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breitzbachbea · 3 months

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I'm With Him And This Is Real Life, Honey

Thank you all for your enthusiastic responses! This is a Spamano One-Shot which I originally wrote for the dearest @someone-you-do-not-know, as part of my Rake Courtship AU, vaguely set in the Regency or preceding Georgian era.

If you want some general backstory for this AU or read another piece of unbearable Spamano longing and Lovino never getting what he deserves, partially because he won't allow it to himself - here is another One-Shot set in the same AU.

Summary for this One-Shot: After Antonio's and Michele's wedding has been crashed by Michele's former suitor, Lovino urges Antonio to go after his former fiancé and Lovi's cousin, if only because if Michele's father Salvatore finds him first, there will be bloodshed. They find Harry and Michele, sadly just in time to witness their elopement wedding, which will complicate things further. This is the night after that Lovino spends in an inn room with Antonio. I also made a little playlist for Spamano and Sicire in the AU, if you'd like to listen to "Would you be so kind" whilst reading Lovino's suffering.

Here's the fic - enjoy!

It was a quiet night. No wind that howled, no rain that pounded. They were the only guests at the inn – It wasn’t shabby enough that they all had to share a single room, vermin not included, and not classy enough to carry gossip to where it shouldn’t be. Not that Lovino had ever been in an inn. People of a certain class always stayed with one of their own, that was what mansions were for. Everything about this was so beneath him.

But now he wished he had simply bitten the bullet instead of drawing the line and insisting on separate rooms. He’d rather have shared a room with these two sources of his malcontent than having to listen to their bed creak through the walls. Already a pillow over his head and he could still hear the creak of wood and the slap of skin on skin.

“I’m not sharing a room with you two knobheads! I don’t care, I’ll pay for it myself!” He had protested an hour earlier or so. “I’ve had enough of you as is, for all I care I never need to see either of you for the rest of my life, but a night’ll do! I’ve been a witness against my will to your we-” He had stopped himself, suddenly aware that there was no need to bellow details about the place. No need to blow their cover

“Well, kind of you to give us the privacy,” Michele had replied and there seemed to be genuine surprise in his voice. Of course, overshadowed by how pleased he and his lover had seemed by the implications.

He didn’t even end up paying for it, but his cousin’s rotten lover. Not that Lovino had much money on him, as he had left in a hurry, but Antonio hadn’t been allowed to pay either. Simply thinking of the entire charade made him want to retch again.

Michele had taken Antonio’s hands and looked him in the eyes when he said: “You’ve already done far too much for me to ever repay it. Please, Antonio, don’t make my debt any greater. I’ve caused you enough hurt as is, let me be the bigger person now.”

Bigger person, his ass. A bigger person would put their money where their mouth is and not fuck his new husband within earshot of his old fiancé.

Christ alive, why was that stupid candle still burning. The light it produced wasn’t much, but he could see Antonio clear enough as he laid next to him in bed.

Because of course his luck was just so that there was no more than one bed in each room. At least Antonio wasn’t talking to him. He had rarely spent a moment in silence with him ever since his father had asked to spend time with him and Michele.

Antonio was mute now, as he stared at the ceiling. He had his arms crossed over his chest, stripped to his undergarments and shirt like Lovino, who could see dark curly hair peak out at the top of his shirt. In his sculpted face – Lovino still couldn’t believe his cousin had chosen to bang someone who’s face looked like an entire carriage accident over this – the brows were slightly knitted and the full lips had a hint of a pout.

He couldn’t imagine how Antonio felt, but wouldn’t want to switch places with him. A twinge of guilt came over him to have dragged him into this whole affair. What concern should it be to Antonio if the man he was betrothed to ran off with someone else and incurred the wrath of his monstrous father? He was no longer Michele’s fiancé and was not obligated to care for him anymore. And yet he did.

There was another twinge and it took Lovino a moment to realize it was jealousy. Underneath fondness for Antonio’s selfless nature, it was jealousy that it had all been wasted on Michele. His stupid cousin got betrothed to a sweet, hot, rich, important guy and then he blew it, he would have deserved it so much more than Michele. He deserved to be fawned over and cherished and spoiled rotten, he deserved to have a husband who was as kind and doting and hot as Antonio. Instead he was relegated to be the best man and agony aunt, the company that Michele couldn’t be and now he was in bed with the hottest man he’d ever seen and wasn’t even allowed to touch him. Relegated to hear his cousin screw his lover in a second-rate inn and hiding underneath the pillow as not to hear the muted throes of passion...

He could see the hairs on Antonio’s strong arms. He realized he’d been staring at Antonio the entire time and felt his face burn up.

In that moment, he could hear something that sounded like a pent-up moan from the other side, followed by some laughter.

Antonio’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, face scrunched up in discomfort. He sighed through his nose as he relaxed and his eyes opened again.

Great, now he could even hear them suck face in the silence. Antonio’s own expression turned from displeased to awkward – and he turned to Lovino, who felt panic well up in his stomach and fan out to his limbs.

“What the fuck are you looking at me for?!” he asked him and buried his face in the mattress, hoping it would swallow him. He could still hear the damn bed creak. “It’s not my fault!”

“S-Sorry …” Antonio apologised. Great. Simply great. He could hear Antonio clear his throat.

He tried to visualize what was going on in the other room, in the hopes that his rotten cousin and his troll of a lover would be enough to exorcise his feelings of desire. Sadly, whenever he tried, his mind too soon drifted off and kept the steamy fantasy with a tanner body underneath his own fingertips, full lips ghosting over his own body, rough but gentle hands gripping his hips, his own fingers running through wild, curly hair -

Lovino screamed into the mattress. “I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him tonight, and if I don’t I hope his dad strings him up by his own entrails, he deserves it,” he muttered into it.

“Are you alright, Lovino?” Antonio asked and Lovino considered biting himself through the entire bed and then the floor to escape the situation.

He lifted his face but didn’t face Antonio. “These two have not a bone of shame in their entire body,” he said as he stared into the dark, since Antonio’s body blocked most light of the candle in this position. “We should just have bid Michele good riddance and washed our hands of the entire thing. He’s clearly enjoying himself as is, that ungrateful bastard.”

Oh god, as if the universe itself wanted to mock Lovino, he could hear the sounds on the other side increase in frequency. He gritted his teeth.

“I mean …” Antonio sighed again. “It was the right thing to do, Lovino. It’s not always easy to do the right thing, but still you do it.” He could hear the smile in his voice. “And I guess it is their wedding night …”

Something almost slipped Lovino’s lips, but he bit it back. There was no need to tell Antonio what he had seen the night before Antonio was supposed to marry. No need to increase his suffering.

“You’re being a saint about this,” Lovino said. “If I was you, I would have walked already. To do it with you around … aren’t you mad?” He’d be mad if he was Antonio. To be betrothed to someone who doesn’t want you, have that fiancé kidnapped at your wedding day and run after them only to barge in on their elopement wedding … If he was Antonio, he’d curse everyone he ever met. Lovino included – after all, he had spurred him on to run after Michele.

“I mean …” Another sigh, this time more of an angry snort. “I would prefer to not have heard it, but … what is done is done. Pretending that it isn’t wouldn’t change much, I can fool myself. I don’t need Michele for this.”

Lovino’s brows furrowed while the rest of his features softened. I wouldn’t have fooled you, he thought. Maybe he should have run to him the night before the wedding. To hell with Michele and his secrets, Antonio would have deserved the truth.

The noises from the other side had stopped. At least that torture was over. Lovino turned on his back and clutched the pillow against his chest instead. “You are a saint,” he said. “Michele doesn’t know what he’s missing.” He didn’t dare look at Antonio. “And I’m the fucking Virgin Mary for putting up with all of it!”

Antonio laughed. “Yes you are. Thank you, Lovino. I appreciate it and I’m sure that Michele does so, too.”

He snorted. “Psht. Yeah, sure.”

“When you get married, I’ll be your best man, yes? To pay back all you gave me.”

Lovino’s heart sank into his guts. “Yeah, sure.”

Antonio put the candle out. “Good night, Lovino.”

Lovino stared into the dark. He could hear indistinct murmurs from the other room between the lovers. “Good night … Antonio.”

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scribbleseas · 2 years

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The Indignant Pawn, Chapter IX: The Pen Is Mightier Than the Sword

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: detailed descriptions of pain, gore (blood, sutures, fresh wounds) and combat.

Author’s Note: So it turns out, May was optimistic. I’m sorry. But on the bright side, I wrote this over the span of four days because I was inspired. Hopefully I can keep the momentum going! Let me know what you think about this chapter! I crave validation as a broke college student.

Happy Reading!

- Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇢

MARCH 10TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

As you presided over the breakfast table, your eyelids were heavier than leather. Your fingers burned, raw with blisters and forming calluses, far from befitting a royal hand, which provided a ghost of comfort to you. Red and blistering, they almost felt normal, rough with the responsibilities of a commoner. They were courtesy of the rounds of accompaniment the Earl provided you with the night prior. If your hands hadn’t so clearly suffered for your duet, you would have been more reluctant to believe it had happened in the first place.

You, your harp. The Earl, his violin.

Without clear proof, you might have exiled that mildly enjoyable memory into the safer excuse of calling a dream. However, dreams didn’t cause red blisters and bruises to form on someone else’s flesh. Muted by tactful layers of powder, the red contusions on Lord Phantomhive were still distinctive. They were likely attributed to the leather chin rest at the bottom of his instrument and hours of wordless, idle play.

“Your Highness?” Lady Elizabeth prompted, pulling you out of your torrent of passing thoughts. Her expected emerald eyes blinked at you, following the way your gaze studied your fingers. They were loosely clasped around the small spoon, coated in the white sugar you were sprinkling over your strawberries.

“Yes?” came your pointed response. Your spoon clattered dully against the table cloth as you met Lady Elizabeth’s eyes, pointedly ignoring Lord Phantomhive at the head of the table. You had been staring at the marks on his neck, and given his sharp eye, he had, in fact, noticed.

“Ciel is going to be hosting my brother’s engagement dinner,” Lady Elizabeth reminded you as if the information had a direct impact on your life. In a way, you supposed, it did. For you, the dinner offered an opportunity: a house full of guests (distractions) for the butler. An opening that you had been biding your time to encounter, despite being gifted one by the target himself last night. You knew you abandoned a critical moment, but at least Lady Elizabeth offered you a new one. But for Marie, this dinner was dangerous, an event that threatened her security. “If you feel comfortable, I just know we would love to have you join the festivities!” Lady Elizabeth continued, searching your face for hints of reluctance.

After providing a non-committal response in hopes of ending your role in the conversation, you nodded along vacantly. If you could refer to a single person chattering to themselves as a conversation. In all honesty, you were only half listening to her delve into the character of the lovely, kind, spirited Clara Burton. Catherine Burton. Cora? You had more important matters to mull over. Where could you purchase thallium? When did you need it for?

Hesitantly, you cleared your throat. “And when is this taking place?” Lady Elizabeth seemed to preen at the question, deciding it was an indication that she had an active audience. Lord Phantomhive clearly knew better than to try and humor her, drinking his tea and lazily scanning through the pile of letters Sebastian left at his side. The butler had left one for you as well.

“I believe we agreed upon… the 18th?” Lady Elizabeth paused as if she expected her betrothed to answer for her. He merely offered an affirmative hum, his attention diverted to a letter he had deftly unfolded moments prior. If Lord Phantomhive’s disinterest bothered her, Lady Elizabeth made a masterful performance of upholding a placid facade.

“That does sound like a delightful time,” you surrendered, the response causing the Earl to pause and regard you for a moment. He refocused on the print before him when he noticed your nonplussed look.

“Lovely!” Lady Elizabeth cheered, clapping her hands together. She continued rambling about more dinner components that you easily detached yourself. Eventually, an easy silence fell over the table; Lady Elizabeth took tactful bites out of her breakfast, the Earl read his mail, and yourself. You took a double take at the sender's name on your envelope.

Her Majesty Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Empress of India, Queen of Australia, New Zealand, and Head of the Commonwealth.

Otherwise, Doña was hiding under a pseudonym to contact you. You couldn’t contain the speed and severity of your neutral expression soured, curdling like expiring milk left in the cellar. You already had an idea as to the letter’s content: a warning, or another request to meet, stemming from Doña’s unending impatience.

“I would much prefer to read this alone. As you are,” you mumbled, quickly standing from your seat at the table. Your heavy petticoats helped to push the chair further back, making appropriate room for you to make your leave. The closed envelope wrinkled in your exasperated grip as you showed yourself back to your quarters. You could have been more graceful about your exit in your haste; you chastised yourself. You left Lady Elizabeth to ask the closing door if it was alright.

Princess Marie Louise of Schleswig-Holstein. My Dear Granddaughter:

This postage is intended for your eyes only, as you must know. We are eagerly awaiting a noteworthy update from you. Results of any significance have been quite delayed, and I am beginning to require more than you have supplied. Just know I am willing to go to any length to accrue results. I loathe waiting. If I must, I will make this mission harder for you by the day.

Warmly,

Her Majesty, the Queen.

You couldn’t imagine how Doña managed to get the Queen’s royal seal on the letter, nor did you want to. Instead, you tore the thin sheet of paper in half and fed it to the small fireplace in your room. The orange flames resembled the frustration in your belly as they destroyed the note. You’d give her warmly.

Why was Doña on such an assertive timeline in the first place? The result of your mission would conclude with a dead Earl and another missing princess, whether over the span of six months or six years. There was no urgency, not when for the first time in nearly eight years, you could sit in front of a fireplace that you didn’t light for yourself.

. . .

MARCH 13TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

Although you burned it to ashes and dust, the letter kept you awake nights after its arrival. Doña was a naturally grating woman, sly with a tendency to speak before she acted. Hand to hand, she was no threat to you; but resource to resource, she had you incredibly outdone. Nothing kept her from manipulating an outside source to ‘make your mission harder.’

Yet…what could she do, exactly? Expose you? Push the Earl in the direction of finding you out? You supposed in her position that would be the intelligent course of action: push suspicion onto you to force you to kill the Earl out of self-preservation. Before he realized you were an imposter hired to murder him in his own home.

The circling thoughts urged you to settle with your harp once again. Although each pluck of a string caused raw pain to your raw fingertips, you played. In your focus, you were deaf to the sound of the door opening and closing.

“Your Highness, do you intend to deprive us of our good night’s sleep every evening?” The Earl’s irritable voice questioned. Phantomhive had yet to change out of his business ensemble from the day, still dressed decadently in a Prussian blue and lilac tie tucked below. He must have recently returned from meeting with his Promoting Manager for the Funtom Company.

Your fingers came to a dubious halt, and you paused to push the harp firmly to its feet. Properly considering him, you frowned, feeling your eyebrows knit with vexation. “My Lord, to deprive a nobleman of his night of sleep, he must lay down in an attempt to welcome his beauty sleep in the first place. I cannot deprive an Earl who deprives himself before I have the chance to.”

The Earl scowled at you instantaneously. Over time, you noticed his expressions growing less practiced by the day. Ever a gentleman, Lord Phantomhive continued to employ proper manners required for his lower station, but the more you irked him, the less he bothered hiding his irritation with your impudence. He needed the humbling.

“Might I ask if there is something vexing you?” Lord Phantomhive changed the subject. “It’s late,” he regarded you with the caution that a scientist might study an unknown specimen.

“I know what time it is, Lord Phantomhive.”

You sighed, the exhale paired with a short eye roll. Well, you had to tell him something, didn’t you? Your teeth dug into the inside of your lip as you retrained your gaze to the size, feigning reluctance to buy yourself a few moments.

The truth (or something adjacent to it) would suffice.

“Something is about to go terribly wrong. I don’t feel safe here,” you admitted, finally returning your gaze to the Earl. You gleaned hints of understanding from his expression, stern features emblazoned with moonlight that shined through the room’s bay windows.

“Rest assured, Your Highness, my staff-”

You silenced his rehearsed words with a wave of your hand. What staff? All you knew on the premises were a clumsy maid, a bashful gardener, and a friendly cook. And, of course, the suspect butler in black. As far as you observed, none of them could defend you from an army that Doña sent.

“No, Lord Phantomhive. There is something wrong,” you insisted, infusing every bit of your stress into your words as you rose to your feet. “I can feel it. Listen to me.”

Lord Phantomhive surrendered, nuanced understanding thawing his stormy expression. You were right; the nobleman had witnessed harrowing scenes that kept him awake at night. He knew the premonitions that came after, the dangerous insistence the human mind developed after surviving the unthinkable. He thought a princess who was forced out of her birth country was victimized enough to possess such vigilance…that was only the start.

. . .

“After this property was assaulted,” Lord Phantomhive paused, his steps even at your side. The clicking of his boots’ stout heels echoed on the paved trail, a winding path that circled the estate’s main building and ran through the intricate gardens. Even amid the bitter winter, Sebastian's lush greenery was well-tamed by leaves rustling in the cold wind. “My butler and I would monitor every centimeter of this path until I was satisfied enough to retire,” he explained gravely.

You shivered in the cold since the appropriate dress for midnight was a simple tea gown, a dress that cinched and wrapped around your waist. It was a vulnerable satin that shielded your modesty, but not the gelid winter. The frosty air stung your cheeks, drawing goosebumps to populate your arms. Lord Phantomhive hadn’t thought to spare you a moment to change, much less find an overcoat. Your burning curiosity led you to follow the Earl without another thought.

Of course, visible truth to combat mental theatrics. Dramatics. Anxieties. You should have thought of it yourself. You were seeing an unmistakably empty property to dismiss the idea that strangers were coming to attack you.

You were at a loss, unsure of how to respond. Sleep-deprived and unarmed, you didn’t trust yourself to attack Lord Phantomhive and kill him hand-to-hand.

“And it helps settle your mind?” You questioned, strategically driving the exchange between the both of you.

“I would say…a little relief is better than nothing, Your Highness.” There was a quirk of dark irony in the Earl’s tone. After all, you never knew what could lurk around the corner you had just examined. Often, you were what lurked, waiting for your target to let their armor down, their walls to crumble to nothing.

Side by side, you followed the recently cleared pathway. There was snow piled on either side of it, freshly shoveled. You strolled in silence, tuning into the natural sounds around you: bare branches rustling, barn owls calling out. The scene around you looked freshly created, as if an artist perfected each detail.

Begrudgingly, you supposed the Earl was correct. If your observant gaze couldn’t see any intruders, catch any of the vaguest hints of a threat, then perhaps… there was nothing to find. Perhaps, Doña was manipulating you into completing her bidding sooner than you wished.

Doña was vindictive enough to consider the twisted possibility of an empty threat, but she was also twisted sufficiently to send one in the first place. She may have meant to drive you mad as you considered the sheer breadth of possibilities.

“You’re shivering,” Lord Phantomhive broke your train of thought, “my apologies. I have ridiculed my status as a noble gentleman and a host to royalty.” He removed his blue jacket and held it by either side of the collar, the opening facing you.

You agreed; surely your lips were the same shade as his overcoat. You had been walking for a decent fifteen minutes in nothing besides a satin gown and simple flats. If Lord Phantomhive had even an inkling of chivalry, he might’ve offered his jacket the moment you stepped outside.

“Quite correct, my Lord,” you agreed with a petulant sigh, princess-style. As you slid your arms through the jacket one at a time, the change in warmth was immediate. Predictably, the coat smelled like the Earl’s signature clean scent, bay leaf with whispers of lavender and ivory soap. An expensive smell, but not an overwhelming one by any means. It was a familiar scent that you were growing to favor; sweet, floral, and subdued.

“My sincerest apologies,” Phantomhive said, righting the coat’s collar before re-gifting your personal space and taking a step away. His tone was flat and devoid of any remorse, naturally. You couldn’t help but wonder how many people have fallen into his trap, seduced by his polished lies. Ciel Phantomhive was the worst kind of liar.

“You weren’t socialized properly. It’s exhausting,” you replied, nodding once to tell the Earl to walk with you. The jacket’s sleeves fell long past your hands, allowing you to trap some heat when you hugged yourself. Even the bottom hem of the coat reached your upper thighs. If you hadn’t been so eager to continue walking, you would have fastened the coat’s buttons for added security.

Lord Phantomhive looked like he wanted to protest but thought better of it. Your indignance seemed to bother him more than the cold did. You snickered.

He snapped, “well, is something amusing to you?”

“No.” You lied.

“If you insist, then it’s so,” Phantomhive replied, and the silence between you permeated once again.

. . .

You slept as if you lay in a coffin that night rather than your bed.

Until the alarming sound of gunshots roused you.

It took a moment for your panic to process completely, allowing you to block out at least a half dozen more rounds of firing.

You were ignorant- so thoughtless. So brainless, so simpleminded, so-

You didn’t have time to blame yourself. All you had left were the consequences of your actions. You couldn’t change anything- all you could do was proceed. You pulled the hilt of your knife out from beneath your pillow, stalking towards your closed door with the grace and stealth of an experienced predator. Its silver blade shone with light from the candelabra sitting on your desk, illuminating the kaleidoscope of different colors forged into it; turquoise, purple, and blue.

Your hand was on the knob when you froze.

What business did Princess Marie of Schleswig-Holstein have with a knife within her personal possessions? What business did she have using it well?

Hesitantly, you put the knife back where it belonged, cringing at the cacophony of pained screams. They were far away, muffled by the walls, but that did nothing to calm your nerves, the tenacity climbing up your spine. Loud, frenzied steps grew closer to your room, pounding the antique floorboards in only the way that heavy, military-grade boots did.

Karma didn’t favor you. Those boots couldn’t belong to Phantomhive, his butler, or Mey-Rin…it could only be Baldroy or Finny if you wanted to be optimistic. But you found that optimism was for the weak-hearted.

And at that moment, you were proven correct. Your door swung open with a force that would have had you on the ground if not for your sharpened reflexes. Your heart pumped desperately in your chest, hands perspiring with anticipatory sweat. The strange man brought the fight to you the moment he laid his eyes on you.

“Hommes! La femme ne mentait pas! J'ai trouvé la petite salope. Viens m'aider, je me fous que ce soit une fille, elle a tué notre Jean-Pierre, elle est dangereuse!” The man exclaimed, jerking his head back to face you merely seconds after turning away. He smiled venomously, unarmed as far as you could tell in the dim light. You suspected he lost it in the chaos you heard. After all, a thick sheen of sweat was running down his face, and he was catching his breath as if he had run miles to find your quarters.

“Bonjour, Y/n. J'espère que vous avez été bien. Cela fait des années que nous ne nous sommes pas rencontrés. Tu ne te souviens pas de nous, mais nous nous souvenons sûrement de toi…” he drawled, inching closer to you, as if you would brandish a weapon at any given moment. How you wished you could. For every step closer he took towards you, you returned the favour by taking a step back towards your desk.

“Tu es Magnifique, habillée comme une Princesse,” he was complimenting your appearance, even though you were clearly tousled by sleep. You were able to catch some vague cognates in his rapid French. He had to be a native speaker.

His smile vanished as quickly as it appeared, “aucune quantité de maquillage ne peut cacher le monstre qui est en vous.” That couldn’t have been very gentlemanly of him. You snarled, despite having next to no idea as to what he said.

“If we’ve met before, you should recall that I detest small talk,” you replied. Behind your back, your hand did an uncoordinated search along your messy desk. “I think we ought to get to the heart of the issue at hand,” you continued, flaunting the pen you plucked off your desk. You held it offensively, with the confidence you would put into any knife. Naturally, you were posturing, boasting more confidence than you felt.

After all, you were out of practice, almost weaponless, half exhausted by sleep.

The man laughed at you.

“Que vas-tu faire avec ça? Tu es lent?” His tone quirked as if he were asking a question, undoubtedly making a joke out of your weapon of choice. You gave him one last look of disdain before you made the first move, enraged. You’d take every bit of his condescension, even if you had to bleed it out of him.

You moved before you could make a plan or consider a wealth of possible angles to attack from. After all, everything you needed to know was ingrained in you already. You were a culmination of Baxter’s genius and your relentless ferocity.

Thankfully, the Frenchman was relatively short and scrawny- like a scarecrow. Thus, grabbing a fist full of his shirt collar and forcing his head down was not a difficult feat for you. Pulling him down to your level gave you the perfect angle to drive the steel tip into his throat. It didn’t require much force, as neck tissue was naturally stretched and pliant.

The man’s cry that followed made you cringe, but you refused to grant him mercy. His haughty smile flashed in your mind’s eye, and with an assertive yell, you pulled the pen out with the hand that stabbed. Instantaneously, the non-dominant hand that previously held his shirt released and finished him with a hard uppercut.

Your punch was about as trained and effective as the Earl Phantomhive’s lying; your thumb was untucked, and your entire arm followed through, landing the blow flat on Monsieur Scarecrow’s jaw. He crumpled to the ground, umber eyes rolling back into his skull. His blood stained the plush throw rug that surrounded your bed.

You struggled to catch your breath, gulping down air with the same urgency one would slurp water in a desert. On the one hand, your knuckles ached from delivering such an intense blow. On the other, Monsieur Scarecrow’s coppery blood stained the skin, fingers sore from maintaining an unyielding grip on the pen. You glared at the door, challenging it to bring you more opponents.

There were still distant screams, unceremonious sounds of heavy objects falling and shattering. How many men came in pursuit of you? The real you? Y/n Y/l/n, the known contract killer.

“Where did Maurice-Louis-What’s-His-Face holler from?” A new voice asked, paired with the sound of heavy boots. No- two pairs of heavy boots, instead.

No author could have penned timing that was better than your current situation. One enemy down, only to be replaced by two of his comrades. American comrades?

“This hall. We looked through the other ones, no?” A new voice. A Spanish accent. A Frenchman, an American, a Spaniard, all in one night. Your luck was beginning to sound like a cheap tavern joke. Truly.

The steps grew closer, but there was no hiding when Monsieur Scarecrow's unconscious body was in your room. They would find you either within the next 30 seconds or five minutes. Adrenaline pulsed through your veins, moving you like a marionette.

“I understand you’re looking for your friend,” you called from your room’s threshold, nonchalantly twirling the bloody pen between your stained fingers. You sounded calmer than you felt, taking assertive steps into the hall to meet the pair.

“We were. But I’m thinkin’ that’s a waste of time now. Got a little something on your nightgown there, kid,” the American responded. His mustache was over-the-top for your tastes but nowhere near as unnecessary as the petite pocket knife in his clutches. It was miniature, like a standard knife you could find on a dining table, but you knew better than to underestimate its edge. As Baxter said: if it can cut through your supper, it can cut through you.

Princesse, monstre, kid. It was all the same to you, much in the same way that all of these men were just faceless enemies to you.

“Feisty today? I like it,” Mustache’s eyes sparkled mirthlessly. “Watch how it's done, man.”

You lunged in an attempt to pull the same trick you accomplished with their French friend. This time, you didn’t have such luck. The man gritted his teeth in concentration and intercepted, skillfully cutting up your forearm, causing your pen to fall to the floor. There was a searing warmth up your arm as Mustache followed through, reaching your triceps. It was a vehement sting that enraged you.

You didn’t have to look to know it was bad; you couldn’t extend your dominant arm fully due to the damage. He must have damaged some muscle tissue, or a tendon, something.

“You’re lucky my orders aren’t to kill you here,” Mustache chuckled, but you weren’t listening. Instead, you let him think you were dazed from the intensifying pain in your arm, the static numbness that stemmed from your focus, dampening said trauma. “Really, I didn’t think it would be that simple.”

He was too easy to dismiss you, allowing his knife to sit lax against his thigh victoriously.

You extended your good hand out to trap the knife against Mustache’s thigh. With a surprised grunt, he put all his strength into regaining control over the blade. He headbutted you, causing your vision to sway. You stumbled back, compelled by force behind the hit. However, you used the momentum to pull his knife hand closer, forcing him to bend to half his height, head poised over your good shoulder blade. Your hurt arm wrapped around his torso, helping you steer your shoulder into Mustache’s jaw. A makeshift uppercut.

The angle was perfect for you to plunge your kneecap into his groin, causing him substantial pain before falling unconscious. The jaw was the best place to hit on the body- an immediate knock-out with enough force.

Mustache fell right on top of his friend.

Unfortunately, your injuries caught up to you. It was as if your adrenaline was a dam that shielded you from the extent of your trauma. You couldn’t balance properly after kneeing the man, keening from blood loss and the sheer pain pulsating in your brain. The world’s worst headache was ringing in your ears.

You also fell to the stained floor, unable to catch yourself or notice the gun the Spaniard aimed at you. It must have been concealed. Vaguely you could hear him mumbling in his language, the click that punctuated when he unlocked his weapon.

It seemed you were going to die before you could complete the mission. Sending men to attack the manor to kill you was the pinnacle of counterintuitive actions, Doña.

You were watching the man in front of you in slow motion. You observed the way the shot made him jerk back before you closed your eyes, deciding to envision what it might be like to see Baxter again. You missed him more than you cared to think about.

You waited and waited…

But the bullet never hit you.

Instead, a guttural scream cut through the mystifying static in your head.

You dared to open your eyes again. But you didn’t trust that what you saw was real: Sebastian’s lithe frame stood between yourself and the Spaniard. His back was to you. He caught the bullet between his gloved fingers, chuckling warmly at the man’s frightened screams. You ignored the kneeling Earl at your side, jerking your arm away with a hiss when he attempted to press a sheet where you bled. Warm blood continued to roll down your arm, dripping onto the floor.

“Your Highness, I need to-...” Phantomhive scolded, but your focus was on his butler. You watched with bated breath, unable to look away even if you wanted to.

“Excuse me, sir, I do believe this belongs to you,” you could hear the smirk in his voice, but you were preoccupied with wondering how the butler managed to intercept the bullet and how he appeared in front of you.

“What- what are you?” The man demanded, making an awkward attempt to inch away from Sebastian’s looming shadow. He shot again, the sound making you flinch. However, Sebastian intercepted before your tired eyes could register- the second bullet also fell smugly between his fingers. “Please don’t kill me! Kill her! Y/n the murderer! I’ve never killed anyone in my life! I’m following orders! Why are you saving her?” The man babbled, his English growing sloppier by the moment.

“Sebastian,” Phantomhive grunted, his tone grave. He kept his gaze trained on your bent arm as he folded the sheet into itself. You recognized the flowery print from your bed- those were expensive silk sheets! You cursed in complaint as he used the folded sheet to apply deep pressure on the cut. “End his nonsense.”

For the second time that night, you shivered next to the Earl.

“As you wish, sir,” came Sebastian’s cheeky reply. The Spaniard had no time to scream before the butler threw the pair of bullets back to him with the force of a shotgun.

“Your Highness, you must allow me to move your arm,” the Earl ordered, but you refused. The limb felt as if it was made of pins, needles, and static. As if it was removed and reattached by a complete novice. The American cut too deep into the tendons that allowed you to extend your arm; you couldn’t move it.

You recoiled, “Nein, das kann ich nicht. Es tut weh. Lass mich in Ruhe!” (No, I can’t. It hurts. Just leave me be!)

The Earl tried again: “If you allow me to move your arm above your head, the bleeding will stop. It’s simple physiology.” He sounded too calm, completely unharmed. If you had the energy, you would lunge at him next, make him feel a ghost of the agony you felt.

“She will require stitches regardless, my Lord, allow me.” Sebastian assessed, picking you up as if you weighed nothing more than a pillow. Distantly, you could hear a single person’s screams and a crash before the manor was finally silenced. You couldn’t form the words to ask.

“Bring her to Elizabeth’s room- there are...bodies in hers.”

. . .

Apparently, Lord Phantomhive’s Head Butler, along with being a private chef, gardener, tutor, and private soldier, was a medic.

Sebastian applied topical anesthesia to your arm before expertly cleaning and suturing the cut. It ran from the side of your wrist, adjacent to your pinky finger, past your elbow, and made a profound ‘u’ shape in your tricep. You asked to apply the Vaseline, patented petroleum jelly from New York, yourself. Mey-Rin kept a cloth sack filled with ice pressed to the back of your neck, helping the severe pain from the sustained headbutt. The intruders harmed none of the Phantomhive Estate staff.

Ironically, you were the only one to sustain injuries.

“I was right,” you broke the silence, glaring at Lord Phantomhive. He was fixated on reading while you used a cotton swab to dab the petroleum jelly along the line of sutures. “I never should have let you talk me out of my doubts.”

“Sebastian, Mey-Rin. Bring us tea. And scones.” the Earl ordered, taking it upon himself to hold the sack of ice while his servants nodded dutifully and left. Not even Sebastian protested the request for a snack in the middle of the night. You had lost too much blood.

You continued, “I heard gunshots.”

“I instructed private guards to stand watch about the manor per your arrival. Dozens of men came, and the idea was to protect your entire floor. No one should have found you.”

He was lying. There were no ‘private guards.’ Otherwise, they would have caught you sneaking out of the estate over the past several weeks. Unfortunately, Princess Marie wouldn’t have known better.

“Three men found me,” you challenged, “I almost died.” You put the cotton swab on the table, satisfied with the thick layer you made on your stitches. Sebastian left a long bandage for you to put over them, an extra measure to avoid infection.

“I wasn’t aware the royal family learned self-defense,” the Earl changed the subject, rarely one to apologize unprompted. “Using that pen was…a clever choice. Not sure I would have thought of it,” he sat in the desk chair next to the bed you lay on. Sebastian pulled it over when he stitched your wound closed.

“We all have to learn in the instance our defense has an…oversight,” you said pointedly. Lord Phantomhive pursed his lips, holding back a retort because of your condition. “Well, who were those men anyway?” It seemed like the most natural question to ask next. Besides, you had no idea.

“I’m not sure. They could be related to the letter your parents received, someone after myself…common criminals,” Lord Phantomhive seemed to be thinking out loud, telling the truth. “However…Your Highness, I believe,” he paused, hesitant to continue.

“Yes? What is it?” You prompted, sitting up a little straighter. Nerves twisted your stomach, and you flushed as the nobleman fixated on you. He was dissecting your expression and how it might change in response to what he needed to say. You had a dark inkling you knew. Internally, you cursed Doña.

“Your Highness,” Lord Phantomhive tensed. He allowed you to take hold of the sack for yourself in favor of turning to look at you properly. “I have reason to believe your sister is still alive.”

Your stomach dropped in confirmation.

“Are you mad?” you demanded incredulously, taking the ice off your neck with feigned frustration. “Helena ran away when we were ten years old!” Talking about yourself in the third person contributed to your forming headache. Your patron was not lying when she said she would make the mission harder by the day. This conversation was already difficult to navigate. “My family sent search parties for years- even our brothers joined them. If she were alive, someone would know.”

“I know,” Lord Phantomhive agreed. “The previous Earl was among those searching for her.”

You paused. He was referring to his father. The Queen’s previous Guard Dog.

“I found his notes. It was the first time he failed Her Majesty- it was as if Her Highness had disappeared into thin air.”

You had. You recalled dodging every camera, every newsprint. The first year was the most challenging as there were pictures of the ‘missing German princess’ all over Europe. It took ages for the royal family to declare you dead, and the searches ceased. Until people forgot how the missing princess looked and you were able to reclaim yourself as Y/n Y/l/n.

“We never found her body,” you added reluctantly, frowning as if you were considering his theory. Phantomhive’s mind was settled- the best you could do in this situation was ensure he believed you were the correct twin.

Lord Phantomhive nodded once, watching you as if you might burst into flames at any moment. “Clearly, she has renounced her identity. Both that man and the woman from the train station, if you remember, addressed you as Y/n- mistaking you for her.”

You grimaced, cursing Frances Baxter. And Doña, too, that impatient Miststück.

“She’s likely some hitwoman, then,” you offered, betraying yourself. “The woman at the train station was begging for help of some sort, and… that man called her a murderer.” You disliked the term hitwoman. The term took all of the social justice out of your work, killing corrupt business owners, torturers, kidnappers, and other murderers. It was the only option, you reminded yourself. If your knuckles weren’t so damaged, your fists would clench with frustration.

“I came to the same conclusion,” the Earl said, suggesting he found this realization ages ago and had just thought to inform you. “I was thinking…if we can find her, we might find those responsible for last night, and they might be related to -”

“-The threat sent to my parents,” you interrupted, failing to hide the misery in your voice. The Earl (or his butler, more likely) unraveled the lie almost entirely. You would be in a nearly insurmountable amount of danger if you didn’t keenly monitor your words and actions. “But…Lord Phantomhive. This is all rather far-fetched, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It’s the strongest lead I’ve had in weeks. It’s worth exploring,” you could see the weariness on the Earl’s face, his slumped shoulders. It couldn’t have been long since he walked you back to your quarters after your outside stroll. He probably didn’t have a chance to sleep-

Not that you cared. Phantomhive wasn’t the one in the sick bed.

“I suppose. Well, if you find my sister, don’t hurt her,” you ordered, mustering some quantity of worry into your words. As if you truly loved any of your siblings. Marie deserved the cold, lonely end she met.

“Of course, Your Highness,” the Earl nodded, beginning to stand. “It’s quite late. You should-”

“No,” you interjected. “You expect me to… kill two men and simply go to sleep afterward?” You asked incredulously, intentionally struggling with the sentence. You couldn’t be too casual about violence; it was already suspicious that you killed a man with a pen and knocked another unconscious with your bare hands. So much for gentle princess idiocy, you cringed.

Lord Phantomhive paused, his resolve crumbling like ancient walls. “What would you care to do, Your Highness?”

“Saint Saёns, Fantasie for the harp and the violin. Opus 124,” you dared him to decline you, even though you were well aware of your current state. It would hurt to play in many different ways. But you didn’t care. Your fingers were calloused, your knuckles bruised; thinking about your arm made it ache in response. Your head still swam from blood loss. There was no better escape in that manor than the music you created.

“No,” the Earl declined the request without a second thought. You started to argue, but he ignored you. “You know your arm won’t heal without proper rest. I think…I should entertain you with some literature. French literature, what do you think?” Phantomhive asked, even though he knew exactly what you would think.

Your glare was immediate, “I will order your execution.” Besides, you were doing some exploration of French ideas yourself. Watching the Earl intently read it himself sparked some healthy curiosity in you. You always liked to learn; being in the manor roused that part of your intuitive mind that you always considered long dead.

“I keep note of which books in my library are missing, Your Highness,” he said with a look that said: spare me from your dramatics; my butler saved your life.

You blushed, equally miffed and mystified. Of course, the Earl was aware that you loosely followed which novels he read in his spare time and made similar selections. You brought your steaming cup of passionfruit tea to your lips, dimly realizing that you missed Sebastian’s entrance. And his exit. Perhaps you were still feeling the aftershocks of high quantities of blood loss. No matter; you used the tea to soothe the awkwardness in your shoulders, the lump in your throat.

The rest of your night- or early morning- was rather pleasant, from what you could remember. The Earl read to you, easing between English and French as per his copy of the novel. You half-listened to the dictation but primarily focused on watching your arm as if the skin and muscles in your arm would heal themselves faster if you stared intently. The sharp pain returned gradually as Sebastian’s topical anesthesia wore away. In a way, truly feeling the injury helped you accept it.

. . .

MARCH 14TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

The morning came too quickly.

You fell out of your healing sleep with a gasp, disoriented and in an excruciating sum of discomfort. The cut along your arm felt bone-deep, sawed open by the most devastating tools. Inspecting the damage sent a fresh wave of nausea through your stomach as if you didn’t expect the sight to be nearly as gruesome.

Naturally, you were quite accustomed to brutal carnage, although seeing it on yourself seemed to register more. Your skin was notably paler in and around the stitches, and the sutures were black. A light flush of red was far out along the entire wound.

You took a steadying breath to keep yourself from crying out, eyes darting to the sleeping nobleman at your bedside. He left the novel he was reading, Lettres Philosophiques, closed and properly bookmarked on the bedside table. You couldn’t see his face from how he slept; it was obscured by the bed as he was bent over entirely from his chair. He used his bare arms as pillows, resting his forearm in his crossed arms. All you saw was the crown of his jet-black hair. It was so dark, in some lighting, it almost looked blue.

You allowed yourself to lay back against the soft pillows and close your eyes. Sebastian would surely wake you when he deemed it necessary to do so…why waste your energy before that point? Nevertheless, you couldn’t kill Lord Phantomhive at that moment if you wanted to; your arm was in no shape to keep you protected in the sordid London streets when you returned to reality. Doña deserved to wait longer, now that she betrayed you.

Besides, you rather liked your new book club.

. . .

Tags:

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