the_variant | (no subject)

While Sylvie has given up trying to find a source of power for the TemPad, she hasn't given up trying to get out of this place. Everyone tells her it's impossible, but she has to believe they just aren't smart enough to manage it, that they've become complacent, comfortable, and don't bother trying. She isn't going to stop, though. She can't stop. The rest of these people don't understand just how important it is that she get back to the TVA.

Her current plan, besides anything she might be able to manage with Walter's help, is to find a thin spot in Darrow. They have to exist. If she can find one, she'll be able to leave, slip between worlds, find herself a proper source of power for the TemPad she has tucked in her jacket, and make the bloody thing work again so she can have some hope of undoing what she's done in the first place.

Although, no multiversal war has come to Darrow just yet, which she has to assume is a good thing.

Still, she's trying. Dressed in a pair of stretchy black jeans, black boots, and a deep green shirt beneath her black jacket, Sylvie has traced a source of power to downtown Darrow and realized a little too late that she's sensing some other powered person in this place rather than something that can actually help her get out of here.

Too late because she's inside a dance club. Too late because she's already in the crowd, the music pumping, bass pounding, drunken idiots stumbling around, feeling each other up in dark corners and on the dance floor. Some big guy is nearly humping some poor girl who looks like she's barely able to stand and Sylvie steps hard on his foot and puts herself between them, then shuffles the girl back off toward her friends. This isn't why she's here. She isn't some do-gooder hero like Loki tries to believe himself to be. She needs to get out.

The big guy looks confused, but simply turns to find someone else to dance with. Which is when he sidles up next to Sylvie. He's smaller than the other man, his hair is dark, pushed back from his face, which is pale, with sharp angles, hollowed cheekbones, and for just a second Sylvie's heart skips in her chest.

But then the features resolve. Become someone else. Attractive enough, but not the man she was hoping for in that moment. Her gaze flicks over him, unimpressed, and then she pushes past.

"Hey, wait," he says, grabbing her wrist. "That was really cool of you, helping that girl."

"Let go of me," Sylvie says, wrenching her wrist from his grasp. He backs off a few steps, holding his hands up, then disappears into the crowd. And that's when someone grabs her from behind. Big hands on her hips, a warm body pressed against her back. It's all under the guise of dancing, but Sylvie's not an idiot, and she can feel every bit of the intention in the move. Without thinking, she throws an elbow back and it slams hard into a man's nose. Then she turns and a green blast of energy flies from her hand to his chest, plowing him back through the crowd on the dance floor.

A few people protest, but even then, almost no one has even noticed what's happened.

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Sylvie doesn’t immediately push him away, and Bucky finds himself grateful for that. This is good, too. Being close to someone, being touched with affection and not violence. Feeling hot breath against his shoulder and sweat against his skin.

He presses a lazy kiss to her neck, another to her jaw, and then lets out a rough chuckle at the comment. Pushing himself up, he kisses the corner of her mouth and then pulls away, sitting up on the sofa and looking over at Sylvie. His eyes travel the length of her, taking in her hair and her round breasts and her cunt, pink and puffy from how rough they were. She looks content and he’s sure that he does, too. It won’t last for either of them, he’s sure, but it’s nice to have a break from it.

“It helps to have a good partner,” he says in a rough, lazy voice of his own, smirking a bit as he reaches out to wipe his come from her thigh with his palm. He looks at the shiny mess of it and then grabs a tissue from the table next to the sofa and wipes it away.

“Feel free to call me if you ever want to dance again,” Bucky offers casually, leaning back against the sofa and pulling her legs across his lap, letting the thumb of his prosthetic glide along the inside of her knee as his eyes fall shut. There are scratches on his back, stinging from sweat, but he can already feel his body starting to heal them. “I’m sure I could find a spot for you on my dance card.”

She probably will, she realizes. Not that she can't go without, because she has in the past, longer than even Bucky, but then she'd had a mission. She'd had glorious purpose and now she has nothing. No chance of proper revenge, no chance of getting back to the TVA if the way her luck has been going so far is anything to go by, and no Loki.

She thinks she can be forgiven for needing a bloody distraction.

In response, she kicks him. Not hard, just a nudge of her heel against the muscle of his thigh before she lets her leg relax again. The sweat on her body is drying, cooling, and she can feel the pleasant ache of muscles that haven't been used like this in some time. Sylvie has a feeling she'll sleep well tonight, something that's been rare for her.

"I hate these stupid telephones," she answers instead of telling him she may well call. She thinks he's well aware of it already.

The kick makes Bucky let out an amused huff and lift his head, eyes opening as he curls his prosthetic hand around the top of Sylvie’s foot where it meets her ankle, rubbing there as he lets out a soft sigh, one born from contentment.

He keeps touching her with this hand, perhaps solely because she’s allowed it. She’s never shied away from it, not once, and Bucky isn’t quite over the novelty of using it to touch another person.

“They do come in handy,” he murmurs, twisting a bit to spot a stack of sticky notes and a pen on the table next to the sofa. They might have come with the apartment, because he can’t really imagine Sylvie doing something as mundane as buying sticky notes. Bucky grabs at them and scrawls his phone number and initials on the little yellow paper. After peeling it off from the pad, Bucky reaches over to stick it to her stomach.

It leaves the ball in her court, but that’s fine. Bucky isn’t the most secure person these days, but what they just did was good. Very good, even, and there’s no reason to not do it again.

Bucky slides his good hand along Sylvie’s thigh and then gently lifts her legs to slide out from beneath them, standing up and stretching his arms over his head as he looks down at her as she lounges on the sofa.

“Careful, someone might think you’re capable of relaxing,” he teases, smirking at her before turning to scoop up his jeans and underwear.

"Good thing there isn't anyone here but you," Sylvie retorts, making no effort to get up from the sofa. Bucky is collecting his things to leave, which is the right move for him to make and Sylvie is glad she doesn't have to kick him out on her own. There will be no canoodling, nothing of the sort, that isn't her style, especially not with someone with whom there's nothing more than a physical attraction.

Not much more anyway.

She has a rather firm suspicion they've both used one another for something tonight, something besides sex, and she's perfectly comfortable with that. Bucky owes her nothing and she hopes, whatever he needed from her, he got it. She certainly did.

With her head tipped against a cushion, she watches him get dressed, appreciating the view. The note with his number stays where he's left it, stuck to the still slightly damp skin of her abdomen. To put it elsewhere would indicate too much one way or the other. It would make her seem either too eager or too disinterested and Sylvie doesn't want to leave either impression.

The entire time that he's getting dressed, Bucky can feel Sylvie's eyes on him, lingering and appreciative. Turnabout is fair play, so he turns to look at her as he buttons his jeans and pulls his shirt over his head, letting his gaze sweep over her body. She's so comfortable in her nakedness, more than any woman he's been with.

Grabbing his boots, he sits down at the edge of the sofa just next to her hip, leaning over to pull on his socks and shoes, turning to look at her as he does up the laces. None of this is awkward at all, and Bucky is glad for that.

He stands up and looks down at her with a small smile, deciding not to tell her to call him, because that's probably the quickest way to do the opposite. Instead he just leans down to give her a quick peck on the mouth, dragging the tip of his metal index finger down the center of her chest, between her breasts and down to the post it note on her stomach, tapping twice before letting his hand fall away.

"Thanks for the dance," he tells her with a smirk, stepping away from her to pick up his leather jacket and pull it on. It's amazing how much lighter he feels, even if it is only temporary. It's a few hours of relief, and for that he's grateful. "I'll see you around."