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writeyouin · 9 months ago

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D-16 (Megatron) x Reader – The Creature From Another World - Part 2 of 2

Chapter 2 – Megatron or D-16?

A/N – Finally, it’s ready. Here’s hoping this holds up to part one.

Warnings – None.

Rating – T

Megatron held you at your request. He didn’t know why you wanted to be up, only that you did and he was only too happy to comply, and that he had to hold onto that feeling. You were the only thing he had left that brought him any shred of happiness. Everything else was a toxic poison coursing through his body, leaving only hate and anger in its wake.

You stood in Megatron’s palm, trying to see the D-16 you knew before in his optics. They were a violent red, leaving no trace of the warm amber glow his eyes used to have. Moreover, Megatron used to laugh and relay stories back and forth to you or Orion. Now, he mostly frowned.

You reached out to touch him, your hand falling to his chassis where a brand new Megatronus insignia had been branded onto him, covering over the one Sentinel had burned him with. Megatron had claimed the symbol, owning it for the new Decepticon army.

At your touch, Megatron vented a soft gust of warm air, wondering what you were thinking as you pawed at his insignia. He wished that you could see it as the symbol of a new age as it was supposed to be, but he guessed that you would always remember the one that Sentinel had marred him with. He would remember too. He had to.

After disappearing on his life-changing quest with Orion, D-16 had worried about you, but he figured that the other miners would take care of you. In that, he was only half-right.

When the miners were told that he and Orion had died from their injuries in the race, they panicked, scared that they wouldn’t be able to help you leave the planet since they were the lower class. So, one of them had taken you to Sentinel, explaining what you were and coming up with a cover story for how you had gotten on Cybertron.

Sentinel, having guessed that you were once a Quintesson prisoner, pretended to believe the story, and reassured the mech that he would see to it that his top-bots found you a way home.

After that, he kept you prisoner in a gilded cage, his pet now since you wouldn’t give him any information on the missing miners' whereabouts.

When D-16 and the High Guard were captured, you met D-16’s eyes and he became even more furious, wondering how you had gotten there and what Sentinel had done to you.

Before that day, you already admired D-16, but your admiration turned to complete adoration and contrarily, fear as he kept standing up in the face of adversity. He wouldn’t be kept down, no matter what they did to him. You cried to see your friend hurt, but you didn’t scream or do anything further to draw attention to yourself, afraid that if you did, Sentinel would torture D-16 further.

Now, you were here, on one of Cybertron’s moons in a base that the Decepticons had constructed very quickly, being efficient builders, and the war with Cybertron was about to begin.

Megatron lifted your hand with his free servo, gently rolling his thumb pad over it. He wanted you to see him, not the person he used to be behind the insignia. You stared up at him.

“Talk to me,” He told you, gently.

You took a minute to think about what you needed to say.

You understood why the Decepticons had to go to war. It was like Megatron said; when he tried to talk to them, they had clung to the old ways and a new leader had arisen to take Sentinel’s place. Another false Prime – Optimus Prime. He had attacked Megatron and the high guard and then banished them from their home under the threat that they would not be left for long.

Still, knowing why the war was happening wasn’t enough. You needed more than that. You glanced outside the windows of the command centre, seeing the High Guard working ceaselessly.

One more look to Megatron and you knew what you had to say.

“Is this the only way? To fight? To kill?”

Megatron was saddened to see you so upset, but he clung to his resolve, no mercy left within him.

“Yes. There is no room for a peaceful resolve unless those on the surface join our ranks.”

“Are you scared?” You asked in a very small voice, indicating that you were terrified for him.

Megatron stroked your cheek, “No, and nor should you be. I will keep you safe.” And he would. He would do everything in his power to protect you from harm, including lying to you to save you from anything that might hurt your feelings. You were his precious pet and Megatron always took care of what belonged to him.

Some of the High Guard wondered about you, a human among their ranks. They would have tried to research you, had there been any information about something so alien. But without their records from Iacon, they had little ability to look into your kind and simply decided to leave Megatron with his pet. Later in the war, they might have rebelled against you, but after Megatron’s victory against Sentinel, they trusted their new leader. It wasn’t yet time for schisms, underhanded plots for mutiny, or general scheming; those would come much, much later.

As it was, Shockwave was responsible for providing you with a home, and the process didn’t take him long. It was less of a room built for you, and more like furniture your size based on your descriptions that had been put into Megatron’s hab-suite.

When Megatron took you to see it, he enjoyed the way your expression lit up. He had almost reacted the same when he saw that he had his own room for the very first time in his life. Yet, he hadn’t been able to find enough joy in his situation. So, he had a room that he didn’t have to share with a few dozen miners. What did that matter when a war was brewing?

But holding you… Seeing you happy? That was worth something.

“Is this-” Megatron almost said to your liking, but decided instead to focus on functionality, “Is this adequate?”

You hopped off his palm and onto the desk that held just about everything you needed, which was a relief since you had lost most of the items in your pack at the Battle of Iacon. Trailing your hand gently over a bed, very robotic in design, but comfortable and made from repurposed cleaning cloths, you smiled.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Megatron ran a finger down your cheek, “No need to thank me.” He watched you as you moved things about, perfecting everything that you needed, and then later he watched you recharge. How perfect it was, giving you exactly what you needed. He would make you dependent on him; you would never need anyone else ever again. He would make you love him. After losing everything, he needed that much.

“Excuse me, Shockwave?” You said, feeling small. By now, you usually felt confident around Cybertronians, but you found Shockwave and some of the High Guard unnerving.

The Cyclops-Bot stared at you, saying nothing, and generally making you feel more uncomfortable.

“Um, Megatron told me to come to you if I need anything…?”

Shockwave didn’t know why you were saying it like it was a question. You were either told to come to him or you weren’t. Life had no place for statistical fallacy.

Seeing as he didn’t reply, you pulled your pack off your back, opening it for him to see the contents as you withdrew them.

“Each of these dehydrated cubes is a meal. I need to consume two or three a day,” You explained. “As you can see, I’m running low, and even if I wasn’t, this isn’t the best state for my food to be in. I need food. Real, fresh food, or- Or I’m going to die.”

Shockwave didn’t seem alarmed by the statement. He didn’t seem to feel anything. Instead, he glanced at your dwindling supplies, noting exactly how long you could survive. He didn’t understand much about your fuel, though he thought it inefficient as he scanned the contents, finding many perishable components, had they not been dehydrated.

Finally, after a long and stressful silence in which he examined both your pack and you, he relented. “I shall take care of it.”

You were so happy that you didn’t think to ask about the details of Shockwave’s plan. Instead, you smiled and bounced on the balls of your feet, “Thank you, Shockwave.”

Shockwave watched you walk away. He generally didn’t understand the concept of pets, but you were cute enough, he supposed.

Turning back to his newly set up data console, Shockwave began researching the nearest planets that were home to organic species. Seeing how small you were, he believed that organics would be easy enough to subjugate. With that in mind, he began drafting the first invasion plans. Not only would the Decepticons take the fuel you needed but they would also strip the planet of all its valuable resources, giving the Decepticons a technological edge over the Autobots. Later, Megatron would tell you that the Decepticons had made trade deals with several organic planets, never revealing that you were the starting cause behind his slave empire, and you would be spoiled with lavish gifts, ignorant of their origin.

Starscream stared at your sleeping form and then back to Megatron.

“I can’t look after this thing,” He argued.

Though Megatron had bested Starscream once, he hadn’t yet grown to fear his master and as such, was testing his limits.

“You can and you will,” Megatron ordered.

There were arguably better candidates to care for you, especially Soundwave who was used to smaller beings from playing host to some Cassettes. But this wasn’t a question of who you got along with or who would be best suited to watch over you. It was a test of allegiance. Besides, the more bots that Megatron kept on rotation to ‘pet-sit’ you, the more would know how to care for you when he was away.

Megatron needed to see you taken care of, even if he didn’t like leaving you with others, especially if he thought of them touching you. He shouldn’t care this much, but the last person he had entrusted with you had been the very one to betray him. He didn’t want to think of you trusting anyone like that traitor Orion… Optimus. He didn’t want any kind of bond like that in his life again, not for himself or you.

Standing his ground while Starscream prattled on about being the Commander of the High Guard, Megatron snarled. He pointed his cannon at Starscream which was enough to make the weaker mech backtrack, begging for his life.

“You will do as I say.”

Starscream nodded, holding his hands out in surrender, “Yes, of course. Your pet will be well cared for, Megatron.”

“That’s Lord Megatron to you.”

“Of- Of course. Lord Megatron,” Starscream bowed, humiliation coursing through him; it was a feeling that would one day transform into loathing. Megatron left his subordinate, satisfied with how easy it was to subjugate another to his will. He wondered how you would look bowing to him, then turned his mind against such thoughts. He didn’t want to frighten you into worshipping him; he would become someone worthy of your adoration.

You mumbled D-16’s name, waking from a deep sleep. Had you been more alert, you might have thought about how worrying it was that you had come to rely on Megatron so quickly or that you had called him by his old name and that he was no longer that bot you met just a short while ago.

Instead, your thoughts were disturbed by Starscream throwing you some new clothes that Shockwave had acquired from another planet. They were the vestments of the Royal Family until Megatron had ordered their deaths; now the clothes were yours, and far superior in quality than your previous garments.

“Put those on,” He ordered, not caring whether you did or not.

You blinked owlishly at Starscream, having never been left alone with him before.

“Where’s Megatron?” You asked, despite being somewhat used to his leaving regularly to attend meetings, start trade deals with other planets, or draft new battle strategies.

Starscream rolled his optics, “What a clingy pet. Can’t you be away from Megatron for a few kliks before whining?”

You scowled at the mech, “I’m not a pet.”

“And I’m not a pet-sitter, but here we are,” Starscream griped.

You shook your head and got to work tinkering with some little projects you had started. During the Battle of Iacon, most of the items had been damaged when you fell on your pack. Fortunately, having worked on the Translator for so long, you weren’t bad at mechanics now, though a lot of your tinkering was mostly experimentation. So, rather than waste any time conversing with the bot who treated you like an unwanted mutt, you continued your work on your new shower unit, since your collapsable service station needed some repairs in that department and regrettably, you were starting to smell.

When Megatron returned he was injured, having lost to Optimus Prime for the second time. The loss enraged him, but it didn’t worry him. Optimus may have had the power of the Primes, but Megatron learned a lot from that battle, and in the end, he was certain that his strategy and cunning would win over Prime’s strength.

Besides, it hadn’t been a total loss. The other Decepticons had managed to spread their message through Iacon, and there were already a handful of bots who had returned to the Luna base with Megatron. With the new recruits all ready for an uprising, Megatron was preparing to send some of them back undercover, so they could further spread the message of the Decepticon cause.

Before entering his hab-suite, Megatron straightened up, hiding most of the damage behind bravado, despite the energon that leaked from his side. There could be no signs of weakness.

He expected to see you in his hab-suite, but you weren’t there. So, Starscream had taken you elsewhere. Megatron was about to begin repairing himself when he heard you cry out. It was faint, and more of a shout than a scream, but it sent him spiralling all the same.

He ran to find you, following the sound of your voice.

“GET OFF,” You shouted.

Megatron ran faster.

“STOP SQUIRMING!” Starscream yelled back.

Megatron burst into the wash racks, finding you soaked in Starscream’s grip, the water washing over both of you. Starscream was tugging at your old clothes, partially victorious as the seams ripped, uncovering your arm and part of your chest. You gritted your teeth and slapped at his hand.

Seeing all of this, Megatron gritted his dentae and smashed into Starscream, being careful to grab his arm and pull you from his grasp.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Starscream demanded.

Megatron held you against his chassis possessively, “When (Y/N) says stop, you stop. Their commands are my commands. Now, I demand to know what you were doing to my pet!”

You stared up at Megatron, shocked that he would call you such a thing. He knew what you were now, so why would he treat you like an animal? You didn’t like it.

“I’m not a pet,” You murmured, but neither mech seemed to hear you, glaring at one another in a silent power struggle.

Losing his nerve, Starscream bowed his head.

“I was merely washing your precious pet,” He sneered. “It stank.”

“Not a pet,” You repeated, but your words fell on deaf ears.

Starscream got up from the floor and sauntered out of the wash racks. Megatron’s optics tracked him, all the while a seed of hatred forming for his Second in Command. When Starscream was out of sight, Megatron held you up for inspection. You had your arms crossed to protect your chest, and you were staring angrily down at the floor. The water made the remains of your outfit cling to you, making you feel even smaller and more vulnerable.

Honestly, Megatron had little right to be so furious at Starscream. He too didn’t understand the significance of your clothing, only that the coverings were important to you.

“Are you okay, pet?” He said, gently stroking your cheek.

You pushed his hand away, “I’M NOT YOUR PET!”

Megatron stared at you, open-mouthed. You’d never yelled at him before.

“Do you get that?” You asked, brow furrowing. “You used to, but it’s like you’ve forgotten. I’m a person, just like you. Do you understand?”

Megatron thought back to the person he had been, comparing it to who he was now, and who he wanted to be in the future. You wanted D-16 back, but he wasn’t that anymore. Yet… Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be D-16 around you, just a little bit.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). I never meant to imply-” He sighed, “I’m sorry.”

For the moment, it seemed that D-16 was back, and things were just like they had always been. You were about to say something equally sentimental, until you saw the trickle of energon, washing down the drain.

“You’re hurt!”

Megatron shook his helm, “It’s nothing.”

“No,” You cried out. “It’s not nothing!”

“I’ll patch it up in our room. You can take care of yourself there too.”

You were staring at him. Megatron couldn’t help smiling a little at your concern. As promised, he had patched himself up with a welding iron. It had been painful, but he hadn’t shown any signs of it.

You meanwhile, were in your new clothes, having sorted yourself out and dried off.

Megatron stood from his chair, leaving the tools he had used for self-repair on the desk.

He scooped you up, holding you to his face, “I’m alright. I promise.”

You shook your head, unwilling to believe him. Megatron chuckled, supposing that you couldn’t believe it since such an injury would have been fatal to your kind. Yet, he was wrong in trying to guess your thoughts. Physically, you knew Megatron would recover easily, but to recover psychologically? You wondered if he ever would.

Maybe it was because of everything he had gone through before you met, being a slave to a corrupt system, or maybe it was because of Orion’s death, but despite his apology earlier, you couldn’t help seeing the difference between D-16 and Megatron.

Still, he hadn’t abandoned you, and you wouldn’t abandon him. Megatron was going through something traumatic, and as he said, the war was inevitable. It would be hard on anybody, and you wanted to help him through it.

You glanced down to his welded side which he would undoubtedly buff out later to make it look as if nothing ever happened.

“Does it still hurt?”

Megatron couldn’t help adoring the soft melancholy lilt of your voice; the concern that was all for him.

He tilted your chin up so you were looking into his eyes instead of at his failure, “It hurts less when you’re here.”

Your eyes flicked towards Megatron’s lips and you felt your cheeks start to burn. Lately, you had begun imagining things. You wanted to be closer to Megatron, to share some intimate moments with him, but that was impossible; you two weren’t the same.

Seeing your flushed skin and your darting eyes, Megatron smiled, looking the closest to being D-16 that he had in a while. You were so easy to read.

Perhaps it was time to show you the little trick he had been practising; it would leech him of his energy but he was certain that it would be worth it.

Megatron lowered you to his desk.

“Close your eyes,” He requested.

Although you had a lot on your mind, you did as he asked; at that moment, you knew you would have likely done anything for him.

Megatron mass displaced so he was closer to your size. It was difficult to become so small, but he managed to shrink down to around nine feet. Originally, mass displacement was taught to working-class Cybertronians so they could shrink down and enter the Underground to make repairs. Everyone was told that it was more energy-effective than using mini-bots, but the truth was that mini-bots were kept as slaves, being seen as even lesser than the worker-bots; they were hardly worth keeping online, and nobody in the Senate wanted to risk giving them repair tools for larger jobs in case they started a rebellion.

Now, Megatron had also learned mass displacement, for you.

He placed a servo to the small of your back, giddy when you opened your eyes in shock. He traced down your jawline with his other hand, lightly thumbing over your chin. How perfectly you fit against him now.

Dipping down, he pressed his lips to yours. Metal against flesh; two different worlds colliding.

You gave yourself over to him.

Little was right in your life since you were taken by the Quintessons, but this moment was perfect… Or it would be if you could fight the niggling in your mind that warned you all was not right with the Decepticons. Megatron’s servo bunched in your hair. You moaned against him, wrapping your arms around his waist. You could ignore those thoughts. You had to. Needed to. What else could you do when you had foolishly let yourself fall in love?

As Megatron’s paramour, you were given more freedom as Decepticon successes rose. Or rather, you were given the fragile illusion of more freedom. You were taken to the few organic planets that Megatron had made ‘trade deals’ with thus far. The threat of their destruction kept the people in line, and you were treated with all the respect of a visiting dignitary. If you tried, you would have seen the terror in the faces of those conquered, but with Megatron distracting you as if you were on a date, you chose the easy path. It was easy to run from suffering when you didn’t want to believe in it.

You were given a communicator which Megatron told you had been built for you, but it had actually been ripped from a now deceased Autobot’s helm. You were provided anything you needed, and more beyond that. However, all of it ceased to matter on the day you saw Orion Pax, alive and well.

Orion Pax, now Optimus Prime had received word that Megatron had conquered a nearby planet and enslaved its people. Fully believing that you had perished in the Battle of Iacon, the Autobot leader vowed to free the planet your name, knowing that it’s what you would have wanted for your organic kin.

That was when you both saw each other, Optimus lowering his blaster and you standing atop Megatron’s shoulder.

“Orion,” You breathed his name, barely loud enough for anyone to hear, yet Megatron heard; how could he not when you were standing right next to his audials?

Megatron glowered at Optimus, feeling extra possessive of you since the Prime had stolen everything from him and banished him from his home. He wouldn’t be allowed to take you too.

Megatron grabbed you roughly, partially transforming his chest cavity and shoving you inside. His pet, his lover, his possession, his captive; you were his! Optimus glared at Megatron. Keeping you captive was not an option, he would not allow it. Pointing at his ex-friend, Optimus gave the command, “AUTOBOTS, ROLL OUT!”

Megatron shook with rage, fear, sadness, hatred.

He held your lifeless body in his cupped servos. Granted, Optimus Prime had held back in the fight, but his damned Autobots hadn’t, and now you were gone.

You were the last thing Megatron had and you too had been ripped away from him.

That was it then. No more mercy, no more holding back. No more attachments.

All Autobots would be scrapped, and all the worthless organics of the universe would be destroyed or enslaved. Megatron refused to ever get close to an organic ever again. None would ever make up for you and he would not risk opening his spark to another being.

Ha, that was a joke. He couldn’t offer his spark to anyone anyway. It had been snuffed out. He was hollow. Just a shell for the seething rage to fill.

He was Megatron, and he didn’t need anybody.

He left your body to burn in the ashes of the organic planet, but Optimus picked you up, determined to give you a proper burial. To the Prime’s surprise, he saw you take in a tiny breath of air. You weren’t dead, but you would be if he didn’t get you away from the dying world. You needed air, you needed a doctor, you needed freedom.

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djotime-allthetime · 6 months ago

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Freaky Flashbacks

synopsis: you recall the gradual shift in your relationship with fred when prompted by questions at a panel promoting the movie.

wc: 13k+ (...)

warnings: rpf! reader is specified to be inexperienced! major plot point actually!

a/n: loads of backstory! and banter! and pedro and paul! and kissing!

i hope the format is as intuitive as i think it is, but just in case it isn't, italics means the start of a flashback and bold is the return to present day. feedback is writer's fuel!

cross posted on AO3

<<previous part

The energy in the green room was calm, easy. You sat perched on the arm of the couch next to Fred, laughing as Pedro recounted a story from a previous panel he’d spoken at. Fred’s forearm draped over your thigh, his thumb absentmindedly tracing small circles on your knee, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

The casual physical affection felt normal now, expected even. No one batted an eye. Not Pedro, not Paul, not anyone in the room.

Ever since filming began, your relationship with Fred had only grown in comfort and familiarity. The closeness of your characters on screen slowly but surely translated to your friendship in real life. And then something more…

Late nights of practicing scenes together turned into deep talks and sharing secrets in the warm light of his trailer. Only a few months into filming, the two of you were attached at the hip. Inseparable. It became a running joke. If anyone asked where either of you was, the answer was always with the other.

“Where’s Fred?” An assistant called out onto the crowded set one day. “He’s needed in hair and makeup!”

“Where’s y/n meant to be right now?” Paul asked, barely looking up from the script in his lap. The young girl looked down at the clipboard in her hands, combing through the schedules and call sheets. Costume department, she concluded after a few moments of frantic shuffling. “Well, there’s your answer then.”

Pedro had laughed for days recounting the story, shaking his head at how predictable you and Fred had become.

“Are you excited?” Fred’s voice softened, meant only for you now despite the buzzing room. You lit up with a smile and a nod. You were incredibly excited. You had never been a guest at a panel before. “Nervous?”

“Not really,” you shook your head and shrugged. “Just more surprised, I think?” You mused aloud with a tilt of your head. In all honesty, you weren’t sure why you were invited to the panel at this convention today.

You knew that your role wasn’t as impactful as people told you it was, they were just trying to be nice. You had less than ten lines in the whole film. Being invited to a panel discussing the complexities of the plot and the acting behind it was an honor! But a confusing one.

You had a sneaking suspicion that, somehow, Fred was behind it.

“Surprised?” Fred asked, his eyebrows rising and dipping in quick succession in that way that they do. “Why?”

“Just that—” You glanced around, as if gathering evidence. “Everyone here was pretty high up on that call list.” Fred’s brows furrowed even further this time and you knew what was coming.

“Don’t do that to yourself, y/n,” he almost whined. “You were a driving force—”

“I’m not tryna minimize my work, Fred.” You chuckled lightheartedly, cutting him off before he went on a tangent. He was always quick to pop any bubbles of self-doubt that formed in your brain, but this really wasn’t the case. “I know I worked hard on this movie. We both did.” You held his hand in yours. “But… Alexander wasn’t invited.” You pointed out with raised brows. Alexander had played Ravi in the movie, the healer in the Colosseum. “I’m pretty sure he had more lines than I did.”

“But you definitely had more screen time,” came Fred’s quick rebuttal. “Actually, that’s why I told them you should come—”

“I knew it!” You exclaimed in a whisper, making sure your conversation didn’t attract any attention. You were enjoying the private moment in the crowded room and there was no need for it to end so quickly. “I knew you did this!”

Fred’s grin tilted, eyes glinting with quiet defiance. “What? Am I supposed to feel bad for wanting people to notice how good you are?” He laughed. “You had almost as much screen time as anyone here, but nowhere near enough lines. So I told them that your insight into your character and the plot was just as interesting, if not more.”

“Does this count as nepotism?”

“Shut up!” Fred giggled, lightly punching your shoulder. “I just feel like— If I can help you get the recognition you deserve, why wouldn’t I?”

“Alright, thank you all for arriving on time.” A producer spoke up, seemingly appearing out of nowhere and putting an end to your conversation. You turned away from Fred to face her as she spoke, a smile still lingering on your face.

“We’re gonna start calling you guys out now, one by one. It’s gonna be in the order your names are set up on the table, so you just come out and sit in the chair farthest from your entry. Does that make sense?” She asked, receiving a few nods. “Is everyone ready?” Another round of nods and yeses left the group, yours along with them.

“Don’t overthink it,” Fred whispered to you with a squeeze of your knee. “Just enjoy the moment.”

At that, you could hear the producer hype up the crowd for the cast’s arrival.

“That’s our cue.” Pedro got up from the couch with a clap of his hands. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Fred replied, standing up along with Pedro. “How about you, old man?”

“Creaky at the knees, but it’s alright.” Pedro teased, giving Fred a playful punch on the shoulder. That’s when you heard Pedro’s name called out into the microphone followed by the crowd’s roar in applause and cheers. “Later, losers!”

One by one the cast was called out, Fred’s name being the last one before yours. You breathed out a sigh of relief, grateful to be sitting next to him.

“y/n l/n!” Your name blasted through the speaker, signaling your cue to head out onto the stage. You walked out with a smile and a wave, the crowd cheering at your arrival. You sat down at the long table facing the audience, right there next to Fred.

Your name was printed on a place card in front of you, spelled right and everything. With every passing day of working on this project, you felt more and more that you had finally found your place in the world.

The producer’s voice blurred into the background, distant and dull. Your focus drifted to the sea of faces ahead—posters with your name in big bright letters, shirts with your face printed on them. Some people were even dressed as your character from the movie. It was surreal.

The warmth of Fred’s hand on your knee tethered you back to the present. His steady gaze met yours, silently reminding you to breathe. He knew how overwhelming it could all be. And he knew what you were thinking, he could see it too. He was so proud of you.

Fred squeezed your knee twice, a small act to show you that he saw you. To show you that he was there for you. And maybe, cockily, he was saying ‘I told you so’. That your presence was wanted here, not just by him.

“We’ll get started with questions from the audience then.” The producer announced, motioning for a member of the crew to turn on the spotlight facing the crowd. When the light turned on, it illuminated a microphone on its stand in the middle aisle between all the chairs, and, with it, an incredibly long line of fans. Each with a vetted question, the producer assured.

Most questions were for Paul, though that wasn’t surprising. Many for Pedro and Denzel, as well.

You listened and laughed along, enjoying the easy going nature of the conversation. A lot of the questions were based on the acting, which was a topic well loved by actors of course. But some, as expected, were about the on-set dynamics.

“What was your first impression of your castmates?” A teenage girl asked Paul.

This launched a chaotic answer, with multiple people joining in at once, talking over the other and laughing loudly.

“We all know that I was absolutely terrified of Denzel at the beginning.” Paul laughed, patting Denzel, who was sitting next to him, on the back.

“So was I!” Joseph cracked up. “But I thought Fred was such a sweetheart.”

“Oh, yeah.” You nodded with him. “Fred was incredibly kind to me on my first day on set.”

“Kind?” Pedro questioned, eyebrows upturned in surprise. “Little asshole is what he was.”

“He saves the sweet stuff for her,” Paul chuckled.

“Yeah, well Pedro was an old man calling me short and she was a pretty girl who was lost.” Fred defended himself with his arms crossed, tone clearly kidding. The crowd’s laughter rose at the banter, even if it was obviously turned up for the panel. “Who would you help, huh?”

It was your first day on set and your very skin was buzzing with how excited you were. Your schedule said that you should start your day in the hair and make up department, and you heard someone say that it was next to the crafts center. But you couldn’t find either of them for the life of you. And you should’ve been worried about being late for your very first appointment on the set, but you were just too enthralled with it all.

The set was beautiful! Malta, as a whole, was absolutely gorgeous, but the set was something else. It truly felt like you were transported back in time— if you ignored the cameras, speakers, and lights, of course. You had heard of Arthur Max’s work on other productions, and of course knew of his work on the first movie. But experiencing it first hand was almost an out of body experience.

You knew that, when the time came, immersing yourself on the set would be a piece of cake. An actor’s dream really, that was what this type of set was.

“Uh, y/n?” Your name being called out from behind you caused you to spin around. “Oh, it is you.” The man’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Hi, I’m Fred.”

Fred Hechinger. You knew exactly who he was.

“I’m y/n.” You replied, stretching out a hand for him to shake. “But you already knew that.”

“Yeah, well from what I hear, we’re going to be exclusively working together.” Fred laughed as he shook your hand. “Had to do some research on my scene partner.”

“Glad I’m not the only one, then.” You chuckled.

When your manager told you of his secured position as Emperor Caracalla, you knew you wanted to look him up. Many other actors accepted the role before flaking for ‘scheduling issues’, so you were never sure who you were actually going to work with. But once Fred’s acceptance was confirmed, you went on a deep dive. You watched as many of his shows and movies as you could, his IMDb tab constantly open on your laptop.

“They were calling for you in hair and make up,” he said. “I offered to look for you and help you find the way.”

“How did you know I was lost?” You raised an eyebrow as you asked. You weren’t really lost, more so taking advantage of the lack of directions.

“Oh, I know you’re not lost.” Fred shook his head with furrowed brows as he folded his arms, faux seriousness painted his expression. Fred’s effortless confidence had an unexpected charm. It was magnetic. “But if I tell them it took me a while to find you, then we can admire the set for a bit longer.”

Your surprise melted into quiet laughter.

And just like that, you had made a friend.

Back on the panel stage, you leaned into the mic, smiling softly. “He gave me a tour.” You recalled. “And he vouched for me at hair and make up, because I was almost half an hour late.”

“On your first day?!” Paul questioned in astonishment, eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Ballsy move, y/n. I could never.” Paul tsked and shook his head at you in disappointment.

“Hey!” You called out in offence, throwing an arm up in Fred’s direction. “Blame Fred, he’s the bad influence here!”

“Entirely my fault.” Fred nodded with his hand raised. “I take full responsibility for corrupting the child.”

“Oh, shut up.” You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re like two minutes older than me.”

“Two minutes?! For your information,” Fred pointed at the crowd as he spoke now, “I am years older than her. Years!”

Another fan stepped up to the microphone, pulling you back to the task at hand. “Were there any funny on-set moments or inside jokes that made it into the movie? Or at least stayed with you afterwards?”

“Bless you.” Pedro whispered into the mic, causing a wave of giggles to pass through the rest of the line up.

“‘Bless you’ was a good one, I liked it.” Joseph smiled before bursting into laughter at a memory, sending Fred a look from across the table. "Tell them about the sword!"

Fred groans, but the memory sparks in your mind—the clang of metal and his ridiculous deadpan expression.

Connie lets out a loud laugh as she recalls the incident. “Fear me!” She clapped her hands together as she giggled. “Oh, it was hilarious!”

“Fear me,” echoes in your head, and suddenly you’re there again, barely holding back laughter on the set.

It was a late night, you were filming the scene where the emperors confront Acacius and Lucilla regarding their treachery. Ridley had instructed Joseph and Fred to make their reactions as dramatic as they saw fit, considering how fervid the scenario would make the twins.

You had been filming for hours at that point, the energy amongst you growing more chaotic with each take. Everything was funny to you now as the sleep deprivation finally hit.

During one of the takes, Fred jumped out of his seat on the throne and grabbed a prop sword from a nearby guard, as was written in the script. He was supposed to point it at Pedro and Connie, yelling about their punishments, as Joseph held him back. But, with each shake, you noticed how unstable the prop looked.

A loud clang echoed in the marble halls of the set. The sword had fallen right off of its handle.

No one said a word. Fred’s face scrunched up in confusion and anger. He stared at the broken hilt in his hand, then at Pedro. Without missing a beat, he raised it like a dagger. “Fear me.” He whispered menacingly, nose to nose with the older actor.

That’s it. Pedro snorted so loudly that the entire set erupted into laughter. You and Joseph were crying from laughing so hard. Denzel was chuckling into his hand, and Connie was leaning on Pedro to stay upright.

“How dare you mock me?!” Fred shrieked, staying in character, even when it was clear the take was a lost cause, if only to keep making the rest of you laugh. “I am your emperor!”

“Alright, alright.” You hear Ridley’s voice call out, winding down from his own laughter. “One more time, then we’ll call it a night. Someone fix that sword, please!”

None of you ever let Fred live it down afterwards.

Pedro would grab a toothpick from the crafts table and follow Fred around with it, a soft and dark ‘Fear me’ heard under his breath.

"Honestly, I thought Ridley would leave it in the movie." Fred shrugs, laughing it off. “If only someone didn’t break and ruin it all.” He sent a teasing look to Pedro out of the corner of his eyes.

You wipe a few tears from the corner of your eye as you catch your breath. “It wasn’t even that funny. We were just so tired.”

“It was like four in the morning, we were done.” Joseph explained to the crowd, still coming down from his giggles.

“Anything would’ve been funny to us at the time.”

After the crowd’s volume slowly dwindled, another fan came up and asked about Denzel’s performance. Denzel spoke about how much he enjoyed the freedom Ridley allowed the actors in this movie. How exciting it all was.

Afterwards, someone asked about how Joseph balanced working on multiple sets at a time. Pedro joked about Joseph being sought after and hard to find, always in a different part of the world. Joseph shot back at Pedro that they were always together anyways, considering how they both were working on ‘Fantastic Four’ together.

Another audience member asked Connie how it felt to come back to this movie after more than two decades. She talked at length about the differences and similarities the two sets had. How it was both nostalgic and new.

Someone else stepped up to the mic and nervously waved to the cast after the laughter had died down. “My question is for Fred.” Fred perked up and smiled, nodding at her to continue. “How did you prepare for the emotionally vulnerable scenes you had as Caracalla while staying true to both his character and his sickness?”

“That’s a really good question.” Fred nodded, his arm coming up from your knee to rub at his shoulder. It was so incredibly endearing to you how he reacted to attention. “It was important, definitely. To make sure that you weren’t just seeing his sickness, but the true him under it all. And I think Caracalla, the man and not the sick emperor, really shined in those vulnerable moments.” His hands gesticulated wildly as he spoke and you were enamored the whole way through, not expecting them to motion to you next. “But, at the end of the day, I think you just really have to trust your scene partner.”

Fred looked at you with a shy but knowing smile, “It takes a lot of practice to be vulnerable in front of someone, even if it is just pretending. And y/n was always incredibly kind and supportive whenever I lacked that—that vulnerability—that powerlessness. It wasn’t that I lacked it, per se. It’s just a difficult thing to tap into. And she was always there to help me through it.”

Your eyes dropped downwards as you felt your chin dip towards your chest, your head tilting slightly to the side as a smile grew on your face. The crowd awed in response to both Fred’s words and your reaction.

Fred’s compliment sent your stomach twisting in knots. You glanced at him, his hand went back to its previous position, resting on your knee, steady and grounding. It reminded you of that quiet morning on set when everything between you shifted.

The set was calmer that morning than what you were used to. The haze of sleep still clung to the few crew members needed on set this early. They shuffled about quietly, setting up for the day's shoot. Fred sat on the edge of the prop bed, script in hand, shoulders slumped forward as he stared at the lines that refused to feel right.

You were sitting on a couch a few feet away, observing him, script laying forgotten in your lap. His fingers absently tugged at his earlobe, a nervous habit you had come to recognize at this point in your friendship. He had been having difficulties with connecting with Caracalla’s childlike vulnerability. And it wasn’t because he didn’t know the lines—Fred knew them backwards and forwards.

It was the emotion, the raw vulnerability of Caracalla crying like a child to Lovie about Geta, that he couldn’t quite reach.

You had been running lines all night, but he wasn’t performing it to his own incredibly high standards. So you had told him to get a good night’s rest and that you could practice some more in the morning before call time. You spent some time researching trust building exercises, because you were sure that Fred had it in him. He just had to trust you enough to let it rise to the surface.

After you watched him run through the scene a few more times with no progress, you got a look of determination in your eyes. “Alright!” You inhaled deeply and dropped your script onto the seat next to you. “How about we try something else?”

Fred’s head snapped up at your voice, the both of you having been silently in each other's company prior to your exclamation. “Like what?”

“Trust exercises!”

He blinked, unimpressed. "y/n, I really don't think—"

“Come on, it won’t hurt to try!” You insisted, knowing that he was worn down and everything felt useless. But you had faith in him. “For me?”

He rolled his eyes but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Alright, fine.” You cheered quietly at his agreement. “What did you have in mind?”

You stood and moved to sit across from him, knees nearly brushing. "Eye contact. No talking, just hold my gaze. Nothing else."

“For how long?”

“As long as possible.”

He hesitated for a second but leaned in slightly, blue eyes locking onto yours. The silence stretched. At first, it was easy. The hours you'd spent together on set had built a quiet comfort between you. You were comfortable with each other now, as any pair of friends would be.

But slowly, the air around you shifted.

Had his eyes always been this blue? And so full of emotion? You wondered how you had never noticed these things about him before. The longer you looked, the more your chest tightened, like you were standing too close to the edge of a cliff. You swallowed hard.

Fred’s head tilted, his eyes scanning yours as if he were searching for something hidden beneath the surface. Then, without thinking, he lifted his hand and gently brushed his thumb along your cheek, swiping away an eyelash that had landed there. The touch was featherlight, but it sparked something within you. Something new.

You sucked in a breath, breaking the rhythm of your breathing and pulling Fred’s attention to your lips.

He quickly pulled his hand away, clearing his throat. "Sorry. You had—uh—you had an eyelash."

You barely managed a nod, heat blooming beneath your skin. The air had changed so suddenly. It was sharp, tense, and neither of you knew how to break the spell.

More crew members were starting to file in, calling out names and times. The usual hustle and bustle on set was rising. Your name was called out from one side and Fred’s from another, instructions to go to wardrobe for you and hair and makeup for Fred.

“I—I should go.” Came Fred’s stuttered response as he slowly got up and backed away, his eyes now finding it difficult to stay on yours.

“Uh yeah, me too.” You nodded with pursed lips, just as awkward as he was.

That was different, you pondered as you walked away. You had never seen Fred in that light before. You had never reacted like that to his touch. This was entirely new territory for you. You liked Fred.

Oh no.

How predictable. Catching feelings for your on screen lover. You had to suppress the eye roll. This was something you had promised yourself you wouldn’t do once you got into the film industry.

But how could you resist? Fred was so kind and caring, so helpful and affectionate. His smile never failed to bring a similar one to your face. Now that you thought of it, you were a bit surprised it had taken you this long to notice.

You had a crush on Fred.

And you were almost positive he didn’t see you in that way.

This was horrible, you thought as you reached the wardrobe department. You were regretting everything. Not only was Fred no longer just a friend in your eyes, you were sure that you had ruined any chances of him getting this scene right after this. You groaned quietly to yourself as you changed into your costume in the dressing room. What a way to start the day.

But later, as the cameras rolled, Fred laid in your lap, perfectly in character. Something was different about him. He seemed more… open. More calm. When you softly carded your fingers through his hair to comfort Caracalla, Fred’s hand drifted to your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin without thinking. Almost in the same way he had that morning.

It wasn’t scripted. But you stayed in the scene, unflinching. You wiped away his tears as he moaned about his wretched brother and the empire he was forced to bear the weight of. He was delivering the scene perfectly. Almost like nothing unsavory had transpired between the two of you less than an hour ago.

Ridley, watching from behind the monitors, leaned forward. Eyes glued to the screen. Once the scene had played its course, he called it. "Cut!” His voice boomed through the speakers.

Fred carefully got up from your lap, though not straying far.

An assistant quickly came over with a walkie-talkie. Ridley’s voice broke through the static, fragmented but understandable. “Fred, that wasn't in the script."

Fred sat up quickly, already apologizing. "Sorry, it just—"

"I liked it. Let's run it again. Same way."

Your eyes flicked to Fred, wide in surprise. He liked it. Ridley liked it. Fred shared his own surprised smile with you.

He finally got it. That obstacle was overcome. And Ridley noticed. It was exciting to have your work appreciated in that way. And he had you to thank, even if you thought otherwise.

And, in the process, something had shifted between you.

Then someone asked Paul who his closest friends were on set, pulling you back to the present moment.

“You want me to make enemies of my colleagues now, do you?” Paul chuckled nervously, garnering a laugh from the crowd. “No, in all seriousness, I made many great friendships on this set. Pedro, of course Denzel, Connie, all great mentors that I can call friends now, I think. But who I spent the most time with on set? That would probably be Fred. Fred and y/n, yeah. They’re a package deal, as well. So yeah, it was always us three.”

His answer takes you back to a pivotal moment you had with Paul on set. You knew from then that he had your back, in every situation. Even in matters where he had no stake, you knew you could trust him.

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky over the ancient stone set, casting long shadows across the Colosseum replica. The usual hum of activity filled the air. You were sitting on Caracalla’s throne overlooking the arena, legs dangling off the edge as you scrolled absentmindedly through your phone.

Paul plopped down beside you with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

“Easy!” You laughed. “What did the chair ever do to you?”

Paul leaned over slightly to peek at your screen, completely disregarding what you had said to him. “Who are you texting?”

“No one.” You locked your phone quickly.

Paul’s smirk deepened. “So it is someone.”

“No, Paul.” You shot him a look.

He tilted his head and grinned. “Oh, so it’s Fred.”

Your stomach flipped. “Paul!” you hissed, glancing around to make sure no one heard.

“Oh, come on!” Paul leaned back, arms stretched behind him. “When are you not texting Fred?”

You groaned as your palms covered your eyes in embarrassment. “It’s not—” you mumbled before smothering your face in your hands.

“Not what?” Paul teased, nudging your knee with his.

“It’s not a big deal.” You exhaled, peeking at him between your fingers. “We’re just friends. Don’t make it weird.”

Paul gave you a flat look.

“Friends?”

“Yes!”

He let out a disbelieving laugh. “Okay.” He shrugged, raising his hands in surrender. “Okay, whatever you say.”

“Thank you.” You breathed out in relief, glad he was letting it go.

After a short moment of silence, he spoke back up. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” He motioned to the air between the two of you with his pointer finger.

“Paul—” You groaned, knowing exactly where he was going with this.

“And I’d like to think that Fred and I are friends as well.” He leaned towards your side in his seat now, coming face to face with you. “I don’t take long walks with him on the lot, hand in hand. He’s not giving me his jacket when I’m cold. He didn’t let me braid his hair in the hair and makeup trailer.”

You glared at him. “That last one was one time.”

“Not the point.” Paul leaned closer. “He’s different with you.”

You bit your lip, looking away. “I don’t know… Fred’s—he’s sweet. He’s friendly. That’s just who he is!”

Paul raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, but he’s not that sweet or friendly with anyone else.”

You stayed quiet, fingers picking at a loose thread on the hem of your costume.

Paul’s tone softened. “Don’t sell yourself short, y/n.”

Your eyes flicked to his, hesitant but curious.

“You’re smart, talented, and funny. And let’s not pretend the Roman attire doesn’t suit you perfectly.” He gave you a playful nudge.

You laughed despite yourself. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” Paul’s grin changed into something more sincere. “Fred should consider himself lucky that you like him.”

Your cheeks burned.

“I just don’t want to—” You mumbled and trailed off. “Ugh, I don’t know. I don't want to make things weird between us.”

“You two are too stubborn for your own good. Someone’s gotta give.” Paul mumbled before raising his eyebrows at you. “You can’t yearn forever.”

“Can’t I?”

His gaze softened as he took in your expression. “You really don’t see how he looks at you, do you?”

“What?” Your brows furrowed and you shot up in your seat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Paul laughed in shock, pulling back and looking out onto the expanse of the set. “Wow.” He muttered to himself. “I can’t tell which of you is dumber.”

“Hey! I can still hear you!”

“Maybe put some of your other senses to use then, idiot!” Paul retorted as he got out of his seat, the speakers on set calling for him to go someplace or other. He walked away mumbling to himself, leaving you sitting there, staring after him, unsure of what to think anymore.

“And I, of course, was chopped liver.” Joseph spoke solemnly to the crowd, dragging you out of your reminiscence. “Paul loved Pedro, Denzel, Connie, Fred, and y/n. But not poor old Joseph.”

Paul stumbled over his words as he backtracked. “And Joseph! Of course, I was always with Joseph!” Paul cried, pleading with an unyielding Joseph. All a bit to keep everyone entertained, you knew.

“No, no, you can’t undo what’s been done.” Joseph shook his head dramatically at Paul as he motioned for the next person to step up to the microphone. “You have made an enemy tonight, Paul. I hope you’re happy.”

“My question is actually for Joseph.” The fan sheepishly spoke, sending Paul an illusionary apologetic smile.

“I have what you can never have, Paul. The love and affection of the general public.” Joseph deadpanned as he looked over at Paul before turning back to the girl at the microphone. “Go on, darling. What’s your question?” Joseph smirked as he looked away, leaving Paul rolling his eyes.

“Well, um, Paul and Pedro had extensive physical transformations they had to undergo to prepare for the role.” Joseph rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion at the mention of Paul, the joke still running. “What did you have to do to prepare for Geta?”

“Not much, actually.” Joseph snorted. “I got really interested in the history of it, but in comparison to Paul and Pedro? Yeah, we got off easy. Didn’t we, Fred? Just loads of eyeliner.”

“Yeah.” Fred laughed as he nodded. “Shaving and eyeliner was our morning routine for a few months.” The crowd, as well as the cast, laughed at Fred’s note. “Emperor Caracalla is clean shaven, but I’m not.” He chuckled, hand instinctively rubbing at his chin at the thought of his light beard. “So I had to shave almost everyday, but that was about it for me.” With a glance towards you, you knew exactly what he was thinking about.

It had been another late night in Fred’s trailer. You were curled up on his couch, legs tucked under you, as you watched Fred pace back and forth. He had been reviewing lines, occasionally muttering to himself, but you hadn’t been paying close attention, not until the soft scruff along his jaw caught the light.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Fred,” you called softly.

He paused, blinking at you. “Yeah?”

You tilted your head, lips twitching. “You’re getting a little...scruffy.”

Fred instinctively brought a hand to his chin, rubbing over the light stubble that had started to grow in. “Ah, shit.”

“What?” You asked, sitting up now.

“Sam’s out sick,” He explained. “Usually, they shave me every morning. I don’t know how I forgot about it today. Emily needs me to be clean shaven tomorrow.” He mumbled lightly, as if he was only thinking to himself out loud.

You pushed up from the couch, standing up and stretching your arms over your head. “Let me do it.”

Fred blinked. “What?” It was like he forgot you were here for a moment. Or, more accurately, he forgot that you were actively listening to his stream of consciousness. He didn’t expect you to offer to solve this non-issue for him.

“Let me shave you,” you repeated, stepping closer. You gently grabbed his chin, feeling his rough hair between your fingers. You turned his face this way and that, appraising the work you’d have to do if he agreed. “I mean, you can say no if you don’t feel comfortable with your fate in my hands.”

He giggled, eyes softening as he watched you study his facial hair. “Is this another trust exercise?”

You smirked, eyes lighting up and looking back into his. “Maybe.”

Fred considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Alright, Lovie. Have at it.”

The nickname sent a small spark through you, but you shook it off, hiding your grin as you gestured for him to follow you to the little bathroom in the corner of his trailer.

Fred settled on the closed toilet seat after you patted it, a silent command to sit down. He looked up at you with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. You rummaged through the small drawer under the sink, pulling out shaving cream and a razor.

“Fear me.” You whispered as you held aloft the blade, watching Fred roll his eyes at the reference.

“You better not botch this,” he teased, leaning back. He couldn’t help but admire you from this angle. The bathroom lighting highlighted your features so beautifully, though he was sure he’d think that of any lighting.

“It seems easy enough.” You shrugged as you squeezed a bit of shaving cream onto your fingers, rubbing your hands together before gently spreading it over his jaw. The cool foam made him shiver slightly.

Fred’s eyes got wide, his head frozen in your grasp. “You’re telling me you’ve never done this before?”

Your eyes sparkled as you raised your brows excitedly, grin wide. “I’m testing your limits. Is this one of them?”

You saw Fred’s eyes dance back and forth as he thought this through. It seemed the risks outweighed the cons, though not by much, because he nodded apprehensively. “Do your worst.” His eyes widened once more and then he winced. “That’s just a saying, please actually do your very best. Don’t hurt the money maker, alright?”

“Shut up,” you rolled your eyes with a snort. “I’ll be careful, don’t worry. Now hold still.”

Slowly, carefully, you dragged the blade along his jawline, your hand steady. Fred’s eyes flickered to yours, but he didn’t move. His breathing slowed, eyes dark and half-lidded as he watched you in silence.

The room felt smaller.

Your thumb gently tilted his chin, guiding him where you needed. His skin was warm beneath your touch.

“You’re doing well,” you murmured, focusing on the careful strokes of the razor.

“So are you,” Fred hummed. “You’re sure you’ve never done this before?”

“I’m that good, huh?” You chuckled, feeling him nod in response with the slightest dip of his chin in your palm. “Maybe I should go pro.”

“You’d leave all the glitz and glamour of being an actress and come shave my scruff every morning?” He asked, laughter lacing his words.

“You’re giving away Sam’s job that easy?” You raised your brows.

“To you? Of course.” He chuckled lightly. “Everything’s easy when it’s you.” The words slipped out, softer than he meant. The air thickened, and Fred’s eyes widened a fraction too late. The words weighed heavily in the space around you, stealing the breath from your lungs. Fred’s eyes flickered to yours at your silence. Whatever he said must’ve been the wrong thing to say, he thought, because your facial expression was unreadable to him. “I’m sor—”

“Everything’s easy when it’s you too, Fred.” You whispered back before he could complete his sentence. With one final swipe of the blade along his jaw, you stepped back from him and the moment. “There. All done.”

You smiled to yourself at the memory, glancing back at Fred next to you. You preferred him with the facial hair, you concluded.

“Who was the best mentor on set?” Someone else asked once they had their turn at the microphone, the question not directed towards anyone in particular. But Joseph took it upon himself to answer for someone else.

“I know who Fred’s gonna say.” Joseph whispered into the microphone, causing Fred to roll his eyes.

“It was me.” Pedro smirked, flexing his biceps and wiggling his eyebrows at Fred. “He can deny it all he wants, but I pushed that kid when he needed it. Didn’t I, Freddie?”

“You did.” Fred mumbled, a hint of a smile on the edge of his lips.

“Hell yeah, I did!” Pedro pumped his fist in the air. “Those stories are private, for Fred’s sake. But I’m a good mentor!”

“The best there is.” Fred confirmed, a slight blush colored his cheeks as he snuck a glance at you.

It had been a while since the moment Pedro cemented himself as Fred’s mentor in the younger actor’s eyes. He had learned a lot from him. Both as an actor and as a human being.

But something changed between Pedro and Fred one day.

A day where you had been utterly exhausted. You were filming in a grand room, the scene depicting a party or gathering of some type, you couldn’t recall the details. Everything was as opulent as you would expect with the twin emperors, of course.

You and Fred had been up all night, bingeing movie after movie, showing each other your favorites and analyzing every scene. When you saw him the next day on set, you were shocked at how awake he was. Everything felt like it was in slow motion for you. You had never been more appreciative of your lack of lines in this movie.

After a few takes of you blinking slowly in the background, Ridley had called for a break. Something wasn’t right with the focus on a few cameras and a monitor or two needed recalibrating. Technical issues that shouldn’t take too long to fix. An assistant director said the issue could take about half an hour to resolve, so you turned to Fred, a silent question in your eyes and a slight pout on your lips.

You and Fred cuddled often, but never outside of his trailer. Movie night was just an excuse for you to curl up in his arms at this point, though neither of you ever acknowledged that.

But you were so tired, and the pillows on the couch were decorative and stiff. And Fred was right there. It would only be thirty minutes. Just a quick lie down.

Fred saw your face and knew exactly what you wanted from him. He leaned back into the couch and patted at his lap, giving you space to lie down. It didn’t even register to him that anyone would notice nor care.

His hands instinctively went to brush his fingers through your hair, your nightly routine as of recently. With his cologne and his warmth enveloping you, as well as the soothing motion of his fingers against your scalp, it was less than five minutes later that you were snoozing away.

Pedro looked over and saw the two of you cozied up together and couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the scene. He had been trying to throw hints at Fred for weeks about the two of you. It was clear as day. But neither of you was brave enough to bring it up, fearing the other’s lack of reciprocation. If only you two could see what everyone else saw.

He shared a look with Paul, who was watching along with him. “Go talk some sense into him, Pascal.” Paul snickered lightly, giving Pedro a slight shove in your direction.

“I’ll try my best, Mescal.” Pedro sighed.

“Is she out?” He asked quietly once he had settled down beside Fred on the couch, not wanting to wake you up.

“Like a light.” Fred muttered, eyes never leaving your sleeping profile. “It’s my fault, really. Kept her up all night.”

“What did you watch this time?” Pedro smiled, knowing of the private movie nights held every evening in the trailer next to his.

“The Godfather.” Fred answered. “Actually, both of them.”

“The sequel is amazing.” Pedro nodded, but he wasn’t really engrossed in the conversation as much as he was in Fred. It was hard not to admire Fred as he admired you.

“Definitely.” Fred nodded, not even sparing Pedro a glance. The boy was in love and he didn’t even know it. But so were you, to be fair.

“She’s just as bad as you are, you know? Thinking too much, scared to say something first.” Pedro mused, eyeing you curled up in Fred’s lap. You never looked as comfortable as you did in Fred’s presence. Pedro leaned in and his voice dropped an octave. “You should tell her.”

“Huh?” Fred is finally pulled out of the trance you had unknowingly put him in, snapping up to look at Pedro for the first time since he sat down. “Tell her what?”

“I’m saying,” Pedro emphasized each word, “She’s just as oblivious as you are.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you should tell her how you feel!” Fred instinctively cupped his hand around your ear, guarding you from Pedro’s sudden laughter like it was second nature. You hadn’t even flinched, too deep in your slumber to notice. But Pedro did, he noticed Fred’s subtle protectiveness. It was sweet. And increasingly frustrating.

Fred scoffed, his cheeks glaringly crimson. “I think I’d prefer not risking those odds.”

“Buddy, trust me. Every single odd is in your favor.”

“Don’t quote the hunger games at me right now.” Fred rolled his eyes.

Pedro frowned in frustration, leaning closer to Fred. “You really don’t see how gone she is for you?”

A few moments of silence pass between them. Fred’s eyes on you, and Pedro’s eyes on Fred’s lovesick expression. “...You really think she likes me back?”

“She’s not sleeping in my lap, is she?” Pedro smirked, standing back up. “Just think about it, would you?”

Fred buried his face in his hands to cover up his flushed cheeks. You shot him a concerned look, but he shook his head to ease your worries. You didn’t know about what had transpired between Fred and Pedro in the same way Fred didn’t know about what happened between you and Paul. And you both wanted to keep it that way. Too embarrassed that everyone else seemed to know of your affection for the other before you did.

“Did any unscripted scenes make it into the movie?” someone asked, pulling you back to the crowd once more.

You and Fred immediately glance back at each other with shy smiles.

Paul talked about the scene where he kissed Pedro’s forehead in the arena, even though it was technically cut.

But then he turned to the rest of the table. “What about you, Fred?” He asked pointedly, noticing how you had looked at each other when the question was asked. “You had a scene they left in, didn’t you?”

Fred chuckled nervously, scratching behind his ear. “Yeah, a few made it in. But… you probably mean when I called her ‘Lovie,’ right?” The crowd roars in response and Fred’s ears turn pink as he tugs at them. “Yeah, about that…”

Fred had started calling you Lovie after that day he was having difficulties with that one scene. He hadn’t even realized when it started, but now, it was just second nature.

Today was the day you would be filming a scene you were dreading. The day Caracalla, the sick emperor you had spent months embodying a devotion to, would die. And you were taking it hard. You had somehow made a place for him in your heart.

Fred thought it was sweet how your affections grew for his character. He assured you that he understood, working on a long term project like this always leaves an imprint on actors.

The filming schedule on set didn’t rely on the order of the scenes, but more on the availability of certain sets and certain crew members. So even though this was nowhere near the last scene you had to film with Fred as Caracalla, nor was filming coming to an end anytime soon, you were filming Fred’s last scene in the movie.

The wardrobe department was a maze of fabric and armor, with soft R&B muffling through a nearby speaker, someone no doubt wanting to lighten the atmosphere in the stuffy warehouse.

You sat hunched in a chair, eyes locked on the hem of your sweater, fingers twisting the fabric. You and Fred were waiting together to be given your costumes for the day.

It all felt so much heavier than you expected.

“You okay?”

Fred’s voice was gentle, but you didn’t lift your head. You just let out a quiet, shaky laugh.

“I’m being ridiculous.”

He came to crouch in front of you, elbows on his knees, watching you carefully. “No, you’re not.”

You sighed, pressing your palms to your face. “I’m getting emotional over the death of a villain in a movie.”

Fred’s head tilted. “Hey, we both know he wasn’t really a villain.” His voice carried a soft laugh with it.

Your lips twitched upward. “He was just misunderstood.”

“And syphilitic.”

You let out a wet laugh, wiping your face. “Yeah, and that.”

Fred grinned, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. Slowly, he stood and offered his hand. “Dance with me, Lovie.”

You blinked at him.

“What?”

“Come on,” he urged softly, fingers still outstretched.

The nickname barely registered in your mind. It wasn’t the first time he’d used it, but it felt different now, like a natural extension of you.

You slipped your hand into his, letting him pull you to your feet.

Fred’s palms settled at your waist, hesitant at first. But when you leaned in, looping your arms around his neck, his grip tightened, like letting go wasn’t an option. You swayed together, slow and easy, surrounded by walls of costumes and muffled music.

“How dumb is this?” you whispered, though the corners of your mouth lifted.

“It’s not dumb, Lovie.” Fred shook his head slightly, his hand gently smoothing over your hair. “Nothing you do is dumb.”

The nickname lingered in the air.

You exhaled, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

“I’d take care of him so well,” you murmured, only slightly serious.

Fred let out a soft chuckle, his breath warming the top of your head.

“You did, Lovie,” he whispered back. “You did take care of him.”

And later, when you filmed the scene, the two of you covered in fake blood and silks, you couldn’t differentiate your character’s tears from your own. It all felt like the end of something. It felt like mourning.

When Fred said ‘Lovie’ instead of ‘My love’ as he wilted in your arms, you didn’t even register the deviation in the script. Only when it was over, when Ridley’s voice crackled through one of the hand held radios, did it hit you.

“Beautiful. Keep calling her that, Fred.” Ridley commended. “Lovie. Should’ve thought of that myself.”

“So what he means to say,” you spoke to the crowd, “is that my dramatics fundamentally affected the movie.”

“She was actually so sad,” Fred frowned, “It was heartbreaking. It was an honest mistake, though. Calling her ‘Lovie’.”

“But did you tell them where it came from?” Connie asked, teasingly looking at Fred.

“We uh—” He chuckled bashfully. “y/n and I called her character ‘Lovie’, because it was hard to workshop a character with no name.”

“And then ‘Lovie’ stopped being the character’s nickname,” Pedro chimed in with further explanation, “And it started being y/n’s.”

“I thought it was so sweet.” Connie sighed. “And it suits her so well.”

“Ridley loved it, too.” Denzel joined. “I heard him grumbling over the radio. Something about how he didn’t think of it before.”

“No one cried when Fred cut off my head, though.” Joseph shrugged with a shake of his head. “Take from that what you will.”

“Actually, I did.” You corrected him with a smirk. “Don’t underestimate my propensity to get emotional when it comes to film.”

“Did you?” Joseph perked up, leaning forwards to look at you across the table. “Did she really?” He asked Fred, like he was the authority on all things true about you.

“Oh yeah.” Fred nodded. “And the scene where Caracalla asks where his brother is. Inconsolable. Sad movies are her weakness. You should’ve seen her when we watched ‘My Girl’.”

“Don’t bring that up right now.” You closed your eyes and shook your head solemnly, raising a palm in Fred’s direction. “He wasn’t wearing his goddamn glasses, Freddie.”

“It’s alright, Lovie,” Fred chuckled, speaking away from the microphone as he leaned closer to you. His voice dropped lower, only for you to hear. “We’ll watch a happy one tonight. Non-negotiable.”

You nodded at him, a smile growing on your face. Fred never failed to make you feel special, like you were a priority to him. Your choices always came above his, no matter how hard you insisted. It was so easy to love him.

“And our final question to wrap up the panel—”

“Make it a good one!” Pedro called into the microphone, a laugh rippling among the crowd in response.

“Come on up, don’t be shy.” The producer smiled at the young girl last in line to ask a question. “What did you want to ask the cast, honey?”

“What was your first kiss like?”

An ‘aw’ passed through the crowd as well as the cast on a stage. But a slight sweat began to coat your palms. You had been admiring Fred and his kindness only a moment ago. So tranquil, almost like you weren’t sitting in front of a crowd of hundreds of people. But this one question sent a shock of electricity up your spine. You were an actress, you reminded yourself. They wouldn’t know if you told the truth or not, would they?

You heard Paul mention a school dance, and Pedro talked about a pool party during summer break. Denzel mentioned his wife, Connie spoke briefly of a night in Paris when she was a teenager. Joseph and Fred had similar stories, a stage kiss for a school play and a local production.

When your turn came, you stuttered over your words. It didn’t feel like you had enough time to make something up, at least not something believable. “I guess—uh—technically, it was on screen.”

“Technically?” Joseph asked, confused.

“Yeah,” You swallowed as heat bloomed across your cheeks. Your lips were upturned ever so slightly as you recalled that day. “My scene partner offered to practice with me before filming. It was much sweeter than it sounds.” You laughed before letting out a sigh. “It’s a memory I’ll cherish forever.”

It was the night before you would film your first intimate scene with Fred. The two of you were sitting on his couch, scripts open but long forgotten. The quiet of the trailer is filled with the faint hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of pages as one of you shifts. You could feel Fred’s presence next to you, close enough that your knees brush when either of you adjusts your position.

“I don’t think Caracalla’s ever had anyone look at him the way Lovie does,” Fred mused, breaking the silence. His voice is soft, contemplative, like he’s voicing a thought meant only for himself.

You glanced at him, your heart skipping at the sincerity in his tone. “What do you mean?”

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair, his blue eyes drifting toward the ceiling as if searching for the right words. “It’s like… even through the haze of his sickness and his trauma, he’s desperate to be seen. And she’s the only one who really does that for him. He doesn’t know how to love, not really, but he tries in his own way.” His gaze shifted to yours, a small, delicate frown tugging at his lips. “It’s tragic really.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his expression, the way he’s peeling back a layer of himself in his explanation. “I think Lovie sees that too,” you said softly, barely above a whisper. “And maybe that’s why she stays.”

Fred’s smile faltered, his brows furrowing as he studies you. “You think she chooses to stay?”

“I think…” You paused as you pondered. “I think she’s grown to love him somehow, through this strange, abusive, co-dependent… thing they’ve got going on. And she’s choosing to stay. What you do with love is a choice,” you replied, your voice tinged with something wistful and raw. “Not everyone handles it as carefully as they should.”

The air between you shifted, growing heavier, thicker, as the weight of your words lingered.

It didn’t feel like you were talking about your character’s anymore. Fred’s eyes didn’t leave yours after you spoke, and you suddenly realized how close he was sitting. His knee brushed yours again, and this time, neither of you moved away.

“Does it scare you?” he asked, his voice impossibly quiet.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding against your ribs. “What?”

“Getting it wrong,” he said, his gaze searching for something telling in your eyes. “Love, I mean.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, but you held his gaze, unable to look away. “Yeah,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “It does scare me, I suppose.”

Fred nodded, a flicker of understanding passed over his face. “Me too.”

There was a beat of silence, and then, without thinking, Fred reached out, his hand brushed against yours where it rested on the cushion between you. His touch was light, almost tentative, but it sent a jolt through you.

“I guess that’s why it’s easier on set,” he murmured, his thumb grazing your knuckles. “You get to pretend, just for a little while, that you know what you’re doing.”

You laughed softly, but it caught in your throat when you saw the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing in the room worth noticing.

“Fred…” you started, your voice trailing off as his fingers curled gently around yours. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“I’m nervous about tomorrow.” You confessed, eyes falling down to your lap.

“I know.” He replied.

You furrowed your brows and lifted your head to look at him questioningly. “You know?”

“Yeah y/n, of course I know.” Fred smiled softly, reassuringly, “I think I would be a bad friend if I couldn’t tell that you were nervous. And I’ve seen your filmography, I know you haven’t done this sort of thing before.”

You didn’t know if it was a relief or not that he thought you were only nervous about the shoot.

“Uh, yeah,” you nodded, eyes flickering downwards. “Never for a project, no.” You hoped he wouldn’t catch the half truth. Or maybe you hoped that he would. You weren’t sure how you felt about all of this.

You liked Fred. You knew this about yourself now. And sometimes, you think that maybe, just maybe, he might like you back. Paul never failed to seize an opportunity to tell you that, of course. But you were too scared to make a fool of yourself. And, selfishly, you didn’t want to lose what you had with Fred. But now, things were progressing.

Fred was going to be your first kiss.

And that would be hard to overcome. Especially when you already liked him so much. You were afraid that you would imprint on him like a duckling, never seeing anyone else in the same light. And then what would you do?

“y/n?” Fred asked, his eyebrows knitted together in concern. “Are you alright?” You hummed in response, eyes still unfocused. “Do you wanna do a trust exercise or something?”

“What?” You questioned, finally pulling yourself back to the moment.

“For tomorrow?” Fred explained, raising his eyebrows as he spoke. “To help you feel better about it?”

You thought about it for a moment before nodding. This might be just what you need. It was so helpful with Fred that last time, and hopefully it could be for you as well. “You wanna do the eye contact one?”

“How about another one?” Fred asked, leaning back against the back of the couch.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Tell me a secret.”

“What?” You balked. “What kind of exercise is that?”

“A secret for a secret.” Fred shrugged. “How about I start?” You nodded, though apprehensively. “I’m nervous for tomorrow, too.”

“Are you really?” You raised a brow at him. “‘Cause if your secret’s just a lie to make me feel better, then you’re cheating.”

Fred giggled and shook his head. “No, I really am.”

“Why?” You tilted your head inquisitively at him.

“Nope, I already told you my secret.” He pursed his lips and shook his head again. “Now it’s your turn.”

You shifted uncomfortably, tucking your legs beneath you on the couch, the script forgotten in your lap. Fred’s gentle, observant gaze had a way of making you feel bare in a way that wasn’t unsettling, but intimate—like he could read every thought you tried to hide.

“I guess it’s not just in front of the camera,” you admitted softly, fiddling with the corner of a page. The confession felt inevitable, like it had been lingering between the two of you for weeks, just waiting for a moment like this to surface. “I mean… I haven’t done this before. Any of it. Not just on screen.”

Fred's eyes softened as he sat up slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, his focus entirely on you. “You mean you—you’ve never been kissed before?” His voice was quiet, not prying but careful, like he didn’t want to scare you away.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

For a moment, Fred didn’t respond. He simply watched you, and you could feel the weight of his attention, not heavy or oppressive. His brows furrowed slightly as if he were choosing his next words carefully.

“That’s… okay, you know,” he said finally. There was no pity in his tone, only a steady reassurance. “I know how intimidating this can be, even for people who’ve done it before.”

“It’s just—” you sighed, leaning back into the couch, exasperated with yourself. “It’s not that I think I can’t do it. I know I can, or at least I hope I can. I just don’t want to look ridiculous. I want it to look real.”

Fred smiled faintly, his head tilting as he considered your words. “It’s admirable, you know?” You hummed in question at him. “The fact that you’re sacrificing your first kiss for the production.”

“It’s embarrassing is what it is.” You rolled your eyes with a snort.

“What?” He gasped quietly, the air still feeling ever so delicate between the two of you. “You're giving it away for Sir Ridley Scott! He’d be honored if he knew, I think.”

“He’d be confused if he knew.” You corrected him. “An actress in her early twenties who hasn’t been kissed before. I think I could apply to the Guinness book of world records.”

“Hey, come on.” He shook his head at you sympathetically. “You’re not breaking any records, trust me. There’s no deadline for this kind of thing.” He shifted closer as he spoke, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck in that familiar gesture you’d come to recognize as a sign of his sincerity, “But…I could help—only if you want.”

Your heart skipped. “Help?”

He nodded. “I mean… if it makes you feel more comfortable, we could—” he paused, exhaling as if second-guessing himself. “I could be your first kiss. Just to take some of the pressure off tomorrow. It’s not a big deal. Only if you’re okay with it, of course.”

The room felt impossibly quiet, save for the distant hum of the trailer’s air conditioning. You swallowed, your pulse thrumming in your ears. It wasn’t just the offer that stunned you—it was the ease in Fred’s voice, the way he treated it like something simple. Just Fred, offering to help you in whatever way he could. It was so sweet. He was always so sweet to you. But you couldn’t. Not like this

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, but you inevitably shook your head. “That’s really sweet of you, Fred. But I think I want my first real kiss to be with someone who actually really likes me, not a pity kiss from my scene partner. Tomorrow doesn’t count if I don’t count it. It’s fine, really. I was just in my head about it—”

Fred laughed before he could stop himself, interrupting your rambling. “You really are oblivious, aren’t you?”

“What?” You asked dumbly, not expecting him to say something like that after your vulnerable confession.

“Why do you think I’m nervous about tomorrow?” He asked incredulously, another laugh escaping him. “It’s because I actually really like you, y/n!”

Oh.

It was like someone knocked the wind out of you.

You had hoped that he liked you back, maybe even thought it might be a possibility in the back of your mind, but to hear him say those words out loud? You were speechless. It was like a dream come true. All those months of pining for him, all that yearning, was reciprocated this whole time.

“y/n,” Fred murmured, his voice low, soothing. “Can I be your first real kiss? Please?” He parroted your words back to you once more, breathlessly. You felt the blood rush into your head.

You managed a weak nod, barely able to meet his gaze. He waited a beat, letting the moment settle before he leaned in, his hand lifting to cup the side of your face. His touch was featherlight, his thumb tracing slow circles against your cheekbone. The intimacy of the gesture almost unraveled you.

Fred's lips brushed yours tentatively, the kiss soft and unhurried. His movements were gentle yet assured, he understood that this was new for you and he didn’t mind guiding you through it. His other hand found your waist, steadying you, and you felt yourself melting into him.

As the kiss deepened, Fred’s grip on your waist tightened subtly, anchoring you as he shifted. Without breaking contact, he eased you forward, guiding you into his lap until you straddled him, your knees on either side of his hips and your hands resting tentatively against his shoulders. His fingers flexed against your hips, drawing you closer until there was barely any space left between you.

Your lungs felt tight as Fred pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breath fanned over your lips and his hands lingered against your waist, sending butterflies crashing into each other in your stomach. You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—long enough for the rapid beat of your heart to settle into something softer, steadier.

“Was that okay?” Fred asked softly, his voice just above a whisper.

You nodded before opening your eyes to meet his gaze. There was something tender in the way he looked at you, and it made the words on the tip of your tongue feel less terrifying.

“Can we… do it again?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, and your stomach flipped as you realized how vulnerable you sounded.

Fred's lips quirked into a soft smile as his hand slid up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah,” he murmured, a soft laugh coloring his words as he brushed his nose against yours. “Yeah, we can do it again. As many times as you want.”

His lips found yours once more, and this time, there was no hesitation. Fred kissed you with more certainty, his hands firm as they traced the curve of your back, pulling you closer still. You could feel his quiet desire in the way he held you, the way his fingers flexed when you deepened the kiss.

You were glad that confession made its way out before you could stop it.

The next morning, you woke up with a strange mix of nerves and excitement bubbling beneath your skin.

The day was finally here.

The scene you’d been dreading—and quietly anticipating—was actually happening. But unlike the restless nights leading up to it, you felt more prepared. More steady.

You had filmed a few suggestive scenes with Fred before. As a syphilitic emperor, Caracalla had the propensity to be very comfortable and open in his desires. But you weren’t asked to be nude for any of those scenes, unlike this one. The complexity of not even speaking, yet being so exposed on screen was a little difficult to wrap your head around.

This scene was supposed to depict you and Caracalla in the privacy of his lavish quarters when Joseph as Geta barges in and angrily informs his brother of Acacius and Lucilla's betrayal. You and Fred were to be undressed and only covered by sheets from the waist down.

Clara, the intimacy coordinator, had explained that Fred would be leaned back in bed, propped up by a few pillows, while you sat in his lap. The scene would open with a close up shot of the two of you kissing gently, the camera slowly pulling back with you as you leaned back. Your lower bodies would be covered with various messy sheets, depicting the long night the characters had already had before the intrusion.

The scene was much more than physical, it was also meant to show the characters’ co-dependent nature. Even when his concubine was on him, he needed his hands to be on her, both showing his dominance and control over her as well as his reluctance to pull away.

Fred’s kiss lingered in the back of your mind like a warm ember, small but constant. While you still felt the nerves creep in when you thought about today’s shoot, there was a quiet confidence blooming alongside them.

When you arrived on set, you noticed immediately how different the atmosphere felt. The crew was smaller, the lighting dimmer—intentional choices to provide you with a layer of privacy.

Clara was already on set, organizing the sheets and setting up the space. She glanced your way, smiling comfortingly, but she didn’t say anything. She knew of your apprehension and had been worried about you. But she noticed something new in you today. Maybe there was a shift in your energy or a slight lift in your posture, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she kept her observations to herself.

Fred was already there, standing near the bed where the scene would take place with Joseph. He smiled the second he saw you, that familiar softness in his expression grounding you more than anything else could.

“Morning,” he greeted, voice low and calm.

“Morning,” you replied, a shy tight lipped smile on your face as you stepped closer to him. Joseph greeted you but was quickly ushered away to his mark behind the door, not giving him enough time to notice the change between you and Fred.

Clara approached you and spoke with her usual calm authority, a roll of skin-safe tape in hand. “Alright, let’s get these sheets secured,” she said, gesturing for you to adjust your robe.

But you stopped her with a small, assured smile. “I don’t think we’ll need the tape today.” Last night’s events forged a confidence deep within you. You knew your team had your back. You knew Fred had your back.

Clara paused, blinking at you as if processing your words. Her sharp gaze flickered briefly to Fred, who stood a few feet away, his hands stuffed into his robe pockets.

He tilted his head at your words, his brows furrowing slightly as he stepped closer. “You sure?” His voice was low, warm with concern.

You nodded, holding his gaze. “Yeah, I feel more confident now.”

Clara smirked faintly, a flicker of understanding in her expression, but she didn’t press. Fred’s gesture was subtle but telling. “Alright, just let me know if anything changes.” She said with a sense of finality before stepping away to oversee the set.

Fred watched her retreat, then turned back to you with a concerned glint in his eye. He brushed your arm lightly to grab your attention. “You really don’t want the tape?” Fred asked again, his tone tinged with genuine care.

“Yeah,” You nodded with determination. “I can do it.”

He studied you for a beat longer, as if making sure you weren’t pushing yourself too hard, then smiled softly. “I’m proud of you.”

“You helped.” You confessed in a whisper, a smile curling your lips upward.

“Yeah?” He asked in surprise, his grin only grew wider when you nodded in confirmation. “Glad I could be of service. We could sneak off and practice some more, if you’d like-”

“Fred!” You cut him off before he could say anymore, scandalised yet amused all the same. “You’re horrible!”

“And you’re cute, Lovie.” He smirked as an assistant pulled him away, cutting your conversation short.

Another assistant pulled you forward as well, telling you to get into place so they could adjust the lighting based on your position. Fred smiled encouragingly at you from the bed he was laying in as you approached. An assistant helped you get into position, straddling Fred’s lap with your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. The position wasn’t unlike how you had found yourself last night in Fred’s trailer. With a quick glance into Fred’s eyes, you knew he was thinking the same thing.

The makeup artists fluttered around you, dabbing at your skin with soft brushes, unknowingly keeping the moment from becoming too intimate. The lighting crew adjusted their angles, the soft glow from overhead casting shadows that added depth to the space.

Fred’s hands found your waist instinctively, his thumbs brushing circles against the fabric of your robe. His touch was grounding, steady, and it calmed the last bit of tension lingering in your chest.

“You okay?” he asked, low enough that only you could hear.

You met his gaze, but your eyes kept drifting lower, to his lips. The memory of yesterday was still present at the forefront of your mind, your pulse quickened at the thought of doing it again.

Fred noticed immediately, a small chuckle escaping him. “You’re adorable.” He repeated his sentiment from earlier.

“I’m just—” You flushed, embarrassed at being caught. You were unable to find the words to explain the giddy excitement stirring in you. “I guess I’m excited to start.”

Fred’s smirk deepened, but he didn’t push it, not wanting to tease you any further. “Good.” His grip on your waist tightened subtly, the weight of his hands calming you.

As the cameras rolled, Fred’s lips found yours, his kiss was steady and deliberate, his hands guiding you gently as your body pressed closer to his. You pulled away from him when you heard your cue, the camera nearest to you swooshing in the air as it moved backwards. Soon enough, you heard the loud bang of the bedroom doors bursting open. You startled in Fred’s lap, the reaction a mix of yours and Lovie’s. For a brief moment, you weren’t acting on a set. It was just the two of you before Joseph barged in.

Fred cradled you against his chest, covering your exposed form from Geta, like the scene called for. You couldn’t hear what Joseph was saying over the loud heartbeat in your ears, but you knew what the script expected of you and when. Fred’s warm skin and chest hair brushed against your arms as you huddled close to him. It was intoxicating.

After the first take, you gently pulled back and shifted Fred’s position. “Keep your hands here,” you instructed, placing his hands firmly on your hips in view of the camera. “To show that he’s in control.”

“Okay,” he nodded, always open to your ideas. “You should try leaning into me more,” he added, his hands guiding your hips to tilt forward. “It makes it look like he’s really keeping her there.”

You furrowed your brows as you digested his notes. “Alright. Should I put more weight into it?”

“Yeah, exactly.” He nodded in encouragement. “Don’t hold back, I’ve got you.”

The next take felt even more intense. Fred’s hands pressed into your waist with more dominance. And you fell into him, relinquishing control, matching the energy you’d both discussed.

Between takes, he was quick to adjust the sheets, shielding you with practiced ease. Each touch lingered longer than necessary, his fingers brushing against your bare skin beneath the fabric, and every time you glanced up at him, his eyes held the same quiet intensity and kindness.

Joseph and Clara shared looks after each run through, the two of them noticing the shift in dynamic between the two of you.

“They’re different today.” Joseph whispered to Clara.

“They’re more in sync.” Clara tilted her head as she observed the two of you. “Almost like…”

“Almost like they’ve been practicing.” Joseph smirked.

“About damn time, if you ask me.” Clara huffed, though amused all the same.

All these months later, and the memory was still fresh in your mind. And apparently, in someone else’s as well. “y/n?” Joseph’s voice broke the quiet hum of the green room. You were standing at the tea station, carefully deliberating over how much sugar and milk to add to your cup when he approached, his tone unusually hesitant. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” You didn’t look up, focused on swirling the tea in your cup. “As long as it’s not about my sugar-to-milk ratio, because I’ll have you know, it’s perfect.”

Joseph chuckled softly, scratching the back of his neck. “No, it’s not that. It’s… uh…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “You can totally tell me to fuck off and mind my own business if you don’t want to answer.”

“I gotta hear the question first, Joseph,” you replied with a playful smile, still not turning to face him. “But I promise I won’t be offended.”

He took a deep breath. “Was Fred your first kiss?”

Your hand froze mid-air over the sugar tin, the question catching you off guard. You finally glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. “What makes you think that?”

“It’s just…” Joseph shifted uncomfortably, his usual confidence replaced with something softer. “What you said back there—on stage—about cherishing the memory forever. It sounded a lot like you were talking about Fred.” He looked down at the tea he was fixing, his words careful, almost shy. “And honestly, it reminded me of that day on set.”

“What day?”

“When we filmed the scene in Caracalla’s bedroom.” His eyes flicked back to yours, searching for confirmation. “You and Fred were… different that day. There was this energy between you two, like something had changed. I thought maybe you’d finally, you know, come to your senses about each other, but what you said on stage—it made me wonder.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hiding the small smile tugging at your lips. “Well, you’re not entirely wrong.” You added a splash of milk to your tea. “We did come to our senses that day.”

Joseph’s eyebrows shot up, his curiosity piqued. “And… was he—you know…?”

You glanced at him, tilting your head in mock thought. “While I appreciate your sudden foray into investigative journalism,” you teased, “I think the answer to that question is classified.”

Before Joseph could reply, Paul’s voice cut through the moment. “Or…” he started, strolling toward you with an infuriating smirk. “The answer is a three-letter word.”

“Fuck off, Paul!” you shot back, your laughter bubbling up as you grabbed your cup of tea.

Joseph groaned, shaking his head at Paul. “You’re relentless.”

“And mean,” you added with a grin as you turned to head toward Fred, who had just entered the room and only caught the tail end of the conversation. He gave you an inquisitive look as he draped his arm over your shoulders.

“What are we cussing Paul out for this time?” Fred asked, his voice light and teasing. He leaned down, pretending to whisper conspiratorially, “What’d he do?”

“He’s mean,” you said with a giggle, your words laced with amusement. “Are you ready to leave?”

Fred nodded. “Yeah, the car’s waiting out back.”

“You’re leaving already?” Paul’s mock-pout followed you as you grabbed your bag.

“We’re literally seeing you guys at dinner in, what, two hours?” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

“And tomorrow morning,” Fred added, steering you toward the door. “Hopefully you’ll survive without us until then.”

As you walked out, Joseph’s amused voice reached you. “For the record, I’m still rooting for that classified answer.”

Fred glanced down at you, his brow raised. “What’s he talking about?”

“It’s nothing,” you said, stifling a laugh. “They’re just being nosy.”

Fred didn’t push, his signature crooked grin tugging at his lips as he leaned closer, his voice warm against your ear. “Well, whatever it is, I’m on your side.”

As always, you thought, smiling softly to yourself.

As you stepped out into the cool evening air, Fred’s arm still draped over your shoulders, you couldn’t help but glance up at him. The way he fit so effortlessly into your life—his steady presence, his quiet reassurances—made you wonder how you ever doubted his feelings for you. Looking back now, it seemed almost ridiculous. Every glance, every touch, every word had been there all along, waiting for you to notice.

“Ready?” he asked softly, opening the car door for you and offering you a hand.

You nodded, a quiet laugh escaping your lips at his antics. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

How could you not be, when everything he did made it so easy to fall for him?

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averycutesalamander · 5 months ago

Text

When I Feel the Snake Bite Enter My Veins

Chapter 1

Boothill x fem reader || 19k words || also available on ao3

You would love nothing more to rip out your husband's teeth for all he's done to you – but it seems you're sorely lacking the means. How fortunate that Boothill has such a strong grip.

WARNINGS: mentions of noncon, nonconsentual body modification (nothing extreme), threatening and possessive behavior, and domestic abuse, none of which are on Boothill's part. Additional warning for violence and gore, which is not inflicted on the reader.

You hate – no, despise – no, abhor your husband. He is a despicable, disgusting, wicked, greedy, heartless man, and were it not for this wretched fucking collar, you would have killed him years ago, a thousand times over.

You first met him when you were young and stupid and bafflingly naive, caught up in your passion as a singer. You'd been performing for years, bouncing between miserably low-paying gigs at bars and private events and all sorts of sketchy places; you were certain you'd hit the jackpot when you managed to call in a favor from a friend of a friend and secured a single night at a sizable casino – but with pay like that, a single night would be all you'd need to cover your expenses for half a year if you stayed frugal. Not just that, but you could meet people there – people with power, people with an eye for finer things, people that would like your talent enough that they'd pay you something livable.

And indeed, you got just that.

Words couldn't express how shocked you were when you were approached by Silas Morghani – a businessman, by the look of him, with dark hair and darker eyes. You didn't miss the IPC guards that tailed him, either – but the allure of his undeniable status momentarily blinded you.

(You should've known better.)

He bought you some obscenely expensive yet absolutely revolting wine, then bragged that he was near the top of the food chain at the Marketing Development Department, acting lordly and boastful, as if it were something to be proud of – as if the name didn't make your skin crawl with the childhood memories of your mother bluntly discussing the slaughter of billions over dinner. ("Trimming the fat," she always said, chewing on her steak like it wasn't once a living creature. "It's ludicrous to call it anything more.")

(You'll never forget the moment you realized what your mother's job really was. You were doing research for a school paper, sifting through the dusty files in your late father's office in hopes of getting a leg up; you'd just broken open an exceptionally stubborn locked drawer when you stumbled across an obscure newsletter from a long-defunct station that you don't recognize. IPC Condemns Two Dozen Planets to Slavery: Where Will the Cruelty End? Its only labeled author was anonymous.)

(Cluelessly, you'd skimmed the article, practically burning with curiosity; why would your father have this tucked away in a locked drawer? And then you saw it: "One interviewee answered, 'We're only trimming the fat.' She added later that 'the citizens are only being relocated, not enslaved. It's ludicrous to call it anything more.'")

(And for the first time, you wondered if your father really had thrown himself off the rooftop after being fired from his job at the newspaper, like mother said he had.)

But you were desperate. You'd been in the rat race for years at that point, struggling for scraps, being taken advantage of by shrewd business owners that could somehow smell the desperation on you. You were fucking tired of networking, tired of being fleeced, tired of all of it. You grew up in a lion’s den of deceit and half-truths, and you managed to slip away from all of the teeth and claws; this couldn't be any different, surely? You just needed to stay alert.

So when he offered to let you do a show at his lounge, situated at the top of a skyscraper overlooking the city, you snatched up the opportunity like a mangy dog being offered shelter from a storm.

(Little did you know that you would be chained and collared and starved – not merely thrown into the lion's den, but skinned and filleted as well. "For your own good," he'd coo, as if he didn't have the knife sitting bloody in his palm.)

After Silas hired you to perform full-time at his lounge, the jaws of the trap fully closed around you. He rooted himself into your life with frightening ease, no matter how subtly you tried to dodge his invitations to dinner or tried to end conversations so you could go home for the night. You learned very quickly that you couldn't refuse him – that no one could refuse him and get away with it; you've seen the corpses to prove it.

When he asked you to stay a bit longer to chat after business hours, he wasn't asking. When he asked you to do an extra show after-hours for his work friends, he wasn't asking. When he asked you if you wanted to move into the penthouse on the floor above the lounge, he wasn't asking. When he pinned you against your vanity and looked down at you with those horrible, soulless eyes and asked to kiss you, he wasn't asking. When he pressed you up against your door and asked if you wanted him to fuck you, he wasn't asking.

When he gifted you a heavy, diamond-encrusted necklace that sat like a choker and asked if he could put it on you, he wasn't asking. "The color matches perfectly with everything," he said, his smile just a bit too wide. "So you won't have to change it for different outfits. Quite convenient, yes?"

When he climbed up onto your stage after the biggest performance you'd ever held, he didn't kneel for you. He cupped your face under the spotlight, subtly pressing his pinkies into the tender skin beneath your jaw with just a bit too much force to be innocent, and when he asked you to marry him in front of that fully packed audience of IPC coworkers–

He wasn't asking.

—

You first tried to kill him only two months after your wedding.

You'd been essentially forced into taking sleeping pills because, shockingly, you didn’t have the most restful sleep in the same bed as the man who held a half-metaphorical gun to your head. He ran his thumb beneath your tired, exhausted eyes, his brows furrowed like his prized bird had fallen ill.

"We should make sure you get some rest, pet." (He always calls you pet, like it's cute. Never in your life have you been so nauseated by a single word.) "Can't have you getting sloppy during performances, right?"

"Of course, sweetie," you said, giving him the same practiced smile you'd mastered ever since meeting him.

You tested the pills – experimented to see if you could taste the medication in a drink. Too bitter, you decided – so you fought through the drug to stay awake and told him that you'd have to try another. "It made me so nauseous, and it didn't even make me sleep," you said faintly, furrowing your brows as if you were ashamed to admit it.

The next wouldn't quite dissolve in water or alcohol – too gritty.

The next had an off taste as well – too metallic.

The next was perfect. Utterly tasteless – absolutely no change to texture.

So you slipped it into the gin you served him one night and settled into your recliner to wait, your stomach churning with unease as you nonchalantly flipped open your book. You watched in your peripheral as he took a sip, your palms clammy against the paper. No reaction – although there was a faint, nearly indistinguishable pop, like a car engine had sputtered in the streets hundreds of stories below.

Silas hummed in apparent interest, like he'd noticed something peculiar about a painting on the wall.

Then – a blinding flash of searing, white-hot pain, like you were being struck by lightning. The air was punched straight from your lungs, strangled from your throat. When you came to, you were dry heaving over the carpet, your neck tingling with some unnameable, boundless pain between burning and stabbing.

That stupid, ugly, piece-of-shit necklace.

You watched with a detached sense of horror as a pair of dress shoes stepped into your peripheral, a hand coming down beneath your chin to yank your head up. He reached up and pressed his fingers into his mouth, gripping something and pulling.

And there, in his palm: a false, hollow tooth with a tiny hole burst from one side. Through your blurry eyes, you could see the remnants of some kind of powder where his fingers held it.

He smiled in the same way he always has – cold and unfeeling. "It's filled with a reactive agent," he said, so utterly unmoved that it sent a chill up your spine. "It pops when exposed to blacklisted chemicals. Quite convenient, yes?"

When he leaned in, you held your breath instinctively. You could feel your heart racing in your chest, fear running cold in your veins. (Would it be the first time he hit you? Would he finally lose his patience and reveal the undeniable reality that he's a monster?)

Instead, he murmured, "If you try that again, pet, I fear I'll have to have your tongue cut out. And what is a songbird without her tongue?"

You always know when he's expecting an answer. With a dry rasp, you answered, "Worthless."

His smile was like a rabid wolf baring its teeth. "That's right, doll. Now, let's get your medicine, shall we? It's getting terribly late."

He wasn't asking.

—

You learned very quickly after that. If you're going to escape the gilded cage he's locked you in, you'll need to be much, much subtler.

(As a child, you asked your father how he came to know so many secrets. “That's what true journalism is about,” he once told you, and he was skilled in the art of knowing things that people of his ilk never should.)

("It's simple, poppet," he said, grinning down at you with a smile brighter than the sun. "You've gotta be a mouse.")

(You had blinked cluelessly at him. "Mice aren't very strong, papa.")

(He laughed. "Depends on how you look at it. Mice are fast, and quiet, and smart, and resourceful. They know when to freeze when a hawk passes over them." He ruffled your hair, turning back to his work. "That's how you learn the things I do, and how you get as good at poker as me.")

(There was one hawk he clearly couldn't hide from, though. If you want to escape the talons of your hunter, you'll need to be faster, quieter, smarter, and even more resourceful.)

So, you learn to be a mouse – and a stubborn one, at that.

You endure the degradation of every single right and privilege being ripped away from you, then drip-fed back as if it's a kindness and not the bare minimum. You don't get to choose what you wear, what color your hair is, when you sleep, when you wake. You don’t get to choose what or when you eat without begging for it, because the kitchen lies beyond a set of locked doors that only the servants can enter. You don't get to choose what songs you perform, nor when you perform them, and you certainly don't get to choose who your audience is. You don't get to choose what books you have access to, nor what TV channels you watch. The bastard doesn't even grant you access to emails, let alone anything more modern.

Once, you go to sleep and wake up in a hospital room with no memory of how you got there. Two stitched incisions lay below your navel. Neither the nurse nor the doctor nor Silas will tell you what they even did.

It grates on you. No, it does far more than that; it torments you. Every instinct in your body is urging you to bite his fucking throat out while he sleeps, to hurl yourself out one of the windows and pray you grow wings before you hit the ground, to wrench a gun from one of those horrible, soulless guards and paint the bleak white walls with red.

You endure it. You endure it all, because you will not let this monster ruin you.

You spend your abundant, empty time testing his limits – seeing what he'll allow before he yanks at your leash again, seeing how far his possessiveness goes. You prod carefully at his security, trying to pinpoint the locations of all of the cameras you know must be scattered around the penthouse. You take all of the little pieces and tuck them into the depths of your mind for safekeeping, memorizing the schedule of the most lenient and laziest guards, keeping track of which maids are most gullible and agreeable. You're very careful not to tempt Silas's wrath again; you fear it'll get him in the habit of using that fucking shock collar, and you simultaneously worry that it might destroy your voice.

(After all, what use does a despicable, vile man like him have for a songbird that can't sing? He's already cut off your wings; best not to test if he'll do the same to your head.)

You let him think he's broken you. You let him think he's won, though you're careful to make the effect seem gradual, as if the hope is draining out of you like blood from a severed artery. You make a grand show of it all – and one day, nearly a year after you were locked in this gilded cage, you let it all out in the first sobbing meltdown you've had this whole time. He holds you in those horrible arms as if he isn't your tormentor, soothing you through the tears that aren't quite genuine but aren't quite fake.

"You understand, now, don't you?" he murmurs, combing through your hair as you sniffle. "This is where you belong, pet. You don't need to fight."

You let your expression collapse like a house of cards, nodding limply. For what might be the first time, you aren't afraid when he smiles.

Because that's the thing with arrogant men like him–

They never, ever doubt if they’re right.

—

The months drain past you like water through gravel. You watch, you observe, you listen – and good fucking god, do you learn.

After your meltdown, Silas returns some crumbs of autonomy to you. You’re granted the privilege of going outside on occasion – tailed by guards and at his discretion, of course. Every aspect of your life is still chained to his desires, but with every month that passes, you loosen the binds just a millimeter further, oiled by your apparent compliance.

You get in the habit of spending more time with him while he's working in his office; your skin crawls whenever he touches you, but your best vantage point is right on his lap, so you grit your teeth and bear it. You ply him with sex whenever his hands wander, because although you want to break off every one of his fingers, the information you glean in your periphery from his work documents is quite valuable. He's in charge of some very important decisions, you discover – and he's responsible for the displacement and deaths of many, many civilians. The details are foggy, but he seems to handle the paperwork of some incredibly profitable gem mining networks. You can't imagine how many people he's sentenced to death because they were unlucky enough to be living on valuable land.

(You can't stop thinking about your father – about that damn article. Where Will the Cruelty End? Every time he crosses your mind, you recall all of the times that people said you took after him rather than your mother, which she always seemed a bit bitter about.)

(You never intended to follow his legacy – but it seems like it followed you instead.)

Even mere glimpses of those papers make you nauseous, but if there's some sliver of a chance that you'll find something of use, you can't let it slip away. And, as it turns out, you were right to think so. You've been seeing mentions about some kind of criminal that's been a huge pain for his supply chain, and you've caught snippets of some of his other crimes in the documents: arson, theft, destruction of property, and even kidnapping and murder of IPC members, though their ranking is unclear. One day, you even catch a sliver of a photo from some kind of security footage; all you manage to see before the paper is turned are his sharp eyes and even sharper teeth, but it's enough to tell you one important fact–

A man with a gaze like that is not meant to be trifled with.

It's an extremely promising lead, but you'll need more information if you want to actually use it – so you bide your time, waiting for Silas to make that final, fatal slip.

—

People have always thought you were stupid, ever since you became involved with Silas; you're convinced it's the persona he's forced you to adopt ever since he closed his claws around you, or the way he handles you like his ditzy little trophy wife that could never hurt a fly – a pretty, empty-headed doll that's never dealt with anything troublesome in her life. It's something you've always resented, but never corrected. Now, you're thankful you never went through the trouble – because people are very, very loose-lipped when they think you're stupid.

It's from the mouth of the devil himself that you first hear the name Boothill.

Silas has you in his lap in one of the lounge’s private rooms, idly thumbing just a bit too low at your waist like the lecher he is as he contemplates his poker hand; you don't even need to peek at the others to know he's going to win regardless of how good it is. ("Word of advice, sweetie? Never trust a man that's too good at poker," your mother once said, only days after you'd graduated high school. "They're all rotten liars.")

Silas is sipping at his scotch, ranting with his scumbag coworkers about something or other; you're only paying enough attention to keep an ear out for potential escape routes, not to truly absorb any of the endless drivel about money, money, money. You always despise when he has this group over at the lounge, because they all get tipsy, and tipsy means handsy, and Silas is only possessive when it serves to piss you off, so he loves letting these disgusting fucking pigs put their hands on you – like you're a little toy that he wants to show off to his friends.

("It's just a bit of fun, pet," he always sighs, as if you're the one being difficult. "You love wearing those skimpy dresses when you perform. How's this any different?")

(He never acknowledges that he's the one that has complete control of your wardrobe. God, you can't wait to break his fucking fingers. You'll shatter his knees under the highest heels in your closet. You'll make him choke on his teeth after you bash them in with this wretched fucking collar. You'll make him choke on this hideous wedding ring. You'll– well. Best not to get too carried away, lest you break character.)

Now, as he leisurely gestures with his cards, he huffs, "And I've lost damn near five percent of my profit because of this mess."

The pig-nosed man to your right pipes up, simmering with anger. "And of course none of those stupid fucks at the security department can catch the guy. What was his name?"

You can't see it from your position, but you get the feeling that Silas is scowling like he's just stepped in shit. "Boothill. Just some idiot hick, but nobody's managed to kill him yet. I'd say they should just double his bounty and be done with it."

"Did you hear about that shipment of pure Caladorian ore he destroyed last quarter? The astronium?" the blonde across from you spits. "A good portion of that was my stock. Exploded! He didn't even steal it!"

The stoic, long-haired man on your left sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I could live with the losses, truthfully, but the press has gotten so noisy about him that it's starting to piss me off."

The pig-nosed one takes a sip of his own drink, the ice clinking against the glass like the rustle of a rattlesnake. "Didn't he kill that Vidyadhara bitch of yours, Jenn? Heard something about that yesterday."

The lanky man who's been otherwise silent sighs in what can only be irritation. "Yeah – kidnapped her while she was under triple security, no less. Horrible timing. All I needed was her signature to close that deal." He takes a sip of his scotch, a sour look on his face. “Ugh. All of that sex for nothing. The bitch couldn't give good head to save her life.”

(You resent that you've grown so used to their blatant misogyny. They'll say the most disgusting, lecherous things about women – including you, but that's hardly shocking – as if you aren't sitting right there. They treat you like you're little more than decor; the only thing that makes it tolerable is the fact that you can benefit from their stupidity.)

More importantly, though…

Kidnapped under triple security? That certainly piques your interest. If you recall correctly, they're talking about a woman you've only ever known as Weasel. She is– well, was a very powerful information broker tied to the IPC, known best for her paranoia and shrewd practices. Her normal security was apparently already absurd, and if this guy managed to get to her with three times that amount...

Well, perhaps you're more acquainted with his deeds than you would've guessed.

—

You had friends, before Silas locked you away in this ivory tower; perhaps your closest was Iris. You met her in school, so long ago that you can't even remember it. Between the two of you, she was the clever, mischievous one – and perhaps that's where you got your wits from, because she always knew just how to push your buttons in a way that made you want to be better than her. You got up to all sorts of trouble as teens; the most memorable was when you decided to pass poorly coded notes during class, and when you got caught, you refused to tell your teacher what it meant – so the clever old hag decoded it herself and read out whatever embarrassing nonsense you'd written about dating or after-school plans or what-have-you.

Thus began what you both liked to call the Code Wars – you and her versus Miss Kravitz.

It became a contest of how complex you could make your codes, how sneakily you could pass your notes, the difficulty ramping higher and higher when your teacher kept catching you. You came up with secret passphrases to cheat on tests; whenever you needed help, you'd write, verbatim, “We should hang out soon.” After, you'd ask about a specific date – however many days ahead it was from the present indicated which question you needed the answer for. Then, if the receiver didn't know the answer either, they'd indicate how fucked the two of you were by asking the sender if they wanted to play games. Video games were the mildest, followed by checkers, blackjack, poker, or, god fucking forbid, chess – which both of you were absolute shit at, hence its place as the most brutal.

So, when you write a letter to a woman you haven't even been able to text in years, asking if she'd like to play chess sometime – the sooner the better, but you can be patient – you can only pray. You write down your measurements, asking her to make a dress for you to wear during your next big show – an event for some very important figures in the IPC. I'm a bit uncertain on the details, you write, but I have a rough idea of what I'd like done. Perhaps we could schedule a consultation?

You're certain the letter is going to be checked thoroughly before it even leaves the building – most likely by Silas himself. The framing as a surprise will buy you some wiggle room, which you'll need desperately. Keep this on the down-low if you can, you write. It needs to be a surprise for my husband.

(The last time you spoke to Iris, you said something about being terrified that Silas was going to try to marry you. She told you to run, naturally – but she wasn't as familiar with the inner workings of the IPC as you were. She didn't see the mutilated bodies of the people that showed him the slightest disrespect – never by his own hand, but instead callously passed off to his lackeys. She didn't see the guillotine that still hangs over your neck to this very day, ready to plunge downward at any moment. She didn't see the cold look in your mother's eye the first and only time you tried to reach out to her for help. “You got yourself into this mess, sweetie,” she said blandly, looking down at her phone in apparent disinterest. “I can't afford to make an enemy of your paramour. You're on your own.” Maybe you'll kill her one day, too.)

(Now, you pray Iris remembers the fear in your eyes when you last hugged her goodbye for the evening. You can only hope that it wasn't for the final time.)

Last you knew, she was working as a tailor in a very high-end shop, climbing her way up the ladder until she got better and better projects. In the years that have passed, it's perfectly reasonable to assume that she moved on. You have to hope against hope that she hasn't.

When it's time to send the letter out, you think carefully about which maid you'll choose to target. The most skittish of them all is too obvious, so you'll instead go for the sweetest: Willow, the one that seems to grant you the most leeway, and the one that will probably make the best case for you when she inevitably reports you. (You suspect all of the maids and guards are under strict orders to report any suspicious behavior on your part. You're very confident that this will slip past your wretched husband's watch, however – even when it passes right under his nose.)

You approach her one afternoon while Silas is out and she's tidying up. "Willow, dear... Could I ask a favor of you?"

She jumps to attention in an instant. "Oh, of course, Mrs. Morghani!"

(You fight back the urge to gag. Ugh. You've tried telling the maids not to call you that, framing it as if you simply think it's too formal. None of them have ever listened; you have to wonder if Silas ordered them to do that just to piss you off.)

You smile through your disgust, making a show of looking around for any potential eavesdroppers – the perfect picture of a stupid, airheaded trophy wife. "Well... I have a letter I need delivered. Oh, but Silas can't know. It's a surprise."

It's very subtle, and you probably would've missed it if you weren't watching so closely, but you can see a particular look cross her eyes – a look that tells you that she's absolutely going to be handing this directly to Silas, first and foremost.

Willow leans in, dropping her voice. "A surprise? What for, ma'am?"

You give her a secretive little smile. "Well, there's that big event coming up – the one for the IPC? I really would like to look the part, and nothing in my wardrobe feels appropriate." Then, you wink. “So I'm thinking of getting a dress commissioned – one that Silas will love, I'm sure."

Willow makes a noise of understanding, smiling innocently as you pass her the envelope. “Of course, Mrs. Morghani. I'll deliver it to her myself.”

(You find it a bit frightening that, if you weren't already certain she was going to sell you out, you never would've guessed she was deceiving you.)

—

You have to bite back tears when Willow brings you a response letter only two days later. You smile evenly as you thank her, careful not to seem too excited as you open the envelope.

The moment you see that Iris mentions "catching up with Miss Kravitz just the other day," you know your real message was received; your old teacher died in your last year of school. You resist the urge to scan the letter thoroughly right then and there, determined to keep up appearances. She does mention that she'd appreciate some broad details for what you'd like the dress to look like, which gives you the perfect excuse to contemplate with the letter in hand.

You offhandedly mention to Willow that you'll need to write a response, and you'll need some time to pin down what exactly you'd like the seamstress to make. "Check back with me tomorrow, won't you? I should have everything down by then."

Then, you get to work.

Iris mentions that she'd be happy to schedule an appointment, and asks if a date between five to seven days from the mailing date would be acceptable. You scrutinize it for a moment, uncertain what exactly she could be pointing to – if anything at all. You check the capitalized letters – nothing. You check the vertical columns at the start of each line – nothing. You stare at the fifth line and the fifth sentence, then the seventh, certain that there must be something there...

Then, a memory snaps into place.

One of the last tricks you'd come up with back in school involved hiding a message throughout a note by looking at letters a certain interval apart. You'd usually count by fives, since that was often the easiest. And sure enough…

The fifth letter of the fifth sentence is a G. The tenth letter in the same sentence is a U. Five more is an A. Then, counting into the sixth sentence gives an R. Then, a D. Counting into the seventh gives an S – and that sentence ends with a question mark.

GUARDS?

You have to clench your teeth to stop yourself from leaping out of your chair in excitement. That can't be a coincidence.

Every time you leave the penthouse – which isn’t often, because Silas has very little tolerance for even the slightest shows of independence – you’re accompanied by two IPC guards, though you suspect that you’re also followed by at least one plainclothes agent as well. They could be a problem, but you'll get the opportunity to be alone with Iris when you're trying on the dress.

You write back that the seventh day would work perfectly – and it would, because you actually had no shows planned for you then. In the seventh line, using the same method that she did, you hide your response: TWO?

After that, you get to work on the specifications for the dress itself, though that part is mostly an afterthought. You'd like it to be red, you think; the color of blood should be the last thing that Silas sees. You add that you'd like it to be breathable, and not too difficult to move around in; you say that it's because you want to do a bit of dancing for your show, but you're really thinking about how miserable it would be to torture your wretched husband if you were in an obscenely tight corset. You tell her to take as many liberties as she likes, since you trust her judgement wholeheartedly – which is the truth, because she was always more fashionable than you.

With that, you mark the day on the calendar with shaking fingers, then hand off your letter to Willow once more.

You can't remember the last time you were this thrilled about something, nor the last time you really had something to look forward to.

Now, you just have to avoid fucking it all up.

—

The day of your meeting arrives mercifully quickly. You exercise your tiny privilege to ask your guards about going on a little shopping trip, and the fact that they don't ask Silas first is incredibly telling. You direct the driver to the shop that Iris works at, fighting every muscle in your body to stop yourself from shaking.

The door chimes as you step inside, a faint and pleasant floral scent singing in your nose. One of your guards follows inside and stands menacingly by the door, while the other remains just outside. You'd visited Iris at work a few times, a lifetime ago, and it's just as obscenely fancy as you remember it being – though you could swear that the dresses on display are even more intricate. Her handiwork, you'd wager.

You're barely kept waiting for a minute before she strides out from behind the curtain to the fitting room. She's aged quite nicely in your absence, you'd say; her cheeks are still a bit plump with that charming baby fat she never managed to lose, and her eyes are sharper than ever. She's dyed her hair a dark, metallic purple, fading to black toward the roots – a deliberate choice, no doubt, because her natural color is black. She was always pragmatic in her stylistic choices.

You can't help but smile, soft and earnest, as you meet her gaze; the expression feels alien on your face. Her eyes brighten with glee, but you can tell she's restraining herself for the sake of appearances; Silas knows that you were friends, no doubt – you learned very quickly that he had an unbelievable amount of surveillance on you from the day you met – but for all he's concerned, you merely drifted apart. Hysterical, really, because he was the one that facilitated your isolation.

"It's so good to see you again," you say as she walks closer, and you wonder if that might be the first genuine, completely innocuous thing you've said in months – maybe even years. "I'm sorry for being absent for so long, but I've been very busy. You know how it goes.”

“Oh, nonsense,” she huffs, waving you off. “I know you have your reasons, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re here.”

You make small talk for a moment, chattering idly, doing your best not to seem too eager. Before long, though, she says, “Well, enough dilly-dallying! Let's get to work, love.”

She leads you to the dressing room, holding the curtain back for you and ducking in after; she always was obscenely tall. The moment the curtain falls behind you, Iris pins you with a subtle, questioning gaze.

You nod your head briskly, covering your eyes. They can't see us.

She points at her mouth, then her ear. Can anyone hear what we're saying?

You nod again, pinching that horrible collar for emphasis, then motion like you're writing on your palm. Yes. Writing only.

"Alright," she suddenly chirps, innocent as can be. "I'm actually running a bit behind, so I'll need a moment to get everything ready.” As she speaks, she plucks a small notebook from her pocket, clicking the pen in time with a syllable to hide the noise. “I'm very sorry for the delay.”

"Not a problem at all,” you reply, carefully taking the book from her as she guides you to sit on the chaise lounge beside her. Your fingers shake subtly around the pen as you ready it over the paper.

You cut straight to the meat of things. I need someone to kill Silas to ever stand a chance of escaping, you write, and I think I know of someone that could get the job done. Do you know the name Boothill?

Yes, Iris writes quickly. You want me to try contacting him?

If you can. I have an opportunity that could help him take down dozens of IPC higher-ups. If he attacks on the night of my next big show, they'd all be in the same place. I'll need some way to disable this collar or communicate silently if he wants to meet ahead of time.

Iris nods slowly as she reads your message. I'll convince him.

Be careful, you write, almost frantically. Silas might have someone watch you after this. He can pull Synesthesia Beacon records for location pings, and he'll probably watch your calls and texts.

Her brow furrows, but not in a distressed manner. No, this is a look you became quite familiar with in school–

That's the look she makes when she's facing a difficult problem, getting ready to either vault straight over it or dismantle it with her bare hands. And by fucking god, she always does it.

So when she unflinchingly writes, I'll figure it out, you can't help but believe her. I'll burn these notes the moment you leave.

I owe you my life, you reply with a shaking hand, swallowing hard through the tension building in your throat. (The words don't even come close to properly expressing your gratitude.)

She gives you the sweetest, gentlest smile you've ever seen on her face, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to hold back tears – even more so when she places a tender hand atop yours, stroking her thumb over your knuckles. You take a deep, deep breath, turning your hands to link your fingers and squeezing her tightly. Your chest aches with an inescapable yearning, so strong that it nearly strangles you.

Then, you put the pen back onto the paper. Go time.

She nods, standing slowly and walking toward the back. She ducks behind the curtain and returns only a moment later with a dress on a hanger, zipped safely in a garment bag. “So sorry for the wait. Everything is good to go now.”

“You're perfectly fine, dear,” you say, fixing the same plastic smile on your face that you've been wearing for years.

The rest of the visit is like an elaborate game of pretend, and you despise how easily you sink back into your role as a ditzy little trophy wife. Your awe when she reveals the dress is quite genuine, though; it's drop-dead gorgeous. It's the color of a vibrant red wine, fading into black toward the bottom hem. The ruffled fabric sparkles like it's made of glitter, but the texture is sinfully soft against your skin. It's quite tasteful, framing your bust without being lewd, and although there is a deep cut in the back, your skin is still covered by a thin window of sheer fabric; it strikes a perfect balance of feeling provocative, yet actually remaining rather conservative. (Good. The less these pigs pay attention to your body, the better. Their eyes make your skin crawl.) The most eye-catching part of it all is the rubies, set in silver and woven masterfully into an intricate pattern of lace.

Admittedly, your favorite feature of the entire thing is probably the pockets hidden into the folds. If you needed any more proof that Iris still knows you perfectly, you need look no further.

And, sure enough, it fits you like a glove. Briefly, you wonder just how many all-nighters she had to pull to get this done so quickly – especially considering that this was supposed to be the consultation, but you suppose she's always been an overachiever.

For a spell, you can't help but admire yourself in the mirror, tracing the curve of your waist and the way the fabric curls around your thighs.

You… You can't remember the last time you wanted to wear a dress. Even when you bought things yourself, it was always for a purpose – to soften up Silas for one of your investigations, or to distract him with sex instead of interrogating you about your scheming, or any number of things.

But this? This would be something you'd buy for yourself.

“Iris, this is…” you breathe, running your fingers gingerly along the gems. “This is… phenomenal.”

Her smile is sweet and earnest. “It's only because you're wearing it, love. You really make it shine.”

You smile – a soft, tender thing, wavering at the edges. “You're too sweet for your own good.”

She says there are a few places she needs to tighten or loosen, just to make sure it's perfect, although you admittedly wonder if it's just a ploy, because you could swear it already fits you flawlessly. The appointment is unfortunately brief, since you don't want to arouse any suspicion; you're fortunate that Silas has made the mistake of letting you visit an old friend, and you don't want to push your luck. You hug her tightly before you leave, and your body feels strange; you don't think you've felt a pleasant touch in years, and although you thought you'd surpassed the loneliness, it seems like these crumbs are enough to awaken your ravenous appetite.

You'll have to starve for a while longer, unfortunately.

—

Some time later, you receive another letter; your heart pounds in anticipation as you take it from Willow. In the note, Iris asks if you could schedule one more appointment to be absolutely certain that the dress didn't need any more tweaks. I made a few more modifications, she adds, but I'd like to double check that it fits perfectly. I want you looking your best!

The real purpose of the message becomes clear when she mentions meeting ten to twelve days from now. Sure enough, you use the same technique – though you're momentarily confused when it spits out gibberish. You try a few different intervals, finally landing on three; she must've decided to change it just to be safe.

Your confusion only increases when you see her message.

KIDNAP.

Not a question – a statement.

Well, that's... a bit more vague than you'd like.

Is it a distress signal? Is she saying she was kidnapped? Surely she would've added some kind of other signifier… right? A “help,” at the very least?

As it is, you don't think you have any way to help her either way – not yet. You write back, though you can't spend as much time as you'd like working on it, lest you draw suspicion by spending too much time writing what should be a simple letter. In the return note, you add, Please let me know if I can assist you in any way. If nothing else, I would love to spend time with you again.

You hate this feeling – this terror, this dread, this helplessness.

The only thing you can do now is wait.

—

The explanation comes only two days later, to your surprise.

You're out shopping for a gift for Iris in return for all of the hassle you've doubtlessly put her through – though you refuse to consider the increasing possibility that you'll never have the chance to give it to her. You've paused outside of an antique store, peering through the window at the quaint little figurines they have on display. There's an incredibly cute sculpture of a chameleon with a sun hat that reminds you of her. Idly, you wonder if she still likes reptiles, just like she did years ago.

Worth checking out, at least. You hum, grabbing onto the door handle to–

You hear the glass shatter before you hear the gunshot.

Blood splatters on the window next to you; there's a clattering noise, like dead weight and armor hitting concrete.

The streets erupt into chaos and screaming.

You hear one of your guards – perhaps the only remaining one – blurt out a string of curses as she grabs you and pulls you down, covering you with her body as she barks into her communicator.

“This is Agent S-421! Officer down! Suspect is armed–”

Another gunshot, and her weight hits you like a brick wall, crushing you into the sidewalk below. Two more shots – they sound closer than the others – and then a final bang rings through the air; you think you hear another body hit the ground some ways away. You hold your breath, staring wide-eyed at the reflections in the glass door, frantically trying to locate the shooter.

You hear his spurs before you see him. They jingle with every step, cutting right through the cacophony from the crowd around you.

The first thing you see is the red glint of his eyes.

You know that face. You've seen it while subtly peeking at Silas's files, in wanted posters, once or twice on the news–

It's Boothill, and he's walking right toward you.

Your heart stops dead in your chest when he hauls the corpse off of you single handedly, the helmet hitting the concrete with a brutal crack. His lethal eyes meet yours in the reflection of the blood-stained glass. He's smiling, so wide that you swear you can see every single one of his sharp, menacing teeth.

“Sorry ‘bout this, ma’am,” he drawls as he levels the barrel of his gun to the back of your head, “but you'll be comin’ on a lil’ trip with me.”

Well.

This is… unexpected.

Very, very slowly, you get to your feet, swallowing heavily; you turn with all the caution of a rabbit being hunted by a fox, clenching your jaw as your heart pounds faster and faster. His grin widens into something feline and satisfied when you meet his eyes.

“I knew you'd be a good sport,” he purrs, looking far too pleased.

He leads you into an automatic taxi that waits on the street, oh-so-politely slamming the door behind you once you climb inside. Your skin prickles when he gets in on the other side, lounging in the seat like you’re a cute couple off on a date. His revolver remains in his hand, but he isn’t aiming it at you – and he barely looks at you as the cab takes off down the road, winding down the streets.

All the while, your mind is running a mile a minute. Is this what Iris meant when she said kidnap? You’re not exactly sure what you were expecting, but you can’t say this ever occurred to you.

It’s only when you arrive at a nearly empty shipyard that you realize what exactly he’s planning. He gets out first, circling around to open the door for you; he’d be the perfect picture of a gentleman if not for the pistol held loosely in his hand.

“Ladies first,” he drawls, gesturing to a small transport ship sitting nearby, its hatch sliding open.

(How polite.)

You do not appreciate that you have to turn your back to him to climb up the ramp, but you grit your teeth and bear it. His spurs clink as he follows after you, the hatch closing with an ominous hiss. You turn just in time to watch him holster his gun, and although you’re careful to create some distance, that does admittedly soothe your heart a bit.

“Now, why don’t ya sit right there while I get us movin’, yeah?” he says pleasantly. “We’ve got plenty to chat about. I’d hate for somebody to interrupt.”

Without waiting for a reply, he strides off to the cockpit without looking back.

You sigh as he disappears, resting one hand on your chest to settle your racing heart. You’d hoped that all of these years living in the lion’s den would’ve toughened you, but it seems like it’s only made you more skittish – as demonstrated by the way you flinch when the ship whirrs to life under your feet, causing you to sway as it takes off.

…Best to sit down now, in case he jumps into hyperspace.

Sure enough, only a few minutes later, you feel the tell-tale buzz of energy begin to build in the walls, singing a chorus in your bones; you can’t remember the last time you felt the sublime hum of FTL travel against your skin – like the sweet tang of freedom on your tongue, rich and full and tantalizing. The entire ship jolts as it enters supercruise, the aged hull groaning against the pressure of warping space.

The moment the ship settles, you stand again, eager to stay on your feet – and not thirty seconds later, Boothill strolls out of the cockpit, his gaze pinning you down.

“Now, I've heard some real interestin’ things ‘bout that husband a’ yours,” he begins without fanfare, tilting his head as he examines you. “N’ I've heard you're sweeter than honey. Surely you can help a fella out, huh? Just got a few questions for ya.”

For a heartbeat, you actually wonder if this is a genuine kidnapping – if you've just set yourself up as a victim that won't get so much as a morsel in return.

But then, he reaches up, tapping his neck – right where your collar rests on you.

You swallow heavily and nod, right before you stutter, “I– I don't know what you've heard, but I'm– I don't know anything.”

He hums as if in disbelief, and when he takes a step toward you, your heart skips despite yourself. “Oh, I'm not so sure ‘bout that, miss.” Another step; you clench your jaw, fighting the urge to back up. “But first… That's an awfully pretty necklace, huh?”

You add just the right amount of alarm in your voice when you say, “W–Wait, don't– It was a gift.”

The way he laughs sends a shiver up your spine. “It's cute that ya think I give a rat's ash,” he coos, taking another step, bringing him within reach of you. “Now sit still so I can get a better look.”

You remain perfectly motionless, but he snarls like you'd disobeyed. He reaches down toward his revolver, and your heart jumps into your throat, but when he puts his hand on it, he only cocks it with a loud, ominous click, leaving it holstered.

“You deaf, ya stupid lil' fudgehead?” he growls, but his eyes are perfectly calm, if a bit amused. “I told ya to sit still, ya forkin' brat.”

Slowly, almost carefully, he reaches up toward your neck, and you have to fight to keep your pulse in check. He's helping you. He's helping you, god damn it.

(This reaction – this instinctual terror – isn't because of Silas. This is not because of Silas. It can't be. That fucking rat bastard could never damage you like that. This must be from something else – something unrelated. It’s perfectly reasonable to be skittish in a scenario like this. Perfectly understandable.)

His cold, metal fingers brush your throat as they clench around the collar, and bizarrely, something about how they feel nothing like flesh is soothing to you. Then, without so much as an ounce of strain, he breaks the accursed fucking thing in half, pulling it away in two pieces of dense metal and garish diamonds. The moment he does, you reach up to your neck, carefully running your fingers across the skin that was hidden beneath.

(You can't remember the last time you took a breath that wasn't at least slightly strained by the weight of the metal. You can't remember when you became used to it, either.)

He gives the collar an evaluating look, twisting the pieces around in his hands. Then, he barks out a laugh.

“Ha! Shoot, I'm good,” he chuckles, tapping a tiny, almost invisible removable plate on the back. “I knew the energy signature on this fudgin’ thing was weird. Bet ya were hopin’ I wouldn't find the tracker in this bad boy, huh? Too bad.”

Then, he unceremoniously drops it to the ground and slams his foot down into it. You watch with no small amount of satisfaction as the metal bends and crunches beneath his heel, the diamonds sparkling as they come loose. Never in your life have you thought it looked beautiful – not until this very moment, watching as the tool of your imprisonment is shattered beneath the ruthless heel of a stranger.

Once he's done, he crouches down, sifting through the pieces for a moment before he finds some kind of electric component. He holds it up to the light for only a moment before he crushes it to dust in his palm.

Finally, all is silent except for the quiet hum of the ship. He gives you a questioning look as he stands, his brows raised.

You take a deep, cleansing breath; you can't remember the last time your body felt so light.

For the first time in years, you speak without being strangled by that collar – without your every word being recorded for that rotten bastard to sift through.

“Should be all clear, now.”

He gives you a once-over, nonchalantly reaching back toward his revolver to decock it. “Don't see nothin’ on my scanners, so I'll wager you're right.”

A moment passes before you smile, wide and broad and earnest; it feels unfamiliar on your face. Then, you hold out your hand for him to shake, grinning ear-to-ear. “It's wonderful to finally meet you, Boothill.”

He blinks at you for a moment, then laughs, bright and loud. “Oh, you're a funny one, huh?” Without fuss, he clasps your hand in his, giving it a firm shake; the cool metal of his palm is strangely pleasant against your skin. “The pleasure’s all mine, miss. Heard you've got a pest problem?”

“Oh, more than just a problem,” you say, your smile sharpening into something dangerous. “It's a damn infestation.”

A lethal glint shines in his eyes. “Well, consider me your exterminator.”

(Oh, you like him already.)

"I'll cut through the noise, then,” you say, a harder look entering your gaze. “I can deliver Silas to you – and an entire pig sty of IPC executives – on a silver platter.” You pin him with an evaluating look. "But I have a few conditions."

He raises a brow at you, perhaps a bit skeptically. "I don't do bargains, but now you've got me curious. Shoot."

When you smile, you suspect you look like the perfect picture of the devil ready to snatch up the soul of a sinner. "You'll help me pull out his teeth, and then you'll let me pull the trigger. And once you wrap up your business with the lounge, I'd like you to blow the place to hell."

His brows just about shoot into his hairline, and when he looks at you now, it's clearly in a new light. He breathes out a chuckle caught between blatant admiration and disbelief. Slowly, he drawls, "Why the teeth?"

You cock your head innocently. "Well, he always loved threatening to cut out my tongue. 'What's a songbird without its tongue,' he'd say." Then, your smile twists impossibly higher, your canines glinting in the light. "So let me ask you this: what's a snake without its fangs?"

There's a brief pause before he laughs, deranged and delighted. "Oh, I think we're gonna get along just fine, partner."

You hum in agreement, your smile settling into something more pleasant. “Wonderful. Let's get to the meat of things, then.”

Over the next twenty minutes or so, the two of you hash out the details – the most critical information about the operations of the IPC that you've gleaned over the years, as well as potential weak points he could exploit at a later date. Then, you go into detail about the upcoming event – who's going to be there, the layout of the floor, the typical placement of the guards, the start and estimated end time, your overall plan, so on and so forth. Boothill agrees that the upcoming meeting at the lounge would be the perfect time to strike.

“Like shootin’ fish in a barrel,” he drawls. “Two floors down from the roof, ya said?”

“Yes. You'll have a rather tedious task ahead of you if you choose to go straight up from the ground floor, not to mention all of the rigmarole to get access to the elevators, so I recommend trying to get access from the roof if you can.” You tilt your head, considering the height of the buildings that surround it. “There's a few helipads on the top of the building – heavily guarded, as you can imagine. It's the tallest tower for a good few blocks, but there's one that’s about half the height just beside it. Make of that what you will.”

He hums in thought. “And the whole buildin’ is full to forkin’ burstin’ with those IPC muddle-fudgers?”

You absolutely should not find his odd vocabulary charming, but you frankly can't help yourself. “It's one of their critical headquarters on the planet, yes.” Then, you eye him a bit more carefully, trying to feel out his intentions. “Why? Are you planning on leaving a little gift for them?”

He grins so wide that you can almost see all of his teeth. “I dunno,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “Would ya call bringin’ the whole buildin’ down a gift?”

You laugh openly, delight curling in your heart. “A gift to me, certainly.”

You're interrupted by a series of quick, harsh beeps from the cockpit.

“Son of a bench,” he hisses. “Was wonderin’ when they'd show up. They're ‘bout to interdict us. Get ready.”

A note of dread rings in the back of your mind. Back to your tormentor, you suppose. “Alright,” you reply with no small amount of bitterness, sitting yourself in one of the corners of the room as Boothill turns to walk into the cockpit.

Now, you just need to make yourself cry.

(You have quite a bit in the backlog, so it probably won't be very difficult.)

“Wait. One more thing,” you say quickly, an idea striking you. “You should backhand me.”

He whips around to look at you so quickly that it almost looks like he was slapped. “What the fudge did you just say?”

You sigh, anxiety tickling the back of your throat, winding tighter in your chest. “Slap me. Leave a bruise if you can. It'll make this seem more legitimate.”

He gawks at you like you've just transformed into a five-headed hydra before his very eyes. Finally, after several seconds of silence, he shakes his head. “No way. I– I don't know what kinda man you think I am, miss, but–”

“Forget it, then.” As the knot unwinds from around your heart, you're torn between frustration and gratitude. “Could you at least tie my hands?”

This is the first time you've seen him look even remotely uncomfortable, which is incredible considering all of the terrible things you've heard he's done to IPC employees of all types. This is all it takes to get him squeamish?

“Guess I can do that,” he mumbles, looking distinctly displeased.

You turn and hold your wrists behind your back, simultaneously trying to harness your fear, your anger, your grief. As he winds the rope around your wrists, you clench your eyes shut and imagine instead that it's Silas, that you're back in that prison of a penthouse, that he's about to put his disgusting hands on you again. You think about all the time he's stolen from you – how many years he's wasted keeping you as his caged pet. You think about how little he truly appreciates you – your skill, your personality, your wit, your intelligence.

You can feel the budding tension behind your eyes, but no tears yet.

Deeper, then.

As Boothill ties the final knot in the rope, you dig further into the recesses of your mind, unearthing the fears you've never allowed yourself to fully unpack. You think about how terrified you've always been that Silas was going to pass you around that poker table to let those fucking pigs do more than just touch you. You think about the ever-expanding fear that he'll get bored of you now that you've stopped outwardly struggling, and that he could order one of your supposed guards to shoot you at any time. You think about the paranoia you've held all this time that he was going to find you out – that he'd figure out this plot of yours and use that fucking collar on you until it fried your brain and truly left you mindless and helpless.

Heat prickles in your waterline, but it's not enough.

So you finally think about what might be the most terrifying piece of all of this: Silas finding out about Iris’s involvement.

You think of him having her kidnapped and brought to that wretched fucking penthouse, of heartless lackeys tying her up and holding both of you in the living room. You think of them flaying her alive, of the way she'd scream, of the way her blood would stain that pristine white carpet.

(And, in a way, it would be your fault, too.)

The dam finally bursts, and the tears spill down onto your cheeks. You need to be careful here; you can't let yourself slip too deep, or you'll lose it all, but you need to keep the tears going. You shut your eyes tighter, clenching your fists as you focus on the precarious balance beam you've been forced onto.

“Hey,” Boothill says suddenly, his voice uncharacteristically soft. You open your blurry eyes to find him kneeling in front of you, and–

Is that… Is that genuine concern on his face?

“What's goin’ on?” he asks, so gently that it actually makes your throat clench tighter. “You want me to untie ya?”

Your brain takes several seconds to catch up. “No, no,” you say quickly, sniffling through the tears. “I'm– I just need to make this look real. That rotten fucking bastard thinks I'm so pitiful that he'd get suspicious if I wasn't crying.”

You thought that would immediately dispel the worry in his gaze, but if anything, that seems to make it worse. His brow furrows, and he slowly nods. “...Right. Okay, that– Yeah.”

Then, he clears his throat and stands, and somehow he's more awkward about this than you are. Right when he opens his mouth again, the whole spacecraft jolts with a groan, rocking the ground underneath you. He belts out a colorful series of swears – well, substitute swears – as sirens begin to howl, leaping into the cockpit with a jangle of spurs.

Go time, then.

You clench your eyes shut once more, scooping up even more terror from that seemingly endless well to keep the tears coming. You're almost thrown onto your back from where you sit when the ship leaves hyperspace with a cantankerous wail, the walls rattling dangerously. Only half a minute later, there's the screech of metal on metal toward the hatch – no doubt they've latched on with a breacher bridge to pry it open. Sure enough, you can already hear the door starting to creak from the pressure – until Boothill yanks the ship hard in the other direction, and the connection breaks with a terrible groan.

You don't concern yourself with any of that. The true life or death scenario will come when you're “rescued.”

You keep the tears flowing, hoping that your eyes will be suitably red by the time they break in. You keep yourself hunkered down in the corner, bracing yourself as best you can with your hands tied behind you.

Suddenly, Boothill rushes out of the cockpit, scowling like he's just eaten a particularly sour lemon. You watch with some measure of confusion as he stops right in front of the hatch – and then leaps. He grabs onto the ledge above the door, hauling himself up and precariously perching like a monkey in a tree.

When you give him a bewildered look, he merely grins, pressing a finger over his mouth as if to shush you.

…Well, you suppose you'll just have to wait and see.

Now, without him actively steering the ship away, the next attempt to bridge goes uncontested. The hatch groans, the hydraulics fighting to stay closed – until Boothill hits something on his wrist, and the doors fly open.

You're careful to make yourself look as pitiful as possible when five IPC guards come rushing in, guns at the ready. They sweep the room, confirming that it's clear except for you – to their knowledge, at least. One beelines straight for you, one stays to guard the hatch, two head to the cockpit, and one to what you assume is the cargo bay. All the while, you struggle not to so much as glance at the spot where Boothill is settled.

“Are you injured?” the guard asks you, kneeling down by your side and moving to cut the ropes binding you.

You shake your head with a sniffle, quickly squeezing your eyes shut so fresh tears run down your cheeks.

Then, a gunshot damn near makes you jump out of your skin.

Your eyes fly open just in time to watch as Boothill lands cleanly on his feet, the body of the one that was guarding the door falling limp to the floor. He leaps through the open hatch in a blink, saluting right as the guard next to you whips around, fumbling for his gun.

“Thanks for the new ship, fudgeheads,” Boothill laughs, and the doors promptly snap shut behind him right as the guard fires.

Well, he certainly has a flair for the dramatic.

(You can’t even pretend that you mind. You’re nothing if not a performer, after all.)

—

As you expected, Silas is utterly unconcerned about you; rather, he’s worried about the information you might’ve leaked.

The moment you get back to the penthouse, he practically hustles you into the living room to interrogate you. He doesn’t even bother asking if you’re alright before bombarding you with questions.

You tell him “that scary outlaw” demanded to know everything you knew about him and Jenn. “I– I didn’t know anything, other than that he comes by for poker sometimes,” you sob, hiding your face in your hands. (And to stare at my chest like the fucking lecher he is, you don’t bother adding.)

You can feel his icy, unsympathetic stare slicing into you. “And what did you tell him about me?”

“Nothing! There's– I don't even know what your job is, besides the department you're in,” you babble. “He was so angry, I thought– I thought he was going to–”

You force yourself to break down into hysterics, your whole body shaking. After a long moment, you hear Silas sigh, dramatic and weary. You have to grit your teeth to contain a flinch when he puts his hand on your head, petting you like you’re a fucking dog.

“It’s alright, pet,” he says, and that disgusting sweetness finally sinks into his voice. “You did well.”

You nod and sniffle, rubbing at your eyes to hide the fact that you can’t quite conjure any more tears.

When your lips tremble, you’re sure he thinks it’s because you’re about to cry again, but you’re really biting back a smile.

He doesn’t have a fucking clue just how well you did.

—

As you expected, Silas's security practically quadruples, and your leash becomes shorter than ever. Your appointment with Iris was cancelled, obviously, but it’s of little consequence other than admittedly disappointing you a bit. If all goes well, you'll be able to visit her many, many times after this.

The stage is set. Now, all you need to do is say your lines in rehearsal, and wait for the show to begin.

Silas, the fucking bastard, has your collar replaced before you even get to go to bed the night you were “kidnapped.” This one feels tighter, heavier, even more gaudy – but you're sure you're making it all up, because it looks identical to the last. The days creep by, hour by hour, minute by minute. You're finding it harder to keep up your mask now that you've truly gotten a taste of freedom. You keep having dreams of beating Silas to death, and every time you wake up, you yearn.

Patience, patience, patience. You'll get your dues very shortly.

(You also have a nightmare about the event coming and going without your rescuer coming in to steal the show. You dream of a thousand hands touching you, of a thousand eyes watching you, of a thousand ears tracking you; you're pinned by their horribly warm hands, bruising under their fleshy grip as they drag you down, down, down into the ocean of ink. No one comes to save you. No one answers your muffled, drowning screams. All of your planning, your plotting, your sleuthing, your struggling – it's all been for nothing.)

(You wake up with your face damp with tears, immeasurably grateful that Silas has already left for the morning.)

You refuse to think yourself into a corner when the final day dawns. You hold fast, keeping your mind on a single track; you know that if you let it stray, you'll be risking it all. When the event grows near, you don your new dress and prop yourself up with the most tolerable heels in your wardrobe; you think about piercing his eyes with them as you tighten the straps, and you can't help but smile.

You tolerate the touches of your makeup artist begrudgingly, and you bite your tongue through the tugs and pulls and yanks from your hair stylist, chanting in your mind that you'll never need to deal with this again after today. You'll get a gun, and you'll get training, and you'll shoot anyone that dares to touch you without asking.

By the time you're ready to walk on stage, your skin is prickling with irritation and you're gritting your teeth to stop yourself from biting the next person that touches you. You clench your jaw twice as hard when Silas strolls into the dressing room, his eyes roaming over you lecherously.

“Stunning as always, doll,” he says, and you have to smile as if the weight of his gaze doesn't make you want to rip off your skin. “That dress makes you look marvelous.”

You bat your lashes coyly, fussing with your necklace like the bashful little toy you're supposed to be. “Oh, you really think so? You're too kind.”

His chuckle is so smarmy and overconfident that it makes you want to scratch his eyes out. Patience, patience, patience. He wanders closer to you, running his fingers up your back; you hope your shiver reads as eagerness rather than disgust. “I know you're still a bit out of sorts from that, hm… incident. You'll be able to perform, won't you? I have quite a few important names in the audience, after all.”

(He isn't asking.)

You give him a shaky little smile for effect. “Of course, sweetie. I could never let you down.”

He pats your shoulder in a way that tells you he would've pet your head like a dog if he weren't worried about disturbing the elaborate knot your hair has been bound into. “Very good. We'll talk after, then.”

You manage to contain the full force of your smile until he closes the door behind him.

Oh, no. You'll do more than talk.

—

Despite the many, many eyes of important people on you tonight, the stage doesn't feel as horribly oppressive as it has these last few years.

You genuinely can't remember the last time you had fun performing. You've never enjoyed singing at the lounge, of course – not even on the first night, because you could already taste the danger in the air. The casino was just work; you prefer quieter venues anyway. Most things before that had paid so terribly that it spoiled the entire experience for you.

But now? Oh, you feel alive.

You're certain it shows in your performance, this fresh bout of liveliness and glee. You sing your fucking heart out – not for any of these worthless, disgusting rats, but for yourself. The lounge is rich with the sound of your voice, and the whole audience is spellbound, and you're certain you look positively ethereal in the spotlight – but you don't think about any of that. Instead, you think about how this will be the last show you ever perform at this wretched fucking place, and how you'll wake up tomorrow a free woman. You think about how you'll be able to wear comfortable, casual clothes; about how you'll be able to trim your nails however short you'd like, or bite them down for the hell of it; about how you'll be able to eat whatever junk food you want; about how you'll be able to sleep late whenever you damn well please without someone badgering you; about how you'll never step foot in that prison of a penthouse again; about how every drop of fear and paranoia and stress over this plan will be worth it when you get to plant a bullet in Silas’s skull.

Your entire show goes flawlessly, and you let yourself breathe, playing for an audience of one – perhaps two, if Boothill is listening. You hit the high note in the final song perfectly, feeling your heart swell with joy, your lips curling–

And then that crazy fucking cyborg crashes through the window.

The entire world goes still as he rolls and bounces back onto his feet, a maniacal grin stretching across his face as he spins his revolver in his hand.

You hear his voice, loud and crisp in your ear, as if he was standing right next to you.

“Draw.”

The world erupts.

Screaming and gunfire fill the entire space, and you don't hesitate before spinning around and ducking behind the curtain, rushing straight for the dressing room in the back to escape the crossfire; it would be frankly embarrassing if you went through all of this rigmarole only to die right before the finale. You slam the door behind you and lock it, the sounds muffled through the wall; the loudest noise of all is your heart beating wildly in your chest.

When you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you realize you're grinning just as wide as Boothill was.

Now, you wait – because the real show has yet to begin.

You sit down at your vanity without a care in the world, eager to free yourself from this horrendous updo and remove this wretched fucking makeup that you're forced to wear every goddamn day. You aren't putting on so much as a speck of mascara for a year at an absolute minimum. No necklaces, either.

With that thought in mind, you pause, turning your gaze down to the gaudy wedding ring that's remained like a brand on your finger all this time. You've always found it hideously ugly – and while you'd love to make him choke on it, you are still a pragmatic woman above all.

And there's truly no better fate for a ring like this than to be thoughtlessly sold – for it to be the foundation of your new life of freedom.

With a tiny smile, you wriggle it off of your finger and tuck it into one of the pockets hidden in the folds of your dress.

You continue to wipe every piece of your mask away, pulling out three dozen pins from your hair, letting your shoulders go lax to the tune of the slowly quieting gunfire coming from the rest of the lounge. When you finally toss the final makeup wipe aside, you take a moment to truly, truly look at yourself.

Were it not for this hideous collar, you would look more like yourself than you have in years – but you suppose that won’t be a problem for much longer.

Damn, this dress looks good on you. You’ll have to be careful when you’re breaking Silas down into a pulp; it'd be a shame to stain it with pig’s blood.

On that note…

By the time you come out of your daze, the building is utterly quiet. Perhaps if you weren’t an accomplice, you might call it too quiet.

As it is? The only way it could be better is if you heard–

Then, just outside, you hear the subtle jangling of spurs.

Metal knuckles rap once, twice on the door.

“Knock knock, chickadee,” comes Boothill’s voice, cheerful and bright. “I've got a gift for ya.”

You have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from snickering – then you remember that you don't need to anymore, and you burst into laughter. You walk over and undo the lock, smiling madly as you open the door.

And there he is: Boothill in all his glory – the true star of the show for the night, not a hair out of place, looking utterly untouched aside from the smears of red that coat him from head to toe. (You're certain not a drop of it is his own.)

“You look very handsome covered in blood,” you say earnestly, your lips curling higher as his eyes widen slightly, clearly caught off guard by such a direct, strangely-timed compliment. Before he can fire back with anything, your eyes fall to the mess of a man he's got slumped at his side.

Silas has been gagged with his own tie, his arms bound helplessly behind his back. He's got a fair amount of blood on him, smeared on his rumpled dress shirt, though he could certainly do with a bit more; it looks like his nose has been broken as well, because a veritable fountain of blood is gushing down from it. The cowboy’s metal fist is clenched ruthlessly in his hair, holding him up like a child does a broken doll.

You smile, wide and wicked and positively lethal, and sadistic delight curls in your chest at the way his eyes widen, darting between you and the cyborg.

Perhaps his miniscule brain is finally catching up.

“I see you've done marvelous work already,” you say, turning your gaze back to Boothill. Then, you step aside, opening the door wider with a grand gesture. “Won't you join me for a moment, darling?”

He chuckles, tipping his hat, all leisurely and gentlemanly. “Oh, it'd be my pleasure, angel.”

(From any other mouth, such a name would make your skin crawl – but you think it sounds rather sweet on his tongue.)

He steps inside, dragging Silas in by his hair; your lips twitch at the agonized look on his face, his brows wound tight. You close the door behind them, locking it with a click, just for effect. (It's not like anyone's alive to disturb you, after all.)

You turn just in time to watch Boothill drop him unceremoniously to the floor in a lump, wiping off his hands on his pants like he's just touched something absolutely vile – which you suppose he has.

“Sorry ‘bout the nose, by the way,” he drawls – but he's not talking to Silas. “Seems like your package got a lil’, heh, damaged in transit. Wanted him to be in mint condition for ya, but…”

Your lips twitch in open amusement. “Let me guess,” you say slowly. “He said something stupid, didn't he?”

He harrumphs in blatant disapproval. “More like rude.” He gives Silas a sharp glare, and you have to laugh at the way the sniveling little weasel flinches. “You ain't ever meant to talk about a lady like that. Bet you're real sorry now, huh?”

Your heart practically sings at the quiet whimper that escapes him.

“Got anything to drink in here, by the way?” Boothill drawls, completely nonchalant. “Worked up a mighty thirst takin’ out all that trash.”

You hum in thought as you stroll slowly towards Silas, your heels clicking on the tile, your eyes fixed on him like a cat stalking its prey. “There should be a small selection in the mini-fridge. They're all quite bad, to be frank – other than the whiskey, but that's because I picked it.” Then, you narrow your eyes accusingly. “You've always had horrible taste in drinks, Silas. Add that to the list.”

The moment Boothill starts to turn his back, the little rat starts to push himself away, sweating profusely. In a flash, Boothill whips around, aims, and fires – and for a heartbeat, you wonder if he actually shot him–

No. There is a fresh bullet hole right next to his knee, though.

“You'd best stay still, ya worthless shirtbag,” the cyborg growls, “‘less you're eager for me to put a bullet or two in your knees.”

What a fantastic idea.

But first…

“Just a moment,” you say mildly, strolling slowly towards them. You circle around to get a look at Silas's hands where they're tied behind his back, your eyes locking onto his watch. “Oh, wonderful.”

You kneel down, laughing openly at the way he flinches the moment you grab hold of his wrist. You quickly undo the buckle on his watch, sliding it off and pressing his thumb against the screen to unlock it. Then, you stand to examine it more closely. You fiddle with it for a moment, swiping between options and apps and menus in your search.

You're tempted to demand that he tell you the exact location of the collar controls and threaten to skin him alive if he doesn't, but you find the right menu before long. (Interestingly, you note that the default voltage is labeled as dangerous. Much to consider.) You tap the button to disengage the lock, then twice more to confirm.

The latch in the back opens with a click. You smile widely as you pull the wretched fucking thing away for the last time, your chest expanding with fresh air for what feels like the first time in ages.

Then, you turn to look at yourself in the vanity, finding the newly freed stretch of skin, and–

Is that…?

…

There's a scar below where it sat.

It's certainly faint, but it's undeniable. The place where the collar’s bottom edge rested has not only a deep indent where it pressed in, but also a broad surface of scar tissue where your skin was rubbed raw, over and over and over. You stroke your thumb over the mark, feeling the slightly rough texture that you must've missed back in the ship.

(Now, you remember all of the times you've woken up in a cold sweat, your nails aching from scratching at the collar and your skin stinging from all of the movement. You just never realized– You never thought…)

Finally, your eyes drift just a few inches over, and you're a bit startled to find Boothill already looking at you in the mirror, his eyes uncharacteristically soft and somber.

“Should fade eventually, now that ya don't have the pressure on it,” he rasps, “but it never should've been there at all.”

…He's right.

And just like that, the kindling of your fury is lit anew.

With a flinty edge to your eyes, you spin around once more to look down at the subject of your rage; he's still facing opposite to you, held stiff by the threat of Boothill's revolver. Without a moment of hesitation, you bend down and fasten the collar around his throat, yanking it so hard that he chokes as you secure the latch.

Then, you stand, circling around until you can look Silas in the eye, your gaze burning with hatred. Slowly, you smile as you examine him.

“I think that looks much better on you, don't you think?” you say, your lips curling higher as you lift the watch in your hands.

His eyes widen just before you press the button to activate the collar.

He goes rigid as the shock bursts ruthlessly through him, his whole body shaking and spasming as it seizes him. A strangled noise escapes him, caught between a scream and a wail, but the muscles of his throat are so tight under the grip of the electricity that he's nearly strangled into silence. You keep the button held, watching dispassionately as he writhes, and you only let up when the faint scent of burning flesh meets your nose. He falls flat like a puppet with cut strings, twitching and spasming and coughing like a dying animal.

You watch him pant and heave for a long moment before Boothill smoothly flips his revolver in his hand, holding it out to you grip-first.

“Five more shots, partner. Lemme know if ya want more,” he says evenly, utterly unperturbed by the worm writhing by your feet. “Just so ya know, I'm sure some alarm got triggered while I was wreckin’ shop. I'm keepin’ an eye on the scanners, but I'll wager you've got about fifteen minutes before we gotta haul ash.”

The gun feels perfect in your palm – reassuringly heavy, cool and unyielding, sharp and deadly; the grip feels like it was made for your hand.

Oh, yes. This will do nicely.

“Fifteen minutes is all I'll need,” you purr, running your thumb slowly along the barrel. Then, you gesture toward the chair at your vanity. “Take a seat, darling.” You smile, tilting your head. “The real show is about to begin.”

He chuckles, deep and low in a way that makes your spine tingle pleasantly. He turns toward the fridge – to test out that whiskey, you wager.

Now, you finally turn your eyes back to the subject of your hatred.

He's always looked pathetic to you, but this is truly a new low. He's battered and bruised and filthy with his own blood, and he's staring up at you, wide-eyed and trembling like a terrified child. You think this fits him much better; now, he fits the perfect picture of the sniveling little rat that he is.

You lean down, yanking the tie out of his mouth and tossing it aside, grimacing in disgust at the sheer amount of spit that goes with it. Immediately, he sputters and coughs, his throat clenching as if he's struggling to breathe.

Good. You've been struggling to breathe for years.

Finally, when he manages to keep himself together, his eyes tentatively meet yours. For what might be the first time, Silas utters your name, breathless and terrified.

Your eyes narrow in unfettered fury, the anger rising to a boil in an instant. God, you hate his voice. “Keep my name out of your fucking mouth, you sniveling piece of shit.” You raise the gun to aim it straight at his face, pulling back the hammer.

He sputters, paling significantly. “W-Wait, love. This isn't– Surely we can come to an agreement? I can–”

You bare your teeth, the rage in your gut bursting through the seams. You plant your foot on his chest and pin him down, looming over him like a wraith out for blood. “You're not in a position to negotiate,” you snarl, digging the sharp point of your heel into his diaphragm until he's struggling to breathe. “You're in a position to beg.”

Then, you see it. You watch with sick satisfaction as the final dregs of hope drain from his eyes, as the reality sinks in, as the fear begins to swallow him whole.

You watch as he realizes that you were never broken at all.

It tastes like ambrosia, intoxicatingly sweet on your tongue.

“I'm– I'm sorry,” he finally sputters, his lips trembling. “I'm– I only ever wanted to treat you right. I– I thought you were happy, once you–”

You aim the gun at his knee and pull the trigger.

You swear you can hear the crunch of his kneecap as it shatters. You think you should feel horrified by the scream that wrenches out of his throat, by the way his eyes stretch wide in pain, by the way his whole body begins to writhe, but you can't even conjure a scrap of pity. Oh, the euphoria you feel when you spot tears budding in his eyes – it’s unparalleled.

“Try again,” you grit out, once his wailing finally settles into sobbing. He’s practically hyperventilating, but with your heel digging so ruthlessly into his diaphragm, he can't take a full breath; you twist it a little harder just to feel his muscles strain.

He’s terrified of you. Silas is terrified of you. The untouchable, unbeatable Silas Morghani is looking up at his broken wife with the most petrified look you've ever seen on a person. You feel alive, flourishing like a plant under the sun, your roots nourished by the blood of the man who's crushed your flowers into dust time and time again.

“I'm sorry,” he whimpers, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. “I'm– I wanted you. I wanted you the moment I saw you. I thought– You never told me– I didn't think–”

You cock the hammer again.

If he wasn't pale already, he certainly is now.

You jump when Boothill suddenly speaks up, having almost forgotten he was there. “Worst spot to get shot is in the gut, for what it's worth.” When you look up at him, he's taking a sip of the whiskey straight from the bottle as he lounges in front of your vanity, his lips curled deviously. “Stomach’s just below the ribs, a bit off to his left. Shoot there, n’ the bile will eat him from the inside out. Burns like hellfire.”

You blink at him for a moment. Then, you grin like a madwoman. “I could kiss you,” you purr, and you're not quite sure if you're joking or not.

Based on the abrupt bashfulness that floods his expression, neither does he.

(Very briefly, you actually think about it. You think about shooting Silas dead without even bothering to look while you kiss another man – one that might actually treat you decently. You wonder if his lips would taste like blood; you wonder how those sharp teeth would feel against your tongue.)

(A moment later, you excise the thought from your brain.)

You return your gaze to Silas, and the terror in his eyes feels like a ray of sunshine on your face. He takes a trembling breath when you finally lift your foot away, taking a step back and aiming at the spot Boothill directed you to.

You really would hate to get blood on this dress.

“W–Wait, love– Wait, you don't need to–”

You pull the trigger.

The scream that tears out of his throat is grating, but the transparent agony on his face is worth it. Blood seeps quickly through the pale fabric of his dress shirt as he writhes, his arms straining against his binds as he shudders.

He looks much better in red.

Yet somehow, you aren't satisfied. So, you pull back the hammer again and fire right at the same spot. He clearly isn't prepared for this one, because he practically howls, ragged and anguished and animalistic; it might've garnered some pity if he hadn't spent the last few years treating you like a doll whose fate was to be used and discarded.

You watch him dispassionately as he settles into sobs and wails, his face wet with tears that are steadily rehydrating the dried blood from his nose. The stain on his shirt steadily grows larger and larger, unimpeded. You've trapped him in a cycle of endless strangulation; he winces when his muscles flex as he breathes, and the flinch only exacerbates the pain. His voice muffled to a whimper, he begs, “Mercy, mercy, mercy–”

You owe him nothing but suffering.

You glance up at Boothill again. “Could I ask a favor of you, darling?”

His smile is simultaneously devious and quite charming. “Anything at all, sugar.”

You tilt your head, your gaze darting back down to the pathetic, shivering form at your feet. “Would you be a dear and pull out his teeth while I hold him down?”

You swear Silas stops breathing.

“Well, who am I to deny such a lovely lady?” Boothill drawls, and the menacing twist to his voice is like music to your ears. He stands with a creak of leather and the subtle noise of whirring machinery, his spurs clinking ominously as he steps toward his prey.

“Wait– Hold on,” Silas chokes, his eyes darting wildly between you and the cyborg as you descend on him like a duo of hungry lions to a wounded gazelle. “Wait, please! You don't–”

Now, you cock the hammer once more, your eyes narrowing on him as you stare him down like the roach he is.

His mouth shuts with a clatter of teeth. A fresh bead of sweat trails down his forehead.

“No, no. Keep talking,” you say lightly, staring at him unblinkingly. “I'd love to see what new low you're digging yourself to.”

“I don't– I…” he sputters, his lips trembling. “What can I say? What– What do you want from me?”

You smile in a way that might've seemed pleasant if you didn't have a gun pointed to his head. “You want the truth, sweetie?” you spit, kneeling down by his head; you don't miss the way he quivers, subtly leaning away from you. “There's nothing you can say. You've already said everything I needed to hear.”

Your smile widens as he gapes at you, the fresh terror lighting up his eyes.

“Now, it's my turn to speak.” Slowly, you decock the gun, mimicking the motion that Boothill made back on the ship. “As for what I want?” You set the revolver down with a heavy thunk, far out of his reach, although his hands are still bound. “I want you to sit still, and to keep your fucking mouth open. You never had trouble doing that before, hmm?”

You lean over him, blocking out the bright lights and casting a menacing shadow. Ruthlessly, you clench your fist in his hair, narrowing your eyes.

“And if you bite me,” you snarl, “I'll pour that shitty vodka on your stomach until you're begging me to kill you.”

Without waiting for a response, you grip his jaw in your free hand, wrenching his mouth open with your nails digging ruthlessly into his skin. Right on cue, Boothill crouches down opposite to you, caging him in, and you pointedly ignore the way he starts to squirm – though you're pleased to note that he isn't fighting your hold just yet.

“Consider me your pliers,” Boothill drawls, openly amused by the pathetic sight at his feet. “You point, n’ I'll pull.”

You smile up at him, truly delighted. It's wonderful to have a partner in crime for an occasion like this. “So kind of you.”

You lean over, looking down into Silas’s mouth like he isn't writhing like the worm he is. You release his hair and point to one of his upper canine teeth, tapping it with your nail just to watch him flinch, just to feel his breath stutter with terror. “That one first.”

Boothill makes an affirmative noise as you clench your fist in Silas's hair again, wrenching his jaw further open. As the cyborg's hand nears his mouth, you can feel him starting to fight your grip, perhaps instinctually, but it only takes a sharp squeeze from your pointed nails to still him. As Boothill's fingers squeeze around his tooth, his tongue starts to squirm restlessly in his mouth.

“Keep your slimy tongue off a’ me, or I'll cut it out,” he snarls, and you swear his eyes flash red.

You don't doubt him for a moment; clearly, neither does Silas, because he goes so still that his breath stalls in his chest, a whimper escaping from his throat.

Without any hesitation, Boothill pinches down on the tooth again, so hard that you can actually hear the bone creak from the stress.

And then he starts to pull.

Silas immediately starts to writhe uncontrollably from the pressure, his jaw starting to close in earnest no matter how hard you fight him. Boothill has accounted for this already, clearly, because he stuffs his free thumb back between Silas's molars, wedging his mouth open with no hope of escape. You put your entire weight into pinning him down by his hair, the skin taut with the strain.

Blood springs up at his gum line, stark against the pale white of his bleached teeth. If you thought he screamed when you shot him, this makes it sound like a whimper. His whole body fights and squirms, his head bucking and shaking, but Boothill's grip is utterly unshakable. You clench your jaw, your spine tingling with an instinctual sympathy that he doesn't deserve; you can't imagine how badly it must hurt.

Good. You hope it stings like nothing else he's ever felt. You hope he tastes every drop of the suffering that he's delivered to you, day after day after day.

Crimson pools rapidly in the back of his throat, the flow only increasing as he chokes on the fluid. He's forced to swallow it, his throat spasming as he gags, tiny droplets of red spattering on his lips, beading against Boothill's metal.

It almost feels like a mercy when the tooth finally comes loose, a nauseating mess of blood pouring out as a thin layer of his gums is torn away. He coughs and sputters, red spilling from the sides of his mouth as he cries, and cries, and cries. Without ceremony, Boothill drops the piece of bone onto the floor.

You're not sure why this part is making your gut churn so horribly. Perhaps it's because of how close you are to the action, unconcealed by blood or cloth; perhaps it's the vague familiarity with pain like this; perhaps it's an instinctual kind of empathy.

You ball up the feeling and stuff it back down your throat, swallowing it like a bitter pill.

He would've done the same to you. He would've done worse. The only reason he didn't is because you never gave him the excuse of discipline.

This is what he's earned.

“The other one, too,” you say flatly, your gaze cold, but not distant.

If you look away now, you'll never be able to look back.

Boothill obeys without a word, his fingers reaching for the tooth’s twin. Immediately, Silas starts to thrash in earnest, fighting your hold with all of his might, but the cyborg pins him effortlessly without even batting an eye. A thin fracture runs up his tooth from the force he's using, but it bleeds just the same.

The second goes mercifully quickly – or perhaps you don't quite process the length of time correctly. You've grown numb to the wailing of the man who ruined your life.

“I suppose that's enough,” you rasp, your grip loosening against his scalp. You never want to touch him again. “I'm sick of his whining.”

The sobbing is so loud that you fear Boothill doesn't hear you, but he nods without fuss, dropping his hold and standing without fanfare – though he does wipe off the blood on his hands onto Silas's clean pant leg before he does. The moment he's free, Silas turns over and coughs a veritable fountain of blood onto the tile, his whole body shaking.

He's disgusting. He's pathetic.

Your cold fingers seek out Boothill's gun before you rise to your feet, your jaw tight as you stare down at the quivering form beneath you. Vaguely, you register that Boothill has stepped away again, but it's like your vision has tunneled, your focus narrowing to a pinpoint.

For a long moment, you merely watch Silas as he pieces himself back together, feeling slightly lightheaded.

In the back of your mind, you hear the toll of a bell, distant and ominous.

Daybreak is on the horizon. The night has been long and bloody, and plenty of justice has been dealt…

But there's one more monster due to be put down.

When Silas looks up at you, he barely registers as human in your mind. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair disheveled, his chin red with blood.

You're not sure what he sees in your eyes, but he looks up at you like you're the incarnation of death itself, here to collect its dues.

“Let… Please let me go,” he whispers, trembling and childish. “Please. I'll… You'll never see me again. Just let me go, and I'll–”

In a flash, you cock the hammer and fire, inches away from his head. He flinches so hard that his whole body jolts, a gasp of pain wrenching from his mouth from the movement.

He's done plenty of talking, and you're sick of hearing his obnoxious fucking voice.

“And what? Make someone else your little pet? Keep their leash even tighter, so they'll never have the chance to get away?” you snarl, rage bubbling in your gut. “I know you. I know how you think. I know what you want, you disgusting little pig.”

Your eyes glint in the light as you level the barrel straight at his head.

“And I know you'll never hurt anyone again.”

You cock the hammer, and the final bullet sits ready in the chamber.

You watch the air stall in his lungs.

You smile.

“Consider this a divorce.”

It's over in a blink. His horrified eyes light up in the flash from the muzzle, and his head jerks back from the force of the final bullet. He falls back against the ground like an abused ragdoll, the life ripped unceremoniously from his body.

The room is utterly silent except for the ringing in your ears.

He's…

He's actually dead.

He'll never hurt you again.

He'll never lay hands on you again.

He'll never call you pet or doll again.

You're free.

For a long, long moment, you stare down at his corpse, watching the blood seep slowly out of his still body.

It barely feels real.

Even though you can see the wound you've left in his head, part of you is almost expecting him to sit back up.

Another part of you is expecting all of this to be an elaborate ruse, and at any moment, you'll be snapped back into that collar and beaten within an inch of your life for your insolence.

Another part of you is convinced this is a dream.

But there's no question about the weight of the gun in your hand, about the soreness of your feet from your heels, about the unimpeded air hitting your neck.

It's…

It's actually over.

There's truly no words to express how completely and utterly relieved you feel.

And yet…

“Was this too cruel of me?” you suddenly murmur, mostly to yourself.

You're not sure what you're expecting, but it's not for Boothill to bark out a laugh. “You serious?” he chuckles, raising his brows as you finally rip your eyes away from the corpse to meet his gaze. “If anything, I'd say ya went too easy on him. I didn't even have to slap him conscious again.”

You're quiet for a spell, caught up in the riptide of your spiraling thoughts.

It's not that you regret killing him, and you don't particularly regret the torture, either. But…

Something about it just makes you feel… dirty, in a way – like you've stooped to his level. It almost feels like the weight of his sins stained your hands when you killed him – like a bloodborne curse spread into your veins from the moment you signed his death warrant. The sound of his screaming is still ringing in your ears, and you're nauseated by the dichotomy of disgust and pleasure churning in your gut.

After a long moment of silence, Boothill adds, “If ya ask me? There ain't no point measurin’ morals with a man like him.”

You blink, your gaze focusing back onto him. (His eyes are very pretty.) “What do you mean?”

“I'll wager that he was never concerned with righteousness.” He gestures loosely with one hand. “Same with all the rest a’ these IPC shirtbags. They all think they're above justice – above fairness, above honor, above morals.”

There's a particular sort of rage in his expression – an anger that's fused into the core of his soul, irreversibly intertwined. You can't bring yourself to look away.

“And I'll bet that he never thought a’ you like anythin' more than a toy,” he continues, clenching his fists. “That's how all these guys think. To them, everyone's an object – an asset,” he spits, and the venom in his voice is contagious. “They look at you, n’ they see a price tag.”

There's an odd distance in his gaze, like he's lost in the fire burning within him. Then, he seems to come back to you, and his eyes soften slightly, his fists relaxing.

“So ask yourself this: why should you treat a man with honor if he never did anything honorable in his life?”

And in an instant, the vague sense of guilt evaporates like smoke.

He's right.

Silas has never had morals – never had a code that considered anything beyond his own desires. Every single day, he signed documents condemning millions to death or slavery or poverty, sealing their fates with little more than the flick of a pen. He ripped off your wings and stuffed you in a cage, always with one finger on the trigger, waiting for you to slip up.

He would've killed you without batting an eye – like he was throwing away a broken doll that had long fulfilled its purpose. And when he killed countless people from his desk, he never thought of them as people.

They were only assets.

(Just trimming the fat.)

Now, as your eyes drift over to the corpse, you understand one thing more intimately than ever before–

Beasts have no capacity for morality. Naturally, those without morals should be treated like beasts.

You were doing the galaxy a favor, really, ridding it of such a blight.

Suddenly, Boothill grimaces, turning his eyes toward the door of the dressing room. “Hate to say it, but we're outta time.”

You nod slowly, and you turn away from the corpse of your jailer for the last time.

This chapter of your life is over – and with it, you will wash your hands clean.

“I'm ready.”

He makes an affirmative noise and stands, throwing down the half-empty bottle of whiskey without a care in the world. As he grows nearer to you, you turn his revolver in your hand, offering it back to him just as he did to you. He gives you a charming little grin as he holsters it with a flourish.

“Now, let's make tracks, yeah?” he says lightly, and a beat later, he rips the door open, completely shattering the lock in the process.

You smile, your heart swelling with some emotion that you've forgotten the name of.

(Oh, well. You have plenty of time to relearn them all.)

He leads you out into the main area of the lounge, and it truly looks like a horror movie was filmed here. Corpses litter the floor indiscriminately, and the air reeks of blood; never before have you thought of such a smell as pleasant – until now, that is. Through the shattered window, you can hear the howl of wind and the noise of what must be at least a few helicopters circling the building. The space is lit ominously by the wandering search lights, sparkling against the blood and shattered glass on the carpet.

Briefly, you wonder how exactly Boothill is planning on escaping; you have no doubt that the IPC is swarming the building like ants to sugar, so the ground certainly isn't an option. The roof, maybe? Although, that would still be quite risky; there's almost certainly going to be snipers on the lookout for him.

When you grow near the edge of the stage, Boothill speaks up. “Ah, ya might wanna take a step back,” he warns nonchalantly.

You throw him a curious look, and you damn near jump out of your skin when a cacophonous crash shakes the building, glass shattering loudly in your ears. You whip around, only to find that part of a ship has smashed in through the already broken window, using the breacher bridge as both a battering ram and a boarding ramp.

What a fucking lunatic. You can't get enough of it.

“That's one way to make an entrance, I guess,” you laugh.

He shrugs, grinning widely. “What can I say? I like puttin’ on a show. N’ what's the point of havin’ autopilot on a ship if ya don't use it?” Shielded from the helicopters lurking outside, he strolls onto the ramp, turning back to you and making a grand, sweeping gesture toward the inside. “Climb aboard, chickadee,” he chimes, light and charming. “We've got one more chore for the night.”

For a moment, you look into his eyes, examining the red pinpricks of his pupils.

This is a night of celebration – and it's time to bid your dire mood goodbye.

You make a grand show of curtsying before moving inside, snickering quietly as the two of you board. Once you're on, the bridge slowly retracts, although the hatch doesn't close. You stand at the edge with Boothill at your side, and although you waver slightly when the ship begins to move away from the building, he holds one arm in front of you to prevent you from falling. (He's rather sweet, isn't he?)

As the ship pulls away with the clatter of shifting glass, the wind begins to bite into your skin, but you can't even say you mind.

It feels like home. It feels like freedom.

The ship halts some distance away, and the way you're positioned adjacent to the building means you're still shielded from the roaming helicopters; going by the reflections in the glass, your ship is the focus of all of their spotlights. You watch as Boothill pulls a dark red bullet from his mouth (since when can he do that?) and flick it into the air. With a flourish, he swings his gun and snaps it cleanly into the cylinder, perfectly accounting for the billowing wind – all of this without even batting an eye.

You're still staring at him with open awe when he turns to you, holding out his revolver grip-first, a wild, wicked grin stretching across his face.

“Would ya like to do the honors?” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the howl of the wind.

Your smile is a slow, creeping thing. What a gentleman. “It'd be my pleasure.”

The grip feels oddly familiar in your hand, like an old companion you haven't seen in years, even though you'd never even held a gun before today. You admire it again for only a moment, tracing the details with your eyes, following the way it shines. It's truly beautiful for a tool of death and destruction.

Then, you cock the hammer and aim at the hole in the window leading to the lounge–

And you fire.

The bright flash of the explosion stings your eyes, but you don't even blink, not even as the deafening boom rocks the ship in the air, the heat warming your skin like a blazing fire.

And then the building really starts to blow.

Floor by floor, explosives go off in a chain reaction of brilliant light and fire and debris, the sound so loud that it makes your ears ring. It's a truly spectacular sight, and you can finally identify that mysterious, lingering emotion.

Pure, unfiltered elation.

You lean carefully toward the edge to watch the explosions go further down, level by level, slightly disturbed by how much you're trusting him not to let you fall. The crash of the building crumbling is truly deafening, and the heat is nearly blistering, but it's all worth it to watch the beams fold under their own weight. In barely any time at all, the IPC headquarters is little more than a mountain of burning rubble spilling into the streets – and with it, all remnants of your prison.

Tragically, you are allowed only a moment to marvel before the hatch slides closed, instantly silencing the howl of the wind.

“Best get a move-on, before they get any bright ideas involvin’ missiles,” Boothill says lightly.

You blink up at him in open alarm, caught in the middle of offering his gun back to him. “What?”

He laughs without a care in the world as he plucks the weapon from your hands, holstering it with a flourish. “Just pullin’ your leg. The shirtbags want me alive, anyway, so it's not like–”

With flawless timing, the ship rocks hard in the air, the unmistakable patter of bullets hitting the metal hull.

“Son of a forkin’ bench!” he spits, whipping around and bolting for the cockpit.

Despite the very real threat to your life, you can't help but burst into laughter as you scramble after him, stumbling against the wall as the thrusters activate, your heels buckling beneath you. You manage to collapse into the copilot's chair a moment before he activates the boosters, the force leaving you clutching onto the arm rests for dear life.

While Boothill is doubtlessly a reckless flier, he's undeniably efficient; the chase barely lasts for a minute before he manages to escape orbit, the hull rumbling with the buildup to FTL travel. Your stomach lurches into your throat when the ship bursts into hyperdrive, and by the time the ride evens out, you're completely breathless with laughter.

You wipe tears from your eyes as you look over, only to find that he's already staring at you with an emotion you can't quite name.

“You went n’ lost your mind?” he chuckles, even though he's grinning just as widely as you.

You take your first full breath in some time, slumping down in your seat. “Only because you lost yours. Who the fuck gave you your license?”

The two of you burst into laughter all at once, and for a moment, you're utterly captivated by the absurdity of it all – laughing yourself to tears with the man that helped you kill your…

Well, he was hardly ever your husband, was he?

“How did you even get up to the roof, by the way?” you ask, once you've caught your breath again. “I noticed that you swung down into the lounge.”

He grins at you, wild and manic. “I climbed.”

You quite frankly cannot stop your jaw from dropping. “Climbed? From the ground floor?”

“Nah. Too much work,” he says, somehow smiling even wider. “I jumped from the next buildin’ over. Then I climbed.”

Holy shit. He’s crazy crazy.

“You can't be serious. There are – or, well.” You blink for a moment, then rephrase, “There were over a hundred stories.”

When he shrugs carelessly, all you can do is laugh, shaking your head in fond exasperation.

Then, you turn your gaze to the world outside of the windshield, to the stars streaking by in bright lines of light. You've always found hyperspace to be unbelievably gorgeous – a kaleidoscope of blurring colors, too fast for your eyes to follow. It's been so long since you were able to leave the planet that you'd nearly forgotten the scope of its beauty.

(You'll have plenty of time to look at it now, won't you?)

“Where are you headed next?” you ask, a bit quiet, a bit thoughtful.

“Was just about to ask you the same thing.” His chair creaks as he turns to face you, but you can't bring yourself to look away from the world outside of the ship just yet. “I'm happy to drop ya off wherever you'd like, y'know. No skin off my nose.”

(Momentarily, you're startled by his generosity – both by how earnestly he spoke and how easily he offered. Then again, you suppose he's been quite generous all this time.)

Truthfully, though, you haven't even thought about your destination.

This moment – standing on the precipice of a new chapter of your life, with a near-infinite number of paths before you… It almost felt dangerous to think about this in advance. But now you're here, and all of the universe is laid out in front of you.

Now, you have as many options as your mind can ponder.

After a long moment, you reply, “I think I'll see where the wind takes me.” Then, you tear your eyes away from the stars, meeting his gaze with a tiny smile. “But I'm open to travel recommendations, if you have any.”

He raises a brow, grinning playfully. “You sure that I'm the kinda man you wanna ask for travel advice, chickadee?”

“I can't think of anyone I'd rather ask.” Your smile widens into something eager, something thrilled. “I'll be getting a gun, if that helps increase your options.”

He laughs, bright and warm, and a hot spark of delight flares up in your chest. (He's very pretty when he laughs.)

“Well, I'm sure I can think of somethin’,” he drawls, leaning back in his seat. Then, a look of excitement crosses his face – the contagious sort, so infectious that you can't help but lean closer. “You ever been to the Frigherix system?”

You tilt your head. “Can't say I have.”

The grin on his face damn near quadruples. “Oh, if I'm goin' off that whiskey you had back there, you'll love the stuff they've got. Finest fudgin' malt juice this side of the cosmos, if ya ask me – like molten gold n’ honey lit on fire.” He chuckles, readjusting his hat. “Kicks like a forkin’ mule, that stuff.”

(He's…. quite charming like this, isn't he?)

Before you can say a word, he perks up again. “Oh! N’ after that, you've gotta get a taste of the stuff in Aloniir! Got a buddy from out there, n’ nobody does it like them. Craziest muddle-fudgers I ever done met. I told ‘em I couldn't get drunk anymore, n’ they acted like I dared ‘em!” He speaks faster and faster as he gets more invested, gesturing emphatically with so much passion that it lights up his whole face. “They've got this drink – uh… Vantoor’s Kiss, I think. It's a two-parter, y’see, ‘cause they put poison and venom in the first glass, n’ the antidote in the second! Burns like nothin’ else, but the taste is–”

You settle into your seat as you listen – well, more like half-listen, at this point.

It's hardly your fault that he's so handsome. Really, you'd be crazy to be able to pay attention to anything else.

As for your destination, well… You'll figure that out sooner or later.

You have plenty of time to choose, after all.

To be continued...

#sal.txt #sorry for the repost #i was SO sure that this would be too long for a tumblr post #but as it turns out it was not! so im uploading now #might also do this for darling daisies at some point but im prettyyyyy sure that's gonna be too long #boothill x reader #fem reader #reader insert #x reader #honkai star rail #boothill #hsr x reader #anyway thank you all for the support on this one 💘 i really like the way chapter 2 is turning out so far #sal.wiftsbemv

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caprisun89bakerstreet · 3 months ago

Text

How can I be guilty as sin?

Ch.2 - there’s no such thing as bad thoughts, only your actions talk

୨⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯. ༊*·˚‧ੈ₊˚ ೃ࿐ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯୧

Series summary: the 5 times you almost told Obi-Wan about your feelings for him and the 1 time it slipped out

୨⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯. ༊*·˚‧ੈ₊˚ ೃ࿐ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯୧

“Master— it’s just- a scratch-“ Obi-Wan tried to vaguely reassure you both. “Nothing- to worry about—-“ He adds but his eyes are starting to close.

“Obi-Wan no!”

୨⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯. ༊*·˚‧ੈ₊˚ ೃ࿐ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯୧

Pairing: obi-wan kenobi x f!reader

Wordcount: 4,1k

Chapter summary: You're on a mission with your master Plo Koon, Qui Gon Jinn and your fellow padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi who your feelings for are increasing with each mission. But during this one, things go badly. He gets hurt. Badly. Can you do something to prevent him from dying? Or would it cost too much?

Tags: hurt/comfort, obi gets hurt, reader (recklessly) saves him from death, pre phantom menace, angst, you’re both padawans, masters realize you might have feelings for him, forbidden love

Notes: this was so hard but fun to write because i could include both qui gon and plo and they’re some of my fav jedi, it’s not perfect but oh well, i had a plan for it but it went in a completely other direction somehow anyways, enjoy

“Quick, seal the door!” Qui Gon called and you did as he instructed, sealing the door behind you with a slash of your lightsaber.

“Master he’s not here, he isn’t in any of these cells-“ Obi-Wan told him. When you turned around you see him pressing buttons on the control panel. The camera’s flashing through multiple prison cells.

“No, he has to be there!” You say determined and need to see it for yourself so you push past both men and look at the screen. Pressing buttons, desperately trying to find him. He wasn’t there.

“Dank farrik—“ You curse hitting the panel with your fist.

You were on the planet Raxus, protecting civilians from bounty hunters. But it quickly got out of hand the moment you and Obi-Wan decided it would be a good idea to follow them and try to negotiate. It appeared they weren’t interested in negotiations. Not civil ones anyway. Qui Gon and your master Plo had both realized where you’ve both gone fairly quickly. And proceeded to track down your location.

Meanwhile you and Obi-Wan had both overheard some of the bounty hunters about the long missing chief of the village. Which the civilians had known to be lost for 5 years, you recently found out.

“We’ll have to sort this out later, there’s droids incoming—“ Qui Gon warns you both and hear him ignite his saber. And within seconds you hear the familiar hum of your own saber and Obi-Wan’s before the door opens. And once again the room was filled by blasterbolts. Droids continued to enter shooting left and right.

“How did these bounty hunters even manage to get their hands on battle droids?” Obi-Wan questioned out loud as his saber pierced through a droid.

“I mean you could always ask them, the trade federation might just awnser—“ You tease, slashing your saber again .

“Well i don’t think they’d be very cooperative, do you?” He retorted matching your sarcasm as he beheaded another droid.

“Stop bickering you two—“ Qui Gon Jinn said while gutting the last droid. “Now tell me, where is the chief located?”

“Well they never actually told us, master.” You reply retracting your lightsaber and clipping it to your belt, looking at the camera’s again.

“We overheard them saying he’d be in sector 7. We presumed they were talking about the prisoner cells here, but that must’ve been code.” Obi-Wan thought to himself.

“It appears you’re right.” Qui Gon replied.

“Where’s master Plo?” You ask the older Jedi.

“He’s waiting outside. Now come on, let’s see if we can find him.“ Qui Gon tells you and Obi-Wan as you’re already heading out the door. But before leaving he stops you both. “— but let’s use our minds before going into this head first.” He warns you. ‘’Again.”

“Sorry master.” Obi-Wan says. And you look back at him, eyes meeting his.

“We will.” You add after a moment and then Qui Gon nods as the three of you walk out the building.

You had to get back to the ship. That’s the only plan you had as you watched the village go up in flames. How could this have happened? How hadn’t you forseen something as terrible as this? There’s too much going on around you to focus on these thoughts as you deflect blasterbolts firing at you from practicaly every direction. With a furrowed brow you’re trying to stay focused while more battle droids keep coming in.

“Why are they still coming?” You yell not understanding just how many droids they’ve managed to get on their hands without the trade federation or the senate knowing. As far as the Jedi knew.

“Getting tired already?” Obi-Wan teased from a few feet away. Despite the sweat forming between his brow and his endeavors with you earlier, he still had precise movements. If you weren’t being shot at right now you would’ve silently admired his strength. But you quickly forget the thought when a blasterbolt nearly grazes your cheek and brings you back to the present.

“Quick! Get to the ship!” Master Plo called as he managed to get rid of two droids. He was closer to the ship then you were. But he was still only halfway there.

“Easier said then done master!” You called back because there were even more droids incoming from left and right- you were being crammed. If you turned away now, you’d surely get hit. There’s too much blasterfire.

Slowly you, Obi-Wan and Qui Gon retreated back to the ship. But it was terribly slow. And your focus was starting to wear thin, your movements getting less precise, sloppy. You were sweating, blocking less blasterbolts than you needed to to save your energy. Trying to focus on reciprocrating the bolts to get rid of the droids instead of wasting the shots. And you managed to. Until one grazed your left-upper arm. And you wince. “Kriff—“

Obi-Wan called out your name as soon as he heard you. “Are you alright?”

“Yes— I’m fine-“ you reply from a few feet away and continue to block the incoming fire. It hurt terribly. A burning heat was flaring on your left bicep. You were just lucky it wasn’t your right, and you weren’t ready to lose that now.

“We’re almost there!” Qui Gon called from your right. He looked tired too, you realized in a quick glance. This wasn’t going well.

But then you felt a disruption in the Force. A warning. You prepared yourself as anticipation and adrenaline filled you before you could register what was about to happen. You focused on the droids infront of you— worried that there might be another wave of them, or worse, what if those bounty hunters came back? But then you heard a cry out in pain to your left. Your left. Obi-Wan. And your body fills with panic as you see him.

“Obi-Wan!” You yell when you see him crumble to the ground a few feet away from you. And without thinking you rush over to him, barely avoiding two— no three blasterbolts, as you stand infront of him. Jumping over the debris of the city. And you block the shots firing at you when you’re standing infront of obi. Quickly the distance between you two diminishes.

Qui Gon called your name when he saw you recklessly change plans. Because of Obi-Wan. He tried to get closer. He needed to get you both out of here as soon as possible. The droids were closing in on you. And you were losing.

“Obi-Wan talk to me—“ You say your voice worried and insistant. Because if you looked at him right now you’d surely be too distracted to not get hit.

You hear another wince from behind you on the ground. Which only created a pit of worry in your stumach and you risk a glance at him. He was clutching his side.

“I’m fine— it’s fine nothing- to worry about—“ he said with heavy breath which you practically didn’t hear because you were still in the heat of battle. You did catch his last words. Which told you enough about his state, he was anything but fine.

You risk another glance at him but then see his side, he was bleeding. He’d been shot. And you saw too much blood for your liking in that one glimpse. “Qui Gon!” You call for his master, worry filling your voice because you couldn’t do anything to help him while you were still being fired at. But within a few moments that seemingly stretched out for eternity, Qui Gon was at Obi-Wan’s side.

“Master he’s bleeding— really badly—“ You start to panic and Qui Gon can tell.

“I need you to cover for me while i carry him to the ship. We have to hurry.” He says as he tries to carefully lift Obi up in his arms and he winces in pain. Your heart breaks at the sound.

“Yes master. I’m ready.” You respond more confident than you felt right now.

“Now, run!” He gave the signal. But you barely manage to block the firing at you and another bolt grazes your shoulder and you wince.

If you didn’t hold yourself up now, both Qui Gon and Obi-Wan would get shot. And die. You couldn’t let that happen. But the increasing burning sensation in your right shoulder made lifting anything feel like fire was bursting through your veins. And it hurt. It hurt so much. Like the brightest flaming red was the color of your insides and you almost felt yourself getting lightheaded. We’re you going to faint? No. You weren’t. You couldn’t let them die. Not like this. Not them.

“Master—“ You plead your steps slowing down without you wanting to, and Qui Gon seemed to realize just how worn out you were. This was it. He had pushed you both too far. He turned around and stayed behind you as you kept blocking the blasterfire coming your way. Keeping Obi-Wan secure in his arms, head against his shoulder, and his eyes were closed already. He really should’ve been better. For the both of you.

That’s when suddenly droid after droid gets blown to pieces as laserbolts fill the sky and you hear the familiar hum of your ships engines. Matser Plo. He made it to the ship early. And relief fills your body and you send a wave of gratitude through the Force. You knew you were too weak to reach him but it’d be a silent prayer anyway. Because you could really use a miracle right now.

“Come on, hurry!” Qui Gon said as you kept running away, the droids distracted by the new threat You were able to escape. Barely. But Plo managed to get you out there just in time as he flies to the atmosphere.

You still heard blasterfire in the distance as Qui Gon eventually stopped and carefully placed Obi down. He’s still breathing heavily and and whinces uncomfortably.

“Obi-Wan I need you to move your arm.” Qui Gon said because Obi was still clutching his side. As soon as you saw his pained expression you kneel down next to him and reach for his face. Cupping his cheeks in your hands. This couldn’t be it. You wouldn’t let it come that far. His eyes were glazed and he seemed too distant for your liking when you looked into those blue eyes. Which almost seemed to lose more color by the minute.

“Obi come on— i know it hurts- but you have to..” You gently but worriedly encourage him. His eyes flicker up to meet yours and he weakly calls your name.

Qui Gon then removed his arm to reveal the blood covering his chest. Obi grunts in pain and you try to sooth him removing his hair from his face and caressing his cheeks. But he was bleeding. A lot.

“Master— it’s just- a scratch-“ Obi-Wan tried to vaguely reassure you both. “Nothing- to worry about—-“ He adds but his eyes are starting to close.

“Obi-Wan no!” You say, still holding his face and trying to get him to look at you. Panic is coursing through your veins. He was losing conciousness. He wasn’t going to die, you knew that. It was Obi-Wan he’s seen way worse than this. This couldn’t be how he died. You felt worry take over your entire being. Thoughts going haywire as you hold his face. And then you’re on autopilot. You weren’t thinking. You were following your instincts now. The only thought you had was, heal. You needed to heal him. Right now. Even if you didn’t know how- or weren’t able to- and didn’t have the supplies- or abilities— you simply had to. Obi-Wan was losing conciousness. Because he was covered in blood. He was suffering. Obi-Wan was suffering. And you physically couldn’t stand it. So you reach for his tunic to reveal his wound.

Qui Gon noticed you were on autopilot. He couldn’t blame you, it’s not like he wasn’t himself moments earlier when you both ran away from those droids. But there was another kind of determination in you as he saw you cradle Obi-Wan. You were determined in a dangerous way. No, a selfless one. He had seen you grow up being gentle and often timid. But once either master Plo, himself or Obi-Wan were in danger, your whole demeanor changed. You were protective. Not in a selfish way, but a selfless one. You’d do anything to keep them safe. To keep them alive. In the earlier years of you being a padawan this change in you during missions surprised many. And over the years both master Plo and Qui Gon himself started to see more of this determined side of you. Because you were often facing dangers on missions. But one of you getting as severely hurt as Obi-Wan rarely happened. He looked at you now as you got rid of his tunic. You were a healer. Or taking classes, at least. But you weren’t proficient. You were a student. It took great effort, training and discipline to have the ability to heal another’s wounds. Especially ones this deep. But he knew you were talented though, being one of the youngest in class. But your determination might have been stronger than your skills in this moment. Qui Gon knew your healing capability wouldn’t be enough to save him. Not right now.

“He needs medic supplies.” Qui Gon says seeing the way your hands tremble as you reach for Obi’s bleeding chest. And Qui Gon reaches for his comm to send your coordinates to master Plo.

“We don’t have that right now—“ you say, your voice betraying your increasing concern. And you place your hands carefully on his chest, next to the wound bleeding a sickly, gushing red. “Obi hang in there please-“ you whisper a silent prayer and close your eyes. Reaching out to the Force and call on the light you feel starting to spread in your fingertips. Creating that familiar tingling feeling.

“Padawan—“ Qui Gon tries to warn you, seeing your body shaking from adrenaline and exhaustion, and your shoulder still bleeding. But you knew your wounds weren’t as bad as Obi’s.

“Quiet.” You tell him. And stubbornly keep going. Or as you liked to call it, selflessly.

___

After a few moments you hear the ship’s engines as it lands a few feet next to you.

“I need you to help me lift him up carefully-“ Qui Gon tells you and you help him, probably being more careful than you had to be.

Noticing obi’s expression turn pained you feel your stumach twist. And run off to get the medical supplies.

“Padawan, what happened—“ master Plo starts off but when he sees Qui Gon carrying Obi, who’s chest is covered in blood it sinks in. But you had always pushed past your master to get in the ship.

You were on auto pilot. Hands trembling and trying to keep a clear head. You were a Jedi. You were good at saving people. Especially vulnerable ones. It’s what you did. But why did it feel like you were losing grip on it? You were losing control- normally you’re able to help people- stay focused and keep a somewhat clear head as you went out your way to save people. But now? Now you were fueled by adrenaline and worry. Because you couldn’t lose your best friend. Not when he meant so much more.

Rummaging through the ship’s storage bins to get something— anything that might help you start to panic. None of this was gonna work if we didn’t have the supplies— if we didn’t that meant he would still be in pain- hurting- bleeding out— no. You wouldn’t let it come that far. Somehow. You rush back to Obi’s cot with some spare bacta packs. Qui Gon had already cut open his tunic. You rip open the bacta packs but Qui Gon stops you. Quickly stopping your wrist.

“Padawan. It’s too deep to heal from just those.”

“I don’t care—“ You hear yourself saying as you continue.

“Padawan-“

“I’ll do it myself! I’ll heal him!” You say desperate but determined. You had never treaten someone this badly before. You felt awfully unsure about everything right now. And you hated it. Panic started to spiral through your core. How were you gonna do that?

Your hands moved on their own, trying to position them just next to the wound without making Obi-Wan visibly squirm in pain. You’ve never had to heal someone with wounds as bad as this. Let alone someone so close to you. Someone as important as him. Not that you were allowed to think that way, you were a jedi after all. No attachments. And yet, seeing Obi in pain like this made your whole body betray you. You feel as if getting an adrenaline rush from being in the most dangerous situation you’ve ever been. And Qui Gon knows. Yet doesn’t say anything. And doesn’t stop you.

You place your hands on Obi-Wan’s chest, around the wounds and close your eyes. “Come on Obi..” you mutter nervously. Because he can’t die. Not like this. Not today. So you focus on the Force flowing around you, feeling Obi-Wan’s life Force weaken by the moment. Panick starts to rise on your chest again. But then you focus on you. The Force flowing through your body, your veins, your entire being. And you focus on your hands. Feeling a lighter and tingly feeling spread in them. And you let it flow to him. Into his chest. You felt the throbbinh pain in his chest affecting his entire body. Oh no. That’s bad. Really bad. You focus on sending the Force to his most crucial areas. But you even felt your own chest starting hurt. He wasn’t going to make it. Not like this. You needed a miracle. No. You didn’t. You just needed willpower. And determination. Because you weren’t gonna let Obi-Wan die. Your brow started to sweat as you send all your energy through him. Not that you noticed, you were too focused on saving him. Your best friend. Though that term seemed to feel more odd than usual right now. You were in a trance trying to save Obi-Wan. So you send everything through him. All of your energy. Even if it wasn’t enough. You wouldn’t forgive yourself if you didn’t try.

Qui Gon was still sitting next to you. He tried to call your name. Because he saw your trembling hands, furrowed brow, and focused demeanor despite being exhausted. But he also saw the color in your cheeks fade away. You were draining yourself. To a dangerous extent. Qui Gon placed a hand on your arm. But you weren’t noticing any of his attempts to get your attention. Obi-Wan was all that mattered right now. But you felt his force presence slipping away. And Qui Gon could tell Obi’s breathing had slowed down. Too much. And after a few moments he couldn’t tell if he was breathing anymore…

But your breathing started to get heavier, you started to feel lighter, seeing flashes behind your eyelids. You had to save Obi. So you send all of your Life Force to him. All of it. And before you knew it, you didn’t feel your hands trembling anymore. You didn’t hear your own thoughts anymore. And your head hurt. Feeling dizzy. Then there was simply nothing.

Qui Gon was too late to catch you when your head hit the ground as you fell over. You looked pale. Sickly. Drained. Qui Gon placed a hand on your forehead, worried. He tried to call your name, to wake you up. Was this it? Had you finally crossed your limit? When he focused on your force presence he felt nothing. Nothing. His heart sank in his chest. How could he have let this happen? He was supposed to protect Obi-Wan. And you. You were both just padawans. Now he lost both of you. Because of your own selflessness. He rummaged through the medical supplies spread around the floor. Until he heard a whimper. Obi-Wan. His eyes were still closed but he was breathing. Obi-Wan was breathing. When he looked at the wound, it still looked awful. As if nothing happened. But as Qui Gon looked at the deep gash he saw that it wasn’t gushing red anymore. It darkened. It partially healed. The worst part of the wound had closed, you had done it. You saved Obi-Wan. Qui Gon quickly tried to help Obi-Wan with the little supplies left.

Master Plo eventually entered the cabin and his expression fell. He had felt your Force presence starting to weaken when he was still in the cockpit. But when he saw you laying on the floor, motionless, next to an unconscious Obi-Wan who was still covered in blood his entire galaxy shifted for a moment. He had failed. As a master. He kneeled down beside you. You had always been stubborn, pushing yourself to no extent when it came to protecting the ones close to you. Or not. You had always tried to save everyone. No matter the cost of your own well being. And ofcours, when it came to Obi-Wan that willingness tenfolded somehow. Your friendship with him had always been a blessing. Or a curse when it came to you focussing on your jedi teachings. But to see the both of you laying unconscious on the floor deeply wounded your jedi master. And he prayed you would arrive on Lianna as quickly as possible to get enough medical supplies.

---

When Obi-Wan woke, everything hurt. He felt incredibly sore. But made the mistake of shifting in bed when he opened his eyes. Because a pain shot through his chest. What happened? He looked around the room he was in. Not recognizing it. Then it started to get back to him slowly. They were on the battlefield. Wait they were fighting— he quickly tried to look around the room and lean on his elbows to get up but it hurt. But it didn’t matter he needed to know—

“Easy Obi-Wan- lay back down.” Qui Gon’s voice. And a moment later he appeared next to Obi-Wan. Until he realized Qui Gon had been sitting in one of the chairs behind him.

“Master what-“ Obi started with a strained voice but cut himself off when he saw another bed in the room. With you in it. And his eyes widened.

Qui Gon helped him get back in bed carefully. “We made it out. Thanks to you. We’re on the planet Lianna because we were in need of medical supplies. You got shot. It was messy.” Obi-Wan tried to focus on Qui Gon’s words. But all he could do was stare at you. What had happened? He remembered you being fine. You were the one who protected him and got him out-

“Is she alright?” Obi-Wan blurted out worried. And Qui Gon sighed as he sat on the edge of his bed.

“She will be.” He spoke after a moment. And Obi-Wan felt his heart drop.

“What happened? She was okay when-“ Obi asked not caring how his chest hurt every time he used his voice.

“She was. Until you were bleeding out. She healed you. Even though i told her to stop because it was draining her life force. You’re alive because of her.”

“She—-“ Obi-Wan started but didn’t know how to continue. You had saved him? He got hurt so badly you had to save him? How had he been that careless? Because now you were hurt. You were unconcious because of him. Because of his recklessness and inability to stay focused. He felt guilt rising in his chest.

Qui Gon could sense Obi-Wan’s anxiety rising and placed a comforting hand on his arm.

“She’ll be alright Obi-Wan. She just needs rest. As do you.”

“Has she- woken up yet?” Obi-Wan couldn’t help but ask. But he saw Qui Gon shake his head. And an uneasy feeling washed over Obi-Wan.

He didn’t argue when Qui Gon helped him back down in bed. He was too tired to do so anyway. But his gaze was still on you.

“Rest Obi-Wan.” Qui Gon told him again, and left the room. But Obi-Wan stayed awake as he looked at you with a feeling of guilt, worry and something he can’t allow himself to feel. Especially not with you.

He only closed his eyes when his body demanded sleep. But he still dreamed of her. He always does.

And only a few feet away she still lay unconcious in that same room. But even though she seemed to be unreachable, in more ways than one, she was dreaming too. Dreaming of him. She supposed she always would.

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heavenlyraindrops · 8 months ago

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The Devil Made Me Do It | Arcane | Silco x Reader | Chapter Six

Also available on AO3 and Quotev | visit the first tag to find other chapters | warnings: profanity, timeskip from the previous chapter, brief mentions of brothels, smoking

summary:

In the midst of an unfortunate run-in with the enforcers, you meet the young revolutionary Silco, and by extension, his friends Vander and Felicia. Growing close friends, you get through life in the undercity together, determined to make Zaun a better place. Until tragedy strikes, and betrayal and carelessness stabs hard enough to turn you bitter. Years later as time solidifies the scars, Silco proves to be a thorn in your side. You, in his. Hatred festers. And your world cracks further open.

Chapter Six:

“Vander’s dead.”

Draped across the plush velvet cushions of the sofa in your office, you took a deep drag of your cigarette. Your silk dress rustled as you moved, jewellery twinkling in the reddish pink light. You blew the smoke into the air thoughtfully.

“Dead?” You hummed thoughtfully, then beckoned to the girl standing before you. She crossed the rich carpet, and you pulled her onto the seat next to you before putting the cigarette out on her exposed skin. “Tell me more.”

She hissed at the pain. “There was an explosion… Silco was involved. Last night.” Her voice shook with fear as you drew lazy circles on her shoulder with your fingertip.

At this, you sat up straighter. “Was he?” Your leg began to bounce, and you steepled your hands before placing them on your face. After a long moment of silence, accompanied by your furrowed brow, you leaned back into the sofa.

Flicking a coin at the girl, you jerked your head at the curtain. She stood up, clutching it in her closed fist as she swept aside the beaded veil. You looked at the single rose lying on the low table before you.

“This can’t be good for the Lanes,” you sighed, lying back to rest your head on the tasseled cushion. Another cigarette lit. You inhaled deeply, hand falling as the smoke poured from your lips in a steady stream towards the ceiling. “Now that their leader is gone.” You chuckled lightly. “Fuck them. They never showed me a piece of that community bullshit he pushed so hard for anyways.” You turned your head and looked at the rose. “Right?”

“Years,” you hissed. “It’s been years, and the bastard never thought to come find me.” You almost bit the cigarette, smoke curling from your lips. Your leg was shaking with fury again. “Of course he had to break his stupid promise.” You took a moment to relax, melting back into the cushions.

“People will be clawing for a foothold as the next leader,” you continued thoughtfully, and took another drag. “If Silco brought this about…” Your eyes flicked to the curtains. “What do you think, girls? Should I stay out of it? Or take the chance?”

The silhouettes behind the beads moved as the eavesdropping girls shuffled awkwardly. One of them swept into the room, the other poking her head through the dangling strings.

“W-we’re sorry, Madam,” the one girl stuttered. You languidly swept your gaze across her nervous face. “We couldn’t help but hear you while we were passing.”

You stayed silent for a moment, then took another drag on the cigarette. “Put your mask on, and go find a client.”

She nodded frantically, turning to flee the room, and you gave a low chuckle, standing up. Stabbing the cigarette into a gilded ashtray, you moved the beads aside, and stepped into the carpeted hallway.

The air was sweet and thick, the smell of perfume mixing with the smell of desire. Gold accents flashed wherever you looked. Pushing past a pair awkwardly conversing in the hallway, you put a ringed hand on the doorknob to the back door.

Someone cleared their throat. You turned to look at the masked worker. “Madam.” Extending their hands, they held out your coat. You smiled thinly, plucking it from their hands and wrapping it around yourself, giving a dismissive thanks as you stepped outside into the night.

You made your way through the Lanes, and, more specifically, to the Last Drop. The one place you hadn’t visited in years.

The place was lit, men leaving and entering with crates and the like. You spotted Sevika standing outside, arms crossed, glaring at curious passer-by. Jamming your hands into your pockets you glided up to her.

“Sevika.” Your voice was smooth. She looked at you, and suddenly scowled.

“You,” she hissed. “I thought you were banned from here.”

Your lip curled, face filled with amusement. “Not anymore I’m not. Not with Vander out of the picture. Cigarette?”

She stared at you suspiciously as you drew out a pack, offering her one temptingly. She scowled, and took it. You held out your lighter.

“What business do you have here?” Her voice was low, dangerous, even. You withdrew your hand, feigning hurt.

“Can’t I just check up every now and then? Take a visit down memory lane?”

She scoffed. “Don’t seem like the type.”

You smirked. “I’m not. Just wanted to see what was happening so far.” You pouted. “The Lanes don’t talk to me.”

“You run a brothel.” She took a drag of the cigarette. “I’m sure you know enough.”

You giggled at that. “Certainly.” Pausing, you narrowed your eyes, tilting your head. “You’re a funny one. You really left Vander at the drop of a hat, didn’t you?”

“He was a coward.” Smoke curled into the air. “We fare better chances of independence with Silco leading us. There’s nothing more to it.”

You quirked a brow. “Is that so. So it’ll be safe to assume that Silco’s taking over the Lanes.”

She sighed heavily, and turned to look at you properly. “You know it’s obvious? How desperately you’re clinging to the past?”

The light, easy look on your face immediately fell into a scowl. She put a heavy hand on your shoulder, leaning in.

“Do yourself a favour and forget it,” she said steadily, gaze refusing to tear away from yours. “We’re all sorry about Alice. But pestering everyone won’t do you any good.”

You grabbed her arm, the metal tips of your nails digging into her skin and drawing blood. She looked at you, shocked, and tried to pull away. You didn’t budge as you flatly looked at her, unmoving.

“Don’t patronise me.” Your voice sounded bored. You plucked your fingers from Sevika’s arm. You produced a sleek black card, with an address on it, and pushed it to her chest. Gave her a vixen’s smile.

“We’re better than Babette’s,” you said sweetly, then your expression darkened. “She won’t be around for long, anyways.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’d like to expand my business is all.” You grinned at her. She swallowed.

“You’ve changed.”

“So they say.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Good to see you again, [name].”

“Likewise.” You didn’t even bother gracing her with a smile or a goodbye as you turned on your heel, leaving her outside the Last Drop, and disappearing into the night.

A visit to the river always calmed your nerves.

Balled fists shaking, you waded into the freezing water.

How fucking dare she? Clinging to the past? That bitch. You sighed, leaning back into the waves. Your hair spread like smoke through the water. Your best friend left you after your daughter’s death.

Why wouldn’t you fucking cling to the past?

You’ve changed.

You twitched. No. Hands clawed at the back of your head, curling around your neck, pulling you down.

Gasping, you shot upright.

It took a few minutes of listening to the silent air broken by the sloshing of waves, drops of water rolling down your skin for your heart to return to it’s normal rate. You turned and dragged yourself to the riverbank.

You needed to find a way to twist the mess of Vander’s death to your advantage.

After the years that had passed, it was about time something happened to the bastard. You let in a shaky breath, brushing your soaked hair from your eyes.

You just hated that you weren’t involved.

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autisticadult · 7 months ago

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The deal

Chapter two: the meeting

Warnings: once again yall, pretty tame :) mafiaboss!elijah AU :) slow burn has me in a chokehold so buckle up. As always, minors DNI !!!! Dom/sub dynamics are coming !!!!

A/N: I’m so glad chapter one got so much love yall :) I am really feeling slow burn for this for some reason so I hope that’s ok, I did give yall a nice lil moment at the end though, enjoy <3

Taglist(message me if you’d like to join!): @tinysunshine

Life under Elijah Mikaelson’s roof was nothing like you’d expected, though you weren’t sure what you had expected. Perhaps more violence, more overt displays of the power that made him the most feared man in New Orleans. Instead, you found yourself tangled in a web of subtleties, power plays, and rules so unspoken they might as well have been etched into the mansion’s walls.

For the most part, Elijah left you alone during the first few weeks, appearing only when he had some use for you. These interactions ranged from casual conversation to tasks he assigned without explanation. At first, you had hoped that he might lose interest in you, that his fascination was fleeting. But as the days passed, you realized Elijah wasn’t the kind of man who let go of things he claimed as his.

One evening, after finishing a task in the kitchen—sorting a shipment of imported bottles for Elijah’s collection—you wandered into the dining room, hoping to steal a moment of solitude. Instead, you found Rebekah seated at the massive oak table, swirling a glass of red wine in her hand.

“Y/N,” she drawled, her tone sharp as a dagger. “Adjusting to life in the gilded cage?”

You hesitated in the doorway. Rebekah was beautiful and dangerous, her presence a constant reminder of the family’s reputation. But she was also unpredictable, and you couldn’t tell if she was genuinely curious or looking for a reason to toy with you.

“Trying,” you replied carefully.

Her lips twisted into a smirk. “Smart girl. But I wonder, do you truly understand what you’ve done?”

You blinked, unsure of her meaning. “I’m protecting my brother.”

“Oh, I’m sure you believe that,” she said, taking a sip of wine. “But you’ve chained yourself to Elijah, and he doesn’t do anything without reason. Whatever he sees in you, it won’t be simple. Or easy.”

Rebekah’s words unsettled you, but you pushed the feeling aside. “I can handle it.”

She laughed, the sound musical but laced with disbelief. “Can you? Or are you just too stubborn to admit you’re in over your head?”

Before you could respond, the door to the dining room swung open, and Elijah entered, his presence immediately filling the space. He didn’t look at Rebekah; his dark gaze went straight to you.

“Y/N,” he said smoothly, “a moment, if you please.”

You followed him without question, feeling Rebekah’s knowing gaze on your back.

Elijah led you to his study, a room you’d been in only once before. He gestured for you to sit, but as always, his politeness felt like a command rather than a suggestion.

“I’ve been observing you,” he began, leaning back in his chair. His words were measured, deliberate, as though each one carried weight.

You shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “And?”

“You’re resilient,” he said, his tone almost… approving. “You’ve adapted more quickly than I anticipated. Most would have crumbled under the pressure by now.”

“Maybe I’m not like most people,” you replied, trying to mask your unease with confidence.

His lips curved into a faint smile. “No, you’re not.”

There was something in the way he said it that made your pulse quicken—a mix of admiration and something darker.

“I have a task for you,” he continued. “A test of sorts.”

You straightened in your chair, wary but curious. “What kind of test?”

“A meeting,” he said simply. “Tonight, you’ll accompany me to a gathering of… associates. Your role is to observe and, if necessary, speak on my behalf.”

Your stomach tightened. “Speak on your behalf? Why me?”

“Because I wish it,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Consider it an opportunity to prove your worth.”

It wasn’t a request, and you knew better than to refuse. “I’ll do it,” you said, forcing confidence into your voice.

“Good,” he said, standing. “Wear something appropriate. We leave in an hour.”

The meeting took place in a dimly lit private club, far more refined than The Red Raven. The air was thick with tension, the kind that came when powerful people converged in a single room. Elijah moved through the crowd like a shadow, his every step purposeful. You stayed close, trying to blend into the background while keeping your senses alert.

At the center of the room was a long table surrounded by men and women who looked as dangerous as they were wealthy. Elijah took his seat at the head, his calm demeanor commanding instant respect.

You stood behind him, your hands clasped in front of you, trying not to let your nerves show. The conversation that followed was a delicate dance of words, veiled threats, and subtle power plays. Elijah spoke sparingly, but when he did, his voice cut through the room like a blade.

At one point, the attention shifted to you.

“And who’s this?” asked a man with a heavy French accent, his gaze raking over you. “Your new pet, Elijah?”

The insult made your blood boil, but before you could react, Elijah raised a hand, silencing the room.

“Y/N is my… advisor,” he said smoothly, his tone leaving no room for dispute. “She’s here to observe and ensure my interests are protected.”

The man smirked, clearly unimpressed. “I hope she’s worth the trouble.”

Elijah’s dark gaze fixed on the man, and the room grew unnervingly quiet. “Everything I do is worth the trouble, Monsieur Leclerc. You would do well to remember that.”

Leclerc paled, muttering a hasty apology. The meeting continued, but you couldn’t shake the weight of Elijah’s words—or the way he’d so effortlessly silenced a man who had clearly underestimated him.

When it was finally over, Elijah escorted you outside, the cool night air a welcome relief from the oppressive atmosphere of the club.

“You were a good girl tonight, darling.” he said, a little too casually for your liking, as you walked toward his car.

“I was?” you asked, shooting him a shy glance while still feeling the lingering tension from the meeting.

He stopped, turning to face you. Elijah reached out, taking her chin into her hand as he spoke, his calm tone demanding to be respected. “Yes. But remember this, Y/N—appearances are everything in my world, to me. Tonight, you were seen as an extension of me. Don’t ever give anyone a reason to doubt your loyalty. Or mine.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, but you nodded, understanding the weight of what he was saying. As y:n obediently whispered out a small “yes sir, I understand.” Elijah dropped her chin and turned to the car.

As you climbed into the car, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d truly passed his test—or if this was just the beginning of something far more dangerous.

The ride back to the Mikaelson estate was silent, the hum of the engine the only sound between you and Elijah. You stared out the window, watching the streets of New Orleans blur into shadows and flickering lights. The gravity of the night weighed heavily on your shoulders, each moment replaying in your mind like a warning.

Elijah, as always, was unreadable, his gaze fixed forward. You wanted to ask him why he’d chosen you for tonight’s gathering, why he thought you were capable of navigating a room full of predators. But you knew better than to question him so openly.

When the car finally pulled up to the grand estate, he exited without a word, leaving you to follow. The mansion’s looming facade seemed more oppressive than ever, its beauty a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within you.

As you stepped inside, you heard a voice call out from the parlor.

“Back so soon?” Rebekah appeared in the doorway, a half-empty glass of wine in her hand. She leaned against the frame, her sharp eyes scanning you. “How did our little dove fare in the lion’s den?”

Elijah didn’t break stride. “She did as I expected,” he said, his voice calm but laced with finality. “Goodnight, Rebekah.”

With that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone with his sister. Rebekah’s gaze lingered on you, a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.

“Well?” she prompted, arching a brow. “What did he make you do?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” you said, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them.

She let out a soft laugh, swirling her wine. “Oh, Y/N, you have no idea what you’ve signed up for, do you?”

You frowned. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because Elijah’s games are never as simple as they seem,” she said, stepping closer. “He’s a master of manipulation, and everything he does—everything—is part of a larger plan. You may think you’re just surviving, but you’re already a piece on his board.”

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, but you refused to let it show. “I’m not a pawn.”

Rebekah smirked, tilting her head as if appraising you. “Then prove it. Survive his tests, outmaneuver his enemies, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll live long enough to understand what you’ve truly gotten yourself into.”

She brushed past you, her laughter echoing softly as she disappeared into the depths of the house.

You stood there for a moment, her words swirling in your mind. A piece on his board. The thought unsettled you, but a spark of defiance burned in your chest. If Elijah thought he could control you, if he thought you’d play his game without question, he was wrong.

Whatever his plans were, you were determined to be more than a pawn.

Later that night, you found yourself in the small room Elijah had assigned to you. It was modest compared to the rest of the mansion, but it was yours, a rare pocket of solitude in a house full of chaos. You sat on the edge of the bed, replaying the events of the evening in your mind.

Elijah’s words echoed louder than Rebekah’s. “You were seen as an extension of me.” That single statement carried a weight you hadn’t fully grasped until now. Being tied to Elijah meant more than survival—it meant navigating a world of power, deception, and danger.

As you stared at the faint moonlight streaming through the window, you couldn’t help but rethink over everything from the meeting. The gravity of your situation setting in.

The knock on your door came late, and you hesitated before answering. The mansion was quiet, the sort of stillness that left every sound amplified. You half-expected Kol’s familiar antics or Rebekah with another barbed comment. But when you opened your mouth to call out, your voice caught, something stopping you.

“Come in,” you said finally, barely above a whisper.

The door opened, and it wasn’t Kol. Elijah stepped inside, his figure cutting an imposing silhouette against the dim hallway light. He closed the door softly behind him, his eyes locking onto yours. He looked calm, composed, as always—but there was a weight to his gaze tonight that made the air around you feel charged.

“Elijah,” you said, standing automatically. “Is something the matter?”

His head tilted slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t yet solved. “No,” he said, voice low, smooth as honey. “I simply wished to… clarify something.”

“Clarify?” you asked, your pulse quickening. His presence was unnerving, but not in the way it should have been. Not in the way someone so powerful and dangerous should unnerve you.

“You’ve done well these past weeks,” he began, taking a step closer. “Adapted quickly. But I sense you’re still questioning your place here.”

Your brows furrowed. “I told you I’m here for my brother—”

“And I believe that you were,” he interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. “But I also believe you’ve underestimated what it means to be in my world. What it means to be tied to me.”

Your breath hitched. You wanted to look away, to find some corner of the room to focus on instead of the intensity in his dark eyes. But you couldn’t.

“Everything here has rules, Y/N,” he continued, stepping closer. “Unspoken, perhaps, but binding nonetheless. Every move you make reflects on me. Every choice you make… reflects us.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m trying, Elijah. But this—this isn’t something I’ve ever—”

“I know,” he said, his voice softening. “And yet, you’ve endured. Adapted.”

His words sent a strange warmth through you, though you couldn’t quite place why. And then he took another step closer, his presence utterly consuming now.

“But you still don’t trust me,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Not fully.”

You blinked at him, startled. “I—”

His hand lifted, fingers brushing against your jaw so lightly it was almost like a question. The room seemed to narrow, leaving only him and the way your pulse quickened under his touch.

“You hold me at arm’s length,” he said softly. “Afraid of what it might mean to let me in. And yet, you’re still here.”

“Because I don’t have a choice,” you replied, though the words felt thin even as you said them.

His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “You do,” he said. “You’ve always had a choice. You chose to step into my world, to take this path. And now…”

His hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling lightly in your hair. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and your breath caught. “Sure, it started with your dearest brother but..” Elijah said with a small smirk, looking at you with hungry eyes.

“You must decide if you’ll let me show you what it truly means to be here,” he finished, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Elijah…” You said his name, but you weren’t sure if it was a protest or a plea.

“If you wish for me to stop,” he said, his gaze locked on yours, “say the word, and I will.”

Your heart raced, the air thick between you. But you didn’t say anything.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he closed the distance between you. His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, like he was waiting for you to pull away. When you didn’t, the kiss deepened, his hand tightening in your hair, anchoring you to him.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate. It was deliberate, every movement carrying an unspoken promise. He kissed you as though he was trying to unravel every fear, every wall you’d built between you.

When he pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his voice was barely audible. “This world is dangerous, Y/N. I am dangerous. But if you choose to stay by my side, I will not let you falter. Do you understand?”

You swallowed hard, your hands still gripping the fabric of his jacket. “I… think I do.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression unreadable but intense. “You’ll come to understand fully,” he said, his tone both a promise and a warning. “In time.”

As he stepped back, the space between you felt colder, but the fire he’d ignited in your chest remained. And though he didn’t say anything else before leaving, the lingering warmth of his kiss spoke louder than words.

Whatever game Elijah was playing, whatever role he saw for you, you’d find a way to survive. And maybe, just maybe, you’d find a way to turn the tables. For now, all you could do was think

‘what the hell just happened.’

#the vampire diaries #elijah mikaelson #caroline forbes #rebekah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #klaus mikealson #y/n #elijah mikealson x reader #klaus mikealson x reader #reader insert #the deal #the deal chapter 2

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juliating · 8 months ago

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ough I love him sm,, need to draw regular Spam more

also shoutout to a coworker whos been mumbling that song to himself half asleep on nightshift for like 20 min

#spamton #deltarune #deltarune chapter 2 #spamton g spamton #spamton x reader #<- dunno if anon insert counts for this #my stuff

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alarwynnwhispers · 25 days ago

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🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ᴅɪꜱᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʀᴏᴜᴛɪɴᴇ 🧡

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

🇪🇲🇴🇹🇮🇴🇳🇦🇱 🇩🇮🇸🇹🇷🇪🇸🇸

🇮🇸🇴🇱🇦🇹🇮🇴🇳 🇦🇳🇩 🇩🇮🇸🇸🇴🇨🇮🇦🇹🇮🇴🇳

🇮🇲🇵🇱🇮🇪🇩 🇳🇴🇳-🇨🇴🇳🇸🇪🇳🇸🇺🇦🇱 🇸🇮🇹🇺🇦🇹🇮🇴🇳 (🇳🇴🇹 🇬🇷🇦🇵🇭🇮🇨, 🇧🇺🇹 🇩🇮🇸🇴🇷🇮🇪🇳🇹🇮🇳🇬)

🇲🇪🇲🇴🇷🇾 🇱🇴🇸🇸

🇫🇦🇮🇳🇹🇮🇳🇬 / 🇵🇭🇾🇸🇮🇨🇦🇱 🇨🇴🇱🇱🇦🇵🇸🇪 🇩🇺🇪 🇹🇴 🇸🇹🇷🇪🇸🇸

🇹🇭🇪🇲🇪🇸 🇴🇫 🇸🇭🇦🇲🇪, 🇸🇪🇨🇷🇪🇨🇾, 🇦🇳🇩 🇻🇺🇱🇳🇪🇷🇦🇧🇮🇱🇮🇹🇾

In the days that followed, (Y/n) became a ghost in her own life.

She told no one, not even Amara, her closest friend and confidante. Not because she didn’t trust her, but because saying it out loud would make it real. And she couldn’t let that happen. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Instead, she clung to her routine like a lifeline. She opened the thrift shop each morning with robotic precision: flipping the "Closed" sign, turning on the soft jazz station that played from the dusty speaker behind the counter, sweeping the hardwood floor even if it didn’t need it. Every hanger she adjusted, every antique book she alphabetized, felt like another brick in the wall she was trying to build around herself.

Her body moved through the motions, but her mind was elsewhere, flashing back to her apartment room she didn’t remember walking into, and a man she’d only known through race broadcasts and glossy interviews. The way he had looked at her. The disbelief. The discomfort. The guilt. Then, worst of all, the money.

(Y/n) felt humiliated all over again each time her memory tried to rewind to that night, only to play back static.

Still, she kept quiet.

Monaco, for all its glittering skyline and constant tourist buzz, was a small city in the ways that mattered. Gossip traveled fast. She didn’t want to be a headline. She didn’t want to be that girl. If Lando hadn’t recognized her beyond that night, all the better. Their worlds didn’t have to collide again.

Amara, meanwhile, was her usual vibrant self, full of anecdotes, laughter, and a contagious zest for life. She talked often about how Monaco felt like “living inside a music video,” and how lucky they were to work just a few streets away from literal royalty. When she announced she’d be taking a week off to show her cousin around the Riviera, (Y/n) smiled and wished her a good trip, even though the idea of being alone at the shop twisted her stomach into knots.

“You’ll be fine!” Amara said brightly, squeezing her shoulder before disappearing into a cab. “Carla’s gonna help you out. She’s great. You’ll love her!”

Carla was great. A little older, soft-spoken, always wearing vintage scarves and cat-eye glasses. She brought chamomile tea in a thermos and told stories about her childhood in Tuscany as they folded clothes and arranged displays. Her presence was soothing, and for the first time in days, (Y/n) didn’t feel completely alone.

Then came Luca.

He arrived one afternoon carrying a tray of lattes with his name scribbled in loopy cursive on the cups.

“Cousin tax,” he said with a grin as he handed Carla her drink. “And one for your coworker.”

“Hi,” he said, turning to (Y/n). “I’m Luca. I work over at Le Lait down the street.”

(Y/n) forced a polite smile and accepted the cup. “Thanks. I’ve seen you there. I usually come by after closing.”

“Figured you looked familiar,” he said. “So you’re the girl who always orders an oat milk flat white and tips like she’s a celebrity.”

“I’m just trying to make sure you all still like me when I ask for extra caramel,” she joked weakly.

Luca had dimples that appeared every time he smiled, little brackets that made him look younger, even with the slight stubble on his jaw. He didn’t push, didn’t pry, but he did linger. He came by twice more that week, once with muffins, once with a playlist recommendation scribbled on a napkin.

Then, on Friday, as Carla stepped out to make a call, Luca leaned on the counter.

“You know, I’ve been trying to find the right way to ask this,” he said, eyes flicking to hers, “but… would you want to grab a drink sometime? Or coffee when you’re not the one closing up shop?”

(Y/n)’s breath caught. Not because she hadn’t seen it coming, but because a part of her wanted to say yes. She wanted to feel normal. She wanted to not carry this weight. But her heart was too heavy, her thoughts too loud.

“I’m really flattered,” she said gently. “But… I’m not in the right place right now. I’m sorry.”

Luca’s smile didn’t falter. “No worries. Had to shoot my shot.”

She appreciated his grace. And as he left, waving goodbye like nothing had changed, (Y/n) felt the sting of her own isolation settle deeper.

By the time Amara returned, (Y/n) was emotionally drained. She smiled and hugged her tightly at the shop, let her ramble about train delays and cousin drama, all while pretending she wasn’t counting the seconds until she could go home and collapse.

“You look like you need a vacation more than I do,” Amara said, teasing. “Tell you what, pick me up at the station tomorrow and I’ll bring croissants. You deserve them.”

“Alright,” (Y/n) said, managing a tired chuckle. “I’ll be there.”

The next morning, she dressed in a soft beige cardigan, the kind Amara said made her look “effortlessly Parisian,” and tucked her hair into a loose clip. She felt light-headed but chalked it up to the poor sleep she’d had all week.

The train station wasn’t far, just a ten-minute walk past the sun-drenched cafés and uphill through a short flight of stairs. The platform was humming with arriving travelers, the air filled with announcements in French and Italian.

(Y/n) stood near the railing, eyes scanning the crowd.

That’s when the edges of her vision started to blur.

Her heart raced, not in the panicked way it had when she first woke up next to Lando, but in a way that made her legs feel like paper. Her stomach churned. Her hands trembled.

She blinked rapidly, tried to steady herself.

But then the world tilted.

The chatter around her became distant, distorted, like someone was speaking underwater. Her knees buckled. Someone shouted. Then, nothing but darkness.

To be Continued… 🧡 🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴀɢɴᴏꜱɪꜱ 🧡

📝 Note from the Author: I just want to say thank you to everyone who’s reading, reblogging, or even just silently vibing with Unplanned. 🧡 Your support means more than you know.

I’ll try to update as soon as I can, I’m letting myself rest and sleep for now 😴💤 But I promise I haven’t forgotten about this story.

Don’t forget to like, share, reblog, and do all the lovely things Tumblr has to offer. And if you haven’t already, follow for more updates. 💌

Thanks for sticking around. You’re the best. With love, me 🧡

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sev-on-kamino · 2 years ago

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Absence//Fonder Pt. 2

Summary: The boys surprise you with a trip to your home world and a vocabulary lesson.

Pairing: The Bad Batch x medic fem!reader (pronouns she/her, no physical descriptions, no y/n, pet names)

Warnings: Crosshair, angst (not much I swear!), fluff so sweet you’ll need your dentist, sweet kisses ( the smut happens in chapter 3 😏) but MINORS DNI

Written while listening to “Tell Her You Love Her” by Echosmith

Series playlist can be found here!

Part 1 Part 3

Word count: 3132

Crosshair had been called many things in his life. Talented, cocky, aloof to name a few. No one had ever called him a coward though. It was in his very nature to look at the impossible and find a way.

The odds didn’t matter.

He and his brothers had faced forces that would have given much larger squads pause, and they’d never hesitated. Never felt like they couldn’t get the job done.

Yet there he was, stomach twisted into knots, muscles in his legs twitching with the desire to bolt, afraid. Not afraid of a battalion of clankers, rollies, and spiders.

No. He was afraid of a nat born medic, who clutched Wrecker’s arm like a lifeline during turbulence. A medic who could sew up her own wounded leg without batting an eye, but would discharge her blaster at the sight of an insect. A medic who was the epitome of soft, yet had the power to crush him in the palm of her hand.

He’d never told anyone he cared for them, nor had he asked anyone what they felt for him. Quite frankly he didn’t give a fuck. The fleeting attentions of strangers, whose names he would forget immediately, had been more than enough to scratch the well-concealed itch for a semblance of connection.

Now, you were ruining him without even trying. Punching a hole straight through his carefully crafted armor. Making him weak.

And in a few moments, depending on your reaction, you could break all five of them. Clone Force 99 could be brought to its knees by you in a single instant.

He watched his brothers as they led you towards the location Tech had chosen. Excitement radiated off of you like a sun’s rays. He would never admit it, but he was dying to be wrong this time. He wanted to believe that you could love them. That you could love him.

Blindfolded, you were unable to see the looks of hope and affection etched onto their shared features. You were simply excited for another adventure with them. Hunter’s hands rested securely on your shoulders with your hands over them.

The sergeant had woken you up upon landing with a bandana in hand.

“We’ve got a surprise for you,” he said, as you got dressed.

“Really?” you asked, mind racing as you tried to imagine what it was. It wasn’t your birthday, their decant day, or any other holiday. Not that it mattered. The fact that the five of them had formed a plan to surprise you damn near made your brain short circuit. That showed a level of care and consideration you had rarely even received from people you were seriously dating.

“Yep, gotta make sure you don’t peek though,” he said waving the bandana.

You resisted the urge to make a filthy joke about being tied up for them and instead turned so Hunter could tie the bandana on. The world went dark, and you took a nervous breath until you felt Hunter’s hands on your shoulders, and you relaxed. He would never let anything happen to you.

“Where’s my bucket?” You asked, suddenly feeling naked without it.

“You won’t need it here,” Hunter said, steering you towards the door.

“Is this some kind of initiation thing?” you asked, breaking the silence. “Testing my bravery to prove I’m one of you?”

Wrecker snorted, “That’s a pretty good idea! We could dangle you over a cliff by your ankle?”

“If I don’t scream, I’m in?” You asked with a giggle.

“Grow up, you two,” Crosshair said, and you swore you could hear him rolling his eyes.

“…yes.” Wrecker whispered in answer to your question, setting off more giggles.

“We’ve got a little hike coming up, so one of us will carry you,” Hunter said, as you all came to a stop.

Even blindfolded you knew where all of them were by their steps. You reached for Wrecker, but Hunter caught your hand.

“Wrecker’s got his hands full,” Hunter said, and you could hear a smile in his voice. It made your stomach flip with excitement.

“Ooooh, the plot thickens.” You stepped forward and instead found Tech’s shoulders, wrapping your arms around him. You made a soft noise of surprise, as he grabbed your thighs, and hoisted you off the ground easily.

“Are you comfortable?” Tech asked.

“Yes, sir,” you reply, face pressed against the side of Tech’s helmet.

You hum softly, listening to the sound of your squads’ steps, mind conjuring all sorts of fantastic scenarios for what they could have planned.

It was quiet and warm, and you could hear their boots crunching over dry ground, so you knew you weren’t on Kamino. You had been sleeping for the majority of the trip, and blindfolded before stepping off of the ship, so you couldn’t use the stars for clues.

You hummed softly as the trek continued, occasionally grinning when Wrecker would chuckle at some joke from Echo you couldn’t quite make out. You were close to beginning a round of “Are we there yet?” when Tech stopped, and slowly released his grip on your thighs.

“We have arrived at our intended destination,” he said, as you got your feet under yourself after several minutes of being carried.

Hunter removed the bandana, and you looked around. A small city twinkled in the valley below your position atop a massive hill. You looked to the rich blue night sky above, and connected the stars. Your brow furrowed a moment before the realization hit you. You were home…well, your home world. Home was the Marauder now. A lump formed in your throat, and tears pooled in your eyes.

“You brought me home?” You asked, turning to face them, smiling even as the tears poured down your face.

“We missed you, and we thought this would be a good welcome home surprise,” Echo said.

“It was Hunter’s idea,” Tech supplied.

“Oh, Hunter, this is perfect!” You wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your head against his chest. “Thank you.”

Hunter held you close a moment, before releasing you slowly to smile down at you.

“This is a pretty special spot, you know?” You asked tucking your arms behind your back and rising up on the balls of your feet.

“Yes, I selected it for that very reason. The local population has designated this as a place to share important news with loved ones,” Tech said, clearly proud of himself.

“Right as always, Tech,” you beamed at him. “Planning to share some news?”

“Actually we thought today might be a nice day to teach you some Mando’a, so you know what we’re saying to you,” Hunter said nodding towards Wrecker, who took a deep breath and stepped up to take your hands.

“Finally!” You cheered, buzzing with excitement.

A bright smile lit up your features as you looked up at him. He smiled warmly, eyes roaming your face. You’d only been gone a couple of weeks, but Wrecker had missed you fiercely every moment.

“Well, we call you ‘mesh’la’ cause it means beautiful. Easy to see why. You are beautiful inside and out,” Wrecker said before taking you gently by your arms and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

Your heart jumped and your breath hitched. You cleared your throat and said, “I knew I liked that one.”

He smiled warmly, and stepped to the side, gently guiding you to Echo, who took one of your hands next. He rested his scomplink against your waist, and you held his bicep, as you beamed expectantly at him.

“We call you ‘saraad’ because it means flower. You make every place you’re in brighter, more alive.” Echo kissed your forehead, and you felt anticipation buzzing in your chest. Your heart beat faster than before, as Tech took his place before you could even react.

“Senaar’ika means little bird. You are always eager to take flight whether you are ready or not. Brave, reckless to be certain, but brave nonetheless,” straight to the point as ever, Tech pressed a kiss to your cheek.

You released a shuddering breath, your face warming up under their gentle affections. Am I dreaming? You thought, now scared to move or speak for fear of breaking the spell they were weaving around you.

Hunter hesitated only a moment before resting a hand on your waist, as the other cupped your cheek, his thumb rubbing soothingly over your cheekbone. Your eyes met his, as you placed your hands on his chest and held your breath.

“‘Cyare’ is one you’ve heard more and more lately. The closest word in basic is beloved,” Hunter said, and you knew he’d heard your heart skip a beat before racing away.

“You’re special to us, and we want to keep you close…closer,” Hunter took a deep breath, his warm brown eyes held yours. “We’ve fallen for you, and we hope that’s ok. Nothing has to change if you don’t want it to.”

“You’ve fallen for me? I-, I…I can’t even…” you stammered, simultaneously thrilled and confused. You took a deep breath, lifting one hand to rest over his against your face, the other sliding up to caress his face.

“Is it ok, if I kiss you now?” He asked. You nodded immediately.

He smiled and leaned down to press his lips to yours. You didn’t wake up. His arm wrapped around your waist, and you knew it was real. He pulled back and pressed his forehead to yours.

“Been wanting to do that for awhile now,” he confessed.

“That makes two of us…or maybe 6 of us,” you said with a nervous laugh.

You’d thought of no less than a dozen different scenarios when Hunter had blindfolded you, but you never imagined this could be a possibility. Not even in your wildest dreams did you allow yourself to believe that the 5 amazing men standing before you could care for you the way you cared for them.

There’s a relieved sigh from behind Hunter, and you leaned around him to see Crosshair properly. His eyes were taking you in much like he had upon your return. Drinking you in while he figured out what to say. You looked up at Hunter, and he nodded, stepping back to give you a path to Crosshair. Taking a deep breath, you make your way towards the sniper.

For the first time since you met him, you reached for Crosshair, taking hold of him with confidence. Your eyes met his, a light smile playing on your lips.

“Any special words you wanna teach me, Crosshair?” You asked, hoping your voice was steady.

“You already know my favorite word for you. The one that’s been going through my mind since you left,” Crosshair said quietly, bringing his lips within an inch of yours.

“And what word would that be?” you asked, moving closer to let your lips brush his.

“Mine,” he said before closing the distance between you, kissing you with relief. The first kiss had been almost hesistant, as a part of him was sure he was stealing affection that wasn’t meant for him. But it was meant for him. You wanted him…all of them. You weren’t running away or pulling back. You were in his arms, holding him close like he belonged to you.

Wrecker cleared his throat noisily, and Crosshair broke the kiss to give him a look.

“Just for that, you can go last,” Crosshair sneered, guiding you towards Tech, who pulled you close and let his arms settle comfortably around your waist. Just like before your arms rested over his shoulders, this time your fingers carded gently through his hair.

“I hope that you will be willing to answer a few questions for me, senaar’ika. I have been compiling data for quite some time, and despite today’s success, I still have some theories to test in order to draw definitive conclusions.”

“I’ll indulge your experiments, if you’ll indulge mine,” you said with a mysterious little smile.

“Well, of course, I am more than happy to assist in the pursuit of knowledge,” Tech replied. Happy with your response he leaned in to brush his lips softly over yours. You whined, wanting more, and he pressed closer, letting you feel his need for you. Tech’s kiss was just like him, a curious exploration that left you giddy.

He pulled back, and opened his mouth to say more, but Wrecker cut him off, “Maker, Tech, you can talk her ear off later. We’ve still got another thing to give her!”

“Despite the rudeness of his delivery, Wrecker is correct. We do have another surprise for you,” Tech said, releasing you slowly, as Echo moved close to pull you into his arms.

“I almost slipped up and kissed you last night, so I may need to make up for that,” Echo said, before kissing you slow and deep. You were so sure your heart was actually going to break its way out of your ribcage if they kept going at this rate.

“Stars, Echo, I can think of a few more things for you to make up,” you said breathlessly, as he pulled back with a grin.

“Finally!” Wrecker said, spinning you around and scooping you up into his arms to press the softest kiss of all to your lips. He handled you with such care and affection, you couldn’t help but sigh happily against his lips.

“Kriff me, if I’d known this would happen, I’d have left sooner,” you said with a laugh, as Wrecker set you back down on your feet.

“Well, no more running off to help Cody because we missed you too much,” Wrecker said, caressing your face gently.

“I promise I won’t be doing that again for quite some time,” you confessed.

“Good, because Cross here, was worse than usual,” Hunter teased.

Crosshair scowled and folded his arms. “Just tell her the next surprise.”

“You belong with us no matter what, so Crosshair gave your helmet a little update,” Echo said from just beyond Wrecker, where Hunter and Tech had set up a fire, and a tent. You suspected that’s what had kept Wrecker’s hands full.

Echo straightened up and passed you your bucket. You looked down at it, and a smile slowly spread across your face. A tiny skull and a 99 now adorned your helmet like a kiss on the cheek.

“Cross, you did this for me?” You asked, turning to the sniper. It was difficult to tell in the low light, you could have sworn he was blushing.

“We thought you might like it,” Hunter said.

“I love it.”

***

The six of you gathered around a happily crackling fire, as you finally answered all of their questions about your time away. Crosshair watched you with rapt attention, appreciating all of your little quirks, as you discussed the missions you’d participated in, including the one that had resulted in your injury.

“Still pissed you got shot. Not surprised though. That always happens with regs,” Wrecker said, tightening his hold on your waist, as he held you to his side.

“Hey!” Echo said, leaning around you and gesturing to himself. “I’d never let her get shot.”

“You know I don’t mean you, Echo,” Wrecker said dismissively.

“It’s just a scratch, boys,” you laughed. “There’s barely even a scar.”

“We sent you to Commander Cody with no scratches, and we expected you to come back in the same condition,” Crosshair said gesturing at you with a toothpick.

“Though I would have chosen a less objectifying way to phrase it, I agree with Crosshair,” Tech said, looking up from his datapad. “I would have thought you would be in excellent hands with our Marshal Commander, and not in a position to take damage from a sniper.”

“Awwww, did Cody let your favorite toy get all scuffed? You want a new one?” You asked with a teasing lilt to your voice.

Crosshair shook his head slowly. Tech looked offended at the suggestion.

“And have to break in another one?” Hunter interjected. “No way. You’re stuck with us now.”

“Oh no,” you gasped in mock anguish. “Whatever shall I do? Stuck with my favorite people in the galaxy. Torture.”

You draped yourself dramatically over Wrecker’s legs, much to his amusement. His hearty laughter rumbled out of his chest, as he pulled you close to his chest, so you were sitting in his lap.

“Your favorite people? In the whole galaxy?” He asked, his mismatched eyes full of hope as they focused on yours.

“Absolutely. You have been for awhile,” you confessed. “I hated being away from all of you.” You looked around the fire at each of them before bringing your focus back to Wrecker. “I mean it. I don’t wanna do that again for a good long while.”

Satisfied, Wrecker cupped your face and brought his lips to yours again. Your eyes fluttered closed, and you felt yourself relax against him. His lips moved over yours with a gentle confidence that made you hum low in your throat, and press closer to him.

You broke the kiss, as a yawn forced its way out of you. You were still absolutely exhausted. The thrill of their confession had given you the sweetest sugar high, and you were crashing.

“You require rest,” Tech said, “I will take first watch.”

“I’ll take it,” Crosshair said, shooting a glance at Hunter, who had covered him the night before. He’d gotten you all to himself for several hours, and he knew the others were itching to snuggle with you. He was too relieved to be selfish. For now.

You stood up and stretched, reaching for the sky you’d grown up under before wandering over to Crosshair and kneeling down to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Come snuggle with me soon,” you whispered.

He nodded, as he watched you rise and make your way into the tent.

“We’ll keep you company, Cross,” Wrecker said with a grin, as Tech and Echo followed you into the tent, and Hunter relaxed on his back to look up at the stars.

“Oh goody,” the sniper replied with a halfhearted roll of his eyes.

***

You’d worried it would be awkward, but going to sleep between Tech and Echo felt as natural as breathing. Echo spooned up behind you, your face against Tech’s chest. The three of you chatted quietly for a little while, while their hands moved over your body absently.

You began to drift in and out of consciousness, despite your desire to stay awake and enjoy their presence.

“Sleep, saraad,” Echo commanded gently. “We’ll all be here in the morning.”

“Promise?” You asked sleepily, as you nuzzled against Tech.

“Promise,” He said, wrapping his arm around your waist.

Warm and safe, you left yourself drift away.

tagging: @secondaryrealm @dystopicjumpsuit @iamburdened @sunshinesdaydream @mythical-illustrator @the1sunshine1girl @stardusthuntress @thebahdbitch @wings-and-beskar @arctrooper69 @golden-nyx-ghost @iloveallmenandwomen @rexxdjarin @sleepingsun501 @starrylothcat @ladyzirkonia @pb-jellybeans @clio3kantarella @staycalmandhugaclone @ceraryn09 @skellymom @808tsuika

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noobiestnoober · 14 days ago

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OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS — KLAUS X F!READER

🖤 OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS — KLAUS X ISABEL (Reader) 🖤

Chapter 2: The Debt

Author: @noobiestnoober Requested by: @issabellec7

✨ Summary: After Sheila Bennett’s funeral, Bonnie finds herself lost in grief—until Isabel Sinclair becomes a gentle, guiding presence in her life. As the two begin to build a bond over shared stories, tea, and old magic, Isabel steps into the role of Bonnie’s mentor, honoring an old promise to Sheila. But as night falls, Isabel senses that something dark and ancient is already stirring in Mystic Falls…

✨ Read the Previous Chapters Here: Old Debts, Dark Hearts

Chapter 2: The Debt

Two weeks had passed since Sheila Bennett’s funeral, and the hush over Bonnie’s house had only deepened. Shadows gathered in corners, memories clinging to curtains and doorframes. Bonnie moved quietly through rooms that felt hollow without her Grams—every footstep echoing with loss. The silence pressed in, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator or the creak of floorboards. She avoided the kitchen, where the memory of her Grams humming over boiling water made the emptiness sharper, and rarely ventured into the garden, where rosemary and sage grew wild. Sometimes she paused in a doorway, fingers tracing an old shawl, staring at a half-burned candle, or picking up a teacup still marked with her Grams’ faded lipstick. These small remnants made her ache, caught between longing for the past and struggling to move forward.

One afternoon, Bonnie opened the door to find Isabel standing on the porch, a small tin of loose-leaf tea in her hands. Isabel smiled—calm, not pressing—and asked if she could come in. They brewed the tea together, letting the scent of roots and petals fill the kitchen. For the first time since Grams’ death, Bonnie felt a flicker of comfort, drawn from the careful way Isabel moved and the steady certainty of her presence.

They settled in the living room, rain tapping gently at the windows. Isabel listened quietly while Bonnie spoke—sometimes about the weather, sometimes Mystic Falls history, sometimes nothing at all. When conversation turned to magic, Isabel's tone was gentle and reverent, never showy, always a little cautious. That restraint, more than anything, made Bonnie begin to trust her. In those moments, with the warmth of tea in her hands and Isabel’s steady presence, Bonnie realized she might not be as alone as she’d thought.

One slow afternoon, rain pattered against the window, blurring the world outside into a watercolor of gray and green. The hush in the room was heavy, filled with unspoken questions and quiet longing. Bonnie poured hot water over a blend Isabel had given her, the steam curling up, scented with lavender and something wild—like the memory of a forest after a storm. Isabel sat on the edge of the armchair, posture perfect but never rigid, her dark eyes reflecting not just the muted light but a history of secrets. Bonnie curled on the couch, hugging her knees, the mug warm between her palms, drawing comfort from the simple act of sharing space. Between them hung the sense of words left unsaid, the silence shaped as much by grief as by trust growing slowly between them.

They sat together in the rain-washed quiet. Bonnie found herself studying Isabel, noticing her stillness—how she seemed to listen not only to Bonnie, but to something far beyond the house. The question slipped out before Bonnie could stop it.

“Do you ever feel like you’re standing at the edge of something you can’t see?” she asked softly, stirring honey into her tea.

Isabel’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Often. The world is full of things just beyond the veil, Bonnie. Some are beautiful. Some are not.”

Bonnie nodded, gazing into her cup. “Grams used to say I was stronger than I believed. But I don’t feel strong. Not now. It’s like—part of me is missing.”

Isabel leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. “Grief doesn’t make you weak. It means you loved deeply. That love—it’s still with you. In your magic. In the way you see the world.”

Bonnie blinked, tears gathering. “I wish I could feel her here. It’s like everything is muffled.”

Isabel set her tea aside and reached across, not touching, but offering presence. “Magic has a way of echoing through loss, but it doesn’t disappear. It waits, sometimes. It finds you again, when you’re ready.”

They talked about Sheila then—memories, recipes, small magics she’d taught Bonnie as a child. Isabel’s voice grew softer as she recounted a night long ago when she’d been adrift, too proud to ask for help. Sheila had found her outside a rundown boarding house, shivering in the dark. Without a word, Sheila had taken her hand and led her inside, brewed a strong tea laced with a Bennett charm, and fixed Isabel with a look that brooked no argument. “Drink, and stop being stubborn,” Sheila had said, her tone both gruff and kind. “Magic is no good to a soul that’s lost itself.”

Bonnie smiled through her tears, picturing her grandmother’s fierce compassion. The story made Isabel’s presence feel less like an intrusion, more like a continuation of an old promise.

Bonnie’s laugh was watery but real. “That sounds just like her.”

“It was,” Isabel said softly. “She had a gift for knowing exactly what someone needed.”

A comfortable quiet settled. The rain grew heavier, drumming on the windows, and the house seemed to draw in closer, warm despite the storm.

Bonnie hesitated, then set her mug aside. “How did you know her? Really?”

Isabel’s fingers toyed with her teacup, expression distant. “Sheila helped me once, a long time ago. She taught me what it meant to carry a burden with dignity. We kept each other’s secrets, and I promised I would be there if she ever needed me. Now, I’d like to help you—if you’ll let me.”

Bonnie studied her, searching for honesty. “As my mentor?”

“If you want.” Isabel’s voice was gentle. “Not to replace your Grams, but to honor her. To help you learn safely, and not alone.”

Bonnie nodded, a slow, shy smile tugging at her mouth. “I think I’d like that.”

Isabel reached into her bag and drew out a small, leather-bound notebook, its cover softened with age. She set it gently on the table between them. “Your Grams kept notes—old spells, bits of wisdom, warnings. She left them for you, with me. Will you let me teach you some of what she wanted you to know?”

Bonnie’s hands trembled as she reached for the notebook. Opening the cover, she saw her Grams’ handwriting, looping and sure. The words smelled of dried herbs and time. Bonnie looked up, hope and sadness raw in her eyes. “Yes. Please.”

They spent the afternoon together, the living room softly aglow with lamplight as the sky darkened. They turned pages, reading words that sparked with quiet power. Isabel translated older spells, explained the layers of meaning behind Sheila’s notes, and gently guided Bonnie when she tried a simple incantation—lighting a candle, charming a stone. Bonnie found herself laughing more than she expected, and when she stumbled, Isabel simply smiled, repeating one of Sheila’s favorite mantras: “Magic is as much forgiveness as it is strength.”

Outside, the rain washed over Mystic Falls, making the world feel far away and secret. Inside, Bonnie felt—if not whole—at least no longer adrift. For the first time since the funeral, hope edged out the heaviness of grief.

As dusk settled, Isabel helped Bonnie brew one last cup of tea. Bonnie watched her, noting the care in every gesture. “Did you ever make mistakes, when you were learning?”

“All the time,” Isabel admitted, her eyes sparkling with a rare mischief. “The trick is not to fear the magic, or the mistakes. It’s to learn from them, and to remember who you are.”

Later, after Bonnie went to bed, Isabel lingered in the living room, reading over Sheila’s grimoire by the soft porch light. She traced the Bennett sigil with careful fingers, feeling the pulse of old magic beneath her skin—a restless reminder of debts unpaid. She closed her eyes and whispered into the night, “The debt is not paid yet, Sheila. But I will protect her, no matter the cost.” For a brief moment, Isabel sensed something shifting in the air—an ancient warning or a promise carried on the wind. She opened her eyes, resolve sharpening her features. Something unseen was stirring in Mystic Falls, watching and waiting.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

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writeyouin · 1 year ago

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Lucifer (Hazbin Hotel) X Fem-Reader - Sinless Sinners - Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - I Don't Need You

A/N – Since the first chapter got comments and actual reblogs, surprise, surprise, I was motivated to continue. See, Tumblr? This is how it works. I respond to instant validation.

Warnings – None.

Rating – T

MALE VERSION HERE

NON-BINARY / GN VERSION HERE

You looked around the dusty hallway that comprised the main entrance to Lucifer’s manor. Yikes, Charlie was right; he really did need a cleaner. You doubted that was her main motivation for placing you in her father’s care but looking at the layers of thick dust and brimstone coating downstairs, you could see it hadn’t been used in a long time.

Lucifer watched you sceptically. Ideally, he would have liked to leave you to find your own way around, but he didn’t want to be accused of not trying by Charlie, should you call her and state that Lucifer was straight up ignoring you.

With that in mind, he bade you to follow him with a wave of his arm and gave you a half-arsed tour of each room, during which he would energetically state its name, and occasionally pepper in a fact if he felt like it and then hurry along.

“Parlor one, dining room, parlour two, library, parlour the… you know what, we have a lot of those, if you see a room with chairs and a fireplace, assume it’s a parlour. Moving on, bathroom, closet, like the parlour situation, there are lots of bathrooms and closets. Kitchen, which is always stocked by the way, so I don’t have to shop,” He muttered a sentence about the Hell of going out there, and then he was back to his bubbly self, rushing you through the rest of the tour, “Games room, spa, my room – don’t go in there – and here, among the unnecessary number of bedrooms, is your room.”

Although every room in the manor was lavish by Hell’s standards, Lucifer had sneakily pre-worked a bit of his magic to make yours somewhat undesirable. It was still large and had all the fixings, but now, it was dirty, damp, and there would always be an underlying scent of slightly rotten milk, that was just noticeable to annoy anyone, yet not something so offensive that he could be blamed for causing it.

The now slightly squalid room wasn’t Lucifer’s way of being petty and cruel; it was just that he wanted you to leave, and that would only happen if you had a reason to. You should go back to the Hotel where you belonged; better yet, you should just head to a different part of Hell where neither he nor his daughter would have to look at your disgustingly human face… A face that, though nothing like Lilith’s, reminded Lucifer of his wife since there was nobody else even remotely like her except for their daughter and now, unfortunately, you.

The simple fact of the matter was that Lucifer was just waiting for you to start demanding things of him, or Charlie. It would likely start with something small, like changing rooms, then if he gave you an inch, you would take a mile, and soon you would demand he use his Angelic Powers to serve you in seemingly impossible ways.

One way or another, the room was a test. You would either see it and leave in search of greener pastures or a better deal elsewhere, leeching off whoever would give you the time of day, or you would stay and start giving orders; either way, Lucifer would be able to return to his daughter with proof that sinners were the problem, not him.

You stepped into the room, accidentally kicking up a cloud of dust that made you sneeze.

After a minute, you turned to Lucifer, “Thank you for the room. It’s lovely.”

Lucifer held back a grimace as you had the audacity to smile at him.

“Great,” He replied in a strained tone, “Just perfect. So, I’ll uh, leave you to get settled in and-”

Just then a portal opened over the canopy bed and two packed suitcases landed there, courtesy of Charlie. Lucifer tasted his daughter’s magic in the air and sighed resignedly; whatever Charlie had planned she wasn’t backing down from what she likely thought was a good idea.

“Right on time,” Lucifer commended the fine timing of his daughter, and even though he was clearly uncomfortable with her plan to give him company, he did seem genuinely proud of her expert timing; then again, he was proud of anything she chose to do even if he didn’t always understand what it was she was doing.

“Great,” He repeated somewhat tiredly. Then he forced himself to smile. It was important that you would see him happy so that Charlie would hear about it later. “You go ahead and unpack. I’m going to do some very important work.”

The sentiment of ‘Don’t disturb me!’ hung in the air, unspoken, but obviously there.

Once Lucifer left, you flopped down on your bed, thinking about all you had seen. You checked your phone, finding several texts from Charlie, progressively getting more impatient as she awaited your reply with a somewhat hyper-anxious anticipation; it seemed the apple truly didn’t fall far from the tree.

‘How was your arrival?’

‘Did you get the grand tour?’

‘Which room did he put you in?’

‘I bet it was the Rococo room.’

‘Oh no, he didn’t put you up in my old room, did he? That would be so EMBARRASSING!!!’

‘Wait, why aren’t you replying?! PLEASE TELL ME HE’S BEING NICE TO YOU!’

‘I can come over if you need me to.’

‘Did your bags get there okay?’

You smiled and decided to put Charlie out of her misery. Your phone alerted you that she was already writing another message, but as soon as you started to compose one of your own, the notification that she was typing disappeared.

‘The tour was fine. Lucifer has been nothing but polite,’ and frazzled, you thought, though you omitted that part from the text; it was best that Charlie didn’t have anything extra to worry about while preparing for her meeting with Heaven.

‘My room is also amazing btw. I don’t know about Rococo or whatever, but it’s certainly stunning, and judging by the lack of stuffed animals and probably cheesy posters, I’m guessing it isn’t your old room.’

You really meant that. While your room was in need of a good cleaning, and there was a slightly off odour, it was indeed beautiful with its lacquered wooden floors, rich velvet drapes (Hell-Red of course) and lustrous emerald wallpaper. It was one of the most beautiful places you had ever seen, especially since arriving in Hell, not long dead after… the incident.

You removed your thoughts far from the grim memory of your death, not wanting to relive your demise. It never did any good to think of such things, and you had to wonder whether all Demons fixated on the manner in which they perished. Perhaps some were lucky enough to die in their sleep or get hit by a bus; at least the latter would be quick, and the former peaceful.

Moreover, you also believed the other part of your text; Lucifer probably kept Charlie’s room as a shrine to her youth. He seemed like the sort of person who was stuck in the past.

Your phone buzzed again, and you expected another message from Charlie, but it was from Angel Dust.

‘When you get the chance, snoop in the Short King’s bedroom and find out what kinky shit he’s into. I’m betting food play. He seems like a whipped cream and apples kind of guy if you catch my drift.’

Betting? He had undoubtedly roped Husk and Nifty into said bet. Husk had likely opted for a safe option like bondage… You didn’t want to know what kind of kinky shit Nifty thought Lucifer was into; that girl was a dark horse.

“Never going to happen,” You murmured to yourself with a chuckle; you would never invade Lucifer’s privacy like that, but Angel’s text had made you laugh and distracted you from your earlier thoughts.

Getting up, you pushed yourself into action and began unpacking both your thoughts and your few clothes and possessions. You lit a scented candle that Angel had gifted you. It was one of his unwanted gifts from Valentino, Blueberry Blowjob. You were glad when the scent filled the air, taking away from what you incorrectly assumed was the faint smell of mildew. The smell didn’t concern you, you had plenty more candles and tea lights with such names as Orange Orgasm, Popcorn Pussy, and Cherry Cum-Shot.

The manner was well furnished, but all of the rooms were neglected. There were seven parlours in total, each matching the theme of one Sin, probably because it would be polite should they ever need to meet with the Royal Family one-on-one. Despite that, they seemingly hadn’t been used in some time, nor had the library or any of the living rooms. You hadn’t seen much of Lucifer’s room as he rushed you past the door, which had only been slightly ajar, but what little you had caught a glimpse of seemed cleaner than the rest of the manor. Did he spend all of his time in there? Alone? That was… It was sad. Lucifer could live well among anyone in Hell, except maybe Alastor, yet he couldn’t see the good in anyone.

Without Charlie and Lilith that must be lonely. How depressing that he had created a kind of personal Hell inside of Hell. You were starting to think that Charlie was right to send you home with him.

Still, it seemed like he needed some time to get used to the idea of company and you had a job to work as his maid. Once you were unpacked, you would seek out the cleaning supplies and get started.

Lucifer draped himself over his workbench, listlessly toying with a rubber duck. It was one of his worst creations… Couldn’t even breathe fire.

He didn’t even know why he continued to make them. Honestly, he couldn’t think of anything else to make, and it was better to make something than nothing, even if he ended up creating the same thing over and over again, clinging to the memory of how one celestial duck had made Charlie smile.

Her smile was everything. Even Heaven couldn’t take that away, or… Maybe they could, if this meeting went awry. No. Please God, No. Not that. Anything but that. Kill the sinners. Show him the agonising mistake of Free Will for eternity, but he hoped to never see the day that Heaven treated his daughter with the same derision they typically reserved for him.

Lucifer froze, a glower darkening his expression as you knocked on the door.

He had clearly implied that he didn’t want to be bothered. IMPLIED IT! It hadn’t even been one day and you were bothering him.

Lucifer didn’t open the door. He didn’t want you to see inside his room. That was his space and his alone. Yet, he didn’t want any risk of you barging in, so he poofed himself to where you stood outside, using a glamorous entrance to grab your attention.

“Yes?” He said expectantly, leaning forward on his cane, as if leaning closer to you didn’t disturb him half as much as it did.

“Oh,” You blinked back surprise, though you weren’t too shocked seeing how Alastar always snuck up on you at the Hotel in a similarly flamboyant manor. “Sorry to disturb you, Sir, but I just wondered if you could tell me where the cleaning products are kept? I would like to get started as soon as I can.”

Cleaning products? Lucifer was stuck on the sentiment as if he’d never heard of such foreign words. Then he seemed to remember, you had been volunteered as his maid. Right… That was Charlie’s way of making him take you.

You waited patiently for a response, having quickly learned that your host tended to drift between a fast-talking façade or thoughtful distractedness. You wished you didn’t have to ask him for help, but after searching three floors and the attic, you had gotten somewhat turned around, and you had no idea where you had already looked; the manor was massive.

Finally, Lucifer seemed to come to and he began boredly examining his hand.

“That won’t be necessary,” He stated demurely.

“It won’t?”

“No. It won’t.”

Behind you, Lucifer caught sight of a portrait of his family. The frame was carved blood-wood harvested from a Tree-Demon who once dared to insult Lilith in Lucifer’s presence. Two winged snakes adorned opposing corners of the portrait. With a lazy wave of his hand, they creaked and snapped, coming to life, and escaping their previous wooden home, leaving only indentations where they used to be. With another magical flourish, they grew slightly and became more life-like, shedding splinters as their new uniforms appeared.

“There, see, two half-sized cleaners. They’ll take care of everything.”

You stared hard at the new servants of the house, somewhat amazed by the show of power; nobody else in Hell could do anything close to creating life, and it seemed that Lucifer didn’t even care that he had such power.

Frankly, Lucifer was upset with his new creations. He had finally strayed from ducks, creating something new for the first time in over a century, and they were still bland. When he had created Razzle and Dazzle for Charlie, he had done everything he could to make them beautiful and unique. These abominations in front of him were cheap copies of that Sir Pentious fellow he had seen at the hotel. He just didn’t have anything left worth creating. There was no point.

Whatever. The snake servants would do their job quietly and obediently. And they’d be more useful and less annoying than Charlie’s reptilian friend.

“Oh, okay. Well, is there anything else you’d like me to do?” You asked, wishing to be useful. “I can cook pretty well, or I could run errands, or-”

“NO!” Lucifer snapped.

“But-”

“Don’t you get it?! I DON’T NEED YOU.”

Lucifer forced himself to take a calming breath, his gaze downcast so he didn’t have to look at you.

“This is all my daughter’s plan. All you have to do is stay out of my way here and Charlie will be happy. Do you think you can manage that?”

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emotionalsupport-ljh · 25 days ago

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Book 1: The Element of Freedom

Chapter 2: Journey to the North Pole

Woozi x (f!) Reader Insert

AO3 link

Word Count: 3.8k

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The early morning sun peaks between the cracks in the stable walls. Jihoon has been sitting here for 45 minutes waiting for his companion’s arrival. The stable master chews at his fingernails which were long gone 20 minutes ago. Everything is packed and ready for their adventure. Jihoon has a simple backpack with him that carries his official robes and other garments as well as a healthy amount of gold for his travels. The kitchen supplied him with dried fruits and meats in abundance. He carries on his hip a long sword, a hwando that typically is found on Fire Nation soldiers. The tip of the weapon’s scabbard scrapes against the floor as Jihoon stands, finally spotting his friend.

“I’m late! I’m sorry!” Soonyoung scratches the back of his head sheepishly as he approaches. His own pack is slung behind his shoulder, swinging and jostling from the jog he does to close the last few meters between him and the stable. His face breaks into a wide grin as he adds, “And Happy Birthday, Prince Jihoon.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, a habit he’s sure to continue through this trip as he turns toward the stable master, signalling that he fetch the noble steed. “Let’s just go, please; we’ve already wasted enough time.”

The stable master disappears beyond the far side of the gate, and they can hear him walking an animal up to where the two boys stand. “Oh,” Soonyoung speaks up, “We’re taking Ruby, then?” he asks, failing to mask his giddy excitement.

“Of course,” Jihoon replies. He smirks, happy to see his animal companion. The stable master opens the back hatch to allow a large dragon through to greet her master. Her scales might look black to the average observer, but when they catch the light just right, they reveal a deep burnt burgundy red color. Jihoon smiles wide as the beast approaches him, nudging her head against his body in a friendly and familiar manner. Her long body wraps around him as she exits the royal palace’s dragon stable.She lays in her little circle around the prince with a hot huff from her nostrils. She’s already saddled, so Jihoon takes the opportunity to pack the saddle bags with various luggage. They are travelling quite light since the journey will only be two people rather than the usual entourage of guards and other officials.

“So, where are we off to first?” Soonyoung huffs as he swings his bag to be placed in the strong leather pouch hanging from the dragon’s saddle.

Jihoon fastens the closures to the bag, securing everything inside. “The Northern Water Tribe. The Chief there is expecting us, so we better get a move on.” Jihoon has his itinerary memorized down to the last minute. His father expects them back by the time the first plum blossom blooms in spring, so there can be no oversights. He even has a margin of error to account for Soonyoung and his chronic chaos. He mounts the dragon and Soonyoung follows his lead, taking the seat behind him. They take off not a second too late as shutters open and servants and laypeople wake and begin their days. Distant from their field of view a dragon’s tail twists in the wind starting a proper adventure.

“I’m bored,” Soonyoung drawls.

Jihoon is too busy focused on the open sky ahead to pay any attention to him. Soonyoung gets restless and wiggles his legs around. He twists his torso to stretch his back, raises his arms up high, and uses his hands to pop his neck. It’s only been a few hours; the distant islands of the Fire Nation have become mere dots on the horizon. Soonyoung can’t even spot the inactive volcano that he and Jihoon call home. Soonyoung rests his head on Jihoon’s back.

“Please stop. I’m trying to focus.” Jihoon shakes his shoulders. “You know it takes a few days to get to the Northern Water Tribe, right?”

Soonyoung sighs dramatically, saying, “Yeah, by boat. I thought flying was faster.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes at the man’s whining. “It is faster. We’ll be there in two days. I’m not going to make Ruby suffer just because you’re impatient.” Jihoon won’t admit that he’s pretty tired as well, but he’s trying to follow a tight schedule. Besides, even if he wanted to stop to rest, their path would have to divert to get somewhere comfortable enough to set up camp; they’d have to go even farther to find so much as a village.

“Fine. Only because I also care about Ruby,” Soonyoung pouts. He reaches down to scratch Ruby’s side. “But because you won’t let her go as fast as I know she can, I’m going to entertain myself.”

He proceeds to talk about any and everything while Jihoon remains his captive audience. He rethinks his decision to bring him along. Soonyoung explains for what feels like forever how he alone is the last komodo-tiger in all of the Fire Nation, only taking breaks to drink from his canteen. Jihoon’s not sure what that means, but he is sure that the dropping temperature means that they are getting closer to their destination by the minute.

After a cold, mostly quiet night, where he lets Soonyoung fall asleep on his shoulder, Jihoon wakes up to a beautiful sight. He got some sleep leaned against Ruby’s head using her horns as a makeshift pillow. Cracking his eyes open, he is met with tall glaciers that loom over the water of the Northern Sea, but something in the distance catches his eye. A man-made structure hides among the ice. It’s an outpost that marks the last leg of the trip. Jihoon directs Ruby to move a little faster in the hope that he would be able to at least see Agna Qel’a, the capital city of the Northern Tribe, before Soonyoung wakes up and starts talking again.

Soonyoung wakes as the sun illuminates more of the surrounding ice. The brightness of the landscape makes opening his eyes for the first time this morning an arduous task. Once he fully opens his eyes, he sees Jihoon, already awake and at the reigns. He greets Jihoon with a “Good morning” then takes a breath, readying to talk to his companion for the next few hours, when suddenly something whistles next to his ear.

“What was that?” Soonyoung asks, looking around.

Jihoon is already lowering Ruby close to the water. He saw it, too, and followed the object's descent with his eyes. Jihoon is sharp. He has studied military strategies and different forms of combat since his childhood. He can calculate approximately where the tattered arrow came from and confront the archer who shot it.

Ruby circles back and dives, belly almost scraping the water’s surface. They quickly approach a ship, hidden, almost squeezed, between large chunks of ice. A group of pirates has decided to patrol these waters for hapless travellers. Ruby spits her fire breath skyward above the deck of the ship as Jihoon makes eye contact with a crewman holding a bow and arrow. The dragon stops in the air, baring her teeth. The few people aboard the vessel look terrified.

Jihoon, tired and annoyed, looks at them and announces, “I am the Prince of the Fire Nation. Any further attacks will be met with the wrath of the entire Fire Navy that follows this dragon.” He’s lying through his teeth and leveling his best glare at them so they take him seriously. He hopes they believe him long enough for him to get away and call upon the Water Tribe as these ruffians are within their jurisdiction.

A man comes out of what Jihoon can assume are the captain's quarters. He’s rough looking with scars on his face. He looks up to Jihoon in the sky, squinting against the morning sunlight, then he speaks in a gravelly voice, “We have orders no matter who you are. Archers! Benders! Ready!”

Soonyoung has been ready to leap from his seat behind Jihoon since the first arrow shot passed his head. As soon as the captain of the small ship orders, he moves swiftly. An archer looses his arrow toward the Prince, and before it reaches its target, burns into black ash. Soonyoung let a blast of fire fly from his fist, then before the cold air can siphon the heat completely, he is already jumping, aiming to land aboard the ship. Jihoon’s heart drops in fear because it looks, for a moment, like he will land in the freezing water, but he uses his firebending to propel himself toward the deck.

Jihoon freezes in shock watching his friend in a real fight. It looks nothing like the sparring he’s used to; Soonyoung looks like a wild animal on the hunt. Though Soonyoung has taken down one archer already with a disarming strike then a sharp chop to the neck, knocking him out, other archers have arrows nocked and ready to fire. Jihoon hasn’t given Ruby an order, but she can sense danger. Arrows dot the sky in an instant, and she makes quick work of burning them in one fire blast. The beast could easily sink the ship and char her enemies, but any fire breath toward the vessel would put Soonyoung in danger.

On the boat, Soonyoung is met with swordsmen and waterbenders. He moves quickly between them, careful to avoid blades and water whips. He’s in his element. Figuratively, of course, since he’s in the middle of a glacier-filled, ice cold ocean. His solid stance falters just a little when Ruby decides to rock the boat, hanging her claws on one side and letting her long serpentine body fall beneath the water. She is unfazed, her natural temperature high enough to keep her warm. Jihoon finally gets a wake up call to join the fight and do something when a frozen sickle on a water chain whips close to him. He dodges and dismounts Ruby. His feet slip while he gets into a stance to fight. The deck is wet with sea water and shaking due to waves and his animal companion’s jostling. A pirate falls off the side of the boat which seems to please her. Jihoon clumsily pulls his sword from its scabbard. He can only think about the correct position for his stance and someone takes advantage of his focus on only himself to take a swipe at him which he dodges.

The fight increases intensity. It’s not a fair fight either; about nine or ten, not counting the guy who fell overboard, against two. Really, against one. Soonyoung could be a one-man army. With one arm, he has a guy in a headlock and the other is swinging wildly at another who is disarmed and trying to get close. Jihoon hasn’t done much but slip and slide and try to stay upright.

“Halt!” a commanding voice cuts through the noise of the fight. At once, the pirate ship is surrounded by long, thin boats flying blue and white sails emblazoned with the symbol of the Water Tribe. Everyone’s hands go up, including Soonyoung’s.

Ruby continues to shake the boat however and Jihoon has to say “Stop,” before she backs down as well. The benders aboard the fleet of ships freeze the pirate vessel in place before boarding, ready at any minute to begin bending.

“Took you guys long enough! We were attacked by these pirates; I thought I would have to take care of them myself,” Soonyoung says in a jovially exasperated manner.

“It looks like you were causing most of the trouble,” a man, the leader of the warriors by the look of him, replies, unamused. “Who are you Fire Nationals?”

Jihoon clears his throat and moves the loose hair from his face. He bows, introducing himself, “I’m Lee Jihoon, Prince of the Fire Nation. What my friend said is true. These men attacked us unprovoked, and we defended ourselves.”

The man surveys the scene. He nods and the warriors around him move to put frozen cuffs on the brigands and move them to their own boats. With the deck emptied, Ruby moves from the water and onto the boat, shaking herself dry while spraying everyone else. The man rubs his hand on his face to dry himself of the water, then speaks, “I am Captain Park. We’ve been looking for these ruffians for a while.” He watches one of his warriors bend water around one man trying to swim away. “I heard the Chief was expecting you. Let us escort you to Agna Qel’a.”

The rest of the journey becomes worth the grueling first day and a half of travel and the fighting along the way when the boys spot the immaculate white outer walls of the capital city of the Northern Water Tribe. The boat they rest on sails easily through the open wall past guards saluting the captain’s boats. Some eyebrows raise when they notice the creature curled into a ball on the boat's deck. They arrive just before dawn, so darkness still shrouds the open water. The guards rub at their eyes and pinch themselves to make sure they are indeed awake and witnessing the captain transport a dragon.

Soonyoung wakes as the boat jostles down the main waterway, shifting into a controlled current that meanders through the city. He exits the bunk he shares with Jihoon to take a look at the city, illuminated only by the moonlight that reflects off of every icy and snowy surface. He moves quickly to wake his friend, who grumbles at the disruption of his precious sleep. Still, Jihoon follows Soonyoung, shuffling his feet behind slowly, to see the magnificent city. Wonder fills the eyes of both boys as they behold the city for the first time.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Captain Park says, scaring the boys. He chuckles at them shaking, then asks, “Is this your first time here?”

“Yes, sir,” Jihoon answers with a voice still gravely from his sleep.

The captain nods slowly. “Then, welcome. I hope you enjoy the city.”

Jihoon replies under his breath, “Me, too,” but the words are drowned out by the push of water against the docks as the ship pulls into its place.

A few hours after their arrival, bright and early in the morning, Jihoon is pulling on his official robes over warm fleece underclothes provided by the attendants of the floor where the vistor’s quarters are. He meticulously combs his long hair back with a beautiful blue and white comb made from bone and carved with intricate lines that flow like water. Then, he ties up his hair in the signature topknot many people in the Fire Nation wear. The palace spares no expense when it comes to its visitors. It isn’t often royalty, heads of state, or other high-ranking officials take the perilous journey to this almost remote part of the world, so when they do, the Water Tribe makes sure that they are treated with utmost respect. He places the final piece of his outfit, his royal headpiece, into his topknot.

He smooths out wrinkles that don’t exist, unable to stop moving his hands. He’s nervous. In his head, he replays what he’s going to say over and over. It’s a simple task, but he feels he has to be ready for every possible question, avoiding any indication that he is actually the Avatar. Soonyoung slinks up next to Jihoon and heavily places his hands on his friend’s shoulders.

“Don’t be so nervous, Jihoonie,” he says. Soonyoung is also dressed in his official garb. He dons clothing with sharp angles and clean lines, making him look refined, but solid and hefty grieves, arm guards, and pauldrons in the fire nation's signature red, black, and gold color-scheme denote his position as a bodyguard and soldier.

Jihoon’s shoulders tense under the unexpected contact. He turns, face turning red, about to scold Soonyoung, when a gentle knock on the door interrupts his building frustration. The head of a young woman pokes in and says in a soft voice, “The Chief will see you now.” Jihoon smooths his hand down his clothes one more time and lets the attendant lead him to the meeting, but not before leveling a glare at his companion who just laughs.

Jihoon has enough time on the walk to get increasingly nervous. As he steps through the large doors to the throne room where the Chief and his council sit on a platform. A large waterfall flows down behind them, the rushing water adding an almost calming ambiance to the room. It fails to calm Jihoon in any way as he scans the hard-set faces of the men before him. He makes his way to his spot to stand in front of them and clears his throat.

“I…” he pauses as his eyes glide over one face, lovelier than any he had ever seen. Sitting amongst the Chief and his council is someone Jihoon didn’t think would attend something so dull. The princess of the North, Xue, catches Jihoon’s eye. She wears fluffy lavender colored robes lined with fine white fur off her shoulders to showcase the jewels decorating them and her chest. Some kind of necklace or something drapes brilliant crystals that glitter in the light when she shifts. Jihoon looks into her eyes. She furrows her brow which confuses him until Soonyoung elbows him.

Jihoon’s face heats up like he’s just eaten an entire carton of fire flakes. He stammers through his introduction hastily, “I… I am Jihoon, crowned prince of the Fire Nation.” He bows a full 90 degrees in greeting. The cold air does nothing to tame the flames of his embarrassment. He raises again and looks the Chief in the eye. “I have come on behalf of my father. And the Avatar!”

Eyebrows raise at the mention of the Avatar. The Chief leans forward listening carefully. He remains silent, however, watching Jihoon’s face contort with awkwardness and worry. The intense staring unsettles Jihoon, making him second guess himself and his address. He continues speaking just to fill the silence. “We wish to… um… employ a waterbender. A master… water bender… who will… um… travel to the Fire Nation to…”

One of the councilmen leans to another man next to him and whispers, “The Fire Lord really sent this whelp alone to make this address. Look at him; he’s shaking like a reindeer-seal cub fresh out of the womb.” He snickers as he talks, and the whisper is less than clandestine. Jihoon hears the comment and finally shuts his mouth with an audible snap.

Soonyoung steps forward in that moment. He’s perfectly composed, though a rage fills his chest at the disrespect by the councilman. He speaks loudly and clearly, “We need a master waterbender to train the Avatar in the Fire Nation. Can you help us with that? There has to be at least one competent bender among these loudmouths, right?”

Jaws hit the floor as the scrappy young bodyguard speaks and pokes fun at the members of the council. Jihoon blanches as white as the ice of the palace walls. He could almost cry. His eyes are about to pop out of his skull looking at Soonyoung and his thoughts scream at him to give him the worst scolding he’s ever given to anyone ever. Not the affectionate teasing he usually gives Soonyoung, either, but the kind of lecture that would have him shoot fire out of his ears.

A low rumble echoes through the room and everyone whips their head from the offender to the Chief. A giggle with the bass tone of a tsungi horn starts in his chest then builds into raucous laughter that has him holding his sides and almost falling from his sitting position. The other members of the council surrounding him nervously laugh with him while the princess shakes her head.

Wiping a tear from his eye, the Chief finally speaks, “I like this kid! Of course I can help. You are welcome to meet with our masters today. I’m sure we can find a suitable one in this group of loudmouths!” The man gestures his hand and an attendant appears to lead the boys out to the courtyard.

Soonyoung smiles and says, “Thank you,” then turns on his heels to follow the attendant. The entire court stands and lets the Chief saunter in front of all of them casually. Jihoon is awestruck until Soonyoung tugs at his arm and his feet move without his brain commanding it. He absolutely cannot believe what just happened.

When he gets his bearings again, Jihoon matches his pace with Soonyoung and whispers hastily, “What were you thinking?”

Soonyoung shrugs. “No offense, but you were bombing up there. I couldn’t just let them say stuff like that about you. I figured, the quicker we’re done, the better.”

“But -”

The boys make it outside and the council files into the courtyard behind them. Princess Xue appears, too, but she looks dissatisfied like she doesn’t want to be there. The Chief steps forward and says, “Master Ahn, please show our guests your skills.”

An old man steps forward and gets into a beginning stance. He waves his arms in a wide circle and flows them in a few stances lifting, pushing and pulling water into shapes and whips and other various attacks. Another member of the council begins to volley ice towards him and he makes a display of bending the projectiles back into water and swinging the stream forward to repeat the process with the next volley.

It’s impressive and technically perfect, not a foot stance out of place. Jihoon isn’t blown away, but he doesn’t think he has to be. He doesn’t even know the basics of other bending styles, so “spectacular” wouldn’t be a goal of his to start anyway. Master Ahn finishes his display and bows toward the Fire Nation boys then returns to his place in the line-up.

“Master Ahn is the best bender in the North. He has impressive skill and is a wonderful teacher. Will he be suitable for the Fire Lord and the Avatar?” The Chief asks his question like there is only one correct answer.

Jihoon feels the pressure and expectation on his shoulders. He answers, nonetheless, “Yes, Master Ahn is suitable.” He bows deeply with his fist against his palm and says, “Thank you, Chief.”

“Good!” the Chief announces in his boisterous voice, “Tonight we shall have a feast in honor of the selection and your presence. Tomorrow, we will arrange travel for Master Ahn to the Fire Nation’s capital and then see you off. I hear from your father you will gather all the elemental masters. You have quite the trip ahead of you.”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Jihoon replies. He’s still feeling tense and now suddenly exhausted as his mind and body catch up to the day he’s had so far. He needs to rest and recover because he’s already sweating thinking about attending a banquet. He doesn’t know much about the traditions of other nations, but his heart can’t take many more surprises.

#chapter 2 as consolation for not working on it #i finished my jicheol and because i didn't know that would be my gay magnum opus im taking a lil baby break #enjoy this; more to come at some point #seventeen #svt #woozi #lee jihoon #lee jihoon fanfic #woozi fic #woozi x reader #woozi x reader insert #svt x atla

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