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sukirichi · 3 years

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earned it [02]

Gojo Satoru is a firm believer that if you work hard for it then you shall earn it. But on the other side, he’s not unfamiliar with his own sins. He also believes that there is punishment due for his sins as he’s earned it.

cw. mentions of murder, suggestive content, unedited fic

notes. err, i’m only doing this on impulse. i would like to continue it, but i think part one stands enough for itself :> i might delete this if i don’t like it a few days later lollll

series masterlist

Your infamous customer hadn’t arrived even as the restaurant closed. You watched close enough, fidgety in your movements and often bumping into other servers, all because your gaze kept darting back to the front door, awaiting his presence.

There’s no actual reason why you want to see him. Maybe it’s because he left an impression? The guy didn’t even budge after finding out someone had snuck into the kitchen to poison him, leaving you to wonder why anyone wanted to kill him. Not that it was any of your business, but you figured it was only common between powerful people who are equally greedy. Still, you’re unfocussed in your work, apologizing every now and then when your boss shook their head at you.

Thankfully, you managed to get back to your old pace. Thoughts of the white-haired tall man left the room at the same time everyone did, leaving only you and your boss in the locker room. You ended up working two shifts again on this weekend, your co-worker asking you to cover for them due to sudden family issues.

It’s tiring, that much is for sure, but you won’t complain when it’s more money down in your pocket. You’re dazzled, however, as you leave the locker room and see that your main chefs are still there.

Upon seeing you, they immediately usher you into a lone table, table 98 that remained untouched the whole night, a two lit candles illuminating the otherwise darkness of the isolated restaurant. Only this time, it’s occupied by him no less, his azure eyes flittering up to yours at the sound of your hesitant footsteps.

You’ve been looking for him the whole night, yet now that he’s in front of you, you don’t have any words to say. Instead, you bow down deep, the hands clasped in your lap shaking.

“S-Sir.”

“No need to be so nervous. I only wish to discuss something with you,” his laugh is so carefree, lighthearted as he gestures to the empty spot across him. “Take a seat,” Wordlessly, you foolow his orders and dash down to the seat, spine straight and head held high. There’s a hint of amusement in his small smile, but he doesn’t tease you, save for the lilting tone he held. “So you’re in sophomore year of university?”

“Yes, Sir. How’d you know?” You furrowed your brows, unsure of whether you’re supposed to expensive meal served in two.

Gosh, and this was on page three too, a single meal cost at least six months’ worth of rent.

“I pulled a string or two,” he lifts one shoulder lazily, waving his knife in the air. “And please, call me Satoru. Assuming we come to an understanding, things will go well for the both of us. You are in need of financial aid, yes?” You nod, utterly clueless in where this is leading, but Satoru’s already made up his mind long before he came here that he found no need in beating around the bush.

“Good. Then what do you say about being my sugar baby?”

“S-sugar baby?” you repeat the word first in confusion, then with distaste. He simply hums around the meat he’s eating, as if it’s a normal occurrence for him to inquire such things, and you scoff, crossing your arms on your chest.

You don’t care that this guy is your precious customer – he was just the same as everyone else.

“Is that the reason why you asked me to stay behind? Do you think you can just pay people to sleep with you? It may have worked on others, but not to me. I would rather keep my dignity than be with you,” you breathe hard after your rant, slapping your palms down on the table. The impact of it makes the table shake, his hand reflexively reaching to steady his wine glass. “As for what happened yesterday, you don’t have to thank me about it. I did what any right-minded person would.”

“And if I said I never wanted to be saved?” he asks, his tone still so calm that it further infuriates you. You stare at him, stunned and mouth gaping. “Sit down. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Thank you for graciousness, Sir, but I really don’t—”

“Angel,” You freeze at the nickname. He chuckles with his forehead pressed to his clasped hands, “Do you really think I need to pay people to sleep with me? I could have anyone I want,” his voice falls an octave or two, the sonorous warning rumbling something…alien inside your body. You stand there, unable to move, and he easily sees through this as he hides a smirk behind his drink. “Sit down. I’m not done talking to you.”

You don’t know what snapped in you to actually follow, but his words weren’t just that. They were always laced with eased dominance, the words leaving his lips coming out as a command. No, it was more like a hypnotizing order, and you’re nothing but a puppet enslaved by it.

His smile only grows bigger, and you hate that he looks ridiculously handsome under the dim lights of the room. Life would’ve been much easier if this man had been ugly.

“As I was saying, this relationship should be casual, no strings attached. I’d prefer if you’re exclusive to me, and in return, I’ll cover all your school fees and everything else. As for the sex,” he cuts his eyes straight to yours, an intense burning heat in them. You squirm in your seat, a little intimidated, albeit excited, by this proposition too, though you’d rather die than let him know that, “I don’t need that from you. I just want someone to talk to.”

“You’re paying me to talk to you?”

“No,” he chuckles, “I’m saying you form a relationship with me in exchange of financial aid. You’d be similar to a lover, nothing less of a friend,” he stares at his drink so hard like he was having a debate with it. A few seconds later, he found his answer, the gleam in his eyes surreptitious as he says, “Someone I can trust.”

You huff. Surely it wasn’t easy as that. “Why me?”

“No reason,” he shrugged, “I just find you endearing, that is all,” You lean back on your seat, trying to process all this. The hesitance must be written all over your face because he adjusts his tie, sliding a white business card your way before sliding his chair back in. At least he’s well-mannered enough to do that. “You can take your time to think about it. There’s no need to rush.”

Somehow, seeing his figure retreat triggers something within you. You watch as silhouettes emerge from the darkness trail after him; must be his security team, serving as an additional note that what you so struggled to achieve was likely nothing for him.

Was it fear? Desperation? Shame?

You don’t know, you won’t ever really know, but you run up to him anyway, brave enough to tug at his sleeve. The guards surrounding him tense up at the contact, stepping away only when he raises a finger that spoke a thousand words.

“You-you’ll pay for everything?”

With his back turned to you, you failed to see that victorious grin he wore. “And everything more,” he reassured. He turns around to confirm your submission, but you’re quivering under his towering frame, poor hands clutched around the card so tightly he won’t be surprised if you break it. He chuckles, coaxing the worries out of you as he caresses your cheek, his breath evident of expensive liquor hitting your cheeks. “Relax, angel. It’s not like you’re selling your soul to the devil.”

Your pupils blow wide at the close proximity. If he was attractive before, it’s nothing compared to the clarity of his sharp, angular features that are softened by his playful smile. Oddly enough, his thumb caressing your cheeks is tender yet calloused.

There’s no telling when who put who under a spell, because you’re clutching helplessly at his suit jacket, whispering, “Am I not?”

You are, he wants to say, but you’re so innocent, so vulnerable – such an angel, he can’t help but hum in his head – that he doesn’t have the heart to let you know. He already knew things were bound to fall out of place one another, but until that hasn’t happened yet, he’ll have to keep you close. He’ll make you his.

“I’ll take good care of you,” he declares so confidently that you couldn’t even question his capability to do so you, and for a moment, just a moment, your knees weaken under his stare. “Now that, I can promise.”

Should you have pulled away then? When he leaned down to seal the contract with a kiss, should you have pulled away then? Or better yet, could you even pull away then?

You’ve been so alone your whole life that each moment with him is awakening, soul-crushing, mind-shattering and so damn weakening that you should’ve pulled away then. If anyone were to tell you you’d share your first kiss after work hours with a man whose name you don’t even know of, you’d tell them they were crazy, crazier if they claimed you would enjoy it.

But you did. Oh, you did, you were addicted to him – his taste, his scent, his touch, everything about him – that when he pulled away, taking away every last breath in your lung that formerly remained taint-free by him, you’re left wanting. Craving.

And he knows this. How could he not? Your eyes are hazy with lust, chest pressed against his firm ones that would soon be the same body you found home over and over again. You’re not the only left intoxicated from this sudden agreement. Whatever you feel, he feels it twice as much after years of watching you from the sidelines, asking himself a million times over what it is about you that pulled him in so much in the first place.

The innocence? The dedication? The youthful naivety?

Gojo wants to laugh at himself. It was never any of those – he simply wanted to fool himself that maybe he’s worthy of this, of your love, of your purity. He’s selfish, manipulative, heartless, and he wants nothing more than someone like you to make him feel like he’s everything he’s not.

He steps forward to brush his nose against yours; breathing in the tiny gasps you reward him with. And he’s barely even touched you.

“I look forward to our next meeting,” he rasps, butterfly touches all the way down your back to hold you flush against him, letting you feel that he’s all muscle and hardness, while you’re the complete opposite, composed of softness and little ghosting kisses. Perhaps when he gives you by a name, he was right to call you – “My Angel.”

The loud blaring of your alarm cuts through the silence of the room, its shrill sound piercing your ears. You groan, blindly patting the bedside table to swipe snooze. The spot next to you has been cold for a while now, but it’s normal for Satoru to leave early for work that you burrow yourself deeper in the covers. Five more minutes of sleep shouldn’t be so bad; it’s the weekend, anyway. You’ve got nothing else to do.

Waking up after that, on the other hand, now that is an impending task on itself.

You’re beyond sore, your inner thighs littered with handprints and your shoulder covered in love bites. “Jeez,” you mutter to yourself, stepping out of the bathroom. Tying your robe around you, you go out your shared bedroom, rubbing your eyes to get the sleep out.

It’s past noon already – Satoru really wore you out. And fuck, you could barely walk. You had to grip the counters just to sit on the stools, and even then, you’re wincing from the pain.

He should be doing paperwork in his office right now or something; he never really told you what to do. You don’t feel like asking either since he’s made it clear he prefers to keep his personal life, well…personal. But nevertheless, you swing your legs back and forth on the stool, texting him a quick I love you baby :)

Satoru doesn’t reply.

Usually, he’d respond in a few minutes, always supplied with a wink and an eggplant emoji. It was so him to act this way, that when those few minutes turned into a few hours and you’re met with radio silence, you can’t help but worry.

You try to brush it off, ignoring the deafening silence that rings all over his penthouse. He’s busy, he’s working, he’s got things to do – that’s all it is.

You convince yourself hard enough that you’ve cleaned the place until it’s sparkling, your reflection bouncing off the black marble floors. Every minute, though, your mind would race back to him. Not thinking about him proved to be a really daunting task because you think of him when you’re eating, reminiscing the way he’d always surprise you with a back hug, muttering morning angel all over your skin just to distract you from your meal. You think of him as you’re killing time with boring dramas; if he was here, he’d nudge your leg with his foot, pushing your shorts until it exposes your panties. He’d make sure you don’t get to focus at all, riling you up and kissing you hard that the show playing becomes nothing but background noise. You think of him, you dream of him, you remember him – and yet, you can’t feel him.

Nails bitten down to the skin, you scramble for your phone, swiping call over his contact. It doesn’t go through. Now that’s another odd thing; Satoru never fails to pick up your calls.

“He’s just busy,” you lie to yourself, telling the same thing over and over again even as night falls and you’re staring at the empty left side of the bed, hands smoothing over where the curve of his body would’ve been. “He’s just busy,” you say once more, giving into the exhaustion brought on by your worries. “He’ll come home soon. He always will.”

Except he didn’t.

And that was two weeks ago.

“Angel, I got you—” Satoru immediately clamps his shut, his footsteps muted as he walks closer to you. You’ve been dating for a few months now, and you’re still very wary of the nature of your relationship so you refuse to move in with him. He doesn’t mind, he respects your space and decisions, but now he’s starting to regret letting you have your way. You’re hunched over your swiveling chair, cheek pressed against the opened textbook and glasses perched on your hair. The lamp desk illuminates the dark circles lining your eyes, his heart breaking at the sight.

Thanks to his help, you’ve been able to spend more time focusing on your studies. It should be comforting, but Satoru’s heart aches as he thinks of what you’ve been like prior to meeting him.

How long have you stayed up all night just to pass your exams? How long have you cried yourself to sleep, unable to handle the burden placed by the world on your shoulders at such a young age? How long have you had to turn down friends’ invites to parties with a forced smile because you had to go to work? How many times have you stared at a failing mark, teeth clenched because you studied well for it; your exhaustion just got the best of you and muddled your brain?

Satoru places the beer and dinner he’s got you on his way back home on top of your one-man dining table, pressing a kiss at the top of your head. You look so beautiful this way – unaware, unknowing, and focused in nothing but the future ahead of you that you don’t bother yourself with his past.

Perhaps…it was comforting, after all.

He’d rather have you worry over your own studies than worry about him. Satoru can’t stomach the idea of you – his precious angel – being involved in his own shit, possibly get caught between the crossfire. It pains him to say it, but he doesn’t want you getting too close for comfort.

So he stays there by your side, simply because it would expel all ideas of you wanting to be beside him. He’ll be right where you’re safe, and the sigh that leaves your lips when he moves you to your bed, fitting in his long, lanky bed on your cramped mattress an immense struggle. As if feeling that you’re finally home, you snuggle closer to his chest, murmuring sweet nothings that tug at his heartstrings.

Satoru rubs circles at your back, staring so hard at the chipped paint on your wall that he’s sure he’s got it burned in his memory.

Now that he thinks about it, he should’ve been satisfied with that. He should’ve held back in his desire to have more of you. He should’ve just tucked you in and left, but he was never really in control of himself. Before he knew it, he’s pulled in by you too much, encouraging him to move in with you under the lie it’s easier to keep an eye on you.

Had he just left you earlier…would things have been different then?

He’s asked himself this question too many times. Satoru always came to one conclusion. He loved you way too much that it consumed him, and soon the love he held for you slowly burned you inch by inch. The only way to save you was to pull away – but he wasn’t ready for that yet, not now – but he’s too scared, too deep in love that he ignores the warning signals and holds you close instead, finding comfort in the warmth of your arms.

Fuck. Satoru downs his second drink, glaring at everyone beneath his shades. Geto snickers beside him, sending side eyes to his boss every now and then just to check. Of course, Satoru’s not actually going to pass out, he was no lightweight, but he’d been uneasy every since that pretentious gold envelope landed on his desk.

One of the downsides of being a mafia leader meant you had to mingle with other clan shit, including him of all people. There were always new leaders popping out of nowhere, Satoru quote unquoting, criminals be spawning like maniacs.

For fourteen years – fourteen fucking years – his clan had been in bad blood with the Zen’ins. They were pretty new in the illegal side of business, starting off as a powerful name in the trade industry before they got interested in oil. One thing led to another, the family began to realize they could have so much more if they turned a blind eye to a law or to, soon shifting into illegal weaponry trade, human trafficking, then drug manufacturing.

These bastards had the audacity to insult the Gojo Clan when Satoru’s family dropped by to strike a contract out of curiosity to their goods, only to be turned down because they’re ‘barbaric’ and ‘informal.’

Satoru still remembers that humiliating moment of being escorted out by bodyguards, but he held his head high, vowing to show that bastard Zen’in guy that the Gojo’s were one of the powerhouses for a reason. He doesn’t even know where the elderly guy got his confidence from. Mafia business was not the same as their former expertise, yet they acted all high and mighty with their rules and standard of being sophisticated even in a life or death situation.

Gojo doesn’t know whether he should be happy or sad that the old man died, his son taking over just as soon as his father perished. He would’ve celebrated with a whiskey or two, except the new clan leader was quite adamant in cleaning up their name to prove he would not create the same mistake his father did.

The new leader threw a large cruise party, inviting pretty much everyone they were chummy with, and Satoru has never felt more out of place. He recognized a face or two, but he couldn’t really give a fuck. He hated events like this – it was all about establishing power and face.

Satoru groaned under his breath, swiping at another flute as a waiter passed by. He felt the bubbles fizzle down his throat, the slight burning sensation somewhat easing his nerves.

He leans back at the wall and checks his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. It’s been two fucking hours since they arrived, and the host still hadn’t arrived. If they planned on being ‘fashionably late’ Satoru won’t hesitate to slice someone’s neck tonight. He hates his time being wasted the most, and his eyes slid over to his friend’s still posture, looking like he just saw a ghost.

“Suguru,” he sighs through his mouth, “Don’t be so tense. This is a formal event – no blood will be shed tonight.” Suguru had a weird skill of being able to read Satoru’s thoughts that he raised his hands in surrender, silently promising that he’s not going to kill anyone.

“You’re not sure of that.”

“I won’t lose my composure, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he rolls his eyes, not looking back as he effortlessly places the empty glass back to another waiter. Satoru stands next to his friend, sucking his teeth out of boredom. Suguru, on the other hand, is tenser than ever, his eyes locked onto something in the middle of the crowd that began to cheer.

Faintly, somewhere at the back of his mind, Satoru hears someone whistle in signal. A few seconds later, the fireworks are lit and decorate the night sky, bursts of gold and beauty accompanying the entrance of the woman who’s so effortlessly caught everyone’s eye tonight.

Satoru is rooted to his spot, taking off his glasses the same time the crowd parts. Then, his breath is knocked away from his body, his heart pumping so hard he actually struggled to breathe.

Because you’re there, smiling and waving at the crowd as if it’s second nature to you. Seven years of being apart from one another and Satoru is still bewitched each time he lays his eyes on you. You’re the same…from your face down to the angelic feeling you always carried, but at the same time, you’re different. Gone was his precious angel who shied away from too much attention, his precious angel who would’ve never worn such a bodacious ring embedded on her left ring finger. Your smile is more charismatic, confident, and even fierce compared to the small, private ones you always shared with him – he almost couldn’t recognize you.

As if feeling someone’s eyes on you, you spot him leaning languidly against the walls, those lips you used to kiss turned downwards.

Seven years ago, you would’ve kissed him until he smiles again, singing to your pouty and clingy boyfriend who never voiced out the reason of his troubles. Seven years ago, he would’ve carried you and swung you around, showering you with affection as he reminds you how lucky he is to have you.

But this was no longer the past – that much is clear from when he left you without another word.

Still, you smile at him, an empty one that showed nothing but concealed anger. He was sure though, so fucking sure, that for a split second, he saw you light up. That may have been seven years ago, but you loved each other to the point of insanity – surely you still held some sort of fondness of him.

Satoru takes long, self-assured stride towards you, his gaze never leaving yours with his hands tucked into his pockets. There’s no telling what he’ll do, but in his mind, it’s clear.

You still love him, he still loves you. He’ll do something about it. It doesn’t matter what, he just will. That was until a young man closer to your age with blond hair and pierced earrings, narrow feline eyes lined with eyeliner hobbles beside you, his weight supported by a cane that Satoru stops in his movements.

He’d recognize that face anywhere.

The youngest and perhaps most mischievous leader of them all, Naoya Zen’in. Albeit not as hard-headed as his father in comparison with his rather laid-back and welcoming nature, Satoru knows a monster when he sees it. It takes one to know one, after all, and despite the heir being crippled from a former accident, his intelligence and power was not to be overlooked through his appearance and coy smiles.

In fact, he might even be more dangerous than his old man, this theory only proven when his arms snake around your waist. The matching rings gleam from under the light, and you press yourself closer to him to whisper in his ear, your attention very much still on Satoru.

Satoru’s entire body burns.

“Still there, Sir?” Suguru asks, gripping his boss’ bicep to hold him back. Smart of him, Satoru exhales through his nose, unable to stop his glare from darting to your husband’s.

He’s heard of you, of him, of how his most annoying rival had a phenomenal trophy wife who looked harmless at first look, but was actually the brains of most of his operations. Satoru forgets how to breathe normally because he’s heard of you, and the rumors he’s gotten wind of about Naoya’s trophy wife are nothing less of how dedicated and perfect the two of you are.

Slapping Suguru’s arm away from him, Satoru grits his teeth. “Get me a drink.”

His precious angel was gone. No, this woman that stood before him…you were an entirely different entity, something darker, something along the lines that were more like him.

What exactly happened the day he left you?

taglist: @ladywaifuuwrites @savantsoulfinder @my-reality-is-in-my-head tagging the ones who asked for part 2, please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

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melodyofmbaku · 3 years

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In Between the Lines Chapter 2 (Erik Stevens x OC)

Teaser [1]

Prompt: “C'mon, I wanna hear you say it.”

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Angst... I can’t help it.

That was her problem.

Elloise couldn't see. So she liked to touch.

It was how she was able to experience the world. It was also the bane of Erik’s existence.

She was always fiddling & touching and it drove him right up the wall.

Didn't she know that some people would misinterpret her actions?

That’s exactly why he hung around her so much, she was entirely too trusting. And he didn't want someone with ill intentions to take advantage of her.

That’s what it was.

Not because he wanted her hands to be on him and him only.

Or because he wanted to see exactly what that mouth could do.

It was because she had a bleeding heart for every seemingly suffering individual and it would be her downfall.

That’s what it was.

As such he made it his mission to weave his way into her days because Elloise was one of the few people he actually liked around here.

He remembers the first time he met the woman who had ownership of his heart.

It was 2 years ago when hehad just arrived at the palace. The place that was supposed to be his home. After he decided to work alongside T’Challa to better improve relations between Wakanda and the rest of the world it was decided.

He could learn more about his father, his birth place, and detach from his old hobby.

Killing people.

So when the young man approached him with a smile on his face and gesturing towards his gear he put a stop to it quick.

He still had some of his pieces on him and he didn’t want that getting messed with.

He rolled his eyes and mumbled an “nah I’m good boss” under his breath before walking around him.

The man began to follow him, looking intently at him with a confused look on his face.

“Do you need some help with your bags?” He gestured to his belongings once more.

“I’m good man.” He responded back again lowly. What was this dude’s problem?

Then he heard it. Her.

"Would you quit mumbling under your breath? If you have something to say, speak up, if not, you'd be better off shutting up".

He looked to the side and took in the woman who emerged from one of the many entrances that lead to the front hall.

She looked lithe and soft. She had dark skin and plump lips, wild coily hair, and a dress that accentuated her waist dangerously. Her cleavage was artfully on display and he was definitely taking a look.

This was the exact kind of woman he enjoyed whining, dining and bending over at the end of the night.

He would also probably do something wicked to that mouth…

He cocked his head and the corner of his lip lifted up in amusement.

“What you say ma?”

He watched as she walked towards him with intent and an odd aura of grace.

Interesting.

She stopped much too close to him.

"Erik... when you entered these grounds — the palace — my house — because that's what this is... my house — you consented to abiding to the rules of this household”.

"Some of which include forgoing your "I used to kill people for a living" vibe so that the differently abled individuals in the residence can comfortably get their jobs done".

What was she going on about? Differently abled?

She gestured to the young man who came to take his bags.

"James is hard of hearing. It helps that you speak clearly, and preferably facing him, so he can better assist you".

Erik turned to take him in. Then he saw it.

James smiled politely and gestured to the tiny hearing aid that was discreetly placed behind his ear.

Erik swallowed. He felt like a dick. He palmed the back of his neck.

"Nah uh... I'll carry my own weight." he responded after clearing his throat.

James nodded and looked back at the woman as if waiting for a command.

She turned to him "Thanks James, it seems like Mr. Stevens has it covered. You can go now."

The young man nodded and went on his was and Erik could’ve sworn he heard a snicker from him as he retreated. He glared at his retreating back.

"Can I touch you"? she asked tilting her head.

"What"? he asked confused.

She gestured toward his face. “Can I touch you? Your face specifically”. She repeated.

Erik squinted still trying to understand what exactly her problem was.

"Why the fu —". She never let him finish.

"We'll be spending a lot of time together now that you’re officially part of the royal family”.

“What’s that gotta do with you touching me?”.

"To save you further embarrassment, and a repeat scenario… in case you missed it Mr. Stevens... I'm blind". She pointed to her eyes to convey her point.

There was a moment of silence before Erik realized.

He wasn't sure how he missed it. He was getting comfortable and terribly out of practice.

She had done a very good job of presenting as normal as possible.

He ducked lower to her level to meet her eyes. True enough her deep brown eyes were unfocused and there seemed to be a gray film over them but they were brown nonetheless.

She repeated her question.

"Can I touch your face, so I know what you look like?” she gestured to him leaning forward invasively close.

“What if I say no”? He responded back defiantly. She wouldn’t catch him slipping twice.

“Then you say no”. she shrugged leaning back.

“I wouldn’t touch you without your consent, another one of our house rules that I hope you’ll remember”. She replied in a patronizing fashion.

He took offence.

“I’m a killer, not a rapist.” he spat out.

“That’s good to hear”. she commented before walking up the stairs encouraging him to follow.

“I’ll show you to your room, and it’s a pleasure to meet you Erik.”

And that was the beginning of their relationship.

He idled about and nursed a drink in his hands and tried to look the least bit engaged at this donor dinner. He hated these dinners.

He’d have to watch Elloise on his cousins arm the entire night. Not to forget the attendees who were there for selfish political gain alone.

He watched closely as she made the rounds with T’challa around the room. She had chosen a deep green dress with a dangerous V that held his attention throughout the night.

T’challa paraded her around the room like the gift she was and he knew this was the part of him she fell in love with.

That’s why he was surprised to find her alone and still dressed to the nines in the palace kitchen in the middle of the night.

He had changed into his comfortable sweats and made his way over to decide on which concoction of alcohol would knock him out for the night.

She had a plate of lamb and potatoes untouched in front of her.

She didn’t startle when he spoke. She probably knew he was here based on his cologne or possibly just heard him when he came in.

“Midnight snack?” He paused and sat in the seat across from her.

“I got the chef to make me something then sent him away.” She spoke clearly. He heard the hardness in her voice.

She was upset.

He saw that the lamb sat on the play uncut and her hands lay in her lap.

“Let me get some of that.”He reached over for the plate and she stopped him.

“Erik. I like lamb.” She held onto the plate refusing to let up.

He sighed.

“Here, I got it.” He stretched his hands for the cutlery.

“I can do it myself.” She protested eyebrows furrowing.

“I know that.”

She still held onto the fork with hostility. She was upset.

“I like doing this so relax okay? You know it’s not like that.” he sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and awaited her answer.

With that she reluctantly released the cutlery to him and folded her hands in her lap carefully.

She heard the fork and knife scrape against the plate as Erik cut it into pieces. She couldn't help but inhale a little bit deeper.

She liked the way he smelled. Erik always smelled like warmth..

She didn't know what to do with her hands. They were always doing something. Touching, feeling, studying, working.

She tried so hard to not be caught lacking, to be looked at as unable.

She would always have an excuse, because of her condition, but she pushed herself to insane lengths to never have to use it.

With Erik she was able to relax without being scrutinized, when it was just the two of them it was different.

This was... nice. She liked it.

"Potatoes too?" he asked wondering if he should slice up the baby potatoes that accompanied the lamb on her plate.

She shook her head — negative, she liked them whole.

"Thank you". she replied back softly.

"Don't mention it". He responded before carefully handing the fork back to her.

Her fingers lingered on his hand a moment before she pulled them away seemingly unaware.

Erik lived for moments like these.

He watched attentively as she speared the tender meat and placed it in her mouth and began to chew.

“Where’s T? Why isn’t he here with you right now?” He was sure he’d be tearing it up tonight. She looked that damn good.

She paused and looked down. “He… got called away for an emergency.”

They both knew what that meant. Erik wanted blood.

“You can’t let him get away with disrespecting you like this El. Tell somebody. The elders. Anybody.” He urged with subdued rage.

“Would they blame him? Or would his actions be chalked up to something else?” She shifted in her seat.

“Maybe how in more than one way I’m not enough.” She placed another piece of meat into her mouth and chewed slowly.

Despite the hot anger that flowed through his veins, he knew it was the truth.

He hated that it was the truth.

He despised his cousin for taking that vulnerable woman and turning her into this.

He was going to end him.

They weren’t that close anyways.

He could see it now.

He’d start from his left hip bone and do a clean cut — probably with something classic. Like a black pearl switchblade. Then he’d —

“You can’t say anything Erik.” she commanded. It was if she heard him plotting.

He scoffed.

“It’s not your right.” She said.

Her mouth was sharp as ever.

He hated that mouth.

He dreamed of that mouth.

He was the forgotten cousin. An honorary royal. Offered a position for blood ties and even then, it was decorative.

An outcast.

Maybe that’s why they got along so well.

She placed another potato between her lips.

He rose from his seat and stood behind her.

He began to remove the large decorated pins from her pressed hair. His fingers reached the nape of her neck and she finally released the tension that her body held.

“I didn’t say I was going to do anything.” He spoke lowly above her, focused on the task at hand.

She leaned into his hand and he snuck his fingers into her hair and found her scalp.

He rubbed at it gently, product would cling to his fingers later but he didn’t mind it.

“We’re the same you and I.” She hummed.

He cocked his head and continued his task.

He never understood her when she said that. But in fear of being scolded he kept quiet.

She was good. So good. He was bad bad bad.

He felt her shuffle to rise and he stopped his actions unwillingly.

She sat up and he reluctantly removed his fingers from her head.

She ran her palms down her dress to straighten it out before she looked in his direction.

“You’re harmless. ” She joked lightly before lifting her hand awaiting his arm to lead her back to her room.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Girl, you should be scared of me.” He murmured slyly.

She rolled her eyes.

He offered her his arm and she grasped it in a familiar fashion and let him lead her.

They walked leisurely through the hallways. When he didn’t get a response to his last statement he assumed his previous joke fell flat.

“Erik, when are you gonna go?” She asked softly. Her fingers added more pressure into his arms, concern lacing her tone.

She’s been pestering him for months to go to therapy — deal with his murderous thoughts.

He didn’t like the idea.

So he wasn’t going to do it.

“I’ll go when you go.” He shot back.

She sniffed and turned her face away from him.

He grinned cheekily, dimples shining through.

“You know why I can’t go. It’d be taboo for me. Plus, they treat me like an invalid.” he watched her mouth twist into a scowl.

He scoffed, and continued to lead them to her destination.

Their route was coming to an end and he knew she felt it.

As they got closer and closer to her quarters her grip tightened on his bicep. And he paused.

“Erik I’m scared.” she whispered.

“If he can do this. Openly. In our room. In our bed, then...”

“What’s next? What’s next for me?“ she looked in his direction — lost.

“If he don’t got you, I got you.” He crowded her space and bent down so he could be level with her.

She needed to understand that she could rely on him for anything. He wasn’t sure he knew just how deep his feelings went for her.

She lifted her hands to hold his face. It was how she saw. Her hands immediately found his beard. He saw the tears pool in the corner of her eyes.

“Anytime you get scared you call me. You hear me?”

Her gaze was downcast. This wouldn’t do.

“I’ll gut em. Like fishes. The whole lotta them.” He pushed out huskily.

“Erik...” she murmured disapprovingly.

“You believe me?” He asked.

“I —“

“C'mon, I wanna hear you say it.” He pushed lowly committed to making her see that she wasn’t alone, he was there.

“Yes Erik, I believe you.” She whispered lowly. She quickly wiped the tears that had slid down her face disobediently.

“Good.”

“Goodnight E.” She stepped back and turned to her door. He watched as she steadied herself.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets to stop himself from grabbing her and crushing her in his embrace.

He wanted to grab her and kiss away her fears.

Instead he subdued his wants and watched her walk through her door.

The door to the room she shared with T’Challa.

He spun around and began the familiar path back to the kitchen.

After knocking back the drink of the night he steadied himself.

Erik walked to his chambers in the same manner he did every night — longing for his cousin's wife.

Taglist:

@fd-writes @amorestevens @raysunshine78 @adreamsublime

Idek what I’m even doing with this story but lmk what you think 💜

If you want to be added to the taglist just comment.

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seijorhi · 3 years

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Acts of Devotion

👀 i um 👉 👈 i hope this is okay...

Akaashi Keiji x Female Reader

TW blood, gore, violence, murder, dub con, nsfw

Akaashi loves you.

He’s known that for a long time now, probably from the very first moment he laid eyes on you, back when you were both just wide eyed first year uni students, wildly out of your depths.

A lot’s changed since then. For one, he now gets to call you his, and it’s his arms that you return to at the end of a long day, his house that you both live in. It’d be a lie to say that it doesn’t bother him that he wasn’t your first love, but he’s contented himself with the knowledge that he’ll be your last. Your only great love.

The only one that matters.

But it hasn’t been without its challenges. He’s learned a lot about love since those early days, about what it means to truly devote yourself to somebody, to give everything you have for them.

Love essentially boils down to two things, Akaashi’s come to realise - sacrifice, and forgiveness.

You always look so beautiful when you’re sleeping. Of course, Akaashi thinks you’re beautiful all the time; when you’re smiling and laughing, when your face is screwed up in petulant anger, when those pretty eyes of yours well with tears and they glimmer and shine - but there’s something about the peaceful expression, so soft and unguarded when you’re asleep that inexplicably draws him in.

There’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to stay, to reach out and brush away the hair that’s fallen across your face, pull you closer and let sleep drag him under, but he can’t.

Not tonight.

Instead he cranes his neck to press a kiss against your lips, a small smile tugging at his lips when you let out a quiet mewl in response. He loves you so, so much… that’s why he has to do this.

He’d forgive you anything. You know that, don’t you?

Sure, it hurt him when he found the messages. Scrolling back through your text history, it was like somebody had grabbed him by the throat and plunged a knife into his gut, twisting it for good measure.

Kaito i don’t know what to do

i love him but lately it feels like idk he’s being a little controlling i guess?

… but maybe i’m just being paranoid?

He knows it’s not entirely your fault. For all the amazing qualities you possess, you are remarkably naive and so very, very impressionable - which worked to his favour in the beginning, he’ll be the first to admit, but now…

Now it’s becoming a problem.

You haven’t realised yet that everything Akaashi’s doing - it’s all for your own good.

Your family wanted you under their thumb. They always asked too much of you, guilt tripped you whenever you tried to stand up for yourself or set boundaries. They’d never be happy for you, not truly. It hurts, he knows that, but some people don’t deserve to be in your life, especially when they treat you like that.

Your job was causing you stress, and your boss was an arrogant, nasty piece of work. His salary is more than enough to support you both, why put yourself through that if you don’t need to? Aren’t you happier now that you don’t have to trudge into that office every day and pretend that it isn’t making you miserable?

Your friends were bad influences. Jealous of your relationship for one, but they were also petty, self absorbed and vapid, always trying to drag you down to their level so you wouldn’t ever outshine them. You’re better off without them, why can’t you see that?

Akaashi’s the only one you’ll ever need.

And he really thought that he’d solved that little problem, but apparently not. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that out of all of them, Kaito’s the one who’s been the hardest to shake. An old friend of yours from high school, Akaashi had known within five minutes of meeting him that he was head over heels in love with you and had been for a long, long time.

He can’t blame him for that. You’re beautiful. Perfect. Entirely his. It’s painfully obvious that even before he came into the picture to sweep you off your feet, you’d never so much as looked twice at the guy. So Akaashi was more or less content to let his somewhat pitiful one sided crush on you slide. Considering that he had absolutely no intentions of letting him or any of your other friends remain part of your life for much longer, it was hardly worth wasting energy thinking about.

Until, that is, he read the messages that Kaito’s been sending you.

Leave him

I’m serious.

My sister had a friend who was with a guy like that. She had to get a restraining order because he wouldn’t let her go - it got scary… You can come stay with me. I don’t want you getting hurt :(

It’s that last one that bothers him. Not the attempts to lure you away from him under the guise of being a safe haven from your ‘dangerous’ boyfriend, painting himself as your knight in shining armour - mildly irritating if not a little amusing - but for putting the idea in your head that Akaashi would ever hurt you.

That he can’t forgive.

He won’t have you look at him with fear in your eyes.

Akaashi’s never tried to deny that side of himself, but he’s kept it from you, locked it away and buried it deep. The things he does… you’re too pure for that. He loves you, loves the way that your eyes still soften when you catch sight of him, the warm, trusting naivety that bleeds out of your every pore. If you knew what the hands that caressed you so gently had done, would you still beg for his touch?

You wouldn’t, he knows that just as he knows that even if you were to uncover the truth, he wouldn’t let you go. He can’t, you’re his.

Is it really so selfish of him to want to preserve that innocent naivety?

But it seems like now he’ll have to indulge once again, and Akaashi, really, truly can’t say that it bothers him. Killing other people has always thrilled him, made the blood in his veins race… Killing other people for you, oh, that’s going to be a whole other level of pleasure he can’t wait to explore.

The pads of his fingers trace the curve of your jaw for just a moment. “Back soon,” he whispers, gracing your cheek with a feather light kiss.

You’ve never asked why the door to the basement locks from both sides, he doesn’t even think you realise that the walls are soundproofed. Tonight he’s grateful. You won’t wake up, he’s almost positive of that, but Akaashi has no desire to be gone from your side for any longer than absolutely necessary.

He usually prefers to take his time.

His first kill was more of an accident than anything else, there was too much blood, he panicked and it was over in the blink of an eye. There wasn’t time to savour it, to really enjoy the sight of the light leaving their eyes, the weak, desperate struggles and whimpers, the tantalising fear that inevitably bleeds into the air, growing more potent by the second - even the strongest break eventually. He’s learned since then how to draw it out, how to have fun with his work.

But he doesn’t have that luxury tonight, and, as he keeps having to remind himself, this isn’t about his pleasure.

Guns are quick. Messy. Akaashi’s never really taken a liking to the crude, graceless weapon. He prefers his knives.

Waving a gun in somebody’s face gives them the idea that they’re going to die, and there are only so many times that you can shoot somebody before they just… bleed out. It’s not nearly as satisfying a death. A knife, on the other hand, brings with it more opportunities. It isn’t death that his victim becomes worried about, at least not initially, but pain. And as his hand glides over his collection, Akaashi decides that Kaito is due for a little pain.

I love him, you’d texted. I love him. I love him. I love him.

That’s what he’s trying to protect.

Long, pale fingers wrap around the handle of his chef’s knife, (eight inches, sharp - a familiar, comforting weight in his hand) and he takes a deep, steadying breath.

Kaito’s mouth is taped shut. Akaashi doesn’t want to hear a filthy word out of those lips. His hands are bound behind his back, his ankles tied to the old, wooden chair. He’s good with his knots, the more Kaito struggles, the tighter they pull. And judging from the ugly, purpling shade of his hands and the tears leaking from bloodshot eyes, he’s been struggling for a while.

Good.

Akaashi smiles as he strolls towards his captive audience, fingering the straight edge of the knife. Kaito doesn’t try to speak, but the muffled whines and sobs grow louder with every step closed between them. The fear and tension in the air is palpable.

His breath is little more than a frantic wheezing by the time Akaashi stops in front of him and drops into a crouch. Cool, gunmetal blue eyes meet Kaito’s deep brown ones, blown wide with terror.

“I’m not the monster you think I am,” he admits quietly.

Looking up at him from beneath long, dark lashes, a faint smile on his lips, Akaashi could almost pass for an angel if not for the gleaming kitchen knife in his hand. Kaito pales, his entire body going taut as his gaze slides from Akaashi’s face to the gleaming blade in his hand. He shakes his head in desperation, another muffled scream escaping his gag-

Akaashi strikes fast, like a viper. The blade plunges into the meat of Kaito’s thigh and without an ounce of mercy, Akaashi yanks it back towards his knee.

The scream that rips through the air sends a pleasurable shiver of warmth down his spine, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips as he feels the muscles beneath him convulse. The gash isn’t too long, maybe a few inches, but it’s deep and Akaashi’s smirk only grows as warm blood gushes from the wound, coating his hand in slick vermilion.

He tugs the knife free, rewarded with another choked howl from his captive as more blood sprays. Bound to the chair, there’s not a whole lot of room for Kaito to move, but it’s somewhat amusing to watch him try to thrash, escape the white hot agony radiating from his thigh through his entire body. It’s hard for the human body to comprehend that level of pain, and from experience, Akaashi’s well aware that it won’t take long for his body to go into shock and simply shut down from the blood loss, and once that happens, he won’t be of much use to anyone.

Kaito’s trembling, face pale, his skin clammy. Impossibly black pupils swallow his irises whole, erratically tracking his captor’s every movement as Akaashi pushes himself to his feet and takes a moment to study him. Tears and bubbles of snot leak in a disgusting mix down his jaw, dripping onto his lap as he sobs against his bindings. It’s pitiful, seeing a man reduced to a whimpering, terrified wreck, but as the hand still holding his knife grips at his chin and yanks his face closer, Akaashi can’t help but gleefully drink it all in.

Your would be knight in shining armour doesn’t look quite so strong and capable now, does he?

Akaashi doesn’t have much time left to make him suffer, but he can’t seem to resist trailing his fingers along Kaito’s injured leg, digging them deep into the ruined muscle - grinning wildly when he convulses and screams, arching up off the chair.

There’s still so much that he’d like to do. He toys with the idea of taking his tongue, of carving his knife deep into his skin just to watch him whimper and bleed… but no. This isn’t about indulgence. This is about you. He has to have more discipline than that.

Dangling on the edge of consciousness, Kaito meets his gaze one last time. Maybe he senses that his death is close, or maybe he’s just searching for a last minute reprieve, mercy from the cold blooded killer before him. Terrified, agonised, delirious from the blood loss, he tries to speak - a plea, he thinks, or maybe just incomprehensible babbling, but his eyes burn into Akaashi’s, desperate and hollow.

Akaashi’s never been one for theatrics. He won’t waste more time monologuing while your friend clings to the last vestiges of life. If Kaito hasn’t guessed by now the reasons he’s ended up here, at Akaashi’s mercy, he’s far less intelligent than he gave him credit for, but he supposes that he owes him something, at least.

“I love her,” he says with a small shrug, as if it explains everything.

And maybe it does.

It hardly matters though, as Akaashi decides to finally end it with a vicious slice across his throat. Blood sprays like a fountain, splattering across the room and drenching him, Kaito’s body slumps in his seat, the last flicker of life slowly snuffing out, and Akaashi revels in the pure, sweet euphoria that floods his system.

He’s never killed anybody while you were home with him before. Normally he’s methodical, quick to clean up whatever mess is left behind. Tonight though, Akaashi doesn’t have the patience for all that.

He should at least take a shower, rid himself of the blood that soaked him to the skin, but the call of your arms, the sweet, soft floral scent he longs to drown himself in beckoning is too hard to resist. He sheds his clothes, casting them aside haphazardly along with the bloody knife as he stalks down the hallway to the bedroom. His heart is still racing, excitement drumming through his veins as he crawls onto the bed and slides the covers off of you.

Dimly, he registers that this is a monumentally bad idea, but all he can think about is the vivid memory of the light leaving Kaito’s eyes and you. Tonight, he killed for you, and it was exhilarating.

He doesn’t think he could stop himself even if he wanted to, and why would he want to?

You’re perfect, beautiful - his. Nothing and nobody will ever be able to separate the two of you, he’ll kill anybody who tries.

You stir a little as Akaashi’s lips graze along your skin, his fingers sliding the silk of your nightgown up over your hips.

“‘Kaashi?” you sleepily murmur, trying to blink heavy eyelids open.

He wonders if you can feel the way his bloodstained hands are trembling as they ease your supple thighs apart. “Shh, baby,” he presses a kiss against your leg as he manoeuvres himself between them, “It’s okay, go back to sleep.”

Let me take care of you.

He needs this.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere akaashi x reader #yandere akaashi #yandere akaashi keiji #yandere akaashi keiji x reader #tw blood #tw violence #tw murder #slasher-ish vibes #tw dub con #just a little #not super proof read because it's 3:30 in the morning

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thesunflowersutra · 3 years

Note

OMG since youre taking requests, could you PLEASE do the putting a knife to your lover from the fluff list for bucky? maybe hes teaching his s/o or crush how to fight? could be cute!!

🔪🔪🔪 (affectionately) - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Notes: HI!! I loved your request so much! Tbh I love to see Bucky and his knife skills and the idea of him teaching someone else is just *chef's kiss* I hope you like it! Feel free to always request stuff. <3 (also, your icon is amazing, oh god) Warnings: Knifes, personal defense, Bucky being a little shit. Gender Neutral!Reader.

"I feel a little silly using a plastic knife...," you mumbled, examining the small training knife that Bucky had handed you moments before. Although it didn't have an actual blade, but rather a flat plastic surface, the weight of the object was close to the real thing. Barnes, on the other hand, had in his hands one of the knives from his personal collection and a smile on his face, watching you carefully and with a certain pride in being able to show you one more of the many tricks he had learned for combat and that now, in civilian life, it had become one more of the many party tricks he knew - not that they stopped being good ways to defend yourself if necessary.

Seeing you create an interest in learning them, however, brought a certain pride to Bucky - and, also, a certain unease. Part of him worried that he wouldn't be around to defend you from harm. Honestly, the mere thought that you might be in danger at some point was enough to make him extremely angry. "They're just for practice. I still don't trust leaving you with a sharp knife in hand and not knowing how to wield it properly", he said carefully, not wanting to distrust your ability but still making mention of your slight skill at being clumsy.

Rolling your eyes, you muttered something about "I know how to use a knife, Barnes", eliciting a light chuckle from the other. "Besides, can't you heal yourself super fast?" you asked, raising the sleeves of your shirt as if preparing for a fight. The coffee table in the room had been moved to the corner since the little self-defense "play" of the two of you had started, leaving the carpet clear so you could practice without much trouble.

"I'm not worried about you hurting me," he said, emphasizing the "me" and, for a few seconds, you really wanted to take him down for his teasing, but it would be a lie to say that you hadn't already gotten used to Bucky's sarcastic humor and his constant attempts to get you off your back - in a way, you even enjoyed it, even if you weren't going to risk admitting it out loud and inflating the supersoldier's ego even more.

"Okay, let's go over that move I taught you earlier. First, I'm going to try to attack you from the left, then right, and mobilize your right wrist. The goal is to stop me from doing that, but in case I succeed... what do you have to do?" started Bucky, carefully going over what he would do in case you had any objections. Even though it had been your idea to learn, he made sure to confirm every move with you before doing so, making sure that you had no objections and if you consented to it. It was little things like that that made the two of you trust each other more and more.

"Drop the knife with the handle down and try to catch it in the air with my free hand," you murmured, searching the taller man's gaze for confirmation, and with Bucky's proud nod, you smiled back. "Ready?" he asked. "Ready," was your reply.

Bucky moved exactly as he had told you earlier and, dodging the taller's thrusts, he had to improvise and, using the height advantage between the two of you, he managed to immobilize your right wrist, pinning you against the wall. In one swift movement, you dropped the plastic knife to the ground while landing a hit on Bucky's hip - just enough to distract him, not hurt him, and catch the knife in the air, pushing the plastic "blade" against the taller man's torso.

Releasing his wrist, Bucky smiled proudly at your progress, leaving a fond kiss on your lips. "What a fast learner...," he murmured between kisses, drawing a giggle from you.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes imagines #bigtiddythanos

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undeadhousewife · 2 years

Text

I'm not going to post the video but I've seen so many horrifying examples of people cutting, chopping, slicing food in a very bad way. I just saw a tiktok of a person slicing onions in a manner I legitimately worried the video was going to end with blood.

So I'm here to beg you all to PLEASE work on bettering your knife skills in the kitchen. You don't need high end $200+ knives (but you do need a basic sharp chef knife - a dull knife is extremely dangerous. Get a decent diy sharpener to keep on hand)

There's plenty of great how to videos out there like ones from American Test Kitchen and Alton Brown's Good Eats.

You can practice slicing, dicing, etc on apples, onions, carrots, zucchini. Hell make a loaded vegetable soup to practice different cutting methods! (probably leave the apple out of that though) if you take your time every time you cook to work on at least one knife skill you'll have perfected it in no time, trust me. And then not only will your food look good, you'll have uniformed cooking times, be less likely to slip and cut yourself, but will also be far quicker in the kitchen then you realize.

#Life skills #Kitchen skills #Cooking #Home ec #Life lessons #Knife safety

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whenimaunicorn · 4 years

Text

Playing House - Part 7.1

This one's a little short and a little subtle, but I thought I'd whet your appetite for more mayhem this week. Going for a weekly update schedule on Tuesdays for as long as I can keep it up!!

There is a small time jump here; it’s been a few days since the last chapter.

Catch up: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Ivar has really nice knives. You’ve never seen him cook, not since you moved in and not before, but you know the set of expensive Messermeister knives in the grey canvas case belong to him. They are just a dream to use, better than anything that you could afford.

You know that the knives belong to him because he gave you very explicit instructions for their care. “No one else is allowed to touch them,” he told you during the first week after you moved in, running his fingers down the longest blade as he showed them to you, “but I will allow you that privilege if you follow all my rules.”

There’s a problem today. His breath hitches when he opens the case; your body stills. “Y/N, what is this?”

You inch forward, peering over his shoulder with apprehension. His fingernail is tapping at the wide blade of the chef’s knife.

“Did you dry these with a cloth, right after you cleaned them?”

There are a few translucent white circles marring the blade, the kind that are sometimes left behind after water evaporates.

“I—” your throat is suddenly dry. “I must not have.”

“Evidently not.” He turns the knife around, offering you the handle with a significant look. “Wash it again.”

He doesn’t seem angry, and the tingling in your body is not exactly anxiety. “Of course.” His eyes linger on yours, even after you look down to carefully take the exquisitely-crafted tool from his hand.

You turn to the sink, listening to Ivar gather his ingredients behind you. This morning he had surprised you with a long, very detailed shopping list for what is apparently his signature pasta sauce. Details as in brand names, and specifying the amounts down to the ounces. You have never seen the boy cook before, but today you’re learning why he would even own expensive knives.

I cook, he had said almost defensively as you teased him about the uncharacteristic request. But do you think that animals like my brothers deserve to enjoy my skills?

Your cheeks warm now as you contemplate that statement. It meant that he considers you to be worth cooking for tonight, doesn’t it? You rub soap on the knife carefully from the back edge and glance over at him.

Ivar is inspecting the fresh herbs you bought. You hold your breath, but he gives them a little nod and moves on to the onion and garlic. You dry the knife and bring it to him.

“Good girl.”

Even just those simple words have your body thrumming. He’s not a dick about it, he just likes things his certain way, and that submissive streak in your soul is just loving every opportunity for Ivar to keep telling you what to do.

He sets the knife down, then holds out his hand. “Give me that towel.”

He folds it twice and lays it on the table in front of him. He pulls a tool from the bag that looks like a round little sword. “Oh,” you say, “does it need to be sharpened?”

“This is not for sharpening,” Ivar says, his voice cool and still, like he’s preparing a ritual. “This is a honing steel.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a common mistake. But we don’t want to sharpen a knife too often. Sharpening removes some of the metal. This,” he says, setting the tip of the steel against the towel and holding the hilt up vertically with his left hand, “is for honing.” He lifts the knife in his right hand and sets it at a close angle against the steel. His fist grips the hilt of the steel firmly, while his fingers curl more loosely, elegantly around the handle of his knife. He draws it down the length of the steel in a firm, deliberate movement. “Honing merely aligns the sharp edge of the blade, so it doesn’t blunt itself by curling to one side.” The blade crosses to the other side, sliding down in another brisk line. He builds a rhythm, every movement deft, controlled, and faster than you would have felt safe moving that blade around. “There.” He admires the edge with a satisfied nod. “Bring me the teak cutting board, from the bottom of the pantry.”

You didn’t even know they had a “teak cutting board.” You and Ubbe have been using a scarred plastic one that looks ready to crack in half at any moment.

You find the board wrapped up in the back; when you pull it out you want to cry. The rich shades of amber and honey in the woodgrain are just gorgeous. “Why do you have such beautiful things?” you say softly as you set it down in front of him.

“I like beautiful things.” He catches your eye, and there’s no way he’s not including you in the sentiment.

You smile and look away, smoothing your hands down your skirt just to give yourself something to do. Your movement draws his gaze, and a thick, satisfied look suffuses his eyes as he admires your outfit. Inspired by your little domestic 1950’s housewife fantasy, you’d bought yourself a vintage dress, royal blue, complete with full, knee-length skirt, fitted waist, and sweetheart neckline. Now that that fantasy seems to be coming true, you couldn’t resist putting it on today, even if your only plans consisted of staying home and cooking with Ivar.

He drags the knife across the steel a few more times.

“How do you know it’s sharp enough?”

He flashes you a grin, the one with the sadistic edge that makes your knees a little weak. “There is one test,” he lifts the knife in his competent grip, “to see if it can shave an arm hair . . . hold still.”

His eye glitter as you take a step back from him, sucking your arms up tight against your ribcage. Even though the idea of Ivar holding cold steel against your body is making your heartbeat quicken, a little warmth gathering between your legs.

He cocks his head, don’t you trust me written all over his smirk. He savors your discomfort for a moment, before speaking again. “Or, we slice a piece of paper.” He takes a flyer off his stack of mail on the table, something unimportant with Act Now! in big block letters at the bottom. Grasping it at the top between two fingers, he lifts the knife and slashes down quickly through the vertically-suspended page.

It slices neatly in two, the outer edge fluttering down to the floor in front of him. “Wow, that is sharp.” You wanted to say something infinitely cooler, but how exactly do you tell someone “your knife skills are turning me on right now?”

Ivar frowns at the lower portion of the 9-inch blade. “I felt a catch toward the bottom.” He turns back to the honing steel and rasps a few more precise passes.

He may be pretending this is still a normal conversation about sharpening, but there’s a darkness in his eyes when he looks up at you again. He tips his head dramatically to the side, looking you up and down until your cheeks start to heat up.

“Seeing something that you like?”

You stammer out two answers at once, so the sounds you actually make are non-sensical.

“Do not forget that I can tell when you are turned on.”

You finally notice your mouth hanging open, and you close it.

He inspects the blade’s edge with an unnecessary flourish. “You into knives?” he asks casually. His predator’s eyes watch carefully from under heavy brows as you flail about for an answer.

“Mmm,” you say, completely uninformatively. “Um, you mean like, sexually?”

Ivar nods slowly, as confident as you are flustered.

“There is something—something about it,” you babble, trying to push through your embarrassment well enough to be honest, “but not like… I’m not saying I want to get cut up right now.”

Ivar’s mouth makes a soothing sort of sound, his gorgeous lips puckering up. “Of course not. But there’s something about—” he hefts the knife in his hand, “—the threat inherent in a dangerous object, isn’t there. Even though I’m not even threatening you with it right now.”

You gulp. “Yes.”

His head is waggling, eyes narrowed over his smile. “Come here.”

It’s simultaneously the best and worst thing he could possibly say to you right now. You want to trust him, but you really have no idea what Ivar Lothbrok will do to you if you come within arm’s reach of him. You make a small sound.

He makes a beckoning gesture.

The heavy knife is resting against the cutting board; when you step toward him Ivar leaves it there and opens his arm to pull you in close. With a hand on your waist he guides you to face the cutting board, your back against his front. The stool he’s sitting on is tall enough that he can still see from behind you, and his arms up come up around either side of your body.

“One more test. I want you to feel this one.” His voice is rich and low, so close to your ear. “Did you know that if the knife is sharp enough, cutting an onion won’t make you cry?”

“No,” You say brightly, through a burst of exhaled air. You’re relieved, although maybe just a little bit disappointed, that the topic of conversation is back to cooking, and not secret dark kinks that you might not even be ready to admit to yourself. Ivar’s body brushes softly against yours as he places an onion at the center of the cutting board and sets the knife against it.

“Here,” he says, wiggling his right hand just a bit. “Take the knife from me. Keep it lined up, but do not cut yet.”

You do as he asks, and his hand ghosts over yours, covering your grip on the handle.

“You barely have to push down. Slide it forward slightly, and the blade should sink right in.”

His guiding hand follows as you do, and the onion comes apart easily.

“Good. Keep going. We want this one finely diced.” He keeps your body pushed forward with the pressure of his from behind. Is he making sure your face is right above the onion, ready to take in all the fumes that usually blind you with tears after the first few slices?

You get the skin off and keep slicing, as instructed. The little approving noises Ivar is making into your ear must mean that your method is correct, so far. And, miraculously, your vision is still clear.

“A dull blade crushes the onion cells, releasing the chemical that makes you cry. A sharp one slices through so cleanly that this barely happens. Are you feeling anything yet?”

“No,” you say. Not from the onion, at least. The way Ivar’s body is wrapped around yours, his breath warm on your neck, has you feeling all kinds of things.

Ivar coos. “Then I’ve done well. And so are you. Even finer, please.”

You pinch the back of the blade between your fingers and chop quickly. Ivar has released your hands, placing his own about your waist instead. When you finish, you set the knife down and he coaxes you to turn around.

He inspects your face. Your eyes had started stinging just a little during that final pass, but no tears have formed. His tongue clucks, softly. “Honestly I’m a little disappointed not to get to see you crying. I think we’ll remedy that later.”

You just about quiver in his arms.

You were supposed to be his sous chef today. I mean, that would only be appropriate given the roles that you two like to assume with each other in every other context. And it is Ivar’s recipe, after all. But once he knows what watching him use a knife does to you, he performs all the rest of the dicing and chopping himself. You’re relegated to walking back and forth across the small kitchen, fetching and washing and lining up the neat little prep bowls as Ivar fills them with each of his ingredients.

He watches you all the while, in between bouts of extreme concentration on his work. He says nothing about your dress but you catch him admiring its twirl as you spin through the kitchen.

Watching him chop the garlic is almost unreal. Ivar’s not one for that garlic press contraption, and clearly he doesn’t need it. He takes a second knife from his collection, one that’s flatter and a little more squared. His slices are just about paper-thin, and he’s minced them and scooped the little pile up on the side of his blade so fast you just have to stop and stare as he does it again for each clove. His hands are large but elegant, their subtle strength readily apparent as he handles the blade with impressive agility.

“Why did you switch knives?”

He tilts the tool in question in his hand. “This is called a santoku. Japanese knives are great for speed, and the fancier skills. But for most tasks I prefer the weight of the chef’s knife. These German-made ones feel so good in the hand.”

“They really do,” you agree. “How did you get so into cooking?”

“Just a hobby I picked up for a while.” His eyes meet yours. “I am enjoying having the excuse to remember my skills again.”

You almost can’t bear to keep looking at his face, his angelic visage just beaming his delight at you. For the second time you flush, and duck your head. You’re definitely not used to Ivar being so . . . direct about his feelings for you.

He saves you from having to respond by issuing his next order. “We are ready to start cooking. Measure a tablespoon of olive oil into the pan, turn the burner on high, and help me get my stool next to the stove.”

He puts the garlic in first, stirring it briskly to, as he explains, suffuse the oil in its flavor. Next come the onions, and there is something about the way his wrist cocks as he keeps everything moving in the pan that’s almost as fascinating as his knife work. His rhythm remains steady as he directs you to add each ingredient, his other hand lightly teasing at your waist, or your hip, or your leg at the bottom edge of your skirt every time you move close to him. He pretends he’s not doing it, but there is mischief behind his eyes. By the time a thick red sauce is filling the wide pan, you’re about ready to skip this dinner and see what other treats he’s got planned for your night in.

The apartment door swings open. Ubbe enters noisily, slamming the door shut behind him. “Smells so good, Y/N! I’m starving, what are you—” He cuts off when he rounds the corner into the kitchen, and sees Ivar sitting by the stove. He takes in the luxury kitchen tools spread out on the table, and you in your housewife dress and your kitten heels. He pulls back just a little, like maybe he’s thinking he shouldn’t intrude. But then he leans one forearm against the wall and grins. “You’re making the sauce, bro?”

Ivar rolls his eyes. “Yes, Ubbe.”

“I can’t fucking wait.” He turns to you, his wolfish eyes bright. “This is gonna be the best spaghetti night you’ve had in your life.”

“It is not spaghetti night,” Ivar says crossly. “We are having gnocchi. Also, I didn’t think you were going to be home.”

Ubbe shrugs. “I don’t have anything going on.”

“Ubbe,” Ivar chides, shaking his head as he speaks. “Don’t you usually have a date lined up just about every night?”

Ubbe is only looking at you. “That just doesn’t seem very interesting anymore.”

Ivar makes a dismissive sound and nudges you. “Time to add in the spices, Y/N.”

You tear your eyes away from Ubbe, and all the things that you might just be imagining are lying behind his eyes. He walks away as you lift the last prep bowl, headed back toward his room. You sprinkle the herb blend over the sauce.

“Now we simmer,” Ivar says, turning the burner down low. “But we must keep stirring.” He slides the spoon quite precisely around the edges of the pan, then spirals it through the middle. “Can you do it this way?”

You take the handle from him and attempt to replicate his practiced movement. After a little adjusting, he leans back with a satisfied sound.

“Keep that up. No more than sixty seconds between stirrings.”

He reaches for his crutches, and you lift a brow in silent question.

“I want a shower before dinner.” He gets to his feet, then leans down to murmur low into your ear. “I am planning a long night after that.”

How can he slay you so well with only a few words?

The corner of his lip is quirked as he shifts his weight back into his crutches. “After ten minutes, start the water boiling for the gnocchi, too.”

Read On

Taglist: @swagmonstertoes @hanhanxx @xxdearlybeloved@littledeadrottinghood @persephone-is-here-omg @rekdreams247 @what-the-heart-desires @inforapound @creepshowzombae @tomarisela @vladsgirl@youbloodymadgenius @walkxthexmoon@funmadnessandbadassvikings @trashqueenbitch @justlovelifeblog @earl-aive @supernaturalvikingwhore @equalstrashflavoredtrash @that-was-not-supposed-to-happen @ceridwenofwales @grungyblonde @pokeasleepingsmaug @hvittysmutanon @honestsycrets @wuxiesalt @thorins-queen-of-erebor @writingfromasgard @tootie-fruity @lordsexmachine @ uncomfortable-writers @sadbutatleastsassy @sweatstreatz01 @ritual-unions-gotme @likealostkiss @thehangedmanandthehoneybee @xxlilqueeniexx @thefightingdragon

#ivar x reader #ivar x you #ivar imagine #dom!ivar #ivar the boneless #playing house fic #vikings college au

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rotomgender-moved · 3 years

Text

Under the cut is the first part/chapter of it

Title: Runs in our Family

Word Count: roughly 1.5-2k I'd say

TWs: Near panic attacks, mild dehumanization of self, general ask to tag

Part One

The constant click of timers and bubbling of boiling water is what grounded them, eyes flickering about the room to watch over everything he had to. The rhythmic sound of a knife cutting through vegetables was like music to his ears, a hum rumbling through their chest added to the harmony of the kitchen. It made him feel in control, because he was. Guided merely by his memory of the recipe. Even then, he can tweek and test and try new things. It allowed them to have control over its life. It allowed it to feel safe, even when working with fire and knives and pots and pans searing red with heat.

"N, my golden friend," His Zoroark companion began from their resting position. "The noodles, you need to put them in the water." N froze for a moment, startled by the sudden reminder.

"Ah! Yes, you're right. What could I do without you, Illusion." It chuckled as its own forgetfulness, scooping the fresh noodles in careful hands and putting them into the water carefully. Setting the egg timer for a minute and a half before continuing the final preparations on the vegetables. Picking them in his hands and putting them into the sauce in a few scoops.

"You are becoming a good chef, my golden friend, but you mustn't lose yourself in your head while working with fire."

"Yes, Illusion, I am very aware. I'm working on it, I promise."

"I pray to Arceus you learn before you lose a paw."

"Hand, before I lose a hand."

"You get the picture."

Truly, N thought as he nodded to Zoroark. What could I do without you.

N let out a breath of air, turning off the fire in the stone as the timer goes off. Waiting quietly for the sauce to finish cooking. Reminding himself to take a few tablespoons of sugar and sprinkle it into the sauce, making it just that much sweeter. Waiting just for a few more moments, they have to. Reward cannot be reaped without patience, he thought, he must have patience.

To fill his time, he spread his hands up in the air in a Y shape, spinning around and humming. Fully content before he felt a sharp pain in his hand, followed by the loud BANG of the hanging pans hitting each other. N flinched, covering his ears and letting out a whine. A shiver rocked his body, but just before they could feel any tears begin to brim. A hand was placed onto his back, or a paw, moreso.

"It is alright," The voice of his pokemon cooed. "It is only cooking utensils, nothing more. Now, why don't you plate your dinner and watch some of your shows?"

They continued to nod a little, thanking the illusionist with a scratch on the chin. Which, from the aura of joy it received from Zoroark, was greatly appreciated. N turned on their heel and scooped the noodles onto a plate he already had set aside before pouring a ladle or two of sauce onto it. N had promised Mallow a few days before that he would save some extra sauce for her to use in one of her dishes. Whatever concoction she may come up with, and however much it made the trio of chefs-turned-gym-leaders angry, he was excited to see it.

As he settled down at his little table in his little kitchen, he smiled a tad. It had taken well a while for him to grow accustomed, or even willing, to live in a home. His first actions at coming to this strange new region had been to find an escape in the woods with his pokemon companions and live off nature for a month and a half. Which apparently, from what they deciphered from the angry ranting of a disgruntled Hugh and the chaotic explanation of a worried Alder. Had left his fellow Unovans with a wild goose chase to find him, having only been discovered by an odd group of children with accents he didn't quite recognize mistaking him for a new wild pokemon, thusly getting hit with a thunder wave that left him in the Pokemon Centers human unit for a little longer then N would prefer to admit.

Once they had been captured and as Nate and Rosa dubbed it, "Secured, Contained and Protected", they were subjected to an explanation that pulling an out-of-pocket disappearing act after the multiple both he, Hilbert and Hilda pulled off, wasn't the best idea. Which he understood! But it wasn't out-of-pocket. They should have expected it to run off into the woods and allowed it to. Or at least explained to those paralysis-happy children to watch out for an uncanny woodland dweller with a Zororak.

Even then, once they were captured, it was surely difficult for them to adjust. They were a pokemon, weren't they? A beast, that's what he'd always been told. No human would be able to speak with creatures that aren't fellow humans. But isn't it the same with Pokemon? So are these pokemon more human than beast, or is he more beast than human? Was it the years of isolation that made it hard to settle in an actual home all by itself, or was it the longing to run free with beasts like him?

N didn't like sitting in that question, so as it always did, it shoved it back into a deep corner of their mind and locked it in a little box with all those other heavy questions. All of the concerns and the old ideologies he forcibly shoves away and represses. It was all he could do, if he wasn't a beast or human. Then who could he be helped by?

Well, it didn't matter. It hadn't even noticed it had finished its plate of early dinner during his lamenting. Having been lazily twirling the fork in nothing for a good few moments to minutes.

"N, my golden child," Zororak began. "Why don't you tuck me away and go speak to other people. You haven't left this little ranch-house in a few days; it will do you some good." They commented, nudging N's back. The soft clacks of things such as potions, a tube for those "PokeBlocks" that a pair of twins had been gifting to everyone on the island, and pokeballs.

"That… Does sound like a good idea." N agreed quietly, fully coming out of their thoughts. "Yeah." They got up off their seat and washed the plate and other utensils he had used swiftly, before shrugging their jacket back on and stringing their hair into a ponytatail once more. If Zororak thought it was a good idea, then N might as well be convinced. This pokemon had single-paw-dedly helped raise him from infancy to now. Always having found its way back to him. N thought of it as a mother and as they say. Mother knows best.

As he exited his home and was met by warm sunshine, he suddenly remembered why they had been so intrigued by the woods and all its inhabitants for oh-so-long. Or well, the week they had been there before they were hospitalized by four sneaky, pokemon hunting children. They couldn't be mad, though. They were apparently uncanny looking, Hilbert having described him as "a bit to long and a little too fluffy, with speech so fast he might as well just be making noises."

But N didn't mind, it simply thought itself as far more built for the wild than the others. But… Thinking about it, that could be the reason why everyone though that of him. As N walked, staring down at the grass in thought. He felt his shoulder bump someone running by.

"Watch it, tall-ass!" A quite foulmouthed voice sounded, making N's eyes flicker to the redhead who was already making a getaway.

"Language!" They simply called back, rolling their eyes, hearing a distant "shut up!" as they made distance with the redhead. "Rude child." He decided, looking up to glance around the circle of homes that they had all settled in during this odd meet up. In a region that nobody seemed to have heard of, at that. It felt weird, it was weird. Why did any of them trust it?

Well, it should speak for itself. It went along, even if dragged on by his group of siblings-by-spirit. Chattering away that if they were all going, he was coming along. That they had already packed everything for him, and that if he refused they'd just sleep powder him and take him along anyway-

Why did I not run off? They thought, realizing the slight horror of that situation. Those kids were needlessly pushy in trying to get N to talk to new people. Dragging him about the cruiser they were in with all the other guests. Introducing him to some of the other kids that Nate and Hugh had already dragged into their mischief.

What were those kids names? Barry and Sapphire, he believes. Sapphire was that young lady who's brother had given him the tube of pokemon candies, if he remembers. Barry was a talkative young boy who seemed to immediately jump ship to play along with Nate and Hugh's pranks. He also remembers a handful of other faces, a married couple he vaugly remembers seeing on a few news casts back in Unova, Red and Green were their names. Along with another lady he didn't recognize, who took quickly to chatting along with Hilbert and Hilda. Rosa had been coaxing a green haired boy out of his shell with who he thinks was Sapphire's brother.

He remembers a few other faces. A circle of kids all taking part in pokemon trading under Lance's watch. Bianca and Cheren, listening to a young boy, chitter away about his brother. Two boys nearly tearing at eachother, and not in a pokemon battle, while their supposed companions either encouraged it or tried to seperate them. One of them was that redhead who had swore at them, he thinks.

But most importantly, he met Mallow and Guzma on that ship. The only two he confidently remembers the names and faces of. Mallow was a sweet woman, a trial captain. She had seen his shivery, nervous nature and pulled him aside from the crowd. He had listened to her talk about cooking and asked a few questions himself. Which is where that interest began. Guzma was… well he can only say he was Guzma. Rough around the edges yet smooth in the soul type, who had introduced him to N's first new species of pokemon in a while. A very, very polite and well mannered Gollisapod. He could sense even before listening to the pokemon that it was well cared for.

It further made their heart pull, obviously the pokemon was battle-scarred. One or two chips on its shell that were healing overtime. But still so… Happy. Pokemon Battles weren't that bad, he knew that. But the confirmation that it was all okay was still nice.

"Hey, you!" A voice snapped him from his thoughts, making him turn. "Yeah, you! Take a few steps back. You almost walked yourself off a cliff."

"Oh- why thank you! I didn't even notice."

"Obviously you didn't," He snorted a little. "You're that N guy that Rosa was telling me about! I'm Ruby, I was out trying to see some new pokemon. But all I caught was you almost about to take a trip off a cliff." Ruby rolled his eyes.

"Well, I was lost in thought. Thank you again for catching me, Ruby. Though I'm sure I would've survived a fall into some sand." N shrugged, examining Ruby as the boy nodded over his shoulder.

"Well… Maybe as a thank you, you could come to the community house where all of us trainers are. Rosa said you had some pretty cool Pokemon that you never let anyone touch the PokeBalls of. It's gotten the group talking." Ruby smiled, eyes crinkling. N paused in thought, feeling the pokeball in his hand he recognized as Zororaks. It wanted them to talk to other people… So they might as well. Even if the idea of presenting their pokemon to people they didn't know made their stomach twist.

"... Okay, alright. I will. Lead the way, Ruby."

#ranger writes #pkmn posting #runs in our family fanfiction #hi :]#feel free to ask questions about it lolz

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emersonfreepress · 3 years

Note

What would the ro's be like in a zombie au?

whyyyyy anon whyyy. I'm actually gonna write this in like.. slightly different terms, you'll see. any time I even briefly think of a zombie au I'm just like

I WANNA WRITE IT SO BADDD

i don't even allow myself to entertain it for very long because getting into that would be the worst thing ever for my productivity with the alpha omg 😂😂 so I'll put like the ideas that pop into my head for writing a zombie au, to work some of that creative frustration out 😆

so in this very general, absolutely noncommittal idea of mine, the main cast are older and the setting is in and around a civilian settlement led by the Emersons.

and as a refresher, i like my zombie aus to have fast zombies and fast infections ^ ^ 28 Days Later/Train to Busan style babyyyy, we the Sprinting Dead up in this bitch 😆

= = =

Gabe is, predictably, looking for what's left of his family. Following rumors of safe havens and bunkers and such. Starts the story as someone who tries to be diplomatic, if not outright pacifist, but as times get tougher and resources dwindle, he'd become one of the most cutthroat motherfuckers in the wasteland. Low-key though, low-key. People won't trust you if they know you’re capable of throwing them to a horde for strategic reasons. Like if Rick turned into Shane (for those of us familiar with early Walking Dead--idk did that happen eventually? i gave up before we even met Negan lol). The end justifies the means :) Damn, I can legit see Gabe going full evil in a zombie au omg 😂😂 i want to write it so fucking bad

Preferred weapon for zed encounters: rifle

Preferred weapon for human encounters: handgun

Faith in humanity: fucking zero

Zombie kill count: plenty; the type to kill every zombie he has spare ammo and time for

Human kill policy: When it benefits him or the people he’s looking after

Survival rating: B+; he can make it out of some pretty dire situations through sheer will to live and ruthlessness

- - -

Kile has arrived--clearly, this is the timeline they belong in. They start their journey with Gabe (and their doggo) and stick to him like glue, even reluctantly so when Gabe eventually has them join the settlement. This can only go one way, though: Kile's just too much of a wildcard for the group and hates being told what to do. (Especially now that society has fallen, wtf) They'd make their exit alone and unannounced aside from a brief head’s up to Gabe. It's slightly bittersweet, but also? They get to loot and hunt and sneak around and kill fucking zombies, all by themself. Kile is a loner, a hiker, and a hunter to begin with so they do beyond fine on their own. However, once the inevitable violent human threat comes for the settlement, Gabe is sent out to convince Kile to come out of isolation, just this once please, to be the camp’s super soldier help defend the camp.

Zed weapon: p much anything they can get their hands on, ranged or melee, blunt or sharp, w/e; improvised weapons

Human weapon: hunting knife

Faith in humanity: never had any to begin with

Zombie kill count: lol infinite?? any zed they come across is double-dead if they have the time for it

Human kill policy: at Gabe’s direction or when provoked enough/threatened

Survival rating: A-; they trust no one, live in isolation, and prioritize survival above all else. only reason it’s not higher is they would risk their life for Gabe or their furbaby and also... their own Rambo-esque antics def attracts the occasional horde lmao

- - -

Jack... this poor boy, he doesn't deserve a zombie au 😂 He's one of those people that first believes zombies are just sick people, too squeamish to keep up with TV news coverage at the onset and too upset to consider anything else. He'd hunker down at home, staying holed up even while his neighbors evacuated, and probably be discovered while the main group is looting the same place as him. When people try to tell him the real state of the world, he'd be in denial until he absolutely couldn't be anymore. idk, probably after Kile shooting a bunch of non-lethal holes thru a zombie to make a point (attracting more in the process lol).

He’d almost immediately join the medical team at the settlement and as word spreads about how easy he is to talk to, he quickly becomes the literal on-site therapist. It's a role he embraces but... idk if it's an emotional burden he can bear. He's very emotionally resilient! But he ain't a professional lol imagine a whole settlement of traumatized zombie survivors seeking you out for counseling, yikes. He also can't say no to a person in need, so instead he quietly spirals into a very private depression while continuing to help others!!

Zed weapon: Oh gosh, do I really have to?

Human weapon: ...Kindness?

Faith in humanity: Unrealistically high

Zombie kill count: Single digit

Human kill policy: Not ever, unless completely unavoidable and to defend the defenseless

Survival rating: C...? idk, that feels generous. D+. To be protected at all costs!!

- - -

Jessie also had the initial reaction of hoping zombies could be saved, but she woke up from that dream swiftly. The science-minded person that she is, esp with her interest in biology, leaves her determined to find anybody who's got the intellect, expertise, and resources to start doing actual work toward a treatment, cure, vaccine—anything. Nothing would get her to finally unabashedly embrace her love of science (and innate leadership skills!!) faster than a zombie apocalypse! In fact, it’s thanks to her that the Emerson settlement’s got a small but growing team of scientists doing as much research as humanly possible to best educate the others on the outbreak and zombie behavior. Def no zombie experimentation going on though lol. ...Not yet, at least.

Zed weapon: rifle

Human weapon: rifle

Faith in humanity: High! We’ll find a solution! Don’t give up hope!

Zombie kill count: Double digits, but less than 30

Human kill policy: Only in unavoidable self-defense or defense of others

Survival rating: B! She has experience with ranged weapons, farming and gardening skills, first aid, camping experience, and a can-do attitude with a healthy dose of realism!

- - -

Rain remains cargo as I said in the last post about this 😆 They'd be very good for keeping clothes repaired and making useful modifications in the settlement, but their life up to this point has been very sheltered and privileged. We're talking somebody with a chauffeur and a personal chef before the outbreak! They would contribute to quality of life and homemaking efforts more than anything—an overlooked aspect of these scenarios tbh! After as many months of dragging their feet as possible and being nigh impossible to track down when you need them, they eventually become involved in meal planning and even help out with medical stuff if they're asked.

Zed weapon: how do you reload this thing again?

Human weapon: switchblade or other concealable sharp-pointy

Faith in humanity: Very low

Zombie kill count: 0! Can you believe it!

Human kill policy: Well if it’s you or me, of course I’m choosing me.

Survival rating: C. Being so tiny helps them find good hiding spots and their self-preservation is high enough to keep them from unnecessary risk-taking. Plus they're very stealthy! Self-defense is a major issue though, so hiding is always their best option.

- - -

Rupan/Rohan scouts for and leads scavenging missions and is Curt's right hand on the recruitment team. The two of them together are the perfect combo of diplomacy, debate, and deception--although R is more honorable about the last one and will only deceive for strategic reasons. When they aren’t looting and recruiting, they’re doing peacekeeping inside the settlement. Most social disputes end up getting brought to them for mediation and they’re pretty dang good at making and enforcing calls. One day they’ll wake up to realize they’ve basically become a sheriff and feel the need to puke their guts up and do something, anything, to reassure themself they’re still punk 😂

Zed weapon: SMG

Human weapon: shotgun

Faith in humanity: Believes in fundamental goodness but knows better than to trust first impressions

Zombie kill count: decent, more than 40; you won’t catch them having a field day tho, they’re trying to gtfo of most zed situations

Human kill policy: Violent threats have to be taken out. And they aren’t, at all, immune to a revenge rampage either...

Survival rating: B-. Can handle themself both with humans and zeds but is vulnerable to hostage situations and truly difficult sentimental/interpersonal decisions!

- - -

Vivian/Vincent manages inventory and stock and they run it so efficiently it’s scary! They're the perfect pick: a hawk-eyed tyrant and tattletale 😂 Despite constantly butting heads with just about everyone on every imaginable thing, they quickly become an important part of the inner circle of decision-makers for the settlement at large. Terrible at stealth, jumpy, and squeamish at the sight of blood and gore, they literally never go on missions unless they're 100% needed for their expertise on a supply run. (They would deny all of these shortcomings are that big a problem, meanwhile R is definitely acting as their bodyguard lol.) When they do tag along, they're prone to becoming the damsel in distress. Seriously, it happens near every fucking time. It's like they just attract only the most improbable and perilous zombie attacks and hostage situations 😆

Zed weapon: shotgun

Human weapon: handgun

Faith in humanity: Medium; seeing people work together at the settlement helps restore it a bit

Zombie kill count: Double digits, under 25

Human kill policy: Violent threats have to be taken out. Well, no, not by me! Get one of the ruffians to do it!

Survival rating: C-. They’d be higher if they weren’t such natural zombie bait.

- - -

Heidi is running the settlement, well-organized to the degree of actually managing to bring bureaucracy to a post-zombie apocalypse settlement 😂 People are free to come and go, but getting in if you don't live there requires trading something of value (fuel, med supplies, food, etc), temporary surrender and registry of firearms and explosives, and you gotta GTFO at the time and date specified upon entry! You can stay long-term if you contribute to the community in a tangible way—and each person admitted is approved by Heidi personally. Yes, every individual. No, she has no free time. And she is not known to be lenient with rule breakers—you want rule bending, you’ll have to go to Curt for that. People kind of hate her, but it can't be denied that she runs a tight ship. She kind of throws herself into the work to avoid the harsher reality at large and hasn't left the settlement in a long time. She's out of touch with how bad things have gotten in the wastes, but she knows better than to take reports at anything less than face value--even when she's skeptical.

Zed weapon: rifle

Human weapon: handgun; dagger

Faith in humanity: Medium. It fluctuates, honestly

Zombie kill count: Double digits, less than 20

Human kill policy: Violent threats must be taken out if they can’t be reasoned with. Spare those who surrender, eradicate those who don't, keep an eye on the newbies. Not tryin’ to nurse any vendettas around here lol

Survival rating: B. She's good with a firearm, masterful at persuasion, and savvy enough to calculate risks appropriately. Also far tougher than her prim exterior and demeanor suggests!

- - -

Curt leads the recruitment and reconnaissance teams! When a new person or group shows up in the area, Curt's the one who stalks watches them, decides if they're worth approaching, and if they should be approached with an invitation, a simple acknowledgment/announcement of their presence, or an outright armed warning to leave the area. He also keeps tabs on morale and general confidence inside the settlement, alongside R. When he isn’t leading those efforts, though, he’s flirting with settlers and squirreling his way out of manual labor and other chores. He’s also secretly growing weed at his place--don’t tell Heidi or Vi ‘cause they’ll wanna yell at him and ration it UGH.

Zed weapon: SMG, explosives

Human weapon: handgun, dagger

Faith in humanity: Pft, sorry, what now?

Zombie kill count: ...way more than you’d expect

Human kill policy: I don’t start confrontations, but I sure as fuck end them.

Survival rating: A! He’s good at playing hapless idiot when it suits him to be underestimated, good with firearms, and capable of being ruthless and decisive in life or death situations! Plus he has no qualms about ditching the settlement if he decides it’s not working out for him. Just don’t tell Heidi lol

#the rest are under the cuuuut #had to stop myself from writing too much SEVERAL times #love me a zombie apocalypse #lovely anon #answered #ROs #whoops got carried away lol #spent most of my work day finally finishing this ask because VIVA PROCRASTINATION #someone help ._.#phew #feels good to finally get it out of my system tho #now I can promptly never ever write it 😂#AUs #fave #scenarios

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clevercxs · 3 years

Text

Believer - Sigefrid Thurgilson [Ch 3]

[MORE CHAPTERS]

Pairing: Sigefrid Thurgilson x female oc

Word count: 7.5k ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

If you read Sigefrid’s lines in his voice… *chef’s kiss*

_______________________________________________

By nightfall a blissful silence had bestowed itself upon the mead hall. After a night of revelation, the Danes were lulled off to sleep by the sound of rain drumming against the roofs of their homes. They dreamt of what fortunes awaited them come the day King Alfred and his men set foot in Beamfleot — a momentous occasion though dreaded by a certain Dane and his princess.

The sounds of their drunken snores were loud enough to wake the dead, had they not relished in horns of ale alongside the living, that is.

While vivid dreams of glory and great victories transpired beyond their wildest imaginations, Lady Blædswith was left wide awake to face the harshness of her reality.

If she had been born and raised as a Dane, worshiping Odin instead of God, such a celebration would have been a great honor. However, the princess’s ailments reminded her that she was no guest of honor, but rather a bargaining tool at Lord Erik and Sigefrid’s disposal.

Her ribs ached and groaned with each breath she drew; unsure if it would be her last. Her lungs, frail and winded, wheezed as if she’d inhaled plumes of smoke from the blacksmith’s forge. Her stomach growled like a ravenous hound starved from unsuccessful hunts despite the rations she was provided.

Her dirtied cheeks, stained with blood, sweat, and tears, were caressed by the emitted light of dancing flames, illuminating her pale skin with a golden hue of the gods. The tattered remains of her clothes hung off her limbs like those of a decaying corpse left to rot. She finger combed through the tangled knots and frayed ends of her hair, gagging in repulsion at the dirt and grime beneath her nails, and embedded in each crevice of her feeble hands.

King Alfred’s daughter looked, and felt, no better than a befouled slave girl.

Ghastly shadows were cast throughout the hall, dancing across the ceiling and hurdling over tables, chairs, and thrones alike. The shadows formed obscure shapes which taunted her weary mind, though not without providing her with a sense of calm; a distraction, even.

As her eyes adjusted, the fire became rather mesmerizing to watch; vibrant hues of yellows and oranges were a stark contrast from the cold, lifeless world around her.

For a brief moment she lost herself entirely. She was no longer a hostage, nor in any sort of discomfort. Her worries, her guilt and sorrowful prayers that went unanswered were no more. The rampant thoughts that coursed through her mind seemed to stop entirely.

The longer she gazed into the flames, the more her mind played devilish tricks on her...

Within the fire pit emerged a vague image of herself: fearless; unafraid and carefree. She wielded a blazing shield and longsword of fire, fighting alongside the Danes instead of against them. In the end they were victorious, as the sounds of bone-chilling battle cries echoed throughout Midgard; throughout her mind. Sigefrid jogged up to Lady Blædswith, wrapping not one but two hands around her waist, and spun her around before tightly embracing her warmth. The two of them pressed their foreheads together; thanking the gods, rather than her God, for sparing each others’ lives and guiding them to victory against King Alfred of Wessex…

“Agh! You are not real.” She growled in a panic, squeezing her eyes shut and tugging at the roots of her hair as tears dripped down her face. “That, that will never be real.” She gulped dryly, “Not for me.” The princess ran a clammy hand over her face and wiped away her resentful tears as new ones began to fall.

She wanted nothing more than to subside the affliction in her chest; within her aching heart that suddenly yearned for the impossible.

A throbbing pain surged through her shoulder once more, and reminded her of what she must do; the main reason she had sought to free herself from the cage that once confined her. A seething gasp escaped through her gritted teeth as she unwrapped her fur pelt and set it aside.

The princess found herself sitting on the long, rickety bench once occupied by the Thurgilson brothers. Her fingertips mindlessly traced over carved intricacies in the woodwork, stalling, until she felt the coolness of metal beneath her palm.

Taking the leather-bound handle in her firm grasp, she dipped the knife into the fire, watching as its blade glowed with an orange hue. Leaving it be, she ever so carefully tore away the rest of her blood stained blouse and fed it to the flames, pinching her nose at the foul smell of burning blood and sweat. With chills ripping through her exposed chest, she wrapped her arms around her core to preserve any remaining heat.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw something move beside the cage. Craning her stiff neck around, she surveyed the limp body of the Dane tasked with keeping a close watch over her as she slept. However, his own curiosities led him to an early demise, as he had ventured too close to the cage...

She was startled by the twitching of his leg; the toe of his leather boot seemed to repeatedly nudge one of the cage’s wooden panels.

Furrowing her bushy, unkempt brows, she steadily rose to her feet and tiptoed towards the guard to investigate while the knife heated up. When a couple of mice scurried out of his pant leg, Lady Blædswith nearly squealed like a pig, shooing them away before she could impale them, too, with the knife.

The mice found themselves inside her cage, willingly, as they sniffed around for leftover crumbs of bread.

Pressing a firm hand against her thumping chest, the princess sighed in relief that her foolishness hadn’t woken anyone up - and that the guard was, in fact, dead.

Kneeling beside the Northman she had slain, she retrieved a smaller blade from his pocket and began sawing off a piece of his leather armor. After all, what good was such armor to a dead man now enjoying the company of his gods, drinking ale within the Great Hall as beautiful valkyries fly overhead?

Surely, it would not be missed.

She then crawled over his lifeless, pale body and carved a sloppy ‘B’ into the side of his bearded cheek, before using the bars of the cage to get back on her feet.

Within her eyes was a hatred that burned brighter than the fiery depths of Hel. Lady Blædswith spat on his corpse and seethed,

“Te sunt a vili, preverted partem de stercore. Pedicabo ego vos!”

(“You are a vile, perverted piece of shit. Fuck you!”)

Making her way back to the fire, the bare-chested Saxon took a seat and braced herself for what would be the greatest test of courage and inner strength. Now biting down on the piece of leather, she retrieved the blade from the fire and took a deep breath.

Do it, God Damnit! Just do it!

Her stomach was in a queasy knot; her vision faded in and out of a blur the longer she waited.

Slowly, trembling, she raised the glowing knife to her gaping arrow wound and pressed it into her skin. The ungodly sound and putrid smell of her sizzling flesh caused her to dry heave. Her wailing sobs of agony were somewhat muffled by the coarse leather between her teeth...

She could taste hot, salty tears upon her lips as every tendon and muscle in her body strained and constricted in agony. Lady Blædswith, breaking out in a hot, sticky sweat, continued to force the blade against her skin until she could no longer handle it. When she had enough, the princess collapsed to the floor, gasping for air as she could feel herself suffocating.

“I-it’s almost over.” Lady Blædswith spat out the leather square and huffed convincingly with a breathy half-chuckle. “God damnit!” She writhed, instantly clutching a hand over her mouth to conceal her whimpers. “J-Just once more on the other side-” Just she began to hoist herself, unsteadily, back onto the bench - she stopped.

Frozen in time like a guilty thief caught in the act, she could hear a pair of quickening footsteps growing louder by the second. Snapping her gaze upright to the wooden balcony overlooking the hall, it was none other than a disturbed Sigefrid Thurgilson awoken from his much needed slumber like a bear out of hibernation.

“Dear God.”

Her hands briskly shot to cover either of her breasts as she scrambled for her pelt, immediately wrapping herself in it to preserve what remained of her modesty. Seemingly agitated, the eldest Lord of Beamfleot descended down the stairs like a bat out of Hell.

“S-Sigefrid.” She greeted nervously, not knowing how he would react to her newfound freedom. Her brown eyes were wide with sheer terror - that much he could see.

What were the odds that he of all people had heard her? Perhaps he was already awake, enjoying the company of a beautiful slave girl who, to some degree, reminded him of King Alfred’s daughter.

Sigefrid’s rather unkempt, bearded jaw had plummeted through the creaky floorboards revealing sharp rows of teeth. His dark and unruly brows were furrowed tightly together and turned upright with worry and utter confusion.

Except for a light cardigan over his arms and baggy pants hanging dangerously low on his pelvic bones, he too was without a shirt. His hand-blade, to no surprise, was strapped on tight and ready at his side.

“Lady-” Sigefrid began in a hurry, panning around the room until he spotted his most trusted hound gnawing on the cooked, severed arm of the guard he’d instilled to watch over her. “What… did you do?!” He cried in disbelief, now approaching the cowering Saxon who seemed worse for wear. “I… I heard your cries.” Frowning, Sigefrid took a light seat upon the furthest end of the bench after making sure she was out of harm’s way.

Ever so slightly pulling back the trim of her pelt, Lady Blædswith revealed her newly charred, cauterized shoulder and the haunting imprint left from the blade she used.

The princess watched as a look of horror overcame the Dane’s face, causing him to avert his gaze out of discomfort.

“My arrow wound became infected. It was slowly killing me so I… took it upon myself to handle it.” Peering over to the dead guard, she cleared her throat and attempted to justify herself, “Y-you should be grateful. After all, what good is a dead princess to a king? I-I had no choice but to save myself.”

The hound began coughing and heaving until it hacked up a whole finger by Sigefrid’s bare foot, only to be shooed away out of sheer disgust. Sigefrid then grumbled with a slight grin, “Damn dog.”

“Well, I had to keep him quiet somehow.” She shrugged, now lifting a hand to warm it by the fire while the other held her fur in place so she wouldn’t reveal herself. “He prefers his meat well done.” The princess teased lightly, only for Sigefrid to sternly furrow his brows and ever so slightly cock his head to the side out of concern. At first he was unable to see the humor behind it, but as moments passed he began to lighten up.

Eventually, the corners of his lips cracked into a bright, toothy smile. He couldn’t help but chuckle after realizing that she was, in her own way, just as crazy as he was.

“I…” Sigefrid sighed, shaking his head in defeat as his arms dangled between his knees. “I underestimated you. You are clever, Lady.”

After finding a sense of comfort within his soothing words, she simply nodded into the fire, “I am resourceful,” whilst mindlessly sliding the knife towards Sigefrid by its handle. “Take it. I no longer have use for Erik’s knife.” She couldn’t help but bite her tongue, knowing her emphasis on his brother’s name would likely cause trouble between them. Perhaps, even jealousy.

“Erik’s? How did you get my brother’s knife, thief?” Sigefrid roared like a mighty brown bear standing tall on his feet, all whilst nearly knocking the bench, and the princess sitting upon it, over out of anger. He found himself, now, towering menacingly over the princess. Sigefrid’s dark, piercing eyes searched her face for any signs of untruthfulness yet deep down inside, he knew better than to not believe her.

She felt as if her heart had been startled back to life, almost as if struck by a high voltage of electricity. His sudden outburst sent her entire body into a numb, temporary state of shock. Any regained color in her cheeks had been drained out of fear for what he intended to do to her.

Sigefrid inhaled and exhaled sharply through flared nostrils, scowling down at himself for acting so irrationally towards King Alfred’s daughter.

“How did you get his knife?” He slowly reiterated in a calmer, more civil manner before taking a courteous step backwards to distance himself.

“Well… when an opportunity unfolds before you like a blooming wildflower ripe for picking… you do just that. Pick it.” She narrowed her eyes and smirked wickedly. “And I am not a thief. Unlike you, I have never stolen-”

“Say what you must, Lady.” Sigefrid groaned impatiently, running a calloused hand over his reddened, sleep-deprived eyes. “Go on.”

“Erik gave it to me himself. It was wrapped in the fur pelt,” She flapped her elbows beneath said pelt, which remained draped over her shoulders. “The one he placed inside the cage.” She chuckled lightly, though found herself wincing at her shoulder.

“What I do not understand…” Sigefrid paused, crossing his muscular arms over his toned, exposed chest sprinkled with faded scars. He now found himself sitting closer beside her on the bench, conscious of the remaining space between them. “Why would Erik do that?”

The princess carefully shrugged. “Your brother knew I would surely make use of it. Whether on him, my guard, or… you.” She slowly cast her gaze towards the Dane through glossy lenses. Shaking her head with a frown, she shamefully looked down at her lap. “But I-I could not have killed you. Even if I wanted to. I have every reason to, but… I can not will it.”

“And if it is not by the will of the Gods,” He quirked an eyebrow, “then it was not meant to be.” She suddenly felt the warmth of his calloused hand caressing the side of her cheek, guiding her to face him once more. She traced small circles atop his rough knuckles and closed her eyes.

Sigefrid Thurgilson seemed unable to stop himself from rambling like a love struck boy, “I believe the gods intended for us to meet. I wish… under better circumstances.”

To Sigefrid’s surprise, he could feel her nodding along beneath his hand. “Your gods deserve my thanks, for they have nearly saved me from marrying a stranger. They have prolonged the inevitable; given me a few final days as a… somewhat free woman.” She sighed, gently removing his hand from her cheek though it remained within her grasp.

Sigefrid watched her every move through sparkling eyes with such awe.

Changing the subject, for better or for worse, the princess confessed, “The knife was likely to pick the lock. You have nothing to worry about, Lord.”

“Yet, you killed a man with it.” He sighed and narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her every last word. “To get the key.”

“I did not need the key. Killing him was not my intention, truly… but he made it very easy.”

“You better start making sense, woman.” He growled as she witnessed his short temper, once more, getting the best of him. The scorching influx of pain from his cauterized hand likely contributed to his hot-headed irritableness.

One thing was for certain: It doesn’t take much to get on Sigefrid’s bad side.

Slamming her hand down on the bench between them, Lady Blædswith leaned forward and growled, “He opened the cage himself, with the bloody key, because he intended to rape me. Is that what you want to hear, Lord? How your brother saved my life, and that a man you so ‘trusted’ to protect me nearly got away with such an act?” She leaned in close to the dark haired Dane, “Ohh,” She chuckled bitterly and bore her fiery gaze into his now softening, brown eyes, “How it must burn knowing he nearly humped me before you could!”

Scowling down at himself, Sigefrid muttered, “He...he was not thinking...”

She scoffed, “There does not seem to be much of that around here, Sigefrid!” Wrapping both arms around her stomach beneath the pelt, she leaned back on her tailbone and took a deep, calming breath. With the shake of her head, her body seemed to melt to the bench beneath his gaze. “I am sorry. I did not mean to wake you-”

“Lady.” Sigefrid suddenly interrupted. “I should have been there. Not him. Me.” He pressed his thumb firmly into his chest. “I am the one who brought you here. You are mine. It will not happen again.” He leaned closer to her and placed a warm hand upon her tender shoulder, mumbling rather darkly through gritted teeth,“I swear it.”

“I believe you.” She replied softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as she shyly looked down upon their hands - which seemed to fit perfectly together like the long lost pieces of a puzzle. “Do not make me regret doing so.”

“You will not regret it, Lady.” Sigefrid nodded to himself and repeated firmly. “You... will… not.” Sigefrid gently gave her shoulder a squeeze, causing the princess to wince in pain. Immediately removing his hand, he sighed and muttered. “Right, right. I apologize...”

“I never thought I would live to see the day when I asked a Dane for help, but...” Lady Blædswith shimmied the pelt down to her waist, turning to show him the open wound on the back side of her shoulder where she couldn’t quite reach.

Sigefrid, understanding what she had asked of him, furrowed his brows and ran a quick tongue over his thin, pursed lips. Though he was apprehensive of causing her further pain, Sigefrid knew it needed to be done in order to save her most valuable life.

He had no problem inflicting pain on others, but her? It was almost unimaginable. Almost.

After all, as Lady Blædswith put it: what good is a dead princess?

“I will do it...” The Dane nodded, causing her to frown when he set Erik’s knife aside, and away from the fire. “...and I will be careful. You tended to my hand,” Sigefrid drew out slowly and lifted his hand-blade ever so slightly, “so I shall do the same, for you. I do not wish death upon you, Lady.”

“I do not wish death upon myself, either.” She teased, cracking an unusually wide smile that seemed to hatch butterflies within the Dane’s stomach. Unmistakably, she could feel the warmth of her flushed cheeks beneath his tender gaze.

The two stared into each other’s eyes as if longing for something greater; something mutually forbidden and seemingly unattainable. It was a brief moment, rarely even shared between wedded lovers. There they sat, enjoying the sound of the crackling fire and the comfort of each others’ presence. They were finally alone, with no Danes to judge them nor intrude on their subtle intimacies.

There was a comfortable silence between Saxon and Dane that just felt… right. And for the first time, the princess was able to admit to herself that she felt safe and out of harm’s way, though couldn’t help but wonder why he had rid of Erik’s knife...

It had pained Sigefrid, seeing the woman he had grown to admire in such discomfort and disarray. He yearned to rid her of her inner demons and the burdens she carried upon her aching shoulders. To see her restored to her fullest potential, fighting alongside him as the shield maiden she was born to be - now that would bring an everlasting smile to his face.

The two couldn’t be more different, yet they both wanted the same thing. They were opposite forces of nature capable of destroying the other, no different than fire and water.

She watched as Sigefrid rose to his feet, now passing by her hunched over form.

“You said I was ‘yours’. Did you mean that?”

“Yes.” He mumbled bluntly. “I did. I still do.” Sigefrid nodded subtly before instructing her to stand up, and reposition herself so that she was facing the main doors with the fire burning on her right. There she sat, anxiously waiting for his next cue, as she straddled the bench between her jittery legs and began tapping her toes against the wooden floorboards.

Looking down at her lap as Sigefrid’s shadow was cast upon the wall opposite of the fire, she watched out of the corner of her eye as he paced around the hall rolling up his sleeves and repeatedly, anxiously, stroking his beard.

What if I go too far? What if it kills her?

“And you still intend to give away ‘what is yours’ to my father?” She dared to ask, looking up as Sigefrid neared the bench once more after he’d convinced himself to cauterize her wound, therefore inflicting an excruciating pain onto someone who’d endured so much already.

“I… have no choice, Lady” He pouted, taking a close seat behind her on the bench. Carefully, he dipped his hand-blade into the fire. His left hand gently gathered handfuls of her soft, dark curls that draped down her back, and brought the lengths of her mane to the left side of her neck, out of his way.

As chills ran down her spine - quite literally - she peered over her shoulder at him and whispered, “That is a lie even you do not believe.”

Sigefrid exhaled slowly and brought his body closer to hers, slithering his hand past her waist from behind, now gently resting palm up on her thigh.

Filling the gap between their bodies, between their hips, Lady Blædswith pushed herself backwards until her shoulder blades bumped into his bare chest. She could feel his warm, seductive breath down her neck, though she couldn’t help but feel self conscious around him in her current state of filth.

“How can you stand to be this close to me?” Sheepishly, she took Sigefrid’s calloused hand between her own and gave it a squeeze. “I am a filthy, broken, hideously burnt… sorry excuse for a princess.”

“We are not so different, Lady. My hand was cauterized, not unlike your shoulder. I, too, am ‘hideously burnt.’” He teased lightly, though not without grinning ever down at himself. “Life will go on.” After receiving a sigh and nod of approval from a very grateful princess, Sigefrid lifted his glowing, sweltering hand-blade from the fire. He could feel her hands beginning to tighten around his like a boa constrictor, although he hadn’t yet touched blade to skin.

“This is the only way.” She hummed. “I trust you.”

And with that, the scorching blade of metal was forever branded into her skin, serving as a permanent reminder of how the Lord of Chaos, Sigefrid Thurgilson, saved her life once more.

Her blood curdling cries echoed throughout the hall undoubtedly waking everyone in earshot.

After what seemed like an eternity of suffrage, Sigefrid unbuckled his hand-blade contraption and tossed it to the floor, before allowing Lady Blædswith to fall back against his chest - one that was panting heavily and sticky with sweat. Sigefrid wrapped his strong arms around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer to his heart as she waited for the pain to go away, and her rapid heartbeat to steady.

With heavy arms draped over his, she gently began to interlock their fingers. Sigefrid, well aware of her affections, leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to the top of her head.

Wiping away new fallen tears with the backs of her knuckles, Lady Blædswith spoke softly, “Thank you.” she then sniffled, “You have done more for me than any man ever has.” Slowly reaching forward as goosebumps and the hairs on her arms began to raise, she pulled her pelt to her chest. With Sigefrid’s careful aid, in a matter of minutes, she was back on her wobbly feet.

“H-how can you look at me like that?” She wept quietly, burrowing her face within the fur.

“Like what?” Sigefrid, teasingly, hummed and tilted his head to the side as she swayed before him. “You are a beautiful woman. Is it wrong, for a man, to stare?” Sigefrid, whilst still supporting her weight, moved closer to face her. “You have not seen what I have. You are a shield maiden like no other. Your grace; your beauty. It is all still there.”

“How can you tell?” She whimpered, shaking her head in disagreement, as flattering as his words were. “Look at me!” She violently grabbed a fistful of tangled hair. “I-I look as if I belong on a slave ship, o-or amongst the livestock!”

“You are wrong.” Sigefrid challenged with a smirk, chuckling in response to the naive Saxon. “You will see, soon enough, what I have seen all along.” Sigefrid guided her back to the bench, where she willingly took a seat. He motioned for her to wait there, patiently, for his return. “Do not move.”

“Where would I go?” She muttered sarcastically.

When Sigefrid returned, accompanied by three heavily armored guards and a frightened slave girl trailing close behind, the princess immediately stood up, defensively, eyeing around for the nearest weapon-like object.

“W-what is this?” She stammered nervously, watching as the menacing Danes, whom Sigefrid had alleviated from their nightly duties, surrounded her on three sides. “Sigefrid?” Frightened, she could feel her voice waver as she realized she was sorely outnumbered. Sigefrid had the power and resources to do whatever cruelties he wanted to her, yet he lacked the will.

“Shh. You talk too much.” He grinned from ear to ear, then focused his attention to the surrounding Danes.

“I want her bathed, fed and watered.” Sigefrid ordered, receiving definitive nods from those he’d chosen. “Nothing is to happen to her. Understood?” He glared from Dane to Dane, narrowing his eyes at the familiar slave girl before addressing the princess’s escorts once more. “Do not disappoint me.” He warned sternly, emphasizing the grave importance of keeping the king’s daughter out of harm’s way, seeing as he failed to do so once already.

With a tight, supporting hand clutched to either of her elbows, she was practically carried through the main doors, unable to see past the towering Danes to where Sigefrid stood. He chose to remain inside, not wanting to overstep his bounds, and shortly after was accompanied by his sleep-deprived brother, Erik.

Once the doors closed behind them, and the princess was out of sight, Sigefrid sighed in relief knowing she was to be taken care of. He would rather have her bathing in the lake, now, during this unusually cold night, then under the morning sun where all eyes would undoubtedly be on her bare figure.

When the time was right, mutually, Sigefrid was to be the first and only Dane to lay eyes on her nakedness. Sigefrid believed her to be a gift sent to him from the gods, one he wasn’t too keen on sharing. Her purpose was not to be ravished and disposed of like a common whore, but loved and cherished; worshipped, even, like the goddess Sigefrid saw her to be.

“You care for her.” Erik grinned softly, placing a hand on Sigefrid’s shoulder as they stood staring aimlessly at the closed doors.

“I do.” Sigefrid was hesitant, though accepted that he couldn’t lie to himself, much less his own brother. “The gods have played a sick game.” Sigefrid growled, walking away from his brother as the nearest fire tempted him closer. Erik, knowing better than to leave his troubled brother’s side, followed in his footsteps and sat beside him, rubbing his hands together over the dimming flames.

“What will you do about Alfred?” Erik asked, pressing his elbows into his knees for support as he leaned forward. “You made a great promise.” Erik eyed his brother sympathetically. “Do you intend to keep it?”

Sigefrid sighed, and rested his drowsy face within his palm, “I do not know what to do. I grow more fond of her by the hour.” He admitted gravely, now teasing his bottom lip between his sharp teeth.

“What do you truly want, brother?”

“You know what I want.” Sigefrid snarled with a distasteful glare, almost offended that Erik didn’t know him better by now. “The leaves have already fallen. I need her ransom paid in full by winter’s end. An army by spring.”

“And a king’s crown by summer.” Erik chimed in, recalling the conversation they last had. “Are you sure of this?”

Sigefrid narrowed his brows and raised his arms slightly. “Sure of what?”

“That you are ready to let her go?” Erik, trying his best to comfort his eldest brother, could see the look of hurt upon his face, therefore in his heart.

Sigefrid closed his eyes, now fighting a bit harder to stay awake. “I am not ready. I will never be ready... to let her go. I will think of her every night in my sleep. I will see her face in every woman, Dane and Saxon. She is both.” Now staring into the flames, as his beloved princess once had, he tried to imagine the rest of his life without her.

No matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t.

“I will never be ready.” He grumbled to himself once more, turning to face his kind-eyed brother before standing up, reaching into his pocket, and retrieving Erik’s knife. Holding it out for him to take, Sigefrid spoke in a low, hurt tone, “I do not blame you.” Before retreating upstairs where he would impatiently wait for Lady Blædswith’s return.

Erik, twirling the stained knife between his fingers, could feel guilt gnawing at his insides. Sigefrid knew he didn’t trust him around King Alfred’s daughter, and that the knife was Erik’s way of looking out for her. Erik realized, now, that he no longer had to do so.

She was more valuable to Sigefrid than any amount of the king’s riches, regardless of the cold front Sigefrid put up. Judging by the way Sigefrid has already treated her, Erik knew his brother would do everything in his power to ensure her safety. Everything.

Even if it meant turning against his own people.

____________________ ➴ ____________________

The night air was crisp and unforgiving. The moon, in its fullest bloom, illuminated their way through the darkness. Venturing down a steep, well worn path towards the shore, the princess aimlessly followed the glow of a single torch like a moth drawn to candlelight.

The trio of Danes waited atop a low, grassy hill, allowing the timid slave girl to lead Sigefrid’s pet the rest of the way down. Compliant to their Lord’s orders, the men turned their backs whilst the king’s daughter undressed, though not without sneaking quick glances over their shoulders with wirey, toothless grins.

Once the slave girl had staked the torch into the damp earth near the water’s edge, creating a dimly lit aura of light around them, she apprehensively stepped towards the shivering Saxon. Her hand, as it reached out to take Lady Blædswith’s fur pelt, trembled out of fear of mistreatment from her Lord. She was, very obviously, under tremendous pressure to please him. Her small, childlike hands were even dirtier and more bruised than the princess’s own.

With her arms folded tightly against her breasts, the princess tiptoed into the cold lake water, feeling it seep into the soles of her feet, then up her calves as she waded on. A light mist sprinkled on the tops of their heads, and a deceitful breeze often toyed with the princess’s remaining warmth.

Her arms were rough with prickly goosebumps as she descended beyond the shadowy waters, clenching her jaw and fists tightly as her teeth began to chatter like rattling bones. She began to adjust, very uncomfortably, to the lake’s frigid temperature.

There had been no words exchanged between princess and slave — for there was nothing to say. Lady Blædswith’s hot breath, like a dragon’s own, escaped through her chapped lips as did steam rising from her core.

The slave girl, fully clothed yet up to her shoulders alongside her, had dunked a piece of cloth and a metal bucket beneath the water. “I-it is time for me to bathe you, princess. Before we both freeze.” She practically whispered through a thick, Scottish accent that didn’t go unnoticed.

It had pleasantly reminded Lady Blædswith of a certain Irishman back home.

Sigefrid’s slave averted her gaze from Alfred’s daughter out of respect; out of fear, even. Lady Blædswith noticed this, and frowned before closing the distance between them. The young, blonde haired girl began to wash the princess’s lovely figure, mindful of her various bruises and fractured bones.

“You need not fear me.” She soothed motherly, feeling chills ripple through her entire body as the breeze began to pick up. “I will not let anything happen to you... as long as I am here. You have my word.” The blonde looked up at the Saxon, eyes sparkling with tears though her lips curled into a tight smile.

“T-thank you, Lady.” She humbly nodded, now tilting the princess’s head back before pouring a bucket of fresh water over her thick, curly locks. With their backs to the entirety of Beamfleot, Lady Blædswith couldn’t help but gaze into the distance, watching ripples along the water’s surface reflect the moon’s vibrant rays.

The bashful, fair-completed princess

smiled. “You may call me Blædswith. What is your name?” She asked the beautiful slave out of curiosity, and by the surprised look on her face, she was the first person in a long time to ask such a thing. The girl hesitated, almost as if struggling to recall what she had once gone by, rather than the cruel insults she was called on a daily basis.

“My name is Moira, Lady.” She then squeezed her eyes shut and corrected, “Blædswith.” She hummed as she worked her way around the princess’s grotesque, multicolored torso. “I have not been asked that in some time…”

“Tell me, Moira... what is Sigefrid like? You have certainly known him longer than I have.” Blædswith grinned as Moira began to scrub the dirt from her hands and face. Though reluctant, Moira felt the princess deserved to know the truth, seeing as her Lord had taken a particular liking to her in light of recent events.

“Lord Sigefrid is… an ambitious man.” She shook her head grimly. “He gets what he wants, n-no matter the cost.” Moira sighed to herself, almost shamefully. “If I am being honest…”

“Please, do.”

“He does not think with his head. That is what Erik is for.” She tapped a finger to her own scalp. “He thinks with his cock. Well, he did… until he found you. Now I’d say things are different.” Moira rang out the cloth and used it to gently dry the princess’s face. “It is no secret how he feels about you, Lady.”

“He has been rather kind to me. I even sat bare chested before him and he did not touch me. Perhaps he does not wish to.” She shrugged.

Moira couldn’t help but grin. “I can assure you, he would very much like to. Any man with eyes would.” She then rubbed down the princess’s chest, adding, “After all, you are Alfred’s daughter.”

“Sweet Moira.” Blædswith chirped and brushed a loose curl from the slave’s face. “What... if I were to live here? You could tend to me, only, and I would care for you.” She could see herself and Moira living together almost as sisters, if not like mother and child - despite her being a slave. She felt drawn to protect such an innocent soul who, despite being sold into slavery, seemed nothing but kind and gentle. “I would protect you.”

Caught off guard, Moira nearly burst into tears of joy, turning away before Blædswith could notice. “I… I would be grateful to serve you, Lady of Wessex.” She then looked up at Blædswith with a slight frown, “Or, would you be Lady of Beamfleot?”

“I would simply be Blædswith. No titles, if I could help it.” She shrugged, and once her shoulder and the rest of her body had been washed ever so carefully, Blædswith was instructed to stay in the water whilst Moira retrieved her fur. “Do not be long!” She called after Moira light-heartedly, having thoroughly enjoyed her company thus far and did not wish to go without it.

Aside from the Thurgilson brothers, this poor slave was all she had.

As Blædswith mindlessly overturned rocks with her toes and sliced through the still lake water with her hands, she’d become one with nature’s tranquility in waiting for Moira’s return.

“Sorry for the wait, Blædswith.” A distant voice rang out from beyond the darkness, though Moira was not yet visible. “Dagfinn hid your pelt in the bushes hoping to see you na-”

Moira had stopped dead in her tracks, her vibrant blue eyes wide with sheer terror as she dropped the pelt at her feet. A thick, crimson stream oozed down her mouth as she began to gurgle and choke on her own blood. Before Blædswith could react fast enough, or at all, Moira’s eyes rolled back into her head as her knees gave way, causing her body to limply topple over, revealing Hæsten with a bloodied dagger in hand and a devilish glint in his khol-smeared eyes.

“Princess.” The Dane greeted wickedly with a haughty, half-assed bow.

As he stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, seeming unable to stand completely still due to the excessive horns of ale he’d downed, he let out a low chuckle before walking across Moira’s body like a bridge, wiping his muddied boots against her back. Blædswith could hear the crunching of her frail bones beneath his heavy boots.

“No!” Blædswith wailed, immediately back stroking to distance herself from the drunken Dane who began stumbling towards her. As much as it pained her to do so, her arms began flailing in and out of the water in a panic. “Y-you bastard! She was just a girl!” Blædswith shrieked, unable to stop herself from hyperventilating as she swam further and further away from shore out of fear he would try to drown her, or worse.

Hæsten could see she was very naked, and very much afraid. “Ah yes. But she was a girl you cared for.” Hæsten then placed the tip of his dagger to his lips as if telling Blædswith to hush; as if saying “there is no point in screaming when nobody will hear you.”

As loud as she physically could, Blædswith began calling out for help; for her designated guards to defend her against such a creature bearing ill intentions.

They were nowhere to be found.

“You will freeze to death, princess.” Hæsten began walking along the water, now up to his ankles. “You can not stay out there forever.” He began to twirl the dagger between his fingers before wiping the remaining blood on his sleeve. “What a shame.” The blonde Dane looked over his shoulder at the crumpled body he’d slain. “She was a good hump.”

“Sigefrid!” Blædswith cried once more, “Sigefrid! Erik! Please! H-hear me!” The princess realized she’d swam out far enough that her toes no longer touched the bottom - they were not even close - therefore her voice would likely never penetrate Beamfleot’s walls.

“Sigefrid can not hear you. He is busy planning how to sell you back to Alfred.” Hæsten sneared, “And he has decided not to give me any of the silver.” His tone was rather accusatory as if she were to blame. “And do not forget; you humiliated me.” He proceeded to near the princess, the water now up to the soaked knees of his trousers.

“Hæsten. Sigefrid will never forgive you.” She warned breathlessly, feeling the cold waters numb her tender arms and legs. Her bruised, aching lungs felt impossibly heavier as she fought to keep her head above water. “Please,” she gasped, spitting out a mouthful of lake water. “Don’t. If this is about silver, I-I have plenty in Wessex.”

“I do not want your silver, nor Sigefrid’s forgiveness. I want you to suffer for what you did to me. You ruined me, woman!” Hæsten roared drunkenly, nearly falling over on his arse though he regained his composure.

“Anybody! Help!” She wept, forcing her body to stay afloat as long as she could.“Sigefrid…” Completely winded and moments away from slipping into the night, her voice had fallen to a mere whisper at the acceptance of her fate.

If she were to die tonight, it would not be at Hæsten’s hand. She would not grant him such pleasure; the satisfaction in knowing he’d gotten what he wanted. If anything, it would be the water’s icy depths that would take her to the great beyond — The Great Hall of Valhalla.

She could feel a dark shadow cast from above, as if the moon itself had already shut her out.

“S-Sigefrid I… I’m not ready…”

There was a large splash in the near distance. An eruption of violent yelling rang out in the night, as did the sounds of metal clashing upon metal. Though muffled, she could make out the loud, rhythmic grunting of someone swimming towards her. A pair of strong arms hoisted her above the water, throwing her good arm over their shoulders as they proceeded to swim her back to shore.

“S-Sigefrid!” Blædswith, once conscious, gasped as she recognized the dark haired Dane who so valiantly came to her rescue. “Sigefrid you heard me…” She slurred out of shock and disbelief. After swimming them to shore, he carried her out of the water and wrapped her entire body in an oversized fur.

“I did.” He nodded windedly, pulling her against his chest for comfort; his and hers. “I heard your cries, and I was there as fast as I could.” Sigefrid leaned his head back and caressed the side of her pale cheek with his hand. His sorrowful, glossy eyes scanned over her face as his voice faded to a boyish whimper. “I thought I lost you.”

Sniffling, she shook her head and burst into tears of joy; of relief, and pressed her pruny hand against his cheek with a weak smile. “I’m here, Sigefrid. I-I’m alive.” Almost instantly, she could feel her body regaining its heat, though that didn’t stop her from shivering in his grasp.

“This,” Sigefrid shook his head and panned around the scene, where four dead bodies now littered the shore. “This is all my fault.” He then gritted his teeth and cursed at himself beneath his breath. “I let you down. I did not protect you, I,” He paused to run his hand over his beard. “I can no longer trust anyone…”

“Sigefrid, please.” She placed a calming hand to his chest, now standing on her toes to look him in the eye. “This is not your fault. But if it must be, then I forgive you.”

“How?” Sigefrid himself began to fight back tears of his own. “How can you forgive me? Tell me. I am not worthy of your-”

Blædswith cupped the back of Sigefrid’s neck and crashed her lips onto his unexpectedly, smiling into it as Sigefrid hungrily kissed back. She could feel the sweetness of passion; a million loving thoughts condensed into a single moment. Sigefrid and Blædswith were undeniably their most vulnerable selves.

It was as if time had collapsed into one tiny speck, then exploded at the speed of light. Her universe began and ended with him. As they embraced once another, the world - Midgard - seemed to halt on its axis. There was no time, wind, nor rain. There was no fear of what their futures entailed; no physical pain nor sorrows.

Lady Blædswith was, truly, at peace.

She did not worry about what this would mean for them; A fearsome northman had fallen for the Saxon daughter of his sworn enemy, and a princess had fallen in love with the Dane who kidnapped her. This would not be something either side takes lightly.

Sigefrid supported her lower back with his arm as she leaned against his bare chest. When their lips parted Blædswith whispered breathlessly,

“You talk too much.”

Sigefrid leaned down and placed a soft, prickly-bearded kiss to her lips once more as he tangled his hand through her wet hair.

He then whispered in her ear with a growing smirk, placing a hot kiss to the side of her neck as his thumb moved to cares her throat.

“I thought that was my line.”

_______________________________________________

A/N: I Hope you all enjoyed this longer chapter! If anyone would like to be added to the tag list, let me know :)

TAGS: @inforapound @cheapcakeripper @wildwren @metall-and-dust @eclipsedbymyheart @henrycavill19 @aesirharvorsson @finantheagile @onesaltyhunter @wessexcrown @destinysall @lauwrite1225 @lumxnously @chlomidgard @dagonet-ironside @marv-llous @littlebirdgot @curlyrat

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enrychan · 4 years

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Burakovsky fanfiction recs

ok so I read every single Burakovsky fanfic on AO3 (no, really) and I started thinking about writing down a list of those I particularly appreciate. because the Patho fandom is tiny, and the Burakovsky fandom is even tinier, but there are a lot of incredible talents in it, and they deserve all the recognition we can muster.

I apologize to those who did not make it into this list, unfortunately I can’t read Russian (for now... that might change in the future😏) AND I have very specific tastes. Which is why some authors are repeated more than once (sorry!). Also I’m following at least a couple of beautiful fanfics that are currently unfinished, and I’m probably gonna include those in the next list.

You’re all extremely talented though, and I hope to read more of your works very soon (do I refresh the Burakovsky tag each day? yes I do)

anyway here’s my list, in no particular order! Enjoy all the love, hate, death and philosophy!🥰

In Vivo by meradorm. After a long silence, the Haruspex travels to the capital to seek out his old companion.

Arguably the best fanfics in the Patho fandom; and one of the best fanfics I’ve ever read. The writing style simulates the first translation of Patho Classic, which was weird and sometimes almost incomprehensible, but somehow it enhanced the odd, alien experience of the first game. Using this particular and sometimes difficult language, this fanfic gives the impression of being an integral part of the original story. The characters and the love story are beautiful and raw, sweet and cruel, and the ending is so... so perfectly Pathologic it makes me angry. Prepare lots&lots of tissues because you’re gonna cry your eyes out!

How cleverly the trap is made by Modlisznik. "My apologies." Daniil clears his throat. "Usually I reserve views like this for at least fourth, maybe fifth date."

Ok yes I’m going to recommend a lot of fanfics by Modlisznik, I just really really like their style. This is one of my favorites because Daniil is so in character, trying his best to appear strong even while in pain and almost blind with one of his migraines... and I’m always weak for Artemy being sweet and caring for Daniil. Just *chef’s kiss* excellent

Of the Town and the Steppe by Modlisznik. Artemy wonders how Daniil feels about this vastness, autumnal grass as far as the eye can see, the sky so clear, hanging so low, so close you can almost touch it, you can almost get swallowed whole. Insignificant, a little speckle on the face of Earth. Daniil is a creature of the city, Artemy thinks, of clear boundaries, of walls to hide behind, of places to be alone in. He must feel exposed. I'm a bad host, Artemy thinks.

Just a romantic, intimate moment between our two idiots out in the steppe. Daniil imagining all the places in the Capital he would like to show Artemy is so unbearably sweet I think I’ve cavities now. Totally worth it though.

All about Blood by Modlisznik. Daniil is aware that Isidor has been murdered just a few days ago. That his memory is still fresh, his touch lingers in this place. That Daniil, an intruder, shouldn't come down here to Isidor’s workshop - his laboratory - his sanctum - and most certainly, he shouldn't be here to fuck Isidor’s son. Even less, to use the elder Burakh's table for that purpose. He's aware of that. He also doesn't care.

Hot damn. This fanfics pushes all my buttons at once and then dances on the keyboard just to be sure. Artemy/Daniil kinky sex? Check. On the stone table in Artemy’s lab? Check. Subtle power games between the two? Check. Artemy marking Daniil with his blood? Check. A sprinkle of bondage just to spice things up a bit? Check. Um... is it just me or it’s kind of hot in here?

The Line of Red by Modlisznik. Bachelor Dankovsky does not believe in luck. Artemy wants him to understand, that the charm he's offering will protect him - just not in the way Daniil thinks it does.

Another sweet moment brought to you by or Official Sweetheart Artemy Burakh: Artemy wants to give Daniil something to remind him that he’s not alone, even in his darkest moments, that Artemy is his tagloor. Daniil doesn’t understand all that steppe folklore, but recognizes a precious gift when he’s given one.

Something old, something new by Modlisznik. In which Artemy considers the importance of not being watched, and Murky's doll needs urgent medical attention.

Just an adorable fanfic and a joy to read from start to finish. Artemy is best dad, Murky is best daughter, Daniil is back with a new title, and I’m always ready for some teary-eyed happy reunions.

Bloodflood by Xyloto. A flood of blood to the heart.

Artemy is used to be on top, and the relative new experience of being on the receiving end doesn’t start particularly well for him, but he is determined to let Daniil have what he wants. Daniil has other ideas on the matter. I have a thing for “top that bottoms for his bottom”, and especially in this case because this fanfic is written beautifully. It keeps all the more abrasive traits of Artemy’s personality&speech, while remaining very sweet and romantic somehow.

A Curse Befalls Your Heart by CurrieBelle. Daniil Dankovsky suffers from a Steppe curse. Burakh performs triage.

Speaking of sweet and romantic, are you ready for a good bucket of literal honey? This is my comfort fanfic, the one I return to every once in a while when I need something soft and lovely to shut off my brain. Not only that, but the story is awesome too, because it is based on an actual canon curse in the Patho lore. Remember when Anna Angel was cursed with the “returning heart” in Patho 2? What if something similar happened to Daniil? Luckily, Artemy is there to help.

Ode to the Body by kylee. In which Bachelor and Haruspex flatter each other shamelessly.

The Powers That Be have always destroyed Daniil’s self esteem by reducing him to a list of failures. Artemy wants him to understand that he’s not just his failures, nor his accomplishments, but so much more. Sex ensues. Praise kink anyone??? (yes please)

life overflowing by Yellow. Artemy needs someone to look at what he's done, to see he's done well, to take over for him, his head and his heart. just for a little while.

This is both lovely and kind of heartbreaking, with some suicidal tendencies/ideation? I feel it is completely appropriate after all Artemy has gone through by this point in the story. But Daniil doesn’t have any intention of letting him go.

Vae Soli by Adoxography. Daniil becomes Artemy's unwilling caretaker when Artemy is infected with the Sand Pest and is forced to take a Shmowder to cure himself, or die in the attempt.

There are a lot of sick fics in the Patho fandom (obviously), but I particularly love this one because it doesn’t embellish the pitiful state of Artemy, caught between two terrible ailments, nor makes Daniil appear too soft and generous. There is rivalry between the two idiots (as it should be), but also trust and even some attraction on Daniil’s part. In other words, it rings true and believable!

sub derma by Jagged. Dankovsky takes to the Town better than he thinks, but less than he'd like. Artemy would know.

Super sexy fanfic! dom!Daniil turns Artemy on with some pain play which Artemy is only too happy to be subjected to. I just love the power dynamic between the two, it’s visceral and even a little bit cruel at times, but the absolute trust they have in each other makes everything weirdly romantic.

foreign bodies by hoverbun. They have some time to themselves between dissections and the sharing of alms.

So it turns out that I also have a Thing for fics about shaving. apparently??? Artemy has some free time and a beard to get rid of. He asks Daniil for help with that. And everyone knows there are few things sexier than a hot doctor with a very sharp blade pointed at your throat!

I hope you blink before I do by vespirus. Maybe he was fated to gravitate towards men like these; the men with loose morals, the men who understood what it meant to be an arbiter of life and death decisions, the men who felt the weight of the future on their shoulders. Or maybe he just had an inescapable interest in the macabre.

AU fanfic about Daniil as an unscrupulous researcher and Artemy as a medical undergraduate willing to kill to make enough money to keep living and studying in the Capital. In other words they are both horrible people, and the tension between them is so thick you could slice it with a knife. There also a sequel, but it’s a death fic and I personally don’t like that. I hope the author will write an alternative ending where they become an awesome couple of gay criminals in love sooner or later!

#pathologic #burakovsky #haruspex #bachelor #daniil dankovsky #artemy burakh #bull blood snake heart #long post

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

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Kurtbastian one-shot - “Join Me for Dinner” (Rated M)

Sebastian Smythe, now a famous French chef, sets his sights on wooing Kurt. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Sebastian hopes that’s right ... and he has the perfect meal in mind.

(I actually wrote this a while ago. Had an urge to reblog it, and couldn’t find it for the life of me. So here it is :) Warning for mention of cannibalism. Just gonna put that out there. )

Read on AO3.

Kurt watches Sebastian light the candles on the table and smiles, waiting for his host to sit before digging in to the mouthwatering meal spread out before him.

“You know,” Kurt says, fiddling with the edge of the scalloped tablecloth, “I’m glad you wore me down. These past two weeks have been amazing.”

Sebastian smirks, flicking the lid to the silver Zippo in his hand shut and shoving the lighter into his pocket.

“I’m just glad that after all this time you were finally willing to give me a chance.” Sebastian takes his seat across from Kurt and meets his gaze through the row of lined white tapers.

“I’m never going to believe for a second that you spent all that time at Dalton flirting with Blaine just to get my attention,” Kurt teases, his eyes darting down momentarily to the sumptuous dish of food waiting for him to take the first bite.

“I was, whether you believe it or not,” Sebastian admits with a shrug, pulling up his napkin and motioning for Kurt to do the same.

“Well, you’re full of surprises,” Kurt comments, rolling out his silverware and licking his lips, unaware of how carefully Sebastian watches him. “I would have never pictured you becoming a French chef.”

Sebastian grabs the bottle of wine from the center of the table and opens it, standing again to present it to Kurt.

“A Rare Red Four Grape Blend for your approval, monsieur,” he says as he pours Kurt a generous glass.

“Why, thank you, monsieur,” Kurt answers back, lifting the full glass in a toast. “Votre santé.”

“Votre santé,” Sebastian returns, raising his own glass in a toast. Kurt sticks his nose in the glass and sniffs, letting the aromas of chocolate and black fruit fill his senses before taking a sip, letting the alcohol slowly fill his mouth, wash over his tongue, and tingle down his throat.

“That’s smooth,” Kurt says with a sigh. “Sweet, but peppery.”

“You have an amazing palate.” Sebastian sits back in his seat, his eyes glued to Kurt’s mouth as he takes another sip. “You should come with me to California. If you’re a good boy, maybe we can visit the Scotto Cellar where this hails from.”

Kurt blushes, biting his lip as he looks back down at his plate.

“You know, Culinary Trends magazine calls you the ‘Prince of Presentation’,” Kurt says, swiftly changing the subject, “and they’re not wrong. This looks absolutely gorgeous. How am I going to eat it? I mean, how did you even come up with this design? It’s exquisite.”

Kurt can’t keep his eyes off the symmetrically sliced meat, perfectly blackened and drizzled with a thick, savory smelling brown sauce. It’s a relatively simple meal, but it’s the intricate details that put the overall appeal over the top.

“Well, the pearls around the edge are completely edible,” Sebastian points out with the tip of his steak knife, “and I chose them because they remind me of your beautiful, smooth, flawless skin.”

Sebastian lifts one onto the edge of his knife and offers it to Kurt. Kurt blinks down at it and swallows hard. His eyes dart back up to meet Sebastian’s dark, hooded gaze, and Sebastian can see a flicker of fear.

“Go ahead,” Sebastian purrs. “Trust me. Walk on the wild side.”

Kurt smiles, a grin that twists from scared to sultry with just a blink, and Kurt slips the knife between his teeth, letting the pearl drop off the sharp tip into his mouth. Sebastian moans when Kurt bites into it with a loud crunch, watching Kurt’s mouth move as he devours it greedily.

“Excellent,” Sebastian whispers. “Now, the silver beads are also edible, and they remind me of your stunning eyes.” Sebastian collects a silver bead onto his knife the same way, and this time Kurt sucks it off without a second thought, time closing his lips gently around it, the color of Sebastian’s eyes deepening immediately as he watches.

“And the orchids…” Sebastian reaches across the table and plucks one of the vibrant white and purple flowers off the meat, whispering in a voice that is dangerous and rough, full of restrained lust, “represent the parts of you…the soft, intimate parts of you that I am dying to taste…”

He leans across the table and drags the petals of the flower across Kurt’s lips, and this time Kurt moans, letting his eyelids flutter shut and chasing the flower with a sweep of his tongue. Sebastian grins wickedly when he sees Kurt shift in his seat, crossing his legs beneath the table.

“S-so…this whole meal…is about me?” Kurt stutters, opening his eyes again to find Sebastian still staring at him with that same hungry, unabashed stare.

“You and only you,” Sebastian says, gesturing to the plate with a flourish of his hand. “The cut of meat, the sauce, the decor…it’s all about you. No one…and I mean no one else will ever eat this meal.”

Kurt would have laughed if not for the sinister look in Sebastian’s eyes that told Kurt every word he spoke was the truth.

“Please,” Sebastian pleads, “take a bite. Let me watch you enjoy.”

Kurt lifts his knife and fork in almost trembling hands as he cuts through the meat. It’s tender, pulling apart, melting like butter beneath the metal of his knife. He skewers the small portion and runs it through the sauce once, taking his time, drawing out the seduction, all too aware of Sebastian’s eyes on him, his hands gripping onto the edge of the table as he waits, watching Kurt lift the fork to his lips to take the first bite.

The meat slips between his lips, onto his tongue. The combination of sweet and savory tingle his taste buds, and Kurt whimpers.

Sebastian watches Kurt chew; watches how the beautiful, long column of his throat works as he swallows; how Kurt’s eyes darken with the effects of the Burgundy in the sauce.

“Oh, Sebastian,” Kurt sighs, breathless, “that’s…that’s like a kiss…or…it’s just…”

“Excellent,” Sebastian whispers again, lifting his knife and fork to take his own bite.

***

“Thank you, Sebastian,” Kurt says, breathless after the amazing meal. “That was incredible.”

“I’m glad you appreciate my creations so much.” Sebastian takes Kurt’s hand and walks him to the door. “It’s nice to have someone to cook for.”

“You cook for thousands of people,” Kurt says with a laugh.

“True,” Sebastian agrees, “but I only create for you.”

Sebastian take Kurt’s hand in his, lifting it to his mouth, and presses his lips to the soft skin. Kurt’s eyelids narrow, his cheeks pinking furiously. He wants so much more than Sebastian’s lips brushing against just the back of his hand. Sebastian straightens, and Kurt surprises him, stepping forward and kissing him, capturing his lips gently, sliding their mouths together. Sebastian wraps his arms around him, holding him close, breathing him in and slipping his tongue into his mouth, taking a lazy moment to taste him.

“You know,” Kurt says, talking quietly against Sebastian’s mouth, “I would love to join you in California…if the offer stands.”

Sebastian smiles so Kurt can feel it against his skin.

“You know it does,” he says, kissing Kurt again, kissing him more, talking between presses of his lips and searching sweeps of his tongue. “It will be amazing, I promise. We’ll drink wine, and I’ll cook for you every night.”

“Mmmm, I can’t wait.”

Kurt kisses him again – one last, longing kiss to say good-night on; a kiss to remember him by.

Sebastian hums when Kurt finally finds the strength to pull away and say his last good-bye.

“What is it?” Kurt asks, watching Sebastian lick his lips.

Sebastian leans into Kurt’s ear, nibbling his earlobe gently and sighs, “You taste delicious.”

Kurt bites his lip and backs away, taking one last look at his gorgeous boyfriend, holding his hands as long as he can, fingertips sliding out of reach.

“Good-night,” Kurt says again.

Sebastian watches Kurt get into his Navigator, start his car, and drive away.

The words sink in.

Kurt is going with him to California.

This is it. This will definitely be the trip that seals the deal, and Sebastian can’t wait.

He sees a future for him and Kurt – traveling around the world, visiting exciting locales, sampling wines, making love under the stars.

He wants desperately to make Kurt see it, too.

This trip to the West Coast is the first step, and it needs to be special; needs to be perfect.

Sebastian drops down on his couch and takes out his iPhone, dialing his number one supplier.

“Hey, Sebastian!” Chandler’s voice sings over the line, the name sounding long winded and whiny in Chandler’s nasally voice, ending with an unnecessary pop on the final ‘n’. “How was dinner with your man?”

Sebastian relishes the sting of jealousy in Chandler’s voice. So many times Chandler thought that Sebastian would fall in love with him, but he was just a stepping stone in helping him get Kurt.

“Our little friend Azimio turned out a lot better than I had hoped,” Sebastian says.

“Thank God!” Chandler groans dramatically. “I was afraid he was going to turn out a little tough.”

“Nope, not at all. Not after I cooked his ass for twelve fucking hours. And Chandler…the wine…” Sebastian shakes his head and chuckles. “How in the hell did you manage to find the perfect vintage to compliment ‘aging athlete’?”

Chandler makes a high-pitched whining sound and Sebastian knows the compliments are working.

“It’s just a talent, I guess.”

“Well, it’s a good one,” Sebastian says condescendingly.

“An indispensable one, I hope,” Chandler hedges, his voice suddenly meek and small. Sebastian rolls his eyes, knowing what Chandler’s hinting at.

“I’d never eat you, Chandler,” Sebastian says with a note of exasperation. “I need you too much. Besides, there’s nothing on that ass of yours to eat anyway.”

Chandler chuckles in a way that disgusts even Sebastian.

“Are you ever going to tell him?” Chandler asks.

“Nope,” Sebastian says quickly. “And neither will you, or bony ass or no you’ll end up a fucking side dish. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Sebastian,” Chandler sputters nervously. “Don’t be silly. I was just curious.”

“Good.” Sebastian hovers close to the phone as if Chandler is actually there to witness the gravity of Sebastian’s revelation on his face. “Okay, now I want you to listen carefully, Chandler, because this is important. I have an extra special trip coming up. I’m taking Kurt to California with me.”

“Ooo la la!” Chandler chirps.

“Ooo la la, indeed,” Sebastian says. “So, I need bigger this time.”

“Bigger?” Chandler asks, sounding thoroughly perplexed. “You’ve already served him Dave and Azimio. They were, like, the biggest bullies at McKinley. Who else are you going to find bigger than those two? Especially out in California?”

“Think about it, Chandler.” Sebastian stands from the couch and paces anxiously. “I need to make a statement without saying a word…I need you to get me…Blaine Anderson.”

#kurtbastian #sebkurt #sekurt #kurt hummel #sebastian smythe

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norabrice1701 · 4 years

Text

Too Good to be True

An “Inception” fanfic

Pairing: Arthur x Eames

Summary: It’s just like heaven, being here with you. Arthur’s like an angel, too good to be true.

Rating: T for couple of f-bombs, sensuality, hints of knife play, and so much domestic dream husbands fluff

A/N: This came about because it’s the 10th anniversary of “Inception”, and...the world just needs more love right now. So, here’s a small contribution.

Eames is so fucking lucky.

Even after all these years, he still doesn’t know why. Maybe after years of conning and forging, the universe decided to be gracious. Maybe after years of transient living, the stars aligned for a permanent home. Maybe it just took a chance meeting on a chance job, and another seven years for him to crash-land into just the right man.

The right man who has currently filled their flat with 60′s jazzy lounge tunes. The right man who sips idly from a wine glass as he stirs a pot on the stove. The right man who still - these years later - dresses immaculately with sinful, lethal beauty.

His Arthur. His darling.

It strikes Eames at the oddest times. After nine years married, he thought he would get over these little moments, stop questioning the life that had inexplicably become his - but, alas.

Today wasn’t even anything remarkable. Just a Thursday. He’d parted from Arthur in the morning, as usual, with a farewell kiss and best wishes for the day. Arthur had meetings with clients, and Eames had his marks to study. Ever since they went into business for themselves, operating in various shades of grey – nothing so hot as to require the international upheaval of their pre-Inception days, but nothing so dull as a straight 9-to-5 – work had been steady and lucrative. It proved a truth that Eames had known since that first fateful job – they were a dream team awake or asleep.

And now, now he’s home to a most welcome sight. Arthur’s hips sway to the rhythm of some Julie London number that begs a proper dance as he sets the spoon back in the rest. The kitchen smells heavenly, and Eames can’t stop staring. He hasn’t even made it fully into the kitchen yet, struck as he is.

With disbelief. With the realization that for fuck’s sake. How had anything in his life made him remotely deserving of this?

Arthur has to know he’s there. Sure, the younger man will be forty this year, but only a fool would mistake the greying at his temples as any sign of senility. That gorgeous, frightening tactical mind had lost none of its razor-sharp edge, and Eames intimately knew the body concealed beneath the tailored suit had lost none of its lithe, capable grace.

“You’re being awfully quiet.” Arthur turns from the stove, the frown line between his eyes winking into view. “You okay?”

“Can I not just stare at such a perfect angel in my kitchen?”

Arthur arches an elegant brow, staring back as if Eames had grown two heads. “What is it this time, hm? Another Lisbon? Another Monte Carlo?”

Oh, Monte Carlo. How grand that had been. A honeymoon suite – actually for their honeymoon; premier seats for the Monaco Grand Prix; tuxedoed nights at the high stakes tables; lazy days in a luxurious bed. And that gorgeous diamond bracelet Eames had lifted with every intent of reworking into cufflinks and button studs for his new husband that ended up belonging to the Duchess of Suffolk.

Such a lovely woman, really.

Eames’ face pinches with mock objection. “You wound me, darling. Is that really your first thought when you think of Monte Carlo?”

The lift of Arthur’s lips speaks to a smile he isn’t invested in suppressing. A sign of his trust and love if Eames had ever known one. “It did nearly land my newly-minted husband in prison.”

“And I never doubted you for a minute.”

Soft beeping issues from the oven, and Arthur turns to tend to the task at hand – but not before he shoots Eames a look that clearly indicates the conversation is far from over. Well. It may not be over, but Eames has other ideas for its trajectory.

It’s a lovely sight as Arthur bends over to pull a roasting pan from the oven. The food in the pan is even more welcome as Eames’ stomach gives a low growl. It’s nothing fancy, only roast chicken - he’s supposed to watch his cholesterol - but Arthur handles it with practiced skill, setting it on the counter to rest.

Arthur sets about retrieving a cutting board and a chef’s knife, not bothering to glance back at Eames. “You still haven’t answered my question, you know.”

“I know.” Eames deposits his keys, phone and wallet on the end of the island, crossing around to his husband. The scrape of the chef’s knife against the sharpener punctuates the music as Eames wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist, pressing against the fine fabric of his waistcoat, breathing deep the scent of day-worn cologne and exertion on Arthur’s skin.

Arthur’s throaty chuckle is warm against his lips. “You’re a brave man to accost me while I’m armed.” The knife drags against the sharpener with intent.

Eames only hugs him tighter, skimming his lips against Arthur’s pulse. “You’re always armed, you just don’t want anyone to know. But you forget,” he nips gently, teasing a gasp from Arthur’s lips, “no one knows you like I do.”

Arthur turns his cheek into Eames’ nuzzling, muscles shifting to indicate a smile. “Maybe you haven’t done anything, after all. You’re not so handsy when you’re contrite.”

He chuckles against Arthur’s smooth skin. “Correct on all accounts, love.”

The knife schnicks against metal again and Eames presses closer, swaying to the alluring melody in the air. Arousal flares as Arthur’s hips fall into a matching rhythm. How mad would his point man get if he swept the slender man up in his arms and left the chicken to the empty kitchen?

Arthur turns his head back to the task at hand. “You’re going to make the pilaf burn.”

It proved a constant marvel that Arthur never fails to know his thoughts. “Then you shouldn’t tempt me with dessert before the main course.”

Arthur turns easily, swiftly in Eames’ embrace, knife bared, the sharp tip just kissing the underside of Eames’ jaw. His trousers fit uncomfortably tight now, and the wicked tilt of Arthur’s mouth leaves no doubt that he knows exactly what he’s done.

Eames gusts a heavy breath. “Darling, you play so unfair.”

“I’m not letting you ruin dinner again just because you have no self-restraint.” The knife presses a fraction deeper, drawing a delightful hiss. Arthur has always known how to stimulate the most pleasurable sensations. “Besides,” the knife falls away and Arthur leans close, tongue laving against the superficial divot, “wouldn’t you rather me kiss it better later? After all, anticipation is the greatest joy.”

Actually, Eames’ greatest joy was hearing Arthur say ‘yes’ to his proposal, to hearing his vows flow strong and steady, and taking his husband completely apart against the bedsheets. But yes...in this moment - staring deep into those perceptive brown eyes that had known him from day one, sharing the promise of the rest of their lives, with only a chicken and pilaf between them and a night of blissful passion. Well, Eames could give his husband that much.

He leans forward, placing a chaste peck to Arthur’s cheek. “Don’t let the pilaf burn now.”

Arthur gives a rueful shake of his head. “Just go pour a glass of wine.”

Eames pulls away, glancing back as he moves for the wet bar. “And you’ll fetch my slippers, too?”

He pays for the slippers comment after dinner when Arthur’s nails rake down his back. But Eames gives as good as he gets, branding Arthur’s skin with his teeth. Arthur has never sounded sweeter as Eames drives them both skyward, surrendering to all they give and take.

But he thinks that every time.

He knows he still will when Arthur turns sixty.

Perhaps, by then, they can go back to Monte Carlo.

#arthur x eames #arthur and eames #dream husbands #inception #fanfic #wannabe writer

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clan-sayeed-fic · 4 years

Text

Let me earn your trust (Kamilah Sayeed & MC)

Previous chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20

Book: Bloodbound (property of Pixelberry Studios) Pairing: Kamilah Sayeed & MC: Amy (I do not own those characters, they're the property of Pixelberry Studios as well) Warnings: some fluff, but mostly angst Rating: Mature Author's note: I'm not a native English speaker, I'm sorry for any mistakes (feel free to correct me).

I hope you'll stay with me and this fic to the end because we're reaching the most crucial part of the story. The solution to the puzzle I created during the Council meeting a long time ago haha 😅

~ 2900 words

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Chapter 21

Amy didn't know that by "I'll pick you up," Kamilah meant sending a limo for her.

That's how she found herself a few minutes later, getting out of this expensive car with her feets stepping right on the red carpet. In front of the building that she used to work in during one of the most memorable evenings.

The same one night, during which her best friend was attacked. And in the result turned into vampire about which existence Amy had just found out back then.

"I know I told you that before, but," Lily looked at her best friend after they both got out from the limousine. "Kamilah has a fucking good taste," they both laughed.

Lily was the one who was supposed to help Amy chose a dress, so hearing her admitting that Kamilah achieved in what she failed, was worth remembering. It'll be an advantage for Amy over her best friend, and that might come in handy any day.

"You look great too, Lil," Amy hugged her tightly.

The girl laughed under this amount of love.

"Ok, ok, enough," Lily tried to escape from Amy's embrace. "Leave something for the Dark Queen."

Finally, Amy let go of her, giving her friend a moment to catch a breath. That's when she sensed someone's gaze on herself. The girl's eyes moved into the direction of the person that was watching her.

Standing right next to her own, black limousine.

Amy's jaw dropped.

She saw Kamilah standing there in her red, silky dress. This color just ached for attention. It was an intense crimson red, a confident shade to wear, perfectly matching the woman's personality.

The dress had an appropriate V-neckline, deep just enough to show Kamilah's bloom skin, which shined in the lights of the evening.

The woman turned slightly, speaking to Adrian, who was right next to her. That little movement made it possible for Amy to see the other side of the dress. And Kamilah's back which was barely covered with a transparent material.

"Come on, didn't she invite you as her date?" Lily's voice took Amy out of her thoughts. A little push on the back made her go in Kamilah's direction.

Amy looked incredible that night, and awareness of that gave her a lot of confidence. But still, there was nothing that would make her feel more nervous than showing herself around this incredible woman who was like perfection by herself.

The girl's wavy blonde hair was put up in a loose bun, letting go of some golden locks of her hair. They were falling on her back, shoulders, and slightly blushed cheeks. The color of the gown was wonderfully emphasizing Amy's greenish eyes.

When they both stood close to each other, the shade of Kamilah's dress stopped screaming for attention. Instead, the reddish color cooperated with the gold dress of Amy's.

Making them match stunningly.

"Amy, you look absolutely..." Adrian paused their conversation at the moment she appeared next to them. Clearly, not knowing the words to describe his thoughts.

Kamilah looked at her with a soft expression on her face. She leaned down to Amy, holding her with one hand by the waist, pulling the girl slightly closer.

"Ravishing," sweet whisper touched Amy's ear before Kamilah left a soft kiss on one of her cheeks, stepping back a little to spoke louder. "Shall we go inside?"

Amy tried to stop the blush on her face. She couldn't get used to the influence this woman had over her without even trying.

Finally, they went inside with Adrian and Lily on their sides.

***

Perhaps it was a coincidence, maybe not, but Amy noticed it right away. They were seated by the same table that Kamilah and Adrian were last time.

Amy was surprised by how accurately everything was rebuilt around them. She remembered ruined hall, shattered glass, cracks in the walls. And right at that moment? Decorative chandeliers were hanging under the ceiling, shining bright as nothing had really happened.

"Senator wanted the hall to look exactly the same," Adrian noticed Amy's thoughtfulness, sending her a reassuring smile. "After the massacre that happened here, people were distanced to this place."

"I'm distanced for sure," Lily looked around with a weak smile. The surroundings brought painful memories, especially for her.

"He did well by having a gala in here," Kamilah spoke with a firm voice. "It was his responsibility all along."

Something broke inside of Amy. A bad feeling from the last day hit her twice as strong.

"His... responsibility?" her voice shaky, causing a look of concern on Kamilah's face.

"He is a senator after all," the woman kept Amy's gaze till she was sure everything was alright. "He should have stopped the panic a long time ago. This is one of the finest and oldest places in New York for such events. It would be a shame if they closed it entirely."

"Oh...yeah, it would be," shudder maintained on Amy's back, but their talk was interrupted.

A young woman, low-height, all shaking, appeared by their table. She reminded Amy of her own self a few months ago when she was working as a waitress. Acting as awkwardly around such influential people as the girl standing before them.

"Good evening, my name is Susan, and I will..." the first words left her mouth without a problem, but after a moment, she lost all remains of her confidence.

"Not again..." Kamilah rolled her eyes, remembering the night when Lily annoyed her so much. "This place has to be cursed."

"Kamilah!" Amy frowned at the woman, disappointed by her reaction.

"Yeah, weren't you the one who talked all about such a shame it would be if they closed the place?" Lily had her best time trying to hold back a laugh. "I didn't think I'll see the day of you complaining, Ms. Sayeed."

Sparks in Kamilah's eyes were showing that one more word and Lili wouldn't be able to see, nor hear, much more in her life.

"Don't worry about them," Adrian spoke to the waitress. She was standing in front of them, confused and ashamed at once.

"We would like to order the specialty of the chef," Amy smiled charmingly, making the task easier for the girl.

"We would?" Lily asked, sounding like a sad puppy.

She wanted to order something with a lot of alcohol in it. It didn't matter if it was meant to be used during cooking. The liquor just had to be there for her.

"Yes, WE would like to," Amy sent her a similar look that she did toward Kamilah earlier, which made a woman smirk to herself slightly. "Oh, and don't forget to congratulate the chef on how good he looks with his new haircut," Amy smiled, speaking again to the waitress with her usual voice.

"But, he didn't get a haircut," Susan's forehead wrinkled while she was trying to remind herself if the chef really changed something about his hair recently.

"I know, he never does," Amy laughed sweetly, trading looks with Lily that knew where exactly her talk was leading to. "But he loves if someone notices his hair, he'll give you a longer break for sure."

"And more champagne!" Lily made her best friend laugh.

"Of course, that's what you remember the most," Amy rolled her eyes, pretending to be tired of Lily's attitude.

"Damn, I wish I was still working here," Lily looked like she was really considering this thought.

"Wait... you," Susan glanced from one to another. "Worked here?"

"Not so far ago," Amy smiled again, giving the waitress a hope she needed.

Susan returned the smile and excused them before heading to the kitchen to show the order, leaving her guests to themselves.

Amy watched her walking away, feeling her stomach tighten slightly because of the memories. She shuddered surprised when she felt Kamilah's fingers, entwining with her own under the table.

"I cannot conceive what you see in every human," Kamilah spoke quietly as Adrian and Lily were lost in a conversation.

"Well, we're not that different from each other, Kamilah," Amy smiled to her. "You saw something in me too, and I was no more than this girl back then."

She felt a little squeeze of Kamilah's hand. The woman wanted to say something, but at the same time, something else got her attention. Her eyes moved above Amy's head, looking far behind her. The girl wanted to turn around automatically, but another squeeze under the table made her fight the urge to do this.

"What is it?" Amy tried to read from the woman's eyes the answer. But Kamilah quickly composed herself, not wanting to draw attention.

"It's Priya," the woman's voice sharp. "She just arrived with Adam. If I remind myself how she treated you...how she..."

"Hey, shh," Amy put her another hand over Kamilah's to calm her. "I'm here with you, you helped me back then, but I'm in no danger now."

But the woman's stare was still empty, icy, and Amy was already imagining what thoughts were created in the head of hers.

Blonde moved one hand above the table to Kamilah's cheek. She saw all the anger, concern, and pain in her chestnut eyes. And the only what she wished for was to ease that pain somehow.

"I'm safe here," Amy's lips letting out a whisper that only the woman could hear. "With you."

Kamilah's expression softened as she let herself smile slightly. She took Amy's palm out of her cheek and placed a soft kiss on her skin.

"Let's just get through this evening," Kamilah's voice calm, but Amy sensed the unsureness in it.

And that made her realize that she wasn't the only one feeling concerned about how the night would turn out.

***

A hollow sound of metallic knife meeting with the smooth surface of glass echoed loudly in the air.

"May I have your attention?" a resonant voice attracted the concentration of everyone gathered in the hall, causing silence.

It was Adam Vega, standing in the middle of the room, with a glass of champagne raised high. His face dressed up with his usual smile, representing how charismatic and the open-minded person he was.

Or seemed to be.

"At the very beginning, let me tell you how grateful I'm to see all of my friends. Gathered in here to celebrate my birthday," his eyes moved between the people in the crowd. Everyone was listening to him mesmerized. "I'm pleased that we can spend this time together," his smile faded. "We should let ourselves grief and honor the ones that were so cruelly taken from us," like by a magic wand, Amy saw every face in the hall showing pure sorrow. "I feel personally guilty of what happened here that night. That I couldn't have been here to guardian those poor people." Amy barely stopped a sigh of annoyance, but sensing Kamilah's gaze on her back, she composed herself in time.

The girl looked around the room to see that everyone really looked up to this man. Why then, she had this weird intuition that something terrible was about to happen?

The similar one she had during her training with Kamilah. When she knew the moment in which she had to defend herself by dodging before Kamilah's punch.

Like then, the same right now, the only message her brain was sending her was to run away, but she couldn't. She was trying to be brave for the people she came with.

Besides, what could happen anyway?

"Oh my god, he's coming to our table," Lily acted like a fangirl behind her, and that's when Amy realized that she didn't hear senator's last words.

Vega came to their table right after finishing his speech. And because of that, everyone's attention was still focused on him, and in the result, on Amy too.

"May I have this dance?" he reached out to Amy, a smile never leaving his face. "If Ms. Sayeed has nothing against it, of course."

Amy gulped, not knowing what to say, she felt paralyzed. Everyone was staring at her, giving her so much attention.

Too much.

Kamilah's voice took her out of her thoughts.

"Amy can decide for herself, Senator Vega," the woman's voice and posture full of grace, not showing even a hint of negative emotion.

"What would it be then, Ms. Campbell?" their eyes meeting, and Amy knew that she had no other option to choose from.

"With pleasure," her voice sweet, accompanied by a bright smile.

She took Adam's hand, and he walked her slowly to the parquet.

That's when the calm music of waltz echoed in the hall.

Oh my god, waltz, Amy froze for a moment. She had never danced the waltz in her entire life. Not mentioning that she had never danced in front of such a big audience before.

"Just follow my lead," she heard a quiet whisper. It sounded more like an order hidden behind the smile than friendly advice.

They made their way to the center of the parquet. Amy put her left hand on Adam's shoulder, trying to imitate the pose she saw in the movies, but her body refused to relax. Thankfully, when they made a few first steps, everything became more natural for her.

Senator was a good dancer, that was clear for sure. Even with Amy as a terrible one, he was flawlessly leading her to the calm sounds of the music. After a few more tones of the song, more pairs accompanied them on the parquet adding Amy more confidence.

"I hope that you enjoyed the gala so far," his words quiet, only for her to be heard.

"It's amazing, I'm honored to be here," the girl answered. "Thank you for such an opportunity for me."

"How could I not have here someone so close to Kamilah?" Amy stiffened a little after hearing the woman's name. And the words after those made her even more suspicious. "How is my favorite Council member doing, by the way?"

They were dancing around the parquet, not in the center of it anymore. The dance floor became more crowded, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe Amy just wanted it to be the reason for her breathlessness.

"What do you mean?" she answered with a question, not knowing how to react.

"I was concerned about her," Adam seemed to be more engaged in the dancing as words were just escaping his mouth. "It seems like she recovered from this nasty scratch she had."

For a split of a second, they were further away from each other when Vega made Amy twirl around, making her dress dance with her.

For this short moment, Amy understood the meaning of his words, and her stomach tightened immediately. She wanted to let go of his hand, but he pulled her closer, increasing the grip on her waist.

"How would you..." the girl was scared.

He had no right to know about this. Even Adrian didn't know since Kamilah wanted to keep it only between both of them.

So how did he...

Unless...

"It was you," Amy gulped, fear taking over her, making her eyes shining like gold, matching the color of her dress. "You're responsible for the ferals attack in France," her voice got higher as emotions were taking over.

"There you go," Adam kept on dancing, not losing his confidence. "A Bloodkeeper I was waiting so long for."

He knew about me all along, Amy's heartbeat increased with this thought.

It wasn't actually beating anymore, it was racing, trying to escape from her chest.

"And now," Adam's voice sharp like a knife, but his expression didn't change. "Smile as sweet as you can, or some harm can happen to your friends. How ironic would it be?" he laughed shortly. "Losing someone again in the same hall."

Amy's throat clenched, but she forced a smile, not wanting to cause suspicion. Somehow she managed to control her eyes, which went back to their green color before anyone could notice a difference.

At the same time, Adam leaned down to whisper into her ear.

"Now, since you finally solved the puzzle, listen to me carefully," threats touching her neck with his breath. "I want you to get rid of your friends. Especially this beautiful woman that's coming our way," no, Kamilah, don't, Amy thought with despair. "I don't want them to cause any trouble, so better push them away effectively. Then, you'll write to me, and I'll send someone for you. Do you understand?"

Amy hesitated for a moment, causing the grip to tighten around her waist, leaving marks on her skin through material.

"I asked you a question," he stepped back to have a clear view on her face.

"I understand," Amy responded with a sweet chuckle like he just told the best joke she heard so far in her life.

He nodded slightly, smiling, and let go of her hand and waist.

"Ah, Kamilah," his voice normal, without the previous sharpness. "I assume you're here for your beautiful date?"

"Vega," Kamilah gave him a little nod to show respect, not answering the question.

Senator was already on his way to another lady to ask for a dance. And, by this time Amy found herself in Kamilah's arms, trying to find a safe place in there.

"Are you alright?" Kamilah asked with concern. "You seem pretty shaken up now."

Amy looked into her eyes, and she knew.

She knew that she'll have to hurt her soon.

To save her.

"I'm ok," Amy answered with a smile as she kissed Kamilah's lips softly before adding, "Let's dance."

Dance, like the night, was never meant to end.

Next chapter: 22

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tag list: @onyxgaytrash, @lightning-fury, @scarlet-letter-a0114, @caliseds, @myonlybae-joohyun

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