#with the soft and empty music and the thick fog and the coldness and loneliness

[mx-metronome]

[thewintermer]

Dance With Me

The room was dim, the only light coming from the muted glow of the fairy lights strung along the edges of the walls, twinkling softly like distant stars. It was late, much later than it should’ve been. The only sound filling the room was the steady, haunting melody I was playing on the piano.

It wasn’t the kind of music I usually wrote. It wasn’t the kind of music I wanted to write. But tonight, the dark thoughts in my mind and the frustration with the song I couldn’t finish had twisted into something sinister, something raw.

My fingers moved almost mechanically over the keys, playing the same sad, minor chords over and over again. I wasn’t sure what I was trying to say with it anymore, but it felt... right in the moment. The loneliness. The ache. The pull of something I couldn’t name.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been playing, but I had lost track of time hours ago. I felt cold. Tired. Empty. And yet, I couldn’t stop.

“Y/N?”

I froze, fingers hovering over the keys as Hueningkai’s voice broke through the fog in my mind. His tone was soft, hesitant. He stepped into the room, his figure a shadow against the light.

“Hey, are you okay?”

I swallowed, trying to blink away the tiredness in my eyes, but I couldn’t quite shake the feeling of heaviness. “I’m fine,” I said, my voice sounding hollow even to myself. “Just... working.”

Hueningkai took a step closer, frowning as he glanced at the piano. His gaze softened when he saw the way my hands hovered over the keys. “You’ve been here a while.”

“Yeah. I’m... stuck.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just continued to study me with those warm, brown eyes of his. The silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke again.

“Maybe you need to take a break,” he suggested gently. “You’ve been at this for hours.”

I shook my head, hands returning to the keys, the slow, minor tune crawling its way back out of me. “I can’t. I need to finish it. It’s not... right. Not yet.”

He smiled, a small, reassuring smile. Without saying another word, he crossed the room, walking toward the corner where a lamp sat. He flicked the switch, and the room shifted instantly. The harshness of the dark was replaced by a softer, warmer light. The soft golden glow reflected off the walls, the shadows now dancing playfully around us.

“I think you need a change of pace,” he said, turning back to me.

With a sigh, I lifted my hands off the keys and turned toward him, meeting his gaze.

“Come on. Let’s dance. Just for a moment.”

The word dance hung in the air like a question. I almost wanted to roll my eyes. A dance? Really? I was supposed to just get up, move around, and magically feel better? He was kidding, right? I crossed my arms over my chest, a silent challenge.

“I don’t know,” I said, looking back at the piano, “sounds a little cheesy, don’t you think?”

Hueningkai didn’t seem deterred. If anything, he walked towards me, his voice dropping into that playful, coaxing tone that I couldn’t ignore.

“Come on, Y/N. Just one dance. It doesn’t have to be anything big. Just for a few minutes. You deserve it. Trust me, the song will still be here when you’re done. But you need to clear your head, right?”

“You’re not even gonna try?” he asked, a playful challenge in his voice. “Come on, just for me. I promise I won’t make you do anything ridiculous. Just a little bit of movement, get your body in a different rhythm. You might be surprised how much it helps.”

I sighed dramatically, throwing my hands up in mock surrender. “Fine. But this better not be some sort of... weird exercise routine. I don’t want to end up doing the Macarena or something.”

Hueningkai laughed softly, “Promise,” he said with a wink, offering his hand toward me. “Just a slow dance, okay? No Macarena.”

I reached out, my hand finding his, the warmth of his touch grounding me in the moment. His fingers wrapped around mine, firm but not forceful, and I felt a strange comfort in that simple connection.

Hueningkai pulled me closer, his other hand settling lightly on the small of my back and for a moment, we just stood there, the space between us electric, filled with an energy I hadn’t expected.

“Just follow my lead,” he said quietly, his breath warm against my ear.

I nodded, my gaze flickering to the floor for a brief second, the awkwardness creeping in. I wasn’t sure what I was doing, but I let him guide me, step by slow step. We moved together, each of us taking a measured step, a quiet back-and-forth rhythm filling the space. The floor beneath our feet felt solid, but everything else seemed to sway, as though the room itself was dancing with us.

I caught myself breathing a little deeper, my chest rising and falling in time with the gentle beat of our movements. His hand on my back was a steady presence, warm and reassuring, and though I felt self-conscious at first, I found my body settling into the flow of it, like a weight being lifted.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmured, his voice a soft hum against the music. “Just relax.”

I looked up at him, and for a second, I forgot about the piano, forgot about the frustration, the loneliness. I was lost in the depth of his eyes, the warmth of his smile. It felt almost surreal, like the rest of the world had quieted down, leaving just us here, moving together in this perfect, unspoken harmony.

His fingers brushed lightly against mine, guiding me in a gentle turn. The movement was smooth, easy, as though it was meant to happen. My body moved with his effortlessly now, our feet finding a rhythm in sync, a quiet dance that felt like the most natural thing in the world. I wasn’t thinking about the music anymore, or the unspoken weight of everything else I’d been carrying. I was just... here.

The silence between us was filled with the soft sounds of our breath, the shuffle of our feet against the floor, and the lingering chords of the song that played in the background.

We swayed a little closer, the moment stretching between us like a quiet understanding, and I couldn’t help but feel the warmth of his presence seep into me, melting away the coldness I’d been carrying all night. His face was inches from mine now, his breath warm against my cheek. I could hear the quiet steadiness of his heartbeat, matching the rhythm of the dance.

“See? Told you it’d help,” he whispered, his lips barely brushing my ear. “You just needed to get out of your own head.”

I smiled softly, the ache in my chest easing just a little. “Yeah, you were right,” I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. “This isn’t so bad.”

His laughter was soft, “I know what I’m talking about sometimes.”

I chuckled, the sound filling the space between us, and he pulled me a little closer, the soft scent of his cologne mingling with the air around us.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of the way my heart was racing. The space between us was gone, and all I could think about were his lips, just inches from mine. My own lips parted slightly, and I felt an inexplicable pull—an irresistible urge to close the distance.

Hueningkai’s gaze flickered down to my lips and without another word, he leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing against mine before he gently closed the space between us. His lips were soft, tentative at first, as though asking for permission. The world seemed to pause in that breathless moment, as the warmth of his kiss enveloped me. There was a sweetness to it, a quiet intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

For a brief second, I almost pulled away, unsure, but then something inside me loosened. I melted into the kiss, my fingers tightening around his hand, my other hand instinctively resting on his chest. The sensation of him, his warmth, his closeness, felt like the answer to everything I hadn’t known I needed.

The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, and I felt his other hand gently cup my face, his thumb tracing the curve of my jaw. His lips moved with a rhythm that matched the dance we’d shared moments before, steady, comforting, but with a growing passion that felt like it was igniting between us.

I felt a shiver run through me as his tongue brushed against mine, and I let out a quiet gasp, my fingers gripping his shirt as if to ground myself. But Hueningkai didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands slid down my back, holding me tighter, pulling me closer as if he was trying to merge our bodies into one.

I gasped again as his lips left mine, trailing down my jaw, his breath hot against my skin. He pressed soft kisses along the side of my neck, the feeling making my knees weak. His hands moved to my waist, lifting me up with ease, and I instinctively wrapped my legs around his waist.

Hueningkai set me down gently on the table nearby, his lips returning to mine in an urgent, heated kiss. I was breathless, my pulse thundering in my ears as I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as if I couldn’t get enough.

His hand slid up my back, his fingertips brushing against my skin, sending a wave of shivers through me. He paused for a second, his lips hovering over mine, his breath uneven as he stared at me, searching my eyes for any sign of hesitation.

I didn’t pull away. Instead, I pulled him back to me, my lips crashing against his in a kiss that was anything but gentle, as if we were both trying to lose ourselves in each other.

"Ahemmm", Soobin cleared his throat, his voice a little unsure but trying to keep it cool.

I pulled away from Hueningkai, breathless and flushed, and Hueningkai, equally startled, quickly stepped back, his face a mix of embarrassment and disbelief. We both stood there, awkwardly trying to collect ourselves.

“Uh... barbecue’s ready,” he said, his eyes flicking to the side in an attempt to avoid staring at us. His voice had a nervous edge, like he was trying to remain calm, but the surprise was still evident.

Soobin looked at us for a moment longer, eyes flicking between us, before finally turning around and muttering, “I’ll... leave you to it,” and walking out of the room.

I was still trying to catch my breath, the heat from the kiss lingering on my lips. Hueningkai didn’t say anything at first, his eyes lingering on me as if he was trying to decide whether to apologize or if it even needed an apology.

But for now, we didn’t speak. 

*******

Would yall like a part 2?

[typinggently]

Ok actually I do feel like talking about general fic notes/random notes on the atmosphere

Hannibal&Will are layers. Fur, silk, claws, Id&Superego, fog, the scent of grass - wool - Barbour jackets. Porcelain, silk, breakable and beautiful things stretched tight over a wolf’s fur. Europe, fine art, a gourmet decadence that hints at a gourmand appetite. Dark chocolate, oysters, eroticism and violence. Nabokov — butterfly wings and Botticelli tears.

Napoleon&Illya are hedonism, either way. It’s either the display of it or the reaction to it. Greed, velvet, the scent of roses. Heavy oil paintings, golden watches, thick cotton and silk ties, shameless, magpie abundance. Glittering mirrors and perfume, night creams. Hotels in their luxury and anonymity. But violence, always. Steel, polished nails and cold hands. Greed, laughter, adrenaline.

Tommy&Alfie are desire, intimacy. There’s an ache for luxury and the outside view on religion. There’s violence, crass but superficial. Blades sticky with blood and gun-powdered hands, the scent of mud and pain, that terrifying void behind one’s ribs. The cold, the sea. But more importantly, there’s whiskey and a faint hint of cinnamon, soft cotton shirts and body-warm gold. Smoke, faded ink, silent conversations. Teasing, bickering, desire.

Clark&Bruce are opposites, bluntly put. Cluttered, sun-warm spaces, honey-drenched light and the scent of warm wood. Apples and crocheted curtains, faded photographs and basil on the windowsill. || High ceilings and large windows, cool-glittering mirrors, endless empty hallways. Handwritten notes and expressionist-untidy stacks of books, laptop screens and coffee, steel, vast spaces filled with surrealist-industrial music.

Billy&Frank are growling beasts. Sand, heat, sweat. Stinking alleys, darkness, blood. Bruises, broken mirrors, blood-black clothes. Then there’s the cold luxury, empty and glittering, sharp edges and bold lines, glass and concrete, black and white. Hiding spaces, the exact opposite, dirty floors and dust-sweet mattresses, rotting wood and graffiti. Sharp smiles, manicured fingernails, intricate rituals.

Villanelle&Eve are silk and steel. Perfume, poison, pomegranates. The luxury of anonymity, photo booths, tailored suits. Powder-sweet arrogance, pencil notes on thick paper, popcorn, green velvet sofas, bouquets of roses. Razor blades, lace, cracked phone screens. Wild, bubbling, fresh — champagne, mania.

Sam&Dean are shadows. Omnipresent, tangled. Smoke, gunpowder, salt. Silent conversations, beloved artefacts, mundane rituals. Neon lights, leather seats, technicolour screams||Dust-sweet books, whispers of Latin, ancient sins. Shaking hands, spit-slick mouths, dental floss scars. Heavenly vices, deadly virtues. Shadow-born tenderness.

John&Annie are dolls. Powdered faces and vaseline smiles, glossy curls and straight backs. They’re stage names and fake personas and tv interviews, perfect non-beings. They’re also blood and guts and broken spines, of course, but most of all they’re a gut-wrenching loneliness. Puzzle pieces, really, but there is too much shattered porcelain and stained silk between them for that to ever become apparent.

[tarithenurse]

The good Villain - 9

Based on the prompt “You’re the villain and you know that you just want the ‘good guys’ to understand why”

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Reader Content: Tension, denial, feels, fluff, a proverbial olive branch, more tense feelings. A bit of drinking (not exessively). A/N: *hugs*

Chapter 9

…   Reader   …

Your boots, gear, and outer layer of clothing has been replaced by a soft blanket when you wake up. Jerking upright in bed, you take in the room only to find it empty even where the evening shadows have started to gather in the corners. A small glass bowl with those chips things is standing on the bedside table. Loki. Theoretically, it could have been any of the Terran heroes except…you do not want it to be.

The snack is gone and fingers licked clean of the last delicious crystals when someone knocks. In comes Natasha with a stack of clothing which she dumps on the bed before you.

“You’re not celebrating the success in your tacs,” he announces, “so Wanda and I scoured our closets. Get ready.”

“Yes, sir.” The words are meant as a joke, but you would not dare contradict her as long as her eyes are gleaming with the harshness of steel.

Since the release from the prison, you have been experimenting with the Terran way of cleaning. Cloths dipped in water from the sink have done a decent job although you miss the full body experience of the sand rubbing off dirt and leaving the skin soft and sensitive. Perhaps… The tiles and glass defining the shower are cold against your hands when you lean in to have a better look at the wide thing from which the water will fall. It is my last chance to try it.

The sound is similar to that of sky leaks. Rain. Also, the water is colder than you like – it is bad enough that the air on this planet has such a low temperature but for some reason it seems worse when it is wet, and you have to pull yourself together to undress and enter the cubicle.

At first, you try to avoid the frigid drops as you fidget with the controls but as the water heats…well, it is not so bad anymore and you start to enjoy the feeling.

 …   Loki   …

He had become worried when the Betan was gone from the bed until he heard the splashing of water and the lingering concern mixed with curiosity which he gladly gave in to. Steam billowed in the white and blue bathroom, covering every surface with a thick layer of condense. He could have used a spell to remove the obscuring fog, granting a clear view of the figure in the shower while simultaneously breaking his own cover but there was something innocent, yet enticing, about the blurry vision of [Y/N]’s limbs caressing her body in partnership with the fragrant suds. When she released a moan of delight, Loki echoed it silently.

Of all the creations in all realms…why her?

Quiet as a cat, he slipped from her quarters, knowing what he had to do.

 …   Reader   …

By the time you have showered and dressed, you are convinced that Terran women must be constantly freezing if all they wear in this climate is as skimpy as what Wanda and Natasha have provided. Or…it is not skimpy as such but…ugh! Turning in front of the mirror, you feel exposed in the body hugging dress: knee-length, long sleeves, and a high collar, all of it made in a black, soft fabric that almost manages to shield you from the constant chill in the air. There are shoes to go with it – all of them with higher heels than you have used in ages.

To say that you feel out of your comfort zone when you walk into the common room is an understatement.

“Here.” Natasha pushes a tiny drink in your hand. “Looks like y’need it.”

Pride urges you to deny it, but why bother? “Thank you…erm…and also for the…the…” When words fail, you motion at the outfit, earning an approving nod from the flaming-haired woman. “What is it?”

Understanding that the question is in relation to the beverage, she smiles. “Tequila. Burns in the stomach, salt on the rim…but with some lime to add a bit of taste.” The smile turns into a lopsided grin as she walks away. “You’ll like it.”

Ahuh? The conviction is not shared. In fact, nothing about the situation makes you feel any sort of tenderness or affection. There are people present that you have never met before, behaving as though they are a part of the Avengers while still ogling you with unveiled curiosity even if the only visible difference between you and them is the eyes. Just a little while…then I will leave.

Keeping your back to the wall, you skirt the room for a less obvious spot from where you can get your bearings to navigate the unwritten social rules.

Music is playing – the strange tunes uncannily familiar due to the rumble of the underlying beat – and creating an absorber to the many voices of the guests and residents. In the maelstrom of chatter, the translator implant is unable to keep up unless you concentrate hard on just once conversation and you quickly fall back to relying on the body language of those surrounding you at a distance.

Mindless actions take over in your loneliness, lifting the glass with the pungent liquid to your lips. Salt crystals shift from the rim to your tongue, carrying a sour note which quickly washes away by the biting liquor. In a flash, memories of your team wells up and you savour the burn even as you lick off the rest of the bitter salt-circle. If feelings were a beverage, then these would be your emotions bottled and served to indulge in the pain of why you had to embark on the hunt, the reasons for the emptiness at the prospect of going home. Finishing a mission is supposed to be a celebrated accomplishment, a moment of victorious joy…this time it is a pain in your heart and soul as you prepare for the whiplash to come.

A sound reaches your ears, soothing and riling as only one voice can, and you spot Loki on his way towards you. Not now. You cannot bear to face him, preferring instead to burn away the ghosts until the morning, so when he is distracted you grab the opportunity to slip off to another corner.

Moments later, you are “downing” the fourth tequila to Stark’s amusement. “Better make sure you get some o’ this with ya,” he grins, already pouring a new one.

“No need…but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Loki says you’re leaving soon?”

The question is offhand, a nonchalant curiosity playing in the corners of the dark eyes which causes you to tense straight away. “By the end of this party.”

“Shame, it’d been nice if you stuck ‘round bit longer.” The smile is genuine, a kindness catching you off guard enough to cage the words in your throat as he saunters off.

…

Agonizing minutes have turned into hours where more and more people are coming over to chat, inquisitive but never demanding in their many inquiries. Some are the Avengers you know while others have been strangers with convoluted ties to the team and similarly colourful backgrounds which have made you feel less, well, alien. However, each time you have seen Loki heading your way, you have managed to dodge him…until now.

Standing by the bar, his silent presence behind you creeps under the skin. You have no intention of meeting his gaze when you turn, but he places a cool hand on your arm to stop you.

“Can we talk?”

Shrugging off the light grasp, you roll your eyes. “Proper words…yeah, apparently you can talk. Good for you!”

“[Y/N],” he pleads, quiet enough for only you to hear, “just a moment of your time…”

Fine! Heart thumping and mouth set in an impatient grimace, you follow him away from the party and towards the nearest stairwell. Each step he takes as he leads the way feels like a stomp on your courage. Not that you fear him. What you resent is the way your resolve wavers each time he speaks softly; how your plan fades when you look into the green-blue eyes. I must accept the consequences of my actions! But the voice in your mind sounds less like you and more like a snippy teacher with no understanding of a youngling’s needs. Whatever Loki wants to say, now that you are standing still, you will refuse to change your mind.

“I assume I can’t talk you out of leaving?” Turning to face you, the tall Asgardian presses his lips tightly together.

“Correct.” Then why does it hurt to say it?

“You’ll return to Sirius Beta…face the court and accept what judgement they see fit?” This time you simply nod, gaze fixed on the wall behind Loki. “Then I’m coming with you.”

“What?!” There is no way you misheard it. “You are not –“

“I’ve already sent word of your actions and reasons behind it, vouching for your innocence and swearing to witness upon your return.” The urgency in his voice echoes the frantic rhythm of your pulse as the words register with you. “Don’t thro-…you’re…I can’t let you give up without a fight. I’ll fight for you, do you understand?”

I…do not know. Does he? “No.” And it is true, you do not understand why he would go so far nor why you have to feel the way you do for him.

“[Y/N]…I can’t lose you!”

His hands are strong and unyielding as they grasp your shoulders to drag you close enough for lips to skim over lips as he bares his heart, ripping yours out in the process. Every word he says could have been spoken by yourself if only you had taken the opportunity to accept the feelings and thoughts rather than bury them under the sense of duty – a righteousness that will separate you from him. I do not love him. But you do. He does not love me. But he does. He is mistaken. Unless he can be convinced of that, however, there is no holding him back.

“Loki –“

The Asgardian’s lips are as soft as you have imagined when they seal the kiss. Abrupt, desperate, pouring over with a deep seethed urge to stall time. Of course you give in, the dance of tongues and shared breath taking over your body for an eternity that ends too soon.

“No…”

Wrenching free from what has become an embrace, you rush the only way possible: up the stairs. It does not matter where you will end up, as long as it is far away where no one can see you are leaking for the second time in your life.

[easkyrah]

Hello my dear Ea. I hope you would consider expanding your fanfictions to the Six of Crows fandom. Your writing is the brainchild of Leigh Bardugo and Sarah J. Maas. Bardugo's dark, complex, heavy to Maas's intricate, ambiguous, and misted writing styles impregnate your own style. The Six of Crows fandom is very quiet, and I'd think you'd be the perfect one to help it rise up. The Dregs could use a Wraith-like writer like you.

Dear anon: I hope this lived to your expectations, as it has to mine. I need a major refresher on Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom, as they are one of the rare books I am currently not hoarding in my library. If you want to send me details and summaries of this fandom, I beg of you so I can focus more on other relationships and scenes, rather than this futuristic one. The offer extends to everyone as well. Thank you for the prompt idea.

He was starved. Not for the grains of sustenance, but for something much deeper. An elusive abstract thought that knocked quite concretely against his heart and roared in his mind. 

Crooked Crow

The sky was bleeding.

Not the clear droplets of the salted water churned over cycles of time through shifting, phasing forms—but the thick, crimson cursed and created lifeblood of the slowly deceased and tortured mutilated.

Kaz Brekker leaned against his cane, staring at the scarlet sea that had gathered near the port, swarming into the crashing of waves of the roaring ocean.

Behind him, his crew celebrated in their houses, the tinkering of the glasses clinking and whisper of shared laughs and easy smiles filling the sordid rooms. In front of him, the Bastard of the Barrel imagined the ghost of a ship reigned through the infested seas of crime, a congregation for the crooked.

It was that one ship that held a chipped crack of his heart. It was that one ship that crushed the crooked. It was that one ship that carried his one facet he needed to continue—other than greed.

The scent of the rotten bodies did not drive him from the pier when the thin thread of hope of the ship docking held him firmly. The lines of blood pooling around his shoes did not have him walking away, but rather rooted in position. The overhaul of loneliness chained him to the pier.

For living life of emptiness had satiated his brain, but never his soul. His desires, long suppressed, a facet of one of his oppressed for the cravings for more and more riches. For too long had his dream of bathing in golds and silver and diamonds and crystals been fulfilled, leaving the blowing wind’s whisper of what else could their possibly be?

Surmounting over challenges from Van Eck’s heist to infiltration the Ice Prison…the days of the impossible had been checked.

Except one impossible did escape from him. Right from his fingertips, and could have been captured by the words ripping from his mouth.

“I will have you without your armor, Kaz Brekker. Or I will not have you at all.”

The sound of true elation, of his heart thrumming an answering beat—the source of hope and soothing had dissipated upon that sailing ship—a forged weapon to make a difference, to bring down slavers and the wrongdoers that had wronged her and her mandate.

He was fooling himself. He didn’t give a damn about the ship. He only cared about the captain of the ship.

Inej Ghafa.

The Wraith.

The only Suli he believed that existed.

A shadowed, nimble shape crossed through the dampened mist and polluted fog.

Air left his lungs, and the Bastard of the Barrel untucked a handkerchief out of his pocket.

The shape emerged through the blur, an avenging angel of darkness with a mission of lightness.

Stepping out of the puddles of red, the Bastard of the Barrel wiped away the liquid-ruby coating the edges of his shoes.

The shape crested the end of the dock, the sound of the engine hissing towards its final gasp of air.

Strolling towards the very edge, the Bastard of the Barrel welcomed The Wraith with a calculated charm emanating from his inked body.

The shape shuddered to a stop, the sound of the platform slamming into the port. Shouts of victory from the latest conquest filled his ears, but he filtered through each sound until he heard that mystic laughter he could drink on till his sorrows drowned away.

When the first feminine figure stalked down the ramp with a panther’s agile, Kaz Brekker welcome Inej Ghafa home.

“Your…your ankle is fine?” Kaz Brekker rasped out.

Inej slowly turned her head at the man who had never learned what it was to be a child, to become the master and monster of the darkness, and thrived on the cunning and feral side of nature’s vices.

“Only a scar.” She tilted her head, and curled her legs into the office’s balcony. “Another reminder.”

“Is he dead?”

“Six feet under, strung and gutted.”

A grim smile. “Good.”

Silence fell upon them, and Inej looked back out the window where the moon faintly shone her beams onto the ghastly settlements, sticks and woods and stones fortified as a testament to the already weak will to survive.

Footsteps crossed the threshold, and a towering figure stood next to her small yet sturdy frame. She blinked up into the grayish rays.

A hand touched the top of hers, and it took years of vigorous training and restrained silence to not jolt.

If she looked down at the cold skin touching hers, he would most likely withdraw. So Inej made the bold decision to lean her head against his chest, soaking in his presence that had filled her past and present, and perhaps her future.

Kaz seemed to be walking the same path as she, as he slipped down onto the balcony next to her, wrapping hesitant arms around her waist. Inej swore she could feel the saints smiling down on her as the male tucked her under his chin, nimble fingers stroking her hair.

They said nothing as they stared out into the tranquility of oblivion in which Inej could detect the traces of music.

“Is there a celebration?” she said almost accusingly.

The fingers against her hair stopped. “Is this not one?”

“Saints, Kaz,” Inej drew a breath. “I thought Jesper or Nina were avoiding me.”

A heartbeat later, Kaz’s fingers resumed their ministrations. “That’s not possible. To merely not want to have you—” He fumbled with the words, shifting his weight slightly. “You are my Saint, Inej Ghafa. And I am the King of the Dregs.”

“Not Wraith?”

Inej didn’t need to turn around see the crooked smile when she already knew the man who had risen from the darkest holes of penury and violence to form an invisible empire of loyalty and creed.

“Is there a Suli proverb preventing you from being both?” The coldness of his touches kissed her exposed skin, sending flickers of warmth to every pore.

“I don’t think Saints are killers, Kaz,” she mused.

Silence. Then:

“You removed my gloves, saw my sins, and revealed the fallen,” Kaz said, his voice sandpaper. “Not all Saints arose because of holiness.”

“Kaz Brekker, what are you saying?”

From the fringes of vision, he knew that he would not his fairytale with Brody. From yesterday’s excursion resulting in today’s bloodshed, he knew that he had his years long vengeance completed. From today’s knowledge, Pekka Rollin’s strung and gutted body meant a chance at what Nina had so often preached, what Jesper claimed he fought for.

Inej gasped as a flutter and storm of crows streamed from the office, a flurry of darkness and softness, feathers beating into the night. When the sullen atmosphere fell calm again, Kaz had set her on her feet, where the rest of the crew—Jesper, Nina, Matthias, and Wylan—stood at the door frame, empty cages hanging from their arms.

Nina’s sweet sound of laughter warmed the room, Matthias staring not at the fact Inej was in Kaz’s embrace, but at the Grisha’s face of elation and contentedness. As Jesper grinned at Wylan’s red face, Kaz leaned down to Inej’s ear, his lips brushing her skin.

“You are not just my Saint,” Kaz Brekker, Bastard of the Barrel, whispered. “But my salvation.”