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spider-stark · 2 months ago

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GREED IS GOD

Kaz Brekker x Reader

Summary - If Kaz Brekker insists on being a jerk to you, then why does he keep threatening the boys you like?

Warnings - fem!reader, toxic, subtle power dynamic, kaz being emotionally constipated, could deviate from canon, based more on book!kaz than show, !minors dni 18+!

Word Count - 2.2k

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“You had no fucking right, Brekker!”

The words tear straight from your throat, rageful as you swing open the door to one of the Crow Club’s private gambling parlors. Inside, several heads snap to where you’re looming in the doorway. Some of them wear baffled looks, unsettled by the violence of your intrusion, while others look as if they’re holding in a cheeky laugh behind tight lips.

You’re not sure what they find so funny, whether it’s the prospect of Kaz Brekker getting his ass handed to him by a girl or something to your expense.

The grunts—about ten of them, in total—sit around a black poker table, the center of which is lavishly adorned with the striking silhouette of a crow, styled in sleek, bloody crimson. At its head is Dirtyhands himself, his elbows digging into the bolstered edge, leather-clad fingers pressed together in a stiff steeple.

His eyes slide to yours, cold and detached.

Your chest locks, lungs constricting around a breath.

“I assume you’ve all been introduced,” Kaz rasps, a terse nod in your direction, “to the Dregs dearest asset and resident instigator.”

There’s a snort or two, but no laughter. No one can ever tell when Kaz Brekker is making a joke, and as such, it’s best to never laugh at him.

In the main hall behind you, the Crow Club’s usual clamor seems to grow, low-lives and thugs barking over games of Blackjack and Craps. It’s loud and obnoxious, a rival to the incessant pounding in your head, your blood turned to an erratic rush in your ears.

It hits you this might’ve been a bad idea.

Then—like an idiot—you choose to double-down.

“You had no right.” The words catch in your teeth, serrated on the way out. You point at him. “You over-fucking-stepped, Brekker!”

It’s a domino effect, the low snicker of one grunt setting off the next until they’re all laughing at you, chortling like a bunch of rowdy pigs. Your fingers curl, rage smarting—but then there’s embarrassment, too, red hot as it crawls up your neck.

Why is it that a man's anger earns restraint, but a woman’s is entertainment?

Before you think to find the answer in the way Jesper would—by drawing the pistol at your hip and shooting a Saintsdamned hole in the ceiling—Kaz lifts a commanding hand.

“Shut up. All of you.”

Kaz doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to.

The grunts fall into a wary silence. Kaz’s glower drags around the table, marking each face. The men start shifting in their seats like the cushions have been set on fire, but they’re too afraid to stand up.

“Get out.”

Chairs screech back. Cheap boots scuff against polished floors, the grunts shuffling toward you in a disorganized heap. You suck in a breath, turning sideways to let them file out past you. They avoid your gaze—not because they’re scared of you, of course, but because Dirtyhands had already snapped their leash once tonight.

When the last grunt skulks out, Kaz gives you an order, too.

“Close the door.”

And damn if your feet don’t obey, so used to blind obedience that you immediately step into the parlor and do as he bids, a palm pressed flat to the door's glossy-black paint, feeling it in your bones when it clicks shut.

The air shifts.

A lump forms in your throat. The sensation of a noose getting tighter, tighter—the persistent, strangling fear of a child who knows they’re about to be scolded, who's still innocent enough to wonder if maybe, just maybe, they can escape it by crawling under their bed, by keeping their back turned.

But you’re not a child. And this isn’t your fault.

You turn around.

“Do you know what keeps men in line?” Kaz asks, giving you no time to answer before he continues, “I’ll give you a hint. It’s not respect. Not loyalty, either. So what is it? What keeps a gang from going off the deep end, from turning order into chaos?”

You swallow. Try to feign nonchalance. “I don’t know, Brekker. The enduring power of friendship?”

Kaz doesn’t so much as blink.

“Fear,” he answers simply, firmly. “Fear keeps them in line. Fear of consequence, fear of uncertainty—” he leans slightly forward, gaze unnervingly intense—“fear of me. And do you know what jeopardizes that fear?”

Your skin feels tight. “Me?”

An irked, tight-lipped smile. “Exactly. You.”

Kaz relaxes back into his chair, and it strikes you how he almost looks like a fixture of the room—his dark, austere style blending seamlessly with the parlor’s imposing black-and-crimson decor. Or maybe that’s not right. Maybe it’s the other way around—the parlor, the Crow Club itself, exists merely as an extension of Kaz. It’s his blood woven into the crow’s silhouette, the blackness of his soul that paints the walls.

A tired, gloved hand combs through his slicked hair. Pink lips part with a sigh that feels purposeful. “So. Next time you want to act all big and make a fool of yourself, give me enough time to clear the room, hm? That way, I don’t have to deal with men getting it in their heads that they can talk back to me all because you do it without losing your tongue. Understood?”

You suck on a tooth, glancing off to one side. It takes a minute for words to find you, and when they finally do, they spill out in a frustrated heap. “Raske told me about Leon,” you tell him, more an accusation than a statement.

Images flash in your mind, the spattered freckles and gap-toothed smile of the dealer you’d gotten sweet with.

The dealer that, as of a few days ago, disappeared from the Crow Club without a trace.

“What,” you press, brows lifting expectantly, “you’re not even gonna say anything? Deny it, even?”

His expression is one of perfect neutrality. Still, the tiniest hint of satisfaction slinks into his tone. “I’m not sure why you’re so upset,” he tells you, almost patronizing. “Did Raske not tell you everything? I was quite gracious, all things considered. He even convinced me to let Leon keep his tongue.”

A scoff pushes from your lungs, frustration bubbling into childish fury. It takes all your restraint to keep from stomping your foot at him.

“You broke his hand, Kaz!”

He looks offended. “I broke both of his hands,” he corrects you, the distinction incredibly important. “Leon should consider himself lucky I didn’t take a finger for all the times he’s been caught skimming. So long as the bones heal, he should relearn his shuffle just fine.”

But you’re no fool. The bones won’t heal. Not properly.

Leon will never deal again. You’ll never see him. And Kaz…

Kaz wins.

“Leon isn’t a skimmer,” you defend, a bitter growl as you stomp for the poker table. You stop opposite him, palms pressed flat to the felt-top as you hold his stare. “And even if he was,” your voice cracks, “we both know that wasn’t your reason, Brekker.”

Kaz lifts his chin, the muscles in his shoulders tensing in a slight, barely perceptible shift. “Oh?”

You count on your fingers. “Leon. Junip. Teller.”

Each name tastes acidic in your mouth, cheeks burning with the memory of friends and almost-lovers, boys with nothing more than the misluck of smiling at you in a place where Dirtyhands could see.

“Kerrigan, Donni.” Your voice climbs, “Mikael, Alyn!”

How many have been punished? Made to pay for fallacies at the cost of shattered bone or cut-off digits? And why, why is it that anytime you seek happiness, Dirtyhands comes to tear it away?

“Do I need to keep going?” you finally spit. “Or have I painted well enough for you to get the picture, Brekker?”

He nods, dusting a speck of lint from his suit coat. “Oh, you’ve painted plenty well enough. This is becoming an epidemic, isn’t it? Parents giving their children such stupid names.” A harsh shadow flickers across his face. “Or was the point simply that you get around?”

The words land like a blow—and you falter with the impact.

Your stare drops, nails scraping against the felt-top. “This isn’t fair,” you mutter, head shaking.

“What isn’t?”

“This!”

It’s an exasperated breath, an explosion that wracks through your body. You shove back from the table. Kaz sits straight, a line between his brows.

“I do my job, Kaz!”

“As is expected.”

“I do more than my job!” you argue. “I do everything you ask!”

“Good.”

“I scale every rooftop, climb through every window, gather dirt on every fucking rat in this absolute sewer of a city!”

His head tilts, antagonizing, “As does Inej.”

You jab a finger to your chest. “I helped you steal a DeKappel!” you hiss, careful not to speak too loud of the one-hundred-thousand kruge painting you’d nabbed from Van Eck. “A fucking DeKappel, Kaz!”

A sigh slips from his nose. Two leather-clad fingers press to his temple, rubbing in circles as if to soothe some budding ache. “Could we speed this along?” he asks. “I’m a busy man, and dealing with Leon took precious time out of my–”

“Why?” Your voice is wretched, desperation lashing with every syllable. “Why is it never enough? Why can’t I have one, just one thing outside of my obligations to you? One thing to make me happy, one thing to-”

His hands brace the table, shoving to his feet so quickly the chair screeches from underneath him, clattering back onto the ground. “Because it makes you weak,” he snarls, low and threatening. “It distracts you.”

Bullshit. You audibly call bullshit.

Then something snaps.

Kaz slams a fist against the table, hard and loud enough to make you jolt. He won’t look at you. “Because,” he starts, pained as if the words have to slash and claw up his throat, “it distracts me.”

Everything.

Your wretched feelings, your childish fury, your anger for Leon.

It all fizzles into something static.

“It… what?”

“You heard me.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

A third time for good measure.

“Well—I did, but… Why?”

Kaz sucks a breath deep into his lungs. Low, to himself, he admits, “Because Inej was right.” Dark eyes look up. “I am selfish and violent. Hungry to the point I feel it in my bones. Greed is my god,” he rasps, wavering, “and you, you are my altar.”

Oh.

You take a step back, nearly stumbling over your own feet. “Sorry, I…” a breathy, humorless laugh. “What do you… what does that mean, exactly?”

Fucking hyperbole.

A gloved hand rakes through his hair. “That I want,” he starts, only to trail off.

But then the words settle. Become their own sentence.

“I want.” You’ve never heard Kaz this desperate. Never seen his eyes this soft, this hazy with apprehension. “It’s abhorrent and I’ve tried to stop, but I can’t. I can’t stop wanting,” a pause, a space left for the word he can’t quite form. You. You, you, you.

There’s a moment.

Silent consideration, internal debate.

Kaz is a monster, one part of you argues. He doesn’t think before he speaks, shatters the bones of any boy you bat eyes at.

Kaz is a shield, whispers the other. He’ll dismiss a room on your behalf, threaten the lives of any who might hurt you.

There’s a moment.

Then, all at once, there’s motion—glorius, frantic, thoughtless motion. The scuff of your boots across the floor; the shocked catch of his breath; the feel of stiff fabric bunched between your fingers, pulling him closer closer closer by his lapels, brow furrowing when his head turns to dodge your lips.

Gloved hands settle on your waist, the electrifying feel of cool leather brushing bare skin, shirt lifting as Kaz pushes you backwards, up onto the poker table.

“I can’t,” he struggles. But your legs tighten around his waist, core pressed to the growing bulge in his trousers, and hips seem to meet yours to the tempo of Oh, but I want to. Saints, I want to.

“I can’t,” it's a pant, a moan, his head shaking, dark eyes fluttering, “I can’t be what you deserve.”

“Then be what I want,” you beg, “be what I need.”

Your palms lay flat against his chest, slowly drifting up toward the smooth nape of his neck. Your fingertips barely graze the warmth of his skin before a leather-clad hand snaps from your waist, roughly taking hold of both your wrists.

“No,” he almost chokes, desire held back by fearful restraint. “Not yet.”

His grip loosens—trusting you to obey, to let him set the pace.

And he does.

Nimble fingers are already sliding your pistol from the holster at your hip, sliding it across the table before setting to work on your trousers, fiddling with the flimsy closures before tugging them down, bearing witness to the parts of you he’d only ever seen in dreams.

Not yet, you think, hot and desperate, cool leather grazing against sensitive skin. But eventually, inevitably.

Perhaps greed is your god, too.

a/n - yeah, idk guys? i guess i just can't write smut. the amount of times i walked up to my sister while writing this just to scream "I can't take Kaz Brekker's pants off" was alarming. alas, this exists now and maybe some of you will enjoy it! i'll give true smut another go at some point, probably will something shorter so i don't get distracted with other things lmao

anyways, would love to hear what you think (what works, what doesn't work, what you love, what you hate lmao) and thanks for reading!

#kaz brekker imagine #shadow and bone imagine #six of crows imagine #kaz brekker x fem!reader #kaz brekker x reader #six of crows x reader #six of crows fanfic #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone fanfic #s&b imagine #freddy carter imagine #kaz brekker x you #grishaverse imagine

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