#chaos and maisie | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zablife · 1 year

Text

Favorite Ex

Summary: When Carmy’s stress and anxiety rise to unprecedented levels, he shuts down and pushes you away. However, you can’t stop thinking about each other.

Author’s Note: Inspired by Maisie Peter’s song “Favourite Ex" and lines from S1, E5 which I've italicized.

Warnings: language, mention of fire, angst, break up, fluffy ending

Shades of orange consumed Carmy’s vision, searing heat hitting his face, neck and arms as flames rose dangerously high from the burners. His hands should have reached for the fire extinguisher instead of remaining by his side, arm hairs singing to oblivion. In that moment he wasn’t sure if he was unable or unwilling to guide himself, but he was well aware it wasn’t normal, this lack of concern for his own well being. As black smoke collected around him, the shifting light danced in his darkened pupils, but he wasn’t present, his thoughts were far away with you.

———————-

The light flickered above the kitchen sink as he watched you fill the coffee pot, the need for caffeine growing after days of getting up before five every day this week. “Carmy, did you pay the electric bill?” you demanded with a huff. You were always short with him recently and he knew he was letting you down, but the days at the restaurant were wearing on him.

Turning back to blow smoke out the window, he rubbed his eyes, trying to recall which bills he’d been able to take care of this month.

“Are you listening to me? They’re gonna cut you off again. I told you last week about the notice,” you said, reaching for the stack of papers piled high on the counter. Unable to find what you were looking for in the chaos, you gave up, placing your fingertips to your temples. “Look, Carmy, I know you wanted me to move here permanently, but I think that was just the grief talking.”

Carm grimaced as he flicked the cigarette butt out the window. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“I mean, you needed someone here with you after Mikey—“ you began, but he cut you off, jumping up from the window and pushing past you to stalk down the hall.

“Don’t do that!” you warned him.

“What?” he muttered as he kept walking.

“That thing you do where you walk away and don’t talk to me for days. I can’t stand it!”

He turned on his heel, facing you with clenched jaw. “Well, what the fuck am I supposed to say when you tell me you’re here out of pity.”

You furrowed your brow at his accusation. “That’s not what I said. I want to be here, but not if you won’t talk to me about what’s going on with you. You just shut me out and I need more!” You’d finally said what had been on your mind for weeks now, too afraid to voice your own needs when your boyfriend was struggling with major life changes.

“Well, I can’t do that,” he shouted. His words were so harsh it felt like a stab to the back. You’d been there for him since he got the call about Mikey and sat with him night after night when he had horrific nightmares, waking covered in sweat, but unwilling to say a word about them.

“Do you know how many people need me right now? Syd and Tina are at each other’s throats, Richie’s always starting shit and Sugar’s calling me twenty times a day about meetings and talking to Ma. I don’t need this from you too. I can’t do this!” he said, body suddenly going deathly still, eyes fixing on a water stain on the wall just as the lights went out.

Observing his rigid posture, you knew he’d shut down. It was how he coped with stress and even though you hated it, you had to accept that you weren’t going to get any more out of him today. You wiped a tear from your cheek as you nodded to yourself.

“Okay, Carmy. I’m gonna give you some space then,” you conceded, leaving him in the darkened hallway. He listened to the front door slam behind you as he rested his forehead against the adjacent doorway, knowing he’d fucked it all up and hating himself more than he already did.

——————————

“Carmy! Carmy!” A voice shouted, breaking through his haze and urging him to act. “Fire, chef!” Sweeps warned, moving up to take charge of the blaze. Carm finally moved back, shaking his head as though he were just realizing what was happening. Grabbing the fire extinguisher from the other man’s hands he pulled the pin and aimed the nozzle at the flames lapping at the stove, watching as a thick spurt of white foam issued forth. The fire died out with a sizzle and Carm breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

“Yo, Jeff, what happened?” Tina asked, popping her head around the corner.

“Fire’s out,” Sweeps declared, hauling the extinguisher off swiftly. Carmy turned to Tina, snapping back into work mode and asked, “Sorry, everything's fine. Did you finish your prep?”

“Yeah, you alright?” she said with concern, glancing up and down his disheveled form.

“I need to go take care of something,” he mumbled, heading for the alley.

————————-

Your phone rang and you immediately reached to silence it, stopping when you noticed Carm’s number flash on the screen. It had been three months since you’d spoken and you wondered if you should even answer. He’d made it clear that a relationship was not what he wanted right now and you had made peace with that….until now. You had to admit you missed him.

Your best nights had been with Carmy, listening to music in his tiny kitchen as you cooked together. You could still feel the warmth of his hands on your hips as he checked the progress of the sauce over your shoulder. “More garlic,” he’d say with authority.

“Fuck your one star, I’m the chef tonight,” you always told him. His smirk told you he was pleased with your assertiveness, happy not to have make any decisions for the night. However, your need to take charge caused your worst fights as well. You wanted Carm to talk about Mikey and the more you pushed, the more he retreated from you. He said you didn’t understand, but you cared deeply, wanting to help him through his grief. Simply wanting to take care for him if only he'd let you.

The buzzing from your phone continued and you finally decided to pick up, more eager than you should have been to hear his voice again. You cleared your throat anxiously before answering with a shaky, “Carmy?”

“Y/n? Sorry, I know it’s late,” he apologized.

“S’okay. What’s going on?” you asked, trying to sound casual as you picked at your pajama bottoms nervously.

“We had a fire at the restaurant today,” he began.

“Oh, my God, Carm, are you okay?” you blurted, worried about how calm he sounded despite what he’d just told you.

“Yeah, yeah. It was just a grease fire, you know? But the point is, I realized something. I was watching it and I had a minute where I thought—If I don’t do anything, this place will burn down and all my anxiety will go away with it,” he sighed heavily and your heart nearly broke at the sound, listening to him open up to you in a way you knew was difficult for him.

“And then I put the fire out,” he finished. “I snapped out of it and I realized I’ve been avoiding a lot of things….I’ve been avoiding you because I didn’t think I could handle it all. Like I was waiting for Mikey to come back and fix all the fucked up shit he left, but I’m done with that. I want live my life for me.”

You nodded into the phone, lip trembling as you replied, “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

“I haven’t slept without you. I’ve cried for weeks. Nothing feels right without you, but I’m going to start making some changes around here and I hope you’ll come back,” he said, swallowing harshly as he awaited your answer.

You searched the ceiling, wanting to say yes right away, but knowing how Carmy’s mood could change on a dime. “That sounds really good so let’s start with dinner first, ok?” you asked.

“Yeah, of course,” he rushed out, relieved to hear you would see him again. “You free Thursday?”

“Thursday? Sure,” you agreed.

Then you heard him breathe into the phone as though he was letting out an anxious breath. “You still like chicken piccata?” he asked and you smiled, knowing he remembered your favorite.

“Only if you let me help make the sauce,” you countered. “Fucking one star,” you quipped. You heard him laugh and it warmed your heart.

You liked the thought of calling him that again instead of your ex. He was your favorite ex, but that wasn't really a consolation. You hoped things were changing for the better, but only time would tell.

#The Bear fanfic #The Bear imagine #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #carmy x reader #Carmy x y/n #Carmy x you #carmy berzatto fanfiction

421 notes · View notes

sleepyfan-blog · 1 month

Text

Intruder!!

Author’s Note: This is the next installment of Joth’s adventures in the Husbandry AU! Other fics with Joth in them that I’ve written can be found here.

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @the-pure-angel

Warnings: none? Please ask me to tag something if I missed it/it bothers you

Summary: Joth handles an intruder with the mercy you’ve taught him.

“Put the goat down. Gently. Leave this property and return with money or never.” Joth ordered the Blood Claw who had his idiot hands on one of your goats. He had heard Maisie’s warning bark and growls, followed by Jacks and Sandy running to aid the oldest of your trio of Great Pyrenees. The canids helped Joth patrol the boundaries of your territory and chased away most predators and would be threats at night, while you slept in your home.

“The fuck I will, Chaos scum! I’m hungry and this thing looks like it’d be a decent enough meal.” The young Space Wolf growled, bristling visibly. The goat in his hands squirmed and butted his horned head against the other’s armored stomach.

Maisie growled lowly, and Joth whistled, not wanting her to get injured by this insufferable Loyalist Fool. Jacks rumbled, equally unhappy. “Do you know where you are, Space Wolf?”

“... That doesn’t matter! I’m hungry, and I’m taking this as my meal!” The Blood Claw blustered, glaring up at him.

“We are on Terra. M3 Terra.” Joth rumbled, stalking closer to the Loyalist “Put. Down. The goat.”

“Why the fuck would I believe a word out of your mouth, you Traitor?!” The Loyalist huffed, still glaring at him, pulling the goat closer to his body, even as it bleated and kicked at him.

“Do you have a working vox-communicator?” Joth asked, struggling to not roll his eyes at the young idiot in front of him.

“I do. But I am on a survival mission! To prove that I am capable of surviving, no matter the circumstances.” The Blood Claw snapped.

“Aren’t baby Space Wolves left on frozen hell-holes to prove themselves? Most of Terra is far from such a world, even in the depths of winter that would qualify.” Joth asked, tilting his head a little as he took another slow step towards the young idiot. The other didn’t have armor on and was lightly armed.

“... To be entirely honest, I thought I was dreaming. This part of the world at least, is so temperate and pretty. Prey and edible greens and fruits are so plentiful here. And I’m not a baby!” The young Space Wolf protested, puffing out his chest up at him.

Joth took another step towards the Blood Claw, whistling another command to Maisie and Jacks, who kept the younger Astartes hemmed in on two sides, while the pup, Sandy padded up behind him. “Youngling Astarte. Put down the goat. It belongs to the one whose property this is. There is Astartes-food available, but to get it you put the animal down. Now.”

The young Space Wolf looked up at him, before looking around “But… But you’re a traitor! Why should I believe y-”

You call out from the porch “Is everything alright, Joth?”

Oh! He hadn’t known you were awake. He has an idiot youngling to wrangle. Faster than the little Loyalist could track, Joth lunged forward and scooped him up, pinning the Blood Claw’s arms between his side and one of his arms, in a secure grip that the other would not be able to easily break. His other arm carefully yanked the goat free before setting her down and giving the goat a loving pat on the head. “I found the raider.” He answers in the same language you spoke.

“Who are you talking to? Who is that?!” The baby Space Wolf growled in Gothic, wriggling ineffectually in Joth’s hold.

Joth grabbed the younger Astarte by the back of his neck and shook him a little “You behave. That is the owner of these lands, and the animal you tried to steal.” WIth that he trotted up to the porch, firmly holding onto the wiggly young Astarte, who wasn’t going to escape his grasp unless the thousands of years old World Eater let him go. Khorne’s Blessings of strength and endurance far outweighed what the whelp could muster up.

You look at the rough fur-clothing covered young Space Wolf struggling in his hands, a small smile appearing on your face “Do you know how long he’s been on Earth?”

Joth shook his head “No, but from what little he said, he hasn’t been here long. Naughty puppy has been eating your livestock that has gone missing, I’ll bet. He was trying to take a goat when Maisie yelled at him.”

“Joth, dearheart, he’s a person. What’s your name? Does he speak English?” You respond, having a sigh and shake your head a little “Bring him inside. I’ll heat up some leftovers for him to eat. He looks like he’s half-starved. No wonder he was going after my animals. Especially if he doesn’t know about the base he could visit for food and clothing if he felt like it.”

“Space Wolf youngling.” Joth huffed, glaring down at the wiggly Blood Claw. He snapped “What is your name, puppy?”

You sigh as you go get your cellphone “He’s still a person. I’m going to call the after-hours astartes response line for the closest Loyalist base in Gannet Point - unless. Is he a renegade? He’s not odd enough to be a chaos marine, I think.”

“As if I would tell you that, Traitor! You might do some sort of horrible ritual to fuck me up, or steal my identity if I told you! Who is this baseline mortal who cavorts with traitors! I-” The baby Space Wolf began to shout.

“Loyalist puppy.” The Chaos astartes acknowledged in English. He then readjusted his grip on the Blood Claw so that he was covering the other’s mouth. An Astartes could accidentally injure the hearing of a mortal if he wasn’t careful, and Joth had encountered enough Blood Claws to know that the rough and tumble little lunatic pups were seldom careful. “Shush. No yelling in the house.” He shook the growling pup who was trying to bite through his armored gauntlets with just enough force to get him to settle down.

“Alright. Nearest loyalist base it is. Do you think he’ll eat anything I try to give him? Or will he growl at me and refuse?” You muse as you press the numbers to the on-call phone number, knowing it by heart by now.

“Probably would refuse. Keeps calling me a traitor, among other things, when I let him talk.” Joth answered, able to hold the squirming Blood Claw in his hands as he waited for you to make the phone call.

In less than ten minutes after you made the call, despite the fact that your farm was over an hour away from Gannet point by car ride, there was a mixed squad of Loyalists. Two were Ultramarines, one was a Salamander, and the remaining two were Space Wolves.

The Blood Claw had tried and failed to escape Joth’s implacable grip the entire time, making angry little growling and whining noises behind the hand that kept his vocalizations quiet. Maisie had decided to stop growling at him just before the squad of loyalists had arrived.

“Sargeant Amicus, thank you for coming so quickly. I’m aware that it’s terribly early in the morning, but this particular Astartes has likely been stealing my chickens for the better part of the week and he looks half-starved.” You murmur, greeting the lead Astartes, the slightly smaller Ultramarine.

“It’s our duty to take care of issues like this. Especially when Brothers or Cousins are causing such problems. Faffnir, Ulric, would you mind retrieving the Blood Claw from Joth?” The Sargeant answered with a small, professional smile, gesturing to the two Space Wolves.

Ultric and Faffnir each grabbed one of the younger Wolf’s arms, with the latter saying “We’ve got the pup… You were a lot gentler with him than I expected you’d be.”

Joth shrugged “He is young and dumb. Nothing wrong with that, and I have been learning that kindness is not weakness here on Terra.”

“... Fair enough. No biting, you little shit!” Ulric answered, sharply reprimanding the Blood Claw as the young Wolf attempted to chomp one of the hands restraining him.

“The muzzle I was brought here with should fit him well enough.” Joth remarked lightly as he loomed over the trio of Space Wolves “I would be willing to let you borrow it.”

“.. No, I think he’s finished being bitey, right? You’re going to be a good Scout and not try and cause more mischief, right?” Faffnir rumbled, his voice going low and growly.

The youngest Space Wolf let out a low, unhappy whine before looking away from Faffnir, his body going limp “Yes sirs… Why are we not murdering the heretic?”

“That will be explained later. Off we go, pup.” Ulric hummed before he and Faffnir dragged the Blood Claw away.

“As he is a loyalist, please send us a bill of how many animals he killed to feed himself, and you will be recompensed for it. I am aware that you’d rather have the a animals back, but money is all we are able to offer at this time. Though perhaps, after the young one has settled into Terra and how things run here, we could have him work on your farm as partial recompense, if you would be comfortable about that?” Sergeant AMicus asks you.

Joth’s tail swishes back and forth in agitation at the thought of that and he crosses his arms. He is scowling at the floor, but doesn’t saying anything.

“A tempting offer, but I would rather have the money, sergeant.” You answer honestly, shaking your head a little.

“As you say.” The Ultramarine acknowledged before turning and leaving, the other marines leaving behind him.

You wait until you’re sure that the Loyalist Marine sare out of hearing range before you smile warmly up at Joth and move in close. You gently touch one of his arms so that he is looking at you as you say “You did really well tonight, Joth. You protected my animals. You didn’t hurt the other marine, just restrained him so that ye wouldn’t cause more problems , and you were very patient.”

Joth beams at your praise and kneels down, lowering his head.

You smile warmly, knowing what he ias asking of you without words, and you gently pat his head, mindful of the Nails still digging into his skull. You press a kiss to his forehead “I mean it, Joth. You did very well.”

You hear the happy thump-thump-thump of Joth’s tail hitting your floorboards as he leans a little more into your head-pats. “I tried to be gentle, like you said I should be.” He rumbles.

You can hear the smile in his voice and you give him a couple more kisses on the forehead “And you succeeded. Well done, Joth.” You murmur as you try and fail to stop a tired yawn from leaving you.

HIs large, warm arms come up to gently encircle you, hugging you close. “Rest. I will protect, alongside your guard dogs.” His voice had an almost lyrical quality to it, and you nod sleepily, closing your eyes and allowing Joth to carry you up to your room and tuck you into bed.

#world eater #ultramarine #space wolf #oc: joth #oc: amicus #oc: faffnir #oc: Ulfric #warhammer 40k #space marine husbandry sentience #my writing #space marine husbandry #reader insert

51 notes · View notes

mariaofdoranelle · 7 months

Text

Look at Us Now - ch. 23

Fic masterlist

I’ve been writing this chapter amidst chaos and I was obsessed while planning this spicy scene. I hope you like it? The writing process wasn’t half as sexy, considering I have terrible flu 🤧

Warnings: NSFW

Words: 2,2k

The groaning creak of Aelin’s rusty window being opened jolted her awake. She shot up in bed, heart racing, only to register Rowan’s hulky figure invading her bedroom.

She threw herself back in bed, relieved and slightly less annoyed. “Alexa, what time is it?”

“You already know you’re late. The time is 6:42 a.m.”

Rowan sighed, finally inside, and closed her squeaky window. “I forgot how sassy your Alexa is.”

Rubbing both eyes, she slowly processed whatever was going on. Yesterday’s fight over Fleetfoot the Dog. Aelin’s late—and depressingly lonely—wine night. Rowan showed up here when she specifically told him not to.

“I took Maisie to Aedion’s, they’re going to the pool.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet. “We need to talk.”

“Where’s the key I gave you?”

“I didn’t know how you’d feel about me using it now.” After their fight, he meant.

“So you’d rather break into my house through my bedroom window instead?”

Rowan eyed her reading armchair, but decided to pace instead. Aelin could barely pay attention to him, only thinking about how she asked him for time to process the situation, but instead he decided to wake her up right after dawn to talk.

Aelin adjusted her pillows to sit by the headboard. “Did Maisie wake you up early today?”

“I didn’t sleep.”

She ran both hands on her face, trying to recall her last thoughts regarding the doggie situation. If Rowan wanted to make decisions alone rather than considering her opinions as a couple, she could go with it. “I want 50/50 custody of Fleetfoot, same co-parenting arrangement and shared expenses as we do with Maisie. I already made a new expense spreadsheet.”

“So you want the dog?”

“Oh my God.” Aelin leaned her head against the headboard, looking up. “Rowan, this is not about the dog!”

He furrowed his eyebrows, his eyes carefully assessing her, and that’s when she realized he was lost.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to phrase her feelings in the clearest way possible. “If I’m Maisie’s mother, if we’re together, and if you see yourself living with me within the next decade, I don’t understand why you’d get her a dog without talking to me first.”

“Very well.” His body tensed, both hands on his hips. “Another 50/50 custody. That’s what we’re doing, then?”

“Yes. That’s how I deal with things when I ask for time to think and you don’t give it to me.”

He resumed pacing around the room, one hand on his hip while he gesticulated with the other. “Look, I want to give you space, but I can’t sit and do nothing while you rethink our relationship.”

Aelin tilted her head, eyes squinted at him. Now she was the one who was lost. “While I do what?”

Rowan huffed, a hard look aimed at her. “You know…”

“I really don’t.”

“You pushed me away because you didn’t trust me.” Rowan sat on her armchair, eyes narrowed at a random point. She gave him time, knowing he wasn’t great at expressing himself or his feelings. “Now you gave me a second chance, and things are still delicate because I’m still proving myself.”

“Proving yourself…?” Aelin trailed, trying to understand his train of thought.

“That I deserve your second chance.” His voice slowed down as he sensed her confusion. “That you can rely on me in a way you didn’t before.”

Aelin’s mouth opened. And closed. It was a rare feat to make Aelin speechless, but Rowan did it this time. Had he been thinking like that for the past month?

“I was in a very vulnerable place five years ago, and our relationship was too undefined. I barely had the energy to think about something romantic between us, let alone fight for it.” Aelin fiddled with the corner of her blanket, feeling Rowan’s gaze on her, hanging on her every word. She continued, “That’s not the case now. I told you why I pushed you away back then because the situation called for it, but I don’t want to torment you over something you did so long ago.” She sent him a close-lipped, hope-to-be-reassuring smile. “Besides, I already know I can trust you. Did you ever fail with Maisie?”

A bitter chuckle. “Yes. Several times.”

Aelin left her position on her bed to straddle him at the armchair, her chest filled with warmth. “Well, you wouldn’t be a parent if you didn’t.” She combed his hair off his face with her fingers. Her fussy Buzzard, always thinking too much. He’d just started therapy, and Aelin knew it’d be a long process until the worst of that weight fell off his shoulders, but she’d be right there with him the entire time. “Your very chivalrous theory about needing to prove your worth was totally debunked, being Super Dad and all.”

“I was a terrible co-parent to you.”

“Me too.” Aelin put both hands on her hips, eyes squinted at him. “Are you putting me on a trial test?”

“I would never—“

She raised both eyebrows, silently begging him to think this through. Yeah, buddy, it goes both ways, she hoped her face conveyed.

“So, just to be sure, you’re not breaking up with—“

“Gods, Rowan!”

“Alright, alright.”

He held her close, face resting near her neck while he breathed her in. Aelin kissed his head, squeezing him into her embrace. Sometimes, when she’s with Rowan, no amount of touching feels like enough. Right now, she felt like melting and merging their bodies completely so every cell of her body hugs every cell of his. It was so silly, but it did feel like heaven to hear his mocking groans, as if Rowan hated being squished to death.

Aelin grinned down at him, still straddling his lap, and cupped his face with both hands. “You’re mine.”

He kissed her palm. “I’m yours.”

“And you love me,” she said. Not a question.

“To whatever end,” he breathed.

She leaned to kiss him, meeting him halfway. What started as a tender kiss soon turned molten. Rowan’s hands traveled down her torso, hungrily grabbing her, as Aelin ravished his mouth, full of need while grinding down on his lap from how much her body burned for him.

Rowan hooked both hands under her thighs and lifted them up from the armchair, carrying Aelin to her bed. He dropped her in a seating position and caged her with both arms, still standing while pressing their foreheads together.

“You’re mine.” His eyes were glued to hers and so close, she felt the claiming in her bones, her soul.

“I’m yours.” Her answer was as truthful as the throbbing between her thighs—very.

“And you love me.” Such hope and quiet joy in his eyes, beneath all that fierceness.

“To whatever end.” Beaming at him, she radiated with the intensity of that moment and needed to show him how much she meant it.

Rowan kissed her again, dragging the moment until Aelin nipped his lip. He opened his mouth to protest, but when she felt him through his pants, it melted into a hiss.

Aelin dropped to her knees in front of him.

“Baby, you don’t have to—“

He cursed when she pulled her pants down. Aelin kept eye contact while she pumped him, trying to hide a smirk. The words died on his throat, mesmerized by the sight of her face and his cock so close. He held still while she licked the head, but Rowan’s eyes closed, his head lolling back when her tongue ran over his full length.

Aelin knew she didn’t have to but, fuck, she wanted to. She pumped his heavy, veiny length, panting, entranced. How a guy used his cock had always been something she valued more than the member in itself, but it was definitely a flex that her boyfriend came with both traits. Her need to be filled was driving her mad, but Aelin was dying to worship him too.

One more swirl of her tongue and she took him deep inside her mouth, quickly finding a rhythm. Cheeks hollowed, Aelin also worked him by massaging his base and his balls—it was near impossible to swallow all of him, no matter her attempts to deep-throat his cock.

Rowan’s eyes were glued to the way he disappeared into her mouth, and he kept praising her, guiding her head with his fist and hissing when he hit a particular spot near her throat, then again calling her a good girl that sucks his cock so well.

“Fuck, baby.” Rowan thrust into her mouth, and she was growing almost feverish with the sight of him using her for his own pleasure.

One of her hands disappeared between her thighs without interrupting his ministrations, but it only worsened the burning feeling she tried to soothe. A moment later, Rowan cursed at how wet it came back to toy with his balls.

“Baby.” He caressed her jaw, holding her gaze. “Fuck. The things I’m doing to you after this…”

Aelin moaned around his cock, almost losing her rhythm. His hips jerked, making him grip her hair harder.

He growled, “You have no idea.”

˜˜

“Must you tell her everything?” Rowan politely complained, jaw tight.

Aelin gaped. “But she’s our therapist!” Her defensive remark had a slightly higher pitch.

Yrene had her lips pressed tight to hide her amusement. Her job was to meddle in their relationship, but sometimes she chose not to—especially during a small bicker.

The woman cleared her throat. “It looks to me that you both communicated your thoughts and feelings on your own, mid crisis, while shielding your daughter from it." Yrene had a satisfied, close-lipped smile on while she typed on her computer. "That’s impressive progress. In fact, I feel like we’re ready to space out our sessions, so we can gradually transition you two out of therapy.”

Aelin felt a lightness inside, and her grin was almost too much. Hell yes, she was more than ready to cut off some sessions—if she counted her individual ones as well, Aelin saw Yrene way too much.

However, Rowan frowned, not looking convinced. “But we just had a fight.”

Their therapist waved him off. “You will from time to time. The important thing here is to identify when you’re falling into an old pattern, and to revisit conflict management skills when—not if—needed.” Yrene tilted her head, carefully studying Rowan. “But I can wait more to space out sessions if you don’t feel ready yet, even if I’m not discharging you immediately.”

His eyes darted between the two women, unsure.

“Baby, I think we’re good.” Aelin squeezed Rowan’s hands. She worked with a whole different way of looking inside her patients, but she knew how successful this case was.

“We won’t be working on new skills from now on, just maintaining what you already learned,” Yrene added, focused on Rowan. “Besides, I already consider your case successful. Couples don’t often get back together, let alone in a healthy relationship—sometimes, I’m only trying to prevent murder.”

The corner of his mouth quivered, and he squeezed Aelin’s hand back. “Alright, then. How often is it gonna be for now?”

˜˜

“Gods, I feel so spiritually evolved.” Aelin matched her boyfriend’s grin outside Yrene’s office, in the building’s hallway. “Every time a therapist praises me, I feel like lighting incense and doing yoga.”

Rowan hummed, wrapping his arm around her while they waited for the elevator. “Yoga’s nice. We could try it out—“

“Fuck, no. You promised me chocolate cake.”

“I didn’t mean now.” He studied her from the corner of his eye. “Tomorrow?”

“Nope.” Not ever, if she could help it—Aelin doing exercises about balance while having a giant bump that messed her center of gravity up? Scarred her to death. “I have a hip replacement tomorrow. Did you know that performing those is worse than CrossFit?”

“No, it’s not.” Rowan snorted. “You told me they were super easy when you were pregnant with…”

Realization made him lose his words. To Aelin’s defense, it was just a little white lie she told so he wouldn’t lose his mind with worry. Rowan’s eyes widened, and Aelin was saved by the elevator arriving at that exact moment. She hurried past him inside and watched him slowly enter, still staring at her.

The elevator moved, restarting him as well. She shook his head and stood behind her. Noting that they were alone in that metal box, Rowan grabbed her hips with both hands and whispered, “I’m punishing you for that later.”

Aelin shivered with his words fanning against her ear, feeling a whisper of his smirk when she trembled under his fingertips. Slightly pressed against him, she breathed, “I bet you are.”

You can get notified when I update by either turning notifications on for @backtobl4ck-fics or entering my (sometimes glitchy) tag list!!

TAG LIST

I couldn’t tag the people in bold, sorry!

@aelinchocolatelover

@autumnbabylon

@bookcide

@booksandteaonarainydayislife

@cookiemonsterwholovesbooks

@courtofjurdan

@dreamer-133

@elentiyawhitethorn

@elizarikaallen

@emily-gsh

@empress-ofbloodshed

@fangirlprincess09

@goddess-aelin

@gracie-rosee

@leiawritesstories

@lululululululuop

@renxzs

@rowanaelinn

@s-uppertime

@sarahjswift

@staghorn-mountains

@superspiritfestival

@swankii-art-teacher

@thegreyj

@throneofus7

@violet-mermaid7

@wishfulimaginings

#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #throne of glass #rowaelin fanfiction #rowan x aelin #look at us now #aelin x rowan #rowaelin fanfic #throne of glass fanfic

61 notes · View notes

scribbleseas · 2 months

Text

Straight Laced, Chapter VIII: To Be A Keen Observer…

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: 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, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

Author’s Note: I have nothing to say for myself, besides thank you so much for reading! And thank you so much for sticking with me. I’m sorry about that last cliffhanger. (Kind of.)

Dan

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

MASTERLIST

November 10, 1895

The British Museum

The Yard. The press. Throngs of pedestrians fleeing from the museum to catch a glimpse of the chaos. Flashing lenses immortalizing Maisie Stannard’s bleeding body, craning necks, overlapping questions.

“Lord Phantomhive, Lord Phantomhive, who’dunnit?” someone demanded, sick comedy in their voice.

Now the public knew. They no longer had the benefit of a quiet investigation.

The Same Night, Hours Later

Ciel’s Estate

The evening’s fiasco was practically the worst-case scenario for any crime scene, Ciel thought, staring into the lively orange licks of flames in his fireplace. The contained inferno crackled, demolishing the kindling Finny packed inside moments before their return.

The fall night was brisk, the draft blowing against his window, causing balding tree branches to scream.

Finally left alone, the Earl of Phantomhive loosened his tie, slouched behind his desk, and allowed his fingers to knit in his dark hair. He released a frustrated groan he’d long been holding, spat out a curse he’d long bit down in the face of the curious public. They wanted to construct a story that would attempt to broadcast Ciel’s shock, but he would never give them the satisfaction of witnesssing a Phantomhive plan go awry.

Still, the predicament was an embarrassment. He wanted the killer to be William, but the suspect never truly felt proper—even as he watched the Yard escorted the man in handcuffs. He’d merely convinced himself William was completely guilty because it was the most convenient solution, and that was worse than a confident response being wrong.

Ciel’s eye strained from analyzing the list of guests from the gala. The names and titles were forged into his brain, and yet, how could he stop? Another person was dead because of his shortsightedness. It was a smear on his name and reputation, one far worse than courting a prima ballerina.

At the end of the day, he should have known better. It was too convenient for the killer to be William. Ciel doubted he had much of a capacity to kill—not the intellect, not the bravado, and not the motive.

Was he a violent criminal who took what he felt he deserved no matter who he hurt? Certainly. But was he intelligent enough to poison a young woman slowly using dimethylmercury? To lure a young woman to a bridge and dispose of her in the river beneath? Not to Ciel. He had to be missing a significant part of this investigation. What could he be missing? Who could he be ignoring?

Someone had to have known William’s crimes against members of his company, and plotted to frame him. The death had to be connected to the rest of them—too convenient to be a coincidence. Y/n knew her. They were both part of the same company— rivals, even. All of the dancers were a part of this company, at one point in their short-lived careers. Even the victims who were working somewhere new during their time of death or the last day they were seen, worked under William at one point in time.

Y/n said that the incidents all seem to take place on Thursdays, Fridays, and Sundays. Days where the full company rehearsed The Nutcracker in full, and Natasha was occupied with costume fittings. The company was in its last two weeks of playing Swan Lake and now it was preparing to welcome the holiday season with the festive ballet. It always had a popular run, causing it to start at the end of November until the weekend after Christmas.

That couldn’t be a coincidence, either. Ciel thought it incriminated William because it ensured that his company— including his wife — would be at their most distracted. Perhaps, the real killer assumed Ciel would draw that conclusion. They would have needed to break into William’s South Hampton home to plant the weapon used to kill Janet Fischer, as well. It seemed that estate was the only property William left unkept.

“I’ve brought your tea, my Lord,” Sebastian said, his habit of breaking Ciel’s focus entirely too common. The Earl knew better than to be startled by his demon butler. After all, the being was at the mercy of his orders. They both knew the terms of their contract intimately well: Sebastian obeyed all of Ciel’s commands and once they apprehend those responsible for the deaths of the previous Phantomhive heads, Sebastian could consume his soul.

“How damned am I, Sebastian?” Ciel asked, half pressing for what the butler made of tonight’s accident and half assessing the damage dealt between him and Y/n, given that the butler had just delivered her a night snack. She was never one to hide her feelings, surely giving Sebastian an earful about how Ciel managed to offend her. Uncovering just what had sent Y/n into her tirade beckoned at Ciel more than he liked, distracting him even more than the investigation was. The prima ballerina was so nonchalant about her promiscuity; could their relations have truly meant that much to her?

Did she feel an inescapable sense of dread and thrill around him, too? A spark so addicting that all she could do was be near him? Just like a good sip of that sweet wine she adored.

“What are you referring to?” While the butler poured a cup of tea, he lifted an eyebrow at the Earl, questioning him. A knowing smile pulled at his lips.

“Don’t you play dumb. You know whom I speak of.” The irritation in Ciel’s voice filled the room.

Sebastian merely chuckled at him. “How do you think making an enemy out of the Norfolk duchy by refusing his only daughter would end for you, sir?” His question was anything but accusatory— amused at most. Curious to get an idea of Ciel’s honest priorities: the wise match, Caroline and her presumptuous mother, or the correct match. The prima ballerina. His prima ballerina, as they worked so hard to make the public believe.

Except, they didn’t understand how much Ciel was just as much her Earl of Phantomhive.

All there was in polite society was Gwen, insisting she and Caroline come to his estate for tea. A meeting he was far from in the position to reject, out of respect to the current Duke of Norfolk. Ciel should have put a formal end to the slow beginnings of courtship he’d hinted to Caroline. At the time, he felt there was nothing to end, since nothing had really begun.

Had the Norfolk line not been in jeopardy, Ciel doubted Gwen would have continued to pursue him for Caroline with such insistence, especially after he announced his courtship of Y/n. Without a male heir, the duchy needed to secure its new duke by marrying Caroline to a suitable noble. The position had been attractive at the time, but now, Ciel hardly felt the appeal. Instead, he intended to tell Y/n that Gwen invited herself to the estate for tea after she forced him to share a cordial dance with her daughter, but Y/n fled the ballroom before he could.

“I could withstand it. And if I could not, you would see me through,” Ciel insisted, turning his gaze back down to the names on his newest list of names— a compilation of suspects with motivation to either kill company ballerina Maise Stannard or the wife of a plagiarizing artist with a legion of enemies. “Unless something changed in our contract within the last seven-some years?” Ciel prompted, scowling at the supernatural being.

The side of Sebastian’s mouth twitched. “Of course not,” he confirmed, “though I may not be able to shield you from the wrath of a woman scorned. Those dangers are entirely different from one another, you’ll come to understand.”

Such reflecting over his personal life was a painful waste of effort. He needed to prioritize his thoughts. Another person died, dammit.

The distinction between company ballerina Maisie and wife of conman Maisie was critical because it decided whether the serial killer was bold enough to kill in front of a high-end gala lined with security or if one of Stannard’s enemies was sending him a message.

Ciel’s eyebrows knit together, unsure if Sebastian was referring to Y/n or Caroline. He cared significantly more about the former. Though, it was only fair to note that Y/n never made her intentions clear enough to be shunned in the first place. She was enigmatic, and beautiful with a puzzling charm— Ciel would’ve had to be daft to ignore that about her. But that didn’t translate to wanting him beyond physical companionship… at least it hadn’t until she confronted him.

Though he couldn’t help but wonder: didn’t Y/n know better? Didn’t she understand that she was deserving of someone who could love unconditionally. In what world could he? Ciel couldn’t even promise never to lie to her.

All relationships and promises in Ciel’s life were conditional. He was a self-serving man—the remnants of the disturbed boy who returned to the land of the living seven years ago with a ravenous demon counting the days to the end of their contract. If Ciel couldn’t even promise to never lie to Y/n—how could she expect him to love her? Did she love him?

There was no loving him. Not without letting it destroy her life. They both knew that. And yet… he had already given into his passionate whims with her. He’d already decided to throw his reservations to the wind, the last of his resilience shattering like glass when she broke into sobs caused by him.

“I thought I was protecting her,” Ciel replied simply, taking a drink out of his hot tea. He welcomed the scorching burn as it traveled down his tongue. The warmth filled in his empty chest. ”I did not scorn her.”

It didn’t matter if she loved him, nor did it matter how he felt about her. The consequences of anything more than a partnership between them would be immeasurable no matter what, but he was more than equipped to handle them.

Could Ciel justify trapping a ballerina in a life where the rest of society would remind her that she was an outsider every day? Gwen and Caroline were the least destructive instance of the social persecution Y/n would face for climbing the social ladder so ambitiously as the rest of the world would see it.

When the world looked at Y/n, they didn’t see her natural aptitude for investigation, her intelligence. Her humor. They saw the misdeeds put upon her by forces much greater than herself. They saw the reckless apathy that was placed on all ballerinas, and assumed that it was their own fault.

No one would see the regard in Y/n that Ciel took so long to notice. They misread her. And they would never care to read her properly until it was too late.

Until she condemned them in a tearful diatribe across the street from the British Museum. That spirit was what convinced Ciel that she had the potential to feasibly manage. If such was the life she truly desired for herself.

“Go get another history on Maisie Stannard,” Ciel ordered Sebastian, wanting to be left alone again. He felt the demon attempting to dissect him, and it was suffocating. Sebastian hadn’t even deigned to reply, merely looking at him with unconcealed amusement. He liked watching Ciel wrestle with such foreign conflict, provoking him for sport to further insult the injury— there was nothing insightful he wished to add.

“Yes, my Lord.” After a disingenuous bow, the demon was gone.

November 11, 1895, The Next Morning

Y/n’s Rehearsal Studio

“No,” Y/n’s irritated voice snapped the moment Ciel opened the door of his own estate’s practice room and let himself inside.

Rehearsal studio, rather.

He released a sigh that he’d been holding from the moment Mey-Rin told him that Y/n would be absent from their breakfast table. He knew she would make a childish effort to avoid him, but in all honesty, he lacked the time and the patience to entertain it.

Y/n sat in the middle of the room in a nude leotard, her legs fanned open on either side of her. Her back was straight and elongated, forming a perfect line with her neck. It looked effortless. All of her movements looked light and easy, despite the rage that her pursed lips and creased forehead displayed.

She didn’t need to turn around to look at him. Instead, she ignored his image in the floor-to-ceiling mirror’s reflection in front of them. Ciel had to read her expression from the glass, since she purposely kept her back to him.

Ciel caught the variety of materials sitting between her spread legs, several pairs of newly broken in pointe shoes in a row, scissors, adhesive, and a needle and yarn for sewing. They were the same items Y/n used to break in and darn new pairs of pointe shoes for balance and comfort. Ciel knew this routine well— it cost him hundreds of pounds a week to purchase Y/n five or six new pairs weekly.

“Y/n, we have much to discuss. Skipping meals with me will not put an end to the investigation… nor our personal differences,” Ciel told her, carefully stepping closer with the caution a soldier would in a minefield. He supposed a rehearsal studio was just that for Y/n: a battleground.

“All I wanted was a few hours away from you and your investigation. You cannot even give me that?” Y/n corrected coldly, giving the shoe in her hand a hearty smack against the expensive flooring to further break it in. Apparently, all ballerinas had to make their own custom alteration rituals to break in their shoes the exact way they needed it. Y/n liked to eviscerate her shoes’ insoles and shave down the bottoms, stretch the shoe, repair it with adhesive, and darn the flat bit of it.

His investigation? So now it was only his?

“It is not a crime for a ballerina to break in her shoes—I hardly have time as it is, and Nutcracker opens next week,” she continued, still refusing to look at him. She seemed satisfied with the amount of pressure she put on the shoe and squeezed adhesive into its stretched interior.

Of course she wouldn’t look at him. Ciel embarrassed her because he let his preconceived notions about her professions blind him to the extent of her feelings. Ballerinas like Y/n were not inherently promiscuous, and he, despite having one functioning eye, missed that she felt more for him than lust. In what world does a principal dancer fall for a jaded Earl, anyhow?

And he was somehow even more blindsided by his own intricate feelings for her. It was most likely too late. And that was for the best, wasn’t it? It was supposed to be, but the guilty discomfort that sat in his stomach insisted otherwise. It was simply too late.

“The last time I checked, a certain prima ballerina always insisted it was our investigation,” Ciel replied, watching Y/n’s eyes roll in response.

“Clearly, she did not know what she was talking about,” Y/n put her sewing materials and pointe shoes to the side once she was satisfied with the layers of adhesive applied. She continued facing the mirror, spreading into a center split and pushing her torso to the floor in a deep stretch. “Being wrong about so many things makes a person a true lavette, no?” Her stretching position muffled her voice somewhat, but the vitriol was clear to him.

She was comparing her intellect to a dish towel? Honestly? Ciel fought the urge to reflect the prima ballerina’s scornful eye roll to her.

After all, she purposefully referencing both their investigation and their personal matters— enough to show Ciel that there was little to be achieved with the stubborn ballerina at that time. The blows were too fresh.

“What is there for us to discuss, anyhow? That guest list will take ages to sift through, and Sebastian’s interview notes…” Y/n rolled her shoulders back and sat back up only to inhale and bring her torso back to the floor. Her arms stretched in front of her, showing off the sculpted muscle she forged through dance.

Her leotard clung to the trained muscles down her back and arms, causing Ciel’s mouth to run dry as he adjusted his trousers. (Unintentionally recalling her body’s warmth and strength under his fingertips did little to help.)

That realization caused Ciel to moisten his lips, quietly thankful that Y/n was pointedly averting her gaze from him. She would’ve caught and translated that pensive— scandalous — look in seconds, and rightfully called him out for it.

“I want to visit William today,” Ciel managed, barely maintaining his stable tone in the face of his straying thoughts. “The Yard said the bullet found in Maisie was consistent with his Winchester collection. And I still dislike that the Southampton house is William’s only unstaffed possession.” It was all too convenient. Too connected— down to the murders matching the company’s rehearsal schedule.

Even the gala was on a Nutcracker rehearsal evening: a night where it was guaranteed Natasha Wood had her hands full and the company was half alive after such a rigorous day.

“That sounds like the perfect plan, Lord Phantomhive,” Y/n answered bitterly, extending an arm over her head while she leaned to the side. She still had her legs parted in a center split.

Lord Phantomhive was a gut punch. It took all of his composure to hide his crawling discomfort. That had to be the first time he recoiled from the weight of his surname.

To her, he was Ciel. She had seen to it— demanded it, even.

“You can handle that on your own. He will not talk with me there, surely,” she added, her bored tone causing his fingers to curl into a frustrated fist at his side. Finally catching her stare, he noticed that her eyes were bleary as if she had been crying. Even her lips seemed bitten.

Ciel had to ignore the striking urge in his body that begged him to kiss her. Now that he knew her prowess, the way she moved her lips with the same elegance she did the rest of her body, it made her allure all the more intense. So much so that they forced Ciel to skip several heavy seconds before replying to her poor excuse for not wanting to be in the same room with him. He had been occupied with admiring her.

“I would prefer—” he started to object, only for Y/n to interrupt.

“Please see yourself out. I must rehearse, I am running on borrowed time as it is. The last Swan Lake showing is tonight,” Y/n said expectantly, assuming Ciel didn’t know her performance schedule. He merely happened to have committed it to memory.

Y/n rose to her feet. She was already wearing an older pair of pointe shoes, suggesting that she had been practicing before deciding to break in new shoes.

Having risen from the center of the floor, she took graceful steps closer to the mirror, fully turning her back to him as she put herself in the starting position for the Sugar Plum Fairy Variation. After putting in hours of labor as her unpaid pianist, Ciel could recognize those soft, exaggerated steps anywhere.

His stomach only twisted into a tighter knot, offended that Y/n would prefer to rehearse in complete silence than in his piano playing. After all, she once told him that she couldn’t keep time without it.

In unexpected surrender, Ciel closed the door behind him, softly letting the knob click back into place.

It was simply too late.

The Same Day, Hours Later

Scotland Yard’s London Headquarters

Even for a man living in a holding cell, William Wood did not look well. His facial hair, what was formerly a tasteful goatee, was now untamed and slightly overgrown. Deep exhaustion carved bags under his eyes. His sudden fall from grace seemed to age him years, even though it was only a week or two since Ciel made the arrest.

“They told me you’d be coming to see me today,” William grunted, dressed in plain clothes. He wasn’t formally charged yet, but Ciel and the Yard agreed that the threat of allowing an arrested serial killer to remain free before his sentencing was too great to risk. Ciel also needed easy access to William in the event they were wrong.

The criminal’s gray eyes attempted to bore into Ciel’s soul, but really, they were tired. Unfocused. Desperate. He reminded him of a cornered tiger— too proud to submit, but too exhausted to finish the fight.

“Yes… I have questions that demand answers. From you.” Ciel answered carefully. He exchanged a look with the officers guarding the door, silently urging them to clear their throats and seeing themselves out, guarding from the outside of the room. William’s holding cell sat in an isolated room from the rest of the headquarters. The basement was fortified with cement, making the area drafty and dark.

He wouldn’t reveal the news that there was another murdered ballerina, but there were other means to extract the information the situation required.

A condescending smirk twitched at William’s lips, unsurprised. “And you expect me to talk? To you?” He asked, his jubilant tone dripping with malice. “You’ve ruined my life, my wife’s…our livelihood.”

“No one forced you to cheat on your wife. Or assault defenseless young women. Or murder them in cold blood,” Ciel snapped, raising his tone. Natasha, from what Y/n said, was running the entirety of the company without William in the first place. She didn’t need him— he was a pathetic excuse for an heir to a business. That had to be clearer to her than anyone.

Only now, he made her work infinitely more complicated. Especially since the body of Maisie Stannard was plastered all over the front pages of most newspapers that morning, each depicting the mysterious murder that occurred near one of the side entrances of The British Museum.

“You don’t talk about my wife to me,” William’s fingers curled into fists at his sides as he took a step closer to the cell’s bars that separated them. His complexion was shades lighter. “I never killed anyone, either,” he was sure to remind Ciel.

“You will answer my questions, one way or another. How much of your blood gets spilled depends entirely on you, William,” Ciel replied, appreciating the cell wall that separated them. One of them was vulnerable, and it was certainly not him. It would never be.

The Earl pressed the nose of his Nanget Revolver into William’s hip, sliding the nose of the weapon between the bars. He smiled at the defeat that fought the stubborn ferocity in William’s colorless irises, placidly putting the weapon back into his jacket pocket just as smoothly as he’d taken it out.

“Do we have an understanding here?” Ciel asked impatiently. “I am only interested in the truth.”

It was exhilarating to watch the desperate fire extinguish in William’s face, the fighting militance in his shoulders dissipate. His fists unfurled as he sighed, coming to terms with his defeat. He was just smart enough to understand that concept— a lesson Ciel and Y/n fought hard to teach him.

“It’s not like I have a choice,” the former businessman crossed his arms, ignoring the weapon that Ciel threatened him with.

“Your Southampton house,” Ciel started, “why is it unstaffed? When was the last time you were there, before you instructed Y/n Y/l/n to meet you there?”

“I told Natasha I sold it, but it’s been my family’s for generations. I used the place for… meetings I didn’t want her to know about,” William sighed, choosing his words cautiously. “That time with…Y/n… was the first time I’ve been there since my trip to France. So I haven’t been since the end of September. Do I get to know why you’re asking?” He asked sarcastically.

The last time Janet was seen was September 27th.

“When did you leave, William?” Ciel asked with a newfound sense of urgency overriding his frustrations with the man. His mouth was dry, his heartbeat picking up. “Do you know the exact day you departed?”

William shrugged, either not noticing Ciel’s pique or not caring. “September 28th, probably? Early morning.”

Is that enough time to murder a woman— she was projected to have died late that night — hide the murder weapon in Southampton, and return to the London ports by dawn to leave the country? It wasn’t.

”Did anyone have access to your property? Anyone?”

“No one should have. I only… asked my wife to dispose of hers, after I told her I sold the property,” William frowned. It seemed it was only dawning on the careless man that his wife might have lied to him, curious as to the lack of official documentation from the sale, any shift in finances, given the major role in managing their company, according to Y/n.

“She wouldn’t… think I still use the property…” he mumbled the afterthought slowly with disbelief.

The more Ciel asked of William, the more of him and Natasha he understood. They fell in love because she transferred from a ballet school in Russia and starred in a company production of Sleeping Beauty. William was still learning how to run the company, one of the investments out of a larger corporation, but he fell in love with Natasha, the prima ballerina, at the time.

Natasha overworked herself in the role, causing a hip injury to end her professional career only a year into it. And that was two years ago. Now she was the company’s director—nothing like the inspired dancer she once was, William insisted.

He lost sight of his love for the young ingenue because the injury killed her. What was left was a completely different woman. Tired, bitter, frustrated from what she lost...only for her marriage to slowly decline the more she lost herself.

Opportunity, motive…was there a means? It was now of the utmost importance that Ciel found the answer to that question. No matter how Y/n would feel about his investigating Natasha, her mentor. Ciel trusted his instinct—the tugging in the pit of his stomach. The alarm that he felt.

How could he not have seen it sooner? He needed to leave. He needed to stop her before she left for her performance.

It took a frenzied carriage ride through the crowded London streets, but Sebastian’s demonic carriage driving managed to put Ciel in front of his manor just as Y/n was leaving for the opera house. He was always chasing after her, it seemed, but he didn’t care.

For her, he would. She would, for him. Or before he broke her heart, she might have. He was too late, in that regard, but he could stop her here and now.

“Y/n, stop, this is important!” Ciel stumbled out of his carriage, having stepped out of it before Sebastian could stop entirely. He had to intercept her.

The ballerina scoffed at the nerve of him, begging her to stop in her tracks and hear him out for the second instance in a row. At the same time, Ciel demanded that Finny keep Y/n’s carriage stationery for the moment through a brief look, causing his gardener’s superhuman grip to tighten on the horses’ reins. He gave Ciel a resolute nod, his jaw firm.

“What? Is this chasing a daily occurrence?” Y/n quipped bitterly, just as Ciel expected her to. “You have never cared to attend one of my performances before,” she accused, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. Her hand fell still on the carriage door’s handle, frowning at him.

“I have reason to suspect that Natasha is—“ he started gravely, pronouncing his words carefully. He knew what Y/n would say, but he could only prove this theory with her help. If Ciel was right, one misstep could make them the adversaries of one incredibly violent, envious, and dangerous criminal who played the role of a wistful, wise mentor. And played it well.

Immediately, Y/n’s face reddened, defensive. “Stop,” she insisted, her voice hoarse. She turned the handle on the carriage door, causing Ciel to reach out and grab it himself, his hand engulfing hers.

He needed her to approach this logically.

Y/n’s face jerked to look at him, her hand attempting to move with the same speed, but Ciel’s grip kept hers stagnant. She gave their hands a long, hard look.

“You have no idea what Natasha has done for so many of us, how little I would have without her. She would never do this to any of us,” Y/n’s voice wavered.

And what has she done for you? She allows men to abuse you. She encourages you to skip nourishment to maintain some shallow aesthetic. She hasn’t reported any of these missing cases to any of you—

“—She does not know about them!” Y/n interrupted, wide eyed, tears threatening to fall. He had said that out loud. “I would not have this opportunity without her. I have known her for years. You, I have known for? A month? You care about me as much as she does? At all?”

“I care about you more than you know, Y/n,” Ciel replied, trying to keep his voice measured, in spite of his pounding heart. He could feel his pulse racing.

“You do not.”

“I do.”

“Then you show it by dancing with another woman in front of me? By inviting her to your home where I live as a guest the night after we were intimate?” Y/n asked, tears rolling down her cheeks. Ciel’s stomach sank. That was what had caused her outburst at the party: Gwen had lied to her. He didn’t invite the duchess; the duchess had invited herself.

His crime was failing to properly refuse her at the gala. Ciel intended to send his regrets the following day by insisting he had an overseas meeting.

“I did not invite the duchess and her daughter. Gwen seems to have lied to you,” he said, the force behind his words extinguishing. “I realized… that… I don’t want my marriage to be a business venture. I don’t want Caroline to be my Countess—I’ve hardly ever spoken to her! I would want…” he let his next word hang in the air. It filled the few centimeters that separated them.

You.

“I need to leave now or I will be late,” Y/n’s free hand wiped away another tear that escaped her tired eyes. “This is my last Swan Lake performance, Ciel. Please.”

She didn’t believe him. And he didn’t blame her. He had warned her about himself a long time ago.

Every instinct in Ciel refused, but he released the hand that he held stagnant on the carriage door handle. “Fine. You may,” he sighed, exchanging the same look with Finny. Y/n opened the carriage and sat inside, closing the door in his face. Again.

“Sebastian, this is an order. You will protect her as you would myself. Now go. Stay out of sight unless the situation demands it.”

In the meantime, Ciel could escort himself to the performance. He had a chance. No way in hell would he let himself squander it.

The Same Evening

The Royal Opera House

For the entirety of his life, Ciel was a keen observer. He could see through a liar’s carefully constructed facade by a glance, the bravado and charismatic grace that Y/n enlisted to maintain her confidence. The Phantomhive empire was as prosperous as it was because of his ability to read and interpret those around him… and manipulate them accordingly.

Now, all of his expert focus fell on the prima ballerina, just as blazing and intense as the spotlight that illuminated her.

Until this point, Ciel avoided attending Y/n’s performances because they knew they were spellbinding. He was more than aware of her talents—even watching her mumble through her moves as she rehearsed was enchanting. He had pointedly refused to allow himself the indulgence necessary to freely watch the woman act in front of an audience, encapsulating a character through mood and movement when he had grown so accustomed to admiring her individualism.

Rather than tell her so, he’d only insinuated that he was too occupied to attend these performances, despite her frequent invitations. Selfishly, he used to prefer her subdued look of disappointment than run the risk of her noticing the way he fell for her. Without meaning to. In fact, while actively trying not to.

Her raw pain was clear as she depicted Odette grieving the prince’s betrayal, having fallen for Odile’s impersonation of her. It wasn’t unlike her face moments before she stepped in the carriage in order to fulfill this very performance, or even her expression in the studio, or in front of the museum the night before. She channeled her hurt into her work—just as he did. She evolved with each step, every twist, in spite of him. Because of everything he put her through.

The bouquet in his tightening grip crinkled, the decorative paper around it crumbling from the frustration he let out on it. Ciel could hardly hear it over the orchestra in the pit, the assortment of musicians and their quality instruments masterfully recreating Tchaikovsky. But that wasn’t the most impressive aspect of the show— that recognition belonged to Y/n entirely.

He had to correct this gnawing worry in his stomach. The feeling that he was, once again, on the brink of being too late.

The moment the curtain drew after the company’s final bows, Ciel sprang from his seat.

He wouldn’t be too late. At the very least, he owed Y/n that.