#please get me a soundbite of Jason growling out 'sweetheart'

[a-gal-with-taste]

Pretend (Pt. 1)

Summary: Drunk guys suck. It sucks to be around them, be one of them, or worse, be followed by one of them. After being tailed one-too-many blocks, you duck into the first bar you find and grab the most-sober looking man in the room to do a bit of acting. You find, it might have been a more dangerous gamble than you'd ever intended... (AKA, the Fake-Dating AU)

3K+ Wordcount/GN!Reader X Silco (slow-burn-ish)

Warning: SFW but A bit darker than normal, drunk-harrassment, minor descriptions of violence/blood, first-meeting, fake relationship, tension, set shortly after Act 1 yes because I wanted to check out more Act 1 Silco pics, don't act surprised

The door swings loudly, and the slam of it against the wall would be near-deafening, if the sound of the rowdy, pounding dancefloor wasn't already at least twice as noisy. You didn't care, and welcomed the peace of chaos, in fact, as you stormed in without even knowing the name of the bar. You just knew even from the outside, that it was loud, crowded, and easy to lose yourself in.

Immediately working your eyes to plot your escape, planning to duck into the rolling crowd and find an back-exit that couldn't be tailed by-

"C'monnn, ya really gonna be like that?" A hand snagged your sleeve, a paw that tugs you back before you could fully slip into the crowd. You felt your already sore-teeth grind down even more as a second arm snaked over your shoulder, limp but heavy as you were tugged back against an abnormally warmed chest. "Seriously dude, screw off. I wasn't in the mood at the last place, I am definitely not in the mood here."

Stiffening, you feel a pout against your scalp as he leaned over behind you, pressing his face against your hair as the hand on your shoulder started tip-toeing down your arm. It's as stumbling as his steps are. Your body shivers in disgust as you feel him sniff your hair, Gods... "I could make ya into a mood, just gotta say the magic word-" "How about if I say no?!"

"Hm... could be kinda sexy to work ya up to changing that-"

Revolted, you sharply snap your elbow back into his gut before sweeping under his grip and darting between the bodies on the dancefloor, leaving him as lets out an unintelligible, aggravated whine of complaint. You squeezed between a couple, earning their complains of ire before stumbling into the relatively calmer bar-area. Tables crowded and clustered as you glance around for an exit and you swear when you don't immediately detect one.

This place is not familiar, as you rarely go this deep into the city, and for good reason. This is ground-zero for the wildest, darkest and most dangerous folks in the Underworld to come out and play, especially in the more recent events. With Topside still on edge, any relative peace, or at least a handle on the more notorious of the Undercity, was loosened. Things were uncertain, dangerous, and you were the one stupid-enough to go just one-too-many miles down-deep for a night on the town.

But, you could still get out of this without further embarrassments, or worse, with a little help. No bartender worth his business wanted to cause trouble by calling out poor etiquette and lose a customer, especially during these times, so you turned your attention to the patrons. Your luck for the night was already shit, but apparently the universe wanted to really rub it in as you felt hope draining when you looked at your options.

Scanning the area, you felt frustration as you saw most were taking shots, or openly swaying, until your eyes caught a figure who was coming to a stop after a long, controlled stride to the bar from the stairs. No stumbling, just a confident and open swagger that caught your eye instantly as you zeroed your attention on him.

Tall, wiry, slight fraying at his otherwise refined clothing - no pushover, you could spot a slight curve of muscle in his exposed arms, sleeves rolled up as he braced them palm-flat on the counter-edges and leaned over to speak directly to the bartender. You don't particularly care what this guy's face looks like, only if he's got a bit of strength, a bit of intimidation and, gods-willing, a bit of pity in him to play along for five seconds.

There wasn't a lot of pity, nor compassion here. But you could hope, because you didn't know what else to do.

You were no true fighter, doing some manual work every once and a while to get by, but you lived on a higher level in the Undercity, that was almost akin to neighborly. Stabbings, muggings and high-tempered brawling still occurred occasionally, of course, but you were allowed some peace of mind in your daily walk from the apartment, to a market stall, and work, without needing to take a swing to the face. Or give one of your own.

Probably why you were in this mess in the first place, you were just too much of an easy target down here.

The bartender looks half-way to ashen as he's spoken to lowly by a stern man, who now leans back to cross his arms, but the only parts you care about are the fact that he is A: not visibly drunk, or holding a glass in a way that suggests he's about to be, and B: he's alone. No Miss or Mr to throw a fit over what kind of faux-role you're about to play.

You don't stop to think, or wonder if this is asking for more trouble then you're already in. You plastered what you hoped was a smooth grin on your face, half-ran, half-skipped over, and slipped your arms around the man's waist. Beneath his crossed arms, hovering just above actually-touching him as you loudly, and half-pleadingly informed someone who you prayed was sober enough to play along, "Sweetheart, this bum's been following me for three whole blocks! Could you help me out here?"

Your first clue that this was a horrible idea, was the bartender going from a greying-face of terror, to pure, white-faced shock at your open term of endearment. The second came when hands snapped down to yours that are interlocking at the front of the man's waist, grip tight. Unyielding and holding your wrists captive for clue number three...

A snap of a head to the side, just enough so the corner of the glowing red and black eye pierces directly through you like a knife to hold you in place.

The smile you had put on placatingly, to try and sooth him into agreeing to this little act, freezes in place under the simmer of hellfire in the ruined, scarred side of his face. You distantly see his mouth part open, once.

Pauses. Closes, then between slightly-clenched teeth, he growls out the next word in the lowest. Darkest. Most appalled, perplexed and overall stunned tone you've ever heard in your life, to come out of another person's mouth, "Sweetheart?"

Fuck. Fuck.

If the bastard tailing you isn't already an issue, you might just find yourself murdered at this psychopaths hands, based on the way the red eye is already showing you the depths of hell itself.

Still, you try again, widening your eyes and smile in what you hope is perceived as charming. Probably reeking of your desperation.

With your arms finally closing the distance to squeeze around his waist, feeling a jerk beneath your touch as his jawline goes wireline tense, you lean up closer under that impossibly burning red gaze, "Sweetheart. Lover-boy. Yessir. Handsome, literally whatever you want me to call you..." You subtly tilt your head to the side, breath caught as he turns to you fully, a second, human eye fixated on you in a low slit as he stares directly into your eyes. The grip hasn't loosened or removed from your wrists. "... there's a guy in a purple shirt following me, baby, and I really, really need some help."

There's a solid minute where he's just... staring at you. Boring holes into your eye-sockets in the most intense, duel-colored staring contest of your life, and you whisper hoarsely as your face struggles not to fall, "I will literally buy you the entire menu if you do this. Help me. Please."

A beat.

The green-eye slips fully closed and there's hot air brushing past your face as he scoffs out a breath, sounding in disbelief paired with a slight shake of his head. You feel your heart sinking down to your stomach, humiliation and nausea suddenly burning in your eyes, your throat, and go to try and free your hands from his burning grip, find that damn exit- "Water, on ice. Now."

The fresh drink nearly slides off the countertop with the speed it's made-in by a otherwise petrified bartender, and after freeing one hand, long-fingers catch the glass before it could fall and crash onto the floor.

The freshly released hand from the man's immobile grip is full of the frigid glass as he securely presses it into your hand, forcing your fingers to curl around it. You grip it like a lifeline as the world, or rather, he moves around you. A practiced arm curling smoothly close to your wrist, hovering like yours did, before he forces you to suddenly keep up close beside him as he strides from the counter. You see the free hand lazyily lift, give signal or two to some stonier-thugs near the wall, and they disappear.

Unable to find time to turn and watch where they're going, as your guide stops before your destination: a private booth in the very back of the bar.

"Purple, you say?"

Your head manages a nod as you all but crawl into the cushed seat, worn and a bit of thread poking out at the seams. More focus is given to the man who still holds your sweaty-palm, steadying your balance when you nearly slide off the seat. "Easy now. Take a drink, clear your head." You hear him mutter, "Purple, fix a glass." Assuming he's talking to one of the thugs, but you can't really care as you finally take a seat, leaning hard against the wall. Hands wrapped around the ice-water with a vengeance, you resolve to keep your head down and out of sight as your... the guy, takes a seat across from you.

Except he doesn't.

He smoothly slides into the seat right next to you, like he's always done that.

"Drink," The order is repeated, quiet and low, and the glass is halfway to your lips before you stop yourself. There's a sigh, and you catch a long fingers in your peripheral, before they disappear beneath the glass. Guiding the chilled material to your lips, the gentle but insistent force of his touch on the glass finds you automatically opening your mouth, and half-freezing your throat as you take a quiet drink.

"Slowly. I am trying to calm you down, not make you sick all over my booth..." "I'm not drunk," You rasp as you lower the glass with a clink back onto the table. Steeling yourself, chancing a glass towards him earns you a side-eye of epic proportions, the sea-green eye unreadable once more in it's slitted fashion, dark brow narrowed downward slightly.

He scoffs. "Based on the stunt you just pulled, I consiter you the most sobered drunkard to ever grace this pub." You drop your eyes back to your glass, ears and face burning. "Well, I couldn't find the other exit-" He interrupts, a bit disbelieving, "You've never been to The Last Drop? Thought all the fools end up here one way or another."

You find yourself scowling, watching the frosty perspiration build on the sides of your glass, "Well, I didn't expect assholes to make their home here either." There's a beat, and you suddenly feel that burning sensation at the side of your head. Akin to hellfire, and you sigh, ducking your head a bit, "Sorry, I just..."

It's not a laugh; barely a chuckle. It's a low rumble that sounds, that suggests your gall bemused him one way or another. Regardless of what it's classed as, you feel some tension released from you, even though you also get the feeling it really, really shouldn't.

There's a grunt and you look up, freeze as you see your catcaller, then stalker being shoved across from you at the booth. Hazed eyes take a minute, especially as he's visibly swaying, but he notes you soon enough, and the man who sits beside you, calm with hands folded atop one another on the table. "... you lil' bitch, ya ran off 'n called the calvary, didja?"

Any comment you want to make in your defense dies quickly. It's buried the moment he casually lifts his arm, up and over you, and around your shoulders. The half-scarred face man casually slips you down the seat until you're flush against him, hip to hip, as if he's been doing it for as long as he could remember. "That's not the nicest thing to call my partner. I suggest you use softer words from here on out. It's for your own benefit, I assure you."

His tone is nonchalant. Like he didn't just wrapped an arm around you. Like he didn't just say 'partner'. Like you aren't sitting there, flush against him, and he just sat there and called you his 'partner.'

It's what you wanted, yes. Needed, in fact, but...

But he said 'partner' like it was true. And a part of you liked the way he said it.

"Oi, they came onto me, man, I dunno whatcha want," Drink making the lie almost sound truth, but you still stiffen, bristle at the gall of this man as a large, thick-glassed cup is placed before him, filled with ale that he eagerly begins to chug. Intoxicated as he may be, you still hiss at him, "You bastard, that's not what the fuck happened-!"

"Sweetheart." Your mouth is dry, and then it's shut as the low murmur breathed close to your ear continues, "Let me handle this."

You quietly find yourself bringing the glass, ice clinking, back up to your mouth, focusing on chugging down the chilled water. And the thumb rubbing slow circles on your shoulder as he straightens, and looks across at your cat-caller, studying him with something akin to boredom.

"What's your name?"

"Geyre." You snort at the name, it earns you a small squeeze at the shoulder. "Hm. Geyre..."

Blunt nails tap on the tabletop, mixed-colored eyes watching the man impassively for a moment before he suddenly says, "Never liked sharing the Playground with fools. It's like working with children." "Oh yeah?" A dull thud as he plops the bottom of his glass on the table, sizing up the wiry man across from him with narrowed eyes, "Reckon I don't look like no kid."

"No, but you run around like one. Wailing for toys you'll break or smash, causing mischief that I have no time, paitence nor eagerness to clean up." He reclines back, and you, still linked to him by an arm across your shouldersz recline with him. The thumb never stops rubbing against your shoulder. "I get enough trouble from Topside coming down to have playdates, breaking toys, people and the like... I don't need a drunken toddler running about as well."

"Ya saying 'm like one of those damn topsiders?"

A frown, and you can picture the red-eye glinting, surrounded in black as the sea-foam one rolls up the the ceiling. "No, my analogy is on children, and the fact that you apparently seem to have the mental capacity of one. So, let me make this more clear..." He cleared his throat, and your eyes couldn't help but drop down to the white tie at his neck bobbing as it did so.

You took another drink of iced-water as he spoke, lowly, "Get out of my bar. Stay out of my side of town. Don't cause trouble. And if I hear more problems being caused by fools like you, I don't intend to ask around to see who did it, or if you were involved at all..." A small head tilt and a careless shrug. "I'll just kill you anyways."

The ice-chip feels like a knife going down your throat as you stare. One man going beet-red, hand tight and knuckles ashen around the glass in hand. And your so-called 'sweetheart' reclining with you halfway into his lap, while he's casually threatening to kill a man for giving him a minor headache.

Suddenly, you start to think perhaps you should've done a quick introductory before you chose him out of the crowd.

"... been 'ere before, did I mention that?" The haze seems to lift a bit, life and spite returning to the eyes that only held intoxication across the table. "Back before there was an ownership change..."

"I remember a Hound being 'ere... before there was a rat."

"Ah." The green-eye narrows, you can picture the red one blazing, and the soothing, petting motion on your shoulder finally stills. "Do you now? Well, I don't know if you've heard the rumor..." Geyre snorts, cutting off the low drawl, but you barely hear, as your mind begins to ring with the new, yet already familiar empty phrase that's been circulating these last couple months.

'Heard the rumor... heard the rumor yet.... heard it...?'

"Vander scared the livin' shit outta all of us from the glory-days, even when he was goin' soft. S'only reason we stuck together, did what 'e said even when times got tough... Vander was a scary sonovabitch, even spooked me..." The intoxicated man, eyes already going hazy as he wraps a hand around the handle of the glass, manages out a biting remark of scorn before his words start slurring again, "So trust me on this... ya ain't no Vander."

The air goes still. Cut by the guzzling of another gulletful of ale, and you suddenly realize something:

It's been awfully quiet.

A pub, and a dance-floor, have gotten eerily quiet at the height of the evening, and you figure out why when you glance around your 'partner' and realize the club has been entirely cleared out. Save for the thugs that were signaled to earlier, and a dozen of their brethren watching with cool, awaiting faces. They look on with anticipation, a challange or doubt in their eyes at they watch the man beside you, and see what his response is going to be... Some look excited, and you glance up at the man sitting beside you to see why...

And he's smiling. Showing off a low grin full of cracked, slightly crooked teeth, and a tooth gap that should not be as endearing as it is, consitering the nature of that smile on his face...

He smiles like a cat that just caught a bird. Like a shark tasting blood.

He smiles like he just found something that just made his evening a bit more exciting, even if his voice is as low, and cheery as the grave as he draws out smoothly between his lips, "No, I'm afraid I am not... unfortunately, I am nothing like Vander."

It's halfway over before you realize it happened.

Warmth fades from your shoulder as the hand retracts from you, while the other hand lunges, and latches onto purchase on the hair of the condemned bastard from across the table, as he rises halfway to his feet to dig claws into hair at the speed of a viper.

The large, thick glass cup is held just comfortably below the man's face. So when your 'partner' tugs down sharply, slamming him face-down onto the table, the glass is caught between the wooden surface, and face.

It shatters on the heavy impact of a booze-heavy head, at the same time you hear several sickening cracks. It's akin to the time you watched a neighbor get his nose broken.

A brutal tug up on short locks of hair, and the blood-steaked, glass cut face of Geyre is brought back into view. Before it's thrown back down onto a table covered in glass shards and blood, another sickening sounds.

And again, as his face is slammed back down again.

And again.

Again.

And again-

When he's limp, red, and the large glass shards scattered everywhere on the surface are nearly reduced back to sand, does the man you called 'Sweetheart' lean back, settle down in his seat. Does another small scoff as he languishly brushes a hand on his vest, clean off any remaining grease he imagines soiling his hand.

Doesn't do anything about the smear of flung-blood left on his unmarred cheek, or staining the arms from where his sleeves are rolled up, as he turns and gazes at the assortment of his goons around the rest of the bar.

He raises a nonchalant brow, and your stunned mind realizes that this entire show... it was as much an act as yours was, when you threw your arms around him and called him 'sweetheart.'

His goons are now staring at him in approval, grim satisfaction and renewed respect, might as well have been a standing-ovation, though his cool expression never changes for a moment to show his pleasure.

"The Last Drop is our new base now. Home, if you want to be sentimental. Base of operations, base of work, and while it can be a base for pleasure, I expect filth like this," He gestures vaugely to the limp form of the man, lying too still on the table with blood steadily dripping off the side, and onto the ground below. "...to stay on the streets. Set an example. Show control, especially in our own house. And if you see something like this again... well. I assume you all know how to make sure no one ever sees it again."

He doesn't need to order the body - or the unconcious man, you realize with a jolt as you hear a broken groan - off the table. Two are already plucking it off, with an equally unnerved, but unsurprised bartender coming by to quickly begin to sweep the glass, wipe down the blood and make the incident disappear entirely.

Long fingers reach over, and take your chin. It's a loose grasp, one you can shake off.

You can't and he knows it, as he turns your head back to him so he could get a look at your face.

The green watches you impassively, while the red burns through you. A small purse of his lips as he gave a consitering him, reaching up delicately to pluck a bit of glass of your hair. As his hand retracts, that warm thumb that had been caressing your shoulder trails down your face, and catches the splattered speckles of blood on your cheek.

He smiles, again. It's different from the one he gave the doomed man, but you still feel like prey.

"So, sweetheart... what am I going to do with you?"

#if anyone wants to get me ANYTHING for my upcoming birthday #please get me a soundbite of Jason growling out 'sweetheart' #i would die + be reborn and also cherish it forever #and i would make you cookies #i make kickass cookies #arcane #silco #arcane silco #silco x reader #silco x gender neutral reader #arcane fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #pretend!verse #also i set it after act 1 so i have more excuses to stare longingly at Silco's act 1 attire #i'm not ashamed to admit it #i wanted an excuse