#s&b netflix

[lixiesbabyhands]

love when jesper asked wylan "shouldn't you be in university" my brother in christ shouldn't YOU be in university

[spider-stark]

EVERYTHING

Kaz Brekker x Reader

Summary - Kaz Brekker doesn't make any sense—and trying to understand him is getting to be exhausting.

Warnings - fem!reader, reader worked at a brothel, subtle hints at past abuse, some major dog / master symbolism idfk, mentions of blood/weapons, close proximity, could deviate some from canon, based more on book!kaz than show, NOT EDITED SO IF THERE'S A TYPO IDK

Word Count - 3.8k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

“Touch me.” 

You’ve only just slipped inside Kaz Brekker’s room at the Slat, and you’re convinced you’ve misheard him. The door’s still cracked, after all—and the mindless clamor of those playing cards down in the foyer is loud enough to play tricks on anyone’s ears. 

You push the door shut, habit making you click the lock into place before spinning around to face him. “Pardon?” 

The lanterns burn low, dim light chasing shadows across the spacious attic. Kaz stands over by his desk, leaning his weight against the edge in lieu of his cane. He’s dragging a gloved hand through his hair, looking uncharacteristically flustered. 

“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” he snaps. 

Your laugh comes out breathy and awkward. “We both know I’m a shit actor, Brekker.” 

It’s why you’re never picked when the Dreg’s need a decoy—some girl to saddle up next to a sleazy merchant or another hapless mark, distracting them with batted lashes and a well-timed hand on their thigh. In Jesper’s words, you’re so socially inept that you’d probably blow the operation before it even got started.

To your dismay, Kaz doesn’t repeat himself. With his gaze carefully pinned to the tops of his black boots, he demands, “Why are you here?” 

Your brow quirks. “At the Slat?” 

“In my room.” 

The answer eludes you. Why did you come up here? It’s not like tonight was the first time Dirtyhands has ever skipped out on playing Blackjack with the rest of the group, and yet he’d caught your attention when he slipped from the foyer and went limping up the stairs. 

Then again, that’s not so surprising. Kaz always catches your eye, doesn’t he? 

In the year since you joined the Dregs, you’d earned an unfortunate nickname for yourself around the Barrel: The Bastard’s Pet. Wherever Kaz Brekker goes, you’re sure to be hot on his heels, following after him like a dog, loyal and clingy. 

You tell yourself it’s because that’s your job—to keep Kaz safe, to watch his six. But the devil’s got eyes in the back of his head, and you know Kaz Brekker doesn’t really need protection. 

So, it begs the question: Why are you here? In his room, at the Slat, as a member of the Dregs? Why does he keep you around? 

Unsure of the answer, you simply avoid giving one. 

“You should play games with them sometimes,” you tell him, giving a subtle nod over your shoulder. Their voices are muffled now, but you can still hear everyone downstairs exchanging jeers as they shuffle another round. “It makes you look like a recluse, always sneaking off to be by yourself.” 

Kaz drums one finger against the desk. It’s an erratic beat, following no set rhythm. “I am a recluse,” he grinds out. 

You almost snort. Clearly. 

It’s not like anyone joins a gang with the hopes of making friends—and none of the Dregs are dumb enough to think they’ll find a buddy in the infamous Dirtyhands, anyway. Still, you don’t think it’d kill him to try being a little more sociable. 

The others would like having him around. 

You like having him around. 

“I’ll ask one more time.” Dark eyes flick up, heavy as stones when they land on yours. Suddenly, the large attic feels awfully claustrophobic. “Why are you here?” 

A lie comes easily enough, slipping right through your teeth. 

“I got bored playing,” you tell him. “And Jesper’s cheating, anyway.” 

“They’re all cheating,” Kaz points out. 

“But Jesper’s bad at it,” you argue. Lifting a shoulder, you add, “It ruins the fun.” 

His finger falls still against the desk, ceasing its rhythmless beat. Warm light flickers all around him, dark shadows dancing over the harsh angles of his face. You watch his jaw tick, note the subtle curl of his upper lip. You’re overcome with the distinct feeling that you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. 

Probably because you are. 

You’ve seen this face before. Been the one to clean the bloody mess left behind by whoever was unfortunate enough to find themselves on the receiving end of it. Now, as the one standing in the line of fire, you feel your stomach start to twist. 

You tell yourself it’s dread. Anxiety for what’s to come. 

“From where I was standing,” Kaz grinds out, his stare unflinching, “you looked to be having plenty of…” A sharp breath, his tongue gliding over pearly teeth. “Fun.” 

There’s something hidden in the word. A meaning that goes well beyond its dictionary definition. Is it a challenge? A dare, maybe? Or—perhaps the most unlikely of the options—some sort of plea? 

“And what is that supposed to mean?” you ask, finally daring a step closer, slowly drifting from the closed door. 

Kaz shakes his head. “It means what it means.” 

As you draw closer, he moves around the desk and takes a seat. He stretches his bad leg out in front of him, mindlessly rubbing a hand down toward his knee. It’s always bothering him by this point in the night. 

“Go back downstairs.” An order—not a suggestion. 

Across from him now, you place both palms on his desk. The smooth wood is cool against your skin, though the rest of you feels impossibly warm. It’s a side effect of standing too close to him, you think. The flushed cheeks and the vice around your lungs, always leaving your mind fuzzy and your pulse erratic. 

You hate him for it, sometimes. For the effect he has on you. 

“Why?”  you ask, riding out your little bold streak. “So you have a reason to gripe some more about me having fun?” 

“I’m not griping,” Kaz shoots back, very evidently griping. 

“Griping, carping, quibbling, or complaining—doesn’t matter how you word it, all of 'em fit you to a T right now, Brekker.” 

He’s not looking at you anymore, focused instead on the swirling patterns of the wood grain or the neat stack of papers or anything else that gives him an excuse to keep his head low. A month or so after you joined the Dregs, Kaz told you that you had a talent for getting under his skin. Maybe that’s why you don’t need to be able to see his face to know just how annoyed he looks. 

“Go downstairs.” 

“I will,” you vow. “After you explain what you meant.” 

Frustrated, he insists, “There’s nothing to explain.” 

“What did you say when I came in?” 

“Go downstairs.” 

You throw your hands up. “If you won’t tell me what you said, then at least explain why ‘fun’ is such a problem!” 

“Go. Down. Stairs.” 

“Make me.” 

Wood screeches, the chair flying back as he shoots to his feet. The stiffness in his leg makes the movement a little clumsy, and you don’t miss the subtlest flash of a wince before he leans against the desk. 

“Do you know why I brought you in?” 

For a moment, it’s all you can do to blink at him. Because, no—you don’t know why Kaz offered you a place with the Dregs. 

You’re not a sharpshooter like Jesper or a trained Grisha like Nina, not as smart as Wylan or as silent as Inej. You’re decent when it comes to sleight-of-hand and slightly above average with a blade, but even those skills are ones you’ve only learned since joining the gang. 

Back when you first met Kaz, you were nothing and no one. An unlucky girl roped into an indenture with Pekka Rollins, forced to work out of the Sweet Shop—the nastiest, most dangerous brothel in all of Ketterdam. 

“Because you’re secretly a big softie with a heart of gold?” You hope your sarcasm is enough to mask the twinge of shame brought on by your past. 

But Kaz is too good for that. Nothing gets past him—evident by the tiny wrinkle of concern that forms between his dark brows, instantly picking up on the faint dip in your tone. 

Fortunately for you, being observant doesn’t equate to being consoling, and so he doesn’t mention it. 

“Because you didn’t make me sick,” he answers, low and even. You’re not so sure if it’s an insult or compliment, and before you get a chance to ask, Kaz continues, “It was late. And raining. I’d just finished teaching a Razorgull lackey what happens when you breach parley. He was a real bleeder—made a mess of my suit. I ended up leaving him for Jesper to deal with. Thought I’d avoid eyes by sticking to the shadows, walking in the alleys behind the brothels.” Your eyes must be betraying you, because you almost think that’s a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “Imagine my surprise when a runaway harlot nearly knocked a helpless cripple like me off his feet.” 

You bite your cheek, still deciding if you want to slap him for calling you a harlot or laugh in his face. In spite of his limp and cane, Kaz Brekker is far from what you’d consider helpless. 

“So, what? You had me join the Dregs because I nearly bulldozed you in an alley?” That whole night was spotty for you, the panic you’d felt having rendered your memory foggy and incomplete. 

“Inej had told me about you,” Kaz says. “That Pekka Rollins got a new girl—an escape artist, always trying her luck at running away.” 

You didn’t know that, but maybe you should have. Inej isn’t the best spider in the Barrel without reason. She knows everything—and all she knows is reported directly to Kaz. Even so, you’re not sure you’re catching his point with all this. 

As if he can see you trying to mentally connect the dots, Kaz says, “Maybe I had another purpose in walking behind those brothels. Maybe I wanted to see just how quick on her feet Pekka Rollins’ escape artist was.” His head tilts slightly. “Or maybe I just didn’t want anyone to see me when I wasn’t looking my best. Either way, I left that alley knowing you’d be a part of my crew.” 

Your memory of that night may be spotty, but the one after is still crystal clear. A Suli spider had crawled through your window at the Sweet Shop, told you that Per Haskell was willing to pay a very hefty sum to buyout your indenture if you agreed to work for the Dregs. To this day, you’re still unsure of how Kaz managed to convince him you were worth it—or why he bothered. 

“You’re not making any sense, Brekker,” you admit, rubbing at your temple. A headache burrows there, seeming to grow worse with every minute. “Is that why you wanted me for the Dregs, then? Cause I’m… fast?” 

It sounds stupid. It is stupid. 

You’re no faster than anyone else—and you certainly hadn’t been fast enough to outrun Pekka Rollins’ goons. Everytime you made a run from the Sweet Shop, they dragged you right back, kicking and screaming the whole way. 

“No.” Kaz sighs. Drags a hand through his hair, tugging at the dark locks. “I wanted you-”

Kaz doesn’t finish that thought. 

A violent CRASH! steals your attention. Both of your heads snap toward the closed door, listening intently for any sign of danger.

Instead, you hear Jesper’s boisterous cackle chime. Wylan starts shouting about something indiscernible—vase, shattered, and moron among the words you catch.

A smile sneaks up on you. 

But, when you turn back to Kaz, it’s promptly wiped away. 

He looks like he’s had a lemon rind forced into his mouth, scowling at the door. “What’s going on with you and Van Eck?” 

You blink. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

You did—but hearing him is a far stretch from understanding him, and it’s seemed like Kaz has been talking in circles since you came in. What’s Wylan have to do with any of this? 

“I don’t get what you’re asking.” 

“Stop making me repeat myself.” 

“Then stop being so confusing, Brekker!” you huff, crossing your arms. “I don’t understand-”

Kaz cuts you off with a look. Cold as death, he grinds out, “Are you fucking him?” 

Shock. Confusion. 

They course through you in equal measure, coupled with slight amusement. The latter must show on your face, because Kaz’s scowl deepens before he looks down at his desk, pretending to fiddle with something. 

“I have work to do,” he says stiffly. “Go downstairs.” 

Your feet stay firmly planted, the desk’s width all that separates the two of you. “Why would you think that?” 

Of all the assholes and degenerates in the Dregs, Wylan’s probably the closest you have to a real friend. It came with the territory—both of you having become newbies around the same time, trying to learn the ropes and fit in. 

You’re not fucking him, though. 

Kaz sinks back into his chair. His usually-squared shoulders curve slightly, as if some weight is pressing down on them. “Go downstairs.” 

“I thought you didn’t like repeating yourself?” you ask, almost taunting. 

“Go.” The word strains between his teeth. “Now.” 

For no good reason, you make a stand. Stare down the barrel of the gun, unafraid and unrelenting. How strange, you think. The tightness in your chest has never once been apprehension. 

It was excitement. Anticipation. 

You’ve always liked getting under his skin. Finding out what makes him tick, figuring out which words earn the sharpest glares. You want him to pull the trigger, if only because it means you have his attention—and like a dog waiting at its master’s feet, you could care less if it comes with an open hand or a closed fist. 

So long as it comes. So long as he notices you. 

“What did you say when I came in?” You uncross your arms, make yourself stand up tall. “Tell me.” 

Dark eyes shoot up. Kaz almost looks shocked, the dull echo of emotion creasing the lines of his face, parting his lips. You wait, but no sound comes out. 

Dirtyhands is used to giving orders. Not taking them. 

“You’ve heard what they say about me.” You wave a dismissive hand toward the shoddy window overlooking the Barrel. “Brekker’s Pet. Always with you, always following you around! Ask any sod in Ketterdam and they’ll say the same—the only way I’d have time to fuck someone is if you were in the room!” And even then, it wouldn’t be Wylan. 

A steel rod takes the place of Kaz’s spine, turning your words over in his head. “Fine. Maybe you haven’t,” he relents. “But you want to.” 

It’s a gamble. An unusually shitty one, at that. 

You blow out an exasperated breath. This whole thing is getting old. “Saints, Kaz. What’s your deal?” 

He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Then opens it again. 

“I saw you downstairs,” he says. “Touching Van Eck.” 

Your brows lift, fists clenching. You don’t know what you expected from him, but it certainly hadn’t been a bold-faced lie! 

But then you start thinking of the moments before you saw Kaz head upstairs, laughing and playing Blackjack before you folded your hand to follow after him. You’d been sitting cross-legged on the threadbare rug, wedged between Wylan and Raske, when you noticed—Shit. 

Kaz is right, and that makes you want to scream. Why is Kaz always right? 

It was after you noticed Jesper was cheating, that he’d poorly marked the deck with daub; a sticky, ash-colored substance. You’d leaned in close to point it out to Wylan—your hand against his forearm, your lips dangerously close to the Merchling’s ear. After he noticed the marks, you both exchanged quiet giggles over just how bad Jesper was at swindling. 

Still, there had been nothing sexual about it. Nothing between you and Wylan. 

But, even if there was, why would Kaz care? 

I saw you—touching Van Eck. His words race through your mind, pulsing in time with the dull ache in your temple. Touch me, touch me, touch me. 

All of a sudden, the fog begins to clear. Something in your memory clicks. 

That night behind the brothels—when you were running from the Sweet Shop, when Kaz had been drenched in the blood of some Razorgull. Barefoot and frantic, you really had almost knocked him off his feet. Gloved hands had held your arms tight, keeping you still. His hair had been messy and your mind a blur—and when you’d seen the crimson smeared across his cheek, you hadn’t thought twice before wiping it away. 

You’d done what so few have. You had touched Kaz Brekker, skin-on-skin. 

Because you didn’t make me sick. 

When you don’t speak, Kaz shifts in his chair. Straightens an already-neat stacks of papers. “You won’t try and deny it?” he asks. 

Maybe you imagine the quaver in his voice. Or maybe you don’t. 

Either way, you start around his desk. Your every step is slow—cautious. 

You stop beside him, and Kaz shifts again. You’re standing closer than you’d usually dare to get, so close that you can hear it when he swallows. 

“You should go downstairs,” he tells you, lower than before. 

Your head tilts, hair shifting over one shoulder. “Is that what you want?” 

His answer hides in silence so thick it’s a tangible presence. It curls around you, makes gooseflesh prickle along your skin. Your mouth feels dry, your stomach like it’s tied in knots. 

Suddenly, you don’t need him to repeat what he’d said. 

As always, Kaz was right—you'd heard him the first time. 

“Ask me again.” The words drip from your tongue, an order and a plea. “Ask me and I’ll do it.” 

Kaz gives you a look, one you’ve never seen before. Dark eyes rove over you, brimming with worry and stress and—and Saints, a sense of desire so strong it makes your toes curl in your boots, a feeling like lightning coursing up your spine. 

In a voice like stone on stone, raspy and urgent, Kaz breathes out, “Touch me.” 

So you do. 

You cup his face, graze your thumb over his cheekbone. Kaz stiffens, swallowing once more—but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to pull away. 

“You know, to be such a bastard,” you start, a note of teasing in your voice, “you’re awfully pretty, Brekker.” 

Heat blooms against your palm, a deep blush crawling over his pale cheeks. 

“Shut up,” Kaz grumbles. 

You grin. “Want me to go downstairs?” 

A gasp rips from your throat as a gloved hand clamps around your wrist, Kaz pulling you down toward him. Anxiety still tightens his features, but beneath it he looks all too pleased with himself when you stumble clumsily into his lap. 

For the sake of comfort, you adjust your legs—careful for his bad one—and settle your arms over his shoulders. Then, when it fully settles that you’re straddling Kaz-fucking-Brekker, it gets a lot harder to breathe. 

“Should I take that as a no?” It sounds like a pant, your lungs constricting. 

He lifts the hem of your shirt, the feel of leather cool against your skin as Kaz jabs a finger into your side. “Do I always have to repeat myself around you?” he asks. Dark eyes dip past your jaw, his tongue gliding over his lips. You don’t think he actually cares to hear your answer, which is good—because you’re pretty sure you just forgot how to speak. 

Kaz drags his finger up the curve of your waist, his touch tentative and featherlight. It feels a lot like being studied—the way his dark brows knit together, staring at you as if you’re a magic trick he’s yet to master, a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out. 

“It’s not because you’re fast,” he says, somewhat distracted. It takes a minute for you to realize that he’s referring to your earlier question—Is that why you wanted me for the Dregs, then? 

“Good,” you manage. “Because I’m not.” 

The slightest twitch of a smile. “No.” He takes his time tracing over every divet in your ribs, slowly trailing up, up, up. “You’re not.” 

“But I didn’t make you sick.” You’re not prepared for the wave of sickness that comes with the reminder, stomach roiling. 

The Bastard’s Pet. Is that truly all you are? All you’re worth to the Dregs? Useless at saddling up next to sleazy merchants, but good enough to curl up at Kaz Brekker’s feet. 

As if he can read your mind, Kaz’s hand goes still against your side. “Wipe that sour look off your face, would you? If I only wanted you to touch me, I would’ve just come to the Sweet Shop instead of getting my ass chewed by Haskell.”

You wiggle just enough to knock one knee into his hip, glaring at him. Both of you pretend not to notice the catch in his breath—or the growing hardness straining against his trousers, pressed against your core. 

Gruff, Kaz continues, “You were in an alley and saw a man dripping with blood, and your first thought was to reach out and clean his cheek.” His head shakes, a strand of coal-black hair swaying near his temple. “It was ignorant,” he tells you. “And… decent. Innocent.” 

You almost laugh. Innocent. That’s hardly a word you’d use to describe yourself. Especially right now, your every muscle straining in an attempt to keep your hips perfectly still, hands folded at the base of his neck. 

“I didn’t know innocence like that could survive in the Barrel.” His hand starts again, tracing little shapes against your side. “Even if you never touched me again, I wasn’t gonna let Pekka Rollin’s crush someone like you between his grimy little fingers.” 

“So that’s the answer?” you ask, nibbling on your lip. “I’m in the Dregs cause I’m innocent?” What a reason to have someone join a gang. Hey, you seem pure! Wanna get corrupted? 

“You’re in the Dregs because you know how to persevere,” Kaz answers, holding your gaze. “How to get up and try again, no matter how many times you’re knocked down.” The sensation of smooth leather drifts higher. “Because you’re a survivor.” Your eyelids flutter, sucking in a breath as he palms the plump curve of your breast. “Because you’re loyal,” he starts, and it’s almost reverent the way he almost whispers, “my perfect little pet.” 

The world grinds to a halt. 

Outside of this room—this moment—nothing exists. 

Too quiet, you ask, “What do you want from me, Kaz?” 

You want him to feel in control, to be the one that decides how this is gonna go. But your self-restraint is a fraying cord, mere seconds from snapping in half. 

If it were up to you, how far would you go? How much of Kaz Brekker would you explore? As far as I could, you think, desperate. As much as he’d let me. 

That’s the trouble with dogs. They’re loyal and clingy, forgiving and insistent. They want for everything and take whatever they’re given. They’ll spend hours begging at your feet. Lick scraps from the floor until their tongues begin to bleed. 

When it comes to Kaz Brekker, you’ll take whatever he has to give. 

And you’ll never stop begging for more, more, more. 

“Everything.” His breath is warm against your lips, the leather cool on your breast. “I want everything.”

a/n - just in case anyone couldn't tell, i obviously just finished reading six of crows (yeah ik i'm very late to the party). i randomly started writing this while i was stuck in traffic and it just sort of spiraled over the past 24 hours and now here we are! this was born! idk if i'll get anymore kaz ideas, but it was fun writing something more dialogue heavy (dialogue has my heart<3)

[queenhelenblackthorn]

the brief moment of peace before he realized what was happening and the panic set in. I'm screaming, crying, and throwing up

[spacehero-23]

shadow and bone proves that as long as you treat the source material and the characters with respect, you don't have to make everything "book accurate"

[mournersandfunerals]

why is everyone screaming about Kaz in the water? is it a book thing? i haven't read them yet, but im confused hahaha

Oh bestie...😬

[dreamsingcld]

the “calling ben barnes and the darkling ‘shadow-daddy’” tradition lives on

[bee-a-lover]

i don’t know quite how to explain it

but going off of the wylan promo we got today

he has the vibes of some guy who’s just been living in kaz’s basement for ages mixing bombs and making friends with the mice also living down there and now he has to relearn how to interact with humans

i think it’s partially the way they’ve styled him, which is very different from how he’s usually portrayed in fanarts where he’s usually very put together. show!wylan looks a RAGING MESS and i think that’s much more accurate to his character

but also just hearing how he speaks and seeing some of his mannerisms (darting eye contact, god-awful posture (which, me too buddy)) it’s like wylan’s awkward energy from the books has been taken even further so he comes off as borderline eccentric

and i am so fucking here for that characterization of him

(this post was supposed to be funny and somehow turned into a full analysis god i’m so excited for this show)

[theundercoversquid]

Jealousy

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x Reader

Summery: Kaz gets jealous

Warnings:

Masterlist

To be fair, you probably should have seen it coming. You knew what Kaz was like, even if he did try to deny it.

You should have guessed how this would get on his nerves. But equally. This was his idea. He was the one who told you that your job was to distract the mark. To look pretty and bat your eyelashes. So that was exactly what you had done.

But based on the way that Kaz's jaw was clenching, you were starting to wonder if maybe he was starting to regret this plan.

Thanks to keeping an eye on Kaz, you could see when he gave you the signal. With a subtle nod of your head, you turned to the mark. Making some excuse as to why you had to go before turning on your heel and leaving the mark dazed and confused behind you as you swished off.

You take a long route home. Making sure that there is no way that you are followed as you head back home to the slat.

When you get back, you head straight for your room. Pulling off the wig and taking off the disguise that you had been wearing.

Only when you are back to feeling like yourself do you venture out of your room and head up the stairs to where you know Kaz's office resides.

Knocking on the door, you wait, you know that he heard you coming, and you know that he is being petty by making you wait for a moment or two. But you are happy to play his game.

"Come in." You hear him call. Causing you to push the door open.

You can see Kaz sitting behind his desk. Studying some papers in front of him, he refuses to look at you as you approach his desk and flop down into the chair in front of him.

But you are content to wait. Leaning back in your chair, you get comfortable. Your eyes fluttered shut as you let your mind drift.

"The heist was a success," Kaz tells you after a long pause.

"I'm glad." Your eyes flutter open as you smile at him. "I take it the mark is none the wiser."

"Thanks to your distracting him." At that, Kaz's jaw seems to clench. "Inej was able to get in and out without anyone knowing."

"That's good," you tell him. Before pausing. "jealousy is a normal feeling. Just don’t let it consume you."

Kaz spullters for a moment. Unsure of what to say. "I'm not jealous." He manages to get out.

You don't say anything. Just watch his face as the muscle by his jaw ticks.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about." You assure him as you rise to your feet. "You have nothing to be jealous about. You're the only one." Then, with that you turn, leaving Kaz's office as you head down to the bar.

Leaving Kaz in his office, staring at where you had just disappeared from.

[jkriordanverse]

R.i.p Kaz Brekker you would've loved escape rooms

R.I.P Inej Ghafa you would've loved crotcheting

R.I.P Nina Zenik you would've loved Mean Girls the Musica;

R.I.P Matthias Helvar you would've loved animal shelters

R.I.P Wylan Van Eck you would've despised Scrabble.

R.I.P Jesper Fahey you would've taken paint ball matches and water fights too seriously...

[quaz-art]

What if he was in pokemon

[that--funny--feeling]

I AM UNWELL (AGAIN)

[cardiganloser]

"shouldn't you be graduating university?" jesper where does your dad think you are answer quickly

[spider-stark]

A BOY'S FIRST PEST

Kaz Brekker x Reader

Summary - Kaz Brekker thinks Per Haskell's daughter is a (very lovely) pest

Warnings - fem!reader, traumatraumatrauma, the woes of troubled youth, light mentions of blood and death, these bitches trauma bonded yo, could deviate some from canon, based more on book!kaz than show, NOT EDITED WE DIE LIKE MEN

Word Count - 2.0k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Everyone knows Kaz Brekker put his own money into fixing up the Slat. 

He hired men to patch the leaky roof (though it still drips during a heavy rain) and put proper insulation in the walls (which keeps the house warm enough, even if it does nothing to muffle the noise of its occupants). He had all the doors fitted with working knobs (but easily picked locks) and ensured the kitchen was capable of making a warm meal (even if seriously doubted any of the Dregs knew how to cook). 

And while he would never admit it aloud, Kaz was also the one who made sure there were always clean linens in every room (albeit the cheapest Ketterdam has to offer) and spare clothes in every closet (sizes ranging from wafer-thin to barrel-chested). In keeping, he also takes it upon himself to keep the bathing room stocked with a steady supply of toiletries (because if someone uses his toothbrush again, he’s going to kill everyone in this place and then himself). 

Because of Kaz Brekker, the Slat was more than just a safe place to hole up. It was a haven, the closest thing many of the Dregs had to a home. 

But it did, of course, have one enduring problem. 

The pests.

Or, namely, the one pest—one that he could never quite exterminate (though the spider privy to the inner-workings of Kaz Brekker’s mind might argue the merit of replacing ‘could never’ with ‘would never’). 

Per Haskell’s very annoying (and very lovely) daughter. 

In the midst of Ketterdam’s hottest season, you find yourself lying sprawled on your back atop the dark sheets, clad in the skimpiest nightclothes you own: a matching set of black silk shorts and flowy, thin-strapped camisole. The air is thick and near stifling in the attic-bedroom, but you don’t mind it. You prefer being hot to cold, if only because the heavy weight of winter clothes makes you feel trapped, eliciting the urge to crawl straight from your skin. 

When the door finally swings open, you eagerly push up onto your elbows. 

Kaz doesn’t so much as spare a glance in your direction. He’s got one hand on his cane, the other shoving the door shut behind him as he limps toward his desk, guided by the bright moonlight spilling in from the muggy window. 

Your shoulders slump, huffing out a breath. “Seriously? You’re not even gonna greet me?” 

With his back turned to you, Kaz removes his hat and places it on the desk. He doesn’t look at you. “You’re in my room.” 

“Yeah—so I was actually thinking something more along the lines of hello,” you drone, lips pursed. “Y’know, that thing normal people say when they see their friends.” 

“We’re not friends.” 

A hand flies to your chest, as if struck by his words. “Um, ouch? Rude. For your sake, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

Kaz tugs off his signature gloves and tosses them next to his hat. “I can always repeat it,” he says, so impassive you can’t tell if it’s a joke. 

Knowing Kaz, you’re pretty sure it’s not. 

You push up the rest of the way, scooting down to sit cross-legged at the end of his bed. It’s so much nicer than yours—the sheets softer, the mattress plusher, the smell so familiar and warm. 

If it were up to you, you’d sleep in here every night. 

And most nights, that’s exactly what you do. 

“Would it kill you to be nice sometimes?” you ask. 

“Not usually, no.” Kaz faces you, his weight leaned back against the desk, his cane propped against it. “But we both know you’re a special case.” 

“Is that a compliment?” 

“Not at all.” 

Your bottom lip juts into a pout. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?” 

Aside from the subtlest lift of his brows, Kaz’s expression remains vague and disinterested. “Regularly,” he deadpans, looking the image of austere melancholy. 

Your laugh comes so sudden it sounds like a snort. “I should’ve guessed,” you nod, forever unphased by Kaz’s forbidding attitude. 

This is the way things have always been between you. Ever since a surly twelve year old marched head-high into your father’s office to see if the Dregs needed a new grunt, oblivious to the girl beaming up at him from a lonely corner, weaving colorful scraps of thread into bracelets for the friends you’d yet to make. 

Kaz Brekker is dark and foreboding while you’re bright and bubbly; he’s rude and standoffish while you’re sweet and flirtatious. Some may liken your relationship to oil and water, but you prefer thinking of it as a carefully crafted balance—a yin and yang sort of thing. 

Kaz, on the other hand, would simply say you’re a thorn in his side. 

Fortunately for yourself, you’re not an easily offended thorn. 

The rickety floorboards creak as Kaz starts around the desk. His bare fingers trail along the varnished edge for support. His limp is always at its worst by this time of night, so you’re not surprised to see the flicker of relief that slips over him when he finally sinks into the chair. 

“Have you ever considered that maybe you work too hard?” Your voice teeters on the edge of concern, tracing idle shapes against the sheets with your nails. 

His answer is curt, and contradictory to the purple smudges beneath his eyes. “No.” 

Fumbling with his cufflinks—simple, unadorned things—Kaz rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. Afterwards, he flips open the thick ledger laid before him, plucking up a pen and dipping it into an awaiting pot of ink. 

Kaz keeps track of the Dregs expenses in his head—a skill you’ve always found most impressive, since you can hardly do a simple equation without scratch paper. Still, he keeps the physical record for the sake of having something to point to in case someone’s ever stupid enough to claim Dirtyhands flubbed the numbers. 

As he works, boredom quickly becomes a chip on your shoulder. 

Your legs unfurl, bare feet stretching toward the floor as you slip off the edge of the bed. Every step is purposeful, traipsing toward him with a look that’s not so unlike a cat readying to toy with its favorite mouse. 

“Maybe we should take a holiday,” you suggest, your voice a soft trill. 

One part of you expects to be ignored, the other to be shot down. 

He lands somewhere in the middle. 

“And go where? His eyes remain focused on the ledger, dark brows drawn tight in concentration. You envision numbers flashing before him, adding and subtracting at the steady pass of the nib scratching against parchment. 

“I don’t know. Ravka, maybe?” 

“Ravka?” It’s like the word tastes sour on his tongue. “Why?” 

You stop just short of his desk, an answer instantly rapping at your mind. You quickly replace it with one that’s far less tragic. “I wouldn’t mind seeing Nikolai Lantsov with my own eyes,” you drawl. “Nina says he’s quite the looker, y’know.” 

Kaz sits up a little straighter, shoulders pinned with newfound tension. 

“Of course he is.” He seems to press the nib down harder, his disinterested tone bordering close to resentful. “He’s a prince—looking pretty is all they’re good for.” 

Your head tilts. “Well, he’s actually a king now, so…” 

There’s the briefest falter in the smooth motion of his jotting wrist. “I’m not taking you to Ravka so you can seduce the Lantsov bastard.” 

“And why not?” You reach for the tip of his cane, still propped against the desk, skimming a finger over the crow’s head. “You think I can’t do it?” 

The pen keeps on scratching, accented by the dull hum of the Slat’s perpetual motion—doors slamming, voices cackling. Your ego grows larger for every second Kaz stays silent, your satisfaction settling into a feline smirk. 

Simply, yet firmly, Kaz eventually maintains, “We’re not going to Ravka.” 

Your exhale is something over dramatic, laden with feigned disappointment as you huff, “Fine!” Kaz never looks up, continuing with the ledger. 

Abandoning the crow’s head, you swipe one of Kaz’s abandoned gloves off the desk, fiddling with the smooth leather. Still recovering from their civil war, you imagine Ravka isn’t an ideal travel spot right now, anyway. Not unless someone has a morbid desire to tour the sites where Saints met their often-grisly ends, that is… Besides, for all Nina’s praise of the Lantsov king, you’ve never actually had a thing for blondes. 

And yet— 

“I really would like to go someday.” Your voice is hardly a whisper. Your other answer—tragic and rapping—crawls up your throat in a hoarse admission, “My mother was Ravkan.” 

That persistent scratching finally comes to a sudden halt. 

For the first time since he entered the room, Kaz looks up. There’s not a hint of pity in his eyes, though they gleam with solemn understanding. Your lips thin, pressing his glove tight to your chest. 

In the winter of your fourteen birthday, you snuck into your father’s office and stole a full bottle of kvas. Dressed in clothes too light for the frigid weather, you sped up the crooked stairs to Kaz’s attic-bedroom, pleading until he begrudgingly agreed to join you on the moonlit roof. For a boy who claimed such an aversion to you, he was always doing things you asked—even if he’d griped the whole time. You both gagged after the first sip of hard liquor. After an hour or so, the full bottle had dwindled to just a drop, your tongues seeming to move with more freedom. 

Neither of you had been prepared for the way the carbonated joy in your chests fizzled to something stagnant. 

I don’t like being alone, you told him, fiddling with the frayed strings tied around your wrist, the friendship bracelets no one ever wanted. If I’m alone, it means I’m thinking, and if I’m thinking, it means my mother won’t stop dying. 

You told him of the endless montage in your head. How at six years old, a walk along the Stave in your favorite winter coat ended with getting crushed beneath the weight of your mother’s last act of devotion, shielded by a body crumpled and crimson, shorn in the crossfire of unexpected gang violence. When you fell silent, Kaz drained the last drop of kvas and told you about a coffee shop near the Exchange. About a sickboat and a boy named Jordie, about a frosty harbor and an impossible swim that left him unable to bear the touch of another’s skin. 

When neither of you had any soul left to bear, Kaz chucked the bottle off the roof. You don’t remember hearing it shatter, and maybe it never did. Maybe it hit some hapless pigeon and fractured his skull. Maybe it ceased to exist the moment it went over the edge. The bottle didn’t matter. Not to you. Not when Kaz Brekker reached for your wrist, leather-clad fingers gently tugging the bracelets off your wrist. 

Don’t make a thing of this, he told you, stuffing them in his pocket. You’re still a pest.

But it was a thing. A strange, beautiful thing—and both of you knew it. 

“Fine.” Kaz’s voice—the rasp of stone on stone—drags you back to the present. He sits the pen down beside the ledger, a strand of black hair swaying with the subtle shake of his head. “We’ll go to Ravka. You’ll seduce some sorry prince and live happily ever after in a gaudy palace. I’ll make my fortune snagging the Lantsov Emerald and use it to hire a proper bookkeeper. Deal?” 

Your lips twitch, still hugging his glove to your chest. “King,” you correct him. 

His eyes roll, but a flicker of something warm betrays his affection. “Pest,” he calls you, though it doesn’t sound like much of an insult. 

“I imagine the Grand Palace has fine exterminators,” you muse. 

“Then I suppose your marriage will be short-lived.” 

“Will you save me, then?” Your heart leaps with the question, how it slips from your tongue before you can grasp it. 

Kaz hesitates. Then—remarkably—smiles. 

“Maybe.”

a/n - you know what they say. a bottle of kvas is never just a bottle of kvas, amirite

(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞

anyways, i was procrastinating an essay and thought "lets write something with a somewhat ambiguous ending!" and voila, a boy's first pest is the product. now everyone say: lainie, go work on your original writing and stop writing so much fan fiction! (but i'm already thinking of a kaz smut drabble so) anyways, comments and reblogs much appreciated, i cry with joy every time someone actively interacts with my work so THANK YOU

[waterlilyvioletfog]

After a bit of time, I think I really like the changes to Wylan’s character. He’s a lot more confident, in himself, his sexuality, and that makes sense for the fact that this is a Wylan who’s an adult, and has likely been out of his father’s house for years, not only several months. It makes sense that he’d be more independent.

[a-reverii]

▸ ME AND MY HUSBAND⌇the darkling.

› pairing ━ ꒰ husband!aleksander morozova x fem!reader ꒱

› in which ━ ꒰ the general neglects you for long, and after an outburst on his part, comes to regret it. based off this request. ꒱

› content warning ━ ꒰ angst-to-fluff ; thoughts of cheating ; neglection ; arguments ; hurt/comfort themes ; brief but strong language ; reader is aleksander's wife ; brief nudity (nothing sexual) ; established relationship ; etc. ꒱

› word count ━ ꒰ 4 . 1k ꒱

━━ ( navigation ) ( masterlist ) ( request )

YOU SAT BESIDE AN EMPTY CHAIR, swirling the amber liquid in your glass idly. Your food sat in front of you, untouched. It was unusual, for you to leave your plate and glass so full. But, then again, these were strange times.

Your fellow Grisha spoke amongst themselves, their voices mixing together to form an almost static sound that resonated in the back of your mind. And yet, no matter how many people were among you, no matter how deafening their conversations, you still felt that the room was not entirely full.

You didn't partake in much of the gossip yourself. You felt that it was all so shallow. Dirty, in a sense. You rolled your eyes as women and men alike shared their snippets of stories that they'd most likely conjured up only moments before, and felt yourself bothered still when everyone seemed to eat up the so blatant lies.

"Where do you think the general is at this time? Not working, I imagine?"

"I hear that he spends all his time cooped up in that war room of his, barely has time to sleep."

"Surely all he does isn't work in there? I couldn't believe it."

"Well, I heard that he spends every night of his with the Sun Summoner - "

You stopped listening.

This is pointless.

You got up to hopefully escape the clamour and the nonsense, but just as you did so, some servant boy that you were sure that you had never so much as spoken to in your life had apparently made it his life's mission to keep you at the table.

"My lady, I hope you found the food alright? You've hardly picked at it."

It was easy, perhaps too easy, to plaster on a fake smile as your voice dripped with a certain sweetness you'd perfected. You mumbled some quick excuse, and the servant nodded, not engaging you in any further conversation.

You made your way to your bedroom, and once you reached it, you slowly took off your lavish dress and all the other rather ostentatious pieces you wore. You never were quite a fan of all the glitz and glam — not like Aleksander was.

Your eyes wandered up to your mirror as you stared at your bare self.

You don't know why you felt so terribly invisible. Perhaps it was due to the fact that no one seemed to truly notice you without Aleksander at your side, that you seemed to fade into the background without his presence. Or perhaps you had always been that way, people simply didn't want to offend him by not acknowledging his wife when the two were together.

Whichever it was, it didn't truly matter. You simply wished you hadn't tolerated that gossip for so long, wished that you could say something for yourself, for Aleksander, but whenever you tried you felt the words die on your tongue and decided that it was better to simply escape the situation all together. How you wished you had Aleksander's bravery.

You didn't want to believe them. The rumors, the gossip. It was poison, the things that they said. You were smart enough to know better, you told yourself, but as the rumors grew to be more and more explicit and you found your faith in Aleksander waning, you couldn't help but feel the poison seep into your veins. Hear something enough times, and you'll come to believe it — you'd heard that saying before. You never thought that it would apply to yourself.

Before, when rumors did arise about you and your husband, he'd always be there to comfort you or to assure you that they were untrue. Better yet, his presence tended to cease such frivolities. But now, with him nowhere to be seen and doing who knows what, you were left to ponder the rumors on your own.

Maybe he really is fucking that Sun Summoner, you thought with a dry laugh. It'd make sense. She was light and he was darkness. She was the sun, and he was the moon. There was no denying it: they were the perfect match. Maybe that's why I haven't seen him in so long. He's simply too ashamed to see the wife that he pushed to the side, as if I were some plaything.

That night, you went to sleep with thoughts of the Sun Summoner and the war and Aleksander on your mind, wishing your husband was there beside you to ease your thoughts.

* * *

When you awoke, Genya stood beside you, smiling gently.

She didn't comment on your smudged mascara or the way you'd failed to situate yourself underneath the covers — something you found you adored about her. She had this way of making people feel at ease no matter the circumstance, and had you perhaps had more free time to spend with the girl, you liked to think that you could develop a close bond with her.

“I don’t believe I’d know what to do without you here, Genya,” you praised once she’d finished her work. She hummed in response.

You admired yourself in the mirror. Not a hint of the last night's weakness remained on your face. Your hair was as pristine as ever, and you could swear that it actually sparkled in the sunlight that creeped in through the curtains.

No one can deny the magic of a tailor's touch, you mused.

"You may get on with your day now. I don't want to keep you from your duties. Thank you."

The girl nodded and made her leave.

You watched as she did so, before turning back to your mirror. Your hands ghosting over your face, from your eyes to your nose to your mouth, and the little details that were uniquely yours.

Nothing seemed quite wrong with it — of course, Genya had made very sure of this. But nothing seemed quite right, either. You didn't look like yourself. It was as if you were occupying some other person's body who bore a striking resemblance to you but still wasn't quite yourself.

It was disconcerting, to say the least.

A small sigh passed through your lips as you got up to greet the day. As Aleksander was busy, you had to make the time for your daily appearances, offering the public some sort of authoritative figure to believe in and to provide reassurance. You weren't the perfect candidate, of course, but you would do.

The day's events didn't differ much from the past ones. You only really had to complete the mundane tasks of mingling with others and participating in some idle chatter — harmless things, really. But the day seemed to drag on, just as the last had and just as those before it had. Weeks felt like months and months felt like years and by the time the day had passed, you couldn't help but laugh at the dreariness of it all.

You collapsed on your bed and gazed up at the ceiling.

It was all simply so pointless, the talking, the drinking, the partying. But so went the life of nobles, you supposed. They weren't made to contribute very much, only to enjoy life as it went on, and now you found even that a difficult feat.

I should go see Aleksander.

The thought came to you before you could stop it. But you found yourself quickly growing a liking to the idea, of seeing him. Perhaps there would not be a lot of time for him to speak to you, but his presence was all that really mattered. You remembered the days when you'd read beside one another. No words were exchanged, but the silence was comforting simply because he was there.

You got up and out of bed before you could think about the subject for much longer. You knew it was impulsive. You knew it. But it was better to live with regrets of all the things you had done than all the things you didn't do.

* * *

The general didn't acknowledge you at first, as you leaned against the edge of the doorway when you reached the war room. Whether it was purposeful or he was simply that exhausted, you didn't bother dwelling on the fact. It wouldn't make much of a difference.

"Aleksander," you cooed softly, your expression gentle as the man in question stared at you. If he was startled by your appearance, he didn't show it.

After a few moments of just staring at you, his eyes flit back over to his work.

"Y/n," he greeted in reply. "What are you doing here?"

His response was not hostile, though it was not particularly inviting. What were you doing here? You hardly knew. You weren't sure what you were planning to say once you saw him. A moment went by, and then another, and then another. Say something, you urged yourself. And you did.

"I... I wanted to see you... It's been a while," you whispered, followed by a small chuckle. "We live in the same palace, and yet it's been a while."

Aleksander didn't reply. He didn't seem to want to have this conversation. You didn't particularly want to discuss the matter either, but if you didn't, then who else? You took a seat at one of the chairs that were placed against the walls and watched as Aleksander did his work.

It took many beats of silence for him to finally speak. "I can't work as efficiently with you looking at me like that."

"You never had trouble working when I was with you before."

"I had much less work or stress at that time."

You got up, slowly circling the table at which Aleksander stood as you observed his work.

"When was the last time you slept?" You asked suddenly.

"Recently."

"How recently?"

You awaited his response. It never came.

"Why don't you come to bed, Aleksander?" You said after some time. "It's been the longest time since you've slept beside me... This palace is growing lonelier by the day." A pause. "And I miss you."

Your husband bit his cheek, before staring at you pointedly. "Y/n, I'm working. I don't have the time."

"And yet you seem to have all the time in the world to spend with that Sun Summoner of yours." The retort came before you could stop it.

Aleksander inhaled sharply. "What exactly are you insinuating? The Sun Summoner is a crucial part of my plan. I could not complete it without her."

You felt yourself flinch ever so slightly at his harsh tone. Still, you walked over to him, gently brushing your fingers over his arm.

"Please, darling. You need the sleep. And I..." Your hands moved to cup his cheek tenderly. "...I need my husband. The bed is ever so cold without you, and I can see it in your eyes — please, just for tonight, if no other night."

At first, you thought you'd reached him. He seemed to turn to putty in your hands, and you smiled at this. It reminded you of better days.

But as soon as his own tenderness came, it went. His own hands came to grip yours tightly as his expression grew hostile. Your stomach sunk as he threw your arms away from himself.

"I am busy, Y/n. Being the general means I have much more work than any of the other Grisha. I have infinite loads of stress on my shoulders at the moment and I don't need your incessant voice pestering me to come to bed. I have much more important things to attend to than your childish wants. If all you're looking for is a bed warmer, then I'm sure you'll find solace in many other men."

His words hit you like a slap to the face. You took a staggering step back, your mind spinning.

Never, in all your time spent with him, had your husband ever spoken to you in such a manner. Even during arguments, he'd always remained so calm and collected. It was something you'd grown to adore him for — his unwavering composure, his ever-lasting patience. Insults to him were seen as the lowest form of wit, and aggression was never something that came easily.

But now — in his eyes, in his voice — all you could find was an immense hostility, a hatred of sorts.

"So that is what you think of me? You think me a child? Do you think of me as an inconvenience, Aleksander?"

His words seemed to dawn on him just then, but just as he moved to speak, you continued.

"If I am so inconvenient to deal with, then let me ask you: where have I been all this time that you've been away? Have I been — have I been pestering you to give me attention, whining about your absence? Because, as I remember it, the moment the Sun Summoner made her way here, I have been nothing but flexible." Aleksander tried to interject, but you were not nearly finished nor ready to hear his response.

"I allowed you to ignore our usual traditions, to focus yourself entirely on your plans and not on me because I understood what it must have been like, to be under such immense pressure that you feel it crushes your lungs. I've supported you every step of the way and not once have I complained about this issue. Not once.

"I figured that if I left you alone that you'd be able to finish this all much faster so that I may once again be able to spend my days with you. And yet, days, weeks, months go by and you have hardly spoken so much as a word to me. You do not come to dinners, you do not sleep in our bed, and I can hardly remember the last time you gave me so much as a kiss. And now, after months of this treatment I ask for you to merely sleep beside me and all of a sudden I am a child? I am insolent for asking something of you that any wife would expect from her husband? Surely you don't think that so? And what of that Sun Summoner of which you so highly speak? I've spent nights, lying awake, dreading that as I did so you were spending all of your time and affection with her."

"Alina is — "

You breathed a mirthless laugh. "So that's her name? Alina? The woman who has so easily stolen you away from me?"

"Y/n, she hasn't stolen me away — "

"Saints, Aleksander, don't deny it. This is the longest conversation we've had in months. You cannot even claim to think that she hasn't taken up nearly all of your time." You shook your head. "You may lie to yourself all you want, but don't lie to me. That is not something that I deserve."

You were barely whispering now, and it took everything in you to keep your voice from making that awful, pitiful quiver that everyone made right before they inevitably shed a tear.

You just wanted your husband back. You were in the same room as him and yet you felt as though the two of you were worlds apart. And what a terrible, terrible feeling it was — to feel so distanced from the person you loved above all else.

It was now that you realized how much of a mistake it was to allow this issue to go unaddressed for so long. All of your pent up frustration and loneliness has molded and combined to form some ugly, vile beast that seemed to now be keeping you hostage, and it was suffocating.

Saints, it was so suffocating.

You couldn't breathe.

You hadn't even realized you were crying until you felt a small, pathetic whimper leave your lips when you tried to take a breath of air. Immediately, now, you wanted to leave. This was utterly humiliating. You were usually such a stoic person, able to keep up a smile in the worst of times. However, it didn't seem as though this was the case any longer. It pained you to see how this small issue had affected you so. Perhaps you truly were as childish as he so called you.

Aleksander was quick to be at your side, kneeling down and placing an arm against your shoulder in some half-hearted attempt to solace you, put it was of no use. His once comforting touch felt foreign along your skin.

"Forgive me. I — I shouldn't have come — " You said, pushing him off of you. You felt ashamed. Aleksander had never seen you so distraught over something such as this, and you didn't intend on making this a memorable instance.

"Y/n — "

"Let me go," you snapped, brushing past him and exiting the room, trying to ignore the ache your heart made as you did so.

* * *

Aleksander didn't know what to say.

There was no denying he'd been working far into the night, but he was doing it for good reason. He was making the second army stronger, was progressing his plan more than he could have ever dreamed. At last, he was constructing a world in which he and his kind could be safe — where you and him could be safe.

And, Saints, perhaps he hadn't give you as much attention and love as you so deserved, but by the time this was all finished, he'd have nothing to give you but his undivided attention and unadulterated love.

The general let out a tired sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took a seat.

He had been a fool. It was plain and simple. He'd been neglecting you for so long that it had become a habit of sorts. He hadn't wanted to have this conversation. Though he logically knew it would come up, he had still hoped that perhaps you'd forget about his behavior when all was said and done. You'd always been a rather forgiving person.

Aleksander gave you some time to cool off. He needed to think of his words carefully. He knew his little outburst had hurt you much more than your cared to admit, and it pained him to think that he was the cause of such. He was supposed to be the one to protect you from outside forces, to be there when you most needed him. Now, however, the only person you seemed to need protection from was him.

After what Aleksander considered an appropriate amount of time, he found his way to your bedroom. Of course, he still had work, but he'd attend to it later. He could not focus fully upon it until he made matters right with you.

When he entered, Aleksander wasn't surprised to see your figure laying beneath the sheets, your eyes closed. But he knew better than to think that you were asleep. Your breathing was somewhat uneven and he could notice your eyelids twitch ever so slightly as he neared you.

The general sat down beside you on the edge of the bed, his hand moving to rub your shoulder. It was a comforting gesture, something he'd done a thousand times before.

You opened your eyes after some time upon the realization that he would not leave your side until the matter was once again discussed. You sighed, sitting up against your headboard and distancing yourself from Aleksander's touch, no matter how your body yearned for it. You averted his gaze, crossing your arms in front of you to further create some sort of distance.

"Want do you want?" You asked, and although your face remained indifferent, your voice told another story. You wanted to hit yourself for sounding so weak. It was unlike you.

Aleksander's eyes softened.

"To apologize," He started, taking your hand. "I did not mean to snap at you in such a manner, Y/n. I did not mean to yell at you — to say what I did. I've simply been under so much pressure as of late... I didn't mean to neglect you, my love, but I can promise that I will not do so again once we reinforce the fold. You will have my undivided attention."

You stared at him, your brows knitting together. "What do you want from me, Aleksander?"

"What?"

"Do you — do you want me to accept your apology with open arms — to tell you that it's okay, and that I believe you?" You sigh. "I don't. I don't believe you. You tell me this war is going to end soon, but you have no way of knowing that. There's no telling what the next months, the next years will bring. Who's to say you won't be just as busy as you are now?"

"Y/n — "

"Don't." You closed your eyes. "Don't sit there and look at me like that. Don't tell me everything's going to be okay. That's what you said the first time. You said you'd have less time, but that you'd make some for me. And I believed you. I did. I didn't doubt you for a second. I never would have."

"I... I meant what I had said. Things simply got away from me and..."

You shook your head. He was making excuses, excuses that you yourself had made in some effort to try and forgive him. "You left me alone, Aleksander. Do you understand what it means to be lonely? To have people all around you and yet to feel as though no one's truly there?"

He didn't respond, but you could see that your words had affected him.

"It's the most awful feeling, you know. It eats away at your soul like no other. And I — I understand it." You nod to yourself. "You want me to trust you, to believe that everything will be okay eventually. And I did. You could have told me that left was right and that up was down and I would have believed you without question. It may have been foolish, but I would have. But do you — do you truly expect me to never doubt your word when you are never here to tell me that all those awful rumors aren't true? Do you? Because I am certain that if the roles were reversed that you would have lost your faith in me long ago."

"I am so sorry, my dear. I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't. You weren't here to find out." You snapped.

"Please, don't do this. Don't say that. I know I've made a mistake... but I will make it right by you. I promise."

You sighed. You'd been waiting for those words for so long. Too long.

"It's too late. I've given you every opportunity for you to tell me such. things. It's too late now."

"I know it's late, but, please, look at me — " Your husband grabbed ahold of your chin, his grip gentle yet firm, and titled it towards himself. "I will never make that mistake again. I assure you, my love."

"But how can you? How can you promise that this will never happen, that when the burden becomes too heavy, I will become nothing but a mantlepiece?" You bit at the inside of your cheek. "I would have made time for you, you know. I would have made time for you above all else, even if it seemed impossible. Even if it was impossible." You clenched your jaw. You could feel tears brimming in your eyes. "I would've made time for you."

Aleksander allowed his hand to slip from your chin as he leaned back ever so slightly. "Y/n, I... I'm sorry. Truly, I am. I..." He took your hand in his, squeezing it very gently. "I should have known better. But believe me. I am beyond sorry. Please, tell me what I can do to make it right."

"There is nothing to do. You... you said what you said, and I said what I said, and there is nothing we can do to change that, nothing you can do. You can't make up for lost time. That is not something that is simple to get back."

"Please, my darling. I will do anything you ask. You've been ever so faithful to me. I will do anything."

"Aleks — "

"Please," he urged, taking both of your hands in his and caressing them gently. You sighed, giving in to his touch. You were much too deprived of it to deny it now.

"Just — lay beside me. Sleep with me. Even if I'm asleep when you come into the bedroom, knowing you're there... it will help."

This issue would not be resolved quickly, and not for a long time. You were practical enough to know this. Still, after feeling your husband cup your cheek and press a delicate kiss onto your lips, you couldn't help but feel that, eventually, everything would be okay. Not now. And not for a long time. But, soon enough, this would all pass.

[mournersandfunerals]

Can you imagine how fucking hilarious the ice court heist adaptation is going to be? Like imagine watching Nina and Matthias try to resuscitate Kaz after he nearly drowns and then suddenly the scene switches to Inej, Jesper and Wylan having the time of their lives, stealing a Fjerdan tank? Look me in the eye and tell me that wouldn't be the greatest piece of media you'll ever see