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buchanqn · 5 months ago

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{ venus }

Nikto x Fem!Reader

My take on gothic and grown up beauty & the beast. Melancholy reader, creepy vibes, slow burn, arranged marriage, strangers to lovers, dark themes, virgin reader.

I think that’s it?! This is a super self indulgent project I feel but it took control of me. Sorryyy 🌚 I��ll get back to my other WIPs now.

Part 1 | Masterlist

The rolling of the carriage wheels underneath you shakes yet more pearlescent tears from your sockets. Lachrymose and hunched inwards, your entire body rocks with the movement of your sobs alongside the stammering beat of the unmade road you travel on.

It’s a pitiful sight, one made only more filled with sorrow by the scene outside the windows countryside rolling by in frost frozen images. The sedge is so cold it’s impossible to imagine life ever existed there. Plants curled and recoiling in a wind spread forth from the arctic circle, seeded by the blinding white tundra to sneak across the landscape your new husband inhabits.

Your new husband. Freshly wedded bliss should follow as naturally as the incense used in the ceremony. Though the smoke curling tendrils around your ankles felt like manacles, heavy scent suffocatingly pressed inside your lungs until they burnt with the fragrance.

You’ve never laid eyes on him. No adoring pact was made before the priest between you both. A marriage by proxy, everything performed on paper, with your father and one of the Count’s servants standing witness.

Ominous that he didn’t come himself, for what man could truly want a woman having never laid eyes on her? Was it spite that kept him absent? A marriage he didn’t want, forged under social and societal pressure to produce an heir for his house perhaps. Or worse than that, indifference? You’re unsure which fate is more cruel, one in which you’re actively despised, or another where loneliness seeps into all the small and quiet places once yearning to be loved.

A title and a big house in recompense for your happiness. The formerly destitute, newly elevated bride of Count Yurievich, plucked out of poverty by a man who clearly cares not for reputation. If he did, you would not have been purchased.

By the ordinary rules of society a Count should court his Countess, a long engagement would have been the next step followed by a lavish ceremony blessed by the church. Not the dismal planting of your name against his on the stark ivory paper of a marriage contract at an empty, dank alter.

A shaky signature within a box marked wife. Another sign among many that this isn’t how it should be, your life tethered to another’s following the exchange of clinking coins. You’re a possession, that much has always been clear, but becomes thrown into startling relief now. Traded and bartered by the man that sired you purely to line his pockets, while another one likely prepares a gilded cage.

Perhaps as a pauper he thinks you have no need of proper romance, conveniently ill-educated in societal expectations so that he can avoid the pomp. The dress you wear may be homespun, its cuffs double rolled so as to hide the fraying lace, but you aren’t an oblivious creature, one made of girlish fantasy built around the lives of the wealthy.

Once your bloodline had been rich, well known throughout all of Russia. Until your grandfather a couple of generations removed had sipped from the poison chalice of a heady bet on bear baiting. The fortune of your family was gambled away in less than two decades. In the time it took for your father to be born, the addiction to gambling had taken root, leathery tendrils dug deep into the noble soil of your house, soaking up every jewel and gold coin to be seen.

Your father was not spared the curse of poor fiscal management left to him by his forebears. There was barely food for you or your younger sisters, let alone schooling or fine silks befitting young ladies. Everything was mended time and again, holes patched up and reading studied during quiet periods at your mothers skirts while she darned.

When she had died one lonely autumn evening, any trace of feminine energy seemed to evaporate into nothingness. It was you left to fend off the cold by collecting firewood, as the eldest the burden was a collar around your throat, even as the threadbare boots you wore let the icy chill of snow inside them through the patches against the soles.

Up to his eyeballs in debt, when the Count’s lawyer came knocking with his clever, dark eyes, your sire had practically fallen over himself for the bountiful sack of coins offered in trade for your fair hand. Your sisters had wept against the hems of your skirts when the deal was cut, begged for reason from your father. It made little difference, you were marked as a fair exchange for more capital over which card games and brandy could pass.

Now like a lamb to the slaughter you’re driven to his side, this man you’ve never met who paid over and above in precious metals to bind you to himself. You know so little of him he may as well be a ghost. In many ways, you wish he could stay as such, a phantom figure never fully materialised, a presence you’re never required to bend for.

What you have heard is preposterous, fairytales meant to frighten the gullible or jittery of heart. If even half of it was true, he would be some kind of mythical creature. Something crafted by a clever tongue and inkiest of magic to make a person.

They say he never leaves his castle, not once has he ventured into the gazes of watchful villagers. Closeted in his rooms, the only sign of life in the stagnant turrets is the occasional flickering of candle light from a vague windowsill on a clear evening.

His gardens bloom every year with the fattest, most voluptuous roses in every shade. By far the prettiest ones are blood red in colour, lasting well beyond the normal season for such flowers, crimson petals stark against the snow, fallen droplets from each thorny stem like blood splashes.

Once the Count had been an eligible bachelor. A proud young man with a slew of women eager to become the focus of his attentions. Some say he was engaged, others scoff that her hand belonged to several suitors and he was only one in a confusing mixture of youthful heartache.

Napoleon had come, he had departed to battle a promising marriage prospect for Russian high society and reemerged a shadow. Rumours abound that he is a great hero, though no one seems entirely sure what feats of greatness he performed that left him nothing but a silhouette on the periphery of life.

Either he is private in the extreme, or something terrible happened on the front. A life and soul altering event. The most you have discovered from the local village gossips is that those who do look upon him, never speak of it afterwards. As though he is some horrifyingly maimed creature whose name is uttered with reverent stillness. His injuries too severe to ever be healed. Whether they lie bleeding still against his mind also, you aren’t sure, though it could be wagered trouble in the psyche is near impossible to soothe.

Perfect snowflakes catch and melt on the glass panes of the carriage, each dainty pattern vanishes as quickly as it falls from the clouded sky. Drifts are whipped up by the thundering of the horses urged through the countryside, plumes of white become compact beneath their hooves as the flurries settle. It’s cold, pressed against opulent velvet seats with the bitter wind whistling around you.

One shiver is suppressed and then another, only partly related to temperature. Treaties are spoken under your breath like prayers. If he is not cruel you will never resent your fate again, if you are ignored instead of beaten you’ll find a kind deed in every daily ritual. Fearfully you twist your mothers old rosary within your anxious palms, asking for protection from saints you know from fleeting visits to church. Their painted faces pious and beautiful, they always seemed to see something in you that others didn’t.

Will he want to bed you? The thought gnaws at your insides, makes them twist and writhe snake like, until the meagre piece of bread shoved into your purse by a sister on your way out the door threatens to make a reappearance.

You couldn’t stand it, a stranger baring down on your body, revealing all the hidden places not meant for anyone but a lover to see. Good sense tells you it’s likely the Count will want to consummate the marriage quickly, make it difficult for you to free yourself, impossible for you to shame him by asking for an annulment. A runaway bride would be one thing, a virgin newlywed quite another.

The shiver quashed earlier grows and swells, crawling along your spine and into your ribcage until you’re wracked with it. A chatter sounds from your teeth, while you tug your cloak higher, hoping the thin fabric will stem the nervous juddering of your heart within the casing of your chest. You think of home, wretched as it was your siblings needed you. Now you have left them abandoned to deal with the rage of your father. He will surely get drunk and gamble, flying into a fury once the money he took from the Count’s lawyer runs dry.

Your mother always knew how to temper his anger, coolness to the fire of his personality. The night she died he disappeared for a long time, leaving you to beg firewood and food from your neighbours. You recall little of it. Her funeral had been paid for with funds unknown, perhaps ones set aside by her before death? It passed in a blur, grief shades all of your memories. There had been kindness, you are sure of it, though it seems such a long time since anything good happened in your small existence the recollection is fuzzy.

On the carriage moves, picturesque scenes beyond the windows becoming wilder as it plunges into the weak afternoon sunlight. Open farmland where wheat fields flourish in the summertime fade into densely packed woodland. Dark trees tower ominously, drowning the air with the smell of pine sap and needles.

It’s as if you’re being led into a labyrinth, coaxed further from your homeland and into the grey wolfs lair. Mountains in the distance could be a trap of jaws, pointed teeth ready to snare you whole and catch on your jugular. The horizon begins to glow gold as the sun sinks beneath snowy peaks, temperatures dropping still further while your breath mists before you.

You dare not draw the thick and opulent curtains at the windows for fear you’ll miss the approach of your doom. The Count’s castle, hidden at the foot of the mountains, shrouded by thickset spruce forests. Only one small village lies nearby, sweet thatched cottages nestled within the hills. You watch it flash by through the glass, see the smoke furling from chimneys and wish you could huddle by their hearths for warmth.

But you are headed for a strangers home, though you expect nothing about his castle will be homely. The best you can hope for perhaps is comfortable, rooms not riddled with damp or cold stone. A bed you do not have to share.

Even while your teeth chatter, fear and nerves mixing into a foul potion within your bones, a vast shape in the gathering dusk begins to appear, framed against the bitter red and gold glowing sky.

A castle. Immeasurable windows set high on turrets, perched against the hillside as an overgrown bird of prey might on a nest. The road to the stone walls is narrow, perilously carved out of the same stone that seems echoed in the indomitable building. Cruel and harsh, it juts earth toned grey against the thick fir forest, trees so densely packed you know it would be next to impossible to pick your way through unguided.

The carriage rocks as it starts to make an ascent along the track, bumping against the unmade surface and jagged stones beneath it. Darkness is falling quickly now, helped along by the canopy of needle like leaves above you, sinking yard by yard into velvet evening.

A pause while the gates are unlocked, words that sound like a greeting exchanged by the driver while you swallow a lump in your throat that feels painful. Everything is closing in, soon you will be either a prisoner or a bride. Which is worse, you can’t say. Hands shaking you clasp at your rosary, shut your eyes tight as the rocking of the road begins again under the wheels of the carriage.

Horses neigh nearby, as if welcoming each other home. But you only feel an impending sense of terror breaking over you in cold waves. Nausea bites again and a handkerchief is pressed tight to your mouth, guts rolling and cold fingers clenched tight around the wooden beads. Your mother left it to you, her eldest daughter. What would she say? Seeing you sold as a filly is at market?

Your thoughts tumble over one another carelessly, the empty seat across from you blurring as tears start to flow thick and fast again. It’s all too much, you can’t breathe. The fear is all you see and feel before -

The carriage door opens, though you can’t bring yourself to look. The air is frigid, stinging at your nose and chest until it aches as much as your heart does. One sniffle escapes, then another.

“Poor thing, almost frozen solid!” Exclaims a soft and kindly voice. “Your ladyship, let us get you inside?”

A hand finds yours, firm and reassuring. It’s calloused, as though used to hard work. The warmth of it draws you out in-spite of yourself, you clutch at it desperately. Asking for an anchor. Even the most hardened of the condemned will look for gentleness in their final moments.

A woman is framed in the carriage doorway, hair springing around a neat cap in the dim light flooding from the great front doors beyond. Her gaze is fixed upon you with obvious concern, while you blink, confused, through bloodshot and puffy eyes.

This was not the welcome you expected, if indeed you expected any welcome at all. She has the aura of a carer, someone devoted to the service of kindness. You can’t make out the finer features of her face, though she squeezes your hand lightly then tugs you out of your seat.

You follow her because there is no choice, though dread still flanks your every step. A grim carnivore intent on swallowing you whole, your stare fixed on your feet to avoid acknowledging the fear. You try and make yourself smaller, tread a minimal path behind the woman into the fortress along twisting corridors in her wake.

It’s far grander than expected, even under the thin beam of the candle she holds in one hand. High vaulted ceilings, ornate and polished dark wood furniture and floors shining as the light catches them at intervals. Finally the panelling turns to flagstones beneath your feet, the walls becoming rougher and more worn.

The smell of baking bread and a bright, open fire meets your face through the next doorway. A huge kitchen filled to the brim with dancing light bouncing from the hearth against burnished copper pans makes you blink suddenly, eyes used to the darkness of the corridor. Its magnificent, grander even in domesticity than anywhere you’ve been before, neat and tidy in a way that feels safe.

The woman herds you towards the fire and it’s then you get a true look into her face, a genuine smile blooming there, lined with age but full of energy in one breath. She grins toothily and the sick feeling you’ve been carrying since you left home starts to trickle away, though the anxiety of your situation is impossible to ignore entirely.

You’re positively deposited in a stool by the grate, heat lapping across you in languorous waves. It feels entirely luxurious to bask in the warmth of a roaring blaze after the chill of your carriage ride, so wonderful in fact you get distracted by the orange tongues before you and forget about the woman for a moment.

She busily examines your worn clothes, right down to the torn seam on your skirts where a sister clung desperately to you before your journey here. The woman makes a disapproving noise between her teeth, then glances at your tear stained cheeks and runny nose with a hand at your chin.

You’re informed she is Katherine, housekeeper and cook. Though everyone calls her Kitty. You give her your own name because it seems polite, though in reality you have little else to exchange. Kitty asks if you are hungry with a rye look, that only intensifies when you’re unable to stop yourself devouring a bowl of thick broth along with the bread just baked. It tastes like manna from heaven, the best food you’ve eaten in years, certainly since your mother passed.

Another bowl is in your hands before you have time to glance up at her again. Kitty leans comfortably against the chimney breast, watching you ruefully.

“The cold makes you hungry I imagine your ladyship? Along with the travel.”

You sniff sadly and rub a sore eyelid.

“I am not a lady. I am not anything of the sort.”

Kitty raises a brow.

“You are married to the Count, that makes you mistress of this house by rights.”

“I don’t want to be.” You whisper hoarsely. “I want to go home.”

Kitty watches your silent sobs with worry written in her sweet face.

“Come now. There is nothing to be gained from weeping.”

She passes you a neat cotton square, her own handkerchief, patting you on the cheek as your mother did when you were small. That only makes the crying evolve into wet sounds.

“Why don’t I draw you a bath? Then I can show you up to your rooms? It is natural to be homesick! But you are very welcome here…despite the unusual circumstances…”

Kitty smiles softly and pats your knee.

“I have been so looking forward to having a mistress! It is wonderful to see a young bright thing here!”

You gaze at her, all watery eyes and a wobbling lip. You’re sure you look utterly pathetic, but Kitty’s niceness if anything makes the missing of home worse. It’s unnerving, unplanned. You expected brusque attendants and a confrontation with your new husband. Not home comforts and a delicious meal.

Kitty continues in a low and steady voice, obviously trying to soothe you, temper the stress of your arrival.

“You will see! We are not all bad eh! The sooner you are tucked in bed the better, sleep will help.”

“Do I not…am I not to see him yet?” The words leave your mouth in a hiccup as you twist your fingers nervously. Images of your strange new spouse sneaking into your bed in the middle of the night to acquaint himself, makes the bile rise in your throat once again.

“His lordship is away on business currently, did Krueger not mention this?” When you shake your head meekly Kitty hisses fiercely. “That man. Honestly he will be the death of me.”

“He isn’t here?” Relief temporarily floods every artery and vein until you feel lightheaded.

“No his lordship is not expected back for a fortnight. I am sorry to tell you this, are you disappointed?”

You gulp, then shake your head, quashing the confusion you feel and deciding to thank god for tiny mercies.

Kitty does draw you a small bath, heating water in a pot and helping you remove your ragtag clothing. She fetches soap that smells of heavy roses and sweetness, by far the nicest you’ve ever used, along with rich undergarments and nightclothes made of soft cotton.

By the time you’re placed in a vast four poster bed in rooms bathed in blue moonlight, you’re too exhausted to take in much more. Grateful for the heated pan beneath the sheets and the crackling wood stove, you drift into uneasy dreams filled with howling winds fading to the fluttering of fire.

If you didn’t know better, if you hadn’t been so reassured by Kitty - you would be sure you had heard the creaking of floorboards in the middle of the night.

When you wake however, nothing is as it seems.

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