#yan!barmaid | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fishermanshook · 8 months

Text

a new usual (yan!barmaid x reader)

content warnings: implied forced relationship, drug usage, shitty writing /hj, second person POV most of the time I think LMAO, also there are some spelling errors probably

INTRO

It was an utter surprise to the residents of the Oletus Manor when they uncovered a secret tavern inside the estate. Surely with the amount of time they’ve been trapped in the place they would have found it by now, right? If it weren’t for their newest citizen, Lilly B, the bar would have stayed hidden, covered in cobwebs and dust. But maybe, just maybe, that would have been a good thing. Because now you’ve got a certain Barmaid who can’t stop dragging you away to the place.

No one was more ecstatic about the hidden bar than Demi Bourbon, the manor's one and only Barmaid.

And why would she not be? It had felt like ages since she had been in her brother's tavern, that she soon had to take care of. So by the end of the week, the bar was in tip top shape. With its polished bar and an extravagant amount of expensive wine (which the Barmaid doesn’t even know where it came from herself.). The bar really looked like one you would find back in regular civilization. Which is where one of her favorite people came from, you!

Demi had a regular curiosity to anyone new in the manor, but it would usually leave after learning more about the person. But for some reason, you never left her mind, even when you’d been here for more than 3 months now.

Demi dismissed these thoughts, thinking that you and her had just been closer friends now. After all, she was the first person you came in contact with after your first game. Which, despite winning, was still stuck here.

Demi soon came to the realization that this, these feelings, were nowhere close to how she felt about anyone else. These feelings grew stronger with every touch, every glance, every word you two had spoken to each other.

But these feelings grew outside of the lines that separated love and like. No, they hurdled over the one that had deemed these feelings were borderline obsession.

Demi felt as if she needed to have you, or else her heart would explode into tiny little pieces before being blown away in the wind. So, Demi did what she had to do.

—

The barstools had been whipped down and put away, and the expensive wine had been corked and locked up behind a glass barrier. The only person left in the room was Demi herself; and you too of course. She couldn’t let you leave her sight, not with such dangerous beings out and about!

But they wouldn’t be, for them as well as the other Survivors have fallen fast asleep, exhausted from their matches. They slept peacefully in their spectate dorm rooms, not daring to look for you. As everyone knew where you were and more importantly, knew who you were with.

The Barmaid was busy wiping the inside of a wine glass with a dish rag that has most definitely seen better days. She’s humming an unfamiliar tune as she sways her hips, that’s surely going to be a tune you won’t forget.

You rest your head in your arms as you look around at the empty tavern. The bar used to be full to the brim, a new place to explore and become familiar with, a place to party and forget about the scars that still sting and itch from the day's matches. But the room has become empty (at least when the Barmaid isn’t in it, which you don’t know because you're always around her. And most certainly not by choice.).

You’ve tried to help her, by taking a broom and starting to sweep, but Demi always complains.

“Oh darling! Please, you'll hurt yourself! Don’t you see the (nonexistent) wooden splinters in this broom? Just go back by the bar and sit pretty for me doll face.”

You’ve tried to wipe down the counter, the pairing protected by their own glass barrier, varnish the bar, but you’d usually get responses similar to this.

So as you stare off into space, you’ve yet to realize the bottles and other ingredients the Barmaid has pulled from different drawers in the room, how she keeps locking and unlocking the wine cabinet, and how she hasn’t stopped turning around and looking at you.

You're about to doze off into a well needed slumber, but Demi slams down a wine cup. It’s filled with ice cubes and the liquid looks like a grapey purple.

“Drink up hun.” Demi says, but not before going back and opening up another drawer and producing a matching purple umbrella and plopping it into your drink.

You’ve done this before, this isn’t something out of the ordinary. But this drink pulls you in. It’s different, it’s brand new, and acts like a breath of fresh air from this stale empty manor.

You know you should be careful, but you’ve got a strong desire to take a sip. You can’t help yourself but reach for the glass and put it to your lips.

The drink is cold, and like its color, tastes grapey and sweet. It’s delicious and something you drink up in mere seconds. All while Demi looks at you with her head in her hands. She’s wearing a small smile, like she’s looking at a child playing with their toys.

When you finish your sip, you can’t ignore the warm bubbly feeling in your stomach that dares to increase with every breath you take. All of a sudden, the room looks like it’s getting darker. Like a play was about to finish its final act. Before everything goes black, you watch as the Barmaid swiftly makes her way behind you and catches your falling body in her arms.

“Sleep well, princess.” She says as she places a chaste kiss on your lips.

And with that, the act was finished.

— End

note: hey guys! i'm here with my first piece and i really hope you guys like it <3 it’s total ass and I hate it just as much as the next guy but I needed to get something out there so 😭

(2023) ©️fishermanshook — do not steal, translate, plagiarize, or repost my work on any other platform

#‧₊˚🌿✩ ₊˚ GREEN WITH ENVY.#identityv #identity five #idv #idvfic #idv x reader #2nd person pov #i think #uhhhhh #idvfanfic #please be kind you guys this is my first fic 😭#idv barmaid #identity v barmaid #yandere #yan!barmaid #wine wine wine #not actually that much wine tbh #identity v

27 notes · View notes

qierxing · 4 months

Text

Legends

A/N: No one look at me. Yes I’ve fallen into the OP hole in 2023 to the point where I’ve started reading the manga….a little piece to warm up writing if you so will....

Yan!Dracule Mihawk x Reader “I miss you more than I remember you.”

—

You heard him before you saw him.

That is to say, you heard the sounds of men yelling and then the muffled sounds of groans and thuds, followed by the creak of the bar seat next to you. You don’t have to even turn your head to see who it is. No one else has such a dramatic entrance.

There’s only silence as the singular poor barmaid who looks on pensively to the customer next to you; analyzing whether he was a threat or not enough to be served. You sigh and ask for the nicest wine they have. The barmaid’s eyes only squint in confusion before ducking into the shabby backrooms.

“Is picking fights a hobby of yours?”

Dracule 'Hawk Eyes’ Mihawk has always been like that for as long as you can remember. He never liked to speak first, not if it meant you would break the ice first with your probing. It’s become a habit to be the one to first greet him before he deigns it worth explaining himself.

“They were in the way, even after I had warned them.” The response is curt with no interest.

You don’t doubt his words, but Mihawk can be…overwhelming in a sense. It’s why no one has yet to challenge him in his position for the years you’ve known him. At least no one with self preservation.

The barmaid slides your order over, and Mihawk catches it with ease and a dismissive nod. He barely gives the chipped glass a second glance before taking a generous sip. You have to wonder how he came to find you here, in this dingy little bar all the way out in the East Blue. It was hard to send letters or any kind of message that could reach him; that wasn’t through a transponder snail that you could get ahold of in the nearest port town. The last time you heard from him, a scruffy slums boy relayed to you he would be heading to the Grand Line due to an interesting turn of events.

It’s been a week since then, and you’ve long left that island. Seeing as how he’s here now, makes you wonder if the boy simply lied to you out of a desire to exaggerate. Only the foolish and brave venture to those waters, and even Mihawk, for all his otherworldly strength, couldn’t have sailed through so fast.

“So, what brings you here?” You shake your glass of rum, ice clinking like a little tune. It’s not in both of your natures to beat around the bush, and you’re sure Mihawk had a reason for appearing here. “Last minute preparations before you get to the Grand Line?”

He closes his eyes and chuckles, startling you a bit. “You could say that.”

You could count on your fingers the times you saw him truly, genuinely smile. A pit of unease begins to grow in your chest. You’re not sure if you want to pry further to find the answer to your question.

“I would like to hang out more, but I’m going to start traveling to the West Blue tomorrow afternoon,” you start carefully, attempting to casually rift through your bag so as to not look awkward. “We can have breakfast together in the morning. I’m sure you have some exciting news for me to pen.”

Gold ringed pupils watch as you slide a good amount of berry over the counter. The barmaid gratefully snatches it, and quickly scuttles to the backroom, no doubt to stash it away to make sure it was safe. When you dare to meet his eyes again, it held a strange gleam that made you feel terribly small. Not unlike a rabbit who knew they were being stalked by something much, much bigger.

“Yes, breakfast does sound nice.” A silence follows that casual statement, and you’re left squirming at the unspoken sentiment behind it. It’s not a dismissal. Mihawk never minced words before, and for him to leave you hanging like this never bodes well. Such honors were usually left to his unfortunate victims who managed to get away with their lives after trying to provoke him. Pleasantries meant nothing to a pirate like Mihawk, much to the chagrin of the navy who hoped their alliance would serve as a leash and collar for him.

“Then, I should get going. See you tomorrow?” You turn, hoping that was enough to signal the end of the conversation, but the man downs his glass of shoddy wine with surprising elegance and follows your action.

“Where are you sleeping?”

You’ve dealt with people who don’t know how to take a hint. This was not asked out of ignorance—Mihawk is the furthest thing from a nosy citizen trying to dig too deep. You feign a joking laugh. “How could a high and mighty warlord lower himself to a shoddy inn for the night?”

“You know such things don’t mean anything to me.” That is true. You’ve seen it firsthand. He’s sometimes kinder than expected. Most pirates love to boast about their feats and dreams, and while it makes your job easier, you have to wonder about how much truth was in those drunken outbursts. Shanks, for one, often tested that theory.

“Yes, but I don’t think it’ll be very comfortable.” You’re not lying. You swear you saw a mouse scrabble through the floorboards of the room and the bed itself was just a step above a wooden frame and some boxes to make the mattress. “You’re better off finding another place, honestly.”

Mihawk’s eyes pierce through you. Before you can even think of bolting, your upper arm is encircled by his grip, locking you in place.

“I suggest you don’t try to run, dear.” The pet name makes you gag. “You know better than that.”

“I don’t need a reminder,” you mutter bitterly. “And why are you insisting on torturing me?”

“Torture? I’m simply picking up something I need before leaving. I thought I'd told you this already.” Your blood runs cold at his amused reply.

“You can’t! I already booked my ticket out–”

“I can and will, dear,” he cuts you off brusquely with an apathetic air that makes you bristle, “Exchanges can always be cut and those can always be renegotiated. Surely, you know this best.”

It’s not false. It was not him, but his red-haired companion that you sought out to interview that fateful day. Ambition for the greatest story led you to that infamous pirate emperor, but it was curiosity that had you turning to his quiet friend. How shameless of him to bring up the past now.

“And why should I come with you?” You hiss through gritted teeth. His grip is unshakable and ironclad, tight enough to make you feel a painful ache. “There’s no interesting news with you at this moment.”

He tilts his head, eyes still boring through you, as if to try to pick apart your thoughts. “If you’re not satisfied, I could always tear this bar down. That should be enough of a headline for you to work with, no?”

Your mouth dries immediately at the threat in his words. There’s still that poor barmaid in the back. A sleeping drunk in the corner of the tavern. But Mihawk wouldn’t give up so easily even if you decide that their lives weren’t enough for yours. Even if tonight ended in a fire, he would continue to stalk after you until you’re left crawling to get away.

“Fine.” You look away and he lets go, thankfully, only to encircle a hand around your shoulders.

“Good. Lead the way, then.”

#yandere one piece #yandere dracule mihawk #my works

106 notes · View notes

sxlver-sweet · 3 years

Text

idea + this song that makes me lose my mind:

two pairs of footsteps thud across stone and metal slabs as you and chifuyu bounce and leap from roof to roof, your echoes of laughter ringing as light as the wings adorning your feet as you move with practiced, cultivated ease. gold coins spill from the tiny gash in the burlap sack tossed over chifuyu’s shoulder, tattered rags and threadbare hoods swirling around your ankles and fluttering around your heads. you both can hear the irate shouts of the castle guards booming in your wake, but neither of you care—not when white-hot adrenaline is pulsing through your veins and igniting your blood, not when you both are crowing to each other about all the farmland and golden eggs you’ll rake in with your steal, not when the hood tumbles from chifuyu’s head to reveal a halo of golden hair and electric, blue eyes that spark with elation, and not when chifuyu pulls you to take a shortcut so you both have enough spare time to swipe a crisp apple from an unsuspecting vendor. you both feel free, liberated, and eager to ditch your pursuers among the gnarled tree roots and twisted paths of the forest. when the sun finally sets, you two return to the tavern where the rest of your team is waiting in the corner, chests heaving for air, black boots splotched with dirt, and toothy grins splitting cheeks smeared with grime.

you cackle with laughter from your place perched upon the table, the fizz from some frothy concoction you’d accepted from mikey streaming over your dirty knuckles as you watch baji nearly chip his fanged tooth on one of the gold coins in an attempt to determine its value. kazutora groans as you and chifuyu poke fun at the horrible, warped depiction of his identity on a wanted poster mitsuya’s clever fingers had discreetly snagged from the pocket of a knight in training, all three of you on the verge of tears at the drawing of kazutora’s comically enlarged nose and overly greasy hairstyle. mitsuya watches from the sidelines, concealing his grin with the rim of his own mug. draken’s nerves are clearly frazzled, alternating between trying to pry a fourth turkey leg from mikey’s greedy fingers and reprimanding pah-chin and peh-yan for drunkenly picking a fight with other tavern-goers and consequently startling one of the pretty barmaids. emma, hina, and yuzuha wrinkle their noses at the boys’ brash, flippant behavior, only to snort behind their palms and gape at senju with wide eyes when the light-haired girl releases one of the loudest belches you’ve ever heard in your life. a second girl—akane, you heard seishu call her—bearing sunlit locks watches from the outskirts of the group, her attention divided between relaying the girls’ orders to her exhausted brother and being wooed by the town crook’s feline eyes and devilish grin. you reach out to her to snag her wrist, impishly sticking your tongue out at the raven-haired criminal as you whisk the flustered girl to your side and introduce her to the conversation. across the room, you spot nahoya seated among a table of gamblers, perfectly comfortable in the atmosphere and his smile a flawless poker face as he cheekily presents his offer in the form of precious gems. souya hovers behind him, a single emerald captured between his calloused fingertips as he examines it in the light of the dwindling candle casting shadows across the table.

145 notes · View notes

larkace · 3 years

Text

Robber Claws

hi guys! i've read a bunch of your fics and got inspired so i wrote a thing! enjoy ;) also, it's pretty long so...buckle up! love yall <3

The criminals lurk in the mist, invisible, but Sofiya Pavlichenkov knows they’re there.

She’s perched in the Lookout’s nest of her Warship in Fourth Harbour, pretending to read the documents her first mate, Kastor, has just handed to her. But her blue coat is flapping in the wind and her papers keep jostling and she’s being watched, all of which is rather uncomfortable.

Idly, Sofiya wonders what the criminals might want. A smuggling, perhaps? Out and away from stinking, crawling, loathsome Ketterdam?

Sofiya hates this city. His city. She misses Ravka, her homeland- the Little Palace.

I miss my bloody Kefta, Sofiya thinks darkly as another bought of wind spirals harshly through the Harbour. The blue coat she wears is a subtle nod to her Tidemaker status, but it’s a sad, thin piece of cloth compared to the grandeur of the Fabrikator-made Keftas. But Sofiya can’t wear her Kefta, not if she wants to blend in in Kerch- a lesson she learned long ago…

Old enemies, Sofiya. Old enemies, but not withered grudges.

Huffing out a sigh that would make Zoya Nazyalensky proud, Sofiya rises gracefully to her feet.

They’re coming. She can feel it; they’re making their way towards the ship. They don’t have to be rowdy to intimidate, that’s for sure - or to make a crowd of Merchants and Thieves part like the sea almost immediately.

Sofiya reaches up behind her head and loops her hand around a piece of knotted rope; takes a deep, steadying breath.

And she steps off the platform into the open air.

For a moment, she catches on the air as if a Squaller has caught her on a buffering breeze, but sure enough, gravity kicks in.

Sofiya welcomes the feeling of her stomach in her throat as the fall takes hold, zipping her past the sails. It's good preparation, anyway, for the three dark figures moving up the docks towards her.

As they near and Sofiya lands lightly on the deck, she confirms what she already knew: these were criminals. Her criminals.

The trio stops in front of her. They're all wearing black and gold - not a uniform exactly, but it’s a solid way to show your allegiance. None of their hands were visible, but if they were, Sofiya would find the Robber Claws emblem branded cleanly onto the backs of their knuckles. Their hoods are drawn up over their faces, but Sofiya can tell from their posture who she’s dealing with.

"Ah, Iseut," Sofiya says serenely, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

The girl in the middle pulls down her hood, revealing shining blond hair, dark eyes, full lips. She doesn’t smile.

"Where have you been, Sofiya?" Iseut asks coolly.

"The Wandering Isle," Sofiya answers immediately, "I stopped at Os Kervo on my return to pick up some supplies. I'm only three days late, Is. Cut me some slack."

Iseut sighs, and suddenly looks less the badass, fake-waitress man-killer, and more the tired mother of a delinquent child. Sofiya feels a flicker of guilt.

She had stopped at Os Kervo for more than one reason. The "supplies" were crates upon crates of commandeered Fjerdan weapons and traps, intercepted by the First Army on their way to the Front Line. Sofiya had paid nothing to take them off the hands of the Ravkan soldiers, who honestly had no clue where to send them. What good were jerky Fjerdan guns to a sophisticated, well-oiled Second Army legion?

Sofiya could picture Zoya's face at the sight of the sad little weapons. Disgust and disdain, unshakable beauty - and perhaps just a little bit of pride that her friend had been the one to collect the Fjerdan cargo. Sofiya would work on selling it all later. She'd dump the Grisha traps in the ocean, though. Drown them like they deserved to be drowned.

"I am sorry, Iseut," Sofiya says, and her words aren’t mistruths.

"Don't apologise to me," Iseut says dismissively, "It’s your friends that were barely able to sleep the past few nights. You should talk to -"

"Destry," Sofiya's words mist the air like a fine rain, "I know."

One of the tall figures stood behind Iseut lowers her own hood. Lyra. Ly.

It made sense that the Robber Claws would send their best Bruisers to Fourth Harbour. Sofiya knew by the other Robber's posture that beneath the hood, she would find the face of Winter. But Winter wouldn't lower her hood in front of so many people, so Sofiya was content with what she could get.

"You really had Destry worried, Sof," Ly says, chastising.

"Destry can handle me being gone for weeks on end," Sofiya crosses her arms. She will not be guilt-tripped, "This job was half a week, and I was only a few days off schedule. I did tell Cherry that I'd be late." The words come out as a question.

None of them say anything.

Another flash of worry courses through Sofiya. Cherry Vlasova is a Heartrender, and one of Sofiya's closest friends. The message that Sofiya had forwarded was simple and concise: I'll be a few days late. Stopping at Os Kervo. Don't worry, no Fjerdans. Tell Destry -S.P

Had something happened to Cherry? She was an avid gossiper; her post box was always full of tip-offs (a useful source of information for the Robber Claws) but Sofiya was reliably informed that her letters were always placed on the top of the pile. Marked "URGENT."

"What happened? Is Cherry alright?" Sofiya demands.

Iseut holds up her palms, and they are callused and grease-marked. Sometimes Iseut is so well put together that Sofiya forgets she's a barmaid.

"Cherry is fine. But all our Grisha are shaken. Whilst you were away, there was an attack on the East Stave."

Sofiya's heart stops and restarts and stops again.

An attack. On the Grisha. And she wasn’t there to - to help, to defend-

"Destry," Sofiya breathes, "And Cherry - and Adali, Roza, Linnea, Yan, Anya- oh, Saints, was it the Fjerdans?"

There are many Grisha members of the Robber Claws. It was one of the reasons that Sofiya wanted to join them in the first place. If the Fjerdans had attacked -

"Everybody is fine," Ly says lowly, "We had Freya and May fixing people up as soon as we heard- and Lita, of course, but behind the scenes."

Freya and May- and even Lita, whose powers most of the gang didn't even know of. Grisha Healers. So people had been hurt.

"What. Happened." Sofiya growls, and Ly glares at her challengingly, fists clenching. The water beneath the decking froths and bubbles as Sofiya brings her own fists together, power surging pleasantly up her arms. If Ly wants a fight, she can have one.

"Calm down, both of you," Winter's smooth voice projects from under her hood. Despite the heavy fabric, her voice is clear and commanding. Sofiya takes a breath to compose herself.

"To answer your previous question: no. It wasn't the Fjerdans." Iseut says, "We don’t know what they were."

Sofiya's brow creases at the chime of fear in Iseut's voice. She's never seen the golden-haired barmaid afraid before.

It begins to rain softly, the pattering of droplets quiet against the wooden decking of the docks.

"We should go back to the Queen’s Head, Iseut," Ly suggests, referencing Iseut’s place of work. Iseut nods once, swiftly, and glances over Sofiya's shoulder at her warship.

"Do you need to...?"

"Yes."

"Go on, then."

"KASTOR! IM GOING FOR A ROUND OF DAY-DRINKING!" Sofiya yells over the shoulder of her rain-splattered coat. She hears Ly chuckle as Kastor's scruffy head pokes out from a window.

He nods at Sofiya when he spots her, and she waves, assenting. Kastor would keep everything safe whilst she was gone. It was their unspoken agreement, unchanging and unwavering since the day they'd become crewmates.

Sofiya turns back to Iseut, Ly and Winter.

"Let's be on our way," she says, and lets her fellow criminals lead the way along the Harbour, her warship disappearing into the mist behind her.

~~~~

The mid-day slump of customers meant that the Robber Claws had the Queen’s Head pub all to themselves.

Iseut- who did not own the pub, but had put more work into it than the real owners ever did- had immediately trekked behind the bar and poured herself a whisky.

"Want anything?" She asks, directing the question directly at Sofiya despite the equal presence of Ly- and Winter (who had lowered her hood slightly now that she was back on familiar ground, with familiar faces.) Bruisers didn’t drink on the job. It slowed reflexes.

"The story," says Sofiya firmly, "It a joke about the day-drinking. What happened?"

Iseut pours herself another whiskey and the quartet take a seat at a shady little circular table in a quiet corner. The murmurs of other Robber Claws members is enough to shelter their conversation from the group- despite Sofiya being sure she was the only one unaware of what had transpired the days she’d been gone.

As Iseut begins her story, with Winter and Ly regularly interjecting with additions, Sofiya feels horror and fear clamp down on her heart like a Fjerdan Grisha trap.

Iseut’s alluring voice weaves a tale of Komedie Brute actors in bloody masks, rose-painted rubble from an impossible explosion, and worst of all: Grisha. Dead Grisha, killed by creatures with screeching metal wings.

“Only a few of our Grisha were hurt,” Iseut sips her drink solemnly, “We took your advice of keeping them anonymous and undercover. We have Erin and our other spies out searching for answers at the embassies. I’m sure you’re just as eager to find out about the winged creatures as we are.”

Sofiya nods, “I am. Thank you for filling me in, Is, really. And to you, Ly, Winter. I know you don’t like going to far from the West Stave.”

The last comment was directed purely at Winter. It’s not a lie. Winter runs a dojo for training Kerch’s women to protect themselves from Barrel bosses and scum alike; she didn’t want her clients finding out about her… Robber side. Being a criminal wasn’t the most unintimidating, friendly persona to have when speaking with vulnerable women.

Sofiya respected Winter and her clean profession. It was hard to be so kind in the Barrel. And men were rarely kind to women at all.

Sofiya knew that first hand.

Shoving away the memories- blue eyes, dark hair, gorgeous smile, charming words and sharper wounds- Sofiya stands in one fluid movement.

“I’m going to find Destry,” she says. Iseut stands, Ly and Winter falling back to flank her again, and smiles. She’s beautiful, that is undoubtful, but the attacks- the sleazy men at the Queen’s Head, the strain of the city- it’s all gotten to her. Sofiya can see it.

This city is poison, thinks Sofiya as Iseut takes her hand and shakes it. Poison and rot.

“Destry will be in her rooms,” Ly supplies, and Sofiya nods at her once.

Sofiya grins brightly, hoping it covers her own weariness, and recites, “Fair winds.”

“Bright stars,” chorus her friends. Sofiya waves over her shoulder as she slips out of the bar and down an alley. Above her, a storm brews in the clouds.

Perhaps the stars would be out that night. It didn’t matter. Nobody in Kerch saw the stars anymore.

~~~~

On her way to Destry’s apartments, Sofiya ran into more members of the Robber Claws.

Malcolm and Firefly, who lived together in shared housing in the Anvil, were shopping for new blacksmiths’ equipment. They each provided invaluable services to the Robber Claws, crafting flawless weapons second only to that of Fabrikators. They greeted her with a wink each. Sofiya moved on swiftly after trading them a Wandering Isle-crafted staff for twenty Kruge.

She picked up some baked goods on the way. She would need them. Destry- who had been her closest friend since she arrived in Kerch- was an Inferni. Fire-bringer; with an even fierier temperament. Rumour had it- and Sofiya knew the rumours were true- that Destry had been attending the University of Ketterdam when she’d heard a boy make a lude comment during an exam and lit the paper on fire with her mind. And that paper had been thrown. At the boy’s face. Ouch.

Sofiya had been nursing a whiskey in a tavern when she’d first heard the story recounted. She’d leapt up from her seat, slithered into an alley and held the recounter at knifepoint until he’d told her Destry’s name.

They’d become fast friends upon meeting. Sofiya had been in awe of someone so rebellious, so brave as to set fire to an exam paper, and Destry- well. Destry had laughed for hours when Sofiya had told her how she’d first come across her name.

But now, staring up at the ornate windows of Destry’s apartment, Sofiya feels unsure. She didn’t mean to worry her friend. Iseut had explained that her letter must have gotten lost during the riots. Sofiya cursed the post offices. So there was a deadly storm- your motto is still “We always deliver.”

Despite her trepidation, Sofiya’s feet were swift on the stairs. She had a key to the apartment, and didn’t hesitate to unlock the door and slip inside without a sound, content to watch Destry whilst she worked; even if only for a moment.

Leaning against the wall, Sofiya’s brow creases as she surveys her friend. Destry’s hair is plaited carefully into two loops at the nape of her neck, hazel strands freeing themselves gently against her light brown skin. She’s stood facing away from Sofiya, arms circled in rings of fire. The shirt she wears is Fabrikator-made; the flames don’t take to the papery material.

Sofiya takes a step forward, and pointedly drops her bag of confectionary on the floor. It lands with an audible thump.

Destry whirls, the fire at her wrists whirling into an inferno ready to strike- until Destry sees who is at her door.

“Shouldn’t have hesitated, Des,” Sofiya said weakly, “I could have put a knife in your back.”

The shock on Destry’s face dissolves. Her face splinters down the middle. Licks of fire at her fingertips wilt into ash in a pile at her boot-clad feet.

“You would have put out the flames with your water, I’m sure,” Destry says, and then flies across the room towards Sofiya, wrapping her in a tight, smoke-smelling embrace.

Sofiya would normally pull back. “Don’t be too open with your heart, Des,” she’d say, “People use your loves against you here.” But Sofiya couldn’t bring herself to say those things. The weight of the week comes crashing down on her head like a tsunami.

Fjerdan traps on my boat, attacks on my gang, tensions in Ravka boiling over… where’s safe anymore, except here?

Destry pulls back slightly to scan Sofiya’s face. She has a smear of oil on her cheek. Destry’s eyes are filled with fire, burning like an ember beneath onyx waters.

“Where. Have. You. Been.”

“Destry-”

“Don’t you make excuses with me, Pavlichenkov,” Destry snarls, “You didn’t warn us you were late! I couldn’t sleep- neither could Cherry!”

“I-”

“We thought you’d been caught, Sofi,” Destry cries, “We thought the Fjerdans had got you! I thought you died.”

The word is ugly and big in the room, choking Sofiya’s response. Death. Dying. Dead. And by Fjerdan hands. It wasn’t so rare for travelling Grisha to be caught and sent to the pyres.

“I’m sorry,” Sofiya says, because it’s the only thing there is, “I wrote- I really did, don’t look at me like that- according to Lyra, there was a storm in the True Sea. The letter sunk with the ship.”

“You’re a Tidemaker,” Destry huffs.

“Yes, which means I manipulate water,” Sofiya says, “Not stop it from overturning ships with important letters on them. Destry, I’m sorry. I brought waffles.” She offers the last sentence like a defendant on trial with the Stadwatch; one final piece of evidence to prove her innocence.

Destry brightens immediately, “Well, in that case.”

The pair of them set to work, shoulders just brushing in the cramped kitchenette. Sofiya’s array of pasties are laid out over two plates, which they lay on their laps. Destry’s job for the Robber Claws is, in few words, that of the logician. Papers are scattered all over her apartment, covered in detailed blueprints and scale drawings of buildings all over Ketterdam, Fjerda and even- rarely- Shu Han. There were no drawings of Ravka.

If Iseut had ever commissioned a robbery in Ravka, Sofiya didn’t know about it. It would be…unwise to hit out at the Ravkans, with so many Grisha in the gang.

But Destry’s job was essential, so Sofiya couldn’t complain about the lack of trays to put their plates on. Such things were useless for such an incredible mind as Destry’s.

“So,” says Destry conversationally as she lights the fireplace with a casual flick of her wrist, “How were the Wandering Isles?”

Sofiya says nothing, massaging her temples lightly. Destry manages a laugh.

“Your silence is telling, Sofi,” she warns.

Sighing quietly, suddenly feeling very tired, Sofiya says, “It was crawling with our Fjerdan friends from the North. ‘Peaceful’ Fjerdans.”

Destry spins, and she is outlined with the fire. We’re opposites, Sofiya thinks. Fire and Water.

“You didn’t-” Destry begins, horrified.

Silently, solemnly, Sofiya raised her palms to face the ceiling. Destry reaches out.

Her gentle fingers trace the scars there. Deep and painful and barely healed, the scars run red against Sofiya’s pale flesh.

“Sofiya…” Destry breathes.

“It was the only way to push my power down,” Sofiya whispers. She’s rarely so emotive, but Destry is someone she trusts with everything. It was a weakness, some would say, but they were each powerful Grisha. They were Gods in a world of men. And they would not kneel “If I hadn’t, I would’ve been caught. It was a price to pay.”

Grisha shone like lighthouses around people. In Kerch, in Ketterdam, it was safer for them- especially ones loyal to a gang, as Destry and Sofiya were. But in the Wandering Isles; where Fjerdans passed through on their way to Novyi Zem, where gang affiliations mattered less than the colour of your eyes… Sofiya tells herself she had no choice.

“Sofiya, you’ve opened up old wounds here,” Destry says, tracing the marred skin of her palms again, “You need a healer. Freya, Lita, May-”

“Wouldn’t understand,” Sofiya finished, pulling her hands out of Destry’s and placing them carefully in her lap, obscuring them with her coat, “They’re healers, Des, not warriors- they’d go to Iseut.”

Iseut. Their unofficial leader, the founder, the lighthouse in raging seas. All of the Robber Claws seemed to be caught in her gravity. She was their sun. And Sofiya… well, Sofiya was the moon. Iseut would send her to a healer, one who would stop her travels. One who would commandeer her Warship, and Kastor… health of the mind was important to Iseut.

But Sofiya was not damaged, as they would tell her. She was not broken. Her mind was sound.

I did what I had to do, to survive.

But Destry can see through it all. Through the mask, through her eyes, right to her bones. Through to her lying, treacherous heart. We’re all broken in the end.

But.

Oh, Destry, Destry, please…

“I won’t tell her,” Destry promises, “But I’d like you to know that I think you should. Tell her, that is- Iseut. She might help.”

“She might ship me back to Ravka,” Sofiya grumbles, biting into a toasty croissant.

“Oh, she wouldn’t.”

“You never know.”

“She’ll want you to heal, that’s all.”

“Yes,” Sofiya rolls her eyes, “But these wounds are of the flesh. The scars on my heart will never heal, not in this life Perhaps there will be mercy in the next, even for my rotten soul.”

“You sound like you’re auditioning for the Komedie Brute,” Destry laughs.

“Mother, Father, pay the rent!” Sofiya crows.

“I can’t my dear, the money’s spent,” Destry choruses instinctively.

Sofiya wipes away an invisible tear, “Gorgeous! We’ll make an actress out of you, yet, Destry Clements.”

“Oh, you most certainly will not,” Destry huffs.

Their laughter fills the air, and Sofiya thinks that maybe there is hope for her rotten soul, after all.

~~~~

The man returns late from the pub wearing only one shoe.

A bottle drained halfway of mauve liquid dangles limply from his pale fingers. The veins in his foot are blue in the half-moon’s light.

He slurs a broken melody. She catches a few words as he passes below her on the street.

“Hmm… perish… light… air… fire… hell… hmmm…”

The man’s name is Danyl Harrop. And he is going to die tonight.

“Hmm… shadow… devil… rot… earth… sun… burn… lose….”

Harrop continues down the road, heedless of the mud on his bare foot. He'd be blackout drunk in the morning if he survived.

He wouldn’t.

Silent as a breeze, steps as soft as downy feathers, she leaps from the streetlight where she was perched.

She strikes.

She is ash and shadow. She is a storm of fire. She is vengeance.

She is death.

Harrop yelps as she pins him against the tree. His face is as white as the moon, with eyes like black craters.

“What’re you doi-” he slurs dazedly, but she silences him with a wave of her hand. He blubbers like a fish on land as he tries to shout for help.

“For King and Country,” says the girl. Stepping away from Harrop, she lets her power hold him against the tree, keeping his muscles upright. She surveys him like an artist would their unfinished masterpiece.

The girl whispers, “Sleep tight, Danyl.”

Flicking her wrist, she snaps his neck. He’s still alive, barely, so she latches on to what little of his mind there is left and strips it like an onion. For a man who is out so late, so drunk, on what the girl remembers as a work-day, he knows too much.

Secrets. They feed this girl, nourish her. There is a skip in her step as she turns away from Harrop; without her supporting his muscles, he collapses against the tree. She leaves his mind just as it goes dark.

There is no need to hide in the treetops upon her return to the city. It gleams just half a mile away, most of which is roiling seawater. As the girl wanders along the road back to Ketterdam, she finds Danyl Harrop’s shoe in a puddle of mud. The girl laughs at the sky. She flips a coin into the shoe, whispers a heartless prayer to her Saints, and moves on.

Back to Ketterdam. Back home.

~~~~

Ok, so that's that! I left it on a bit of a cliffhanger... I may have created a whole plot... so there might be some more coming soon!

all these excellent characters (save Sofiya, Danyl, Kastor and the girl at the end who kills Danyl- who has no name... yet *wink*) belong to the following:

Iseut is @littlegirldorothea's

Destry is @finnick-annie's (I may have made them besties👀👀)

Cherry is @brekkercookie's (they are ALSO besties👀👀 we have a trio omg)

Winter is @cressjacquine's

Lyra is @no-mourners-at-my-funeral's

Malcom is @blackpheonix’s

Firefly is @ask-shadowbon’s

Erin is @lightningboytytonjesper’s

Adali is @apple-bottom-jeansx’s

Roza is @vampire-rights’s

Linnea is @alonlyfangirl's

Yan is @lucentcorrigan’s