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scribbleseas · 3 months ago

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Wanted: Dead or Alive, Chapter 1: Ready for some action?

Description: As a reformed gang member, you no longer take up your dual derringer pistols in an endless pursuit of wealth. Now, you serve a new purpose: working alongside seasoned professionals as the Earl of Phantomhive’s undercover private army, protecting his estate under the guise of menial, domestic chores. That is, until your old life comes crashing back into your present, specific people you’d sooner forget chasing a buried score to settle with you. Can you maintain the secrets you’ve worked so hard to bury? Or will you, once again, alienate yourself from your new comrades?

In a fierce fight to maintain your newfound camaraderie—and unexpectedly warm feelings for your employer— you come to learn that being the perfect soldier is not at all what it seems.

Story Warnings: explicit descriptions of violence (with a focus on gun violence) and murder, gore/assorted injuries and pain, death, grief/loss, elaborate theft, explosions/fires, vehicle hijacking, abduction. Story also contains cursing, drinking, smoking, lying, explicit sexual content, and class differences.

Author’s Note: Hi Everyone! Thank you all SO much for waiting so patiently for the debut of my third full-length Ciel x Reader fanfiction! I put a lot of work into planning this story and making this chapter as best as it could be. I hope you enjoy this new main character and that her story is exciting to watch play out. It’s going to be one hell of a journey.

Happy Reading!

Dan

NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

MASTERLIST

Mid-February, 1895

House for Now

It was your first night alone, and above all, in the cheapest shack you could find with four walls and an intact roof. Accordingly, you had to barricade each and every window (possibly even the door) before you could consider settling down with a cup of hot tea.

The Band was looking for you, or if they hadn’t started already, they were bound to soon. A fortified house was a necessity for rest. With rest, came more work. With more work, came more funds. Those funds would bankroll your vengeance trip. But it would take time.

With a hammer, you knocked a nail into the next thick plank of plywood as you balanced on top of a thin barstool. Squinting in the dim light, the dull tones of orange and dramatic shadows from your fireplace concealed the small nailhead. You cursed yourself for failing to take on this task in the daylight. You grit your teeth, your jaw hardening from the eruption of pain that the movement afforded your healing wounds. Your ribs especially complained; even though it’d been a good month and a half, your body remembered the impact of steel-tipped boots well. And bloody hell, it hurt.

Rage fueled your next hammer swing as you hit the long nail through the plywood and into the wall next to the window. Your free hand kept the wood in place and you tapped the next nail in place. Everyone who made you hurt was going to pay for it tenfold.

The strain in your arms was not real, you insisted to yourself, and ignored it entirely. You didn’t have time for fatigue.

Outside the window, snow fell lightly, wind blew through the naked trees outside. It was dark, save for the distant glow of a faraway streetlight.

This wood would keep the cold out, too. It wouldn’t just stop the adversarial bullets of those hunting you. They could be anywhere. You lost at least a month of preparation time stuck in that hospital.

You worked efficiently, taking another two pieces of plywood to fully cover the window. Now, for the other front window.

The rest of the wood could be for the fire.

Just as you slid your barstool towards the other side of the front door, you hesitated, hearing the intruders before you could see them. The crunch of two sets of boots crunching in the snow, two masculine voices in converation. You caught pieces of it.

“Are you…this is…it?” One voice asked.

“Last time I….was here.” Another voice answered.

Your hand flew to the doorknob. You peered out of the unbarricaded window to your left, immediately catching two tall figures. Pistol beats hammer, you decided, and casted the tool aside to free both hands. Barricading the window would have to wait—it seemed you already had some unexpected guests to tend to.

Without waiting another moment, you pulled your derringer pistol out of its holster on your side, mechanically unclipping it and fastening your fingers around the grip. In your mastery of the firearm, it acted as a mere extension of your body. Shooting came as natural to you as breathing, walking. You never missed.

Acting first would give you the upper hand. Waiting was for prey.

You unlocked your door, drew it open, and pulled the person closest to you through the threshold by his jacket collar, just tall enough to pull it off in your heeled boots. Each move was fluid, you moved with the intensity and speed of a lightning bolt. You dragged him through the doorway and trapped him against the wall centimeters away from the door, just to the left of your freshly-barricaded window.

“State your business before I shoot you in the head,” you snarled, dominant hand unlocking your pistol and pressing the barrel hard against his jugular. You used your handful of wool coat, vest, and undershirt to keep the man’s chest pinned firmly against your wall, sliding your forearm against his torso horizontally.

While you didn’t falter, you were taken aback for a number of reasons when you gave the man a proper look.

First, you didn’t recognize him.

Second, he only seemed mildly inconvenienced, unfazed by your pistol digging into his neck. At least once his initial shock subsided.

Third, he was dressed in luxury, a glittering deep-blue sapphire ring set in silver wrapped around his finger. The exquisite gem was emerald-cut.

Fourth, his accomplice made no effort to come to his aid or fight you. He seemed amused, if anything, taking in the scene in front of him like a theater goer.

“Well?” You demanded, unlocking the gun‘s guard. He had about another thirty seconds before you pulled the trigger and turned on his friend. Maybe even thirty seconds was too generous—you didn’t appreciate your door ajar this late and you couldn’t be sure if the man you pinned was armed or not.

“Miss Y/l/n, might I introduce you to the Head of the Phantomhive Earldom and the Queen’s Guard Dog,” the tall accomplice announced brightly, letting himself inside your base. He closed the door behind him, looming tall in your small living room. Dark eyes filled with intrigue, polished charisma.

“We mean no harm to you, we can assure you,” he added.

Neither of those titles really meant anything to you. Instead, the sound of your name only made you more anxious to shoot the man. No one was supposed to know you.

“On my good name, I can assure you.” The man in your clutches interjected, his proud voice incredibly proper.

“I am Lord Ciel Phantomhive. If you wouldn’t mind unhanding me so I might explain my being here, that would be immensely helpful.” The Earl watched your face and stared at you. His deep blue eye was the purest representation of tanzanite blue you’d ever seen aside from the gem itself. Not sapphire. Tanzanite. Sapphire didn’t convey the hues of indigo; not to mention, the pleochroism. The various shades of blue depending on how the light hit them. A black eyepatch covered his other eye.

“Especially if you could manage doing so without blowing my brains out,” he added just as dryly. His dark hair nearly fell past his eyes and his pouty mouth was relaxed in its frow. The fireplace cast dancing shadows on his fair skin, further contouring his sharp cheekbones.

When you didn’t move to release him, the nobleman continued, “I have a job proposition for you. Work. Free room, meals, board. I’ve heard the rumors about the fight you can put up, and my estate is in need of a new private guard.”

Phantomhive’s accomplice merely watched. He must’ve been the Earl’s butler or steward—you didn’t know the official title, but during your apprentice days, attendants like him would always come to the jewelry shop on their master’s behalf.

“What rumors?” You snapped. Any muttering of that catastrophe, and he was dead. You didn’t care how big this job seemed to be.

“The string of high-profile robberies across London this week,” Phantomhive said. “You excel at some aspects of your work—speed clearly,” he paused, as if still processing the position you managed to pin him into in seconds. “But you are in no way subtle. The Yard knows he’s looking for a young woman in her early twenties with two derringer pistols; there were enough witnesses for the connection to be made. After all, I found you easily enough.” When he spoke of your pistol, he glanced down at the firearm pressing into his throat purposefully, snorting as if he didn’t think you’d actually shoot.

Your reluctance was a testament to how much you detested proving the man right. You deliberately locked your pistol and stepped back, the motions coordinated into one. You plunged the pistol back into its holster, but you kept your hand on the grip, ready to fire in case you changed your mind. Your free hand rested on your hip.

The Yard didn’t scare you. The Yard had been nipping at the Band’s heels for years, to no avail. If they couldn’t find a dozen and a half of you running amuck of the country—and the rest of the European mainland for nearly a decade—you sincerely doubted they could locate you in a matter of days. This week’s robberies were hardly high profile, anyway, how motivated could they be? You didn’t even kill anyone.

Get real. Those were all warning shots.

Still, if the Yard could place someone with your characteristics at these scenes, so could your former colleagues. You didn’t need to help them locate you by being careless.

“If you think I was behind those robberies, why would you want me to work at your estate?” You raised your eyebrows in challenge, lifting your chin defiantly.

“With sufficient pay, there is no incentive to steal,” Phantomhive answered, righting his collar and his jacket, the fabric wrinkled by your grip and stained with soot. Your hands must’ve had dirt and soot leftover from handling the fireplace. He shot a disdainful look at the stains left on his dress shirt, but quickly refocused. “And in the meantime, you would aid with domestic tasks and all that. All of my security comes from unconventional situations, they learn, and they guard the estate.”

“From who? You’re a noble Lord,” you pointed out flatly.

“One with plenty of enemies. Anyone with something to stand for has a few, that ought to be something you can relate to,” Phantomhive said evasively, catching the hints of a grimace you failed to conceal. “I am a private investigator for Her Majesty. It isn’t the safest line of work, and having discrete preparations is truly the best approach.”

“I would be a maid,” you clarified. You started to insist that as a trained thief, you didn’t know the first thing about domestic labor—barricading windows was about your limit—but he interrupted you.

“—Part of a private militia,” the Earl corrected. “Take a day or so to think about it. Consider your other prospects. We’ll come back in a few days. We could use your close-range expertise. I’ve never been bested like that, and so quickly…” he said, awkward hints of respect underscoring the observation.

You did need steady income. And it didn’t help to draw attention to yourself by stealing. Those other prospects could very well end in you being caught. Not by the Yard, but by a force much worse.

Estate beats shack.

. . .

After Two Weeks

The Phantomhive Estate

You positioned yourself into readiness. Take a solid stance, slight bend in the knees. One hand by the head of the axe, one hand by the wooden base. Your abdominal muscles tightened with anticipation, your calloused palms perspired. You fixed your boot heels into the soft Earth beneath you, the dirt dampened by melted snow. With a grunt, you brought your axe up over your head and squatted down, burying your axe deep into the wooden log.

Finally, a task you could accomplish without that bloody butler haranguing you.

You hadn’t the slightest idea of how to dress a table for a fancy noble dinner—how to arrange the cast of unnecessary utensils when all you were acquainted with was one’s standard fork, knife, and spoon. So what? You maintained that four forks for one single meal was a complete waste, no matter how Sebastian stared down his nose at you. Much like you’d continue to insist that a wrinkled bed sheet was nowhere near the end of the world, but it seemed to instead be an insult to the Phantomhive standard of care that you were now a part of upholding. Going into this endeavor, you hadn’t considered the ways an Earl’s estate might function differently from a highly mobile band of thieves.

To your elation, the log flew apart and your axe dug into the wooden base that you’d used to balance the offending log on. Once you pulled the axe head out of the base with a jolt, you replaced the log with a thicker piece, reinvigorated by the challenge. Your body was finally free of residual pain, and you intended to make the most of your full capabilities. You pushed your white sleeves further up your arms and rammed the axe back down, chucking when it tore through the wood as easily as silk.

After about a dozen more of these swings, you readied the kitchen furnace’s supply of firewood for the next week. It didn’t take you long to transfer the cut logs into the cellar’s storage room using a wheelbarrow. Regrettably, that was your last truly active task of the day. The rest was centered around preparing the estate for Phantomhive’s business dinner later that evening. Dusting, sweeping, whatever.

Sebastian assigned you the west wing of the main house—Mey-Rin’s former rotation. The new maid in you assumed that was because the area had such a large number of antiques that Sebastian was tired of Mey-Rin nearly fumbling due to her extreme nearsightedness; the trained strategist in you guessed it was because it freed Mey-Rin to work near the side hall with closer access to her rooftop Winchesters in case of a sudden fight.

You supposed your particular talent gave you a mobility Mey-Rin and Baldroy lacked, your derringer pistols safely tucked into your thigh holsters. As you learned two weeks ago, a maid’s petticoat gave you more than enough volume to conceal the firearms secured around your thighs.

Mey-Rin…you glanced at the watch on your wrist. Nearly four. Well-near your pre-company staff meeting, but well-past the time she would need your assistance with polishing silverware. But she never found you.

You swept imperceptible dust and debris into your dustpan on the floor, your neutral expression crumbling into a frown. The estate was quieter than normal. Usually, one of the other undercover guards—either Mey-Rin or Finny—interrupted you to ask for a hand with their own work, a nuisance in the moment, but you were strangely intrigued by their easy trust.

Even that morning, they were rather quiet. And that was by your standards, as you were the quietest of Phantomhive’s staff, save for perhaps Tanaka, Phantomhive's aging house steward and bookkeeper. Even Snake interjected here and there on his reptilian friends’ behalf more often than you did, and yet, your breakfast table had been near-silent that morning. Normally, there was some sort of chatter with dramatic attempts to pull you out of your shell, overlapping rowdiness that Sebastian had to break up before he could assign chores.

You’d only just noticed the break in your routine, consumed with your own agenda for the day. Every day, though similar, contained something different. This estate was by far the most elegant place you’d ever lived and with the kindest co-workers, so good natured that you compulsively locked and barricaded your small quarter’s door at night, waiting for the night they decided to drop the facade and pounce. You had to be prepared; the kinder they were, the more wary you found yourself.

You weren’t friends. You shared an employer—that was no basis of trust. You had to focus on tending to your own work. Fretting over your co-workers avoiding you or acting strange was fruitless.

You pressed your lips into a firm line, determined to refocus on sweeping. Somehow, Sebastian always knew when you skipped a room or dusted around a piece of furniture instead of taking the time to move it. If you worked at a steady pace, you could finish the west wing before Sebastian’s mandatory meeting in less than an hour. The butler didn’t take kindly to tardiness, either, the most pedantic as one could possibly be. It was no coincidence Phantomhive’s manor ran just as steadily as the watch on your wrist.

That was why you waited in the sitting room at the top of the next hour. Properly intimidated into punctuality, your co-workers filed in behind you, ready to listen to the same speech they must have heard time and time again. After watching four of these formal dinner meetings unfold flawlessly, you could practically recite Sebastian’s You Are The Personification of Phantomhive Care speech. You couldn’t imagine working at the estate for the years that the rest served and maintaining the same sense of urgency each time Sebastian uttered it.

Once the lot of you settled in, Mey-Rin and Finny sent you cautious glances from the small sofa. Baldroy claimed one of the wingback chairs, laid back and smelling of a fresh cigar. Sebastian cleared his throat, demanding their full attention as they chattered among themselves.

You situated yourself by the door, arms crossed. You left a considerable distance between Snake and yourself, not blind to the snake that was currently winding itself around his waist. You were decently assured that the snake was Webster.

“I anticipate all of your preparatory assignments have been tended to?” Sebastian started, never one for formalities. “The antique silverware set I requested for this evening is polished, the dead shrubbery has been cleared, and the vegetables are prepared?” He asked, making eye contact with each individual servant assigned to that particular task. A blushing Mey-Rin and a babbling Finny nodded vigorously while Baldroy offered him a casual nod of assurance.

“Yes, sir, of course, sir!” You were unsure where Mey-Rin’s hurried assurances stopped and where Finny’s began.

“Sure, everythin’s chopped n’ ready for ya,” Baldroy affirmed, reclining back in his chair. “I’ve got the roast from the market, too.”

“The west wing halls swept and dusted, the firewood cut and moved?” Sebastian met your gaze, visibly relieved that his initial dinner plans were still intact. Oftentimes, Baldroy could be overzealous with his preparatory work, ranging between a few minor fires on a bad day and mutilated ingredients on a good day. To have no outward kitchen concerns seemed rare—rare enough for Sebastian to seem surprised by the lack of emergency.

“Taken care of,” you confirmed.

“And I do mean, swept cautiously this time,” Sebastian clarified, causing you to scoff without humor. You rolled your eyes, arms defensively crossed against your chest. He was referencing the first three times he asked you to sweep—the invisible spots of dirt and debris he caught after you made your rounds.

“With the most caution one could manage in a situation like that one, yes,” you replied, the dry comment causing Sebastian’s placid expression to flicker with frustration.

“Good,” Sebastian answered tersely, unwilling to justify your tone with a response. You’d only been there for two weeks, but he was quickly learning to ignore your wry commentary. “Now, as I reminded you all this morning—” he started, only for Snake to quickly interrupt.

“‘And don’t forget, Sebastian, we received the postage from the postman and delivered it to the master,’ says Emily.” Snake dictated, using an affected, feminine voice to deliver his snake’s message, but his own somber tone to denote that the message was hers. The red and black snake in question wrapped upwards around the footman’s arm while Goethe, his orange snake, stuck his head out of his jacket pocket. Apparently, Goethe had no further commentary for Snake to communicate and neither did Webster.

“Of course,” Sebastian acknowledged offhandedly. “As I was saying…the Master is having guests for supper this evening—Randall, McElory, and Jones, a small-time mechanic team with a product pitch for him. Somehow, I tend to find myself both demanding and pleading with you: do be on your best, your best, behavior tonight. You will all be assisting with dinner service, in the roles typical of you.”

Again, there were two separate conclusions to make. The first, you had to ensure not to drop any dishes or break a single utensil, and the second, should these guests prove a threat to this estate, you and Mey-Rin would be among the first to respond. And you would have to swallow the urge to pick their pockets clean.

It was always so easy. Too easy. But last time, Sebastian had admonished you and refused to allow you to keep your spoils.

“Do not cause any disturbances, and we may just manage through this evening without any major catastrophes. Am I understood?” He asked expectantly.

“Understood!” They chimed back with an enthusiasm you couldn’t understand. For their pay? The food on the table? For the boss? Phantomhive didn’t strike you as the type to welcome such warm loyalty from his hired help. He was courteous enough, a saint compared to your previous employers, you supposed, but he didn’t seem particularly attached to any of you. If he and Sebastian handpicked employees from questionable backgrounds, you could only guess what kind of conditions they hailed from to develop the talents they possessed. Plenty worse than this, you guessed.

Finny and Mey-Rin even saluted.

It was a well-paying job, free room and meals. Phantomhive even supplied you with clothing—not only a standard maid’s ensemble like Mey-Rin’s, but comfortable options you favored for yourself regularly. If you stayed there for a few more months, you would have more than enough saved to sustain your hunt for vengeance without having to steal.

“Are we helping with culinary preparations again, too?” You asked. Last time Phantomhive had company for dinner, Sebastian had you help with the mundane aspects of meal preparations, measuring, cutting, stirring.

“Yes. Report back to the kitchen with Baldroy and myself.” Sebastian directed. Mey-Rin made a noise that seemed to be halfway between an excited squeal and a hum of uncertainty. “In a clean uniform. That goes for all of you,” the butler clarified, but his intense stare was only fixated on you and the stains on your plain maid’s dress. For this reason you preferred to take on your outside work in trousers, but you hadn’t had the opportunity to take care of your laundry.

Another chorus of yes sirs followed, and you obediently started for your small room to change into a clean maid uniform—one that wasn’t splattered with assorted chunks of wood, dirt, and dust.

Although you had yet to defend the estate with them, you heard plenty of what Mey-Rin and the rest of your colleagues were capable of. Sebastian debriefed you about their respective skill sets, and he didn’t seem the type to exaggerate. And you knew better than to judge anyone by the way they looked. Truly. But even still, it was hard to believe that Mey-Rin’s trembling hands made the steady grip of a markswoman in times of need. Especially that of a lethal sniper where accuracy was of the essence.

Still. Her hands weren’t typically this unsteady. Even the wine glasses and the bottles on her small steel cart clattered as the both of you walked to the dining room. You balanced several platters atop the large server in your hands. You didn’t know her well enough to ask about her nerves. The two of you had to focus, anyway.

Any guest could easily become an assailant. Being vigilant was your real work. The rest of this nonsense—the dining service, the sweeping—was just noise.

Even though dinner service wasn’t your main priority, Sebastian was intensive in instilling his formal dining choreography. You each had clear parts to play. Delaying that plan to ask Mey-Rin about her feelings would be childish and wasteful. She needed to rally herself.

“I present you with our first round of the evening,” the butler said, those words cuing Finny and Snake to open the dining room doors to make way for you and Mey-Rin.

Wordlessly, you handed off the platter to Sebastian to allow him to distribute the dishes on it, Mey-Rin handed you wine glasses on her cart one by one for you to fill with wine and distribute to each person, and Finny took the empty from Sebastian to return it to the kitchen.

There were a little more than a dozen guests total at the extended table, they were all men. Each dressed well, each older than your employer. Their voices overlapped in their conversation, unctuous compliments about the estate, the meal, the dining table.

Phantomhive was about as engaged as he normally was, his expression stormy and hard to read. A touch smug around his mischievous eye, his mouth a hard stoic line. He always looked as if he were three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.

He hardly spared you or any of the staff a look, his attention fully focused on the table he headed. A battlefield for a businessman. And apparently, some business exchanges could turn lethal on this estate.

But that was why he hired you. More eyes to watch his back. Your attentive stare paid special attention to the men’s hands, waiting for them to dare pull out a firearm or anything else that could remotely be a weapon. All it would take was two seconds for you to draw one of your pistols, and one more second to fire. Your bullets could reach a good 130 meters in just one second—and you were much closer to them than that.

“What an impressive spread, Lord Phantomhive. You’re treating us better than any other chairman—you’d think you were attempting to earn our faith,” a man said, immediately picking up his glass of wine when you set it down to his side.

“It is important to me that my guests feel well tended to, Mr. Russell,” Phantomhive answered easily, poised and perfected. “My staff works according to that standard.” Always so direct in his words, so precise. There was something he wasn’t saying. You simply didn’t know him well enough to have a clue.

“You have an excellent mind for hospitality, sir,” another man chimed in.

“Yes, truly,” another parroted.

Your eyebrows wrinkled, disconcerted. You finished distributing the filled glasses of wine to the guests, refusing to hesitate and break character. You were supposed to look like a young, clueless maid. In their eyes, you only refilled their wine glasses, accustomed to having to interpret a variation of strange waves, looks, and nods over the course of an evening to do so.

These compliments seemed forced, haphazard, and suspicious. If they weren’t entirely there in Phantomhive’s best interest, your orders were to eliminate them. For now, though, it would be best to survey them closely and wait.

Phantomhive waved away the positive attention dismissively. His shoulders squared into his usual perfected posture. He shook his head, long raven hair nearly reaching the bridge of his nose at its longest. “Now, I would love to get to the heart of the matter. This proposed production machine of yours, the cost of investment it would take. The long-term resource commitment. Do you have a working prototype?”

His fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass you served him as he took an expectant drink. His eyebrows lifted as if to say, have a go at impressing me. You watched him make eye contact with each man as they fumbled to choose a decisive spokesman.

“Well—it’s a,” the one named Mr. Russell started, gesturing with his hands. He looked at the man to his right for help.

“Sort of fabric processing machine,” the other man finished for him.

“A sort of fabric processing machine, all right,” Phantomhive repeated back to them boredly, with a hum. “And what else? My textile factories are already supplied with tufting guns.”

And the rest of the night proceeded in the same way: Phantomhive posed a complex question. The group sitting before him stumbled to answer. It was almost a challenge to follow their points through all of their stumbling. Still, you and the rest of the staff managed a smooth presentation of each dinner course.

You grew more suspicious by the second.

Eventually, Sebastian sent you to get the dessert cart. You walked back to the kitchen from the dining room, carefully preparing to fight. They couldn’t be engineers or mechanics, so they were lying. It was only a matter of time before they made a move. You didn’t have an opportunity to convey your concerns to Sebastian, but Baldroy was the second best choice.

You moved quickly down the hall, conscious of your steps and surroundings. Two of the men were absent from the table, having left for the bathroom. They could be anywhere. So your eyes caught on every shadow, lurked on each corner. Anticipation made your pulse quicken, your senses in overdrive.

There was someone behind you, the wood floor creaked under his shoe.

You were almost relieved when he pounced, leveling the blade of a knife directly underneath your chin. Because it confirmed your suspicions. These people were terrible businessmen—they had to have some other agenda coming here.

Finally, it was clear, giving you cause to take them out. Waiting had been miserable.

Your mind sharpened as your hands took hold of your enemy’s elbow and wrist. Bending your knees, you lowered your hips and center of gravity to give yourself the leverage for this satisfying motion. Dragging him down with you, you snapped your hips sharply to throw him over your back, his feet forced off the ground. You ignored any last whisper of pain in your back ribs and torso the dynamic movement caused. It was worth it, so worth it. And the last of your pain was subsiding, anyway.

Your enemy’s back hit the floor with a crash, his knife clattering away. You dug your boot into his chest, unlocking one of your pistols from its holster and aiming at him. He fought to breathe; you must’ve knocked the wind out of him. He panted for breath, reflex tears pooling in his eyes and rolling down his reddening face.

“What’s the problem? You weren’t playing fair, obviously,” you snapped at him, emphasizing your heel in his sternum when his hands tried to move your leg.

“Bard!” You called out experimentally. Keeping your gun fixed on the man under your boot, you looked up. The light of the kitchen was just down the hall. He was close. The sound of the man’s struggle was certainly long enough to catch his attention.

“Y/n? That crash happen by you?” Baldroy didn’t take long to respond, leaving the kitchen with his own firearm in hand. “Oh, I get it,” he approached, picking up the steak knife from the dining table that the man took and inspecting it. Recognizing that exact utensil.

“Come on man, these were for the roast. Not for bloody people,” Baldroy chastised, eyebrows knitting. “ ’Specially not your host’s staff. That’s just plain rude, now isn’t it?” he unlocked his gun and shot a bullet into the floor—a quick way to tell the rest of the staff to locate the speaking tube nearest to them and listen. Thankfully, there was one in this hallway.

In almost every room and corridor in the estate, there was a brass pipe, they all connected in a complex intercom system and allowed you to communicate from almost all locations in the house.

“Everybody, we’ve got a rodent infestation. First encounter neutralized by Y/n on hall two, level one. Steak knife,” he relayed. “Mey-Rin, Finny, clear the house. Y/n and I’ve got the exterior to start, Mey-Rin to the roof once you’ve cleared, and Finny to the side entrances. Snake, Tanaka, help ‘em search the place.”

You found it strange that Baldroy didn’t assign Mey-Rin to the perimeter. Her long-range coverage would be much more efficient, you thought. But you were faster than she was, you supposed, and much closer to an exit. And you could find yourself lost in the main house from time to time if someone asked you to report to a particularly insignificant room. The main house even had a labyrinth of passageways you were still mastering.

“I know this is your first go at a rodent infestation with us, Y/n,” Baldroy smiled as if he were clueing you in to a joke. “I know we’re all excited havin’ you on board—guess I’m just tryin’ to say that I hope it’s a good time for you, too,” he extended his hand to shake yours. He had been the first to rise and introduce himself on your first day at the estate.

Baldroy’s smile lines made his blue eyes crease, the hues of green meshed in them reminded you of blue topaz. He seemed genuine, but the pit of your stomach twisted with apprehension. Even when you shook his hand, suspicion crept up your back.

“Thanks,” you answered, tucking some hair that fell out of your braid back behind your ear. You broke eye contact, both unwilling and unable to further return his welcoming words. Sebastian said the rest of the staff would be thrilled to meet you, but you assumed they were exaggerating.

The man underneath your boot squirmed, causing you to dig your heel harder into his torso once more and shoot him in the forehead. You pulled your other pistol from out of its holster.

“We have to clear the perimeter, ensure it’s just them in here,” you said. “It sounds like Sebastian is with Phantomhive,” you claimed, referencing the screams just from above.

“Always is,” Baldroy said. You didn’t know how Sebastian chose to fight, but you knew he was formidable. He never left Phantomhive’s side. Baldroy motioned for you to follow him through the kitchen and into one of the many inconspicuous doorways that led out of the manor. “All we ought to worry about is keepin’ the place in one piece. Ready for some action?”

You hesitated at the door for a moment, the thought of the immense number of acres you and Baldroy were about to attempt coverage of. Really, it was no surprise they were looking for an extra pair of eyes.

In front of you, Baldroy opened the door and stepped into the chilly night. “No need to be nervous. Clearin’ the house won’t take long at all—there’s no lot more capable or stronger than that lot,” he said with a reverence for his co-workers that you scarcely recognized. You used to feel that way, the warmth of camaraderie as reassuring and invigorating as summer sunlight. But now, there was a pit in your stomach, the thought of being close to people—close to a group with more loyalty among themselves than to you.

You didn’t step through the threshold because you were assured that the rest of the staff had your back. You did because you trusted your own ability to get yourself out of most anything.

And there was no guaranteeing that anyone else here was truly on your side, or even Phantomhive’s. A good liar could take on any facade, blend in seamlessly, and backstab you at their leisure. That was how traitors operated. All you could do in the meantime was be vigilant.

“No need to worry about me,” you told Baldroy, quickly stepping out behind him to start the scout. Your head jerked in each direction to check for an immediate threat, gun following your gaze. Light from the main house illuminated the property from around you somewhat, revealing the stables in the distance and the side of the front garden. But if you were attacking the manor, you would absolutely set up camp in the tree line; far out of sight. The Band would always have extra reinforcements waiting. It was best practice, and even better to destroy waiting reserves.

“We should see if there are reinforcements,” you said. “Behind the tree line.”

“Believe me, that won’t be necessary,” Baldroy’s dry scoff made you clench your jaw. “We stay right by the house. Wait for anyone tryna make a fool’s escape from our friends in there and mow ‘em down.”

Our friends in there. You would’ve scoffed if you trusted them in the same way Baldroy clearly did. You disliked waiting for your adversaries to find you—especially when you could seek them out first and take them by surprise.

“Seems counterintuitive,” you observed, scanning around you. You started towards the tree line, squinting because you could hardly see in the night. “If they have reinforcements, we ought to find out while they deal with the ones in the house.”

“If anyone else comes into our space, we’ll deal with ‘em. It’s better to maintain proximity to the entrances and the others, believe me,” Baldroy caught your shoulder, making you turn on your heel sharply out of instinct, just barely suppressing the instinct to shove him out of your space. Instead, you scowled at the offending hand, and he removed it. “Look, all I’m saying is this ain’t my first go at things here.”

You didn’t like it, but you relented. If there was anyone urgently close attempting to break an entering, that took precedence. Baldroy was correct in that respect.

“Fine. We’ll clear the entrances and windows, then,” You gave the woods one last look before refocusing on the elegant stone estate. It truly was an impressively large amount of land, and this was your first attempt at defending rather than attacking. You were well-acquainted with the art of breaking and entering; not preventing them.

Apparently though, this estate was just as important to Phantomhive as his life was to him. If you knew Sebastian was at his side, you were directed to prioritize this property from infiltration and disgrace. It went against your grain as a thief.

The best fighters adapted well, you supposed.

You scoured the property with Baldroy, cautiously surveying the side of the house, the gardens, the entrances. You could hear fighting inside—the unmistakable crash of a statue lobbed by Finny and the piercing echo of Mey-Rin’s shots. She truly was a talent—you could tell by the frequency at which she shot. Apparently, those trembling hands of hers could do the trick just fine. But that didn’t make you less anxious for action.

You detested waiting. It made you turn on your heel in the direction of each and every noise you heard—rustling tree branches, hooting owls—and kept your head on a swivel. Opponents could come from any and all angles.

“Not the usual for you, is it? The waiting?” Baldroy tried to make conversation, but you ignored the effort, hardly able to make out his face in the lowlight. The men inside had to have reinforcements waiting—Phantomhive spoke as if he was known to be unforgiving and relentless, any enemy who knew him would prepare sufficiently.

“I want to keep moving,” you said, eyebrows knitting when Baldroy stopped at the main house's east entrance, it was disguised cleverly behind tall shrubbery.

“Just stand by, Y/n,” Baldroy insisted. “Hear that?” he asked, referring to the sound of gunshots getting closer, and closer. Heavy statues clattering closer. Mey-Rin and Finny were truly driving the invaders towards these exits.

In fact, just as you reached for the door’s handle, an extremely loud crash came from the door and the door ripped open. You barely managed to jump out of the way before a little less than the dining table dashed out. Some bleeding. All yelling, completely in disorder.

Immediately, you took aim. Your right pistol fired, then your left. Four men fell to the grass between your and Baldroy’s bullets. After a few seconds, Finny strode out of the cellar, haplessly wiping his hands clean on his trousers. You assumed he threw a statue or some bookshelf to drive them to this doorway.

“Mey-Rin and me got another six of ‘em in there, these were just the fast ones,” the gardener chuckled. “Sebastian got the rest. C’mon you guys, we should regroup.”

You frowned, unconvinced. Was everyone truly accounted for? It only took one man to plant a firebomb. The Band would only assign two people to blow up the train tracks because igniting them was such a quick effort. By the time the conductor knew there was something amiss, the track was already blown to bits. It was just as easy to plant explosives in an estate, even one as grand as this. You’d need more than two hands to count the number of times the Band would lull victims into a false sense of security before delivering the killing blow—whatever the mission objective was, it was usually some derivative of lethal.

Without wasting another word, you started toward the tree line in the fastest sprint you could manage. Past the bodies on the ground, past the stables. You had to clear the treeline.

“No! Y/n you shouldn’t–” Baldroy started to protest urgently, immediately taking to a run to accompany you.

“Then stay back for all I care! I can handle this!” You called over your shoulder, reading your pistols. If there was anyone waiting beyond this treeline, you’d get them.

You were too fast for Baldroy to catch up to, and it seemed that was the product of immense misfortune on his part. Apparently, one of the men bleeding on the grass, had just enough life in him to pick his head up, lift a small gun he must’ve had on his person, and shoot at you as you passed. Baldroy was fast enough to shove you out of the way, but not fast enough to avoid the shot as it grazed his side.

“Oh, damn you!” Baldroy hissed at the man (or you, you couldn’t be sure) and stumbled from the impact. Blood immediately stained his traditional chef whites, pooling out in the fabric like watercolor on thin paper.

“Bard!” Your throat immediately tightened as you returned the shot to your fallen opponent. You gave the woods one final look, but reconsidered your priority. If there was someone waiting there, they would’ve attacked when you approached, you supposed. Thus, you surged closer to the chef, allowing your guns to drop to the Earth as you ripped some of your uniform to help handle the bleeding.

“Sit down,” you ordered. “The hell were you thinking, doing this for me? We don’t know each other!”

“I’m fine, just thought I’d help the new kid,” the chef hissed through his pain, his face was white. You helped guide him to his knees. “I mean, I told ya not to bother with the tree line yet, didn’t I? We’ve got Sebastian for those kinds of operations,” he made a weak attempt at a joke, laughing when your eyebrows only knit more. Movement from his laugh caused him to grimace.

As if his name summoned him, Sebastian came out with Mey-Rin and Finny at his sides. “And what on Earth happened here? Do we not employ tight defensive positions around the estate for this reason?”

“Guess I got a bit ahead of myself, what can I say?” Baldroy said, but everyone could see the truth of the situation just by taking in the scene. “Help me up. I can walk with a bit’a help and you can sew me back up inside, Nurse Sebastian.” The butler bristled at the nickname, but he and Finny helped the chef back inside regardless, leaving you to pathetically trudge behind them, an uncertain thank you twisted on your tongue.

You weren’t surprised when Sebastian summoned you to Phantomhive’s study after he finished tending to Baldroy’s wound. The butler assigned you to start cleaning up the shattered remnants of the statues Finny weaponized, and you took on the task without complaint. Now, you sat across from your employer who regarded you with mild interest. There was nothing accusatory about his expression, but certainly nothing reassuring about it, either.

“Why did you disobey direct orders? Sebastian did inform you that you are to act under Baldroy’s discretion in these circumstances, did he not?” Phantomhive broke the silence in a measured voice, taking a calm drink out of his tea. He held the teacup formally, slowly bringing it up to his lips and returning it to the dish it came with.

“He didn’t need to follow me. I had reason to suspect there were further assailants waiting in the woods, and I took a calculated risk,” you replied, looking down at your lap. You straightened your back, painfully aware of your slouch when you noted the nobleman’s shoulders impeccably squared and attentive.

“You are meant to work with them as a unit,” Phantomhive said.

But you hardly understood what a unit entailed, anymore. The only experience in a unit you had was: survive or die. Follow along or be left in the dust. Complete your duties well or they’d find someone else who could.

“No one has ever tried to push me out of harm,” you admitted begrudgingly, hyperactive fingers re-braiding your hair. You looked down at your braid as you tied it off, uncomfortable under Phantomhive’s scrutinous stare. You felt like a child getting scolded, your heart clobbering in your ribcage with your buried premonitions. For a reason you couldn’t name, there was a lump growing your throat. “I didn’t think…didn’t know…he’d do that. I mean, we work for you.”

“Giving you all common cause, yes,” Phantomhive set down his teacup, his blue eye still attempting to decipher you. You’d never felt so out of balance in front of someone since…you refused to entertain the troubling thought. “Can you tell me what incentive there may be for foul play among you?”

You failed to form an appropriate response, but that didn’t change your mind. You used to believe that a common cause made for some degree of camaraderie, but people were more complex than that. Vile, underhanded, jealous…everything you knew was clawed right out from under you in less than five minutes.

Everything. Because of him. And you never would have predicted it at the time.

You thought of the glacial snow that encompassed your body that day like a coffin. Your last few seconds of consciousness before your body gave out to the pain and the frigid cold. The metal smell of your own blood, the bitter taste of it on your lips.

If anyone had asked you that morning if anyone in The Band had incentive for foul play, you also would have answered confidently. No. Why would they betray me? I’ve worked for them for most of my life, you would’ve said.

And you hardly knew these people. Baldroy, an American with salt and pepper lightly speckling his blond hair, his firm handshake. Mey-Rin’s trembling hands and fumbling kindness. Finny, only a couple years older than you, and stronger than anyone you’d ever seen. Snake and his friends. Tanaka’s quiet fierceness.

You were there to earn a living, get out, find your old accomplices, and end them. That was all you wanted. You didn’t need to befriend these people, but they’d surely throw you out if you failed to assimilate. What would you do, then? Cower in a shed and slowly build up funds with your back unprotected in that shack?

“Fine,” you said. Your face felt hot, your mouth dry. “We sink or swim together,” you continued reluctantly, fully aware that you didn’t believe a single syllable coming out of your mouth, but self-aware enough to know that the lie was essential to your survival. It was what Phantomhive wanted to hear, and that was what mattered. Keeping your boss happy would keep you paid, fed, and sheltered.

“Indeed, and you should offer your thanks to Baldroy. Who knows what might’ve happened had he not intervened,” Phantomhive said purposefully, watching you as you stood to your feet, not waiting for proper dismissal. You were too uncomfortable.

“Fine. Is there anything else, then?” you asked, impatiently standing behind the seat you had just occupied. Unappreciative of your restlessness, Phantomhive’s gaze hardened.

“Speak with the rest of them, too. Trust among you is essential,” the Earl said as casually as if he asked for another cup of tea. How couldn’t he understand? He found you isolated in a shack. Did he truly think he could make a loyal footsoldier out of a criminal like you?

“I will. In the morning,” you said, stepping closer to the door.

“Y/n,” Phantomhive said, stopping you as you started to open the door. You looked over your shoulder at him.

“Yes?” Your tone was tougher than you intended it to be, but he didn’t flinch.

“For your first go with them, it was a decent job done,” Phantomhive tacked the comment on, rushing through the words with a hint of awkwardness uncharacteristic of him.

“Thank you,” you heard the same rushed uneasiness in just those two words of yours. You closed the door and showed yourself back to your room before Phatomhive could keep you any longer. You had enough of other people for the day, and you needed to be alone. You locked your door and stepped out of your uniform, the material damp with sweat and somewhat ripped from your efforts to tend to Bard’s wound.

Removing your dress revealed the key you wore around your neck, usually tucked quite cautiously underneath your clothing. It was your most valuable possession, the target on your back that would ensure your enemies to come running back to you once they realized it was lost. You were betting on the importance of the key, even if you hadn’t the slightest clue of where or what it unlocked.

If you knew your former colleagues as well as you thought, they were looking for you. This key. They were switching up their home bases, knowing you were out there searching for them, too.

If they knew you, they knew you’d want to fight. You were never one to go down without one.

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#ciel phantomhive x you #ciel x y/n #ciel x you #ciel phantomhive x reader #ciel x reader #black butler x female reader #black butler x y/n #black butler x you #black butler x reader #black butler fanfic #black butler ciel #black butler fanfiction #black butler #kuroshitsuji

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scribbleseas · 3 months ago

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Ready for some action?

#keep your eyes peeled #chapter 1 #last tease

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scribbleseas · 4 months ago

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i’m working on wdoa i promise i’m not deadddd

thank you so much for waiting, i love you all sm 💗.

#wanted: dead or alive #hopefully chapter 1 soon #I want it to be 2 weeks but not sure if that’s realistic bc midterms are killing me

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scribbleseas · 4 months ago

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in love & in war, drabble 5: the one where he begins to understand you

Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica—your father’s vast shipping empire.

Warnings: none!

Author’s Note: hi! i have nothing to say for myself except, i'm trying my best lol. i'm so sorry for the delay, this ended up being so much longer than i expected. i hope you all like this one! i had a lot of fun writing it. next stop (hopefully): wanted dead or alive, chapter 1! assuming i don’t change my mind and premiere the other new fic i’m working on and surprise ya’ll. who knows, right?? suspense is fun lol. anyway, thank you for reading!!

Happy Reading!

Dan <3

⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒

MASTERLIST

Regent’s Park, London, 1895

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Ciel arrived at Regent’s Park far earlier than he should have, but he would have otherwise been a fool to risk arriving after Adam Kingston did.

He had to be in control. It was imperative to maintain Lady Y/n’s attention, and he was decently assured that they would both be in attendance today. No one with an exclusive invite would miss an Edward Sutton exhibition—the grossly affluent man picked a new engineering project to sponsor every year. He accepted applications from engineers and funded the fruits of their imagination and labor into reality, oftentimes developing these innovations into businesses. Each year, he’d host these outdoor exhibitions, turning them into social functions to make the most of his publicity.

This time, Ciel supposed Sutton chose some engineer who made an advancement with hot air balloons. Something about changing the burners that fueled them. Ciel didn’t particularly care for engineering—Sebastian suggested he allow Y/n explain it to him, anyway, it made her feel confident—but there was something to be said about annual sponsorship programs. TransAtlantica was nothing without its charitable pursuits, and Lord Richmond and Edward Sutton were old friends.

Nevertheless, it was another tiring, unfortunate outdoor social gathering that Ciel had to grit his way through. Even worse, this event came just on the heels of that cursed Grand National race a little less than a week ago. He hadn’t seen Lady Y/n since—he’d failed to secure another invitation from her at the end of the race because he’d been so livid. Her face had been overshadowed with something between pity and regret, smoothed over by a smile that would have fooled anyone unacquainted with her. Ciel had to make a quick escape to avoid making an ass of himself.

Kingston’s appearance wasn’t her doing, it seemed to have been at her mother’s hand, Ciel reminded himself. He took a long drink out of his sherry cobbler cocktail, the sour wine undercut by hints of orange. Ciel needed the beverage’s cold reprise before she showed. It was going to be soon, and he needed his mood to improve before that happened.

Ciel settled next to a high table, one of many near Sutton’s outside bar and banquet table crowded with hors d'oeuvres. It was an open cocktail bar; therefore, bound to get busier as more guests joined, so he thought to request one for Lady Y/n, too. She might appreciate the thought—Sebastian did say she liked fruity wine selections.

The sun was beating down on the Earl hard, and he was positive his dark hair absorbed the light and made him warmer. At least there was a notable breeze, a strong one that pushed through his heated hair and dried up the beginnings of perspiration on his face. Ciel’s nose wrinkled at the scent of freshly cut grass and the lingering scent of gasoline. Down the field, Sutton’s engineering team fussed with the giant hot air balloon. The massive balloon bobbed, but each person held a rope to tether it into the ground.

“Everyone is arrivin’ early! Hurry up and secure it already!” One of the workers snapped, hurriedly looking up as more guests entered the field. It was just about time for the prompt noble families to start showing up: in tandem with the exact time printed on their invitation.

Ciel could handle this. He’d planned and prepared for this event. Adam Kingston was no one but a husk of an entirely prosaic man. It didn’t matter that he was more acquainted with the Y/l/n family than Ciel was. Once Y/n spent longer than a moment or so with Kingston now, she would realize he was no conversationalist. She and Ciel were intellectuals. He was a soldier. A cocky, over confident son of a—

“Lord Phantomhive, good afternoon.” Lady Y/n sounded nervous behind him.

The moment he heard her voice, Ciel urged his scowl to fall from his face. Sebastian had condescendingly coached him about the abrasive expression he wore time and time again. Apparently, Ciel’s frustrated glare and impatient purse of his lips made him appear dour and sanctimonious. So he took a long drink out of his chilled cocktail before he turned around, urging the tension out of his shoulders.

A man Y/n would want to love was patient and understanding. Not dour and sanctimonious. The future chairman of the foremost shipping country in the United Kingdom, and perhaps most of Europe, thought before he acted.

Y/N Y/L/N

Lord Phantomhive was slow to face you, likely occupied with the sight of Edward Sutton’s group of sponsored engineers struggling to re-tether their giant gas balloon to the ground. It was quite a sight, though you hoped the engineers didn’t rush the important process of reliably securing it down.

“My Lady,” Lord Phantomhive answered easily, meeting your gaze confidently in spite of the discourteousness that perspired the week before. He was nursing a cocktail, just as most of the young men at the gathering were. It was hot enough outside to justify it, you supposed. An untouched cocktail stood on the high table next to the Earl. “How do you do?”

“Quite well, thank you,” your answer came out more hurried than you wished. Unladylike. You pursed and released your lips, they slid easily from the light lip rouge on them. Your gloved hand tucked a stray strand of hair back behind your ear, it fell free from the braided bun Daphne twisted your hair into. “I apologize for last week…I—” your breath stalled, unsure how to verbalize that your mother hijacked the outing without your consent. As a young girl, your etiquette master never covered a situation like this.

Speak with intent. “I was not as informed as I would have liked to have been. And I apologize because…” I should have been.

It was your fourth time meeting the Earl in any official capacity, and yet your mouth still felt dry with unspoken words, embarrassment. He drew such wariness and uncertainty from you—not at all like most eligible men your age. You’d never felt so unsure of yourself in front of someone, but you simply couldn’t know what to make of him.

“My Lady…” Lord Phantomhive acknowledged your apology, but he didn’t entertain it. He seemed to accept it with a diminutive shake of his head, dismissing your guilt. He offered you the untouched cocktail to his right, and you took it with thanks. Your fingers brushed against Lord Phantomhive’s bare hand in the exchange. The drink was a peace offering and an invitation to talk longer, you hoped, so you stepped forward to stand at his side and watch the engineers secure the balloon.

He must have thought to request a drink for you. And a tasteful sherry wine selection, at that. You could tell by the smell of its fruity fragrance—you adored sherry wine.

“Here to see Sutton’s new toy?” Lord Phantomhive asked, a ghost of a smile lifted the side of his mouth. “I certainly am.”

“Of course. My father reviews Mr. Sutton’s applicants with him every cycle,” you answered with a thankful smile, appreciating the way the cold glass felt through your lace gloves. You turned to gesture at your parents engaged in a vibrant conversation with Edward and his wife, Maria.

“Right,” Lord Phantomhive nodded. “This hot air balloon has an adapted burner or–” he stopped himself, immediately catching the way your eyebrows drew together. Your mouth opened and closed because you wanted to interject, but immediately thought better of it. “You may correct me, please,” he told you with false exhaustion. He took a purposeful drink out of his cocktail, gesturing at you to explain the project’s significance.

You laughed, ice in your drink clattering against your glass as your shoulders bounced. “Come. I can show you,” you guided Lord Phantomhive down the green field. As you walked together, you explained, “Mr. Sutton’s team devised a gas balloon filled with hydrogen. Hot air powered balloons are unreliable because there is no device that can efficiently regulate the heat, which controls the balloon’s altitude. Hydrogen gas, meanwhile, is easily adjustable and eliminates the need to maintain a steady fire.”

“How would they manage to get the hydrogen inside?” the Earl asked you, indicating that he was actively listening. So few truly listened to you…it was considered unladylike for you to jabber on, but he asked! He asked you. He could have asked one of the engineers—they were each answering questions and engaging with other guests—or even Sutton himself...but he waited. For you. With a drink—a selection you liked.

Most of the guests stood around the balloon, a few too many people close to its swaying tethers. You pointed to the balloon’s open bottom, “they fill it with pipes that funnel the hydrogen through—they make the hydrogen with sulphuric acid and iron filaments.”

“Fascinating. The gas inside is lighter than the material outside, so it rises…” Lord Phantomhive mumbled, looking intently at the craftsmanship. The balloon itself was red, blue, and white, the colors of the British flag.

“Did you know that they used hot air balloons in the Civil War? In the States?” you asked, taking a drink out of your cocktail. Your throat seized uncomfortably when a familiar blond inserted himself between the gas balloon and you and Lord Phantomhive.

“Indeed they did, Lady Y/n. Indeed they did,” Lord Kingston’s voice made you pause.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Ciel’s first mistake was allowing Lady Y/n to relocate them closer to the heart of the event. If Adam Kingston was going to be anywhere, it would be working the room. Or the lavishly decorated field, in this bloody case.

“Hello, Y/n. You look breathtaking on this fine and flawless day,” Kingston greeted disingenuously, pointedly ignoring Ciel. He seemed to have just stepped out of a conversation with Leonardo Sutton, Edward’s son, and a few other heirs Ciel didn’t care to identify. “I was hoping to see you here. We never got to speak the other day.”

Ciel had just opened his mouth to tell Y/n that no, he hadn’t known that, and the slimy bastard took the opportunity to insert himself in the middle of their conversation. Shameless. Shameless. Instead, Ciel merely watched Adam Kingston, his snake-like green eyes illuminated in the sunlight, the glare making them appear paler. He dressed plainly in a white shirt, brown trousers. A ruby family ring sparkled on his finger and another gold signet ring on his other hand with the number 32, his regiment number from South Africa, or something like that. Sebastian took Ciel through a decent two hours of reconnaissance about the guy.

A man like Kingston will aim to get a rise out of you my Lord. You must not allow him to make you a fool, Sebastian had reminded Ciel when he stepped out of the carriage that afternoon.

He will not make me into something I am not, Ciel had insisted.

“Thank you, Lord Kingston,” Y/n answered sheepishly, red blooming in her cheeks. Adam’s compliment seemed to land, and Ciel wasn’t blind to the way his gaze risked downwards, certainly not interested in her simple diamond necklace, but most definitely the way her light sage gown looked on her body. The subtle floral print on it was a delicate shade of baby pink. Her neckline dipped slightly down, leading to a small bow towards the bottom of her sternum. The shape of this particular gown hugged the curve of her waist and fell down her legs in ruffles. The wind made her skirts hike up slightly, exposing hints of her matching pink heels and pushing her hair about. She had it arranged in an elegant bun typical of her, but much like the beachy wind on the pier, the gusts on the field pushed strands out.

She did look good, objectively.

Y/N Y/L/N

Your etiquette master certainly never covered this type of social crisis—Lord Kingston watching you as if Lord Phantomhive wasn’t even there, and Lord Phantomhive examining you as if Lord Kingston’s comment suddenly gave him something to consider.

Facing each other, they were an artistic sight, too. Lord Phantomhive’s dark and intense look directly contrasted by Lord Kingston’s traditional princely charisma made for such a marvel. Particularly as their gazes met—stern and unforgiving blue against easygoing, mischievous chartreuse.

Kingston crossed his arms over his chest casually, lifting his chin and staring down his nose.

Each man was silent too, expecting the other to introduce himself first. They were unwilling to take the introductory step because it was a vulnerable position, and they were of the same peerage rank, Earls. Had one of them been lower, the burden of introduction would have been yours. But judging by the tense silence…it was yours regardless.

It would be worse to hold two separate conversations concurrently, you decided. You presumed your etiquette book would agree. So you would introduce them.

“Lord Phantomhive, this is Lord Adam Kingston,” you urged yourself to sound calm. Perfectly well—not as if you were wishing to escape. Not as if your throat was threatening to close. “Lord Kingston, this is Lord Ciel Phantomhive,” you said.

“Good to meet you,” Lord Phantomhive said first, extending his free hand to shake Adam’s. He took a slight step forward, but Lord Kingston did not step back as anyone else would have. “You’re the fellow who took the Grand National home, aren’t you? What impeccable luck for a soldier.”

Luck. From the way Lord Kingston’s seafoam eyes hardened, the word and its implications were far from lost on him. His fingers intertwined with Lord Phantomhive's in a single terse shake before releasing. A tad too hasty.

“Guilty,” Kingston said with a dry laugh, one you could tell he didn’t mean. “And you sell children’s toys and confectionery. How delightful,” Lord Kingston simpered. Your eyes immediately darted to Lord Phantomhive’s face. You held your breath, your grip on your glass tightening.

You were sweating. You wanted to use your panic signal with Daphne, but there was no good that would do. It wasn’t a dangerous situation. It was only…excruciating.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

So Adam did his research about Ciel, too. Good to know.

“Quite. Funtom has been rather fortunate to have outperformed in every quarter this year,” he answered seamlessly. Adam Kingston was not going to attack his company and flirt with the woman Ciel was clearly courting right in front of him. For the second time. Over his mutilated, dismembered, corpse.

“God forbid the little boys and girls go without their stuffies, right?” Adam teased. It would have appeared good natured to anyone else, but Ciel knew better. Lord Kingston was the worst type of man—-too immature to obey proper courtship ordinances and wait his bloody turn.

He will try to make you look uncaring and aloof. That is his game, Sebastian had insisted. Make him look childish when his jabs fail to land. Remember who you are there for.

Ciel could handle a catty, flirtatious nobody. He was here for himself and his future prospects. TransAtlantica was not an option; it was an inevitability.

So Ciel, with his own dry laugh…that was also clearly, far from genuine, let Adam’s comment roll off his back. There was no use in another retort. It’d be too inflammatory and juvenile.

“My Lady, you were saying that the Americans used gas balloons in their Civil War? You were just about to tell me,” Ciel reminded her. He didn’t even cast a glance at Adam. Although he was truly there for himself, everyone else had to believe he was there for her. This was a clever display of partnership. He would help Y/n diffuse the situation and seemingly set his pride aside in doing so.

But, this decision would favor him in the end. She would appreciate it—he could see it in the way her shoulders dropped.

Y/N Y/L/N

Immediately, your shoulders relaxed. Your next smile was easier to construct because Lord Phantomhive had given you such a seamless transition. Your chest had felt tight from the moment Adam interrupted you. Lord Phantomhive had understood exactly what you needed—just by reading the situation.

“I was,” you confirmed, attempting to hide the full extent of your relief. You didn’t want your old friend to assume that you didn’t want to talk to him. And you did not have the luxury of speaking without consequence, Leonardo Sutton and that group was not shy about their presence. You could hear Leonardo making some crass joke to his circle somewhere behind your back. This affair, much like most of your outings, was populated with your peers. And those of your parents.

You couldn’t appear vapid and indecisive.

Your father dedicated too much time to cultivating your knowledge for polite society to believe you were catty. What would he say to you right now? You had to fight the urge to look back at the tables situated near the bar in search of him.

“…Shall we return to our table? I can bore you with facts about reconnaissance and artillery hot air balloons, if you wish, Lord Phantomhive,” you attempted to quip, turning to him.

The transition was far from subtle, but Adam hadn’t been either in his objectives. And he had stolen your attention at the last outing. You hadn’t been fair to Lord Phantomhive, and you had to repay that. Adam Kingston could not break the standard for proper courtship processes; if he wished to declare his interest in your hand, he needed to do so properly. If you continued like this, the three of you would make a scene.

“That would be delightful,” he answered, meeting your gaze. Understanding was clear in his face, amusement curving his mouth yet again. You took a step back, indicating that you were finished with the interaction. Adam’s face fell and he took another short step closer.

“Lord Kingston, it has been lovely speaking to you, but we should be going—”

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

“To your table? I would love to try one of—whatever it is you’ve got there, they look divine,” Adam interjected, gesturing to his and Y/n’s identical cocktails. “And of course, to hear about the hot air balloons, and all. I forgot how much you like to…read,” he said, the last word flat and disdainful to his ears, but Y/n didn’t seem to notice.

Kingston wasn’t going down without a fight, but it was only to his detriment. He was maddening, but the worse he acted, the more Lady Y/n would wish him away. The gentlemanly action would have been to let them leave; both she and TransAtlantica desired someone diplomatic and rational. Socially adept.

Ciel could see Lady Y/n’s dissent in the way her eyebrows furrowed together and her mouth pressed into a politely frustrated line for a moment. If Kingston noticed, he made a persuasive effort in acting as if he hadn’t.

“I always have,” she answered as pleasantly as she could manage, observant eyes swiftly gathering that the rest of the party was invested in this exchange. Ciel could feel eyes on them. Craning necks were ever-present in this life of gilded luxury, always. If he could feel the interest of interlopers, so could Lady Y/n.

“Though…” the noblewoman started to say. Her gaze met Ciel’s, somehow asking, fretting, and apologizing all at once. Her resolve crumbled under the scrutiny around them.

The rest of the aristocracy wanted to know if Lady Y/n would truly tell her old friend to leave her be after such a grand gesture last week. Fine. Let her see how he and Kingston compared intellectually, if she wished. Fine!

“They are sherry cobbler cocktails,” Ciel interrupted seamlessly, his voice polite, verging on unctuous. The same subtly impertinent tone Sebastian took with him. From experience, he knew it was enraging. “I chose them from today’s selection. You ought to join us back at our table, Kingston. You may just learn another thing or two,” Ciel challenged as politely as his select words could manage. He made eye contact with Adam, their sight lines meeting. Ciel refused to break eye contact—even if it was to risk a look at Y/n’s reaction. He and Adam were the same height, just about, but their physical similarities seemed to end there.

Unable to deny Ciel’s confrontation, Adam reflected his chilling smile. He laughed a little, broad shoulders jumping. “With Lady Y/n? I always expect to learn something new. Ever since we were small.”

Ciel fought his urge to roll his eyes. And his urge to bury his face—now beading with sweat from the infernal sun in the damn sky—in his hands.

Y/N Y/L/N

The exchange was painful, but a surprisingly genuine show of understanding on Lord Phantomhive’s part. The Earl had caught onto your fears and made conclusions based on your microexpressions, a silent language that you’d thought only Daphne would ever know. Was this what it was like to feel the beginnings of the connection you so craved?

There was something traitorous about the hope you felt. You’d never thought girlish giddiness would feel so scandalous.

The three of you stood at the same high table. A server brought Adam a drink and with the full utilization of your charisma and social awareness, you managed to hold one terse conversation between the three of you. Lord Phantomhive even helped you navigate it, somehow simultaneously fending off Lord Kingston’s disguised slights without making a scene.

He encouraged you to speak the most, to be the focus of the interaction because the animosity between them would never improve. Everyone knew why that was: they each wanted a chance at your hand. Two of your social class’ most eligible bachelors had their sights set on you.

Or your family name and business.

You managed to rebuild your confidence by talking through the intricacies of ballooning, their history, the science. After all, you’d only fostered that knowledge in light of Mr. Sutton’s project. Although you didn’t see every application your father looked at, he did show you some of the standout pitches. Lofty businessmen approached him and TransAtlantica with new ideas nearly every day—you had to know a good idea when you saw one.

Once you found your stride, you nodded at Daphne. The maid had been sending you increasingly worried faces, but as you settled into a new topic, you knew you had this under control. You would not flail, you would not retreat.

If you couldn’t do this much, how could you ever hope to have an executive spot in your family business?

Before you knew it, the sun started to set and dinner was served with a champagne toast led by Edward Sutton and your father.

You knocked your flute of champagne with both Lord Phantomhive and Lord Kingston individually, the three of you taking a drink in tandem. Each nobleman made a point of not knocking his glass with the other.

“Interesting selection,” Lord Phantomhive commented, taking another curious drink of the champagne. “Vintage?” He asked you, lifting an eyebrow. You couldn’t discern if he was truly curious or bidding to make conversation.

“It seems so,” you answered with uncertainty, unsure without seeing the specific bottle. The champagne was strong on your tongue. The taste was complex: somewhere between honey, spice, and brioche.

“It’s rich enough to be. Not very acidic and rich on the palette,” Adam said. “I know Mr. Sutton likes 1800 Grande Cognac. He would certainly break it out for a celebration like this. Oh, Leo! Perfect. What selection is this?” He gave a bright smile to Leonardo Sutton as he approached your table, flute of champagne in hand.

The event only had about an hour or two left before it reached its natural conclusion. In theory, there might have been a way for you to complete it without another major social upset.

But unfortunately, that estimation would have required you to overestimate Leonardo Sutton. At least, he had the good sense to leave the rest of his and Adam’s friends back at their table.

Most of them disliked you, and the feeling was mutual. They’d each struck out on courtship-intended outings with you—particularly Leonardo.

“1800 Grande Cognac, why? We’re liking this selection?” Leonardo grinned at the three of you bumping his flute with Adam and drinking, the latter laughing because his guess was correct. “How are you, Lady Y/n? Lord Phantomhive?” He extended his flute to you and Lord Phantomhive.

“Just lovely, Leonardo,” you replied dismissively.

“You know I prefer Leo,” the young man smarted, as if you weren’t a noblewoman who outranked him. The Sutton family was not ennobled; they were the start of an fabulously wealthy lineage. If you married a man like Leonardo, you’d never see TransAtlantica’s boardroom ever again, much less a contract or a revenue summary…or…the thought was too horrible to bear. But that was why you would find a suitable man who loved you enough to throw social norms to the wind and honor your and your father’s wishes. The ones he fought such a long, legal battle to secure as a potential reality for you. Most women were never to engage in business or bookkeeping, but if you married a man who was the Chairman in name, you were meticulously trained to handle any of the responsibilities associated with it.

All you had to do was find a man competent and modest enough to let you. If a man courted you for the business, he would surely ignore you.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The light in Y/n’s eyes died when Leonardo Sutton invited himself into the conversation. Ciel’s own mood dipped lower than he thought possible, too. Leonardo was not a malicious man, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t bothersome. Like a troublesome fly buzzing around his head. The man’s voice was irritating enough to equate to that frustrating noise.

Clearing his throat, Leonardo spoke again, disliking the silence that permeated when Lady Y/n refused to engage with his tired nickname quip. He primarily drank and rode comfortably on his father’s coattails; Ciel couldn’t help his amusement at Y/n’s (evident, to him) disdain.

“They’re letting people go in it, two at a time. Not to ride—it’s too windy today—just to take a closer look inside,” he said, well aware of the implications of his words. He was attempting to imply that Lady Y/n would have to choose between Ciel and Adam, and trying to make another scene.

Did Adam put his friend up to this stunt? Ciel wouldn’t put it past Adam—not after his cattiness thus far.

“That sounds fantastic,” Kingston replied, a terrible actor. His snake eyes cut to Y/n purposefully as she lifted her glass to her lips. “They do seem like they’re...learning quite a lot in there,” he suggested, referring to the guests climbing in and out of the balloon’s wicker basket. The balloon levitated a few feet up in the air, bobbing in its fixed position through its tethers and ballast weights keeping it from floating away.

Adam’s statement was a flailing attempt to appeal to Y/n, Ciel felt. The awkward smile Adam gave to Y/n was just charming enough to make the trying statement seem thoughtful.

When he shifted in his seat at the dinner table—Sutton’s staff converted some of the casual high tables for dining tables—Ciel recalled he had a knife tucked into his trousers. All he honestly needed was ten minutes alone with Kingston, a change of clothing, and a shovel to hide the evidence.

The Earl’s fingers pressed hard around the stem of his glass, instead, longing to wrap around something much larger, and warmer. Like Kingston’s neck, for instance.

“I’ve already studied the diagrams so much I’ve practically memorized them,” Y/n explained with a short laugh, one that was completely faux to Ciel, but he doubted Adam and Leonardo noticed.

Knowing her, she was burning to take a look at the real mechanism and compare it to the diagrams from the proposal, but there was no graceful way to choose between Ciel and Adam. “I would hate to take up the time in there when someone could truly learn something,” she explained smartly, reasoning her way out of the affront.

“I feel that studying the diagrams is entirely different than seeing them up close,” Kingston tried again.

Before Ciel could help himself, he chimed in. “Some can grasp a new concept faster than others, I reckon, Lady Y/n.”

Y/N Y/L/N

Not even you could conceal the laugh that Lord Phantomhive tore out of you.

You felt a guilty sense of relief when the conversation’s focus shifted from your bemusement to Leonardo’s startling exclamation of worry, the curses that followed it. His brown eyes widened in shock, “No! Secure it, secure it!” Leonardo yelled, causing your head to jerk, looking behind your seat as two attendants struggled to pull the floating gas balloon back towards the ground… with a young boy inside, screaming and crying as the balloon ascended in the orange sky. The attendants around scrambled frantically, crying out for help to pull the balloon down by the ropes.

“We must help!” Lord Kingston insisted. He, Lord Phantomhive, and Leonardo didn’t wait another moment before charging towards the balloon. Most of the men around you did, whereas you jumped to your feet, hands covering your mouth in worry.

“This is horrible!’ You exclaimed at Daphne, breath labored as you lifted your skirts to run closer, joining onlookers as young men helped the attendants wrestle with the balloon against the wind. In the front of the crowd, a woman—-presumably the boy’s mother—-sobbed in the arms of another woman you didn’t know.

“They’re going to get him back down, Elizabeth, they’ve got him. See? Look at all the strong young men,” the woman insisted, her voice thin with worry.

You wracked your mind for an explanation. The tethering certainly seemed more than stable…the gas balloon had a number of weights on it. The wind was stronger than usual, but certainly not enough to make the balloon break free of its restrictions, surely. None of the ropes seemed to have snapped, either….what happened?

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

There was a silent, stiff understanding between himself and Lord Kingston: neither one of them was interested in fumbling this accident and appearing like halfwits in front of polite society. And Y/n Y/l/n.

“Kingston, take this! Pull!” Ciel shouted over the overlapping yells around them. He took hold of the last rope without anyone to pull it down. He offered Adam the tail of the rope as he pulled from slightly further up the rope, the rough texture making his palms red and raw. The Earl dug the short heels of his boots into the grass, engaging every bit of his strength in urging the balloon down in one of the world’s most intensive games of tug of war.

“All right, all right,” Kingston said, gaze darting between the rope in Ciel’s hand and meeting his stare, as if he couldn’t believe Ciel would let him help. Not even the Earl of Phantomhive’s ego was large enough to refuse help in saving a child. The notion was nearly offensive.

Behind him, Adam started pulling as well, slightly lessening the resistance Ciel encountered.

“Heave, men, heave!” Edward Sutton grunted, pulling a rope with Leonardo and another engineer. There were six ropes with a few men to each one, gradually tugging the balloon back down to avoid tipping it or scaring the boy even more.

Ciel gritted his teeth, his arms and the rest of his body shaking with effort. Sweat ran down his neck and the side of his spine. Ridiculous, this was, and he had a decent idea as to why it was happening, too. There was no doubt a smug demon butler in the vicinity watching his master put all of his mental and physical capabilities into romancing a young woman, and using any excuse to challenge him further.

What is your point, Sebastian? Ciel wanted to yell out.

Y/N Y/L/N

As you watched the assortment between engineers, Sutton’s help, and noblemen work in tandem to re-tether the gas balloon’s restraints, you couldn’t help but feel drawn to watching Lord Phantomhive work. His royal blue eye and raven hair were even more striking against his light grey vest and white undershirt. When the Earl focused, he seemed unstoppable. You held your breath.

You’d never seen him move so dynamically, either, save from when he pulled you out of the way of a moving carriage.

“My Lady…” Daphne reminded you gently, placing a sisterly hand on your shoulder. “You are staring at the Earl Phantomhive,” she reminded you quietly, close to your ear. The blond gestured to your mother at the front of the crowd, carefully watching your father.

Flushing, you immediately stared at the blades of grass below you. You squeezed your eyes closed, releasing the breath you were holding. How shameful. There was a child in peril and you were….

Control yourself, Y/n. Mother and father are here.

“Thank you, Daphne,” you sighed. The young woman squeezed your shoulder affectionately and released you.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long for the group to gain control of the balloon, the attendants successfully re-tying it down. Lord Kingston helped the young boy down the short ladder and into his mother’s waiting arms. She kneeled in the grass, sobbing with her child close to her chest. “My baby, my baby,” she mumbled into his hair, gentle fingers running through it. Her husband, one of those pulling the ropes, embraced his wife and child on his knees, a scene that made your throat feel tight. Your eyes stung, tears threatening to run down your face. You blinked rapidly to regain control.

Love. It was love.

“You should tell him he did a lovely job, my Lady,” Daphne suggested, a little more impishly than she’d typically risk. The blonde giggled at you.

You swallowed around your dry throat, nodding twice in agreement so hard that you could feel your teardrop earrings sway.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Ciel’s right arm crossed his chest in a deep stretch. He was sweating more than a pig, it was miserable. He was in pain, and he would be for the next couple of days to a week for this strenuous exercise in—

“Lord Phantomhive,” Lady Y/n approached him rather than Adam, who masked his mortification by turning to Leonardo. “That was incredible.”

“It was an effort that required all of our participation,” Ciel answered as diplomatically as he could manage. He immediately dropped his right arm, disinterested in appearing weak or in pain before the noblewoman. Instead, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, certain his hair was disheveled along with the rest of him. The new pair of boots he sported had to be caked in dirt, too.

“Of course, though it couldn’t have been easy,” Y/n insisted, likely taking in how disorderly and piggish Ciel looked. There was no way his appearance was appealing in any way, and yet, she’d never had such awe in her face when she regarded him before this. Save for perhaps the first few seconds after he pulled her out of the way of that carriage—before he misspoke.

It wasn’t easy. It’s a miracle I’m still in one piece, damn it.

“I’m simply relieved we managed to help the boy,” Ciel told her, motioning towards the embracing family with his chin. The mother had yet to let go of their child or even stop crying. “And that we were there in time—what a strange accident.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Y/n agreed ponderously. “I cannot understand why the tethers would just…fail so suddenly,” she said, frowning as she looked back at the balloon. Edward Sutton, Lord Y/l/n, and the engineering team asked for the guests to return to the tables to allow them to inspect it for technical faults.

They wouldn’t find any, Ciel presumed. His butler had to have taken some creative measures to…raise the stakes. Literally.

“I’m sure they will find the cause and correct the issue,” he lied seamlessly as they started back towards their table. For all intents and purposes, the event was over. Most of the guests were too unsettled and worried to sustain the atmosphere and company.

“Absolutely,” Lady Y/n agreed. “...Lord Phantomhive? Would you perhaps consider…tea? At my home? This week?”

TAGLIST: @theblueslytherin, @luckyladylottie, @yuzu-ku, @zyrixal, @mylostleftfootsock @nanaloverz

If you would like to join the taglist, feel free to drop a comment or an ask!

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scribbleseas · 5 months ago

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missing you and your work <3

I miss you too!! Hoping to post the next ilaiw drabble tomorrow or tonight if I go off 🩷

#dan’s office hours #anon <3 #answered

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scribbleseas · 6 months ago

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I’m currently panicking because google seems to have mysteriously deleted some extremely important documents. They’re not even in my recently deleted and I’m very concerned and confused does anyone have any advice it feels like my world is collapsing

update: waiting on google’s response to my file recovery request ✨🤞🏼

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scribbleseas · 6 months ago

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in love & in war masterlist

Pairing: Ciel Phantomhive x Reader

Description: Join Ciel as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica—your father’s vast shipping empire.

Content Warnings: swearing, lying, sexual content, very minor mentions of blood.

Drabble 1: the one where he meets you

Drabble 2: the one where you meet him

Drabble 3: the one where he trips you up…?

Drabble 4: the one where you sideline him

Drabble 5: the one where he begins to understand you

Drabble 6: coming soon!

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scribbleseas · 6 months ago

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in love & in war, drabble 4: the one where you sideline him

Warnings: none!

Author’s Note: sorry for the wait lol! i hope you like this one, it’s pretty long for a drabble, but it introduces some really fun circumstances for the future of this series :). Please let me know if you would like to join the taglist! It’s open to all, and from now on, I will be putting it on all of my fic updates, so if you’d like to stay in the loop, it’ll help you out!

Happy Reading! (And Happy Holidays & New Year!)

- Dan

⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒

MASTERLIST

The Aintree Racecourse, Liverpool, 1895

Y/N Y/L/N

“Mama, please,” you begged, attempting to masquerade your growing apprehension with your publicity expression. You feared the closer you walked to the racecourse, the less you could hide your worry. “If there is something underway, I must know.”

After all, the 57th Annual Grand National Horse Racing Event was not one to trifle with. The tradition began in 1839, generations of your family present each year. You’ve attended alongside your mother and father since you were able to walk, but this year was the first time you arrived so late. The race was to start in a handful of minutes, and your family was just in the midst of finding your reserved seats.

As always, the Aintree Racecourse bustled with excitement, commoners populated the outside stands, journalists in their from their designated media platforms. Betting tents boasted long lines of hopefuls, upper and middle class individuals, judging by their apparel. Event staff guided you and your family to the noble viewing area, a terrace above the working class stands to shield aristocracy from the blazing sun, the scent of horse muck, and curious columnists.

“Darling, honestly. You must trust me and stop looking so vexed,” the Countess replied jubilantly, her arm intertwined with your father’s. She waved away your concern, too flippant for your comfort. You lingered behind them, Daphne’s arm in yours. You knew what your mother was like—she was a romantic. With something in store. Your father, the realist’s, grumpy mood only confirmed your theory. His deep, disgruntled sigh was far from lost on you.

“Do believe her, my Lady. Everything is perfectly well,” Daphne chimed in, though you distrusted her appeasing grin. Her expression seemed thin and strained, her blue eyes scanning around you and refusing to meet yours.

Still, as typical as the event seemed to be, you knew there was something disquieting in store. Your mother and Daphne had been behaving unusually all morning—from the moment the maid prepared you for the event, the entirety of breakfast, and the long carriage ride to the race course. Giggling, sharing long looks, whispering.

They hadn’t even let you view the contenders, the jockeys and their respective horses in advance of the race. Typically, you and your parents liked to make predictions based on the statistics provided by the racecourse’s invitations. You liked to make predictions based on the little science you knew about horse racing—the track conditions, the horse’s fitness and temperament, the weather.

Her refusal to show you the data meant there was some sort of surprise awaiting you—knowing that caused anxiety to gnaw at your stomach. It strained your cordial smile. This surprise could only be something related to the race, the identity of the jockeys or perhaps the horses?

How you detested surprises. At their essence, they were situations you were made to be unprepared for, and unpreparedness meant you could very well mortify yourself, the Y/l/n name, and the Richmond Earldom. And TransAtlantica. All in one fell swoop.

Your mother couldn’t seem to keep her gaze away from the racetrack for more than a few minutes, excitement in her eyes. She was waiting for someone, and judging by her disinterest in the rest of the nobility on the terrace, she was not awaiting Ciel Phantomhive. A worker at the event showed you to your reserved table and row of seats, lifting the place card that read Richmond and promptly departing. This part of the terrace boasted a flawless view of the racecourse and the labor class spectators.

“Daphne my dear, please find all of us some refreshments. This heat is simply intolerable,” she fanned herself, sharing another suspicious smile with the maid.

“Of course, my Lady,” Daphne curtsied to the both of you before starting off.

Your father, on the other hand, wasted no time in finding the other Earl amid the festivities. From across the way, you watched him shake hands with Lord Phantomhive and immediately steer him your way, their conversation inaudible as they approached you. Lord Phantomhive was dressed elegantly in a light beige suit. His olive green tie tucked into a white undershirt.

“Hello, Lady Y/l/n, Lady Y/n,” Lord Phantomhive greeted you and your mother, directing his bow to both of you. Before you could apologize for your family’s tardiness, he spoke again. “I am honored to spectate this fine engagement with your family. Thank you again for inviting me, Lady Y/n,” he landed a polite kiss on your knuckles, immediately releasing your hand.

At the very least, you could say you were interested in Lord Phantomhive. He entertained such stimulating conversation, curious to know more about your studies, your intellectual pursuits. No other nobleman your age would ever allow you to ramble on about the ingenious engineering that went into a ferris wheel or even match wits regarding classical literature by the likes of Sun Tzu and Machiavelli. Most of your suitors had only been interested in themselves. They’d ramble endlessly regarding their achievements, their family lines, their hobbies.

While that was all important, you craved a connection. A connection with respect, appreciation, care.

“Of course. I enjoyed our promenade at the piers.” In spite of your nerves, your own answering smile graced your lips. You found yourself telling the truth, as well. Lord Phantomhive showed a considerate side of himself during your promenade last week—he was understanding when you made a clumsy fool of yourself. Sure, he could be rather snide at times, but he’d shown glimmers of a gentleman, and you expected to see more. At least he provided you the decency of never bringing up that embarrassment again.

“As did I. I am pleased to hear you feel the same,” he replied, giving your hand a soft, affectionate squeeze before he released it. “Though I must admit that I am not as well versed in the world of horse racing as you are. I’ve heard that your family makes it a point to spectate each year’s Grand National. You must be quite the accomplished wagerer.”

You flushed, fully aware that polite society restricted a noblewoman's betting engagements to lower stakes card games. Noblemen primarily bet at horse races and rounds of pall mall. Instead, you learned the intricacies of a smart gamble and decent odds throughout your formative years. Your father allowed you to donate the winnings to a cause of your choice— last year’s winnings became seed money for developing medical equipment. You personally corresponded with Wilhelm Roentgen, the developer of a new form of electromagnetic radiation for body imaging.

”I am. Though regretfully, my mother seems quite intent on limiting those powers of mine this year,” you said, casting a long and derisive stare at the offending woman.

“Quite regretfully,” your father agreed. Your record more than spoke for itself.

Immediately launching to the defensive, the Countess’ eyes widened with false innocence. “Is it a crime to wish for my daughter’s focus to be on her engagements today as opposed to the race? Must you cast your unladylike predictions each and every year?” She asked, accepting a slim flute of imported wine from Daphne. Your father took a disapproving drink out of his, guiding your mother to sit with him.

“The race is starting in moments and I haven’t the slightest idea of any of the jockeys participating, the horses, the track conditions…” you complained, settling in your reserved seats with your parents to your right and Lord Phantomhive to your left.

“I appreciate your assistance, Lady Y/l/n,” Lord Phantomhive said diplomatically. He addressed you again, “How could I compete for your attention with such a riveting race?”

You watched the jockeys below, some adjusting their horse’s equipment, some already mounted and ambling about behind the starting line. Each competitor’s silks and riding breeches matched the color of their horse's tack, their names and numbers clearly labeled them for spectators as well.

“I only wanted to keep a certain special guest a surprise,” your mother explained, recapturing your attention. “The organizers here at Aintree asked him to make an appearance, now that he’s freshly arrived from the port of South Africa. His service in the Royal Army is finally complete. Look—the jockey in crimson is....”

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Adam Kingston.

The next bloody Earl of Kingston. An Earl who hailed from a peerage spanning back to 1463 when King Edward VI ennobled a knight as a reward for valiance during the Battle of Mortimer’s Cross. Apparently, every man in the Kingston family served in the British military to honor their knightley roots.

Clearly, Ciel was not, in fact, competing with the race itself for Lady Y/n’s attention. He was competing with Lord Adam Kingston, the myth of a man whom Ciel was convinced, until this convenient moment, had no ties to the Richmond Earldom. And now, by the shock painted on Lady Y/n’s face and the excitement in her mother’s expression, there was indeed a concerning degree of relevance.

And all Ciel could do was exhale, his jaw clenching at the sight of Adam as he practiced on his canting horse. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wracking his mind for a transition. A means to change the subject from Adam to, well, virtually anything else.

How could he miss this? The Grand National never typically allowed for guest jockeys, and he should have factored in any potential obstacle. Potential, at that.

Adam far from an obstacle—biceps for brains at best, hailing from a line of unintellectual brutes. How could that compare to the Phantomhive’s servitude as the Queen’s Guard Dog? Her Majesty’s personal private investigators? It couldn’t.

The Y/l/n family, the custodians of the Richmond line, required a businessman. There was no assessing a bloody profit margin through brute force. It took class, prowess, skill that went beyond following a general’s orders and shooting straight.

“He recently received a Victoria Cross for his service to Her Majesty. Just as his father and grandfather did before him— she must adore that family,” Lady Y/l/n explained proudly, as if Adam were her own son. As if she wished for Adam to become her son-in-law, though of course, the Countess was socially aware enough not to explicitly say so. Not with Ciel present, at least.

Surely if Ciel could understand the intent behind her words, as did Y/n, who flushed. Her perceptive gaze trained on Adam. She twisted a ring on her finger, a circular yellow diamond surrounded by smaller white diamonds. They were cut into circles as well, resembling petals of a flower, a nod to the weather.

“That is lovely to hear,” the noblewoman answered absently, her smile small and appeasing. Not at all genuine, now that their exchange about Machiavelli revealed Y/n Y/l/n’s real smile to Ciel. Or at least, something closer to it. She cleared her throat, eyes flitting between her mother, the racecourse, and Ciel with uncertainty. “Though I doubt he will win today. Look at his horse—it’s quite large. He might overheat in this weather and slow down during the final few laps.”

The Countess merely sighed, returning her daughter’s smile. “You can take the wagering away from the lady, but never the lady from her wagering.”

Y/N Y/L/N

“Mama,” you complained again, releasing your ring to fan yourself. Lord Phantomhive had only been sitting with you for a few moments and your mother already managed to mortify you twice. First by shocking you with Lord Kingston, and now, insinuating that your intellect was unladylike. It was a miracle Lord Phantomhive didn’t stand up and walk away after all of these misgivings. You’d even fallen in front of him during your blood promenade last week! He even had to take the time to tend to your bloody leg of all things.

“All right, all right,” she surrendered, thankfully turning her attention to your father.

“I apologize for her,” you said, flattening the skirts of your light yellow gown.

“I only hope to learn from you if you’re such a master of wagering,” Lord Phantomhive replied lightly, both validating a skill you felt self conscious of and your overeager mother’s whims. “I’ve merely participated in the odd game of billiards and chess—never horse racing. If not the Earl of Kingston, who do you favor to win?”

“It’s hard to say without the full information,” you admitted, finally managing to tear your gaze away from Adam Kingston. You knew him—surely most of the aristocracy did—given his family line’s proximity to the Crown and overall significance to the noble class. As children, you spent time together, you were innocent playmates who were too little to understand the necessity of polite functions. You’d share toys and books wordlessly on the floor until you were old enough to accompany your parents during rounds of polite chatter. You had fleeting feelings as a young girl, but of course, what girl your age didn’t have a juvenile crush on Adam at some point?

There had been murmurings of an engagement between the two of you, but nothing had ever come of it. You heard of his achievements abroad—in fact, you dimly remembered hearing that he was an accomplished equestrian, now that he was in the front of your mind.

Lord Kingston studied in universities abroad before his five-year enlistment in the British Army. The last time you saw him physically, he stood at half his height. His face was clean of facial hair—stubble shadowed his jawline, from what you could see. His eyes were still the same light green, his red skull cap concealed most of his unruly blond hair. When you were children, other noble daughters around you squealed for him. There were plenty of tears when he departed for Germany—most from disappointed mothers and daughters hoping to secure an arranged marriage.

Your mother had certainly been among the disappointed, but at the time of his departure, all you could recall was the lessons in shares and stock holding your father was guiding you through.

“If I had to pick a favorite, I might choose—” you started to say, only for a familiar fanfare to interrupt you. Your guess would have been on Sharpshooter and his jockey in blue, Oliver Dean, but you supposed it didn’t matter. Your father clearly handled the betting for this race, given that your mother forcibly put you out of commission.

You pursed your lips, frustrated at your inability to finish your thought. This was why you liked to attend the Grand National early, but now you understood why your mother saw to your tardiness.

”Ladies and gentlemen, we at the Aintree Racecourse wish to thank you for attending our 67th Annual Grand National Horse Racing Event,” the announcer started, thanking the event’s donors and vendors. He introduced each jockey and their horse, mentioning their sponsors (if applicable) and their odds to win as they trotted to the starting line.

Before the announcer could introduce Lord Kingston, he had to wait for the public’s energy to calm. Everyone, from the clapping nobles on the terrace to the rowdy commoners cheering in the stands, showed warm sentiments for the former soldier. It seemed that each attendee, save for you, was aware of the last minute addition to the race.

“Now, if he hadn’t been standing right before me, I wouldn’t believe it myself, but today we have Lord Adam Kingston joining our skilled jockeys this auspicious afternoon! He rides for the Crimea and Indian Mutiny Veterans’ Association, a charitable group that aids our brave veterans in need! Do give the man and his 2:1 odds a gigantic round of applause, Aintree!” The announcer requested of the audience, gesturing for the impassioned spectators to afford the Earl a standing ovation. While most in the stands below you complied, most nobility around you simply clapped demurely.

It would be unwise to ignore 2:1 odds. Statistically, it meant that Lord Kingston had a 33.3% chance of winning among his competitors. He was one of the favorites to win— of course. Years of cultivating his skills as an equestrian, plus years in the military…you suspected his horse was the only factor leaving a shadow of a doubt. That being said, a jockey as skilled as him likely already considered his horse’s stamina.

Lord Phantomhive mumbled something under his breath, but you couldn’t quite catch it under the racecourse’s excitement and the volume of your own thoughts. He shifted in his seat, sparing a few gruff claps for Lord Kingston. His stormy, pensive, expression melted into passivity the moment he noticed your curious eyes on him.

“I still have another favorite to win,” you insisted, “Oliver Dean and Sharpshooter are 4:1—that is about a 20% likelihood. With only a 13% difference, I believe it is worth considering.” Sharpshooter was much thinner than Lord Kingston’s horse, a lighter color. To you, he seemed less likely to tire after the last few hurdles, though his younger age could cause difficulties with consistency.

“You reckon?” Lord Phantomhive raised an eyebrow. He crossed his arms over his chest, watching as the final horse stopped behind the starting line. The race contenders shot off the starting line to a grandiose fanfare and the screams from the stands. The sound of thundering hooves echoed alongside the bustling crowd, each horse moving in frenzied synchrony. They moved so fast that the jockeys couldn’t afford to sit properly on their mounts, instead standing in their stirrups and crouching. Their ride was more aerodynamic that way, you once read.

“Dean would be the more profitable bet. The higher return compensates for the lower probability, correct?” Lord Phantomhive prompted.

“What was that?” Oh—yes. That is correct,” you confirmed haphazardly. Would Lord Kingston prove you wrong? Who did your father choose for the Richmond family’s favorite to win? Was it your responsibility to greet Kingston? Win or lose?

As the odds estimated, Oliver Dean and Lord Kingston were neck in neck. Their horses galloped and jumped together, their riders remaining focused on the course ahead. The first to complete three laps around the racecourse would win—and whether the victor was Adam, an Earl already well-rested on his laurels, and Oliver Dean, a professional equestrian.

You took a drink out of your chilled wine, realizing that you had been digging your teeth into the inside of your lower lip. Finishing it off, you handed the empty class away. You sat forward in your seat, unable to look away or even breathe properly.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

This outing was getting away from him. He could see it in Y/n’s body language, leaning away from him and towards the balcony in front, her fidgeting hands finally still on her lap. The race—or its unlikely addition—completely captured her attention.

Acquiring TransAtlantica is not an option; it is an inevitability, Ciel reminded himself, his eyebrow furrowing harder by the passing second. His mouth felt dry, parched and begging for a sip of the wine Y/n nursed. He should have accepted one from their maid, but he’d politely declined out of interest in staying as sharp as possible in case the event turned dire.

Now, Ciel wished he’d accepted the drink. If not for the cold on his tongue, for the sweet sympathy of the alcohol. He needed it to smooth out the gathering headache in his temples, caused by a combination of Adam Kingston, the scent of horse muck, the loud and obnoxious presence of the working class, and now, maintaining Y/n’s attention without appearing demanding.

Say something to her, Ciel. Anything. It would be inappropriate to compliment her now, inappropriate to ask about her other interests…unhelpful to ask her about Adam….

Hidden in his crossed arms, the Earl’s hands clenched into fists. He imagined one making painful contact with the side of Adam’s head, knocking him clean out for so much as daring to impede his mission. Ciel had an objective to see through: a wedding band on the heiress’ finger, and a company to head and combine with his existing one. A new Earldom to chief. And this man had the audacity to insert himself into Ciel’s intricate plans like a gust of wind to a house of cards.

The jockeys completed their first round and Adam’s lead was beginning to increase, slowly but certainly.

“For such a large horse, Cozbi seems to be holding his own,” Ciel commented, stealing a look at Y/n. She shook her head, watching Oliver’s slender horse lose ground to Adam and Cozbi. The action caused her long earrings—the yellow diamonds matched the one on her finger—to move. Strands of her hair fell out of its braided bun, causing the diamond flower hair clips in it to come slightly loose.

Out of all of her clothing ensembles, this floral number was the most color and sparkle he’d seen Lady Y/n dawn.

“He is an Andalusian, I think,” Y/n replied, gasping as Sharpshooter and Oliver rushed closer to Adam and Cozbi. “They are known for their stamina. Former battle horses, but…” she mumbled, not finishing the thought. Ciel couldn’t conceal his dry laugh; of course Lady Y/n knew of the benefits and drawbacks of specific racehorse breeds.

The jockeys made it halfway through the second lap side by side, leaving the rest of the competition paces behind them. It was clear that the winner would be determined from the two leaders, and Ciel couldn’t imagine how he could manage Adam winning. Y/n’s mother seemed eager to introduce the two—eager to sabotage his chances to woo her daughter, even if unknowingly. He had to surmise how well Y/n knew Adam, but mentioning the other Earl when he’d just managed to change the subject would only hurt his cause.

“Ah! See? Just as I thought!” Lady Y/n exclaimed, jumping to her feet as Sharpshooter inched before Cozbi. She was referring to her earlier summation: the smaller, younger horse would persist longer than a larger, older horse. “Sharpshooter is a Mustang, they are quite fast and enduring. Perhaps, perhaps… oh no, no, no! Come Sharpshooter, hurry!” Y/n’s palms jumped to the flushed apples of her cheeks, dragging down. Her hands fell back to her sides, each gesture causing her fan to jump. Noble ladies such as she held lithe fans to both keep cool and in more secretive moments, convey messages. During outings such as this, they kept their dans gently tied to their wrists with ribbon.

As quickly as Oliver and Sharpshooter gained their lead, they lost it within the thick back to back hurdles dominating part of the track. While Sharpshooter was smaller and lighter, he was significantly less experienced and sturdy than Cozbi. Where Cozbi lacked in agility, his expertise and relationship with Adam clearly made up for it. The leading horses came thundering over the starting line for a second time, marking the end of the second lap.

One final lap to go.

How could Ciel’s luck be this absurd? Honestly!

“After two attempts at the hurdles, Sharpshooter may have the right of it then,” Ciel suggested, watching as the noblewoman’s competitive spirit seemed to take the better of her. She hardly spared him a look, leaving his comment unaddressed.

“Absolutely not! No! This is unacceptable!” She cried out, jumping up from her chair with enough force to push it back. It was as if the horse’s misgivings were a personal affront to her, her gloved hands tightly holding onto the railing in front of the Richmonds’ reserved row of seats. In standing, Y/n joined most of the spectators in the audience—including that of the aristocracy. Reluctantly, Ciel rose as well, deciding that watching the race progress and Y/n take more interest in it than him were equally frustrating sights to take in.

The situation was truly unacceptable, Ciel agreed. Only, that was for reasons beyond the bloody race.

Still, the Earl had to appreciate the genuine tenacity on the young woman’s face, the emotional investment she put into a silly race. He was rather accustomed to the vacant smile she would aim at the world, himself included. She seemed hard pressed for spontaneity, but liveliness and intrigue seemed to come so naturally to her—a student of diverse hobbies. Ciel never would have guessed that such a privileged young woman would take the time to educate herself so thoroughly. Especially within matters as niche as horse racing…though he supposed she had to. To the Richmond line, this was no silly race—it determined their winnings and therefore, the funding they could provide for a starting cause.

Ciel felt his charity to London was policing the Underworld, serving Her Majesty. And yet, Lord Richmond and TransAtlantica seemed entirely committed to spreading wealth. It was perplexing.

He sighed as Biceps for Brains took the lead, cursing his ineffectual butler for screwing with him.

Y/N Y/L/N

Sweat rolled down your neck as you watched on. At some point, you grabbed your mother’s hand, squeezing it as you bounced on the soles of your heels. You were dimly aware of Lord Phantomhive next to you, clapping but significantly quieter than your rowdy jumping.

Cozbi and Lord Kingston claimed a commanding lead entering the final stretch, the elder horse’s experience and sheer strength enough to defeat Sharpshooter’s size and speed. No wonder Andalusians were used in battle—it seemed Cozbi was unyielding.

As the Earl of Kingston and his horse passed the starting line for the final time, another fanfare erupted from the pit alongside a nearly defeating round of applause. Immediately after, Oliver and Sharpshooter followed, succeeded by the rest of the jockeys. The dust kicked up the horse’s galloping hooves floated around the track and the stands—the terrace was high enough for the air to remain clear around you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have the winner of the 67th Grand National: Lord Adam Kingston and his valiant steed, Cozbi!” The announcer yelled, fixing a dramatic flair to his words. “Thank you to all of our participants, and I thank you lot for being such a dynamic crowd here in Aintree!”

From the track, you watched Lord Kingston pull off his cap, trotting on Cozbi so as to let the horse slowly wind down from the race. He waved to the crowd in the stands, cap in his gesturing hand. His forehead shone with sweat, slightly reddened from the sun. The same light reflected in his pale green eyes, particularly as he looked up to the nobles’ terrace. Searching the lines of waving nobility, his face lifted in recognition to some, but his scouring had yet to cease. He pulled Cozbi to a slow stop, only for an attendant to wave him forward to dismount and accept his trophy on the announcer’s platform.

“I knew Adam would pull through it,” your mother gushed, releasing your hand. “Adam has always been a talented rider, ever since he was a boy. He would participate in those junior league races. Those were quite adorable.”

“It was a fine race,” your father commented wryly, pushing up his glasses. He finished off his drink, handing off the empty glass to an attendant. Like you, he must have betted on Oliver and Sharpshooter. After all, he taught you nearly everything you knew about playing the odds at horse races—you had the same rationale. You both hated to lose.

“I agree,” Lord Phantomhive said noncommittally, tone flat. He uncrossed his arms to accept a flute of champagne from a server. “He was a soldier before this. Surely he is accustomed to riding in much more fraught conditions than a simple race.”

“It begs the question of bias,” your father concurred, only for your mother to send him a sharp look.

Lord Kingston stepped off of Cozbi to join the announcer on his elevated stage, a small wooden platform where the host had spectated from. Oliver and the jockey who won third place followed him, accepting their smaller trophies, the latter made of silver, the former made of bronze. Kingston cradled his treasure in his arms, red silk shirt clinging to his figure, the gold detailing along his long sleeves and the middle of his torso caught the light. His tight trousers were cream colored, sculpting his legs all the same.

“Our sincerest congratulations, my Lord,” the announcer said. He also clipped a small gold metal to the jockey’s shirt, putting the accessory over his heart.

“What do you think of the race, my Lady?” Lord Phantomhive asked you, but you merely hummed, stalling your reply out of curiosity for Lord Kingston. Who was he hoping to spot? A sick, hopeful feeling kept your attention lingering on him. It had been years since you properly saw him, after all. You were childhood acquaintances, he knew that your family attended this event annually. The Kingstons had even accompanied you a number of times.

“Thank you so much,” Lord Kingston answered with a laugh. “I owe it all to Cozbi, honestly. He did all the hard work—I only showed up in hopes to get someone’s attention.” His smile was toothy and eager.

Now you were confident Lord Kingston had been searching to lock eyes with you. His aimed enthusiasm caused several others in the stands and in the press to turn towards you, the source. When you returned the Earl’s wave, he sunk into a respectful bow, trophy still in hand. He held it for a long moment, allowing cameras to catch his reverence.

Your breath quickened at the revelation, but the sinking feeling in your stomach told you that there were about to be dozens of eyes on you, encouraging you to collect yourself. You couldn’t show your anxiety, even if it was clear that Ciel Phantomhive had clearly joined you on this outing for courtship purposes. You had to stand tall and keep your chin up—no matter how much you wanted to sink away.

“Surprise, darling,” your mother giggled unhelpfully, touching your arm.

You painted on your future-Countess-of-Richmond grin, waving back with significantly more enthusiasm than you felt. A startled blush heated your face up.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Shortly Afterwards

Ciel lacked the proper words to convey his rage, struggling to breathe through his tight chest. His jaw strained from how tightly he clenched it. After managing a terse, at best, goodbye to Lady Y/n and her parents, he promptly left the racecourse. His initial plan was to attempt to secure an invitation back to the Y/l/n estate for a supervised tea, but clearly, that was out of the question now. Instead, he trudged away from the racecourse, and summoned his demon butler. The second his carriage stopped in view, Sebastian stepped out to open the door for Ciel.

“Finny, spare no time. I want to be back to the estate as soon as possible,” Ciel snapped at the gardener—his responsibilities newly expanded to unofficial coachman when Sebastian had other matters to tend to.

“Yes, sir!” Finny replied, saluting Ciel and immediately tightening his grip on the reins.

“What seems to be the issue, my Lord?” Sebastian asked obsequiously, opening the carriage door for Ciel. The demon’s untroubled face only compounded Ciel’s rage, causing him to slap the useless supernatural being across the face. Although he utilized all of his strength, the demon merely looked at him, unaffected. He. Knew. The. Issue. Perfectly. Well.

“Adam Kingston won the race, and you did absolutely nothing to stop it. He confessed that he was here to impress Y/n, and you did nothing to stop it.” Ciel seethed, stepping inside the carriage. “That is the problem here.”

“I received no specific order denoting such an intervention, I apologize, sir,” Sebastian answered, closing and locking the door. He sat on the opposite side of the carriage. “You know I merely follow your instructions—a mere pawn in your games.”

“I want him dead,” Ciel exhaled, closing his eyes for a moment. He rubbed his temples, relieved to be rid of the polite mask he wore for the Y/l/n family.

He had to collect his thoughts and restrategize, consider each new factor this event had brought to his attention. Clearly, the Kingston line knew the Richmonds line well enough for Lady Y/l/n to recall Adam in his youth—so much so that she made it a point to attend his bloody junior league races. Now, Ciel had to convince the family that he was the better option over an old family friend. That would take more than logic and objectivity: his greatest strengths. It would require emotion, passion. A near-flawless expression of love. A feeling so foreign to Ciel that it may as well not exist.

“I must question if that is the most sensible solution to the issue he is presenting,” the demon actually had the audacity to chuckle, as if the thought of killing a man for making his courtship public was amusing. Or better yet, that his master’s bloodlust was sensitive enough to apply for such a shallow reason.

“And why should I continue to take advice from you? You couldn’t even warn me about the man appearing today in a timely manner.”

“Are you insinuating you have met your match, sir?”

“Of course not,” Ciel rolled his eyes. “Well? What are you waiting for, Sebastian? I want to know everything there is to know about Adam Kingston, and his ties to Y/n Y/l/n. And find out what the bloody journalists are writing about. I cannot have this handled the wrong way.”

“Absolutely, my Lord. I will have it ready before you return to the estate for supper.”

With that, the demon was gone.

TAGLIST: @theblueslytherin @luckyladylottie @yuzu-ku @zyrixal

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scribbleseas · 6 months ago

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hi so what if I dropped in love and in war 4 tonight or tomorrow night or something. does that work for everyone?

#dan’s office hours #just asking lol #i’m slowly coming back to life #you can also comment on this post if you want to join the taglist yayyy :)

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scribbleseas · 7 months ago

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Wanted: Dead Or Alive Masterlist

Pairing: Ciel Phantomhive x Reader

In a blink of an eye, old life comes crashing back into your present—specific people you’d sooner forget chasing a buried score to settle with you. Can you maintain the secrets you’ve worked so hard to bury? Or will you, once again, alienate yourself from your new comrades?

In a fierce fight to maintain your newfound camaraderie—and unexpectedly warm working relationship with your employer—you come to learn that being the perfect soldier is not at all you think it is.

Content Warnings: explicit descriptions of violence (with a focus on gun violence) and murder, gore/assorted injuries and pain, death, grief/loss, elaborate theft, explosions/fires, vehicle hijacking, abduction, period-accurate sexism, period-accurate depictions of British imperialism. Story also contains cursing, drinking, smoking, lying, betrayal, explicit sexual content, and class differences. Please feel free to reach out to me if you have any questions about these warnings! Your health and comfort come before any of my creative media.

Chapter 1: Ready For Some Action?

Chapter 2: ???

Chapter 3: ???

Chapter 4: ???

Chapter 5: ???

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scribbleseas · 7 months ago

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OKKK PROFILE PICTURE CHANGEEEE iconic. I just love your fics and ur writing so much 😭 anyway I just saw u changed ur profile picture anyway

yes I did!!

It’s the beginnings of a new era, I’m so glad you noticed 🤭

Thank you so so much for reading 🥺💖

#more aesthetic changes to come #dan’s office hours #new masterlist coming

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scribbleseas · 7 months ago

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hiii dan!! Random anon! and the steelers game was fun, and there was a guy who was really cute(i unfortunately didnt ask for his number😓..) but im not a fan of sports either so i was really only there for this really good brownie and that guy. And ive never personally listened to taylor, granted, ive heard snippets and tiktok audios and she sounds pretty good in those!! I also understand the

Hey Random Anon!! (I see you sent two by accident, no worries at all, I’ll just reply in one part!)

I’m glad the game was fun! Sorry about the guy though—if it makes you feel better, I’d be in the same boat as you. I can never manage to get myself to make that first move…

Ah! I understand. From what I heard from Tyler, The Creator, our typical genres diverge a tad. But that’s super cool of us! I got a handful of new songs I enjoy from you: I really enjoyed Darling, I; St. Chroma; Hey Jane; and Judge Judy. My favorite was probably Like Him!

I know—at this point I need to write my own aged up!Karma content x Reader. Would anyone else want that? I want it :(.

I hope you enjoy the new chapter! Thank you so much for reading <3

#random anon #answered #dan’s office hours #karma akabane :(

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scribbleseas · 8 months ago

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Straight Laced, Chapter X: To Be A Hidden Treasure…

Description: After the London’s Royal Ballet company’s prima ballerina goes missing within a string of mysterious disappearances among the ballet’s young ballerinas, you finally get your chance to debut in the leading role, taking on the position’s physical toil and immense social pressure. Although this role was supposed to be your grand jeté into the spotlight, it is quickly complicated when these disappearances catch the eye of Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Guard Dog. He is a captious and shrewd man who also happens to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

For enough profit for you to secure your freedom for the first time, Lord Phantomhive double casts you as both his accomplice to solving these dancer disappearances and… his pretend lover. While debuting as London’s new prima ballerina, you must perfect a brand new routine: deceiving all of the nation’s polite society while actively searching for a serial killer — all while being an immigrant from France with a dancer’s reputation.

What could go wrong when you realize this off-stage performance of yours may not be an act at all?

Story Warnings: mentions of suicide, detailed description of gore, pain, and violence, detailed death, smut & explicit sexual scenes, allusions to non-consensual sex, objectification, prostitution, allusions to under-aged prostitution, smoking, drinking, body shaming, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

REMINDER: This is a heavier chapter that hits MOST of those warnings and your safety and comfort comes before everything! Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you would like clarification about this chapter’s subject matter.

Author’s Note: Hi Everyone! Thank you so much for reading Straight Laced, I'm so happy I can finally show you the last chapter of this exhilarating story. Including this chapter, you will have read 70,249 words of my writing, and I'm so, so grateful for your time. I have more to say about this fic all the way at the bottom of this post, so I'll keep this brief and leave you with one helpful hint: the part of the grand pas that Y/n is talking about can be found at 2:56 in the video I linked. With that, I hope this chapter is everything you've all been so patiently waiting for. And more.

Happy Reading!!

Dan <3

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER |

MASTERLIST

Postlude

February, 1889

The Imperial Ballet School, Russia

The frosty draft of St. Petersburg’s unforgiving winter slipped underneath The Imperial Ballet School’s multitude of long windows, sending a chill through the air. A thick layer of frost shrouded the dance studio’s large windows, both shielding the expansive room from both the outside, and the outside from seeing inside.

The soft piano played the beginning notes of Giselle’s Act I scene where she realizes that the young man who had been courting her had been lying about his identity. The Duke Albrecht had been posing as a peasant to woo the beautiful village girl, but now, one of the woman’s competing suitors exposed his lie. With the truth exposed, Giselle fell into heartbroken panic.

The first ballerina of two in consideration for the role started to arrange her body into the beginning steps into Giselle’s pained rendition of her previous pas de deux with the disguised duke. The dance, once loving and serene, was now supposed to be frantic and wrecked with pain, as displayed by the ballerina’s stricken expression.

Seconds before she could begin, the ballet master knocked her cane into the floor, halting all—the ballerina, the music, any onlookers. When the cane came crashing down, nobody breathed.

“Anastasia Gusev. How many hours did you rehearse this week?” Irina Abramova demanded, scrutiny weighing heavily on her drawn eyebrows and pursed lips.

Without waiting for Natasha’s response, the ballet master continued in Russian, shaking her head, red-rouged lips pursed. “Whatever it was, it is far from enough. The combination has not even started yet, and I can already see you are doing it wrong. In fact, if I made you step outside naked and beg for change, holding a sign that says ‘I cannot dance,’ you would not feel anywhere close to the amount of shame I feel at this moment for considering you,” the retired prima ballerina noted. “I may even hate myself now. Because of you.”

No matter the chill of the gelid weather that the winter sighed into the room, nothing was more biting than Irina’s commentary. Still, in the face of her heart shattering, Natasha held her chin high and rolled her shoulders back, biting down on the fact that she’d put in over 50 hours of work in that past week. She’d skipped most meals, most full nights of sleep, with the specific intent to secure Giselle.

Now? The young ballerina felt her eyes sting with tears that threatened to fall. Fury squeezed at her chest.

Clearing her throat, Irina addressed the rest of the class. Her gnarled hands tapped her cane against the smooth floor, her onyx gaze alight with determination. Per usual, the ballet master kept her wiry gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, reminiscent of the ballerina bun she wore in her prime.

“Does Anastasia here resemble our Giselle, right now? Does she portray a woman descending into madness after her lover has betrayed her? I want to see a heartbroken tour de force. I want to be rendered speechless from the sheer depth of emotion on your face.”

Giving Natasha another bored once over, Irina looked disinterested. She addressed the class once more. “Honestly! Is anyone rendered speechless? I certainly am not.”

As Natasha expected, the rest of the company betrayed her, mumbling their doubts, shaking their heads, weakly suppressing their snide smiles. They never failed to disappoint her. Natasha bit her tongue, swallowing down her desire to challenge them to portray Act One’s infamous Mad Scene better than she. No one else wanted this role like she did.

The wrinkles marring Irina’s face creased with her satisfied expression, watching Natasha’s face redden. She was well-aware of the young ballerina’s hatred of her first name, her hatred of her company members. This humiliation was more effective than anything—more than the feeling of Irina’s cane digging itself into Natasha’s lower back to correct her posture, or dodging a swing at her lowering leg. Irina swung at lowering legs to inspire dancers to hold arabesques more firmly.

The young dancer could withstand any pain, save for this public humiliation.

“Anastasia, show yourself to the barre. I am growing tired of your mediocrity—your intent to waste our time. Faina Nikotinova, you will be my Giselle. Anastasia, do try to improve. Before I send you outside to freeze some talent into you,” her eyes flashed meaningfully, insinuating that her earlier words were not just a threat. They were a promise If Natasha couldn’t improve her dancing.

But she had. Irina was simply refusing to allow her to perform.

“You did not let me start,” Natasha snapped, raising her blue eyes to meet Irina’s. Her hands curled into fists, her manicured nails digging into her palms. Faina wasn’t half the dancer she was—her jumps were lazy, she was too chubby to last much longer. Irina had said it herself, and that was the most offensive aspect of this.

“There was no need to. Now, go away. Better yet, leave my school. I do not tolerate this attitude in my company and I have no desire to see you again,” Irina replied coolly, motioning for Faina to take the center of the floor. She tapped her cane against the floor to cue the piano back.

Hot, angry tears brimmed in Natasha’s eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall. Fine. Fine. If Irina wished for Duck Butt to lead the company as Giselle, she was more than welcome to choose her and watch the company sink under her mediocrity.

The force Natasha slammed the door with caused the walls to tremble. The muffled laughter from behind her sparked molten rage to flow through her veins. Surely she’d go mad if she was made to face such a stunning defeat again.

May, 1890

The Royal Opera House

No one could compare to Natasha Gusev‘s Aurora in The Royal Opera House’s first and breathtaking run of Sleeping Beauty, the product of sleepless nights spent slaving at the barre. Spent rehearsing her expressions in a mirror, forcing herself to learn to tear up on command, envisioning the very moment that Faina stole her opportunity.

Anastasia died in Petrograd. Natasha would never allow herself to be humiliated in such a way again. She’d sooner die.

Natasha practiced until she passed out, until her feet bled and swelled, and her legs cramped. She worked herself harder than Irina could ever dream of, drilling the same moves and sequences into her body until she could dance them in her sleep.

The ballerina had fought for this, brandished her soul for it, pushed herself through classes that were taught in a language she couldn’t understand. The only language Natasha shared with Londoners was the French terminology used in ballet. She could hardly decipher the rest: not the abuse, not the praise. It took much longer for her to master English than it did for her to secure this coveted role.

And Natasha’s reward was thundering applause, night after night. Each adoring yell louder than the last. They had come to watch her, in spite of the lies that cursed school poisoned her mind with. She made this company the best in London—if not, Europe. She had no idea what came of Faina and The Imperial Ballet’s run of Giselle, but it didn’t matter.

Nonetheless, it didn’t take long for Natasha’s star to capture more attention than she had initially bargained for, either. Alongside the unabashed adoration for her dancing came competition for her. That was how she found herself at the center of William Wood’s attention—his gray eyes lingered on her, no matter where she found herself.

They would narrow each time she met with a new subscriber, they’d scan her with consideration each time he pulled up a chair and watched the company rehearse. William liked to claim that he was merely interested in the artistic integrity of the show, but from the way he’d bite his lip and adjust his trousers, everyone knew better. Everyone understood that he was the heir to the business supporting the Opera House—everything would belong to him in a decade or so.

Natasha was the center of her own world. She had her patrons to satisfy, the stage to alight with her talent. The ballerina made a careful effort to rebuff William without ever needing to speak with him.

That was, until he outsmarted her one dawn. He’d waited in the Opera House’s main rehearsal room—Natasha’s favorite because of the tall mirrors that lined the walls.

“Hello, there,” William said, flashing his most winning smile at her. He couldn’t have been much older than Natasha. “You’re the principal dancer, aren’t you?” The young man had been poised on his usual chair from the side of the studio, but he stood to meet her.

“Yes,” Natasha’s words were clipped because she could see through his disposition. He knew who she was—he was pretending not to. “If you would excuse me—” she immediately took a step back, preferring to rehearse in private. Or anywhere William was not. The prima ballerina shouldered her bag and turned to leave, only to freeze at the sound of her full name.

“Anastasia is a powerful name. Did you know it means resurrection?” William asked, chancing several steps closer. He caught her wrist, but maintained a lax grip. She could pull away if she wished to.

“My name is Natasha,” she corrected crisply, her blank expression unchanged.

“I’m William Wood,” he ignored her, gently guiding her closer. Now, she could see a kaleidoscope of different gray shades, ranging from near-white to intense storm clouds. “Did you know my name means desire?”

Natasha’s eyebrows furrowed, unimpressed with his onomastics lesson. “How lovely,” she answered flatly, extricating her hand. Now, his sterling gaze landed on her thin lips, wanting to kiss her, presumably. “I really should be going. I have to rehearse—if you know that I am the prima ballerina, then…” leave me be, she wanted to conclude.

Instead, Natasha let her words hang in the air, allowing William to put them together on his own.

“Look—wait, all I mean is…” William paused, moistening his lips. Clearly, he was unused to the prospect of no. “You’re flawless. And I would simply like the chance to…”

“To what?” Natasha asked indignantly, allowing the offense she took to show on her face. Normally, she wasn’t quite so harsh against these advances—she had a tendency to simply allow herself to enjoy the attention she received from such men—but William? Now? The sun hardly had a chance to start the day, and this man had put all of this time and planning into seducing her?

“I like you. I would like the chance to get to know you. Beyond the dancing because there’s clearly so much more to get to know,” he clarified, softening his expression into something more intimate. “Please, Natasha.”

The ballerina was unsure if she relented because of William’s honeyed words, the way his steel gaze reminded her of a singular spotlight focused on her, or because he was the heir to the Opera House, but she felt her resolve crumble. After all, there were plenty of other ballerinas who glowed with envy of her in the first place. Natasha loved to imagine how their hatred of her would intensify with William Wood courting her. That thought would feel better than any seduction tactic he could try on her.

It took weeks of flowers, lavish gifts, and fiery touches stolen between rehearsals before Natasha agreed to marry him. They were in William’s Southampton home, entangled with one another in his bed, unclothed. Sweaty after a round of passionate sex because it made William tired and affectionate. The perfect combination for an agreeable mood in a man.

“Marry me. Be my wife,” the man practically begged, kissing Natasha’s knuckles. It wasn’t the first time he asked, his father John having pressured him into proposing ever since the rumors of their sneaking around began. It was indecent behavior of William—not unexpected, but embarrassing to the Woods, their eldest son messing around with a foreign dancer. “Please. You’re all I want, Nat,” he sighed, burying his face into the crook of her neck, kissing the clammy skin there as well.

No one in the company could claim that Natasha was the principal dancer because she was sleeping with William, either. Her talent more than spoke for itself, illuminating the stage just as much as the spotlights did. The ballerina was addicted to this pining of his, the fortune she’d come into by taking his name. He was a puppy of a man that would be at her side, hanging onto her every word, touch, and glance so long as she could maintain her perfection. It just so happened that he had direct access to generations of wealth and influence.

“All right, Will. We can get married,” she relented, only for the man to pull her into an intense kiss, his fingers running through her unruly brown curls.

For months, her life was blissful.

Natasha maintained her position as prima ballerina, and they were married, which also ended her responsibilities at the dance foyer. Being married to William gave Natasha the right to all of the Opera House’s paperwork, granting her information on each of her company members, the ballet’s revenue—noting the spike in sales with delight, considering it had come in tandem with her publicity. Having a run of the same show continue for so long was unprecedented, but Natasha’s performances sold out each night. The company was only beginning its considerations for the next ballet’s lead.

Accordingly, Natasha would dance almost day and night. She ate once a day, if she remembered to, more intent on maintaining the lean body that kept jealous suitors leering. The more they looked, the more William spent for her, the more he doted on her. All the more fulfilled the young dancer felt, the more she desired.

Another starring role, more lovers, more press coverage. More rehearsal time.

Natasha etched the hard work into her bones... until it broke her.

She remembered searing pain in her hip, crashing to the floor. And she found herself undone against the rehearsal room’s floor, the clammy wood cold against her cheek. Yelling out for William, lips pursed with pain she refused to allow to surface past. She would never allow herself to cry.

The doctors had given her a prescription for morphine powder for the pain. They suggested she stop dancing for the next year or two, but the morphine had done plenty for her discomfort. Enough for Natasha to refuse giving her position to a ballerina who couldn’t have put a quarter of sacrifice into earning her role.

No—anyone else interested would need to pry it out of her cold, dead grip.

Each day, Natasha’s extensive routine only grew harder to sustain: rehearsing for the company’s future run of Mlada and perfecting any movement she might have mishandled as Aurora from the evening before. She would mix the morphine powder into her tea between rehearsals, between acts, before she met her husband each night.

Stopping now would be a death sentence with early casting for Mlada so close…there was no doubt the director would care to cast Natasha in the lead if she seemed unreliable.

Anyone who wanted it enough would see themselves through, Natasha reminded herself. In time, my body will learn to keep up.

Smile through it. Hold back your tears. Smile through it.

Natasha held her life together through the painkiller and sheer force of will, but it was only a matter of time before the injury became unbearable. Overly stiff, Natasha’s hips began to lock, ruining her range of motion. She could no longer hold her arabesques.

The pain had spread down to her groin and her backside, those joints as good as rusting door hinges, stiffening with each movement.

Weeks after her initial fall, Natasha collapsed on the rehearsal floor. Again. Only this time, she couldn’t hold her tears at bay, an incredibly dark (and realistic) part of the young woman knowing fully well that it had been her last day in pointe shoes.

“You need a break. Be reasonable, Nat.” William ordered bluntly, shoving the cane in her hands days after. Weary of her and the same tedious argument. “Would you prefer to need a full-time wheelchair before 25?”

Natasha held the ivory cane in her hands, testing its weight. She frowned at the medical accessory, feeling her life slip away each second she held the cursed thing. Her husband, as typical of him, didn’t understand. Ballet had been her purpose—she’d been put on the Earth to capture the breath of an audience. And now?

She was a disturbing failure. How could she look at herself in the mirror?

“Will…” Natasha fixed her hard gaze on her husband, reading his mounting frustration with her like a book.

“Shut. Up.” She all but threw the cane back at her husband and the offending doctor who brought it into their home. She slammed the door behind her in an attempt to charge back to their shared bedroom. Though unsurprisingly, she only accomplished a few short paces before her hip locked, failing Natasha’s next step and sending her to the ground again.

The former ballerina couldn’t hold back her tears, this time. They fell in droves, in pained sobs. The grievous sound of an ingénue knowing her life was over.

“Come on, Nat,” William said in the same tired voice, attempting to help lift her off the floor.

“Leave. Me. Alone.” Natasha waved him off haphazardly, hiding her face. She heard William's heavy, retreating steps.

Nearly a year into Natasha’s injury, she’d become proficient with her walking cane. Technically, she could hobble clumsily without the assistance, but watching the rest of the company’s pitying gaze at the sight of her ungainliness became overwhelming. If she was to be the Opera House’s new ballet master and director, no one could pity her.

There was no room in ballet for pity. Only perfection.

So, she preferred to test the dancers around her. Break the weak ones—the ones who turned to dancing out of desperation, failing to understand that it was an elusive skill that required years of nurturing. She liked to push them until they fractured like a mirror, leaving the company on their own accord or giving Natasha a valid reason to excuse them. Particularly the ones her husband was bedding behind her back and mortifying her with.

“I’m so sorry, Natasha, I didn’t even– I don’t even want him!” Norah Vincent cried out, “please just listen to me, please!”

The young ballerina chased her director up the cement stairs leading from the Opera House’s lowest floor—where the largest rehearsal room was located—to the first floor. It was late at night, and there wasn’t a soul on the property, save for them. Natasha had reserved the pleasure of informing Norah that she knew fully well of the liberties she’d taken with William until they were alone, more interested in watching the young woman’s composure implode as a private show. To ensure such an outcome, Natasha waited until the end of their private rehearsal to inform Norah of her termination. The ballerina didn’t even have the chance to unlace her pointe shoes.

“No. You will make yourself scarce from my company. I like Analisse better for Mlada, so you were bound to be let go soon, anyhow,” Natasha answered indifferently, keeping her face impassive. She knew that the aloofness in her statement would make Norah feel just as worthless as she was as a dancer.

“I don’t understand, please. I need this work. Please. Just allow me one more chance,” Norah continued, struggling to keep pace with Natasha.

“You sleep with my husband, and even worse, you continue to curse my stage with your mediocrity, and you have the audacity to ask me for another chance? After all of the chances I’ve already given you?” The ballet master plunged her cane against the top of the final stair for leverage to reach the top. “I told you that if I gave you Mlada, you would need to work on your stamina and flexibility night and day. I see no change.”

Natasha finally turned around to face the weeping ballerina, watching her trudge up the remaining stairs. Crying was so ugly.

“I swear I practice every day, I-I-I…” Norah couldn’t even decide which claim to refute first. “I only…I just,” she wiped her face. “I love this company, and dancing, and…” she begged. “I do my very best each and every day, I practice, I stretch, I observe, I listen. Don’t you see?”

Norah still had a functioning body. Her health and mobility. All the time in the world. There was no excuse. Natasha practically gift wrapped and handed Norah her career.

The director’s head pounded, frustrated tears begging to fall from her eyes. What was there to not understand? Norah simply didn’t want the success enough or she would give every spare moment to cultivating her skills.

“Stop. Blubbering.” Natasha ordered sharply, turning on her heel to continue to her office. Norah had just stepped up to the level floor, the expansive staircase behind her.

“N-No! I need you to hear me! Haven’t you ever made a mistake? You know, I don’t understand why you always have to demand perfection! From everyone! No matter how hard we try or how hard we–”

“That’s enough!”

Without another thought, Natasha found herself turning around. Her cane fell to the floor as she put all of her strength into shoving Norah down the stairwell. Of course, it hadn’t been her plan to dispose of the ballerina in such a way. Really, it should have been horrifying, but Natasha couldn’t force herself to feel any bit of remorse. Her squealing had given her quite a headache.

In fact, when Natasha failed to find a pulse from the young woman’s lifeless body, she felt the first sense of true gratification she’d felt in months. As her shoulders had been relieved of a burden as heavy as the world.

And each time afterwards, it only grew easier. Each time, Natasha planned a bit more intricately. She could only win: if the Yard took notice, all signs would point to her power-drunk husband, leaving Natasha to his assets. Revenge.

It became a game of strategy: who, when, where, how.

Louise, Georgina, and Mabel were a blur over the course of the next few weeks. They disappeared, Natasha explained they couldn’t handle the burdens from the company and resigned, no one questioned her. Most ballerinas didn’t have family, the profession often a last resort for income. The public deemed them prostitutes: unworthy of care.

Sophia, Harriet, and Analisse had moved to new companies, but that didn’t stop her. Natasha knew who her husband had seen. Who betrayed her. They wore their guilt on their sleeves. It didn’t matter if they transferred to new companies—how could they be allowed to live after betraying their mentor? They were mediocre ballerinas, anyhow, merely ensemble members that Natasha stuck in the back of formation.

The Yard was never finding them.

Eliza had a host of lethal allergies. All it took was a well-timed cross-contamination—it was only a matter of time.

Janet was weak. Natasha probably could have asked the girl to jump off of the Tower Bridge and she would have done it, surely.

Amelié never noticed that her perfume bottle was tampered with. Dimethylmercury was a life-changing discovery on Natasha’s part. Honestly, Natasha wished she’d used it with all of the nuisances that came before her… and after.

The new success should have satisfied Natasha. Until Maisie—her first mistake. As if marrying some fraud was a feat to be proud of. Maisie thought it appropriate to inform Natasha that she was leaving the Opera House company for a new opportunity, an unseemly topic at her husband’s gallery reveal. Somehow, Terrance had offered to co-found his ballet company with Maisie as the star. And this came a week after the Yard fell for the trap Natasha had set, having followed her carefully planned trail of breadcrumbs that implicated her dear, cheating husband for murdering his company members. She simply had to make an appearance at the event to save face for the Wood family—setting the narrative straight before the press could.

Natasha would have been able to successfully send William to prison in her stead, had she not lost her temper the night of that bloody gala. She;d only gone to safe face after William’s arrest, after all. To manage the poor publicity his infidelity would poison Natasha’s hard work with.

“My husband is renovating the Pavillion Theatre. You know what that means? It means that I don’t need you pestering me anymore! You’re practically an old maid, a bloody relic now, you know that?” Maisie grinned, euphoric with the ability to finally speak freely. She’d asked Natasha to step out from the museum with her, and the ballet master had suspected it was to discuss something unseemly when there was a lack of witnesses around.

“You have no idea how much we all hate you, Natasha.”

Those were Maisie’s last words. Because Natasha had pulled out William’s Flintlock Pocket Pistol and shot her. She hardly had any time to ensure Maisie was dead before fleeing the scene, tucking her walking cane under her arm. Best of luck with your new company, Blondie.

After that blunder, Natasha had a choice. Herself, or Y/n Y/l/n, a French girl who happened upon the wrong man and his misguided investigation at the wrong time. In Natasha’s haste, she’d also lost control again, landing her at a criminal sentencing at London’s City Hall.

Y/n was willing to destroy her opponents to succeed. Y/n had been the first ballerina Natasha had finally considered to be somewhere near the eminence of her own former glory, and had ended her, handing her a crushing defeat.

Natasha should have put the dimethylmercury in Y/n’s make-up much sooner, arsenic in that wine she self-soothed with. By the time Natasha had offered Y/n that toast, there was no chance that she would have accepted a drink from her. Waiting had sealed Natasha’s fate to this wretched courtroom.

Thundering applause and scarce cheering pulled Natasha from her thoughts. She must have missed her sentencing, lost in her ruminating, judging by the immediate lift in the courtroom’s somber atmosphere.

This entire audience wanted her punished for her choices. Why? She felt the magnitude of her decisions spoke for themselves.

The former prima ballerina stared back into the prima ballerina’s vacant gaze from the defendant’s table, attempting to dissect the poison Y/n regarded her with.

For the first time since St. Petersburg, Natasha could confidently say what Giselle was supposed to look like.

November 25, 1895

London City Hall

“Anastasia Natalia Gusev-Wood, this court sentences you to lifelong service in the Reading Gaol Correctional Facility with no chance of appeal,” the judge announced.

The room— the press, sparse onlookers including the few bereaved family members of victims, cheered, but the woman only stared at you. She didn’t react to her sentencing or the relief that erupted from the room. All she fixated on was you, her face illegible.

You refused to give the killer the satisfaction of analyzing your mood, the opportunity to insert herself in your head. Violent narcissists like her craved attention like flies to fruit. Instead, you released your captive breath and sent a tired look to Ciel to signal your readiness to leave. This woman was nobody to you: the result of a vain monster picking and choosing which lessons to take from ballet.

It was an art form before it was a competition. And certainly, no competition should ever lead to bloodshed.

That was why you failed to feel any semblance of relief, even as you watched the officers escort Natasha away in handcuffs. You had still failed so many of your kin: eleven dead, their stories stolen and suppressed. The killer had painted them as weak after their deaths, dishonoring them, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. You couldn’t have been more wrong to ignore each and every one.

You hardly remembered the sound of Norah Vincent’s voice. The color of her hair. In fact, save for Amelié, you didn’t know any of these victims on a personal level—you remembered how tall Mabel was because you were envious; Louise had trouble with her stamina because she was newer to the company; Georgina always had a smile on her face, she let you borrow her scissors to break in a new pair of shoes. That was all you could recall. Other than these minute instances, you hadn’t bothered to concern yourself with anyone besides yourself, and failed to notice these disappearances happening right under your nose. The Yard couldn’t even find the bodies of Norah, Mabel, Louise, Georgina, Sophia, Harriet, and Analisse, severely limiting the investigation you and Ciel could accomplish for them.

Even worse, you failed to piece together the evidence pointing to Natasha and refused to listen to Ciel’s concerns. You had allowed your personal feelings to erode your judgment, delaying the investigation.

How could you feel a sense of victory, when so much had been lost?

The only way you could proceed was honoring them in death, especially now that their true killer was brought to justice.

“Ciel, I want to bring the flowers over before it becomes too dark” You requested, referring to the bouquets you asked Sebastian to arrange. Given that most of the victims did not have any next of kin— or were the sole earners for their destitute relatives— Ciel personally took on their burial expenses. Apparently, he had a personal contact working in the burial industry. An Undertaker.

Additionally, you wished to always honor their memorials with fresh florals.

“Certainly. Our work is complete here, for now,” Ciel answered, ending the officer he’d been talking to away with a nod.

Later

The Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park

The sun started to descend below the treeline, casting a shadow over the graves lined in front of you and Ciel. Norah Vincent, Louise Crowley, Georgina Dawson, Mabel Hughes, Sophia Ludwig, Harriet White, Analisse Sterling, Eliza O’Malley, Janet Fischer, and Amelié Langston. All of the victims, save for Maisie Stannard. Distraught, her husband opted to bury her with his family.

“Do you think this really makes a difference?” You asked Ciel, standing from your kneeling position. You dirtied the front of your plain dress from kneeling in the dirt to arrange the flowers around the headstones. It was too cold to plant them, but they did make a lovely display of white and baby blue among the warm autumnal foliage.

The wind made the bare tree branches rustle and their fallen leaves dance, but thankfully, it left the white flowers you placed unmussed. You placed a combination of daisies, blue irises, and calla lilies around them, hoping their serene beauty might bring some peace to the souls around. Though most of these graves were missing bodies, you still hoped their spirits would resonate with the resting place. Body and mind were separate entities, no?

“I believe it does.” Ciel answered, dusting off his knees. He righted himself after you, having helped you arrange the flowers. You were clear that the flowers were a project you were set on seeing through with your own two hands, and apparently, that resonated with the Earl. Enough for him to accompany you and even help. You vowed that you would visit these graves as often as you needed to keep the flowers fresh.

Remembrance was the least you could do, given that you hardly remembered most of the ballerinas in life.

Stepping back to admire the full picture of your work, you lit a cigar. You always kept a small humidor box in your deep coat pocket, along with a small knife to cut the cap and cedar spills to light it.

“My aunt adored the color red,” Ciel recalled, nostalgia softening his stoic face. “Sebastian and I filled the church with red rose petals, and I brought her favorite scarlet gown—she would have thought that white gown they had her in the most plain thing she’d ever seen. I believe she rested easier, knowing that she was being honored.”

“That sounds lovely,” you said, looking up from your igniting cigar to properly look at Ciel. He’d gone through those extra lengths just to make his aunt’s soul feel better at rest, despite never being able to know if the efforts made a difference. And yet, he liked to act like the most selfish man to walk the Earth. But he wasn’t. Far from it. Instead, he pulled at your heart and tugged at your stomach. “She must have enjoyed that. I’m sorry to hear you lost her.”

“I believe she did,” Ciel said, addressing your apology with a miniscule smile. It was barely there, no more evident than the corners of his lips pulling upward. He watched you take a long drag of your cigar in slow, deliberate puffs, as always. “And I think these women know that you brought their killer to justice, above all. Surely that matters a great deal to them.”

Watching smoke from your lips dissipate into the atmosphere, you chuckled sadly. You shook your head, rejecting the notion that you brought Natasha to justice. “You would have caught onto her sooner without me—you mistrusted Natasha from the start. You warned me last week, and I’m confident she tried to poison me that night.”

“She did a masterful job of framing her husband. I would have arrested him regardless, and I wouldn’t have access to investigating either of them without you. I’ve told you once, I shall repeat it a thousand times, if I have to: you were instrumental to our investigation,” Ciel took a short pull from your cigar. The days where he would admonish you for the habit felt like decades past.

Our investigation. You could have sworn your traitorous heart skipped a beat. Your palms felt clammy. After you confronted Natasha and her subsequent arrest last week, you and Ciel had been, for the most part, cautious around one another. The two of you were unsure of the boundaries that mutual forgiveness meant without a proper conversation. There simply hadn’t been any time, given the legal chaos that erupted between convicting a wife and husband for separate, yet related, crimes.

“A thousand times, you say? I may have to consider that request,” you said, smiling to denote your joke. Your cheeks felt traitorously warm, your smile unfortunately bashful. The Earl did this to you without trying.

Because you still loved him. The first man to notice anything about you beyond your looks and your dancing. The first man to care for your wellbeing, and take the time to unlearn the bitter beliefs that his class instilled into him. He fought for you, even when you had demanded he didn’t. But that didn’t mean he didn’t reject you the morning after you gave yourself to him. It certainly didn’t erase the fact that he’d danced with another woman in front of you.

The misunderstanding between you may as well have been a chasm at the time. But now, you were each gradually bridging that gap in equal strides.

Was that fair? You supposed not— Ciel was made to dance with another woman, just as fiercely as her duchess bullied her way into afternoon tea with him. And she had lied to you. Ironically, given the way she’d considered you vulgar. Was it not vulgar to lie in British polite society? Or was it only acceptable because she was lying to a commoner?

“So long as you don’t overdo it, I shall oblige,” the Earl relented, meeting your eyes in the longest bout of eye contact you shared in two weeks. You almost forgot the sheer depths of sea Ciel’s eye held, and the intelligence those sapphire leagues captured. Mesmerizing—it was a shame that the fire damaged his other eye so severely. He, like you, was alone. Save for his staff.

You accepted your cigar back, enjoying the taste of it on your tongue, the heat in your lungs a burning constant. You closed your eyes for a moment, appreciating the crisp air. Less than a month away from winter, you relished in this weather. Chilly, but not freezing. The best weather for a cigar.

“I…” you started, your face red. “Thank you, Ciel,” you said, a touch more earnestly than you had meant to. But honesty was the only way to move forward, you felt.

“Ballet…the aesthetic differs from all other professions. We have to hide all of our pain and discomfort behind a smile— make an illusion for our audiences.” There was no retreating, now that you’ve started. Ciel had already seen behind your facade—there was no meaning in reinforcing capitulated defenses. “Growing up in it from a young age, I suppose… I started to hide too much. I stopped trying to be close with others, and I-I thought you didn’t care for me anymore…” you admitted.

You thought about the way all of your ballet instructors reminded you to maintain a pleasant face during rehearsals and performances, even though all of the contortions were unnatural to the human body. The best ballerina in the world was worthless if she couldn’t shroud her pain behind her character.

No matter how you felt, you had to maintain a pleasant face for the audience, the ballet patrons that paid your school (and later, the Opera House) for the right to your body. All to allow you to make a salary that kept you just above the poverty line. You had never dropped your pleasant face until you realized how false it was, the product of habit and sheer necessity. Everything had to appear effortless, even when it was excruciating. That was the industry.

You couldn’t help but chuckle; not even two weeks ago, you would’ve defended these sacrifices.

“I can see that now,” Ciel admitted, taking a guilty pull from your cigar. You both watched the smoke escape into the atmosphere. The light of dusk made the sky look pink. “I must have been a classist fool to assume that all aspects of this profession happened at dancer’s volition.”

“You were certainly a classist fool,” you affirmed with a playful smile. After taking a final hit from the cigar, you extinguished it beneath your boot heel.

“I am aware, thank you,” Ciel answered pointedly, making the corners of your lips form a smile.

“Though unfortunately, most everyone still thinks that way,” he took your hand in his. The Earl ran his thumb over the top of your hand. You both wore gloves now, a measure against the cold especially now that autumn was in full swing with winter just on the horizon.

You hummed in response, knowing fully well the social abuse you’d take for having Ciel at your side. For daring to love a man this privileged society deemed above your stature. Gwen, that miserable woman, was only the beginning. But you were no stranger to critique—nothing could possibly sting as much as some of the commentary you’ve suffered in ballet school and in your professional career. You were strong.

“But it is not a tradition I will allow to continue,” Ciel said resolutely, meeting your eyes again. “I brought accounts of the prostitution and power imbalances to Her Majesty, and she has decided to purchase the Opera House. She will also be instituting a series of Theatre Company Reform Acts to ensure it ends here—Swan Laws, they want to refer to them.”

The meaning wasn’t lost on you.

You didn’t know how to start thanking him. Instead, you threw your arms around him, your gloves curling into his thick coat. Hot tears slid down your cheeks, they had been slightly chilled from the soft wind, the cold chapping your lips somewhat as well.

“I do not know where to begin,” you mumbled, settling into the way the Earl’s stiff posture relaxed to accommodate you. His coat was soft against your cheek, his arms came around your back to embrace you. You let your eyes flutter closed for a moment, appreciating the safety and strength he offered you.

Ciel held you close, his hand rubbing your back languidly as you sniffled, your appreciative tears rolled down your cheeks. “I will always be endlessly fascinated and enamored by you. It would be a privilege if you could reconsider being with me, after the confusion I caused you. I… tend to push the wrong people away. But you? I never could have asked for a better partner for this investigation, and otherwise.”

A new warmth spread in your cheeks. Your heartbeat thumped with hope, light from Ciel’s confession. How could you reject that? He saved you. He listened to you. He seemed sure.

You wiped away any tears left on your face. Words were never a strength of yours, you had always thought.

“Ciel, I want to be with you,” you declared confidently, your smile glowing as you looked up at the Earl’s thoughtful expression. The worry he tried to hide from you. Your eyes fluttered closed again as you kissed him, his familiar lips immediately responding to yours. A gentle hand held the left side of your jaw, lightly brushing strands of your hair out of your face.

“That is an honor I do not and will never take lightly again,” Ciel promised, his pensive gaze inspecting your face. He was the most exacting perfectionist you’d ever met; you could never decide what he was thinking when he regarded you so closely.

“I’m not sure you could if you tried,” you affirmed, a shiver running down your back. The wind picked up, causing the trees around you to rustle and whisper.

“I’ll have Sebastian bring the carriage around. It’s getting rather dark out here, now,” Ciel mumbled against your lips, pressing on one more innocent kiss before he retreated, keeping your hand in his as he guided you out of the cemetery.

December 13, 1895

The Royal Opera House

From your dressing room, you could hear the orchestra begin to play The Nutcracker’s overture, a jovial melody on strings. The chatter of the live audience was palpable through the thin walls, you could hear the theatre fill with attendees. The run of this show was delayed an extra two weeks as your company appointed new interim leadership to run the performances—- she was one of the ballet teachers who worked under the Woods. She used to teach the classes for the newest ballerinas, the most patient of the staff.

Without the previous director and the short hiatus between the end of Swan Lake and this premiere, the entire company was revitalized. You could hear it in the music. You could see it in everyone’s faces. Rehearsal the past week was magnetic: you were all ready for this evening.

You beamed at yourself in your vanity mirror, enamored with your matching pink corset and tutu combination. Humming the intense melody of the Act II pas de deux with the Sugar Plum Fairy and her Cavalier, you started to pin your tiara to the top of your head, careful not to ruin your sleek bun. You were made of pure anticipation and energy, a sense of certainty that you had never known in your life. Once you secured the accessory, you dabbled extra lip rouge and blush to your face in hope. Stage lights always washed out performers’ complexions.

“You look brilliant,” Ciel told you, rising from the loveseat to the side of your vanity. He closed his copy of The Nutcracker and the Mouse King and left it on the small table to the side of the chair. The ballet adaptation of the story was fairly recent in comparison, having premiered three years ago in St. Petersburg. Your production was one of the first to happen in England. Despite having significant plotting differences from the novella, the Earl insisted on reading the source material prior to watching your opening performance.

“How do you feel? Will you be alright if I join the rest?” he asked you, understanding that the overture signaled the audience to find their seats.

You couldn’t have smiled more, your wide, childish grin was unbreakable. For the first time, it was starting to strain your cheeks. You had everything and more than you could’ve possibly asked for: the greatest love you’d ever felt, your stomach was full, your costume sparkled. All of this on the heels of a short performance hiatus that left you more rested than ever, each day supplemented with dance class and rehearsal to keep your body in shape during the break. You’d never had so much strength going into a performance. Ever.

“I am indestructible, Ciel,” you answered, rolling onto the platforms of your pointe shoes for added height. Kissing the Earl left his lips a bright shade of pink, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“I shall take my leave for the time being then, mon trésor,” Ciel said, employing that endearing name you loved so much. His treasure. “If you might need me, you know where to look. And I will meet you back here afterwards.”

Ciel made a sizable donation to the theater to ensure that the box on to the right of the stage was exclusive to him. Although Her Majesty took ownership of the property, she could not dedicate state funding without the Parliament; the Opera House would have needed to function without two week’s worth of performance revenue, had Ciel not intervened. He’d been watching from the box during your final dress rehearsal yesterday, and watching you rehearse your arrangements hours earlier. When Ciel could steal time away from his executive work for his company, he managed to immerse himself in your career, playing the piano when you rehearsed at home, and now, publicly supporting your debut as The Sugar Plum Fairy.

“Thank you. Watch closely—I will be dancing for you,” you sent the Earl a playful wink as he left your dressing room. He left a parting kiss on your knuckles so as not to ruin your makeup.

While you were heavily featured in most of the scenes of Swan Lake, now your appearance as Sugar Plum was concentrated into short, intense scenes back to back in the second act. That made your stamina all the more important as you needed to be regal and in control, detail-oriented with almost no breaks.

That required every ounce of strength in your lower legs particularly, but you were prepared, when it came time. You were strong and fortified, learning to accept that as your vehicle, your body was beholden to better care. This full grand pas de deux consisted of a duet between you and Antoine, who played the Sugar Plum Fairy’s Cavalier—her romantic interest, followed by the Cavalier’s solo variation, your solo variation after, and finally, you both danced together again in the coda, or the finale.

You were all but a firecracker. Knowing you had someone in the audience who mattered to you, feeling your body sufficiently rested and fed, were frankly magical sensations. For the past two weeks, Sebastian had you on an incredibly balanced food regiment— he suggested you eliminate the word diet from your vocabulary in a broader effort to reframe your thoughts around food— and you prioritized a full night of rest. The butler even had you dipping your feet in iced water after long rehearsals to reduce swelling and inflammation. You had no idea.

Hard work was not equivalent to dragging your body through abuse each day and night. Skipping meals and sleep did not make you a better prima ballerina—it only made you vulnerable to injury.

In fact, with all of this care reinforcing your natural talent, you could have fought an army. You had already proven yourself a valiant soldier, maybe even more than you were a perfect heroine. You embodied many roles rather well.

Now, your characters danced for Clara’s honor in Act II, signifying their gratefulness for her and the Nutcracker’s victory against the Mouse King in Act I’s battle scene. This grand pas came at the end of the celebration after numerous ensemble characters— Arabian princesses, Russian Cossacks, Spanish chocolate, as well as Dewdrop and her Flowers.

You were serene yet playful, encapsulating the magnanimous fairy. You were one with both your partner and the music, the perfect unit. The Sugar Plum Fairy knew who she was quite well, independent of her Cavalier. Still, they moved together, perfectly in tune as the music built to its climax. You stopped on the exact same stage marks, your arms reached into the same space, even your legs mirrored one another. The Sugar Plum’s Cavalier lifted her confidently—there was no hesitation in the escort’s hold— he never once dropped her.

Even as he lifted his significant other atop his shoulder, Cavalier was unwavering. This strength was the physical manifestation of his love for his dear fairy: supporting her, reliably catching her in one of your favorite moments of the show. Running from stage right, you leapt into Antoine’s grip in the center of the stage. Your fingertips nearly touched above your head in the standard fifth position.

At your high perch, you could only think to peer at the box where you knew the love of your life was watching you. While you couldn’t see any distinctive faces from the stage, all you cared to know was that Ciel was there. For you.

You’d never been in such a partnership before, the object of someone’s genuine care and interest. Sure, you’d been a plaything, a temporary trophy to trifle with and discard when your novelty subsided. But no one had ever deemed you a treasure. Someone always worthy of an apology, protection, someone worthy of love—the sacrifice and hard work that came with it. All that value seemed to be hidden away, like precious gems.

Catching you by the waist, Antoine tilted the upper half of your body towards the floor for a moment. Moving quickly to maintain momentum, he used the leverage to face the audience and place you back steadily on the platforms of your pointe shoes. You danced in tandem with one another, flawlessly showcasing the secure love between your characters: the adoring way the Cavalier cared for the Sugar Plum, and her own adoring trust in him as she jumped into his arms once again. He lifted her high, and she held him close.

The Earl supported you, and you trusted him implicitly.

On your pointe shoes, you let yourself tip backwards, knowing Antoine would catch you with the same certainty Ciel would kick down a door. For you. The Cavalier caught Sugar Plum by her waist and her extended leg, lifting slightly only to resettle her at his side. The characters were a couple in love.

At the end of your second premiere as prima ballerina, you didn’t linger to further absorb the applause in front of you. Instead, you hurried back to your dressing room because you knew the most important person was waiting for you behind the curtains.

Epilogue

“Ciel!” Your Earl had been awaiting you in the backstage wings, paces away from where you exited the stage. He’d opted to wear a black evening suit for this occasion, the raven suit making his deep hair and ultramarine eye all the more conspicuous. Much like the night you met him, it was a number composed entirely of neutral shades. Apparently, a tailored suit on the man came as natural as leotards and restrictive pointe shoes came to you.

With the same intensity as the Sugar Plum Fairy had, you bounded towards your lover and held him close to you, in spite of the heat your body carried and the sweat that slicked your skin. You couldn’t help but snap to his side like an opposing magnet, your face burying into the side of his neck when you lifted yourself en pointe. He caught you just as Sugar Plum's Cavalier would have.

“You put on quite a show,” Ciel told you, pride palpable in his warm tone. “That was masterful. You always are.” An arm wrapped around your waist, his other hand flat against your bare back. His leather glove felt cold against your skin, a welcome change from the blazing stage lights. You swore that one day, they would cause you sunburn.

You were exhausted. Your heart pounded, droplets of sweat fell down your neck tracing the side of your spine. Your breaths came in hard bursts, your lungs working to their limit. The muscles in your legs and feet were molton. But you smiled in spite of this pain, and not out of necessity for once. It was because of the sheer love you had for this man. Your heart beat for him—the slightest quirk of his lips as he watched you, the unsuppressed chuckle in his chest from your question.

“No flowers for me?” You smarted playfully, pulling away before you could damage your costume from the embrace. Not to mention, you weren’t anxious to allow the rest of the company free access to your private relationship with Ciel. You knew that The Queen’s Guard Dog had an infinite supply of enemies and British society had countless newspapers cautiously watching you. They were waiting for you to fail, but you would never give them the satisfaction.

“I like to think I have something a little better in store for you than flowers,” your Earl’s arm remained around your waist, helping support your worn body between the bustling backstage to your dressing room. The moment the door locked behind the both of you, asked Ciel to unclip your corset, overwhelmed with the need to get out of your suffocating costume. As much as you adored its shining accents and the pink, it grew burdensome after expending every last bit of your energy.

“What for? I mean, what could be better than flowers?” you quirked an eyebrow, your smile lopsided. Ciel never failed to bring you a bouquet, even when your courtship had been a ruse. You adored them every time, the least materialistic person.

You hurriedly unlaced your pointe shoes, stepped out of your tutu and stockings, and clipped on a simple navy blue gown.

“I suppose, they will just wither and die, eventually. I want to commemorate this night perhaps more…intentionally,” he explained as he hooked your costume onto a hanger.

This night? More intentionally?

“Of course,” you turned towards your vanity mirror, wiping at your face with cold cream. The next day was December 14, after all. His birthday. Could that be what he was mentioning? While you knew a share of the trauma he felt from that day—-losing his family in the fire— you also hoped to give Ciel some lingering sense of celebration with a waiting wine bottle you purchased for the makings of a relaxed night in. You’d been rehearsing a short self-choreographed piece for him, knowing his adoration for your dancing, and his lack of interest in making a spectacle out of his day.

There was a short silence that followed as you finished cleaning off your face. You were checking your reflection for any leftover face makeup when Ciel spoke again. You watched him approach you from the mirror, turning to face him properly as he stopped at your side. Still sitting in your vanity chair, you looked up at him, a curious smile on your face as you analyzed his serious expression.

“As you recall, I first met you here,” Ciel started, his hand toying with something square in his jacket pocket. “So, each time I’ve thought about how I wanted to approach this, I couldn’t imagine being somewhere else. This was the only right way.”

You snickered, thinking back to the best aspects of that night—an evening you never thought you’d come to look back at with fond nostalgia. That night, you would have told anyone who asked that you disliked Ciel Phantomhive. You thought he was classist and misogynistic, cold. Condescending. You never would have thought he would come to be the most intelligent, thoughtful, empathetic, and determined person you’d ever get to know. Loving not outright, but in his own way: re-considering his belief system, playing the piano, constructing a dance studio on his estate. For you.

“You wore some red gown. I thought…you were breathtaking. I had to ask you to put on more clothes in order to let myself focus,” Ciel admitted, his face flushing to the tips of his ears from the admission.

“To let yourself focus? I thought it was because–” you started to assert that he told you to cover up because he was a noble clinging to traditionalism, but your Earl interrupted you with a lovingly stern expression, fixating his gaze on you. He titled his head to suggest mild exasperation with your never-ending need to chime in.

You obeyed, silencing yourself with another dazzling grin at Ciel. As he…sank down on one knee in front of you and retrieved a small velvet box from his coat pocket, opening it to reveal a ring.

“Veux-tu m'épouser?” Ciel asked. You blinked, swallowing around the sudden lump in your throat. Tears immediately formed in your eyes, causing you to blink rapidly to keep them from blurring your vision.

Because that meant…

Will you marry me?

You felt as if someone knocked the wind out of you. A scarlet blush spread across your face with the intensity of a wildfire. Goosebumps littered your arms, despite your gown’s sleeves. He wanted to marry you. He truly wanted you as his Countess. He was legitimizing your claim to his heart with this ring. To all.

“I couldn’t imagine my life without you, Y/n. You have broadened my worldview in so many ways. I never dreamed myself capable of accepting love from anyone, much less someone as breathtaking as you. You shine both on a stage and off, challenging me to better myself each day, inspiring me with your passion for ballet and that stunning intellect of yours. I would be incredibly fortunate to be enlightened by you each and every day, for as long as I may live. If you would do me the honor,” Ciel said. He always held such a noticeable degree of reverence for you, regarding you as some precious being.

“Absolutely, I will,” you beamed as Ciel held your hand, gently siding the engagement down your ring finger. The band was gold, its diamond cut into a square. Two smaller diamonds sat on either side of the largest diamond. Still on his knees, Ciel was still tall enough for you to kiss by leaning down to meet his face.

Lingering close to your Earl’s face, your smile grew sly. You blinked guilelessly. “Though are you certain you do not wish to discuss how we will allow our courtship to slowly burn out over the next month to avoid public suspicion? Would that suffice? That would allow you to resume your real search for a—”

He didn’t even let you finish your sentence, pulling you back in for another intense kiss.

“There will never be a need for that. I put an end to that search ages ago, for all intents and purposes,” he admonished you with no real weight to his words.

Before you could verbalize your next quip, your new fiancé interrupted you once more. “Yes, I am certain. Y/n… you are all I could possibly want,” his hand was gentle as it cupped the side of your face. His thumb caressed your jawline, a touch that was barely there against your electrified skin.

“I cannot wait to see what our life looks like, together, my Lord,” you kissed Ciel, taking his hands in yours. As you rose from your seat, you guided Ciel to stand properly on his feet, clinging to him the moment he righted himself.

“That’s Ciel, to you, mon trésor.”

You welcomed your incoming new role, the future Countess of Phantomhive, with your widest possible port de bras.

Acknowledgements:

First thing’s first, I want to thank you. Thank you so much for reading and interacting in any capacity with me!! I appreciate every second you put into checking out my writing, and I hope it really touched you! This story is meant to show copious amounts of growth in a person and the importance of empathy and compassion. I’ve loved Ciel since middle school and I like to think this love has matured with me, lol!

This is also my first mystery storyline!! I put so much thought into every detail, and I don’t think I could have gotten to this point without you all being here and so so so supportive and patient at every turn.

Thank you especially to my amazing friends here on Tumblr, @mylostleftfootsock and @earls-wife, and my amazing best friend IRL @readfreak03. (She literally made a Tumblr account to read my updates, I'm crying). Thank you all so much for being so inspiring and supportive of me—especially for hearing me and my chaotic ideas out. Without your endless support for both my writing (and my personal life endeavors) and your detailed feedback and ideas, there wouldn’t have been this.

I want to thank everyone who reaches out to me in comments, asks, dms, mentions, and reblogs, everyone on my tag list, and all of my amazing anons.

I want to shout out @katherine101, @endlesslovesick, @suniika, @goby10, @lavendervogh, @eunisyia, @luckyladylottie, @soleil-lei, @lottiehasadvice, and my lovely Random & Sweet anons: I always, always look forward to reading what you have to say!! It’s so much fun to chat, and your feedback is so amazing. I really do appreciate each comment you leave for me! You’re all so kind, it’s endlessly motivating for me. I read every single comment, ask, and reblog multiple times.

I genuinely had so much fun writing this fic. I’ve wanted to write a ballerina!reader x Ciel for so long—probably since I was in the middle of writing The Indignant Pawn. I was developing this story as I was writing! Ever since I stumbled on a History.com article about prostitution in vintage ballet, I was hooked. I knew I needed a fire-brand reader experiencing this in real time, and a Black Butler-level scandal to draw Ciel into the fold. Their polar-opposite personalities essentially wrote themselves. Their natural chemistry, the arguments, the sweeter moments just flowed.

To make this story as accurate as I could, I read countless interviews with real prima ballerinas regarding their interpretations of their characters—their hardships, their advice, their day-to-day lives. I watched so many TikToks (special thanks to @/lifeof.lori!) and tutorial videos, too. I really came into this knowing nothing about ballet besides having an excited curiosity, and now I can confidently say that I understand it a whole lot better and I definitely have a newfound respect for real ballerinas. What they do is incredible.

Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me. I can’t believe this is my second complete fic ever! I’m so excited to show you what I have in the works. When I finished The Indignant Pawn, I gave you a hint about this story, my next full body of work, because I was a little mean with the way I ended my first story. Literally it was the tallest of cliffs I could leave you hanging from. This time, I was nice, so I think I’ll leave you guessing :)

Stay Tuned,

Dannnn

#anime fanfiction #black butler fanfic #historical fiction #ciel phantomhive x reader #ciel x reader #historical romance #sebastian michaelis #black butler #black butler x reader #black butler ciel #black butler fanfiction #real ciel #ciel #ciel phantomhive #our ciel #kuroshitsuji #best believe I already have two outlines I’m developing into drafts #this is just the beginning lol

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