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ziptiesnfries · 4 months

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The Party

Roux & Ambrose masterpost

tag list: @theelvishcowgirl @transgender-scout @gala1981 @laniakea0100 @spectral-whumpy-writer

Takes place later on in Roux's captivity

CWs: held at knifepoint, death threats, captivity

Roux tugs at the collar of their shirt, feeling suffocated by their stupid outfit and Ambrose’s arm wrapped around their waist. He gave them a choice of what to wear, but they didn’t trust his taste in dresses, so they went with a tux. Now, overheated beneath the layers of their outfit, they regret it. They’d feel much more exposed in a dress, but maybe they’d be able to breathe easier.

As the two of them cross the ballroom, Ambrose squeezes their waist, and Roux stiffens. “How are you doing, sweetheart?” he asks in a low voice.

If they tell him the truth—that they’re miserable and sweaty and they despise having to hang off his side while he makes conversation with his business associates—it won’t matter. He won’t head home early on their account. “I’m fine,” they say dismissively.

He smiles and pauses to tuck a loose curl behind their ear. By now, they’re beyond flinching at his touch, but there’s still an uncomfortable tingle left behind where his fingers brushed their skin. “It’s only a couple more hours,” he murmurs. “You can make it until then, can’t you?”

Well, they don’t really have a fucking choice, do they? They fake a smile back at him, and he doesn’t seem to mind their lack of verbal response as he leads them across the ballroom.

It really isn’t stately enough to be called a ballroom—more like a fancy conference room, scattered with tables and waiters serving hors d’oeuvres to rich, self-important people. Being among them makes Roux feel nauseated. Once upon a time, they would’ve only attended a function like this to do a job—rob someone, steal information, things like that. The thought makes their chest ache with longing. They miss working, and they miss being a person rather than a decoration.

They force themself to attention as Ambrose encounters a new cluster of people. He seems to know most of them, greeting them by names that Roux doesn’t quite catch and doesn’t care to remember. The inevitable question is asked by a woman with dark hair in a sophisticated dress, turning her eyes on Roux: “And who’s this?”

“This is Roux,” Ambrose says simply. That’s how he’s introduced them to everyone tonight, with no further elaboration. It’s starting to grate on Roux’s nerves.

The woman tilts her head, and Roux tries not to blush. They wish Ambrose would just come up with a lie to appease people, instead of drawing more attention to them. “And Roux is your …?” the woman begins, her voice trailing off. Business associate? Romantic partner? More like purse dog.

“My companion,” says Ambrose, giving their shoulder an affectionate pat.

Roux forces a smile as they make eye contact with the woman. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

The woman gives them a tentative smile back. “Likewise.” They’re relieved when she turns her attention back to Ambrose. “So we were just talking about …”

By that point, it feels safe for Roux to tune out, looking like they’re listening without really paying attention. Ambrose doesn’t expect them to participate, nor does he want them to. They nod at the right times, but otherwise lean against the wall and let their eyes wander.

The party isn’t very interesting, and their eyes start to glaze over as they scan the room. But, suddenly, a face across the room catches their attention—a very familiar face. They’re not even sure it’s him, but their heart starts racing anyway. They try not to get hopeful. It could be any tall guy with dark, slicked-back hair. Lots of guys look like that. But they’re almost sure …

The guy turns just right, giving Roux a clear look at his face, and their breath catches. His showy, bright smile falters as his dark eyes meet theirs. They almost can’t breathe. It’s Cruz.

Instinctively, their eyes dart over to Ambrose. He’s engrossed in a conversation, barely paying attention to Roux. When they glance back, Cruz is still standing across the room, staring at them. A surge of hope and anxiety flutters up in their chest. He tilts his head at them, probably dying to ask them where they’ve been all these months. But he doesn’t, and they immediately understand why: he’s on a job. He can’t blow his cover—and they can’t let on that they’ve recognized him, either.

Not knowing what else to do, they blink at him twice, hard, hoping he picks up the signal. That used to be kind of a joke on their team—blink twice if you need help—until they realized it was a useful way to send a message. They don’t use it often, but Roux hopes that Cruz understands.

Just to cover themself, Roux ducks their head and rubs their face, like they had something in their eye. When they look up, Cruz is gone.

They’re not sure what to make of it. But one thing is clear: they have to lose Ambrose.

When they turn back, he’s still invested in the conversation. They tug at his sleeve. “I’m going to use the bathroom,” they mutter. “It’s just over there.” They incline their head toward a side hallway they passed on the way in.

He frowns. Roux knows he doesn’t like the idea of letting them out of his sight, but it would be rude for him to abandon the group so abruptly. He keeps his voice low as he says, “You have three minutes.”

Three minutes. They’ve worked on worse time limits than that. They just hope the timing is a good enough excuse for how quickly they leave him.

They’re rushing, but a sense of relief washes over them as they step into that side hallway, out of Ambrose’s sight. How long has it been since they’ve been out in public without him breathing down their neck? It feels like they can finally breathe.

But they don’t have time to enjoy it. They move quickly, past the bathrooms, their eyes scanning the empty hall. They startle as a hand darts out of a darkened alcove and grabs their sleeve, pulling them in—and then they’re face-to-face with Cruz.

“Roux!” He looks elated to see them, gripping their shoulders like he’s afraid they’ll disappear. “I didn’t expect—where have you been?”

They want to hug him, but— “There’s no time,” they say. “He’ll start looking for me in two minutes. We have to get out of here.”

The look on his face hardens, all business, and he releases them. “I’m here on a job, but I’ll cut it short. The getaway is waiting out back.” A small, relieved grin sneaks onto his face. “The team will be so glad you’re okay.” Tentatively, they allow themself to smile back, hope bubbling up in their chest. God, they can’t wait to get back to their team.

Cruz checks both ways before leaving the alcove, and Roux follows close behind him. The hallway is deserted as the two of them make their way down it, their footsteps barely making a sound. Cruz turns a corner—

He lets out a choked noise, lurching forward and out of their sight. Roux’s stomach drops as they hurry after him, and they freeze.

Ambrose has an arm wrapped around Cruz��s chest and a knife pressed to his throat. Cruz stays perfectly still, his eyes wide—but Ambrose isn’t paying any attention to him. “Now,” Ambrose says quietly, pinning Roux with his gaze. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

Roux swallows, their eyes darting from Cruz’s panicked expression to Ambrose’s stony demeanor. They feel a surge of rage at Ambrose for ruining this so quickly. They want to swear at him, lunge and attack him—

But he would slit Cruz’s throat, and Roux would never forgive themself. A moment ago, all they could think about was getting the hell out of here. Now the only thought in their mind is how to save Cruz.

Ambrose raises an eyebrow, pressing the knife ever so slightly into Cruz’s throat. Cruz makes a small, choked noise, his eyes on Roux. He’s expecting them to attack, yell, threaten—act like themself.

They can’t. Not if they want him to live.

Tears spring up in Roux’s eyes, and they welcome it. Ambrose loves it when they cry; he says the tears bring out their eyes. Roux’s hands tremble, and they focus their watery gaze on Ambrose. “I’m—I’m sorry,” they choke out as the tears spill over their cheeks. “This is my fault, it was my idea—please, please don’t hurt him.”

They try to ignore the horror on Cruz’s face, try not to think about what must be running through his head, seeing them like this—because he’s never seen them like this. He’s seen them go through hell, but he’s never seen them cry and plead. They can’t help the shame that burns their cheeks at having to do this in front of him. They hope it makes them more convincing.

Ambrose’s gaze softens a fraction, but he keeps a tight grip on Cruz, the knife still pressed to his skin. “Tell me,” he says softly, “why I shouldn’t just slit his throat right now.”

Their stomach lurches, and the distress that surges through them isn’t an act. “Please don’t! It was my idea, I’m the one to blame, I’m sorry!”

Ambrose considers this, then says, “You wouldn’t have even tried to leave me if it wasn’t for him.” He presses the knife in deeper, drawing a bead of blood that trickles down Cruz’s neck. Roux gasps, but they force themself still.

Cruz flinches and takes a shuddery breath. “Bastard,” he breathes. “You fucking—”

The knife presses deeper, and Cruz shuts his mouth. Otherwise, it’s like he never spoke in the first place. Ambrose’s eyes remain glued to Roux. “Well?” he prompts.

“Please,” Roux whispers. “I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll—I’ll be so good. Just please, let him go.”

Ambrose hums thoughtfully, tilting his head. “I’m not sure if I believe you,” he says, dragging a thin red line across Cruz’s throat.

Before they can even think about it, their knees hit the floor. “Please!” they cry, tears streaming down their cheeks. “Please don’t hurt him!”

Ambrose’s eyes light up, and the knife goes still. He’s not smiling—of course he’s still angry at them; they’ll face the consequences later—but he’s pleased with their performance, and right now, that’s all that matters. He leans in to murmur in Cruz’s ear, “Why don’t you get back to the party, then. Before I change my mind.”

Ambrose releases him, and Cruz stumbles away, brushing a hand against his throat. But he’s not as worried about himself as he should be. “Roux?” he asks.

There’s a world of confusion and horror and pity in his voice, and they can’t stand it. They duck their head to hide their tear-stained face, burning with shame. “Go,” they whisper. “I’ll be fine.”

Cruz hesitates. “You heard them,” Ambrose says. He’s probably brandishing the knife, a silent threat. Roux doesn’t look up to check.

Cruz lets out a shaky exhale, and then they hear his footsteps retreating. A mix of relief and soul-crushing disappointment floods Roux’s chest. They didn’t escape. Cruz gets to walk away, but … they don’t.

They flinch as Ambrose approaches, but he only holds out his hand. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

They take his hand. Once they’re on their feet, they keep their head bowed, scared to even look at him. He wraps an arm tightly around their shoulders and leads them down the hallway, away from the ballroom. This must be the way he came when he cut Cruz off. Roux should have thought about alternate routes; they should have realized that Ambrose noticed them acting strange. They know better than to make mistakes like that. But maybe they’re rusty after spending all this time with Ambrose.

Ambrose squeezes their shoulder. “I need to keep you on a tighter leash.”

They nod as if they agree, feeling empty, and they let Ambrose lead them away.

#whump writing #whump #captivity whump #captivity #zipwrites #held at knifepoint #threats tw #roux & ambrose #oc: roux #oc: ambrose lacrosse #oc: cruz #okay unofficially: that concludes the backlog of stuff i haven't posted for these two #idk if there'll be more but we'll see!

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juniper-sunny · 1 year

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The Art in the Heart - Chapter 15

A long-awaited confrontation brings back unwanted reminders of the past...

Everybody Lives AU | Pre-Act 1 | Silco x Reader | Female!Reader | Slow Burn | Smut |Fluff | Mild Angst || SFW | TW: Stalking, Mistreatment of Children, Threats of Violence | WC: 3.19k

ao3 || Masterlist || Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 3.5 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 7.5 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14

taglist (open): @sherwood-forests @deny-the-issue @let-the-monster-out @ariaud @joscelyn02 @crunchlite @sheacrowley

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Laying down graffiti in the Undercity is an extreme sport. All the good spots have already been tagged, and if you want to claim the territory for yourself you better be prepared to fight for it if the original artist doesn’t appreciate your intrusion. So then you have to climb or crawl your way to find a free place to paint. If you choose somewhere high up, you better watch your footing; the sorry state of Zaun’s infrastructure means that most ledges and rooftops are worn and crumbling, and you could fall to your death if you’re not careful. Then, if you’ve finally secured a good place, you can’t even dedicate your full attention to whatever you’re working on. After all, your back is exposed and you still have to stand guard over your supplies. Zaunites are nothing if not bold enough to try to steal your property from right under your nose.

Most crews are made up of at least three people, but you’re standing by yourself in a dead-end alleyway, studying an old, red brick wall. Your trusty satchel is stuffed full of spray paint cans and a paint roller. You make an exaggerated show of pulling out your sketchbook and flipping through it dramatically, whipping the pages with a snap. Pondering out loud to yourself which one of your sketches to turn into a piece.

You wouldn’t normally be this obvious.

But you’re being watched.

You’re cornered, and it’s terrifying. A sheep being circled by a wolf.

It takes all your strength to stay rooted in the alleyway. As if being walled in with only one exit wasn’t nerve-wracking enough, the hairs standing up on the back of your neck turn into a stinging, painful prickle, as if your own skin was desperate to escape. You pick up one of your cans with trembling hands, gripping it tight to overcompensate for your shaky grip.

It’s okay. Try to stay calm. You just need to throw down some lines.

Your attempts at deep breathing almost drown out the sound of approaching footsteps. They’re shuffling and hesitant, as if your stalker was as afraid of you as you were of them.

You can’t face them. Not yet.

You have to hold on just a little longer.

After all, you’re not the one who’s walking into a trap.

High-pitched yelling breaks out behind you. It’s much more juvenile sounding than you anticipated, but it sounds just like the children at the orphanage when they’re playing during recess. If their playtime involved ripping each others’ hair out by the fistful.

At last, you turn to see a scowling Silco grabbing a little girl by the scruff of her neck. He mutters at her through gritted teeth, too low for you to hear properly. She’s dragged behind Silco like a suitcase before he deposits her unceremoniously at your feet. Her hands are bound with Silco’s belt, but she kicks her feet out wildly, spitting and hissing like an angry cat.

You frown at him. “You said you’d be careful with them.”

“I never said that,” Silco replies. “I only said that I wouldn’t hurt them, nothing more.”

You hold back a sigh as you kneel down to meet the girl’s eye level. Silco tenses next to you, grinding his teeth. He’s clearly unhappy with you sitting so close to your stalker.

But he doesn’t do anything to stop you from talking to her. Just like he promised.

“Hi there,” you say gently. “What’s your name?”

The kid spits at your feet.

“Hey—!” Silco snaps.

You raise a placating hand at him. It’s always hard to tell with Sumpsnipes, but the girl looks barely older than Vi, not even a teenager yet. She’s covered in dirt, her bony thin frame poking sharply out of raggedy clothes that are too large for her. Her blazing, angry eyes are smudged by dark shadows.

You sit down on the ground, pulling a wrapped sandwich and canteen out of your satchel and setting them on your lap.

“Do you want food?” you ask the girl. She still doesn’t answer you, but her eyes widen and her mouth drops open involuntarily. Turning away from you forcefully.

“I’m going to untie you so you can eat this,” you hold the sandwich up to her. “You can leave after you’re done, but I’d like to talk to you, if that’s okay.”

Her eyes dart to you while she stubbornly remains facing away, but her stomach growls loudly, as if agreeing to your request. After a long beat, she nods just once, stoic and ornery. Reminiscent of when Silco agreed days ago to help you with your plan.

You gingerly unwrap the belt from her wrists, shooting Silco a disapproving look. Did he really have to tie up this little girl so roughly? He shrugs at you.

The sandwich is snatched out of your hands so fast, you don’t realize that you’re not holding onto it anymore until your hand closes on air. Crumbs fly everywhere as the Sumpsnipe chows down ferociously.

“If I had known that your pursuer was a wild Poro I would have brought the proper wrangling equipment,” Silco snorts. The kid bares her teeth at him.

“Slow down, or you’ll choke,” you warn the girl lightly.

She just glares at you, but then starts hacking and coughing; her last swallow must have been too fast. Silco rolls his eyes as you lean forward to pat the girl’s back. You hastily open the canteen and hold it out for her.

“Slow sips,” you instruct her.

For the first time tonight, the girl seems to finally listen to you, taking long but slow gulps from the canteen, a trickle of water spilling over her chin. She sets it down after emptying it, snarfing the last few bites of the sandwich. While licking her fingers clean, she looks at you with large, wary eyes.

You tell the girl your name and hold out your hand to shake. She doesn’t take your hand, but just continues staring at you.

“What’s your name?” you ask again.

“...Leksy,” she grunts out.

“Hi Leksy, it’s nice to meet you,” you smile at her. Although your frustration at the past few months hasn’t dissolved upon finally confronting your stalker, Leksy’s youth goes a long way towards making you less scared of her. She seems just like every other unruly kid you’ve taken care of at the orphanage. “Where are your parents?”

“Work.”

“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” you say maternally, in a kind but firm tone. It’s a habit you’ve developed from working with children for years. “Do you have a home?”

Leksy nods again, marginally less surly than before.

“Why don’t we walk you home? You’ll be safer with us,” you offer.

“I can’t,” she says curtly.

“Why not?”

“I’ll get in trouble.”

You glance at Silco, worried. He’s smoking a cigarette, not grimacing anymore, but still at attention and ready to spring into action.

“Is there someone at home hurting you?” you ask quietly.

Leksy shakes her head energetically.

“What’s wrong then?”

The girl looks down, squinting at a loose brick on the ground. “...Nyle said to leave you alone.”

Hearing that name throws you into emotional turmoil. Guilt and anger at your former friend’s treatment of you, happiness to hear that she’s still alive, disgust that you’ve bumped into someone acquainted with her. A lump lodges in your throat, solid and painful. You open your mouth to speak, but find that your tongue has become heavy and dry.

“How do you know Nyle?” Silco asks, looking down at Leksy to appraise her properly.

“She’s my stepmom,” Leksy says.

It’s a lot to take in: Nyle got married and now has a stepdaughter. Major life milestones that you would have happily been a part of, if you were still friends.

“Did she tell you about me?” you ask hesitantly.

“She talks about you all the time,” Leksy says. It seems the food did the trick in getting the little girl to talk freely now. “She said you work for Pilties and make art and stuff for them. You must be rich, right?”

So there it is: the real reason why this little girl has been stalking you. The same thing that tore you and Nyle apart is what brought Leksy into your life. You hold back a snort at the irony.

“You said your parents were at work, right? Don’t they make money?” you counter Leksy’s question with your own.

“Dad’s at the mines, but Nyle can’t work anymore,” the little girl says. “She got hurt.”

“What happened?”

“She fucked up her wrist.”

“Language,” the admonishment slips automatically out of you. It’s hard to keep your face stoic with the ongoing onslaught of feelings roiling inside you. Concern. Worry. Confusion. Vindictiveness. You stand up unsteadily, white-knuckle fists at your sides. Arms straining with how tight you’re clenching.

Silco drops his cigarette. It falls with the cold inevitability of a guillotine blade. He strides forward to tower menacingly over the little girl, uncaring of how she flinches away from him. “So you thought you’d become a cutpurse to make up for your mother’s lost income, hmm?”

The girl looks away defiantly, but doesn’t respond.

“Did Nyle ask you to do this?” it hurts you just to ask the question. Because some stubborn, maybe naive part of you still hangs onto the fragments of your shattered friendship with Nyle, a nostalgia for memories of better times that weren’t entirely built on lies. The belief that one day, you and her might pick up where you left off and become companions again.

“No,” Leksy answers. “She actually grounded me the first time I started following you. Said your money was off-limits ‘cause she didn’t want me to make the same mistake she did.”

A revelation. Is Nyle trying to repent for her actions? But Silco cuts in before you can mull over the girl’s words.

“And yet here you are,” he snarls. “Too greedy to understand that you should have stayed home and kept your hands to yourself.”

“I’m hungry!” shouts Leksy. “I just wanna eat!”

Leksy flinches again when she watches Silco reach slowly for his belt. He picks it up and whips it, not hard enough to snap but loud enough to slap against the ground. A quiet, menacing threat where the danger lies in its implications and not a full show of force. “Run home, little girl. And tell your mother—”

He cuts himself off when you take hold of his wrist, gently but firmly. Reminding him silently of his promise that he’d let you take care of this. Silco tears his gaze away from the girl to lock onto you, his boiling rage slowly cooling down again when he sees the determination on your face.

You kneel down again next to Leksy. Her guard is back up again, and she scoots away as if afraid you might lash out too.

“I get it,” you say softly. “You just want some food, right? Maybe feed your mom and dad too?”

The Sumpsnipe nods slowly. “When Nyle got hurt, her boss let her take a break… but her wrist got worse and then she got fired… I’m sorry, we just need some money…”

You can almost hear Silco straining to hold back his protests when you reach into your satchel to grab a handful of coins. Leksy’s eyes shine as bright as the money when she stares at it. It’s hunger, not greed in the little girl’s face as you observe her twitchiness.

If you’re being honest with yourself, you came to this decision as soon as you laid eyes on Leksy. It was your curiosity more than anything that let this encounter drag on for so long. No one could have anticipated your stalker’s relationship with Nyle.

But it doesn’t change what you need to do.

“You can have this,” you gesture for the kid to hold out her hands before slowly pouring the money into her palms. “If you want, you can go to Janna’s Hearth for food anytime. You can even bring your parents.”

Leksy shoves the money into her pockets after you’ve given her every coin. Silco helps you get to your feet, and you hold out a hand to help the girl stand up as well. For the first time that night, Leksy takes your hand. Hers is dirty and rough, but it doesn’t stop you from clasping the little girl’s hand with both of yours.

“Just… make sure you and your mom eat as much as you want, okay? And your dad too,” you reach out and zip Leksy’s jacket up to her chin. “Do you need us to walk you home?”

The Sumpsnipe shakes her head.

“Thanks,” she mutters, looking at her shoes. When she looks back up at you, she gives you a small smile. It turns into a spiteful glare as she kicks Silco in the shins before running away, yelling over her shoulder, “Your girlfriend deserves better!!”

Silco swears and stumbles backwards, catching himself just before he falls on his ass. You clear your throat to cover up your laughter. When you reach out to touch Silco on his shoulder, you can’t help but smile.

It’s over. You’re free. Your stalker was just a hungry little girl from the Undercity. You’ve helped plenty of them before. Hell, you used to be one too. What a relief that it wasn’t someone or something more dangerous. It’s almost funny that such a small child gave you such a hard time for so many months. A hysterical giggle breaks free from your mouth.

“Are you alright??” Silco asks you, concerned. He grabs you by the shoulders.

You nod, laughing harder. Not out of humor but to expel a nervous energy. Because it’s dawning on you that something less funny might happen in the future.

You might bump into Nyle again at the orphanage. Your former best friend who threw you out of her life like trash. Even if you weren’t the one who ruined everything, why do you still feel the urge to run away?

“My lovely… is something the matter?” Silco cups your cheek. You lean into his hand, taking deep breaths to settle your nerves.

“Silco… thank you,” you sigh out, hugging him tightly. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

And that’s true. The man in front of you helped you find the courage to put an end to this once and for all. And there’s no way you could have wrangled that little girl yourself, even if he did end up manhandling her a little bit.

“I didn’t do anything,” he demurs. He rests his chin on the top of your head and snorts. “If I had it my way I would have preferred to teach her a lesson.”

“You were too harsh on that little girl, don’t you think?” you frown at him.

“Little girl or otherwise, the only way to defeat your enemies is to stop at nothing to become what they fear,” Silco says, unrepentant.

“Leksy’s not my enemy,” you chuckle.

Silco hesitates for a moment before asking quietly, “...and what about Nyle?”

Such a simple question that you don’t have the answer for. For a long beat, you don’t say anything.

“...I don’t know,” you finally admit after a long pause. “But she’s not my friend anymore, either.”

“Have you forgiven her?”

You bury your face into Silco’s chest, savoring his warmth. Then stare over his shoulder at the pattern of broken bricks in the wall behind him as you ponder.

“…no,” you say slowly, “I’m not sure I ever will… does that make me a bad person?”

“Not at all,” Silco immediately answers. “Even if you hadn’t extended an offer of hospitality to her and her family.” He pulls away to look down at you, a puzzled look on his face. “May I ask why you deigned to help her? Please don’t misunderstand— I don’t mean to criticize you, but only to satisfy my own curiosity.”

“Janna’s Hearth has plenty to spare,” you say softly. “And nobody deserves to go hungry.”

“That’s my girl,” Silco leans forward, planting a kiss on your forehead. “I must admit I don’t know if I could have demonstrated the same generosity if I were in your shoes.”

His term of endearment turns your melancholy into excitement. You boop him on the nose, grinning and eager to ask, “So I’m ‘your girl’ now?”

Silco immediately lets go of you. He cringes, his large teeth biting deep into his lower lip. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to— I just—”

“And why did Leksy call me your ‘girlfriend’?” you tease him. Neither of you have discussed labeling your relationship yet, and there’s something funny about a third party doing it for you. Especially when that third party is a kid.

He’s blushing furiously now. “I… may have let that word slip in the heat of the moment when I was— handling her.”

“What did you say to her?”

“Nothing,” Silco says too quickly. He looks away as he starts to stride out of the alleyway, pulling you along. “We should get going, it’ll be dark soon—”

“Silco,” you pout, digging in your heels. You yank on his wrist to pull him to a stop. “Tell me.”

He looks at you, embarrassed. Turning to look at the wall as if it wanted to join your conversation. With a sigh, he says, “I may have asked her… ‘what the hell are you trying to do to my girlfriend?’”

“I knew it!” you exclaim, triumphant and joyful all at once. Overwhelmed by an affection for Silco that reenergizes you, you grab his hands. The urge to hug him is strong, but it’s important to look him in the eyes for your next question. “Do you want me to be your girlfriend?”

Silco raises his eyebrows in surprise, his eyes widening. Then he grins widely, cheeks almost splitting in delight. “Of course.”

You reach for his shoulders while his hands rest on your waist. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

Your heart hammers and you dig your fingers into his shirt. For some reason, there’s a nervous anticipation bursting out of your chest as you await his response.

He tries pulling you into a hug, but you lean back to watch his face carefully. That roguish smirk of his always indicates that he’s up to no good, and in the present circumstances you can’t help but feel apprehensive, even as he says, “I would have thought the answer to your question would be obvious.”

“Well, maybe I want to hear you say it out loud,” you pout. Even if it’s pretty obvious what he’s going to tell you, you want— no, you need to hear his answer. Because Silco has settled in your heart for so long, but you’re still afraid to take him for granted.

So when he leans in to whisper, all adoration and mischief, you almost tell him that he needs to speak up so you can hear him over your heartbeat thundering in your ears:

“I would love to be your boyfriend.”

Chapter 16

#Arcane #Arcane fanfic #Silco #Silco x Reader #Arcane Silco #Silco Arcane #tw stalking #stalking tw #tw threats #threats tw #my writing #The Art in the Heart #TAITH

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