satrryeys4eva

[satrryeys4eva]

Y/N: I hate you.

Xavier: According to this picture i drew of us holding hands that must be untrue

[satrryeys4eva]

Actor AU! Promoting The Final Season 🤟🔥

[satrryeys4eva]

[satrryeys4eva]

he misses you. he misses you like a flower misses the sun. like the desert misses the rain. like you are the entirety of his being. as if you hold the key to his fierce, thumping bloody heart within the palm of your hands, like he is nothing without you— and perhaps he isn't. he doesn't feel like himself, no, in fact, he feels empty. like a shell of the man he used to be before you. he feels as though the world has lost its color, its meaning, and it makes him feel bare— it makes him feel.

he misses you. he misses the warmth of your perfume, a sweet and spicy blended aroma of saffron and sugared lavender. he misses your smile, all wide and pretty— genuine and charming, and always all for him. he misses the sound of your laughter, raw and boisterous, but sometimes soft and breathy, intimate. he misses your kisses, shy and cloying— yet fierce and angry at times as well. he misses the small things, like the scatter of moles across the expanse of your body that he finds himself counting when he can't fall asleep. or the way you fuss over him, mumbling curses and your love for him all in the same sentence.

he is nothing without you, and he knows it all too well.

the soft jangle of your keys in the lock makes him look up from his journal, the door swinging open. and despite himself, he finds that he's softened underneath your warm, loving gaze. ah, he also misses the sound of your voice, euphonious and soft, a tone you use for him specifically.

❝why are you looking at me like that?❞

he can feel his heart dance within his chest, pounding fiercely as you slant your hip to the side, the very same hips he adores holding onto when swaying with you to music. your eyes, which always seem to sweep him under with their intensity with no fail, are glittering with mirth, it knocks the breath from his chest. ❝ i adore you,❞ he utters— he sounds like a fool in love, and he doesn't particularly mind it. your cheeks flush with color and you playfully roll your eyes. that's alright, you don't need to say it back, he knows.

❝help me with the groceries?❞

he? ⸺ SIMON, gojo satoru, DAMON SALVATORE, soap, older!TANJIRO, scott mccall, GAZ, clark kent, EMMETT CULLEN, leon kennedy, STEVE HARRINGTON, giyu tomioka, JOHN PRICE, loran, ULYSSES, rick grimes, KÖNIG, dick grayson, SPENCER REID.

honestly it can be anyone you envision.

[satrryeys4eva]

Y/n: I am in charge of this disaster!

Damon: I have a name, you know.

[satrryeys4eva]

hanahaki — damon salvatore x reader

☄. *. ⋆

content warnings and genre: swearing, blood, death, diseases, unrequited love — angst

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

synopsis: 花吐き病, a disease that only a one-sided fairy tale can cause, because when damon won't give you the flowers, you grow them yourself

✧.*

the air was infused with the scent of blooming flowers, a fragile beauty that masked the impending tragedy that lay hidden within. there was once a time where roses that grew in your garden held a special place in your heart, and nowhere else. you relished in the moments you spent kneeling down in order to catch a sweet whiff of the devastatingly beautiful scent. when winter came, when they began to wither, you couldn't help but feel sorrowful.

you stood at the periphery of the salvatore mansion, your gaze fixated on the enchanting sight before you. damon salvatore, the enigmatic vampire with eyes like liquid darkness, moved with a grace that seemed to defy time itself. he was entwined in a dance of whispered words and stolen glances with elena gilbert, the woman who held his heart captive.

your heart fluttered with an ache you had grown accustomed to, a yearning that seemed to grow stronger with every stolen glance you cast upon the two lovers. damon's laughter, rich and intoxicating, echoed through the air, and you couldn't help but drink in every note as if it were a rare elixir. his devotion to Eeena was palpable, a force that bound them together with an unbreakable thread of destiny.

“they look great together, don't they?” you turned to see stefan by your side, smiling because he knew how much their happiness meant to him. you so desperately forced a smile, ignoring the way your breathing grew heavy as your gaze softened. “yeah,” you murmured, voice a mere whisper. “yeah, they do.”

as the days turned into weeks, your affection for damon remained a silent symphony, playing softly in the chambers of your heart. you watched him from the shadows, your presence unnoticed amidst the bustling chaos. you reveled in the mere seconds he spared for you, fleeting interactions that left an indelible mark on your soul.

the town itself seemed to mirror your emotions, as flowers of all kinds bloomed in profusion. yet, within you, a seed of despair took root, its tendrils creeping through your heart like delicate vines. unbeknownst to you, this burgeoning ache was mirrored within your very breath, as each inhale carried a hidden poison that would soon become an integral part of your existence.

it was a cool evening, the stars above twinkling like diamonds against the inky sky, when you dared to venture closer to the epicenter of your yearning. a masquerade ball had enveloped the salvatore mansion in an air of mystique, drawing guests from all corners of mystic falls.

you watched from the shadows, your masked visage concealing the hope and pain that swirled within your eyes. damon and elena moved through the crowd, a picture of grace and desire. their dance was one of undeniable connection, leaving you feeling as if you were but a specter in their world.

as the night waned and the moon hung low, you found yourself on the outskirts of the mansion's sprawling garden. moonflowers, their petals luminescent in the silvery light, bloomed in abundance. wiih a sigh, you plucked a single bloom, its delicate fragrance filling the air around you.

“gorgeous, aren't they?” you met stefan's eyes once more, his gaze nearly pitiful. he was aware of how much you yearned for his brother—how much you craved to be loved the way he loved elena. you turned back to the bundle of flowers, eyes glowing with admiration. “i love them,” you admitted, all the while knowing you had a different confession in mind. him. you loved damon.

stefan's lips curved in a gentle smile, though there was a tinge of sadness hidden behind his eyes. “moonflowers,” he murmured, his voice carrying a soft, almost melancholic quality. “they're said to bloom only at night, under the moon's tender gaze. but their beauty comes with a price.” he extended a hand to touch one of the petals, his fingers brushing against the delicate surface with a reverence that spoke of deeper understanding. you followed his lead, letting your fingers graze the petals of the moonflower. the texture was velvety, cool against your touch, and you couldn't help but think that it mirrored the complexity of the emotions swirling within you. “what price?” you asked, your voice hushed as if afraid to break the fragile tranquility that surrounded you both.

stefan's gaze turned distant, as if he were peering into a past filled with memories too painful to bear. “legend has it that moonflowers take their beauty from those who admire them,” he explained, his words carrying a weight you could sense even before he continued. “they absorb the heartache, the unspoken longing, and the unrequited love of those who stand in their presence.”

the truth of his words settled over you like a shroud, chilling and numbing. you stared at the moonflowers with a mixture of awe and trepidation, as if they held the key to your very existence. “do they take away the pain?” you whispered, your gaze flickering up to meet stefan's.

hia expression held a mixture of sympathy and empathy. “no,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of his own experience. “they bear witness to it. they hold it, absorb it, until the pain becomes an intrinsic part of them. but they cannot erase it.”

a silence hung between you, heavy with unspoken truths. you turned your gaze back to the moonflowers, their luminescence seeming to shimmer with an otherworldly light. it was as if they understood the depth of your emotions, as if they were waiting to cradle your secrets and carry them into the night.

“you're not alone in this,” stefan said, his voice a gentle reassurance. “i know what you feel.” your heart clenched at his words, a mixture of gratitude and sorrow flooding your senses. in that moment, you understood that the pain you carried was not a solitary burden—it was shared by another who knew the taste of unrequited love all too well. you knew he loved elena more than damon ever could.

as the days turned into weeks, the symptoms of your hidden affliction began to manifest. A persistent cough, dry and unyielding, echoed through the quiet chambers of your room. each breath you took seemed to carry a weight, as if the air itself had turned into a tangible reminder of your unspoken desires.

days turned into nights, and the moonflowers in the garden continued to wilt, their petals falling like tears that went unnoticed by all but you. the nights grew colder, the air carrying a heaviness that matched the weight on your chest. your coughs became more frequent, each one a reminder that the poison of unrequited love had taken root within you. the moonflowers had all but withered, their once-beautiful petals scattered like confetti of heartache upon the ground.

in the final throes of your affliction, you sought solace in the warmth of your bathtub, the water soothing against your skin. moonflower petals floated upon the surface, their delicate fragrance a reminder of the pain you had carried, the love you had hidden, and the sacrifices you had made. the coughing had grown more frequent, each fit more violent than the last, leaving you weak and trembling.

blood stained the water, a macabre dance of crimson against the white porcelain. each cough was a harsh reminder of the poison that had taken hold, the unspoken emotions that had finally found their voice in the form of bloodied petals.

as you leaned against the edge of the bathtub, your breathing labored and your body weakened, you felt a strange sense of peace settle over you. the moonlight filtered through the window, casting an ethereal glow upon your skin. you closed your eyes, your consciousness drifting between the realms of pain and serenity.

in the quiet of that moment, you felt a gentle pressure against your hand—a touch so light, it could have been a figment of your imagination. but then it came again, more persistent, and you slowly turned your head to see stefan sitting by your side. his gaze was filled with a mixture of sorrow and acceptance, a silent acknowledgment of the journey you had shared.

“i'm here,” he murmured, his voice a soft reassurance.

you managed a weak smile, your fingers curling around his hand. It was cold, a reflection of the reality that was slowly dawning upon you. “stefan,” you whispered, the word a fragile breath that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken sentiments.

his eyes met yours, and in their depths, you saw the depth of his affection, the extent of his understanding. he was not just a witness to your pain; he was a bearer of it, a partner in the silent symphony of longing that had played out in the shadows.

as your vision began to blur and the world around you faded, you felt a strange sense of release. the pain that had plagued you for so long was no longer yours to bear. and as you closed your eyes for the last time, you felt a single tear slide down your cheek, mingling with the petals that still clung to your skin.

when consciousness finally left you, stefan held your cold hand, his touch a poignant reminder of the connection you had shared. he stayed by your side, his gaze fixed upon your face, as if willing you to find peace in the afterlife.

but just as the sun began to paint the sky with the first hues of dawn, a harsh cough erupted from stefan's lips. he doubled over, a hand pressed to his mouth, and as he coughed, delicate petals of moonflowers tumbled to the ground—a mirror of the pain he had absorbed, the love he had carried, and the sacrifice he had made for you.

the ache that had bloomed within his heart was the same ache you had carried for his brother, and now, it was the ache that bound him to you in death.

[satrryeys4eva]

soft spot

damon salvatore x reader

summary; you're injured in a fight with a rogue vampire who breezed into town, and Damon is being weird about it

hurt/comfort

----

You tried to stay hidden in the shadows outside of the streetlight, but your rapid heartbeat probably would've given you away either way.

"Who the hell is this guy?" You heard Damon mutter from the spot he was tossed just a few feet away from you, dusting the dirt from the trash cans he'd squished like cardboard. His ice blue eyes spared you a quick glance but didn't say a word, trying not to draw any attention your way.

Damon intervened as Caroline was struggling to grapple with the stranger. In the span of a moment, she was on the ground groaning with a broken arm and he had launched the assailant to give them a chance to regroup - right toward you.

You couldn't help the little gasp that you emitted, no matter how much time you spent around these creatures this was a vampire. One in particular who would have no hang ups about snapping your neck.

Per their supernatural hearing, it didn't take long for the mans vicious senses to find you, and took half as long for him to have a bruising hand around your neck.

The sound of Damon yelling your name was distant in the background, you were focused on the threat literally snarling in your face.

"Don't you smell good?"

That was as far as the stranger managed to get before Damon had the broken handle of a broom protruding from his back. His grip slipped off your throat as his body slid sideways and you toppled to the ground, heading bouncing off the pavement hard enough for you to see stars.

Damon's voice was faint to you again, but you could hear him begging for your attention. Caroline was in the background too, in panicked discussion with someone over the phone. You couldn't get your eyes to focus though, hair becoming wet and warm.

The eldest Salvatore's touch on you was feather light, his mouth still moving with words he wanted you to latch onto but you had already lost the dance with consciousness.

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The first thing you were aware of when you woke up in a bed was that it was decidedly not yours. The next thing you noticed was that you weren't in any pain, just a bit stiff when you went to sit up from the bed. Someone had definitely given you blood, which was against every rule her and her friends had discussed, but from the smell of the sheets behind you - Damon wouldn't have cared either way.

You made your way out of the room and down the stairs, vaguely knowing the layout of the boarding house from your handful of times actually coming inside. Over the last few months you had become dangerously intertwined in Elena's grapple with the supernatural, despite Bonnie's vehement advice to go as far as possible. You were emancipated, you could switch schools and move to Pennsylvania.

No, you couldn't. Once your conscious had been opened to everything around you, once you were aware of the dangers of the dark - you could never ignore that. Better the evil you know.

Speaking of.

You came upon Damon in his favorite spot, a tumbler of bourbon in his hand while he leaned up against the fireplace. The suit jacket he had been wearing earlier that night was discarded on the couch behind him, a small amount of blood on the collar of his shirt still.

"You always look so broody." Poking fun at him might not be in your best interest, but you figured you'd give it a go. Over the last few months, your and Damon's relationship had morphed into something you couldn't quite understand, but moments like these had seemed to become more comfortable between you.

"I believe you're confusing me with my much broodier younger brother." Damon's words were laced with sarcasm, but his tone didn't have a hint of amusement.

You felt suddenly awkward, in his space and home. Just because you had gotten kind of comfortable lately didn't mean he wanted to be around you.

"Well, thanks for the whole life saving thing." You began to babble nervously, a faint pink glow to your cheeks. "I'll get out of your hair. Sorry for taking your bed, I don't even know what time it is-" You had begun turning toward the door, making to just leave and find a way home. How you could this age and still flustered in front of attractive men, especially murderous ones was beyond you.

Damon appearing in front of you almost made your heart stop, hair stirring at his incredibly fast movements. He was barely a foot away, his piercing gaze holding your confused one. From this close you could smell just how much he had probably drank.

"Are you... okay, Damon?" Your voice wavered a bit under the heat of his stare and you saw the muscle in his jaw working overtime while he looked like he was debating whether or not he wanted to actually say anything to you.

"You don't have to thank me for saving you when you were in danger because of me." His eyes had drifted from your eyes to your neck, voice whisper quiet.

Vulnerability was the last thing you expected from the man standing over you. "What do you mean? It wasn't your fault. Just wrong place, wrong time and I so happen to be the weakest link." You hoped your voice conveyed even a bit of humor.

His eyes snapped back up to yours, head tilting slightly while he assessed you. Damon's hand rose to grab a lock of your hair, twirling it around his finger in thought. Your breath caught in your throat, feeling like you were on the precipice of something.

"My weakest link, maybe. Have I told you how much I like your hair?" His voice was still quiet, an innocent lilt.

Your mind was reeling, half drunk on his closeness and hazed by confusion. Where was this coming from? Had he drank a small liquor store and now he was confusing her for her much more appealing best friend?

"Damon, I'm not sure how much you've had to drink, but I'm happy to brew you a pot of coffee. Does that even work for vampires?"

You had started to pull away, making to turn toward the kitchen but Damon was infinitely faster than you. His drink was discarded, one hand going to your upper arm and the other to your waist, tugging you back into his vicinity.

"On the contrary, I don't think I've ever been so sure minded, sparrow. I'm sorry for not protecting you tonight." His voice was tight now, the warmth of his hands tingling down your body.

"It's not your fault, or job, Damon." Your voice had quieted to match his, all humor leaving. You didn't know where this guilt had come from, but it was misplaced. Since you'd met Damon he'd made some bad decisions, but you had also seen his sacrifice so much for the sake of the team. Even if others didn't acknowledge it, he didn't need to add anymore to his plate.

"I'd like it to be. My job." His reply was lightning quick, eyes pinning yours in place.

Were you dreaming?

Damon's signature smirk was visible for a split second, telling you that your confusion was written all over your face. "I think that I'm asking you, in the most coming of age movie way, if you'd like to go steady?"

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send any fic requests here!! all comments/criticisms/requests welcome

[satrryeys4eva]

[satrryeys4eva]

Eddie: I can’t believe you live nearby, and you won’t let anyone crash at your place.

Y/n: You people already know too much about me.

Steve: I know exactly three facts about you, and one of them is that you won’t let any of us crash at your place.

[satrryeys4eva]

❝ 𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐒 ❞

summary: imagine being in bed with damon salvatore with you laugh and talk shit about your friends <3

“I'm telling you, I don't know Matt isn't dead yet, he's like a freaking pest”

Laughing harder, you pressed your face into Damon's chest while your chest burned and you desperately tried to not wake Stefan up although he was probably awake by now because of your constant giggling.

"Also, Lockwood needs to go to therapy because of his anger issues, every single time people talk to him he turns into wolfy"

You laughed even more hard into Damon's chest, almost at the point where you were going to pee yourself. You begged for him to stop before he could make you wet your underwear and what you heard next made you laugh even harder.

"Shut the fuck up!"

:)

[satrryeys4eva]

Some of y’all really think racism in America looks like this:

When it really looks like this

[satrryeys4eva]

Woman at the zoo: Why do they look so sad? 😔

Sign literally 10 feet away:

[satrryeys4eva]

Added to this post:

[satrryeys4eva]

Y/N: Uh, JJ? We need to talk about your will.

JJ: What about it?

Y/N: It says here that you wish to be “buried with extra bones to confuse the archaeologists.”

[satrryeys4eva]

horror sub-genres: gothic

[satrryeys4eva]

i can fix him (no really i can)

[satrryeys4eva]

—dense; kaz brekker.

ʚ kaz brekker x reader | grishaverse | 2,2k words. ʚ you're a bit clueless as to why the dirtyhands do the things he does, like call you schatje and pay you to steal something when he clearly doesn't need to. ʚ fluff. ʚ a/n maybe ooc kaz im sorry. more at the end!

Ketterdam is a marvel from afar, a pretty little flower offering promises of its nectar—new life, new opportunities, debauchery—only to catch you in its trap and swallow you whole. All the way up on the clock tower, roughly centralised in the port city, the Barrel is nothing more than bright lights emanating from bar signs and glittering roofs.

The bell rings, reveberating to signal the change of the hour. It's time to work, finally.

Your boots thump as you make your way down the spiraling concrete staircase, paying attention not to step on the chunks flaking off of the edge. Whoever was responsible for building this was clearly cutting cost, the concrete is about as fragile as clay.

A painting. It is an annoying job to do on your own, but your contractor offered a lot of Kruge for it—perhaps too much, but if Mr. Kikkert is willing to scrape his pockets for it, then you're more than happy to accept. It is more Kruge than you would ever need for a while, so you won't have to scrounge for scraps in this Ghezen-forsaken town. Moreover, it's been a while since your last job and you're frankly not doing too well.

You step lightly over the rooftops, hopping from building-to-building with sure, steady steps. You have done this for most of your lives, to avoid being stomped into the vile muck at the bottom of the Barrel, you learned to hide near the skies.

Where the painting is being kept isn't far from the Canal, just on the rows of overpriced apartments for rent. You were told that it was housed on the third floor of the corner building. Everything is going well. Your journey is uninterrupted and the stadwatch aren't on alert.

Until you spot him.

The familiar curve of his black hat. The high collar of his coat. The shining leather of his gloves.

Brekker.

You strut towards him as if you are neighbours crossing paths on your evening walks. When in truth, his Crow Club is on the other side of the town and you never come to this area without reason. You call his name sweetly. His head whips around immediately, finding you in the dwindling foot traffic of the street.

He says your name in a warning tone, suspicious of your being here.

“What? Can't I come and see an old friend?”

Brekker scoffs. “I don't know. Can you, schatje?”

You almost turn around and leave when you hear the term of endearment. He knows it gets under your skin—it always does. Your heart skips a beat or two and your train of thoughts gets interrupted whenever he calls you that. He means it as a jeering nudge and your head is wholly aware of that. Your heart, though. What a fickle little thing.

“A bit of a walk from the club, isn't it?” you say, falling into step next to him as he turns the corner towards the apartment building. “I assume you must be up to something.”

“Ah, but I'm always up to something.”

“I can't say I disagree,” you snort. “You don't happen to have a job around the area, do you?”

He halts, his cane knocking against the stone pathing. He turns to look at you and your elbows brush against each other. “Do you need anything? I have important matters to attend to.”

You bring a hand to your chest exaggeratedly, feigning a frown. “How callous. Call me schatje and throw me aside. Is this how you treat everyone, Kaz?”

“Only you, mijn schatje.”

You roll your eyes, unsure how to behave. Huffing, you say, “Stop calling me that.”

“I was under the impression that you liked the nickname.”

Oh, you do.

“I'll be going now. I've something to do. Stay off my job,” you warn. “You still owe me literal crown jewels from last time.”

Kaz's neutral expression shifts into fond nostalgia as he recalls the incident you're referring to. The crown jewels in question were under dispute by a pair of soon-to-be divorcees. One of them hired the Crows' help. The other called on you. One thing led to another and the item ended up in Kaz's hands and you went home empty-handed.

“I won that fair and square,” Kaz retorts. “Your current job wouldn't involve a certain painting, would it?”

Judging by his smug thin smile, you know that he knows.

“Tell me it isn't what you're here for.” You sigh exasperatedly. “Stay off of it, Brekker. I can't afford to lose another job.”

You think to be threatening, bluff your way out and tell him you'll tear down his Crow Club if he gets in your way, but you doubt it will work against the Dirtyhands. After all, you're one person and he has the whole Dregs behind him.

He looks at you with a raised eyebrow for a moment and for that terrible moment, you think that he may be there for the same reason you are, but he shakes his head lightly. “Fortunately, schatje, no. Stop looking as if you're going to murder me in my sleep.”

An involuntary smile blooms. “I wouldn't dream of it, Kaz.”

“Go on, then,” he says. “Be careful.”

You bite the insides of your cheeks to keep from smiling. “You too.”

With that, you part ways with Dirtyhands, entering the building. Your acquisition of the painting goes smoothly and the deal is closed swiftly a few hours later. It's too easy. You know it is. You're missing something.

Miss something, you did.

You push open the door to the Crow Club carelessly. The loud chatter mixed with atmospheric radio surges to meet you as you push your way past sweat-slicked bodies and drunken patrons. Your eyes dart back-and-forth, trying to spot the familiar curve of his black hat or the shiny glow of the head of his cane.

Jesper spots you from one of the open gambling tables.

“If it isn't my favourite thief,” he says, inclining his glass towards you. “Fancy a game?”

It isn't until you stop by his table that he sees the downward slope of your frown and the sharp glare you're giving. He instinctively sits up straighter, taking his shoes off of the corner of the table.

“Where's Brekker?” You ask, to-the-point, without indulging in your usual chit-chat whenever you visit.

The other three patrons on the table freeze—sensing the tension on your shoulders, too. They look between you and jesper, both confused and intrigued to know more. What is Ketterdam if it doesn't have rumours and secrets whispered about?

Jesper's brow furrow. “Are you okay? What's going on?”

To Jesper's knowledge, you and Kaz are on friendly terms, despite the frequent bickering. Hell, he assumes you're more-than-friendly, with the way Kaz gives you a nickname—an endearment, to be specific. Is it possible that you're going through a lover's spat?

“Brekker, Jesper. Where is he?”

A familiar rasp cuts through the rowdiness. “Here.”

Your head whirls around and you shoot an accusatory stare at the source of the voice. You stomp your boots as you make your way towards him. As you pass by him, you tug on the sleeves of his coat.

“We need to talk.”

“Hold on, schatje,” he says, still trailing after you. His cane knocks against the hardwood of the floor. “About what?”

You make your way up the stairs, to the second floor and swing the door to his office open as if it belongs to you. He has an eyebrow raised when he enters after you, closing the door behind him. He leans back against it, waiting for you to speak whatever it is that's on your mind.

“Kikkert,” you snarl. “You paid him to pay me.”

“That's quite a conclusion. How did you come to it?” His voice is level, not betraying whether or not you've spoken the truth.

You're pacing in front of him. “He says, and I quote, ‘If you're so close to Brekker, why doesn't he ask you himself to do this?'”

His eyes furrow and he runs a hand through his combed hair. He sighs, holding a hand up in a you-caught-me gesture. “Kikkert clearly has no idea what discretion means.”

You glare at him. “Do you think this is funny?”

He seems taken aback. “I don't see why this is a big deal, schatje. It's a job. You're paid. I get the painting. What's wrong with it?”

“Why are you doing this, then? Pay me for something you clearly are able to do yourself? Hell, whose painting was it? Was it yours? Did you pay me to steal from you?”

He doesn't reply, but the way he shifts his gaze away from you let's you know. It's as clear as a verbal admission.

“It was yours. That's why you were there. From your safehouse, wasn't it?” You stare at him in disbelief. “Is this amusing to you? I'm sorry if I don't quite see it as such.”

“Schatje—”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

You can't wrap your head around Kaz Brekker's thinking process. He pays someone to pay you to steal a painting he already owns. What's his plan in the long run? To embarrass you? Hurt your pride? Is this some sort of ploy to rope you to be indebted to him?

He sighes. “You were struggling. I only wanted to help.”

“Dirtyhands doesn't help people. You don't run gangs the way you do charities,” you retort.

Is that all you see him as? The demjin? The one who's willing to stain his hands for the right price? Is there no other version of him in your eyes?

“You're forgetting the man behind the monster here,” he says softly.

“Am I?” You approach him, leaving a little over two steps in-between the two of you. “Who exactly is the man behind Dirtyhands then?”

He pushes himself off of the door, taking one step forward. The thump of his cane practically echoes in the room. The hustle bustle of the Crow Club is nothing more than a muffled sound. There's a sudden tension in the air—the same one that hangs over you whenever he calls you his schatje, but this one is heavier due to your lack of light-hearted banter to parry.

“Do you really not know?” he asks, as if the question is staring at you in the face. As if it's the most obvious thing in all of Kerch. His stare is heavy, dark irises acting like magnets that pull you in. He scoffs, “You really are dense.”

“Well, enlighten me, Brekker! None of this is making a lot of sense to me.” You let out a frustrated huff of breath. Your hands move wildly to stress your points. “You know what? Whatever it is, I don't want to know. Just — quit doing it. I'll never take another job from Kikkert. I'll stay away from your damned club and all your friends. I'll stay away from you. I'm a capable enough thief without your pity, Brekker. I don't need it. You can shove it up your—”

His gloved hand wraps around your wrist as it's flailing in the air. Your speech immediately comes to a halt and your eyes widen.

“You are impossible,” he says.

You snort. “And you aren't?”

“At the moment, no,” he retorts.

His stare is intense. It isn't until then that you realise you've taken a step forward during your rant, decreasing the perfectly amicable distance and turning it into a heart-thundering one.

“It wasn't pity,” he says. “You're capable, I have never doubted that, but even the most capable ones struggle sometimes. My intention is to help. Trust me on this. I know you're too prideful to accept any, so I paid Kikkert.”

“But why? Why bother?”

“Why?” He blinks, sighing loudly before continuing. “Why? Have you ever stopped and thought, for a moment, that I've been calling you schatje. Do you think that was out of pity?”

You bite the insides of your cheek and shake your head. “It was something else.”

“Has it ever crossed your mind that it's because —ghezen forbid— I may actually harbour fondness for you?”

You blink once, twice. Kaz thinks he much prefers breaking into the ice court than having this conversation right now. His hand trembles when he brings them to brush your cheekbone lightly. He lets out a relieved sigh when you don't pull back. Your hand wraps over his gloved one, the leather cold on your skin. You lean into the touch.

“I thought it was one-sided,” you say finally. “I'm quite fond of you, too, you know.”

“You do a horrible job of showing it.”

“Says you,” you argue. “Just—don't do it again. Let me handle my own problems, Kaz. I'll let you know if I need your help.”

He hums in agreement. “You'll let me know.”

“I will.”

The two of you jump apart abruptly when there's a loud knock.

“Boss?” Jesper's voice sounds muffled through the door. “Everything okay? I hope ___ hasn't murdered you yet.”

“I haven't,” you answer, half-chuckling. Turning to look at Kaz, you say, “It's funny how he doesn't assume you'll murder me instead.”

Kaz shrugs. “He knows I can't.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Can't or won't?”

“Both,” he answers. “Can we not talk about murdering each other after what just happened?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. What just happened is you practically professing your little (well, maybe not-so-little) crush on him.

“So, is Kaz okay?” Jesper shouts again.

“Fine,” Kaz answers. “You can go back to your table.”

[ ]

i wanted to write something cute. schatje is taken from google and inspired from a kaz fic i read that used 'schatz' as a nickname. the plot is slightly ehhh? because it didn't really end the way i intended it to and i didn't proofread (when have i ever?). i was hoping to turn it into a two or three part series, but this is what we've ended up with & im quite happy with it. thank you for reading!