or violence, even. But with conversation and a hint of flirting!

What a fascinating new development.

They can’t wait to see what comes of it.

⫷ PREVIOUS ⪡ ║║ ⪢ NEXT ⫸

My designs for Villain and Hero found [ here ]

shout out to adornedwithlight for the reblog banner & barbed wire divider

[hamsterbellbelle]

CC list #2 for Love Love Dining and Bar🎦:

CC list #1 HERE

🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹  

Animated laptops || Animated maneki cat || Animated scroll || Ashtray || Bar/bar stool/wall panel light || Bubble pillar || Corner booth - A - B || Cyberpunk billboard || Cyberpunk decal || Cyberpunk posters || Cyberpunk sliding doors ||

Dance club TV || Effect machine⚠️please see CC page for details || Fashion ad. || Industrial divider || Light (ceiling) || Metal panel || Neon - cyberpunk - heart - number || Spinning ad || Sink (toilet)/toilet/arch/fence/stairs/wallpaper || Wire/control panel || Wires ||

[k8epot8e]

Train in Vain: Chapter 7 Target Acquired

Summary:

For your new friends, you boldly go where no Saturday night has taken you before, but you might just be in over your head.

Notes:

If you can't tell I really enjoy scene-setting. There will be stuff that happens next chapter I promise lol.

TWs: afab Reader. Alcohol mentions and drinking mentions. Drug and drug dealing mentions. Potential danger.

You hadn’t realized how cold the night had become until you found yourself confidently stalking away from the circle of people. The close proximity of your two large friends had radiated warmth and security through your body all night. Now, all alone, the frigid air took its opportunity to bite through any exposed flesh that it could find. Your initial high of resolve was violently harshed by the sharp gusts of wind which seemed to target your hands and ankles spitefully. Your gate shorted and velocity slowed as you burrowed your icy fingers in your armpits. Your shoulders hunched slightly against the rushes of night air in a futile attempt to concentrate your waning heat and bolster your similarly diminishing assuredness.

You’d seen wires in TV shows and movies. It was a simple enough mic and receiver that Tashigi had taped to your belly. What your Hollywood exposure to government espionage hadn’t shown you was how damn itchy and uncomfortable wires were against bare skin. The plastic and metal contraption rubbed against your core as you walked. It suddenly hit you that you might have to use the restroom while wired, but before you could even think about being embarrassed over the potential scenario, you’d reached the door to the bar.

You grabbed the metal handle and the heavy door swung open with aggressive help from the wind. The bell above you clanged sharply in contact with the door, announcing your arrival. The place was a pretty classicly unimpressive one-room dive. The dark-stained wooden bar jutted out from the left side of the room and ran the length of the establishment, heavy wooden bar stools dotting its path here and there. The backsplash of the bar was a long and warped mirror with tarnish that marked its age and wear. Along the right wall were uncomfortable-looking booths made out of the same dark-stained wood that made the place look even dimmer than it already was. The lone chandelier that hung in the center of the long room was antique brass and probably hadn’t been cleaned since it was installed. Two of its electric faux candles flickered erratically at distinctly different paces, almost immediately giving you a headache. Some Dean Martin song crooned cornily through muffled speakers from somewhere you couldn’t pinpoint.

The booze selection was as spectacular as the bar itself, that is to say, not at all. There were only two rows of bottles behind the bar counter and you didn’t spot anything which looked even remotely like top-shelf liquor. There were just two patrons inside. One was sitting at a barstool near the door and didn’t react whatsoever to your loud entrance. You could see in the reflection of the mirror that the man was, for lack of a better term, absolutely blotto. He stared at his reflection, eyes puffy and red while sipping beer slowly from a tallboy can. The man was middle-aged, chin and face darkened with stubble, still wearing his coat and flat-brimmed cap despite the bar being a fairly decent temperature inside.

The other patron was a younger man lounging at one of the middle booths. He had positioned himself as best he could to get comfortable on the rigid wooden bench seat. His legs were splayed out into the walking aisle and he mindlessly scrolled on his phone while sipping from a pint glass. He looked up at you briefly but almost immediately returned his gaze to the phone screen.

After a brief pause, you walked to the middle of the bar and slid onto one of the wooden stools. You leaned on your elbows, purposefully keeping your coat on and purse over your shoulder. Hopefully, you’d get upstairs quickly. You noticed two wooden doors at the right end of the bar; you assumed one led upstairs and one led to a bathroom but couldn’t tell which one was which. There was also a small saloon door behind the bar just to your right which you would’ve normally assumed led to a kitchen but you couldn’t imagine this place serving food.

A tall man slinked through the saloon doors as he dried a dingy pint glass with an old rag. He immediately noticed you, locking your gaze with a jovial smile.

“Welcome. What can I get ya?” He offered with obviously phony enthusiasm.

The man was probably in his fifties and sported a long grey beard with equally long grey hair. He wore a dark purple buttonup and a bright yellow tie adorned with happy red flowers. His eyeglasses were pink-rimmed and shaped like stars. Everything about the man’s appearance should’ve amused you but something about him put you on edge. He seemed dangerous despite attempting to convey the contrary.

You were about to stammer out an “um” when you stopped yourself, realizing that a drug dealer would probably be more self-assured. You clenched your muscles, bracing.

“I’m here about the job opportunity,” you said nonchalantly letting your voice be somewhat drowned out by whatever corny, probably Perry Como-sung lovesong that was now seeping out of the walls.

The bartender raised an eyebrow at you skeptically.

“What name should I give our manager?” He replied, placing the opaque pint glass down on the counter.

“Monet,” you replied, not breaking his gaze.

“You’re Monet? The one I’ve heard about?” He asked, obviously unimpressed.

“What, disappointed?” You countered quickly.

“No, just...I had heard you weren’t coming.” The man looked at you suspiciously.

You were worried that if you let him stare at you long enough he might discover something to prove that you were a fraud. Luckily, you frequently felt like a fraud in your normal life due to chronic anxiety so you were practiced in staying cool under prying eyes.

You let a sigh pass noisily out your nostrils as you rested your chin in your right hand.

“Does Joker really have time for this?” You asked, exasperated.

The man set his jaw and squinted at you. You felt your heart rate quicken and sunk your right moler into the side of your tongue to distract yourself with pain. The warm taste of iron pooled around your tooth. This was an old tactic you used when you wanted to keep a straight face despite overwhelming emotion; never letting childhood bullies see you cry was finally paying off.

The man opened his mouth to say something further but never got the chance. From the left door at the end of the bar, the most disgusting-looking person you’d ever seen barged into the room.

“Nyeh, Disco, I need you to close the bar for these interviews—” The large, soggy-looking man made eye contact with you and stopped.

You used this interruption to your advantage. You stood up calmly and approached the looming man despite your fear and the moist sheen reflecting off his skin.

“I’m Monet. It’s good to finally meet you.” You said offering the man your hand.

The looming figure leaned towards you and grabbed your hand with both of his. Every hair from every pore on your body shot upwards. You’d never felt skin this wet before. The sensation wasn’t like he’d just washed his hands or had been in a pool; the dampness was thick like the sludge that accumulated around the old drainpipe in your shower. Your body betrayed you. Your eyes widened with shock but you bit down harder on your tongue to keep yourself from making a sound. The man had bent over to get face-to-face with you but didn’t seem to notice your reaction. Mucus trailed from his nostrils, jiggling buoyantly as he breathed.

“Nyeh, Trebol. Nice to meet you. Now that we’ve met we can get married. Behehe. Kidding.” Trebol winked at you and retracted his right hand to push up his glasses which had slid down his slick nose. “Nyeh, follow me. Dof—uh Joker is starting soon.” He said letting go of your hand and turning to walk back up the stairs.

Thanking gods that you did not believe in for your immense luck and for Trebol letting go of your hand, you turned to wave at Disco. You saw that the two patrons had already left the bar and Disco stood in the middle of the room. He stared at you sternly as you followed Trebol up the stairs.

--

The stairway was dark and longer than you had anticipated. You worried for a moment that Trebol had seen through your ruse and was leading you into a cell or to a dead end with a firing squad. Your fear toyed with your brain as you silently followed the enormous man up the stairs. All of a sudden, you emerged into a large, brightly lit room.

Shockingly, the dim stairway had led you into the middle of a grand foyer. The floors were hardwood and sparkled immaculately underneath your feet. The ceilings were high with crisp, eggshell crown molding and the walls were painted an elegant shade of maroon.

“Nyeh, you can put your coat in there.” Without slowing down, Trebol motioned to a large coat closet on your right.

“N—no I’m alright,” You stammered. You needed to pull yourself together but the contrast between the bar and this foyer was already staggering.

You toddled behind Trebol as he continued out of the foyer. Your jaw dropped. It was a grand ballroom with two large crystal chandeliers. All around the room were casino-style card tables with people who looked like waiters manning each.

Beautiful women in floor-length ball gowns hung off the arms of men in smoking jackets. There were only around twenty people there, but it was still a shocking change of pace from downstairs. Everyone was either playing cards or chatting in small groups. Frank Sinatra sang from surround-sound speakers and a fire cracked and popped happily in the grand fireplace. There was a small sitting area off to the right side of the room in front of the fireplace with emerald-upholstered fainting couches and high-backed chairs. There were stairs leading up at the end of the room along with multiple hallways leading in different directions.

You clenched your teeth to prevent shock from painting your face. Trebol led you around the left side of this room. A few of the beautiful women and beautifully dressed men stared at you as you passed. Trebol turned and led you down a hallway to the left.

The hallway entered into another, much smaller room divided into two sections by furniture. On the right side was a large, ornately carved desk with a chess set mid-game and many different cell phones laid out on top of it. On the left was a seating area with five chairs all pointed at the right side of the room.

Three people were already seated in the chairs on the left. The one furthest from the door was an older woman. She was wearing a bright purple dress and cat-eye glasses with a beaded chain that swept down behind her ears and around her neck. Her hair was dyed bright red and she wore a large, gaudy string of pearls. The man sitting in the middle was an unassuming middle-aged man with a crew cut. He was dressed in a white collared shirt and black slacks. Despite seeming fairly ordinary, he was large and had an intensity about his quiet demeanor. The person seated most closely to the door was another large man with long, blonde hair and bicep muscles bulging out of his tight, black t-shirt. He sat with one long arm over the back of his chair. He cocked his head towards you and Trebol as you stepped into the room. The bicep man’s, crazy, intense eyes and evil grin would’ve drawn your gaze if you weren’t already staring at the man behind the desk.

He was huge. Probably bigger than Kid. (Why were all the men you met tonight so INEXPLICABLY LARGE?) The enormous man’s bottle-blond hair was styled upwards into peaks framing his handsome, almost pretty, face. He wore pink, cat-eye sunglasses despite it being night and him being indoors. You’d normally have thought this was incredibly stupid but it somehow made him seem even more intimidating because you could not clearly determine where he was looking. His white collared shirt was unbuttoned and untucked from his pink, silk suitpants revealing an intensely chiseled musculature. He lounged in his armchair, legs spread and arms slumped over the sides lazily. Across the back of the chair, a pink feather boa coat was draped. A beautiful whisp of a woman in a blue, backless dress was seated daintily on his right thigh. The woman was rubbing his wide shoulders with her petite left hand. You stared into his sunglasses as you saw him tilt his head towards you. You knew this was your target. You knew this was Joker.

[gray-lofi]

Coffee With Friends

Even at the end, there's still coffee.

A short fanfic based on @didudraws Lifeform Detected series

~1900 words

   A placid spring's noon sun hangs over the town's main street, shining over rows of mixed-use urban buildings. Apartments placed over supermarkets, drug stores, robotics depots, most having laid dormant for however-long. The streets are cluttered with cars, a dead, perpetual traffic jam of electric vehicles and IFVs. A stifling quiet, one that even nature seems hesitant to break, barely a gust of wind or note of birdsong disturbing the ghost town.

   The only noise comes from leg servos and barefoot steps. Bits and Scrap walk carefree through the streets of abandoned machinery, looking through the windows, storefronts, all virtually empty. Some looted, some left behind. The pair stop in front of a robotics store, taking a moment to look through the shattered window. Nothing left but dust and glass. Nature reclaiming.

   Scrap sighs, Bits pressing a sympathetic hand against her thigh, calm smile on her face. "We'll find a store one of these days."

   "Found plenty of stores, but none of them with any parts I can use." The wires of the robot's missing arm spark as if to punctuate the point, the street growing quiet except for the sound of footsteps once more.

   More fronts are passed. Italian restaurant with broken wine bottles still scattered out front. Bank branch barricaded over with plywood. Convenience store, intact but empty. Bits reaches out, grabbing Scrap's intact arm and walking in step, pressing her ramshackle body against the android's. An overworked cooling fan joins the chorus of footsteps. The two wait at a street crossing, even if no car would ever come.

   A shock to both. There, on the corner, a coffee shop. Almost pristine, windows intact, floors missing the grime of erosion and dirt. Varnished wooden counters shine in the sun. Stools and chairs set out, even if there was no one to sit on them. Frozen in time.

   The two peek in through the door, and standing by the counter was another android. Their model is a notable downgrade from the sleek-but-damaged frame of Scrap -- metal body a darker, scuffed gray, an LCD monitor affixed to their torso, text written on that they couldn't read. A wire juts from their back, leading into a room in the back. Despite their obvious downgrade, they were, at least, relatively intact.

   The coffee android turns to the pair, smiling and waving them over. After another moment of shock, the two head over to the counter.

   "Oh, customers! It's been so long since anyone's come by, welcome!"

   "Hello, hi!" Bits quickly heads next to the counter, jumping up on a stool by the bar, with Scrap following, and standing, behind. "I didn't think we'd find another android out here! What's your name?"

   "Name?" The android looks at the stitched-together human quizzically. "I'm just a service android, I don't have a name."

   "Awww, boo. Wait, does that mean I get to give you a name like Scrap?" Perking up, Bits leans forward, reading the output on their chest monitor:

Model: SA-LT 4022C Charging…

Uptime: <MAXINT> Service Required:

Battery: 0% Replace internal battery

"Oh, how about Salt?"

   A polite smile. "Very well, designation accepted. Hello you two, I'm Salt, nice to meet you both." They turn to Scrap, the slightest shift in their expression. “I must admit, I didn't expect to see another S-series after all this time.”

   “S-series?” Scrap looks surprised, looking down at her chest, down at Salt's chest. SA-LT. SC-RP. “Oh.”

   “Oh, oh!” The stitched-together being presses both her hands down on the counter, looking up at Salt with stars in her eyes. “Do you have any spare parts with you? Scrap's been missing an arm all this time, and we haven't been able to find any spare parts anywhere!”

   “Unfortunately, I do not believe SA series and SC series parts are compatible. My deepest apologies.” The coffee android quickly bows, a sigh coming from the pair.

   “Well, we're used to disappointment, at least.” Scrap takes a seat, looking around the cafe, behind the bar. A chalk menu is freshly written up, the distinct electric hum of appliances through the silence. “What are you still doing here, anyways? I can't imagine that there're many customers nowadays.”

   “My main function is to provide service to customers, and manning the counter was the last directive given to me.” Salt stares out into the distance, into the abandoned, empty street. “While the timeframe of that order has long expired, I'm afraid I don't have much other choice.”

   “You could come exploring with us!” Bits helpfully offered. Scrap pursed her mouth almost instinctively. What for? Did she not trust Salt? Gotten habituated to traveling only with Bits?

   “As lovely as that would be, I'm afraid I'm stuck here.” Salt tugged on the cord leading into their back, quickly pulling it taut. “My internal battery has long failed, and I only remain active due to constantly drawing upon this establishment's solar supplies, as well as occasional resurgences of power from the town's grid.” Another bow.

   “Oh. Sorry to hear.” A passing thought from Bits, that they could find a replacement battery but, well. An arm is already rare enough.

   Salt's eyes perk up, a smile growing just the slightest bit wider. “It's quite alright, your company is already much welcome from the silence.” They gesture to the menu behind them. “Would you care to place an order? Quite a few products are unavailable due to... supply issues. But we still have plenty on offer!”

   The two look behind the barista, reading through the menu. Entire bakery section was a no-go. Teas, smoothies, gone. Casualties even among the coffee: lattes, cafe au lait, flat whites. Just about the only thing left was regular drip coffee.

   “I'll have a large drip coffee, please!” Bits's order. A slight electric noise and nod from Salt. The two look to Scrap, the SC android looking between the two confused.

   “You both know I can't-” Bits looked on expectantly. A polite, retail smile from Salt that carried more weight than Scrap could ever hope to deflect. “I'll- small cappuccino, please.”

   Another nod from Salt. “That will be ❖11.55. What payment method will you be using?” Bits and Scrap look at each other, patting down their pockets.

   “You still got any money left on you, Bits?” Sewing kit, pamphlet, gauze pads.

   “I think I used the rest of my cash on that vending machine...” A small book. Keepsakes. Loose wiring. She turns to Salt. “Isn't there any sort of discount you could give to us?”

   “A discount? A moment, please.” Salt stands, hands by their waist in contemplation. A hard drive whirs. A tree branch falls, somewhere. They look back up, nodding. “I've found a relevant discount in the database. Congratulations, your drinks are free for today!”

    The pair share a smile, with Salt motioning to the seats around the cafe, bowing as they walk into the back room. The two look around, choosing counter seats by the windows facing away from the main street.

    Sun shines on the two as they take the airs. The quiet is broken by the grinding of coffee beans, the boiling of water. Bits patiently kicks her feet back and forth on the stool. A wordless gesture from Scrap, pulling out the sewing kit and re-applying some of Bits's stitches.

    The cobbled-together human points toward a stand by the counter. Local tourist attractions, coupons, maps. They unfurl one of them on the counter, talking over the landmarks, making plans. Pictures of time past, people smiling, sailing, fishing. An advertisement for a car that laid totaled in front of them.

    “We could go to the mall, see if they have a shop there for your arm!”

    “It's a long walk, though. There's a hospital on the way, so it shouldn't be impossible, but I'm not sure I can make that distance without running out of power...”

    “Mmmm, there should be enough buildings on the way you could draw from. See? Gas station, motel, gas station, strip mall...”

    The sounds of coffee making fade, replaced with that of lively conversation between the couple. Salt returns behind the counter, carrying two cardboard cups, one large and one that's barely able to fit in their hand. A moment's hesitation, before interrupting the conversation. "Excuse me, your order is ready!"

    The two hop off their stools, grabbing the coffee with a thanks. Bits takes a sip, and immediately makes a face at the bitter, more-than-likely-spoiled flavor. Scrap simply looks confused at the outrageously tiny cup used for a cappuccino.

    “Your receipt as well?” Bits reaches up to the counter to grab it. Another memento. The two return to their seats, looking over the map, renewed. Pulling another pamphlet out. The coffee is quickly forgotten as conversation resumes. A route planned. Supplies rationed. A servo fails in Scrap's good arm, quickly brought back into working order by her companion. Time passes, quickly.

    A quiet bit of laughter from Salt, overheard by Scrap. She turns, android to android. “Some wrong?”

    “Not at all. I'm just... happy.”

    “Oooh, are we the best customers you've had?” Bits smugly proclaims.

    “Of course! And, well, you might be the last customers I ever have.” A somber mood quickly dampens the three. “This wire won't last, after all. Nor will the power, or even this building.”

    Quiet. Swallow. “We can come back, keep this place running and-”

    A shake of the head from the barista. “It won't be necessary. I can't ask you two to make such a commitment, regardless.”

    Scrap looks down, away. Back up to her fellow android. “But... you said you were happy?”

    “I am.” A quiet, soft statement from Salt. “I'm happy that, at the end of all this, you two were my last customers.”

    They look thoughtfully at the two, past the two. “My favorite days were when couples would come to visit. I always enjoyed watching their conversations, their rituals. The little acts of love, sharing drinks, pouring over the tour guides like you two are doing right now.” A quick look back and forth, between the splayed maps, and the wired android.

    “There isn't much time, I don't think. My internal clock has been broken for quite a while. But I stayed running, every day, and through the nights once my battery failed. Hoping to be of service once more.” A content, deep sigh. “To meet a lovely couple as you two at the end was my last wish.”

    Bittersweet smiles from the pair. Neither blush, but a heartbeat grows audible, and a cooling fan spins faster and faster.

    The sun glints against Scrap's torso. A recognition of the time, the need to prepare nightly rituals. The pair put back the pamphlets, grab their coffee. Pained, they look back on Salt. The service android bows.

    “May you two have a lovely day. Please, leave a tip and a review if our service was satisfactory.” A wry smile. A look away.

    Bits and Scrap return to walking the streets. Quiet, empty storefronts. Only the sound of footsteps and servos.

    Later, in the backroom of a store, as Scrap plugs herself in, Bits looks through the contents of her pockets again, among the keepsakes of their journey so far. The most recent addition, a twice-folded receipt.

ORDER #001

SERVER: 4022

LG Drip Coffee : 6.25

SM Cappuccino : 3.00

Total Amount : 9.25

Sales Tax : 2.30

Discount Applied : -11.55

DISCOUNT - COFFEE WITH FRIENDS

Total Amount : ❖0.00

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Jeff Buckley in the U.K.

Jim Irvin, 'From Hallelujah to the Last Goodbye' (Post Hill), May 2018

Excerpted from Jeff Buckley: From Hallelujah to the Last Goodbye by Jeff's former manager Dave Lory and former MOJO man Jim Irvin (Post Hill Press).

JEFF BUCKLEY loved British music; the nervous energy in British punk, the wired consciousness of the Clash, the way Siouxsie and the Banshees went from gun-metal moodiness to skies full of fireworks.

He adored the Cocteau Twins, of course, especially Liz Fraser's "impossible voice". He loved how the Smiths called to outsiders and nerds. He loved the textures of Johnny Marr's supple guitar and the mordant presence of Steve Jones's guitar in the Sex Pistols.

Jeff, whose own nervous energy was considerable, became even more wired whenever we went to the UK; he was stimulated by its variety. He also appreciated its compactness – the lack of eight-hour drives between cities was refreshing.

Sony had passed on Live at Sin-é in Europe. We were understandably disappointed, but there was a solution close at hand: Steve Abbott, known to everyone as Abbo, who ran the eccentric indie record label Big Cat and had picked up on many of the promising un-signed bands playing in New York: Pavement, Mercury Rev, Luscious Jackson. He had approached Jeff after Gods & Monsters and Sin-é shows and asked him if he'd like to record with Big Cat, but then Sony stepped in. Jeff felt that he owed Abbo a record, so when Columbia UK passed on Live at Sin-é and Michele Anthony instigated a funding deal with Big Cat, it seemed the perfect opportunity for them to become involved. Abbo jumped at the chance.

Big Cat's small team – Abbo, co-owner Linda Obadiah, Frank Neidlich in marketing, and Jacqui Rice in press – did such a good job that the week it was released in Europe, Live at Sin-é sold over four thousand copies, which was amazing for a complete unknown.

After a Sony conference, where it was clear that a lot of the affiliates were bemused by him, Jeff had a warm-up show at Whelan's in Dublin. By the time he came on, the crowd, several drinks into its evening, had become a little boisterous. Jeff said hello softly, as usual, but no one was really paying attention. Jeff just stood there, waiting. People started to quieten down and watch to see what he would do. There was a pint of his favourite beer, Guinness, sitting on the stool next to him. Jeff lifted the glass to his lips and downed it in one hit. Everyone on the room cheered, and he began the Irish show with the crowd completely on his side.

The audience was more blasé the next night at his London debut at The Borderline, a Western-themed venue under a dubious Mexican diner in Soho, right in the heart of London, a group of local reps for hip American indie labels like Sub Pop and Merge yacking away rather disrespectfully at the bar. In the age of grunge, a lone guy with a guitar softly singing Edith Piaf covers was baffling for some.

"It was an epiphany for me," says Sara Silver, Sony's European head of marketing. "There are some shows where it just feels like you're a voyeur, looking into someone's soul. This was one of those. He was charismatic, but also haunting, and I think because of my particular situation at the time, still suffering from the [loss of my husband], he resonated hugely. This haunting sound was a powerful force, and it was my job to work out how we took it to the world."

A gig the next night in Glasgow meant an early-morning flight back to Heathrow the following morning to catch a session with GLR, London's local BBC station, a slot designed to alert people to the next couple of gigs at the Garage in Islington and at Bunjies, a cute little basement folk club in Central London that dated back to the early 1960s and made Sin-é seem generously proportioned.

Abbo was accompanying Jeff on this run.

"We'd meet regularly at a bar called Tom & Jerry's in New York, hang out and drink Guinness together," Abbo says, "I suppose I became a friend of his, and he didn't seem to have many real friends. I'd only discovered I liked the blues since living in New York, so it was great hanging with him, because he was a huge blues and jazz fan and if there was a guitar around he had to pick it up and show off. He knew every Robert Johnson song, every Muddy Waters tune, Bessie Smith; he introduced me to the physicality of the blues, watching it at close quarters. Everybody talks about his voice, but he was a brilliant guitarist. The guitar was an extension of his body.

"Tim Buckley hadn't really entered my line of vision growing up listening to black music. Singer-songwriters with fluffy hairstyles were not currency on my council estate in Luton! We were in Tom & Jerry's and someone said to Jeff, 'I've been listening to your dad,' and I said, 'Who's your dad?' and he said, 'Tim Buckley.' I knew the name from record shopping; I'd seen the sleeves in the racks, but that's it. But when he came over to Britain there were loads of Tim Buckley fans. And it was a real problem early on, because he really didn't like talking about him."

The traffic from the airport to the GLR studios just off Baker Street was awful. A road accident had slowed everything to a standstill. Jeff's slot on the mid-morning show was fast approaching. "Of course, this was before mobile phones, so I had no way of communicating with the radio station that we were stuck in traffic," says Abbo. "For the last few days on this tour, everyone who'd interviewed Jeff had been asking about his dad. How did Tim write 'Song To The Siren'? Was there stuff in his lyrics that he might have related to? Things Jeff couldn't answer.

"We were listening to GLR while we waited in traffic and the presenter kept saying, 'We're supposed to have this artist, Tim Buckley's son, turning up, but he's late....Will he or won't he turn up?' This went on and on. She must have said 'Tim Buckley's son' about four times and didn't mention Jeff once. Suddenly, he just kicked my car radio in with his big DMs [Doc Martens], just smashed the fascia and then sat back sulking all the way there. I could get another radio, of course, but I was mostly worried he wasn't going to do the performance. 

"We finally arrived about forty minutes late and they were all so rude to us, and yet they knew what the problem was, as they were broadcasting traffic updates and warnings of delays themselves. If I were him, I'd have walked out. The female presenter was a typical local radio DJ, a bit gushy and knew nothing about him and his music. I had a word with the station manager to ask her to stop mentioning Tim Buckley, and he handed her a note to that effect. Jeff just sat there silently and she said, 'What are you going to play?' and Jeff said, 'A song.' I'm thinking, 'Oh god, here we go.' And he started to play "Grace." He did this long guitar introduction, went on for about a minute, like he needed to calm himself down before he got to the actual start of the song, and then he launched into the most electrifying performance. The best I ever heard him do it.

"There were about six phones in the control room, and they all started lighting up. 'Who is this? Who is this? It's amazing!' And all the time, Jeff's getting more and more into it. The presenter went from being this standoffish woman to...I swear she would have thrown herself on him given half a chance, the second he finished singing. You could see she was totally enthralled."

Presenter: "You looked quite exhausted at the end of the song."

Jeff: "I was getting a lot of anger out. Something happened on the way here..."

"The phones didn't stop throughout the next song. The station manager said that in all his twelve years at the station, he'd never seen a reaction like it."

Abbo thinks this performance sparked Jeff's breakthrough. There were certainly plenty of people in line outside the Garage in North London that night. Inside, the first stars were taking note. Chrissie Hynde and Jon McEnroe were in the audience. Chrissie had been a big fan and a friend of Tim's, had actually interviewed him while she was briefly a music journalist with the NME, and she was obviously curious to see how his offspring compared. They struck up a conversation after the show and she clearly said the right thing, because he went off with her to jam with the Pretenders in a nearby rehearsal room. I wasn't carrying anything heavy because of a recent lung collapse, and I didn't want Jeff to pull any important muscles, so I asked McEnroe if he wouldn't mind. He happily hauled Jeff's amp downstairs to the car. The Pretenders' jam with special guests Buckley and Mac went on all night.

Bunjies, as I've said, was tiny, a basement folk club and coffee bar on West Street in Soho, along from the Ivy, with gingham tablecloths and melted candles in wine bottles on the tables and a performance area tucked into a couple of arches in what must have been a wine cellar at one point. It looked unchanged since it had begun in the early 1960s, and had seen a couple of folk booms come and go. It was more of a cafe with an open-mic policy by this point, which felt like a good place for Jeff. There wasn't really any need for amplification, so when we arrived for a sound check there was very little to do but see where Jeff was going to stand in the cramped space and gauge how his voice reflected off the nicotine-stained ceilings. While Jeff did that, I went outside for some fresh air and was stunned to see a line of people already waiting to get into the show.

I took a look at the guest list and realised we'd be lucky to fit twenty of this assembling crowd in the tiny space. Every time I looked up, the line was getting further down West Street. I went back into the venue and found Jeff talking to Emma Banks, the agent. He was saying how great the venue was and that he'd like to do something like hand out flowers to everyone before he went on.

"Jesus, you won't believe what's happening out there," I said to them. "The line goes about four blocks. There's no way these people are going to get in. Is there any way we can do two sets?" Jeff was happy to. Emma spoke to the club owner and was told they had some regular club night happening later on. She came back and said, "They can't do it but I've had an idea!" She disappeared up the steps onto the street, and I spoke to Jeff.

"What flowers would you like?"

"White roses," he said.

"I'll get them," I said, and went back up to the street, where the line had grown even longer.

I walked around looking for a florist and bumped into Emma. "I've booked Andy's Forge," she said. "It's a little place just around the corner in Denmark Street. He can go on at 10:30."

I bought as many white roses as I could find. Jeff handed them to people waiting outside and those lucky enough to get into the club, as he squeezed himself into the corner that passed for a stage. He sang upward, listening to his voice reflect off the curved ceiling into this hot, crowded, and attentive space. There must have been a hundred people stuffed in there.

When the show was over, Jeff walked up the steps to the huddle of patient people that Emma had gathered, plus anyone from the first show who wanted to tag along, and led this crowd like the Pied Piper toward Andy's Forge. Abbo was alongside me. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?" I said.

"Never!" he said. And we laughed liked idiots at the wonderful absurdity of hanging out with Jeff.

© Jim Irvin, 2018

[becoration]

Small Kitchen: Ideas for Modernizing it in Various Styles - Interior Decoration

Post has been published on becoration

Small Kitchen: Ideas for Modernizing it in Various Styles - Interior Decoration

Havig a small kitchen doesn’t mean you have to give up on style and functionality. With the right ideas and design strategies, you can transform your small kitchen into a modern and stunning space.

You can add smart storage solutions, multifunctional appliances, incorporate minimalist style, or add colorful accents.

These are some of the latest trends that will help you transform and modernize your small kitchen, and discover what’s in style in the world of kitchens today.

In this article, we will explore different ways to modernize it that will leave you inspired, so you can make the big change with the trending decoration styles.

Trending styles to renovate your small kitchen

Minimalist style

open shelves kitchen

A popular option for small kitchens is the minimalist style. This design philosophy focuses on simplicity, clean lines, and clutter-free spaces.

Opt for sleek cabinets without handles, and a monochromatic color scheme to create an open and airy feeling. Incorporate hidden storage solutions to make the most of the space, such as pull-out drawers and corner cabinets.

Within this style, incorporating open shelves is a great solution as they are the latest trend for small kitchens because they allow you to maximize space. You can have all your accessories within reach without worrying about how high they are, everything is at eye level.

For countertops, choose materials like quartz or solid surface to achieve a polished and minimalist look. Install pendant lights above the kitchen island or breakfast bar to add a touch of elegance and warmth to the space.

Scandinavian

If you prefer a cozy yet modern ambiance, the Scandinavian style is perfect for your small kitchen. Choose light-colored cabinets, such as white or light wood tones, combined with natural materials like wooden floors or countertops, creating a sense of warmth and simplicity.

Add pops of color through accessories such as curtains, rugs, or wall art. Keep the space clutter-free by using smart storage solutions, such as wall shelves and hanging baskets. Incorporate greenery to add a touch of freshness and vitality to your Scandinavian-inspired small kitchen.

Industrial

An industrial-style kitchen can bring a unique and bold atmosphere to your small space. Exposed brick walls, concrete countertops, and metal pendant lights are key elements of this style. Opt for dark-colored cabinets or open shelves to enhance the industrial feeling even more.

Introduce vintage-inspired accessories and decorations, such as rustic bar stools or wire metal baskets. Choose industrial-style faucets and fixtures to complete the look. Remember to keep a simple color palette and stick to neutral tones to avoid overwhelming the limited space.

Country or rustic style

Opendeco, decoration news in Spanish

[guardian-rocket]

blackjack-ohare​:

When the pad was brought to him he worked on removing the glove from one of his hands. He rarely had them uncovered as he knew how difficult it was to repair and heal any damage they suffered. Foggy memories recalled white hot pain and the chill of metal as digits that were never meant to be opposable were forced into the shape they now held. Flesh and fur stretched tight to the point of breaking. That first cut years ago in battle that revealed the mess of sinew and wiring inside. The chill Blackjack had felt in his gut seeing it for the first time. Sometimes he wondered if there was anything organic left in his hands at all.

It was just a flash, gone as quickly as it had came as he pressed his bare hand flat against the screen. It was smooth beneath the thick fur that covered the hand front and back, short blunt black claws extending from the ends of each digit. 

“Always one more thing.” he quipped as he waited for the light to change color. That jovial tone he had just a moment ago was gone as he stared at his own hand.

“And we’re DONE!  Welcome to the Gun Club, friend,” Rocket said warmly, giving BlackJack a firm pat on the upper back.

Rocket then passed Blackjack the drink he confiscated moments ago, now that official affairs were in order. Rocket started putting the holopad and the bio-signature device in a utility bag he brought along that had so far been on the floor by his stool, zipping it up and setting it back down on the floor.  

“Hey, can I get one too?” he asked their bartender, ready to get in on the drinking that he was already way behind in, it wasn’t like he couldn’t smell that BlackJack hadn’t gotten a few drinks under his belt already and he wasn’t about to be the only one there not drinking (well, aside Cosmo, that is) Because Rocket was a regular here, the bartender didn’t need to ask what he wanted. He slid Rocket a glass of ice and blue colored liquor, who gingerly snatched it up and sipped on it.

“Later, if you want, I can update your helmet to sync with the code algorithm, unless you’d prefer to use a different device.  The code switches every five minutes so in order to access the guns you need access to the ever changing access codes.  It will automatically display on any approved device once you get close to the location.  I got a bit stringent with the security here, but I didn’t want it to be too hard to use in an emergency.  I’ll show you the ropes whenever you’re ready to bust in there.”

“This calls for a toast, I humbly propose we toast to this allyship with Rocket’s friend!” Drax said, loudly enough to gather the whole bar’s attention.  “To Knowhere’s newest resident, the merciless BlackJack OHare, we welcome you to our home, and in the inevitable times of skrimish we look forward to being bearing arms as as we take down any foe whom dares to challenge us!”

“Here here!” Kraglin chimed in holding up his glass.  The few other patrons also raised their glasses, seeming to be accustom to Drax’s joyful toasts, even Rocket raised his glass for the moment before downing it gone.

[upinteriors]

Hee Bar Stool by Hee Welling Studio for HAY.

[russiandoll-from-brooklyn]

Just Once - Part 2

Title: Just Once - Part 2

Some of y'all were asking for Part 2 of Just Once so here ya go! This picks up right after the first story.

Pairing: Tony Stark x fem!reader

Summary: Grief and loneliness got the best of you last night. Your friendship with Tony was too precious to risk, and now all you want to do is move on. But what happens when the other party doesn't want to forget?

Warnings: smut, language, (technically) cheating, friends to lovers, mentions of past canon trauma, oral (f receiving), protected sex

Word Count: 5.1k

[Starts out sweet and all about tony x reader friendship, then turns into steamy Tony smut. Table sex, included. 😳]

---

Thump, thump, thump.

Your feet hit the pavement rhythmically as you jog your normal morning route. It’s a misty Seattle morning, and the world is still quiet. The sun is rising sleepily, beginning to bathe the world in gold. All is well.

Except. It isn’t.

You turn the block corner, and your apartment comes into sight. You take a glance down at your watch.

42 minutes.

That’s how long ago you had quietly slipped out of your apartment for your morning run. That’s how long it had been since your eyes shot open and you remembered the events of last night, rushing into your mind, all at once like a tsunami. You had turned your head to find Tony still asleep beside you in the bed. One leg sticking out of the messy sheets and his face buried in the pillow. Your pillow.

You had stared at him in disbelief, half-expecting him to disintegrate into a fleeting figment of your imagination. You had rubbed your eyes, trying to clear the haze.

Nope. Still there.

You silently curse yourself and your stupidity (see: weakness in the face of sexual temptation) for the 50th time this morning as you approach the brick building. Perhaps, when you reenter your apartment, Tony will be gone, and this will all have just been a bad trip — or something of the like.

Before you even open the door, the smell of frying bacon reaches your nose. You step inside and are greeted by a peculiar sight.

Tony Stark, clad in nothing but a pair of dark jeans, is buzzing about your small kitchenette. Simultaneously, there are eggs being flipped over-easy on the stovetop, orange juice being procured from the open fridge, bacon sizzling happily in a pan, and toast being buttered. You stand in amazement for a few seconds, processing the scene before you. The wonderful aroma of the all-American breakfast makes you mouth water.

“Y/N! Hey!” Tony exclaims when he sees you.

You slide onto a stool at the bar top, overlooking the controlled chaos unfolding in the kitchen area. Tony truly has remarkable skill when it comes to multitasking. You guess, all that time in the suit, operating about twenty computing systems at once, was good practice.

“Wow. Breakfast?” you remark, raising an eyebrow. “Since when do you cook?”

He scoffs, shooting you a brief smile before turning away to rapidly crack some black pepper onto the eggs.

“Cooking is easy. People think it’s a skill, but really it’s just planning, timing it out. It’s like assembling anything else. You just do the parts in order, trying not to break any yolks.”

You roll your eyes sarcastically at the classic “Tony” response.

Suddenly, all the components come crashing together, and Tony is setting down two perfectly assembled breakfast plates on the bar top — complete with a glass of orange juice for each of you. It looks delicious; it’s been way too long since you had a proper breakfast. Meaning, a breakfast that wasn’t cereal, a protein bar, or a bowl of sad, pale, scrambled eggs. You thank Tony as he pulls up the other stool to sit across from you.

“Dig in,” he says cheerfully, raising his fork. “Good run this morning?”

You nod, taking a big gulp of orange juice.

“Yeah, I heard you leaving,” Tony continues mindlessly. “Kind of weird waking up to an empty bed after a night like that. I finally know what it feels like to be on the other side, I guess.”

You nearly spit out your bite of toast. And just like that, reality comes crashing back down to earth. For a brief moment, it had felt like things could possibly come out normal on the other side. You and Tony could go back to being perfectly normal best friends.

How ignorant.

“What?” you remark incredulously.

You’re on the verge of laughter, partially out of amusement but mostly out of bewildered embarrassment.

Tony gives you his award-winning “I’m innocent!” raised-eyebrow expression. You suddenly become acutely aware of the situation. Tony Stark is sitting in your kitchen, shirtless, serving you breakfast. After you spent a far-from-platonic night rolling around your sheets together. You want to slap yourself.

“I’m talking about the incredible sex we had last night. And then, you leaving me alone before sunrise,” Tony explains casually, pushing your buttons further. “That's usually my play.”

He looks up at you, expecting a playful quip in return. Instead, you just slowly set down the fork you had been gripping.

“Tony,” you begin, seriously and calmly. “Let’s not talk about it. It was one night, and it won’t happen again. It was just once. We gave into the moment, but we shouldn’t-“

“The moment?” Tony suddenly blurts out, interrupting you. You purse your lips, surprised by the new and unexpected edge of anger in his voice. “God. Y/N. The moment, huh? You’re really just going to shrink it down to that. Just a moment.”

You stare at him, confused. Tony’s big brown eyes hold yours with an intensity. It's amazing how fast his sarcastic, playful tone can morph into ferocity. You want to look away, break his gaze, but you can’t. This whole thing was a mistake.

“It was fun,” you finally say. “But it was just a fuck. We were lonely.”

“You know, Y/N. You’re so damn smart,” Tony replies, leaning back a bit in his seat. “So, why do you always try and kid yourself? It bothers me. I know -- that you know -- that this wasn’t just a fuck.”

Your mind races through a million different responses.

Then, what was it?

What do you mean?

Why are you acting like this?

I'm not kidding myself.

But something tells you, deep down, that there's nothing you can say that won't lead to something you don't want to hear.

So, instead, you angrily snatch up your glass of orange juice, rising from your seat at the bar. You grit your teeth at Tony one more time before turning your back and striding toward to your study. You feel your cheeks burning hot.

The study is a second living room-sized space where you keep all your projects. Early sunlight is now streaming in through the large windows, falsely giving the impression of a peaceful Saturday morning. The large wooden table tops are littered with wires, microchips, and other electronic parts. When you first met the Avengers year ago, you and Tony butted heads over your shared expertise in technology and robotics. After much bickering and trying to outdo each other, you eventually accepted one another's intelligence and bonded over your shared field.

You look to the floor of your large study to see the air mattress you had set up there prior to Tony's arrival yesterday, obviously still pristine. You squeeze your eyes shut. Your apartment is absolutely dripping with reminders of last night's events. The empty whiskey glasses, still sitting on the side table in the living room. The couch pillows crumpled from the weight of your bodies, hungrily crashing together above them. You don't even want to think about your bedroom, where you're sure Tony's missing shirt is strewn on the ground.

You push the thoughts out of your your mind, pulling up a seat at your work table. You start to fiddle with a new lightweight shoulder pauldron you're currently designing. You can feel yourself going into 'shut-out' mode, trying your hardest to focus all your attention on the metal in your hands. This was all too much. This was all wrong.

When you hear footsteps behind you, entering the study, you ignore it. Tony quietly traverses the floor, coming to pull up a chair on the other side of the work table. He silently watches you working the wires into place. You don't look up. You don't have to see his expression to know the contemplative expression undoubtably painted on his face. You also don't have to look at him to know he's pondering more than just your work.

"You know, aluminum-titantium alloy won't hold up after a few heavy hits," Tony comments, nodding to the armor piece.

"I'm gonna chromatize it," you reply dryly, not looking up from your hands.

"I wouldn't bother. You can't just give everything a shiny coat to hold it together. If the problem is underneath, that is."

Fuck Tony and his fucking metaphors.

You growl angrily, throwing the pauldron down in frustration. You sit back in your seat and cross your arms, finally meeting your friend's eyes.

"Ok, fine," you say matter-of-factly. "Let's talk about it. It was good. It was really fucking good. And we both needed it. But that's it. I'm willing to leave it at that and forget about it if you are."

Tony rubs his beard in his palm, seemingly mulling over your words. His brown eyes don't leave yours. The warm sunlight coming in through the window behind him paints yellow patches on his bare shoulders, bathing him in gold. You take a mental picture of him, sitting there in his thoughts. A brief, intrusive thought passes through your mind, threatening that this could be the last time you see him. You immediately banish the notion. This friendship means too much to you. Not even a fuck-up as big as this one could make you want to toss it away. You hope Tony agrees.

"Help me understand where your head's at, Y/N," Tony finally replies. "What is your biggest concern right now? Wait, listen, I know there's a lot of reasons why last night was bad. But I want to know what you're thinking."

You sigh, uncrossing your arms. As much as Tony's 'list-and-analyze' reaction to crisis could be annoying, in some ways, it comforted you. Tony is impulsive, yes, but those who know him best also know his calculative nature: the mental risk assessments, the contingency plans labelled through Z. Always searching for the route that will hurt everyone the least. Always.

You consider his question carefully. Again, there's a million answers: the risk of ruining your friendship, the potential awkwardness, Pepper -- oh, god, Pepper --, the pain and grief you've both been through in the past few years. You close your eyes and pick one.

"You're one of the only people left that I trust. One of my only friends. Complexity doesn't often end well."

"You're right," Tony admits. "But aren't you the one who asked, 'is it wrong to not want to be alone'?"

You scoff loudly, angered by his using your words against you. However, that bitterness melts away into nothing when you see the heart-wrenching expression on Tony's face. His lips are pursed, and his eyes are searching yours desperately. Tony rarely shows outward weakness, but right now, the man before you isn't Iron Man. The man before you is broken. Someone who has tried everything to hold it -- his sanity, his relationship, his life -- together, to save the people he loves, to be strong. Someone who failed at that. Someone who truly felt alone.

You rest your chin in your palms and sigh, the weight falling over you as well.

Finally, you speak.

"Isn't it awful -- and strange -- how it can feel like a lifetime ago and just yesterday at the exact same time?"

Tony nods sadly at your observation. Of course, you were talking about the snap. About Thanos.

"You're right. About everything," he remarks. "Sometimes, it just gets too much. The...”

Loneliness. You finish his sentence in your head.

“Me too.”

“You should know though,” Tony continues. “I would never stop being your friend. No matter how complex things are. This — what we’ve been through — could never change, Y/N.”

There it is.

Some situations feel like you're running in circles; you're spiraling downwards and everything you say only makes matters worse and worse. It feels like sinking in quicksand with no way out. In every one of those situations, there's a key -- that one sentence, that one idea, that effortlessly clears the fog. This was it. Tony is going to be here, always. Everything is going to be alright.

You straighten up a bit in your seat. You let out a long sigh and give Tony a small smile.

"I know," you assure your friend. "Sometimes I forget everything that's happened. How complicated it's been before. How we made it out."

Tony laughs, and you're relived.

"How could you forget? It's been a wild ride."

The two of you grin at each other. You take a sip of your orange juice, which you had forgotten about and was now lukewarm.

"OK, happy?" you inquire with a playful tone. "Base material fixed. No need for shiny coats of anything. We're solid now."

Tony lets out a hearty chuckle at the stupid analogy. Suddenly, he stands, circling the work table until he's right in front of you. You suck in a breath of oxygen. From your seated position, your head only comes up to his abs. Bare abs, that is. You tilt your face upwards to meet his eyes.

"Y/N," he says gently. “Stand up.”

Confused, you rise to your feet. Before you can open your mouth to say anything else, Tony’s lean and muscular arms are wrapped around you. He pulls you into his chest, embracing you in his warmth. His grip is firm, as if he’s afraid you might run away. You soften into the hug, wrapping your arms around his back. You feel safe.

After a few moments, Tony releases you. However, he doesn’t move away, and the two of you are still nearly chest-to-chest. You peer up at him, and your friend’s warm toffee eyes meet yours.

“Wow, a Tony Stark hug?” you remark sarcastically. “I should play the lotto today.”

Tony chuckles under his breath. Despite your joking, it was true that Tony rarely gives hugs. He just isn’t the touchy-feely type — according to himself. Somehow this gesture, right now, meant everything. A hug was the most intimate thing Tony could have given you. It was a seal, a mark saying ‘I meant every word I just said.’

Tony is still standing directly in front of you, so close there’s only a magazine’s width between you. He’s so near that you can feel the warmth of his steady breathing, and the slight radiating heat from the arc reactor in his chest. Suddenly, you feel that familiar tug in your stomach. A rush of blood downwards...

“Tony-“

“Do you want me?” Tony cuts you off. His voice is low, gentle.

You suck in a breath of air at his words. Despite his directness, there's a detectable edge of nervousness in his tone. You smile internally at knowing you have this effect on Mr. Playboy. The slight uncertainty in Tony's voice also tells you that it's true: this is different. Last night was not just a mindless fuck. This is an understanding, wrapped around a mutual care that runs so deep that it burns.

You don’t even try to convince yourself that you don’t want Tony. Every ounce of your being is screaming to close the gap between you. You can still hear the scientist-logic-brain in you resisting, but your heart feels at ease. You and Tony. A concept that felt like the forbidden fruit itself just ten minutes ago now looked more like an oasis. And oasis that was maybe alright to take a drink from every once in a while.

You snake one hand upward to hold his cheek. Tony pushes gently into your palm.

It's you who leans in first. When your lips collide, it's soft. He presses himself into you, a delicate sigh escaping. You pull back just enough to whisper a breathy "I want you."

And oh, god do you want him.

“Then, have me,” Tony whispers back, gently.

You nearly visibly shiver. Any trace of hesitation is gone from his voice now. His words are demanding, but his tone is more of a plea.

“Do you want to go the bedroom?”

“No,” Tony replies immediately. He’s breathless. “Right here.”

You immediately feel wetness drop into your panties. Tony’s eyes have grow darker, as they bear down at you. The intensity makes your legs feel weak. You need him. He needs you.

In a moment of boldness, you bring your hands down to the hemline of your shirt. You lift the garment up and over your head, placing it on the work table beside you. Tony’s eyes wander to your red sports bra and your now-stiffened nipples showing through the sleek fabric.

In the next breath, Tony is suddenly kissing you again, his lips against yours in a desperate hunger. He brings his large, roughly calloused hands to your waist. He firmly grips your body, making you feel tiny in his hold. You let a small moan escape your lips.

Still holding you in his grasp, Tony starts to walk you backwards until your backside is pressed against the edge of your large work table. Tony’s hips press forward into you, making you gasp with excitement. You fingertips tangle in his hair, just wanting more and more and more...

In an effortless movement, Tony lifts your sports bra over your head. He throws the red fabric to the side, neither of you caring where it lands. Tony breaks away from your lips, starting to kiss down your cheek, jaw, and then finally giving attention to the delicate skin on your neck. Again, he’s careful not to nip or suck too hard to leave marks. The light scratching of his facial hair contrasts with the soft wetness of Tony’s lips, making you throw your head back in pleasure.

He continues to attend to your neck and jaw as one of his jean-clad thighs moves to fall between your legs. You let out a deep groan as Tony begins to rub and and roll his knee forward, stimulating your clothed core. His movements are like a wave, every forward crest bringing you a tiny bit of that friction your body wants so, so much. You’re in awe of the control Tony has over his movements and the effortless pleasure he’s capable of giving. You can’t help but find his experience and expertise sexy.

“Y/N,” Tony breathes against your neck. “Say it again. Please. Say you want me.”

It occurs to you that, aside from last night, Tony hasn’t felt wanted in a long time. Like, truly wanted. A pang of sadness fills your heart.

“Tony. I want you,” you declare, making sure the conviction in your voice shines through. You don’t have to try. You desire him more than anything right now. “I want you. I want this.”

With your words, Tony moans deeply into your jawline and begins to move his leg between yours more vigorously. Your fingertips trace over his bare back muscles. You trail your hands upward, into the nape of his neck, massaging his scalp. Everything about his beautiful form fits perfectly in your hands.

Tony continues moving downwards, soon finding your right nipple in his mouth. You arch your back, letting a loud moan escape your lips. He works your nipple expertly, rolling it and playing at it with his tongue. He alternates to your other nipple, his thumb replacing where his mouth just left. He lightly strokes the hard, spit-slick bud, and the combination of coolness and friction is heaven.

Tony stands back up, and a second later, his hands are at the elastic band of your running shorts. His eyes meet yours for a moment, silently asking for your permission. You nod a bit too eagerly, and Tony cracks a small, teasing smile. You scoff and lightly slap his shoulder, returning the smile.

Tony pulls your shorts down in one swift motion, leaving you in just your underwear. Next thing you know, Tony’s arms are around your waist. You let out a soft, surprised squeal as he lifts you effortlessly to sit on the edge of the work table behind you. Slightly elevated now, you come to about the same height as Tony.

“Hey,” you protest playfully. “Be careful. There’s important stuff here.”

Tony reaches behind you to clear the area, moving your half-finished projects and parts to the side.

“My apologies, Ms. Y/L/N,” he replies with a huge grin. “Got a bit carried away.”

You pull him into another deep kiss. He growls with pleasure when you nip at his bottom lip. Tony is now standing between your knees, his torso pressing gently into your panty-covered pussy. You can feel his erection through his jeans, straining against his clothes. After seeing Tony’s length for the first time last night, the mental image of his cock — just a few millimeters away from your core — is enough to make you drool. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him in harder against you. He moans into your mouth, and you feel the vibrations as your tongues tangle together.

You feel Tony’s body leaning forward, slowly coaxing you to lay down on the table. Now fully on your back, Tony’s above you, taking in the sight of your body.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re the most magnificent creature on Earth?”

“No,” you reply with a smirk. “But now, knowing how many other planets are out there in the galaxy, just being Miss Earth doesn’t seem like a huge deal.”

Tony laughs, smiling with his teeth. You find the crinkles that form on the outer corners of his eyes utterly endearing.

“Well, you’re still one out of four-and-three-quarters billion,” he jests back. “Not too shabby. It’s all about the little victories.”

You giggle. The pleasant thought passes through your mind that despite the current situation, everything does feel strangely normal. Tony is still Tony; you’re still you. The banter between you and your friend is still comfortable and easy. Your relationship, although maybe morphing into something more nuanced, remains unmoved.

You’re so caught up in your inner thoughts, that you don’t register Tony kneeling to the ground between your legs. You gasp when you feel his warm mouth over your still-clothed pussy. The combined wetness of his mouth and your core easily soaks through the fabric of your panties, making it cling to your skin. Tony runs his tongue over your folds, through the saturated cloth. You groan with pleasure, the small of your back arching off of the table. You grip Tony’s dark hair, needing something to hold onto.

The sensation of Tony’s lips and tongue through your thin panties is completely unique, and fuck, does it drive you wild.

After a few minutes, Tony’s hands reach up to hook in the waist of your panties. He removes your final garment, leaving you fully bare. His mouth immediately returns to your pussy. His tongue circles your clit, before running downwards through your lips, and then back up again. He alternates this pattern with gentle sucks on your clit.

“Oh, Tony. Shit,” you manage to call out. “That feels so good.”

He hums hungrily into you, pleasuring you to a level that no previous lovers have ever come close to. Tony’s large, rough hands wander upwards. One palm gentle grips your breast, while the other comes under your waist to hold the small of your back.

You raise your head slightly to glance down at Tony. The sight is pornographic. His face is buried in your cunt, head bobbing. The shape of his shoulder muscles, and his strong back. His tan skin, all bathed in golden sunlight.

Pleasuring you. On his knees.

It’s like a painting. Beautiful and erotic.

“Tony. I need you,” you gasp out, suddenly overcome with neediness. “Inside me. Fuck, I want you.”

Those magic words, again. I want you. The effect they have on Tony is instantaneous. Without hesitation, Tony is on his feet. He swiftly unbuttons his jeans and pulls down the zipper. His pants fall down to his ankles where he kicks them off. To your surprise his naked cock springs free. A glistening pearl of precum is formed at the tip.

“Wow, commando, huh?” you tease, gently biting at your bottom lip. “You were so confident you were going to get lucky again today?”

“Of course not. I just like to let it breath sometimes,” Tony remarks. “You wouldn’t get it. It’s a man thing.”

You scoff and roll your eyes sarcastically. Lovable idiot.

“Top drawer?” Tony asks, referring to the location of the condoms.

“On the left.”

Tony hurries out of the room and returns a second later with a condom from your bedroom. Stepping closer between your knees, he gives his cock a few pumps in his fist. You can feel your heart quickening with anticipation. Your pussy is nearly pulsing, needing to be stretched and filled.

Tony rips open the shiny wrapper and rolls the condom down onto his length. You scoot slightly closer to the edge of the table as his hands travel to grip your thighs. You moan deeply as Tony rubs the head of his cock over your slit, spreading your moisture.

“Are you ready?” Tony asks, eyes dark with desire.

“Mmhmm,” you hum. “Make me feel good.”

With that, Tony starts slowly pushing into your dripping pussy. You groan as your walls accommodate to his girth. It’s amazing that you took him just last night, and he’s already capable of stretching you like this again. Tony throws his head back, hissing in pleasure as he bottoms out, his pubic mound flush against yours.

He starts pumping gently. The way Tony’s hips roll forward in fluid motions makes you want to scream with pleasure. His hands are gripping your thighs tightly, fingertips digging into the soft flesh.

Tony’s pace quickens, and soon the room is filled with sounds of wetness, skin slipping on skin, and the moans leaving both your throats. One of Tony’s hands moves to your pussy. His thumb rubs tight circles on your clit making you see stars behind your eyes. The extra stimulation almost immediately starts tightening the orgasmic coil in your stomach. Tony seems to know the exact speed to move his cock and thumb to turn you into a whimpering mess beneath him.

“Oh, more,” you groan, your pleasure growing. “Tony Stark. Yes, oh, please.”

“Come for me, Y/N,” Tony growls almost primally. “Wanna feel you squeezing around my cock.”

Tony’s filthy demands go straight to your pussy. You love the feeling of being under him, sprawled out on the table, completely naked for him to fuck. And the dirty talk is the cherry on top.

The pleasure in your abdomen continues to rise until you’re on the edge of ecstasy. With one last thrust, your orgasm washes over you. You scream Tony’s name into the room, not caring who hears. Pulses of pleasure rip through your entire body, even making your feet tingle. When you come down, the convulsions slowing, your head feels fuzzy and bubbly.

Not even a moment later, you feel Tony lifting your legs higher. Still inside you, he straightens them, bringing your ankles to rest on his shoulders. The new sensation is instantly nirvana. He starts pumping into you, and the head of his cock rubs your G-spot on every thrust. Penetrative sex had never felt this good for you.

“You feel so fucking amazing, Y/N,” Tony manages to says between moans. “I’m not gonna last much longer.”

The feeling of your pussy being pounded in this angle has your eyes rolling back into your skull. All your thoughts seem to leave your head. The only thing you can focus on is the immense pleasure. The sound of Tony’s balls slapping against you wetly with every stroke combined with his desperate moans fill your ears.

Tony’s thrusts start to become more jagged, needy. His moans slowly transform more into whimpers as he continues to fuck into you. Suddenly, Tony comes with a series of loud groans, his eyes shut tight. You feel his dick pulsating inside you as he orgasms. He thrusts a few more times, riding out the last waves.

He gently slides out of you, his hands coming down the tabletop next to your waist to steady himself. Both of you are breathing heavily, your bodies radiating with the afterglow of pleasure.

Silently, Tony helps you to stand before sweeping you up easily in his arms. You lean into his chest as he carries you to the bedroom. Tony lays you down carefully on the cool mattress before hurrying to the bathroom. He returns a moment later with a warm washcloth.

After cleaning yourselves up, Tony crawls into the refreshing sheets beside you. He slips one arm under your neck, and you cuddle in closer to his body. The warmth and smoothness of his skin is so, so welcoming. In the strangest way, it feels natural.

“I didn’t think it was possible to top last night,” you finally say, chuckling.

“Me neither,” Tony replies. “I guess we just have good chemistry.”

“Who would’ve thought?” You laugh and drape an arm over his chest. “Hey, question.”

“Ask away.”

“Why did you cook all that stuff earlier? Like the eggs, toast, the whole nine yards. It was sort of...”

“Out of character?” Tony finishes your sentence.

You nod. Tony takes a deep breath, exhaling loudly.

“Honestly, when I woke up, and you were gone, I was freaking out a little bit. I wanted to talk about last night, but you weren’t there, and I just didn’t know what you were thinking. If you were having serious regrets, or if you were angry, or upset with me. Or if you were thinking our whole friendship was burned to the ground.

“I just needed to do something. Anything. Busy my hands, distract my mind. Sorry that I kind of raided your kitchen.”

You turn to peer up at him, letting out a soft laugh. His chocolate eyes meet yours, and you give him a kind smile, endeared by his typical, hyper ramblings.

“I’m sorry I left,” you start. “I was freaking out a little, too. I guess that’s always been a difference between us. I always try to run from the unknown, while you just want to plow straight through it.”

Tony smiles warmly and blinks his gorgeous, thick black eyelashes at you.

“It’s why we make a good pair. Balance. Yin and yang. Ya’ know.”

You both chuckle, content in one another’s arms. You open your mouth to reply, but you’re cut off by a loud growl from your stomach. Tony bursts into laughter.

“Your fault for barely touching breakfast,” Tony remarks playfully. “Which — not to toot my own horn — was quite artfully made.”

“I guess I could settle for a bowl of lowly cereal as punishment,” you reply with mock sadness.

Tony chuckles and shakes his head. He starts to rise from the bed, then offers his hand for you to follow.

“C’mon, I’ll make you some more eggs.”

[the-iceni-bitch]

A Christmas Crush

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Fem-Reader

Words: 6693 (yikes)

Summary: Bucky has been infatuated with you for months. Will the Christmas Spirit finally help him make his move?

Warnings: Explicit language, explicit sexual content (just all of it), fluff(I don’t know y’all, I have trouble qualifying this one), slightly dom partner, overprotective partner, SMUT (like over 3700 words of it y’all!), 18+

A/N: Sooo, this was supposed to be like 2500 words guys but I got a bit carried away. Made it in right under the wire for day 3 of my birthday week. This is also an entry for the Merry Hoemas challenge that is being hosted by @amythedvdhoarder​ @chrissquares​ @drabblewithfrannybarnes​ @pumpkin-and-pine​ and @starlightcrystalline​. I chose the dialogue prompt “I’m not going to fall in love with you. I promise.” (from The Holiday). Please enjoy!!

“You better be wearing something nice, Barnes! No cargo pants!” you yelled out to the living area as you finished applying your makeup in the bathroom.

“Yes, boss!” He yelled back at you as he adjusted himself in the dress pants he borrowed from Sam. They weren’t uncomfortable, just tighter than he was used to.

“Dude, leave your crotch alone!” Wilson chuckled at him.

Bucky scowled at him and did his best to focus on anything else. “I can’t believe I let the two of you talk me into this.”

“You know how the boss-lady is, once she gets an idea in her head, there’s no stopping her.” Sam gave him a grin as he lounged on the sofa, sipping a glass of scotch. “Would you relax? We’re going to a club, you literally fought of a group of five assassins on your own last week. This is nothing!”

“I’m used to fighting, I haven’t been dancing since….”

“Oh god, have you not gone out since World War II!” Sam threw back his head and gave a laugh from deep in his chest. “Hoo, boy this should be entertaining!”

The three of you had been on a surveillance assignment for the past three months, and a replacement team had finally arrived to take over for you. Your flight back to the states wasn’t until tomorrow, and you had insisted that all of you find something to do to get over the stir craziness that had taken over. When you found a flyer for a hip hop Christmas party at one of the fancier downtown clubs, you ran back to the suite and insisted that you all head out. Sam was of course down immediately, but it took you a while to convince Bucky it would be a good time.

It was hard for him to not feel like the third wheel sometimes with the two of you. You and Sam loved your hip hop, and Bucky still remembered the first time he walked into one of your sparring sessions while Wu Tang was playing and had to immediately turn around and leave, ears turning red as you and Sam shouted mirth-filled apologies after him. He was slowly warming up to the aggressive music style, but still occasionally pined for the days of the Andrews Sisters and Bing Crosby.

He squirmed in the dress pants again; when did they start making suits so tight? He rolled the sleeves of his deep green shirt up over his forearms, trying to get more comfortable as the lights glinted off his metal hand, when you finally came out of the bathroom.

“You two boys ready to go?”

Fuck me, he thought.

You were wearing a bright red dress that was covered in sequins. It was in a wrap style that was wide open across your chest, exposing the valley between your breasts almost down to your navel. A thin gold chain with a dark green stone dangled around your neck and nestled in your cleavage, drawing the eye as is twinkled in the dying light through the windows. The skirt portion of the dress was short enough that it was almost obscene, and the apex of the wrap was almost up to your hip. You topped off the look with a pair of thigh high black velvet boots.

“Damn, mama, you look good!” Sam whistled at you as he stood up and spun you around with one hand.

“You’re not too bad yourself Wilson. Barnes, you clean up real nice!”

He couldn’t speak. He was suddenly extremely aware of just how tight his slacks were, and he strode over to grab all your coats from the rack and hold his in front of his crotch as he handed Sam the other two, hoping it wasn’t obvious what he was trying to hide as he slipped it over his shoulders.

“Ok, then, let’s head out!” You said, giving Sam a look as he helped you slide into your wool coat. He just shrugged at you before donning his, and the three of you got on your way.

Sam and you walked arm in arm on the way to the club, chatting idly and laughing at the occasional quip. You tried to engage Bucky in the conversation, but he just marched behind you scowling, collar pulled up against the chill in the air.

He couldn’t deny he had developed a bit of a crush on you over the course of your assignment. You always tried to keep morale up in the surveillance house, brightening the air with your laughter as you baked some sort of treat for everyone, or broke out an obscene amount of liquor when two of you had a shared shift off. He still remembered the time you had indulged in the gin just a little too much during a game of poker and passed out with your head in his lap. He hadn’t slept or moved from that position the entire night until he had to relieve Sam in the morning, reluctantly removing your face from where it had nestled during your rest.

He did his best to move past his crush, trying to convince himself it was just an infatuation that needed to wear itself out.

Then he saw you fight for the first time.

Sure, he had seen you sparring with Sam, and may have even done a session with you himself he hadn’t been concerned about how his body would react in such close proximity to you. But when that group of thugs attacked the house last week, he really saw you in action.

You moved like water. Dodging every blow that was thrown at you and landing flurries of strikes of your own that seemed like they shouldn’t have caused any damage but would reduce your opponents to puddles. Bucky almost got knocked out when you had pulled out your knives to spin them through your expert fingers like they were extensions of your will. He’d had to lock himself in the bathroom after the fight to jerk himself off, imagining it was your hands wrapped around him.

Now he watched your ass swaying back and forth in front of him as you arrived at the club, wearing those boots and that dress that made you look like walking sex. His mood soured as he handed his coat to the check girl and shoved his call ticket into his pocket, so he headed to the bar to get himself a drink.

He felt a light touch on his shoulder and gave a wince as he turned to face you.

“C’mon, Barnes, it’s Christmas!” You were giving him a heartachingly beautiful smile. “Wipe that frown off your face and come dance!”

He softened as you looked into his eyes. It wasn’t your fault he felt like a pervert everytime he stood next to you.

“I think I’m going to go grab us a table for our drinks, you go have fun with Sam. Maybe I’ll join you in a bit.”

“If you’re sure?” You cocked an eyebrow at him and bit your lip, and he felt his gut clench and his cock twitch at that look.

“I’m sure. Enjoy yourself.”

You gave his arm a squeeze before ordering yourself a shot of vodka that you immediately tossed back before heading to join Sam on the dance floor.

Bucky took his double scotch to one of the tables scattered around the floor and perched himself on a tall stool. His gaze scanned the dance floor before finding you and he let out a groan.

If he thought your fighting was beautiful, it was nothing compared to your dancing. You looked ethereal and free as you tossed your hair, rolling your hips as your arms raised above your head and followed the motion in your torso before they sank back down and rolled along your sides, highlighting the curves of your body. Sam suddenly grabbed you by the waist and spun you, causing you to throw your head back with a beautiful lilting laugh.

Bucky tossed back his scotch and flagged down a waitress, handing her his card and instructing her to keep the drinks coming. Maybe if he drank enough it would relieve the unbelievable ache he was feeling in his chest.

You and Sam joined him at the table after a few songs. You were breathless and flushed and all he wanted to do was kiss you then take you to an alley out back and fuck you stupid.

“Barnes, you are being a bit of a Scrooge here.” You grinned at him as you nibbled on a pretzel. Sam had headed to the bathroom, and you flagged down a waitress and ordered yourself a vodka cranberry before turning back to him. “I’ll order you to have fun if I need to.”

He grinned in spite of himself when you gave him a wink. “Sorry, Y/L/N, this isn’t really my type of party.”

“Aww, Bucky,” he took in a sharp breath, you’d never used his first name before. “You just need to loosen up. I can lend you a hand with that if you need it.” You reached a hand over and wrapped it around his wrist, giving it a light squeeze.

He almost said something then, but the waitress arrived back at the table at that moment with your drink and you turned to give her a smile and thanks. Sam arrived back from the bathroom then with a bourbon in his hand, accompanied by a beautiful woman with a bright smile.

“Bucky, Y/N, this is Marta, she’s a model!”

“Well hi there Marta, you going to steal my dance partner?” You were giving the girl a massive grin as you teased Sam.

“Yeah, Marta doesn’t really speak English.” Sam grinned.

“Oh, sorry.” You asked her the same question in Swedish.

Marta’s smile grew even bigger as the two of you started babbling away at each other while Bucky and Sam just shook their heads. Marta grabbed your hand suddenly and started to drag you away from the table.

“Be right back boys!” You said over your shoulder as you and your new friend headed off to the bathroom. Bucky watched you walk away and gave a deep sigh.

“Jesus Christ, man, you need to make your move already!” Sam said, exasperated.

Bucky almost choked on his scotch. “Dunno what you’re talking about.” He mumbled, wiping his chin with a napkin.

“Bruh, you’ve been staring at Y/N non-stop this whole night. Not to mention the fact that you were moping around the surveillance house for the past few months like a kicked puppy.” Sam shook his head as he tossed back the rest of his drink. “Oh, and if you thought you were sneaky about your little post-fight bathroom session last week, you are very mistaken.”

Bucky snapped his jaw shut and felt a flush creeping up his neck as he imagined your reaction to the discovery he had been touching himself to thoughts of your body underneath him.

Sam waved a hand at him. “Don’t worry, Y/N didn’t notice. I sprayed the fuck out of that bathroom with Febreze after you left. I am never doing anything like that for you again, though.”

Bucky’s heart rate went back down in relief. “We work together Sam. Even if that wasn’t the case, what am I supposed to say to her?”

“Geez, man, just fucking kiss her!”

“Fuck, Sam, we haven’t even been on a date! Don’t women usually want that sort of preamble?”

“Some women, sure. But don’t treat them like a monolith. Y/N appreciates directness and the worst thing that could possibly happen is she tells you to back off.”

“She could stab me.”

Sam guffawed. “Don’t look so turned on at the thought, dude. She’s noticed how weird you’ve been acting. She thinks you don’t like her. One of the main reasons she made us all go out tonight was to hopefully get you to warm up some.”

Bucky sighed, he hadn’t meant to push you away. “I dunno, Sam. She’s super fucking intimidating.”

“Get over it, Barnes. If you don’t make a move, someone else definitely will.”

“Oh my god, Sam, get your ass out here! It’s Christmas in Hollis!” You and Marta were back on the dance floor now and you were bouncing up and down, waving your hand excitedly at Sam.

“Aw, shit, that’s my jam!” Sam was backing onto the floor now, trying to get Bucky to follow him before giving up and turning to you and his date.

An unsteady woman sank into the seat Sam had just vacated and gave Bucky a lecherous grin before she started talking to him in slurred Swedish.

“Sorry, I can’t understand you.” He shouted at her.

“Oh, American man.” The woman purred at him in what he assumed was supposed to be a sexy voice. “You, me, fuck in bathroom.”

Bucky didn’t hear her. A giant blonde man who looked like a knockoff Thor was dancing behind you now, trying to put his hands on your hips and grind his crotch into your ass.

Bucky watched you turn and place a hand on the intruder’s chest, giving him a polite smile as you stopped your dancing, saying something to him that Bucky couldn’t make out over the music.

The guy didn’t take the hint and put his hands on your waist, pulling you flush against his front and putting a thigh between your legs, edging the hem of your skirt upwards.

Bucky didn’t realize he had been gripping the back of one of the chairs with his metal hand until he heard a crunch and looked down to see he had bent the frame when he clenched his fist.

“Knulla.” The suddenly sober woman said, standing up abruptly and scurrying away from the table.

Bucky found himself striding towards the dance floor, fists clenching and a low growl emanating from his chest.

That dirty fucker was still trying to hump you as you gave him a firm shove, trying to turn back to Sam and Marta. He wrapped a hand around your upper arm and jerked you back. Sam stopped dancing and tried to step in, but the son of a bitch slapped him in the face before turning back to you and smashing his mouth into yours, shoving his free hand up the front of your skirt to try to get at your pussy.

Bucky arrived just as you pulled back from the cocksucker and drew the offensive hand back so sharply, a snap resounded across the floor and he let out a scream.

Bucky punched him in the face before grabbing him by his collar and tossing him away from you as three security guards came rushing to the scene, too late to offer any sort of assistance. Marta managed to intercept them and started screaming at them in Swedish as you and Sam moved between Bucky and the giant Swede who was now a blubbering mess on the floor.

“It’s good Barnes, you can relax.” Sam said.

“Bucky, it’s ok. He isn’t worth it.” You were as close to Bucky as you had ever been. He could feel the heat radiating off you as you put a hand on his chest.

You had never seen Bucky so angry. His jaw was clenched so tight, you were worried the tendons in his neck were going to snap. He was breathing deeply through his nose, nostrils flaring as he glared murderously at the man who had touched you.

“Baby, you can let it go. I’m ok.” You murmured low enough that only he could hear you.

He looked into your eyes and relaxed, taking a deep breath through his mouth and nodding as the security guards dragged your assailant out of the club.

“Good boy, now you owe me a dance.”

Bucky’s look instantly changed to confusion as you dragged him onto the dance floor, giving him a breathless laugh as you started dancing again.

He had no idea what to do with himself. You saw his look of utter helplessness and turned to face him. You placed his hands on your hips and your hands around his neck and looked into his eyes. You’re hips started rolling to the rhythm as the rest of your body swayed in time with the music. Bucky was too aware of his feet and broke eye contact to stare at them, trying to figure out how he was supposed to move.

He felt your hand lift his chin and you shook your head at him before bringing the front of your body flush against his. You lined up your hips to his and started rolling them, your legs on either side of his massive thigh as you gyrated against him. He let out a moan and screwed his eyes closed.

You brought your face against his neck and whispered in his ear. “Just relax honey.”

You dipped your hips slightly and he followed you, nuzzling into your neck and inhaling your scent as his brain finally stopped overanalyzing what he was doing.

You felt the muscles underneath his shirt tightening and releasing as he rolled his body against you and your pussy clenched over his thigh. You gave a soft gasp and hoped the rush of arousal hadn’t soaked through your panties and onto his pants. His hands were pressing into the soft skin of your hips, and you knew you would have light bruises there tomorrow.

You pulled away suddenly and Bucky groaned at the loss of you before you flipped your hair forward and dropped your ass, separating your thighs slightly as you slowly drew your back up Bucky’s front before nestling your ass into the dip in his pelvis that seemed made to fit you.

Bucky growled into your hair and nipped at the soft skin behind your ear before starting to grind himself into your ass. He brought his metal arm to press against your abdomen and push you further into him, while his other wandered up between your breasts, giving one of them a soft squeeze before loosely wrapping his fingers around your throat

You felt him harden against you and let out a small gasp, starting to pull away before his metal arm locked you in place.

“Don’t you fucking move.” He growled in your ear, nipping gently at the lobe with his teeth.

His hips were moving at their own rhythm now, the music forgotten. Neither of you noticed Sam making an exit with Marta, grinning back at you before shrugging his coat over his shoulders and heading out into the snow.

Your breath was hitching softly as Bucky rutted himself against your ass, and the sound was driving him crazy. You could feel your cunt throbbing as it became slick, your arousal soaking your panties and threatening to start leaking down the insides of your thighs. He suddenly stuttered his hips and let out a hiss before stilling.

“Shit.”

He had come in his pants like a teenager, filling his boxer briefs and leaving a small wet spot on the front of his slacks. His arms released you as he stood up straight, leaning his forehead against the back of your head and screwing his eyes shut. He’d never been so embarrassed.

You shuffled the edge of your skirt down before turning around and pressing your lips against his softly. He groaned against your mouth as he brought his hands to either side of your face, tangling them in your hair. You discretely untucked his shirt as you kissed him, covering the evidence of his orgasm graciously. You pulled away before he could really lean into the kiss, and he let out a dissatisfied sigh.

You looked at him through heavy lids, biting at your kiss swollen lips before taking his hand and dragging him to the exit. “We’re going back to the hotel”

You tossed the coat tickets at the girl at the counter, breathing heavily as you tapped your nails impatiently. You snatched the coats from her without a word and tossed Bucky’s to him before charging out the door.

Bucky almost slipped several times back to the hotel as you set a brutal pace. He couldn’t get a read on you now and was worried he’d ruined things already.

You rode the elevator up to your floor in silence, one hip cocked to the side as you clicked the opposite heel against the floor rapidly. As soon as the doors opened, you strode down the hallway like you were possessed and Bucky hurried after you, concern written all over his face.

You arrived at the room first and wrenched the door open, leaving it open behind you as you stepped inside. Bucky was a few steps behind you but stopped at the entrance. He was certain you were going to lay into him as soon as he entered and wanted to take a moment to collect himself. He was running his metal fingers through his hair when your arm suddenly shot out, your fingers wrapping around the collar of his shirt and hauling him inside as he let out an uncharacteristic yelp.

You slammed the door behind him and pressed him up against it, shoving your fingers under his collar and wrapping them around his neck before you smashed your mouth to his violently, clashing your teeth against his before shoving your tongue down his throat.

Bucky overcame his surprise quickly and grinned against your lips as he slid his coat off his shoulders before cupping your ass and giving it a squeeze.

Your lips left his suddenly, leaving him breathless. You gave him a small smirk before sinking to your knees and starting to undo his belt.

“You’ve been keeping this pretty cock from me baby. My pussy’s been gushing thinking about your hot length in my mouth.” You were kissing around the bulge in his pants as you slipped his loosened belt out of the loops and undid the buttons. He leaned his head back against the door and hissed through his teeth. He’d never had a woman speak to him like this before and it was making his cock ache. He jutted his hips forward and you rubbed your face against his cloth covered erection before drawing his slacks and boxer briefs down his legs swiftly, freeing his dick to bounce back up against his abs.

You spat in your hand and wrapped it around him, drawing a groan from his chest. You started peppering soft kisses along his shaft as you ran your hand up and down slowly. “God Bucky, you’re so fucking big, I can’t wait to feel this in my pussy. I need to taste your sweet cum first though honey.”

You softly ran one finger up the underside of his shaft, tracing the vein that ran from root to tip before dragging your tongue in a heavy stripe over the same path.

He wrapped your hair around his hand and let out a hiss. “Fuck, Y/N, who taught you to talk like that?”

 “Mmm, you like it sweetie?” You asked him wickedly as you ran your tongue over the sensitive slit along his tip, lapping up the pre-cum that was starting to collect there.

“God, yes.” He couldn’t believe how much the filthy praises you were giving turned him on.

“I’ll give you as much as I can honey, but I’m worried this cock is going to fuck out my throat.” You took him in your mouth then, relaxing your throat as you drew in his entire length, feeling his balls hit your chin as you swallowed around him.

“Shit!” he thought you were going to go slower and he almost came immediately when you hollowed your cheeks around him and pulled him out slightly before taking him in again, bringing a hand up to fondle his balls.

He braced his metal arm against the door as he started to thrust his hips, fucking into your face as you choked around him, tears streaming down your cheeks and drool leaking from the corners of your mouth.

“God baby, you’re taking my cock so good. That mouth of yours is fucking amazing.” His hips picked up speed and he gazed down at you. You looked sinful, a flush in your cheeks and over your chest as you gazed up at him through thick lashes. You moaned around his cock as his praise caused a fresh rush of arousal to leak from your cunt.

“You gonna take my cum down like a good girl?” His hips were starting to stutter and you felt his cock twitch at the back of your mouth. You let out a tiny whine and tried to nod as he shoved himself all the way in, stilling himself as you felt his release run down your throat.

He pulled his softening cock out of your mouth and wiped the drool from you chin before softly cupping your cheek.

“Stay right there for a second pretty girl.”

“Yes, sir.” You whispered at him, your voice husky now that your throat was raw.

He unbuttoned his shirt and rolled it off over his shoulders, then removed his undershirt and tossed it aside too until he was standing in front of you naked.

You let out a low moan at the sight. His muscles were sculpted beautifully, his chest dusted with dark hair that tapered to a happy trail that led down to his thick cock. The skin around his metal arm was scarred and puckered, and other faint scars were visible elsewhere on his body, giving him an air of danger and menace. Your cunt clenched as you took in the sight, biting your lips as you ached to run your hands over his body.

“Stand up.” He ordered you. He didn’t know what had come over him. He had spent months wanting to beg you for some sign of affection, but now that you were there kneeling in front of him, he just wanted to take it from you. And you were willing to give him whatever he required.

You drew yourself up slowly and he picked you up with one hand and wrapped your legs around his waist. He brought your mouth down to his and teased your lips open with his tongue as he carried you to the bedroom.

He knelt on the bed with you straddling him and started to trail rough kisses down your neck, sucking occasionally to draw a bruise against your skin.

As he reached your shoulders, he wrapped his metal hand through the chain around your neck and gave it a yank, snapping it off you. He drew the shoulders of your dress down, exposing your tits as you arched your back up to meet him.

“God Bucky, please” You whined as nuzzled his face into the valley between your breasts, his stubble scratching the skin there.

“You want something, baby?” he asked you wickedly, kissing slowly up the slope of your breast until he almost reached your nipple, then moved his mouth away again.

You groaned and wound your fingers into his hair. “Need your tongue on me, please baby.”

“Where did you want it sweet girl?” he asked innocently before cupping one breast in his hand and rubbing the nipple with his nose. “Did you want me to lick you here?”

“Yes, yes, fuck!!” His tongue swirled slowly around your nipple, drawing it to a sensitive peak. “God Bucky, that’s so good!”

He brought up his metal hand to palm your other breast and you gasped at the contrast of the cool metal against your warm flesh. He tweaked the other nipple and you groaned. “You want my tongue on this one too, honey?”

“Pleasepleaseplease….” You whispered breathlessly, whining when he moved his mouth where you asked him. You started grinding yourself into his thigh, desperate for release as your pussy quivered and wept.

“No.” He ordered, grabbing your hip with his metal hand and holding you still. “You don’t get to come unless it’s on my cock sweetheart.”

You let out a thin keen as tears leaked down your cheeks.

Bucky brought his face back up to yours, holding your chin with his other hand and kissing you hungrily. You cried into his mouth in desperation.

“You want this cock, pretty girl?”

“God, yes. Please, Bucky!”

“You asked me so nicely, honey. I’m gonna give you what you want.”

He gripped your dress in his metal hand where it had gathered at your waist, gave it a twist, and ripped it off you, sequins and beads flying off the bed and across the floor. He grabbed your panties next and shredded them, bringing their ruins up to his face and inhaling your scent deeply before tossing them aside and giving you a wicked grin. You bent one leg up to start to remove your boots when he slapped your hand away.

“Leave those on.” He growled at you.

He took a moment to pause and look at you, memorizing every slope and curve of your body. He spread your legs wide and gave a low moan when he got a look at your pussy, coated in slick and swollen with desire. He drew two metal fingers softly up the inside of your thigh before running them over your sex, coating them in your arousal and making you moan. He brought his fingers up to his mouth and sucked them clean.

“You taste so good baby girl. Maybe once I’ve fucked you stupid with my cock I’ll eat you out.”

“Unnhh, Bucky, give it to me.” You begged him.

“You need something baby? You gotta be specific.”

“God, need you inside me. I fucking need your cock. Bucky, please.”

“Alright sweetheart. You better have at least five orgasms on my cock sweet girl. Otherwise I might have to spank you.”

He lifted your right leg and looped your knee over his elbow, opening you wide as he brought himself up to your entrance. He slowly drew his length through the slick gathered there as you whimpered, then he slammed into you, bottoming out right away and knocking the air out of you.

“FUCK!!!” you screamed as you came immediately, clenching and fluttering around him as you went rigid and started to tremble.

“That’s one, baby.” He grinned as he started to fuck into you, not bothering to wait for you to come down from your orgasm. “Shit, this pussy was fucking ready for me. Look at you gripping me so good, like you’re fucking made for my cock.”

“God, Bucky!” you whined. “You’re so big, keep moving baby. Fuck that’s so good!”

Lewd squelching noises filled the room, combining with the slap of flesh against flesh as he drove into you hard.

“Mmm, you’re squeezing me so tight, honey. You gonna come on my cock again?” Bucky slipped a hand underneath your ass and tilted your hips just a bit and felt you clench around him.

“Shit, right there. God, I’m coming again. Don’t fucking stop.” Your face screwed up as your second orgasm ripped through you, curling your toes in your boots as your legs quivered with the strain.

“Good girl.” He praised you as you fluttered around him, your release soaking your thighs as it seeped out around his cock. “I’m gonna move you now, sweetheart, get ready.”

His hand moved under your waist and he wrenched you up until you were flush against his chest. The coarse hair there scratched against your sensitive nipples and you gave a soft whine at the change in position.

Bucky stared into your eyes. Your face was a mess. Lipstick smeared all over your mouth and chin. Mascara and tears running in streaks down your flushed cheeks. Mouth open and panting with need and pupils blown wide as you gazed at him through your thick eyelashes.

You looked like the perfect mixture of sin and sex. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

He wrapped both his arms behind your shoulders and buried his hands in your hair, pressing your face to his and forcing his tongue between your lips and teeth, running it everywhere it could reach inside your velvety mouth, growling into you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and opened yourself up to him, whining as he increased his pace even more and you felt the tension gather in your core again.

“Give me another one, baby. My good girl. Show me how good that pussy is for me.”

You buried your face in his neck and groaned as you felt every muscle below your waist go rigid and another orgasm wracked you. You didn’t know if you could handle two more.

“God, sweetheart, you feel so fucking good. This pussy is making a mess everywhere.”

He pulled out of you suddenly and you gasped, hoping for a reprieve. But he just flipped you so you were on all fours and slammed back into you, making you scream.

“Just two more pretty girl. Then I’ll fill this pretty cunt with my cum.”

You didn’t know how he could last this long as he pounded into you relentlessly. He drew you up straight suddenly so your back was against his chest and you gave a small whimper. Your throat was raw from him fucking it and from your screaming, and the only sound you managed to make now was a stream of unintelligible mewls.

You leaned your head back against Bucky’s shoulder as he brought a hand up to palm at your breast. His metal fingers moved to the apex of your thighs and started drawing rough circles against your clit. You felt tears leaking down your cheeks as your pleasure began to gather. He drove them into you suddenly and you let out a thin wail as your entire body went stiff before vibrating with your release.

Bucky guided your fall forward gently until your face was resting against the blankets. Your arms couldn’t hold you up anymore so they laid limply next to your face as Bucky gripped both of your hips and drew them back to him over and over. You felt drool leaking from your open mouth as you blinked slowly. You were absolutely cock drunk. The sheer number and intensity of your orgasms had made your brain short circuit. He really had fucked you stupid.

Bucky slapped your ass suddenly and you gave a sharp gasp as you came one last time, fisting your hands into the blankets to try to keep from passing out.

“Good girl.” Bucky murmured at you. You could feel the smile in his voice and you felt your cunt clench around him at the praise. His hips started to stutter and you felt his cock twitching inside you.

“You ready for me sweetheart? This pussy treated me so good, I’m gonna fill you up.”

You managed to moan out a single word through your hoarse throat. “Please…”

The wantonness in your voice pushed him over the edge and you felt his hips still suddenly as he released inside of you. The feel of his hot cum coating your velvety walls made you moan like a whore.

“Fuck, baby. That was so good.” He gently lowered himself on top of you and you felt him soften inside of you. He peppered gentle kisses along your shoulders and the back of your neck as he pulled out of you slowly. You gave a contented sigh as he rolled off you and headed to the bathroom. You’d never been fucked so well in your life.

You heard the water running and you managed to lift your head to watch Bucky return, holding a damp washcloth. His abdomen, thighs, and cock were coated in your release, glistening in the soft light of the bedroom as he walked back towards you and sat down on the edge of the bed. The sight of his naked form filled you with a renewed sense of desire.

Bucky rotated you carefully until you were lying on your back and brought his face down to yours and gave you a soft kiss before moving himself between your legs. You heard him suck in his breath sharply when he got a good look at you, drawing your knees apart to get a good look at your pussy.

“Fuck honey, you’re beautiful.”

The skin of your mound and thighs was flushed red where he had thrusted into you repeatedly and it was all coated in the evidence of your multiple orgasms. Your cunt was swollen and pulsing as his cum slowly leaked out of you, collecting in a small puddle on the sheets.

Bucky gently cleaned your thighs and mound with the cloth, being careful to not irritate your already sensitive skin. Then he worked your folds apart with his metal fingers and drew the damp fabric over your slit slowly, collecting his release from your entrance. You gave a groan and pressed yourself into the cloth when he tried to pull it away.

“Jesus, sweetheart, already?”

You propped yourself up on your elbows and stared at him. “Bucky, you promised.”

He shook his head and tutted his tongue at you. “No, I said I might eat you out after I fucked you stupid. No promises were made.”

“Bucky, please?” You begged him, your voice husky with lust.

He gave you a look then moved to kneel between your legs. “Can’t say no to you, pretty girl. Not after this pussy treated me so good.”

You gave a soft chuckle followed by a gasp as he flattened himself on the bed and drew your left leg over his shoulder, softly kissing and sucking down the inside of your thigh before he nuzzled himself into your folds.

He softly licked at your entrance, lapping up the renewed evidence of your arousal as he dragged his tongue up and down your slit before he wrapped his lips around your tiny bud and sucked softly.

“God, Bucky! More…please…” You moaned at him, winding your fingers into his hair and pressing him further into you.

He gently teased two metal finger around your entrance before inserting them slowly, grinning against you as he felt your pussy flutter around them.

He started fucking them into you steadily while he gently sucked at your clit, crooking his wrist to hit your sweet spot as he picked up speed.

“Fuck! Right there! Don’t you dare stop! So, so, good! Please baby!” You started babbling, the pitch of your voice getting higher as he edged you closer to your release.

He latched on and sucked hard at the same time he added a third finger, and you came apart around him, soaking his chin and stubble as your thighs tried to crush his head between them and your pussy clenched and twitched around his fingers.

Bucky crawled back up the bed and laid next to you, drawing you to his chest as he wrapped his arms around you. You nuzzled your face into him and let out a low humming noise to show how content you were.

“God, it took you long enough, Barnes.”

He laughed and kissed the top of your head, pulling the blankets over the two of you and flicking off the bedside lamp.

“You know, you could have made a move yourself.” He murmured against your hair.

“And offend your World War II sensibilities, grandpa? You would have run away screaming.”

“Grandpa?”

“Whatever, you were scared of me. I didn’t want to frighten you off before you took advantage of your crush.”

“Right, crush.”

“Mmm, if this is how you fuck on the first date, what are you going to do when you fall in love with me?” You teased against his chest, your breathing growing deeper as you drifted off to sleep.

“Don’t worry sweetheart. I’m not going to fall in love with you. I promise.” He lied as he dozed off.

The snow was falling heavy over the city. And Bucky was dreaming about marrying you.

[pierrotguru]

Glimmer of Stars

Summary: John Constantine really wants a drink, and he meets someone...unexpected.

John was really damned thirsty for a drink.

The bar was a bit too noisy, but to take what he could, and at the moment, he needed that drink. He could simply walk out and go, but the beer there was dark and bitter just like him. It was dark. And good. Strong stuff. So, he decided to drink it among the many distractions.

Behind the bar, he saw a backdrop of stars. John supposed that they were kind of pretty splashes of metallic gold against dark azure that glimmered in the dim lighting and just looked...nice. John took a drag of his cigarette. Humans liked stars as they also liked heaven. For him, the stars were more obtainable.

John was so engrossed in tracing the points of the stars that he hardly heard it when someone sat next to him.

"You look like you're having a rough night."

"Every night is a rough night," he replied automatically. John wasn't looking for sympathy, but the words slipped out anyway.

Then, John turned to beheld him for a second and almost stared.

The stranger was so dark. Chiseled lips, perfect cheekbones, and deep eyes. He was also a bit pale.

John could clearly sense the power in his aura. Maybe, he wasn't quite human. That was becoming more common these days. So, he made a mental note to mind his ps and qs The dark stranger looked important somehow. It made sense not to piss someone like that off.

The word "endless" echoed in his mind for some reason. Perhaps the bloke was eternal.

"You're a bit like a dark hole. You literally suck. But, at least you don't poison the room with your negativity."

Really? What a nervy thing to say.

Little fairy asshole.

John was starting to get a little pissed. "Why don't you get fucked?"

Well, that was an idea. If the stranger would be into that.

Then, John felt his dark eyes roam his face.

"I bet that you don't sleep a lot there are dark rings under your eyes." His voice was strangely soft.

John laughed bitterly. "Who does in this crazy world?" He took another drink of beer.

"You know to rest. An opportunity to escape in their dreams."

In John's case, that would be nightmares and he wouldn't consider them an escape, but he didn't want to reveal that much to a complete stranger.

John decided to indulge him in conversation. "But, then you have to wake up so why keep trying?"

The answer was so short and sweet. "Hope."

John swore that the word burned his tongue. Hope. It was such a painful word. John was the fuck out of hope. He still had that chronic cough. John should take up the bottle more, but then his liver would be diseased too. His body was just going to hell. Everything about him was.

He knew that he should take up yoga or something that wasn't destructive such as chain smoking or shots of liquor early in the morning. But, it was the way he was wired, and there was no point of running from it.

John stared straight ahead to see that someone had finally returned to the bar, but when he turned to look at him again, he found that the man had already fled. His bar stool stood empty.

John eyed the empty stool he had been sitting at. "Well, good to meet you too, mate."

Of course he had left In truth, John had actually found him hot. Apparently, life was still never going to go his way, but some luck here and there would be nice

John hung around the bar a bit, but he never reappeared. John finished what remained in the bottle and then skulked away. The other patrons were starting to clear out anyway.

When he stumbled into bed, he had actually slept and he had dreamt but they weren't nightmares filled with growls, unholy demons, and flames associated with the hell realm.

No, instead he had dreamed of him. The man from the bar. A new dream for a change. Lucifer Morningstar could take a break.

John had had a rather simple dream. He had simply dreamt about standing with him out on a grassy field.

The dark stranger said nothing, but he did smile at him.

John woke up in a blissful haze. His eyes opened and he saw that the air was a tined with a blue light because the sun was rising to start another fucking day that he had to live through.

Though to be honest, the dream had been a bit too romantic. Of course, John knew nothing at all about him.

He sighed as he stared up at the ceiling.

If only John knew who he was. However, he did seem interested in dreams. That narrowed down the list. Although, on his own, he already did have some ideas. It would be a damned strange thing if it turned out to be true.

Only the universe knew if they would meet again, but then again, screw the universe

John could simply look into his ways. There was usually a way to contact anything in the world. That alone could be a curse.

And, it could be another chance to screw everything up. Fun.

He was John Constantine so that was always a possibility.

[hamsterbellbelle]

Additional CC list for Abandoned Subway Strip Club🎦:

Accessory rack || Ad.poster || Animated ceiling decor || Animated neon || Animated Steam || Bag || Bar island-counter || Beaded curtain || Beckoning cat || Beer bottle || Bowl stack/cereal/dirt plates || Broken mirror || Broom || Bubble tea || Ceiling fan/vent/column/platform || Ceiling light || Chair with clothes || Cleaning agent || Clothing accessories || Clothing rack || Community sign || Counter || Cyberpunk backdrop || Disco ball/laser || Door panel/metro sign/Cyberpunk screen || Drain || Dressing room sofa/blanket || Elevator || Escalator || File cabinet || Floor dirt || Floor/wall line || Floor - A - B || Hairdryer/dresser clutter || Hologram tree || Hotel sign || Jewelry || Laser light || Lightbox sign || Lizzie’s bar neon sign || Magazine/rug || Metal chair || Mirror || Mirror-window || Monitor || Motorbike (deco) || Neon light - A - B - C || Newspaper stand clutter || Office wine || Ottoman/sofa || Panel/wire with sparkle/fire barrel || Paper bag || Plant rack || Police tape || Puddle || Ramen neon sign || Scattered clothes || Sci-fi pillar || Shampoo clutter || Sink/hairdryer || Sink || Spot light || Staircase arch || Stickers || Sticky notes || Subway arch || Subway debris || Subway interior decor || Subway ticket machine || Suitcase || Tissue box || Toilet stall door || Toilet stall || Trashcan/mirror box || Tray clutter || Urinal || Used tissue || Vanity table || Vase || Vent || VIP room sofa || VIP rope || Wall clothes - A - B || Wallpaper - A - B - C - D - E - F - G || Whiteboard || Wine glass/VIP bucket || Wire || Wooden pallet ||  🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹 Animated billboard || Animated scroll || Arch light || Archway || Bar stool/round coffee table || BEEP || Computer || Cyberpunk decal || Cyberpunk neon light || Dance club TV and panels || Elevated microwave || Floor light || Food stall || Metal panel || Minibar || Modular sofa || Neon sign - A - B  ||  Office desk || Station sign || Stereos || Wall duct || Wire/panel || Zebra wallpaper || Zone number || 

[sp00kworm]

Silence (Part 2)

Part 1 - A Bar Brawl

Part 3 - The Star Goddess (Bloodhound’s Ending)

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Pairing: Revenant x Gender Neutral/ Non-specified Reader

Warnings: Threats of Violence. 

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A Totem to Remember - Revenant’s Ending

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Loba’s debut seemed to attract more customers than you were ready to deal with. On the night of the test match, you had to refresh the beer kegs twice and you were almost out of a brand of whiskey known as the Red Devil. It was annoying, but you knew you had to refresh stock as you stacked freshly cleaned glasses back under the bar for the next day. Your bot in the back chimed happily as he opened his great washer stomach and offered you another tray of red hot, freshly cleaned glasses.

“Thanks buddy.” You cooed at the robot before taking the tray and patting his head with one hand. Spinning back around, you headed back out into the bar and hummed to yourself as you started moving towards the cabinet of tumblers. You held the tray on your hip as you plucked open the cabinet before carefully putting the glasses into their correct places, in order of size and shape. Mindlessly, your fingers moved on muscle memory as your little washer buddy moved to plug himself back in for the night, waving before he powered down and his battery began to charge. You patted him softly as you placed the tray away for him and turned to lock the kitchen for the night.

 The lights flickered. You looked at the ceiling before a gravelly voice spoke above you.

“You’re oblivious, skinbag.” Revenant purred from the ceiling.

You looked up and realised his face was close to your own, his arms extended, and his legs pinned into the metal of the ceiling. His body contorted monstrously before his head twisted and he dropped from the ceiling with a soft thump.

“What the hell are you doing on my ceiling, Revenant?” You tried to keep calm, but you were quick to fly into fury with the Simulacrum, “You don’t get to just waltz in here after…”

“You don’t get to waltz in here after what you’ve done.” He mimicked back at you with his hand snapping in your face, “Tell me something I haven’t heard before.” Revenant drawled as he looked at the whiskey behind you. He pointed a sharp finger at it, “Give me that.”

“Uh, no.” You gave an exasperated huff and snatched the liquor, “I suggest you pay for it first, plus, we’re closed.”

“I think you’re forgetting just how much money I’ve given you already, squishy.” Revenant purred, “I gave you a thousand credits last time I was here, that pays for more than seven of those whiskey bottles, I know they’re not that expensive.”

 With another hum, his metal fingers reached for a glass, snatching it before you could rescue that from him too.

“Okay. I don’t think you understand that you literally killed a man in my bar, and that your hush money doesn’t just sweep that under the rug.” You pointed a finger in his face angrily, “You pay, or you get out.”

The threat made him laugh. Revenant threw back his head and laughed a deep metallic noise, his mouth opening slightly to reveal the sparking copper inside of his mouth, “I like you. Not just anyone gets away with pointing a finger in my face.” He purred but his hand snapped up and grabbed hold of your wrist. Slowly, his cold sharp fingers crawled down your arm before they grabbed hold of your fingers and pushed, “But point it at me again and I’ll take the nail and skin off and pin your eyes open to watch.”

“This is not the way to get a free drink.” You uttered, in shock at the severity of his threat.

Revenant hummed again before his electronics whirred and he released your hand back to you, “Sure. You’re something odd, skinbag. Get me that drink, I need something to do.” It wasn’t polite nor happy, but you relented and opened the cabinet to retrieve his drink. The expensive liquor was strong, and you turned back around with it in your hand before undoing the screw cap and pouring it into an icy tumbler.

 Revenant eased himself into the bar stool, ignoring your disgruntled look as he took the tumbler and admired the dark colour of the whiskey. He swirled the liquid for a while before taking a small amount into his mouth and swallowing, his neck jarring with the pumps before he gave a small hiss.

“Nice burn.” He commented as he slumped over the bar and looked at the clock on the wall, hardly fazed by the lateness of his visit or how inconvenient he was being to you, “I see you’ve been making a killing with the games broadcasts.”

You didn’t know whether he was being genuine, “Well…I guess that money came in handy.” You shot back at him, “Blood money seems to have made my business flourish.”

“Sometimes money buys happiness.” Revenant drawled, “I got plenty of it. Just ask.”

“I don’t want your money.” You scoffed, “I’ve had plenty of that already.”

Revenant growled, “Then just what do you want from me?!” His fingers rapped along the bar top.

“If you didn’t get it, Revenant, I want you to get out and leave me alone!” You shouted.

 The Simulacrum watched you, his black and orange eyes bright before the orange went small and he snatched his drink back off the bar. He lifted it to the separation in his face where the skull like white met red and opened the hinge to dump the rest of the alcohol inside. Before you could snatch the expensive bottle away from him, he had it in his hand. Revenant said nothing to you as he held the bottle by his leg, his long arm popping upwards with a shrugging readjustment before he whipped around and headed to the door, stalking on long legs. He didn’t glance back as he stormed away, slamming the door behind him with a grunt before disappearing beyond the bright LEDs of the streetlamps and into the night. You looked at the bar and scoffed at the scratch marks down the wood, running your finger over them before you locked the door and shut off the lights to head up to your room above the bar for some well-earned rest.

 Revenant didn’t show up for the next few days. You were glad for the peace again as you ran through your normal daily routine, until it came to cleaning day for you little dishwasher friend. The robot unit chirped happily as you slapped at his dishwashing compartment and watched it open, the cogs and pistons whirring as the racks and doors stretched to their full capacity. Carefully you took a spanner and went to carefully unscrew the back of the water pipes from his back and laid them over the counter and into the sink to avoid any gross water dripping through onto the floor. The pipes smelled. You coughed as you reached for the cleaning fluid and whistled gently as you opened the back of the washing compartment to expose the hose outlets. The robot chimed a whistle as you poured the cleaner inside his belly and started scrubbing, whistling back softly as the suds started to foam up.

“You love cleaning time huh buddy?” You asked.

The robot chirped with a smiley face appearing on the screen which acted as its face.

“Hey, I know, I won’t be too long!” You promised as you took a wire wool to a particularly rough spot of dried grease. You continued to hum as you worked and poured the cleaning fluid down the water pipes to clean them.

 “Okay buddy, lets get these back attached to you.” The washing bot chirped and span for you again as you held his water pipes up and reached for your spanner to crank the bolts back into place.

“And…” You cranked the bolt one last time, settling it in place tightly, “There!” You declared, “Right, go and set yourself for a full rinse and you should feel like brand new!”

The robot chirped and tugged himself into the corner again before starting his cycle. A happy face trundled across his screen as he started the timer for his cycle and plugged himself back into to the charging point to continue the wash in sleep mode.

“See you in a bit buddy.” You patted his washing compartment and headed back into the bar, wiping your hands on a towel before you looked at the empty place and the bright sunshine outside. You weren’t open just yet. It was too early for serving and you felt tiredness seep into your eyes as you looked for the coffee machine. It was usually only used for Expresso Martinis. It needed water and you took the coffee jar and filled it before pouring it into the machine and looking through just what you fancied to drink. If anything had come out of the war, it was the new, expansive range of hot drinks. Tea from far off planets you had never heard of. You plucked free one box with a curious looking fruit on the front before taking the strainer and filling it with the leaves and letting the hot water drip through into the large pot.

 As you watched the water drip, you heard a noise above you. The clink of metal. The barest noise of a scrape of metal over plaster. Slowly, you peered upwards. Nothing. The ceiling was its normal, usual painted colour, the metal support beams poking out of the plaster. You frowned but looked back at your tea. There was another noise. Metal scraping over each other. The noise was coming from behind the closed door to the kitchen. You left the tea unattended and reached for the door handle, pressing the pad to open it with a whirr of mechanical locks. It clunked open. Nothing. Your washing robot chirped at you in confusion his screen flashing with a question mark across his face before you smiled, trying to ease his nerves.

“Hey, don’t panic. I just thought I heard something…” You trailed off as you looked past your washing robot and into the room. Nothing was out of place.

It was then that your washing bot gave a strangled beep and danced away from where he was attached to the wall, pulling the water pipes tight as he beeped in upset.

 “Pah.” A silver clawed hand retracted up back on top of the fridge after taking a rude swipe at your friend, “Stupid tin-can.” Revenant hissed from the giant chrome refrigerator, flashing his claws back at the robot once more.

“How the fuck did you even get in here?” You asked as you looked up at the Simulacrum, “I told you not to come back.”

Revenant’s body contorted on the top of the fridge, his head twisting to the side as his orange eyes span and swirled in the shadows, “I know.” He rumbled, “I…” He went silent as his pistons clicked and he slid over the top of the furniture and down onto the floor with a click and a hiss.

“You what? You needed another bottle of whiskey?” You challenged.

Revenant stood to his full height, looming over you, the joints of his fingers clicking before he gave a grunt, “Something like that.” He rumbled as he looked down at you before he looked back at your washing bot and flexed his shoulders, “I didn’t know you had company.”

 Suddenly, that tension was gone, and Revenant stepped past you to flash his hand at the other robot again. It was a threat perhaps, but your washing robot chirped unhappily again.

“Stupid bag of bolts.” Revenant grumbled at it.

“Hey.” You intervened, “Leave him alone. He’s just a washing bot.” You grabbed Revenant’s arm.

It was like the Simulacrum froze in time, his eyes glaring down at the place where your fingers wrapped around the metal. With a snort, Revenant tugged his arm free from your grip.

“It’s just a washing bot, like you said.” Revenant stalked from the kitchen, his mechanical legs thumping softly as he went. As he left you made sure your friend was safe. Beyond a small nick at the base of his neck he was fine. You nudged him back into his power station to continue his cycles in sleep mode.

 You followed Revenant into the bar to see him picking through your cabinet again, his metal fingers tapping along the labels of the liquors as he decided back to pluck from your reserves.

“What happened to the rest of that posh stuff?” Revenant asked with a hum as he looked through the back of the cabinet.

“You had the last bottle. The supplier hasn’t been in a while.” You watched him look back before he selected another expensive looking bottle. This time it was tequila. You didn’t say anything as he took it out and eyed the label before disappearing into the corner of your bar, slinking into the booth farthest away from you in silence. The Simulacrum didn’t glance back at you as he cracked open the bottle and placed the glass neck between his metal jaws before tipping his head back and emptying a good portion of the alcohol into his synthetic stomach. You watched with a small cringe as he seemed unfazed by the burning liquor. His orange eyes snapped to you as you watched him from the bar.

 His gravelly voice carried well across the room, gracing your ears with the deeply pissed off timbre, “What are you looking at?” Revenant asked with a roll of his optics, “I’m not going to steal anything.” He rumbled.

You watched him for a moment before replying, “I’m more concerned why you want to be here.”

Revenant looked you dead in the eyes as his mechanical thumb stroked the label of the bottle, “Call it a whim, whatever. It’s quiet and there isn’t that annoying Andrade brat. Don’t go thinking anything different. You tell them where I am, and I’ll take great pleasure in making you squeal like the little meatsack you are.”

“You know. There’s no need to threaten me with a good time every time you come in here.” This was a new tactic, and you watched his optics twitch from his bottle to your face.

“Are you making fun of me, skinsuit?” Revenant growled, his two metal jaws parting slightly to reveal the sheen of copper in his mouth with an angry snarl.

“Hardly.” You scoffed, “Fine.” You relented as you headed for the light switch, “Stay here, but I’m going to bed. Enjoy your pity party.” With a snap of the lights, you walked back into the kitchen and to the back staircase to your own apartment. You made sure to lock the door firmly before stripping off for a shower and heading to bed.

 Revenant peered into the darkness with a hum, his fingers tapping along the table before he tugged the bottle of liquor closer and snapped on the holoscreen in the corner, searching for something to fill the noise in the dark bar with outside of his own memories playing over and over again behind his eyes.

 “Skinsuit.” There was a grunt before the bed shook and dipped either side of your body, “Skinsuit!”

With a jolt you woke up, just to come face to face with the skull-head of Revenant and a sneer.

“Finally. I thought I was going to have to choke you awake.” Revenant grumbled as he peered over you, his legs splayed like a spider either side of you as he looked down at you tucked into the covers. His hands pulled back from either side of your head and you watched him flash his claws as he sat back, still perched over your legs, looming like a deranged killer.

“Do I need to ask why you’re up in my room?” You asked groggily, wiping sleep from your eyes as Revenant watched you sit up with great interest. The Simulacrum purred, a low rumbling from somewhere in his throat, as you met him face to face, glaring at his orange and black eyes.

 “Your little washing bot is screaming downstairs. It sounds horrendous.” Revenant didn’t move away, his skeletal nose rushing with air as he inhaled the smell of you.

“If you did something Revenant…”

“You’ll what? You’ll kill me?” He wheezed a great laugh as his claws dragged at your sheets, “Good luck with that, skinsuit. There’s millions of bodies just waiting for me to be reuploaded into them.” He snarled before rasping again as his arms and legs whirred into downwards positions, allowing him to snap, flip and crawl off your bed in one, bizarrely fluid motion before he clicked back into place and stood over the side of your bed with another, odd, calculating rumble.  

 You decided to ignore his snide remark and bitter tone, “Is he malfunctioning?” You asked as you threw back the covers and climbed out of bed to face the Simulacrum. He was intimidating at nearly seven feet tall but slim and streamlined with the ability to move silently at will despite being made from entirely heavy bulletproof metal. He looked down at you, his metal lips parted, unimpressed with your pyjamas covered in small Nesse prints.

“Not a clue.” His orange eyes looked you up and down before he strolled over to look through your desk.

“Hey, asshole.” You snapped at him as he tugged a thick looking document from a fat wad of paper, “No one invited you to look through my things.”

Revenant chuckled, “No. They didn’t…” He pulled open one of the drawers underneath him and hummed at the pens and random assortments of stationary in there, “A penis pen.” He held the phallic pen between his fingers, “Practical.”

 You ignored his taunting swaying of the pen back and forth and hastened down the stairs towards the sound of your screaming washing bot. As you opened the door to the bar kitchen you ducked as a pot came flying towards your head. It clattered against the wall and smashed into several pieces. You avoided the shards as you pushed into the kitchen and saw the pipes spraying water down onto the floor and the robot trying to slam his front closed.

“Oh my…” You didn’t finish your sentence as he caught sight of you and screamed again, the screen in his stomach covered with crying faces as he rushed towards you, holding the severed and burst pipes in one hand and his drawer closed with the other. He screeched again waving the dripping pipes in front of you before shrinking behind your form, ducking as low as it could get as Revenant filled the entrance way into the kitchen.

 His raspy laugh made you scowl. Revenant slinked in through the doorway and set about scratching his claws along the tiles, making a noise that was so ear grating you had to clench your teeth.

“I didn’t expect for him to piss all over your floor, I’ll admit.” The Simulacrum laughed, harshly and entirely mean.

“I knew you had something to do with this!” You pointed a finger in his face, “Why can’t you just leave me alone?! Why do you have to insist on being foul for a reaction?” Your anger seethed out of you as you hid your little robot behind you.

Revenant sneered, “You’re no fun, skinsuit.” He snarled before he snagged the pipes from your robot’s hands and grabbed the mechanical washing bot along the floor, kicking and screaming. His claws crunched into the metal of the washer bot’s shoulder as he pulled it towards the wall it had previously been stationed at. It wiggled violently before Revenant heaved it up and held the pipes up before driving them together with a metallic thunk. The connectors clicked back together easily, and the washing robot beeped confusedly as Revenant stood him against the wall and banged on the front of his tummy, slamming the door closed with a vicious thump of his metal palm. The door remained closed and the washing robot chirped in confusion.

 You looked at the floor and then back to Revenant as he trudged back through the puddles of water and loomed over you again. He gave a long, low, robotic chuckle as he spun his hand and curled the claws towards his palm.

“I fixed your issue.” He stated with a look at his claws before he snapped them into a spike and made sure to push you back against the door, “Your welcome, skinsuit.”

You felt anger boil in your gut, “What? Do you want me to thank you or something?” You spat as you looked up at the unnatural orange optics. They span, the robotic pupils clicking as he focused on your face and the anger that painted your expression.

Revenant’s fingers curled into the wall, “Something like that.” He whispered as he stared at the anger on your face, “I didn’t do this, before you blame me.” With a scoff, he released you from the wall and sauntered through the puddles of water towards the back door, “Nice seeing you…” He turned to look at you, his headscarf rippling in the breeze, “You look nice when you sleep.”

“FREAK!” You screamed after him as he disappeared up the smooth concrete wall and over the next building with a hiss of pistons.

 Your washing bot chirped sadly and held out his hands to you with a shake. You looked and spotted the spanner in his hands as he sheepishly rubbed his washing compartment.

“Well. At least I don’t have to bill him for this as well…but maybe I will to spite the bastard.” You considered as you carefully took a towel to your friend and then grumbled, wading across the kitchen to find the mop to get rid of the rest of the puddles.

 Revenant seemed to lurk in the corners of your vision after that, always sat in the back of the bar, with some bottle of hard liquor and a deadly, judgemental gaze turned on the rest of the patrons. Those who knew him from the Apex Games did not dare approach him. He took great pleasure in launching a young man over the table once from a handshake, laughing as he stalked over to him and signed his name on the boy’s cheek in his own blood. You had promptly doubled his price for drinks that night, but the Simulacrum did not complain, he paid at closing and disappeared into the night. Sometimes he lurked after closing time. More often than not, you found him glaring down at your washing bot as the robot thrust a mop at him to try and get him off the cupboards or fridges. Angry beeps were then met with your angry glares. For some reason, Revenant adored the look. Anger furrowing your brows and a snarl on your lips made him feel smug, almost joyful. He was positively gleeful when he was tormenting you.

 However, the bar was shut for the workers day, a holiday for most of the city, and Revenant was left without his normal activities to entertain himself. He stalked around his room for a while, jumping and reaching for items he had hung from his ceiling as exercise before he looked at the charging port and bed. There was nothing else in his room. A spare scarf was hung in the wardrobe along with the scraps of a suit he had taken great pleasure in peeling apart in front of the other legends before a conference. With a huff he opened the ventilation shaft and rotated his spinal column before his shoulders snapped and tucked in close underneath his arms, allowing for him to fit into the vent and scuttle along to the next room. Noxious fumes made him pause, but with another slow filtration of air he scoffed and opened the grate on the other side.

“Mercury won’t rot my insides, Nox.” His head turned one hundred and eighty degrees before his body followed in a contortion of metal, spilling out and rotating on top of Alexander’s glassware cabinet.

Caustic looked at him with vicious cold green eyes, “I’ve yet to find anything but charged copper dispersals that will have an effect.” He uttered softly, clinical and effective as he opened his filtration systems and watched the mercury vapours swirl away into the chambers above, “Why are you bothering me, Simulacrum?”

Revenant lowered his head over the side of the cabinet, “I smelt rotten eggs. Sulfur. But maybe you just passed gas.” He jeered as he watched Caustic cork the rest of the reaction and pull another yet of heavy metals from a rack alongside various acids.

“Maybe hydrofluoric acid will make you quieter?” Caustic hissed, “I’m working.”

“I know.” Revenant hummed from the cabinet, “But you’re not that busy.” He dragged his claws over the top of the metal with a laugh.

 Caustic closed the arm opening of his experimental chamber with a slam as he peeled free his gloves in order to point a scarred finger at the Simulacrum, “You never come in here unless you’re bored.” He observed as he removed his goggles and respirator, “And that isn’t often…Not after you found that little toy to play with. Did Bloodhound not warn you off enough with that slice to your oil recycler?”

Revenant growled from the cabinet as he leaned over the top, leering at the Chemist underneath him, “It was fucking ugly bleeding shit down my legs but there’s always another body for me…Bloodhound didn’t heal to quickly from my blow I think.” He flashed his claws and hummed as he tucked himself back on the unit, far out of Caustic’s reach, “Besides. That feral brat doesn’t tell me what to do.”

“No but they might be inclined to give you another cut for harassing a…what do you call them…skinsuit?” Alexander’s eyes lit up with silent glee as he watched Revenant click and adjust on top of his glassware cabinet.

“Carry on old man and I’ll show you just what I did to Bloodhound.” Revenant hissed as he laid over the top, his metal legs hanging down over Caustic’s head.

 Caustic binned his gloves and hung his goggles after washing them before he turned on the air conditioning and moved back towards his desk, “I have no desire to taste steel today. So,” He span in his chair, his rectangle frame glasses perched on the end of his nose, “Are you going to tell me what you’re here for? Evidently your little toy isn’t around to entertain you today.”

Revenant propped his head up on his arm, tapping a claw against the metal beneath his eye before he rumbled, “Its…boring.” With a small sigh he looked down at Caustic, “I didn’t think I could feel but its exciting to watch them, like a little rat running around. A little angry rat.”

Alexander was turned back to his desk, working over something before he replied, “You might be an illegally made conscious robot but you will still carry humanity…even if your programming was once to kill.” He shrugged up at the robot, “Perhaps you are having a mild fascination? Infatuation if you will. I can’t say I have felt it myself… The idea of such intimacy disgusts me, but perhaps you are more human than you originally thought?” Glee laced Caustic’s tone as he smirked up at Revenant.

Anger churned in Revenant’s processors, “Human am I.” He slipped from the cabinet and slid in one movement, grabbing for Caustic’s throat.

 His fingers were cold, but Caustic let him grapple from the chair. The Chemist was far shorter than him but was large, bulky and strong despite his love for poisonous gases.

“Did I hit a nerve?” He asked with a laugh and a wheeze which was followed by a cough.

Revenant looked down at him, orange eyes swirling before he leaned close to Caustic’s face, “Compare me to you soft bellied sacks of skin again and I’ll slice you from groin to neck just for the fun of it…Then maybe I’ll show your little apprentice what you look like.”

“I dare you to try Simulacrum.” Caustic whispered before he pried the robotic hand off his throat and sat back down in his chair, slicking his hair back with a huff, “Why not just ask to see them?”  

“Pah.” Revenant’s joints clicked as he climbed back onto the cabinet, “Like I want to see them.” He hissed, “They do nothing but tell me to leave.”

“Have you considered that is because you are foul?!” Caustic shouted as he leaned back to see Revenant disappear back into the vent, “Idiotic fool.” He cursed softly before erasing the measurements for the next reactions he had planned.

 Days suddenly past without Revenant in the corner of the bar. Your washing buddy seemed quiet and contemplative without having to beat him off the countertops, and you found yourself slowly relaxing until it was concerning. The Simulacrum was never gone for long. It was a week since before you knew it and you knew they were still in the downtime between seasons. He had no reason for being gone. You caught yourself one night as you worried about where he had gotten to.

“Probably finally got what was coming to him for that big mouth.” You whispered as you took the cleaned glasses from your robot and began to place them away.

The door opened with a creak and you huffed, “We’re closed!” You shouted over your shoulder, “I swore I turned the sign around…”

There was no one in the bar. You scowled as you opened the bar door and walked towards the entrance where the door was propped open an inch or so, letting the warm air into the bar.

“Hello?” You asked quietly as you opened the door and peered outside.

“Skinsuit.” Revenant hummed from above you.

 You peered upwards and felt a sense of relief wash over you as you gazed into the orange eyes of the sour looking Simulacrum above you. His head turned, much like a bird, as he regarded you.

“You’ve been gone a while.” You commented idly as you stood outside the door. Your foot hit the pavement and the Simulacrum held up one silver finger.

He pointed down at your foot, “I think you just stood on something.”

You jumped when cardboard crumpled and something rattled around in the box, sending it shooting towards the taxi rails. With a rush you grabbed for the box and frowned at the largeness of it.

“Why did you get me an animal?” You asked as you heaved the box to the front door, eyeing the air holes stamped in the side.

“Call it an investment.” He grunted as he dropped from your roof and stood behind you, watching with eager eyes as you carefully opened the lid.

 A growl sounded from within and you jumped back at the sight of the small Prowler cub pacing back and forth in the box.

“REVENANT, WHAT THE FUCK?!” You screeched as the Prowler cub scrambled from the box and hissed, flaring the bare bones of its frills at you, trying to appear intimidating.

“No need to shout. You’ll scare the little guy.” Revenant insisted as he closed the door, “I found him is all. Thought you might like it. Kings Canyon…well its not great but if you head into the jungles of Leviathan there’s still some of these things that survived the purging of the planet.”

“How did you even find one?” You asked as the cub rushed underneath a table, quivering and hissing sadly, “They’re…endangered.”

“It was stuck in a pit. Probably game hunters. I nabbed it. Its weedy and pathetic looking so I thought you might like it.” He shrugged, “I can’t keep animals in the tower so he’s yours.”

You stood silently for a moment, trying to figure out just what the gift meant. That Revenant trusted you? That he thought about you? You didn’t know what to make of it.

 “Are you going to pay for the food?” You asked with a smirk aimed at the Simulacrum stood over you.

The seven-foot robot gave a single, dry laugh before he held up a large bag, “Way ahead of you, skinsuit.” He reached in and pulled out a heavy looking metal dish, “Don’t give me that look.” He gestured to your face, “So happy, doing that thing with your little beady eyes. Its revolting.” With a scoff he pushed past you and headed towards the cowering cub before plucking it from the floor, ignoring the black teeth snapping at him as he pulled at its frill and admired the deep blue and orange colours along his back.

“Hey.” You cautiously approached, “Put him back on the floor, I have a good idea on how to win him over.” You gestured to Revenant who rolled his eyes but dropped the cub with a huff and grabbed a bottle of liquor to watch from the bar as you took off your sweater and gently eased it under the table.

 The Prowler ignored you, mouth agape and dark under its neck. Next you took the food bowel and pulled out the food Revenant had gathered. A small amount of cubed beef was enough, and you placed it in his bowl before filling the other and leaving for the bar.

“Really? That’s it?” He droned, “How boring. I thought you might wrestle it and get eaten alive.” He trailed his fingers over the wood, “Now what?”

“We leave him alone. He needs to settle in. Its all new and traumatic.” You insisted as the cub took a sniff of your sweater and laid in the mass with a sad whimper.

“How dull…Maybe he’ll chew through a pipe in the night.” Revenant wondered as he tipped his head back and poured some liquor into his mouth.

“Hopefully not…but thank you. I didn’t think you were capable of being nice.” You whispered as you watched the Prowler bed himself down.

“Don’t get used to it.” Revenant snapped, but without as much of his usual bite, “It might come back to bite you.”

“Well, it very well might. Look at his teeth.” You joked, for once feeling at ease with the murderous robot in the room.

Revenant only gave another series of dry laughs.

“Demonio.” You cooed at the small cub as he attacked a hunk of meat with talons and teeth. It chewed on its back teeth before its ears pricked behind the frill around his neck.

“Demonio.” You cooed once again and the Prowler looked at you with a grumbling chirp, licking the blood from around its mouth as it eyed the small, marrow filled bone in your palm, “Come on boy.” You wiggled the bone back and forth as the orange eyes tracked your hand along its course.

“Do you like making fun of me?” Revenant grumbled from his seat at the edge of the bar, “That damn brat is the only one who calls me that.” He hissed.

Demonio eyed the bone before he got to his feet and prowled over before licking at your fingers. He took a nip before waiting for the bone.

“Good boy.” You reached with your other hand and touched his frill, gently running your hand down his nose before you gave him the bone and stood up to head back to Revenant.

 “He seems fonder of you.” Revenant observed with a hum, “Almost like a soft little dog.” He spat at the cub, “How delightfully boring.”

“Maybe, but I appreciate not being bitten by him anymore.” You answered as you looked back at the Prowler. He was already growing, and you were more than happy to look after him, but he was going to get large, “Even if he might outgrow me one day…well and maybe try to eat me at any moment.” You huffed.

Revenant snorted, “Ha. Maybe he will, but I’m sure Predators are less inclined to eat people they like.”

You looked at the Simulacrum, “Is that why I’m still alive?” It was barely a whisper, “Because you like making my life miserable?”

 Revenant looked taken aback, his orange eyes turning into pinpoints as he considered his next words, “Miserable…No.” His metal jaws clicked, “You’re the only person that can make me laugh.”

Those words were heavy, and you watched him struggle for a moment with himself, “I don’t understand anything. I was programmed to kill for…I don’t know. A long time. This is new for me and I have hated every second of feeling more than I did being nothing but a slaughter machine.” He growled.

“You should call me by my name then.” You smiled as you said it for him, and the Simulacrum nodded once before repeating it back to you and turning to watch Demonio gnaw on his bone.

“Oh,” Revenant looked back at you and you poured him another drink, “For the record, I like you as well Revenant.” You smiled as you sat down next to him and watched Demonio work on his bone a little longer.

 “Demonio!” You rushed after the Prowler as he launched himself at a customer. He was now a juvenile, and the hound like beast was quick to dislike anyone that touched you over the bar. You kept him behind the bar, but the creature was quick to jump at people that took hold of you. Revenant laughed from the end of the bar, tucked in the shadows of the wall as he ran his claws back and forth over the bar, “He knows people shouldn’t touch what isn’t there’s.” The Simulacrum sneered as the patron whipped around to look at him.

“Oh yeah, you metal fucker? What are you saying?”

“That your disgusting little skin sack hands don’t deserve to be near ‘em.” Revenant’s fingers snapped together, the fusion metal slamming together as he raised himself over the bar, spun and stuck up against the ceiling over the man, “Maybe I’ll take more than your hand like the hound would.” He ran the sharp spear of his hand down the man’s cheek, “I think your innards would make a lovely adornment to my mantle.”

“Revenant.” You tugged the hand away, “Enough.” You hissed at him, “Sir, I’m sorry for the drama…”

“Save it. I’m out of here.” He shoved his drink over the side and rushed to the door, “Bunch of fucking weirdos.” He snarled as he left.

 The night drew to a close and Revenant spent the rest of the opening hours sulking in the back of the bar, alone on a table, with his feet propped up on the metal, his drink untouched as he watched the patrons with a vicious glare.

“Revenant.” You uttered as Demonio pattered along behind you, his frill flared as he dragged his tug rope for play time, “Are we going to talk about what happened, or are you going to sulk forever?” You asked as you sat across from him, pushing his feet to the side in order to see his gaunt metal face.

The Simulacrum snorted, “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, there is.” You huffed, “You threatened to kill a man tonight who grabbed hold of my hand.” You sat back as Demonio pushed his head into your lap and you rubbed the scaley skin around his ears.

“Is there? I wasn’t aware that it was a problem.” Revenant moved his feet from the table, “He was an asshole. I won’t apologise for my actions.”

“I’m not…”

“And I sure as hell won’t be giving you money for his drinks..”

“Will you shut up and listen?” You snapped.

 Revenant felt anger threaten to spill over, but he slumped back in his seat as you pushed your finger down against the wood and scowled. He watched you with a huff.

“You’re lashing out and I want to know why.” You demanded, “From day one you were horrible. A cruel and mean machine that wanted nothing but to inconvenience me every day, but now you’re…giving me gifts. You’re here constantly and you just…You stopped me from getting a very horrible string of abuse. So, explain this to me, because I’m at a loss.”

Revenant was silent. His chassis was still and his wiring and pistons clunked as though he was being jolted back to life. He opened his hand on the table and dared to reach for one of your own. Smooth, cold metal fingers grazed your fingertips before they gingerly moved up and over your palm to stroke the soft skin. His orange eyes watched the pulse in your wrist before he linked the fingers once, squeezing tightly before he moved away again and guarded himself, crossing his arms out of your reach.

 “I…” He paused again, “I care for you.” That was it, he was silent again, his eyes watching you as you took in the meaning of the words he had dared to utter.

“Care for me?” You whispered back at him.

Anger laced him once again, “Yes, you stupid skinsuit! I might even feel something like love or joy!” He hollered as he flashed his claws and scraped them against one another, “Its infuriating and…And it hurts!” He threw his hand at the wall, “It hurts because I know I’m nothing but a giant killing machine! I’m stained in so much blood I could swim in it and nothing can ever make you love a disgusting creature like me!” Revenant heaved, almost like a human, his spinal column lurching as he screamed in frustration again and moved to stand up.

Like a viper, you grabbed at his hand and tugged, hard enough to jolt his fingers, but he was unfazed. He towered over you and watched, looking down at you with lonely eyes as his fingers dared, once again, to wrap around your own, seeking the heat they no longer possessed. He uttered your name, once, softly, as though he wasn’t allowed to say it, and then he looked you in the eyes.

 “That week you didn’t show up was like torture.” You said carefully, “For the first time, I was actually worried about you. It was then that I realised I liked having you around. Everything you did it was not to piss me off… well it was, but you haven’t had to speak or make friends with someone in so long, you just forgot how to do it anymore.” You felt your hand begin to shake in his, “But then the gifts started, and you thought about them. I said I wanted a dog one day, and well Demonio isn’t a dog but he’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever been given…So,” You smiled at him, “What I’m trying to say is that I think I might love you too.”

Revenant’s hand fell from your own and he looked to the wall for a moment before replying, “You really think you can love me?” He whispered, appearing small despite his towering height.

“Yes, I think I can.” You affirmed before leaning up to wrap your arms around him. The Simulacrum flinched before wrapping his thin, cold arms around you, taking in the warmth of the hug before pressing his face to your neck and humming at the gentle sensation of a kiss against his cheek.

“What was that for?” He asked quietly.

“Because I love you.” You whispered as you hugged him tighter.