Six Of Crows X You - Tumblr Posts

Searing Starlight (chapter one)

SERIES SUMMARY: the most powerful inferni alive, raised to see herself as a god-in-the-making, the bastard of the barrel and his team, and a shadow summoner with a common goal. What could go wrong? The giant mass of darkness known as the shadow fold and y/n’s sense of humor. 

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Y/n is sent to hustle the Crow Club. Technically it’s not cheating, but Kaz Brekker isn’t the type to let people off on technicalities alone. Especially when the one that committed the offense could help him earn 1 million kruge. 

a/n just a little something based on the show bc IM OBSESSED :)) --I’m planning on making this a series so if you want to be tagged let me know :)

The candles flicker as Kenya's palm makes contact with my face. I used to cry after he hit me; I used to run to Anya’s room for comfort and my energy would became so irritated I snuffed out all the candles in the church. Now, I just stand there. You get punished worse for showing fear. Gods fear nothing, and that’s what he wants from us--to turn into Gods so that the heavens will owe him. 

“You risk us again and again!” 

The yelling is worse than the stinging of the slap. I make a point of keeping my palms flat; the candles of the room flicker as if feeling my restraint. “Watch yourself or the tidemaker you’re so fond of will feel my wrath instead of you. At least when I bruise his face it doesn’t cost me a night of revenue.” 

I want to point out that the men I trick in the pleasure district don’t care about bruises, but the reminder of Jace has me frozen in place. Jace is good. He doesn’t deserve this treatment. “It won’t happen again, Father Kenya.” 

He nods once, unsatisfied but growing bored. “Disappear from my sight before my flesh wins and I forget to show you mercy.” Kenya turns sharply, watching Anya’s stoic expression. “Anya--we’re in need of funding, take these coins and triple it by morning.” 

Anya’s lips part; I shake my head once, a subtle plea for her silence. “Father Kenya, y/n’s the most talented card player we have--if she comes with us we can bring five times what you’re going to give us.” 

The promise Anya makes is that of a fool, but I know I’m capable of it. People are easy to read when they’re drunk, they’re easy to trick and lie to. And drunk people exude the clearest energy, something about their bluffing is as tangible as fog to me. 

Kenya squeezes the drawstring bag between his violent fingers. He loathes me more than the others. He expects more from me. He’d lock me in the cellar if he could afford to. But he can’t--he knows what I’m capable of. 

“Go somewhere in the Barrel--somewhere that doesn’t ask questions if the money is good.” Kenya looks at me, the bruises on my arms and cheeks. “Clean yourself up beforehand.” 

I nod once, stomach rolling at the thought of going out and knotting at the thought of staying here. I keep my steps even as I approach Anya, grateful for the excuse to disappear behind the chapel’s doors. 

----

This club is louder than most, boisterous men drinking constantly, slurring their words and leaning over bars. I only smile when someone’s looking, tugging on the dress Anya picked for me subconsciously. 

“Relax, y/n,” Anya hums, “Men don’t understand they’re being hustled when someone pretty is the one swindling them, and you look hot.” 

A particularly drunk man walks by slowly, eyes reflecting no shame as he blatantly rakes his gaze down my form. I shift uneasily. “That might be the problem.” 

She tilts her head back, gaze focusing on the crow marking etched into the back wall of the club. A very strange and consistent crow theme in here. “Maybe you should keep the dress on until you run into Jace.” 

The mention of Jace in that context leaves my face warm. “Wha--what?” Great. I’m sputtering. “Shut up!” 

She laughs easily, “I’m only teasing--he’d probably ta--” 

“Anya!” 

Again, her laugh is loud and bright. “Kidding!” Before I can scorch her, she nods her head towards a gambling table. “An open seat--go, you know Kenya’ll have our heads if we don’t multiply this,” she tosses me the drawstring bag, I catch it awkwardly, “By five.” 

There are a lot of things I’ve ruined--but I never mess up when it comes to gambling. We’re all entitled to our talents and mine are destruction and trickery. “I’ll have six times this amount before midnight.” 

A little cocky, but it’s well deserved. I stroll up to the table easily, comforted by the fact that Anya’s only a few feet away. 

“You’re playing this round?” 

I smile politely, used to this kind of hesitance. “I think I’d like to try it.” The mock-hesitance in my voice burns coming up, but the dumber I seem the faster I make up my money. The rest of the participants snicker. Expected. I’m going to enjoy taking their money. “I can pay if that’s the issue.”

The sound of me fishing through the small bag of golden coins silences the men at a table. The man closest to me, the one with smooth brown skin and a smile I imagine has convinced many people to play into sins for him, leans forward slightly. I let him peek at the coins, the more they want my money the more they’ll believe my lies. 

“How much to enter?” 

A tall man snorts. I fight back the urge to glare. 

“Three of those coins should do.” The boy next to me is decent enough to answer. I’ll steal from him least. “I’m Jesper.” 

I’ve been to enough clubs to know when a man is attempting to find company for the night. I hope the playful niceness I see in him is real. “Kamil.” My sister’s name is salt water on my tongue. 

The first game is easy enough to throw. The second, I have to work at a little more--their smugness is killing me. I pretend to be ready to step away from the table.

“Where are you going?” 

I shrug at the stranger. “I shouldn’t lose any more money, my father won’t be happy with me as it is.” 

The stranger leans forward, glancing at his chips. “We don’t want a girl like you in trouble at home--why don’t we up the stakes? You win this next hand, and you’ll win double what I did.” He pauses, eyeing my drawstring bag, “Of course--you’ll have to be willing to risk a matching sum.” 

Awful odds. “Deep odds,” Jesper mumbles, “Consider cutting your losses.”

Jesper is a better person than the other men here. I almost feel bad he’s going to be losing any money. “One more game won’t kill me,” I smile as politely as I can manage, “Besides--my luck could be about to change and I’d never know.” 

I hand the coins over to the dealer. I watch as the money is shuffled onto the center of the table, suppressing the grin of someone about to release her killshot. Ten minutes later, I’ve doubled what I’ve lost. The man who upped the bet is gaping, Jesper’s expression has shifted entirely, and everyone’s staring at me like I’ve shifted into another person entirely. 

“Wow--luck really does change quickly here.” I’ve hooked them. They’ll want to play again, to prove that my victory was a fluke. “Do you guys want to play again? It only seems fair I give you a chance to win back everything you just lost since you did the same for me.” 

Everyone’s quick to agree, but I’m quicker to win the second round. Some men look murderous, some look ready to play again, their egos incapable of handling defeat at my hands. 

“You came in with a surprising amount of coins,” Jesper muses, reaching over to pick up a piece of gold that rolled towards him, “I hate to accuse you of counterfeiting, but one has to wonder.” 

Typical. “I swear my money’s real.” 

“Real money can take a bullet…” Is he going to shoot it...in doors? Jesper tosses the coin easily, letting it flip in the air before taking out a pistol and shooting it dead center in a movement so casually fluid and deadly I’m taken back. 

The coin clatters onto the table, the bullet embedded into the precious metal. I eye it cautiously, beyond relieved that Kenya at least doesn’t lie. “T-told you.” 

His eyebrows narrow as he reholsters his pistol. “About that, I guess you did.” 

Jesper’s skepticism is a red flag. I need to get out of here before my winnings are taken from me and Kenya kills me or Jace for my failure. “I didn’t take you for such a sore loser.” 

Before Jesper can respond, something black raps against the table once. “What did I tell you about loud noises at the table?” 

Jesper’s gaze leaves mine immediately. “Sorry boss, just checking a swindler.” 

He--he knows. I blink twice, forcing surprise to color my features. “Swindler?” I look between him and the man he called his boss. “N--no, it was just--luck. I played a hand, I lost some money, I played again and I won some money. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?” 

“You only started winning after the stakes were raised--I’ve seen that tactic before and it’s not appreciated here.” 

I swallow once, a pinch of dread making its way through my stomach. He had shot that coin with no hesitation--I didn’t even see him click off the safety. How dangerous is the man at my table? How dangerous is his boss? Everyone seemed to straighten at the sight of the stranger with the cane. 

“There was no tactic--it was a game.” 

The man I don’t know tears his gaze away from Jesper. “Someone like you shouldn’t even be here.” 

He has a point--my demeanor doesn’t exactly scream someone who frequents establishments at the Barrel during the night. “I’m only here to keep my friend out of trouble.” A fair enough response. “And I played a game and someone can’t handle a loss.”

“You should have seen her bluff, I’ve met professional thieves that lie less fluently than her.” 

At Jesper’s words, the stranger’s grip around his cane tightens. I imagine that beneath his gloves, the color of marred souls, his knuckles are white. “Who do you work for? Who sent a girl to invade my business?” 

Who do I work for? No one that has any business with him. “What?” How self absorbed can one man be? 

“If playing the fool didn’t get you through a card game--don’t think it will get you through this.” 

What? Before I can question him, Anya grabs my shoulder, pulling me so that there’s a safer distance between me and the man. 

“You’re an idiot,” her whisper is pointed, directed solely at me. “Of course you’d find trouble with Dirtyhands.” Did I hear that correctly? Dirtyhands--as in the Dirtyhands? I stare at her, eyes wide. How had I been so stupid? I should have recognized him from his gloves alone. Anya turns her head towards them. “We don’t want any trouble--forgive my friend, she’s not a spy she’s just an oblivious idiot.” 

“Rude.” 

She throws me a glare. “But she did win.” The money isn’t worth the trouble we’ll find trying to keep it but Kenya’s words follow us wherever we go. “We’ll take what we earned and never come back.” 

“I don’t concede often.” 

I reach for Anya’s arm, brushing her forearm in hopes of telling her things will be okay. Kaz Brekker may be feared, but we’re gods in the making. “Neither do we.”

He seems to want to play at an odd, power-filled standstill, but Anya and I are more desperate than him. Anya leans forward, ready to take the money from the table, but the unidentified man who upped the stakes earlier is quick to grab her forearm. 

“I don’t take losses, little girl.”

Anya. I can only imagine the horror she feels when a strange man touches her. Screw precaution. “Is that money worth burning for?” 

“Y/n.” Anya’s warning comes out low; Jesper raises an eyebrow. I guess being Kamil was short lived. 

“Excuse me?” 

The man will not intimidate me. Fear is a crutch men use to keep women in check. “You heard my question.” I hold up my hand, releasing enough energy to develop a flame in my palm. “And if your answer is ‘no’, I suggest you release my friend before your body is nothing more than a pile of ash your own mother wouldn’t even be able to identify.” 

The stranger blinks, touches the gun on his hip, and then releases Anya’s arm. 

“You can’t come into my club, hustle money away from my men, and walk away unscathed because you’re a grisha.” 

Words cannot express how badly I do not want to speak to Kaz Brekker at any point in my life. His grip on his cane is a silent warning--a threat. But what is a man’s threat to a girl that’s meant to be a god? “You can kill me but I’ll use my dying breath to burn this entire building.” I’ve publicly backed him into a corner--I’m insane. 

Dirtyhands opens his mouth to reply, anyone within earshot holding on for his next words. Anya yanks me back as the sound of something explosive interrupts the room. A bullet flies past directly where I was standing and strikes the wall behind me. Anya just saved my life. Someone just shot at me. 

“Y/n, do you think it’s--” 

“No.” It can’t be. There’s no way a soldier found me again. “It can’t be--we were--we’ve been careful--and Kenya said they wouldn’t look for me--that he purchased me fully.” 

A man is moving through the crowd. A blue kefta. No. No. 

Not here. Not now.

And why are they shooting at me? “Anya,” I breathe out as cautiously as possible, “Run and no matter what don’t turn around.” 

“I’m not leaving you.” 

Anya. Always the older sister. “They don’t want you--they want me.” 

“You’re not a real Sun Summoner--it’s suicide for you.” 

I don’t have the heart to tell Anya I don’t particularly care about my life. It’s never truly been mine anyway. “I’ll make it out.” 

“You’re an inferni, not a miracle worker.” 

My lips pull into an odd sort of grimace. The gentle kind one hopes is mistaken for a smile. “I thought we were meant to be gods.” 

“A god can’t do what they want from you.” She mumbles. “So you’re capable of producing more fire than most--it’s not the same as creating light. It doesn’t matter how many drugs they pump into you it’s--” 

I shake my head once, “Anya--go.” 

“They want you to play Sun Summoner.” Dirtyhand’s tone is too smooth to trust. I know when someone’s trying to sell dreams that don’t exist. “The way they’ll have you do it will cost you, but the way I’ll have you do it will be practically painless.”

Is he always this confusing? “What?” 

The question is an irritation, that’s apparent in the cold tint that takes over his practically blank expression. “I need a Sun Summoner for a business deal--and lucky for you I’m out of time.” 

“You don’t want to work with me.” 

“No,” his voice is dismissive, he didn’t understand I meant that as a warning, “But I need to have some form of mass light before sunrise.” 

“The man I’m indentured to will never go for it.” Proposing such an idea would leave me with a broken rib again. 

Dirtyhands nods once, a vague acknowledgement. “That’s not your problem.” I keep my jaw set, scanning at the crowd for a flash of that blue kefta. “After all, it wasn’t his problem when he hurt you.” 

I had been careful to hide the bruises. The reminders of my humanity. My weaknesses, my failures, written onto my skin in purple and blue ink. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I didn’t until I got that reaction.” I’ve never so quickly felt the need to loathe someone. “It was easy enough to assume--young girl, desperate for money, a grisha powerful enough to be hunted down.” 

Is that supposed to be some sort of consolation? “My freedom would never come so easily.” 

“It wouldn’t be freedom--you’d owe me more than you already do for the kruge scam.” 

I swallow before I can make the mistake of telling him I’d consider any escape from Kenya freedom. “Close enough.” 

The grisha’s closer now, the light blue kefta so easy to spot amongst a sea of darkness. “You’re running out of time.” 

“Can you get my friend out?” 

“Y/n.” She can be mad for the rest of her life if she wants. 

He nods his head once. “She’ll be out the back before anyone knows she was even here.” 

“And she can take the money I won.” Maybe the income will be enough to spare her from Kenya’s wrath. “That’s a dealbreaker.” 

Kaz Brekker hesitates. It’s such a normal pause I almost think it’s a trap. “If she takes it there will be no way out for you--you will do what I ask even if it endangers your life.” 

“Y/n, it’s not worth it.” 

I don’t look at Anya. “You have my word.” 

“Y/n, I’m not taking anything and I’m not leaving you.” 

I finally turn. “Don’t be a self-sacrificing idiot--it’s not in your nature and frankly it doesn’t suit you.” Acts of goodness towards me have always left me feeling raw. Too raw. Like I’m bleeding out. “Sorry, I just…” Anya’s eyes are soft. She knows. She always knows. “I’ll get through whatever it is he’s planning and I’ll come back.” I swallow once, nerve draining from my body slowly. “Take the money--Kenya will be angry enough as is.” 

Anya drops her gaze as she collects from the table. It takes me a moment longer than it should to recognize this is shameful for her. I consider telling her that she’s doing the right thing, but that would burn her heart more. 

“You’re my sister,” Anya’s voice is lower than it’s ever been, “I should have stopped him.” 

Her guilt hurts more than the bruises. “You were as hurt as me--you have nothing to feel guilty about.” 

This is already more emotion than we’re used to expressing when alone let alone around others. Anya stretches out an arm, squeezes my shoulder once, and then takes a step back. “I’ll see you again.” 

“Yes,” I nod once.

“Jesper, take the girl out the back.” Turning forward blankly, Kaz begins to speak to me, “Hide behind the bar--my wraith will find you and take you somewhere else.” 

“Y--you have a wraith?” And I thought Kenya was weird. He lets out a sigh. “Sorry. Not the time.” 

“Desperation leads to bad decisions.” 

Dramatic. “I agree.” 

His gaze falls on me, taking in my narrow-eyed glare. There’s a moment in which I think the left corner of his mouth twitches upwards, but then he turns his head again. A trick of the light. “Go before you’re found and I’m out the money I let your friend take.” 

Yes. I’m not exactly safe right now, but Kaz Brekker needs me for something. That means I will not be leaving this building. By force or willingly. 

Silently, I turn, melting into those in the crowd that are either oblivious or don’t care enough to react to the cat and mouse game I’m currently in. When I reach the bar, I’m quick to duck behind it, pressing my back against shelves of alcohol. 

Searing Starlight (chapter two)

A/n Chapter twooo!! I cannot believe the support I’ve been getting on here im so excited to share my six of crows/shadow and bone fics with y’all!

 Lmk if you’d like to be tagged when I update this story!! And just letting y’all know I take requests so if you have an idea you’d like to see me attempt feel free to comment it or send it in :)) 

--

At least Kaz’s claimed ‘wraith’ (which is such an odd thing to just have) is a girl, and a seemingly kind one at that. She was quick to find me, body pressed into wooden shelves and glass bottles, and subtly gesture for me to follow her. It had been difficult to keep track of her flighty form through the crowd, but I think there was a point in her strange raveling, to make sure no one was following me. 

She’s not particularly talkative, but she doesn’t seem bothered by me. She tossed me a random oversized shirt to pull over my dress when she saw how I kept adjusting the fabric and crossing my arms. That was kinder than she needed to be. I think I’ll like her. 

“So you’re a wraith,” I manage, breaking the nervous silence, “Like a full time, constantly on-call wraith.” 

The question seems to puzzle her, dark eyebrows drawing together. “Yes.” The corner of her mouth twitches up slightly, a smile. “A full time, constantly on-call wraith.” She hesitates, perfect stance adjusting. “What were you doing before?” 

Great. This question. “Nothing important.” It’s not a fair cop-out. Especially since she answered my question. “I um...I’m indentured to Rollan Kenya.” 

I watch her reaction to the name. Some know of him. Some revere him. Some loathe him and everything he’s associated with. “His religious interpretations are controversial.” 

“If you think what he says to the public is bad you should hear what he says in private.” I push myself further into the chair I’m in. 

Something strange flickers over her features. “I can imagine.” 

Shaking my head, I hope I’m ending this conversation. “What’s your name?” 

A hesitation. “Inej.” 

I nod once, “I’m y/n.” 

“Do you need water, y/n?” 

I scratch my still exposed knee. “That’d be nice. Thank you.” 

She’s quick to leave, feet making no noise. A minute later she returns with a cup. I have no reason to suspect her, but I still sniff the cup before taking a cautious sip. I wonder if Anya made it back home. I wonder if she’s worse off for it. 

Before I can fall into a pit of debating despair, the door to the room Inej took me to squeaks open. On instinct, I snap my gaze towards the door, tensing. The first person I notice is Kaz, entering the room with a determination too intense for this time of night. Jesper is quick to follow, and I drop my stare. I’ve never had to interact with anyone I’ve lied to after taking their money. 

“Are they gone?” Inej asks, clearly accustomed to such brooding tension. 

Kaz nods once, “It took too much convincing--the Inferni’s more than she’s letting on.” 

I’m literally in the room. “I’m not--we’ve spoken two words to each other, sorry my abilities didn’t come up.” 

He turns towards me with a deadly grace. My grip on the cup tightens. What the hell is wrong for me? How deeply instilled is that god complex Kenya wanted in me? It must be as part of me as my name if I felt comfortable enough to speak that way to Kaz Brekker. 

I keep my eyes on his cane, waiting for some kind of physical retaliation. “Maybe the grisha hunting you would appreciate your sense of humor more.” 

It’s a bluff. He needs me. He’s desperate for something that can mimic a Sun Summoner. Still though, I’m not in the mood to poke a bear with a stick. “Speaking from experience,” I clear my throat awkwardly, “They tend not to.”

“Then I suggest you begin explaining before I decide I’d rather take my chances and you lose your worth.” 

Maybe if I hadn’t spent the last eleven years of my life with Kenya, his words would haunt me. I keep my expression set, but the lanterns in the room flicker. “It’s not as impressive as they’re making it seem--Inferni can produce fire, regular, red, bright fire.” I pause, feeling energy in my palms. “I can do the same, but I can also,” I extend a flat palm, “Do this.” 

I focus my energy on restraint, forcing the fire on my skin to remain there, covering my palms in a cold, blue glow. “It’s still fire, just blue--and that matters to them because blue light is the only kind you can use in the Fold.” Do they know anything about the fold? “Kenya, the man I’m indentured to, believes that this ability makes me eligible for Sainthood. He specializes in collecting people he thinks are eligible for Sainthood.” The low flame coating my palm licks upwards as I remember what disappointing Kenya means. “And if you don’t meet his standards, he’ll find a way to make sure you do. That’s why the grisha want me. He made me more and they believe that if they give me to someone who can give me an amplifier I’ll be able to produce enough blue light to protect an entire fleet.” 

“What do you mean ‘he’ll find a way to make sure you do’?” Inej’s voice is cautious. An attempt to be respectful. 

I drop my palm, letting the fire disappear into nothingness. “I wasn’t born with the ability to control the blue light so well--It’s difficult enough to produce for longer than two seconds let alone keep it from burning everything in sight. By the time I ended up in Kenya’s control he had learned that certain stimulants. Some scientists are working on a more grisha-targeted kind, but Kenya has managed to work with the generic well enough.” Hands shaking, I wipe the condensation off the side of the cup and hold out my wrist. Using the condensation, I begin to wipe at my wrist and forearm, smearing my makeup and revealing the needle bruises. “The key is withdrawals.”

Thoughts of begging Kenya, crying and screaming for another fix as he promised to give me that as soon as I showed some control of my abilities, make the shaking in my hand worse. I clasp my hands together, squeezing them in hopes of hiding the signs of withdrawal. 

I stare at the ground, not wanting to take anyone’s reaction in. I handle pity as well as I handle kindness. 

“Do you think you could produce enough blue light for one ship?”

Looking up, I take in Kaz’s measured expression. I’m glad he’s sticking to business. I’d rather that than deal with unpacking all of that with a group of strangers that don’t care if I live or die. 

“I could try.” I’ve never tried to protect anything that large. “Even if I can, it doesn’t mean a voyage like that will be safe.” 

“There’s no real safety in the Fold,” he replies easily. Realistic expectations. That will make this easier. “No one finds out about her--especially not Pekka Rollins.” 

I pull my arm towards my body, glad for the opportunity to hide the bruises. Signs of my weakness. The worst part was always the way Kenya would speak to me after. Pathetic. Weak. Trapped within the restraints of my flesh. 

“Who’s Pekka Rollins?” 

Kaz briefly turns his head in my direction. “No one that will ever concern you.” He ignores my annoyed huff. “We’ll use the Inferni to get to Alina Starkov.” 

Alina. Alina Starkov. “What do you want with Alina?”

 At that, the room seems to drain. I feel weirder than when they were seeing my abilities. 

“You know her?” Jesper’s surprise reveals more than Kaz wants him to. I don’t miss the glare he receives.

I half-shrug. “We were in the same orphanage for awhile.”

“How did you get to Ketterdam?” I don’t trust Kaz’s urgency. 

“I don’t remember, I was a child and I--I hit my head that night I think. I just woke up and I was with Kenya.” 

“How well do you know Alina?” 

There was a point in time in which she was my best friend. We learned how to braid hair by practicing on each other, we would draw maps together, and I was the only one who knew about her crush on Mal. “Not that well.” 

He takes a step forward, eyes almost squinting. The touch of distrust is evident on his face. “If you’re lying I’ll find out.” 

I owe Alina at least this. “Well then it’s a good thing I’m not.” 

I’m not naive enough to believe that I’ve convinced him, but his intense gaze does not remain on me. I’m relieved when his attention is off of me, but he’s only moving on to start planning the riskiest thing I’ve ever done. 

-- 

Taglist: @ambrosia-v-black 

Searing Starlight (chapter 3)

A/n I CANNOT believe how many people have supported this story,, I’m so excited to continue it with you guys :)) 

Just a reminder that while this is based off the show i hope to blend in some book aspects/vibes and this is just a fanfic and it won’t be completely accurate/follow the show 100% and any changes I make/parts I chose not to focus on are for the sake of the story I’m trying to tell 

-- 

I can’t tell if I wish Kaz had let me go with Inej or not. She’s faster than I am, and considering that I have no real reason to be loyal to them, I’m a flight risk. That means I’m stuck here with only the Kaz Brekker and Jesper, who I tricked. I hadn’t exactly befriended Inej entirely in the few minutes I was alone with her, but she seemed more trustworthy than them. More susceptible to reason. And when she heard where I was from, who was responsible for raising me, something in the way she watched me changed. It was the oddest combination--a look of both tired sympathy and cautious admiration.

“What I don’t understand…” Jesper breaks the silence. “Is why you all go back there. He lets you leave, he gives you money--there’s no reason to return.” 

I try not to let the question anger me. I shift awkwardly, scratching at my palm. “We tried leaving.” My stomach knots. “Once.” How do I make them understand? “He caught us because we young and stupid, and then he…” I exhale slowly. They’re just words. They don’t change anything. Whether I speak them or not, the events of my history aren’t different. “He picked the youngest, a girl only six months younger than me, and he slit her throat from ear to ear and took a finger of anyone that flinched as her blood splattered onto them. He said her blood was our penance and to live with knowing what we did to her would be our punishment.” 

I don’t tell them that I was twelve. I don’t tell them Anya lied about my birthday on the records. I don’t tell them I’m missing the very tip of my pinky--a small punishment for the twitch of my lip. “When Kenya is truly angry, he never hurts you--he hurts those around you.” No one responds to that. They’re making me seem like such a bummer. “It’s not awful all the time...he borders on agreeable when you listen to him.” 

Most days we have peace, left to our own devices as long as we accomplish certain goals. Their silence does little to unnerve me. After speaking so freely of such a nightmare, the desire to be rid of the taste of those words from my mouth is almost overwhelming, but I hold to the silence. 

“Why has he never sold you to the grisha that are so desperate for you?”

Of course Kaz Brekker would ask a question like that. “He isn’t the business of money, he’s in the business of creating gods. He indentures people he thinks could one day become saints or something else entirely. He wants to be owed by the heavens.” 

I watch Kaz carefully, a part of me curious about how someone like him could react to a goal like that. I can see him understanding the ambition of it all, but I can’t imagine himself a person of faith. Perhaps he’ll think it a clever trick. Perhaps he’ll even agree with Kenya.

He nods once; something I get nothing from. 

Whatever. He can be coy and distant this entire time. They all can. I’ll be out of here soon enough, and I’ll find Anya. And if I can stop something bad from happening to Alina then that’s a bonus I’m willing to take risks for. 

“That man is awful.” 

Inej’s voice comes from right behind me. I snap my head around. “You’re in here.” 

She nods once, oblivious to how shocking her sudden appearance is. She hands me a knapsack casually, staring at Kaz. “What’s the plan? We have six hours.” 

I look around the room, only seeing one closed window and one closed door. “There’s one door in this room.” 

“We take the Inferni to the ship.” He doesn’t even bother looking in my direction. 

Okay, they can be mean to be all they want but they can’t ignore me. I don’t think I’ve ever been ignored in my entire life. Gods in the making get attention. It may be the cruel attention of fate, but it’s something. 

“Did she come in through the window?” 

Again, I am ignored. 

“And then what, boss?” Jesper casually crosses the room, sitting down next to me on the small couch. It’s like I’m not even here. “We’d need to break into the Little Palace to get Alina.” 

What? “You guys are going to--” No. No. I am not kidnapping Alina. And there’s no way she’d be in the Little Palace. “First off--if you want to kidnap Alina Starkov for whatever insane ploy you’re all playing at, you’d never find her at Little Palace. She’s not a Grisha and second--” I cut myself off, standing from my seat. “Why am I even telling you this? I shouldn’t be helping you kidnap her.” 

Kaz’s eyes dart to me boredly. At least it’s some kind of acknowledgement of my existence. “I thought you two weren’t close.” 

I seriously consider scorching him. Just a little. Not even enough to scar him, just enough to get him to shut up. “She’s still a person who has a right to her body and what happens to it.” 

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but if we pull this off we get one million kruge.” 

What does he think I’m going to say? ‘Okay, well as long as you’re doing it for a good reason.’ Is that the response he expects. “Okay, well that makes it fair.” 

His eyes narrow skeptically, but Jesper is the one to ask, “Really?” 

“No,” I scoff, slumping back into my seat, “I was being sarcastic.” 

I drop my head back, neck craning over the back of the small couch. It isn’t exactly comfortable, but at least it makes it easier to ignore them. I’ve kept worse company for less. There’s an odd silence for a long second. I look forward without moving, I see Kaz vaguely gesture in Inej’s direction.

“Y/n,” Inej’s voice is refreshingly measured, “I think after the kinds of things we’ve gone through we understand that there’s some relativity in morality.” 

I shift my head to the right so I can look at her. “...Yes, but you’re just forcing another girl into a similar situation.” Why is Alina even worth so much? “And why would anyone pay so much for Alina?” 

Inej hesitates, glancing at Kaz and then back at me. “She’s a Sun Summoner.” 

On instinct, I straighten entirely, my body rigid. They’re insane. “You all are cracked if you think Alina’s a Sun Summoner.” No. No. It couldn’t be her. “Bless your hearts, seriously, she’s--she was trained to be a map maker--she’s not…” None of them relax, none of them shift in any way. What good would lying about this bring them? They have no reason to lie about this. “Saints, I should have had more to drink while downstairs.” 

So what if she’s a Sun Summoner? She didn’t ask to be one. She doesn’t deserve this. I cross my arms. “It doesn’t make this okay.” 

“And would it make it okay if you were getting a cut of the profit?” What? 

Kaz is looking at me in that tactful way. It takes all of my focus to not let myself become unnerved. “What?” 

“If I offered you a cut, would you be able to push aside more protests in order to make working with you easier?” 

Could I do it? Could I betray Alina? I drop my gaze away from his, opting to focus on the forgotten lantern on the coffee table in front of me. It flickers to life with no conscious prompting on my part. The flame is low and blue. Still though, Kaz notices it. What doesn’t he notice? 

“I can help you do what I agreed to.” I swallow around a lump in my throat, “But I cannot help you kidnap Alina.” 

The corner of his mouth tugs downwards. “We’re just going to get her to work with us.” 

“Work with you?” 

“We never said anything about taking her, and if Alina is really your friend you should know that the entire world is after her. Better us who can get her out of an unwanted situation quickly than the brutal General Kirigan who will hold her hostage until she does what he wants.” 

...I guess he has a point. “Oh.” I’m not naive enough to think that their methods will revolve around making Alina comfortable, but perhaps it’s not as dark as I assumed. “Maybe I was a little quick to assume…” I trail off awkwardly, looking at Inej for some type of reassurance. She avoids my gaze. 

I scratch the back of my arm, feeling like a spiraling child. I pick up my knapsack and place it on my lap, fiddling with the strap. 

“Come on,” Kaz stands, adjusting his grip on his cane, “We only have until sunrise.” 

As I stand, I pull down the skirt of my dress, suddenly aware of how inappropriate my clothing is for this late in the night. “Can--can I change first?” 

It’s a sheepish question, leaving me feeling like a child. 

“Five minutes,” Kaz offers, stepping out of the room with the rest of them. 

Inej leaves last, feet more silent than a cat. She offers me the tiniest hint of a smile. Despite my reservations, I beam at her. Something about me finds her politeness endearing despite it all. I think she closes the door loudly on purpose, to assure me of privacy. 

Normally changing in a building so full of drunk men would leave me nervous, but knowing Inej is outside leaves me feeling safe. I may not trust her with my life but something about her being tells me she values personal autonomy enough to protect it. 

I sift through the belongings Inej brought me. Clean underwear I try not think of her searching for, a thin white dress, comfortable pants, shorts, a few casual shirts, my red hood, and a nightgown. When I get to the bottom of the bag, and I see the personal belongings Inej smuggled back for me, I’m moved so powerfully my hand flies to my mouth on instinct. She had brought the folded up piece of paper with the only information I’ve been able to find about Kamil, the book I left on my nightstand, the small candle holder Alina had given me the day before I was taken away, the blade Mal had given me the day I left, the deck of playing cards Anya had first taught me to play with, and my mother’s necklace. The silver north star on a long chain. 

Before I can become too emotional, I take off the Crow’s Club T-shirt Inej had given me when I looked cold. I change into black pants, tucking the small blade Mal had given me into the pocket. The shirt I put on is pale blue, breaking the dark theme of everything around me. I fasten my red hood over my shoulders, basking in the familiar fabric. Lastly, I pull the north star necklace over my head, watching the blue orb with a black dot at its center blink at me in the light. I always found the stone at the pendant’s center odd. I'm quick to walk towards the door, nervous about what wasting their time could mean. 

“Let’s do this,” I sigh, pushing open the door. 

They all pause. Or maybe they were never moving. I try to imagine them interacting normally, but it’s hard to picture them as anything but intense and unflinching. There’s something odd about them, though, Jesper practically sulking and Kaz dropping his head despite Inej’s harsh stare.

“What kind of stone is in your necklace?” 

I swear to the Saints that if Kaz Brekker tries to steal it I’ll melt those leather gloves into his hands. “Try to take it and--” 

“That’s what I get for trying to make ‘polite conversation.’” He throws a look at Inej as he speaks the last two words. 

Wait--did Inej tell him to try to make polite conversation? Wait--more importantly, did he just kind of, almost say something that borders on casual? 

Wrinkling my nose, I let out a slight sigh. “Sorry.” 

His eyebrows draw together quizzically. “Did you just apologize for assuming I’d steal from you?” 

Great. Now I’m fully embarrassed. “Can we just go?” 

“Not before meeting me, I hope.” The stranger’s voice means nothing to me, but the others tense at it immediately. What? The man continues to walk forward, his steps too casual and confident for me to trust. The stranger is quick to respond to the question on my face, “Pekka Rollins.” 

--

Taglist: @ambrosia-v-black @fandomstuffff @boxofteenageideas @losers-club6 @cityofstaars @stillreadingfantasy @slatersbrekker  @xoxo-aclown @alzawas-plug @nuwanda-greaser @swearingsolemnly @-thatgirloverthere-

General Taglist: @theincredibledeadlyviper @grishaverse7

The Promise of Rain

A/n finally writing that Kaz Brekker x reader angsty-fluff where the reader is all sunshine-y and Kaz is dramatic as always lol 

Might make this a blurb series bc i like this dynamic so much lol

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x sunshine-y reader 

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Kaz has a conversation with the reader (who’s a runaway princess) about what happens to people who stay near him. 

-- 

He once said that he didn’t believe in Saints. A moment later he conceded that perhaps they existed in order to appease Inej, but he was quick to tact on that if Saints existed they didn’t care about him. Inej and I had exchanged a look, she pleaded with me in silence to let him be. I opened my mouth despite the look in her eyes, but he had walked away before I could get any words out. 

He believes that the Saints don’t care about him, but as soon as he was dragged in by Jesper, bleeding and more broken than usual, it had started to rain. The rain is a promise. The rain is a sign that he will wake up. 

I tap a finger against the forgotten book on my lap, ignoring the dried blood I’ve been too anxious to wash off. When Kaz wakes up he’ll either scold me or partially tease me for waiting here by his bedside. The rain continues, cascading down invisible hope. 

“Save your prayers, even for you the Saints won’t regard me.” Kaz. His voice is raspier than it should be and his slight condescension is blighted by the tired flatness of it. But it’s him. He’s speaking. 

I tear my gaze away from the window, almost forgetting to tamper down my relief before finally looking at him. I haven’t known him long enough to see him in any level of defeat, but I’ve heard enough stories. The fictional exaggeration of those that fear him have made him seem so immortal. Some part of me must have internalized that because to see him like this, to see him so human is too intimate. 

“Don’t be so narcissistic.” Something about Kaz always leaves me feeling challenged, like each comment is some kind of dare. I adjust my posture. “I wasn’t praying because I knew you’d be okay.” 

His expression is unchanging. “So much faith in me?” 

There’s a soft edge to his words, an attempt to twist some kind of awkward denial out of me. Some days I don’t think Kaz enjoys anything and then other days I think he enjoys any misstep in my words. 

I shrug, pushing down the flood of relief still attempting to crawl out of my chest. “You’re always okay.” I scratch the back of my wrist idly. “It seems the safe bet.” 

“Don’t tell me you’ve been taking gambling advice from Jesper.” 

I half roll my eyes. “No--Jesper and I don’t play together anymore.” I let out an easy sigh. “Last time I beat him he bordered on a hissy fit.” There’s the slightest hint of upturning at the corners of his lips. “I should go tell Jesper and Inej you’re awake.” 

“I think you should change out of that dress first.”

He was more likable when I thought he might die at any second. “Wow--Kaz Brekker the professional stylist.” He has no right to judge the formal gown I’m in. Yes, my outfit is ridiculous, but I’m only wearing it because the Crows needed someone they knew at a merchant’s party for a part of some scheme they wouldn’t share the details of with me. “Yes, I’m aware that this dress is more tulle than anything else, but I’m only wearing it because I was helping you.” 

I wait for some retort about how he could have managed without my assistance or some kind of comment about how I didn’t need such a large dress to flirt and distract the guards as the Crows snuck into the merchant’s private office. “You fit in there more than you said you would.” 

From anyone else, I’d consider this an insult. “I was making an effort for the sake of your plans.” 

“I saw you before I went into the office, you knew the dances, the man took your hand.” 

That’s the weirdest observation I’ve ever witnessed someone reflect on. “That’s how those dances tend to work.” I don’t hide the confusion in my expression. “How much blood did you lose?” 

Kaz’s piercing gaze drops to the blanket on his lap. “Not a concerning amount.”

“Why do I feel like we have different definitions of ‘concerning’?” 

His eyes flit upwards, a partial smirk playing at his lips. “We define a lot of things differently.” He pauses, “You defined the life you slipped into so easily tonight as something you could never do.” 

“I can’t.” What is his problem? “One dance is different than an eternity of planning teas and marrying some man who only keeps me so I can rear his children.” 

“You’d end up marrying someone who could give you things.”

He better not be implying I should be having children. I’m seriously starting to hope he did lose a significant amount of blood because that would be some kind of explanation. “I don’t want anyone to be giving me children right now, but I guess your concern is ni--”

“No, no,” he screws his eyes shut for a long second, “You know what I meant.” I stay silent. “You’re technically a princess, y/n, you could have more than the Barrel.” There’s an odd silence as he pauses. “Someone like you should have more than the Barrel.” 

He speaks like his word is law. That’s the one habit of his I can never seem to forgive. Is Kaz telling me to go home? To go back to a mother who dreams of marrying me off and a father with a temper that often leads to violence? He may be Dirtyhands, but he is no one to tell me who to go back to. Not after I risked my anonymity to get him into that merchant’s office. 

I shut my book and stand in one swift motion. “I’m going to tell Jesper and Inej that you’re awake.”

“Y/n.” I ignore him. “Y/n.” Again, I ignore him, approaching the doorway. The rustling of sheets leaves me frozen, hand on the doorknob. “Y/n.” 

Without thinking, I turn on my heels while glaring. There’s no way he’s proud enough to have climbed out of bed wi--and he’s standing. Standing almost directly behind me. 

“Kaz Brekker, I am going to say this one time and one time only.” I keep my words measured and my tone flat. No room for argument. “You just had nine stitches put in near your heart, get your ass back in bed before that is no longer your only injury.” 

He pauses, lips pressed together into a tight white line. And then his mouth opens, pried open by an oddly light sound. Did he just--Did Kaz Brekker just laugh? He doesn’t laugh. I didn’t think he was physically capable, and now he laughs while I’m threatening him? I should hit him on principle alone and damn the consequences. 

“Did you--” I’m gaping at him with a rage I am not accustomed to. “Did you just laugh?” 

Kaz is quick to shut his mouth. “You did swear you’d get me to laugh one day.” 

Saints--now he chooses to have some kind of sense of humor. “Not while I was threatening you for being an idiot after saying my lineage means that I’m meant to be trapped in the life I desire least.” 

“I didn’t say that.” I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t deserve more than this because of your family, you deserve more than this because--” He cuts himself off with a sharp sigh. “Do you remember what happened the day we met?” 

He had wanted to return me to my father for the money. I had managed to convince him I could be more useful working for him without profit. The first day had been tense, I had sworn to myself that I would hate him forever. 

“I remember really hating you.” I remember thinking him beautiful despite his darkness. “I remember it started raining on our way here.” 

“You had a hood, but you pushed it off your head to feel the rain.” I don’t remember that because indulging in the rain is instinctual to me. “You looked at the rain, and you smiled--and then you saw a woman with a child and you took off your hood and gave it to them.” 

“What does that have to d--” 

“Watching that felt like intruding on an intimate moment I had no business knowing about, but it wasn’t that to you. That moment was nothing to you because that moment was who you are.” 

I don’t understand what he sees in something I can barely remember. “Kaz, what does that have to do with anything?” 

“I’m the monster that children believe live under their beds, I’m the bastard of the Barrel, I’m someone who gets blood on everything near them.” His gaze is harsher than I’ve ever seen it as he focuses on the dried blood splotched across my hands and arms. “And then I can’t even help you wash it off.” 

Those last words are the closest to broken I’ve ever heard him sound. “Kaz--”

“And you’re the girl who looks at the rain like it’s a gift from the Saints.” 

Is he implying what I think he’s implying? Even if I believed him such a source of evil, even if I felt like touch mattered that much--why would he care? I keep the much more frightening implication at bay as I exhale. Clarity will only make this conversation worse. “That doesn’t matter.” The words leave me in a low whisper. 

I stare at the ground until his silence is something I can no longer bear. Looking up as cautiously as possible, I take in his expression. I’ve never seen him look so--so enraged. “It doesn’t matter?!” He doesn’t bother hiding the fact that he’s practically seething. “I’ve viewed your presence here as temporary since you first came and despite that, when I saw you there…” The breath he lets out is practically pained. “When I saw what your life is meant to be--I didn’t want you to go.” 

The admission breaks something hard in my chest. “I never wanted to go.” My eyeline drops to the ground. “I didn’t want to go when you were trying to make me, I didn’t want to go when it was only for that evening.” I swallow a lump of emotion restricting my throat. “When you were bleeding out and Jesper had to carry you back here I let myself imagine what it’d be like if you died. And it hurt. It hurt so badly I asked myself if I would rather never know you than feel that pain.” 

“Would you?” His voice has gone hollow. 

I finally look up again. “No.” That word leaves me more bare than any physical touch ever could. 

“I stain everything that stays with me,” his voice has seamlessly shifted back to a tone meant for business, “Me wanting you to stay is more than enough reason for you to leave.”

My chest aches as emotions I’ll never be able to place a name to pound against my chest. “I’m a princess that ran away from her family and tried to befriend her kidnapper--you can’t possibly be narcissistic enough to believe that you’re what’s corrupted me.” 

“Y/n,” his voice is gravely again, the way it was when he first woke up. 

“No. What could you possibly think I’d say to that?” He’s insane--I’m not even sure I understand what he’s implying. “You know I’ll never agree with what you’re saying, so I have no idea what kind of reaction you’re looking for.”

“Maybe a genuine one.” 

The comment is so frustrating I can’t help but roll my eyes. The irony of Kaz Brekker asking for a genuine reaction to an emotionally heavy comment is almost laughable. “My genuine reaction is that you’re acting like an idiot because I don’t agree with anything you’re saying, but calling someone an idiot after they’ve been stabbed in the chest is a little insensitive so I can’t give you my genuine reaction.”

Kaz half-scoffs, “You don’t agree? Y/n--are you hearing me!? I want--I want you to stay.” Even angry, the admission warms me. He lets out a frustrated sigh. “More than that I want--” 

“What?” 

He shakes his head once. “I want something that can never be because I can’t give what needs to be given to get it.” 

“Kaz, if it involves me staying you don’t need to give anything for that because I don’t want to go.” 

“I-want-you-to-stay-with-me.” The admission is pried from him by some invisible force. He speaks so fiercely the sentence comes out as one angry word. 

He speaks so quickly a part of me is convinced that I misheard him. I watch him as he moves back to the bed, sitting down in a way so resigned I wonder if I blurted something out on instinct. 

“Kaz,” this is embarrassing, “I wanted to stay with you even when I wanted to hate you.”

I take in his measured expression, the only thing implying any kind of reaction is the way his eyebrows draw together. “Don’t say that, you don’t understand what that means.” 

“Why? Because you’re convinced you’ll ruin me?” 

“Y/n, we’d be together with a wall between us, keeping us from ever touching.” 

“I will tolerate any amount of damage you’re so convinced staying with you will bring, I will stay with you and never touch you and think nothing of it--but I will not stay with you just to stand in front of a wall.” I let out a tired breath. “I will stay with you but my one condition will be that you have to let me know you.” 

Kaz’s intense gaze wavers. “The first thing you’ll know is that me allowing you to stay is a testament to my greed.” 

I give him a sharp look, “It’s not greed if I want to be here.” 

He half sighs, leaning against a pillow as he turns to look out the window. “It’s raining,” he muses, “The Saints must have done that for you.” 

The sentiment is so soft my heart feels like it’s constricting. “I thought you didn’t believe in the Saints.” 

“If they exist, they do so for people like you.” 

I push past the emotion in my chest as I move to sit in the same chair I was in earlier. “I was honest when I said I didn’t pray for you.” I scratch the back of my arm, a coldness passing over me. “I didn’t pray because I knew you would be okay because you had to be.” 

“They wouldn’t have saved me,” he mumbles, “Or maybe they would have for you.” 

I shake my head once, staring at the rain with more fascination than before. 

--

General Taglist: @theincredibledeadlyviper @grishaverse7 @lonelystarship

The Promise of Rain, blurb 2

The Promise of Rain (part 2?? technically) 

A/n I was not originally planning a second part for this but some people wanted it and this idea came to me and it works better with the context of ‘The Promise of Rain’ but it can technically be read as a stand alone :))

Anyways this might turn into a small series of kinda connected blurbs that are all kind of canon with each other but aren’t necessarily connected except for the reader’s background (the reader is a very sunshine-y person and knows Kaz bc she’s a runaway princess that he was hired to bring back home but she managed to convince him to let her work for him instead)

--

The night air had left me with a chill that made me want nothing more than to have my covers draped over me as I read. I’m normally more sociable after a job, especially after such a simple and safe ending, but a lot of tonight had left me wanting to be alone. 

Well, not truly alone. The company of my books is always welcomed, but tonight I can’t seem to find much comfort within the pages. After almost every paragraph, I find myself distracted by gusts of wind and thoughts of the heavy, silver clouds that seem to make up tonight. A part of me longs for the rain. I know it’s ridiculous to expect rain each time I desire some sense of comfort, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want it. Especially when the sky so clearly implies it. 

“This must be the fifth time I’ve come here and you’ve been reading.” Kaz’s sudden appearance is almost enough to shake away my lingering somberness. 

I roll my eyes slightly, turning my attention back to the page in front of me. “That observation is just a testament to how often you come in here.” 

His glare is half hearted, a look I’d find endearing if I was less annoyed. “Where else am I going to find a reminder that good people exist in Ketterdam?” 

I think he may have a sixth sense that warns him when I’m treading the line between being annoyed and displeased. Everytime I find myself mad at him in a way that makes me want to avoid him instead of yell at him, Kaz makes some ridiculously heart-melting comment. He steps further into the room. I don’t miss the way he eyes my stretched out legs. Ever since the conversation we had after he woke up after an injury, we’ve fallen into the unmentioned habit of silently inviting the other to stay by moving to make room for them. 

It had started the day after the conversation in which Kaz had admitted that he wanted me to stay with him. He had been sitting on the small couch while discussing the details of a job. Shortly after I walked in he made a point of shifting so that he was clearly on one side of the couch. I didn’t think much about sitting down, but Inej and Jesper exchanged a look. 

Now, though, I keep my legs stretched out on the bed. He eyes my position on the bed, something grim crossing his features. 

“It might rain tonight.” 

He knows me so damn well. I hate it. “I hope so.”

I turn my head, analyzing the way the world seems to be on the cusp of something. I stare at the silver clouds until I feel something hard tap my leg. The tap is firm but not painful. I’m quick to look at Kaz as he lowers his cane. The mention of rain had been a distraction. 

“You distracted me on purpose.” 

“The first rule of the Barrel is to always be prepared.” There’s a slight uptilt to his lips, something I’ve learned to interpret as a sign of teasing. 

How is he so easy to be around one second and so cold the next? I resist a smile. “I’ll take notes.” 

Kaz ignores my passive aggressive tone. His focus seems to be on my legs that have still not moved to offer him a place next to me. “You wear your emotions too openly.” Great, he’s going to make us talk about it. “What reason could you possibly have to be mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you.” It’s a partial truth. 

His expression harshens. “Don’t lie.” 

“I’m not thrilled with you, but I don’t think that’s the same as being mad.” 

Kaz lets out a partial sigh. “No, they’re not the same.” Such an early concession feels like a trap. “With you, the first option is worse.” I don’t have anything to say to that. “Is this because of what I said to Jesper?” 

My posture straightens on instinct. “He wants your validation more than he’d ever admit and I understand that expressing praise isn’t exactly something you do, but would it kill you to not actively insult him?” 

“I didn’t say anything that was wrong. He thinks he’s a gambler but he’s just someone born for losses.” The look I give him must mean something to him, because Kaz is quick to tact on, “That doesn’t make him less valuable of an asset or less relatively dependable.” 

I eye him cautiously, the slightest bit of vulnerability playing at his features. “Don’t look at me like that--and don’t tell me that. Jesper’s the one who could use the occasional reminder from you that you hold him to any regard with positive connotations.” His lips press together like he’s thinking about scolding me for scolding him. “It’s only because I know you care more about Jesper than you’d ever let on.” 

“Jesper’s esteem can handle the blow.” The curtness of his voice is a blow in its own sense. “And he didn’t exactly deserve to be in my good graces after what he did tonight.” 

My sigh is not weighted enough to match Kaz’s newfound fountain of emotion. “We were successful--”

“He left you.” I didn’t know Kaz’s voice was capable of such harshness. “I paired him with you, and he left you--and you almost didn’t make it.” I let the weight of his words take up all the available space in the room, keeping the silence that follows them until some of the heaviness has dissipated. “He could have cost me one of my best people.”

Oh. His harshness, his unwarranted coldness, had been a manifestation of his concern. For me. Guilt knots my stomach. Potential words that may offer Kaz some sort of support raise and die back down in my throat. Kaz turns towards the door. 

“Kaz.” He pauses. There’s a long moment in which I think he won’t turn around, but finally, he does. I tuck my legs beneath me, forcing myself to sit up a little straighter. “I told Jesper to leave because I knew the job would have failed if he had been trapped in that room with me.” I drop my gaze towards the window. “I was right, the job was successful, and I got out in time so it was worth it.”

“You risked your safety?” The harsh facet of his being is making its return in full force. 

“For the job,” I’m careful to keep my words factual, “It’s what we’re supposed to do.”

Kaz’s jaw locks. “When I said that keeping you near me would ruin you this is what I meant.” 

Is it really this big of a deal? I made it out. “Kaz.”

“This wasn’t my best idea.” His words are leached of anything. “You’re going back home. Tomorrow I’ll arrange the voyage myse--” 

“Kaz Brekker you may get to live your life doing anything you want but you don’t get to control mine.” My chin raises an inch, an instinctual act of subtle rebellion. “I am not going back there, even if I’m technically indebted to you because you didn’t return me to my father but that does not mean I’ll--”

“I’m not trying to control you.” His words are sharp, boarding on a yell. “A job like that one wasn’t worth you.” 

From Kaz, I know those words are heavy. There’s a lot of things I could say to that. I could tell him that I wanted to do something for him. I could say that I appreciate him telling me that. I could even say that in his own way, Kaz giving Jesper a hard time because he left me, is kind of cute in a misguided way. The thing is I think all of these responses will make things worse. 

“Kaz,” I keep my voice as steady as possible, “I’m fine, you’re fine, it all worked out.” Scratching the back of my arm, I exhale gently. “I’ll be more careful next time, I promise.” 

I watch him carefully, there’s a slight slump to his shoulders as he exhales. Is the fight leaving him so easily? He walks further into the room. “You better.” He sits down in the space I provided for him slowly. “If you’re not you’ll have worse things to worry about than anything that can happen to you on a job.” He moves his cane forward easily, tapping my knee in a swift motion. 

I roll my eyes at the mock threat. “They do say that there’s nothing to fear in the Barrel like the Dirtyhands.” 

“Remember that.” Any edge in his voice is forced. I fight against a smile that seems to always want to break across my face whenever I think I see something resembling lightness in Kaz. 

“I don’t think I could forget anything about you.” 

He turns his head slightly. “You should.” 

“Too bad.” 

Kaz leans his back against the wall, untensing slightly. “I think you just like disagreeing with me.” 

There’s no point in lying about it. “Only because when you argue with me you give me this really particular look.” 

“A look?” 

Adding insult to injury, I smile. “Sometimes you look like you’re too focused on being angry, like you’re compensating for something.” 

Kaz lets out a bitter sigh. “Maybe if you were less of a puppy I wouldn’t have to--”

The laugh that escapes is most definitely a mistake. “Did you just call me a puppy?” I don’t give him a chance to reply, laughter taking over again. “I mean this in the least argumentative way possible--but you’re so weird sometimes.” 

He rolls his eyes, tensing. “I’m leaving.”

I stifle the rest of my laughter. “No. I was--I was kidding!” I keep my eyes on Kaz, expecting some type of annoyed glare, but his expression is a lot more weighted than that. Odd. “Kaz?” 

“You need to be more careful.” I understand Kaz’s pause as something he does before saying something outside of his nature. “I’m not asking you this as a Crow or a Dreg.” 

On instinct, my posture straightens. “I promised and I meant it.” 

“Sometimes I wish I could believe in Saints,” his voice has taken off a distant quality, almost fragile, “That way I could believe something existed to help what matters.” 

Oh. “You never fail, even if I didn’t believe in Saints I’d believe in you.” 

“You’re wasting your faith.” The sound of lightning cracking is almost enough to make me jump. The rain finally came. 

I know I’ll never convince him that that’s not true. “I don’t think so, but that’s why it’s called faith.” 

“I have faith in some things.” His expression is far off. 

“Like what?” 

Kaz’s eyes find the window. “People that find meaning in the rain.” 

Something in my chest swells. “You’re like the rain.”

We sit there in silence, watching raindrops glide down the window. “What were you reading?” 

The question has me dropping my gaze to the forgotten book on my lap. “I stole this book from the palace before I left. It was my mom’s favorite, she’s read it so much the spine’s completely cracked and the cover is practically falling off.” 

“Hm…” He mumbles. “Read some, the books read in a palace must be worthwhile.” 

A part of me wants to tell him that elitism has no place in literature, but his request leaves me frozen. I nod once, turning to the first page of the book. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife--” 

“Your upbringing makes sense--” 

“You can’t judge it off the first sentence,” he’s insufferable, “It’s setting up irony, and if you’re going to complain--” 

He lets out a conceding sigh. “I’m listening, I’m not interrupting.” 

I keep my eyes on him for a second longer than I should. “Okay.” Dropping my gaze back to the book, I adjust my grip on the worn paperback, “Good.” 

And then I keep reading. 

--

@theincredibledeadlyviper @grishaverse7 @lonelystarship @mentally-in-northern-italy @uhanddreag 

Falling Angels

A/n this literally poureddd from me, might be bad bc recently i’ve hated everything i’ve written (my drafts are full lol)

--

Series Summary: Y/n is a rising star in the most famous circus in Ketterdam because of her ability to see the future. Unfortunately for her, Kaz Brekker knows more of her backstory than he should, and he’s willing to use that to his advantage. The one thing he’s not betting on? That he doesn’t know her entire story

Chapter summary: Y/n gets a visitor before getting tricked into the most dangerous show of her life. 

Pairing: SOC x reader, Kaz Brekker x psychic! sunshine-y! reader

Warning: mentions of sexual harassment, slight cursing, near death experience 

--

Enjoy it, because it doesn’t last. That’s what the older girls whisper, mock casualness attempting to disguise bitter undertones as I walk past them. They say this, sharp nails ready to be covered in blood as red as their lipstick, because the pile of gifts from my ‘admirers’ keep coming. Circus hands keep approaching the long vanity in the dressing room tent, tapping me on the shoulder politely to shove cards and bouquets of flowers in my lap. They don’t understand that the praise isn’t because the patrons of our performances find me more beautiful--they’re desperate for my favor. They’re desperate to know their future.

Looking at myself in the mirror, the pageantry of it all has not yet grown old to me. My hair is still in the process of being styled, my stage makeup is half done, and I am not yet coated in that golden shimmer Senia always dusts across my cheeks and shoulders. But I am more enhanced than I normally am, eyes made bright by thick coats of mascara, cupid's bow made prominent by ruby lipstick. The lip look is more daring than I’ve been before, but there can’t be much harm in change. Not when half the women here keep looking at me like I’m the saint of virginity. 

It’s not my fault that the Ringmaster thought an angelic aesthetic would work best for the fortune teller who walks around before the show, reading palms so that people can have their pockets picked. It’s not my fault people want an angel to take the stage and call people down from the audience to get a detailed reading around the crowded circus tent. I don’t pick the costumes, and while I acknowledge that mine shows the least amount of skin, the Ringmaster found a way to dress me as suggestively as possible without ruining the illusion of innocence. 

At least the flowing tulle wings that are stitched into the back of my costume are beautiful. It’s easier when I enjoy the good. 

“Y/n!” The familiar call of Senia. I turn my head, beaming. “You’re a vision, and all of those jealous girls--you can tell them to take their wrinkling faces and--” 

“Seria.” For someone so much like a mother, she often needs to be reminded that not everything needs an aggressive rebuttal. “Think about it from their perspectives--their entire existence is dependent on how sellable they are, how attractive they are to men who only want to use them. If that makes them mad at me because they feel like my youth and novelty is taking from them, then that’s okay.” She raises a fine eyebrow. “I can take a few mean words.” 

Seria purses her lips. “Okay, but I’m just as old and tired and you don’t see me trying to poison you.” 

I roll my eyes. 

“Look, it's our very own saint.” I roll my eyes, Via’s shrill voice piercing through me like an annoying papercut. “And in such a scandalous lip color--has the Ringmaster finally taken you to the ivory tent?” 

Ivory tent. It’s been mentioned to me before and always in jest. “Where he takes me is none of your business, if not being the favorite hurts you so badly ju--” 

She laughs, the sound is pure vile. “Being the favorite is the worst thing you could be in a place like this. You’re shiny and new and soon you’ll be as used as the rest of us--Seria’s use is waning, what happened to her today is proof of that. Soon you’ll have no one to protect you.” 

When she looks at me I see more pain than hatred. “I think we’d get along better if I had it in me to hate you.” 

She raises an eyebrow before shaking a cigarette from a small box into her palm. “You’ll get there, princess.” 

The nickname leaves me burning. There’s nothing more consuming than fire. “You better pray to the real Saints I don’t.” 

via laughs, lifting the cigarette to her lips and lighting it with her abilities. She walks away, turning my threat into that of a child’s. 

“She’s right on two accounts.” Seria hums, “The Ringmaster will kill you if you wear that lipstick and Ketterdam turns people like you into people like me. We could save up, pay off your indenture--get you out.” 

Seria doesn’t need to make sacrifices like that. Not for me. Besides, there’s no leaving Ketterdam for me. Not anymore. “Being like you wouldn’t be a bad thing.” I scratch my arm, see through material wrinkling as a result. “And I can’t--I can’t just leave. I’m a psychic, no Grisha can see the future. I need the facelessness of Ketterdam.” Her lips thin in protest. “And don’t think I didn’t hear what she said about you--what happened to your foot, and what’s in the ivory tent? People keep saying it, whispering it like there’s--” 

“That tent is nothing that will ever concern you. I’ve given you my guidance, and the one thing I ask is that you never ask or go to the ivory tent.” 

I swallow once, the intensity in her eyes leaving me raw. “What if he tells me to?” 

“He won’t.” Seria breathes. “He doesn’t like that for you.” 

This isn’t an argument I can have now, not with two minutes until the show starts. “And your foot?” 

She shrugs, holding up a bandaged ankle. “You get older, your ligaments like the tightrope walk less and less. I’ll be fine.” 

“You’re not tightrope walking like that--” 

“Yes, I am. The Ringmaster doesn’t know and he can’t--if I start giving him performance trouble--you don’t know what happens to the girls who can’t pay off their indenture by performing.” 

I swallow once. “You’ll be careful?” 

“Always,” she grins, “Besides--one day you’ll know enough about tightrope walking to help me on days like this.” 

The last time I trained on the mini-tightrope had proven me to be a disappointment. Still, I smile at her softly. I open my mouth to respond, but a quick tap to my shoulder silences me. 

“Miss,” a circus hand I recognize begins.

I smile politely. “Please leave any gifts on my vanity--” 

“It’s not a gift,” he mumbles, voice taut, “You have visitors.” 

Something solid pushes itself into my chest, wedging itself between my lungs. Have they found me? “I-I don’t take visitors. Not before shows, if someone wants a private reading they’re to go to my tent at the front--” 

“We’re not here for readings or any of the other lies you sell.” 

...Surprising. I let my gaze move from the face of the circus hand and towards the individuals behind him. A man, tall and dressed in business attire--hat and all. His face is all sharp angles and his eyes are emotionless. His leather-gloved hands grip the head of an intricate cane. Next to him is another tall man, dressed a little more casually, with dark curls. Lastly, there’s a girl, with oil-black hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. 

“Then what are you here for?” 

Seria, never one to leave me unattended around strange men, takes a step in front of me. “I know who you are, Dirtyhands, and I know there’s no business you could find with her.” 

What? Dirtyhands? Can people in Ketterdam ever just be normal? 

“I wouldn’t speak so certainly.” I don’t like the way his eyes narrow at Seria or the way his grip on the cane tightens. 

Thoughtlessly, I stick a hand between them, forcing Seria back slightly. “I apologize, she’s protective--always assuming the worst in people. Though considering she called you ‘Dirtyhands’, maybe that’s what you want.” 

Ugh. All I do is ramble when I most definitely shouldn’t. “Want what?” 

Eyebrows drawing together, I force myself to hold his gaze. “For people to assume the worst.” 

The response seems to confuse him. That’s okay--I’ll take anything over aggressive. “The only people I want to assume the worst are those I want to be right.” 

Okay. Dramatic was a fair assumption. 

“Seria.” Oh no. I know that voice. I know that voice too well. “They tell me you're injured.”

Seria stiffens, as does every performer when he addresses them. “Not too injured to perform, sir.” 

The Ringmaster sneers. “I can’t risk you falling and embarrassing me. Perhaps tonight you’ll make your money by spending the entire show in the ivory tent.” 

The way she hardens wrenches my gut. I press my hands to avoid reaching out for her. “I can do the tightrope.” The Ringmaster’s gaze shifts towards me. “I can do it--and I can do it well and I’ll give the profit to Seria.”

He tilts his chin, regarding me in a way a woman should never be regarded. He’s a predator and I’m a lamb that’s lost its way. Still, I hold his gaze. I don’t flinch, even when he moves to brush his knuckles along my cheek. His touch is acid. Pure, burning acid. “The wings I placed on your back are decorative.”

“I don’t need them.” Total bullshit. 

“Hm,” he breathes, letting the smell of alcohol fill the space between us, “I’ll allow it.” The Ringmaster drops his hand to his side. “Wipe that lipstick off your face before someone mistakes you for one of these common whores.” 

How I don’t throw up at the sight of him is a miracle in itself. By some small mercy, he turns and walks away before I have to respond. 

“You’re an idiot--you know you’re not ready for the tightrope.” 

“There’s a net,” I try to keep my voice light, dismissive. She remains tense. “Seria, I had to.” 

“No, you could have--” 

“It’s not fair that you’re always a shield for me. When the opportunity to shield you for once comes, I’ll take it.” Turning before she can protest, I try to walk forward. The stranger places his cane where I intend to walk, intentionally warning me that he decides when our conversation is over. Unfortunately, I used up all my patience with the Ringmaster. “130 kruge.” He raises an eyebrow. “That’s the estimated amount I’ll make tonight, unless I’m late and excluded from the show. Either make up the deficit you’ll be costing me or let me go.” 

His eyebrows draw together, shifting his expression from neutrally calloused to something much darker. “Kaz.” This comes from the girl. She takes a step forward. “Look one step ahead.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Everyone thinks you’re not supposed to look down, but looking up is just as impractical.” She pauses, expression strangely mesmerized, “Look one step ahead--not at your feet.” 

My genuine smile shocks me. “Thank you.” 

“I should be thanking you, Sankta y/n.” Her head bows, hands held together as if in prayer. 

Oh. She’s one of the religious that believes me an actual Saint. “I appreciate the sentiment, but if I was a Saint I’d be able to help people.” No matter what I do, no matter how much blood I offer, I can never help people. “And as you’ve seen--I can’t.” 

--

The crowd’s roaring is a different world to me. On the platform, feet away from the other wooden structure acting as solid ground, everything is different. I am now in a world where the only thing to believe in is a taut rope. The net is beneath me. I’ve seen it--I’ve checked it. 

“And for our grand finale!” The Ringmaster calls, voice billowing over an excited crowd. “Our very own angel defies death!” 

An odd way to phrase the tightrope walk. It’s never called ‘defying death’.  I had been surprised when I was told that tonight the tightrope walk would be the grand finale--I assumed it was because it featured me. I’m always the finale now. I try to move my foot off the platform but it’s planted firmly. No. I need to see Seria--I need to see who I’m doing this for. I force my gaze to the ground, panic rising in my chest. 

Instead of Seria, I see Via--her smirk apparent even from here. Spite’s a decent motivator. My foot descends off the platform, touching the tightrope cautiously. And then I move my other foot. All of me is now on this damn rope. I hadn’t been unforgivably horrible during practice, but I hadn’t been graceful either. 

Don’t look down, don’t look up--only look one step ahead. One step ahead--one step at a time. Balance. I take another step. The room is so silent there’s no doubt in my mind the sound of my bones cracking would be heard from the back row. But there’s the net. There’s always the net. I take a second step. And then a third--eyes focused on only one step ahead. 

And then the phantom of flame comes to claim me. Fire. The world around me is burning. Damning the consequences, I let my gaze fall to the world beneath me. The net--the Ringmaster had an Inferni light the net on fire. Via--that explains the look. 

I can’t fall--the guilt would kill Seria. 

Panic twists my stomach as I continue forward. One step ahead. One step ahead--the flames lick upwards, promising pain and grief all over again. One step ahead. One step--that’s all there is to it. The warmth of the fire calls to me. Burning. Burning--and one more step. This isn’t forever. This isn’t permanent--either way this will soon be over. 

There’s no miracle for me. No good grace, no wings that would let me save myself. There is only balance. 

One step ahead. And then another step. And then I see the other wooden platform. Thank the Saints. I grip the ladder of the platform as quickly as possible. The cheers mean nothing to me as I scurry down the ladder. 

I feel a sharp breeze, a Grisha putting out the flames. Anger pools in my chest as I move towards the exit of the tent. 

“Y/n.” No. Not him again. That man--Kaz, Dirtyhands, whoever he is--needs to go away. “Y/n.” I turn sharply, anger pulsing through me. My expression must be feral, because he stalls. “They didn’t tell you that they were going to burn the net.” 

The fact that he can tell--that he can see my panic and how close I came to death twists my anger into something more fragile. “No.” My posture straightens. “I need to go now, I do--I do readings after shows.”

“Y/n.” He repeats, firmer. 

My nails dig into my palms. “I’m going--” 

“I know what you are.” 

Tensing, my breathing stalls. “What?”

Anastasia (prologue)

A/n ive been talking about my Anastasia x SOC story for awhile and im finally ready to post the prequel,, ive also been working on some requests and thinking about my next multi-part fic (ive made some posts about it lol)

things to know before reading: i tend to like to make up my own countries when writing these type of politically/plot driven fics that revolve around a royal family bc i think it makes it not only easier to write but less confusing bc it takes out the issue of potentially conflicting with canon, so i made up the country ‘Anastasia’ is from,, this also follows the musical Anastasia a little more bc i feel like that version of the story is more mature and easier to write for SOC (the only difference is that not everyone is happy that Anastasia is alive and someone tries to kill her bc they hate the royal family)

Series Summary: y/n makes an unconventional deal with Kaz to save the life of her best friend. No one’s ever made a deal with the infamous Dirtyhands that resulted in them shedding the title of orphan from a revolution-torn country that can’t remember her life before the orphanage and taking on the title of Princess Anastasia. As time progresses, things are made more complicated as y/n has to deal with royals, revolutionaries, a grisha general who has a lot to gain from an alliance with a princess that doesn’t know what she’s doing, and potential feelings for a conflicted Kaz Brekker that has more to do with Anastasia’s disappearance than he’s ever admitted. 

--

The world seems to be made up impossible things. Each day, people defy odds, strangers fall in love, the universe expands, and the Saints watch it all. I am not the kind of person to sneer at a miracle, to try to explain it away instead of acknowledging it for what it is. 

But what this stranger is proposing is laughable. 

I lean more into the chair, doing all I can to get away from the desk that he sits at. A nervous kind of giggle threatens to escape me, a laugh at the expense of the foolishness of the situation. If his demeanor was any less brooding, I would have already laughed at the irony. Kaz Brekker, the Dirtyhands, creating a ploy so colored by the fairytale notions of dreamers.

The longer I go without reacting, the worse this situation becomes. I haven’t seen Verne since Brekker and his people separated us. I can see the world of torment my eldest friend must be experiencing at this very moment while I sit at this desk. 

“Me?” I’m the most ridiculous part of his plan. He said the only reason me and my partner are still alive is because I fit the general description of the kind of person he needs, and if I’m blackmailed into it he won’t need to waste kruge paying me. “A princess?” 

He blinks, as uninterested and stoic as he’s been since he first ordered me into his office. “A pretend one,” his correction feels like a slight, “a surrogate one.” 

My eyebrows furrow together. “But what--I know the odds of the real Anastasia coming back are beyond slim, but if we’re caught in a lie the Dowager Duchess of Avila will have all of us killed. She may be in Ravka now, and her title nothing more than decorative due to the revolution, but she still has people loyal to her.” 

“Anastasia can’t come back.” The graveness of his voice is so certain a part of me has to wonder if he could have anything to do with her death. I dismiss the thought almost immediately, I don’t know his exact age, but he doesn’t look much older than me. He couldn’t have been more than two or three years older than Anastasia when she died, and she was a child at the time. “No one remains missing that long unless they’re dead.” 

I awkwardly scratch the back of my wrist, “You’re the expert here.” No--I did not just say that out loud. “Sorry--I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Not that thinking it makes it any better, but at least then you wouldn’t know and I’d seem like less of an idiot and I wouldn’t be talking about it right now, and just rambling at a really inconvenient time for me to just...” I cringe slightly, opting to stare at his desk instead of meeting his judgmental gaze. “Sorry, again. Normally Verne is here, and he just kicks me in the shin or something to shut me up.” 

“If you’d like to see what apparently is your only source of impulse control alive and in decent enough condition to kick anything ever again, you’ll agree to what I’m proposing.” 

I straighten my posture slightly, nerves and guilt twisting in my stomach. “I’m going to be as transparent as physically possible.” The warning is for both of us, the urge to hide all my weaknesses bubbling in my chest. “Mr. Brekker.” That’s awkward--what am I supposed to call him? “I’m a university student that’s only in Ketterdam because of an academic scholarship. I’m from somewhere average--I’m not from a place nice enough to give me the manners I’d need to pass as a girl who spent her fundamental years growing up in luxury and I’m not from a place grimy enough to make me a quick enough liar to make up for what I don’t know.” I inhale slowly, ignoring the sting of the flaws I laid out for a cruel stranger. “I’m not particularly graceful or sly or talented in any field that someone like you would value. The closest thing I have to talent involves things that can be tracked on paper. I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight, I was just doing a friend a favor.” 

“You claim that you’re not a decent liar or a thief and yet your closest friend is one who believed himself talented enough to challenge me?” 

I resist the urge to shrink back into my seat. “This is Ketterdam, you try finding someone that doesn’t dabble in crime and ambition.” He does’t reply to my retort, which I think means I won. “Cards on the table, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save Verne, but you don’t want me for something like this.” 

He pauses, jaw locked and eyes too stony for me to interpret. “Every flaw you just pointed out, every reason you think makes you unfit for this job, is exactly the reason I’m offering you this.” I keep a thousand questions to myself as I wait for him to continue. “Those used to lying lack the warmth that will be needed to sell this. The Dowager Duchess is a grandmother first when it comes to Anastasia, that’s why she’s offering so much gold. She, and the rest of the royals that desire to know what happened to Anastasia, want to believe the story I’m telling. If you present yourself as someone real and warm and you understand table manners enough to not disturb the serene picture they want, they’ll squint at ugly details until they disappear.” 

Wow. I know that he’s intelligent, but what he’s constructing is so much more bullet proof than I thought it’d be. “I’ll admit you’ve constructed an airtight narrative.” 

I know my approval means nothing to him, but it’s the most agreeable I’m willing to be. “A narrative the background you told me of fits perfectly.” I shouldn’t have answered all those questions he asked me earlier so honestly. “A child born in Avila who was sent to a Kerch orphanage due to a war-relief effort during the revolution. A faceless orphan who was found during the height of the revolution with no memory of anything before the morning she woke up in a hospital cot.” 

I say nothing. My skin burns in protest of someone knowing so much about me. He must take my silence as a sign of me teetering the line away from what he wants, because he then says, “your friend is fortunate, if things aligned a little less perfectly he’d be dead already.” 

Dead already. The words elate my heart in a way that pinches. He’s still alive. Verne is alive. “If I agree, you let me see him and then you let him go.” 

“If you need a contract to believe me, I can have that arranged.” The words have an almost mocking edge. I guess it’d be a little ridiculous to get an official contract drawn up for something so small. “If you at any point change your mind, I’ll do the same.” 

The threat is clear. I back out and Verne pays for it in blood. Verne’s safety is once again in my hand. This situation is much more precarious than Kaz Brekker wants it to seem. “You need me to do something that will literally last the rest of my life. Tiaras aren’t something you can slip in and out of.” 

“Yes, I’m forcing you to give up a life in the slums for a palace for your friend’s life. This must be a difficult choice for you.” 

I look down to avoid rolling my eyes. “It’s still permanent, and it’s large because at any point I could reveal the truth and take you down with me.” 

“Remember who you speak to.” His voice has turned to pure darkness. 

Don’t wince. Don’t wince. Don’t wince. “All I’m saying is that you’ve offered Verne’s life to buy my cooperation, but you have yet to mention the cost of my silence.”

His expression is sharp enough to draw blood. “The Dowager Duchess is old and sick, wait at most two years and you’ll have more gold than you could ever spend. The revolution took that family’s power, not the wealth the Duchess took with her to Ravka the night of the massacre.” 

I shift awkwardly. “I’m not trying to get kruge from you for me.” I fold my hands neatly on my lap to avoid fidgeting. “Verne--he’s beyond desperate for kruge, that’s why he risked angering you.” The urge to shy away threatens to break my resolve. I think of all the times Verne has saved me. “Let him keep what he tried to take.” The request is awkward from my lips. I’m asking for more when I should should be grateful any type of mercy came from him. Any type of offer. “Half. Let him keep half.” 

He’s silent for a long moment, weighing the implications of loss. “You’re already entitled enough to pass for royalty.” I don’t let myself shrink. “Deal, but not because you threatened me--try that again and you’ll find yourself wishing you had never left the orphanage you came from.” The relief is practically crushing. Verne is going to be okay. He’s going to live and my resistance earned him enough kruge to have a week or two without worry as he plans what he’ll do in my absence. “You better be as good a study as you made yourself seem to be.” 

I don’t understand the second threat. “Studying?” 

“You didn’t think you could wander into the Dowager Duchess’s home, use the excuse of amnesia to explain why you don’t even know your own mother’s name, and expect them to think you more than an Avilan orphan with a desire for wealth.” 

“I actually don’t know my own mother’s name because of amnesia.” 

He’s in no mood to be contradicted, glowering sharply, “not anymore, anything that doesn’t fit the narrative I’m constructing is no longer true.” He straightens slightly as he begins to pace away from me. “You’ll have five minutes with your friend and then we’ll see where your table manners are at. I know someone who knows enough to correct you.” 

I try to picture where someone like him would meet someone that knows about etiquette. My mind provides nothing useful, but it doesn’t matter--I’ve agreed. It can’t be undone, not without having the blood of my dearest friend on my hands. 

yall!! very random and maybe even a little basic but the tension between me & writing a kaz x reader fic (maybe 2+ parts??) that has like a “you betrayeddd meee” moment where the reader is like hired to get close to kaz to get his secrets or something and by the time he finds out they’re like close and the reader has already called off the deal and kaz’s instinct is to like kill her but he can’t bring himself to so he’s like leave ketterdam and never come back…

wow!! i want it 😭

but like! a happy ending hopefully!!