Welcome to my page where I express my love and devotion to a very special Earl who has a permanent place in my heart. This blog is a special place for lovers of the Earl.
The Masterlist
A little about the wife:
I am: she/her
I am: twenty-something
I am: ficto-romantic/sexual, I have a romantic/sexual attraction to fictional characters.
I will not:
- interact with minors under the age of 18. If your account has no age I will assume you are too young for me to speak with. So please add your age if you intend to interact. I will also be unfollowing any blog with no age/adult listed.
I do:
- occasionally have posts that are NSFW. I will do my best to tag them.
- repost from a few of my favorite writers to show support as well as spread their amazing creations regarding the Earl.
I do not:
- write male reader or any other gender of reader. I have difficulty writing outside of what I am.
- write for Sebastian or any other character in the Black Butler fandom. I may include them in my blurbs as fillers but I will not write for them beyond that. This blog is Earl centered.
Facts to know regarding the blog:
O!Ciel (“our Ciel” as called by the fandom after the reveal of the Phantomhive twins) will be referred to as Ciel in this blog or Astre (this name is a popular theory for O!Ciel’s true name. Sirius is also a popular choice but I do not enjoy it as much.).
Ciel is aged up to 28. I came to this age by taking his current age in the manga, 13, and add the age of the manga itself, 15. Hence 28 for his age. I will have posts where his age will be specified as younger. (This is no longer accurate as of September 18th, 2022.)
You may request scenarios if you would like, I will be checking your blog and page before interacting for age.
Lastly, please be patient my doves with content, posts and accuracy of facts. I wish to portray the Earl with the respect and dignity he deserves. If I am wrong then please inform me in a polite message what I have gotten wrong so I can fix it.
In love and in war, drabble 6: the one where you meet your match
Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica, your father’s vast shipping empire.
Warnings: none!
Author’s Note: This is the first part of drabble six!! Thank you all so much for your thoughts on splitting the chapter! I’ve never done this before, but I’ve missed you all so much, and found myself at a compelling place to cut this very long drabble in half, I couldn’t make us wait any longer.
You all inspire me so much, thank you all endlessly for your patience. I’m very motivated to finish the second part :) and I hope you all like this one, in the meantime!!
Happy Reading,
Dan
⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒
MASTERLIST
St. Dunstan’s Athletic Hall, London, 1895
Y/n Y/l/n
Your team was the favorite to win, and that estimation was not simply your ego speaking; statistically, it was the truth. You only needed to see it through.
Anticipation sat in the pit of your stomach—the hungry, desperate sort that your etiquette master said a lady ought to keep tamed beneath depths of saccharine sweetness, never for public observation. As typical social rules dictated, you were always to be the polite, well-read young lady. A diamond in your lineage’s crown. As the only Richmond heir, you had to embody the gem’s sparkling polish, its brilliance and its toughness, in a way.
Dust moles flew in the air, illuminated by the sun streaming inside the expansive hall. Augmented by the hall’s large windows on both sides, morning rays warmed your back. Foil fencing blades chimed in conversation as teammates practiced amongst themselves. The familiar scent of wood varnish made your nose tickle.
You stood proudly with your team, folding each arm over your chest in two quick, consecutive, stretches. You used the warmth that seeped into your biceps as an inconsequential distraction from the various spectators filling inside and settling. Finally, your familiar fencing uniform—a navy cycling-style skirt with covert trousers beneath, and a white blouse—made movement easy. You pushed one of your twin braids behind your shoulder and brushed any stray hair away from your face.
The panel of formal judges hired by the Young Women’s Fencing Society took their seats at their distinguished table, and teams of fencers clustered together on the main floor. You were well aware of where your parents were situated in the hall, it was the same viewing area where all the organization’s sponsoring nobility perched, each watching with varying degrees of interest. The other ladies on your team hailed from other such families, as well.
Your fencing collective’s summer tournament was officially about to commence.
This was one of the few days you traded in your silk gowns and decorative fans for sporting uniforms and regulation blades—a day where you couldn’t afford to overburden your mind with thoughts of your marriage deadline, TransAtlantica…Lord Phantomhive…your mind supplied unhelpfully.
Especially not Lord Phantomhive.
The thought of the enigmatic Earl made your breath quicken even more than the judging panel’s arrival had.
Last week, an unusual scheduling mishap forced you to cancel your planned tea—apparently Daphne had mismarked your agenda and your mother needed you for an unmissable gown fitting that afternoon. You worried your letter of apology to the Phantomhive estate hadn’t fully conveyed your disappointment. His answer had been polite enough, but that did nothing to douse your simmering nerves.
Focus, Y/n, you commanded yourself. You had a tournament to win—a series of individual bouts to win for your team. Any loss would reverberate across your social world. The consequences wouldn’t be your sole possession—they never were.
Squeezing your eyes closed for a moment to collect your thoughts, you refocused on the piste separating you from your opponents. There was no time for this. Your teammates were counting on you, your father was.
Your restless fingers twisted at the family ring you wore around your thumb, betraying the last of your nerves before you banished Lord Phantomhive from your mind. Just for now, while you obliterated your opposition.
You observed the Hampstead Ladies’ Athletic Circle without a hint of delicate reverence you usually constructed for your acquaintances. For once, it was expected that you ignore those around you and focus entirely on the battle you were about to wage. The only acceptable kind for a lady of your stature.
Thus, your expression mirrored a general’s grave austerity. Although your mouth was relaxed in its neutral line, your sharp expression was intense enough to catch the look of Lady Amelia Jennings, another fencer from across the elevated fencing stage in the middle of the hall. You only offered her a simple nod in greeting, nothing more.
Fencing was a sport of discipline, strategy, and precision. Your blades would do the talking for you, first and foremost. Most of all, you cherished the elegance and energy its mastery demanded.
At your sides, your teammates shared the same enthusiasm that rattled your pulse. You realized they’d been chattering this entire time, while you’d been venturing through your overlapping thoughts.
“I do rather like our chances today,” said Lady Elizabeth Midford, one of best fencers in the Young Women’s Fencing Society. “I saw a ladybug land on our carriage’s door handle this morning. That must mean good luck,” she asserted. The blonde held her blade casually, with as much ease as most ladies might hold a purse or fan.
“I tend to agree—there are only eight teams fencing. This tournament is ours,” your third teammate, Lady Vivian Tate, chimed in. “Bloody Yorkshire ladies cannot compare to us.”
“Isn’t that why we defeated them last season?” laughed Lady Samantha Davies, the foil fencer who completed your team. “Who broke the all-time match high?” She asked rhetorically of the three of you.
“We did!” You all chirped variations of the same affirmation.
“I know we will do it again!” Lizzie pulled you all in for a close group hug. The four of you were some of the highest ranked foil fencers in the ladies’ fencing division.
Your team’s reverie calmed to silence as a singer led the entire athletic hall in a mandatory rendition of God Save The Queen.
Ciel Phantomhive
The air smelled of leather and wood polish, as expected of a tournament, shrill whistles screeching here and there. Groups of fencers stood in scattered huddles on the main floor surrounding two considerably sized pistes, or fencing platforms.
Along with the rest of the hall, Ciel and his butler rose to the opening notes of the national anthem. The Earl pressed the palm of his hand flat over his, he attempted to spare the anthem at least a fraction of his attention, but his true focus was on locating a certain team among the small groups of young women.
The Young Women’s Fencing Society was the beloved contrivance of Lord Y/l/n and Lord Midford’s. Had it been anyone else’s pet project, Ciel doubted it would have persisted beyond a passing idea. Ever. Much less garner enough public support to fund and fill an athletic hall of this near-cavernous size. Half the spectators watched from floor stands, half watched from the balcony seating around the perimeter of the space.
Typically, London’s aristocracy held an unmistakable disdain for women’s sporting events, but Her Majesty seemed to admire the value in fencing’s mandatory grace and technique. Most women in her royal mob learned it—why not encourage those part of her subjects’ most elite families?
With Her Majesty’s approval, the Earl Richmond and Ciel’s uncle constructed an advisory board, and from there, reworked the sport into something just feminine enough to be appropriate for young ladies.
That was why a good half of polite society was spending their Sunday here. At a women’s fencing tournament. The practice caught on. The theater, the ritual of it, the overzealous fundraisers and galas the society insisted upon to accompany the tournaments. To them, the appeal was obviously the performance aspect more than it was the sport. Most ladies couldn’t replicate a shred of the lethality his cousin possessed—and they simply weren’t coached to.
Someone’s father would absolutely bribe one of the judges to let his daughter dearest take the win.
That being said, Ciel’s personal feelings about the matter were irrelevant. This pointless event was the newest way he was throwing his time away in this seemingly endless pursuit of Lady Y/n’s hand in marriage and the company privileges he’d wed all the same. Despite having known Elizabeth and Y/n were teammates since the start of the season, Ciel hadn’t intended to exploit this particular angle at the beginning of this scheme. He’d deemed it too direct for his style.
That was, at least, before her mother forced his hand by canceling their afternoon tea. It had been set for this week.
“Just to the left, sir,” Sebastian said, an unmistakable note of something humorous in his tone that Ciel disliked. At his side, the butler scanned over the crowd, amused. Always with disconcerting amusement. He was a demon, after all. Strange bastard. “You’re in Lady Elizabeth’s natural sightline. It’s only a matter of seconds before she notices you.”
Following Sebastian’s direction, Ciel noticed Lady Y/n and Elizabeth, the elevated fencing stage separating them from their opposition. Their team match was one of two simultaneous matches, the fencing collective’s announcer explained once the singer completed her rendition of the national anthem.
“Good, I told Lizzie I’d make an appearance today,” Ciel said. At this point, all of high society had to know of his intent to court Lady Y/n Y/l/n this season. But just as well, they knew of Lord Adam Kingston’s interest. His attendance today was a matter of winning over the lady.
Ciel would take any advantage of any opportunity he made privy to him. That had always been his way.
TransAtlantica was his damn inevitability.
Lady Y/n
The moment the applause for the anthem came to an acceptable lull, Elizabeth turned to the three of you, smiling wide as her vibrant emerald eyes searched the audience behind you. Her warm excitement was a stark contrast to the stoic seriousness you wore and lack of contribution to your team’s chatter. Your first bout of the day was scheduled first for this team match.
Your palms were sweaty around your foil’s handle. You were surrounded in all directions — spectators, stared down at you from the balcony and some peered from the outer stands on the same floor, judges, attendants, two large scoreboards.
“So, ladies,” Lizzie couldn’t seem to contain her energy, bouncing on her soles. Her attention split between your team and scouring the rows of society members around the hall for someone in particular, to your confusion. Her immediate family, Lord and Lady Scotany and Lord Edward, were in their usual seating arrangement. Who else could she be looking for?
“My cousin finally agreed to watch us today. We absolutely must make the trip worthwhile, I swear I’ve been begging him for ages.”
Vivian gasped, her focus immediately jumping to the spectators with a newfound sense of urgency. A wide smile parted her lips. “Do you mean…” She started to ask. Her hands lifted for a moment, as if she was tempted to smooth out her bangs.
For lack of interest in the conversation, your mind started to wander. The Midford family tree was not a lineage you were familiar with, and you doubted the attendance of her cousin would have any particular impact on you. Unfortunately, your mind couldn’t cram in much more than the occasional thought of—
“Oh!” Elizabeth grinned, clapping her gloved hands together with enthusiasm. “There he is, with his butler!” She waved to the stands with renewed energy, just a touch more than she’d aimed at her parents, just a few moments ago.
“Ciel!”
Hearing Lord’s Phantomhive’s first name made your stomach drop. Seeing him in the balcony stands caused the first real break in your stormy expression all morning: stunned, then daresay, enthusiastic? You smiled, unable to help yourself.
The Earl looked about as composed as he always was, his discerning eye sharper than lead crystal. Untouchable, devastatingly good. Against the sunlight, his deep cerulean morning coat appeared darker in contrast, matching his eye. Raven hair fell just slightly over his eyepatch, reaching the narrow bridge of his nose.
Ciel Phantomhive
Ciel acknowledged Lizzie’s faraway greeting with a wave, his chin nodding down at her. He couldn’t hear her speak over the expansive hall’s chatter but he could only imagine what his cousin was saying about him.
He allowed his lips to hint at a smile, one of familial recognition. Support, though he was well aware the prodigy swordswoman didn’t need it. Not here.
Only then, Ciel let himself meet Lady Y/n’s gaze, noting the instantaneous grin that brightened her focused face immediately. That surprised and nervous look—though, vivacious, nevertheless—was probably one of the most promising aspects of Ciel’s week.
It was a promising sign of progress, and a helpful hint that the cancellation of their tea hadn’t been a reflection of his performance at the exhibition or otherwise. Or any indication of Adam Kingston’s. It was confirmation that the cancellation was indeed an intervention by Lady Richmond. Sebastian said that Daphne insisted Y/n’s mother needed her for a pressing matter the entirety of their scheduled time together.
Just what Ciel needed—the vindictive mother and the childhood friend from days fonder posed in his way.
But even so, it would be utterly foolish of him to dismiss the momentousness of that smile illuminating her face. That was an absolutely bewildered, anticipatory look that she’d only reserve for someone she’d hoped to see. Perhaps, someone who had already been on her mind.
Ciel lifted an innocuous eyebrow at Lady Y/n and tilted his head, just so, as if to signal his curiosity. As if to remark, surprised seeing you here. The Earl lifted his hand to offer a familiar wave, a clear and true sign of public acknowledgement.
Going to put your required reading to use, now? Ciel challenged within their shared gaze, the smirk his mouth then betrayed. A lady who could recite The Art of War, having read it in the original Mandarin, might put on something near a decent bout. At least by the standards of the women’s theatrics—forgive him, fencing. Mostly performance, not so much a real competition of strength and grit. The sport differed in fine print.
Ciel assumed she would recall their conversation on the pier earlier that month, where she boasted about her fencing capabilities to him, and he’d answered dubiously. He doubted she’d prove him terribly wrong, but he was prepared to entertain the notion. Outwardly, at the very least. He could pretend she was a decent fencer, if he had to. But he hoped — and assumed — Y/n would demonstrate some degree of talent.
He watched a flushed Lady Y/n say something to Lizzie, who laughed.
Lady Y/n
“Right… Lord Ciel Phantomhive is your cousin,” you said to Elizabeth rhetorically, your smile much more absurdly bashful than the red on your face. How could you have forgotten?
You supposed the familial connection wasn’t often advertised. Before this season, Lord Phantomhive seldom made any appearances at large social gatherings and public events. The rumors about the man significantly outpaced the truth of him among your peers. And yet...this was his fifth purposeful appearance this season, a clear signal that he was courting you. There was no mistaking it now.
You couldn’t decide to look at Lord Phantomhive in the stands with his tall butler or to gape at your teammate further in disbelief. Ultimately, the nobleman won, and you struggled to tear your eyes away from him. He stood in the proximity of his and Elizabeth’s shared family. Not too far from your parents, either.
Lady Elizabeth giggled, bringing her gloved hand up just in front of her mouth. “Y/n, I suspect my cousin didn’t appear today only on my behalf,” she said conspiratorially, smiling innocently. The sides of her eyes crinkled—her enthusiasm helping alleviate the blossoming anxiety in your chest ever so slightly.
Your other two teammates made no attempt to stifle their amused laughs. It seemed you were infamous for being the cause for Lord Phantomhive’s emergence out of his typical social obscurity.
“Oh, I would hate to jump to conclusions,” you answered modestly, eyes still on the Earl. A hyperactive hand twisted and tugged at the bottom of one of your braids.
Elizabeth mumbled something playfully dubious to the rest of your team that you didn’t hear, because you were more concerned with admiring Lord Phantomhive from this vantage point. His ring glittered where his hand steadily held the top of a walking cane. His lips lifted partially in a smirk, suggesting to you that he was already assessing your skill. The Earl seemed mildly amused, as if you were a part of a joke you hadn’t been made privy to.
Lord Phantomhive’s decision to support you so publically was not a light one—an untraditional but not an impolite means of courtship. His appearance had to be indicative of a complex, considerate plan that only the chairman of a gigantic corporation like Funtom would devise in order signal his interest in someone.
That was all the more reason you had to win. With the help of Lord Midford, your father petitioned the crown immensely for this program to exist. The Earl of Richmond knew that he could never have a son, all he could do was invest his time and resources into you, his only child. A daringly progressive move that the Richmond name still had to defend to this day. There was no excuse for you to be anything but exquisite in all endeavors.
You were a competent fencer. You’d have to prove it, as always. Just as you always had to prove yourself in every skill.
For just one more moment, you waved at Lord Phantomhive. You kept the motion as graceful as you could manage before your fencing master called your name. For the umpteenth time, you resolved yourself to win the tournament. There was even more at stake, now.
Ciel Phantomhive
“Now that could be the look of a young lady’s cautious affections, sir,” Sebastian commented, only loud enough for Ciel to hear. The Earl made no effort to look anywhere from Y/n as she readied herself for her bout. Sebastian continued, “it seems as though that that balloon stunt did indeed work in your favor—so much so that the grief you gave me for it is further proven to be entirely unfounded.”
“Shut up,” Ciel scowled, just as the judges called the fencing teams to start their team matches. Thankfully, Lady Y/n turned away to speak to her teammates and fencing master before she could catch the murderous glint in his eye. “Just watch the damn tournament, and try not to do anything ridiculous.”
The demon scoffed mirthlessly, clearly unappreciative of Ciel’s read on his courtship strategies. But honestly! Who would appreciate having to run full force towards an ascending hot air balloon, only to put all of their strength into dragging the bloody thing back down? All in the stifling heat, in less? That affair, even if productive for his cause, was entirely discomfiting.
“Ridiculous? What could you possibly be referring to?” Sebastian asked with enough surprise in his voice to insinuate his offense the word, which caused frustration to prickle in Ciel’s chest. “As I recall, your order was for me to find a way to make this particular young woman fall in love with you. By any means.” His voice was just low enough to fall beneath the cheering audience’s cadence.
“That’s no excuse to have put me in such an absurd situation,” Ciel answered impatiently. More than aware that his words were falling on deaf ears because his butler always had a penchant for making him suffer as much as possible. For humiliating him as much as he could dare. Ever since he was a child.
Bloody demon.
“If your acting were versatile by any means, perhaps I would not have to go to such dynamic means,” Sebastian remarked, to which Ciel couldn’t bother to dignify with a response. He rolled his eyes and refocused on the fencing piste in the center of the athletic hall.
When Ciel didn’t reply, the demon cleared his throat. “With that in mind: it’s the young lady’s turn to impress you with her swordsmanship. Do be appreciative of her efforts and keep the sour grimace on your face to a minimum, if you hope to inspire further affections from her.”
Sour grimace? Ciel had to stop himself from rolling his eyes again, considering Y/n was now aware of where to spot him.
The Earl exhaled a breath he’d been holding since Y/n first spotted him. His gaze traced back to her again. She composed herself well after the shock of seeing him, the only evidence on her face that remained was the flush tinting her cheeks.
Over the course of the day, Y/n would fence at least four times, every match randomly paired fencers to duel. The team with the most victorious fencers in their individual matches proceeded further into the tournament.
Ciel couldn’t expect anything particularly riveting to transpire at a women’s league.
“We’ll be stuck here all day. I’ll do my best,” Ciel answered. He had to cancel two meetings to be in attendance today—one with a silk importer and another with his head of marketing. At the very least, it meant he’d watch Y/n fence, and see what sort of talent the league qualified to accompany his cousin’s. A young woman whom he’d watch mow down reanimated opposition with a relentlessness he could only respect.
“Pay attention, sir. You may be surprised by the lessons you learn,” Sebastian said, likely feeling as though he’d just offered Ciel a bit of sage wisdom. The Earl merely scoffed, watching Y/n brush some free strands of her hair behind her ear. She seemed nervous. Her team’s fencing master announced the line-up for the next few team matches, and Y/n was testing the weight of the foil in her grasp. She was sparring first.
Frankly, Ciel hadn’t anticipated feeling a surge of genuine intrigue from women’s fencing. The lessons I might learn. Please, he thought, stealing a sarcastic glance at Sebastian before refocusing on the piste.
Lady Y/n
Each team match consisted of four bouts between pairs of opponents. The team with the most individual victories wins the match. It took two match losses for a team to be eliminated from the tournament.
As it was your first match after warmups, your body was tense with the weight of all expectations landing hard on your shoulders. You were not going to lose to Lady Jennings. The thought of your father watching you fail was punishing enough—you refused to let Lord Phantomhive be privy to it. As The Queen’s Guard Dog, he would never respect you.
You let this worry fuel your moves, powering each attack and your cautious defense, unwilling to give your opponent a chance. As soon as the greeting pleasantries ended, you feinted high, disengaged around her slow parry, and landed a pointed thrust to her chest.
Point. The whistle blew in confirmation, a judge called out.
You distantly registered the clapping surrounding you. Instead, you reset into your beginning stance, en guard, and fixated on your opponent. You distributed your weight between your feet evenly, anticipating some form of an attack.
As much as you wanted to chance a glance at the Earl, you denied yourself the transgression. It was in your best interest—you had to prove your capability. The first time you met, Lord Phantomhive was condescending towards you after he pulled you out of harm’s way—hence your sharp exchange after.
Now, Lord Phantomhive was spending his Sunday watching your tournament. He likely had manuscripts worth of essential documents that required his approval, perhaps even an investigation for Her Majesty to head. Instead, Lord Ciel Phantomhive chose to take this opportunity to introduce himself to the convoluted world of aristocratic courtship this season. The long, enduring process of finding a fiancée. And it seemed he had his eye on you.
Jennings pressed forward, her attack cautious. You’d almost describe it as languid. The move was predictable and slow, making your parry in sixte was more of a reflex in comparison. You had more than enough time to match her and make up the ground she attempted to cover. A quick riposte you jabbed towards her side almost returned the favor, but Jennings managed to block it.
Your blades clashed, yours controlled and powerful. You hoped to set the tone for the tournament and waited for a second of hesitation to exploit with each bind. You took a commanding step forward and feinted, suggesting you were aiming for the same expanse of torso before pivoting with an agility that took years to perfect.
Point. Another whistle blew, a flag raised. “Valid point for Lady Richmond-Y/l/n!”
Reset, en garde.
Ciel Phantomhive
Lady Jennings managed to score once or twice on Y/n, but it was no use. The game was practically cat and mouse, in favor of the Lady Y/n, which certainly eased the sense of performance Ciel felt he had to display. Compared to hiding his scorn for Biceps for Brains, expressing his satisfaction for her triumph was a trifle.
In one final deft move, Lady Y/n ended what was predominantly a one-sided clash with a stop-hit that her opponent never had a chance to parry. Her strike landed like lightning: sudden and precise. The observation made the Earl stand up straighter as he considered the young woman.
Y/n pulled off her mask and accepted her team’s squealing embraces. Her face was flush with effort, and the relief in her face was clear. Wrapping her arms around a jumping Lizzie, the lady’s eyes found her parents up in the seats.
“Not bad,” Ciel mumbled his admission, confessing to no one else besides Sebastian. The demon merely chuckled in response.
Ciel handed off his cane to Sebastian to free his hands. His applause came in measured beats, not quite so rowdy as his surroundings, but the effort was a proper acknowledgement of her performance.
“She felt she had something to prove,” Sebastian said.
It wasn’t that her opposition was particularly fearsome or gifted thus far, but the certainty in Y/n’s execution was indicative of careful training. Her abilities had to be a product of exhaustive, hypercritical hours spent in bouts and in coaching, Ciel understood that well. He might have ventured as far as to say that he respected it.
It was inconvenient enough to maintain his own curated skill set as a foil; despite relentless complaint, he’d spar with Sebastian or Baldroy once or twice a week in his private salle.
Y/n kept her mask tucked beneath her arm, making an ungainly attempt at holding it in the same hand as her blade. She waved at her parents with her free hand before her gaze snapped to Ciel with a speed that intrigued him.
Engaged, Ciel leaned over the balcony railing in front of him with a hand raised in recognition. This was the theater of public courtship, after all. He could feel the weight of the athletic hall’s attention, and he had to act accordingly. And naturally, validate his intended’s win.
Though, when Lady Y/n finally looked away, the amused curve pulled at his lips longer than necessary for acting’s sake. Strange.
“What are you staring at?” Ciel asked, aware of his butler’s look without having to see it head on. Not with it searing the edges of his periphery. He could feel it, a warning of impending inconvenience on a supernatural magnitude.
“I am merely watching the tournament closely, just as you asked me to, sir,” Sebastian said placidly. He handed Ciel his cane back once the applause came to a lull. “Unless you might have me do something more.”
“Do you recall what I said about ridiculous questions?”
“Certainly, my Lord.”
Y/n’s match set the precedent for a decisive run for the rest of her team. For the most part, they triumphed over Hampstead following her accomplished bout. The only loss was one to many sneaky ripostes that repeatedly tripped up his cousin. She claimed she’d been ‘warming up,’ but Ciel could see the frustration straighten her posture like a taut bowstring. That early failure made her frankly untouchable on the piste for the remainder of her time on the piste.
As for the rest of the long day, the team made easy work of securing one of the competing spots for the tournament’s deciding game. Their team tied with the Yorkshire Ladies, the second seed squad from the winter season’s closing tournament. Back with a taste for vengeance, clearly.
Lady Y/n
As you anticipated, your team had the honor of competing in the final round.
The weight of your past four bouts started to slowly settle into your body, wearing down on your shoulders and formulating a thunderous headache in the back of your skull. A pulsing strain ebbed down your arms and your back, not unlike your heartbeat, which sat in your throat. Sweat dampened the back of your neck, hairline, and palms.
This final match would decide the opening season’s victors. Both your team and the Yorkshires had fourteen match wins each, making every single individual bout essential. Your team could presumably snag the win from the Yorkshires’ clutch, but such a feat would require a near-perfect match.
The fencing masters pulled the match lineup: Lady Samantha first, followed by Elizabeth, Vivian, and you, as the closer. A highly motivated Lizzie recovered the point from Samantha’s loss, and you watched with bated breath as Vivian faced an impending defeat, as well.
As the Yorkshire fencer managed a point, the tip of her foil undeniably flat against Lady Vivian’s side. Your heart sank as the teams’ overall match scores settled fifteen to sixteen, but you still welcomed her off the piste with a trying smile. One that did its best not to betray your worry for the tournament’s outcome.
“She feinted,” Lady Vivian groaned, handing off her blade to an attendant and burying her face in her gloved hands. “I should have watched my peripherals more closely. I should have —”
“Vivian, you fenced magnificently,” you insisted with a comforting pat on your teammate’s shoulder. “Lady Anna clearly practiced a devious sequence like that over and over.”
An appointed judge rose from his designated seat, arm raised and eyebrows quirked to compel the hall into silence. His other hand brought his small, brass whistle to his lips, the shrill sound finally clearing the last of the noise.
The judge called, “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears our final match of the tournament will decide the game! If Lady Y/n wins this match, she will tie up the score and extend the game to tomorrow morning; if Lady Harrington takes it, the Yorkshire Ladies are set to take home this season’s title. This tournament today, folks, will either end an exceptional game of retribution or a miraculous comeback.”
“Lady Y/n Y/l/n-Richmond, Lady Isabel Harrington: prepare!” The judge called, punctuating the order with a conclusive blow of his whistle.
Lizzie pulled you into a tight good luck hug with Samantha and Vivian immediately piling on. For just a moment, you closed your eyes tight, reminding yourself for what felt like the thousandth time, to focus.
You have the chance to save this, you told yourself, you can do this. You have to. For your family name, for your team, for your suitor.
For your own bloody pride, Y/n.
You swallowed hard, imaging that you were washing down your nerves. Your team released you, your fencing master clapping your shoulder in a grandfatherly fashion typical of him as you approached the piste. He handed over your mask. You forced yourself to take a few deep breaths before sliding it on, the prevailing smell of polish, dust and metal in the hall doing nothing to settle your headache. It pounded against your skull, demanding to be felt in only a conglomeration of anxiety, physical exertion, and focus could do.
With an optimistic smile, Elizabeth handed you your foil. With thanks, you accepted your familiar blade. The weight was something of a comfort, the way the handle molded to your grasp. You settled on the main platform, heart pounding faster than any corps de drums could hope to achieve.
You faced Lady Isabel and acted your way through swift sportsman pleasantries. A simple handshake and a retreat back into your starting position: dominant foot forward, the other perpendicular behind it, sword arm extended and pointing.
“En garde… prêts… allez!” Another judge called the start of the bout. A whistle blew.
Unwilling to let Isabel set the first exchange’s pace, you immediately raised your foil and feinted high, towards her upper chest. You were hyperconscious of your whole body’s every sensation—where you stepped, the slightest bend in your legs, the tension in your arms.
When Lady Isabel turned her foil to deflect your attack, you disengaged around her blade too quickly for her to catch at the angle she’d hoped for. She took a frustrated step forward, cheers from a particular section of the hall sounded, pleased with your recovery. It was a promising start.
Your swords clashed sternly when you parried Isabel’s counterattack, but she managed to block your attempted riposte. Your jaw tensed, your gloves crackling when your fingers tightened around the foil. You hadn’t expected her to intercede that riposte—the move was a favorite of yours—and this imbalance gave way to Harrington managing to land an aggressive straight attack against you. In a clever parry, her arm extended a linear thrust that touched your lower rib.
The blow of a whistle and a raised flag signified that Isabel had claimed the first point. The Yorkshire supporters cheered. You refused to risk focusing anywhere outside the piste’s bounds. Ruminating over your doubts could only make for the worst sort of distraction. They always managed to waver your blade and slow your steps.
You reset your measure and returned to your starting position. Confident Isabel would press forward, you prepared to defend yourself, blocking quick attacks aimed at your side. You answered with a parry sixte and exploited the slightest opening in her guard by landing a riposte to her upper chest. She’d been so focused on attacking you, her defenses wavered. The whistle blew, the points evened to a reassuring one to one, and you both reset your positions.
Once again, you feinted high, Isabel disengaged low. Your blade missed by the slightest centimeter, and the referee practically gift wrapped the point to Yorkshire. Frustrated, you countered with a successful stop-hit to her shoulder.
A flare of indignance twisted in your stomach as the judge considered the move. Your chest rose and fell with effort, and you fought the urge to slouch. Much to your relief, he raised his flag and boomed, “valid point for Richmond! We are all tied up, yet again!” Two for two.
You only needed three more points. You let that realization thrust your powerful lunge forward, fueling your foil as it clashed against Isabel’s in a heated bind. She was nimble, skilled, but no more than you were, and surely not half as motivated. Lady Harrington was already engaged, having been betrothed for ages—the politics of romantic possibilities and woes of inheritance were lost to her.
While thoughts of investments, suitors and shares starred in your sleepless nights, most noble ladies were most concerned with the fabric and make of their next commissioned ball gown. Winning for Isabel would be a small celebration. Winning for you was a reaffirmation of your father’s focus on you, the resources he poured into your unconventional education on all aspects related to inheritance. Most other ladies had their men to manage these matters.
You would only have yourself and a careful vetting process to find a spouse that loved the Richmond name enough to step aside and allow you, the most capable person to shoulder its responsibilities. You lived and breathed TransAtlantica.
Isabel blocked your riposte, and her replying blade was just shy of your rib. Undeterred, you pushed back, stepping forward into a lunge with your dominant foot and driving your blade center-mass. Now, it was your three points to her two. Under your mask, you grinned as the tip of your sword made contact with Isabel’s beige uniform.
Although Harrington managed to tie the score, thanks to a quick beat-attack, you were undeterred. You noted her habit of over-attacking directly after the whistle blew, and you let her take the first attack and the right of way, prepared for her favored center attack, which came seconds later. You parried and riposted, catching her shoulder again by seconds.
“Match point to Richmond!” A judge called. All you needed was one last point and the game would be a resurgence for the books. Just one last touch of your sword. You risked a glance around the piste, catching the hope in your team’s stares, the impassivity in your father’s face. Lord Phantomhive’s pride as he leaned over the balcony, gloved hands locked on the wooden railing, as he likely attempted to forecast your next move.
The whistle blew. You could end this, your opponent was tiring, too—you could see it in the way Isabel’s shoulders were rising and falling with her ragged breathing, the slightest waver in her foil. For this point, you lingered back and readied your parry as Isabel shoved her foil center once again. Just as you tilted your blade at the perfect angle to deflect the attack, an invisible force jerked your sword arm down.
Somehow, the unanticipated motion destroyed your balance and your forced your lunge to collapse inward. You struggled to regain your footing and measure, and in that moment of incoordination, Isabel landed a point square in the middle of your chest.
“Not to be outdone quite yet, Lady Harrington regains her ground!” The judge called.
What have you done? For a moment, you lost complete control of your parry. It was as if something pulled it off its path with the same certainty as gravity’s natural course. So sudden and inevitably strong, you felt as if you never could have prevented it. The only way you could describe its suddenness and potency was supernatural and that was ridiculous!
Get a hold of yourself, Y/n.
It was your exhaustion. That was all it could be. You pushed yourself back into your starting pose, trying to tame the way your reset trembled. Your blade faltered, even after a whistle denoted the start of the bout’s final exchange. Isabel came straight forward with a newfound conviction, sensing your worry and imbalance as clear as a shark might catch hints of blood in saltwater. Moving in appropriately.
When you attempted to parry, the same shocking, mysterious pull dragged your sword arm out of the way. It looked as if you misinterpreted the intent of her sword entirely and opened your side to attack, when it was clear she was about to feint center. A move you had already known to predict, given your past successful scores. To your family, the judges, and Lord Phantomhive, you looked as if you second guessed your instinct and purposefully let your blade dip.
As the score ascended four to five, and the victory went to Yorkshire, the world seemed to slow around you.
The pang of apprehension that punctured your chest was indescribable—Lady Harrington may as well have stabbed you clean through.
“And Lady Harrington’s match point concludes our tournament! The Yorkshire Ladies have claimed the Summer Tournament Title,” the judge called out. There was a knot in your throat. You pulled off your mask, more than aware of the crimson spreading your face and up your ears. Painfully aware of it, in fact. You blinked hard twice, mostly to ensure your stinging eyes kept dry, and shook her hand. Once, twice.
In love and in war, drabble 6: the one where you meet your match
Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica, your father’s vast shipping empire.
Warnings: none!
Author’s Note: This is the first part of drabble six!! Thank you all so much for your thoughts on splitting the chapter! I’ve never done this before, but I’ve missed you all so much, and found myself at a compelling place to cut this very long drabble in half, I couldn’t make us wait any longer.
You all inspire me so much, thank you all endlessly for your patience. I’m very motivated to finish the second part :) and I hope you all like this one, in the meantime!!
Happy Reading,
Dan
⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒
MASTERLIST
St. Dunstan’s Athletic Hall, London, 1895
Y/n Y/l/n
Your team was the favorite to win, and that estimation was not simply your ego speaking; statistically, it was the truth. You only needed to see it through.
Anticipation sat in the pit of your stomach—the hungry, desperate sort that your etiquette master said a lady ought to keep tamed beneath depths of saccharine sweetness, never for public observation. As typical social rules dictated, you were always to be the polite, well-read young lady. A diamond in your lineage’s crown. As the only Richmond heir, you had to embody the gem’s sparkling polish, its brilliance and its toughness, in a way.
Dust moles flew in the air, illuminated by the sun streaming inside the expansive hall. Augmented by the hall’s large windows on both sides, morning rays warmed your back. Foil fencing blades chimed in conversation as teammates practiced amongst themselves. The familiar scent of wood varnish made your nose tickle.
You stood proudly with your team, folding each arm over your chest in two quick, consecutive, stretches. You used the warmth that seeped into your biceps as an inconsequential distraction from the various spectators filling inside and settling. Finally, your familiar fencing uniform—a navy cycling-style skirt with covert trousers beneath, and a white blouse—made movement easy. You pushed one of your twin braids behind your shoulder and brushed any stray hair away from your face.
The panel of formal judges hired by the Young Women’s Fencing Society took their seats at their distinguished table, and teams of fencers clustered together on the main floor. You were well aware of where your parents were situated in the hall, it was the same viewing area where all the organization’s sponsoring nobility perched, each watching with varying degrees of interest. The other ladies on your team hailed from other such families, as well.
Your fencing collective’s summer tournament was officially about to commence.
This was one of the few days you traded in your silk gowns and decorative fans for sporting uniforms and regulation blades—a day where you couldn’t afford to overburden your mind with thoughts of your marriage deadline, TransAtlantica…Lord Phantomhive…your mind supplied unhelpfully.
Especially not Lord Phantomhive.
The thought of the enigmatic Earl made your breath quicken even more than the judging panel’s arrival had.
Last week, an unusual scheduling mishap forced you to cancel your planned tea—apparently Daphne had mismarked your agenda and your mother needed you for an unmissable gown fitting that afternoon. You worried your letter of apology to the Phantomhive estate hadn’t fully conveyed your disappointment. His answer had been polite enough, but that did nothing to douse your simmering nerves.
Focus, Y/n, you commanded yourself. You had a tournament to win—a series of individual bouts to win for your team. Any loss would reverberate across your social world. The consequences wouldn’t be your sole possession—they never were.
Squeezing your eyes closed for a moment to collect your thoughts, you refocused on the piste separating you from your opponents. There was no time for this. Your teammates were counting on you, your father was.
Your restless fingers twisted at the family ring you wore around your thumb, betraying the last of your nerves before you banished Lord Phantomhive from your mind. Just for now, while you obliterated your opposition.
You observed the Hampstead Ladies’ Athletic Circle without a hint of delicate reverence you usually constructed for your acquaintances. For once, it was expected that you ignore those around you and focus entirely on the battle you were about to wage. The only acceptable kind for a lady of your stature.
Thus, your expression mirrored a general’s grave austerity. Although your mouth was relaxed in its neutral line, your sharp expression was intense enough to catch the look of Lady Amelia Jennings, another fencer from across the elevated fencing stage in the middle of the hall. You only offered her a simple nod in greeting, nothing more.
Fencing was a sport of discipline, strategy, and precision. Your blades would do the talking for you, first and foremost. Most of all, you cherished the elegance and energy its mastery demanded.
At your sides, your teammates shared the same enthusiasm that rattled your pulse. You realized they’d been chattering this entire time, while you’d been venturing through your overlapping thoughts.
“I do rather like our chances today,” said Lady Elizabeth Midford, one of best fencers in the Young Women’s Fencing Society. “I saw a ladybug land on our carriage’s door handle this morning. That must mean good luck,” she asserted. The blonde held her blade casually, with as much ease as most ladies might hold a purse or fan.
“I tend to agree—there are only eight teams fencing. This tournament is ours,” your third teammate, Lady Vivian Tate, chimed in. “Bloody Yorkshire ladies cannot compare to us.”
“Isn’t that why we defeated them last season?” laughed Lady Samantha Davies, the foil fencer who completed your team. “Who broke the all-time match high?” She asked rhetorically of the three of you.
“We did!” You all chirped variations of the same affirmation.
“I know we will do it again!” Lizzie pulled you all in for a close group hug. The four of you were some of the highest ranked foil fencers in the ladies’ fencing division.
Your team’s reverie calmed to silence as a singer led the entire athletic hall in a mandatory rendition of God Save The Queen.
Ciel Phantomhive
The air smelled of leather and wood polish, as expected of a tournament, shrill whistles screeching here and there. Groups of fencers stood in scattered huddles on the main floor surrounding two considerably sized pistes, or fencing platforms.
Along with the rest of the hall, Ciel and his butler rose to the opening notes of the national anthem. The Earl pressed the palm of his hand flat over his, he attempted to spare the anthem at least a fraction of his attention, but his true focus was on locating a certain team among the small groups of young women.
The Young Women’s Fencing Society was the beloved contrivance of Lord Y/l/n and Lord Midford’s. Had it been anyone else’s pet project, Ciel doubted it would have persisted beyond a passing idea. Ever. Much less garner enough public support to fund and fill an athletic hall of this near-cavernous size. Half the spectators watched from floor stands, half watched from the balcony seating around the perimeter of the space.
Typically, London’s aristocracy held an unmistakable disdain for women’s sporting events, but Her Majesty seemed to admire the value in fencing’s mandatory grace and technique. Most women in her royal mob learned it—why not encourage those part of her subjects’ most elite families?
With Her Majesty’s approval, the Earl Richmond and Ciel’s uncle constructed an advisory board, and from there, reworked the sport into something just feminine enough to be appropriate for young ladies.
That was why a good half of polite society was spending their Sunday here. At a women’s fencing tournament. The practice caught on. The theater, the ritual of it, the overzealous fundraisers and galas the society insisted upon to accompany the tournaments. To them, the appeal was obviously the performance aspect more than it was the sport. Most ladies couldn’t replicate a shred of the lethality his cousin possessed—and they simply weren’t coached to.
Someone’s father would absolutely bribe one of the judges to let his daughter dearest take the win.
That being said, Ciel’s personal feelings about the matter were irrelevant. This pointless event was the newest way he was throwing his time away in this seemingly endless pursuit of Lady Y/n’s hand in marriage and the company privileges he’d wed all the same. Despite having known Elizabeth and Y/n were teammates since the start of the season, Ciel hadn’t intended to exploit this particular angle at the beginning of this scheme. He’d deemed it too direct for his style.
That was, at least, before her mother forced his hand by canceling their afternoon tea. It had been set for this week.
“Just to the left, sir,” Sebastian said, an unmistakable note of something humorous in his tone that Ciel disliked. At his side, the butler scanned over the crowd, amused. Always with disconcerting amusement. He was a demon, after all. Strange bastard. “You’re in Lady Elizabeth’s natural sightline. It’s only a matter of seconds before she notices you.”
Following Sebastian’s direction, Ciel noticed Lady Y/n and Elizabeth, the elevated fencing stage separating them from their opposition. Their team match was one of two simultaneous matches, the fencing collective’s announcer explained once the singer completed her rendition of the national anthem.
“Good, I told Lizzie I’d make an appearance today,” Ciel said. At this point, all of high society had to know of his intent to court Lady Y/n Y/l/n this season. But just as well, they knew of Lord Adam Kingston’s interest. His attendance today was a matter of winning over the lady.
Ciel would take any advantage of any opportunity he made privy to him. That had always been his way.
TransAtlantica was his damn inevitability.
Lady Y/n
The moment the applause for the anthem came to an acceptable lull, Elizabeth turned to the three of you, smiling wide as her vibrant emerald eyes searched the audience behind you. Her warm excitement was a stark contrast to the stoic seriousness you wore and lack of contribution to your team’s chatter. Your first bout of the day was scheduled first for this team match.
Your palms were sweaty around your foil’s handle. You were surrounded in all directions — spectators, stared down at you from the balcony and some peered from the outer stands on the same floor, judges, attendants, two large scoreboards.
“So, ladies,” Lizzie couldn’t seem to contain her energy, bouncing on her soles. Her attention split between your team and scouring the rows of society members around the hall for someone in particular, to your confusion. Her immediate family, Lord and Lady Scotany and Lord Edward, were in their usual seating arrangement. Who else could she be looking for?
“My cousin finally agreed to watch us today. We absolutely must make the trip worthwhile, I swear I’ve been begging him for ages.”
Vivian gasped, her focus immediately jumping to the spectators with a newfound sense of urgency. A wide smile parted her lips. “Do you mean…” She started to ask. Her hands lifted for a moment, as if she was tempted to smooth out her bangs.
For lack of interest in the conversation, your mind started to wander. The Midford family tree was not a lineage you were familiar with, and you doubted the attendance of her cousin would have any particular impact on you. Unfortunately, your mind couldn’t cram in much more than the occasional thought of—
“Oh!” Elizabeth grinned, clapping her gloved hands together with enthusiasm. “There he is, with his butler!” She waved to the stands with renewed energy, just a touch more than she’d aimed at her parents, just a few moments ago.
“Ciel!”
Hearing Lord’s Phantomhive’s first name made your stomach drop. Seeing him in the balcony stands caused the first real break in your stormy expression all morning: stunned, then daresay, enthusiastic? You smiled, unable to help yourself.
The Earl looked about as composed as he always was, his discerning eye sharper than lead crystal. Untouchable, devastatingly good. Against the sunlight, his deep cerulean morning coat appeared darker in contrast, matching his eye. Raven hair fell just slightly over his eyepatch, reaching the narrow bridge of his nose.
Ciel Phantomhive
Ciel acknowledged Lizzie’s faraway greeting with a wave, his chin nodding down at her. He couldn’t hear her speak over the expansive hall’s chatter but he could only imagine what his cousin was saying about him.
He allowed his lips to hint at a smile, one of familial recognition. Support, though he was well aware the prodigy swordswoman didn’t need it. Not here.
Only then, Ciel let himself meet Lady Y/n’s gaze, noting the instantaneous grin that brightened her focused face immediately. That surprised and nervous look—though, vivacious, nevertheless—was probably one of the most promising aspects of Ciel’s week.
It was a promising sign of progress, and a helpful hint that the cancellation of their tea hadn’t been a reflection of his performance at the exhibition or otherwise. Or any indication of Adam Kingston’s. It was confirmation that the cancellation was indeed an intervention by Lady Richmond. Sebastian said that Daphne insisted Y/n’s mother needed her for a pressing matter the entirety of their scheduled time together.
Just what Ciel needed—the vindictive mother and the childhood friend from days fonder posed in his way.
But even so, it would be utterly foolish of him to dismiss the momentousness of that smile illuminating her face. That was an absolutely bewildered, anticipatory look that she’d only reserve for someone she’d hoped to see. Perhaps, someone who had already been on her mind.
Ciel lifted an innocuous eyebrow at Lady Y/n and tilted his head, just so, as if to signal his curiosity. As if to remark, surprised seeing you here. The Earl lifted his hand to offer a familiar wave, a clear and true sign of public acknowledgement.
Going to put your required reading to use, now? Ciel challenged within their shared gaze, the smirk his mouth then betrayed. A lady who could recite The Art of War, having read it in the original Mandarin, might put on something near a decent bout. At least by the standards of the women’s theatrics—forgive him, fencing. Mostly performance, not so much a real competition of strength and grit. The sport differed in fine print.
Ciel assumed she would recall their conversation on the pier earlier that month, where she boasted about her fencing capabilities to him, and he’d answered dubiously. He doubted she’d prove him terribly wrong, but he was prepared to entertain the notion. Outwardly, at the very least. He could pretend she was a decent fencer, if he had to. But he hoped — and assumed — Y/n would demonstrate some degree of talent.
He watched a flushed Lady Y/n say something to Lizzie, who laughed.
Lady Y/n
“Right… Lord Ciel Phantomhive is your cousin,” you said to Elizabeth rhetorically, your smile much more absurdly bashful than the red on your face. How could you have forgotten?
You supposed the familial connection wasn’t often advertised. Before this season, Lord Phantomhive seldom made any appearances at large social gatherings and public events. The rumors about the man significantly outpaced the truth of him among your peers. And yet...this was his fifth purposeful appearance this season, a clear signal that he was courting you. There was no mistaking it now.
You couldn’t decide to look at Lord Phantomhive in the stands with his tall butler or to gape at your teammate further in disbelief. Ultimately, the nobleman won, and you struggled to tear your eyes away from him. He stood in the proximity of his and Elizabeth’s shared family. Not too far from your parents, either.
Lady Elizabeth giggled, bringing her gloved hand up just in front of her mouth. “Y/n, I suspect my cousin didn’t appear today only on my behalf,” she said conspiratorially, smiling innocently. The sides of her eyes crinkled—her enthusiasm helping alleviate the blossoming anxiety in your chest ever so slightly.
Your other two teammates made no attempt to stifle their amused laughs. It seemed you were infamous for being the cause for Lord Phantomhive’s emergence out of his typical social obscurity.
“Oh, I would hate to jump to conclusions,” you answered modestly, eyes still on the Earl. A hyperactive hand twisted and tugged at the bottom of one of your braids.
Elizabeth mumbled something playfully dubious to the rest of your team that you didn’t hear, because you were more concerned with admiring Lord Phantomhive from this vantage point. His ring glittered where his hand steadily held the top of a walking cane. His lips lifted partially in a smirk, suggesting to you that he was already assessing your skill. The Earl seemed mildly amused, as if you were a part of a joke you hadn’t been made privy to.
Lord Phantomhive’s decision to support you so publically was not a light one—an untraditional but not an impolite means of courtship. His appearance had to be indicative of a complex, considerate plan that only the chairman of a gigantic corporation like Funtom would devise in order signal his interest in someone.
That was all the more reason you had to win. With the help of Lord Midford, your father petitioned the crown immensely for this program to exist. The Earl of Richmond knew that he could never have a son, all he could do was invest his time and resources into you, his only child. A daringly progressive move that the Richmond name still had to defend to this day. There was no excuse for you to be anything but exquisite in all endeavors.
You were a competent fencer. You’d have to prove it, as always. Just as you always had to prove yourself in every skill.
For just one more moment, you waved at Lord Phantomhive. You kept the motion as graceful as you could manage before your fencing master called your name. For the umpteenth time, you resolved yourself to win the tournament. There was even more at stake, now.
Ciel Phantomhive
“Now that could be the look of a young lady’s cautious affections, sir,” Sebastian commented, only loud enough for Ciel to hear. The Earl made no effort to look anywhere from Y/n as she readied herself for her bout. Sebastian continued, “it seems as though that that balloon stunt did indeed work in your favor—so much so that the grief you gave me for it is further proven to be entirely unfounded.”
“Shut up,” Ciel scowled, just as the judges called the fencing teams to start their team matches. Thankfully, Lady Y/n turned away to speak to her teammates and fencing master before she could catch the murderous glint in his eye. “Just watch the damn tournament, and try not to do anything ridiculous.”
The demon scoffed mirthlessly, clearly unappreciative of Ciel’s read on his courtship strategies. But honestly! Who would appreciate having to run full force towards an ascending hot air balloon, only to put all of their strength into dragging the bloody thing back down? All in the stifling heat, in less? That affair, even if productive for his cause, was entirely discomfiting.
“Ridiculous? What could you possibly be referring to?” Sebastian asked with enough surprise in his voice to insinuate his offense the word, which caused frustration to prickle in Ciel’s chest. “As I recall, your order was for me to find a way to make this particular young woman fall in love with you. By any means.” His voice was just low enough to fall beneath the cheering audience’s cadence.
“That’s no excuse to have put me in such an absurd situation,” Ciel answered impatiently. More than aware that his words were falling on deaf ears because his butler always had a penchant for making him suffer as much as possible. For humiliating him as much as he could dare. Ever since he was a child.
Bloody demon.
“If your acting were versatile by any means, perhaps I would not have to go to such dynamic means,” Sebastian remarked, to which Ciel couldn’t bother to dignify with a response. He rolled his eyes and refocused on the fencing piste in the center of the athletic hall.
When Ciel didn’t reply, the demon cleared his throat. “With that in mind: it’s the young lady’s turn to impress you with her swordsmanship. Do be appreciative of her efforts and keep the sour grimace on your face to a minimum, if you hope to inspire further affections from her.”
Sour grimace? Ciel had to stop himself from rolling his eyes again, considering Y/n was now aware of where to spot him.
The Earl exhaled a breath he’d been holding since Y/n first spotted him. His gaze traced back to her again. She composed herself well after the shock of seeing him, the only evidence on her face that remained was the flush tinting her cheeks.
Over the course of the day, Y/n would fence at least four times, every match randomly paired fencers to duel. The team with the most victorious fencers in their individual matches proceeded further into the tournament.
Ciel couldn’t expect anything particularly riveting to transpire at a women’s league.
“We’ll be stuck here all day. I’ll do my best,” Ciel answered. He had to cancel two meetings to be in attendance today—one with a silk importer and another with his head of marketing. At the very least, it meant he’d watch Y/n fence, and see what sort of talent the league qualified to accompany his cousin’s. A young woman whom he’d watch mow down reanimated opposition with a relentlessness he could only respect.
“Pay attention, sir. You may be surprised by the lessons you learn,” Sebastian said, likely feeling as though he’d just offered Ciel a bit of sage wisdom. The Earl merely scoffed, watching Y/n brush some free strands of her hair behind her ear. She seemed nervous. Her team’s fencing master announced the line-up for the next few team matches, and Y/n was testing the weight of the foil in her grasp. She was sparring first.
Frankly, Ciel hadn’t anticipated feeling a surge of genuine intrigue from women’s fencing. The lessons I might learn. Please, he thought, stealing a sarcastic glance at Sebastian before refocusing on the piste.
Lady Y/n
Each team match consisted of four bouts between pairs of opponents. The team with the most individual victories wins the match. It took two match losses for a team to be eliminated from the tournament.
As it was your first match after warmups, your body was tense with the weight of all expectations landing hard on your shoulders. You were not going to lose to Lady Jennings. The thought of your father watching you fail was punishing enough—you refused to let Lord Phantomhive be privy to it. As The Queen’s Guard Dog, he would never respect you.
You let this worry fuel your moves, powering each attack and your cautious defense, unwilling to give your opponent a chance. As soon as the greeting pleasantries ended, you feinted high, disengaged around her slow parry, and landed a pointed thrust to her chest.
Point. The whistle blew in confirmation, a judge called out.
You distantly registered the clapping surrounding you. Instead, you reset into your beginning stance, en guard, and fixated on your opponent. You distributed your weight between your feet evenly, anticipating some form of an attack.
As much as you wanted to chance a glance at the Earl, you denied yourself the transgression. It was in your best interest—you had to prove your capability. The first time you met, Lord Phantomhive was condescending towards you after he pulled you out of harm’s way—hence your sharp exchange after.
Now, Lord Phantomhive was spending his Sunday watching your tournament. He likely had manuscripts worth of essential documents that required his approval, perhaps even an investigation for Her Majesty to head. Instead, Lord Ciel Phantomhive chose to take this opportunity to introduce himself to the convoluted world of aristocratic courtship this season. The long, enduring process of finding a fiancée. And it seemed he had his eye on you.
Jennings pressed forward, her attack cautious. You’d almost describe it as languid. The move was predictable and slow, making your parry in sixte was more of a reflex in comparison. You had more than enough time to match her and make up the ground she attempted to cover. A quick riposte you jabbed towards her side almost returned the favor, but Jennings managed to block it.
Your blades clashed, yours controlled and powerful. You hoped to set the tone for the tournament and waited for a second of hesitation to exploit with each bind. You took a commanding step forward and feinted, suggesting you were aiming for the same expanse of torso before pivoting with an agility that took years to perfect.
Point. Another whistle blew, a flag raised. “Valid point for Lady Richmond-Y/l/n!”
Reset, en garde.
Ciel Phantomhive
Lady Jennings managed to score once or twice on Y/n, but it was no use. The game was practically cat and mouse, in favor of the Lady Y/n, which certainly eased the sense of performance Ciel felt he had to display. Compared to hiding his scorn for Biceps for Brains, expressing his satisfaction for her triumph was a trifle.
In one final deft move, Lady Y/n ended what was predominantly a one-sided clash with a stop-hit that her opponent never had a chance to parry. Her strike landed like lightning: sudden and precise. The observation made the Earl stand up straighter as he considered the young woman.
Y/n pulled off her mask and accepted her team’s squealing embraces. Her face was flush with effort, and the relief in her face was clear. Wrapping her arms around a jumping Lizzie, the lady’s eyes found her parents up in the seats.
“Not bad,” Ciel mumbled his admission, confessing to no one else besides Sebastian. The demon merely chuckled in response.
Ciel handed off his cane to Sebastian to free his hands. His applause came in measured beats, not quite so rowdy as his surroundings, but the effort was a proper acknowledgement of her performance.
“She felt she had something to prove,” Sebastian said.
It wasn’t that her opposition was particularly fearsome or gifted thus far, but the certainty in Y/n’s execution was indicative of careful training. Her abilities had to be a product of exhaustive, hypercritical hours spent in bouts and in coaching, Ciel understood that well. He might have ventured as far as to say that he respected it.
It was inconvenient enough to maintain his own curated skill set as a foil; despite relentless complaint, he’d spar with Sebastian or Baldroy once or twice a week in his private salle.
Y/n kept her mask tucked beneath her arm, making an ungainly attempt at holding it in the same hand as her blade. She waved at her parents with her free hand before her gaze snapped to Ciel with a speed that intrigued him.
Engaged, Ciel leaned over the balcony railing in front of him with a hand raised in recognition. This was the theater of public courtship, after all. He could feel the weight of the athletic hall’s attention, and he had to act accordingly. And naturally, validate his intended’s win.
Though, when Lady Y/n finally looked away, the amused curve pulled at his lips longer than necessary for acting’s sake. Strange.
“What are you staring at?” Ciel asked, aware of his butler’s look without having to see it head on. Not with it searing the edges of his periphery. He could feel it, a warning of impending inconvenience on a supernatural magnitude.
“I am merely watching the tournament closely, just as you asked me to, sir,” Sebastian said placidly. He handed Ciel his cane back once the applause came to a lull. “Unless you might have me do something more.”
“Do you recall what I said about ridiculous questions?”
“Certainly, my Lord.”
Y/n’s match set the precedent for a decisive run for the rest of her team. For the most part, they triumphed over Hampstead following her accomplished bout. The only loss was one to many sneaky ripostes that repeatedly tripped up his cousin. She claimed she’d been ‘warming up,’ but Ciel could see the frustration straighten her posture like a taut bowstring. That early failure made her frankly untouchable on the piste for the remainder of her time on the piste.
As for the rest of the long day, the team made easy work of securing one of the competing spots for the tournament’s deciding game. Their team tied with the Yorkshire Ladies, the second seed squad from the winter season’s closing tournament. Back with a taste for vengeance, clearly.
Lady Y/n
As you anticipated, your team had the honor of competing in the final round.
The weight of your past four bouts started to slowly settle into your body, wearing down on your shoulders and formulating a thunderous headache in the back of your skull. A pulsing strain ebbed down your arms and your back, not unlike your heartbeat, which sat in your throat. Sweat dampened the back of your neck, hairline, and palms.
This final match would decide the opening season’s victors. Both your team and the Yorkshires had fourteen match wins each, making every single individual bout essential. Your team could presumably snag the win from the Yorkshires’ clutch, but such a feat would require a near-perfect match.
The fencing masters pulled the match lineup: Lady Samantha first, followed by Elizabeth, Vivian, and you, as the closer. A highly motivated Lizzie recovered the point from Samantha’s loss, and you watched with bated breath as Vivian faced an impending defeat, as well.
As the Yorkshire fencer managed a point, the tip of her foil undeniably flat against Lady Vivian’s side. Your heart sank as the teams’ overall match scores settled fifteen to sixteen, but you still welcomed her off the piste with a trying smile. One that did its best not to betray your worry for the tournament’s outcome.
“She feinted,” Lady Vivian groaned, handing off her blade to an attendant and burying her face in her gloved hands. “I should have watched my peripherals more closely. I should have —”
“Vivian, you fenced magnificently,” you insisted with a comforting pat on your teammate’s shoulder. “Lady Anna clearly practiced a devious sequence like that over and over.”
An appointed judge rose from his designated seat, arm raised and eyebrows quirked to compel the hall into silence. His other hand brought his small, brass whistle to his lips, the shrill sound finally clearing the last of the noise.
The judge called, “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears our final match of the tournament will decide the game! If Lady Y/n wins this match, she will tie up the score and extend the game to tomorrow morning; if Lady Harrington takes it, the Yorkshire Ladies are set to take home this season’s title. This tournament today, folks, will either end an exceptional game of retribution or a miraculous comeback.”
“Lady Y/n Y/l/n-Richmond, Lady Isabel Harrington: prepare!” The judge called, punctuating the order with a conclusive blow of his whistle.
Lizzie pulled you into a tight good luck hug with Samantha and Vivian immediately piling on. For just a moment, you closed your eyes tight, reminding yourself for what felt like the thousandth time, to focus.
You have the chance to save this, you told yourself, you can do this. You have to. For your family name, for your team, for your suitor.
For your own bloody pride, Y/n.
You swallowed hard, imaging that you were washing down your nerves. Your team released you, your fencing master clapping your shoulder in a grandfatherly fashion typical of him as you approached the piste. He handed over your mask. You forced yourself to take a few deep breaths before sliding it on, the prevailing smell of polish, dust and metal in the hall doing nothing to settle your headache. It pounded against your skull, demanding to be felt in only a conglomeration of anxiety, physical exertion, and focus could do.
With an optimistic smile, Elizabeth handed you your foil. With thanks, you accepted your familiar blade. The weight was something of a comfort, the way the handle molded to your grasp. You settled on the main platform, heart pounding faster than any corps de drums could hope to achieve.
You faced Lady Isabel and acted your way through swift sportsman pleasantries. A simple handshake and a retreat back into your starting position: dominant foot forward, the other perpendicular behind it, sword arm extended and pointing.
“En garde… prêts… allez!” Another judge called the start of the bout. A whistle blew.
Unwilling to let Isabel set the first exchange’s pace, you immediately raised your foil and feinted high, towards her upper chest. You were hyperconscious of your whole body’s every sensation—where you stepped, the slightest bend in your legs, the tension in your arms.
When Lady Isabel turned her foil to deflect your attack, you disengaged around her blade too quickly for her to catch at the angle she’d hoped for. She took a frustrated step forward, cheers from a particular section of the hall sounded, pleased with your recovery. It was a promising start.
Your swords clashed sternly when you parried Isabel’s counterattack, but she managed to block your attempted riposte. Your jaw tensed, your gloves crackling when your fingers tightened around the foil. You hadn’t expected her to intercede that riposte—the move was a favorite of yours—and this imbalance gave way to Harrington managing to land an aggressive straight attack against you. In a clever parry, her arm extended a linear thrust that touched your lower rib.
The blow of a whistle and a raised flag signified that Isabel had claimed the first point. The Yorkshire supporters cheered. You refused to risk focusing anywhere outside the piste’s bounds. Ruminating over your doubts could only make for the worst sort of distraction. They always managed to waver your blade and slow your steps.
You reset your measure and returned to your starting position. Confident Isabel would press forward, you prepared to defend yourself, blocking quick attacks aimed at your side. You answered with a parry sixte and exploited the slightest opening in her guard by landing a riposte to her upper chest. She’d been so focused on attacking you, her defenses wavered. The whistle blew, the points evened to a reassuring one to one, and you both reset your positions.
Once again, you feinted high, Isabel disengaged low. Your blade missed by the slightest centimeter, and the referee practically gift wrapped the point to Yorkshire. Frustrated, you countered with a successful stop-hit to her shoulder.
A flare of indignance twisted in your stomach as the judge considered the move. Your chest rose and fell with effort, and you fought the urge to slouch. Much to your relief, he raised his flag and boomed, “valid point for Richmond! We are all tied up, yet again!” Two for two.
You only needed three more points. You let that realization thrust your powerful lunge forward, fueling your foil as it clashed against Isabel’s in a heated bind. She was nimble, skilled, but no more than you were, and surely not half as motivated. Lady Harrington was already engaged, having been betrothed for ages—the politics of romantic possibilities and woes of inheritance were lost to her.
While thoughts of investments, suitors and shares starred in your sleepless nights, most noble ladies were most concerned with the fabric and make of their next commissioned ball gown. Winning for Isabel would be a small celebration. Winning for you was a reaffirmation of your father’s focus on you, the resources he poured into your unconventional education on all aspects related to inheritance. Most other ladies had their men to manage these matters.
You would only have yourself and a careful vetting process to find a spouse that loved the Richmond name enough to step aside and allow you, the most capable person to shoulder its responsibilities. You lived and breathed TransAtlantica.
Isabel blocked your riposte, and her replying blade was just shy of your rib. Undeterred, you pushed back, stepping forward into a lunge with your dominant foot and driving your blade center-mass. Now, it was your three points to her two. Under your mask, you grinned as the tip of your sword made contact with Isabel’s beige uniform.
Although Harrington managed to tie the score, thanks to a quick beat-attack, you were undeterred. You noted her habit of over-attacking directly after the whistle blew, and you let her take the first attack and the right of way, prepared for her favored center attack, which came seconds later. You parried and riposted, catching her shoulder again by seconds.
“Match point to Richmond!” A judge called. All you needed was one last point and the game would be a resurgence for the books. Just one last touch of your sword. You risked a glance around the piste, catching the hope in your team’s stares, the impassivity in your father’s face. Lord Phantomhive’s pride as he leaned over the balcony, gloved hands locked on the wooden railing, as he likely attempted to forecast your next move.
The whistle blew. You could end this, your opponent was tiring, too—you could see it in the way Isabel’s shoulders were rising and falling with her ragged breathing, the slightest waver in her foil. For this point, you lingered back and readied your parry as Isabel shoved her foil center once again. Just as you tilted your blade at the perfect angle to deflect the attack, an invisible force jerked your sword arm down.
Somehow, the unanticipated motion destroyed your balance and your forced your lunge to collapse inward. You struggled to regain your footing and measure, and in that moment of incoordination, Isabel landed a point square in the middle of your chest.
“Not to be outdone quite yet, Lady Harrington regains her ground!” The judge called.
What have you done? For a moment, you lost complete control of your parry. It was as if something pulled it off its path with the same certainty as gravity’s natural course. So sudden and inevitably strong, you felt as if you never could have prevented it. The only way you could describe its suddenness and potency was supernatural and that was ridiculous!
Get a hold of yourself, Y/n.
It was your exhaustion. That was all it could be. You pushed yourself back into your starting pose, trying to tame the way your reset trembled. Your blade faltered, even after a whistle denoted the start of the bout’s final exchange. Isabel came straight forward with a newfound conviction, sensing your worry and imbalance as clear as a shark might catch hints of blood in saltwater. Moving in appropriately.
When you attempted to parry, the same shocking, mysterious pull dragged your sword arm out of the way. It looked as if you misinterpreted the intent of her sword entirely and opened your side to attack, when it was clear she was about to feint center. A move you had already known to predict, given your past successful scores. To your family, the judges, and Lord Phantomhive, you looked as if you second guessed your instinct and purposefully let your blade dip.
As the score ascended four to five, and the victory went to Yorkshire, the world seemed to slow around you.
The pang of apprehension that punctured your chest was indescribable—Lady Harrington may as well have stabbed you clean through.
“And Lady Harrington’s match point concludes our tournament! The Yorkshire Ladies have claimed the Summer Tournament Title,” the judge called out. There was a knot in your throat. You pulled off your mask, more than aware of the crimson spreading your face and up your ears. Painfully aware of it, in fact. You blinked hard twice, mostly to ensure your stinging eyes kept dry, and shook her hand. Once, twice.
The request: I once read a fic where the reader was Ciel's (O!Ciel of course) mistress and (I think it was at a brothel? This was years ago I don't remember) but I've kinda always loved the idea of that kind of forbidden romance, and it is romance the reader and Ciel would never admit it aloud but he's in love with his favorite "pastime" as much as reader is in love with her most frequent visitor.
So I guess what I'm requesting is a scenario like that, being Ciel's dirty secret who he DEFINITELY isn't in love with and how they desire each other carnally even if their stations keep them apart, at least in the warmth of Reader's bed that wouldn't matter even if just for a time. You can make it ambiguous if he's married to Lizzie or not, I'd love the drama of it but hate hurting Lizzie even if indirectly so I'll leave that to you.
If this request doesn't spark joy it's fine if you delete it! But obviously thanks if you do, have a nice day! ♡
Author note for the requester and basic knowledge on the piece:
Well, well, I think I know exactly the fic your referring to as I read it back in the day! We were starved for OCiel x reader content back then huh?
Am I dating myself by admitting to scouring the internet back in the early days for OCiel content (long before he was OCiel…)? Probably.
I will be ambiguous, editing the idea in several ways, in certain aspects as I used to write 'out of marriage' sexual pieces; but since then I have moved away from that, and like to do 'sex within marriage' as there's such a huge lack of delicious content in this area across writing platforms. Get ready for sickening fluff and pining cause I am going to pour the feels like hot tea and by no means are the thoughts and feelings less than steaming between these two love birds. ;)
Lastly, I apologize for taking months to get this back to you. I hope it meets your standards and you can forgive the time line. I poured my brain into this.
This goes hand in hand with a twist to an AU I have already listed! What a treat to get this request and seeing it line up with an AU close to my heart! I went a bit overboard on historical elements but if anyone knows early 20th century England/French brothel chagrin (or any details for that matter) please reach out. I need your brain.
Warnings: talk of sex and feelings, no sex done just brain teasers here! Discussion of sexual topics and exploration of early 20th century England brothels. Pining with a sexual undertone.
Important info: French isn't my first language (or any language I know) but I do admire it, appreciate it, and find it enchanting. As much of what we know of prostitution was drawn from the French, correct me if I'm wrong lovelies, I will be using French terminology to define and explain things and a pick up line. Please correct me if I have spelled something wrong or if I have misused information.
As always reader is female and our Earl is aged up to his twenties. Hence the 20th century (early 1900s instead of late 1800s) take on this piece.
Red Light By Day, Cereluan Eye By Night
She waited.
Day and night. Knee bouncing, finely manicured nails tapping, hair done up and shined with oil, skin prepared for the best night of her life. A rosy flush already creeping up her neck like a innocent fawn emerging from the brush to a field for the first time.
Exillerating. He'd come once, now thrice already since they had met months ago. Always paying a generous fee for the entire night like some civil hero saving her from the dragons that proweled at her door. One night she was free of the work her position called for. One night she was just a woman in love.
He never bargained for her bed, though he did lay in it with her. Trading gentle touches and a kiss that coated her soul in silk. He brought her such things too, jewels and the like that would make a lady weep. But she was no lady, no swan of society, pure to the touch and had never looked at a man's body, let alone knew not know how to please. No, she was a succubus, a temptress who had tried to lure him in, but instead he had captured her like a fisherman with a large hook. He'd simply batted her vain attempts away and broke into her mind, making that shiver instead of her body that heated with every glance of his cerulean eye.
He played chess with her often, though she was no where the master he was at such a game. He just smiled as each time he took her queen and spoke to her of his business and stresses. A normal, almost domestic exchange that had her diving into a fantasy of a world where they could be together.
She knew his work in the underworld, for she herself was a creature of its claws. Courtesy of a trade made she was whisked from a kitchen maid to the red lips of the lights that guarded the dark corner of society. All for better pay...
Her eyes watched the streets from where she sat, busy with customers and drink. Several "insoumiaes" (unregistered girls) twittering along looking to line their pockets with fresh coin. The Soho Area was her dwelling place now. To outsiders she looked a respectable lady, no tell from her clothes when she walked the streets during the day to stretch her legs from long nights with them at her ears. Her house had taught her how to blend in, and while she was a "verseuses" (waitress) for the nobles who came to the luxurious apartments for rich, lavish sessions among refined woman of talent, she herself was more coy and remembered the years she'd spent on a corner before her madam had plucked her from her pimp and housed her, clothed her, bathed her, taught lessons and mannerisms befitting a lady, hair pins and jewels only added to the expenses. Such generosity she'd be paying the rest of her life with no end to the growing debt.
She hadn't minded till she'd met him. The man with a stare to level a battle field. He had caught her while she was out, asking about some sort of crime that had taken place the night before. How he had spotted her as a lady of the night had baffled her. She didn't look any different than the next woman of class out and about for a daily stroll.
Her heart had raced for another reason besides fear though. He was gorgeous. Pretty in a sense that made her want to caress his jaw for hours while one of her patreons sketched him for her visual delight to remember between sessions. She had been struck by cupid and he seemed none the wiser to her plight.
She lets her lips pull back over well cared for teeth, a sign of her pristine health and care. That alone attracted clients like gnats to fruit. The memory of him blinking as she offered him a round with her playfully hadn't been his intention, but she had offered anyway, intending to bed him before any one else could. A girl has to be greedy with such a pretty face after all.
To her shock he'd refused and instead insisted he speak with her on a case, something about his butler being useless for the task this time. Odd man.
That had started their budding redevous where they would meet and overtime ...it became more. Much to her delight.
The problem was his stubborn pride. For all that she wanted he never gave in. Her appearing in her corset and deglecherie did nothing but make him blush (cute as it was). He never bedded her much to the growing itch she couldn't scratch nor relieve.
So after the second attempt, naked as the day she was born thrown across her lavish bedding for his eye, failed, she decided to play his game and so back went on the stocking and corset, ribbons and buttoned front of the low neck gown he never let his eyes trail to for long. Pity, but she would take what she could from him.
The cast of a familiar top hat and a walking stick's resounding click on the stone street drew what little patience she had left to the surface as she dared to rise from her perch. Heart, half strung out on her tongue, it seemed to lace with the cords of bronchi in her lungs that expanded in a rush while she pondered if it was him or if she was simply over reacting. Many men wore top hats and walked with a cane. It meant nothing.
Yet the click still summoned her will to cool and burn like incense in a dish to perfume the hair and skin. Ignited to become ash.
So down she went, pulled by the thread of fate and her own anxieties to know just who was walking by or dared to enter her cage that gleamed with gold. Down into the belly of a flooded house that smelled of cigars and opulence to fine for most ladies of her work to touch, yet someone had to serve such men of class. Down into the forked tongues of dignity and pride that spit on such work by day but crawled up skirts in the night.
And there he was. Hat removed and coat being handed off to the valet that brushes the shoulders of the fabric with a boar bristled brush just for show. Everything was a show.
But he wasn't. Yet there he stood adjusting his cuffs and collar, eye scanning for threats as if the house would let anyone harm him while he poured coin into the Madonna's pockets.
That cerulean eye reflects the red lamp from outside, caught in an indigo hue.
Her breath caught, heart tumbled out to the toe of his polished black shoe. She could feel each pulse her body willed to speak of just how enraptured she'd become in his grasp.
And that eye. It spoke of the same fate she had carved in her bones, the same poison between them that would never come to fruition and take them both.
“Tu dois être fatiguée parce que tu as trotté dans ma tēte toute la journée.” Her rouge lips part in a smile, hand lingering on the wooden banister as she would never let her worth be lowered by approaching him like the other girls. Back straight and chin lifted with mirth hidden in honeyed sap fit to lick off her, she wandered the haze cloud of smoke as a phantom, not a human draped in gems.
Checkmate.
—-------------------
Word key:
Tu dois être fatiguée parce que tu as trotté dans ma tēte toute la journée.- You must be tired, as you have been running in my head all day.
The Soho area was a real section of London dedicated to an early 19th century brothel-like atmosphere for the rich and lowly depending on where you went and how much you spent. It was shut down in the mid 19th century.
Brothels often used different beauty techniques from around the world. With Prince Soma being an active part of the Kuro universe I decided to bring one of the older beauty practices from the East into this piece. Using incense to scent the hair and skin. This would create an association with a scent on a woman with a particular house that used a special blend. Keeping customers who were drawn to it coming back. Similar to how today we like cologne or perfume and when someone smells good we ask about it. Scent memory is another way to create bonds and desire.
The request: I once read a fic where the reader was Ciel's (O!Ciel of course) mistress and (I think it was at a brothel? This was years ago I don't remember) but I've kinda always loved the idea of that kind of forbidden romance, and it is romance the reader and Ciel would never admit it aloud but he's in love with his favorite "pastime" as much as reader is in love with her most frequent visitor.
So I guess what I'm requesting is a scenario like that, being Ciel's dirty secret who he DEFINITELY isn't in love with and how they desire each other carnally even if their stations keep them apart, at least in the warmth of Reader's bed that wouldn't matter even if just for a time. You can make it ambiguous if he's married to Lizzie or not, I'd love the drama of it but hate hurting Lizzie even if indirectly so I'll leave that to you.
If this request doesn't spark joy it's fine if you delete it! But obviously thanks if you do, have a nice day! ♡
Author note for the requester and basic knowledge on the piece:
Well, well, I think I know exactly the fic your referring to as I read it back in the day! We were starved for OCiel x reader content back then huh?
Am I dating myself by admitting to scouring the internet back in the early days for OCiel content (long before he was OCiel…)? Probably.
I will be ambiguous, editing the idea in several ways, in certain aspects as I used to write 'out of marriage' sexual pieces; but since then I have moved away from that, and like to do 'sex within marriage' as there's such a huge lack of delicious content in this area across writing platforms. Get ready for sickening fluff and pining cause I am going to pour the feels like hot tea and by no means are the thoughts and feelings less than steaming between these two love birds. ;)
Lastly, I apologize for taking months to get this back to you. I hope it meets your standards and you can forgive the time line. I poured my brain into this.
This goes hand in hand with a twist to an AU I have already listed! What a treat to get this request and seeing it line up with an AU close to my heart! I went a bit overboard on historical elements but if anyone knows early 20th century England/French brothel chagrin (or any details for that matter) please reach out. I need your brain.
Warnings: talk of sex and feelings, no sex done just brain teasers here! Discussion of sexual topics and exploration of early 20th century England brothels. Pining with a sexual undertone.
Important info: French isn't my first language (or any language I know) but I do admire it, appreciate it, and find it enchanting. As much of what we know of prostitution was drawn from the French, correct me if I'm wrong lovelies, I will be using French terminology to define and explain things and a pick up line. Please correct me if I have spelled something wrong or if I have misused information.
As always reader is female and our Earl is aged up to his twenties. Hence the 20th century (early 1900s instead of late 1800s) take on this piece.
Red Light By Day, Cereluan Eye By Night
She waited.
Day and night. Knee bouncing, finely manicured nails tapping, hair done up and shined with oil, skin prepared for the best night of her life. A rosy flush already creeping up her neck like a innocent fawn emerging from the brush to a field for the first time.
Exillerating. He'd come once, now thrice already since they had met months ago. Always paying a generous fee for the entire night like some civil hero saving her from the dragons that proweled at her door. One night she was free of the work her position called for. One night she was just a woman in love.
He never bargained for her bed, though he did lay in it with her. Trading gentle touches and a kiss that coated her soul in silk. He brought her such things too, jewels and the like that would make a lady weep. But she was no lady, no swan of society, pure to the touch and had never looked at a man's body, let alone knew not know how to please. No, she was a succubus, a temptress who had tried to lure him in, but instead he had captured her like a fisherman with a large hook. He'd simply batted her vain attempts away and broke into her mind, making that shiver instead of her body that heated with every glance of his cerulean eye.
He played chess with her often, though she was no where the master he was at such a game. He just smiled as each time he took her queen and spoke to her of his business and stresses. A normal, almost domestic exchange that had her diving into a fantasy of a world where they could be together.
She knew his work in the underworld, for she herself was a creature of its claws. Courtesy of a trade made she was whisked from a kitchen maid to the red lips of the lights that guarded the dark corner of society. All for better pay...
Her eyes watched the streets from where she sat, busy with customers and drink. Several "insoumiaes" (unregistered girls) twittering along looking to line their pockets with fresh coin. The Soho Area was her dwelling place now. To outsiders she looked a respectable lady, no tell from her clothes when she walked the streets during the day to stretch her legs from long nights with them at her ears. Her house had taught her how to blend in, and while she was a "verseuses" (waitress) for the nobles who came to the luxurious apartments for rich, lavish sessions among refined woman of talent, she herself was more coy and remembered the years she'd spent on a corner before her madam had plucked her from her pimp and housed her, clothed her, bathed her, taught lessons and mannerisms befitting a lady, hair pins and jewels only added to the expenses. Such generosity she'd be paying the rest of her life with no end to the growing debt.
She hadn't minded till she'd met him. The man with a stare to level a battle field. He had caught her while she was out, asking about some sort of crime that had taken place the night before. How he had spotted her as a lady of the night had baffled her. She didn't look any different than the next woman of class out and about for a daily stroll.
Her heart had raced for another reason besides fear though. He was gorgeous. Pretty in a sense that made her want to caress his jaw for hours while one of her patreons sketched him for her visual delight to remember between sessions. She had been struck by cupid and he seemed none the wiser to her plight.
She lets her lips pull back over well cared for teeth, a sign of her pristine health and care. That alone attracted clients like gnats to fruit. The memory of him blinking as she offered him a round with her playfully hadn't been his intention, but she had offered anyway, intending to bed him before any one else could. A girl has to be greedy with such a pretty face after all.
To her shock he'd refused and instead insisted he speak with her on a case, something about his butler being useless for the task this time. Odd man.
That had started their budding redevous where they would meet and overtime ...it became more. Much to her delight.
The problem was his stubborn pride. For all that she wanted he never gave in. Her appearing in her corset and deglecherie did nothing but make him blush (cute as it was). He never bedded her much to the growing itch she couldn't scratch nor relieve.
So after the second attempt, naked as the day she was born thrown across her lavish bedding for his eye, failed, she decided to play his game and so back went on the stocking and corset, ribbons and buttoned front of the low neck gown he never let his eyes trail to for long. Pity, but she would take what she could from him.
The cast of a familiar top hat and a walking stick's resounding click on the stone street drew what little patience she had left to the surface as she dared to rise from her perch. Heart, half strung out on her tongue, it seemed to lace with the cords of bronchi in her lungs that expanded in a rush while she pondered if it was him or if she was simply over reacting. Many men wore top hats and walked with a cane. It meant nothing.
Yet the click still summoned her will to cool and burn like incense in a dish to perfume the hair and skin. Ignited to become ash.
So down she went, pulled by the thread of fate and her own anxieties to know just who was walking by or dared to enter her cage that gleamed with gold. Down into the belly of a flooded house that smelled of cigars and opulence to fine for most ladies of her work to touch, yet someone had to serve such men of class. Down into the forked tongues of dignity and pride that spit on such work by day but crawled up skirts in the night.
And there he was. Hat removed and coat being handed off to the valet that brushes the shoulders of the fabric with a boar bristled brush just for show. Everything was a show.
But he wasn't. Yet there he stood adjusting his cuffs and collar, eye scanning for threats as if the house would let anyone harm him while he poured coin into the Madonna's pockets.
That cerulean eye reflects the red lamp from outside, caught in an indigo hue.
Her breath caught, heart tumbled out to the toe of his polished black shoe. She could feel each pulse her body willed to speak of just how enraptured she'd become in his grasp.
And that eye. It spoke of the same fate she had carved in her bones, the same poison between them that would never come to fruition and take them both.
“Tu dois être fatiguée parce que tu as trotté dans ma tēte toute la journée.” Her rouge lips part in a smile, hand lingering on the wooden banister as she would never let her worth be lowered by approaching him like the other girls. Back straight and chin lifted with mirth hidden in honeyed sap fit to lick off her, she wandered the haze cloud of smoke as a phantom, not a human draped in gems.
Checkmate.
—-------------------
Word key:
Tu dois être fatiguée parce que tu as trotté dans ma tēte toute la journée.- You must be tired, as you have been running in my head all day.
The Soho area was a real section of London dedicated to an early 19th century brothel-like atmosphere for the rich and lowly depending on where you went and how much you spent. It was shut down in the mid 19th century.
Brothels often used different beauty techniques from around the world. With Prince Soma being an active part of the Kuro universe I decided to bring one of the older beauty practices from the East into this piece. Using incense to scent the hair and skin. This would create an association with a scent on a woman with a particular house that used a special blend. Keeping customers who were drawn to it coming back. Similar to how today we like cologne or perfume and when someone smells good we ask about it. Scent memory is another way to create bonds and desire.
The request: I once read a fic where the reader was Ciel's (O!Ciel of course) mistress and (I think it was at a brothel? This was years ago I don't remember) but I've kinda always loved the idea of that kind of forbidden romance, and it is romance the reader and Ciel would never admit it aloud but he's in love with his favorite "pastime" as much as reader is in love with her most frequent visitor.
So I guess what I'm requesting is a scenario like that, being Ciel's dirty secret who he DEFINITELY isn't in love with and how they desire each other carnally even if their stations keep them apart, at least in the warmth of Reader's bed that wouldn't matter even if just for a time. You can make it ambiguous if he's married to Lizzie or not, I'd love the drama of it but hate hurting Lizzie even if indirectly so I'll leave that to you.
If this request doesn't spark joy it's fine if you delete it! But obviously thanks if you do, have a nice day! ♡
Author note for the requester and basic knowledge on the piece:
Well, well, I think I know exactly the fic your referring to as I read it back in the day! We were starved for OCiel x reader content back then huh?
Am I dating myself by admitting to scouring the internet back in the early days for OCiel content (long before he was OCiel…)? Probably.
I will be ambiguous, editing the idea in several ways, in certain aspects as I used to write 'out of marriage' sexual pieces; but since then I have moved away from that, and like to do 'sex within marriage' as there's such a huge lack of delicious content in this area across writing platforms. Get ready for sickening fluff and pining cause I am going to pour the feels like hot tea and by no means are the thoughts and feelings less than steaming between these two love birds. ;)
Lastly, I apologize for taking months to get this back to you. I hope it meets your standards and you can forgive the time line. I poured my brain into this.
This goes hand in hand with a twist to an AU I have already listed! What a treat to get this request and seeing it line up with an AU close to my heart! I went a bit overboard on historical elements but if anyone knows early 20th century England/French brothel chagrin (or any details for that matter) please reach out. I need your brain.
Warnings: talk of sex and feelings, no sex done just brain teasers here! Discussion of sexual topics and exploration of early 20th century England brothels. Pining with a sexual undertone.
Important info: French isn't my first language (or any language I know) but I do admire it, appreciate it, and find it enchanting. As much of what we know of prostitution was drawn from the French, correct me if I'm wrong lovelies, I will be using French terminology to define and explain things and a pick up line. Please correct me if I have spelled something wrong or if I have misused information.
As always reader is female and our Earl is aged up to his twenties. Hence the 20th century (early 1900s instead of late 1800s) take on this piece.
Red Light By Day, Cereluan Eye By Night
She waited.
Day and night. Knee bouncing, finely manicured nails tapping, hair done up and shined with oil, skin prepared for the best night of her life. A rosy flush already creeping up her neck like a innocent fawn emerging from the brush to a field for the first time.
Exillerating. He'd come once, now thrice already since they had met months ago. Always paying a generous fee for the entire night like some civil hero saving her from the dragons that proweled at her door. One night she was free of the work her position called for. One night she was just a woman in love.
He never bargained for her bed, though he did lay in it with her. Trading gentle touches and a kiss that coated her soul in silk. He brought her such things too, jewels and the like that would make a lady weep. But she was no lady, no swan of society, pure to the touch and had never looked at a man's body, let alone knew not know how to please. No, she was a succubus, a temptress who had tried to lure him in, but instead he had captured her like a fisherman with a large hook. He'd simply batted her vain attempts away and broke into her mind, making that shiver instead of her body that heated with every glance of his cerulean eye.
He played chess with her often, though she was no where the master he was at such a game. He just smiled as each time he took her queen and spoke to her of his business and stresses. A normal, almost domestic exchange that had her diving into a fantasy of a world where they could be together.
She knew his work in the underworld, for she herself was a creature of its claws. Courtesy of a trade made she was whisked from a kitchen maid to the red lips of the lights that guarded the dark corner of society. All for better pay...
Her eyes watched the streets from where she sat, busy with customers and drink. Several "insoumiaes" (unregistered girls) twittering along looking to line their pockets with fresh coin. The Soho Area was her dwelling place now. To outsiders she looked a respectable lady, no tell from her clothes when she walked the streets during the day to stretch her legs from long nights with them at her ears. Her house had taught her how to blend in, and while she was a "verseuses" (waitress) for the nobles who came to the luxurious apartments for rich, lavish sessions among refined woman of talent, she herself was more coy and remembered the years she'd spent on a corner before her madam had plucked her from her pimp and housed her, clothed her, bathed her, taught lessons and mannerisms befitting a lady, hair pins and jewels only added to the expenses. Such generosity she'd be paying the rest of her life with no end to the growing debt.
She hadn't minded till she'd met him. The man with a stare to level a battle field. He had caught her while she was out, asking about some sort of crime that had taken place the night before. How he had spotted her as a lady of the night had baffled her. She didn't look any different than the next woman of class out and about for a daily stroll.
Her heart had raced for another reason besides fear though. He was gorgeous. Pretty in a sense that made her want to caress his jaw for hours while one of her patreons sketched him for her visual delight to remember between sessions. She had been struck by cupid and he seemed none the wiser to her plight.
She lets her lips pull back over well cared for teeth, a sign of her pristine health and care. That alone attracted clients like gnats to fruit. The memory of him blinking as she offered him a round with her playfully hadn't been his intention, but she had offered anyway, intending to bed him before any one else could. A girl has to be greedy with such a pretty face after all.
To her shock he'd refused and instead insisted he speak with her on a case, something about his butler being useless for the task this time. Odd man.
That had started their budding redevous where they would meet and overtime ...it became more. Much to her delight.
The problem was his stubborn pride. For all that she wanted he never gave in. Her appearing in her corset and deglecherie did nothing but make him blush (cute as it was). He never bedded her much to the growing itch she couldn't scratch nor relieve.
So after the second attempt, naked as the day she was born thrown across her lavish bedding for his eye, failed, she decided to play his game and so back went on the stocking and corset, ribbons and buttoned front of the low neck gown he never let his eyes trail to for long. Pity, but she would take what she could from him.
The cast of a familiar top hat and a walking stick's resounding click on the stone street drew what little patience she had left to the surface as she dared to rise from her perch. Heart, half strung out on her tongue, it seemed to lace with the cords of bronchi in her lungs that expanded in a rush while she pondered if it was him or if she was simply over reacting. Many men wore top hats and walked with a cane. It meant nothing.
Yet the click still summoned her will to cool and burn like incense in a dish to perfume the hair and skin. Ignited to become ash.
So down she went, pulled by the thread of fate and her own anxieties to know just who was walking by or dared to enter her cage that gleamed with gold. Down into the belly of a flooded house that smelled of cigars and opulence to fine for most ladies of her work to touch, yet someone had to serve such men of class. Down into the forked tongues of dignity and pride that spit on such work by day but crawled up skirts in the night.
And there he was. Hat removed and coat being handed off to the valet that brushes the shoulders of the fabric with a boar bristled brush just for show. Everything was a show.
But he wasn't. Yet there he stood adjusting his cuffs and collar, eye scanning for threats as if the house would let anyone harm him while he poured coin into the Madonna's pockets.
That cerulean eye reflects the red lamp from outside, caught in an indigo hue.
Her breath caught, heart tumbled out to the toe of his polished black shoe. She could feel each pulse her body willed to speak of just how enraptured she'd become in his grasp.
And that eye. It spoke of the same fate she had carved in her bones, the same poison between them that would never come to fruition and take them both.
“Tu dois être fatiguée parce que tu as trotté dans ma tēte toute la journée.” Her rouge lips part in a smile, hand lingering on the wooden banister as she would never let her worth be lowered by approaching him like the other girls. Back straight and chin lifted with mirth hidden in honeyed sap fit to lick off her, she wandered the haze cloud of smoke as a phantom, not a human draped in gems.
Checkmate.
—-------------------
Word key:
Tu dois être fatiguée parce que tu as trotté dans ma tēte toute la journée.- You must be tired, as you have been running in my head all day.
The Soho area was a real section of London dedicated to an early 19th century brothel-like atmosphere for the rich and lowly depending on where you went and how much you spent. It was shut down in the mid 19th century.
Brothels often used different beauty techniques from around the world. With Prince Soma being an active part of the Kuro universe I decided to bring one of the older beauty practices from the East into this piece. Using incense to scent the hair and skin. This would create an association with a scent on a woman with a particular house that used a special blend. Keeping customers who were drawn to it coming back. Similar to how today we like cologne or perfume and when someone smells good we ask about it. Scent memory is another way to create bonds and desire.
Wanted: Dead or Alive, Chapter 1: Ready for some action?
Description: As a reformed gang member, you no longer take up your dual derringer pistols in an endless pursuit of wealth. Now, you serve a new purpose: working alongside seasoned professionals as the Earl of Phantomhive’s undercover private army, protecting his estate under the guise of menial, domestic chores. That is, until your old life comes crashing back into your present, specific people you’d sooner forget chasing a buried score to settle with you. Can you maintain the secrets you’ve worked so hard to bury? Or will you, once again, alienate yourself from your new comrades?
In a fierce fight to maintain your newfound camaraderie—and unexpectedly warm feelings for your employer— you come to learn that being the perfect soldier is not at all what it seems.
Story Warnings: explicit descriptions of violence (with a focus on gun violence) and murder, gore/assorted injuries and pain, death, grief/loss, elaborate theft, explosions/fires, vehicle hijacking, abduction. Story also contains cursing, drinking, smoking, lying, explicit sexual content, and class differences.
Author’s Note: Hi Everyone! Thank you all SO much for waiting so patiently for the debut of my third full-length Ciel x Reader fanfiction! I put a lot of work into planning this story and making this chapter as best as it could be. I hope you enjoy this new main character and that her story is exciting to watch play out. It’s going to be one hell of a journey.
Happy Reading!
Dan
NEXT CHAPTER ⇒
MASTERLIST
Mid-February, 1895
House for Now
It was your first night alone, and above all, in the cheapest shack you could find with four walls and an intact roof. Accordingly, you had to barricade each and every window (possibly even the door) before you consider settling down with a cup of hot tea.
The Band was looking for you, or if they hadn’t started already, they were bound to soon. A fortified house was a necessity for rest. With rest, came more work. With more work, came more funds. Those funds would bankroll your vengeance trip. But it would take time.
With a hammer, you knocked a nail into the next thick plank of plywood as you balanced on top of a thin barstool. Squinting in the dim light, the dull tones of orange and dramatic shadows from your fireplace concealed the small nailhead. You cursed yourself for failing to take on this task in the daylight. You grit your teeth, your jaw hardening from the eruption of pain that the movement afforded your healing wounds. Your ribs especially complained; even though it’d been a good month and a half, your body remembered the impact of steel-tipped boots well. And bloody hell, it hurt.
Rage fueled your next hammer swing as you hit the long nail through the plywood and into the wall next to the window. Your free hand kept the wood in place and you tapped the next nail in place. Everyone who made you hurt was going to pay for it tenfold.
The strain in your arms was not real, you insisted to yourself, and ignored it entirely. You didn’t have time for fatigue.
Outside the window, snow fell lightly, wind blew through the naked trees outside. It was dark, save for the distant glow of a faraway streetlight.
This wood would keep the cold out, too. It wouldn’t just stop the adversarial bullets of those hunting you. They could be anywhere. You lost at least a month of preparation time stuck in that hospital.
You worked efficiently, taking another two pieces of plywood to fully cover the window. Now, for the other front window.
The rest of the wood could be for the fire.
Just as you slid your barstool towards the other side of the front door, you hesitated, hearing the intruders before you could see them. The crunch of two sets of boots crunching in the snow, two masculine voices in converation. You caught pieces of it.
“Are you…this is…it?” One voice asked.
“Last time I….was here.” Another voice answered.
Your hand flew to the doorknob. You peered out of the unbarricaded window to your left, immediately catching two tall figures. Pistol beats hammer, you decided, and casted the tool aside to free both hands. Barricading the window would have to wait—it seemed you already had some unexpected guests to tend to.
Without waiting another moment, you pulled your derringer pistol out of its holster on your side, mechanically unclipping it and fastening your fingers around the grip. In your mastery of the firearm, it acted as a mere extension of your body. Shooting came as natural to you as breathing, walking. You never missed.
Acting first would give you the upper hand. Waiting was for prey.
You unlocked your door, drew it open, and pulled the person closest to you through the threshold by his jacket collar, just tall enough to pull it off in your heeled boots. Each move was fluid, you moved with the intensity and speed of a lightning bolt. You dragged him through the doorway and trapped him against the wall centimeters away from the door, just to the left of your freshly-barricaded window.
“State your business before I shoot you in the head,” you snarled, dominant hand unlocking your pistol and pressing the barrel hard against his jugular. You used your handful of wool coat, vest, and undershirt to keep the man’s chest pinned firmly against your wall, sliding your forearm against his torso horizontally.
While you didn’t falter, you were taken aback for a number of reasons when you gave the man a proper look.
First, you didn’t recognize him.
Second, he only seemed mildly inconvenienced, unfazed by your pistol digging into his neck. At least once his initial shock subsided.
Third, he was dressed in luxury, a glittering deep-blue sapphire ring set in silver wrapped around his finger. The exquisite gem was emerald-cut.
Fourth, his accomplice made no effort to come to his aid or fight you. He seemed amused, if anything, taking in the scene in front of him like a theater goer.
“Well?” You demanded, unlocking the gun‘s guard. He had about another thirty seconds before you pulled the trigger and turned on his friend. Maybe even thirty seconds was too generous—you didn’t appreciate your door ajar this late and you couldn’t be sure if the man you pinned was armed or not.
“Miss Y/l/n, might I introduce you to the Head of the Phantomhive Earldom and the Queen’s Guard Dog,” the tall accomplice announced brightly, letting himself inside your base. He closed the door behind him, looming tall in your small living room. Dark eyes filled with intrigue, polished charisma.
“We mean no harm to you, we can assure you,” he added.
Neither of those titles really meant anything to you. Instead, the sound of your name only made you more anxious to shoot the man. No one was supposed to know you.
“On my good name, I can assure you.” The man in your clutches interjected, his proud voice incredibly proper.
“I am Lord Ciel Phantomhive. If you wouldn’t mind unhanding me so I might explain my being here, that would be immensely helpful.” The Earl watched your face and stared at you. His deep blue eye was the purest representation of tanzanite blue you’d ever seen aside from the gem itself. Not sapphire. Tanzanite. Sapphire didn’t convey the hues of indigo; not to mention, the pleochroism. The various shades of blue depending on how the light hit them. A black eyepatch covered his other eye.
“Especially if you could manage doing so without blowing my brains out,” he added just as dryly. His dark hair nearly fell past his eyes and his pouty mouth was relaxed in its frow. The fireplace cast dancing shadows on his fair skin, further contouring his sharp cheekbones.
When you didn’t move to release him, the nobleman continued, “I have a job proposition for you. Work. Free room, meals, board. I’ve heard the rumors about the fight you can put up, and my estate is in need of a new private guard.”
Phantomhive’s accomplice merely watched. He must’ve been the Earl’s butler or steward—you didn’t know the official title, but during your apprentice days, attendants like him would always come to the jewelry shop on their master’s behalf.
“What rumors?” You snapped. Any muttering of that catastrophe, and he was dead. You didn’t care how big this job seemed to be.
“The string of high-profile robberies across London this week,” Phantomhive said. “You excel at some aspects of your work—speed clearly,” he paused, as if still processing the position you managed to pin him into in seconds. “But you are in no way subtle. The Yard knows he’s looking for a young woman in her early twenties with two derringer pistols; there were enough witnesses for the connection to be made. After all, I found you easily enough.” When he spoke of your pistol, he glanced down at the firearm pressing into his throat purposefully, snorting as if he didn’t think you’d actually shoot.
Your reluctance was a testament to how much you detested proving the man right. You deliberately locked your pistol and stepped back, the motions coordinated into one. You plunged the pistol back into its holster, but you kept your hand on the grip, ready to fire in case you changed your mind. Your free hand rested on your hip.
The Yard didn’t scare you. The Yard had been nipping at the Band’s heels for years, to no avail. If they couldn’t find a dozen and a half of you running amuck of the country—and the rest of the European mainland for nearly a decade—you sincerely doubted they could locate you in a matter of days. This week’s robberies were hardly high profile, anyway, how motivated could they be? You didn’t even kill anyone.
Get real. Those were all warning shots.
Still, if the Yard could place someone with your characteristics at these scenes, so could your former colleagues. You didn’t need to help them locate you by being careless.
“If you think I was behind those robberies, why would you want me to work at your estate?” You raised your eyebrows in challenge, lifting your chin defiantly.
“With sufficient pay, there is no incentive to steal,” Phantomhive answered, righting his collar and his jacket, the fabric wrinkled by your grip and stained with soot. Your hands must’ve had dirt and soot leftover from handling the fireplace. He shot a disdainful look at the stains left on his dress shirt, but quickly refocused. “And in the meantime, you would aid with domestic tasks and all that. All of my security comes from unconventional situations, they learn, and they guard the estate.”
“From who? You’re a noble Lord,” you pointed out flatly.
“One with plenty of enemies. Anyone with something to stand for has a few, that ought to be something you can relate to,” Phantomhive said evasively, catching the hints of a grimace you failed to conceal. “I am a private investigator for Her Majesty. It isn’t the safest line of work, and having discrete preparations is truly the best approach.”
“I would be a maid,” you clarified. You started to insist that as a trained thief, you didn’t know the first thing about domestic labor—barricading windows was about your limit—but he interrupted you.
“—Part of a private militia,” the Earl corrected. “Take a day or so to think about it. Consider your other prospects. We’ll come back in a few days. We could use your close-range expertise. I’ve never been bested like that, and so quickly…” he said, awkward hints of respect underscoring the observation.
You did need steady income. And it didn’t help to draw attention to yourself by stealing. Those other prospects could very well end in you being caught. Not by the Yard, but by a force much worse.
Estate beats shack.
. . .
After Two Weeks
The Phantomhive Estate
You positioned yourself into readiness. Take a solid stance, slight bend in the knees. One hand by the head of the axe, one hand by the wooden base. Your abdominal muscles tightened with anticipation, your calloused palms perspired. You fixed your boot heels into the soft Earth beneath you, the dirt dampened by melted snow. With a grunt, you brought your axe up over your head and squatted down, burying your axe deep into the wooden log.
Finally, a task you could accomplish without that bloody butler haranguing you.
You hadn’t the slightest idea of how to dress a table for a fancy noble dinner—how to arrange the cast of unnecessary utensils when all you were acquainted with was one’s standard fork, knife, and spoon. So what? You maintained that four forks for one single meal was a complete waste, no matter how Sebastian stared down his nose at you. Much like you’d continue to insist that a wrinkled bed sheet was nowhere near the end of the world, but it seemed to instead be an insult to the Phantomhive standard of care that you were now a part of upholding. Going into this endeavor, you hadn’t considered the ways an Earl’s estate might function differently from a highly mobile band of thieves.
To your elation, the log flew apart and your axe dug into the wooden base that you’d used to balance the offending log on. Once you pulled the axe head out of the base with a jolt, you replaced the log with a thicker piece, reinvigorated by the challenge. Your body was finally free of residual pain, and you intended to make the most of your full capabilities. You pushed your white sleeves further up your arms and rammed the axe back down, chucking when it tore through the wood as easily as silk.
After about a dozen more of these swings, you readied the kitchen furnace’s supply of firewood for the next week. It didn’t take you long to transfer the cut logs into the cellar’s storage room using a wheelbarrow. Regrettably, that was your last truly active task of the day. The rest was centered around preparing the estate for Phantomhive’s business dinner later that evening. Dusting, sweeping, whatever.
Sebastian assigned you the west wing of the main house—Mey-Rin’s former rotation. The new maid in you assumed that was because the area had such a large number of antiques that Sebastian was tired of Mey-Rin nearly fumbling due to her extreme nearsightedness; the trained strategist in you guessed it was because it freed Mey-Rin to work near the side hall with closer access to her rooftop Winchesters in case of a sudden fight.
You supposed your particular talent gave you a mobility Mey-Rin and Baldroy lacked, your derringer pistols safely tucked into your thigh holsters. As you learned two weeks ago, a maid’s petticoat gave you more than enough volume to conceal the firearms secured around your thighs.
Mey-Rin…you glanced at the watch on your wrist. Nearly four. Well-near your pre-company staff meeting, but well-past the time she would need your assistance with polishing silverware. But she never found you.
You swept imperceptible dust and debris into your dustpan on the floor, your neutral expression crumbling into a frown. The estate was quieter than normal. Usually, one of the other undercover guards—either Mey-Rin or Finny—interrupted you to ask for a hand with their own work, a nuisance in the moment, but you were strangely intrigued by their easy trust.
Even that morning, they were rather quiet. And that was by your standards, as you were the quietest of Phantomhive’s staff, save for perhaps Tanaka, Phantomhive's aging house steward and bookkeeper. Even Snake interjected here and there on his reptilian friends’ behalf more often than you did, and yet, your breakfast table had been near-silent that morning. Normally, there was some sort of chatter with dramatic attempts to pull you out of your shell, overlapping rowdiness that Sebastian had to break up before he could assign chores.
You’d only just noticed the break in your routine, consumed with your own agenda for the day. Every day, though similar, contained something different. This estate was by far the most elegant place you’d ever lived and with the kindest co-workers, so good natured that you compulsively locked and barricaded your small quarter’s door at night, waiting for the night they decided to drop the facade and pounce. You had to be prepared; the kinder they were, the more wary you found yourself.
You weren’t friends. You shared an employer—that was no basis of trust. You had to focus on tending to your own work. Fretting over your co-workers avoiding you or acting strange was fruitless.
You pressed your lips into a firm line, determined to refocus on sweeping. Somehow, Sebastian always knew when you skipped a room or dusted around a piece of furniture instead of taking the time to move it. If you worked at a steady pace, you could finish the west wing before Sebastian’s mandatory meeting in less than an hour. The butler didn’t take kindly to tardiness, either, the most pedantic as one could possibly be. It was no coincidence Phantomhive’s manor ran just as steadily as the watch on your wrist.
That was why you waited in the sitting room at the top of the next hour. Properly intimidated into punctuality, your co-workers filed in behind you, ready to listen to the same speech they must have heard time and time again. After watching four of these formal dinner meetings unfold flawlessly, you could practically recite Sebastian’s You Are The Personification of Phantomhive Care speech. You couldn’t imagine working at the estate for the years that the rest served and maintaining the same sense of urgency each time Sebastian uttered it.
Once the lot of you settled in, Mey-Rin and Finny sent you cautious glances from the small sofa. Baldroy claimed one of the wingback chairs, laid back and smelling of a fresh cigar. Sebastian cleared his throat, demanding their full attention as they chattered among themselves.
You situated yourself by the door, arms crossed. You left a considerable distance between Snake and yourself, not blind to the snake that was currently winding itself around his waist. You were decently assured that the snake was Webster.
“I anticipate all of your preparatory assignments have been tended to?” Sebastian started, never one for formalities. “The antique silverware set I requested for this evening is polished, the dead shrubbery has been cleared, and the vegetables are prepared?” He asked, making eye contact with each individual servant assigned to that particular task. A blushing Mey-Rin and a babbling Finny nodded vigorously while Baldroy offered him a casual nod of assurance.
“Yes, sir, of course, sir!” You were unsure where Mey-Rin’s hurried assurances stopped and where Finny’s began.
“Sure, everythin’s chopped n’ ready for ya,” Baldroy affirmed, reclining back in his chair. “I’ve got the roast from the market, too.”
“The west wing halls swept and dusted, the firewood cut and moved?” Sebastian met your gaze, visibly relieved that his initial dinner plans were still intact. Oftentimes, Baldroy could be overzealous with his preparatory work, ranging between a few minor fires on a bad day and mutilated ingredients on a good day. To have no outward kitchen concerns seemed rare—rare enough for Sebastian to seem surprised by the lack of emergency.
“Taken care of,” you confirmed.
“And I do mean, swept cautiously this time,” Sebastian clarified, causing you to scoff without humor. You rolled your eyes, arms defensively crossed against your chest. He was referencing the first three times he asked you to sweep—the invisible spots of dirt and debris he caught after you made your rounds.
“With the most caution one could manage in a situation like that one, yes,” you replied, the dry comment causing Sebastian’s placid expression to flicker with frustration.
“Good,” Sebastian answered tersely, unwilling to justify your tone with a response. You’d only been there for two weeks, but he was quickly learning to ignore your wry commentary. “Now, as I reminded you all this morning—” he started, only for Snake to quickly interrupt.
“‘And don’t forget, Sebastian, we received the postage from the postman and delivered it to the master,’ says Emily.” Snake dictated, using an affected, feminine voice to deliver his snake’s message, but his own somber tone to denote that the message was hers. The red and black snake in question wrapped upwards around the footman’s arm while Goethe, his orange snake, stuck his head out of his jacket pocket. Apparently, Goethe had no further commentary for Snake to communicate and neither did Webster.
“Of course,” Sebastian acknowledged offhandedly. “As I was saying…the Master is having guests for supper this evening—Randall, McElory, and Jones, a small-time mechanic team with a product pitch for him. Somehow, I tend to find myself both demanding and pleading with you: do be on your best, your best, behavior tonight. You will all be assisting with dinner service, in the roles typical of you.”
Again, there were two separate conclusions to make. The first, you had to ensure not to drop any dishes or break a single utensil, and the second, should these guests prove a threat to this estate, you and Mey-Rin would be among the first to respond. And you would have to swallow the urge to pick their pockets clean.
It was always so easy. Too easy. But last time, Sebastian had admonished you and refused to allow you to keep your spoils.
“Do not cause any disturbances, and we may just manage through this evening without any major catastrophes. Am I understood?” He asked expectantly.
“Understood!” They chimed back with an enthusiasm you couldn’t understand. For their pay? The food on the table? For the boss? Phantomhive didn’t strike you as the type to welcome such warm loyalty from his hired help. He was courteous enough, a saint compared to your previous employers, you supposed, but he didn’t seem particularly attached to any of you. If he and Sebastian handpicked employees from questionable backgrounds, you could only guess what kind of conditions they hailed from to develop the talents they possessed. Plenty worse than this, you guessed.
Finny and Mey-Rin even saluted.
It was a well-paying job, free room and meals. Phantomhive even supplied you with clothing—not only a standard maid’s ensemble like Mey-Rin’s, but comfortable options you favored for yourself regularly. If you stayed there for a few more months, you would have more than enough saved to sustain your hunt for vengeance without having to steal.
“Are we helping with culinary preparations again, too?” You asked. Last time Phantomhive had company for dinner, Sebastian had you help with the mundane aspects of meal preparations, measuring, cutting, stirring.
“Yes. Report back to the kitchen with Baldroy and myself.” Sebastian directed. Mey-Rin made a noise that seemed to be halfway between an excited squeal and a hum of uncertainty. “In a clean uniform. That goes for all of you,” the butler clarified, but his intense stare was only fixated on you and the stains on your plain maid’s dress. For this reason you preferred to take on your outside work in trousers, but you hadn’t had the opportunity to take care of your laundry.
Another chorus of yes sirs followed, and you obediently started for your small room to change into a clean maid uniform—one that wasn’t splattered with assorted chunks of wood, dirt, and dust.
Although you had yet to defend the estate with them, you heard plenty of what Mey-Rin and the rest of your colleagues were capable of. Sebastian debriefed you about their respective skill sets, and he didn’t seem the type to exaggerate. And you knew better than to judge anyone by the way they looked. Truly. But even still, it was hard to believe that Mey-Rin’s trembling hands made the steady grip of a markswoman in times of need. Especially that of a lethal sniper where accuracy was of the essence.
Still. Her hands weren’t typically this unsteady. Even the wine glasses and the bottles on her small steel cart clattered as the both of you walked to the dining room. You balanced several platters atop the large server in your hands. You didn’t know her well enough to ask about her nerves. The two of you had to focus, anyway.
Any guest could easily become an assailant. Being vigilant was your real work. The rest of this nonsense—the dining service, the sweeping—was just noise.
Even though dinner service wasn’t your main priority, Sebastian was intensive in instilling his formal dining choreography. You each had clear parts to play. Delaying that plan to ask Mey-Rin about her feelings would be childish and wasteful. She needed to rally herself.
“I present you with our first round of the evening,” the butler said, those words cuing Finny and Snake to open the dining room doors to make way for you and Mey-Rin.
Wordlessly, you handed off the platter to Sebastian to allow him to distribute the dishes on it, Mey-Rin handed you wine glasses on her cart one by one for you to fill with wine and distribute to each person, and Finny took the empty from Sebastian to return it to the kitchen.
There were a little more than a dozen guests total at the extended table, they were all men. Each dressed well, each older than your employer. Their voices overlapped in their conversation, unctuous compliments about the estate, the meal, the dining table.
Phantomhive was about as engaged as he normally was, his expression stormy and hard to read. A touch smug around his mischievous eye, his mouth a hard stoic line. He always looked as if he were three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
He hardly spared you or any of the staff a look, his attention fully focused on the table he headed. A battlefield for a businessman. And apparently, some business exchanges could turn lethal on this estate.
But that was why he hired you. More eyes to watch his back. Your attentive stare paid special attention to the men’s hands, waiting for them to dare pull out a firearm or anything else that could remotely be a weapon. All it would take was two seconds for you to draw one of your pistols, and one more second to fire. Your bullets could reach a good 130 meters in just one second—and you were much closer to them than that.
“What an impressive spread, Lord Phantomhive. You’re treating us better than any other chairman—you’d think you were attempting to earn our faith,” a man said, immediately picking up his glass of wine when you set it down to his side.
“It is important to me that my guests feel well tended to, Mr. Russell,” Phantomhive answered easily, poised and perfected. “My staff works according to that standard.” Always so direct in his words, so precise. There was something he wasn’t saying. You simply didn’t know him well enough to have a clue.
“You have an excellent mind for hospitality, sir,” another man chimed in.
“Yes, truly,” another parroted.
Your eyebrows wrinkled, disconcerted. You finished distributing the filled glasses of wine to the guests, refusing to hesitate and break character. You were supposed to look like a young, clueless maid. In their eyes, you only refilled their wine glasses, accustomed to having to interpret a variation of strange waves, looks, and nods over the course of an evening to do so.
These compliments seemed forced, haphazard, and suspicious. If they weren’t entirely there in Phantomhive’s best interest, your orders were to eliminate them. For now, though, it would be best to survey them closely and wait.
Phantomhive waved away the positive attention dismissively. His shoulders squared into his usual perfected posture. He shook his head, long raven hair nearly reaching the bridge of his nose at its longest. “Now, I would love to get to the heart of the matter. This proposed production machine of yours, the cost of investment it would take. The long-term resource commitment. Do you have a working prototype?”
His fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass you served him as he took an expectant drink. His eyebrows lifted as if to say, have a go at impressing me. You watched him make eye contact with each man as they fumbled to choose a decisive spokesman.
“Well—it’s a,” the one named Mr. Russell started, gesturing with his hands. He looked at the man to his right for help.
“Sort of fabric processing machine,” the other man finished for him.
“A sort of fabric processing machine, all right,” Phantomhive repeated back to them boredly, with a hum. “And what else? My textile factories are already supplied with tufting guns.”
And the rest of the night proceeded in the same way: Phantomhive posed a complex question. The group sitting before him stumbled to answer. It was almost a challenge to follow their points through all of their stumbling. Still, you and the rest of the staff managed a smooth presentation of each dinner course.
You grew more suspicious by the second.
Eventually, Sebastian sent you to get the dessert cart. You walked back to the kitchen from the dining room, carefully preparing to fight. They couldn’t be engineers or mechanics, so they were lying. It was only a matter of time before they made a move. You didn’t have an opportunity to convey your concerns to Sebastian, but Baldroy was the second best choice.
You moved quickly down the hall, conscious of your steps and surroundings. Two of the men were absent from the table, having left for the bathroom. They could be anywhere. So your eyes caught on every shadow, lurked on each corner. Anticipation made your pulse quicken, your senses in overdrive.
There was someone behind you, the wood floor creaked under his shoe.
You were almost relieved when he pounced, leveling the blade of a knife directly underneath your chin. Because it confirmed your suspicions. These people were terrible businessmen—they had to have some other agenda coming here.
Finally, it was clear, giving you cause to take them out. Waiting had been miserable.
Your mind sharpened as your hands took hold of your enemy’s elbow and wrist. Bending your knees, you lowered your hips and center of gravity to give yourself the leverage for this satisfying motion. Dragging him down with you, you snapped your hips sharply to throw him over your back, his feet forced off the ground. You ignored any last whisper of pain in your back ribs and torso the dynamic movement caused. It was worth it, so worth it. And the last of your pain was subsiding, anyway.
Your enemy’s back hit the floor with a crash, his knife clattering away. You dug your boot into his chest, unlocking one of your pistols from its holster and aiming at him. He fought to breathe; you must’ve knocked the wind out of him. He panted for breath, reflex tears pooling in his eyes and rolling down his reddening face.
“What’s the problem? You weren’t playing fair, obviously,” you snapped at him, emphasizing your heel in his sternum when his hands tried to move your leg.
“Bard!” You called out experimentally. Keeping your gun fixed on the man under your boot, you looked up. The light of the kitchen was just down the hall. He was close. The sound of the man’s struggle was certainly long enough to catch his attention.
“Y/n? That crash happen by you?” Baldroy didn’t take long to respond, leaving the kitchen with his own firearm in hand. “Oh, I get it,” he approached, picking up the steak knife from the dining table that the man took and inspecting it. Recognizing that exact utensil.
“Come on man, these were for the roast. Not for bloody people,” Baldroy chastised, eyebrows knitting. “ ’Specially not your host’s staff. That’s just plain rude, now isn’t it?” he unlocked his gun and shot a bullet into the floor—a quick way to tell the rest of the staff to locate the speaking tube nearest to them and listen. Thankfully, there was one in this hallway.
In almost every room and corridor in the estate, there was a brass pipe, they all connected in a complex intercom system and allowed you to communicate from almost all locations in the house.
“Everybody, we’ve got a rodent infestation. First encounter neutralized by Y/n on hall two, level one. Steak knife,” he relayed. “Mey-Rin, Finny, clear the house. Y/n and I’ve got the exterior to start, Mey-Rin to the roof once you’ve cleared, and Finny to the side entrances. Snake, Tanaka, help ‘em search the place.”
You found it strange that Baldroy didn’t assign Mey-Rin to the perimeter. Her long-range coverage would be much more efficient, you thought. But you were faster than she was, you supposed, and much closer to an exit. And you could find yourself lost in the main house from time to time if someone asked you to report to a particularly insignificant room. The main house even had a labyrinth of passageways you were still mastering.
“I know this is your first go at a rodent infestation with us, Y/n,” Baldroy smiled as if he were clueing you in to a joke. “I know we’re all excited havin’ you on board—guess I’m just tryin’ to say that I hope it’s a good time for you, too,” he extended his hand to shake yours. He had been the first to rise and introduce himself on your first day at the estate.
Baldroy’s smile lines made his blue eyes crease, the hues of green meshed in them reminded you of blue topaz. He seemed genuine, but the pit of your stomach twisted with apprehension. Even when you shook his hand, suspicion crept up your back.
“Thanks,” you answered, tucking some hair that fell out of your braid back behind your ear. You broke eye contact, both unwilling and unable to further return his welcoming words. Sebastian said the rest of the staff would be thrilled to meet you, but you assumed they were exaggerating.
The man underneath your boot squirmed, causing you to dig your heel harder into his torso once more and shoot him in the forehead. You pulled your other pistol from out of its holster.
“We have to clear the perimeter, ensure it’s just them in here,” you said. “It sounds like Sebastian is with Phantomhive,” you claimed, referencing the screams just from above.
“Always is,” Baldroy said. You didn’t know how Sebastian chose to fight, but you knew he was formidable. He never left Phantomhive’s side. Baldroy motioned for you to follow him through the kitchen and into one of the many inconspicuous doorways that led out of the manor. “All we ought to worry about is keepin’ the place in one piece. Ready for some action?”
You hesitated at the door for a moment, the thought of the immense number of acres you and Baldroy were about to attempt coverage of. Really, it was no surprise they were looking for an extra pair of eyes.
In front of you, Baldroy opened the door and stepped into the chilly night. “No need to be nervous. Clearin’ the house won’t take long at all—there’s no lot more capable or stronger than that lot,” he said with a reverence for his co-workers that you scarcely recognized. You used to feel that way, the warmth of camaraderie as reassuring and invigorating as summer sunlight. But now, there was a pit in your stomach, the thought of being close to people—close to a group with more loyalty among themselves than to you.
You didn’t step through the threshold because you were assured that the rest of the staff had your back. You did because you trusted your own ability to get yourself out of most anything.
And there was no guaranteeing that anyone else here was truly on your side, or even Phantomhive’s. A good liar could take on any facade, blend in seamlessly, and backstab you at their leisure. That was how traitors operated. All you could do in the meantime was be vigilant.
“No need to worry about me,” you told Baldroy, quickly stepping out behind him to start the scout. Your head jerked in each direction to check for an immediate threat, gun following your gaze. Light from the main house illuminated the property from around you somewhat, revealing the stables in the distance and the side of the front garden. But if you were attacking the manor, you would absolutely set up camp in the tree line; far out of sight. The Band would always have extra reinforcements waiting. It was best practice, and even better to destroy waiting reserves.
“We should see if there are reinforcements,” you said. “Behind the tree line.”
“Believe me, that won’t be necessary,” Baldroy’s dry scoff made you clench your jaw. “We stay right by the house. Wait for anyone tryna make a fool’s escape from our friends in there and mow ‘em down.”
Our friends in there. You would’ve scoffed if you trusted them in the same way Baldroy clearly did. You disliked waiting for your adversaries to find you—especially when you could seek them out first and take them by surprise.
“Seems counterintuitive,” you observed, scanning around you. You started towards the tree line, squinting because you could hardly see in the night. “If they have reinforcements, we ought to find out while they deal with the ones in the house.”
“If anyone else comes into our space, we’ll deal with ‘em. It’s better to maintain proximity to the entrances and the others, believe me,” Baldroy caught your shoulder, making you turn on your heel sharply out of instinct, just barely suppressing the instinct to shove him out of your space. Instead, you scowled at the offending hand, and he removed it. “Look, all I’m saying is this ain’t my first go at things here.”
You didn’t like it, but you relented. If there was anyone urgently close attempting to break an entering, that took precedence. Baldroy was correct in that respect.
“Fine. We’ll clear the entrances and windows, then,” You gave the woods one last look before refocusing on the elegant stone estate. It truly was an impressively large amount of land, and this was your first attempt at defending rather than attacking. You were well-acquainted with the art of breaking and entering; not preventing them.
Apparently though, this estate was just as important to Phantomhive as his life was to him. If you knew Sebastian was at his side, you were directed to prioritize this property from infiltration and disgrace. It went against your grain as a thief.
The best fighters adapted well, you supposed.
You scoured the property with Baldroy, cautiously surveying the side of the house, the gardens, the entrances. You could hear fighting inside—the unmistakable crash of a statue lobbed by Finny and the piercing echo of Mey-Rin’s shots. She truly was a talent—you could tell by the frequency at which she shot. Apparently, those trembling hands of hers could do the trick just fine. But that didn’t make you less anxious for action.
You detested waiting. It made you turn on your heel in the direction of each and every noise you heard—rustling tree branches, hooting owls—and kept your head on a swivel. Opponents could come from any and all angles.
“Not the usual for you, is it? The waiting?” Baldroy tried to make conversation, but you ignored the effort, hardly able to make out his face in the lowlight. The men inside had to have reinforcements waiting—Phantomhive spoke as if he was known to be unforgiving and relentless, any enemy who knew him would prepare sufficiently.
“I want to keep moving,” you said, eyebrows knitting when Baldroy stopped at the main house's east entrance, it was disguised cleverly behind tall shrubbery.
“Just stand by, Y/n,” Baldroy insisted. “Hear that?” he asked, referring to the sound of gunshots getting closer, and closer. Heavy statues clattering closer. Mey-Rin and Finny were truly driving the invaders towards these exits.
In fact, just as you reached for the door’s handle, an extremely loud crash came from the door and the door ripped open. You barely managed to jump out of the way before a little less than the dining table dashed out. Some bleeding. All yelling, completely in disorder.
Immediately, you took aim. Your right pistol fired, then your left. Four men fell to the grass between your and Baldroy’s bullets. After a few seconds, Finny strode out of the cellar, haplessly wiping his hands clean on his trousers. You assumed he threw a statue or some bookshelf to drive them to this doorway.
“Mey-Rin and me got another six of ‘em in there, these were just the fast ones,” the gardener chuckled. “Sebastian got the rest. C’mon you guys, we should regroup.”
You frowned, unconvinced. Was everyone truly accounted for? It only took one man to plant a firebomb. The Band would only assign two people to blow up the train tracks because igniting them was such a quick effort. By the time the conductor knew there was something amiss, the track was already blown to bits. It was just as easy to plant explosives in an estate, even one as grand as this. You’d need more than two hands to count the number of times the Band would lull victims into a false sense of security before delivering the killing blow—whatever the mission objective was, it was usually some derivative of lethal.
Without wasting another word, you started toward the tree line in the fastest sprint you could manage. Past the bodies on the ground, past the stables. You had to clear the treeline.
“No! Y/n you shouldn’t–” Baldroy started to protest urgently, immediately taking to a run to accompany you.
“Then stay back for all I care! I can handle this!” You called over your shoulder, reading your pistols. If there was anyone waiting beyond this treeline, you’d get them.
You were too fast for Baldroy to catch up to, and it seemed that was the product of immense misfortune on his part. Apparently, one of the men bleeding on the grass, had just enough life in him to pick his head up, lift a small gun he must’ve had on his person, and shoot at you as you passed. Baldroy was fast enough to shove you out of the way, but not fast enough to avoid the shot as it grazed his side.
“Oh, damn you!” Baldroy hissed at the man (or you, you couldn’t be sure) and stumbled from the impact. Blood immediately stained his traditional chef whites, pooling out in the fabric like watercolor on thin paper.
“Bard!” Your throat immediately tightened as you returned the shot to your fallen opponent. You gave the woods one final look, but reconsidered your priority. If there was someone waiting there, they would’ve attacked when you approached, you supposed. Thus, you surged closer to the chef, allowing your guns to drop to the Earth as you ripped some of your uniform to help handle the bleeding.
“Sit down,” you ordered. “The hell were you thinking, doing this for me? We don’t know each other!”
“I’m fine, just thought I’d help the new kid,” the chef hissed through his pain, his face was white. You helped guide him to his knees. “I mean, I told ya not to bother with the tree line yet, didn’t I? We’ve got Sebastian for those kinds of operations,” he made a weak attempt at a joke, laughing when your eyebrows only knit more. Movement from his laugh caused him to grimace.
As if his name summoned him, Sebastian came out with Mey-Rin and Finny at his sides. “And what on Earth happened here? Do we not employ tight defensive positions around the estate for this reason?”
“Guess I got a bit ahead of myself, what can I say?” Baldroy said, but everyone could see the truth of the situation just by taking in the scene. “Help me up. I can walk with a bit’a help and you can sew me back up inside, Nurse Sebastian.” The butler bristled at the nickname, but he and Finny helped the chef back inside regardless, leaving you to pathetically trudge behind them, an uncertain thank you twisted on your tongue.
You weren’t surprised when Sebastian summoned you to Phantomhive’s study after he finished tending to Baldroy’s wound. The butler assigned you to start cleaning up the shattered remnants of the statues Finny weaponized, and you took on the task without complaint. Now, you sat across from your employer who regarded you with mild interest. There was nothing accusatory about his expression, but certainly nothing reassuring about it, either.
“Why did you disobey direct orders? Sebastian did inform you that you are to act under Baldroy’s discretion in these circumstances, did he not?” Phantomhive broke the silence in a measured voice, taking a calm drink out of his tea. He held the teacup formally, slowly bringing it up to his lips and returning it to the dish it came with.
“He didn’t need to follow me. I had reason to suspect there were further assailants waiting in the woods, and I took a calculated risk,” you replied, looking down at your lap. You straightened your back, painfully aware of your slouch when you noted the nobleman’s shoulders impeccably squared and attentive.
“You are meant to work with them as a unit,” Phantomhive said.
But you hardly understood what a unit entailed, anymore. The only experience in a unit you had was: survive or die. Follow along or be left in the dust. Complete your duties well or they’d find someone else who could.
“No one has ever tried to push me out of harm,” you admitted begrudgingly, hyperactive fingers re-braiding your hair. You looked down at your braid as you tied it off, uncomfortable under Phantomhive’s scrutinous stare. You felt like a child getting scolded, your heart clobbering in your ribcage with your buried premonitions. For a reason you couldn’t name, there was a lump growing your throat. “I didn’t think…didn’t know…he’d do that. I mean, we work for you.”
“Giving you all common cause, yes,” Phantomhive set down his teacup, his blue eye still attempting to decipher you. You’d never felt so out of balance in front of someone since…you refused to entertain the troubling thought. “Can you tell me what incentive there may be for foul play among you?”
You failed to form an appropriate response, but that didn’t change your mind. You used to believe that a common cause made for some degree of camaraderie, but people were more complex than that. Vile, underhanded, jealous…everything you knew was clawed right out from under you in less than five minutes.
Everything. Because of him. And you never would have predicted it at the time.
You thought of the glacial snow that encompassed your body that day like a coffin. Your last few seconds of consciousness before your body gave out to the pain and the frigid cold. The metal smell of your own blood, the bitter taste of it on your lips.
If anyone had asked you that morning if anyone in The Band had incentive for foul play, you also would have answered confidently. No. Why would they betray me? I’ve worked for them for most of my life, you would’ve said.
And you hardly knew these people. Baldroy, an American with salt and pepper lightly speckling his blond hair, his firm handshake. Mey-Rin’s trembling hands and fumbling kindness. Finny, only a couple years older than you, and stronger than anyone you’d ever seen. Snake and his friends. Tanaka’s quiet fierceness.
You were there to earn a living, get out, find your old accomplices, and end them. That was all you wanted. You didn’t need to befriend these people, but they’d surely throw you out if you failed to assimilate. What would you do, then? Cower in a shed and slowly build up funds with your back unprotected in that shack?
“Fine,” you said. Your face felt hot, your mouth dry. “We sink or swim together,” you continued reluctantly, fully aware that you didn’t believe a single syllable coming out of your mouth, but self-aware enough to know that the lie was essential to your survival. It was what Phantomhive wanted to hear, and that was what mattered. Keeping your boss happy would keep you paid, fed, and sheltered.
“Indeed, and you should offer your thanks to Baldroy. Who knows what might’ve happened had he not intervened,” Phantomhive said purposefully, watching you as you stood to your feet, not waiting for proper dismissal. You were too uncomfortable.
“Fine. Is there anything else, then?” you asked, impatiently standing behind the seat you had just occupied. Unappreciative of your restlessness, Phantomhive’s gaze hardened.
“Speak with the rest of them, too. Trust among you is essential,” the Earl said as casually as if he asked for another cup of tea. How couldn’t he understand? He found you isolated in a shack. Did he truly think he could make a loyal footsoldier out of a criminal like you?
“I will. In the morning,” you said, stepping closer to the door.
“Y/n,” Phantomhive said, stopping you as you started to open the door. You looked over your shoulder at him.
“Yes?” Your tone was tougher than you intended it to be, but he didn’t flinch.
“For your first go with them, it was a decent job done,” Phantomhive tacked the comment on, rushing through the words with a hint of awkwardness uncharacteristic of him.
“Thank you,” you heard the same rushed uneasiness in just those two words of yours. You closed the door and showed yourself back to your room before Phatomhive could keep you any longer. You had enough of other people for the day, and you needed to be alone. You locked your door and stepped out of your uniform, the material damp with sweat and somewhat ripped from your efforts to tend to Bard’s wound.
Removing your dress revealed the key you wore around your neck, usually tucked quite cautiously underneath your clothing. It was your most valuable possession, the target on your back that would ensure your enemies to come running back to you once they realized it was lost. You were betting on the importance of the key, even if you hadn’t the slightest clue of where or what it unlocked.
If you knew your former colleagues as well as you thought, they were looking for you. This key. They were switching up their home bases, knowing you were out there searching for them, too.
If they knew you, they knew you’d want to fight. You were never one to go down without one.
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Have a read lovelies! I adore this author and we talk often. She has such a love for the Earl and is a gifted writer! Give her a follow and send some love
Original ask: Hey! I love your work, Keep it up please! I was wondering if you have any AU ideas for O! Ciel and his wife? If so what are they? Hope you can answer this one please!! ❤️
Hello lovely anon!
I have SO many AU ideas it's criminal actually. Shame my brain refuses to develope them... Here have a few*:
*I would like to say if you'd like to use one of the more specific ones and go to other users to create the idea...please ask and respect the wife's gender as female and orientation as heterosexual. I won't say no. I just wanna be tagged so I can read too!
I may have spent weeks on this to get as much detail for each one as I could for your enjoyment. PLEASE ask me about them if you like them. Ideas sprout when questions are asked as I process aloud.
As always reader/wife is female and other characters in the anime or manga may make appearances in these AU.
Pick your sign of bonding (tattoos, dreams, if you can think of it I've probably imagined it at this point). I live in this type of AU as my comfort. A personal favorite is neither seeing color till meeting eyes for the first time. O!Ciel experiencing that cursed sensation he swore to never indulge, his future wife wondering why he's making such a uncomfortable face. There soulmates...why isn't he happy? This AU becomes a trope across my other AUs... Literally I can't stop!
Fallen AU: ♟️💕💍🪭
What if O!Ciel became a demon? What if he was the servant in Sebastian's massive household in the underworld below the mortal plain, instead of of being the Earl we know and love? What happens when he goes to the surface for his first meal and meets his future wife who called on him for a wish? She's so beautiful, her soul his if only he could explain why his heart started beating again upon stealing a kiss (making a contract). Maybe Sebastian knows?
Think 'Once Upon A Time' Peter Pan, not Disney animated.... If you know you know....
O!Ciel is a patient and the wife is a masters student just trying to get an internship and thesis finished. To bad O!Ciel had other plans for her. What happens if before her arrival the staff becomes the patients? What if the patients have become the staff? Chaos? Madness? Oh dearest you have no idea... Other characters make appearances.
O!Ciel is a rich heir to a vast empire, never knowing life outside his world of finery and prejuidice. The wife is a hard working maid for hire that accidentally ends up at the wrong gig. What happens when he likes the maid a bit too much and starts pulling her into his world? Will she sink or swim at family dinners, and don't even get me started on the Derby.
He's a Ravenclaw, she's a Slytherin... We know how this goes lol.
The wife is a witty lady of the night. Our Earl is a besotted bachelor who didn't plan on finding a match in such a twisted place. Wholesome and pinning is the game they play. Dark desires linger to close to embrace. How the world morphs it's monsters to love one another unapologetically. Will they see the sunrise only to long for another night in each other's company? Watch for the post on this AU as it's coming soon.
Apocalypse AU: 🧟♀️💕🍒
So the world is ending, caught on her own among the rubble of a city, our wife ends up knifing the only other human she's seen in years over a can of cherries. Should she save his life? Why is he British? Someone tell the navy haired male to stop eating her rations when she's not looking!
O!Ciel has always had a knack for drawing attention, wanted or not. After a unspeakable childhood he decided to take to the streets and pursue a career where he'd had some control over the lusting eyes. Hanging from the ceiling on silks wasn't his first idea but when he dangles over the crowd, dressed in a glittery spanked unitard. He's forced to confront desire as he meets the eyes of the circus's future beast master. Seems he wasn't as against lust as he once believed, not when it came to her.
Or
He's the sharp shooter, the trick shot. To bad his personality leaves much to be acquired. The wife the poor unfortunate victim to his attitude. The circus took turns cycling female attendants for him cause he was so awful. Too bad she won't take his lip, not without serving it back.
Our wife takes on the role of a servant girl who accidentally calls on Bast …who knew they had him (O!Ciel) so wrong....
Or
The pharaoh (O!Ciel) has claimed a new foreigner from a distant land. How distant? The future. Our Achelogist and linguistic nerd wifeis left with one choice. Become a servant of the king, or vy for queen-ship among dozens of others. As the queen looks to destroy the bond her and the pharaoh share, can she use her knowledge of the past to save herself? How about the future of Egypt?
This one's been living in my head well over a decade since I joined BB fandom. Classic retelling of Beauty and the Beast (not Disney!) with a few elements shifted. I'm not spoiling it cause I wanna write it for you all. ✍🏻
Hybrid AU: 🙈🙉🙊
In a world where hybrids are treated as second class citizens, pets, what's a girl to do when rescuing a rather difficult "guard dog" from being put down? Not completely rewrite his prejudices against humans surely.
Zoo AU: 🧶♟️🤭
Another inspired by a different fandom that I never really see. The wife's a new researcher for a zoo of human-animal hybrids. What happens when she's assigned the panther exhibit? Too bad O!Ciel sees her more as a snack than a caretaker. Other characters make appearances as well.
I have more …subject to taste AUs (mature/NSFW) as well, but I am not so bold as to inflict those on this blog without being asked lol.
Please put: adult, minor or your age in your bio if you interact with my content. This is to keep writers safe from being accused of horrible things. It's very important to do this.
I have NSFW content so minors please don't interact. The content is tagged and labeled in the work as well so no worries if you want to stay away from it. I made it very easy lovelies.
Prepare to be sick of me ahh i love your writing so much!!❤️ How about intimate moments with Ciel that some people might deem sexual but to them it’s like a normalized thing? Like them just having skin to skin moments alone 🌝🌝
Your wish is my command, have these snippets of brain worms that refuse to develop into butterflies. I headcannon the Earl and his wife are not societies prude ones. He still has class, he's just very dotting with her (and likes to use their affection to keep his business deals and other annoying members of society: cheap, in line and out of his home lol).
Keep the requests coming, if you dare. ;)
Reminder: OCiel is aged up to late 20s and goes by the name Astré here. For details, check out my page and my other works if you'd like!
Warnings: smoke, busybodies, suggestive moments but not detailed, naked but not described, Astré is a simp for his wife! I guess this could be considered NSFW....
Moments That Didn't Stay in The Dark
They didn't understand. How could they?
A fleeting temple kiss in a candles flame from a dark corner of the billardroom was seen as a scandal. To him it was a play for power. To bring her into his domain of authority among smoke, the clatter of a cue ball and his next target.
A caress to his wife's lower back on the rare occasion they danced at a gathering, a communication to say 'I desire you', not a reason for the gossiping hens of society to cluck behind their fans at them. Nuisances.
His gloved fingers hapazardly tugging the bodice of her gown back in place as a servant (MeyRin) squeaks out an apology for interrupting. He sighs wondering if he'll ever get a moment alone with his wife in his own home.
Her fingers gripping his thigh at the dinner table among guests that baggered him. Unlike upperclass tradition of hosts not sitting together, he simply didn't care. He wasn't letting other men near his bride, not when she looked so appetizing and stroked her thumb closer to...
Mumbling in French to her after a long day of work in the office. He had forced himself to spend time away so they could develope a routine outside of the honeymoon phase that still nipped at their hearts. Now in bed, he quickly removed her chemise and pulled her beneath him so he could kiss her heart and get lost in her arms before exhaustion took him. Sleeping together was mandatory and anyone who said his wife shouldnt stay in his bed would be escorted away by Sebastian. Two rooms? Please. Good riddance to the thought.
Desperate kisses dragged across eachothers lips, heated and full of fire while a shocked audience watched on. She had returned from a business deal (kidnapped), and his hands were quickly balling up her skirts in his hands to get to her, to her skin that was alive and not dead, like his family.
Kissing her ankle after she had a tumble playing crochet with some friends. A Lord on his knees? A ladies ankle, bear of a stocking? His wife's great aunt fainted seeing his affection so publicly, while other ladies watched in in envy of his wife. Other gentleman shifted uncomfortable with seeing the guard dog collared and smitten by a woman.
Astré (OCiel) kneeling before the bed, head resting in her hap as she carded her fingers through his hair after a case that left him spiraling. The demons clung to him yet she plucked each one and set them in a box for later deliberation. As the weight wore away he wrapped his arms around her waist burying his face in her stomach, desperate to know he's not alone.
His wife's hands caressing his back in the bath, not joining him for once, but insisting on doing a servants duty and washing him down. Her fingers trace his brand and her eyes soften with knowing the horrors. He turns and caressed her face assuring her that after all there time together, he isn't afraid of her touch...no matter how hesitant she may be. Astré quickly ignored her request to finish bathing him and pulls her into the bath instead to correct her assumptions. A wet night dress and a few evening delights later had her convinced he was telling the truth.
Breathless and sweaty from pleasure as the sheets stick to there bodies. His wife resting against his bare shoulder as he kissed her hairline, rubbing her arm as he summoned air into his lungs. She was gonna kill him with all that energy. But he wouldn't trade her hunger for him for the world. He just wished he could keep up better. He makes mental notes to ask Sebastian to find some 'reading material' to surprise her with next time she was in need.
Her works are incredibly detailed and written with such passion for the Earl. It's a pleasure to reblog her works. If you haven't given her a chance, please do. You won't regret it!
I will be writing again when I'm inspired. Currently, I've been trying to find my spark again. Sad I know, it is the worst thing for a writer to experience. Thank you so much for all your patience and feel free to send in a suggestion or an idea. I am always open to those!
