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the-lonelybarricade · 1 month ago

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Queen of Thieves - Chapter 9

Summary: A fulfillment of this kinkmeme prompt. Or: A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

Happy New Year!

Read on AO3・QoT Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

Two hours.

It was barely any time at all.

And that was assuming the High Lord didn't cut his meeting short out of sheer impatience.

Feyre sprinted back to the apartment, gritting her teeth against the protests of her aching body. She was sore everywhere, and each slapping step against the cobblestone seemed to lodge a new pain forward—a kink in her neck, a stab in her abdomen, a sharp twinge between her legs. The stone was smooth beneath her feet, but in her mind she pictured she was running over fractured glass, where every stride revealed a new reflection of the ways the High Lord had touched her. Claimed her.

As fast as she pushed her legs, she couldn't outrun the memories. Her mind was fixed on Rhysand's expression in that final, scorching look he'd given before he'd left. Rest. You'll need it when I'm back.

She'd been starving enough times in her life to recognize that kind of hunger. Unfulfilled, it was dangerous. Unpredictable. Her stomach swooped at the thought of what he might do when he returned to see she was gone. Would he check to see if she'd taken anything? Had she remembered to shut his bedside drawer?

Around her, High Fae meandered the pale stone streets, dressed in long coats to ward off the crisp air. During this time of year, when Velaris straddled autumn and winter, it was always the wind that had the final say in the weather. Today, it blew in from the east, carrying the cold of the Illyrian Steppes with it.

Nights were warmer when the wind blew in from the west. Feyre had spent many winter mornings praying that the winds would carry warmer weather, but on this night she was grateful. Even as the air gnawed at her nose and fingertips, she considered it a good omen.

Feyre ran faster. Until her throat was bloodied and her muscles screamed. City-goers scrambled out of her way, some shooting her filthy looks that became blurs of color as she darted past.

Her sisters were already waiting outside the confectionery, their bags packed, eyes scanning the streets. Nesta visibly relaxed when she saw Feyre coming.

"You're late."

Nesta's tone, accompanied by her withering stare, was sharp enough to cut a grown male to their knees. Feyre had seen it happen enough times during their years in the tavern. Even when they were swaying on their feet, the drunken males knew almost instinctively to give Nesta, and Elain by proximity, a wide berth.

The death stare had long lost its luster on Feyre, however. She knew her sister, and though Nesta fought to keep her body rigid, her eyes still darted warily over Feyre's shoulder—checking to see if anyone was following.

"I know." Feyre winced. "I had to add extra time to our bargain."

"Why?" Nesta demanded, extending Feyre's bag as she skidded to a halt in front of them. "Did he suspect something?"

Before Feyre could say anything, Nesta's eyes narrowed on her throat. Feyre didn't have to look down to confirm what her sister noticed. Though she'd stolen one of the High Lord's coats to cover the love-bites on her exposed shoulders and stomach, there wasn't much she could do to hide the marks on her neck.

Rhysand was nothing if not thorough.

"No," Feyre said, feigning indifference as she took the bag from Nesta and slung it over her shoulder.

"You're certain?" Nesta pressed.

As clearly as if she was standing before his portrait, Feyre could picture the High Lord the way the rumors painted him. The way her sisters imagined him. Some dark, imposing figure with stern features and a power honed to near-omnipotence. Outwitting an opponent like that felt impossible.

But she felt that she could smear her thumb over that image to find a second, softer portrait beneath. One that offered a hesitant smile and sounded sincere when he told her, I'd like for you to stay. He'd left her in that bedroom expecting—or perhaps, simply hoping—she would be there when he returned. That wasn't the kind of vulnerability a person would show to a suspected thief.

She felt a pang of guilt pinching her chest, which worsened as she reflected on the moments she swore she'd caught him looking at her with genuine fondness. But fondness didn't equate to much, in the scheme of things. Feyre had seen the Tavernkeeper affectionately pat the hides of pigs before he butchered them in the kitchen and served them for dinner.

It was better this way. There wasn't room for someone like Feyre in a High Lord's life. Not for anything larger than being his novel plaything—a diversion to soothe his unchecked boredom and dust off a treasury too large to fathom.

It was painful to share those thoughts out loud, though. More painful, still, to examine why.

Feyre only nodded.

"Good." Nesta fastened her own pack across her shoulder, tight enough to stay secure if they needed to run. "Then let's get out of the city before he realizes."

Feyre glanced at Elain, who clutched her small satchel close and offered a determined nod of agreement. It was almost pathetic how easy it was to pack up their lives. Anything they had of value fit into one bag each, and it wasn't much. A few new sets of clothes, which would come in handy for the journey, and a handful of sentimental trinkets. What few of them they hadn't pawned off for coin.

"You're certain you don't want to bring your cards?" Elain asked, glancing towards the window above, where Feyre had left them when she'd packed her things the day before.

Feyre shook her head. "I'm certain."

Rhysand would find them when he undoubtedly came looking. They were worthless, and would probably be trivial to him, but she couldn't resist that final way of saying goodbye. To the High Lord, and to a life she'd never truly asked for.

Wherever she ended up after this, Feyre didn't want to be known as a witch or a thief. She wanted a fresh start, and had two diamond cuffs around her wrists that would help her get there.

"Let's go," she said, guiding them back into the crowd.

They didn't run. It wasn't worth the attention it would draw. But their pace was quick, sufficient in roughening their breathing by the time they reached the boathouse.

It was run-down, like many buildings along the docks. The green-stained, mossy overgrowth on the stones caused most onlooker attention to glaze right over the entrance, despite its attractive spires and archways. Though big enough to house one of the cargo ships docked outside the harbor, at present the structure was filled with small utility boats, flipped upside down with oars strapped to their sides. One such boat was floating in the small bay of water in the center of the boathouse, tied up beside a ladder.

Feyre frowned, searching through the dark, dripping space for its owner.

Behind her, Elain yelped.

Before Feyre could react, a gloved hand reached out through the shadows, snapping Feyre around the wrist.

"Did you bring it?"

The quiet cold of that voice licked down her spine.

She shook his grip away, whirling to glare at the sliver of High Fae features visible through the mask and hood. He kept to the darkness, which swelled over him like a cresting wave. Through it, she spied narrowed hazel eyes, framed by thick, dark lashes. Black hair curled against his forehead under the hood, though he quickly lowered his face when he saw her looking, preventing Feyre from studying him any closer.

Still, he was familiar. In a way that made her stomach churn.

"Here," she said, retrieving the velvet box from her pocket to extend it towards him. "It deserves to be buried with your wife."

It was like blinking, how quickly he moved. One second, the box was in her palm, and the next it was gone, swallowed by shadow.

"Thank you."

He didn't sound moved. Not in the way she would expect from the sob story she was given. And he didn't check the ring, either, to make sure she'd found the right one.

An oily feeling settled over her. She'd suspected it was a lie from the moment he'd told her the story. But what did she care why he needed the ring? What mattered was that he held up his end of the promise—and that was part of an unbreakable bargain.

She looked at him expectantly. "And the ship?"

The male nodded towards the front of the boathouse, where it opened to the sea. Docked beyond the harbor, she could see the mast of a great ship, nearly as large the merchant vessels her father used to sail. Its mainsail was furled tightly in the mast, waiting to be loosed and filled with the Illyrian winds that would send it westward.

"That one's set to embark in the hour. The captain promised discretion for a steep fee. You three get to stay in the hold for any inspections."

"Great," Nesta said dryly.

Feyre ignored her. It was going to be a long journey, even with the winds at their advantage.

"Thank you," she told the masked male.

He only shrugged, gesturing toward the small tied up boat. "Better get rowing."

They'd made it all of three steps before he called out to her.

"I'm curious. How did you manage to take this from him?"

Feyre paused. She turned back to the male, studying what limited features she could see through the thicket of shadow. "How did you know it would be in his bedside drawer?"

"Lucky guess."

"Feyre," Nesta warned, pulling at her elbow. "Let's go."

But she couldn't. The compulsion for knowing was too strong, and before she could check herself, she was already drawing the bowstring of her mental arrow and spearing it towards the stranger, one after the other.

Tell me who you are.

Tell me what you know.

Tell me if you're going to hurt him.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. Like firing shots into a metal post, each pulse of her magic repelled off the surface of his mind, unable to find a hold.

All fae had an innate mental shield. Some possessed stronger shields than others, depending on a person's power and species and, she suspected, intelligence. But she'd never encountered a shield she couldn't penetrate with a little bit of force.

Until she'd met Rhysand.

The masked fae held her stare, his eyes brighter than they'd been moments ago, as if amused. "I've answered your question. Now answer mine."

She had a feeling if she yanked down the mask, she'd find the makings of a dangerous smile.

They needed to leave. Now. Rhys would be finished with his meeting soon, and she didn't want to risk being halfway between the shore and the ship when he came looking. She also had a curdling suspicion the male in front of her would be selling them out the second they left the shore.

Feyre angled her head in feigned innocence. "Would you believe he gave it to me out of the kindness of his heart?"

"Maybe if you'd asked for it nicely, Feyre."

It wasn't the masked male who spoke. This voice was richer, smoother. Like a cup of melted chocolate. The sound of it turned her blood to ice.

"Though, I'm sure I don't need to remind you that stealing from a High Lord is a capital offense."

Her heart was a tempest, thundering against her chest. Part of her was too petrified to look over her shoulder to confirm who she already knew was standing there. Instead, Ferye looked to her sisters, validating the worst of her fears in their expressions alone. Elain was staring toward the front of the boathouse in unmasked horror. And Nesta—fierce, unruly Nesta—stared with an expression of unflinching stone, hard enough to endure the sharpest blade.

It was her eldest sister's courage that gave Feyre the strength to look.

Her eyes met cold, blackened violet. Just like the day she'd met him, the day she'd witnessed the type of punishment he doled to those who dared steal from him, she could feel his anger radiating, plummeting the temperature of the boathouse. She could see her next breath peel from her lips. It was potentially her last.

Pinned by that gaze, Feyre's mind went spinning at breakneck speeds, mentally sorting through every fraction of knowledge that could help her recalculate their plan:

She knew the Archerons were fighters. Even Elain. Especially Elain. If Feyre took a stand, they would fight beside her to their own detriment, clawing and thrashing until the bitter end;

Rhysand was a proud male, and she'd wounded his ego twice over by stealing from him and snubbing the chance to warm his bed;

And if they tried to run, there was no chance that all three of them were escaping.

So she made a snap decision, the same kind that brought her into this mess in the first place.

She stepped closer to Rhysand, placing herself deliberately between him and her sisters.

Unlike the masked male—who had vanished at the High Lord's arrival—Rhysand didn't shy from the light. He stepped into the sun shaft pouring in from the front of the boathouse, basking in it. Demanding she look upon him to answer for what she'd done. Feyre couldn't help but marvel how someone could be flooded in sunlight and seem colder for it. Like the warmth and brightness emphasized all of his darker elements, his hair and clothes a black contrast against the glowing sky.

"Stealing?" Feyre echoed. "I'm not sure what you mean, High Lord. How can it be stealing if it never belonged to you in the first place?"

"Is that what you were told?"

Rhysand's gaze shifted toward the wall where the masked man had been standing. The fact that Rhys wasn't chasing after him lent merit to her suspicion that this had all been an elaborate trap.

Feyre crossed her arms. "I was told," she said, subtly maneuvering her fingers towards the clasp of her bracelets. "That the High Lord once stole a female from her home. That the ring in that box was once her wedding ring. And you kept it when she died."

"All true, I suppose."

The amusement in his voice sickened her.

"So that really was her husband?" She demanded. "You truly refused to give it back to him?"

Rhys barked a laugh. "Now that, Feyre, is where I feared you've been lied to."

It didn't matter what the truth was. The diamond bracelets were loosened around her wrist. She quickly shoved them behind her back, directing one to Elain and the other to Nesta.

Take them, she urged in their minds. And run. Don't stay together, you'll be easier to catch.

Feyre's hope was that Rhys would focus solely on her, and that by the time he remembered they existed, they'd already be gone.

On my signal, she told them.

"Was this all something you orchestrated?" She asked him. "Some sort of test of loyalty?"

"I suspected there was a reason behind your sudden change in heart. But no, Feyre, I didn't plan for you to steal from me and—what was your plan, exactly? Get on that little row boat and go where?"

Feyre shrugged. "Anywhere but here."

Rhysand's lips pulled back at that answer, flashing his teeth. The blatant display of anger shocked her—even with the sailors, he'd kept his expression neutral. Indifferent. He had to be in a truly terrific mood to let his emotions show this much.

Feyre would ponder at it later, how her dislike of Velaris had coaxed such a strong reaction from him. Did he really think his precious city was so perfect that no one would ever want to leave? Or was it simply one insult too many for a High Lord's supreme, immortal patience?

Either way, she saw her opening.

Go, she urged her sisters.

That was the only prompting needed. Each of them took off in separate directions. Feyre cut the path closest Rhys, hoping he would take the bait and dismiss Nesta and Elain entirely.

As she darted past, a talon scraped her mind, trying to find a hook.

Don't run from me, Rhys cautioned. It will only make me excited for the chase.

Feyre scoffed. Don't you have better things to do?

I did. Imagine my surprise when I came home and found those 'better things' had run off with one of my precious belongings.

He was trying to distract her, but he could try all he liked. Feyre knew these streets. She could trace them in the dark because she had, more nights than she could count. When the attic was too cramped and the tavern was too raucous, she'd walk along the docks and listen to the ocean slap against the harbor.

Rhysand might have been High Lord, this might have been his city. But he wasn't raised by it.

Wooden boards creaked and groaned under her feet as she sped to the other end of the boathouse, hoping he would follow her out and give chase through the harbor. With the sun settling behind the horizon, the fishermen would be coming in to peddle the day's catch. It would be crowded enough to lose him.

There were no thunderous footsteps at her back, causing her to wonder if he was even following, or if she looked half-mad dodging barrels and leaping over fishing nets for the fun of it.

She didn't slow until she'd elbowed her way into the center of the fish market. A glance over her shoulder didn't show any sign of him, only errant market goers balancing baskets on their arms and fishermen carting barrels of their latest catch, some of the fish still twitching.

If would be a fitting end for Rhys to catch her here. When he was done, he could toss her atop one of the barrels and she would blend right in among those hollow eyes and gaping mouths.

That was, if he even bothered chasing her. If he didn't choose to pursue her sisters instead, thinking they were the easier prey and knowing Feyre would trade anything for their well-being.

Because she needed to know that they were safe, she cast her magic in a wide net, hoping he would hear her taunt.

Won't your people think it's strange to see you chasing someone through the street?

Only if they notice, came his immediate response. Try not to make a scene, will you? Bad press for the both of us.

It was impossible to gauge his distance. In their minds, he sounded close, like he was whispering in Feyre's ear, but she was being vigilant in keeping her head on a swivel. She knew he wasn't anywhere in eyesight.

Feyre edged her way to the end of the dock. She could veer off here, take one of the alleyways back into the city center, but that was where Rhys would be expecting her to go. It would be a quieter place for a confrontation, less likely to end up in the papers.

But it was either that, or double back the direction she'd come.

Or… she could swim.

If he wasted enough time scouting the docks and alleyways, she could probably get decently far. Make camp on a quiet shore, then regroup with her sisters and catch a ship out in the morning.

Feyre took one last cursory glance around the marketplace, searching for violet eyes or a general whiff of self-inflated arrogance. When she was certain he wasn't here, she took a deep breath and dived into the ocean.

All at once, the chatter of the market went silent.

She always appreciated that about the ocean. The calm. All she could hear were the air bubbles whooshing from her nose and the rhythmic strike of the waves lapping at the harbor. Everything moved slower underwater, floating so delicately, so compliant to the will of the current.

Feyre had never been very good at letting something else take control. She wondered if it would be peaceful, the way the seaweed rippled to and fro at the ocean bed. Or like the buoy, oscillating slowly with the tide, content in its role of directing mariners in and out of the harbor.

There was something in her, and it was no small part, that longed to stop. To float. To see where the current would take her, so that the weight of survival could rest on something else for a change. But then she thought of those dead-eyed fish in the marketplace. And she started swimming against the current.

She stayed under water as long as she could, until her lungs began to squeeze, demanding she surface for air. She fought that, too, until her throat was on fire and black spots plagued her vision.

Only then, did she swim to the surface, gasping for air and praying she was far enough not to be spotted from the docks. The chatter of the market was dulled to a distant hum, replaced by the squawking gulls overhead. Their shadows swooped past as they scouted for food.

Having a nice swim, darling?

She gasped, whipping her head back towards the docks. It was too far away to make out any person in detail. Could he really see her at that distance?

Do be careful. You can never be too certain what's lurking below the surface.

A dark shape swooped down overhead. One of the gulls, she thought at first, diving for a fish.

She didn't remember that the High Lord Had wings, and that those wings could fly, until she realized the shadow was becoming much too large for a bird. And when she looked up, she saw large, membranous wings and the face of an avenging angel, come to deliver the wrath of the gods.

Panicked, Feyre was about to duck her head back under the surface when a cold, icy touch slithered around her ankle and yanked, dragging her under with an abrupt shriek. Water flooded her mouth and nose, gagging her as she went down, down, down.

Let go of me! She thought, clawing above her head to resist the pull, thrashing her feet to try to break loose.

Me? Rhysand's croon held an air of derision. I'm not touching you, Feyre.

Magic counts.

You should be more careful with your words then. How else am I meant to take them at their true value?

Feyre curled back her lips, baring her teeth into the vast darkness. So this is how you intend to punish me then? Drowning?

There were worse ways to die, she supposed. Better ways, too.

Her lungs were starting to burn, seizing as if constricted by a flaming fist. Black spots dotted her vision, blending with the dark water so seamlessly that at first she didn't notice the rippling darkness.

Not until the High Lord formed from the shadows, violet eyes glowing in the dim light. His smile was cruel as he watched her helpless writhing.

Punishment? Rhys thumbed her chin, drifting closer until their lips were inches apart. Not necessarily. How this goes is up to you.

Feyre would blame her disoriented mind on the lack of breath. It was making her dizzy and vulnerable to absurd thinking, like how warm his body would be if she pressed closer. If these were her last, precious seconds, they might as well be pleasant.

She arched into him, thoughtless, impulsive. A procession of bubbles escaped Rhysand's lips in what she imagined to be mocking laughter as he pulled away. Denying her in her final moments.

Not until you make your choice, he said.

Her eyelids were becoming so heavy. She shut them, reveling in the brief reprieve from the sting of saltwater.

Rhys's fingers tightened on her chin, squeezing until she opened her eyes again. Focus.

What? She snapped.

I'm offering a trade. You can drown and join the other thieves at the bottom of the Mother's Cauldron. Or, I'll provide my help and winnow you to the surface.

Help? At least her mind was sound enough to recognize what a ridiculous notion that was. You're the one drowning me.

You're facing the consequences of your own poor judgment. He corrected. But I'll pardon your crime, in exchange for your service.

Feyre focused on the stone grip he held at her chin, channeling the dregs of her fading energy to keep her eyes open, fixed on the unyielding violet before her. Darkness danced in the corners of her vision, but she couldn't be certain if that was Rhysand's magic or her waning senses.

A life debt. That's what he was asking for.

Would he truly kill her if she denied him?

Her lungs were panicking now, thudding against their cage for the sweet release of air. She clenched her teeth, fighting against ancient instinct that begged her to breathe. To ease the sharp, excruciating burn coiling through her throat.

Rhys stroked her cheek. Softly. The way he'd touched her in the early hours of the morning, when the lust and hunger were finally sated and all that was left was the sweet, aching sensation of warmth. Skin against skin. A pulse beneath her lips, a beating chest beneath her fingertips.

Did he remember those gentle moments as he looked into her eyes?

What will it be, Feyre darling? He asked, in that same voice he'd used to whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

Go to Hell.

Pity, Rhys mused, brushing his thumb along her lower lip. You could be destined for so much more. And you'll trade it all away for your pride.

Feyre knew better. There was no escaping a life debt. With such ill-defined terms, she'd be agreeing to be little more than his slave. Her will, her life, her desires, no longer relevant. She would feel the restraint of that bond for the rest of her life.

At least in Death, she would still belong to herself.

Her resignation must have been obvious, because Rhysand's mask of arrogance faltered. As her vision blurred, she felt those intense eyes studying her, weighing if this was a bluff.

I never expected to see defeat in your eyes, Feyre Archeron.

Giving in to you would be the defeat, she countered.

There was something pensive in the way he lowered his mouth to hers, murmuring, Are you certain?

This was not how Feyre imagined Death.

There were plenty of moments where she'd been hungry enough and cold enough and defeated enough to think it would finally win, but she always managed to evade its covetous touch. She thought it would be cold. The bitter frost of winter, ensnaring her the moment her guard was down, grinning as she wilted and rotted beneath its inescapable grasp.

But this—this was a sweet, soft surrender.

The burning in her lungs wasn't pleasant, but the pain ebbed when Rhysand's lips met hers, parting slowly. She opened for him, knowing it was her last breath and using it in spite of herself.

Her fingers slid into his hair, their soft waves floating and merging with the water. Easy to slip her fingers into and hold onto something for the last time.

She wasn't aware her magic reached for his until his mind parted, and it was like diving into the ocean anew. Somewhere deeper, darker, quieter.

Peaceful.

Feyre shut her eyes, floating in the warm darkness, letting it caress and soothe every fear, every pain.

A voice asked, strained, Is this really what you choose?

Just hold me until it's over, she said.

There was no response, save for the darkness that curled around her, letting her drift in the cradle of its warmth until that, too, slipped away into nothingness.

#Queen of Thieves #QOT #Feysand #Feysand fanfiction #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Rhys x Feyre

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vodika-vibes · 6 months ago

Note

congrats on 650 followers!!! i would like to please request a romantic fairytale AU with wolffe (i know not requesting wrecker is such a surprise from me lol)? i was thinking of a sleeping beauty type fairytale specifically. no rush for this and again congrats on 650 followers!!!✨✨

Trapped

Summary: The old palace has been surrounded by, apparently magic, thorns for as long as you can remember. No one has been in the palace in your lifetime. In fact, no one you know remembers the last time the palace was open. You plan to open the palace, and nothing will stop you.

Pairing: Pre Commander Wolffe x F! Reader

Word Count: 2885

Prompt: Sleeping Beauty AU

Warnings: Swearing

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly @kimiheartblade @mire-draws-things

A/N: So, this isn't quite as romantic as, maybe, you were hoping. But I hope you still like it! Sleeping Beauty has a very specific storyline that never quite felt romantic to me, lol.

“It’s not going to work,”

“Not with that attitude it isn’t,” You counter as you open the military case and scan the bottles inside.

Good, they’re all there.

Seven bottles of bottled fire. More commonly known as White Phosphorus.

“You run the risk of burning the whole palace down,” Eri says sharply, even as he hands you your harness and pouch belt.

You roll your eyes, close the case with a snap, and take the items he’s handing you, “We’ve been over this. I’ll need two bottles to make an opening in the vines big enough to slide through. And then I’ll need another two to get out. The remaining three are just in case I run into vines inside the palace.”

“Yeah, but—”

You straighten and round on your best friend, “We’ve done the experiments. We know that the vines will grow back faster than all of them can burn. That’s why we’re using bottled fire.”

He sighs and pushes his hand through his hair, “Walk me through it again? Why are we doing this?”

“Uh, because we have no money and no one will hire us and we’re about to starve.” You shoot back as you strap the belt around your waist and then grab the harness and pull it on.

The only way to get to the palace, and through the vines that coat the walls, is to use a zipline from a nearby building. The harness is for your safety and will be left behind at the zipline once you’re over the wall.

“And who’s fault is that?”

“Yours. You’re the well-known con-artist.”

Eri leans back, “Oh. Yeah.” He pauses and then sighs, “What if there’s nothing in the palace to take?” He asks. “I mean, it’s been hundreds of years.”

“Then we starve. It’s really not that hard.” Once you have the harness on, Eri helps you strap the case to your lower back, and he checks to make sure that everything is secure on your body.

“This is risky,” He murmurs, “No one knows what caused the vines in the first place, and we won’t be able to contact each other once you’re on the other side of the wall.”

You sigh and turn to Eri, “Look. This is what we were hired to do. Our client is going to pay us a couple of million credits if we get them anything from inside the palace. That’s enough for us to move away, start a new life somewhere.”

Eri sighs once more, “I know, I know.” He takes a step back and holds an empty canvas bag out to you, “Just…be careful. There aren’t many of us left.”

You make a face. He’s not wrong.

Once upon a time, you and Eri were members of a 20-person crew. Men and women who walked on the other side of the law. Thieves, hackers, safe-crackers, forgers, hitmen, assassins—your crew had all of them. The best of the best, professionals who all worked under the same man, your boss.

However, after the government shifted, becoming more militant and less democratic, it became harder for the crew to survive in this country.

Of the 20-person crew…only you and Eri are still alive.

You, a master thief, and Eri, one of the planet’s greatest con-men.

If you get caught breaking into the palace, it’s an automatic death sentence. For you and Eri. Which, really, explains his anxiety.

But at this point, it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation. If you don’t do this one job, you and Eri will be kicked out of your home and starve to death. If you do this and get caught, you and Eri will be killed by firing squad.

Your only chance is to do this and hope, against all hope, that no one catches you.

No pressure, right?

You roll your shoulders and shove all of your anxiety into the small box where you shove all of your negative thoughts, and then clap your hands. “Alright. I think I’m about as ready as I’m going to get.”

“Then let’s get to work,” Eri replies with a small grin, excitement washing away his anxiety.

The building the pair of you are in has been condemned due to water damage. No one lives or works here anymore, as the building isn’t safe.

It’s also the only building that will allow you to get over the walls without running into any of the vines.

Quickly, you follow Eri up the stairs and onto the roof. He leads you over to the zipline that’s connected to an open spot on the palace walls.

You pull your gloves on, grab the hand trolley, and jump up to attach it to the wire. Eri grabs your hips to keep you from going before you’re ready.

“See you on the other side,” He says with a nervous grin.

“Goddess willing,” You agree, “Give me a push.” You feel him tighten his grip, and then he starts running. Eri releases you as soon as he reaches the edge of the roof, and you pull your knees up to go faster.

You have to pull yourself up a little higher as you pass over the wall, and then you drop to the ground next to the palace. You appear to be in the garden…or what was once a garden, perhaps.

It looks like there are spots where flowerbeds once laid, though time, weather, and magic have turned what was, most likely, a beautiful garden, into a desolate waste.

Pity. Flowers would get you a good price on the black market these days.

You strip the harness off and toss it on the ground next to the hand trolley, then you pull the case off your back and slide the seven small vials into one of the pouches on your belt.

Then you pull a map out of another pocket and you scan it thoughtfully.

If this is the garden, the entrance to the old wine cellar is—

You turn your attention away from the map, looking to the left, and then to the right.

Ah, there it is!

You fold the map and slip it back into your pocket, and then you jog over to where you know the old wine cellar door is located.

As you thought, it’s covered in thick vines.

Ugh, they’re slimy. Gross.

You pull two vials out of a pouch, make sure your goggles are secure over your eyes, and then throw the vials at the vines.

There’s the sound of glass breaking and the familiar woosh of a fire igniting, and you squint at the flames.

They’re spreading slowly. Far too slowly, but slowly an opening appears in the vines, revealing the rotten wine cellar door.

Quickly, before the vines can grow back, and before the fire goes out, you kick the rotten door in and allow yourself to fall into the dark cellar. As soon as you’re down the stairs, the light from the outside fades completely as the vines grow over the opening.

“Right…magic evil vines.” You pull a flashlight out of your pocket and turn it on.

Now that you’re inside, you’re flying blind. There aren’t any maps of the inside of the palace. Done, presumably, to protect the royal family who lived here.

However, logic dictates that anything of value will be located somewhere else. Perhaps in the living quarters?

The wine cellar is filled with wine. You wouldn’t call yourself a wine connoisseur, however, you wouldn’t bet that this wine is worth anything. Even the oldest bottles wouldn’t earn you a single credit.

That’s the thing about magic, it ruins everything.

You sweep the light from the flashlight around the room, and your eyebrows creep up in surprise. It looks like the vines are only on the outside of the palace, as there aren’t any inside.

“Curious.” You say to the empty room, and then you start walking.

You go up the stairs and find yourself in a hallway that had probably been grand at one point in time. Old tapestries are ripped and moth-eaten, and family portraits look to be crumbling into dust.

Although, one of the pictures looks to be in good shape so you walk over to it and shine your light on the image. And then you tilt your head.

“Huh. That must be the king and his sons.” You murmur, “Weird…the king almost looks like Mister Fett.” In fact, the only real difference is that Mister Fett, your employer, keeps his hair short.

“Trippy.” You say to the painting, and then you move on. You need to find something a little more solid to bring back to Mister Fett. Jewelry, maybe, or perhaps silverware?

You open a door…well, you touch a door and it nearly falls on you, and find a staircase.

“Ooh. Where does this go?” You really need to stop talking to yourself.

You go up the stairs, as high as you can, and find yourself in a pitch-black hallway. Everything inside you is screaming to go back downstairs, that there’s something wrong and evil here, but common sense has never been your superpower, so you steel yourself and step into the dark hallway.

Even with your flashlight on the highest setting, it barely cuts through the dark of the hallway, and you find yourself throwing open the first door you come to, just to get out of the oppressive hallway.

And then you have to clamp your hand over your mouth to muffle your scream. As you fall to the ground in surprise.

There’s a person. A man. He’s stretched out on the bed, still as a corpse.

It’s been hundreds of years. He should be bones…if even that much.

Slowly, you crawl across the half-rotten carpet until you reach the bedside. Now that you’re closer, you can tell that he’s one of the boys from the portrait downstairs. And, now that you're closer, you can see that he’s breathing.

“Holy shit.” You whisper as you scramble to your feet and place your hands on his chest. You shake him roughly, “Hey! Hey! You need to wake up!”

The man exhales and then stops.

Panic washes through you, and you scramble to kneel on the bed next to him. You’re not supposed to do CPR on soft surfaces, but you don’t think you could move him if you wanted to, so you fold your hands on his chest and start compressions.

You do the thirty chest compressions, and then lean in to give him two breaths, before you adjust your weight to do more chest compressions.

But before you can start your second round of chest compressions, the man coughs and groans, and his eyes flutter open. He has one brown eye and one grey one, though it quickly becomes clear that his grey eye is a prosthetic of some sort.

“Ah! You’re not dead!” You exclaim cheerfully.

“Not yet,” He replies, his voice raspy, likely from disuse. Slowly he sits up and you topple off of the bed with a pained oof. He watches you, almost impassively, and he arches a single brow, “You…do not work for my family.”

“Uh…no.”

“Who are you?”

You hold up both of your hands, “No one special, really. Who are you?”

He swings his legs off the bed, and then shoots you an odd look, “My name is Wolffe. I’m the Second Prince.”

“Uh…nice to meet you…your highness?”

He chuckles, “Just Wolffe is fine.” There’s silence for a moment, “Why’s it so dark?”

“Oh, that would be the magic vines wrapped around the palace.” You reply, “They’ve been here for…hundreds of years? No one remembers when they first appeared, actually.”

Wolffe stares at you, and you shift uncomfortably, “If these vines are covering the whole palace, how did you get in?”

“Oh, I used…” You pull a vial out, “My employer gave me seven vials. I had to use two to get in.”

“Your employer?”

“Oh, well. I was hired to recover something from inside the palace.”

“What?”

“Anything that I thought would transport well.” You admit with a shrug.

He narrows his eyes at you, “So, you’re a thief.”

“I really prefer the term recovery specialist—” You start, only to squeak when he grabs you by the collar and pulls you so that you’re face to face with him.

“And why should I allow a thief to steal anything that belongs to me.”

“Ah…well…because I saved your life?”

He stares at you hard, and then releases you, “You raise a fair point, I suppose.” Wolffe narrows his eyes at you, “You’re a woman?”

“...how in the name of all that’s holy did you—?”

“I looked down your shirt.”

“...I should have let you die.” You say flatly.

“I didn’t do it intentionally.” Wolffe counters with a roll of his eyes.

“That’s no excu—” You stop midsentence when a shriek, unholy and hair-raising, echoes through the palace. Your head snaps to the hallway, and then, when you hear the sound of metal dragging against leather, your head snaps to Wolffe, who’s now holding a sword. “Where did you get—?”

“You didn’t deal with the creature?” He demands.

“What creature?” You demand right back.

Wolffe grabs you and flings you behind him as the door bursts open and something enters the room.

Even later, you would never be able to describe what this creature looked like. All you would remember is the eyes, the acid, and the claws.

Wolffe tackles you out of the way as the creature lunges at the pair of you, and he half drags you out of the room and into the oppressive hallway. “Stay close.” He orders as he takes your hand and starts running, “How’d you get in?”

“Wine cellar.” You answer, as you sprint after him.

“Too far,” He throws open a door and shoves you into a closet before he joins you and slams the door shut.

“Great, you just trapped us in a closet.” You hiss at him.

He rolls his eyes, expressively, and ushers you to the back wall, where he opens a wall panel and reveals a small lift. “Get it, it’ll carry both of us to the kitchen.”

“Um…” You doubtfully eye the ancient machine, but before you can argue properly, he climbs into the box, and then pulls you in after him, settling you on his lap.

Wolffe shuts the door, and adjusts you slightly, his arms secure around your waist, “The rope in front of you,” He says, his breath hot against your ear, “Grap the one farthest away and pull on it.”

“Uh…right.” Clumsily, you do as he asks, and the small lift starts lowering.

“Well done.” He praises, “Sorry that you’re not going to get anything from inside the palace though.”

You make a face, “Well, it was a long shot anyway.”

There’s a thump as the lift comes to a stop and Wolffe pulls the door open. He glances around for a moment, and then pulls you out of the lift with him, effortlessly manhandling you as if you weigh nothing.

It should be twice as annoying and half as attractive as it is.

“There, the side door.” Wolffe pulls you over to the door and rips the door open onto to come face to the vine, “Fuck.”

“I warned you.” You say as you pull three of the vials out of your pouch, pull him back, and then throw the vials at the vines.

The opening that the fire makes is big enough for both you and Wolffe to escape, and you quickly pull him out of the palace before the vines reclaim the building for their own.

“My zipline is over in the gardens,” You say as the vines snap back into place, “If we��re lucky, we’ll get out and no one will be the wiser that we were here in the first place.”

“And if we’re not lucky?”

“Ah…we die.”

“...lovely.”

“Well, welcome to the future, your highness.”

He laughs quietly, and you flash a small grin at him. Wolffe opens his mouth to say something, only for the inhuman wail from the creature inside the palace to echo across the grounds.

You look up just as a wall explodes outwards and the creature flings itself over the wall and into the city proper.

“I think the creature escaped.”

“Is that our fault?” You ask.

“It would have happened eventually, I think.” Wolffe tries to reassure, “But we need to go. Now.”

“Right. Right! This way,” You take his hand to pull him towards the garden, only for him to pull you back and press a quick kiss to your forehead, “...what was that for?”

He just grins at you, “You saved my life, which makes me your problem now.”

“Wait, that isn’t how it works—”

“It is for me, come on. Let’s get out of here.”

You huff out a sigh, “Fine. But only until I can drop you on someone else.”

Wolffe laughs, “I’m more than capable of wooing you, pretty girl. Just you watch.”

And you can feel your face heat, which Wolffe also notices based on the smug smirk that crosses his face. “Let’s get out of here, Eri’s probably worried sick.” Still, getting wooed by an actual prince might not be terrible.

#star wars #tcw #star wars au #vodika-vibes 650 event #commander wolffe x reader #wolffe x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #f!reader fic #answered asks #sleeping beauty au

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