These works belong to me! No one has permission to copy, repost, or translate them on any other account, anywhere. My only accounts are “scribbleseas” on Tumblr, Wattpad, and Ao3. Please do not read posts with explicit content if you are under the age of 18!
Ciel Phantomhive is aged up +18 in all of these works.
LEGEND:
✪ complete
✎ in progress
✘ on hiatus
☁︎ contains darker themes or angst
❥ contains explicit sexual content
CIEL PHANTOMHIVE
*̩̩̥͙-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ⋆ straight laced ⋆ˊˎ-•̩̩͙-. ✪ ❥ ☁︎
⇢ growing up in a french ballet school didn’t prepare you for two entirely new roles: ciel phantomhive’s investigation accomplice and his pretend love interest.
*̩̩̥͙-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ⋆ the indignant pawn⋆ˊˎ-•̩̩͙-. ✪ ❥ ☁︎
⇢ you’re a princess-turned-contract-killer tasked with killing lord phantomhive, the queen’s guard dog.
-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ⋆ wanted: dead or alive ⋆ˊˎ-•̩̩͙-. ✎ ❥ ☁︎
⇢ 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 a private soldier for phantomhive estate.
*̩̩̥͙-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ⋆ in love & in war⋆ˊˎ-•̩̩͙-. ✎ ❥
⇢ join ciel 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.
LEVI ACKERMAN
*̩̩̥͙-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ⋆ beyond the walls⋆ˊˎ-•̩̩͙-. ✎ ❥ ☁︎
⇢ as a world-renowned agronomist and biologist, you never expected that the hardest challenge in your career would consist of mastering odm gear to both survive an expedition outside the walls and keep yourself from falling for the stoic captain levi ackerman.
Hi! Just wanted to hop on and say that I will be updating wanted: dead or alive next!! I didn’t mean for there to be a little hiatus for it, but I had some plot things to iron out.
And thank you all so much for reading my most recent drabble! I realized I missed some of you on the tag list last post—so sorry and I will make sure to get you moving forward!! 💕
in love and in war, drabble 6.5: the one where you cross swords
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.
Pairing: Ciel Phantomhive x Reader
Warnings: None!
Author’s Note: hi my loves, surprise!! here’s that update i owe you all. it’s a tad under-edited so i’ll probably go back in and make some tiny changes soon, but i hope you enjoy reading it!!
i’m so excited to hear your thoughts, i miss you all so so much 🫶🏼
happy reading!
dan
⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒
MASTERLIST
Ciel Phantomhive
St. Dunstan’s Athletic Hall
To anyone else, watching the way the rest of the bout unfold was a damn shame—comparable to observing a carriage wreck collide in slow motion. One miscalculated parry quickly devolved into two, and Y/n looked more surprised than anyone else in the hall. Ciel Phantomhive wasn’t known for his compassion, but even his lips pursed in a grimace.
After all, he knew better.
Everyone else would assume her sword arm dipped prematurely, a misinterpretation of the angle Lady Harrington’s blade followed. They’d conclude that her arm extended in an overeager parry. It was ill-timed and unfortunate, compared to the immaculate precision she displayed thus far.
But the fact of the matter was much more complicated than that.
For the past two rounds, Sebastian returned to Ciel’s side faster than he could process his departure. He hardly noticed he left, and that was with a little more than a decade’s worth of experience with his butler, who’s a downright dastardly demon. The Earl meant that literally.
His jaw tensed as he watched Lady Y/n blink away her unborn tears and shake Lady Harrington’s hand. Her disdain for showing such sportsmanship to the opponent she’d just had perfectly within her reach was palpable enough. Red flooded her face, painting her mortified.
“What the hell did you do, Sebastian? She was about to win. I told you—” Ciel demanded impatiently. He turned to face him, staring daggers. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. All Y/n needed was one final riposte to her opponent’s torso, and the bout would have been spokien for.
“You ordered me to drive the lady into your loving arms by any means necessary,” the demon answered plainly, eyes glowing just the barest hint of pink-hued crimson. He smiled serenely, watching the defeated noblewoman shake her opposition’s hand with palpable amusement. “You can trust that my actions will always be tantamount to achieving that end.”
“How could her loss possibly benefit me?” Ciel snapped incredulously, eyebrows drawing together as he watched the Yorkshire team receive their narrowly won first-place medals. Elizabeth and Y/n’s team took turns shaking hands with the victors and the other participating teams. They wanly accepted their silver medals.
“Miss Y/n will be in need of an experienced fencer who might reassure her of her skill,” Sebastian remarked, tilting his head guilelessly. “You do recall all those years I coached you, don’t you, sir?” The Earl’s memory supplied hundreds of hours practicing with the demon—sweating, suffering, cursing. Bleeding, in most cases.
“Sure. I have the scars to prove it,” Ciel remarked dryly. He begrudgingly reckoned that this was what he deserved for assigning the role of matchmaker to a sadistic supernatural being.
“This would be the perfect time for you to brush up on some of those skills. And you’d be smart to tell her she fenced beautifully,” Sebastian directed, ignoring his comment. Ciel’s fingers clutched the varnished banister in front of him in a tight squeeze, channeling his frustrations in the iron grasp. “Your endorsement will mean a great deal to her.”
“Evidently,” Ciel sighed, attempting to fashion his face into something neutral. The key to unlocking her heart was proving himself dependable in times of crisis, even if such vulnerability put a sour taste in his mouth. Even if it was unrealistic and fantastical. Whether it was a trip on the pier or a miraculously endangered child, Y/n would choose the man she trusted the most to be her husband, at the end of the day. And her father would extend his blessings to the candidate that would steer his shipping empire to growing its monopoly.
It was Ciel’s responsibility, his mission, to ensure that he would be that man. He didn’t care which superfluous society events he’d have to sit through to prove it. After all, he was clever enough to attend Y/n’s tournament, and as far as he knew, there were no blond, audacious retired military officials haunting the premises.
Against him, Biceps for Brains didn’t stand a bloody chance. Childhood friendship be damned.
Lady Y/n trudged off the fencing piste, her helmet tucked under her arm, her blade dipped low, and her posture sulking. Absolutely perturbed. As far as Ciel could see, she wasn’t too different from him: unaccustomed to loss and nauseated by the prospect of it. She made a pointed effort not to look his way as she stalked off the main floor, reuniting with her disheartened team.
Lizzie immediately wrapped her arm around Lady Y/n, her eyebrows knitting and her mouth soft and sympathetic. Their other two teammates flanked their sides.
. . .
Y/n Y/l/n
Looking your teammates in the eye was nothing short of painful—brutal and burning as if you’d decided to stare into blinding sunlight. You didn’t dare look at your parents or even Lord Phantomhive. It was difficult enough to hold your head high as you stalked out of the main hall, towards one of the private salles where St. Dunstan’s organizers directed the tournament’s participants to store their gear.
Lady Elizabeth’s consoling arm around your shoulders did nothing to ease the world-shattering guilt weighing down your shoulders. “We would have won a second season in a row. I destroyed our chances,” you lamented, tone low and miserable.
“The score was incredibly close. It never should have come down to this one match,” she assured you, matching your strides step for step as you walked. Samantha and Vivian repeated similar warm sentiments, all consoling smiles that didn’t quite meet their sad eyes.
You all had something you hoped to prove, and you shattered that opportunity. The worst part: It had been well within your grasp.
“Those rounds happened so fast,” you said, strained words resigned. Your eyes stung terribly, you blinked hard in hopes to moisten them and dissuade the tears that threatened to fall.
“There’s always the end-of-season tournament,” Vivian chimed in. “We’ll show them next time.” Your teammates shed their gloves and left their blades in the salle, opting to remain in uniform for the post-tournament fundraiser.
You set your fencing mask down and pulled off your leather gloves, dropping them on the wooden bench next to you with more force than necessary. With a sigh, you took a seat, abandoning your ladylike posture to hunch over and hide your face in your clammy hands.
The rest of your team started filing out of the salle to join the festivities. All proceeds from admissions and afternoon tea were slated to go towards a children’s aid nonprofit.
“You shouldn’t be this hard on yourself,” Elizabeth gave you a lingering pat on the back of your shoulder. “Take your time, and we’ll see you out there. There’s supposed to be some lovely sweets.”
You nodded your gratitude. She and the rest of your team filed out, leaving you to your lonesome.
Only then, you let hot tears stream down your cheeks, your throat tight. Your shoulders shook with the effort necessary to silence your quiet cries, your breath coming in short bursts through your mouth.
All you needed to win was one last point. Yorkshire was a full two points training. You essentially gift wrapped and handed them that win. A step further than mortifying.
You wiped your wet cheeks clear. You sniffled as you worked for control over your breathing. Shortly, you managed to breathe equally.
After you gave yourself a few extra moments to grieve, you reshifted your focus. Time to move forward.
There was no sense in crying over a finished game—your tears wouldn’t change the outcome or give you another chance. The silver medal hanging from your neck proved that. From here, all you could do was practice dutifully and learn a lesson in hubris and humility.
You pulled the medal over your head and dropped it with the rest of your belongings. As you rose to your feet again, your fingers reluctantly wrapped around your blade’s handle. You stepped onto the salle’s small piste, made to suit players’ practice bouts. The wall-length mirror reflected your alert stance, and you gave yourself a scrutinizing once over.
Your mind’s eye flashed through those bouts—the way your parry overzealously dipped. For all of your cultivated talent, it was difficult to imagine that you would misinterpret the same maneuver twice in a row. No matter how tired you were. It was almost as strange as your heel catching on the pier, you supposed, your body having moved before you could register the cause. These uncanny circumstances seemed to be following you around this season. Like some sort of bored supernatural being playing you for sport.
Come on, Y/n, get yourself together. The ridiculous thought made you laugh miserably. The noise caught in your throat, and tears threatened to fall again. You wiped any remaining tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand and rolled your shoulders back, stretching your back muscles.
You slid your fencing gloves on again. Completely resolute in your determination. You would perfect your technique and return even stronger at the end of the season’s tournament. To prove yourself worthy to yourself, your family, your team.
Envisioning the line of attack, you extended your sword and turned your wrist into position. You adjusted the angle just so, eyes tracking your reflection in the mirror.
Swiping the blade down hard, you weighed the motion, the parry in six’s arch. You repeated the same technique over and over again, analyzing what might’ve went awry. You studied each small movement until you were breathless, not from crying, but from exertion.
You were a diamond in the Richmond legacy. Your parents’ only child, the manifestation of their pride and the long, lasting lineages that came before them. Losing one fencing tournament wouldn’t change that. All you had to do was—
“You’ve got the idea, but you’re overextending. You leave your side open,” Ciel Phantomhive’s stern voice dragged you back to your senses; his tall reflection joined yours in the mirror. You were mid-motion, blade poised in the air. A show of your shock, your sword arm fell instantaneously. You turned to face him properly, bleary eyes wide.
A surprised smile tugged at your reluctant lips, nothing more than a diminutive curve at the edges of your mouth.
Sebastian and Daphne trailed inside after him. She knew you preferred space after disappointments such as these and had been waiting just outside the door for you. But the maid shot you a wink and an encouraging smile, establishing herself near the threshold to supervise.
“Beyond that, you fenced beautifully,” Ciel said, joining you on the piste. The corner of his mouth lifted in his conception of a mirthful expression. Sarcastic just at the edge. The room’s natural light danced in his blue eye. “You should be proud of your efforts today. You’re decently formidable. As I recall, you said so on the pier, and I wanted to see for myself. Not to mention, my cousin adores you.”
“I can hardly believe I forgot the two of you are cousins.” You laughed wryly, searching his stoic face for a hint of deceit. Formidable, he said, in that shrewd, witty manner of his that you’ve come to derive as the Earl’s idea of intimate honesty. When you compared Ciel and Elizabeth, almost no similarities rose to the front of your mind. Neither in appearance nor disposition. Where Lizzie was welcoming and radiant, the Earl was reserved and a tad standoffish. The sun and moon, yin and yang.
“I reckon there isn’t a lot of family resemblance between us,” Lord Phantomhive commented breezily.
“Right. I suppose there’s not,” you agreed, laughing a bit too weakly to mean it in full. You cast your gaze away for a moment, off to the side. “That said, you can’t mean all that. Didn’t you see the final match? I—” You started to reproach yourself, only for Lord Phantomhive to raise a dismissive hand. He shook his head and interrupted you.
“—You’re far from without skill. Honestly. You won the rest of your bouts. Your ripostes are lethal. Few fencers can say the same.” He spoke with enough certainty for both of you, as if your talent was an indisputable fact. Just as sure as Newton’s Laws of Motion. His commentary wasn’t so obsequious that you thought he was patronizing you, either. They were objective observations.
“Well, thank you. I appreciate that—and your coming here today.” Your face felt warm. He was the Queen’s Guard Dog, the head of the Funtom Corporation, and he took the time out of his hectic schedule to sit through hours of fencing matches to watch you. Apparently he possessed the care to find and console you, when you didn’t immediately join the rest of the players and your community in celebration.
“Your talent is a wonder to observe,” he affirmed to you, as a matter-of-fact. Not overzealous. Not patronizing.
A wonder? Your stomach filled with butterflies. You cleared your throat, unsure of how to best take the compliment. All you could do was smile nervously.
Lord Phantomhive took mercy on you and filled your bashful quiet by asking when you’d be joining the festivities. He studied your face tactfully, gauging your mood. More than likely observing the remnants of your tears—wet eyelashes, shiny eyes.
But you were beginning to feel better. Honestly. Lord Phantomhive had proved himself so unmistakably considerate. You never would have anticipated this from a sly businessman like him.
“I’ll join the others soon. But first, I need a few minutes to perfect that parry,” you insisted. You shifted eagerly on your feet; your resolve forced away any hint of your exhaustion.
. . .
Ciel Phantomhive
The plan was working well. Ciel smiled slightly, satisfied that he had crafted his words flawlessly, if the look in Y/n’s eyes was any indication. It wasn’t even too difficult; finding ways to compliment her technique had been easier than he thought. He could say so without lying. That was a fact.
He had delighted somewhat in watching her competitive streak come to life again.
“As I said, you have the idea. All you need is a few adjustments. Shouldn’t take long,” He advised, smiling a little indulgently in sardonic challenge.
With a new sense of purpose, Ciel stepped off the piste and shrugged his blue morning coat off. He draped it over the wooden bench and to free his wrists, he rolled his sleeves up his forearms.
Lizzie’s fencing gloves sat on a wooden bench—Ciel recognized the pair by her embroidered initials, the pink threading just at the wrist cuffs. He fastened them on his hands, certain his cousin wouldn’t mind. She all but suffocated him with her gleeful embrace when he told her why he would be attending her tournament.
“You know, fencing practice is far more productive with an opponent,” Ciel said pensively. He abducted Lizzie’s blade and studied it in his hand, weighing it, testing how the hilt felt in his grip.
As he rejoined Lady Y/n on the practice piste, he couldn’t help but take note of the slow smile spreading across her face. It was a little brighter this time—restorative, radiant, like the sun’s rays managing to peek out from behind foreboding storm clouds. She flushed from his remarks, her lips twitching in contest with suppressing a hopeful grin.
The Earl’s countenance eased somewhat, reassured. He had this.
What did it matter if Ciel had cautiously projected this exact exchange in the forefront of his mind? He meant what he said. Every syllable of it, really. The lines were coming easier to him, now. At least in comparison to the beginning of the season.
“You’re honestly challenging me to a bout, Lord Phantomhive?” Lady Y/n laughed reluctantly. The questioning one that fluttered out of her chest when she was uncertain. Bashful. She tugged some stray hair behind her ears.
“I am. So tell me. What do you say?” Ciel asked conspiratorially, as if they were scheming some sort of crime. He felt somewhat indulgent and much more impishly animated than he’d typically find himself. There was something inviting about her that he couldn’t name. Infectious. It was as if he couldn’t help himself.
Ciel fastened on Lizzie’s gloves. Her hands were smaller than his, but the soft leather was forgiving enough. It wasn’t so tight around his knuckles that he’d disfigure the shape. He flexed his fingers experimentally, testing the stiff give. “We may have a thing or two to teach one another,” he prodded.
“I can take you on,” Y/n agreed, after a few beats. She grinned.
“Good,” Ciel answered, brightening. Analytical. Amused. He showed himself to the piste’s opposing side and readied Elizabeth’s blade in en garde. His dominant foot stepped forward, his other foot perpendicular, and a step back.
“Best of three?” She suggested, her mouth pursing with focus. The noblewoman reflected his stance, stepping back and tipping her blade at Ciel with a soldier’s austerity. His heartbeat picked up in his chest, his awareness narrowing around her and the platform they occupied.
“Yes. Best of three.” Ciel confirmed. He cast a sidelong look at his butler. “Would you count us off, Sebastian?”
The demon didn’t hesitate, stepping forward. He counted off in French, and called out, “en garde prêts allez!” His gloved hand gestured downwards to signify the start of this unofficial bout.
Ciel set his jaw.
How could he fence with her constructively without handing her too sound of a defeat? Taking a quick loss to him would make this whole effort meaningless. But he wasn’t about to make it easy. Never that, from the head of Phantomhive.
She feinted on him, to start off. Pretended to commit to direct thrust before disengaging just centimeters beneath his blade. Mid-extension. She lunges opposite his opening line. Smart, complex.
After observing her fencing signatures for nearly a full day, he saw it coming, but he chose not to nip the feint at the bud, so as not to discredit her.
The gentlemanly thing to do.
Ciel counter-parried once he was certain her blade cleared out. He could have pressed, but didn’t return her offensive with the same oppressive intensity. His blade thrust directly, but light. Enough so, that the noblewoman could step back slightly, rather than hustle a blade defense together.
. . .
Y/n Y/l/n
Lord Phantomhive’s years of training certainly weren’t lost on you. He struck precisely, embodying the same degree of caution and wit he did in all other pursuits. Crossing blades with him with just as much a mental effort as it was an athletic one—he certainly wasn’t the Queen’s Guard Dog for no purpose—schooled and raised to fulfil his duty to perfection. In that way, you were alike, born and raised to dedicate your life to a particular purpose.
You had much more in common than you previously thought.
The Earl infringed on your half of the piste, extending his arm fully in a high point-in-line. It was a beckoning invitation to draw closer.
But he didn’t swing beyond that, missing that side had been vulnerable for a few seconds too many. He certainly could have ended you there, but he seemed to hesitate.
Your swords exchanged a few more times following that. Lord Phantomhive offered constructive corrections, but there was something missing. You could feel it.
“Time,” you called out, stopping where you stood. Your heart drummed in your ears, you caught your breath.
Lord Phantomhive froze immediately, attentively examining your face for clues of distress. “Everything all right?”
“Yes,” you nodded. Your eyebrows furrowed as you considered your next words, playfully exasperated. “I said I could take you on, and you’re holding back on me?”
“Who says I am?” Lord Phantomhive tilted his head. He had the nerve to look amused.
“Show me a real counter parry, my Lord. When I said I could handle you, I meant it. And a lady never lies,” you smarted.
“Well. I’m just getting started, my Lady,” the Earl said, dipping his head in a mock concession. “Forgive me if I’m out of practice,” he remarked. There wasn’t a hint of an apology in his tone.
“That’s reassuring.” You hummed. And then they were off, stepping back into en garde.
Sebastian counted the bout off again, and you were off. Freshly motivated, you pushed harder. The tempo finally stopped being polite. He was sharper than he let on, interpreting your blade as if he could predict your every move.
Every advance met resistance.
Finally, the two of you fought tooth and nail for initiative. He forced you to start thinking moves ahead, to step faster, turn sharper.
. . .
Ciel Phantomhive
When the flat tip of Lady Y/n’s sword touched Ciel’s dress shirt, he could’ve sworn his heart stopped. He paused, his gaze immediately darting down to her offending blade. She landed it just above his navel, pressing the blunt tip against his grey dress shirt.
Y/n nailed him with that expert riposte of hers.
Had this bout taken place two years ago, just before Sebastian deemed him to have outgrown constant practice, her blade never would have touched him. She never would have scored this point.
But that wasn’t the case, and unfortunately, the only explanation for Ciel’s loss was his slight lack of try.
His mouth felt dry, incessantly parched. He was silent for a beat, watching the foil sword’s blunt point retreat as Lady Y/n stepped back.
She met his eyes, laughing a little. Her gaze sparkled with a certain deviousness that Ciel could only describe as intriguing. He felt drawn to further explore that impish, nefarious expression of hers. Looks like those were unusual for a noblewoman like Y/n, she tended to default to the same politely detached, vacant expression, time and time again.
He preferred her like this. Dynamic, a little enraged. Genuine.
When she paired with the same snide grin Ciel tended to offer his own bested opponents. That kind of smile was immaculate enough to reprieve its wearer out of the worst kinds of trouble. It electrified his pulse with a new sense of urgency. Even more to the Earl’s surprise—and mild frustration—he found himself wanting to understand what exactly it was that broke that tepid mask of a noblewoman that she was so attached to.
He’s seen glimmers: when he asked her to elaborate on the engineering behind hydrogen balloons, school him in the intricacies of ferris wheels. Comparing their respective tastes in literature. Matching wits. And now, crossing swords.
“You’re fast,” Ciel told her, mutter the grudging compliment without thinking twice. He fashioned his face into an expression that wasn’t horrified at the prospect of his defeat. Thankfully, watching the way she blossomed from the win, it wasn’t too difficult.
Although every bit of his flesh and bones detested this sense of loss, a gentleman such as himself had to provide credit where it was due. Particularly if he aimed to maximize the impact this bout had on Lady Y/n. He would’ve been remiss not to note this foreign warmth blooming in his chest and stalling his breath. It persisted despite his petty horror and dissatisfaction from losing.
“Then if you hope to win, you might match my pace, my Lord,” Lady Y/n watched his face, looking for evidence of the Earl’s anguish—as if he’d ever offer anyone that satisfaction. She crossed her arms over her chest, foil pointing to the floor, and raised her chin. Stood taller. Waiting for his ego to possess him.
The Earl hummed flatly. He wasn’t entirely surprised by her competitive streak, anyway. He was out of practice, and she had a lot of rage to provoke. A point to prove. He welcomed this ignited spirit of hers; her stare was sharp and cunning as if she truly intended to skewer him straight through. Ferocious and unladylike. Exhilarating.
Let her try.
“And don’t offend me by holding back again,” Y/n demanded. She smiled viciously. Her nondominant foot stepped back, and its counterpart settled centimeters forward. She pointed the tip of her foil at him, sword arm poised and ready to strike. Like lightning. The tougher the better.
“As you wish,” Ciel mirrored her en garde. He raised his blade and stepped back, unable to ignore how the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a daring grin. Sweat gathered in his dark hairline, running down the nape of his neck. He bounced on the soles of his dress shoes, redistributing his weight. Wishing he were suited properly.
For all of Ciel’s scorn for his loss, he appreciated the prospect of marrying a woman who challenged his blade. Aside from providing the most immediate access to the top of TransAtlantica’s executive board, Lady Y/n was magnetically competent. Relentless like a knife’s edge, versed like a scholar.
Lady Y/n lunged straight for him, thrusting her foil in a front attack. She feinted, falsely extending her blade out in an effort to misdirect him. Just when Ciel felt confident she’d disengage, she drew back in towards him. He held his position, but she jabbed her blade towards him in a real thrust that he narrowly managed to parry.
Smart, but he was faster in his full capacity. It’d take more than a sneaky beat attack to score on him again. He drove his blade’s motion by turning his wrist.
Their blades clattered sharply at the impact. He intercepted her foil at the final line, just moments before she might have scored. Ciel counted off the seconds until she reached the optimal commitment point and acted accordingly. Her maid involuntarily shrieked a little, the mousy noise causing Sebastian to suppress a chuckle.
“Focus on redirecting the blade. Rather than stopping it,” Ciel explained, deflecting her attack with a parry in six. His words came a touch more smug than he intended them, but he couldn’t help himself. Even without Sebastian’s interventions, he observed Y/n’s somewhat compromising habit of swinging wider than necessary. Most of her competitors wouldn’t have caught it, but against someone like Elizabeth, it could cost her the match. “When you swing too broadly, you leave your side open.”
“Right,” Y/n muttered breathlessly, half-considering his commentary while she focused.
And then he drove his blade forward, a purposeful riposte. He recovered a step closer, reclaiming one she had stolen previously.
Y/n answered with a better parry, this time. This technique closely resembled his—the same inward turn of her wrist. Stronger. She protected her side, distributed the weight and successfully redirected his foil. Her counter-riposte would’ve clipped him, had he not trained under a demon for years. Frankly, if she hadn’t called him on it, he might have let her take the bout with that move.
Don’t hold back, she’d ordered.
And he seemed to have made a promise.
Therefore, he caught her blade in six and applied a fair amount of pressure on her outside line. It was a closing measure, one that made a wrinkle form between her knitting eyebrows, but she managed to hold steady, dragging his blade centerline. Almost all of the movement was in her wrists.
Ciel disengaged. He destabilized his lunge, the movement somewhat limited by the trousers he wore. They weren’t made for athletics. He hadn’t anticipated he’d be sharpening his own fencing skills today. Really. But this wasn’t much different than Sebastian forcing Ciel to save that child from the air balloon that just somehow floated loose.
Not unlike the way Y/n lost out of the blue.
Their blades continued to exchange; answering each attack and giving it directly back. The distance between them expanded and collapsed in patterns. Blades stayed in the short range between their chests and shoulders—just shy of awkward, given their heights.
All this, and still, Ciel observed Y/n as she exemplified a sense of fortitude he’d never seen of her at redundant social engagements. She’d normally paste on the best smile she could manage and grit out the same prosaic pleasantries but not here. He found himself crossing blades with the most met a genuine, unvarnished version of Lady Y/n Richmond-Y/l/n he’s ever encountered. St. Dunstan’s was his bloody witness.
It was true that only forces beyond himself could predict the sorts of situations a future Lady Phantomhive may find herself in. Whether that be a ship infested with reanimated corpses or some vengeful gang, safety was never a certainty on Ciel’s estate. At his side. Resilience was key, and she was the very portrait of it.
. . .
Y/n Y/l/n
The sound of your foils meeting echoed throughout the room’s high ceilings. The sun poured in through its large windows, some stained with ornate designs. That made the light shining out of those particular panes take on rosy and amber hues. Those shades reflected in Lord Phantomhive’s hair.
Though, as much as you wanted to admire him, you had a round to finish. A round to win.
The round was nothing short of exhilarating. Even outside of a typical fencing uniform, the Earl held his own against you. He struck precisely, his depth perception seamlessly adapted to his eyepatch concealing part of his peripheral vision.
A beat after he disengaged, Lord Phantomhive immediately extended towards you again. Seamless and merciless, just like you. Exactly as you asked. He gave you the opportunity to practice your parry, just as you wanted.
You mirrored the sharp turn Ciel’s wrist took on when he showed you that technique. You were only a few seconds late, but since your elbow kept close to your ribcage, you defended yourself. A surprised exclamation passed your lips as your foil disrupted Lord Phantomhive’s, just centimeters before his extension would have caught your blouse.
In response, you pushed your own blade forward again.
Lord Phantomhive parried. Then his counter riposte, taking notes from yours, and struck you just on the side. Your arm had been mid-rotation, forming a parry too late. In all fairness to you, that was a lightning strike of a lunge, one you could only respect. And perhaps it was a little flattering, too.
You regarded one another carefully, sharp with competition. But there’s also an intimacy there.
“All tied up. You fence beautifully, Lord Phantomhive,” you said lightly, swiping your forehead with the back of your gloved hand. You hadn’t faced such a challenge since the last time you fenced Elizabeth during practice. Both cousins seemed to be masters.
“That was a better parry,” he said.
“And that was a better riposte.”
You stepped back into your starting stance, and Lord Phantomhive did the same.
But just before you could get back into the throes of it, you froze the moment a familiar voice called your name.
“What on earth is going on in here?” Your mother asked, arm in arm with your father, surprise painted delicately on her elegant features. Visible tension left her shoulders when she saw Daphne there with you. Still though, there was a stiffness in her eyes that made you feel uneasy. “The luncheon outside started twenty minutes ago, my dear.”
“I was—Lord Phantomhive and I were—practicing,” you explained, smiling awkwardly. Your foil dipped just as the Earl’s did. “He was helping me perfect my parry in sixte. You know how I take to losing. I’m determined to return to this hall much improved by the end of this season.”
. . .
Ciel Phantomhive
“Practicing,” Lady Richmond repeated. Her eyebrows knit, puzzled. Her mouth pursed in a similar way to Y/n’s when she’s thinking. “You should come have some refreshments after such a long day.”
“My parrying,” Y/n said. Both she and her mother looked to Lord Richmond for his verdict. He huffed out something close to an entertained laugh, and to Ciel’s surprise, changed the subject at hand. “Since…today was a difficult match day.”
“Y/n. I assume you’re giving him the Earl here some trouble?” Her father asked expectantly, quickly taking in the situation. “Lord Phantomhive, good to see you,” he turned to Ciel.
“We’re almost finished here. The score was one to one,” Y/n explained, nodding tastefully to his question. “I need to perfect it to win the next tournament.”
“Of course she is, sir,” Ciel confirmed, ensuring to infuse the word with stoic warmth. He lowered his blade and extended his hand to the Earl of Richmond. They shook twice. Firm. Respectable.
“There will be plenty of time for that. Later. First, come join the rest of us. Eat something,” her mother urged. She gave Ciel another quick once over and a shallow nod, her face a touch colder than he’d otherwise like. To Ciel’s surprise, Lord Richmond seemed to take more of a liking to him.
“It appears that we’ll have to settle this another time,” Y/n turned to Ciel bashfully, lowering her sword. She sighed as she stepped off the piste. He followed in suit and returned Lizzie’s equipment to the bench.
“I’ll be better equipped. With gloves that fit,” he affirmed, making her laugh. The both of them followed her parents back through the main hall’s double doors, out to the large courtyard where the foundation set up rows of brunch tables.
“I’m counting on it,” said Y/n. Shortly after stepping outside, they made a quick rendezvous with Elizabeth, who nearly broke his ribs in a soul crushing embrace upon sight. She just had to chirp to Lady Y/n that this fencing tournament was the first Ciel’s bothered to come to spectate in the years she’d been begging him to.
“And I can only begin to wonder why that is…” Elizabeth had said, shamelessly fixing her large green eyes on Y/n. Changing the subject, Ciel recounted his and Y/n’s promenade on the pier, sharing that she’d sparked his curiosity when she mentioned the sport.
He was a lost cause from there, he said.
By any standards, the afternoon qualified as a success. He spent the rest of the fundraiser out in the courtyard with Y/n, Elizabeth, some of his extended family. The whole courtship routine was only growing easier with every outing Sebastian managed to turn awry.
. . .
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hi everyone! I’m alive and writing—it shouldn’t be too much longer until drabble 6, part II of ilaiw is ready! 💕. i’m also working on chapter two of wdoa!
Nothing much to say if not that finding your blog was a blessing, I’m so in love with your writing style truly a person with so much potential, for now I only read “ in love & in war “ but worry not much because before the end of this month I assure you that I indeed will have your entire blog memorized by heart in the back of me mind.
Only a good writer will make me imagine an entire fencing competition, from the structure, to the clothing, until the match itself, and give me anxiety as if I myself am fighting said competition.
Im seeing forward for more … but for now let me ask you how you doing , cherie ?
Hey hey!
Thank you so much for reading ILAIW and taking the time to leave me such a kind note. It honestly made my week — I’m so happy you’re enjoying my stories. I had such a blast teaching myself the basics of fencing and I’m really relieved the scenes were immersive for you and that the details stood out :). I’d love to hear about how you feel about the others works once you get to checking them out! My suggestion: start with Straight Laced.
I’m doing pretty good! I can’t wait to get the second half of the drabble out. Since the first half was so long, I’m adding an extra scene or two to the end to balance it out more. Beyond that, I’ve been absolutely obsessed with Heated Rivalry and Stranger Things, and dabbling in roleplaying again. It’s really nice to be home from uni for winter break — I have time to hyperfixate on all my hobbies guilt free <3.
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.
yall this drabble is getting comedically long (it’s 7.6k rn, maybe missing another 3k?) so would you guys prefer part one dropping tonight and then part two in a few days, or I can finish the whole thing and publish it in a few days
lmk! (or maybe I’ll just drop part one regardless loll)
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.
Favorite color? Green like tree green but not forest green more like the color of a leaf on a deciduous tree in early summer with sun shining through it ya know?
Last song? "We Don’t Believe What’s on TV" by Twenty One Pilots
Currently reading? Just started “The Sunshine Court” by Nora Sakavic. (I read the first three books in a total of three days because they’re so flippin good.) (Straight up broke me but like in a good way?) (Neil my Shayla) (Go read them if you haven’t) (They’re only like 99 cents on Kindle rn)
Currently watching? I just finished “Severance” so I’m not watching any thing rn.
Currently craving? A snow cone
Coffee or Tea? Neither, hot cocoa gang all the way
I’m tagging all these cool kids but feel free to play if I didn’t tag you!
favorite color: red (specifically the shade of red that urban decay gash is... THEY'RE HINTING AT BRINGING THAT ONE BACK BY THE WAY...)
last song: honestly i think it was disease by lady gaga which is a fire song but nowhere as good as moto pop by frank iero i fear 😞✊ love lady gaga sm though
currently reading: n/a (might reread the catcher in the rye soon though)
currently watching: also n/a 💔
currently craving: i had no idea so i looked at the other reblogs for ideas and someone said mac and cheese and now i really want mac and cheese
last song: i am currently listening to music it's tell me it's okay demo by paramore
currently reading: honestly fanfic rn im reading unholyverse im on part two. actual books tho i haven't read in awhile my most recent one eleanor and park
currently watching: brooklyn nine-nine and superstore both are rewatches but they're awesome so
currently craving: these baby back ribs chips i have they're so good im gonna eat them after this post
coffee or tea: tea. specifically this orange cinnamon tea i have
Currently Reading: Like an actual book? Nah I live off of fanfiction and existential crisis day dreams 😂 No book scratches my itches like farm fresh fanfic!
Currently Watching: BlackList (Redding on is my adoptive dad I'm sure 😆), The Princess Weiyoung (historical k dramas are my bread and butter), MHA (BNHA), Suits, Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, Demon Slayer, Twisted Wonderland YouTube play throughs ❤️!, historical documentaries....
Currently Craving: Seeded watermelon! 🍉
Coffee or Tea?: Tea 🍵!!!! I'm a budding conessieure of tea types, preparation methods and historical curiosity! My favorite for black is Earl Grey, my favorite green is Dragon Well, my favorite herbal is Ginger tea , my favorite white is Pomegranate Cranberry, my favorite peoke is Orange Peoke, not a fan of Rooibos teas sadly.
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
thanks @themareverine @damimami1994 and lex for tagging me😆
Rules: colour the sentence that’s true about you
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i have never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
@tezooks thank you for the tag 💕 this is a cute non-invasive way to get to know moots lol
Rules: colour the sentence that’s true about you
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i have never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
no pressure tags! @buckysleftbicep @theworstwolvie @cursedheartsclub
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i have never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i have never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
no pressure tags: @rcvcgers, @solifloris, @aeyumicore, @humanjarvis, @buckyseternaldoll
thank you for the tag pookie !!!! <3 @bronzealchemy
rules: colour the sentence that's true about you
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i have never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
i actually haven’t worn my ear piercings in like 10+ years bc of sports i think the holes have closed up LMFAO
no pressure tags !! ; @velaenam , @alfredosaws , @blessdunrest , @drowsyapple , & anyone who wants to join haha
This just looked really fun so I was like, "oh cool, I get to know some of the people I follow more" lol
rules: colour the sentence that's true about you
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i have never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
Technically I have glasses but I choose not to wear them unless absolutely needed otherwise I like to not wear them
No pressure tags: @nosyp @nymphoheretic @kiame-sama @applecaviar @twisted-desires @itzpookiepooh @irandial @solxamber @dollwrites @jinwoosbabyboo + anyone who is interested ~
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i have never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
i wear both glasses and contacts but i'm lazy so it's glasses 90% of the time
no pressure tagging: @charredcipher @chocolatebearstrawberry @hxney-lemcn @fidenciocryptidcreechur @hyperfixating-rn and anyone who's interested <3
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
Haven't worn my piercings for a good while so i think they've all closed up 😅, my hair has been orange and i dyed it purple at one point (i can't remember if i dyed it teal once or just thought about it but never got to it)
No pressure tagging: @a-twistedheartslonging @twistedpink @marigoldendragon
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
I love these games cause I am lonely and starved for community! 💕❤️💕
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
Thanks darling! Your one in a million! I don't have many friends but why not!
Oooh how cute! Thanks for the tag my loveee :). I changed the piercing one so it’s more specific, I’m so obsessed w/ my new-ish lobe piercings 🤪💖
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have three ear piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
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.
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 could 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.
You dismissed the strain in your arms, 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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in love & in war, drabble 5: the one where he begins to understand you
Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica—your father’s vast shipping empire.
Warnings: none!
Author’s Note: hi! i have nothing to say for myself except, i'm trying my best lol. i'm so sorry for the delay, this ended up being so much longer than i expected. i hope you all like this one! i had a lot of fun writing it. next stop (hopefully): wanted dead or alive, chapter 1! assuming i don’t change my mind and premiere the other new fic i’m working on and surprise ya’ll. who knows, right?? suspense is fun lol. anyway, thank you for reading!!
Happy Reading!
Dan <3
⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒
MASTERLIST
Regent’s Park, London, 1895
CIEL PHANTOMHIVE
Ciel arrived at Regent’s Park far earlier than he should have, but he would have otherwise been a fool to risk arriving after Adam Kingston did.
He had to be in control. It was imperative to maintain Lady Y/n’s attention, and he was decently assured that they would both be in attendance today. No one with an exclusive invite would miss an Edward Sutton exhibition—the grossly affluent man picked a new engineering project to sponsor every year. He accepted applications from engineers and funded the fruits of their imagination and labor into reality, oftentimes developing these innovations into businesses. Each year, he’d host these outdoor exhibitions, turning them into social functions to make the most of his publicity.
This time, Ciel supposed Sutton chose some engineer who made an advancement with hot air balloons. Something about changing the burners that fueled them. Ciel didn’t particularly care for engineering—Sebastian suggested he allow Y/n explain it to him, anyway, it made her feel confident—but there was something to be said about annual sponsorship programs. TransAtlantica was nothing without its charitable pursuits, and Lord Richmond and Edward Sutton were old friends.
Nevertheless, it was another tiring, unfortunate outdoor social gathering that Ciel had to grit his way through. Even worse, this event came just on the heels of that cursed Grand National race a little less than a week ago. He hadn’t seen Lady Y/n since—he’d failed to secure another invitation from her at the end of the race because he’d been so livid. Her face had been overshadowed with something between pity and regret, smoothed over by a smile that would have fooled anyone unacquainted with her. Ciel had to make a quick escape to avoid making an ass of himself.
Kingston’s appearance wasn’t her doing, it seemed to have been at her mother’s hand, Ciel reminded himself. He took a long drink out of his sherry cobbler cocktail, the sour wine undercut by hints of orange. Ciel needed the beverage’s cold reprise before she showed. It was going to be soon, and he needed his mood to improve before that happened.
Ciel settled next to a high table, one of many near Sutton’s outside bar and banquet table crowded with hors d'oeuvres. It was an open cocktail bar; therefore, bound to get busier as more guests joined, so he thought to request one for Lady Y/n, too. She might appreciate the thought—Sebastian did say she liked fruity wine selections.
The sun was beating down on the Earl hard, and he was positive his dark hair absorbed the light and made him warmer. At least there was a notable breeze, a strong one that pushed through his heated hair and dried up the beginnings of perspiration on his face. Ciel’s nose wrinkled at the scent of freshly cut grass and the lingering scent of gasoline. Down the field, Sutton’s engineering team fussed with the giant hot air balloon. The massive balloon bobbed, but each person held a rope to tether it into the ground.
“Everyone is arrivin’ early! Hurry up and secure it already!” One of the workers snapped, hurriedly looking up as more guests entered the field. It was just about time for the prompt noble families to start showing up: in tandem with the exact time printed on their invitation.
Ciel could handle this. He’d planned and prepared for this event. Adam Kingston was no one but a husk of an entirely prosaic man. It didn’t matter that he was more acquainted with the Y/l/n family than Ciel was. Once Y/n spent longer than a moment or so with Kingston now, she would realize he was no conversationalist. She and Ciel were intellectuals. He was a soldier. A cocky, over confident son of a—
“Lord Phantomhive, good afternoon.” Lady Y/n sounded nervous behind him.
The moment he heard her voice, Ciel urged his scowl to fall from his face. Sebastian had condescendingly coached him about the abrasive expression he wore time and time again. Apparently, Ciel’s frustrated glare and impatient purse of his lips made him appear dour and sanctimonious. So he took a long drink out of his chilled cocktail before he turned around, urging the tension out of his shoulders.
A man Y/n would want to love was patient and understanding. Not dour and sanctimonious. The future chairman of the foremost shipping country in the United Kingdom, and perhaps most of Europe, thought before he acted.
Y/N Y/L/N
Lord Phantomhive was slow to face you, likely occupied with the sight of Edward Sutton’s group of sponsored engineers struggling to re-tether their giant gas balloon to the ground. It was quite a sight, though you hoped the engineers didn’t rush the important process of reliably securing it down.
“My Lady,” Lord Phantomhive answered easily, meeting your gaze confidently in spite of the discourteousness that perspired the week before. He was nursing a cocktail, just as most of the young men at the gathering were. It was hot enough outside to justify it, you supposed. An untouched cocktail stood on the high table next to the Earl. “How do you do?”
“Quite well, thank you,” your answer came out more hurried than you wished. Unladylike. You pursed and released your lips, they slid easily from the light lip rouge on them. Your gloved hand tucked a stray strand of hair back behind your ear, it fell free from the braided bun Daphne twisted your hair into. “I apologize for last week…I—” your breath stalled, unsure how to verbalize that your mother hijacked the outing without your consent. As a young girl, your etiquette master never covered a situation like this.
Speak with intent. “I was not as informed as I would have liked to have been. And I apologize because…” I should have been.
It was your fourth time meeting the Earl in any official capacity, and yet your mouth still felt dry with unspoken words, embarrassment. He drew such wariness and uncertainty from you—not at all like most eligible men your age. You’d never felt so unsure of yourself in front of someone, but you simply couldn’t know what to make of him.
“My Lady…” Lord Phantomhive acknowledged your apology, but he didn’t entertain it. He seemed to accept it with a diminutive shake of his head, dismissing your guilt. He offered you the untouched cocktail to his right, and you took it with thanks. Your fingers brushed against Lord Phantomhive’s bare hand in the exchange. The drink was a peace offering and an invitation to talk longer, you hoped, so you stepped forward to stand at his side and watch the engineers secure the balloon.
He must have thought to request a drink for you. And a tasteful sherry wine selection, at that. You could tell by the smell of its fruity fragrance—you adored sherry wine.
“Here to see Sutton’s new toy?” Lord Phantomhive asked, a ghost of a smile lifted the side of his mouth. “I certainly am.”
“Of course. My father reviews Mr. Sutton’s applicants with him every cycle,” you answered with a thankful smile, appreciating the way the cold glass felt through your lace gloves. You turned to gesture at your parents engaged in a vibrant conversation with Edward and his wife, Maria.
“Right,” Lord Phantomhive nodded. “This hot air balloon has an adapted burner or–” he stopped himself, immediately catching the way your eyebrows drew together. Your mouth opened and closed because you wanted to interject, but immediately thought better of it. “You may correct me, please,” he told you with false exhaustion. He took a purposeful drink out of his cocktail, gesturing at you to explain the project’s significance.
You laughed, ice in your drink clattering against your glass as your shoulders bounced. “Come. I can show you,” you guided Lord Phantomhive down the green field. As you walked together, you explained, “Mr. Sutton’s team devised a gas balloon filled with hydrogen. Hot air powered balloons are unreliable because there is no device that can efficiently regulate the heat, which controls the balloon’s altitude. Hydrogen gas, meanwhile, is easily adjustable and eliminates the need to maintain a steady fire.”
“How would they manage to get the hydrogen inside?” the Earl asked you, indicating that he was actively listening. So few truly listened to you…it was considered unladylike for you to jabber on, but he asked! He asked you. He could have asked one of the engineers—they were each answering questions and engaging with other guests—or even Sutton himself...but he waited. For you. With a drink—a selection you liked.
Most of the guests stood around the balloon, a few too many people close to its swaying tethers. You pointed to the balloon’s open bottom, “they fill it with pipes that funnel the hydrogen through—they make the hydrogen with sulphuric acid and iron filaments.”
“Fascinating. The gas inside is lighter than the material outside, so it rises…” Lord Phantomhive mumbled, looking intently at the craftsmanship. The balloon itself was red, blue, and white, the colors of the British flag.
“Did you know that they used hot air balloons in the Civil War? In the States?” you asked, taking a drink out of your cocktail. Your throat seized uncomfortably when a familiar blond inserted himself between the gas balloon and you and Lord Phantomhive.
“Indeed they did, Lady Y/n. Indeed they did,” Lord Kingston’s voice made you pause.
CIEL PHANTOMHIVE
Ciel’s first mistake was allowing Lady Y/n to relocate them closer to the heart of the event. If Adam Kingston was going to be anywhere, it would be working the room. Or the lavishly decorated field, in this bloody case.
“Hello, Y/n. You look breathtaking on this fine and flawless day,” Kingston greeted disingenuously, pointedly ignoring Ciel. He seemed to have just stepped out of a conversation with Leonardo Sutton, Edward’s son, and a few other heirs Ciel didn’t care to identify. “I was hoping to see you here. We never got to speak the other day.”
Ciel had just opened his mouth to tell Y/n that no, he hadn’t known that, and the slimy bastard took the opportunity to insert himself in the middle of their conversation. Shameless. Shameless. Instead, Ciel merely watched Adam Kingston, his snake-like green eyes illuminated in the sunlight, the glare making them appear paler. He dressed plainly in a white shirt, brown trousers. A ruby family ring sparkled on his finger and another gold signet ring on his other hand with the number 32, his regiment number from South Africa, or something like that. Sebastian took Ciel through a decent two hours of reconnaissance about the guy.
A man like Kingston will aim to get a rise out of you my Lord. You must not allow him to make you a fool, Sebastian had reminded Ciel when he stepped out of the carriage that afternoon.
He will not make me into something I am not, Ciel had insisted.
“Thank you, Lord Kingston,” Y/n answered sheepishly, red blooming in her cheeks. Adam’s compliment seemed to land, and Ciel wasn’t blind to the way his gaze risked downwards, certainly not interested in her simple diamond necklace, but most definitely the way her light sage gown looked on her body. The subtle floral print on it was a delicate shade of baby pink. Her neckline dipped slightly down, leading to a small bow towards the bottom of her sternum. The shape of this particular gown hugged the curve of her waist and fell down her legs in ruffles. The wind made her skirts hike up slightly, exposing hints of her matching pink heels and pushing her hair about. She had it arranged in an elegant bun typical of her, but much like the beachy wind on the pier, the gusts on the field pushed strands out.
She did look good, objectively.
Y/N Y/L/N
Your etiquette master certainly never covered this type of social crisis—Lord Kingston watching you as if Lord Phantomhive wasn’t even there, and Lord Phantomhive examining you as if Lord Kingston’s comment suddenly gave him something to consider.
Facing each other, they were an artistic sight, too. Lord Phantomhive’s dark and intense look directly contrasted by Lord Kingston’s traditional princely charisma made for such a marvel. Particularly as their gazes met—stern and unforgiving blue against easygoing, mischievous chartreuse.
Kingston crossed his arms over his chest casually, lifting his chin and staring down his nose.
Each man was silent too, expecting the other to introduce himself first. They were unwilling to take the introductory step because it was a vulnerable position, and they were of the same peerage rank, Earls. Had one of them been lower, the burden of introduction would have been yours. But judging by the tense silence…it was yours regardless.
It would be worse to hold two separate conversations concurrently, you decided. You presumed your etiquette book would agree. So you would introduce them.
“Lord Phantomhive, this is Lord Adam Kingston,” you urged yourself to sound calm. Perfectly well—not as if you were wishing to escape. Not as if your throat was threatening to close. “Lord Kingston, this is Lord Ciel Phantomhive,” you said.
“Good to meet you,” Lord Phantomhive said first, extending his free hand to shake Adam’s. He took a slight step forward, but Lord Kingston did not step back as anyone else would have. “You’re the fellow who took the Grand National home, aren’t you? What impeccable luck for a soldier.”
Luck. From the way Lord Kingston’s seafoam eyes hardened, the word and its implications were far from lost on him. His fingers intertwined with Lord Phantomhive's in a single terse shake before releasing. A tad too hasty.
“Guilty,” Kingston said with a dry laugh, one you could tell he didn’t mean. “And you sell children’s toys and confectionery. How delightful,” Lord Kingston simpered. Your eyes immediately darted to Lord Phantomhive’s face. You held your breath, your grip on your glass tightening.
You were sweating. You wanted to use your panic signal with Daphne, but there was no good that would do. It wasn’t a dangerous situation. It was only…excruciating.
CIEL PHANTOMHIVE
So Adam did his research about Ciel, too. Good to know.
“Quite. Funtom has been rather fortunate to have outperformed in every quarter this year,” he answered seamlessly. Adam Kingston was not going to attack his company and flirt with the woman Ciel was clearly courting right in front of him. For the second time. Over his mutilated, dismembered, corpse.
“God forbid the little boys and girls go without their stuffies, right?” Adam teased. It would have appeared good natured to anyone else, but Ciel knew better. Lord Kingston was the worst type of man—-too immature to obey proper courtship ordinances and wait his bloody turn.
He will try to make you look uncaring and aloof. That is his game, Sebastian had insisted. Make him look childish when his jabs fail to land. Remember who you are there for.
Ciel could handle a catty, flirtatious nobody. He was here for himself and his future prospects. TransAtlantica was not an option; it was an inevitability.
So Ciel, with his own dry laugh…that was also clearly, far from genuine, let Adam’s comment roll off his back. There was no use in another retort. It’d be too inflammatory and juvenile.
“My Lady, you were saying that the Americans used gas balloons in their Civil War? You were just about to tell me,” Ciel reminded her. He didn’t even cast a glance at Adam. Although he was truly there for himself, everyone else had to believe he was there for her. This was a clever display of partnership. He would help Y/n diffuse the situation and seemingly set his pride aside in doing so.
But, this decision would favor him in the end. She would appreciate it—he could see it in the way her shoulders dropped.
Y/N Y/L/N
Immediately, your shoulders relaxed. Your next smile was easier to construct because Lord Phantomhive had given you such a seamless transition. Your chest had felt tight from the moment Adam interrupted you. Lord Phantomhive had understood exactly what you needed—just by reading the situation.
“I was,” you confirmed, attempting to hide the full extent of your relief. You didn’t want your old friend to assume that you didn’t want to talk to him. And you did not have the luxury of speaking without consequence, Leonardo Sutton and that group was not shy about their presence. You could hear Leonardo making some crass joke to his circle somewhere behind your back. This affair, much like most of your outings, was populated with your peers. And those of your parents.
You couldn’t appear vapid and indecisive.
Your father dedicated too much time to cultivating your knowledge for polite society to believe you were catty. What would he say to you right now? You had to fight the urge to look back at the tables situated near the bar in search of him.
“…Shall we return to our table? I can bore you with facts about reconnaissance and artillery hot air balloons, if you wish, Lord Phantomhive,” you attempted to quip, turning to him.
The transition was far from subtle, but Adam hadn’t been either in his objectives. And he had stolen your attention at the last outing. You hadn’t been fair to Lord Phantomhive, and you had to repay that. Adam Kingston could not break the standard for proper courtship processes; if he wished to declare his interest in your hand, he needed to do so properly. If you continued like this, the three of you would make a scene.
“That would be delightful,” he answered, meeting your gaze. Understanding was clear in his face, amusement curving his mouth yet again. You took a step back, indicating that you were finished with the interaction. Adam’s face fell and he took another short step closer.
“Lord Kingston, it has been lovely speaking to you, but we should be going—”
CIEL PHANTOMHIVE
“To your table? I would love to try one of—whatever it is you’ve got there, they look divine,” Adam interjected, gesturing to his and Y/n’s identical cocktails. “And of course, to hear about the hot air balloons, and all. I forgot how much you like to…read,” he said, the last word flat and disdainful to his ears, but Y/n didn’t seem to notice.
Kingston wasn’t going down without a fight, but it was only to his detriment. He was maddening, but the worse he acted, the more Lady Y/n would wish him away. The gentlemanly action would have been to let them leave; both she and TransAtlantica desired someone diplomatic and rational. Socially adept.
Ciel could see Lady Y/n’s dissent in the way her eyebrows furrowed together and her mouth pressed into a politely frustrated line for a moment. If Kingston noticed, he made a persuasive effort in acting as if he hadn’t.
“I always have,” she answered as pleasantly as she could manage, observant eyes swiftly gathering that the rest of the party was invested in this exchange. Ciel could feel eyes on them. Craning necks were ever-present in this life of gilded luxury, always. If he could feel the interest of interlopers, so could Lady Y/n.
“Though…” the noblewoman started to say. Her gaze met Ciel’s, somehow asking, fretting, and apologizing all at once. Her resolve crumbled under the scrutiny around them.
The rest of the aristocracy wanted to know if Lady Y/n would truly tell her old friend to leave her be after such a grand gesture last week. Fine. Let her see how he and Kingston compared intellectually, if she wished. Fine!
“They are sherry cobbler cocktails,” Ciel interrupted seamlessly, his voice polite, verging on unctuous. The same subtly impertinent tone Sebastian took with him. From experience, he knew it was enraging. “I chose them from today’s selection. You ought to join us back at our table, Kingston. You may just learn another thing or two,” Ciel challenged as politely as his select words could manage. He made eye contact with Adam, their sight lines meeting. Ciel refused to break eye contact—even if it was to risk a look at Y/n’s reaction. He and Adam were the same height, just about, but their physical similarities seemed to end there.
Unable to deny Ciel’s confrontation, Adam reflected his chilling smile. He laughed a little, broad shoulders jumping. “With Lady Y/n? I always expect to learn something new. Ever since we were small.”
Ciel fought his urge to roll his eyes. And his urge to bury his face—now beading with sweat from the infernal sun in the damn sky—in his hands.
Y/N Y/L/N
The exchange was painful, but a surprisingly genuine show of understanding on Lord Phantomhive’s part. The Earl had caught onto your fears and made conclusions based on your microexpressions, a silent language that you’d thought only Daphne would ever know. Was this what it was like to feel the beginnings of the connection you so craved?
There was something traitorous about the hope you felt. You’d never thought girlish giddiness would feel so scandalous.
The three of you stood at the same high table. A server brought Adam a drink and with the full utilization of your charisma and social awareness, you managed to hold one terse conversation between the three of you. Lord Phantomhive even helped you navigate it, somehow simultaneously fending off Lord Kingston’s disguised slights without making a scene.
He encouraged you to speak the most, to be the focus of the interaction because the animosity between them would never improve. Everyone knew why that was: they each wanted a chance at your hand. Two of your social class’ most eligible bachelors had their sights set on you.
Or your family name and business.
You managed to rebuild your confidence by talking through the intricacies of ballooning, their history, the science. After all, you’d only fostered that knowledge in light of Mr. Sutton’s project. Although you didn’t see every application your father looked at, he did show you some of the standout pitches. Lofty businessmen approached him and TransAtlantica with new ideas nearly every day—you had to know a good idea when you saw one.
Once you found your stride, you nodded at Daphne. The maid had been sending you increasingly worried faces, but as you settled into a new topic, you knew you had this under control. You would not flail, you would not retreat.
If you couldn’t do this much, how could you ever hope to have an executive spot in your family business?
Before you knew it, the sun started to set and dinner was served with a champagne toast led by Edward Sutton and your father.
You knocked your flute of champagne with both Lord Phantomhive and Lord Kingston individually, the three of you taking a drink in tandem. Each nobleman made a point of not knocking his glass with the other.
“Interesting selection,” Lord Phantomhive commented, taking another curious drink of the champagne. “Vintage?” He asked you, lifting an eyebrow. You couldn’t discern if he was truly curious or bidding to make conversation.
“It seems so,” you answered with uncertainty, unsure without seeing the specific bottle. The champagne was strong on your tongue. The taste was complex: somewhere between honey, spice, and brioche.
“It’s rich enough to be. Not very acidic and rich on the palette,” Adam said. “I know Mr. Sutton likes 1800 Grande Cognac. He would certainly break it out for a celebration like this. Oh, Leo! Perfect. What selection is this?” He gave a bright smile to Leonardo Sutton as he approached your table, flute of champagne in hand.
The event only had about an hour or two left before it reached its natural conclusion. In theory, there might have been a way for you to complete it without another major social upset.
But unfortunately, that estimation would have required you to overestimate Leonardo Sutton. At least, he had the good sense to leave the rest of his and Adam’s friends back at their table.
Most of them disliked you, and the feeling was mutual. They’d each struck out on courtship-intended outings with you—particularly Leonardo.
“1800 Grande Cognac, why? We’re liking this selection?” Leonardo grinned at the three of you bumping his flute with Adam and drinking, the latter laughing because his guess was correct. “How are you, Lady Y/n? Lord Phantomhive?” He extended his flute to you and Lord Phantomhive.
“Just lovely, Leonardo,” you replied dismissively.
“You know I prefer Leo,” the young man smarted, as if you weren’t a noblewoman who outranked him. The Sutton family was not ennobled; they were the start of an fabulously wealthy lineage. If you married a man like Leonardo, you’d never see TransAtlantica’s boardroom ever again, much less a contract or a revenue summary…or…the thought was too horrible to bear. But that was why you would find a suitable man who loved you enough to throw social norms to the wind and honor your and your father’s wishes. The ones he fought such a long, legal battle to secure as a potential reality for you. Most women were never to engage in business or bookkeeping, but if you married a man who was the Chairman in name, you were meticulously trained to handle any of the responsibilities associated with it.
All you had to do was find a man competent and modest enough to let you. If a man courted you for the business, he would surely ignore you.
CIEL PHANTOMHIVE
The light in Y/n’s eyes died when Leonardo Sutton invited himself into the conversation. Ciel’s own mood dipped lower than he thought possible, too. Leonardo was not a malicious man, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t bothersome. Like a troublesome fly buzzing around his head. The man’s voice was irritating enough to equate to that frustrating noise.
Clearing his throat, Leonardo spoke again, disliking the silence that permeated when Lady Y/n refused to engage with his tired nickname quip. He primarily drank and rode comfortably on his father’s coattails; Ciel couldn’t help his amusement at Y/n’s (evident, to him) disdain.
“They’re letting people go in it, two at a time. Not to ride—it’s too windy today—just to take a closer look inside,” he said, well aware of the implications of his words. He was attempting to imply that Lady Y/n would have to choose between Ciel and Adam, and trying to make another scene.
Did Adam put his friend up to this stunt? Ciel wouldn’t put it past Adam—not after his cattiness thus far.
“That sounds fantastic,” Kingston replied, a terrible actor. His snake eyes cut to Y/n purposefully as she lifted her glass to her lips. “They do seem like they’re...learning quite a lot in there,” he suggested, referring to the guests climbing in and out of the balloon’s wicker basket. The balloon levitated a few feet up in the air, bobbing in its fixed position through its tethers and ballast weights keeping it from floating away.
Adam’s statement was a flailing attempt to appeal to Y/n, Ciel felt. The awkward smile Adam gave to Y/n was just charming enough to make the trying statement seem thoughtful.
When he shifted in his seat at the dinner table—Sutton’s staff converted some of the casual high tables for dining tables—Ciel recalled he had a knife tucked into his trousers. All he honestly needed was ten minutes alone with Kingston, a change of clothing, and a shovel to hide the evidence.
The Earl’s fingers pressed hard around the stem of his glass, instead, longing to wrap around something much larger, and warmer. Like Kingston’s neck, for instance.
“I’ve already studied the diagrams so much I’ve practically memorized them,” Y/n explained with a short laugh, one that was completely faux to Ciel, but he doubted Adam and Leonardo noticed.
Knowing her, she was burning to take a look at the real mechanism and compare it to the diagrams from the proposal, but there was no graceful way to choose between Ciel and Adam. “I would hate to take up the time in there when someone could truly learn something,” she explained smartly, reasoning her way out of the affront.
“I feel that studying the diagrams is entirely different than seeing them up close,” Kingston tried again.
Before Ciel could help himself, he chimed in. “Some can grasp a new concept faster than others, I reckon, Lady Y/n.”
Y/N Y/L/N
Not even you could conceal the laugh that Lord Phantomhive tore out of you.
You felt a guilty sense of relief when the conversation’s focus shifted from your bemusement to Leonardo’s startling exclamation of worry, the curses that followed it. His brown eyes widened in shock, “No! Secure it, secure it!” Leonardo yelled, causing your head to jerk, looking behind your seat as two attendants struggled to pull the floating gas balloon back towards the ground… with a young boy inside, screaming and crying as the balloon ascended in the orange sky. The attendants around scrambled frantically, crying out for help to pull the balloon down by the ropes.
“We must help!” Lord Kingston insisted. He, Lord Phantomhive, and Leonardo didn’t wait another moment before charging towards the balloon. Most of the men around you did, whereas you jumped to your feet, hands covering your mouth in worry.
“This is horrible!’ You exclaimed at Daphne, breath labored as you lifted your skirts to run closer, joining onlookers as young men helped the attendants wrestle with the balloon against the wind. In the front of the crowd, a woman—-presumably the boy’s mother—-sobbed in the arms of another woman you didn’t know.
“They’re going to get him back down, Elizabeth, they’ve got him. See? Look at all the strong young men,” the woman insisted, her voice thin with worry.
You wracked your mind for an explanation. The tethering certainly seemed more than stable…the gas balloon had a number of weights on it. The wind was stronger than usual, but certainly not enough to make the balloon break free of its restrictions, surely. None of the ropes seemed to have snapped, either….what happened?
CIEL PHANTOMHIVE
There was a silent, stiff understanding between himself and Lord Kingston: neither one of them was interested in fumbling this accident and appearing like halfwits in front of polite society. And Y/n Y/l/n.
“Kingston, take this! Pull!” Ciel shouted over the overlapping yells around them. He took hold of the last rope without anyone to pull it down. He offered Adam the tail of the rope as he pulled from slightly further up the rope, the rough texture making his palms red and raw. The Earl dug the short heels of his boots into the grass, engaging every bit of his strength in urging the balloon down in one of the world’s most intensive games of tug of war.
“All right, all right,” Kingston said, gaze darting between the rope in Ciel’s hand and meeting his stare, as if he couldn’t believe Ciel would let him help. Not even the Earl of Phantomhive’s ego was large enough to refuse help in saving a child. The notion was nearly offensive.
Behind him, Adam started pulling as well, slightly lessening the resistance Ciel encountered.
“Heave, men, heave!” Edward Sutton grunted, pulling a rope with Leonardo and another engineer. There were six ropes with a few men to each one, gradually tugging the balloon back down to avoid tipping it or scaring the boy even more.
Ciel gritted his teeth, his arms and the rest of his body shaking with effort. Sweat ran down his neck and the side of his spine. Ridiculous, this was, and he had a decent idea as to why it was happening, too. There was no doubt a smug demon butler in the vicinity watching his master put all of his mental and physical capabilities into romancing a young woman, and using any excuse to challenge him further.
What is your point, Sebastian? Ciel wanted to yell out.
Y/N Y/L/N
As you watched the assortment between engineers, Sutton’s help, and noblemen work in tandem to re-tether the gas balloon’s restraints, you couldn’t help but feel drawn to watching Lord Phantomhive work. His royal blue eye and raven hair were even more striking against his light grey vest and white undershirt. When the Earl focused, he seemed unstoppable. You held your breath.
You’d never seen him move so dynamically, either, save from when he pulled you out of the way of a moving carriage.
“My Lady…” Daphne reminded you gently, placing a sisterly hand on your shoulder. “You are staring at the Earl Phantomhive,” she reminded you quietly, close to your ear. The blond gestured to your mother at the front of the crowd, carefully watching your father.
Flushing, you immediately stared at the blades of grass below you. You squeezed your eyes closed, releasing the breath you were holding. How shameful. There was a child in peril and you were….
Control yourself, Y/n. Mother and father are here.
“Thank you, Daphne,” you sighed. The young woman squeezed your shoulder affectionately and released you.
Fortunately, it didn’t take long for the group to gain control of the balloon, the attendants successfully re-tying it down. Lord Kingston helped the young boy down the short ladder and into his mother’s waiting arms. She kneeled in the grass, sobbing with her child close to her chest. “My baby, my baby,” she mumbled into his hair, gentle fingers running through it. Her husband, one of those pulling the ropes, embraced his wife and child on his knees, a scene that made your throat feel tight. Your eyes stung, tears threatening to run down your face. You blinked rapidly to regain control.
Love. It was love.
“You should tell him he did a lovely job, my Lady,” Daphne suggested, a little more impishly than she’d typically risk. The blonde giggled at you.
You swallowed around your dry throat, nodding twice in agreement so hard that you could feel your teardrop earrings sway.
CIEL PHANTOMHIVE
Ciel’s right arm crossed his chest in a deep stretch. He was sweating more than a pig, it was miserable. He was in pain, and he would be for the next couple of days to a week for this strenuous exercise in—
“Lord Phantomhive,” Lady Y/n approached him rather than Adam, who masked his mortification by turning to Leonardo. “That was incredible.”
“It was an effort that required all of our participation,” Ciel answered as diplomatically as he could manage. He immediately dropped his right arm, disinterested in appearing weak or in pain before the noblewoman. Instead, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, certain his hair was disheveled along with the rest of him. The new pair of boots he sported had to be caked in dirt, too.
“Of course, though it couldn’t have been easy,” Y/n insisted, likely taking in how disorderly and piggish Ciel looked. There was no way his appearance was appealing in any way, and yet, she’d never had such awe in her face when she regarded him before this. Save for perhaps the first few seconds after he pulled her out of the way of that carriage—before he misspoke.
It wasn’t easy. It’s a miracle I’m still in one piece, damn it.
“I’m simply relieved we managed to help the boy,” Ciel told her, motioning towards the embracing family with his chin. The mother had yet to let go of their child or even stop crying. “And that we were there in time—what a strange accident.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Y/n agreed ponderously. “I cannot understand why the tethers would just…fail so suddenly,” she said, frowning as she looked back at the balloon. Edward Sutton, Lord Y/l/n, and the engineering team asked for the guests to return to the tables to allow them to inspect it for technical faults.
They wouldn’t find any, Ciel presumed. His butler had to have taken some creative measures to…raise the stakes. Literally.
“I’m sure they will find the cause and correct the issue,” he lied seamlessly as they started back towards their table. For all intents and purposes, the event was over. Most of the guests were too unsettled and worried to sustain the atmosphere and company.
“Absolutely,” Lady Y/n agreed. “...Lord Phantomhive? Would you perhaps consider…tea? At my home? This week?”
I’m currently panicking because google seems to have mysteriously deleted some extremely important documents. They’re not even in my recently deleted and I’m very concerned and confused does anyone have any advice it feels like my world is collapsing
update: waiting on google’s response to my file recovery request ✨🤞🏼
it’s so lonely in my mansion @scribbleseas - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
