Writing 'Cause I Can!!

...god my age is showing. Fuck it.

Hello! It's been a hot minute since I was on Tumblr, but I found my password after years of not being active on here and decided to make a blog specifically for my fanfics!!

I am in a good deal of fandoms, presently Dispatch, Black Sails, Dragon Age, The Apothecary Diaries, The Pitt, and many, many others. I've been writing ever since I was in 6th grade and even before I knew what fanfiction was. Almost twenty years and an English degree later, I write for fun as well as taking on freelance projects in editing and article writing.

So, yeah, this is where I am for the time being. My asks are open, so if you like what I've written, you can suggest a prompt or just talk to me! I promise, I don't bite.

Currently open for writing requests (and let me know if you'd like them to be on Ao3) for the following:

-Dispatch (completed requests found here!)

-The Pitt (completed requests found here!)

-Ready or Not 2 (completed requests found here!)

You can find me at Livikun on ao3 and I'm also semi-active on TikTok as livikun03. Any tips can go to my ko-fi (which I'm brushing the dust off of after not using it for a hot minute)

New followers, hiyo! I post sporadically at times unless I have a hankering for whatever story I'm involved in, so please, please don't freak out if you don't see me posting regularly. I just do my own thing~ Stuff gets done eventually~

Oblation: noun

Anything offered or presented in worship or sacred service; an offering; a sacrifice.

You're the daughter of two members of the Danforth's many staff. A chance night in the staff kitchen leads you to have a connection with the family's eldest son. 

But things can only be so simple for so long. And things beyond your awareness are about to come to light.

Warnings: Not proofread, takes place before the first Ready or Not film, power dynamic, canon typical violence, canonical homicidal mindset, descriptions of blood and gore.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 2.5, Chapter 3, Chapter 4 (You are here!!)

It’s out!!!! Finally!!!!! 

I had to think about what I wanted from each of the characters in this one and how to make things not too OOC and aaaaaaaaa, writing is hard sometimes, guys, did you know that? It can be so hard.

Also, we’re talking 2nd person limited here, so I wanted to expand on what the reader/you would be aware of in terms of the Danforths. Which might help you get closer to a certain one~

I don’t think it’s ever fully explained what the Danforth’s ritual is when they bring new members into the family (I know it varies from fic to fic, some peeps keeping with the game cards others doing other things). 

I like the idea that Le Bail had been helping each of the families with different stuff, so the rituals change with that. I do like the aspect of a hunt for the Danforths, something that a bunch of peeps seem to enjoy as well based on the amount of fics about it. Also, they have a ram as part of their coat of arms, I’d like to think putting up a fight is coded into their bloodline~

Chapter 4: Boiling Point

“T-Mr. Danforth?”

Titus’s hand is on your arm, all but tugging you down the hallway and into another room, shutting the door behind him.

This one is adorn with red furnishings, the wood much darker so that the red pops. It’s more of a sitting room than a bedroom, similar to the one that Mrs. Danforth had been in, but it’s no less stunning in its opulence. There are windows with heavy drapery that match the rest of the room, the curtains open in just a few of the windows to allow the sun to peek in.

Titus doesn’t let go of you as he turns on you, encroaching into your space. You back up as far as you can, the back of your shoulders hitting the wall.

“Didn’t my father give you a fucking command?” Titus hisses, his eyes dark, “Why are you out of the kitchen?”

You knew this had been a bad idea, you’d known it in your gut. You fold in on yourself, not wanting to give up Martha as the one who asked you to deliver the food. Titus’s grip moves to your wrist. His grip is tight and you hiss as you feel the bones in your wrist grind against each other.

“The kitchen staff were stretched, I was just trying to help,” you gasp, “I didn’t mean to be up here for long.”

He lets go of you and turns back towards the door. You can hear his breathing, heavier, but still even. The set of his shoulders is tenser than you’d ever seen, his hands curling and uncurling into fists. 

“Mr. Danthforth.”

He doesn’t turn. You take a step closer.

“Titus.”

That gets him to stop, his hands clenched into hard fists.

You weren’t sure what you could do. Titus was upset, but you know it wasn’t just because you were out of the kitchen. There had to be more to it, right?

“What’s going on?” A question couldn’t hurt.

Titus tenses again and you hear the sound of footsteps outside the door. 

Before you can do anything, he’s turning around and grabs your other wrist, pulling you to the far side of the room, behind one of the large, closed curtains. With his other hand, he’s holding the curtains so that they don’t flutter. 

The door to the room opens and Titus drops his hand from the curtain, but keeps a hold on your wrist.You’re settled in front of him, the long line of his chest against your back. You try and calm your breathing, trying to keep quiet and make sure that whoever entered doesn’t realize you’re there.

There’s shuffling noises and the door slams shut. You flinch at the sound, Titus’s body stock still against your back. 

A familiar voice begins to speak.

“Have you found her?” your father asks.

“I checked the kitchens and the bridal suite,” your mother says, sounding winded, “She may have gone out onto the grounds for all we know.” There’s a small huff of laughter. “She’s already on Chester’s radar, this has to be a sign.”

They have to be talking about you. You unconsciously lean back, but Titus is a solid wall against your back, stopping any movement you were trying to make. His grip on your wrist tightens and, as you turn your head, you can see him shake his head once out of the corner of your eye.

You weren’t going to just jump out and announce yourself to your parents, but Titus’s expression has that urge flicker out in seconds. He doesn’t look scared, but there’s something softer around his eyes that makes you hesitate. You turn to fully face him, raising your eyebrow in question.

He shakes his head again, putting a finger to his lips and then to his ear. He wants you to listen.

So you do. You shift your eyes towards the curtain, the softness in Titus’s face making something flip in your chest. His hold on your wrist is still firm, but eases up just a fraction.

You don’t want to move away from him, especially when you hear your mother say, “Everything’s falling into place better than we thought. She’ll be the perfect distraction for when something happens.”

A distraction for what? Your thoughts linger on the conversation you overheard the night before, but nothing makes sense. Were your parents planning on leaving the resort? Was that what they had been discussing when they said everything would be over?

“You know she’ll wonder why,” your father says, sounding sad.

“It’s better that she’s in the dark.”

You hear your father sigh. “We shouldn’t have waited this long. If we would have told her-”

“It’s better that we didn’t. This way, no matter what happens tonight, she will be none the wiser. Let her be naive.”

“Would he know the difference?”

Your mother lets out a harsh laugh. It doesn’t even sound like her. “I’ve made preparations. He knows nothing. We’re still here, aren’t we? And after tonight, it will just be the two of us.” There’s a shifting of fabric. “We’ll be able to go back to how things were. I know you want that, Hector.”

“But-”

You hear a scoff. “I signed my name for us! Not for her! If this is what it takes, you and I need to let go of our daughter. She needs to be that sacrifice. It’s the only way, you know that, Hector.”

Titus’s hand clamps over your mouth before you can let out a sound, his calloused palm firm against your lips.

His other hand lets go of your wrist and wraps around your waist, keeping you in place. You aren’t making an attempt to move, the shock of your mother’s confession is enough to stop you in place. You don’t fight against Titus, letting him pull you close. If anything, you go limp in his arms. Your face is just below his chin, your nose settled into the crook of his shoulder. 

He moves his hand away from your mouth and you’re left with your lips resting against the fabric of his shirt. He’s holding you steady against him and whatever else your parents say fades into the background. All that’s left is him; the smell of his cologne, the fabric of his shirt against your face, his arms wrapped around you and holding you flush against him.

You know your heart is beating fast, know that Titus can feel it. His own heartbeat is steady, calm. You take in a shaky breath and let it out, wanting to match it. Titus still keeps you close with your breaths muffled by his shirt.

At some point, the door slams again, making you flinch once more.

Titus holds you just a bit tighter. “If you’re not going to listen to my father,” he mutters, his voice vibrating through you, “then you’re going to fucking listen to me. Go back to the kitchens and stay there.”

You can only nod.

—

You can’t sleep.

The entire day weighs down on your chest, making you toss and turn.

After what occurred in the resort, you’d made a beeline back to the kitchen. Martha thanked you for the help and you just nodded, heading into your room to just sit with your thoughts and trying to get your thoughts in order.

Your parents again said nothing when they saw you at the staff meal. When you head to your room to sleep, they don’t even offer you a ‘goodnight’. If you hadn’t heard what they’d said in the afternoon, you knew you’d be suspicious and would want to know what was wrong. 

And whenever you close your eyes, all you can see is the dark fabric of Titus Danforth’s shirt and you can almost smell the notes of amber and smoke from his cologne. As you turn on your mattress, you can imagine his arms embracing you like they had. How his grip was just tight enough, keeping you close enough to hear his heart beating.

You get up from your bed and head out into the kitchen. You didn’t really eat during the staff meal and hoped that maybe making something warm could help lull you to sleep. Not to say that you aren’t tired, your limbs feeling heavy as you pad over to one of the light switches, adjusting the room’s light so that it’s not too bright.

You hear a creaking noise, something you’d heard more than enough at the Danforth estate to know that the building was settling. You head to one of the counters, pulling a knife block towards you, along with a cutting board. Soup this late would be complicated, but if you could find some prepared broth, it’d cut the time in half. You wander over to one of the pantry cabinets and find an unopened stock container next to a few loose onions. You grab those and head back to the cutting board.

You stop as you look at the knife block. The staff at the resort were just as particular as the ones at the Danforth estate, so all cutlery and dishes were washed and dried and put back in their place before it was time to sleep. When you pulled out the knife block, everything had been in its proper place.

As you stare at it, you hope that you’d made a mistake and forgot that one of them was missing.

There’s a sound behind you and, suddenly, you’re on the ground, head bouncing against the floor. There’s someone dragging their hands across your neck, scrabbling their nails against your skin like they’re trying to stab into it. Your vision is unfocused and you shut your eyes as you try to get your bearings.

Blearily, you try to fight back, your fingers clawing at where the person’s fingers are scrambling. 

Then, you feel the hard line of metal against your neck and immediately stop moving, opening your eyes wide.

The light from the kitchen is just bright enough to see the crazed face of the bride hovering above yours.

Her hair is out of its updo, bits of it sticking to her cheeks and neck with dirt and blood. There is a high flush on her cheeks, her breathing coming out in ragged bursts. She’s out of her wedding dress, a dark green sundress is sticking to her skin, mottled with stains that you can already tell from the smell are blood. 

You blink, your vision going sideways for a second, the smell of blood causing you to gag. But you can’t tear your eyes from her, not when she has a knife still pressed against your neck.

“You fucking knew about this, didn’t you?” the bride hisses. She’s on top of you now, her full weight crushing you into the floor. “This fucking family is trying to kill me and you didn’t fucking say anything!”

Your vision goes blurry again, your eyelids fluttering. What was she talking about? The Danforths were trying to kill her?

The bride is muttering something you can’t make out, but she moves the knife away from your neck. You try to catch your breath, try to keep your vision from failing. The knife settles near your left arm. Instinctively, you try to reach for the bride’s hand, digging your nails into her skin to try and get her to let go of the blade.

She doesn’t like that, grabbing your shoulders and slamming your head back down onto the floor. You bounce again, this time letting out a cry.

“Shut the fuck up!” the bride snaps, “I’m going to kill you. Drag you out of here and show this fucked up family that I’m as crazy as they are. Maybe if they see one of their servants all cut up, they’ll stop coming after me.”

You watch as she leans down, spots of darkness obscuring her wild eyes. You feel a pinprick of pain in your left arm that sharpens into a burst of agony as cold metal is driven through your skin, severing flesh and veins. You feel the warm pull of blood for a moment before the bride tugs on the blade, ripping it through nerves and tendons, slicing towards your bone.

Your mouth is open and your throat feels raw from how hard the bride had been pressing against it. You try to make another sound, move your feet against the floor to kick against something, anything to make a noise. 

The rest of the staff are in the same wing, some of the rooms just a few feet away. Someone has to have heard the commotion right?

Where was everyone?

Your eyes roll back and you pray to whoever is listening to have you pass out. The pain in your arm is like a needle of ice against your exposed insides. Your throat feels raw. Her weight on you makes it hard to move. The back of your head throbs in time with your heartbeat which is beating rabbit quick. Your vision blurs again as you watch the bride switch the knife over to your right arm, the sharp edge of the blade beginning its journey against your skin.

For a moment, the world goes dark and the weight is lifted from you. You’re able to take a full breath in, letting out a sob of relief. If this is what death feels like, you’re more than ready to embrace it and let yourself fall into the darkness.

But then there’s a strangled cry and the sound of something metal hitting the floor.

And then it happens again.

And again.

And again.

And-

“Titus.”

Ursula Danforth’s voice is firm and sounds disappointed, like she’s chastising a dog. The sounds stop, save for laboured breathing and a wheezing noise. Your vision starts to clear as you take in another deep breath.

“She needs to be delivered alive, remember? No final sacrifice means we’re fucked.”

There’s a grunt from nearby and you close your eyes. Everything hurts now; the back of your head is throbbing, your throat feels thick, and any tiny movement you make with your left arm has a sharp pain sparking through it.

You open your eyes to the ceiling of the kitchen. Your vision isn’t spinning at the moment and you take that as a good sign. You hear the click of shoes against the floor approaching your prone body.

Ursula’s face hovers above yours. She’s got her hair up in a bedraggled bun, bits of leaves stuck to the collar of her shirt.

“Good, you're conscious. Get the fuck up.”

She holds out her hand and you take it with your uninjured arm, letting her haul you to your feet as you rasp out a groan of pain. She looks at your left arm with a scoff.

“Bitch couldn’t even get a clean cut. Titus, give me something to stop the bleeding.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Titus grunted. He’s a few feet away, the unconscious bride hoisted onto his back.

“Either that or we switch and I get to present the bride and get the credit.”

Titus rolls his eyes. “She’s been bludgeoned, they’ll know it wasn’t you that did that.” He dumps the bride back down onto the floor, the woman letting out a choked wheezing noise. “She’s all yours.”

Ursula grins and giggles, heading over to the collapsed woman and taking her by the hands to drag her across the floor to the open door. You can see that the bride’s legs have been shattered, looking more like ribbons of meat that are just holding onto ghost white bones. The sight churns your stomach, but you’re more focused on your own pain than nausea. Your eyes fall to the ground nearby, seeing a large hammer resting on the floor, the face of it painted red as it rests in a puddle of blood.

You take a step back, wobbling as Titus moves closer to assess your arms.

Titus is also covered in blood, large streaks along his high cheekbones and cutting across his eyebrows. His white button up is also splattered, some parts wet while others are darkening as they dry. 

With little fanfare, he grabs onto one of his sleeves and rips the fabric from his wrist to his shoulder. He takes the strip and wraps it around the injury on your left arm.

“This’ll have to do for now,” he mutters, pulling the fabric taut. You hiss, your throat still feeling too tight to make another noise. “Can you walk?”

You take a small step forward, wobbling again. His hand is steady on your left shoulder, making sure not to jostle you. Your next step has you tilting forward and he catches you by your armpits.

“Brace yourself.”

Before you can even ask why, he’s maneuvering you into a princess carry. You let out a soft sound as your left arm jostles, the change in position making your vision swim.

“Stay awake.” The order is clipped, but whisper soft. “I’ll take you to the medics.”

I am...tired.

Long story very, very short, my mother's in the hospital. Things are better than they were earlier this week and she's stable, but it's now at the point where things are going to change with her home care (which has been a point of worry due to her deteriorating health from a stroke she had a decade ago).

Plans are going to be made, preparations are being worked on to at least get her back to a good place before she goes home. She'll probably need oxygen. She's going into a rehab facility that will help with her vertigo and maybe assist with pain. But there's no guarantee at this point.

As my family's motto goes, we're playing it by ear for the moment. I'm trying to work on fics and stuff that'll keep me distracted, but if my writing halts for a bit, that's why.