An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Vincent is far from gifted at fencing. Cloudia fears that is her blood at work, smothering whatever talent for swordplay that Cedric might have passed on. Despite this, Vincent remains enthusiastic at the sport, for at the end of the day he is but a boy; running around with a sword in his hand remains the greatest thrill of his young life.
Francis, forever incensed to be left out of whatever her older brother was doing, had begged to join.
New Undertaker drawings have me losing my mind, here's a snippet of a Claudiataker fic entry I'm working on for my Nightingale's Lament series
"No," Cloudia agrees with a nod. "I suppose Poe considered The Black Death a little too passé for the modern audience." She pauses and angles her head towards him, her eyes sparkling through the ornate mask, outshining any gem on her person. "Present company excluded, of course."
She has no idea how very right she is - unless, of course, she does.
He keeps his face impassive, his tone apathetic, but she is always seeing more of him than he intends. "Lady Phantomhive, if by some small chance the plague does make a return tonight, I can assure you I will have had nothing to do with it."
She hums doubtfully. "Ah, but what other reason might you have for attending tonight's soirée?"
"Other than spreading darkness and decay?" Cedric asks wryly. "The same as most here, I would think. I received an invitation."
"Did you now?" Her frown is hidden beneath her mask as she looks out again to the other guests, the couples who had begun dancing in a swirl of bright skirts and feathers, but he sees it all the same. "My, how curious. I wonder what other tradespeople may be among us tonight, unrecognized?"
"The thrill of a masked ball," Cedric deadpans, and her resulting huff of laughter satisfies him more than he might ever admit.
"I do not know how I could have ever doubted your enthusiasm for such a gathering, Monsieur, do forgive me." Cloudia turns to him, considering. "Although, in the spirit of the evening, I suppose we ought to leave titles at the door?"
And all decorum with it, no doubt. He might have expected this as soon as he saw her. "Ought we?" he prompts, slightly wary.
"Well, who is to say we recognized one another in our costumes?"
Only, they had. She had spotted him with an immediacy that unnerved him, for his methods of achieving obscurity were not limited to the masks and cloaks of their fellow partygoers, and Cedric…
Cedric feared he would know Cloudia Phantomhive anywhere.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
How she loves to toy with him. All that desire he goes to such great lengths to contain. Carefully constructed levees that she crashes through without a thought to the collateral damage, caring only to soak herself in the want that sets his nerves alight, the need that has torn apart his being and upended his world.
"Reckless," he murmurs in a voice rough with restraint, but Cloudia only grins shamelessly, reveling in his accusation. Her teeth scrape along his skin, her lips closing delicately around the tip of his finger, a wisp of a moan leaking through them.
He pushes her hand down to replace his fingers with his lips, his tongue. The delight of her body against his when he pulls them flush together, not having to fight his way though layers of skirts and whalebone to feel the shape of her body, and for her to feel him in turn.
It's indecent, how she's dressed. Cedric has half a mind to make it a regular occurrence, no matter how many tailors he need bribe or how great the weight of Tanaka's disapproval might grow. It's addicting. Reminiscent of the flow of linens over her bare skin, or her silhouette in bathwater clouded with soap. A teasing promise of all there was to be enjoyed between them. Beauty hidden beneath a veil, a bride upon the altar without the inconvenience of a dozen skirts to impede his prayers.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A part of his penance, he supposes; the moment of his great dereliction seared into his skull, so that time and distance might never work their magic. So that he can never forget what brought him here. His choice. The only choice of his that ever mattered.
The meaning of his life, cannibalized by its own end.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
It's a modesty long-since sullied, if the ease and familiarity with which the man kisses the inside of her knee is any indication. "Would that a curse might have such a kind end," he says in a voice so intimate and soft that Tanaka struggles to make out the words; and in a tone so steeped in regret that it's impossible to miss, even at a distance.
Certainly it doesn't escape Claudia. Her hand brushes through his pin-straight hair, the strands rippling in the water around his shoulders, catching the rising light like the scales of a fish. "And why shouldn't it?" She protests, sounding more like a naïve girl than a young woman. "Seems only fair."
"Ah, but what in this life is fair?" His fingers intertwine with her own, and he brings her wrist to his lips, so that what he says next is muffled. "Cruel fates have crueler cures, my dear."
It is an odd time she lives in, one strangely puritanical with perversion leaking out through every crack and crevice. She is newly married, yes - but that may not mean much. He can almost guarantee that it means hardly anything, given the appearance and demeanor of her spouse. An English aristocrat in blood and breeding, who would be as incapable as he is doubtlessly inattentive in pleasing her in the privacy of their bed.
Still, he hesitates, his hand still on her thigh. "My lady," he begins, and falters. His nerves getting the better of him, his long-repressed desires consuming him whole.
He wants her. He wants her desperately, in a way that the authorities of this age would call abnormal. Truly, it feels the most natural thing in the world to him to want her this way, as if she had always been meant for him. His previous affairs had been awkward, fumbling things. The nervousness that finds him now is nothing like the trepidation of those nights; the feeling of playing a part, of being hopelessly out of his depth.
Well, he is still most certainly out of his depth. He wants to please her, to make this as memorable for her as it surely will be for him. The thought of doing anything that she might find disgusting, or frightening, has him wilting in his breeches.
Perhaps this is destined to be like those rare encounters of his youth after all, half of which ended without ever truly starting. There could be nothing more humiliating, except perhaps for failing to please her at all. And there are ways, ways that must be foreign to her, ways in which he could please her that her peers could not, would not.
"My Lady," he begins again, running his finger along the lace of her underclothes. "When you're alone with your husband, does he touch you?"
The look she gives him has him going completely soft. It seems his only way forward now is through. "You wish to discuss my husband?"
Not in the slightest, yet it seems the only to approach this matter with any sort of the delicacy her rank, gender, and age demands. He settles his hand firmly just above her knee, squeezing gently."I do not wish to shock you," he offers. "There are many ways one can give another pleasure, but they can be... alarming, if one is not familiar-"
"You can stop speaking in riddles," she commands. "I am not some innocent, blushing bride about to embark on her honeymoon."
Really, how much better off can she be? Still, he nods his head dutifully. "Does he use his hands on you? To give you pleasure?" At her blank look, he removes his hand from below her skit and touches her on her sex lightly through the fabric, watching her face carefully. The color rising to her cheeks is lovely, a contradiction to her earlier claim, and he has to suppress a smile. "Here?"
She shakes her head, and for once, he seems to have rendered her speechless. His throat is dry as he brings his hand upwards to run his finger lightly across her nipple, the outline visible through the thin chemise. "Here?"
She shakes her head again, and he can practically hear her racing pulse. He spreads his fingers wide over her stomach, cupping her waist, allowing his body to press against hers as he leans in to kiss her cheek, her neck, her ear. His voice low, quiet, even though there is no one around to overhear him. "Does he use his mouth on you, my lady?"
"His mouth?"
She is doubtful, and not so worldly as she would claim, as she might like to think. Cedric hides his smile in her hair, hand rubbing absentmindeded circles over her stomach "His lips." He presses his own to her jaw, to the corner of her mouth. "His tongue?"
Hi! I'm glad to see someone who is obsessed with claudia × ut too because not many people are fond of this ship, its really difficult to ship this two tho cause the only thing we have of claudia is a picture of her back lol and I doubt that we will get any info on her any soon) but yeah I reallyyyy enjoy your theories and how detailed they are. I don't even care if they turn out to be canon or not , they are always enjoyable to read and think about❣️if u dont mind can I ask you to tell me some of your favourite headcanons for undy and claudia? ( spicy ones specially 🥴)
Hi! You're so sweet anon, you made my day when you sent this ask... Like a month ago 💀
I'm so glad you're enjoying my theories even if they don't turn out to be true! I really enjoy researching and writing them and I'm so happy that other people are interested in them. The only one I will truly mind being debunked is the Rossignol name theory...I really hard-committed on that one and if it turns out not to be true my blog will be a big ol' perpetual walk of shame.
Some headcanons about Claudia and Undertaker and Claudiataker;
Undertaker makes and gives her the Phantomhive family ring sometime after she gives birth to Vincent.
Undertaker advises her, but he never tries to tell her what to do. He's her biggest supporter - as long as she lets him tag along to protect her, he'll go along with pretty much anything. Claudia was initially pretty defensive about her decisions, but once she realized he was not interested in controlling her, she became much more receptive to his advice.
Claudia coaxes him into bathing when he's going through a depressive episode, and brushes out his hair afterwards.
Claudia has a borzoi she named Ophelia. The dog is unnerved by Undertaker at first, but they eventually become friends (which is more than can be said for Undertaker and Tanaka)
Cloudia, the fearsome watchdog, lover to death himself, is a tiny bit afraid of the dark. She always sleeps with a candle lit on her beside table and never quite admits as to why. Undertaker finds this hopelessly charming and never teases her for it.
I didn't really know how to write out my 🌶️ headcanons without coming off completely and totally unhinged (or is it too late for that?) so instead have a little post-spicy slice of some of my claudiataker writing;
They are both panting when he sits back on his knees, a stunned look of amazement on her face. Of bliss, and the knowledge that he could give her that fills him not with pride, but with peace.
"God," she mutters, and he cannot help but grin. That she is not self-conscious in the aftermath, not trying to cover herself or even close her legs... It is more than he hoped for. He should have learned to paint, so that he might look upon her forever. "Is that- is that what it's like for men, when they...?"
"More or less."
"...No wonder they seem to enjoy it so."
The comment, said so matter-of-factly, makes him laugh. And then they're both laughing, Cloudia's giggling joining his own as he lays down beside her, pulling her into his embrace. They lay there, one fit of laughter triggering another. The wonder and joy of having made love, of knowing that earthly pleasure, of being alive.
The joy of life. That is what he has found in her; that is what Cloudia has given him, what she has pressed into his hands and into his being without a word of warning or an ounce of regret. How deliciously cruel for her to come to him with such a gift now, centuries after he might have been able to accept it with the graciousness she deserves.
"It's not exactly proper, is it?" She says, resting her head on his chest, still giggling. Not sounding in the least bit abashed. "Putting your mouth there."
He tucks her hair out of her face, smoothing the blue where it spills out onto his shirt. "Humankind has been doing it for as long as they've walked the earth." He grins into the crown of her head, scratching his fingers along her neck. "There's no harm in it, My Lady."
