(Prompt request: The way you said "I love you" 27 - A taunt, with one eyebrow raised and a grin bubbling at your lips.
The moral of this story is 'if you don't specify a pairing, you may get something you didn't ask for.' This particular horrorshow borrows a conceit, with some modification, from AO3's salacious_crumpet.
Content warning: (non-explicit) nonconsensual sex. I have used he/him pronouns here to refer to Hunter due to this prompt's place in the story timeline.)
Say the Word
Port Nowhere. 11 ATC.
Nine tugs the hem of the skirt down lower as she settles into the half-circle of the booth; it keeps riding up too high, the cheap leatheris sticking to the upholstered seat, and the larger of their two contacts, a scarred, heavily augmented Zabrak seated beside her, leers at her and slides his hand further up her exposed thigh.
(Normally she wouldn't have cared. She's worn far less in worse cantinas than this but it all fit her properly, her own clothing tailored to the particulars of her body for ease of movement, with holsters and pockets built in for her weapons. But tonight, Hunter had shoved a duffel bag at her when she stepped out of the 'fresher.
"Get dressed. The meeting's in an hour."
She frowned as the chill air from the vents brushed over her skin. "Are you joking? I heard him as clearly as you did. One-on-one, you and him. The moment he figures out that you've brought backup the deal will be off, and Hoth will be impossible without that thermite."
"I've done my research." Hunter took her by the shoulders, turning her, pushing her toward her cot. "He never works alone- one bodyguard, at minimum."
She sat down, clutching the bag, and unfastened the zipper, reaching inside to pull out a handful of silk that's meant to pass for a top, a short skirt, a pair of flimsy spike-heeled boots half a size too small. "You must be kidding. I'm not wearing this. Give me my armor." The clothes pushed back into the bag, she shoved it back into Hunter's hands.
"You won't be there to fight, Legate. What I need-" the duffel launched back at her, hitting her in the chest- "is a distraction. Now," Hunter sighed, "onomatophobia. Get dressed, and pay attention.")
The Backfire's quiet in the middle of the week, the private room they're in the only one that's occupied so far as she can tell. She sips idly at her drink, some frothy pink concoction, as Hunter and their Nautolan contact slide a datapad back and forth across the table. The drink's lousy, par for the course for an SIS front, and they're definitely getting ripped off; she could have negotiated a better deal in her sleep but the second command after get dressed was keep your mouth shut until I tell you to talk and it isn't her money, in any case, so if the SIS wants to pay double the black market rate for a few crates of explosives they can do it and to the Void with them.
Oh, she'd kill for a whiskey- and a knife, to teach this fucking handsy bodyguard some Force-damned manners. Hunter'd made her leave all her kit, though (not that she'd need a weapon, really, if it came down to it), so instead she grits her teeth and keeps the same prettily vacant expression on her face as his fingers reach her hem.
"Shall we adjourn to my office?" The Nautolan stands, catching up the datapad with elegant fingers, pointed teeth bared in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I would like to use my own data network, given the circumstances, and with apologies to your lovely companion-" he glances toward her and she looks down quickly, focused on the rim of her glass- "I prefer privacy for this sort of negotiation."
"Of course." Hunter answers too quickly, drapes one arm around her shoulders as she suppresses a flinch, a fingertip tracing an idle path along her collarbone. He- what's he doing? When Hunter touched her it was always meant to taunt or to wound, not like this, not- "I don't exactly keep her around for her business acumen, after all. She can keep your friend here entertained while you and I draw up the contract."
She stiffens. This wasn't what they'd discussed back at the safehouse; Hunter had said-
Hunter had said-
She can't remember. She can't remember, her mind a blank, the time simply gone.
"Quite a generous offer. Rather above his usual class of companion, assuming the lady agrees." Head-tresses shift, curling delicately around his neck, the Nautolan turns to consider her again. "We can discuss compensation for her time separately."
"Oh, that won't be necessary. She's a terribly good sport," Hunter says. "Does absolutely anything I ask of her. All I have to do-" a brief pause as her fingers dig sharply into his thigh but she can't find purchase on the armored plate; Hunter only smiles, eyes glimmering- "is say the word."
She turns, starting to tell Hunter to get up, to let her out of her seat, out of the room, trying to raise her hand to slap him. She may be a Cipher and stars know she's gone to bed with plenty of people she'd never have touched, otherwise, when the mission required it, but she's not a collared whore to be passed 'round and she will not-
"Of course." The words spill out unbidden, her body locked into her seat. "Anything. Anything at all."
"That's my girl." One eyebrow raised, a grin bubbling at the corners of his lips, Hunter leans in toward her, tone taunting, mouth to her ear, whispering. "Onomatophobia. Activate protocol Xesh. Say it."
She doesn't know what she's supposed to say. They're so far off script from what they'd rehearsed in the speeder on the way over that-
Her mouth opens, and her brain realizes what's coming before her lips shape the sounds and she takes a long sip of her drink instead, trying to drown it in her throat- no, no, no, no-
"I love you," she says. What she means is somewhere between fuck you and do not make me do this and I am going to kill you, you son of a bitch but it comes out sugar-sweet as he lets her go. "We'll be here when you've finished."
"Now, remember what we discussed, and I won't be long." Hunter rises, gesturing toward the door as he looks to their still-standing contact. "Please. Lead the way."
The door slides shut behind them when they leave the room and she can barely hear the outside panel chime, the lock click into place-
"You heard 'em," the Zabrak says after a moment, turning, forcing her back down against the bench, one hand on her neck as the other finally pushes up beneath her skirt; she tries to squirm away, to bring her fingers up to claw at his throat, at his eyes, but her body won't cooperate. "No time to waste."
All she can do is close her eyes.