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lordisitmine · 5 months

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TTNBD BLOG PART FIVE

Covers chapters five and six of Though the Night Be Dark

These two chapters were originally supposed to be one, but I split them so I could keep the posting going faster and because the scenes shook out into two neater separate sections. But I’m doing the commentary together because my brain still has them linked.

CHAPTER FIVE: HOMECOMING

Back at it again with the Abberline POV. I started using his perspective for situational observations in TTEOE and got a little addicted to it tbh… I love a good outsider POV. Something about a character who has no idea the true gravity of the situation seeing bits and pieces of the main character’s story- delicious.

Nice day for a funeral. I’ve actually never been to a funeral in the wintertime, but Abberline’s observations about death seeming more natural during the colder months are in line with my own thoughts. When the earth is slumbering, and the trees are feigning death until spring, death itself seems less absurd, if not any less saddening.

I had a ball writing Francis Midford in this scene. As we know, she’s usually very calm, bordering on cold- a level-headed somewhat stern woman who isn’t at all prone to wild displays of emotion. However, all bets are off when one has lost a child. They say it’s the worst kind of grief a person can experience. I think that warrants an outburst or two.

Of course, it’s not Abberline’s fault, what happened to Edward- and Francis knows that too- but anger is natural, of course, and I just like a good shocking slap across the face moment. Too bad it was at Abberline’s expense. He blames himself, even though he shouldn’t, and Francis’s whole freak-out certainly hasn’t helped. Thankfully, Lizzy is much more reasonable. Probably because she knows a little bit more about the situation than her mother does, though she’s not ready to share that information with anyone just yet- except maybe Sybil.

Poor Abberline will have to remain in the dark for a little while longer, it seems.

Back to the boys- coming ‘home’. It’s not really home anymore. I don’t think Ciel ever had a home, at least not one that was a place. He thinks it himself- that Sebastian is more of a home to him than anyone or anywhere or anything else. They’re two halves of a whole.

Sebastian reverting back to butler mode and taking care of everything when he can sense that Ciel is uncomfortable or overwhelmed has been checked off the sebaciel bingo- I have a running mental list of tropes and lines that I want to write for them, and this was one of them.

I’ve read some really great fics where their dynamic is so much more hostile and yet equally as romantic- I might try my hand at it some day. I know the way I write Sebastian and Ciel may seem out of character to some, but I really can’t stop, and I won’t apologise for it! I trust my gut and if I can hear the words in the character’s voice, I’ll write them. I can’t resist the idea that Sebastian is only really capable of genuine love and tenderness when it comes to Ciel and no one else 🥹

Time for my favourite scene in this chapter! It’s Benjamin the paper boy! Have you ever seen Newsies? The Disney musical about newsboys in 1890’s New York? You should, it’s a cute little story about kids unionizing to fight the corporate man and get better pay for their work *insert long rambling talk about socialism and how I love it so much*. ANYWAY, I needed a minor character for plot reasons, and a newsboy seemed like a perfect fit. And it gave me an excuse to write Sebastian and Ciel interacting with a kid, which I love, for some reason.

(source)

I had to learn about how money worked in Victorian England. Well, I didn’t have to, I could have just bullshitted the few lines about them bribing the kid, but I wanted to have a tangible sense of how much money was actually worth and how the pound breaks down into shillings, sovereigns and guineas etc. I hope all the values work out and make sense because Holy Shit is this the most insane way to break down money. It hurt my head just thinking about it. Not to sound American (I’m not even American) but I’ll stick the good old 21st century 100 cent dollar, thank you very much 🤣

More cutesy stuff in the hotel- I’m writing this in April, four months after the chapter was written, and reading it back for the first time in quite a while is fun. I was giggling at my own writing lol. I love these two so much. It’s a problem.

Poor Lizzy!!! Thinking Ciel died for nothing when he didn’t actually die at all. Imagine basing your entire grieving process on a lie. Oof. It’s gonna be one Hell of a shock for her when she finds out she’s spent the last four years operating on false assumptions.

Thankfully, she has Sybil, who has some secrets and false assumptions of her own.

And last but not least, the meeting of the Evil Dudes. These scenes are so hard to write because I don’t want to describe characters too vividly or put names to any of them, it’s like building a model plane or something, you have to be very intentional and delicate about what pieces (words) you use and where you put them. All of writing is like that, to an extent, except for those moments when it flows super smoothly, but even then you have to be deliberate with your editing. Writing is hard work! I love it so much, though.

CHAPTER SIX: DESPERATE TIMES

Let’s talk briefly about Frederick Abberline!

A portrait of Frederick Abberline, 1885. (Wikipedia)

Fredderick Abberline, as you may or may not have known, was a real historical figure! He was born in 1843, which would make him about fifty-seven at the time of TTNBD. That’s not how I picture him at all, of course, because in the Kuroshitsuji anime he’s depicted as a much younger man than he would have been at the time, as he often is in film and television shows.

I choose to keep a slightly aged version of the anime Abberline in mind when writing, but I like to think of him as having some variation of the facial hair that he does in the picture above- such an undeniably Victorian mustache. And I think with his promotion he wouldn’t want people to think of him as being so young, and he has such a little boy face without it 😌😆

Abberline is of course most famous for his work as the lead detective on the Jack the Ripper case, which is why he’s usually featured as a character in television shows/movies about the Ripper. Though the Ripper was never caught, Abberline was known to have many theories in his time on the case, including the idea that the killer might actually be a woman. *side-eyes Madame Red* 👀

The real Fredderick Abberline was married twice in his lifetime- he married his first wife, Martha Mackness, in March of 1868, though she died of tuberculosis two months after the wedding. Then, in 1876, he married Emma Beament. They were married for over fifty years until his death in 1929 at age 86. Emma died three months after he did, and was buried with him at Wimborne Road Cemetery, in Bournemouth, England. They never had any children.

His grave is marked by a headstone erected in 2007, and I think it’d be neat to visit his grave some day, if I ever get the chance to go to the United Kingdom (it’s at the top of my list of places I want to go).

I’ve referenced Abberline’s personal life a couple of times- he mentioned Emma in his diary entry back in chapter one, and it’s walked about how he likes to spend mornings with her on the weekend. Obviously, not much is known about the details of the real man’s personal relationships, but I like to think he and his wife loved each other very much, because there’s no evidence to the contrary and it hurts no one for me to believe that. Abberline works hard and he’s a good guy, he deserves happiness.

Quite rude, then, for someone to make him get up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday to solve a murder. Even worse, Alois and Claude are here! So we get some more wonderful outsider observations from Abberline, and he of course can’t help but compare their dynamic to Ciel and Sebastian’s, which means I get to vicariously get to wax poetic about my thoughts on the matter.

Meanwhile, Sebastian and Ciel are perched on a rooftop, quite literally eavesdropping. Imagine their surprise when a young lord shows up- with his demon butler in tow.

Ciel: That bitch stole our look!

Sebastian: We wore it better.

😂😆

Unfortunately, Ciel decided he was going to follow Claude and Alois around- but he isn’t as good at staying hidden as Sebastian is- he doesn’t have the experience, and I personally think he doesn’t have the same affinity with the shadows that Sebastian does- so Claude catches his scent rather quickly.

And Claude is a thirsty hoe. It makes my skin crawl, writing the things he thinks about Ciel. But that will make his inevitable demise all the more satisfying, I hope. I took his obsession with Ciel straight from the anime and just cranked it up to ten. I don’t know if everyone reading this story has seen season two- I know a lot of people don’t like the liberties it took with canon. Alois and Claude are characters completely made for the anime, and I think that makes them perfect to muck around with. There’s so much less established canon for them, I can just chop and screw and remix it however I want. It’s a fic writer’s dream.

After finishing To the End of Everything, and describing Ciel’s grave, I realised that as a member of the nobility, it’s more likely he would have been buried in a mausoleum, a stone building with niches in the walls for the caskets of the dead, where members of one family are interred. But I had the idea for Ciel’s tombstone and the engraving on it from the time I first decided to write TTEOE, so I wouldn’t change it even if I could.

And maybe an in-universe reason for it was that Ciel had decided to do things differently, maybe putting in his will for him to be buried like that was a final act of rebellion. And in the end, there was no body there anyway. Humans and they death rituals, putting markers on empty graves. I find it fascinating.

Changing topics: one thing that I hade to get used to was Sebastian calling Ciel by his first name. you’ll notice he doesn’t do it super often. He can’t call Ciel my lord or sir anymore. I mean he could, but that would be worse in my mind. He’s not really Ciel’s servant anymore. But I have Sebastian use Ciel’s name sparingly. Partially because it still feels a little weird and because I find it WAY more likely that Sebastian would be hitting Ciel with the terms of endearment, which you’ll notice I have him to constantly. A: because he loves Ciel and is stupid about it and B: because even though Ciel is used to it, and even likes it, it probably does still annoy him Just A Little, and that’s also too tempting for Sebastian to pass up.

Sebastian is no stranger to committing crimes in service of Ciel’s investigations- now he’s going around stealing records from the government, which is probably the least of his illegal actions. The Public Record Office is a real place, and in 1900 it was indeed located in Chancery Lane, in London. It was established in 1838 to house and catalogue all kinds of court/government archives, documents, things like that. I don’t think it had any archive specifically for newspapers, but let’s just all collectively pretend it did.

“I can’t believe I married a criminal” will forever be one of my favourite lines to ever have written. Ciel’s romantic side is very suppressed, but it’s there, so the times when I get to make him verbally reference Sebastian as his lover, husband, mate- those are particularly sweet to me. Even if he does immediately follow up by calling Sebastian a dog and a scoundrel, which, to be fair, are also accurate things to call him.

Writing a sex scene is the most intensive part of the craft for me. The thing I spoke about earlier, about being surgical and methodical in word choice and grammar- that’s dialled up to eleven when I’m writing a sex scene. So sometimes I fade to black. Although, that can be nice too- leaving things to the imagination. Also, it means I have the option to come back some day and write them out huehuehue 😏😌😉

I have never attended a séance. I was raised in a rather conservative Christian household (and look at me now) and I was always taught never to mess with that stuff, that it might invite evil into one’s life. Due to personal experiences among other things, I still have a belief in the spiritual aspect of existence- maybe not demons and ghosts per se (though I do have stories of ghost encounters in my past), but that there is such a thing as the soul, and life beyond death, and forces beyond what we humans can fully comprehend or control.

Though I’ve left behind almost all the beliefs I was raised with, at least one remains: I don’t fuck with séances or Ouija boards or anything that could accidentally bring something bad into my space. You would never catch me in a horror movie scenario, is what I’m saying 😆

However, the realm of fiction is fair game. Especially for the sake of the narrative.

Séances in film always seem to be done slightly differently- usually there’s a table, and a candle or something- I kind of just set up my own scenario.

Someone asked me why Lizzy and Sybil didn’t just try to summon Edward’s spirit right away- to be completely honest, it’s mostly because it didn’t occur to me 😅. But I also think that Lizzy wasn’t ready to confront whatever truths he might have to tell her- or that the grief was still so fresh, she wouldn’t have been able to bear seeing him- or not seeing him, if it hadn’t have worked for whatever reason.

Instead, I chose to tug on a different heartstring entirely and chose to have them summon Tanaka. Tanaka is beyond old, and I think after Ciel died and the manor burnt down, he finally allowed himself to put down the burden of being a steward to the house of Phantomhive. He deserved a rest. I think his death would have been painless- he probably went in his sleep. The Midfords would have taken good care of him.

And of course, he would be against what Lizzy is doing. Not angry with her, but worried- he would want her to move on, to put everything behind her and live a normal, happy life. But she doesn’t really have a choice at this juncture- desperate times and desperate measures and all that. I knew from the beginning that Tanaka wasn’t going to be alive in this story, but I still wanted to give him a cameo, however bittersweet it may have been.

I do hope the séance scene was sufficiently eerie- I don’t really write horror, or anything that’s meant to be all that scary, but I did try to give this scene a little bit of a spook factor. One of the ways I try to do that is by limiting descriptions of things until the moment after they happen, and

Paragraph

Breaks

As a way to control the pace and rhythm of the scene. Prose is like a rollercoaster, or a run on a treadmill. You must have moments when your heart rate spikes and in between periods to cool off. I try to do that- I’m not sure how well I always achieve it, but that’s the idea.

One of my favourite things I like reading in readers’ comments are the reactions to the revelation of new information, i.e. that Sybil’s mother was a witch. The burden of being the writer is knowing things ahead of time, and not getting to discover them at the same moment your audience does. Coming up with the idea and executing it is its own reward, but sometimes I wish I could read my own writing like it was something I’d never seen before. That would be so cool. So know that as a reader, the best thing you can do is comment your reactions on stuff because it’s the closest that authors can come to that feeling!

Lizzy and Sybil trying to summon Ciel and not being able to because he isn’t dead was another idea I had right from the inception of this story. Since Ciel is a demon, however, and is therefore connected somehow to hell, or the afterlife, or the supernatural world in general, I imagine the séance would have some sort of pull on him, which is why the interjection of him waking up in bed feeling like someone was calling his name.

Lizzy and Sybil complete each other- they have the idea of summoning Sebastian at the same moment, and even if they hadn’t, one of them will always end up enabling the other. Heaven help anyone who gets in their way, they just won’t be stopped 😆 😆 Even if it does eventually get them in over their heads. But that’s another chapter for another blog.

See you next time!

#ttnbd #fanfiction #commentary #black butler #kuroshitsuji #sebaciel #about writing #lord speaks

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edenityy · 3 months

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Noblewoman

Things to Know

It is a Ciel Phantomhive x Fem! OC.

Edward Midford and Finnian are secondary ships.

It is a retelling of the manga and includes heavy spoilers! I wouldn't advise reading it if you haven't read the manga.

AO3 gets better author notes, meaning I probably won't write many here. If you'd like to see them head on over to AO3! I also suggest reading on AO3 because my typical formatting won't cooperate with me here and I think Tumblr makes it ugly + I don't know how to make things aesthetic. It won’t let me center text. I’m not dealing with it. Sorry if you don’t like that but I have genuine beef with this app.

I try to post once a week! This fic is not pre written. If there are weeks where I don't post, that means I am low on motivation and I kindly ask you to be patient! Please don't pester me for updates as it will only irritate me, it won't compel me to work. The days I post are randomized. I also find Tumblr beyond irritating and tedious so that may delay my updates on this platform.

My AO3 tags are: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage, Ciel Phantomhive/Original Female Character, Edward Midford/Original Female Character, Finnian (Kuroshitsuji)/Original Female Character, Aged-Up Characters, Arranged Marriage, Marriage of Convenience, Canon Compliant, Teenage Ciel Phantomhive, Kuroshitsuji Spoilers, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Eating Disorders, Canon-Typical Violence, Mild Gore, Eventual Smut, Pregnancy, Established Relationship, 19th Century, Misogyny, Period Typical Attitudes, Romance, Humor, Background Relationships, Engagement, Canon - Manga, Fluff, Angst, Friendship/ Love, Slow Burn

Please beware of these if there is something you do not like.

I often replace/take Elizabeth out of the story, but I do not demonize her. This may not be the fic for you if you like her a lot.

There are numerous of my original characters, approximately seven that are more prominent. You will find out more about them as you read.

Grell when being referred to by other characters will typically be referred to as a man. However, when I am describing actions, Grell is referred to as a woman.

Thank you for reading!

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scribbleseas · 2 years

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The Indignant Pawn, Chapter XIII: The Land of the Living

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault (once in the prologue), objectification, misogyny, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: some kissing (I mean, there is a wedding), religious mentions

Author’s Note: I’m not sure how but I wrote this in two sittings. My hands hurt! Also, in my take on Black Butler, Tanaka plays the cello. Sue me. And one more thing, this is one of my favorite chapters I’ve written for this fic. Hang onto your hats, folks.

Happy Reading!

- Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇢

MASTERLIST

. . .

APRIL 1ST, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

“Thank you, Nadia. This length should do just fine,” you said, turning in front of the long mirror before you to observe the dress’s hem. As you preferred, it reached the floor without dragging like a train.

Your gown for the ceremony was light green, a delicate shade of sage matching the ceremonial decorations you would have to wear to represent the monarchy. The dress had layered tulle tied off and sewn down the front of the bodice, flaring out in ruffles down the petticoat. The bracelet sleeves ended a little above your wrists, sufficiently covering your scar.

“You are simply breathtaking, Your Highness. I almost pity the bride,” Nadia said, referring to the traditional idea that no woman should upstage the bride on her wedding day. You made no attempt to. From your perspective, Cornelia and Lord Edward’s wedding was near meaningless. All you cared about was using the night of distraction to attempt to carry out your mission.

“I wouldn’t say that,” you disagreed, frowning at the freshly polished tiara on your vanity. Sebastian took the liberty of cleaning the Honeysuckle & Scroll tiara sent by Queen Victoria, along with the rest of Marie’s ceremonial decorations from Germany. Surprisingly, Maire’s handmaidens didn’t send those valuables with their rightful owner. Instead, they stayed safe in Germany until Victoria requested they be sent to the Phantomhive estate.

The Queen expressed considerable worry in their accompanying letter, but her love for the Midford family was victorious over any consternation. After all, Alexis Leon Midford, the groom’s father, was her Head of the Garter, and his mother was a beloved Phantomhive. She approved of her granddaughter overseeing the festivities in her stead. If only she knew which German granddaughter that was, exactly.

Before Nadia could argue, there was a stiff knock at your bedroom door.

“Your Highness, my master humbly requests your assistance,” Sebastian asked tactfully in German, so Nadia wouldn’t understand the infallible Lord Phantomhive needed help.

You rolled your eyes, answering in English. “I am in the midst of my dress fitting. How urgent is the problem at hand?”

“Quite pressing, Your Highness,” he said, as unctuous as ever. If you opened the door, you would surely see the butler’s dark eyes narrowing from how difficult you were. “It is preferable if you attend to him in the front room in your wedding number.”

“Is he not in tutoring with you at this time?”

“He begs of you, Your Highness.”

“What could the Earl need from me in full formal dress?” You asked incredulously, stepping off the small podium Nadia brought from the shop. You gestured for Nadia to follow you as you moved to the door, swinging it open to reveal the lanky butler. He wore the same glasses he always did when he held lessons for Lord Phantomhive.

“It’s a matter of…social etiquette,” Sebastian answered carefully.

You understood his strategic word choice when you met the Earl in the front room at the bottom of the main staircase. A frazzled Mey-Rin used the wall to help remain upright, making a dramatic show of being dizzy. Sebastian’s violin sat on one of the side tables next to Tanaka, who sat with his cello between his legs. A metronome clicked methodically.

Mortification flashed on the Earl’s face, causing him to redden to the tips of his ears. “Sebastian, I told you not to bother Her Highness with such a meaningless waste of time,” he cringed at his words, his fists clenching and unclenching.

“No, thank goodness, you’re here, ma’am! I never learned to dance like this! I’m just a maid!” Mey-Rin surged back to life upon your entrance. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, master; yes, I am!” She exclaimed, hastily bowing to Lord Phantomhive and you before scampering out of the main room. She took the narrow hall that led to the servants’ quarters, likely in search of her co-workers for comfort.

“Wait, Mey-Rin!” Phantomhive protested, but she was too far to hear.

“So…this urgent and pressing matter is Lord Phantomhive’s mediocre dancing technique?” You surmised, equal parts amused and terrified. Even when you were undergoing daily dance lessons, your skills were passable at best. Marie was the dancer. On top of that, your last class had to be nearly a decade ago.

Due to their uselessness, those particular granules of knowledge sank to the back of your mind, like phantom limbs or atrophied muscles.

“Quite. The wedding is tomorrow, and my Lord has been too stubborn to hire a tutor,” Sebastian sent a pointed look at the Earl, who looked as if he would pull out his pistol and shoot that very moment. “I know royals receive extensive training in these areas. I was hoping you might have something to teach him.”

“My dancing is perfectly adequate!” Lord Phantomhive protested.

“Your Highness?” Sebastian prompted, and despite your best intuition, you took measured steps toward the indignant nobleman. You felt like your actions were determined for you like there was a puppeteer manipulating strings tied around your limbs.

“All right,” you surrendered, standing directly before Lord Phantomhive. You ignored the irksome discomfort of several pairs of eyes on you. “We’ll start with the Viennese Waltz. Bow and ask for my hand,” you dared the Earl to defy you. If Sebastian was forcing you to help, he would listen.

“Your Highness,” Lord Phantomhive cleared his throat, “shall I have the honor of dancing this set with you?”

“Yes, you may,” you said, lowering yourself into a shallow curtsey while he bowed. You were in perfect sync, sinking and rising together.

Lord Phantomhive gave you a final questioning look before hesitantly taking your right hand in his and putting his left hand under your shoulder blade.

This was the hard part. You called on your lessons from Governess Lydia as a child, although you barely listened to those at the time, either.

“Start with the box, Helena-Victoria. Step back, together, right, together, forward, together, left, together. Repeat. It’s a circle. Think of a race track,” Lydia said sternly.

Duly, you heard Sebastian calling out the rhythm along with the metronome. But for the first time, you purposely listened to Lydia.

“We do side whisks to keep from getting lightheaded. Right foot, left foot behind the right, repeat. Fix your posture and stop staring at the floor. You are a princess; you stand up straight and never bow your head to anyone.”

The Lydia in your head was much kinder than the Lydia you knew.

“Four natural turns, four side whisks, and repeat. You are not a fool. Think it through, and it will come naturally. What did I tell you about your posture? Can you follow simple instructions, or are you defective?”

That was a lie. No conception of Lydia was kind.

“Look at me, Lord Phantomhive,” you said, silencing your fabricated governess. You could be a better instructor. “Don’t look at the floor; you’re an Earl, and Lady Elizabeth will find it offensive. Look at me.”

Asking Lord Phantomhive to look at you was a mistake. Your stomach twisted as he complied, bringing his gaze back to meet yours.

He was uncharacteristically quiet but staring as intently as ever. It made your heart flutter, rightfully flustered from being analyzed so closely and at such proximity. You never stood this close to the Earl, save for the time you pushed his tea out of his hand to save his life.

It was easy to forget that the Earl wasn’t an unattractive young man; his perfect complexion and prominent, angular cheekbones were the pinnacles of offense. He looked otherworldly, like a vampire or some kind of demon with his sapphire eye. His hair almost wholly covered his eye patch.

“Your Highness?” Lord Phantomhive questioned your little stumble caused by your inattentiveness. Your staring.

No, not staring, gawking.

“The reverse box is forward, side cross.” Lydia reminded you.

You cleared your throat, “we’re going to complete a reverse box now. That’s forward, to the side, and back.” All you wanted to do was tear your eyes away, but you couldn’t after demanding he look at you. You could do difficult things; you killed Felix Keating in a moving carriage, shot two men after they killed your best friend and assaulted you, and hid the bodies after. “Good. You’re not hopeless, Lord Phantomhive,” if you could do both those things, you could look a ruminative nobleman in the eye while dancing with him.

“I appreciate your help,” Lord Phantomhive said, casting his pride aside. There wasn’t much he disliked more than swallowing his pride and asking for help or muttering a word of gratitude. In that way, the two of you were the same. Yet, he’s done both for you numerous times.

And you’ve done both for him as well, numerous times.

“I’m out of practice too, my Lord. We both needed the practice,” you admitted, laughing as you took a more dramatic step than necessary, making the ‘natural’ turn more pronounced. You pulled him along by your clasped hands, picking up your pace to match the ¾ rhythm a Viennese waltz typically started at. You were moving slower to help Phantomhive (and mostly yourself) master the steps.

You were strong, capable of accomplishing impossible tasks, but you couldn’t help your riotous smile. It hurt your cheeks.

“This is faster than the proper rhythm! You read music. Shouldn’t you know this?” Lord Phantomhive protested, but his tone was fond. “I’m leading. You must follow my tempo.”

“Then you ought to allow me to lead!” you suggested, deaf to the music stopping. Until Sebastian spoke, drawing the dance to a stilted stop.

“My sincerest apologies, but there is a call on the line for you, my Lord. From Scotland Yard, regarding an old case,” Sebastian said, all too eager to ruin a moment where the two of you weren’t wholeheartedly miserable. The butler didn’t have either of your best interests at heart; you were sure. “He says the matter is dire.”

Lord Phantomhive hesitated, giving you a final long look before taking his hands away. “Right. If it’s a…dire matter, I shall tend to it. Of course,” he said, smoothing his suit. “Thank you, Your Highness. Sebastian, see to lunch preparations for after this call.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Sebastian bowed, helping Tanaka move the instruments away.

Phantomhive swiftly dipped his head before starting up the stairs to his study.

They left you with Nadia, who grinned like a lovestruck child. “Your Highness,” she gasped once everyone was out of earshot. “That was…intense.”

“It was a dance lesson,” you dismissed, returning to your quarters to allow the seamstress to help remove your gown. “I feared he would step on me.”

“Forgive me, but that was more than a dance lesson. You and Lord Phantomhive…there’s-”

“Your primary commissioner is Lord Phantomhive’s fiancée, Nadia. Please, just do your job and give me a hand with this dress. That is an order,” you snarled without meaning to, killing the beaming smile on her face.

“Forgive me,” Nadia repeated skeptically, doing as told.

. . .

Sebastian prepared a beautiful lunch table, but his master never joined you, no matter how slowly you chewed.

“My Lord sends his regrets, but this call from the Yard is much too… blindsiding for him to proceed without a proper strategy,” the butler said, refilling your cup of tea.

“Blindsiding?” you questioned, searching Sebastian’s face for any clues. There were none. “What do you mean?”

“I’m afraid it is classified information between the Queen’s Guard Dog and Scotland Yard,” Sebastian said, “but please allow me to assist you in any other way, Your Highness.”

Frustrated, you dismissed Sebastian and didn’t see Lord Phantomhive for the rest of the day. Not by choice, the Earl simply didn’t join you for supper, dessert, or cards.

Maybe everything was in your head.

. . .

APRIL 2ND, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

“Look at this sunset!” Lady Elizabeth praised the fuchsia sky, peering through the curtains in the carriage. The golden sun set, casting warm hues through the carriage, highlighting her blonde hair, catching the diamonds in your tiara, and somehow making Lord Phantomhive appear paler. “I think this is a blessed evening.”

You were in the second carriage of the wedding’s church procession, the first being Cornelia and her father and Lord and Lady Scotney, the groom's parents. Looking out the window, you saw the white carriage directly in front of yours and the pair of light gray horses pulling you.

Lord Phantomhive was handsome in his warm gray jacket and a baby pink flower tucked into his jacket pocket. It matched his tie, and his fiancée's dress, of course. The pairing stung, although your rational mind knew the color match was to honor their statuses as maid of honor and best man. Lady Elizabeth practically glowed, accented in gold jewelry. Her hair fell to her waist in waves. You caught her eyes flitting towards her betrothed every few seconds, looking for a compliment.

He merely stared at the carriage door, the floor, and the ceiling. Anywhere that wasn’t you or his cousin, really. He was always moody, and social events weren’t his idea of fun. If you could be anywhere else, you would be. Carriages gave you enough anxiety.

“Yes, it’s lovely,” you responded, feeling like a dress-up doll of your sister. You wore her entire cast of princess regalia, shipped from Germany: the Honeysuckle & Scroll tiara, the National Order of Merit sash with the royal insignia brooch pinned over your breast. You hoped you didn’t look as ridiculous as you felt.

As your carriage neared, the bells tolling in the church grew louder, echoing throughout the city. Lanterns lit the church’s perimeter, lining the front staircase and aisle. Blossom petals littered over the ground, symbols of good luck and virtue. You watched Cornelia, and her father make the slow trek up the flowered staircase and through the doors to the congregation first, followed by Alexis and Frances. Then it was your turn; you walked in stride with Lady Elizabeth and Lord Phantomhive between them, climbing the stairway and walking down the aisle.

The wedding string quartet to the side of the altar played Handel’s Arrival of The Queen of Sheba, a joyous and majestic sound. The church had beautiful acoustics, making the expert playing sound even more euphonious.

You reddened as the guests in the pews bowed as you passed them, only straightening as you moved past their aisle. Although your entrance was strategically planned for after the bride, you still felt a pang of guilt for momentarily stealing her spotlight. On either side of you, Lady Elizabeth and Lord Phantomhive split to join their respective sides of the altar; Elizabeth to Cornelia’s right and Phantomhive to Edward’s left.

In the front row to the right, you stood in front of your chair while the rest of the wedding procession filed in, sitting once the bridesmaids took their places to Elizabeth’s side. Edward’s groomsmen, except for Lord Phantomhive, had been waiting for the bridal party’s arrival.

The quartet’s music slowly quieted as the bald priest straightened his back, addressing the audience. He cleared his throat, waiting for Richard Burton’s affirming nod before speaking. Naturally, the bride’s father had to confirm his consent to make the ceremony valid from the law’s perspective. “Dearly beloved, you have come together into the house of the church so that in the presence of the church’s minister and the community, your intention to enter into marriage may be strengthened by the Lord with a sacred seal,” his gravelly voice commanded the sanctuary’s attention.

The priest began with a prayer, but you stopped listening. In fact, you doubted most of the wedding party at the altar was doing much prayer, either. Lord Phantomhive fought himself, but he was looking at you, to the light your diamonds refracted on the tall ceiling and to the inquisitive look on your face.

He needed to decide, was he looking at you, or was he not? What prompted this indecision, anyway?

Your fingers fiddled with the second salt shaker hidden in your gown’s pocket bag.

“Lord Midford, please repeat after me,” the priest requested, reading the vows to Edward. The groom was distracted with his bride, taken by the sheer expanse of her dress and face, illuminated by soft brushes of makeup. “Lord Midford?” the priest repeated patiently.

“Right-- In the name of God, I, Edward Midford, take you, Cornelia Margaret Burton, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow,” the groom blinked rapidly, holding back tears. It was a sweet juxtaposition to his crisp knight uniform.

Cornelia repeated the same vows after the priest, surprisingly much less tearful than her counterpart. Instead, she smiled brilliantly, practically bouncing on the soles of her heels.

“Very well,” the priest said, leading the congregation in another prayer to bless the couple’s wedding rings. You took the opportunity to observe Lord Phantomhive again; he wasn’t looking at Elizabeth or you, pointedly so. While he was dressed beautifully to match the other groomsmen and the blush blossoms that surrounded the arch behind the couple, the solemn look on his face told you that he was mourning. There was a fake, idle smile on his lips, but the rest of his face wasn’t in it.

What was wrong?

You cringed as the couple exchanged rings.

“Edward, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit,” Cornelia repeated after her groom, completing the exchange.

The priest spoke, “Now let us humbly invoke God’s blessing….”

You thought back to the day prior, the dancing. It was your only interaction with Lord Phantomhive, and it was, as always, enjoyable. He smiled, and it was more than the vacant and foolish look he offered to the congregation.

Until Sebastian interrupted you with the call from the Yard.

“In the sight of God and these witnesses, I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may now kiss!” The priest exclaimed, allowing an eager husband and wife to spring into one another’s arms and share an impassioned kiss in front of their closest family and friends. And you, a disguised interloper.

“Go in peace to glorify the Lord with your life,” the priest managed to bellow over the audience. You stood as the rest of the guests did, clapping appropriately.

The bells tolled once more, marking the ceremony’s conclusion.

Hand-in-hand, Edward led Cornelia down the aisle, through the church’s open doors, and into the waiting carriage to prepare for the dinner and reception. The rest of the wedding party followed.

You trailed behind Lord Phantomhive and his future bride. They were next, and they knew it.

Your fingers wrapped around the poison in your pocket. Was there any sense in caring for someone who didn’t care for you?

. . .

The wedding party sat in the middle of the round guest tables in front of the towering wedding cake. The newlyweds sat together, their groomsmen and bridesmaids fanning on either side respectively, save for your seat next to Lady Elizabeth’s.

The attendants served dinner while the immediate families gave their speeches. Richard was first, bringing tears to the bride’s eyes at the mention of her dead mother, Margaret Burton. She died of consumption when Cornelia was three, but Richard was sure to lift everyone’s spirits by insisting that she was proud of her daughter for taking in her legacy and becoming a nurse. For the most part, you ignored Alexis’s speech, savoring the creamy mashed potatoes on your plate.

After dinner, most guests took to the expansive dance floor, waltzing with their partners. You were the only guest left at the table, as no one dared ask a royal to dance with them. Thus, you took the opportunity to unscrew the lid of your salt shaker and pour its contents into Lord Phantomhive’s flute of champagne. With the number of toasts the couple planned, the Earl was sure to finish his champagne by the night’s conclusion.

You silenced any guilt by watching him waltz with Elizabeth. Her hand in his, his hand under her shoulder blade. Four natural turns, four side whisks. It was the Viennese waltz that you taught him. In response to your unadulterated rage, you took a long, calming drink out of your (unpoisoned) champagne. The acrid taste stung your tongue, but it was better than simply looking on. It was a miracle you didn’t break the stem of your glass.

“Care to dance, Your Highness?” a new voice asked, startling you. “You seem lonely. Too beautiful to be alone like this,” he said, reaching for your hand. He pressed a kiss to your family ring while he sank into a formal bow. The stranger’s accent sounded like Cornelia’s father. A New Yorker.

You raised an eyebrow, reclaiming your hand as soon as the American righted himself. “Who’s asking?”

“My name is Cooper Finley,” he said purposely as if he expected a German princess to know his surname’s ‘significance.’ But you knew, and it made you grin venomously, seeing that this was the avarice-ridden and the overly confident man you helped Lord Phantomhive outwit. This was the graverobber that stole bodies and sold them to medical students without familial consent. Your instincts told you to rebuff him as brutally as someone of your stature could, but you caught Elizabeth and Phantomhive again.

She smiled, laughing as if her betrothed said something undeniably hilarious.

“If you can keep up with a waltz,” you smarted, willing yourself to look playful. Dancing with someone like Cooper Finley was narrowly better than standing abandoned during a waltz.

“Can I take this off your hands? I wouldn’t want you to overindulge,” Finley said, taking Lord Phantomhive’s poisoned champagne flute before you could protest. It had been close enough to look like yours, potentially a second round from a server. He finished the full flute in one go as if it were a common tavern beer.

“Better not to be wasteful, correct?” he asked rhetorically, roving his tongue over his lips, locking eyes with you. It made sense, Finley’s shipping business was failing without Lord Phantomhive’s support, and now he was seducing a princess in an effort to become a German duke.

“Shall we?” you ignored him, offering your gloved hand to lead you to the middle of the dance floor when the previous song ended. Guests parted for you upon sight, giving you the necessary room to dance with your unexpected partner.

Finley took your hand, and his free one sat below your shoulder blade, as custom dictated. He wasn’t a bad dancer, nor hard to look at. In fact, he carried a small resemblance to Cornelia and her father with his close-cropped brown hair and heavy-set eyebrows. If you weren’t aware of the selfishness and cruelty behind his hazel eyes and seductive grin, you might have found solace in dancing with him over the Earl.

“What are you up to in England, Princess Marie?” Finley asked, leading you into a turn. You scoffed.

“Your Highness,” you corrected him, “and just what are you doing in England, Cooper Finley?”

He laughed as if he hadn’t expected you to correct him. “Sorry. Your Highness, Princess Marie. I’m here for business. But I managed an invitation because I’m the bride’s cousin. I’m a representative of her dead Mama’s side of the family.”

You wondered if Lord Phantomhive knew this. Regardless, Cornelia’s cousin was going to die in about a week due to lethal thallium ingestion. You doubted you would be the first to say that he deserved it.

At least you understood where the familial resemblance came from, dead Mama’s side.

Finley must have attributed the alarm on your face to his cavalier manner of referring to Cornelia’s deceased mother. He put a sad smile on his face, “it’s alright. She died when we were all in the crib. Not so near and dear to our hearts as Uncle Richard says.”

“Do you always speak of such unseemly things during a waltz?” you asked.

“You’re too easy to talk to, Your Highness, Princess Marie,” Finley said, moving the hand from your back to fix your sash. His hand lingered on the royal decoration for a moment too long.

The waltz was hardly halfway complete before Phantomhive intervened, forcing the both of you out of your natural turn.

“Mind if I cut in?” It was the first time since he willingly looked at you in the past two days. His jaw was set.

“Lord Phantomhive,” Cooper Finley said, any semblance of seduction melting off his face like a mask made of hot candle wax. “We were in the middle of a dance.”

“I wasn’t speaking to you, Finley,” the Earl snapped, each of his words clipped. “Your Highness?”

“What about Elizabeth?” you demanded, pulling away from the New Yorker to better face Lord Phantomhive. The rest of the guests danced around you, doing a convincing job of ignoring the drama amongst them.

“She’s dancing with Lord Scotney,” his betrothed was laughing with her father as he twirled her around on the other side of the dance floor. Edward danced with his mother, and Cornelia with her father. They were hard to find through the various pairs of dancers; Phantomhive must have watched you the moment you left the dining table.

“You’re excused, Mr. Finley,” you said coldly, dismissing him.

“But Princess Marie-”

“That is a direct order,” you insisted, finding the line extremely effective.

“You will regret this,” Finley surrendered, crimson with embarrassment. He pushed past Lord Phantomhive to return to his seat or, more likely, seduce a bridesmaid.

Lord Phantomhive wasted no time taking your hand and sweeping you into a turn. His movements were jagged, distracted by his anger.

“What did he want with you?” he demanded, his grip much more potent than it needed for a dance.

“He looked about ready to drop down on one knee for me,” you said dryly, keeping your face aloof, refusing to look at the Earl. You were far from the Earl’s property, a piece of property he needed to protect when it was threatened and ignored when he felt like it. He scowled at your response. “He wasn’t anything more than I can handle,” you added, and it was the truth. Cooper Finley was going to die, partially by your hand.

“What is vexing you then?” Lord Phantomhive asked gruffly as if he hadn’t been ignoring you for the past two days. “You told me yourself not to look down during a waltz.”

“You,” you gritted honestly, “you are vexing me,” you admitted. “Are we or are we not friends?”

Phantomhive hesitated, struggling to pick the words he wanted to say. He was painfully close; you could smell his bay leaf scent. The hints of soap. The chandelier made his tiny diamond earrings sparkle. They were studs, easy to miss.

He drew closer. You wondered if he could feel your heart at such closeness; your torsos were practically pressed together.

“Ciel, my brother needs you in the powder room,” Elizabeth’s sudden presence forced you apart as if strong electric shocks suddenly sparked between you. Her voice quivered, and her eyes were glassy, “please,” she added as an afterthought, guiding Lord Phantomhive away with a hand on his shoulder.

They left you alone in a sea of people. You saw Edward across the way, still engaged in a smooth waltz with Francis. Far from the powder room.

Your eyes stung, and you took a difficult breath in. Even your chest felt tight, and the tiara on your head pounds heavier than it was seconds ago. Without a second thought, you pushed past the dancing guests, making a beeline for the ballroom door and exiting the building.

You leaned on the side of the building the moment you managed to get outside. The fresh air cleared your lungs, and you stared up at the night sky, a black abyss above you, speckled with stars.

Everything in your life was complex, your job contradicting your heart, Lord Phantomhive clashing his duty with his. His commitment to the Queen, to his fiancée. That was probably why he couldn’t look at you. By embracing how he felt, he would betray almost every aspect of his life: his family and his responsibility to the crown. Differently, than Doña imagined, you were ruining Ciel Phantomhive’s life. Only, doing so by this means was almost more damaging and cruel than plunging a knife between his ribs.

“Elizabeth!” you exclaimed as the blonde came through the same doors you did.

She jumped, startled by your outburst. Her eyes still looked glassy, filled with unshed tears. Her face was red.

“There you are, Your Highness. I was…looking for you,” Elizabeth admitted, her smile several degrees less vibrant since the ceremony, but genuine still. She was a kinder person than you. “I apologize for interrupting your dance with Ciel, but I wanted, needed, to talk to him. And you. Alone.”

“Please, I don’t deserve an apology from you,” you admitted, mouth running dry with guilt. Elizabeth trusted you to be her betrothed’s dear friend. And instead, you…you didn’t know what you were. Any label that could be put on it undoubtedly surpassed the bounds of friendship, which was a betrayal.

“No, it’s all right,” Elizabeth’s voice was uncharacteristically strong as she rounded her back. She took your hands into hers, grasping them tightly to make you look at her. “He loves you how I wish he could love me,” she insisted, nodding at you as if the gesture would help you understand, “but he can’t love me like that. I love him and you, so I will… do what’s best for all of us,” Elizabeth had an actual princess’s grace. “I don’t love him. We truly are friends, Elizabeth. I swear,” the words were heavy on your tongue and obviously false. You didn’t believe yourself.

Elizabeth chuckled, likely appreciating your attempt to spare her feelings. “He fusses over you the same way my mother protects my father. And you look at him the way my brother looks at Cornelia. I know what love looks like, Your Highness. I can’t believe it took me so long to realize.” “Call me Marie,” you stole her betrothed; the allowance was the least you could do. You ignored the nagging part of your brain that would’ve given anything to say Y/n.

“Lizzie,” she corrected, pulling you into a rib-crushing hug, to your surprise. Your back cracked in her robust embrace, but you didn’t care. Instead, you wrapped your arms around her as well, sighing. It felt as if you were Atlas, and the gods removed the weight of the sky from your shoulders.

You relished Lizzie’s warm embrace for a few more seconds before she released you and helped smooth out your crooked sash and pinned brooches. When satisfied, she grinned again and linked her arm around yours.

“Come now, Marie, Cornelia should be preparing to throw her bouquet. If we’re to make Ciel propose to you soon, winning this is the best way to do it!”

All of the single women huddled behind Cornelia’s short frame like bees to honey. She stood with her back to the crowd, lifting her small bouquet of pink peonies, waiting for you and Lizzie to push past the women.

“Are all my ladies ready?” Cornelia exclaimed, casting a quick gaze over her shoulder at the eager throngs of cheering guests behind her. Dozens of arms around you sprouted up impatiently, the shorter women balancing on the tips of their toes.

After a slow count down from three, the bride tossed the petite bouquet over her head with all her strength. It sailed straight down the middle of the crowd. If you were indeed Marie, the nudging ladies around you would have trampled you by then.

“Throw it here!” Samantha, one of the members of the bridal party demanded. She didn’t say much to you, but from what you gathered, she was also a heiress from the States. In front of you, she threw her arms up in the same determined way a soldier might shoot his bayonet.

However, as Lizzie requested, you held your ground and jumped for the flowers. Typically, you found such superstitious activities ridiculous, but there was no harm in participating, especially when you won.

With an uncharacteristic cheer, you caught the bouquet and immediately hugged it in your chest in case anyone attempted to take it from you. You looked down at the peonies in disbelief, laughing as the crowd around you dispersed. No one would fight a fully decorated princess for something so trivial.

“A fantastic, unplanned victory for Her Highness, Princess Marie-Louise of Schleswig-Holstein!” Cornelia cheered, leading the applause around you. “We’re all looking forward to the invitations to your royal wedding in Germany,” she joked, lowering into an innocent curtsy when you rolled your eyes.

“Congratulations,” Lizzie simpered in approval, only for the expression to melt when she spotted something over your shoulder. Her eyes turned stormy. “Now you must go to him,” she ordered, pointing at Lord Phantomhive as she pushed you toward the exit.

As if he heard her, Lord Phantomhive turned to the both of you, meeting your eyes before tearing his gaze away again. He twisted the door handle and left.

“Go!” Lizzie repeated, nodding towards the door. You shoved your bouquet into her arms and obeyed.

It was the sloppiest attempt at a run you ever made. You picked up your heavy petticoat to make room for your frenzied steps, your heels echoing against the floor as you moved. Who knew numerous layers of tulle were this heavy? You had to let some of your skirts fall to keep your sash from falling down your arm.

You opened the door and let it slam behind you, rapidly scanning the gardens outside for a hint of the nobleman. How hadn’t you noticed the beautiful outside scenery during your conversation with Lizzie? There was a water fountain and surrounding shrubbery and rose bushes lining the trail to it….

You could see his lean silhouette sitting on the concrete rim surrounding the opulent water fountain. With a curse, you pulled your skirts up once more and followed the cobblestone, yelling the moment you were in earshot.

“You, Lord Ciel Phantomhive, are the worst!” You yelled, disturbing the peaceful, secluded area. The only previous sounds were the fountain’s running water, small squirrels chittering about, and the soft breeze rustling the greenery. Now, your enraged voice and winded pants distracted from the scene’s ambiance. You let your petticoat fall back to the ground and removed your gloves to air out your sweaty palms. Your heart drummed in your chest, anticipating his response.

“What has you vexed so? Even now, you’re refusing to look at me, and yet you interrupted my dance,” you demanded, standing before his sitting person, arms crossed.

“I interrupted your dance because Cooper Finley is a bastard!” Lord Phantomhive argued, standing to his full height.

“And as are you!” you refuted, jabbing your finger to his chest, right below the flower tucked in his jacket’s pocket.

“Your Highness,” Lord Phantomhive spat your pretend title like a curse, like the lie it was; a far cry from his fond sarcasm. “You don’t understand, I know,” he said gravely, looking at you as if you’d committed a crime. All you did was allow your feelings to grow too deep.

You stepped forward, forcing him straight against the water fountain’s rim. Cold droplets of water fell on you, but you ignored them.

“Do not ‘Your Highness’ me! I know what you know, how you feel! Elizabeth told me so!” you yelled, eyes wild. Was it so terrifying that you could…like him? Were you so bad? Or was it his own feelings that terrified him?

“And I don’t care! I- we - can make it work! Don’t you understand?”

“What is there to understand, Princess?” Lord Phantomhive asked, all too calm. If anything, he looked tired and surrendered before the fight had even begun.

It was as if a dam had broken within you, one that had been keeping all your resolve at bay, separating your undulating desire and forcing it into a mighty rush, unwithstandable. Irresistible. Omnipotent.

You reached upwards, your bare hands cupping Lord Phantomhive’s face as you balanced on your tiptoes to kiss him. You squeezed your eyes to a close as you kissed him with the most false confidence you had ever employed. It was novice and uncoordinated, but you made up for it with sheer passion. His lips were just as soft as they looked. Your lungs burned, reminding you of the long breath you were holding, but you didn’t care.

You wouldn’t have noticed that your tiara had slid off if it hadn’t fallen against the cobblestone with a sickening crack. The sound forced you back to the land of the living. The real world, where you kissed your target, Ciel Phantomhive.

Breathlessly, you retreated, standing on your feet properly. You refused to look at the meaningless relic behind you, even if it had shattered into a million pieces. If Phantomhive wanted to break eye contact, he would have to.

He panted, but his pained gaze didn’t move from yours. Instead, Ciel bent down, his slender fingers resting on either side of your neck. From where he positioned them, his fingertips could feel your drumming pulse. Ciel’s hands were cold, contrasting your warm skin, heated by chasing after him. It sent shivers down your spine.

He kissed you long and hard and just as cluelessly. Your heart pounded. Your legs felt weak, as if they might give in at any moment.

Ciel kissed you, and it was like nothing you had experienced before. Not even the stolen kisses you suffered years ago, the ones plucked from your lips like a defenseless flower. This kiss wasn’t stolen. It was shared, warm, and sacred.

Your fingers tugged at his jacket, demanding Ciel remain close. He tilted his head, clumsy lips keeping a soft rhythm with yours. It was as natural as your midnight duets, his violin slotting with your harp. Only now, it was his soft lips sliding and pressing with yours. The fit was perfect, like two puzzle pieces destined to connect to form a bigger picture.

All you wanted was to be as close to the nobleman as you could manage. You craved the expanse of soft skin; you wanted to hear the overlapping thoughts speeding through his sharp, intuitive mind. The caustic, genius mind you came to enjoy.

You didn’t care who you’d need to hurt or what you’d need to keep the brilliant warmth burning in your chest. You’d do anything to make the sweet taste of Ciel’s lips familiar. He tasted like the oolong tea they served before they cut the wedding cake.

Besides, what was stopping you?

Elizabeth gave you her blessing, and if you’d need to pretend to be a princess for the rest of your life, you could bear it with Ciel at your side…so long as he never found out the truth.

You could find a way to convince him Y/n was dead or a construct the Undertaker confirmed as some kind of hoax to tease the Queen’s Guard Dog.

Before the thought of stopping had even crossed your mind, Ciel pulled away. He cautiously removed your hands from his waist by the wrists (when they moved there, you were unsure).

“There is nothing to make work, Your Highness,” Ciel Phantomhive said grimly, releasing your wrists. His lips, stained by your pink lipstick, were pursed. He sidestepped from where you trapped him between your body and the fountain, abandoning you yet again.

. . .

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untitled-byler-blog · 2 years

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Okay, one more I promise

For every couple you ship, tell me which one flirts and which one blushes when they are flirting (they can be the same character)

Byler

Mike tries to flirt and Will laughs at them. But when Will flirts he gets touchy (innocently, like brushing Mike's shoulder, playing with their hair) and Mike just melts like completely stops functioning, putting their hands to their cheeks like "is it hot in here" and Will's like "nope, it's just you" and Mike nearly passes out

Lumax

They don't flirt, they bully each other. No blushing, but lots of little teasing touches and tiny, secret smiles.

Jancy

Ok so they're much more subtle about their relationship, but every so often Nancy will make a little comment that makes Jon get all shy. <3

and to piss you off, have some headcanons from the other ships I've written fics about:

Lilly of the Valley

Lilias loves to flirt with Archie and he's a mess because he's so convinced that he doesn't deserve love and everything about their marriage is just an elaborate joke; lots of flower puns.

Grelliam

I mean it's canon that Grelle is an obsessive flirt, but Will is too impassive to get blushy. But once Will starts flirting with Grelle? It's over for her, she's an absolutely mess. Like whole face as red as her hair.

O!Cielizzie

Post-ish canon no demon snack nonsense i'd love these two to talk things out because he's the Much better match for her. And Lizzie loves to flirt with him and he denies that he enjoys it, and always says his cheeks are flushing in embarrassment. They are in the Midford carriage; Edward is angry.

Marichat

My poor sweet Kitty uses the worst puns that never fail to undo Mari, but Ladybug flirting with Adrien? No thoughts, head empty. agreste.exe has stop working

Berry

Bert is a shameless flirt. Mary chastises him (but smiles to herself because she adores it (and him)) -- this is basically canon

#byler #lumax #and others #ask #quinnick

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stitched-mouth · 1 year

Text

CHARACTERS I WILL NO LONGER WRITE FOR

So I’m doing a bit of a page remodel.

I am removing some masterlists and some characters from masterlist. I have no desire to write for these characters anymore so I won’t be. These characters, so far, are not characters I have ever written for but added to masterlists because at some point I did want to write for them. So no worries about deleting fics or any work.

But please understand that I only write for characters that I’m interested in writing for, I won’t write for characters just because others might want to read something about them.

Also my Diabolik Lovers masterlist is missing. I have not stopped writing for these characters, I just want to redo the actual masterlist. As well as my Black Butler masterlist and My Hero Academia, these masterlists are still up though.

Anyway, the characters I will not be writing for anymore are:

• All Hazbin Hotel characters

• Sylvie (Loki)

• Steve Rogers/ Captain America

• Stephen Strange/ Doctor Strange

• Miriam Wexler (Turning Red)

• Jang Deok-Su (Squid Game)

• Kang Sae-Byeok (Squid Game)

• Enid Sinclair (Wednesday)

• Eugene Ottington (Wednesday)

• Jack (Last Night In Soho)

• John (Last Night In Soho)

• Alan Zervi (Russian Doll)

• Sandie Milkovich (Shameless US)

• Monica Gallagher (Shameless US)

• Nina Locke (Locke & Key)

• Tenya Ida (My Hero Academia)

• Shoto Todoroki (My Hero Academia)

• Rei Todoroki (My Hero Academia)

• Himiko Toga (My Hero Academia)

• Kurogiri (My Hero Academia)

• Rachel Phantomhive (Black Butler)

• Elizabeth Midford (Black Butler)

• Edward Midford (Black Butler)

• Francis Midford (Black Butler)

• Alois Trancy (Black Butler)

• Hannah Annafellows (Black Butler)

• Charles Phipps (Black Butler)

• Tanaka (Black Butler)

• Baldroy (Black Butler)

• Nina Hopkins (Black Butler)

• Beast (Black Butler)

• Dagger (Black Butler)

• Doll (Black Butler)

• Black Star (Soul Eater)

• Light Yagami (Death Note)

• Near (Death Note)

• Matsudo (Death Note)

• Luther Hargreeves (The Umbrella Academy)

• Otis Milburn (Sex Education)

• Jackson Marchetti (Sex Education)

• Lily Igehart (Sex Education)

• Payton Hobart (The Politican)

• Skye Jackson (The Politican)

• James Sullivan (The Politican)

• McAfee Westbrook (The Politican)

• Johanna Constantine (The Sandman)

• Lucifer Morningstar (The Sandman)

• Catwoman (The Batman)

• Nega Scott (Scott Pilgrim Vs The World)

• Ashley Campbell (Sally Face)

• Todd Morrison (Sally Face)

• Tommy Maximoff (WandaVision)

• Billy Maximoff (WandaVision)

• Peter Quill (Guardians of The Galaxy)

• Spider-Man (Tobey Maguire)

Watch me add half these characters back when the next season of their shows comes out

#stitched #stitched talks #stitched writes #netflix #wednesday #squid game #marvel #hazbin hotel #turning red #last night in soho

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thislittlekumquat · 8 months

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Once Grell and Will had departed, with Grell’s very fervent promise to return the next day, it was just the three of them again.

Edward and Lizzy spent some time bickering over whether or not it had been wise to compromise their goal, and although Sieglinde normally relished the chance to join forces with Lizzy against Edward, she realized that it was not quite the time. They were concerned with the immediate future, while Sieglinde couldn’t help but turn some of Mr. Spears’ words over in her mind.

Banging pots and pans at you! It's Reaping What You Sow Sunday! Today is literally the last chapter before the beginning of the end. It's a bit quieter, and our poor dear scheming children will need it, with what's to come! I've had a few people teasing me (affectionate) with what an annoying brother Edward has been, and though this was not intentionally written to rehabilitate him, past Vicky was smart enough to know to gather him close and let him be a little expressive here ❤️

‘Reaping What You Sow’ is my 17-part fanfic asking questions about what would happen if Lizzy and Grell teamed up to take Undertaker out. Updates most Sundays or Mondays on ao3 until I run out of chapters!

#sieglinde sullivan #edward midford #elizabeth midford #kuroshitsuji #black butler #reaping what you sow #my fic #my writing

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antihero-writings · 4 years

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His Butler Cemetery, Chapter 3: The Problem of the Nights

Fandom: Black Butler | Kuroshitsuji (manga)

Fic Summary: Four visits to the cemetery, each growing in emotional intensity, and spanning backwards in time. (Spoilers for the manga!!)

(I'll put the links to chapters 1 & 2 in a reblog!!)

Chapter Summary: “Young Master, Edward. If something you held most dear suddenly shattered one day...What would you do?"

"Dear, God. What a terrible ordeal you've tasked my sister with...."

Character Focus: Edward and Lizzie Midford

Notes: Eyyy remember this fic? The one I planned to finish in October 2018? Hehe...Yeah...

I never forgot about this fic... life just kinda got in the way and I moved on to other things. I have so many fics on my computer that I just can't seem to figure out how to finish, and this chapter was one of them. Lately I've been trying to go through some of them and either just slap an ending on them, or split them into multiple chapters so it's more manageable, haha. So I just picked a way to end it, even if I'm not entirely satisfied XD

I actually really really like Edward as a character, and was kind of inspired by the quote above to write this. I was excited to write for him for this fic, and really really liked this chapter, so I couldn't go without posting it at some point!!I hope people still like it, even though it's been so long...I'd deeply appreciate it if you could leave a comment to let me know!!

By the way, I am NOT caught up on the manga, so please don't spoil anything from the recent chapters for me!!

Chapter 3, the Problem of the Nights:

Edward never could win against her.

Father would laugh and say that the Midford women had always been strong, and it was no cause for shame.

Still, there’s something particularly humiliating about getting your ass kicked by a cute little girl….Especially when she’s your younger sister.

The world would coo over her: her pretty shoes, her curly blonde hair, her frilly dresses, and sigh in awe that someone so cute could be so skilled with the sword.

And, if he was perfectly honest, she was incredible. He would never deny that, never say the praise was undeserved. Often he was her biggest fan, her loudest cheerleader, and if anyone dare lay a finger on her, or say a single syllable of slander, they’d certainly have a sword to answer to.

And, he supposed, her proficiency was good for him too, in a way, because it pushed him to work harder.

But no matter how many days he spent waking up early to wave his sword at empty air, no matter how much mastery he had compared to his classmates, he could never catch up to her. Sometimes it felt like the race was rigged, and he wasn’t moving at all.

He applauded her, admired her.

But sometimes he would throw his sword into the wall and demand that it listen to him. That he, a thirteen-year-old boy could and should be better at swordplay, than a ten-year-old girl who decorated her world in pink plushies and bonnets.

When the other nobles chatted with Lizzie, and about Lizzie, and then turned to him to ask what he’d been doing, sure he had a story to top hers…

Sometimes he would hold his head high and boast of his accomplishments, and Lizzie would have only the loftiest of compliments to add.

But other times that question would ring through his head, and his tongue would fall limp in his mouth.

Because no matter how much he’d done, if he was the top of his class, he could never triumph Lizzie.

What have I done lately? Not much compared to Lizzie.

Mother was not the kind of person who would answer for you; unlike most mothers she wouldn’t boast of her children smallest accomplishments. In fact, in even their greatest endeavors she could find “room for improvement.” He wasn’t complaining: this too was a good thing; he would never be where he was now without that.

But sometimes he just wished she would just wrap her arms around him and say that she was proud of him.

There was Father at least, who was the softie of the family. Who would clap him on the back and tell Francis not to be so hard on him, that he’d done more than well. His eyes would shine as he promised he was a champion in his own right, as well as his eyes. And that helped. Still…

Still, he didn’t feel like much.

It wasn’t that he was bad at things, or dumb. He was quite smart, good at school, but he didn’t…excel.

The thing about Lizzie is that there were only a few things she practiced, but she excelled at them.

Jack of all trades, master of none, so they say.

And no one notices you unless you’re very good at something, or very bad at it.

So he faded into the background. Lizzie’s cheerleader. His parents’ son. And he told himself he was alright with that.

Beneath all those intermingling feelings of pride and jealousy was a question:

How could such a small girl hold so much fight inside her? How could those gentle eyes hold so much fire?

It didn’t make sense. She was supposed to be sweet, and gentle, and soft. So what was it that drove her to get the gold when he could only ever snag second place?

He got his answer when he met Ciel.

The twin boys, one of whom she was destined to marry—some day, after they had learned how to be gentlemen in a world of men who weren’t gentle.

Well he couldn’t approve of that without meeting him first.

The twins were…so small. Smaller even than Lizzie. Big blue eyes like stormy days.

One marched up to him and demanded who he was, and what he was doing there, and that his name was Ciel, and he was to be the Earl some day. The other, hid behind his father’s pant leg, and muttered his greeting from afar. And when Mother scolded Mr. Phantomhive to keep them in line, and comb their hair properly, even the bolder one shirked into the shadows.

He finally understood what Lizzie had that he didn’t:

Something to protect.

When he took up the sword, it was for the sake of the sword itself, and a name.

When she took it up, she did so for something more than the trade, the passed-down-name, the skill. The sword was a means, not an end. There was something—someone—she loved, or was learning to at least, and if that person were ever threatened, she didn’t want to stand on the sidelines and cry. She wanted to stand between him and danger and do everything in her power to keep the hurt at bay.

She didn’t care about being well-versed in the sword: she just cared about protecting him. The sword was simply how she’d do that. And, well, the irony of being something is that you’ll only be good at it when you’re looking beyond it.

And it was that, that passion, that idea that there was something beyond, that this was all in preparation for a war against anything that stood to harm him, that was why she excelled. Because he didn’t have anything calling him to it, besides the fact that the Midford’s had always been good at it. As long as he didn’t have a reason for it within himself, he would never excel.

So, from then on, he never complained, silently or aloud. From then on he was nothing more than her firmest supporter, and when people asked what he had done lately, expecting his story to top hers, he could be okay that he would never be better than her at some things.

And then, one snowy December, when they were putting their finishing touches on their Christmas tree, and competing to make the best cookies, someone arrived at their door to tell them they found Mr. and Mrs. Phantomhive in a pool of their own blood…and the twins…they didn’t find.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t immediately burst into a thousand shards of glass like he would have expected.

He would have liked it better that way. Because he could deal with that. Because he could do something, he could run up to her, hug her, kiss her, comfort her. Be the big brother.

No, the Midford women had always been strong, and she was no exception. She didn’t fall to pieces. She went into her room, put on a black dress and bonnet—(as was proper). And she went to the funeral, as all good little noblegirls should.

And all throughout the service, as they lay Rachel and Vincent to rest, beside two little graves they all knew were empty, as the vicar read from a Bible a passage about sheep, and finding your way home, he kept glancing at her, kept waiting to see the tears to stream down her face, for her to fall to her knees.

Her eyes were big, and blank, and full of almost-to-the-surface tears, yet she was sugar and spice and everything nice; the picture of an English noblewoman.

She went about her day, whole, composed, proper. And no one could have guessed that grief wasn’t another thing she excelled at.

But he’d never quite forget that night. The sound he heard, even through the passing years.

That night, after the funeral, after mother sent her off to bed with a few proud words, and father kissed her one to many times, after Edward grabbed her hand and asked “Are you sure you’re okay?” After she said “Yes, I’ll be fine.”—

He woke up to the sound of screaming.

He shot up in bed, wondering if he’d dreamed it, heart yammering, breath burning. He didn’t bother to light a candle, just stumbled out of bed, and ran down the halls, calling her name.

When he reached her room, she was sitting on the floor beside her bed in her little white nightdress, and tear tracks staining her face; in pieces. A perfect gold stain on the world.

She reached her hands weakly out to him as he knelt down before her, and wrapped her arms so tight around him that he thought she might break him too…and she cried into his nightshirt until she stained it. But he didn’t care.

Many little girls run to their parents in this situation. But he knew, if she had gone to their parents, mother would have told her there was no use crying, they weren’t coming back, and father would have doted on her, and she wanted neither…or rather, something in between. So she came to him.

This wasn’t the last time.

During the day she would go about her life as normal.

But every night she woke up. It was always somewhere between 14:00 and 16:00 he heard her screaming, calling the name of the sky. Either that, or he would hear a faint knock on his door, and see the face of a broken little girl in need of her big brother.

It became muscle memory for Edward to comfort her. To throw off his covers and run to his sister’s room, or he would pat the blankets beside him to say come here, and either way he’d wrap his arms around her tight, as if trying to wring the tears out of her, and she would sob until they burned rivers in his skin. He would brush his hands through her golden hair, whispering things in her ear like shh, and it’ll be okay, and singing old lullabies, all the while knowing knowing the quiet would come. And he would pray. Pray that things would be okay. Pray that the one who created the universe would grant some solace to this sweet little sheep.

He would pray, and the next day, with tears barely barred from his own cheeks, he would kick the wall, and demand why and how a merciful God could do this to someone like her. Why he would take good people from the world.

—(He would pray, and he thought one day he heard Him say They aren’t yours to keep.)—

Sometimes she asked if they could go to the cemetery in the morning. They would dress in their finest blacks, looking like ink blots on the world, onyx with gold filigree in the cracks. She would carry bouquets of flowers, the petals sifting off in the wind, and add them to those there, left by the miscellaneous others who cared for them…And she wouldn’t cry then, no. She wouldn’t cry until it was past the witching hour.

She didn’t give up. Didn’t stop living. For all intents and purposes she was the same as she’d always been…but something was missing when they crossed blades.

She woke up less and less as time went by. Eventually her visits to his room were stray nights in the grand scheme of things, and she didn’t cry so hard. Sometimes she’d just sit with him, or ask to play chess, or chat with him till the morning came.

And then one day, after the grief didn’t burn so badly in her chest—

Her fiancé came back without an eye, and with a pitch black butler.

He didn’t talk about what he’d gone through, or how he’d come back. He didn’t speak of that day his parents died. He didn’t mention how his brother died—he didn’t mention much of his brother at all.

He wasn’t that brazen, bold, grinning child they knew before. He was dark, and serious…and he never smiled.

And Edward was glad to have him back…yet from the start he couldn’t help but feel…uneasy. Like something was wrong. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. There were too many questions, too many gaps in information, and the darkness that seemed to flock to this boy now didn’t help.

And Edward, though Lizzie’s fire was only stronger since he came back, her skill even more unmatchable, was at last able to get a few good hits in sometimes.

He couldn’t believe he never saw it before, his reason beyond the sword, the task of carrying on a name... it was there from the beginning.

He knew who it was he had to protect.

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