THE COPPERHEAD {SEVIKA X READER}

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Author's Note: This story is for mature audiences only (18+) due to a graphic sex scene! It was originally crossposted to my AO3, which you can find in a link on my profile. All of my stories will first be posted there, and later updated here if I feel like it! That said, please do enjoy, and let me know what you think~ ♡♡♡

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To those unfamiliar, Zaun has a great many secrets; you are not unfamiliar. The smog and humidity clinging in the air, the constant drip of acidic precipitation down, down, down onto your streets nestled in the deep. The Copperhead, a mecha-parlor, fits its neighborhood well. The bronze-barred shop-front teases pin-up illustrations of models sporting your very own work—prosthetic legs; metallic, spider-like appendages; skull prosthetics and abdominal aesthetics.

If there is a will, there is a way.

You happen to be good at finding that way.

At molding anything and everything to your liking.

The shop closes when the smog begins to turn from the deep hues of the night into the paler shades of green and yellow that herald the morning. Your work isn't best performed at night. No. But your clientele is more likely to relax if they can come in the blanket of darkness.

You are packing away the last of your tools, the low-scratch of a finished record providing white noise in the background, when there is a creak. It's tell-tale, unmistakeable. It's the sound of a visitor pushing open your old, half-corroding door. Your lip twitches. "Not taking any clients today. You'll have to wait until—"

"In order to operate on these streets, you have to pay a tax. Don't you?" Though the tone lilts like it's speaker is asking a question, you know this isn't the case. People don't say things like that balls-out. It'd get their teeth knocked straight out their mouth.

You turn, biting any retorts on your tongue.

The woman standing in the threshold is one-arm-short. It's the first thing you notice. As the artisan, you are always ascertaining exactly what needs a potential client may have. Your gaze flitters over the stub (it's a nasty looking amputation, covered in scorched skin and the remnants of old blisters), across broad shoulders, and up to the woman's face.

You recognize her.

There are no secrets in Zaun.

Not when you know who to ask.

"Sevika." You keep your tone crisp, light, and business-like. "You're right. It's a hefty tax, in fact." You rap your knuckles on the metal work-table your sat at. Your foot taps against the floor: once, twice, and then you catch yourself doing it and stop. It's nervous energy and yet it's not.

Anticipation, more like.

Sevika is a big-name out there, and while her relationship to your tax-collector is still yet to be determined, it's quite obvious that she's found her feet and will only continue to rise taller. You wish you would have seen her challenge Vander. Not because you had anything against him, but because it would be so very curious, so very exciting to watch a woman like her bare her teeth at him.

You continue: "What's it got to do with you?" Your tone's a little sharper, a little more daring.

Bite, woman. Bite.

Sevika's lip twitches and then she smirks openly. She wears confidence like it is arrogance, with ease and languor. The only thing that makes the distinction between the two is that she is not foolish. Her eyes are watchful. She's not stupid enough to get caught up in her own image.