Everyone sat up and took fucking notice when Thanos’s daughter walked into the room, Grandmaster included, though he’d never have admitted it. “Wow, this is a surprise. Genuinely, I’m surprised. Aren’t you surprised, Scrapper 142?”
“Very,” 142 said. So this was Gamora. She didn’t look so tough. Arms like twigs, hair like she spent a hell of a lot of money on upkeep. She had a knapsack slung at her back and good posture—no hint of a bow or a scrape. It’d depend on the Grandmaster’s mood, whether that worked in her favor or against.
“I’ve brought an item for sale,” Gamora said.
The Grandmaster’s eyebrows rose. “Right, uh, right down to business. You know, I don’t usually do business, that’s kind of minion-level stuff—”
“It’s an orb,” Gamora said.
That meant fuck-all to 142. The Grandmaster cocked his head. “An orb? Do you mean like, just a generally round shape? That could be anything, honestly.”
Gamora opened her knapsack and pulled out a sphere, heavy-looking, its surface covered in filigree. That didn’t mean anything to 142, either, but the Grandmaster’s eyebrows had climbed right up into his hair. “Oh, my,” he said.
--
142 was perched on a stool, running a tab and keeping an eye out for someone to throw down with. She was antsy for a fight or a fuck or a bender, with no particular preference as to which, but she only had so much tab left to run, and there wasn’t a soul in the place she wanted to get even a little bit closer to, so a fight it was.
Then she walked into the space 142 was occupying, for the second time that day. Gamora. The crowd parted for her, once those nearest got a look at her. She took a stool two down from 142 with her knapsack still thrown over her shoulder. She looked just the same except for being 6.8 million units richer, holy fucking shit.
142 didn’t hang around the bar for socializing purposes unless it was likely to lead to one of the aforementioned three objectives. It felt like all three might be within reach right now. “You gonna buy us a drink?” 142 called. “Fates know you can afford it.”
Gamora slid her a disinterested glance and looked away again.
“A few million units she got off the Grandmaster today,” 142 said, pitching her voice to carry. “She’s gonna buy us all a round, Gamora herself, daughter—”
She didn’t get the last bit out, because she had Gamora’s hand over her mouth. “Be silent,” she said, in a tone that expected obedience.
Oh, it was on.
142 didn’t lose, which she’d almost expected, picking a fight with Gamora Thanosdottir. She didn’t win, either. She was still pummeling Gamora, who was sitting atop her and nearly squeezing the breath out of her with her thighs, when Old Sandhead showed up and threatened to stomp on them both if they didn’t leave her bar.
In fairness, the bar was in a bit of a shambles by that point. “I hear you’ve got money to pay for this?” Old Sandhead said to Gamora, in her voice like a quarry. “This one certainly hasn’t. Have you, Scrapper 142?”
142 smiled winningly. Old Sandhead looked less than won.
“Fine,” Gamora said, through gritted teeth. She sent 142 a poisonous look as she handed over her credit chit for the reckoning.
“I guess you’re taking off now,” 142 said.
“What do you care?”
142 shrugged. “You know what I like best after a good brawl?”
“What?” Gamora said, her voice flat with disinterest.
“Guess.” 142 raised her eyebrows, and then she gave Gamora a looking-over, in case the eyebrows failed to properly communicate her intentions. Who knew with someone who grew up under Thanos’s thumb. When she got back to Gamora’s face, she saw—well, recognition, at least, if not quite interest. That wouldn’t do. 142 tried that winning smile again. “We could start with drinks.” That would be a win/win in her book. “Old Sandhead’s got a bottle of Kill-Me-Not back there that probably won’t.”
“Won’t?”
“Kill us.”
Gamora considered her through narrowed eyes, and for a moment it seemed like 142’s smile had failed her for the second time in five minutes. Then, slowly, Gamora’s suspicion lightened into something more promising.
--
Gamora surveyed 142’s flat with distaste. “It’s better if you don’t look at it,” 142 said, rummaging for glasses. Gamora seemed the type who’d object to drinking whiskey from the bottle—for the first few drinks, anyway. “Kind of like the rest of this trash heap, you know? Sweaty crotch of the universe, that’s Sakaar.”
“Then why are you here?” Gamora asked.
“Hey,” 142 said sharply. “Didn’t ask you for here conversation.”
Gamora was looking at her now, which was worse. It was killing the mood, which meant the bottle of rum 142 had gotten into her before Gamora showed up had mostly burned off.
Fuck this glasses shit. 142 yanked the stopper out of the Kill-Me-Not and poured some down her throat.
Of course when she pulled off, Gamora was still looking at her, one eyebrow raised now, but 142 was busy fighting off a cough and didn’t mind so much. She held the bottle out to Gamora. Gamora took it and eyed the label for a moment, like she might actually give a shit about the warnings, and then, to 142’s dawning delight, she tipped her head back and took a swig.
“That’s—” A cough interrupted Gamora’s thought.
“Great, right?” 142 retrieved the bottle and took another swallow. Glasses were optional after all, looked like.
“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” Gamora said, but she looked a little less pinched now. 142 offered her the bottle again, and she took it readily enough. She looked good, taking that next swig—elegant, almost, which was not a mood that regularly graced 142’s flat.
142 sidled up close, telegraphing her movements, and palmed Gamora’s hip. She figured she had a fifty-fifty shot at another brawl, but Gamora only eyed her thoughtfully and set the bottle on 142’s countertop. There was a smirk at the corner of her mouth, and oh yes, that was another very good sign. 142 pressed right up against her and kissed her.
Gamora was a little stiff, which seemed about right. Again: raised by Thanos. But a little kissing, a little coaxing, and Gamora warmed to it, melted against 142, opened her mouth to 142’s kisses. She was smoky with the whiskey’s aftertaste and she’d put 142 in a headlock earlier, briefly; she was everything 142 had ever fucking wanted in a woman.
“Gonna get these off you,” 142 murmured, tugging at Gamora’s leathers. “You gonna let me eat you out?”
Gamora hummed thoughtfully, judgment reserved. 142 kissed her harder and found the zipper at the back of Gamora’s pants.
Gamora helped with the undressing. Good thing, because her ensemble made no fucking sense. What the fuck was wrong with clasps and buckles, like normal people used? 142 might have muttered something to that effect during the proceedings. Gamora might have retaliated by sliding her thigh between 142’s legs, which was a fucking great distraction as far as 142 was concerned.
But Gamora’s pants came off eventually, and 142 caught a glimpse of dark, mossy green. “Never fucked a Zebohari before,” 142 said, eyes fixed on that intriguing feature.
“Zehoberi,” Gamora corrected, but then she was busy gasping, because it turned out that wasn’t pubic hair, but more like—sensory filaments? Something with nerves, anyway, thick and a little spongy to the touch, and clearly very sensitive. 142 thumbed across them again just to feel Gamora’s shudder.
It didn’t take much coaxing to get Gamora on the bed, knees bent, ass scooted up to the edge so that she was within easy reach. 142 sank to her knees and admired the view: dense carpet of those little filaments, a pale sliver of clit showing between them. Below that, a cleft in silvery-green skin, glistening wet, oh yes.
But 142 had restraint, sometimes. 142 could work up to things, drink the bottle in three gulps instead of one. She could savor. She licked over the filaments, and Gamora moaned. That was worth repeating, so 142 did. They didn’t have much taste, just a faint tang of general bodily funk. They were springy under her tongue. Licking them made Gamora squirm, shimmying her hips on the bed, pushing herself into 142’s face.
Yeah, 142 was out of restraint. She slipped her tongue between Gamora’s shallow folds. She sucked at her clit, such a tender, fragile little organ, and Gamora made another involuntary noise against her.
Now, finally, at last: Gamora’s cunt, already slick. Already just how 142 wanted it. 142 kissed the opening, moistening her lips on Gamora’s juices, tasting them. She pressed her tongue into that slick hole, and Gamora moaned above her, against her.
She was delicious, was Gamora. Her flavor was thin, a little salty, warm. Living, leaking out onto 142’s tongue. The walls of 142’s flat receded, and Sakaar’s heaps of scrap were so far away they were on some other planet. Here 142 slicked her cheeks with Gamora, filled her mouth with her, teased such deep moans out of her that 142 could feel them against her face. She licked the wetness from Gamora’s green skin and plumbed Gamora’s depths with her tongue until Gamora’s legs trembled.
Gamora came with a sharp inhale and a fresh, thin trickle into 142’s mouth. 142 took it all, and then she licked Gamora clean, scrupulously, until Gamora sat up with a huff. “That’s good,” she said.
“I should hope so,” 142 said, grinning. Her face had to be shiny with slick, and the thought only made her grin wider.
Gamora blinked at her as if 142 were some kind of mystery. She shook her head. “I’ll do you?”
142 didn’t need much by that point. “Just your hand,” she said. She stripped off her pants and unclasped her armor. She knelt on the bed. Delicately, with a hand that had killed countless beings, Gamora palmed 142 through her undershirt. “That wasn’t really what I—”
Gamora twisted 142’s nipple. The pinch of pain shot right through 142’s cunt. “Yeah, okay,” 142 said, a little breathless, and Gamora smirked. Maybe she’d gotten some torture in along with all the murder, because she spent the next ten minutes tormenting 142, applying her attention to one nipple and then the other, until 142 had had enough. She grabbed at Gamora’s hand and put it where she wanted it, right between her legs. Gamora smirked some more, but she got with the program and let 142 rut against her hand until she came.
142 collapsed onto the bed and waited for her breath to come back. “See?” she gasped. “Wasn’t that worth hanging around for?”
“Perhaps,” Gamora said.
They hadn’t emptied that bottle yet. It was still on the countertop, though—much too far away. “You’ll take off tomorrow, I suppose. Go back to daddy.”
“No,” Gamora said.
When no more explanation came forth, 142 peeled an eye open. “No?”
“I’m not going back. Especially not now that I’ve sold his orb off to the highest bidder.”
142 propped herself up on her elbow. “You did what.”
Gamora shrugged. It was not entirely a casual motion. “I wanted to get away.”
“Sakaar’s good for that,” 142 said, without knowing she was going to. “Shit for most things, but good for that.”
“Are you suggesting I stay?”
142’s shrug maybe wasn’t entirely casual, either. “Might as well stop awhile. There’s good money in scrapping—not that you’d care about that, Ms. 6.8 Million Units. And good whiskey.”
“Well, I am trying new things,” Gamora said.
It took 142 a moment to catch on that she was one of those things. How new, she wondered. Which part? Maybe a question she’d get an answer to later. “There you go then. At least stay out the week. The Grandmaster has a new contender in the ring. Might be a champion. Should be a good fight.”
“Perhaps,” Gamora said, in a tone that 142 was pretty sure meant yes. “Perhaps.”
END