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cillianmesoftlyyy · 6 months ago

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Wary Sailor Pt. 2 | Matthew Joy x fem!reader

summary: Second Mate Matthew Joy goes out on a whale hunt and even after a successful chase, he can't seem to feel satisfied. Something's weighing heavily on his mind. While alone in the harpoon boat, trouble comes to call.

warnings: Aiming a gun at someone, talk of violence, smut, oral (F receiving), penetration, dubious consent (weird circumstances), unprotected sex, Matthew's abandonment issues lol.

word count: 2763k+

Tucumcari- Goodnight, Texas 🎶

Lady May- Tyler Childers 🎵

Note: The lyrics that I included are from the old whaling song Maid of Amsterdam.

*Pt. 3 (and maybe 4???) coming soon!

The men were deployed into the smaller whaling boats, each boat armed with a harpoon and dense cord. Matthew stood at the back of his boat to steer it away from the ship, navigating the aggravated water. He forced himself to think about the whales, keeping his mind inside the boat… but the girl’s eyes appeared like stars in the corner of his vision at all times.

“Joy!” One of the rowers was yelling at him, snapping him out of his trance. “Joy, focus! Don’t go soft on us all of a sudden, eh?”

Matthew grimaced as the grisly sailor chuckled. He steered them out to open water, following the Captain's boat as per his orders. While he couldn’t see their bodies in the water, Matthew could hear the loud vibrations of sound the Sperm whales made as they spoke to one another. He could also hear Owen yelling out commands to his men. The harpoonist prepared his weapon. Matthew directed his man to do the same.

“Steady now!” He advised his men as they waited for movement below the surface. Striking the whale was simple compared to the rest of the exhausting process. Matthew just planned on keeping his men alive but whale oil was also a necessity that he was willing to sacrifice for. He wasn’t a greedy man by any means, he’d lived in poverty all his life. His life was whaling and he didn’t spend much time off the ocean, the stillness made him restless.

“There she blows!” A man yelled and Matthew peered over the edge as the side of his boat rose out of the water, stuck on the back of an adolescent whale. As he looked over, the distinct silhouette of a woman wavered beneath the surface. Choosing to ignore it, Matthew swung the boat over to allow the harpooner to cast his weapon.

“Go, go, go!” He barked, spit flying from his mouth as he waved the man on. The harpoon sailed through the sky, landed in the water like a seabird, and missed. The whale diverted away from Matthew’s boat and found itself trapped beside Owen’s. The mother whale broke the surface nearby, distracting the men to the real prize. Matthew steered his boat away as the other men helped reel in the harpoon’s cord. The harpooner aimed and threw.

…

It was evening when the whale was secured by chains to the deck of the ship. The whale was so large she had to rest in two different places, one on the ship’s deck and the other in Matthew’s boat. The men aboard wrapped rags around their noses to cover the smell. Matthew just grimaced and rubbed the sockets of his eyes. The darkening landscape helped relieve some of his headache. The other men were already aboard the Essex, only he was left to watch over the end of the whale, saving it from sharks and other predators. He could hear the men singing as they did their work, scraping the fat from the inside of a giant. He hummed along to the song they were singing together.

A roving, a roving

Since roving's been my ru-i-in

I'll go no more a roving

With you fair maid!

Movement in the water drew his mind away from the song. Ripples expanded across the surface where something had just been. Matthew drew his rifle from the floorboards and checked the chamber for bullets. He watched the surface carefully for the distinct fins of sharks.

I put my hand upon her thigh

Mark well what I do say!

I put my hand upon her thigh

She said young man ‘That’s rather high’

I'll go no more a roving with you fair maid!

Matthew cocked the gun and aimed it at the dark water around his boat. The men’s singing seemed to dissipate with the seriousness of his situation. Sharks could be both dangerous and damaging. The scent of whale blood always drew them in, sending them into a frenzy where they could throw themselves against the side of the boat, risking damage. They were a nuisance to Matthew and he didn’t mind shooting them when necessary. The boat rocked in the waves and he steadied himself.

“Are you going to use that on me, Matthew Joy?” The voice behind him startled a gasp from his lips. He swung the rifle around, aiming it at the same face he’d seen hours before.

“You…” he whispered, keeping his rifle trained on her throat. Her eyes were the same green as before, only this time he could see them more clearly. The sun had fully set but colors remained in the sky above her head, bloody purples and such. He couldn’t see her body below the water but he saw that her shoulders were bare save the scattered pearls stuck to her skin like freckles.

“Are you going to shoot me?” She whispered back, her face inches from the barrel of the rifle. He licked his lips before speaking.

“Where… where did you go? You disappeared…” he muttered darkly, flicking his eyes up to the deck where his crewmates continued to work. He was alone with the girl.

“I had to see what you were like,” she offered a small smile. Matthew adjusted the way he held the gun, still aimed at her.

“You asked me if I believed in Sirens…” Matthew remembered warily, his eyes trailing over the pearls across her chest. Her dark hair rested behind her shoulders, down her back.

“Do you?” She asked and reached up her hands slowly, holding the edge of the small boat. He stared at her, his breath clouding the metal scope on his gun.

“Is that what you are?” He asked finally and the girl smiled once again.

“Is it quite shocking?” She teased and bit her lip timidly.

“Well… yes,” Matthew exhaled and raised his eyebrow, “I thought they were only in stories. They weren’t real… Why didn’t you sing?”

The girl cocked her head to the side. The air felt heavy between them as he waited for her response. His body was confused and frightened, something he’d rarely felt before. His instinct and desire clashed, strengthening the opposing forces within him.

“I don’t want to kill you,” she answered honestly, “we sing to kill.”

Matthew lowered his gun and nodded, breathless.

“You had legs. You didn’t look… ” He ran a shaky hand through his hair and ran his hand over his mouth. He could see the top of her fin break through the water. It was a beautiful silver color and her scales were shiny and iridescent.

“I wanted to see how you would treat me. I disguised myself as a human girl and you treated me gently.”

“What do you want from me? You had to keep me alive for some reason,” Matthew sat down on a plank of seating and rubbed the waterducts of his eyes.

“Nothing more than just to know you. I’ve watched your crew from the sea for weeks. You are a good, kind man.”

Matthew looked up from between his fingers and exhaled slowly, lowering his guard only slightly.

“Then what does this mean? How do you want to… know me?” He furrowed his brow and sat back once again on the plank of wood. Her hands tipped the boat slightly so that she could come a little closer to the sailor.

“Come closer, please…” she whispered and rose onto her elbows, her face a few inches from Matthew’s. Matthew stared at her lips, rosey pink and plump. She smelled like sea salt and clean things. Ever so slowly, Matthew closed the distance between them, his eyes staying on her lips.

“Y/N…” He tried to restrain himself as he whispered but eventually, as she stared up at him with her beautiful curtained eyes, he kissed her. It had been years since he’d actually kissed a woman. Kissing was so different than fucking. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed it, the softness of it. Her hands inched up his blouse, beneath his overcoat, grabbing at his lapels. His hands found the sharp edges of her jaw, meeting her mouth with a more fervent kiss. She tasted lightly of salt, like seaspray against rocks. He devoured her flavor as though it were precious, forbidden. He twisted his fingers into her hair that felt dry despite being in the water, moaning against her lips.

“In what other ways do you want to know me?” He muttered against her lips, his eyes closed. Her fingers ran over his neck, down to the dip between his collarbones.

“I want to know every part of you,” she smiled and moved away, allowing the light from the deck to illuminate her figure below him in the water. Matthew hid a choked sigh as his eyes trailed over her body below the waves. Her body was decorated with pearls and scraps of white cloth. Instead of a tail, she now had two legs that beat the water to keep her afloat.

“Will you take me into your boat?” She asked softly and Matthew nearly forgot to respond, caught in a state of disbelief. He cleared his throat and scooped his hands beneath her arms, pulling her into the boat in one movement. Standing above him on two legs, she looked even more beautiful than she had hours earlier. He could see the buds of her nipples through the white fabric, surrounded by pearls and strands of seaweed. Her cunt was hidden behind a swath of wet fabric but he could still see the dark shape of pubic hair. He looked back up at her face, his lips having fallen apart in amazement. The Siren laughed softly and carded her fingers through his hair, pulling his head back slightly as she did.

“Lay me down,” she requested and smiled when he immediately wrapped his hands around her waist and flipped her over where she could lie flat on the bottom of the harpoon boat. The planks were far enough away to give him space to kneel above her. He supported himself above her, studying the contours of her body, plump and full. She twisted her fingers through his hair again and pulled him close so she could whisper in his ear.

“Now make love to me, Matthew Joy.”

…

He was already hard when she cupped her hand against his pants. It had been a while since he’d slept with a woman after months at sea. His body ached as badly as if he were a teenage boy again, not an aging man. He was throbbing as he moved the fabric on her cunt aside and lowered his head between her thighs. Looking up at her, he ran his tongue against her, tasting her. She hummed and shook with nerves.

A roving, a roving

Since roving's been my ru-i-in

I'll go no more a roving

With you fair maid!

Feeling emboldened by her reaction, Matthew licked her again and rubbed his nose against her clit. She was wet against his tongue and he licked his lips greedily. His cock started to throb as she whimpered and moaned beneath his mouth. Her hand pulled tightly at his hair but he loved the pain and worked his mouth harder into her cunt.

“Now, please now!” She begged him as she started to shake with pleasure. Taking the hint, Matthew undid his trousers and pushed them down to his knees. His face was still wet with her precum as he pulled out his cock and inserted himself quickly. She spasmed around him, her hands moving to grip the sides of the boat for leverage. His thighs clenched as he thrusted into her, his eyes almost rolling to the back of his head. He leaned closer to her chest and rocked into her neck as he fucked her.

“Oh you don’t know how long it’s been, love,” he sighed against her neck. “Is it ok?”

She nodded emphatically and pulled him closer by the back of his jacket, moving him deeper inside her. They both gasped out. He pulled his face away to watch her, still fucking her.

“Beautiful. Pretty pretty creature you are,” he praised her as he trailed a finger down her cheek. Her thighs bounced against his as he pulled her legs around his waist. The boat shook around them. He slipped his tongue around the mound of her breast beneath the cloth, making more moans escape the girl’s mouth. He slipped the fabric aside with one finger and looking up to watch her face, he pressed his mouth around a nipple and sucked. Immediately, her body pulled into his, her back arching off the curved bottom.

I'll go no more a roving

With you fair maid!

“Matthew…” she gasped as her muscles tightened and her bare feet flexed. He rolled his tongue around her nipple while his hand moved to hold her neck lightly, supporting her head. She cried out silently, her eyes screwed shut as if she were in pain. He dragged his tongue along her sternum to her neck and sucked at the flesh there. Her breathing evened out and she pulled his face to hers once again.

“Do what you want with me. Get what you need from me,” the seriousness of her command sent a spasm of pleasure into his cock, still inside her.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I want you to use me,” she whispered and spread her legs farther. Matthew looked at her for a second before smiling.

“Fuck, love. I think I’ll fall in love with you,” he chuckled softly and brushed his hand across her cheek.

“And so what if you do, sailor? Hasn’t everyone else done the same at some point?”

Matthew raised an eyebrow and kissed her, dragging her hands out above her head. Pressing her hands down into the boat, he began to thrust slowly into her, his hips still rebounding off of her pelvis.

“You’re going to stay right here, Y/N. I don’t want to lose you again.”

The girl smiled and broke into a moan as he shortened his thrusts, keeping himself as far inside her as he could. He went slowly so he could feel the orgasm clearly as it came over him, making his cock feel swollen with seed. Her hips shook wildly as she began to lose control over her orgasms. He watched her orgasm and released a wave of contractions around him. Smiling, he finally began to speed up as she whimpered beneath him.

“Fuck, yes… fuck… yes!” He muttered breathlessly as he felt his cock start to twitch before his orgasm. She tightened around him, pulling him deeper and drawing a guttural groan from his throat. His shoulders shook with effort as he allowed his orgasm to explode, cumming inside the girl and sending waves of relief through his system. He pulled out slowly and kissed down her stomach, savoring the heat of her skin against his lips. She caught her breath as he lapped at her swollen cunt. She was still shaking from her orgasms and whined when his tongue overstimulated her. He cleaned her out and nibbled at the skin on the inside of her thighs.

“It’s time for me to go.”

Matthew looked up at her and furrowed his brow, “so soon?”

The girl nodded and sat up to face him.

“I’ll be back, I promise.” She smiled shyly and rubbed her nose against his.

“Where do you go… I mean where do you go while we’re aboard?” He stumbled over his words, still catching his breath.

“Here,” she offered no further clarification as Matthew gave her a questioning look. She pressed her hand against his cheek and laughed.

“Don’t worry about where I go, sailor. The sea is my home.”

Matthew kissed her hastily as he redid his pants and pulled his suspender straps back over his shoulders. She stood and kissed him once more before she stepped over the edge and dropped into the water. In seconds she was resurfacing with her silver tail.

“Let me ask you one thing,” Matthew stopped her before he could leave, “are you real? Was that real?” He gestured to the bottom of the boat and the girl laughed brightly.

“Be wary, sailor. You might just lose your mind."

Matthew nodded and watched as she backed away and dove into the dark water beyond the reflection of light from the deck. Moments later, a whistle sounded and he was called to return to the ship. Forcing himself to look away from the place where the girl disappeared, he felt the familiar material of his old coat that he had wrapped around the girl earlier on the plank beside him, folded and damp.

...

End of Pt. 2!

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delicatebarness · 6 months ago

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winters widow | chapter vi

Summary: You are cordially invited to the wedding of Prince Steven of House Rogers and Lady Natasha of House Romanoff.

Warning: Arranged Marriage.

Word Count: 1256

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A/N: I'm very happy for the Romanoff girlies. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

The morrow of the wedding dawned with a warm sunrise, a golden hue casting over the capital. Anticipation buzzed around the streets of Brooklyn, decorated with banners and vibrant flowers. Gleaming under the morning light, the palace adorned the colors of House Rogers and House Romanoff.

Standing in Natasha’s quarters, your heart raced. Your dress was a beautiful masterpiece, with intricate embroidery and the finest silk. It reflected the status and elegance befitting of a noblewoman.

Yelena helped you with the final touches in your braids as Natasha walked in wearing her wedding dress. It was magnificent, exquisite blends of gold and crimson symbolized the union of the two great houses.

“You look beautiful,” Yelena said softly, her eyes filled with sisterly pride toward Natasha.

“You too,” Natasha replied with an unwavering smile, she reached out and adjusted a strand of your hair. “It’s a big day for all of us.”

A knock signaled it was time and Yelena guided you through the grand corridors to the ceremonial hall. Taking a deep breath, the thick air and the scent of blooming roses filled your senses along with the hum of whispered conversations. From all across the realm, noble guests gathered as their elaborate attires added to the splendor of the event.

The grandeur of the setting took your breath away as you entered the hall. High-arched ceilings draped in silk banners, pews lined with dignitaries and lords, all eyes turned towards the front where the ceremony would take place. Prince Steve stood at the altar, resplendent in his attire, his face composed of joy.

Standing by his side as his loyal companion was Lord James. His gaze met yours you took your place among the bridesmaids, a flicker of warmth passed through his eyes as they widened slightly. You gave him a small, reassuring smile.

The grand doors opened once more, and the hall fell silent. Natasha, escorted by your father Lord Ivan Romanoff of Belova, entered with grace. Her smile, radiant, lit up the room. You could see the love that had grown out of duty as she approached her future husband. The king and queen, sat with dignified poise as they watched with approval. Their son preparing to take this significant step in life, and for the realm they protect.

You found your gaze drifting towards Lord James as the ceremony progressed. Standing tall and composed, his eyes occasionally sought yours across the hall. A silent understanding passed between you, each time your eyes met, and your heart would quicken. The vows were solemn as they echoed through the hall, and Natasha held pride in her eyes as she pledged her love and loyalty to Prince Steve.

When the ceremony concluded, the Grand Priest spoke his blessings, and the hall erupted in applause. Their first kiss as husband and wife was met with cheers. Glancing at Lord James, he was already looking over at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. Returning the smile, you felt a rush of warmth spread through you.

The newlyweds led the procession out of the ceremonial hall, the guests followed as they moved toward the grand banquet hall. The entrance to the hall was flanked by tall candelabras, flames flickering golden glows highlighting the opulence within. Tapestries depicting the histories of both your House and House Rogers, adorned the walls, intertwined in a vibrant display of artistry.

As you mingled with the guests and chatted with various nobles, you noticed a friendly and familiar face, a face you hadn’t seen since your childhood, approaching. “Little Lady!” he greeted, his smile broad.

“Scott!” you exclaimed as he pulled you into a friendly embrace, laughter escaped your lips as you let out a breath. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

As you reminisce about old times, you and Scott fell into an easy conversation. His stories and humor never failed to make you laugh, however as your spirits continued to lift, you were acutely aware of Lord James watching you from across the hall. His gaze was intense.

He stood with Prince Steve and Natasha, his gaze never faltering off you and Scott. “Who is that?” he asked, his voice low as it betrayed in hiding his jealousy.

Following Lord James’ gaze, Prince Steve glanced over. “Scott Lang. Lord of a neighboring land to Belova. Married to Lady Van Dyne, I do believe.”

His expression darkened, and his fingers tightened around his goblet. “What is he doing with my betrothed?” he muttered, possessiveness laced in his tone.

Catching the edge in his voice, Natasha smiled. “Scott has been a friend of our House and to us since childhood, Lord James. They’ve known each other for years.”

At that moment, you glanced over and caught sight of Lord James’ intense gaze. You offered him a small wave, smiling brightly and reassuringly. The tension in Lord James’ stance and jaw softened in that instant. Returning your smile with a small nod.

Noticing your attention shift, Scott followed your gaze. “Ah, Lord James,” he said with a knowing smile. “The White Wolf, a formidable warrior, indeed. His combat prowess is unmatched.”

“Yes, he is remarkable,” you replied, admiration laced in your tone as a blush crept up your cheeks.

Excusing himself, Lord James’ was unable to stay away any longer. Leaving Prince Steve and Natasha's side, he approached you. Scott gave him a respectful nose as he stepped back, allowing Lord James’ to take his place beside you.

“My lord,” you greeted him softly, affection shined in your eyes as you met his gaze.

“My lady,” he replied tenderly. His earlier jealousy was forgotten as his hand found yours, kissing gently against your knuckles.

Couples began to take to the dance floor as the music swelled. He gestured toward the scene before you as he reassured you with a squeeze of your hand. “Would my lady honor me with a dance?”

Your heart fluttered as you beamed up at him, a wide smile tugged at your lips. “With pleasure, my lord,” you responded.

Leading you to the dance floor, his hand stayed firm as it held yours. You moved together as the music began to play, you were closer to him than you had been before. Encircling around your waist, the touch of his arm sent a shiver down your spine. The new proximity made your heart race.

The world around you seemed to fade away into a blur, all that mattered was the feeling of him guiding you. The way his gaze bored into you, an intensity leaving you breathless. His eyes, usually guarded, now revealed a new shade of blue and a depth of emotion that had you in a trance.

Every turn and step brought you closer, the space shrunk until it felt like you were the only two people in the realm. Heat radiated from his body, and his breath mingled with yours in the shared air. It was intoxicating, the connection and the closeness spoke volumes, all without a word being uttered.

“You dance beautifully, my lady,” he muttered, his voice a soft rumble as his breath against your ear sent a shiver through you.

“And you, my lord,” you replied, keeping your voice to a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would break the spell of your moment with him.

The music began to slow, the dance nearing its end, yet neither of you moved to let go. His grip only seemed to tighten slightly, a plea to stay close and not let the moment slip away.

---

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cabinetofquriosities · 2 months ago

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Nothing Matters

Agatha x Rio || Warnings: Violence and Smut

Just a note: These are based on actual historical events that happened, which is why I aged Nicky down to 5 when he died in order to fit the dates. They are pretty fascinating events. I encourage anyone reading to fall down the same rabbit holes I did while researching them!

(Listen along while reading)

——————————————————

1755 - Lisbon

Classical music filled the stuffy air of a palace in Lisbon as nobles danced with one another. The rich were flirting, feeding, and forgetting the world beyond their gilded walls. Outside, families were celebrating All Saint’s Day on the first of November. Children ran from door to door, collecting treats from their neighbors. Little did they know, the shadow of death was amongst them.

Agatha Harkness was still marked by grief only six months after losing Nicholas. She had killed and drained enough witches to fill a town, but Death still hid from her. After the hell she had been plunged into, Agatha yearned to pull her former love down with her. So, she had something planned that Rio would not be able to ignore.

1872 - Boston

Summer Street was packed with people who were going through the motions of a frigid November day. Men walked arm in arm with their wives. Teenagers blushed as they wooed one another. Merchants had their doors open to the cold in hopes of welcoming passerby’s.

In the thick of the crowd was Agatha Harkness. She wore a scarlet two piece silk dress with a lace lined jacket and bustle at the back of the skirt. Her hair was pinned up with banana curls spilling down the back of her neck. Her hands were snug in a fur hand muff.

Her power felt completely renewed. She went on a bit of a bender with killing witches. She had been betrayed by her own emotions as Rio showed up in every dream for the last few years. She was used to one here and there, but not every night. She needed to get that beast out of her system. So, she killed and stole power in hopes of summoning her. The two were still diametrically opposed to one another, still “separated” or estranged spouses for lack of a better term, but could never stay away for too long. Every so often, Agatha would find a way to see her and the two would reunite for a night at most in a tangle of bodies and limbs. It had been over a decade this time around.

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

The gentle sway of the ocean rocked the passengers to sleep as their destroyer treaded the boards overhead. Her heels clicked as she walked over the deck.

“Ma’am?” the captain called.

Agatha turned, her curls falling loose around her shoulders and still wearing a long, sheer bejeweled dress from dinner. After all, she had to dress for her Lady.

“Yes?”

“It’s too cold to be taking a walk out here.”

“It is,” she said with a smirk.

1755 - Lisbon

Death always had a sense of when a seismic event was coming. Whenever a wave of death was about to strike, she would feel the pull of it. Rio had tried to avoid revealing herself by waiting longer after a witch would die to claim her soul. This, though, this was so far away from Massachusetts. She incorrectly assumed that Agatha wouldn’t be traveling overseas.

She couldn’t show up late to an event of this size. With how massive the event promised to be, she figured it was a natural phenomenon rather than anything that could be caused by Agatha. So, she donned an elegant dress, her hair pinned in curls, and appeared at the epicenter.

Agatha heard the music shift to a Minuet. Couples made their way to the ballroom floor to dance. She stood and saw the woman who had been just out of reach for the past several months. She strode over and swiftly took her by the hand before Rio even had a chance to register it was her. Agatha whirled her into a spin before stepping back, giving a deep bow with the rest of the ladies in the dance.

Rio looked like a trapped animal, her eyes betraying the panic she felt at being so thoroughly tricked. She went along with the dance, one that was playful in nature and felt so inappropriate for their situation. Agatha straightened up and raised her hand, pressing her forearm against Rio’s as they walked around one another, their gazes locked.

“Did you really think you could run from me?” Agatha hissed.

1872 - Boston

Rio knew there was a likelihood of Agatha being close to this given its location, but knew she had to arrive for this. While it wasn’t the same bodycount as a natural disaster, the violence and discord she could sense coming required her presence.

She walked down the cobblestone road. A little boy accidentally ran into her. She grabbed him by the shoulders to keep him from falling. He looked up at her with wide eyes, feeling the aura of decay around her. Those eyes looked too familiar to ones she had seen before. This one wasn’t meant to be lost today. There was no need for him to witness it at all. She led him into an alleyway before the child knew what was happening and swirled her fingers. A small door appeared on the side of the building. She opened it, motioning for the five year old to walk through. He did, not noticing he was on a street in a nearby town until the door shut behind him.

“Special treatment, I see,” a voice said behind Rio.

“He wasn’t meant to die today,” Rio said.

She turned around.

“Agatha.”

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

“Do you need an escort back to your cabin?” the captain asked the wandering passenger.

“Oh, no need,” Agatha said, redirecting her gaze to the stars above, “My love will be here soon.”

“Okay, well, please be careful,” he said, “And stay away from the edge of the ship. The ocean is deadly at night.”

“That it is,” she said, nodding at him.

A dapper young man wearing a suit crossed his path before making his way to the Agatha. The captain noticed how feminine the man’s features were. He felt unnerved by the interaction, feeling something of a chill down his spine as if Death had brushed past him.

“Your love?” Rio asked, Adjusting her top hat.

She turned around to face Rio with a cruel smile.

“It would have sounded suspicious if I said my enemy.”

1755 - Lisbon

“I wasn’t running,” Rio said as they danced.

“You were hiding,” Agatha said.

“I don’t always show myself to others every time I collect.”

“You used to with me,” Agatha said.

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me after-“

“DON’T… say his name. You do not get to ever say it again,” Agatha snapped before resuming their dance.

“I just thought you needed time.”

“Time…” Agatha said with a bitter laugh, “Well, you never give much of that, now do you?”

Rio stopped in her tracks, ignoring the music filling the room. Her eyes darkened. Could she really be that willfully ignorant of the situation? Human emotions always twisted the reality of things into absurd shapes.

“I gave everything I could,” she said, her voice dropped low.

“Then you fall far short of expectations. You are the original Green Witch. Lady Death. And all you could manage was five years.”

“You have no idea how much those years shifted the balance of the universe. I would have given him all the time that existed if I could.”

“But you didn’t,” Agatha seethed.

“I couldn’t,” Rio said with a defeated sigh.

She looked around, feeling an electricity in the air around them. Whatever was about to happen was coming closer.

“I cannot have this conversation right now. Something terrible is about to happen. You should leave while you can,” Rio said with an edge of urgency.

“Oh, I am very aware.”

Rio tried to resolve the enormity of the event with being caused by a single person. This event would affect a third of the Earth. She looked at her with genuine shock and amazement.

“Agatha… what did you do?”

1872 - Boston

“Rio,” Agatha said with a sly smile, “Long time, no see.”

“Well, our meeting in New York didn’t exactly make me want to come running back.”

“Oh, please,” Agatha said, stalking towards her with a pout, “You love it when I’m cruel.”

Rio arched a brow before shaking her head with a bemused smile. She hated how right she was. It was a rare treat for Death to have someone who did not fear or revere her. Agatha gave her the gift of the unexpected in the endless cycle of nature.

“You are the one behind what is about to happen, then?”

Agatha looked downright giddy as she said, “It’s already begun.”

Agatha took Rio’s hand, running her up the stairs of the nearest building they could find to the roof. Agatha beamed at the view like a kid showing an adult the drawing they had made. Rio looked at the skyline of Boston, not noticing anything out of place at first. A few moments passed and then, she saw the smoke.

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

“Your enemy,” Rio echoed, “Is that where we still are?”

Agatha looked at her with a flash of vulnerability before throwing her mask back on.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” she said, lifting her chin.

“For someone who hates me, it seems like you’re pretty determined to see me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was bored.”

“Really?” she said, nodding, “Sure. Let’s just say that if it makes you feel better.”

Agatha scowled before walking to the edge of the deck, hanging onto the railing. Rio followed behind, never allowing Agatha to be too far away in a deadly situation. She knew it wasn’t her time, but it was usually because Rio was there to protect her. If Agatha had gotten sick or killed by another witch, then she couldn’t do anything but take her to the other side. She couldn’t cure illness. She couldn’t interfere in an attack that she was not present for. However, if she was a source of protection while present, it would not upset the sacred balance. People were taken before their time far too often and she could do things to prevent that. If it actually was their time due to something fated and intrinsic like an illness, it was not preventable. It was how she saved Agatha time and time again, but also why she couldn’t save Nicky.

“What are we looking at?” Rio asked.

“That,” Agatha said as an iceberg appeared in the distance.

1755 - Lisbon

“It is not what I did. It is what I am about to do,” Agatha said.

She took Rio’s hand, pulling her outside to the courtyard where couples strolled with one another beneath the moonlight. She knelt down, putting her hand on the ground. She closed her eyes and began to whisper an incantation.

Purple light pulsed under her palm. The ground started to shake. The earth broke apart at her hand, cracks emerging and spreading with purple glowing from them. People screamed and fled. Buildings collapsed and the cracks opened up. Men and women sprinted blindly in a panic, falling in and being swallowed up whole. Agatha’s smile widened as she felt the energy of every witch in Lisbon reverberating back to her. Rio simply took it all in with a sense of awe at Agatha’s power of destruction.

She stood and turned to face her. The destruction was unfolding around them as Agatha’s eyes burned into Rio’s. Her gaze reflected rage, sadness, and misdirected hatred. Intertwined throughout those elements was a strong desire that had always bonded them together. Both of them suddenly took three long strides and met in a wild kiss.

1872 - Boston

“One fire?” Rio said with an arched brow, “A bit sophomoric for you.”

“Oh, hush,” Agatha sniped, “Keep watching.”

A minute passed before the building was engulfed, the flames climbing and building with every inch of wood and dried goods. There were no people in the storage house, but that didn’t matter as Agatha worked her magic. She swirled her hand flicked it out in the fire’s direction. A gust of wind whipped from her fingers over the city. The flames jumped to neighboring roofs, burning them quickly with how close and flammable they were. The city was architecturally tight and created with wood as the primary material.

Rio’s eyes went wide and she smiled at the sight of the growing inferno. She reached over, threading her fingers through Agatha’s. Agatha reached up and cupped her cheek with her free hand. She knew their dynamic was too fraught to work in the long term, but these pauses in their rivalry were something she needed. Or, rather, the transformation of their rivalry into something more primal and intimate.

Rio leaned into her touch with a soft look. Agatha moved in, catching her lips with hers. The kiss was tender for all of forty seconds before Rio’s teeth sank into Agatha’s lip, drawing blood. Agatha sucked in a shocked gasp. She pulled back, her look indignant.

Agatha gripped Rio by the throat, shoving her down onto the floor of the flat roof. She looked down and found that Rio had rid them both of their clothing with a wave of her hand. She crawled over her, grabbing her neck again. Rio laughed between coughs as she was choked.

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

“Oh. Interesting,” Rio said with a curious tilt of her head.

Agatha looked at her, peeking out of the corner of her eye. Rio looked beautiful and handsome all at once in the fancy tuxedo and top hat.

“You look good,” Agatha said quietly.

The corner of Rio’s lip turned upwards at the compliment. Any crumb of kindness from Agatha felt like the gifting of a rose.

“Thank you. You look breathtaking,” Rio said, turning her head to look at her directly.

Agatha unwillingly blushed in a way that reminded Rio of when they were a new couple. Agatha had never been in love before, nor did she know any affection from loved ones. The young witch would melt at any kind words given to her. Moments like this reminded Rio that every stage in Agatha’s development as a person was nested within her like Russian dolls. It was such a strange thing about humans that Rio never noticed until she was devoted to one over a matter of centuries.

Agatha raised her hands up, beams of purple shooting from both palms. They wrapped around the massive iceberg. The ropes of energy held onto the ship. Agatha used the ship’s momentum to drag it into a collision. Rio threw her arms around her from behind, holding her to keep her steady as the impact spread across the Titanic.

1755 - Lisbon

The estranged, grieving couple found themselves in a tangle of dangerous emotions. Agatha backed her against an oversized cedar tree. She pinned Rio by the wrists, making a point to dig the back of her hands into the jagged surface. She sucked and bit at her lips, letting her wrists go to start yanking at her bustier, doing everything she could to strip her from the ridiculous layers of clothing that were used to lock the female form in.

Rio reached down to tangle her fingers in Agatha’s hair, but was met with the sting of a slap. Then another. Although Death could shut down sensations to the body, she chose not to. She wanted to feel whatever contact Agatha would give, no matter the type.

Agatha slapped her two more times, leaning in to bite painfully into her shoulder, pulling back with a few drops of blood decorating her snarl. She raked her nails down her arms, leaving angry red marks. Rio let out grunts and gasps with every hit. Tears welled in Agatha’s eyes, her jaw clenched in anger. Rio wanted her to take it all out on her.

Agatha pulled back enough to look at the marks she left behind. Maroon handprints on her cheeks, a bleeding imprint of teeth on her shoulder, and scarlet trails blazing down to her wrists.

Agatha looked shocked at her own violence toward a woman who she never cared to hurt this way before. Just as she was about to pull away and leave, Rio spoke with a shaking voice.

“Keep going. Do everything you have wanted,” she breathed.

Agatha wanted to punish.

Rio wanted to hurt.

“Everything I have wanted?” She hissed.

Agatha shoved her back against the tree, pressing her hips against her. She used her magic to tear Rio’s layers down, leaving her nude. She pinched and twisted her nipples. Rio hissed through her teeth, arching her back. The roots of the tree, sliding up Agatha’s body. They ripped her dress apart, leaving her in scraps of fabric, her body revealed.

Agatha’s violent affection grew as she slapped her cunt and pulled her head back by the hair with her other hand. Rio’s gaze held Agatha’s, refusing to look away.

1872 - Boston

Agatha’s grip around her throat loosened just enough to turn it from aggressive to playful. She smiled down at her, able to look at her with more affection than hatred. She hadn’t forgiven her, but she at least intellectually knew that Rio had no choice but to take Nicky, even if she couldn’t emotionally accept it. Rio felt the lightness in Agatha. As long as she didn’t call attention to it, it would continue.

Rio knew that the moment she acknowledged the connection between them, Agatha would throw her walls back up the way they did in New York years ago. Back then, Rio slipped up and said she loved her. Agatha’s expression hardened. Her eyes went dead and she abruptly left her, waiting far too long to summon her again. Rio wouldn’t make that mistake again. She would keep it light and safe.

Rio smirked and rolled them over, grabbing and pinning her wrists. Agatha leaned up, trying to struggle against her hold. Rio bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. She worked her leg between Agatha’s and pressed her thigh against her sex. Agatha gasped and rolled her hips at the contact. Rio smiled devilishly down at her.

“Such a greedy girl. Fuck yourself on me.”

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

The ship had cracked in two. The lights turned off throughout, plunging the vessel into darkness. Shrieks emanated from the cabins.

Agatha turned in Rio’s arms, holding onto the railing behind her while the two halves of the ship tilted toward the middle. Rio pressed her fingers under her chin and guided her up into a kiss under the stars.

Agatha let go of the railing, wrapping her arms around Rio’s neck as they tipped and slid towards the wall of the pilothouse. Agatha cushioned the impact of their bodies crashing against it with a shield of purple mist.

People emptied out of the cabins, running in a panic to find an exit. Men tried to push past mothers and children to save their own hides while the rich locked the poor passengers under the deck when they realized there were barely any lifeboats.

This level of cruelty towards one another was the very reason that Agatha used to justify her murderous acts. If this is who they were at their cores, what would they possibly have to give to the world? The rich especially angered her. Regardless of having every advantage, they were the most selfish beings on earth. If she hadn’t been completely wrapped up in Rio, she would have saved the lower class passengers while dispatching the richest. However, she was locked into an embrace with her love and the water had already rushed into those cabins.

Agatha kissed along Rio’s neck, running her hands over her suit. She took care to leave as many clothes on as possible. It was not only cold, but Rio also looked amazing in a tuxedo. She slid her hand into the suit pants. Rio gasped and smiled. She rocked her hips over her hand, feeling Agatha’s hand wandering. Agatha’s fingers parted her folds and pushed up the hood of her clit, using a fingertip to lightly play with it. The pleasure shot through her in short spurts that felt like being electrocuted. She gripped Agatha’s upper arms to steady herself, already trembling. The rush of death surrounding them was as intoxicating to her as Agatha was. It didn’t feel like euphoria the way draining magic felt to Agatha. It was more of a flood of adrenaline that activated her instincts as the reaper. It made every sensation that much more extreme.

Agatha, meanwhile, felt the energy of a handful of witches aboard. It spiked her arousal and made her hungrier for her love. She sped her finger, purposely overwhelming Rio with shocks of pleasure. Rio cried out, her hands tightening on her biceps. Agatha watched her closely, taking in every detail, every twitch of her lip, the fluttering of her lashes.

Before Agatha could continue, Rio abruptly turned the tables. She spun Agatha onto her back, shoving her dress up to her waist. She looked down at her bare cunt, tilting her head.

“No undergarments? Looks like you had a plan,” Rio said.

“You know me,” Agatha purred, “Always prepared.”

Rio dove down between her thighs, plunging her tongue into her. Agatha arched her back off of the wall that had tilted with the boat, effectively becoming more of a floor.

People panicked and scrambled around them, not even noticing what was unfolding between the two women. It was always the most delicious thing about the disasters Agatha created. The chaos around them allowed them to have the most depraved experiences in public.

Rio’s dark eyes were fixed on Agatha’s face. She fucked her slowly at first, grinding her tongue against the most sensitive spot inside of her. Agatha’s eyes shot open, her hips flying up. Rio pinned them back down as she moved faster, nudging at her clit with her nose.

Agatha’s hand shot down and tangled her hand in her hair, knocking her hat off. She rolled her hips, trying to fuck her back before Rio laid an arm across them to keep her still. Agatha whined in a rare show of weakness, one that only her wife could draw from her.

“Fuck… Rio!” She moaned as Rio pulled her in closer by her waist.

Rio groaned in reply, the vibration shivering against Agatha. Agatha’s jaw fell as her pleasure crested, crashing over her like a heavy wave. Rio coaxed aftershocks from her while cleaning her arousal. Whimpers left her lips, making Rio look up at her again, taking in the breathtaking sight of her wife gasping against the back of her hand. She turned her head and sucked on the skin, leaving a dark welt on her inner thigh.

Rio emerged from between her legs. She crawled over Agatha, looking down into her blue eyes. She gently moved her hand from her lips and captured them herself.

“Mi amor,” Rio whispered.

“Mi corazón,” Agatha replied, “I love you.”

1755 - Lisbon

“I hate you…” Agatha hissed.

Her fingers were inside of Rio. Two, then three, then four. Rio let out a sharp scream as Agatha stretched her to her limit, tucking her thumb inside. Rio’s face was a portrait of pain, but her arousal only grew. Agatha smiled sadistically as she made a fist inside of her. Rio’s breath caught, her walls strangling her hand. Her arousal squirted from her, the agony burning into pleasure.

Agatha roughly yanked her hand from her, leaving Rio empty. She screamed out from the violent move, clinging to the trunk of the tree behind her in an attempt to keep herself upright.

Agatha gripped her shoulder and pushed down until the weak-kneed woman was on the ground. She swung her leg over, straddling Rio’s face. She lowered herself, using her like a toy. Rio worked with a desperation, needing to give Agatha everything she could while still knowing it would never be enough.

Agatha panted as she fucked her face. Rio thrusted her tongue inside of her, tasting the flavor she craved more than anything. She watched Agatha move like a woman possessed. Her hair was wild and her expression feral. In the distance, the shore was attacked by a massive tidal wave powered by Agatha’s fury.

The churches filled with people celebrating All Saints’ Day collapsed, taking thousands with it. The city of Lisbon was crumbling around them. The impact of the earthquake reverberated as far as the Caribbean from Portugal. Even North Africa was hit. Tsunamis were birthed from the epicenter. From Agatha.

The sheer volume of death left Rio’s head spinning. Nearly one hundred thousand dead. Of that body count, thousands of witches perished, their magic moving in flashes, traveling over several countries, endowing Agatha with power.

The violet glow surrounding her was blinding, the magic of the dying witches proving to be almost too much for Agatha. She shook violently as she kept moving over Rio. She leaned forward on her knees and pressed her palms against the tree. She screamed as her overpowered body unraveled for the very woman she was trying to dominate. She crawled back so that she was eye to eye with Rio, glaring down at her with irises swimming in a deep purple as magic pulsed through every cell of her body.

The dark eyes looking back at her welled with tears that were all too human for an entity like Death. Rio had witnessed the pure rage of grief when she had taken others. She knew it was only born from pain. However, that didn’t take the pain of being loathed by the love of her life.

“He was my son too,” she whispered out, unable to stop the words.

Agatha’s eyes ignited before she shoved her to the ground. Her hands gripped her throat, squeezing as hard as she could. Rio struggled. Her vision blurred, but they both knew that Death could never die. Her windpipe would never collapse. She still wanted her to struggle for breath.

“Some mother you were,” Agatha growled through clenched teeth, “You killed your own son…”

Rio wheezed as she whispered, “He was already gone.”

Agatha strangled her another minute before letting go. Rio gasped and coughed violently. Agatha looked at her with nothing short of pure disgust.

“You could have saved him.”

“I did. Every day for five years. You don’t know how difficult it was to squeeze time from nothing.”

“And you don’t know how it was to wake up to him that morning.”

“You’re right,” Rio admitted, “I don’t.”

Agatha looked down at her, momentarily allowing her to look at her the way she used to. As the ancient witch who only showed true humanity for her.

“I wish I could have done more,” Rio sobbed out, looking stunned by her own display of emotion, “I am so sorry…”

Agatha had no words that were enough, nothing that would solve the grief between two parents. She only had a question.

“Do you see him when you bring others over?”

“Not fully,” she said, “Only shadows. Only whispers… For me to be too close would disturb the balance. His mothers are not fated to be with him yet. I cannot force when that reunion will be. But… He leaves me flowers. He leaves us flowers.”

Agatha simply cried then, unable to contain it any longer. The fact that Rio had glimpses of him while she had nothing should have angered her more, but it only led to another question that was more important than her rage.

“Is h… Is he happy?” The

“Yes,” Rio said without a second thought, “Someone with earth magic… Nicky can only make roses when he is happy. He leaves roses everywhere he goes.”

Agatha’s tears fell directly from her eyelashes to Rio’s cheeks. When Rio tried to cup Agatha’s cheek, the other woman wrenched her face away. She closed her eyes, trying to force her mask to hide her from someone who knew her completely. She opened them, but still revealed her own adoration and passion for the woman in front of her, despite her anger. That look would fuel Rio in the centuries to come. They would remind her that their bond had withstood the worst tragedy possible. Emotion would crash against it like the water crashing against the sand miles away, but that bond would always hold.

Agatha came to the same conclusion internally, beneath the storm of trauma and misery. She was cursed and blessed to be forever bonded to Death. Her lips collided with hers with a painful impact. Purple flowed from her to Rio, tying them together in that moment. She was there one second and pulling away the next. Rio sat up as Agatha left, walking into the clouds of destruction left in her wake.

For years and centuries later, Rio would leave Nicky’s roses by Agatha’s bed as she slept to give her comfort. She would keep half for her and give half of the blooms to his other mother.

Agatha, for her part, would pretend to be asleep when she would hear the familiar footsteps. Death could come like a thief in the night, but Agatha occasionally felt it just before. She would savor the kiss laid upon her forehead, the light touch of her fingers as they brushed stray hairs from her face. She savored Rio in a way she could handle during those first few decades following Lisbon before calling upon her time and time again with unprecedented disasters throughout time.

1872 - Boston

Agatha’s back bent like a bow as pleasure wound itself tightly in the pit of her. She rutted herself against Rio’s thigh as the other woman wolfishly grinned down at her. She sucked in a gasp as her hips stuttered. Rio suddenly moved down her form in a flash, grabbing her thighs and bending her in half. She leaned down and ran her tongue along her soaking cunt. She drank her in as the air around them heated up as the crowds below them ran from the flames.

Agatha wanted to watch the destruction, but Rio was far more captivating. She tangled her hands in her own hair, her body quaking with pleasure. Rio sucked on the little bundle of nerves that made her scream while thrusting two fingers into her.

Agatha’s brows bunched together as her walls strangled them, already overstimulated. As she came again, she pulled Rio out from between her legs and into a kiss. She hummed against her lips with her arms wrapped around her. Agatha slid her hand down between them, teasing Rio. Rio shook her head and took her hand.

“But…” Agatha started.

“This is about you,” Rio replied, bringing her hand to her lips, kissing it with a, “Milady.”

Half the city was reduced to ashes as the flames licked up the building below them. Fire surrounded them as they shared one last kiss. Rio pulled back and smiled as frenzied cries came from the adjoining buildings.

“That’s my cue,” Rio said.

As Agatha pushed the fire away from her with tendrils of purple magic. Vines grew from Rio’s feet, crawling up her body and forming into a tight, form fitting outfit. She stood on the ledge, turning to face Agatha. She waved at her with a smile before jumping off of the roof.

Agatha waited until she was out of earshot to say, “Always a pleasure, My love.”

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

People plummeted from the ship, trampled one another, froze in the water. As the sounds of pain and anguish surrounded them, the band continued to play. In the middle of the mayhem were a small collection of those who chose to meet death with grace. Being around them was a comfort to Rio. Unlike the fear and terror she was typically shown, these people were more focused on finding peace in remaining moments.

The ship began to sink further in. Jewelry, furs, and other meaningless things that lost all worth in the larger picture of life plunged into the depths of the Atlantic, disappearing into the places where sunlight refused to follow. The lifeboats were full and floating away. Some were filled with vulnerable people who were rightfully saved while others were filled by the ruthless people who pushed their way to the front of the crowds. Their morality didn’t matter to their fates on Earth. That would catch up to them years later when Rio came for them. The people left behind held each other and sobbed in the realization that there was no way to escape their demise.

The musicians played to calm the passengers, the transcendent sound of strings flowing through the screams. Agatha held a hand out to Rio, who took it in hers. She pulled her in, pressing her cheek to Agatha’s as they danced. Rio hummed their song into her ear. The stars shone down on them with a beauty that stood in opposition to the tragedy unfolding beneath.

Next to them sat an elderly married couple who chose to stay. The wife had refused to leave him behind when offered a seat on the lifeboat. She wouldn’t take someone else’s place when hers was with her love. He tried to convince her to leave, but she shook her head. They held hands, listening to the music while gazing at the moon.

Agatha looked at them over Rio’s shoulder and saw the devotion that she and her own wife shared. The words the woman spoke to him earlier were some of the most romantic she had heard. “Isidor we have been together for all these years. Where you go, I go.”

She realized that the same applied to her and the woman in her embrace. Regardless of what happened, of what they did, of how they tried to resist, they were each other’s home. Although she wasn’t yet ready to fully welcome Rio back into her life, she knew that she would be sooner rather than later. Like the couple beside them, they would walk through life together.

The old man kissed the back of his wife’s hand, earning a youthful blush from her. Rio could feel their acceptance. The two would greet Death as they would an old friend.

This story was based on the Lisbon Earthquake of 1755, the Great Boston Fire of 1872, and the sinking of the Titanic in 1912.

If you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment and reblog it! Also, check out my other playlist fics!

Thank you for reading ♥️

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scribbleseas · 2 months ago

Text

Straight Laced, Chapter X: To Be A Hidden Treasure…

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

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

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

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

REMINDER: This is a heavier chapter that hits MOST of those warnings and your safety and comfort comes before everything! Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you would like clarification about this chapter’s subject matter.

Author’s Note: Hi Everyone! Thank you so much for reading Straight Laced, I'm so happy I can finally show you the last chapter of this exhilarating story. Including this chapter, you will have read 70,249 words of my writing, and I'm so, so grateful for your time. I have more to say about this fic all the way at the bottom of this post, so I'll keep this brief and leave you with one helpful hint: the part of the grand pas that Y/n is talking about can be found at 2:56 in the video I linked. With that, I hope this chapter is everything you've all been so patiently waiting for. And more.

Happy Reading!!

Dan <3

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER |

MASTERLIST

Postlude

February, 1889

The Imperial Ballet School, Russia

The frosty draft of St. Petersburg’s unforgiving winter slipped underneath The Imperial Ballet School’s multitude of long windows, sending a chill through the air. A thick layer of frost shrouded the dance studio’s large windows, both shielding the expansive room from both the outside, and the outside from seeing inside.

The soft piano played the beginning notes of Giselle’s Act I scene where she realizes that the young man who had been courting her had been lying about his identity. The Duke Albrecht had been posing as a peasant to woo the beautiful village girl, but now, one of the woman’s competing suitors exposed his lie. With the truth exposed, Giselle fell into heartbroken panic.

The first ballerina of two in consideration for the role started to arrange her body into the beginning steps into Giselle’s pained rendition of her previous pas de deux with the disguised duke. The dance, once loving and serene, was now supposed to be frantic and wrecked with pain, as displayed by the ballerina’s stricken expression.

Seconds before she could begin, the ballet master knocked her cane into the floor, halting all—the ballerina, the music, any onlookers. When the cane came crashing down, nobody breathed.

“Anastasia Gusev. How many hours did you rehearse this week?” Irina Abramova demanded, scrutiny weighing heavily on her drawn eyebrows and pursed lips.

Without waiting for Natasha’s response, the ballet master continued in Russian, shaking her head, red-rouged lips pursed. “Whatever it was, it is far from enough. The combination has not even started yet, and I can already see you are doing it wrong. In fact, if I made you step outside naked and beg for change, holding a sign that says ‘I cannot dance,’ you would not feel anywhere close to the amount of shame I feel at this moment for considering you,” the retired prima ballerina noted. “I may even hate myself now. Because of you.”

No matter the chill of the gelid weather that the winter sighed into the room, nothing was more biting than Irina’s commentary. Still, in the face of her heart shattering, Natasha held her chin high and rolled her shoulders back, biting down on the fact that she’d put in over 50 hours of work in that past week. She’d skipped most meals, most full nights of sleep, with the specific intent to secure Giselle.

Now? The young ballerina felt her eyes sting with tears that threatened to fall. Fury squeezed at her chest.

Clearing her throat, Irina addressed the rest of the class. Her gnarled hands tapped her cane against the smooth floor, her onyx gaze alight with determination. Per usual, the ballet master kept her wiry gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, reminiscent of the ballerina bun she wore in her prime.

“Does Anastasia here resemble our Giselle, right now? Does she portray a woman descending into madness after her lover has betrayed her? I want to see a heartbroken tour de force. I want to be rendered speechless from the sheer depth of emotion on your face.”

Giving Natasha another bored once over, Irina looked disinterested. She addressed the class once more. “Honestly! Is anyone rendered speechless? I certainly am not.”

As Natasha expected, the rest of the company betrayed her, mumbling their doubts, shaking their heads, weakly suppressing their snide smiles. They never failed to disappoint her. Natasha bit her tongue, swallowing down her desire to challenge them to portray Act One’s infamous Mad Scene better than she. No one else wanted this role like she did.

The wrinkles marring Irina’s face creased with her satisfied expression, watching Natasha’s face redden. She was well-aware of the young ballerina’s hatred of her first name, her hatred of her company members. This humiliation was more effective than anything—more than the feeling of Irina’s cane digging itself into Natasha’s lower back to correct her posture, or dodging a swing at her lowering leg. Irina swung at lowering legs to inspire dancers to hold arabesques more firmly.

The young dancer could withstand any pain, save for this public humiliation.

“Anastasia, show yourself to the barre. I am growing tired of your mediocrity—your intent to waste our time. Faina Nikotinova, you will be my Giselle. Anastasia, do try to improve. Before I send you outside to freeze some talent into you,” her eyes flashed meaningfully, insinuating that her earlier words were not just a threat. They were a promise If Natasha couldn’t improve her dancing.

But she had. Irina was simply refusing to allow her to perform.

“You did not let me start,” Natasha snapped, raising her blue eyes to meet Irina’s. Her hands curled into fists, her manicured nails digging into her palms. Faina wasn’t half the dancer she was—her jumps were lazy, she was too chubby to last much longer. Irina had said it herself, and that was the most offensive aspect of this.

“There was no need to. Now, go away. Better yet, leave my school. I do not tolerate this attitude in my company and I have no desire to see you again,” Irina replied coolly, motioning for Faina to take the center of the floor. She tapped her cane against the floor to cue the piano back.

Hot, angry tears brimmed in Natasha’s eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall. Fine. Fine. If Irina wished for Duck Butt to lead the company as Giselle, she was more than welcome to choose her and watch the company sink under her mediocrity.

The force Natasha slammed the door with caused the walls to tremble. The muffled laughter from behind her sparked molten rage to flow through her veins. Surely she’d go mad if she was made to face such a stunning defeat again.

May, 1890

The Royal Opera House

No one could compare to Natasha Gusev‘s Aurora in The Royal Opera House’s first and breathtaking run of Sleeping Beauty, the product of sleepless nights spent slaving at the barre. Spent rehearsing her expressions in a mirror, forcing herself to learn to tear up on command, envisioning the very moment that Faina stole her opportunity.

Anastasia died in Petrograd. Natasha would never allow herself to be humiliated in such a way again. She’d sooner die.

Natasha practiced until she passed out, until her feet bled and swelled, and her legs cramped. She worked herself harder than Irina could ever dream of, drilling the same moves and sequences into her body until she could dance them in her sleep.

The ballerina had fought for this, brandished her soul for it, pushed herself through classes that were taught in a language she couldn’t understand. The only language Natasha shared with Londoners was the French terminology used in ballet. She could hardly decipher the rest: not the abuse, not the praise. It took much longer for her to master English than it did for her to secure this coveted role.

And Natasha’s reward was thundering applause, night after night. Each adoring yell louder than the last. They had come to watch her, in spite of the lies that cursed school poisoned her mind with. She made this company the best in London—if not, Europe. She had no idea what came of Faina and The Imperial Ballet’s run of Giselle, but it didn’t matter.

Nonetheless, it didn’t take long for Natasha’s star to capture more attention than she had initially bargained for, either. Alongside the unabashed adoration for her dancing came competition for her. That was how she found herself at the center of William Wood’s attention—his gray eyes lingered on her, no matter where she found herself.

They would narrow each time she met with a new subscriber, they’d scan her with consideration each time he pulled up a chair and watched the company rehearse. William liked to claim that he was merely interested in the artistic integrity of the show, but from the way he’d bite his lip and adjust his trousers, everyone knew better. Everyone understood that he was the heir to the business supporting the Opera House—everything would belong to him in a decade or so.

Natasha was the center of her own world. She had her patrons to satisfy, the stage to alight with her talent. The ballerina made a careful effort to rebuff William without ever needing to speak with him.

That was, until he outsmarted her one dawn. He’d waited in the Opera House’s main rehearsal room—Natasha’s favorite because of the tall mirrors that lined the walls.

“Hello, there,” William said, flashing his most winning smile at her. He couldn’t have been much older than Natasha. “You’re the principal dancer, aren’t you?” The young man had been poised on his usual chair from the side of the studio, but he stood to meet her.

“Yes,” Natasha’s words were clipped because she could see through his disposition. He knew who she was—he was pretending not to. “If you would excuse me—” she immediately took a step back, preferring to rehearse in private. Or anywhere William was not. The prima ballerina shouldered her bag and turned to leave, only to freeze at the sound of her full name.

“Anastasia is a powerful name. Did you know it means resurrection?” William asked, chancing several steps closer. He caught her wrist, but maintained a lax grip. She could pull away if she wished to.

“My name is Natasha,” she corrected crisply, her blank expression unchanged.

“I’m William Wood,” he ignored her, gently guiding her closer. Now, she could see a kaleidoscope of different gray shades, ranging from near-white to intense storm clouds. “Did you know my name means desire?”

Natasha’s eyebrows furrowed, unimpressed with his onomastics lesson. “How lovely,” she answered flatly, extricating her hand. Now, his sterling gaze landed on her thin lips, wanting to kiss her, presumably. “I really should be going. I have to rehearse—if you know that I am the prima ballerina, then…” leave me be, she wanted to conclude.

Instead, Natasha let her words hang in the air, allowing William to put them together on his own.

“Look—wait, all I mean is…” William paused, moistening his lips. Clearly, he was unused to the prospect of no. “You’re flawless. And I would simply like the chance to…”

“To what?” Natasha asked indignantly, allowing the offense she took to show on her face. Normally, she wasn’t quite so harsh against these advances—she had a tendency to simply allow herself to enjoy the attention she received from such men—but William? Now? The sun hardly had a chance to start the day, and this man had put all of this time and planning into seducing her?

“I like you. I would like the chance to get to know you. Beyond the dancing because there’s clearly so much more to get to know,” he clarified, softening his expression into something more intimate. “Please, Natasha.”

The ballerina was unsure if she relented because of William’s honeyed words, the way his steel gaze reminded her of a singular spotlight focused on her, or because he was the heir to the Opera House, but she felt her resolve crumble. After all, there were plenty of other ballerinas who glowed with envy of her in the first place. Natasha loved to imagine how their hatred of her would intensify with William Wood courting her. That thought would feel better than any seduction tactic he could try on her.

It took weeks of flowers, lavish gifts, and fiery touches stolen between rehearsals before Natasha agreed to marry him. They were in William’s Southampton home, entangled with one another in his bed, unclothed. Sweaty after a round of passionate sex because it made William tired and affectionate. The perfect combination for an agreeable mood in a man.

“Marry me. Be my wife,” the man practically begged, kissing Natasha’s knuckles. It wasn’t the first time he asked, his father John having pressured him into proposing ever since the rumors of their sneaking around began. It was indecent behavior of William—not unexpected, but embarrassing to the Woods, their eldest son messing around with a foreign dancer. “Please. You’re all I want, Nat,” he sighed, burying his face into the crook of her neck, kissing the clammy skin there as well.

No one in the company could claim that Natasha was the principal dancer because she was sleeping with William, either. Her talent more than spoke for itself, illuminating the stage just as much as the spotlights did. The ballerina was addicted to this pining of his, the fortune she’d come into by taking his name. He was a puppy of a man that would be at her side, hanging onto her every word, touch, and glance so long as she could maintain her perfection. It just so happened that he had direct access to generations of wealth and influence.

“All right, Will. We can get married,” she relented, only for the man to pull her into an intense kiss, his fingers running through her unruly brown curls.

For months, her life was blissful.

Natasha maintained her position as prima ballerina, and they were married, which also ended her responsibilities at the dance foyer. Being married to William gave Natasha the right to all of the Opera House’s paperwork, granting her information on each of her company members, the ballet’s revenue—noting the spike in sales with delight, considering it had come in tandem with her publicity. Having a run of the same show continue for so long was unprecedented, but Natasha’s performances sold out each night. The company was only beginning its considerations for the next ballet’s lead.

Accordingly, Natasha would dance almost day and night. She ate once a day, if she remembered to, more intent on maintaining the lean body that kept jealous suitors leering. The more they looked, the more William spent for her, the more he doted on her. All the more fulfilled the young dancer felt, the more she desired.

Another starring role, more lovers, more press coverage. More rehearsal time.

Natasha etched the hard work into her bones... until it broke her.

She remembered searing pain in her hip, crashing to the floor. And she found herself undone against the rehearsal room’s floor, the clammy wood cold against her cheek. Yelling out for William, lips pursed with pain she refused to allow to surface past. She would never allow herself to cry.

The doctors had given her a prescription for morphine powder for the pain. They suggested she stop dancing for the next year or two, but the morphine had done plenty for her discomfort. Enough for Natasha to refuse giving her position to a ballerina who couldn’t have put a quarter of sacrifice into earning her role.

No—anyone else interested would need to pry it out of her cold, dead grip.

Each day, Natasha’s extensive routine only grew harder to sustain: rehearsing for the company’s future run of Mlada and perfecting any movement she might have mishandled as Aurora from the evening before. She would mix the morphine powder into her tea between rehearsals, between acts, before she met her husband each night.

Stopping now would be a death sentence with early casting for Mlada so close…there was no doubt the director would care to cast Natasha in the lead if she seemed unreliable.

Anyone who wanted it enough would see themselves through, Natasha reminded herself. In time, my body will learn to keep up.

Smile through it. Hold back your tears. Smile through it.

Natasha held her life together through the painkiller and sheer force of will, but it was only a matter of time before the injury became unbearable. Overly stiff, Natasha’s hips began to lock, ruining her range of motion. She could no longer hold her arabesques.

The pain had spread down to her groin and her backside, those joints as good as rusting door hinges, stiffening with each movement.

Weeks after her initial fall, Natasha collapsed on the rehearsal floor. Again. Only this time, she couldn’t hold her tears at bay, an incredibly dark (and realistic) part of the young woman knowing fully well that it had been her last day in pointe shoes.

“You need a break. Be reasonable, Nat.” William ordered bluntly, shoving the cane in her hands days after. Weary of her and the same tedious argument. “Would you prefer to need a full-time wheelchair before 25?”

Natasha held the ivory cane in her hands, testing its weight. She frowned at the medical accessory, feeling her life slip away each second she held the cursed thing. Her husband, as typical of him, didn’t understand. Ballet had been her purpose—she’d been put on the Earth to capture the breath of an audience. And now?

She was a disturbing failure. How could she look at herself in the mirror?

“Will…” Natasha fixed her hard gaze on her husband, reading his mounting frustration with her like a book.

“Shut. Up.” She all but threw the cane back at her husband and the offending doctor who brought it into their home. She slammed the door behind her in an attempt to charge back to their shared bedroom. Though unsurprisingly, she only accomplished a few short paces before her hip locked, failing Natasha’s next step and sending her to the ground again.

The former ballerina couldn’t hold back her tears, this time. They fell in droves, in pained sobs. The grievous sound of an ingénue knowing her life was over.

“Come on, Nat,” William said in the same tired voice, attempting to help lift her off the floor.

“Leave. Me. Alone.” Natasha waved him off haphazardly, hiding her face. She heard William's heavy, retreating steps.

Nearly a year into Natasha’s injury, she’d become proficient with her walking cane. Technically, she could hobble clumsily without the assistance, but watching the rest of the company’s pitying gaze at the sight of her ungainliness became overwhelming. If she was to be the Opera House’s new ballet master and director, no one could pity her.

There was no room in ballet for pity. Only perfection.

So, she preferred to test the dancers around her. Break the weak ones—the ones who turned to dancing out of desperation, failing to understand that it was an elusive skill that required years of nurturing. She liked to push them until they fractured like a mirror, leaving the company on their own accord or giving Natasha a valid reason to excuse them. Particularly the ones her husband was bedding behind her back and mortifying her with.

“I’m so sorry, Natasha, I didn’t even– I don’t even want him!” Norah Vincent cried out, “please just listen to me, please!”

The young ballerina chased her director up the cement stairs leading from the Opera House’s lowest floor—where the largest rehearsal room was located—to the first floor. It was late at night, and there wasn’t a soul on the property, save for them. Natasha had reserved the pleasure of informing Norah that she knew fully well of the liberties she’d taken with William until they were alone, more interested in watching the young woman’s composure implode as a private show. To ensure such an outcome, Natasha waited until the end of their private rehearsal to inform Norah of her termination. The ballerina didn’t even have the chance to unlace her pointe shoes.

“No. You will make yourself scarce from my company. I like Analisse better for Mlada, so you were bound to be let go soon, anyhow,” Natasha answered indifferently, keeping her face impassive. She knew that the aloofness in her statement would make Norah feel just as worthless as she was as a dancer.

“I don’t understand, please. I need this work. Please. Just allow me one more chance,” Norah continued, struggling to keep pace with Natasha.

“You sleep with my husband, and even worse, you continue to curse my stage with your mediocrity, and you have the audacity to ask me for another chance? After all of the chances I’ve already given you?” The ballet master plunged her cane against the top of the final stair for leverage to reach the top. “I told you that if I gave you Mlada, you would need to work on your stamina and flexibility night and day. I see no change.”

Natasha finally turned around to face the weeping ballerina, watching her trudge up the remaining stairs. Crying was so ugly.

“I swear I practice every day, I-I-I…” Norah couldn’t even decide which claim to refute first. “I only…I just,” she wiped her face. “I love this company, and dancing, and…” she begged. “I do my very best each and every day, I practice, I stretch, I observe, I listen. Don’t you see?”

Norah still had a functioning body. Her health and mobility. All the time in the world. There was no excuse. Natasha practically gift wrapped and handed Norah her career.

The director’s head pounded, frustrated tears begging to fall from her eyes. What was there to not understand? Norah simply didn’t want the success enough or she would give every spare moment to cultivating her skills.

“Stop. Blubbering.” Natasha ordered sharply, turning on her heel to continue to her office. Norah had just stepped up to the level floor, the expansive staircase behind her.

“N-No! I need you to hear me! Haven’t you ever made a mistake? You know, I don’t understand why you always have to demand perfection! From everyone! No matter how hard we try or how hard we–”

“That’s enough!”

Without another thought, Natasha found herself turning around. Her cane fell to the floor as she put all of her strength into shoving Norah down the stairwell. Of course, it hadn’t been her plan to dispose of the ballerina in such a way. Really, it should have been horrifying, but Natasha couldn’t force herself to feel any bit of remorse. Her squealing had given her quite a headache.

In fact, when Natasha failed to find a pulse from the young woman’s lifeless body, she felt the first sense of true gratification she’d felt in months. As her shoulders had been relieved of a burden as heavy as the world.

And each time afterwards, it only grew easier. Each time, Natasha planned a bit more intricately. She could only win: if the Yard took notice, all signs would point to her power-drunk husband, leaving Natasha to his assets. Revenge.

It became a game of strategy: who, when, where, how.

Louise, Georgina, and Mabel were a blur over the course of the next few weeks. They disappeared, Natasha explained they couldn’t handle the burdens from the company and resigned, no one questioned her. Most ballerinas didn’t have family, the profession often a last resort for income. The public deemed them prostitutes: unworthy of care.

Sophia, Harriet, and Analisse had moved to new companies, but that didn’t stop her. Natasha knew who her husband had seen. Who betrayed her. They wore their guilt on their sleeves. It didn’t matter if they transferred to new companies—how could they be allowed to live after betraying their mentor? They were mediocre ballerinas, anyhow, merely ensemble members that Natasha stuck in the back of formation.

The Yard was never finding them.

Eliza had a host of lethal allergies. All it took was a well-timed cross-contamination—it was only a matter of time.

Janet was weak. Natasha probably could have asked the girl to jump off of the Tower Bridge and she would have done it, surely.

Amelié never noticed that her perfume bottle was tampered with. Dimethylmercury was a life-changing discovery on Natasha’s part. Honestly, Natasha wished she’d used it with all of the nuisances that came before her… and after.

The new success should have satisfied Natasha. Until Maisie—her first mistake. As if marrying some fraud was a feat to be proud of. Maisie thought it appropriate to inform Natasha that she was leaving the Opera House company for a new opportunity, an unseemly topic at her husband’s gallery reveal. Somehow, Terrance had offered to co-found his ballet company with Maisie as the star. And this came a week after the Yard fell for the trap Natasha had set, having followed her carefully planned trail of breadcrumbs that implicated her dear, cheating husband for murdering his company members. She simply had to make an appearance at the event to save face for the Wood family—setting the narrative straight before the press could.

Natasha would have been able to successfully send William to prison in her stead, had she not lost her temper the night of that bloody gala. She;d only gone to safe face after William’s arrest, after all. To manage the poor publicity his infidelity would poison Natasha’s hard work with.

“My husband is renovating the Pavillion Theatre. You know what that means? It means that I don’t need you pestering me anymore! You’re practically an old maid, a bloody relic now, you know that?” Maisie grinned, euphoric with the ability to finally speak freely. She’d asked Natasha to step out from the museum with her, and the ballet master had suspected it was to discuss something unseemly when there was a lack of witnesses around.

“You have no idea how much we all hate you, Natasha.”

Those were Maisie’s last words. Because Natasha had pulled out William’s Flintlock Pocket Pistol and shot her. She hardly had any time to ensure Maisie was dead before fleeing the scene, tucking her walking cane under her arm. Best of luck with your new company, Blondie.

After that blunder, Natasha had a choice. Herself, or Y/n Y/l/n, a French girl who happened upon the wrong man and his misguided investigation at the wrong time. In Natasha’s haste, she’d also lost control again, landing her at a criminal sentencing at London’s City Hall.

Y/n was willing to destroy her opponents to succeed. Y/n had been the first ballerina Natasha had finally considered to be somewhere near the eminence of her own former glory, and had ended her, handing her a crushing defeat.

Natasha should have put the dimethylmercury in Y/n’s make-up much sooner, arsenic in that wine she self-soothed with. By the time Natasha had offered Y/n that toast, there was no chance that she would have accepted a drink from her. Waiting had sealed Natasha’s fate to this wretched courtroom.

Thundering applause and scarce cheering pulled Natasha from her thoughts. She must have missed her sentencing, lost in her ruminating, judging by the immediate lift in the courtroom’s somber atmosphere.

This entire audience wanted her punished for her choices. Why? She felt the magnitude of her decisions spoke for themselves.

The former prima ballerina stared back into the prima ballerina’s vacant gaze from the defendant’s table, attempting to dissect the poison Y/n regarded her with.

For the first time since St. Petersburg, Natasha could confidently say what Giselle was supposed to look like.

November 25, 1895

London City Hall

“Anastasia Natalia Gusev-Wood, this court sentences you to lifelong service in the Reading Gaol Correctional Facility with no chance of appeal,” the judge announced.

The room— the press, sparse onlookers including the few bereaved family members of victims, cheered, but the woman only stared at you. She didn’t react to her sentencing or the relief that erupted from the room. All she fixated on was you, her face illegible.

You refused to give the killer the satisfaction of analyzing your mood, the opportunity to insert herself in your head. Violent narcissists like her craved attention like flies to fruit. Instead, you released your captive breath and sent a tired look to Ciel to signal your readiness to leave. This woman was nobody to you: the result of a vain monster picking and choosing which lessons to take from ballet.

It was an art form before it was a competition. And certainly, no competition should ever lead to bloodshed.

That was why you failed to feel any semblance of relief, even as you watched the officers escort Natasha away in handcuffs. You had still failed so many of your kin: eleven dead, their stories stolen and suppressed. The killer had painted them as weak after their deaths, dishonoring them, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. You couldn’t have been more wrong to ignore each and every one.

You hardly remembered the sound of Norah Vincent’s voice. The color of her hair. In fact, save for Amelié, you didn’t know any of these victims on a personal level—you remembered how tall Mabel was because you were envious; Louise had trouble with her stamina because she was newer to the company; Georgina always had a smile on her face, she let you borrow her scissors to break in a new pair of shoes. That was all you could recall. Other than these minute instances, you hadn’t bothered to concern yourself with anyone besides yourself, and failed to notice these disappearances happening right under your nose. The Yard couldn’t even find the bodies of Norah, Mabel, Louise, Georgina, Sophia, Harriet, and Analisse, severely limiting the investigation you and Ciel could accomplish for them.

Even worse, you failed to piece together the evidence pointing to Natasha and refused to listen to Ciel’s concerns. You had allowed your personal feelings to erode your judgment, delaying the investigation.

How could you feel a sense of victory, when so much had been lost?

The only way you could proceed was honoring them in death, especially now that their true killer was brought to justice.

“Ciel, I want to bring the flowers over before it becomes too dark” You requested, referring to the bouquets you asked Sebastian to arrange. Given that most of the victims did not have any next of kin— or were the sole earners for their destitute relatives— Ciel personally took on their burial expenses. Apparently, he had a personal contact working in the burial industry. An Undertaker.

Additionally, you wished to always honor their memorials with fresh florals.

“Certainly. Our work is complete here, for now,” Ciel answered, ending the officer he’d been talking to away with a nod.

Later

The Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park

The sun started to descend below the treeline, casting a shadow over the graves lined in front of you and Ciel. Norah Vincent, Louise Crowley, Georgina Dawson, Mabel Hughes, Sophia Ludwig, Harriet White, Analisse Sterling, Eliza O’Malley, Janet Fischer, and Amelié Langston. All of the victims, save for Maisie Stannard. Distraught, her husband opted to bury her with his family.

“Do you think this really makes a difference?” You asked Ciel, standing from your kneeling position. You dirtied the front of your plain dress from kneeling in the dirt to arrange the flowers around the headstones. It was too cold to plant them, but they did make a lovely display of white and baby blue among the warm autumnal foliage.

The wind made the bare tree branches rustle and their fallen leaves dance, but thankfully, it left the white flowers you placed unmussed. You placed a combination of daisies, blue irises, and calla lilies around them, hoping their serene beauty might bring some peace to the souls around. Though most of these graves were missing bodies, you still hoped their spirits would resonate with the resting place. Body and mind were separate entities, no?

“I believe it does.” Ciel answered, dusting off his knees. He righted himself after you, having helped you arrange the flowers. You were clear that the flowers were a project you were set on seeing through with your own two hands, and apparently, that resonated with the Earl. Enough for him to accompany you and even help. You vowed that you would visit these graves as often as you needed to keep the flowers fresh.

Remembrance was the least you could do, given that you hardly remembered most of the ballerinas in life.

Stepping back to admire the full picture of your work, you lit a cigar. You always kept a small humidor box in your deep coat pocket, along with a small knife to cut the cap and cedar spills to light it.

“My aunt adored the color red,” Ciel recalled, nostalgia softening his stoic face. “Sebastian and I filled the church with red rose petals, and I brought her favorite scarlet gown—she would have thought that white gown they had her in the most plain thing she’d ever seen. I believe she rested easier, knowing that she was being honored.”

“That sounds lovely,” you said, looking up from your igniting cigar to properly look at Ciel. He’d gone through those extra lengths just to make his aunt’s soul feel better at rest, despite never being able to know if the efforts made a difference. And yet, he liked to act like the most selfish man to walk the Earth. But he wasn’t. Far from it. Instead, he pulled at your heart and tugged at your stomach. “She must have enjoyed that. I’m sorry to hear you lost her.”

“I believe she did,” Ciel said, addressing your apology with a miniscule smile. It was barely there, no more evident than the corners of his lips pulling upward. He watched you take a long drag of your cigar in slow, deliberate puffs, as always. “And I think these women know that you brought their killer to justice, above all. Surely that matters a great deal to them.”

Watching smoke from your lips dissipate into the atmosphere, you chuckled sadly. You shook your head, rejecting the notion that you brought Natasha to justice. “You would have caught onto her sooner without me—you mistrusted Natasha from the start. You warned me last week, and I’m confident she tried to poison me that night.”

“She did a masterful job of framing her husband. I would have arrested him regardless, and I wouldn’t have access to investigating either of them without you. I’ve told you once, I shall repeat it a thousand times, if I have to: you were instrumental to our investigation,” Ciel took a short pull from your cigar. The days where he would admonish you for the habit felt like decades past.

Our investigation. You could have sworn your traitorous heart skipped a beat. Your palms felt clammy. After you confronted Natasha and her subsequent arrest last week, you and Ciel had been, for the most part, cautious around one another. The two of you were unsure of the boundaries that mutual forgiveness meant without a proper conversation. There simply hadn’t been any time, given the legal chaos that erupted between convicting a wife and husband for separate, yet related, crimes.

“A thousand times, you say? I may have to consider that request,” you said, smiling to denote your joke. Your cheeks felt traitorously warm, your smile unfortunately bashful. The Earl did this to you without trying.

Because you still loved him. The first man to notice anything about you beyond your looks and your dancing. The first man to care for your wellbeing, and take the time to unlearn the bitter beliefs that his class instilled into him. He fought for you, even when you had demanded he didn’t. But that didn’t mean he didn’t reject you the morning after you gave yourself to him. It certainly didn’t erase the fact that he’d danced with another woman in front of you.

The misunderstanding between you may as well have been a chasm at the time. But now, you were each gradually bridging that gap in equal strides.

Was that fair? You supposed not— Ciel was made to dance with another woman, just as fiercely as her duchess bullied her way into afternoon tea with him. And she had lied to you. Ironically, given the way she’d considered you vulgar. Was it not vulgar to lie in British polite society? Or was it only acceptable because she was lying to a commoner?

“So long as you don’t overdo it, I shall oblige,” the Earl relented, meeting your eyes in the longest bout of eye contact you shared in two weeks. You almost forgot the sheer depths of sea Ciel’s eye held, and the intelligence those sapphire leagues captured. Mesmerizing—it was a shame that the fire damaged his other eye so severely. He, like you, was alone. Save for his staff.

You accepted your cigar back, enjoying the taste of it on your tongue, the heat in your lungs a burning constant. You closed your eyes for a moment, appreciating the crisp air. Less than a month away from winter, you relished in this weather. Chilly, but not freezing. The best weather for a cigar.

“I…” you started, your face red. “Thank you, Ciel,” you said, a touch more earnestly than you had meant to. But honesty was the only way to move forward, you felt.

“Ballet…the aesthetic differs from all other professions. We have to hide all of our pain and discomfort behind a smile— make an illusion for our audiences.” There was no retreating, now that you’ve started. Ciel had already seen behind your facade—there was no meaning in reinforcing capitulated defenses. “Growing up in it from a young age, I suppose… I started to hide too much. I stopped trying to be close with others, and I-I thought you didn’t care for me anymore…” you admitted.

You thought about the way all of your ballet instructors reminded you to maintain a pleasant face during rehearsals and performances, even though all of the contortions were unnatural to the human body. The best ballerina in the world was worthless if she couldn’t shroud her pain behind her character.

No matter how you felt, you had to maintain a pleasant face for the audience, the ballet patrons that paid your school (and later, the Opera House) for the right to your body. All to allow you to make a salary that kept you just above the poverty line. You had never dropped your pleasant face until you realized how false it was, the product of habit and sheer necessity. Everything had to appear effortless, even when it was excruciating. That was the industry.

You couldn’t help but chuckle; not even two weeks ago, you would’ve defended these sacrifices.

“I can see that now,” Ciel admitted, taking a guilty pull from your cigar. You both watched the smoke escape into the atmosphere. The light of dusk made the sky look pink. “I must have been a classist fool to assume that all aspects of this profession happened at dancer’s volition.”

“You were certainly a classist fool,” you affirmed with a playful smile. After taking a final hit from the cigar, you extinguished it beneath your boot heel.

“I am aware, thank you,” Ciel answered pointedly, making the corners of your lips form a smile.

“Though unfortunately, most everyone still thinks that way,” he took your hand in his. The Earl ran his thumb over the top of your hand. You both wore gloves now, a measure against the cold especially now that autumn was in full swing with winter just on the horizon.

You hummed in response, knowing fully well the social abuse you’d take for having Ciel at your side. For daring to love a man this privileged society deemed above your stature. Gwen, that miserable woman, was only the beginning. But you were no stranger to critique—nothing could possibly sting as much as some of the commentary you’ve suffered in ballet school and in your professional career. You were strong.

“But it is not a tradition I will allow to continue,” Ciel said resolutely, meeting your eyes again. “I brought accounts of the prostitution and power imbalances to Her Majesty, and she has decided to purchase the Opera House. She will also be instituting a series of Theatre Company Reform Acts to ensure it ends here—Swan Laws, they want to refer to them.”

The meaning wasn’t lost on you.

You didn’t know how to start thanking him. Instead, you threw your arms around him, your gloves curling into his thick coat. Hot tears slid down your cheeks, they had been slightly chilled from the soft wind, the cold chapping your lips somewhat as well.

“I do not know where to begin,” you mumbled, settling into the way the Earl’s stiff posture relaxed to accommodate you. His coat was soft against your cheek, his arms came around your back to embrace you. You let your eyes flutter closed for a moment, appreciating the safety and strength he offered you.

Ciel held you close, his hand rubbing your back languidly as you sniffled, your appreciative tears rolled down your cheeks. “I will always be endlessly fascinated and enamored by you. It would be a privilege if you could reconsider being with me, after the confusion I caused you. I… tend to push the wrong people away. But you? I never could have asked for a better partner for this investigation, and otherwise.”

A new warmth spread in your cheeks. Your heartbeat thumped with hope, light from Ciel’s confession. How could you reject that? He saved you. He listened to you. He seemed sure.

You wiped away any tears left on your face. Words were never a strength of yours, you had always thought.

“Ciel, I want to be with you,” you declared confidently, your smile glowing as you looked up at the Earl’s thoughtful expression. The worry he tried to hide from you. Your eyes fluttered closed again as you kissed him, his familiar lips immediately responding to yours. A gentle hand held the left side of your jaw, lightly brushing strands of your hair out of your face.

“That is an honor I do not and will never take lightly again,” Ciel promised, his pensive gaze inspecting your face. He was the most exacting perfectionist you’d ever met; you could never decide what he was thinking when he regarded you so closely.

“I’m not sure you could if you tried,” you affirmed, a shiver running down your back. The wind picked up, causing the trees around you to rustle and whisper.

“I’ll have Sebastian bring the carriage around. It’s getting rather dark out here, now,” Ciel mumbled against your lips, pressing on one more innocent kiss before he retreated, keeping your hand in his as he guided you out of the cemetery.

December 13, 1895

The Royal Opera House

From your dressing room, you could hear the orchestra begin to play The Nutcracker’s overture, a jovial melody on strings. The chatter of the live audience was palpable through the thin walls, you could hear the theatre fill with attendees. The run of this show was delayed an extra two weeks as your company appointed new interim leadership to run the performances—- she was one of the ballet teachers who worked under the Woods. She used to teach the classes for the newest ballerinas, the most patient of the staff.

Without the previous director and the short hiatus between the end of Swan Lake and this premiere, the entire company was revitalized. You could hear it in the music. You could see it in everyone’s faces. Rehearsal the past week was magnetic: you were all ready for this evening.

You beamed at yourself in your vanity mirror, enamored with your matching pink corset and tutu combination. Humming the intense melody of the Act II pas de deux with the Sugar Plum Fairy and her Cavalier, you started to pin your tiara to the top of your head, careful not to ruin your sleek bun. You were made of pure anticipation and energy, a sense of certainty that you had never known in your life. Once you secured the accessory, you dabbled extra lip rouge and blush to your face in hope. Stage lights always washed out performers’ complexions.

“You look brilliant,” Ciel told you, rising from the loveseat to the side of your vanity. He closed his copy of The Nutcracker and the Mouse King and left it on the small table to the side of the chair. The ballet adaptation of the story was fairly recent in comparison, having premiered three years ago in St. Petersburg. Your production was one of the first to happen in England. Despite having significant plotting differences from the novella, the Earl insisted on reading the source material prior to watching your opening performance.

“How do you feel? Will you be alright if I join the rest?” he asked you, understanding that the overture signaled the audience to find their seats.

You couldn’t have smiled more, your wide, childish grin was unbreakable. For the first time, it was starting to strain your cheeks. You had everything and more than you could’ve possibly asked for: the greatest love you’d ever felt, your stomach was full, your costume sparkled. All of this on the heels of a short performance hiatus that left you more rested than ever, each day supplemented with dance class and rehearsal to keep your body in shape during the break. You’d never had so much strength going into a performance. Ever.

“I am indestructible, Ciel,” you answered, rolling onto the platforms of your pointe shoes for added height. Kissing the Earl left his lips a bright shade of pink, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“I shall take my leave for the time being then, mon trésor,” Ciel said, employing that endearing name you loved so much. His treasure. “If you might need me, you know where to look. And I will meet you back here afterwards.”

Ciel made a sizable donation to the theater to ensure that the box on to the right of the stage was exclusive to him. Although Her Majesty took ownership of the property, she could not dedicate state funding without the Parliament; the Opera House would have needed to function without two week’s worth of performance revenue, had Ciel not intervened. He’d been watching from the box during your final dress rehearsal yesterday, and watching you rehearse your arrangements hours earlier. When Ciel could steal time away from his executive work for his company, he managed to immerse himself in your career, playing the piano when you rehearsed at home, and now, publicly supporting your debut as The Sugar Plum Fairy.

“Thank you. Watch closely—I will be dancing for you,” you sent the Earl a playful wink as he left your dressing room. He left a parting kiss on your knuckles so as not to ruin your makeup.

While you were heavily featured in most of the scenes of Swan Lake, now your appearance as Sugar Plum was concentrated into short, intense scenes back to back in the second act. That made your stamina all the more important as you needed to be regal and in control, detail-oriented with almost no breaks.

That required every ounce of strength in your lower legs particularly, but you were prepared, when it came time. You were strong and fortified, learning to accept that as your vehicle, your body was beholden to better care. This full grand pas de deux consisted of a duet between you and Antoine, who played the Sugar Plum Fairy’s Cavalier—her romantic interest, followed by the Cavalier’s solo variation, your solo variation after, and finally, you both danced together again in the coda, or the finale.

You were all but a firecracker. Knowing you had someone in the audience who mattered to you, feeling your body sufficiently rested and fed, were frankly magical sensations. For the past two weeks, Sebastian had you on an incredibly balanced food regiment— he suggested you eliminate the word diet from your vocabulary in a broader effort to reframe your thoughts around food— and you prioritized a full night of rest. The butler even had you dipping your feet in iced water after long rehearsals to reduce swelling and inflammation. You had no idea.

Hard work was not equivalent to dragging your body through abuse each day and night. Skipping meals and sleep did not make you a better prima ballerina—it only made you vulnerable to injury.

In fact, with all of this care reinforcing your natural talent, you could have fought an army. You had already proven yourself a valiant soldier, maybe even more than you were a perfect heroine. You embodied many roles rather well.

Now, your characters danced for Clara’s honor in Act II, signifying their gratefulness for her and the Nutcracker’s victory against the Mouse King in Act I’s battle scene. This grand pas came at the end of the celebration after numerous ensemble characters— Arabian princesses, Russian Cossacks, Spanish chocolate, as well as Dewdrop and her Flowers.

You were serene yet playful, encapsulating the magnanimous fairy. You were one with both your partner and the music, the perfect unit. The Sugar Plum Fairy knew who she was quite well, independent of her Cavalier. Still, they moved together, perfectly in tune as the music built to its climax. You stopped on the exact same stage marks, your arms reached into the same space, even your legs mirrored one another. The Sugar Plum’s Cavalier lifted her confidently—there was no hesitation in the escort’s hold— he never once dropped her.

Even as he lifted his significant other atop his shoulder, Cavalier was unwavering. This strength was the physical manifestation of his love for his dear fairy: supporting her, reliably catching her in one of your favorite moments of the show. Running from stage right, you leapt into Antoine’s grip in the center of the stage. Your fingertips nearly touched above your head in the standard fifth position.

At your high perch, you could only think to peer at the box where you knew the love of your life was watching you. While you couldn’t see any distinctive faces from the stage, all you cared to know was that Ciel was there. For you.

You’d never been in such a partnership before, the object of someone’s genuine care and interest. Sure, you’d been a plaything, a temporary trophy to trifle with and discard when your novelty subsided. But no one had ever deemed you a treasure. Someone always worthy of an apology, protection, someone worthy of love—the sacrifice and hard work that came with it. All that value seemed to be hidden away, like precious gems.

Catching you by the waist, Antoine tilted the upper half of your body towards the floor for a moment. Moving quickly to maintain momentum, he used the leverage to face the audience and place you back steadily on the platforms of your pointe shoes. You danced in tandem with one another, flawlessly showcasing the secure love between your characters: the adoring way the Cavalier cared for the Sugar Plum, and her own adoring trust in him as she jumped into his arms once again. He lifted her high, and she held him close.

The Earl supported you, and you trusted him implicitly.

On your pointe shoes, you let yourself tip backwards, knowing Antoine would catch you with the same certainty Ciel would kick down a door. For you. The Cavalier caught Sugar Plum by her waist and her extended leg, lifting slightly only to resettle her at his side. The characters were a couple in love.

At the end of your second premiere as prima ballerina, you didn’t linger to further absorb the applause in front of you. Instead, you hurried back to your dressing room because you knew the most important person was waiting for you behind the curtains.

Epilogue

“Ciel!” Your Earl had been awaiting you in the backstage wings, paces away from where you exited the stage. He’d opted to wear a black evening suit for this occasion, the raven suit making his deep hair and ultramarine eye all the more conspicuous. Much like the night you met him, it was a number composed entirely of neutral shades. Apparently, a tailored suit on the man came as natural as leotards and restrictive pointe shoes came to you.

With the same intensity as the Sugar Plum Fairy had, you bounded towards your lover and held him close to you, in spite of the heat your body carried and the sweat that slicked your skin. You couldn’t help but snap to his side like an opposing magnet, your face burying into the side of his neck when you lifted yourself en pointe. He caught you just as Sugar Plum's Cavalier would have.

“You put on quite a show,” Ciel told you, pride palpable in his warm tone. “That was masterful. You always are.” An arm wrapped around your waist, his other hand flat against your bare back. His leather glove felt cold against your skin, a welcome change from the blazing stage lights. You swore that one day, they would cause you sunburn.

You were exhausted. Your heart pounded, droplets of sweat fell down your neck tracing the side of your spine. Your breaths came in hard bursts, your lungs working to their limit. The muscles in your legs and feet were molton. But you smiled in spite of this pain, and not out of necessity for once. It was because of the sheer love you had for this man. Your heart beat for him—the slightest quirk of his lips as he watched you, the unsuppressed chuckle in his chest from your question.

“No flowers for me?” You smarted playfully, pulling away before you could damage your costume from the embrace. Not to mention, you weren’t anxious to allow the rest of the company free access to your private relationship with Ciel. You knew that The Queen’s Guard Dog had an infinite supply of enemies and British society had countless newspapers cautiously watching you. They were waiting for you to fail, but you would never give them the satisfaction.

“I like to think I have something a little better in store for you than flowers,” your Earl’s arm remained around your waist, helping support your worn body between the bustling backstage to your dressing room. The moment the door locked behind the both of you, asked Ciel to unclip your corset, overwhelmed with the need to get out of your suffocating costume. As much as you adored its shining accents and the pink, it grew burdensome after expending every last bit of your energy.

“What for? I mean, what could be better than flowers?” you quirked an eyebrow, your smile lopsided. Ciel never failed to bring you a bouquet, even when your courtship had been a ruse. You adored them every time, the least materialistic person.

You hurriedly unlaced your pointe shoes, stepped out of your tutu and stockings, and clipped on a simple navy blue gown.

“I suppose, they will just wither and die, eventually. I want to commemorate this night perhaps more…intentionally,” he explained as he hooked your costume onto a hanger.

This night? More intentionally?

“Of course,” you turned towards your vanity mirror, wiping at your face with cold cream. The next day was December 14, after all. His birthday. Could that be what he was mentioning? While you knew a share of the trauma he felt from that day—-losing his family in the fire— you also hoped to give Ciel some lingering sense of celebration with a waiting wine bottle you purchased for the makings of a relaxed night in. You’d been rehearsing a short self-choreographed piece for him, knowing his adoration for your dancing, and his lack of interest in making a spectacle out of his day.

There was a short silence that followed as you finished cleaning off your face. You were checking your reflection for any leftover face makeup when Ciel spoke again. You watched him approach you from the mirror, turning to face him properly as he stopped at your side. Still sitting in your vanity chair, you looked up at him, a curious smile on your face as you analyzed his serious expression.

“As you recall, I first met you here,” Ciel started, his hand toying with something square in his jacket pocket. “So, each time I’ve thought about how I wanted to approach this, I couldn’t imagine being somewhere else. This was the only right way.”

You snickered, thinking back to the best aspects of that night—an evening you never thought you’d come to look back at with fond nostalgia. That night, you would have told anyone who asked that you disliked Ciel Phantomhive. You thought he was classist and misogynistic, cold. Condescending. You never would have thought he would come to be the most intelligent, thoughtful, empathetic, and determined person you’d ever get to know. Loving not outright, but in his own way: re-considering his belief system, playing the piano, constructing a dance studio on his estate. For you.

“You wore some red gown. I thought…you were breathtaking. I had to ask you to put on more clothes in order to let myself focus,” Ciel admitted, his face flushing to the tips of his ears from the admission.

“To let yourself focus? I thought it was because–” you started to assert that he told you to cover up because he was a noble clinging to traditionalism, but your Earl interrupted you with a lovingly stern expression, fixating his gaze on you. He titled his head to suggest mild exasperation with your never-ending need to chime in.

You obeyed, silencing yourself with another dazzling grin at Ciel. As he…sank down on one knee in front of you and retrieved a small velvet box from his coat pocket, opening it to reveal a ring.

“Veux-tu m'épouser?” Ciel asked. You blinked, swallowing around the sudden lump in your throat. Tears immediately formed in your eyes, causing you to blink rapidly to keep them from blurring your vision.

Because that meant…

Will you marry me?

You felt as if someone knocked the wind out of you. A scarlet blush spread across your face with the intensity of a wildfire. Goosebumps littered your arms, despite your gown’s sleeves. He wanted to marry you. He truly wanted you as his Countess. He was legitimizing your claim to his heart with this ring. To all.

“I couldn’t imagine my life without you, Y/n. You have broadened my worldview in so many ways. I never dreamed myself capable of accepting love from anyone, much less someone as breathtaking as you. You shine both on a stage and off, challenging me to better myself each day, inspiring me with your passion for ballet and that stunning intellect of yours. I would be incredibly fortunate to be enlightened by you each and every day, for as long as I may live. If you would do me the honor,” Ciel said. He always held such a noticeable degree of reverence for you, regarding you as some precious being.

“Absolutely, I will,” you beamed as Ciel held your hand, gently siding the engagement down your ring finger. The band was gold, its diamond cut into a square. Two smaller diamonds sat on either side of the largest diamond. Still on his knees, Ciel was still tall enough for you to kiss by leaning down to meet his face.

Lingering close to your Earl’s face, your smile grew sly. You blinked guilelessly. “Though are you certain you do not wish to discuss how we will allow our courtship to slowly burn out over the next month to avoid public suspicion? Would that suffice? That would allow you to resume your real search for a—”

He didn’t even let you finish your sentence, pulling you back in for another intense kiss.

“There will never be a need for that. I put an end to that search ages ago, for all intents and purposes,” he admonished you with no real weight to his words.

Before you could verbalize your next quip, your new fiancé interrupted you once more. “Yes, I am certain. Y/n… you are all I could possibly want,” his hand was gentle as it cupped the side of your face. His thumb caressed your jawline, a touch that was barely there against your electrified skin.

“I cannot wait to see what our life looks like, together, my Lord,” you kissed Ciel, taking his hands in yours. As you rose from your seat, you guided Ciel to stand properly on his feet, clinging to him the moment he righted himself.

“That’s Ciel, to you, mon trésor.”

You welcomed your incoming new role, the future Countess of Phantomhive, with your widest possible port de bras.

Acknowledgements:

First thing’s first, I want to thank you. Thank you so much for reading and interacting in any capacity with me!! I appreciate every second you put into checking out my writing, and I hope it really touched you! This story is meant to show copious amounts of growth in a person and the importance of empathy and compassion. I’ve loved Ciel since middle school and I like to think this love has matured with me, lol!

This is also my first mystery storyline!! I put so much thought into every detail, and I don’t think I could have gotten to this point without you all being here and so so so supportive and patient at every turn.

Thank you especially to my amazing friends here on Tumblr, @mylostleftfootsock and @earls-wife, and my amazing best friend IRL @readfreak03. (She literally made a Tumblr account to read my updates, I'm crying). Thank you all so much for being so inspiring and supportive of me—especially for hearing me and my chaotic ideas out. Without your endless support for both my writing (and my personal life endeavors) and your detailed feedback and ideas, there wouldn’t have been this.

I want to thank everyone who reaches out to me in comments, asks, dms, mentions, and reblogs, everyone on my tag list, and all of my amazing anons.

I want to shout out @katherine101, @endlesslovesick, @suniika, @goby10, @lavendervogh, @eunisyia, @luckyladylottie, @soleil-lei, @lottiehasadvice, and my lovely Random & Sweet anons: I always, always look forward to reading what you have to say!! It’s so much fun to chat, and your feedback is so amazing. I really do appreciate each comment you leave for me! You’re all so kind, it’s endlessly motivating for me. I read every single comment, ask, and reblog multiple times.

I genuinely had so much fun writing this fic. I’ve wanted to write a ballerina!reader x Ciel for so long—probably since I was in the middle of writing The Indignant Pawn. I was developing this story as I was writing! Ever since I stumbled on a History.com article about prostitution in vintage ballet, I was hooked. I knew I needed a fire-brand reader experiencing this in real time, and a Black Butler-level scandal to draw Ciel into the fold. Their polar-opposite personalities essentially wrote themselves. Their natural chemistry, the arguments, the sweeter moments just flowed.

To make this story as accurate as I could, I read countless interviews with real prima ballerinas regarding their interpretations of their characters—their hardships, their advice, their day-to-day lives. I watched so many TikToks (special thanks to @/lifeof.lori!) and tutorial videos, too. I really came into this knowing nothing about ballet besides having an excited curiosity, and now I can confidently say that I understand it a whole lot better and I definitely have a newfound respect for real ballerinas. What they do is incredible.

Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me. I can’t believe this is my second complete fic ever! I’m so excited to show you what I have in the works. When I finished The Indignant Pawn, I gave you a hint about this story, my next full body of work, because I was a little mean with the way I ended my first story. Literally it was the tallest of cliffs I could leave you hanging from. This time, I was nice, so I think I’ll leave you guessing :)

Stay Tuned,

Dannnn

#anime fanfiction #black butler fanfic #historical fiction #ciel phantomhive x reader #ciel x reader #historical romance #sebastian michaelis #black butler #black butler x reader #black butler ciel #black butler fanfiction #real ciel #ciel #ciel phantomhive #our ciel #kuroshitsuji #best believe I already have two outlines I’m developing into drafts #this is just the beginning lol

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inbabylontheywept · 8 months ago

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All that remains: Part I

In the land just past the Decapolis, by the tombs of the city's most ancient forebears, there lived a man called Legion. Some days, he howled like a beast, laughing as he savaged his own flesh with the jagged edges of stones. Other days he wept like a child, teeth chattering even as the sun blazed overhead. But more days still, he lingered in the quiet spaces, haunted but lucid: A stranger to the land and a stranger to himself.

He called himself Legion because he was made of many parts. Memories without attachments, stories without endings. Fragments. Worse, he felt like he could only hold a few of the pieces at a time. Trying to assemble himself felt like an endless effort of cupping his hands together tight, filling them with details, reaching up to his mouth, and realizing they had already slipped through his fingers. An endless thirst for which he had no cure.

The town called him Legion, because they remembered what he often forgot: That he was a Roman, as well as a former soldier. If he’d been anything less, they’d have driven him away. Instead, they fussed over him endlessly, all too aware that to harm a single hair upon his head was to invoke the wrath of the largest army the world had ever seen.

(Which was a problem, because he was all too willing to harm himself.)

On Legion’s good days they simply gave him space. He’d tried describing once, all the things that could bring his demons out: The clash of metal, the twang of a bowstring. A scream of pain. Those were easy enough to remember and avoid, but others were not. Certain phrases in Latin, ones related to marching, used for giving directions. Certain smells - the roasting of pork, the burning of sulfur. The way some men from distant lands braided their hair.

So many little things.

They were a lot to keep track of, and the cost of failure was high. It seemed easier for the people of the town to simply avoid him altogether. That it let them ignore his suffering was simply a pleasant side effect.

On his bad days, they had to intervene more directly. He was strong when he was well, but his sickness could make him almost invincible. Whole teams of men would be sent into the tombs while he screamed and roared, and it could take them hours to tie him down and pry the rocks from his trembling fingers. To put a rolled up rag into his mouth and silence the phrase he shouted over and over, summoning more demons into himself with each incantation: TORNA MIRA, TALIS EST COMODUM MILES BARBATI.

Sometimes, it took more than a day of being restrained that way for him to find himself again. They’d send children out to the edge of the town to listen, and when he finally went silent they’d travel back to free him from his chains. It was a beastly, shameful task every time, and Legion made it worse by never being angry. Without fail, the first thing he said every time the rag was removed was:

Συγγνώμη, δεν ήθελα να σε τρομάξω.

Forgive me, I did not mean to scare you.

Everyone knew that the way things were being handled wasn’t enough. Everyone, even Legion, knew how things would end. They just weren’t sure when.

It turned out that it was longer than six years.

#historical fiction #weird theology #thanks sam kriss #i liked writing this but i am mostly relieved that its done so i can write something else #bible fiction?#cant believe i left mormonism just to keep writing bible fanfiction lol #its like my peoples legacy to keep doing this #the ol' family tradition #theism

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bongazo · 9 months ago

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You know this series holds a terrific amount of exploitable sexual tension but I swear I was oblivious to it until I watched that scene of Jopson taking care of Crozier where he opens up about his mother's addiction and the guilt he felt for not saving her despite his dedication. He couldn't stand a woman laughing PEOPLE!! Can you imagine how awkward it must have been for a man in the 1800's to feel weirded out by a woman and the conflict that followed upon realising that a place FULL OF MEN felt SAFER? And he chose to disclose his trauma at his captain's most vulnerable moment, a situation only allowed by military complicity elevated by devotion AND TRUST. The bond making was so visible it put me on my knees. He was being seen by the man he most admired thanks to his kindness and love my goodness the power the drama of this scene I could feel Jopson's heart trembling, distilling anguish. THIS. MAN. How defective he must have felt about himself and his feelings towards other men, all converging in the determination of keeping his captain alive, redeeming his faults through DUTY. This ship really has it all people it broke me it really did

#the terror #thomas jopson #francis crozier #am i unwell or do i just like historical drama #this is an angst fiction goldmine 1 like and I'll be writing fanfiction #thomas jopson is castiel coded

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melancholicstation · 4 months ago

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The Socially Active Secretary: Chapter One

pairing: robert francis kennedy female ❤︎ original character charlotte agapov (secretary!reader)

authors note: this is more of establishing of context around our main secretary girl!! our favourite pathetic catholic men (the kennedys) will come very soon i promise, all in due time. 🍺 please leave comments of any questions/likes/dislikes/all around opinions so i know if your interested!!!

synopsis: charlotte agapov, a divorcee whom recently moved back to the states after a disastrous lovers quarrel, assumes the secretarial position to the most important man in America, but it is not he who has captured her attention, no. instead, it's his meek younger brother, the runt of the kennedy pack, bobby francis kennedy.

[1403 words]

taglist: @kennediva @absurdlyvintage

chapter two, three four

masterlist charlotte moodboard rfk moodboard

(border from jenny holzer truisms 2018)

Chapter One

May 1st , 1961

There Charlotte stood, rolling on the balls of her feet, observing the woman before her in the mirror, finding her increasingly difficult to place her as recognisable. She had all the features that Charlotte understood to be her own, but she felt like nothing of the sort. Swathed in wool, to accommodate for the seemingly perpetuate damp state of Massachusetts in the month of May, and encompassed by a calf-length dress fit with double-faced cashmere in a mousey grey. Due to her contentious divorce with the English baron Hugo Cornwall, he had ordered for all her typical clothes to be held in a storage facility in Kent instead of its original location: Brookline Massachusetts. He knew how important those items were to Charlotte, and he used them as nothing more as a bargaining chip.

As a result of the divorce Charlotte had been tabloid-manhandled out of Britain and promptly returned to her mother country, the United States, and backed right into perusing the job boards in the Cape Cod Times by her alimony-avoiding, hector of an ex-husband. Hugo, at 40, knew of nothing but a life of bone china plates and private charter jets, getting by in this world from a combination of generational handouts from his godmother's situated in a nondescript European country off the coast and the humiliatingly tacky private tours he host every Saturday evening of the inherited estates cashing in a small fortune. And yet, he avoids the alimony checkers in a not so dissimilar fashion to that of his shunned family embarrassment of an uncle, who was, as of last month, avoiding taxes of in sunny Monte Carlo.

Once it became incredibly clear that Hugo was never going to cough up, and that her mother's invitation of staying at her summer house in Martha's Vineyard had a fast approaching expiry date Charlotte started to look for her next move.

Just when she had nearly exhausted all her mother's country club friends who, in a tone that could only be translated as deeply patronising stated that,

"Unemployment for such a young, american divorcee was 'in' for 1962" and that they would "call back in April to work something out"

However, April came and went, and still nothing. During the 16-month stint since Charlotte's divorce of 1961, Charlotte felt very sorry for herself and--well that's about all she did really.

Not only did getting married at 20, and it's later disillusion 8 years later, create an abstract wreckage sculpture out of her self-esteem and physical health, it stripped all prior job experience that a girl her age should've been building. After all, she could still feel her mother's fingertips ushering an 20 year old Charlotte's hands away from a flyer, held by a piece of battered painter's tape on a lamppost advertising a law school in the area,

"Oh for christ sake what are staring at now Charlotte?, you know we have caroline's recital across town, and I swear if I have to hear your aunts nasally whine one more time so help me God I will--"

Charlotte abandons her post of intense eye contact with the poster fluttering by the winds will almost instantly and returns through a soft tone "I-I'm coming now, it just captured my eye that's all."

The rest of the walk was blanketed in a soft wool of repression and thoughts better left unspoken until her mother turned on her heal, the gravel exclaiming a pleasant crunch in response,

"Don't you dare think I didn't see what you were looking at Charlotte, these are not the aspirations expected of a future baroness, you won't have any need for these silly machinations once you're tending to your husband and your home together. I understand that your nervous but think of how happy you'll be in a short few months with Hugo."

Her mother assured her in such a cadence, with such wistful hope, not meaning to make Charlotte's stomach drop but it did all the same.

"You know, I got nervous too, when I was engaged to your father. I thought about leaving more times than Sinatra's gets played on the radio at Green's pharmacy, but I stuck it out. And I got rewarded a great deal for that, for that bravery, and you will too. Far more than I ever did, I mean you're marrying a Baron who is infatuated with you for Pete's sake!"

Charlotte thinks to scoff at the notion that Hugo is at all capable of the feeling of infatuation but halts when she observes the expression of sheer elation on her mother's face.

"Everything will run as it's meant to if you do what's best, I promise",

and with that a kiss is pressed to Charlotte's forehead, and the conversation is recklessly abandoned by both parties.

Charlotte had stayed in that marriage for 8 years and what did she have to show for it? Surely not anything tangentially useful. Sure, now she knew the intricacies of English etiquette and the British aversion to hugs but that's nothing to be put on a resume. However, one worthy advantage that came out of the grotesque misalignment that was their marriage was that around the 4th year mark Charlotte had managed to secure an English degree from the University of London. Now that was certainly something to put on her resume.

Still the world seemed to completely turn its back on Charlotte, though only on a strictly employment basis, she still attended mass each Sunday and caught up with her still married, though not happily, socialite friends but it was hard to find common ground anymore. Before she could feasibly pass as one of them, now even if they didn't explicitly state it, Charlotte was now regarded as persona no grata for the entirety of the high society scene of London. She was left with a bunch empty friends, and an, as if increasing by the day, empty purse strings.

That was until a job ad in The Boston Globe caught the baby blue shadowed eye of Charlotte during her quite lonely solo escapade to the local sandwich bar across the street from her flat.

It read, in a thick professional font:

'Exciting Secretary Position Available at political epicentre of Washington D.C!

Are you a talented and organised individual seeking a rewarding career in a fast-paced office environment? Our office is looking for a professional Secretary to join our team and contribute to our continued success.

Position: Secretary Location: Top Secret [Call to confirm details] Salary: Competitive, with excellent benefits

Responsibilities:

managing and prioritising daily office tasks with efficiency

coordinating appointments and travel

managing diaries

support senior executives

having a pleasant demeanour when interacting with important officials

Qualifications:

High School Diploma or equivalent

Apply today to be part of a supportive and thriving workplace!

Phone: *** *** ***''

Now sure, the vague nature of who exactly the job would have Charlotte working for was strange and a little more than unnerving but realistically Charlotte, a 29 year old women with the same employment history as a 18 year old fresh out of high school, was going to take whatever she could get at this point.

The girl took the changing of the sky from bright periwinkle to a dim earl grey, as a sign to head back to her place in order to escape the fast approaching storm, the newspaper resting comparably rolled up in the crook of her arm.

Prior to returning to her apartment Charlotte had come to forget about the job as she had ran a few errands after the sandwich bar, that was until her feet met the door mat of her apartment. It was no longer clean as she had left it prior it now had, scrawled in big black letters, 'warning of eviction if payment is not obtained by next month'.

Charlotte's shaking hands move to pick up the yellow slip, and as she makes her way through her apartment, periodically leaving her jacket on the armrest of her laughably small settee in her stress-filled haze, she then starts to remember the job offer from the afternoon.

Sure the ad's ambiguity was a bit strange, but truly who was she to judge? It's not like the job offers were exactly rolling in at the moment.

'Oh what the hell, she might as well give it a go!' Charlotte thought, as she hesitantly dialled up the rotary.

End of Chapter One.

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ratsarecute4 · 8 days ago

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If I read one more Scream 1996 fanfiction that makes reference to characters texting or taking photos using a modern smartphone I am going to become the next Ghostface

#unless its tagged as a modern au then its fine #the first cell phone you could text on came out in 1997 #the first cell phone with a camera was released in 1999 #the first modern smartphone was released in 2007 and you only had that if you were rich #basically Scream fanfiction is a type of historical fiction #and i hate historical inaccuracy #scream 1996 #scream 2 #scream 3 #fanfiction

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strawberrywinter4 · 5 months ago

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WIP - A Gentleman’s Shrine

Sneak peak #2 !

I know, I haven’t been active for a while, but this is what I’ve been working on! Some things may not make sense, obviously, but this is one of the scenes that will be in the halfway mark. So in honor of being halfway writing this, here you are! <3

——

“Captain Watson,” Sherlock murmurs in greeting.

“Mr. Holmes,” he says slowly. The name rolls of his tongue. Sherlock shivers. “I didn’t think this was your scenery.”

“It’s…not,” Sherlock answers. Suddenly, words are very hard. He practically blurts his next words out, “Are you going to tell my mother?”

To Sherlock’s surprise, Captain Watson’s eyebrows raise as if he hadn’t even thought of doing so. “No.” He huffs a laugh. “I’m sure she doesn’t wish for you to be out considering she hardly lets you out of the manor, but…you’re your own man. It isn’t any of my business.”

Sherlock exhales in relief. “That’s…good. Thank you.”

He hums. His eyes reach into Sherlock’s soul, seeing straight through him. Sherlock tries not to sweat.

“Is Ms. Bolton all right?” Captain Watson ends up asking.

Oh. Yes. Of course. That’s his main concern. “Uh–yes, I’m sorry. She–she said she had something to attend to.” It isn’t entirely a lie. She has her own fears to attend to about her ex lover having a chance to come back and make her life a living hell.

“I see,” he says, but his voice isn’t laced with disappointment like Sherlock thought it would be. More so, it’s of curiosity. Sherlock has found that the captain is a severely curious man. That can be both dangerous and enticing. “Do you know her?”

“Hm? Oh, no. I simply…erm…” Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. How does he explain his sudden need to speak with her if he doesn’t know her? Captain Watson doesn’t take his eyes off him. “She–I’m a fan of hers.”

Sherlock knows the captain doesn’t believe him. He can see it in the way he stares at Sherlock with strict eyes. Sherlock swallows.

“Right,” he finally says. “Well, I’m glad you could speak with her.”

Sherlock’s shoulders sag in the relief that, for now, Captain Watson won’t push on the matter further. “Yes.”

They stare at each other for a moment. A thought comes into Sherlock’s head that he can’t replace.

“Why are you here?” No. No, that sounds accusatory. “I mean–are you…is there a reason?”

Get a hold of yourself, damn you.

“I heard of this place and thought I would see what the fuss was about,” the captain says, voice smooth.

Admiration creeps through Sherlock. He wishes he could simply go wherever he pleases for the pleasure of it. He wishes he didn’t have to sneak out just to step out of the gates of his own home. Prison, more like.

Sherlock nods. “Good. That’s good.” They’re quiet for a moment. Maybe it’s best Sherlock stops the conversation here. “Um–I should be going–”

“So, Irene Adler.” The tenacity of Captain Watson’s voice makes Sherlock pause. “Congratulations. I had no idea you two were…involved.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up. That, he can confirm with confidence is untrue. “No,” he says, and this time his voice stays steady. “Absolutely not. I mean–no. She’s a friend of mine.”

Friend. A friend.

Sherlock’s never had a true friend before. At least, not one close to his age. Mrs. Hudson doesn’t count.

But considering someone a friend…it warms Sherlock’s chest before he can stop it.

Sherlock’s heart jumps when he sees something akin to relief wash over Captain Watson’s face. Why relief? Suddenly, his shoulders lose the tenseness it had before and his expression softens.

It’s such a rapid change, Sherlock is dumbfounded.

“I see,” says the captain. “I didn’t mean to misunderstand, erm–you two seemed so…” He cuts himself off, shaking his hand with a light laugh. “Never mind.”

They stare at each other for longer than necessary. Sherlock finds himself tranfixed. The heat of the moment becomes more than palpable, it becomes unavoidable.

Captain Watson clears his throat, looking away swiftly. Sherlock tries not to feel disappointed.

The former soldier waves over the bartender and pays for his drink. Sherlock senses their interaction coming to an end.

“I won’t keep you busy,” Sherlock says. “Good night, Captain Watson.”

However, just as Sherlock walks past him, a gentle grip on his arm stops him. Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. They lock eyes, and usually, the captain would take away his hand and murmur apologies.

Now, he doesn’t so much as look away.

“Let me take you back to the estate,” Captain Watson says.

Sherlock feels his defenses return. “I’m perfectly capable of going back on my own.”

“Oh! Yes. Yes, of course you are. I meant no such thing.” He stands, and the heat of his body radiates toward Sherlock. “Just so you won’t be noticed or…I only want to bring you back safely.”

Sherlock huffs. “Captain–”

“Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock hopes he isn’t imagining the soothing stroke of his thumb. “This isn’t because I don’t think you can handle yourself. This is because I want to make sure you arrive home safely.”

Sherlock shifts where he stands. His mind is hardly functioning due to the touch. “All right,” he manages, his voice hoarse.

——

Tags: @a-victorian-girl @whatnext2020 @totallysilvergirl @thegildedbee @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @jawnn-watson @blogstandbygo @lisbeth-kk @holmesianlove @7-percent @itsonlytext @chinike @peanitbear @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @ghostofnuggetspast @dw91165 @jolieblack @gwendelaneyisjohnlocked @cortina @kettykika78 @johnlockbbc @dapetty @bs2sjh

(If you wish to be tagged, let me know. If you don’t wish to be tagged, let me know as well.)

So yes, I’ve been working very hard with this fic. My goal is to finish writing the whole fic, and then post the chapters! I’ve never worked that way before, but I’ve found that it’s a lot easier for me so I’m not rushing through the process to write and then get the next chapter out lol.

Thank you all <33

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burningvelvet · 9 months ago

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I've been considering different ideas for historical fiction novels about the Romantics and one of my concepts teeters into the realm of the alternate history subgenre. As a result, I decided to start doing some preliminary research on the history of the subgenre itself. Then I find this...

Of course I've known that there have been a bunch of historical fiction & alternate history novels made about the Romantics throughout time (maybe most famously Henry James' Aspern Papers in 1888). BUT I DIDN'T KNOW THEY WERE RESPONSIBLE FOR INSPIRING THE WHOLE SUBGENRE!!!

The Romantics/Georgians were so iconic they inspired their fans to invent historical fanfiction over a hundred years ago & we're still writing it... their impact...!!!

But tbf I should have known Byron would be involved somehow because most roads of modern literature often point back to him & his cult of personality — & practically everyone who knew him or was inspired by him ended up writing books about him, whether fiction or nonfiction.

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cillianmesoftlyyy · 8 months ago

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What I Want... Pt. 2 | William Killick x fem!reader

summary: Getting caught by your father was not exactly how you thought your night would end... you can think of a better way but fate has its way of interfering whenever it wants.

warnings: smut, age gap, taboo, war, death, losing one's virginity, body image, insecurity, dub con, penetration, unprotected, semi-public.

*I rewrote this fan fiction to be in the 2nd person because I've been so inspired by @queenshelby's style of writing. Let me know if you like this way better or if you prefer the old narration style ("I" or "she").

word count: 3740k

Just Wait Till Next Year- John Maus 🎵

Moon River- Frank Ocean 🎶

A light in your father’s bedroom switched on, illuminating the lace curtains in the window. Officer Killick looked up and cursed beneath his breath, loudly enough to alert you as you rested beside him.

“Oh no,” you gasped and grabbed your romper from the ground.

“It’s ok. Put on your clothes and do as I say,” William told you softly and buckled his pants. He found his dinner jacket and draped it over his arm, first removing a cigarette from the breast pocket and lighting up. You scrambled into your romper and combed through your hair with your fingers, trying to settle the messy bird’s nest that your hair had become. William puffed on his cigarette briefly and once satisfied that it looked as if it had been smoked for longer than it actually had, gestured to the fountain behind them.

“Sit on the edge and put your feet in the water.” You did as you were told, swinging your legs over the side of the fountain and letting them sit in the deep water. The wetness between your legs became cold as you arranged herself on the cool stone.

“You came out here to apologize, we’ve been talking, I’ve been smoking. You’be been in the water this whole time, far away from me. Understand?” William spoke calmly and leaned against one of the trees near the fountain. Not so much as a second later, your father stepped through the screen door.

“Officer Killick, I hope-” your father stopped, having seen his daughter beside the fountain, “Elise? I was expecting to find Officer Killick out here, not you. What are you doing in the fountain? Come out of there at once!”

You could almost see the movement of your father’s mustache flick from side to side as he reprimanded you.

“Yes, sir.” You swung your legs out of the fountain and stood, trying to hide how shaky they were when you stood still. The cover of darkness hid the muscle spasms that rippled across your body just beneath your skin.

“What were you doing out here?” Your father questioned you, beckoning with his large, doctorly hands.

“I was apologizing to Officer Killick. I was… rude at the dinner table and I wanted him to know that I was sorry for speaking to him in that way.” You glanced over your shoulder at the young officer, now standing alert, pretending as if the doctor’s presence had surprised him. William’s blue eyes penetrated the darkness, finding yours in the light and smiled. Everything was going to be ok, they said.

“It’s alright,” he looked at your father and nodded curtly, “no hard feelings. I apologize that I haven’t been the most polite to your daughter, sir. I’m afraid the Royal Air Corps has made me impartial to formalities.” His voice sounded easy and dignified, strong against the anxiety you both felt at their predicament.

“Not at all, Killick. I’m glad my daughter got an opportunity to speak with you. God knows the war’s been hard on all of us. At least you’ve made up.”

You were too unnerved to snort or laugh at all. All you could manage to do was smile and nod at your father, validating his oblivious perspective.

“I’ll go to bed now, goodnight Officer Killick, goodnight Papa.” You kissed your father briskly on the cheek and walked as normally as you could to the screen door. Only when you were inside did your legs give out their strength and you had to sit on the bench beside the door. When you were out of sight, your father spoke to the young man.

“I apologize for my daughter, Killick. She can get over-excited from time to time. Moving out of London seemed to change her in that regard. I hope she didn’t bother you too much out here.”

“Not at all, sir. I just needed a moment alone and the garden was irresistible. I had just finished a cigarette when she found me out here. No harm done.”

“Good, good.” You heard your father respond and imagined him nodding as William held his second cigarette between two fingers.

“I came to speak to you about something important,” your father started to break an uncomfortable silence.

“Yes, sir?” William cleared his throat and stubbed out his cigarette. More silence fell between the two men, you tried to steady your hands on your knees as you listened.

“After our discussion at dinner, it is hard to approach this topic again but I received a letter this afternoon. I was going to tell you at dinner but the moment seemed inappropriate. I decided I was going to tell you tomorrow or perhaps the day after, but I found that I could not sleep without informing you.”

You strained your neck towards the door to hear more clearly. Your father cleared his throat and aligned his weight between his feet. William furrowed his stoic brow and braced himself for bad news. All he could think about was the lingering smell of your skin in his nose as he watched the doctor struggle to convey his news.

“It is my duty to inform you that you have been awarded the George Cross for your bravery and courage in combat.”

William was silent as he processed what the doctor was saying. He fought against his instinct to spit and reject the award, a phony piece of medal to distract him from what he had done and witnessed in the war. You stopped yourself from gasping as you heard the news through the door.

“What about my men who died during those days on the Greek islands? Will they be rewarded for their sacrifice?” William tried not to sneer as he asked. He wished he had a cigarette again.

“The British men who were with you after you crash landed and gave their lives to the crown will receive this award as well, posthumously. You are the only survivor, as you know, so you are the only one who will receive this award in your lifetime. Will you accept it?” Your father sighed as he finished. William looked down at his feet and bit his lip. What kind of Officer would he be if he accepted an award that celebrated his life, his survival when he couldn’t keep his own men alive?

“I need to think about it,” William responded, suddenly tired and sore, as he remembered the brunt weight of his survivor’s guilt.

You took your opportunity to climb the stairs and find your bedroom in the dark hallway. Once inside, you stared at yourself in the mirror of your boudoir. Your right hand traced invisible lines around your body as you looked to see if anything had changed. You’d just lost your virginity to a war hero, the thought sounded preposterous, unreal. You looked the same in all ways physically, but you felt like a heavy weight had been taken off your shoulders, as if your own virginity was a chore of its own. What about you had turned him on? Why had he given into your seduction? If one could even call it seduction… You unzipped the romper for a second time that evening and held it between your forefingers and thumbs.

A part of you never wanted to wash it, just like a part of you never wanted to see the Officer again. How did adults do this? How were you supposed to act like nothing had happened between you? It would be easier if you never had to see him again in your father’s house. His eyes held every memory and image of your body, something no one had ever seen but him. Even you hadn’t seen the entirety of your own naked body, only he had. However, there was an overwhelming part of you that wanted to run to him and feel as close to him as you had minutes before. Not just to be taken once again by him but to be had and held by him. You wanted to be his.

Don’t be stupid, you scolded yourself. Tearing your eyes from the mirror, you dressed for bed and felt discomforted by the normalcy of the activity. You’d just experienced something incredible, how could you just put on your pajamas and crawl into bed as if nothing had happened. You felt totally different, mature and ready to be a person with confidence and power like any man. Officer Killick had made you feel powerful, he’d shown you that you weren't a child, limited to discussions of table manners and tea sets. You were on your way to university to be your own person, even a sexual person if you so liked.

Footsteps on the stairs quieted your thoughts. You tried to sit still beneath your obnoxiously large pink comforter but as the minutes dragged on, you found it harder and harder to ignore your proximity to the man you’d just lost your virginity to. Officer Killick climbed the stairs behind the doctor and nodded his head goodnight as he turned into his room down the hallway. The doctor’s door clicked closed and William could hear the lock slip into place before he closed his own door. William leaned his forehead against his bedroom door and sighed hallowly into the grain. The doctor’s news had overshadowed the preceding events of the night, events that had triggered feelings he thought he was no longer capable of. He knew it was wrong of him to have done what he did. He was nearly seven years older than you and he was your first sexual experience. It was only fair that he was met with memories of war, memories of his failure, a failure everyone else refused to acknowledge. He’d led his men into death, he was the reason they were all dead. He was a bad man. He didn’t deserve the award nor that sweet, spoiled brat of a girl who’d come to him in the garden to apologize. He should be apologizing. He should apologize.

A soft knock on the other side of his bathroom door startled him. William made no rush to open it, already knowing that you would be in the doorway with your bright, beautiful eyes, ready to seduce him for a second time that night. When he opened the door, however, you were on the other side dressed for bed in your red and white striped pajamas. Your hair was brushed and bore no resemblance to the state it had been in before.

“Elise,” William whispered your name like an exhale, relieved in some strange way, to see you standing before him. It was an image of normalcy that he craved, a distraction from the memories that clouded his head to the point that he felt he was trapped in a glass prism, seeing everything through a pane of glass. One look at the young Officer was all you needed to know that he was negatively affected by the news your father had told him. What you thought was great news wasn’t so for William. You balanced on the balls of your feet and swung your arms around William’s neck, nestling your face between his neck and collarbone. At first he was stunned. He leaned back in surprise, taking you with him as he did. Your stomach crushed against his as he regained his balance and realized what you were doing.

You were hugging him.

Slowly he returned your embrace, running his hands over your back to hug around your waist. His eyes closed as he ducked his head into the shelf of your shoulder and inhaled deeply. William smelled like the backyard and the sultry musk of English cigarettes.

“What’s this for?” He whispered against your neck, making the hair there prickle as if you had been struck by lightning.

“Thank you, Killick,” you mumbled without adding any further explanations. William blinked and furrowed his eyebrows, taking a second to understand what you meant. When he did, he pulled away and set you back down gently. You looked up at the Officer, confused and hurt that he’d broken the embrace so soon. William pinched the bridge of his nose and put one hand on his hip, shifting his dinner jacket to the side.

“Elise, what we did was a mistake,” he started, his hand still covering his eyes, “that shouldn’t have been how it happened for you.”

“What do you mean?” You crossed your arms across your chest, hiding the bareness of your breasts beneath the thin cotton shirt.

William opened his eyes and shook his head. When he finally met your eyes, his voice sounded distracted and unorganized as if we didn’t know what he was saying himself.

“I’m not a good man, Elise.” William cut you off as you started to negate his claim. “No, no you need to listen to me. You only know who I am now. You didn’t see who I was in the war. I- I’ve done things, Elise. Things you should never know about even if you wanted to know. Your first time shouldn’t have been with me because you deserve better. You deserve a good man. A man that, well, a man that hasn’t killed others with the hands he touches you with…” William’s blue eyes looked as if they were glowing as a cat’s does in the dark. You shivered despite the heat and bit your lip. When you could tell that he was done, you pressed a hand against his chest. He looked down dumbly at it as you slid it up his lapel to his cheek, no stubble and scars. As you cupped his cheek he closed his eyes and leaned into it, defenseless.

“I don’t know what to say,” you started, “but would it be enough to tell you that I am truly grateful to have met you and done what we did together?” Your voice was soft and childish as you comforted the man who’d grown to mean so much more to you in so little time. William kept his eyes closed, hiding the swell of tears that pooled behind his eyelids. When he didn’t say anything, you continued.

“A good man cannot be blamed for what he did when the unspeakable was asked and required of him. Would a bad man have taken me so gently and so tenderly as you did? Would a bad man still be recognized for his bravery after losing his entire squadron in a catastrophe?” You asked genuinely and slowly he opened his eyes, and looked deep into your eyes.

“You don’t know what a bad man can be,” he responded quietly and your heart broke for the man. You two stared at each other in silence for what felt like forever until you wrapped your arms around his neck again and William instinctively picked you up. Still without saying anything, William set you down on his bed, a uniquely shaped bed that was slightly wider than a twin-sized bed. He sat down beside you and you watched calmly as he removed his jacket and folded it over the arm of the chair near the bed. Next he removed his cufflinks and put them inside a small dish on his nightstand. William caught you staring at them and showed one to you.

“They were from my father. He gave them to me before I shipped out to the continent,” he twirled the small golden knot between his fingers. “There’s a tiny compass in the middle of the knot, do you see?” He gave it to you so you could look closer at the intricate design.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered honestly and he nodded thoughtfully.

“They were my father’s in the Great War. He served in the Royal Air Corps too. I followed in his footsteps and as far as he was concerned, I lived up to his expectations.”

“Why didn’t you go back home after the war?” You returned the cufflink and William studied it distractedly.

“He died,” that was all he offered and you resisted the urge to hold him once again.

“I’m sorry,” you said instead and looked down at your hands. William reached for one of your hands and intertwined his fingers with yours. He stared out the window, directly opposite of him and breathed deeply. You studied his profile in the light, noticing the freckles that dotted his cheekbones. You fought a primal urge to kiss him again, to devour him completely. Finally, he turned his face to meet your gaze and looked down briefly at your lips. To took that as an invitation and kissed him with a short but slow kiss. When you pulled back, William slid his hand into your hair at the back of your head and curled his fingers towards your scalp. You raised up on your knees and moved him further back against the headboard. Then straddling his stomach as he propped himself up against the headboard, you kissed him again. You took your time and you could feel the Officer relax beneath you as you savored the taste of his mouth, the size and softness of his lips, and the intimacy of his tongue as it slipped into your mouth every once in a while.

His hands settled on your waist beneath your pajama shirt. Your hands sought out the muscles in his arms beneath his dress shirt, tracing the taught ridges with the pads of your fingers. William leaned you back where you rested on his legs as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to the side. His white undershirt further exposed his muscles and you hid a gasp of admiration when you saw them. William saw your reaction and raised a playful eyebrow.

“My muscles? That’s what you like? Really? Women.” He rolled his eyes in a jovial manner and pulled you back to his chest. Smiling, you stood on his bed, your feet planted on either side of his legs. He looked up at you with a smirk and leaned back against the headboard. Looking down at him, you slowly unbuttoned your top, starting from the bottom. As your shirt opened, William’s pupils grew in size. The soft flesh of your stomach in the light turned him on, the way your hands handled the pearly white buttons…

“What are you doing?” William whispered with a disbelieving smirk. You didn’t answer as you opened the shirt, exposing your breasts to him in the light. The soft pink buds puckered above him and William ran a hand over his mouth, his eyes fixed on your chest. Seeing his reaction, you ran a hand down your chest to the waistband of your bottoms. William gasped softly when your hands disappeared beneath the striped fabric and played with the soft mound of your cunt.

“Elise…” William’s voice was harsh and broken as he watched, unable to look away. You slipped a finger into your own cunt, seeing if you could replicate the feeling that he had made you experience before. Adding a second finger, you started to feel it, and moaned softly. Your head fell back and in your moment of weakness, William caught your other wrist and pulled you back down. Removing your fingers quickly, you held him so you wouldn’t fall off the bed as he laid you down beneath him. He’d abandoned any and all reason as he pulled your hands down and fumbled with the latch of his trousers.

You squirmed beneath him as he clamped a hand over your mouth and withdrew his erection with his other hand. Barely spreading your legs for him, he thrusted his cock inside your cunt without any prep. His pants weren’t even off as he started fucking you deeply with the feverish passion of a teenage boy. His face was inches from yours as he panted, glancing down every so often to see how his cock slid inside you.

“Get a good look, sweetheart. This is what a bad man looks like,” he whispered darkly against your ear and bashed his hips harshly against your pelvis. You moaned behind his large hand. Your own hands gripped the material of his undershirt, your nails penetrating the fabric and pinching his skin. The pain made him fuck you harder, tousling his hair. The hand that wasn’t clamped on your mouth grabbed the top of the headboard. You stared at each other, your eyes connected with some invisible bond, pulling you closer and closer together.

“Fuck…” William whispered under his unstable breath. When you moaned loudly, he hushed you with a small smirk, “inside voice, sweetheart.”

You could feel him inside you, hitting the back of something, but you didn’t know what. Each time he did, you wanted to cry out in pleasure. You moaned his name behind his hand but he could still hear you and smiled in response.

“I’m almost there,” he whispered, holding his mouth open in a silent moan. The bed creaked quietly around you and you wondered if your father would hear it from his room down the hall. You finished twice before he even finished once, your eyes rolling back into your head. You whimpered from the raw and newfound pleasure, more powerful than any sensation you’d ever felt before, even when you finished earlier in the backyard. His ragged breaths grew slightly louder and somehow his cock felt larger as it felt like you were both about to explode.

“Fuck, I can’t cum inside you,” he realized suddenly and grunted in frustration. Before he could pull out, you wrapped your arms around his back and shifted his hand from your mouth.

“Do it,’ you pleaded as quietly as you could as you panted. William looked into your eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you nodded what felt like seconds later, he came inside you. It felt warm and sticky inside, satisfying. When he was done, William wiped your hair from your sweaty forehead and kissed you. You had single-handedly saved him, fixed him, recreated him. He felt like a man again. He felt like a human again.

Keeping himself inside you, William kissed your neck admired your face with visible pleasure etched into the glimmer of his pale blue eyes.

“Maybe you’re not such a spoiled brat after all,” William smiled down at you.

“We’ll see about that…” you whispered breathlessly and pulled him in for another kiss.

#cillian murphy #cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy x reader #fanfiction #cillian fanfic #cillian x reader #cillian x y/n #smut #the edge of love #william killick #officer killick #keira knightley #historical fiction #1940s #young cillian murphy #cillian fluff #peaky blinders #cillian murphy fanfiction #thomas shelby

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