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suzdin · 6 months

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Belly of the Beast: Part I

Dark!Dave York x F!reader

Warnings: it’s Dave, so…buckle up! No use of y/n. Homicide with a gun, reader is shot and grievously wounded and dying, graphic descriptions of murder and gore, use of medical equipment/terminology, amateur triage and medical care, Dave is a voyeuristic creep, Stockholm syndrome?, physical restraints, partial nudity, divergence from EQ2 plot and major character deaths mentioned. No mention of wife or kids. No smut this time! (Shocking, I know.) Dark themes obviously, I mean, Dave DOES kill for money, after all.

Summary: You’ve been Dave’s housekeeper for two years. When you arrive for your morning shift, the last thing you expect to see is Dave standing over a body.

This was going to be a one shot but I decided it worked better as a two parter. Enjoy!

Word Count: 4,700

Taglist: tagging the people I know for sure want to be tagged. If you want to be tagged for part II, lmk!

@ohheypedrito @kateispunk @survivingandenduring @kellybelly1978 @awilderi @oberynslady @natdeandar @daddy-dins-girl @heavennumber2 @guelyury

—

The sky is still dark, a faint slice of jagged light cast across a slate colored horizon, when you arrive for the day at Dave York’s home.

You notice his car parked in the driveway as you pull in, checking your messages to make sure you hadn’t missed anything from him, finding nothing. You frown.

Normally, he would tell you when he would be home if he knew you were also going to be there that day. He simply must have forgotten to mention it this time. It wasn’t a big deal; you could just work around him like you always did.

He was gone for work more often than not. What that entails, you aren’t entirely sure of; all you knew was that he worked in D.C. Something bureaucratic, most likely.

What was even more curious than his unannounced presence, however, was a second vehicle parked behind his.

You pull up next to aforementioned vehicle and get out, gathering your bucket of cleaning supplies from the backseat. Dave provided most of what was used, but there were a few items you preferred for various reasons, with his approval, of course. You had been his housekeeper for the last two years, servicing his home bi-weekly, and he paid you well, plus tips. You had few complaints.

Although the home was large and stately, he lived alone as far as you knew. You couldn’t recall seeing anyone there before now.

As you walk along the edge of the driveway to the side door, you note the pale illumination filtering out through the kitchen window onto the concrete, which makes sense considering the time of day. He’s most likely just sitting down to have his coffee and breakfast. You hope you don’t startle him too much.

The sun is ascending rapidly, already burning brighter in the short walk from your car to the door, providing you with enough light to get your key out.

You unlock the side door, which steps directly into a small utility and mud room. The interior door to the kitchen is drawn shut, which wasn’t unusual, but an unfamiliar noise registers as you enter, immediately followed by what sounds like chair legs scraping along the tiled floor, and Dave’s voice saying what sounds like a name. Mac? Is that what you heard?

Your mind fumbles over the original sound, knowing it’s familiar, but that you can’t quite place it, trying to trace its source. You can best describe it as a muted pop, loud enough to notice but not so loud as to sound any alarm bells. Or so you think.

You smell the strong waft of coffee and eggs cooking as you enter. And something else.

The scene that is laid out before you as you push open the kitchen door is the last thing you would ever expect or want to find, and the realization of what the unidentified sound was hits you like a freight train.

What you discover is Dave standing above a body, pistol clutched tightly in his right hand, knuckles turning alabaster, with what you’re certain is a silencer screwed to the end of the barrel.

The body sprawled across the floor belongs to a man you don’t recognize, a pool of fresh blood spreading rapidly from a single gunshot wound to the front of the skull, bone and brain matter studding the kitchen island and wall, the stink of crimson iron filling the air.

Dave’s head snaps up when he hears you enter, his face gone pale, but otherwise completely blank and devoid of emotion.

Your eyes lock.

You think you say his name. You aren’t sure, and the only reason you know you’ve said anything at all is because you feel the muscles in your esophagus stretching and vibrating, your heart thundering inside your rib cage.

You’re smart enough to deduce that this isn’t some home invasion gone awry. The unknown car in the driveway and the trained, emotionless nature at which Dave currently presents himself is testament to that.

The only option left is that Dave killed a man. And now he has his sights trained on none other than you.

You drop the bucket of supplies, the hollow sound of plastic hitting ceramic reverberating in your skull as you turn, your brain screaming at you to run, run.

In hindsight, running was a bad idea. But panic doesn’t always create rationale.

You feel your legs pumping, your lungs sucking in air. You want to scream for help but when you attempt it, the only sound that comes out is a small, strangled croak of terror. You feel like a damsel in distress in every horror movie you’ve ever seen, almost as if you aren’t actually moving at all, like you’re just running in place while the villain slowly catches up to you.

If you could just reach the neighbor’s house. If you could just… reach…

You manage to make it to the driveway, but you’re barely a few steps onto the concrete when that same muted pop registers again, and you instantly feel a sharp, burning, agonizing sting that rips right through you like a hot knife through butter, knocking you ass over teakettle just paces from Dave’s car, your face slamming hard against the ground.

You look down to see the spreading circle of blood on your shirt against your lower abdomen, a geyser of red bubbling up from the wound. And Dave is on you in an instant, hovering above you, gun trained right at your head.

You know you’re a goner. Abdominal gunshots are frequently fatal, at least according to the kind of shows you like to watch. And at the rate you’re seeing your blood spill out, you know it’s anything but good.

Before you fully comprehend what is happening, your vision already waning, you’re pleading for Dave to end your life as quickly as possible, ‘please, please Mr. York, I’ve been good to you. Please do it fast’, you choke out.

But Dave doesn’t kill you. His dark eyes bore into you, through you, and he hesitates. He’s watching you die and beg for him to put you down and yet he can’t bring himself to actually do it, regardless of how many names he’s scratched out of his ledger without remorse. Maybe because you’re just an innocent, wrong place wrong time, but he can’t seem to do it.

“Please, don’t let me suffer,” you sob as you lift a single, quaking hand that is slicked deep burgundy, and still he doesn’t put you down, only lowering the gun to his side, and you can’t help but wonder what you did to deserve to suffer slowly like this.

Finally, some sense of self preservation washes over you, and even as you’re dying, in your final throes of desperation, you start ripping and clawing at your shirt, managing to somehow tear a sizable chunk out of it, in order to make some kind of makeshift tourniquet that could potentially save your life.

Your hands shake and slip, blood pressure dropping rapidly, and your vision wanes more, the edges of the lightening sky fading and blotting away. You suddenly feel very cold and you can feel your heartbeat gradually ebbing to a slow, dull throb.

The last thing you see before your vision goes completely dark is Dave crouching over you, his face screwed up in regret.

——

God damn it.

When Dave had found out only days before that McCall was still alive, and that his old compatriot had sniffed out the details shrouding Susan’s death, Dave had lost all sight of anything else, completely forgetting you were scheduled to clean his house that day.

Had he realized, he would have canceled. It would have made things far less complicated.

But God fucking damn it. He didn’t want to kill you, his militaristic training and instincts piloting his actions when you fled instead of surrendering, intending to put a round in your skull but changing his mind at the last possible fraction of a second so that he totally FUBAR’d the shot and hit your abdomen instead. A gut shot wasn’t much better. In fact, it was worse. Way worse.

You’re still breathing when he finishes applying the crude tourniquet that you had started, which didn’t completely stop the bleeding but slowed it enough to make a difference. That way, he could get you down into the basement where he could apply proper triage.

His medical training was rudimentary and archaic at best, but it was better than nothing. And it was his best chance at keeping you alive.

Your blood soaks through the light blue dress shirt Dave is wearing as he carries you through the house draped in his arms, the one you once told him looked nice on him. He takes you into the basement and places you on his work table — which isn’t sterile — noting no exit wound as he sets you down, which can be good or bad, all things depending.

Thankfully, he locates the bullet readily enough, fishing it out with a narrow pair of forceps, discarding it into a medical pan as he lets out a sigh of relief when he sees the bullet didn’t strike anything crucial, an incredibly lucky feat.

He grabs a skin stapler to close up the wound; a messy and rushed method of closure that would leave behind a pretty significant scar, but he didn’t have the luxury of time to close the wound properly with a needle, especially considering the rate at which his hands were already shaking.

He takes in a deep breath when he finishes stapling you back together and leans over you, examining your face and body visually, his mind racing as to what he should do now. You still had a pulse. You were breathing. But you had lost a lot of blood, and your prognosis wasn’t good.

Frowning, the crease deepening between his brows, he cleans and sterilizes the wound, wrapping you up in proper dressing, which he hopes is enough to stave off any infection. He can’t risk taking you to a hospital. Especially when there’s still a dead man to deal with only a floor above.

The good news is that he knew no one would come looking for McCall, the majority believing him to already be dead, so disposal would thankfully be swift and painless. You, on the other hand, he was unsure of. He knew your parents had passed and you didn’t have siblings, but he didn’t know if there was a boyfriend or girlfriend in your life, or friends who would notice your absence.

His mind reels with every possibility. Dave isn’t a man who enjoys loose ends. Loose ends make his ass itch.

Your shirt is shredded and bloody, so he removes the remainder of it, leaving you in a soft black cotton bra. He doesn’t let his eyes wander, although, at the back of his mind, he realizes he has always found you attractive. Just as quickly as it dawns on him, he shakes the thought from his mind; it is neither the time nor place for such endeavors.

He removes your shoes but not your socks, knowing you would be cold from having lost so much blood. He might actually put one of his pairs over your own, for good measure.

After a long beat of silent contemplation, Dave scoops you up into his arms once more.

——

You wake up from a fitful sleep some hours later, in a bed you’ve never slept in before. The room around you is dark, shades drawn, a faint light flooding in from beneath a closed door.

When you attempt to sit up, pain lances through your torso and you cry out, your back hitting the mattress. You immediately realize, much to your horror, that you’re also handcuffed to a bedpost. Even if you could move without effort, you aren’t exactly going anywhere.

Your memory suddenly comes flooding back in a tidal wave of images, recalling all of the events that lead up to this point; the body on the kitchen floor, the gunshot, Dave staring down at you with a pistol in his hand.

But you aren’t in a hospital and this isn’t a hospital bed. You’re in Dave’s bedroom. In Dave’s bed.

The door clicks open and a familiar silhouette steps into the room, regarding you in steely silence. You recognize the broad shoulders right away, the thick arms, the short cropped hair.

Your pulse quickens, your body and mind telling you to flee again, even though you know you can’t, causing you to flinch with a choked whimper when he takes a step toward you.

“I wouldn’t move, sweetheart. You lost a lot of blood,” Dave explains, his voice low and soft to your ears as he approaches the bed.

Your body is trembling hard. So hard that it makes the entire bed vibrate.

He’s no longer wearing the blue shirt or black slacks from before, now dressed in a slate gray t-shirt and Adidas sweats. His dark eyes study you as he sits next to you on the edge of the bed. If you weren’t so weak, you think you would strike him.

He lifts the back of his hand to your cheek and you flinch again.

“Shh,” he tuts, “I’m not going to harm you.”

His hand presses to the soft round of your cheek, your forehead, checking for fever.

“Y-you— you s-shot me—?“ you croak.

“I reacted poorly,” Dave agrees with a small nod, his lips parted softly, “but you also shouldn’t have run.”

“You k-killed… that man…”

“I did, indeed.” His eyes grow a shade darker, his brow knitting together, lending him a sinister appearance. “But that man was threatening me. That man was going to kill me…” Dave explains, an edge of malice and contempt to his voice. “I was left with few options.”

You stare back, unblinkingly, trying to decide what to say next, if anything.

“My family will come looking for me,” is what you settle on, a wash of bravery suddenly welling up within you.

To that, Dave smirks, eyes remaining dark, hand lowering to the bed by your hip.

“What family?” Dave asks, smirk slanting even more, his tone semi-mocking. “Do you really think I would hire someone to come into my home without doing a full investigation on them?”

Your jaw drops open, hanging slack in the air, as it dawns on you that a trained killer has been right under your nose this entire time. You would scream if you had the lung capacity to do so.

You should have seen the patterns. Noticed the signs. The constant travel, the lack of personal touches to his home, the pinpricks of blood you occasionally found on his clothes that you excused for other things. That one room in the basement he forbade you from entering.

But you hadn’t, causing you to nearly pay with your life.

Truth is, Dave had picked you for good reason, and it wasn’t just because of the exemplary reviews. You were naive and trusting, you had no family, no criminal record, you didn’t work for an agency; you worked solo. Your work ethic and reliability were just cherries on top.

You look down to notice the IV needle in your hand, and you lift it in examination, your hand shaking and sputtering weakly. No… no, you really had no clue who this guy was at all.

Dave watches you for a beat before he gently grasps your hand and places it back down on the bed, regarding you with uncharacteristic softness and empathy.

You feel your consciousness starting to drift then as Dave pulls the covers back to check the dressings, finding they’re still intact and that the wound hasn’t reopened from what he can tell. He’ll clean and redress everything in the morning. For now, you need rest.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells you, stepping out of the room for what feels like only a meager blip of time to you, but when you open your eyes again, he’s hovering above you once more with a thermometer and an ice pack.

“Open up,” he instructs, and you do so obediently.

“Good girl,” Dave praises as he checks your temperature, and you close your eyes.

When the thermometer beeps, which feels like an eternity later, he frowns, exhaling a long sigh. “101.5. Here,” he says, leaning to the side where he opens a drawer on the night stand, a bottle of aspirin rattling somewhere next to your head. The sound is grating, making your head throb, and suddenly the lamp seems too bright.

He feeds you some pills and gives you a drink of water from a nearby tumbler, which you guess was also on the nightstand, but aren’t too sure.

He pulls the blanket back up all the way to your chin and places the ice pack on your forehead, staring down at you. Although Dave was the reason you were even here at all, he is treating you with a surprising amount of tenderness.

“You need to eat,” he says after a moment. “Dinner is almost ready.”

——

You must pass out again, because when your eyes reopen, Dave stands next to you with a small tray table filled with food.

“Chicken and dumplings,” he explains. “It will keep the cold away.”

You nod your head weakly as he places the tray over you. When you reach for the spoon, he stops you, blocking your hand with his own.

“Let me,” he says, picking up the spoon. “I don’t want you moving anymore than necessary.”

You have to keep reminding yourself that he’s the one who shot you. He’s why you’re in this mess in the first place. Why you’re here, injured, with a hole in your abdomen, chained to his bed.

The way he’s acting shouldn’t be trusted.

You try to resist, but he grabs your jaw with the other hand and forces it to pop open, pressing the spoon past your lips as he ladles the soup into your mouth, much to your displeasure.

“Eat,” he says softly, but sternly, his features darkening in regard.

The food is warm, as promised, and delicious. You aren’t sure of the last time you ate, not knowing what time or even what day it is, but you soon realize you’re starving. Because of this, the second spoonful is not met with as much resistance as the first, your mouth hinging open in resignation and acquiescence.

Dave’s eyes zero in on your soft lips. The way they twitch ever so slightly as they divide. The way your tongue looks so velvet and inviting…

He feeds you slowly, thoughtfully, watching your every move, his own lips parted in concentration as you take in the much needed sustenance.

By the end of it, you’ve managed to polish off about half the bowl. Seemingly satisfied with that, he makes you drink some Gatorade.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask weakly as soon as you swallow down a couple gulps of the blue liquid, your consciousness ebbing and flowing by the second. Dave looks at your face, but he doesn’t give you an answer. He doesn’t have one to give.

Part of him wishes he did.

“I have to pee,” you tell him suddenly when you notice the familiar stab of discomfort in your lower region. A realization that sends a jolt of anxiety rushing through you, your pulse racing when you watch his face fall. He hadn’t even thought of that…

His skills and equipment were limited to wound care, so of course he hadn’t put a catheter in. He wouldn’t know how even if he did happen to have one.

He deliberates on what to do. He didn’t have a bed pan. But, he was sure he could find something comparable to use.

Or he could help you to the bathroom. He has an en suite, it was literally only steps around the bed. But the space was tight. It would take some maneuvering. And he would have to be close to you the entire time. Not to mention uncuffing you from the bed.

In the end, that’s what he settles on.

“Let me help you to the bathroom, sweetheart,” he says to you, pulling the blankets back, and you are cold. So cold. Your flesh pebbling with the lick of cool air against your skin.

He unlocks the handcuffs and you massage your sore wrist and shoulder the moment you have full motion of your arm again.

“Slowly,” he instructs, his voice low and even. “Grab the IV stand.”

You do as you’re told, gripping the cool steel in your hand as you grasp his forearm with the other while he gingerly manipulates you into a sitting position. You cry out at the sudden dagger of pain that slices through your lower gut, and he does his best to steady you against him.

He did this to you, you keep reminding yourself. He did this to you.

He lifts you carefully, slowly, and you groan at the swell of pain when he places you on your feet.

“Easy, easy…” he murmurs, one arm circling your waist to keep you upright. You flinch at the contact.

You make it to the bathroom easily enough, light flooding the small room as Dave flips the switch. A bathroom you’ve cleaned countless times. There was rarely much to clean in here, save for the occasional whisker in the sink, or some light trash in the bin.

Dave was neat and fastidious, and not frequently home. You often wondered why he needed someone to clean his house in the first place.

The space looks no different than usual, but right now it feels… different. You shouldn’t be here.

He guides you to the toilet, and when you get there, you stare down at it, pondering to yourself how this is going to work.

He seems hesitant to leave your side.

“Go ahead,” he tells you softly, “I won’t look.”

You freeze. The last thing you want is to expose your body to him when he already has several advantages on you. But your bladder is screaming at you to go, especially now given your proximity to the porcelain bowl, and you can barely stand on your own, your arms and legs wobbling.

You watch as he turns his back, placing himself between you and the exit. You bend just slightly to tug your bottoms down, but it’s too much, more pain coursing through your body. You yelp, unable to even budge the fabric.

“Hey,” Dave says, turning back to face you, “Let me help you.”

“No, I—I got it,” you protest, your arms shaking, attempting it again, only to end up with the same result. “Fuck—“

“Hey,” Dave says a second time, more sternly than before, as he moves in to your space. “Let me help. I promise I won’t touch you.”

You tremble. You’re cold, you’re frightened, you’re weak. So weak. You’re in your bra, partially exposed to him already. Yet, you concede with a nod anyway. You’ll piss yourself if you don’t.

He mirrors your nod in silent confirmation and moves closer, crowding into your intimate space, his fingers finding the waistband of your leggings and underwear. He slides them down your hips and legs in unison, all the way to your knees. As promised, he doesn’t touch you more than he needs to.

But he has to look. He needs to see where his hands are in relation to your body in order to keep himself from accidentally breaking his promise of touching you in a way you didn’t consent to, and another part of him just can’t help it, either. He is a man, after all, and he wasn’t currently seeing anyone. Romance wasn’t exactly optimal for someone in his position, his attention honed in on his work above all else.

When the nights were long and lonely enough, he would, on occasion, share his bed with a sex worker, but aforementioned nights were few and far between. He enjoyed his job. He got off on it. Romance was often placed on the back burner.

But there’s just something about you. Especially now, with how vulnerable you are, that he finds irresistible.

His gaze only lingers on your bared skin for a moment, big brown puppy dog eyes roving over your soft curves, holding on to you as he lowers you down to the commode. And, god, you’re just as beautiful as he imagined, his skin heating at the sight of your soft folds.

“Call for me when you’re done,” he grates quietly as he takes a step out of the bathroom, blood rushing to certain parts of his body, shutting the door to give you a modicum of privacy, which you’re more than grateful for.

His eyes on you had not gone unnoticed. You weren’t stupid and you weren’t seeing anyone either, currently; his attention, regardless of how brief, had made your skin heat and your core pulse with need. You clear your throat and try to discard the thought.

Dave is why you are here. Dave is dangerous. So dangerous he can’t even take you to a hospital to get proper medical attention. Stop it.

It feels like you pee for ages. You aren’t totally convinced you’re awake for most of it. Eventually, you finish, even managing to wipe yourself, in spite of things, which you’re relieved for. You wouldn’t want him to do it for you; that would be humiliating and degrading.

You call for Dave when you’re done and he returns in an instant, hoisting you to your feet as he pulls your pants and underwear back up and over your hips, trying not to think about your soft cunt. You can see how hard he’s trying not to look at you.

“Good?” he asks. You nod.

Bracing yourself against him, he helps you back to the comfort of the bed. It smells like him, despite how little he’s actually in it. You hiss through your teeth as he manipulates you into position, adjusting the pillows and covers until you’re as comfortable as possible.

You’re cold. Freezing, in fact, despite it being the swell of summer.

“I’m c-cold,” you lament to Dave, crossing your arms over your chest beneath the blanket.

Dave’s lips pinch to the side in thought. “Hold on.”

He returns a moment later with an extra blanket, tossing it over you, tucking the edges neatly around your form, taking extra care to be gentle, noteably around your abdomen.

As you watch him, his face and eyes soft, his hair mussed and unkempt, you ask yourself once again why he’s doing all of this for you.

Guilt? Shame? Something else?

You don’t have much time to ruminate on it for too long before your consciousness peters away once more.

——

Dave sighs as he watches you slip back into listlessness. You’re doing better than he anticipated, but you aren’t out of the woods yet. He knows how much blood you had lost; he’d spent hours cleaning it. Not to mention McCall, the remains of which he had delivered to an acquaintance who works at the industrial incinerator on the outskirts of town, after tending to you.

He loops your hand back through the cuff on the bedpost and peers down at you. You’re so beautiful; he hopes you make it. He wishes you hadn’t run from him. God, why did you run? He doesn’t want you to meet the same fate as McCall. He doesn’t want to know what your incinerated body smells like.

Every body has a different smell, in his experience.

He gives you another dose of morphine to reduce any pain you may be feeling and to keep you knocked out for a few more hours, checking for fever again, which is currently holding steady. It was good that it wasn’t going up. Any higher and you could potentially be in trouble. He’ll keep checking throughout the night to be on the safe side.

He sighs, knowing he’ll have to stay in town for weeks, which he detested doing. He hated staying in one place for longer than required. But he didn’t have much of a choice at this point.

He turns off the light and shuts the door behind him as he leaves you to rest.

Part II coming soon!

#dave york #dave york x reader #dave york x female reader #dave york x f!reader #pedro pascal #writing #fanfic #romance #dark romance #pedro fanfic

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rekaning · 1 year

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The Housekeeper | Part 1 | Elijah Mikaelson x Reader

Additional tags: Human!Mikaelsons, Modern!AU, Housekeeper!Reader, no use of Y/N Pairings: Elijah Mikaelson x Reader, The Originals x Reader (Platonic) Summary: You've been hired as the new housekeeper for the Mikaelson estate, owned by the elusive Elijah Mikaelson.

His sister had hired you. She had explained during the interview that her brother's previous housekeeper had been getting on in age and was looking to retire soon. There would be two weeks of training to make the transition between housekeeper feel seamless. The master of the home had a certain expectation of the cleanliness of his home, and he would expect the same amount of care to be shown by the new housekeeper.

You weren't worried at all.

You grew up around the janitorial occupation. Your mother had taken you along with her to the home's she'd been hired at on days you didn't have school. She always sat you down and made sure you were occupied while she went about tidying up the million dollar residences. You watched her most of the time. Saw how hard she worked to keep the domicile organized and clean. Whether it be cleaning the toilets, mopping the floors, scrubbing the bathtub. Your mother did it all. And you had been so impressed with her.

While many other children looked up to and aspired to be firefighters or astronauts, you had wanted to do what your mother did.

"One of the greatest things in life you can do, is to serve others." Your mother had once said. After a long and tough day at work, you asked her why she seemed to enjoy this job so much when it took so much out of her, physically. That had been her response. And when her employer arrived, looking at his home impressed and awestruck, his wide smile and generous words had made your mother's face light up like a Christmas tree.

"That feeling you get," she explained, "when a person thanks you from the bottom of their heart, when you can see the gratitude in their eyes; you can feel your chest swell with warmth at their words. It's one of the best feelings in the world."

You hadn't felt that before. You wanted to know what it felt like. So, one day in school, you made an effort to offer your services to clean up the classroom for your 2nd grade teacher, Miss Dobson.

After the class had been dismissed for recess, you walked over to the supply cabinet and grabbed a cleaning spray you had seen your teacher use for cleaning smudges, and a small hand towel, and got to work on wiping down all the desks of your classmates. Miss Dobson, having occupied herself with wiping the chalkboard clean looked over at you, diligently cleaning the desks.

Her look of surprise soon morphed into one of unabashed thankfulness. "That is very thoughtful of you! Thank you so much, my little helper!"

Safe to say, your mother had been right. The feeling you got was unlike anything you had ever experienced.

Since that moment, you'd vowed to follow in your mother's footsteps. Having observed her all your life, you went into the housecleaning business once you turned 18.

And it's how you had ended up working for one of the heirs of the Mikaelson conglomerate. Namely, the 2nd eldest son, Elijah Mikaelson.

The Mikaelsons were a world-renowned name, made famous by the various industries each sibling was tied to. The oldest of the siblings and 1st daughter, Freya, worked closely with the 2nd youngest brother, Kol; the two had co-founded an archeological enterprise that specialized in finding and preserving ancient texts and artifacts, usually donating items to museums the world over.

The oldest son, Finn, was a deeply loved humanitarian and patron for education. He traveled the world, working with out-reach programs to feed famine-stricken countries and bring medicine to villages that faced medical crisis. He also worked closely with his siblings Freya and Kol to facilitate extracurricular programs for children to learn more about history, giving out funds to schools to create more opportunities to take their classes to museums and other learning facilities.

Nikalus Mikaelson; or as his more well-known alias, Klaus, was a huge advocate for the arts. He owned and ran several galleries in different countries, curated a vast collection of paintings from famous artists of the past, and was quite the accomplished artist himself. He also funded many theaters, most of them opera houses and even owned a very exclusive art supply chain.

Rebekah, the youngest daughter, and the one who had hired you in the first place, was one of the highest paid models of this generation. She also had her own clothing line and marketed a lot of her items online, using her influence to sell her product. Out of all the siblings, Rebekah was the most "accessible", so to speak, her online presence marking her as the most social of the family.

There was also the youngest brother, Henrik, but he was still pursuing his education overseas, although rumor had it that he was very close to his brother Klaus and it was expected that he would most likely venture into the art business with him.

Finally, there was Elijah. The more elusive of the siblings. The 2nd eldest son was well established in the wine industry. He owned several wineries and even some breweries. He even worked together with his sister, Rebekah, and started a clothing brand for tailored suits. It was widely rumored that Elijah was the one running the entire conglomeration of Mikaelson subsidiaries. He was rarely seen out and about in public, keeping himself far from the spotlight, seeming rather content to let his siblings be front and center.

You were no stranger to the more reclusive type, there were plenty of millionaires you had worked for in the past that stayed indoor as often as possible, many of them incredibly uptight about punctuality and routine. You had expected the same of Elijah when you first came to work for him.

Surprisingly enough, he was anything but. You had met him on your first day. He had been the one to open the door, held out his hand, and greeted you cordially. He then escorted you to his retiring housekeeper, Philomena, and left the two of you for some meeting or other.

Over the transition period of learning the in's and out's of the Mikaelson home, you had come to learn a bit more about the family. Most all the children had homes of their own, besides Henrik, who still lived with their mother and father, but many of them would stay over at each other's houses quite often. The siblings whose homes were occupied a majority of the time were Elijah's and Klaus'.

After a few weeks of taking over as housekeeper, you met the siblings one after the other.

The first was Rebekah, though you had already tehnically met, seeing as she was the one to hire you. She had entered the home one morning and asked for Elijah. You had told her that he had stepped out for an early brunch with several investors regarding the opening of another winery. The beautiful blonde model sighed at the news and muttered that it 'couldn't be helped'. She then had you sit on one of the plush couches in the living area as she brought in a rack of gowns and asked you to pick which suited her better.

It had been a bizarre morning for you but you had enjoyed the time you spent with the young woman. You learned that she used these mini-runway sessions as an excuse to visit her siblings. She mostly dropped in on Elijah or Klaus, the two brothers she was closest with, but she did occasionally visit the others.

That day you had seen a sight you would not soon forget. Once Elijah came home and caught sight of his sister, a bright, wide smile spread across his lips, his face lit up instantly, and he looked years younger. You were awestruck.

He was never completely devoid of emotion, but many of the smiles he had shot your way had been cordial and polite. To see his face smooth over and relax the way it had with his little sister, you felt your heart skip a beat at the sight.

You prepared a special meal that day, to celebrate Rebekah's visit. Rebekah's words of praise at the delicious meal had that wonderful feeling spread through you. Your beaming smile at the blonde distracted you from noticing Elijah's own eyes from staring at you with curious wonder.

Klaus had visited a week later after Rebekah's departure. You had helped him lug in his 12 foot canvases to the studio room you cleaned out every other week. Thankfully, you cleaned it a day before the brother's arrival, earning an appreciative nod from the man as he went about setting up his work space. Over the next few days, you catered to the artist, bringing him his meals and any other items he required. When Elijah was present, Klaus would step away from his paintings, and the two would mainly spend their time in the library, either playing chess, reading, or discussing various topics regarding their respective businesses.

The two had such differing personalities that it was amazing to see how they balanced each other. Klaus seemed to act out of impulse. You had heard him yelling every now and again to someone on the phone but Elijah's calm demeanor seemed to counteract his little brother's short fuse.

On the last night of Klaus's visit, the blonde man had retired to his room earlier that day. Seeing it as your opportunity to tidy the studio room a bit, you carefully entered. You went about sweeping and mopping the floors, organizing the brushes and towels he had left scattered around. Once you had finished, you finally took a moment to actually look at the paintings that surrounded the room. It was safe to say that Klaus was far more talented than you originally believed. You stared in wonder at the majestic landscapes depicted on the canvas.

It was in this enraptured trance that Elijah had caught you. The door to the studio hadn't been shut completely, allowing the fumes from the paint to escape. He had just been on his way to his office when he had noticed the light on in the room. He had merely gone to glance inside to make sure his little brother hadn't just forgotten to turn off the light. Then he saw you.

You were staring at the painting Niklaus had finished. Your eyes were shining in amazement, and your mouth agape with awe. And Elijah couldn't help but smile. As his housekeeper, you and he communicated quite often, but there was a distance that couldn't be breached due to your position and because of that, he only ever saw you focused on your duties, polite and respectful responses to his questions and requests. Your professionalism only seemed to drop when you interacted with his siblings. And there was a part of him that was envious of them.

He had left the scene very shortly after watching you for a moment, slightly embarrassed at his blatant ogling. You were none the wiser to his presence that night.

Freya, Kol, and Finn arrived in one fell swoop. You had been surprised, only having expected to meet each Mikaelson one by one. Finn and Freya were warm in their greetings. Kol, while still polite, was the more aloof one of the trio. You had the sense that he was very wary of outsiders. From your observations while they resided in the estate, Kol seemed to thrive on the attention and praise of his siblings. He was an incredibly smart person, intuitive and thinking outside the box for solutions to problems. You noticed that he stuck very closely to his older sister and brother and how he would retaliate verbally more harshly toward Elijah or against Klaus and Rebekah if they were mentioned in some form or another. You soon realized that his aloof persona was really a shield to hide away his own insecurities. He craved validation from his siblings and wanted to feel just as loved as he so fiercely loved them. His combative nature toward Elijah, Rebekah, and Klaus seemed to be more out of jealousy at their bond with one another than actual contempt.

Having realized that, you treated him with more care than the rest. He didn't trust you but kept a close eye on you during his stay with his siblings. He would flirt with you, not because he was interested, it was a tactic for him to get you flustered, wanting you to slip up whatever facade he believed you had going on. But you were not that easily shakeable. You knew he was worried for his family. You'd heard plenty of stories of previous hired help around the home and how some had the audacity to try and steal from the Mikaelsons. Kol was just looking out for Elijah—and by extension the rest of his siblings—in his own way.

It was only when you had shown interest in a particular project that he and Freya had undertaken, did he start to warm up to you. The two had discovered ruins in the outskirts of a small village in El Salvador. Freya had sent an advance team ahead to secure the perimeter and begin initial survey's of the terrain for the main archeological team. Kol and she had been seated in their office, piles of books surrounding them with maps and charts pinned to the myriad of cork boards they had covering the walls of the office.

You had been bringing them a pot of tea, Finn trailing behind you holding a tray of cookies to go along with the prepared drink. As you laid the two trays on the emptiest looking portion of the desk, you caught sight of a map of El Salvador, a red circle encompassing their purported dig site.

"Oh, are you going to be digging near El Boquerón?"

Freya and Kol abruptly paused their discussion and turned their heads to you. Freya saw you eyeing the map and nodded, "Yes, that's correct. You know the place?"

You looked up from the map and sheepishly stepped away, "Uh, I was really interested in ancient civilizations during high school. I read a lot of books talking about various indigenous cultures in Central and South America. I really ended up focusing on Mayan nations and sub cultures that formed in remote locations. I know that there was a section of indigenous people in El Salvador known as the Pipil."

You pointed to the red circle on the page, "This area was devastated by a volcanic eruption in the late 1910's. The lake that was once there completely disappeared and many of the homes of the people there was completely burned or melted away by the lava."

Freya and Finn practically beamed at the information you were providing them. Kol tried hard not to look impressed with your knowledge. The three were quick to bring you into their discussion from that point. Asking if you knew anything about the climate there and the terrain they may face.

Elijah came in later that day to find the four of you huddled around Freya's laptop, an image of an item resembling a ceramic jar, half buried in the dirt. Again, a pang of envy coursed through him at the sight of you chatting away so freely with his brothers and sister.

But a bigger part of him was overjoyed to see how well his family had taken to you. Philomena, while a phenomenal housekeeper, had kept to herself and never connected with him, nor his siblings, on a personal level.

You were something special.

He looked on silently as you continued to point out different portions of the computer image. The moments of jealousy that coursed through him were unexpected but not wholly unwelcome. It told him that there was something he wanted to explore with you—only if you wanted to as well, of course—and that the time for distance was to come to an end.

He wanted to know you more, the same way his siblings had gotten the privilege to over these last few months.

Elijah was eager to learn more about his dear housekeeper.

***

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Author's note: This just kept getting longer and longer until I had to make it into a separate part.

Can you tell I love Original sibling interactions with OC's/reader's?

#elijah mikealson x reader #the originals x reader #elijah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #kol mikaelson #finn mikaelson #henrik mikaelson #freya mikaelson #Alternate universe #human au

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fortisfilia · 6 months

Text

Promised Part 11 - Tom Riddle x reader

Info: This is a rewrite of a story I've posted on my old account years ago. If it sounds familiar, that might be why :)

Summary: In this story, Tom didn't grow up as an orphan, but with his grandfather and uncle. Reader's sister got very sick and the Gaunts offer their help. But not without asking for something in return.

Warnings: Arranged marriage, an unholy amount of fluff

Word count: 2.3k

Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 10 | Part 12

Part 11 - The Earth's Centre

Starting to brew the antidote for Mors Grano proved easier than anticipated. The potion’s base was quite similar to any other healing draught, and so was its production. You had decided to begin the tedious process, even though the Banshee tears were missing. According to the recipe, they were the last ingredient to be added, so you had plenty of time to find them, even if you didn’t know exactly how.

For the first few weeks, there was nothing to do but the Moondew cook, stirring it frequently. The cauldron stood in Tom’s room, its content simmering steadily, ready to be examined at any moment by one of you.

Professor Beery had denied you the bonus points for the N.E.W.T.s after you had told him that the Moly had unfortunately died. Those points were the least of your problems, however.

The plant had, in fact, bloomed beautifully, ready to be added to the potion.

And that was when the difficulties began. As soon as you dropped the blossoms into the cauldron, the potion started to smell. Very strongly. The mixture reacted in a way that wasn’t described in the book and started to produce yellow steam, as well as a sour, headache-inducing odour, which reached beyond the walls of Tom’s room. The fume filled up every last inch of his dorm and even seemed to creep out into the Slytherin common room. Other students had begun to mention the weird smell and even Dippet, who had paid Tom a number of unfortunate surprise visits, was beginning to grow suspicious.

You had sent your parents an owl to inform them you wouldn’t come home during your semester break. They weren’t exactly happy about it; you had never stayed at Hogwarts during the holidays after all. But you had insisted, telling them there was so much studying to do until they finally let go. That wasn’t even a lie. There was a bunch of work to do. Granted, not all of it was related to school, but you still had a lot on your plate.

Tom stayed in Hogwarts for the week as well. You weren’t sure but highly doubted that he had notified his own family about it. And to be fair, they wouldn’t really care about that, would they?

Although the school was practically empty, with only a fraction of the students staying with you, those who remained complained of the pungent smell in all the Slytherin dormitories. On Sunday evening you heard that the housekeeper had been sent to find the source, and Tom was informed that Mr Carpe would begin his search the following morning.

So there you were, worrying about what to do, stirring the cauldron for the twentieth time within the last minutes, hoping it would steam less, the more you whisked through it. No matter how hard you concentrated, how many options you took into account, there was nowhere to take the cauldron where its smell would go unnoticed.

The Potions classroom was off-limits, even though it was much better equipped for the fumes. Slughorn would spend a lot of his time there, to prepare tasks for the upcoming semester. You had even considered taking it home and telling your parents about it. But using the Floo-Network with an item this heavy wasn’t possible, and taking the train with a simmering cauldron seemed ridiculous. Besides, the antidote still took months to finish, so you would have to take it back to Hogwarts a week later anyway.

Hell, you had even thought of taking that damned kettle out onto the Quidditch pitch or into the forest, so no one would smell it anymore. But you couldn’t leave it out in the open, of course.

Just when you had given up hope and realised that you couldn’t go on brewing the potion in Tom’s room, or anywhere else, he had told you about another possibility. There was this room on the seventh floor that he had discovered in fifth year. He called it the Come and Go Room and was positive that no one but himself, not even the teachers, knew of its existence. The room must have been enchanted, according to Tom, and only appeared when one was in dire need.

So the two of you went there that same night, in a cloak and dagger operation, levitating the cauldron behind you. You had covered it with a white sheet so that if someone saw you, they at least wouldn’t know initially what you were doing. The disguise was weak and you knew if Dippet or any other teacher would spot you, you would be screwed.

Luckily none of them were around when you rushed through the halls, aside from Warren O’Connor, a Ravenclaw fifth year, who patrolled a corridor next to their tower. He was too far away to detect the poorly hidden cauldron and didn’t even seem to look at you once he recognised Tom.

When you had finally arrived, chest heaving, thoughts rushing from relief and tension, Tom instructed you how to summon the Come and Go Room. You walked past the stone wall three times and imagined, very carefully, what you needed. An airtight room that allowed you to keep on brewing your potion in peace, that no one would be able to find unless you wanted them to. Suddenly, a door appeared. You looked at Tom and he nodded before you took the handle and opened it.

The small room behind the door was, simply put, perfect. Your very own Potions laboratory. Dark and nifty, it offered enough little cabinets to store all the ingredients for the antidote, as well as a worktop to put the cauldron on. Everything looked as if it had been custom made, just for this purpose. Which it was, you had just created it all yourself.

Now that the cauldron was in a safe place Tom felt more at ease and even thought that the semester break could turn out to be enjoyable. Why did that relax him, though? A question he had asked himself more than once. He didn’t have to care, nor did he have to help his fiancée to save her sister. Then why had he done it?

He didn’t have a logical answer to that question, even though the illogical one seemed to grow stronger, slowly putting down roots and beginning to blossom. He shrugged it off. But there were so many questions of the same kind running through his mind. Why did he care? He had never cared before. For anyone. That girl wouldn’t bring him where he wanted to be just by marrying him. Sure, her family was respected. Of course, they were purebloods, which was why his Grandfather had taken notice of them. But it had never been Tom’s wish to marry her. So why didn’t he mind the thought anymore? The idea of watching her walk down the aisle had repelled him immensely when he had found out what Marvolo’s plan had been. And now it didn’t. He must have gotten used to the idea. It even bugged him to think about the fact that the marriage wouldn’t happen by chance if the antidote was finished soon enough. Then why did he help her?

There was something inside of him, something he couldn’t just pinpoint yet. Something that made him do the things he had done, even when it had gone against his own benefit. Something that made him care less and less about himself. It must have turned all of his morals upside down, because somehow, and he couldn’t explain why, the most important thing was to see her happy. He didn’t even know when his priorities had changed. When he had stopped putting himself first. But it had happened. And that irritated him beyond belief.

She had been so easy to dislike. Back then, when they were sitting in her dining room alone. When she had stared at him, eagerly waiting for him to pity her. So conceited. Desperate for his attention. But then again, she had been so easy to like. When had he started giving in? At first, he had felt nothing more than disgust, appalled by the turmoil inside his head. That nasty feeling in his chest and his weak knees. But once he had surrendered, it had begun to feel good.

All he wanted - no - all he needed now, was to make sure she was safe. Protect her. Help her. That wasn’t just an act of kindness though. He had figured out that apparently, he mirrored her emotions. When she was pleased, he was too. When she was angry, he couldn’t help but feel furious as well. When she was sad, his chest stung with her. It felt like a purpose. Like she was the earth’s centre and everyone else, even himself, merely spun around her. She had his full attention now and he didn’t plan on taking it from her anytime soon.

If someone were to ask him why, he wouldn’t even know where to begin. How does one even begin to describe such an embarrassing accumulation of emotion and weakness alike? If he had to, he’d start with her glow. That devotion she seemed to radiate anywhere she was. Her relentless spirit and how ready she was to combat anyone with it. How tender she was with people that deserved it. And how ruthless she could be with those who didn’t. The way she moved in her sleep, slowly and gently, turning over and unknowingly stealing his blanket at least twice a night. The way her chest moved up and down when she lay next to him. How her eyes seemed to light up when she awoke and looked at him. The hours he had watched her. Held her. Felt her skin brushing against his own, just like in this moment. How could anyone experience that and not have the urge to keep it? To freeze those moments in time and lock them up, safely, for nobody to see.

Tom wasn’t sure if she was aware of how nervous she made him. He knew how to hide it, but was ever so annoyed at how much he depended on being close to her. And he usually wasn’t the one to become jittery. That was the response he normally got. Freda Morris, for example, couldn’t seem to think straight when he had taken her out once, during their sixth year. Merlin’s beard, that lass was nerve-wrenching.

Quite contrary to her. No one had ever done that to him. She had crawled under his skin and into his head, drugging his mind until almost every single thought he produced revolved around her. But he knew his place. She hadn’t befuddled him just to make him her pawn. He knew, because that was what his family had done ever since he could remember. She had never done him wrong. Maybe that was why he had helped her. And why he was willing to do anything for her, even if it meant for him to suffer. He was the antagonist in their story, he knew. And if he was poison, she was the remedy. If he was the villain, she was the treasure worth saving.

Tom’s pitiful monologue was interrupted when she woke up, opened her eyes and looked at him.

“Morning,” she said quietly and smiled.

He looked at her for a moment. If only she knew.

“Morning,” he replied.

She stretched her arms in the air and yawned, then turned towards him and ran her fingers along his jawline. Bliss.

“How long have you been awake?” she asked, staring at the stubble on his chin that her thumb had just touched.

“Not long,” he lied. “Just a few minutes.”

She grinned and placed a kiss onto the left end of his lips. “I have to get up and stir the potion. Care to join me?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Oh, and I think I’m going to go to Diagon Alley in the afternoon. To buy the Foxgloves. I have to add them next week.”

“I’ll come.”

She exhaled and pulled him in, nuzzling into his neck.

“Do you think we should go to Knockturn Alley as well?” she asked, her voice muffled. “While we’re there. I want to see if any store offers Banshee tears.”

“I don’t think they do,” Tom said and she lifted her head to look at him.

“But where else then?”

“I think I know where we could get some.”

She nodded, urging him to tell her.

“Well, I’m sure Morfin owns a flask. He had to get it if he wanted to brew the antidote, didn’t he?”

“But if they never planned on curing Elsie entirely, I don’t think he would have gotten them.”

“Marvolo never planned on curing her,” Tom said. “Morfin did. He’s a Potions master. One that doesn’t care about legality. He knows every last person that deals with ingredients like that. Even if he never intended to free her, I’m sure he got them just in case he ever needed them for himself.”

Her eyes roamed his face as she pondered. “So what do we do now? Go to your house, search his chamber and steal the flask?”

Tom shook his head. “That won’t be as easy. They’re always home, Marvolo has his eyes everywhere. Even the house-elves would alarm him.”

She frowned, brows furrowed while she lightly tugged on his hair.

“They’ll be gone,” Tom went on. “In late March. The Order of Merlin gets honoured and they are both invited. We could go then and try to find it.”

There it was again. That spark in her eyes.

“Okay,” she answered. “Let’s do it then. But for now, let’s stay here for five more minutes.”

Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 12

Tags: @ariachaos @daardyrnitta

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