scribbleseas - Tumblr blog

scribbleseas · 3 months

Text

in love & in war: the one where he meets you

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

Warnings: The reader’s opinions are a bit old-fashioned, and they don’t reflect my own! Besides that, I’m sure there will be some explicit content down the line, but honestly, this story is much more romcom than our usually scheduled programming. It’s just a silly palette cleanser in season for Valentine’s Day.

Author’s Note: Hi! You guys expressed that you guys like more frequent posts, and I’ve reached a bit of a roadblock on my main Ciel fic right now. I thought I would write up a quick beginning to a potential drabble series! If you guys are interested in this premise, let me know! It’s fun to write such chill stakes content for once lol. Also, this isn’t based off a particular request! I’m still playing with my ideas from those, and at this point, I can confidently say you guys are getting either a one shot or a 1-3 part series based on one. Thank you all for submitting, and feel free to keep them coming.

Happy Reading!

- Dan

MASTERLIST

In Conference

April, 1895

Your life was nowhere near as easy as it seemed.

Perhaps, the average onlooker might see you and presume that the expensive jewels wrapped around your neck and your fingers were the most burdensome aspect of your privileged life. Or perhaps they might have thought it would be the pinch from your stately heels or the strain from a brilliant, yet strategic, permanent smile.

Your business smile. Your future-Countess-of-Richmond smile.

But they couldn’t have been more wrong.

This very moment was exact proof of that— you were in the midst of your world collapsing. The abject shock rattling through your mind was akin to a nightmare. Your eyebrows pulled together in a contentious pout, the horrified look you used to get away with your most childish crimes from your parents.

“Marriage? Simply not.” You begged, alreadying feeling your will to fight waver under your father’s tired stare, your mother’s pained grin. “I’m only—”

“Of perfect age to begin looking for a potential partner. 22 is well past ready, I would say,” your mother answered for you.

“I would be— but—” you sputtered like a fish out of water only to inhale deeply through your nose. You needed to collect yourself. Negotiate thoughtfully and logically. That was the only way to get yourself out of this.

“Speak with intent, Y/n,” your father interjected boredly, retraining his attention on the business reports he was reading. He fixed his glasses, pushing them further up the bridge of his nose.

Speak with intent. You knew those words well. They were your solace, the lighthouse in the storm that came with childhood temperament. Your father, no matter the cause of your distress, would answer: Speak with intent.

“Right,” you cleared your throat apologetically, glancing down at your hands as they sat clasped in your lap. “Sincerest apologies, sir.”

Your father hummed, eyebrows jumping a fraction of a centimeter. He picked up his pen and scribbled his signature at the bottom of the report. Your mother’s hand fell on the nape of his neck to make him turn his gaze back up at you. He hesitated before doing so, waiting to click a stamp onto the signed report.

“I do not wish to marry,” you enunciated your words carefully, confidently. “At least, not yet,” you added, now catching your father’s attention for the blunder. “I’ve yet to meet someone I love,” you felt your face redden, a desire to run back to your room threatening to overtake your fortitude. You were only so strong under your father, the Earl of Richmond’s deliberation stare. It struck fear into the other side of conference tables, lecture halls, and courtrooms. And now, across his desk at his only daughter.

Before your father could remind you that love wasn’t the most important aspect of a successful marriage, your mother interjected gently.

“What about the Duke of Clarence’s son, Antonio? He seemed to like you,” she prompted. Wrongly. You’d danced with Antonio at the Summer Solstice gala that the Pembroke family threw annually. The man opted to use the waltz’s entirety to brag about his family’s Italian vineyards and his love for agriculture. And, of course, his admiration for your father’s entrepreneurial genius. His shipping empire, TransAtlantica, had just successfully fortified shipping systems in all of the states; a step forward from simply cycling through all major ports along the east coast.

“He doesn’t love me,” you complained, “he loves TransAtlantica. He’d much prefer to marry our family corporation!” Antonio was suitable. He was decent, but that’s all he truly was to you. It’s all he ever could be.

You met your mother’s eyes pleadingly, and she pursed her lips, fully knowing the next words out of your mouth. You had a deal. From a young age, you knew the Richmond family, the Y/l/n line, respected contracts more than all else. Since you turned 17, you had one signed by all three parties and dated.

Your mother sucked in a breath through her teeth. “I remember the deal,” she said, taking a moment to consider her own words. The corners of her lips twitched as if she was attempting to hide her amusement with you. She understood— her own father, your grandfather, was just as militant, stiff with professionalism. Promises were negotiations with terms, signatures, and stamps. There were no arguments this way. “Dearest,” she addressed your father, the hand that was on the back jumping to his shoulder, “you do as well.”

“Do you?” You challenged, indignantly crossing your arms. “I request you restate the terms, mother.”

“If we are to pressure you into marriage before you feel ready, you must consent to the courting party,” your father took the liberty of answering gruffly. He squared his shoulders, regarding you purposefully— equal parts exhaustion and respect for your endurance. He cultivated it, after all. It was a fire that burned in your family for generations, as sacred as a temple flame.

“Yes,” you affirmed, “and so, I must choose the man I wish to be with.”

“With respect to your titles— no one below your station. And he must be chosen by the end of this courtship season,” your father added, negotiating. He tilted his head, analyzing your next move.

You knew of the first term since you were a child. You even remembered the exact day you learned them. You were a young girl, a little younger than seven. A young commoner boy had attempted to hand you a rose. Your maid at the time had scolded him for standing in the way of a noble family, since he had stepped out in front of you. It was a discernible moment, truly.

As for your father’s second term… you were unconvinced such a thing could be done.

“The end of the courtship season is in four months,” you replied, frowning. You were sure you met most eligible men in your social class. How were you to form a genuine connection in such little time? Even if you couldn’t find love per se, you still wanted to find someone you were compatible with.

“If we reach that deadline and you find no one, we can talk about it,” your mother answered. “And, you must allow me and your aunt to fix you on outings with suitors we like.

“Fine. Only if Daphne joins me,” you replied, knowing fully well that you weren’t allowed anywhere without your handmaiden present.

. . .

Next week

Your mother was sure not to waste any time in beginning to schedule supervised outings with a different well-educated and ennobled man that was within the appropriate age constraints. You’ve never had such a boring week, brutally torn away from the studies you adored so much.

“—And we’ve got another vacation home down in Tuscany, I think,” the Viscount Lineford’s son concluded, taking a peremptory drink out of his tea. He was dressed crisply in beige trousers that rolled up past his ankle and low leather shoes. His sterling watch sparkled in the spring sun.

You fought a building yawn that tempted the back of your throat, determined to hide your exhaustion with the man. It was a good effort, but you certainly weren’t impressed.

“That must be incredible,” you answered absently. “It must be such a lovely foreign getaway for the Lineford family,” you grinned diplomatically, blind to the horror that twisted his — you didn’t care to remember his name, unfortunately — face.

“Foreign? Excuse me Lady Y/n, but my family traces far back into Italian culture that we are practically Roman…” he started, only for you to interject.

“Will you just excuse me, please?” You struggled to keep the desperation out of your face, calmly searching for your supervisor. She was meant to be sitting at a table nearby, merely ensuring that your outing remained within polite societal constraints. More importantly, Daphne served as your escape when your potential suitors proved most unbearable. All you needed to do was subtly tilt your fan to your left ear and the woman would always scramble over to you with an excuse to steer you out of any scenario you found distasteful.

Such as this one.

Daphne never normally left your side, a realization that allowed worry to creep into your tone. “I’m unsure where my maid went, and I would like to fetch her,” you replied, standing and shouldering your small day bag over your shoulder.

“I’m sorry?” He asked, chuckling with bitter disbelief at your rudeness. Ladies were supposed to be demure and polite. You were impatient and honest, a product of an Earl knowing that his daughter was the object of his legacy. Your father trained you as he would a son, and your tutors followed in suit. “Surely you’re joking; this is the middle of our tea.”

Her pocketbook and her sweater weren’t even sitting on the chair she had been occupying, causing you to blink at the empty table in disbelief.

“No, I’m not. I think something might be wrong,” you shouldered past the man, stepping between other individuals sitting at the common tables in the park.

“Fine, you aren’t worth it anyway!” He called at your back, but the words hardly registered with you.

The area was rather common for courting pairs to visit in the early spring. However, it could also be populated with…criminals. “Excuse me,” you mumbled, quickly walking down the paved pathway through the greenery to the main sidewalk, the London pavement heavy with pedestrians. The streets were perhaps more crowded with carriages and sweating horses.

You couldn’t be alone in the city! As a woman of your stature, it simply wasn’t done. Never. Ever. It was an affront to your teachings, and it was unsafe. You needed your friend, not some stranger.

“Where is she?” You mumbled, rapidly attempting to discern every face that passed you. Surely it wouldn’t be long until someone recognized you— you were one of the most photographed families in the country. In fact, you were fortunate no one had offered your location to the press while you were on this outing. You never would have heard the last of it.

Some took hold of your handbag and darted off, using your distractedness to his advantage. He ran to the end of the block and crossed the street, weaving through pedestrians once the crossing guard allowed your side to walk over. If your hand hadn’t been tightly clutching the strap as you walked, you never would have noticed.

You did your best to pick up your speed and chase him, yelling out.

You cried out, glancing down at your long springtime dress. Your short heels were nowhere near efficient enough for you to make a chase out of the robbery, nor should have needed to! Even still, you lunged into the street — without looking.

In fact, if you had committed to your step, you would’ve been flattened by an oncoming carriage, given that the crossing guard had ordered pedestrians to stop passing moments prior. The only reason why you didn’t make the life-ruining step seemed to be… a tall young man with a serious face and staggering presence. He only had one exposed blue eye, the other was concealed by a black eyepatch. His grip tightened around your arm, pulling you intimately into his chest.

You breathed heavily, tearing yourself out of his arms. A flair of irritation caused you to glare at him as you righted your stance and smooth your dress. However, he did save you from a potentially life ending situation. His immediate insurance of your safety was more meaningful than a misaligned gown that you fixed in seconds.

In fact, the moment truly was a bit theatrical. The man was handsome enough to make you smile with uncertainty, your irritation melting. “Thank you for that,” you said, relieved that the sidewalk seemed to clear, the crowd dispersing from the main street. “I could have been killed.”

“That would have been quite a shame,” he replied, locking eyes with you. The man made a thin attempt at returning your smile. He was enchanting, regal… your heart skipped a beat, considerably flustered.

…Until he spoke again, completely distorting the immediate magnetic lure you felt from his sharp features: “Rather careless of you, my Lady. You ought to be smarter than that.”

You frowned. “In case you failed to notice, that man stole my handbag and essentially disappeared,” you snapped impatiently. It had your identification, emergency notes in case you needed to purchase something, the current novel you were fixated on…how were you meant to return to the estate now?

“You weren’t catching him, I don’t think,” he noted astutely, watching you as you stepped past him to go in the direction you came from. Perhaps Daphne circled back to the park in search of you. You absolutely needed to find her.

“Thank you for your help. Good day,” you answered brusquely, continuing to walk. However, he remained in stride with you, still unabashedly smug. It quickly absolved you of any former gratefulness you had toward the man for pulling you away from oncoming traffic. Perhaps it might have hurt less to have collided with a horse and a carriage over the velocity and mass of this random man’s ego.

“What, don’t tell me you going to go chase him,” He said patronizingly, a sardonic pull infecting what you thought was initially a careful smile. No, the man was just another arrogant bastard, it seemed. “In those shoes, especially,” He perused, causing you to stop once more and regard him.

“I am a noble woman, you will not speak to me in such a manner no matter what line of—“ you caught the sapphire family and silver crest rings around two of his fingers — “mediocre destitution you come from!” You jabbed purposefully, undeserving of his rudeness and his condescension, no matter what title he occupied in your class. You were the partial inheritor of TransAtlantia; you trained to run the company to some degree since you could speak. Few could step to you.

“I believe I said good day, kind sir,” you added poisonously, daring him to continue to test you before speeding back towards the park. You needed Daphne, you needed an officer…anyone besides this pompous— you ended the thought before you could further infect yourself with such unladylike curses.

It really wasn’t so easy being the daughter of an Earl.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

“I’ve planned things so Lady Y/n’s maid is off helping a little girl find her mother; I separated the two by distracting the girl with a kitten. Y/n will panic without her maid being within her immediate reach, drawing her out to the street. I will cause her to put herself in harm’s way by distracting her at the corner of 89th Street and Arthur. Be ready by the street post. I’ve made the new paralegal late to his case, he will have instructed his butler to drive quick. You will need to pull her away from the street. If you miss, things may end rather…unfortunately for the young woman,” Ciel Phantomhive’s butler, Sebastian Michealis, outlined.

Sebastian was Ciel’s head butler, his head chef, head landscaper, tailor, tutor… but most importantly, the Earl of Phantomhive’s contracted demon. The supernatural being was at his disposal and his bidding; his new role being the most interesting one of all: matchmaker. He fabricated a scene for Ciel to meet Y/n Y/l/n, and ideally, make her love him.

It was simple, really. Ciel needed a wife; Y/n’s family needed a competent businessman to run that prosperous giant of a shipping enterprise; and most importantly, the woman seemed to be rather competent. The only danger to his strategy was, of course, Y/n’s foul storybook idealism, apparently. Ciel knew Y/n was highly educated and well graced in ettiquiete, but she seemed intent on finding some happily ever after of sorts.

She wanted a husband— a bloody love match. No— she needed an actor to convince her that she was worth marrying beyond the incredible status she represented. There was no asset greater than a title and an economic monarchy to inherit, and securing such a prize meant that Ciel needed to woo her.

“My Lord, you must be considerate, but not too kind. Though you should also refrain from acting too smugly or the lady may take offense,” his butler had offered some horrifically embarrassing — and incredibly unhelpful — acting lessons for him to express the particular warmth Lady Y/n seemed to be looking for.

Love. A feeling Ciel hadn’t known in around nine years. Arguably, it could’ve been more. And yet, in order to stop being solicited by desperate mothers and unlikely candidates, he was securing his bride.

According to Ciel’s butler, that meant he needed to create a memorable foundation in the woman’s mind, an introduction that would leave her curious, impassioned. Wanting more. Something to make him stand out amongst the other faceless, classless mouth breathers who would be vying for TransAtlantica, now that word of her search for a suitor was widespread.

The company and Y/n’s hand were all one in the same courtship, and Ciel was sure the was going to win both.

The Earl of Phantomhive was never one to lose. He’d be remiss to start now.

#anime fanfiction #black butler fanfic #historical fiction #ciel phantomhive x reader #ciel x reader #sebastian michaelis #black butler

102 notes · View notes

scribbleseas · 3 months

Text

Chapter VII: To Be A Prima Ballerina (Act II)...

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

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

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

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

Author’s Note: Hi! I don't know what happened. I sat down thinking I'd add a scene and chill for the night...but I just let everything flow. So now it's done! Please let me know how you feel about this chapter! I'm incredibly proud of it.

Just a quick note before you read: Maman is French for Mom. There is also some explicit content in this chapter! Please make sure to double check the warnings above!

Happy Reading!!

Dan

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

MASTERLIST

Early November, 1895

Ciel’s Bedroom

“I’ve needed this,” Ciel mumbled in your ear, planting another impassioned kiss on your lips, caging you in against his bedroom door. “Je ne sais pas combien de temps j'aurais pu attendre,” he said, insinuating that he had a similar lustful desire to yours, his fingers laced in your hair, tenderly keeping your head in place as he kissed you.

Goosebumps speckled your arms, equal parts from the late autumn night and the innate sensuality that came with Ciel purring your first language into your ear. While French used to drag you back to the pain that your birth country carried, now it was an inside joke between lovers...

The Next Morning

You woke before Ciel did, peering at the sunlight that streamed in through the drapes. In your sleep, your naked bodies were tangled with one another, giving you more than a sufficient reminder of last night’s…celebration.

Not that you would ever admit it to the shrewd man, but it was the experience you had with a man until that point in your life. Ciel didn’t treat you like a plaything who was there to enrich his experience; he spoiled you— delightfully so. You had a constellation made of contusions sucked into your skin to prove it, some running down your breasts, your back, and even your backside. Ciel impressed you— especially for a man who told you to cover more skin upon your first meeting. He was too flustered to speak to you candidly at the time.

Ciel broke the kiss to start unbuttoning your nightshirt, waiting for your approval before truly continuing. You nodded your consent, more than confident in your body, and more importantly, more than willing to proceed with Ciel. The chemistry residing between the two of you was thick enough to cut with a knife.

The Earl sighed, enraptured with the look of your bare breasts on display. His thumb caressed one of your nipples as he returned his attention back to your lips.

Now, Ciel was asleep next to you, his chest rising and falling. From the way the side of your head lay on his chest, you could hear his heartbeat. A glance upwards told you his regal features were relaxed— seldom for a man who tended to sneer and scowl. You felt his idle hand rest on your lower back, keeping your body close to his, even in slumber.

Your fingertips traced up his sternum, between his firm pecs and above his loosely etched abdominal muscles. He was a noble— his body wasn’t trained to be durable, and yet, it was strong and lean under your touch. Just as it performed last night.

You felt his biceps flex as he picked you up once more, only to dispense you on his bed. He pulled your drawers down and spread your legs, unwilling to allow you to focus on his pleasure. He kneeled on the ground, leveling his face with your core.

It was the first time a man’s desire to plunge you into euphoria outweighed his need for you to pleasure him.

“Ciel!” you gasped at the shock of his lips lapping at your slickness. You were wet with tipsy anticipation and desire, surprised that a nobleman of his stature was willing to be so crude in his ministrations. His tongue lapped between your folds, the tip gently stopping at your clit to lick at it slowly. Your fingers wove into his raven hair as if you needed to encourage him further.

The amusement in your voice was palpable as you coaxed the Earl out of his sleep. He wasn’t a heavy sleeper so it only took your ascending touch up his chest to rouse him. His left eye fluttered open, the right remaining closed by instinct, you imagined.

“Good morning,” you flashed a knowing smile as he rubbed at his eye, yawning to shake off the rest of his drowsiness. If you didn’t have a strict morning regime to tend to in moments, you might have opted to retreat under the sheets and wake him a different way.

“Y/n,” Ciel mumbled, hesitating to say more. He squinted at you, equal parts confusion and surprise. He looked at your hand, realizing that one of his own sat squarely on your ass. As if your skin was burning, he moved his hand.

“What…. Wait. We…?” The Earl started to ask, his eyebrows drawing together in uncertainty. He knew the answer. He didn’t like it.

Your stomach sank.

You knew this expression. Mild regret, disbelief— all of your patrons regarded you similarly after sleeping with you. It was always at the moment they remembered their real lives. Their responsibilities. Their wives. Their statures.

You were a fantasy, drawn out in the dead of night under the sweet influence of wine. They preyed on your beauty and your charm only to retreat after realizing that their greed cost them. And yet, they still returned. Night, after night, after night.

Ciel was supposed to be different.

Even after playing a pivotal role in solving the case, you were a temporary celebration. A reward. A trophy. He didn’t want you beyond the night, and now that the case was solved, he was musing the best way to rid himself of you. After all, your courtship was merely an investigative ploy. A strategy.

There was simply no evolving. No change. Conditional desire.

“Yes,” you answered, your smile melting. “We did. You remember,” you declared. He didn’t drink enough to forget. You knew he didn’t. Your wine bottle sat a little less than half full on the table to your side.

“I do,” he confirmed. There was a beat of silence.

Observing your growing hurt, he cleared his throat and spoke again, “I… enjoyed last night.” It was an ironic sentiment, given that he was in the midst of sitting up and ensuring the bed sheets covered his waist and down. He was creating distance between you, purposeful and methodical.

Why?

As Ciel’s hips sunk into yours, he pressed a long kiss against your lips. “Vous êtes une tentatrice. Je ne sais pas combien de temps j'aurais pu attendre. J'ai besoin de toi. Maintenant,” he experimented by thrusting his hips, forcing you to gasp.

“As did I,” you replied cautiously. “Though do you—” love me? wish for this to happen again? want to legitimize our courtship?

“— We should discuss how we mean to proceed with the public,” Ciel interrupted, “I think allowing our courtship to slowly burn out over the next month should suffice.”

You felt no different than him slapping you across the face. You winced.“What do you mean?”

“If we sever our public relationship immediately after William’s arrest, it would be suspicious,” Ciel explained, rolling his shoulders back in a morning stretch. He pulled the bedsheet around his waist as he stood.

“Sever our public relationship?” You repeated as if you didn’t understand his English.

“Certainly. I don’t mean to inconvenience you further, and naturally, I must resume my search for a Countess… as fruitless as it may be,” Ciel explained, blind to your hurt.

Resume his search?

You couldn’t help but recall Ciel’s words to Alexander Huntington: “That is quite enough,” he replied, as cold as a glacier. “You will not speak of her in such a manner. She may very well be the next Countess of Phantomhive.”

You also recalled Alexander’s response; it seemed to grow truer by the second: “Just because you’ve dressed her pretty, doesn’t mean she’s worth anything more than a common prostitute.”

You used a blanket for your modesty as you stepped out of the bed. You couldn’t be a countess. You were a commoner from France who grew up in a ballet school because you were an illegitimate love child between a maid and a duke. Maman did her best to raise you and your father had no desire to associate himself with you.

You were an embarrassment to Ciel, too.

You were not a Countess. You danced on a stage and entertained men in order to feed and house yourself. There was no value in you beyond celebration.

“For your assistance with this case, you will always have Phantomhive support. You’ve brought my attention to a foul practice within the theater industry. I will ensure Her Majesty abolishes it, and if there is ever anything else I can do for you, don’t hesitate to contact me.” Ciel affirmed. It was a kind offer. A fair one, even. He was severing your only social protection from seeing selfish patrons nightly but committed himself to end the very practice itself. Not to mention, he gave you more than a generous salary--- you could likely afford your own townhouse now without having to rely on pleasing a patron.

He cared for you. That had been his duty from the start of his investigation, after all. This wasn’t a storybook; it wasn’t Ciel’s duty to fall for you.

Your mouth was cotton dry, the rest of your face warm with embarrassment. You had never felt your heart strain in such a painful, deliberate way. It was heavy in your chest, threatening to implode right along with your pride and vulnerability.

“Thank you,” you managed to reply, gritting your teeth into an appreciative smile. It was the vacant stage smile you used during the performances that required the most technical focus. “I told you that you cared for me,” your joke was wry in your mouth, and there wasn’t enough humor in it for Ciel to engage.

Instead, he searched between your tired gaze and your false smile, hesitating because he was unsure of how he needed to reply. Ciel didn’t want to upset you; he didn’t think he was. He must have thought these encounters were meaningless to you because they were merely another facet of your career. It must have been meaningless to him because he was a high-powered man who likely had numerous sexual partners.

He was the Earl of Phantomhive. He could have anyone for his Countess. When would there ever be merit in choosing a prima ballerina?

You had to remain amicable. Your responsibilities with Lord Phantomhive were not complete— you still had to facilitate this slow end to your courtship (the one that had never been real in the first place) and lead it to a very passive and public breakup.

“As for the art gallery reveal gala tonight?” You asked. Ciel was invited to the renowned painter, Terrence Stannard’s, annual party to show off his newest body of work. He’d invited several prosperous businessmen and aristocracts known for philanthropy in the arts because he was an “avarice-infected bastard that used most art investments he receives to fill his pocket and buy lavish luxuries rather put it towards the production of any canvas of value,” according to the Earl.

Stannard was influential enough for The British Museum to readily host these galleries, but Ciel wanted to put Stannard in his place by subtly flaunting Phantomhive prosperity. You doubted he would skip the appearance, even if he was on the heels of closing a case for the Queen. There were too many high-profile guests invited— nobility, celebrities, businessmen, government officials. It was too crucial for the Lord of Phantomhive to miss.

“We will be in attendance. Natasha already canceled your rehearsal tonight to manage her husband’s affairs— we can leave ahead of schedule,” Ciel said, stepping towards his washroom meaningfully. He wanted you to leave, and he was blissfully (or purposely, knowing him) unaware of the pain he caused you.

“Fine. I should start rehearsing if we are leaving earlier this evening. Do not interrupt me for breakfast, please. I can send for Mey-Rin when I am ready,” you declared, allowing your face to fall back into somber neutrality. You fully pulled the blanket around you, tucking a corner under your arm to keep the makeshift robe fastened around your body. You didn’t meet Ciel’s gaze as you started towards his bedroom door, your eyes painfully catching the wall directly next to it.

That was the very spot he had you pinned not eight hours prior. You couldn’t stand to be in his quarters much longer, ripe with silent mortification. You twisted the doorknob —

“Y/n?” Ciel started, confusion rising in his tone. “Are—”

— and shut the door behind you.

What made you think this man would be any different?

They all wanted the same thing. Maman was right-- your father, the duke, wanted her for her body and cast her aside like trash after she told him she was with child. With you.

Later

The Rehearsal Room

The only place you could regain your control was on pointe shoes. You immediately slipped into a practice leotard, stretched on the barre, and started warming up.

You were Y/n Y//l/n, one of London’s foremost prima ballerinas. Not only that, you solved a series of murder cases and didn’t hesitate to engage in a plot to rightfully arrest the owner of your opera house.

Your skill was so prominent and breathtaking that you transformed yourself every day through practiced steps and expressions.

No one had the right to demean you so.

You weren’t Y/n Y/l/n when you danced in front of a mirror. You were The Sugar Plum Fairy, Odette, Odie… the character you were pouring your body and soul into encompassing. You were a regal fairy queen, an innocent girl trapped in a curse, a spoiled and deceptive daughter… All you needed was the choreography, the music, and a pair of pointe shoes. You could be anyone.

No one’s validation meant nearly as much as your own, and you were beautiful. A well of talent.

Your breathing came in strained exhales, your hands resting on your kneecaps to support your upper body. You didn’t notice how much time passed — as the autumn grew deeper, nights came sooner. The sun was already beginning to retreat starting the earliest stages of dusk. The sky from the small window looked orange.

Sweat rolled down your back, tracing your spine. You could feel your heart pound in your ears, thumping like a drum. White and black spots danced in your eyes, your head swimming as you leaned against the wall in an attempt to stay upright.

This was the result of practicing coupé jetés for hours without sufficient breaks and fuel. You knew this nauseous, dizzy feeling quite well. You were old acquaintances, by now.

“Miss Y/l/n, I apologize for interrupting, but I must begin preparing you for the gallery— oh dear,” Sebastian’s approaching voice sounded distant, even though his lanky figure appeared to be much closer as he stabilized you. “Mey-Rin!” he called out, taking you in your arms like a pathetic rag doll, “get water and two slices of banana bread!”

“Sebastian,” you grumbled in protest.

“You have absolutely no say in the matter,” the butler insisted, crisply admonishing you as he brought you back to your room and sat you upright on the bed. Mey-Rin came rushing in after several short moments, Sebastian thanking her for her efforts while you accepted the water like a woman deprived for years.

The cold stung your throat and cleared your head.

“The banana bread,” Sebastian reminded you.

You looked at it, tempted, but not convinced. Upon glancing back at the butler, he offered you an insistent glare, communicating that if you didn’t take a bite of the thick slice yourself, he would find a way to force you to do so. This very same attitude had to be how he forced his master to be so perfect— at everything.

You had to admit, your body settled much more once you finished the slice of bread (and swallowed down another from Mey-Rin). Of course, it was delicious, and it started to soothe the complaining in your stomach. You were so accustomed to the sharp pain of starvation, that it settled in the back of your mind.

You even accepted a cooked cut of salmon cooked in lemon juice and garlic, paired with a side of rice. Baldroy was putting his finishing touches on his master’s supper, and Sebastian ordered him to bring a plate to you. Ciel never liked to go to events on an empty stomach, as heavily grazing on a host’s offerings too much made him feel much too in their debt. (“I can afford my own meals, I’m Ciel Phantomhive.”)

Sebastian returned to your room after ensuring Ciel had everything he needed to enjoy his dinner. “I told my Lord that you are taking your meal in your quarters to save time, given how late into the day you practiced. We still must prepare you for the gala tonight. You seem up to it,” he gauged your color, given how you must have been shades paler from your previous state. It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wasn’t the last.

“I am,” you started to confirm, only for Sebastian to interrupt.

“Miss, you are a professional. You should understand that your body requires energy to perform,” Sebastian chastised. “Eating less than an ascetic monk will only degrade those muscles you need so much.”

“Do not tell Ciel,” you grumbled, unwilling to hear this lecture from both the Earl and his head butler.

“Surely you are aware that I am not permitted to lie to my master,” he replied placidly, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Lying and failing to mention something are two different things,” you argued, finishing off the last of the fourth refill of water you guzzled down in the last half hour. You knew Sebastian was correct— you couldn’t push yourself to your limits without properly eating, but sometimes, it was impossible to bring yourself to do so. Ballet demanded particular physiques, and patrons favored the same. Maintaining your appearance was more than a career investment; it was part of your occupation.

“Touché, Miss,” Sebastian conceded, the corners of his mouth pulling into an affirmative smirk. You could never figure out where you stood with the enigmatic man, but to you, this treatment was a suitable show of kindness. It was uncharacteristic of Sebastian’s strict countenance, but you appreciated the gesture. He could have left you panting on the dance floor and pried you to your feet when it was time to prepare for the fundraiser “I will begin to draw your bath, now,” he turned to your washroom, only pausing when you stopped him.

“Sebastian. Do you know that Ciel and I…” you started, letting the question die on your tongue. You regretted the question the second you asked.

“It is my duty to be aware of everything that transpires in my master’s life, private or not,” Sebastian admitted. “Why do you ask?” he maintained his typically perky intonation, though he seemed to be searching your face.

“…No reason,” you looked away, your cheeks burning. There was nothing to be accomplished in that line of thought. Even if Ciel made you feel seen for anything beyond your looks and dancing prowess, that was never an indication that he felt anything more than physical attraction towards you. In the end, he wanted to sleep with you and maintain the same lukewarm relationship you had prior because it was most convenient for him given your lack of noble rank, or he simply didn’t share the same connection you had so vividly succumbed to.

And you didn’t need him to. You never needed anyone in your life; there was no need to start now.

“As you wish, Miss,” Sebastian proceeded to prepare your bath.

The long process of preparing you for these events was somehow expedited between the combined and coordinated efforts of Mey-Rin and Sebastian. In half the time it might have taken you to achieve a similar loose updo, soft makeup, and flawless, shimmering accessorization, you once again resembled a Countess’ dignity.

However, you refused to allow yourself to feel that superficial. In the floor-length mirror, you regarded your reflection.

Again, your reflected visage was never Y/n Y/l/n. Instead, you channeled the Sugar Plum Fairy — her effortless confidence, whimsy, and unfailing charisma that commanded the fairy court and the audience alike.

Your gown was a statement purple, an homage to Natasha’s surprising decision to make one of your Sugar Plum leotards a vivid lavender with darker purple and gold detailing. This gown reflected the same palette; your skirts fell in ruffled waves, intricate with golden and floral patterns down the sides. Your sleeves were long and merged with purple gloves that ended just before your elbow.

You were flawless, and you would see this role to its very end. No matter how you felt about Ciel, you had a job to complete, and you would do just that. A prima ballerina never abandoned her role, and she never allowed her personal theatrics to distract from her professional. Ever.

That Night

The British Museum

“Remember: no one knows about William’s arrest,” Ciel mumbled into your ear, causing your smile to drop for a fraction of a second. It was as brief as a flickering light, irritated by the Earl’s frequent need to remind you of aspects of your performance that you were more than cognizant of.

You were arm in arm as he led you into Stannard’s gallery, ignoring the nosy journalists snapping photographs of your backs. The displays seemed to show off a particular brand of oil paint, a brand that paid the artist to create such blunt advertisements for the company. Still, they were lovely works from your perspective, displaying different ethereal scenes in nature.

You merely hummed in response, discomfort stiffening your body. As he had for Huntington’s ball, Ciel’s tie matched your purple gown, making you both appear as a matching set. The rest of his suit was black, causing his blue eye to appear somehow more vibrant, and his pale complexion to glow. You wanted to kiss him almost as much as you wanted to kick him.

“Stannard is making his rounds. We’ll let him approach us later on,” Ciel said, gesturing to a man around his age with his chin. While there wasn’t anything particularly notable about the tall painter, you recognized the young woman at his side. Her name was… Maisie?--- She was a talented dancer, cast as The Snow Queen in your Nutcracker production. After all, she was second in the running for prima ballerina behind you. You defeated her.

Maisie’s honey blonde hair paired with her emerald gown flawlessly as she smiled boredly. Her eyes searched the room for something more gripping than her patron’s conversation. You could’ve sworn Ciel said Stannard was married--- or was it previously married?

Right. Stannard left his wife for Maisie. A proud young woman, she loved to show off her new husband. After all, it used to be the only aspect of her life that was better than yours. Before you and Ciel started this ruse, at least.

Stannard was now Maisie’s husband. No one knew where Stannard’s former wife was after she went missing.

“I know her,” you started to whisper, only for the words to die on your tongue. There was no need to point out your work acquaintance-- it was only a gala. You only needed to play the part of an adoring young woman, polite and thankful. Gracious.

Instead, you took the opportunity to observe the rest of the gala. Light dancing music played for those who danced in the greater atrium below. The gallery was situated on a balcony that ran around the perimeter.

Everyone was dressed in their best ensembles, the finest materials, their finest jewels. You wondered how much all of these accessories were worth-- how much of a difference even one of these necklaces would make to a factory worker. Even the dusty purple choker around your neck had diamond and amethyst pendants falling from it in the shapes of teardrops--- it had to be worth thousands.

The movement below made the participating women’s gowns appear like blotted paint on a distant canvas.

“Yes, thank you,” Ciel accepted two glasses of champagne from a server and offered one to you, leisurely investigating the painting closest to you both. He peered at Stannard’s signature in the lower right corner of the canvas, appearing stoic to the common acquaintance but askance to you.

“You do not believe Stannard is the artist behind these,” you claimed, turning your back to the rest of the party. Like Ciel, you faced the painting. You took a smug drink of your champagne.

“What?” he asked, pulled out of his train of thought.

You took a drink from your champagne to settle your irritation with the Earl. “You think he is lying about his talent,” you reiterated as if he didn’t understand you the first time.

Your lips pulled into a poisonous half-smile at his silence. You were right, and the realization made you chuckle to yourself.

“Don’t say such things so loud,” Ciel admonished with no real force behind it. If anything, he seemed amused, casting a barely-there grin at you. You had to make a clear effort to kill the flying butterflies in your stomach.

There was nothing between you.

But even so, the familiar exchange helped unravel a great deal of tension in your shoulders. There could be normalcy…at least for the last few days he was at your side for. Without the butterflies, there was a melancholic guilt to fill the space in your abdomen, not unlike the pain of starvation. You could push it to the back of your mind all the same. You would.

“Lord Phantomhive? Is that you?” An aged, motherly voice greeted. You both turned to meet its source.

You didn’t recognize the woman, nor the young woman at her side. They hardly resembled one another, the young woman’s fiery red hair a stark contrast to the mature woman’s graying brown hair.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Ciel bowed, the gesture causing you to lower yourself into a curtsey. Of course, their rank was higher than his; no one dared approach Lord Phantomhive without a looming stature. “And to you, Lady Caroline,” he addressed the young woman. Her black gown made her red hair and deep brown eyes all the more soulful. She blushed at him.

“Hello, Lord Phantomhive,” Caroline smiled, chuckling as if he did more than greet her properly.

“You know how I feel about Your Grace,” the elder woman joked but it was far from reaching her eyes, despite the smile lines that creased next to them. It was a quip that was intended to make her seem humble and approachable, but it was a mere reminder of her status. “I want you to call me Gwen,” she said airily, lying through her teeth. Ciel was smart enough to know that.

“I could never do such a thing, ma’am,” Ciel replied, mirroring her fake smile. His was much more convincing. Painfully so. The fact you couldn’t introduce yourself to another human being was horrifically demeaning. At least Lord Tiverton addressed you at the last ball--- Gwen and Caroline couldn’t seem to care less about your presence. In fact, they had yet to spare you a glance.

To your relief, Ciel started to introduce you. “I’m here with---”

“This is a lovely gala tonight, wouldn’t you say? I heard they had this orchestra sail from Germany,” Gwen cut in with her dazzling smile. “I wish we could have found you an accompaniment tonight, my dear.” she fixed her attention on Caroline for a moment, only to resettle her expectant gaze on Ciel. “It’s such a once-in-a-lifetime waltz.”

There was a distressing lack of courting suitor at Caroline’s side. Your mouth was dry, your eyes stinging. You didn’t want to be right. You prayed you weren’t.

“It wouldn’t be too much to ask you to go with her for a number or two, would it?” Gwen ordered. She spoke as if she was simply asking Ciel to fetch her her own flute of champagne.

Your stomach plummeted to the gates of hell.

There was a beat of silence, Caroline’s big eyes pleaded, and Gwen’s cold gaze demanded.

You were being suffocated--- socially executed. They may as well have pulled out a gun and aimed.

He wouldn’t, would he? Could he? Honestly?

“Of course,” he answered after a second too long.

Ciel pulled the trigger.

“I will only be a moment,” Ciel finally addressed you, dropping his unfinished champagne on a server’s tray. Before you could reply, Caroline was leading him down the stairs and to the bottom level. You remained at the top, an unfamiliar rage igniting in the front of your head. You could feel the stinging of lingering eyes on you, the soft hum of hushed chatter around you --- about you.

Your mind raced between unmitigated rage and desperately wondering what Sebastian might tell you to do. He never prepared you for an incredibly acerbic duchess and her entitled daughter, or a situation where you would be left adrift at one of these events without Ciel.

Do not engage in argument, do not interrupt anyone when they are speaking, do not lose temper or speak excitedly, do not speak of personal matters, you remembered Sebastian say. But there was nothing of substance there. Nothing to train you for watching the man you had butterflies for and kissed and touched simply… walk away from you and dance with a woman you’d never heard about.

From the balcony, you watched Ciel bow in front of Caroline, her black gown pooling on the floor as she curtsied. They looked striking next to one another, stately and striking. Caroline knew the etiquette expected of a young woman, she was a noble. She didn’t need hurried lessons, and she never had to lay her dignity bare for a man.

“Beautiful, aren’t they? It makes perfect sense,” Gwen’s voice returned at your side.

Your head jerked to look at her, startled. “Oh--- hello,” you couldn’t recall her title quick enough, it seemed.

“Your Grace,” Gwen prompted. All kindness aimed at Ciel was now absent from her face.

Do not lose temper. Do not argue, Sebastian reminded you.

“...Your Grace,” you finished pathetically.

“Do you know who Caroline and I are, Y/n?” Gwen asked, showing that she did know who you were.

“No,” you replied breathlessly, keeping your gaze steady on Ciel and Caroline as they moved with one another.

“I am the Duchess of Norfolk. Caroline’s father is the Duke of Norfolk, Henry Fitzaland-Howard. The new Postmaster General--- he was just appointed this year, isn’t that amazing?” She over pronounced her words for you, making a joke out of your first language being foreign. The same one Ciel whispered in your ear and kissed into your lips just last night. You hated the language, once again. “Caroline is our only child. We need a Duke of Norfolk. You understand.”

You wished you didn’t understand. Unfortunately, you recalled hearing of the Howard line, carelessly skimming an article that traced their lineage back to 1425. Your line traced back to a beautiful maid and an enamored--- yet embarrassed--- Duke. You were his secret shame.

Caroline was her father’s pride.

You felt hollow.

“We cannot have Ciel distracted with you any longer,” Gwen said, regaining some of the sick kindness she spoke with, now that individuals were passing behind you. By now, most of the gala attendees were dancing below you. “And it’s clear that he no longer wishes to be distracted.”

Despite your silence, Gwen continued. “But perhaps we might see you on your way out of the estate; Lord Phantomhive invited us for tea next week,” she added pleasantly. “Be sure to start packing. I’m not sure he’ll allow you to keep all of this.”

“I need to go to the washroom. Excuse me,” you snapped, finishing off your champagne. You shoved the glass into the duchess’s hand, storming down the staircase and through the onlookers as they watched couples dance. Tears blurred in your eyes, threatening to fall, but not quite doing so.

You pushed past attendees, walking as quickly as you could in the heels Sebastian put you in. They were short, but your feet ached from your vehement rehearsing. They were probably bleeding.

“Y/n!” You heard someone call. You continued.

You had no obligation to let yourself fall to the back of Ciel’s agenda. You solved his murder case. You thought you could love him. You thought he could love you. That wasn’t something he could simply erase by scheduling afternoon tea with Her Highness. No matter how much he wanted to. No matter how much you embarrassed him.

You could exit his life on your own. You didn’t need help. You weren’t Maman--- you had more to offer than wiping windows and dusting bookshelves. Maman made sure of that. She put you in a ballet academy so you were assured to have a career. To ensure that you would never have to sweep after the wealthy or beg for their scraps on the street. You were her kindness, her smile, her patience. You were the best of her, and she used her final breath to tell you just that.

You owed it to her to stand with pride as Y/n Y/l/n, prima ballerina. To stand as a star; a brilliant supernova on stage and en pointe.

And now, you had the financial freedom to rebuff any man who tried to change that.

“Y/n! Stop!”

You took to a run, pushing past the security guards near the museum’s entrance, ignoring their confused shouts. Surely you were moving too fast for them to recognize you, but that wasn’t what informed them of your identity. You held up your gown the best you could as you navigated the front stairway. The front of the museum was barren, reporters bored with being on the wrong side of the armed guard, and all gala attendees successfully captured in the throes of revelry and opulence.

“Y/n!” Ciel shouted, catching your hand in yours.

“What?” you demanded, the tears welling in your eyes finally falling down your cheeks. “What is it, Ciel?”

“Just let go of me,” your voice broke with a sob, your tears warm against your cold cheeks. “Please, just let me go.”

Ciel was never at a loss for words. His grip was still iron around your hand as he regarded you, panting from the exertion you put him through. His exhales came out in puffs of condensation from the frigid evening.

“I know what this was,” you continued. “I know what it was supposed to be, but what was here between us was real. And you- all you want to do is…throw it away. And why? Because I’m not h-her! Maybe I’ve never met my father, and I only have a small closet of a townhouse --- that you had no desire to even sit in! --- to my name, but I---.... we…were---” you were at a loss for words.

There was no putting this into words.

Not the stolen touches last night, not your intuitive knowledge of one another, and certainly not the euphoria of waking up entangled with one another.

You wiped your eyes and pulled your hostage hand from his. Swallowing deeply, you put all of your emotion into six words: “You are a coward, Lord Phantomhive.” You turned to continue on your way. You didn’t know where. All you needed was away.

“That’s not! Y/n, stop!” This was the most frenzied you’d heard the Earl’s posh accent get. You didn’t care.

“Stop!” He followed. “You don’t understand!”

“What is there to understand?” You turned on your heel.

Before Ciel could reply, a distant gunshot rang out, accompanied by a choir of shrill, terrified screams from the far side of the street. The back of the museum. The security that had been at the museum doors --- now a sizable distance from you --- ran towards the source.

In an instant, Sebastian was poised both in front of you and Ciel. Ciel brandished himself in front of you, as instinctive as his butler’s desire to protect him. You hadn’t even seen Sebastian nearby at all--- but then again, you were more than a little distracted.

“Call the Yard! She’s bleeding! Fast!” A man called out.

“Come, Y/n. Sebastian, watch for gunfire. Let no one within an arm’s length from us,” Ciel ordered, separating his personal distress with ease. He was trained for this. The man guiding you to the source of the calamity wasn’t the man you were berating across the street from the museum. This was The Queen’s Guard Dog, and he needed his partner.

Someone was shot. Not even you were selfish enough to continue your tirade. “Fine,” you mumbled, drying the last of your tears. You let Ciel guide you, Sebastian trailing behind your back.

Within moments, you were staring at the dead body of Maisie Stannard.

45 notes · View notes