#or he’s the killer n she’s his accomplice

[melenae]

last episode of deadloch comin up which means I have like 2 days to solve the case myself

[scribbleseas]

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

[hughungrybear]

So, I guess the original timeline goes something like this:

1. Korn and Tonkla are lovers. Korn has also just inherited the illegal online gambling business from his dad. Meanwhile, Great and Title are bffs.

2. Great committed a hit-and-run against the woman in Ep 1. No hints whether she survived the incident.

3. Dome witnessed Title abducting the gf and made everyone know through their class GC. Title retaliates and kidnaps Dome.

4. Great became an accomplice/witness in killing Dome. Dome's body was later found and processed by the police led by Win. As a result, Win meets Tonkla at the morgue.

5. Korn's leadership was sabotaged by outside forces leading to him asking for help from Fah's dad. He ignores Tonkla's desperate attempts to reach out while he solves the family business' problems (and fucking Fah as payment, quid pro quo). Also, a shareholder was assassinated.

6. Win was removed as lead investigator by his superior. Probably because it was hinted that Tle's family is as rich and powerful (maybe moreso) as Great's parents. Win and Tonkla become lovers, with Win promising he'll continue investigating Dome's death for Tonkla's sake. Korn gets kicked out of Tonkla's house (and life). Win also meets a possible witness (the GF's friend in previous eps) and gets threaten in the process.

7. Tonkla (for reasons undisclosed yet) learned who killed his brother and proceeded to do some quick street justice on Tle (involving paying a girl to drug him to sleep so that Tonkla can bash his head in). Win finds a body with the same head injuries as Dome's. Meanwhile the same superior who told him to get off Dome's case is now harassing him for being too slow in solving this one, which tracks if that was really Tle's body they found. He also got a name on the murder prints (though we don't know whose it is).

8. Nan is secretly working with Tyme to bring the Sriwat Cargo Business down. She sleeps with the creepy ass manager but gets caught and shot while trying to gain more evidence.

Now, this is where it gets murky with the new timeline. Ignoring the 4-minute time loops in between, we have:

1. Great calls an ambulance on the woman he accidentally ran over. She survives but she also eventually hires a killer (Ep 5) who shoots both Great and his mother dead (or near death, as in Great's case), which brings us to the first minute of Ep 1

2. The family convinces Great to visit the woman where he meets Tyme. Tyme learns who Great is and decides to be close to him for revenge.

3. Great saves Dome and brings him to the hospital. Great and Tyme becomes officially acquainted. Tyme also saves Great from vengeful Tle.

4. Dome wakes up on a hospital bed. Curiously, nobody called Tonkla despite Dome being confined in the hospital for (what looks like) a few days. He did not visit his beloved brother in the hospital nor picked him up when he was discharged. We see Dome riding a taxi and talking to Tonkla on the phone. But when he gets off the taxi and greets Tonkla, he vanishes (just like the cat in Ep 1). In this sense, both Dome and the cat were like echoes to Tonkla. We don't see Tonkla in this new timeline. He is, for all intents and purposes, stuck in the original timeline.

5. Great keeps seeing things related to Tyme that had not happened outside the 4-minutes (i.e., seeing them have sex when he bumped Tyme in the hospital, reading "can you forgive me" on that note attached on the cup of Thai tea instead of "Don't forget to go to the hospital".

6. Great and Tyme go on a sweet date involving claw machines and ends the day with a(n almost) kiss.

7. Nan calls Tyme while trying to escape. Tyme dares to attack Korn but gets identified by Great in the process.

I feel like there is something to be said on Tyme's tendency to prolong the "inevitable" just like Den accused him of doing with a dying patient in this ep. Coupled by the fact that Tyme doesn't seemed to sleep (based on the off-cut remark from the janitor in the gym is Ep 2), it seems Tyme somehow holds the key to this whole mess.

Also, why is Tonkla absent in the new timeline?

[blueberrypancakesworld]

The nurse and the nerd

Charlie Walker x fem!reader

warning : +18, handjob, kissing, implied drug use (medications), mentioning of wounds, no use of Y/n, minor degradation

Summary : After Ghostface had struck Jill dead in the hospital again by the heroine Sidney. But Charlie Walker, the second killer, has survived and is now in an asylum where he has a special relationship with a certain nurse…with even more special treatments

Info : Yeah back with Charlie I missed writting for the film nerd and thought hey what if...so yeah have fun reading and hope you like it ;)

masterlist

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It was another massacre that struck the small town. Another night of murders that made everyone afraid, another night when the nightmare vans had to drive to a certain house. A night in which Ghostface was caught because he wasn't stabbed too hard. A fact that his accomplice would not live to see because she died at the legendary hands of Sidney, or so the news said.

Either way, it was the talk of the nightmares that were also running in the nurses' room of the prison…for weeks nothing else seemed to have taken hold of the boring little town, not that she was complaining but it was becoming such a hustle and bustle that it was almost too much.

,,It's a murder I mean murders and it's almost like the presidential election who's where and what" she said and heard the smirk of her superior who had been here for a while and had already noticed the Ghostface's first act. ,,Well, nothing else happens in Woodsboro and so we have a little celebrity here," she said, pointing to the room at the end of the corridor with the special patient.

He alone had already cost the Asylum a few break-out attempts and, above all, appointments with the press. She herself could hardly cope with the reporters' floodlights when she had to stand next to him.

That smile on his lips, confident and above all on her face…yes, she had read the interviews and he had almost gone a little too far. But she knew that the further she stood around, the longer it would take them to get home.

With a sigh, she took the silver tray on which the medication and bandages were lying before she said goodbye to her colleague with a ,,You can do it, ask for an autograph!", which was returned with a shake of the head before she left the nurses' room and went to her little darling. Knocking on the door and looking round one last time, she heard the almost cheerful ,,Come in" before she went into the room with the sign with Charlie Walker's name on it.

As always, she found him lying on the bed even though she was sure he was walking around, she had seen him walking around often enough, seen him doing other activities…special activities.

Yet he looked so innocent, not like a murderer, like a simple nerd. The long brown curly hair gently combed by him under her watch, the blue eyes that were still on her had never left her. The loose clothes, the white shirt that looked too big and the sweatpants that matched the grey socks.

,,You're back, my angel," he said, leaning forward slightly and making a pained face as if he was going to be stabbed again. But she shrugged it off with a roll of her eyes and put the tray on the white bedside table as she sat her down by his bed. ,,Oh, our little star is in need of help," she murmured, taking the newspaper from his lap and seeing that he had opened the interview.

His face, contorted with pain, showed a slight shame as she began to read through the interview. ,,Especially my personal nurse who takes such good care of me and looks after me, I really appreciate her," she read his last sentence and couldn't help but laugh reproachfully at his flattery and lies.

Rising from the bed, she set the paper down on the bedside table before grabbing the bandages and pulling his shirt off his torso without waiting. ,,Don't be so hasty, darling," Charlie began, but was interrupted when she pressed on the not yet fully healed cut and made him open up.

,,You appreciate me Charlie? I know you do but if this is how it's going to be I'm going to be transferred…it has to stay a secret understand?" she asked ignoring his pleading look to touch him more gently as she pressed a little harder on the wound and the gasp turned into a pained moan.

,,Yes-yes, of course, I'm just grateful," he said hastily and relaxed when she took the pressure off him and continued with her work. Her hands ran gently over his skin, cool, slightly rough hands from working with people. Rough hands like his hands that had once held a knife. Hands that now walked slowly to her, holding onto her like a helpless victim.

Yet they both knew that he was not a victim, he was the perpetrator who was now helplessly injured in the asylum and under her mercy. She ignored his hands and began to tend to his wound actually carefully and somehow lovingly at the end of the day she was not only paid for it maybe she liked it, maybe it was a mutual attraction.

His need for her and her care that was almost taken up by the younger one. Fortunately, the stitches were not fatal, he was given pills for the pain, to sleep and when he was exercising, but otherwise he was fine.

So well that she knew where this meeting would go again when she saw his gaze avoid hers once more, her gentle touch something he did not deserve. Kirby had only ever played with him, the stupid bitch had to die for it, it was that simple, but she was his pretty nurse, she was good to him.

Didn't see him as a loose cannon and looked after him almost like a mother, while she was just the right amount of strict. ,,What are you daydreaming about Charlie?" she mumbled to him, seeing him flinch as if she had caught him doing something when he tried to sit up slightly, but her hand came to rest on his middle. She wasn't stupid, of course, she had seen him look at her in shock, almost holding his breath, a wince going through his hips and legs several times.

He was a little sucker for pain, even if he didn't want to admit it. ,,Nothing…I really don't…only your care is so good," he stammered, his blue eyes darting around and repeatedly lingering on the bust of her body pressed against the white fabric of her uniform.

The white trousers that framed her behind and his gaze always rested on them when she turned round, her hips framed by the white shirt on which he would so like to lay his hands.

He had fallen for the angel in the white dress, his sweet nurse who treated him so well. He barely noticed how his cock began to show through his jogging bottoms as her fingers slowly closed around his hardness and she leaned towards him.

Her smell surrounded him as he moved his hips with a whimper, trying to get more friction as she held him out. ,,I'm good so good for you, aren't I?" she asked, whispering the words to him as he nodded his head into the pillow, begging her to kiss him.

Briefly sloppy and rewarding as she began to stroke his cock. Sensing how needy he was even though they had done this several times, he never seemed to get enough of her.

She knew that anyone could come into the room but where would the fun be if they didn't? ,,You know you deserve it all, don't you? The pain, the stalling…a naive virgin," she chided as she ran her other hand over his body, squeezing the wound lightly again, his groan louder than before as he thrust against her, trying to get more of that feeling.

,,Y-yes I deserve…it all ma'm all" he mumbled chuckling his head moving back and forth into the pillow praying her words and amusement made his cheeks redden.

He continued to cling to her with his hands, his pleading and begging more interrupted only now and then by her kisses that stifled his whimpering pathetic noises.

His moans and whimpers filled the room with shameless noises, the almost wet squeaking coming from his cock, the precum running out of the tip in single drops every time she ran her thumb over the sensitive tip, squeezing it slightly and making it twitch again.

The space when they were together seemed to get smaller just the two of them. An unfortunate murderer rubbing against her like a writhing worm not a picture of a poor murderer being deceived.

He was the scum of society, a thought that had often crossed his mind as often as he served, his pretty blue eyes releasing those tears.

Kissing away his tears, taking away his pain from her before she got tired of his pleading. ,,I'll let you come if you don't open your sweet little mouth like that in public," she demanded, watching his foggy mind try to make sense of her words. His puffy lips red from the kisses and his biting on them to stifle the embarrassed noises.

,,Yes-yes-yes please…I'll be quiet…I promise," he mumbled, barely able to contain himself as his partner watched this for a few more moments before she let him come, picking up the pace one last time and pressing her other hand to his mouth. Stifling a loud moan, he felt the last twitching movements go through his body as his body stilled and she took her hands off him.

Watching him close his eyes, his chest rose and fell and he relaxed as she cleared her throat, ,,Aren't you forgetting something?" she asked, holding out the cum-stained liquid on her hand. He might be cute, amorous and sweetly pathetic but in the end he was a murderer, a patient under her over whom she had power.

Like a good eared boy, he wouldn't get out of here without her and as he looked at her with a pleasurable, perversely flashing look before licking her hand.

Her praise for him was pleasure she knew that if she continued this game he would not only be hard again but he would also beg to kneel in front of her, leaning between her thighs. ,,If only the press knew what kind of murderer you are," she said as she gathered her things and saw how the words must have struck the right chords in his head.

He probably swallowed hard as he imagined her giving interviews on camera while he knelt before her. He was getting love and part of a film epic.

She fixed the things on the silver tray before giving him one last kiss on the forehead, knowing that when the door closed behind her, those ominous noises would come from his cell again until she started her next shift…her next shift to take care of her good boy and not a murderer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@icarus-star , @roryculkinsgf , @angelsanarchy , @ria-coolgirl , @sl4sh3rfuck3r , @eddie-munsons-mommy

[vioartemis]

One last time

(Tara Carpenter x fem! Bridger! reader)

Summary: Amber and Richie planned on framing Sam and you for the 2022 massacre, as you were both daughters of past Ghostfaces. Only thing; the fans never get a happy end. Neither do you. Request is here :)) a/n: This is pretty short I'm sorry I couldn't come up with anything else 😭 Warnings: blood, injuries, death (reader), angst (English isn't my first language, I'm sorry if there are mistakes or if something doesn't make sense TvT)

“Imagine the headlines tomorrow: ‘Billy Loomis’ daughter went mad and killed her friends with the help of her accomplice, Roman Bridger’s daughter! The two wanted to pursue the legacy of their fathers.’ Now that’s what we want to see!” Amber said, holding a knife to your throat

Your little group was gathered in the kitchen of her house after Richie and her tried to kill you and exposed their plan.

“What are you talking about? Roman died in 2000, he doesn’t have a daughter.” Sidney said

“No one here is his daughter!” Tara yelled

Richie turned to you with a smirk on his face.

“Oh, you didn’t tell her did you? I thought you would’ve, when Sam confessed being Billy’s daughter”

All eyes were on you.

“Fuck you.” you spat at him

“Y/n…? He’s wrong right…? You’re not…” you gave Tara a guilty look “Oh my god… why didn’t you tell me…?”

“Because… because I didn’t want to lose you… I was scared you would leave me if you knew…!”

“How am I supposed to trust you…? You lied to me for more than two years! Two fucking years Y/n! How can I know you’re telling the truth? Maybe you’re with them. Maybe-“

“Don’t say that…” you started to tear up “Please don’t say that…”

She looked away from you, like she couldn't bear to see you again. That broke your heart.

Lying to your own girlfriend for two years hurt you too. You wanted to tell her, you tried multiple times. But every time the words got stuck in your throat.

“Ow sorry, I think we messed up your relationship…” Amber smirked at you

You didn’t think about her knife still on your throat and punched her in the face. No one saw it coming.

Sidney took this opportunity to take a kitchen knife and attacked Richie, too focused on you to defend himself.

Everyone started fighting everyone. It was a messy fight; everyone was a little confused by your sudden punch at Amber.

You tried to protect Tara from the fights, pushing her away when Richie tried to stab her. They made her question your relationship? Fine. You would make them pay for that. But the most important thing was keeping her safe.

At one moment, you got thrown against the counter. You got up quickly, but Amber was now ready to shoot you. When she pulled the trigger, Tara screamed.

“Aw come on, I’m like two meters away how can you miss such an easy shot?” you smirked at the killer

“Oh you…”

She was ready to try again, but Sidney slammed the hand sanitizer on her head, making her drop the gun.

Immediately you tried to take it, but Gale looked at you with suspicious eyes.

“Right, you don’t trust me”

You backed up, letting her take the gun.

Amber tried to explain herself and convince Gale not to shoot her, but she did it anyway. The girl fell on the stove and lit up.

“Holly shit…” you let out as she burned and fell on the floor

A scream was heard, coming from the hall. Everyone got out of the kitchen and ran to the hall, ready to help.

On your way there, you grabbed Sidney’s gun that slid into a corner earlier. Just in case.

When you arrived, Sam was standing in front of Richie’s dead body, covered in blood. She didn’t need help after all.

“Careful, they always come back” Gale said

Sam took the gun from her and shot Richie in the head.

You all sighed in relief, until you heard a scream behind you. Amber was still alive and was running toward you knife in hand.

Your body reacted before your brain could process what was happening. You shot her in the head before she could hurt anyone else.

“Y/n…” Tara said, next to you

“I know, I took the gun. I’m sorry, here” you drop it “I’m not with them I-“

“No you’re bleeding!”

“Hm?” you looked down. There was blood on your jeans. “Oh… yeah… I forgot about that…”

You were too focused on Tara’s well being you completely forgot about your own wounds. Multiple wounds.

You placed a hand on your stomach. It came back stained with blood. Your black shirt made it difficult to see you were bleeding.

All of a sudden, you collapsed on the floor, all your strength leaving you.

“Shit…” you groaned as the pain grew

Tara knelt beside you, concern written on her face. She lifted your shirt up to see where your were hurt. Three stab wounds and one bullet hole.

“When did you-“

The fight flashed before her eyes. When Richie was about to stab her you protected her. Three times. Then Amber tired to shoot you.

“You said she missed…!”

“Maybe I lied…”

You started coughing, blood coming out of your chest and mouth. Your girlfriend tried to stop the bleeding, applying pressure on your wounds.

"Sam call an ambulance!" she yelled at her sister before turning back to you "Y/n I'm sorry I told you that earlier... I didn't mean it I swear..."

"I know, I know..." you smiled weakly, putting a hand on her cheek and wiping her tears gently "It's okay my love... please don't cry... I want to see your smile one last time..."

"W-what do you mean 'one last time'...?"

"You can't save me Tara..."

"No no no no no..."

"C'mon... smile for me, my pretty girl..."

She held back her tears and cracked a weak smile.

"I love you so much..." you whispered, still smilling

"I love you too..."

You closed your eyes for a second, the light hurting you.

"Y/n...?" your arm fell slowly "Hey..." she shook you slightly "Baby please... Y/n...! Please wake up...! Don't leave me..."

She wanted to scream. You couldn't die. Not like that. Not now. You still had so many things to do...

"What about these holidays we talked about...? The amusement park...? The dates on the beach...? The sunsets you said we'd see together...? Y/n please..."

She couldn't admit it. Even months after. She still hoped you would come at her door one day, hug her, kiss her, take her hand and take her with you to some cool place you promised her to go.

But you never came.

Sometimes she dreamt about you. Waking up without you next to her was always heartbreaking. She kept the clothes you forgot in her closet. At first they still smelt like you. Not anymore.

It was like you really disappeared. Every trace of your presence slowly vanished.

Not the pictures though. Oh how much she cried looking at your selfies together, holding your favorite necklace tight in her hand. The one she gave you on your first anniversary. The one you never took off.

Everyone told her to move on, to see someone if she needed help. But she didn't need help. She needed you.

[dearhargrove]

True colors

Summary Ethan would always protect you. Even if he had to go against his family.

word count 1610

tags violence, blood, scream 6 spoilers, probably unrealistic but whatever :)

a/n idk but u couldn't stop thinking abt this so I wrote it heh. Pls enjoy 🫶🏻 also im morally this is very wrong and that he actually kinda coo coo towards the end of the movie but I'm delusional and gonna keep believing he was how he was most of the movie. Also yes the title is inspired by the song from the weeknd I'm sorry I couldn't think of anything else 😭

masterlist navigation

You're standing in the middle of Sam and Tara as Bailey explains how he was the one behind all of this. You're just as shocked as the two sisters when Quinn takes off her mask and grins smugly.

The attention turns to the other Ghostface next and no one moves for a second. Bailey nudges him with a disgruntled look and they move, taking the mask off.

Your breath stops and your tears blur your vision as Ethan stands there, eyes desperate as he looks at you.

"No, no, no this can't be, please…" you cry out and shake your head, still in denial.

"(y/n)..." He tries and his voice sounds just as shaky and desperate as yours had seconds ago. "No, don't-", you're crying against Sam's shoulder as she cradles you against her protectively.

"Please, I never hurt you- I would never hurt you!" He tries again, and you can hear he's close to tears as well. You hiccup and wipe your eyes, turning around slowly.

"Ethan, you murdered one of my closest friends," he flinches as if he didn't know what he had done and you walk closer to him as anger takes over the absolute desperation you were feeling.

"That wasn't me!" He yells. Quinn interjects from behind him, proudly pointing to herself as she claims it as her own doing.

"Was this all fake to you? To get closer to Sam and Tara?" You ask, and when you're close enough, you look up and push him back with a hand on his chest, sneering. He tries denying it, "No, please, I really do love you!"

"If you did, you wouldn't have done any of this."

He chokes on a sob and chokes out another apology as his father speaks up. "You think he did anything? He was useless in this whole plan, kept saying how he couldn't hurt you, and how he would just kill Sam in the end instead of doing anything else." Bailey scoffs, and you frown.

Your head is basically exploding at this information. It certainly makes you feel less repulsed towards Ethan, but did it matter when he helped his father with this plan, anyway?

The boy in front of you hangs his head in shame, and you instinctively reach out to lay a hand on his shoulder in a reassuring motion, pulling back quickly after.

You were lost - you loved this boy, and you could easily tell when he was lying, just as you could tell he was being truthful about this. But still, he had also been an accomplice to two killers.

You definitely didn't trust him anymore - how could you? - but you couldn't just stop loving him. You turn to Sam with a lost expression, and she seems to understand, sighing.

There seemed to be a mutual agreement between you, and she huffed. She turns back to Bailey and Quinn, the two frowning at the closeness between you and Ethan.

"Get back here, boy," Bailey scolds, and Ethan sways, his fists clenching. "If you go now, every chance you have with me is gone."

He looks up again, and his expressive eyes meet yours. There's fear more than anything on his face, and he turns to look at his dad and sister before turning to you again.

He tilts his head with a frown and puts a hand on your cheek before pulling your body in front of his chest and holding a knife to your throat in one quick movement. You gasp and grasp his forearms, did he just act remorseful to kill you?

He leans forward, "Trust me," he whispers before taunting Sam and Tara about how they'd lose. Your heartbeat falters at the warmth, radiating off of him and the general comfort he gave you.

You give Sam a look, hoping she understands, but Tara is already off to fight Quinn, brick gripped tightly in her hand as she hits it over the other girl's head.

You wince at the resounding crack and turn to Sam hurriedly, Ethan walking backward with his eyes on his dad, who was watching with an approving smile. "See? Knew you could do something right, son."

Sam takes off to the man, leaving Ethan and you without any attention on you. He leads you to the back of the stage, curtain hiding you from sight.

You crouch down behind some furniture that was definitely rotting and look at him. His knife laid next to him as he kneeled next to you, anxiously surveying the area.

"Why'd you do it?" You whisper. You genuinely wanted to know. He exhales and settles his eyes on you for a moment before looking towards the doorway again.

"I... wanted dad to see me for me. Not just Richie's brother or an accomplice. As his son."

You feel remorse for him, your gaze softening, and you take his hand again, the familiar feeling making you feel less on edge. "I see you for what you've shown me of yourself. But I don't know if that was a lie. If… our relationship was even real." It hurts to say, but it's the truth - he was okay with killing, something he'd kept hidden from you for more or less good reason. What else did you not know about him?

He hesitates and fidgets with his hands, "At the beginning… at the party. I didn't have to get close to you. Dad said it'd be better if you trusted me since you're close with Sam and Tara so he wasn't against it, he just didn't tell me to do it." He starts.

"Did he tell you to get close to Chad and the others?" He nods solemnly and you hum, motioning for him to keep going.

"The more we talked the more I started liking you and.. he didn't like that." He frowns and looks around again before hurrying up, "I told him and Quinn not to hurt you and that if we had to kill you I'd do it. I would've never done that but at least they wouldn't have tried anything." He looks at you for a reaction and though you're shaken you're also surprised he was so adamant on keeping you safe from the beginning.

"Thanks," it's basically a question but he chuckles and shrugs, nodding.

"It wasn't hard to fall for you. I never really fit in so when you just went with everything I did and cared-" he smiles with a slight flush on his cheeks and under different circumstances you would've cooed at the endearing sight.

"I knew you would find out about this," he motions to his robe, "so I thought why not? And then I confessed. I never expected you'd like me back but you did," your heart clenches when he says 'did', as if he expects you to have stopped loving him in the short time you've known about all of this, "And I've never been happier than when I came to class and you were waiting somewhere for me."

His shoulders shake nearly unnoticeably but you still see it, and you watch as he hastily wipes his eyes.

"Oh, Ethan…" you mumble and pull him into a hug. He reciprocates it after a moment, his arms wrapping around your waist as good as he could with both of you kneeling in a dusty corner with the smell of rotting everything around.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he breathes and you place a hand on the back of his head. "I know," the moment is interrupted when two gunshots sound through the theater and the screaming goes silent.

He lets go of you and grabs his knife again. You wait with bated breath when footsteps start approaching and someone calls your names.

"Ethan- ah, there you are," Tara had a wound in her stomach, and there was blood splattered over her face. You smile in relief that she was, at least to an extent, okay, getting up to hug her.

She laughs, and you know it's pure relief that you were still alive. When you part, she turns to Ethan, who was standing off to the side with furrowed brows.

"You," she starts but you interrupt her. "He saved me. And he explained it. I know you don't trust him but please," she's conflicted and just stares at him, not wavering even as her older sister comes up behind her as well.

"Tara, it's okay. Trust her with this."

The younger girl huffs but nods, taking Sam's offered hand. "Listen, you tell the rest of the group the truth and the police that you were manipulated or whatever." She orders and he nods, quietly thanking her.

The pair of sisters walks away after that but not without Tara staring at Ethan with a harsh glare once more.

He shrinks even more into himself and you're somewhat glad he was still the shy bean he was before.

-

It took everyone some time but now, almost half a year later, you're sitting in Sam and Tara's apartment, having dinner together.

Ethan was sitting next to you, holding your hand under the table and talking to Chad. You smile happily and lean back in your chair, watching everyone interact calmly.

It had taken Mindy the longest to trust Ethan - though you're unsure if she does - but she tolerates him by now.

Your gaze falls back to your boyfriend, his fingers playing with your bracelet.

You don't think you'd ever be able to forget all of what happened back then but you stopped associating him with it quickly enough. Ethan turns to you with a confused head tilt, squeezing your hand in question. You just smile and lean against his shoulder.

[vampworks]

Starved of you

Pairing: Billy Loomis x Fem Reader x Stu Macher

word count 1.7k

No use of y/n

Summary: The reader is dragged to Stu's party by the girls to fix Sid's relationship but She is in a secret relationship with Billy and Stu. She is here to break it off but gets distracted by Billy while he becomes obsessed with her. He struggles with his feelings for her and how she affects the plan.

Warnings: mention of alcohol and drug use, cheating(not on the reader), mention of murder, toxic behavior, intimacy

-------------------------------------------------------

Music blares through the room threatening to shake the house itself. The air was stuffy and crowded her senses. She couldn't seem to care as Tatum dragged her by the arm through the door. The blonde soon disappeared into the crowd following Sid afterward. This was the night she set things right before the world as she knew would crumble. Dramatic, but what else equates to sneaking around with your best friends behind their girlfriends' backs? A masked serial killer fits into this somewhere, maybe it was karma for what got her here in the first place. The plan was simple, break it off with them both, leave early and everything would go back to normal. Getting Stu and Billy alone for something serious was always a difficult task. Pulling off your own arm seemed easier. She decided to settle it one at a time. Billy would be easier as the other would only tease her endlessly for it and she'd end up in his bed again.

Stu's eyes grew wide as he spotted her in the crowd of sweaty teens. He shoves his accomplice harshly in the arm. Subtlety be damned, he thought, Hell was about to raise for everyone. "Dude...Dude..we got a party crasher.'' Billy rolled his eyes still turning away from him. "Like you care, they'll run like everyone else. He scoffed. ''Yeah maybe but dumb and dumber will follow too" Stu whispered. Billy thinks for a moment before it clicks. "The hell you mean, man? She's not coming. Her parents....." It was Stu's turn to roll his eyes as he shoved Billy around to see the girl wandering through the crowd. She waves with a smile after spotting the two of them. "Shit" he hisses. " I'll handle it" He whispers as the two waves back. "You better, Princess over there is at the center of all this," Stu says through gritted teeth. "Just take care of the dumb blonde'' Billy retorts. He shoots a glare behind him as he pushes through the crowd to meet the only girl either of them wants. "Hey, you." Billy beamed almost comically in an attempt to recover the control he'd lost just by seeing her. His out-of-character enthusiasm was a bit offputting making her take a step back. He cringed at his own actions, She always had a way of destroying the persona he worked so hard to build. He loved but hated it at the same time.

"Can we talk please?" She said in a hushed tone already pulling him towards the stairs with a nervous expression. 'Shit, I'm screwed' He thought. Billy panics trying to rethink the entire night he spent a year planning for. "Yeah, yeah. Sure, Doll." His eyes darted across the hallway. They brightened as he made a sharp turn and pulled her into Stu's bedroom. The large room was dark except for a poorly hung string of lights across the ceiling. The gaze in his dark eyes was unforgiving as he loomed over her already shaking form. His pupils were blown wide as he searched over her features.

''Ay. What's wrong, Doll?" He fought back his usual smirk from showing as he spoke a concerned tone. "It's Sid, She dragged me out here so I could get you to talk to her. I can't keep lying to her and Tatum is bound to find out eventually. I mean, what if Stu slips up in a joke or something? You've seen him. He flirts so much. Tatum and Sid are still mad about the arrest but she really likes you, Billy. Neither of them would ever forgive me if they knew about us sneaking around behind their backs. What if..." Billy holds back a laugh as he listens to her ramble on.

"How do you feel about me though?" She stopped completely. "What?" The girl’s large eyes stared back into his own in the hope of finding falter in any sense of the word. ''Tell me how you feel about me 'cause I might starve if I can't have you." He struggles to speak plainly. She releases a squeak as she tries to contain herself. This was so far from how she wanted tonight to go. Her heart beats rapidly as silence fills the room. "I...I wanted you since we were little. I mean, funny story..." She begins to ramble again. "I was the one to start that rumor that we were already married in the fifth grade. I gave Stu a dollar and told him to be really loud about it" He laughs and his heart begins to beat like it'll burst. "Ooh, I really shouldn't have said that. Shit." The girl muttered bringing a hand to cover her mouth. Her eyes drift to the door for a moment only to return to meet his stare. His own narrows and his head tilts to the left in thought. "Explains a lot. My mom liked you a lot more after that."

Hundreds of thoughts both perverse and protective crossed his mind as his body acted on its own. This would counteract his plan, she wasn't supposed to come tonight. "God, you're something else, huh." She lets out a nervous laugh while trying to read his expression. Dark brown eyes traveled down the length of her tight dress hidden beneath a large jacket. That goddamn lettermen jacket she had borrowed from some nobody downstairs screamed for nothing but his downfall. He knew his schemes would all but crumble if he gave in to her touch tonight. He has to stay focused or the past year of his life would be wasted. He couldn't think of anyone who wanted to watch a movie about a killer being stopped just for love. The image of her wearing his own jacket flashed in his head. He needed her warmth so badly, it hurt at this point. "Billy, we really shouldn't be in here together" She grabs hold of his forearm in an attempt to keep him at a distance.

She silently begged for the strength to run back through the party never stopping till she made it home as she should. His hands slowly inch toward her. She shivers as his fingers brush against the fabric lining the jacket. His hand continues as it runs down to the small of her waist and rests there. The other cages her between himself and the wall. A small whimper escapes before she can bury it. "We'll be alright" He breathed as he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood to hold himself back. Everything about her was a drug. He could have sworn she was made to kill him from the inside out. He would just have to risk it. He'd be the one to win after all. Might as well, get the girl and get revenge all in one night, he thought. He couldn't understand but her voice is heard as she mutters a slur of curses. It sounds like a song to him at this point far overpowering the blaring music from downstairs in his head.

She watches a devilish smirk widen on his face, the very same that terrorized her so many times as they grew up together. His eyes were now scanning her every move as her hand traveled up and landed on his chest. Billy leans in to whisper in her ear. "Let it all go, princess. I got you." Something in her snaps and she kisses him harshly curling her arms around his neck and pulling him down to her height. Her fingers tangle in his short brown hair as he lifts her. The kisses grow heated quickly as they lose themselves in each other's touch. Their senses filled with nothing but the warmth of their embrace. He tightens his grip on her hip and begins to leave kisses in line from the curve of her jaw and down her neck.

He stops for a moment to smell her perfume. She had always smelled heavenly but tonight, she smelled of beer and whatever drug she's been laced with by god himself. "Billy.." She pleads into his ear. She only receives a hushed groan in response. Her nails graze against his skin as she continues to call his name. He hums against her as he comes back to his senses meeting her eyes once again. The vibration of his voice sends a shiver down her spine making her eyes flutter. His eyes were half-lidded and his breaths staggered and uneven. His lips appeared cherry red and glossy under the soft glow of the lights. She giggles after seeing the dazed look in his eyes. "Damn, I got you this high, Loomis?'' She teases brushing his hair out of his face with a newfound confidence. He gives a breathless laugh and drops his head to rest on her shoulder. "Fuck, I might just overdose on you, princess. Her smile falls as she remembers the world around them. "Maybe then, I'll have you all to myself."

A heavy knock on the door causes her to flinch and tighten her grip on his shoulders "Hey, lovebirds. This room's way past off-limits! Stu shouts from the other side. "Dammit, Stu. it's me" Billy shouts back before turning to the girl with a weak smile. "Well, why didn't you say so. Tell my bunny I love her!" Stu blurted in a singing tone.

She giggles and shakes his head at them both and breaks away from his hold. "'I'll go shut him up, I should get out of here soon. My parents want me back home." He only nods in response bringing up his other hand to rub the back of his neck. He swore he could still feel the touch of her fingers there. She grabbed his hand intertwining her fingers with his larger ones. She pulls his arm taunt toward the door before realizing he's not following her. She turns back to him with a confused look.

"Hey, mind doing me a favor, sweets?" She blushes at the name. "You mind calling Sid up here, I wanna get this over with. You won't have to lie anymore after tonight." The girl smiles at his words as she smooths down the fabric of her dress. "Ok but be gentle about it, alright. Today's been kinda rough for her." He pulls her in for another embrace resting his head on top of hers and speaks in a sickly sweet tone. "I promise, she won't be a problem after tonight." His eyes darken as he stares at the black robe sticking out of Stu's closet.

The rest of the Prescotts had to die tonight, And they would as he and Stu planned. Nothing could keep him from getting his sequel now since he finally had her.

[i-cant-sing]

I was literally just thinking about what that other person said about the gentleman's club and that it was Jack the Ripper who was looking through the window 😭😭

When Y/n was following Mr. Blackwood or wtv tf his name is, she was still in her male disguise. So since she was in a gentleman's club which has prostitutes and stuff, which were Jack the Rippers targets (obviously), and assuming that it's Benny, maybe he was stalking and trying to find his next victim. But then, he spots Y/n, still dressed as a man, which he obviously knows is her. Perhaps that's why the shadow guy in the window was staring at her while she was in there?

ALSO, if Ben does end up being Jack, that means Shepard (I think that's his name) is literally living with the killer he's trying to find unknowingly. Or maybe he knows but is helping him to cover up (or maybe is his accomplice?) I literally have so many theories cooking up in my brain rn rent-free it's not even funny 😭😭 But I feel like if it does end up being him, Colin most definitely doesn't know because he was questioning Ben about why he was leaving so late at night (the night when she went to Buckingham palace.) Even though he was probably just spying on us and wasn't going on any killing sprees, I just think Colin wouldn't be questioning him if he already knew. Or maybe all the boys know? I don't flipping know at this point 💀

Btw, I love your story and you have such a beautiful way writing, and I can't wait to see what unfolds in future chapters!! ❤️🫶🏼 (Even tho I love the new eras, I still miss our first certain formally leprous, crazy, pretty princess who actually does remind me of Björn Andrésen in Death in Venice holy shit)

I love reading everyone's theories sm💖💖💖

[samcarpentersgirlfriend]

I REMEMBER IT ALL TOO WELL || MICKEY ALTIERI X READER 𖤐₊˚.

summary: you can’t understand any of this - least at all how mickey could do this to you.

warnings: past relationship, dead / ghostface!mickey, angst, swearing

word count: 1k

a/n: okay this came to me at like 4am and I wanted to write it all before I lost all inspiration so sorry if it isn’t any good or has any errors (also I suck at titles so ignore that too thank you <3)

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

A part of you still doesn’t believe it.

Because there’s no way in hell that Mickey - sweet, attentive Mickey, the boy you loved more than anything in this world, was the same person who had brutally murdered your classmates. And he’d enjoyed it, from what Sid had said.

She hasn’t told you anything directly - no, Sidney Prescott was much to good of a person to do that. You’d heard her describe the whole thing to the police whilst you yourself awaited questioning. They’d thought you were an accomplice, the Bonnie to his Clyde - and you couldn’t exactly blame them. Even you could admit it was all too convenient: you were still alive without so much as a scratch, a fellow film student and long-term partner of Mickey himself. If you were an outsider, you probably would’ve thought you were in on it too. Many still did - you didn’t miss the whispers and stares as you shuffled through the hallways.

Sidney - the one who arguably should’ve distrusted you the most - was surprisingly the one fighting your corner, claiming she could see how much you’d truly loved Mickey. That you were just as much as a victim in this as she was. You personally thought that was complete and utter bullshit, but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.

Some sick part of you envied Sidney and selfishly wished you were there to see Mickey unmask himself - at least then you’d have the chance to ask him all the questions you’d never get the chance to now. Because Mickey- your Mickey - was dead, his bullet-ridden corpse lying God knows where. You hated yourself for mourning his death, what with all the pain he had caused. He’d killed your friends, he’d killed good people, and you should hate him. You should be glad that he’s dead.

But how could you be when he’d had the biggest heart you’d ever known, determined to make you smile even in the darkest of times? How could you hate the boy who promised you the world, who looked at you like you were the most valuable treasure there ever was? How could you pretend like he didn’t kiss you like you were oxygen itself and he was positively drowning without you, like he didn’t make you feel safe and excited and absolutely adored all at once?

No. The Mickey you loved couldn’t possibly be the killer. He was funny and carefree and gentle, not sadistic in the slightest. It just doesn’t make sense. In your mind, they were two different people - your beloved boyfriend and the twisted murderer. There was no overlap, there couldn’t be. You know it’s stupid; Mickey didn’t magically transform into this - this monster overnight. He was going on dates with you by day and throwing girls off of balconies by night, leading a complete double life at once. You loathed yourself for not seeing it. You didn’t know what signs to look out for when your boyfriend was a homicidal psychopath, but you were sure that you must’ve missed a dozen. You were too caught up in the fairytale that was you and Mickey, too caught up in perfect pictures of shared apartments and romantic getaways.

Maybe if you hadn’t been such a fool, you could’ve stopped this whole mess sooner. You could’ve turned Mickey in to the police, and he wouldn’t have been a threat to anyone.

No. Deep down, you know that isn’t true.

Mickey was so convincing, so charming, that you would’ve done anything for him. He would only have to ask with that perfect fucking smile of his and you would lie for him. Protect him. He’d spin a story about how he was doing this for the right reasons, doing this for you, and you’d capitulate. You had no idea how he did it, but Mickey just had something about him that made it easy to see things his way. something that made you willing to twist your morals just enough in the wrong direction. You despise that fact, and you’re suddenly grateful that he didn’t ask you to cover for him - shit, ask you to join him - because at least now you can pretend that you know for certain your answer would be a resounding “go to hell.”

You wonder if everything you knew was a lie. It had to be, right? Mickey must’ve been using you, there was no other explanation for it. Except for the fact that you were truly of no use to him. He didn’t need you to get close to Sidney - you’d met her through him to begin with. You weren’t some genius mastermind he could use to help with his plans, and he hadn’t even used you as an alibi. Maybe you were just a bit of fun on the side, a silly little plaything to keep him occupied whilst he wasn’t actively on his murder spree.

But it felt all too real. You think back to the times you were laying on Mickey’s chest, watching bad action movies whilst he picked them apart the entire time. The times he’d stayed up all night to help you with some last minute essay you’d had due the next day. What reason would he have to to do all of that?

Unless he truly did love you. That somehow is even worse. It means that adored you as much as he claimed he did yet he still did what he did; he threw your entire relationship away over some stupid fucking trial. The infamy obviously meant more to him than you ever did.

Everything about this is so damn unfair. You want to scream. You want to sink to your knees and sob. You want to bring Mickey back to life so you can kill him all over again yourself. You want him to hold you close and whisper into your ear that it’s all going to be okay.

You want your boyfriend back.

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 4) Chapter Three

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Three: Absolute Silence

Summary: Sherlock and (Y/N) avoid their old investigation and are given a "new" case.

A few months later…

            “Five of them now?” said Lestrade, trying to offer conversation for some reason.

            (Y/N) and Sherlock were too busy for that now, reaching the end of another case they’d taken and recently solved. They held a book between them and carefully read the section that held the answers to the mystery.

            “All the same, every one of ‘em,” said Lestrade, still talking about…something. ((Y/N) wasn’t paying attention yet).

            “Hush, please, this is a matter of supreme importance,” said Sherlock.

            “What is?” said Lestrade.

            “The obliquity of the ecliptic,” said (Y/N) in a tone that said it should have answered the question (but it didn’t).

            “What is it?” said Lestrade.

            “We don’t know. We’re still trying to understand it,” said (Y/N).

            “I thought you understood everything,” said Lestrade.

            “Of course not,” said Sherlock. “That would be an appalling waste of brain space. I specialize.”

            “I don’t,” said (Y/N).

            “You self-select to only remember your special interests so you don’t need to delete anything,” said Sherlock.

            “Ah, right,” said (Y/N), nodding. That much was true. Anything that didn’t fit with their research was brushed aside before it had a chance to settle anywhere in their mind.

            “And what’s so important about this?” said Lestrade.

            “What’s so important about five boring murders?” said Sherlock.

            “They’re not boring. Five men dead,” said Lestrade indignantly. “Murdered in their own homes, rice on the floor, like at a wedding, and the word ‘you’ written in blood on the wall! It’s her, it’s the bride! Somehow, she’s risen again.”

            At this point, (Y/N) was fairly certain that if they could find a hint of accomplices, their theory would be 100% correct—this had to be the work of multiple individuals and involved people pretending to be Emelia Ricoletti, risen from the dead. Fear was helpful when creating a mystery to distract from truth.

            “Solved those,” said Sherlock.

            “You can’t have solved those!” exclaimed Lestrade.

            “Of course I’ve solved it. It’s perfectly simple,” said Sherlock. “The incident of the mysterious Mrs. Ricoletti, the killer from beyond the grave, has been widely reported in the popular press. Now people are disguising their own dull little murders as the work of a ghost to confuse the impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard. There you are, solved.”

            “I agree, it’s people pretending to be Emelia Ricoletti,” said (Y/N). They leaned back and looked at Sherlock. “But we shouldn’t excuse the idea that her seeming to rise from the dead and the subsequent murders are linked.”

            Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked at them. They had a frustrating point, which Sherlock detested because it meant the case wasn’t completely solved (but he was proud of (Y/N). They were growing so smart).

            “Fair point,” said Sherlock. “Lestrade, go away and investigate properly instead of trying to arrest a ghost. When you have an actual case, come back.” He waved a hand. “And say something to Mrs. Hudson on your way out, she likes to feel involved.”

            “You sure?” said Lestrade, still nervous about Emelia.

            “Yes,” said Sherlock shortly.

            (Y/N) nodded. They were sure about part of the case, anyway. They hoped to get the chance to investigate more soon, but they couldn’t just leave Sherlock behind to sneak around on their own—not yet, anyway. They were still learning.

            “Come along, (Y/N), we have an appointment,” said Sherlock.

            And besides, (Y/N) liked being with their dad.

l

            “The what of the what?” said John, staring at (Y/N) and Sherlock as the coach rattled down the streets of London.

            “The obliquity of the ecliptic,” said (Y/N) again.

            “ ‘Come at once,’ you said, Sherlock, and I assumed it was important,” groaned John.

            “It is. It’s the inclination of the Earth’s equator to the path of the sun on the celestial plane,” said Sherlock.

            “You’ve been swatting up,” scoffed John.

            “Why would I do that?” said Sherlock.

            “To sound clever,” said John.

            “I am clever,” retorted Sherlock.

            “We learned it to solve a case,” said (Y/N). “Very helpful.”

            “Hm.” John raised a brow. “I see.”

            “See what?” said Sherlock.

            “I deduce we are on our way to see someone cleverer than you,” said John.

            “Shut up.” Sherlock scowled.

            “I still don’t think he is. He just doesn’t do anything except order people around. That hardly makes someone clever,” said (Y/N). “And when he does know more than us, he’s used spies.”

            Sherlock found himself smiling at (Y/N)’s loyal support. He had a great kid.

l

            (Y/N), Sherlock, and John walked into The Diogenes Club. Sherlock walked to the clerk and began to sign.

            “Good morning, Wilder,” signed Sherlock.

            “Hello,” signed (Y/N).

            “Is my brother in?” asked Sherlock.

            “Naturally, sir. It’s breakfast time,” said Wilder.

            “The Stranger’s Room?” said (Y/N).

            “Yes, sir.” Wilder nodded.

            “This gentleman is our guest,” signed Sherlock. (Y/N) had come enough times that the workers recognized them so they didn’t need to be Sherlock’s guests(they were practically a Holmes, and that name opened doors here).

            “Ah, yes. Dr. Watson, of course. Enjoyed the ‘Blue Carbuncle,’ sir,” signed Wilder.

            Watson stared blankly, and Sherlock nudged him in the side.

            Awkwardly, Watson began to sign. “Thank you. I…am…glad…you…liked it. You are very…ugly.”

            (Y/N) and Sherlock had nodded up until then. Obviously, Watson had fumbled and used the wrong sign.

            “I beg your pardon?” said Wilder.

            “Ugly. What you said about the ‘Blue Fishmonger,’ ” fumbled Watson. “Very ugly. I am glad you liked my potato.”

            “You need work,” signed (Y/N) to Watson.

            “To much time spent on dance lessons,” added Sherlock.

            “Sorry, what?” said Watson aloud. Everyone winced. “Oh.”

            Sherlock and (Y/N) just walked away, and Watson quickly followed. They headed into the Stranger’s Room where a man sat in an armchair surrounded by foods of all kinds.

            “To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot,” said Mycroft.

            “Handy, really, as your ever-expanding backside is permanently glued to it,” remarked Sherlock. “Good morning, brother mine.”

            “Sherlock. (Y/N). Dr. Watson,” greeted Mycroft. He extended a hand, and John shook it.

            “You look well, sir,” said John, lying.

            “Really?” said Mycroft. “I rather thought I looked enormous.”

            “Well, now you mention it, this level consumption is incredibly injurious to your health,” said John. “Your heart—”

            “No need to worry on that score, Watson,” said Sherlock. “There’s only a large cavity where that organ should reside.”

            “It’s a family trait,” said Mycroft. “Though it didn’t seem to take in Sherlock.” Anyone who knew him could sense the care Sherlock held for (Y/N), his kid.

            “If you continue like this, sir, I give you five years at the most,” said John.

            “Five? We thought three, did we not, Sherlock?” said Mycroft.

            “I’m still inclined to four,” said Sherlock.

            “Three years, seven months,” said (Y/N).

            “As ever, you see, but you do not observe,” tutted Mycroft. “Note the discoloration in the whites of my eyes, the visible rings of fat around the cornea.”

            “Yes, you’re right,” said Sherlock. “I’m changing my bet to three years, four months, and eleven days.”

            “I was right last time, then, so someone owes me candy,” said (Y/N).

            “What’s your new bet first?” said Mycroft.

            “A bet?!” hissed John.

            “I understand your disapproval, Watson,” said Sherlock. “But if he’s feeling competitive, it’s perfectly within his power to die early.”

            “That’s a risk you’ll have to take,” said Mycroft.

            The words felt…strangely powerful and like they applied not him but to Sherlock. (Y/N) cocked their head.

            “You’re gambling with your own life,” said John.

            “Why not? It’s so much more exciting than gambling with others’,” said Mycroft.

            “Three years flat if you eat plum pudding, said Sherlock.

            “Done,” said Mycroft, picking it up immediately.

            “Two years, eleven months, three days,” said (Y/N).

            John groaned and refused to speak to any of them until Mycroft finished eating and they were served tea.

            “I expected to see you a few days ago about the Manor House case,” said Mycroft. “I thought you might be a little out of your depth there.”

            “No, I solved it,” said Sherlock, offended.

            “It was Adams, of course,” said Mycroft.

            “Yes,” said (Y/N).

            “Murderous jealousy,” said Mycroft. “He’d written a paper for the Royal Astronomical Society on the obliquity of the ecliptic. And then read another that seemed to surpass it.”

            “We know. We read it,” said Sherlock.

            “Did you understand it?” said Mycroft.

            “Of course,” said (Y/N), nodding honestly.

            “It perfectly simple,” said Sherlock.

            “No, did you understand the murderous jealousy?” said Mycroft. “It is no easy thing for a great mind to contemplate a still greater one.” Clearly, that was a dig at Sherlock.

            “Is that why you dislike our visits?” said (Y/N), a snakelike smirk flitting across their features for barely a moment.

            A shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine, and an old name echoed in his mind while the lights seemed to brighten and his head ached. He blinked, and everything focused. John smothered a cough at (Y/N)’s insult, and Mycroft’s expression was a cross between irritated and amused.

            “Would you explain quite simply why you did invite us?” said Sherlock. “I assume it was not just to insult me.” He knew (Y/N) wasn’t being insulted since he had made it clear long ago that they were off limits, and Mycroft knew that pushing his family only proved dangerous.

            “Our way of life is under threat from an invisible enemy,” said Mycroft. “One that hovers at our elbow on a daily basis. These enemies are everywhere, undetected, and unstoppable.”

            “Socialists?” said John, leaning forward.

            “Not socialists, Doctor, no,” said Mycroft.

            “Anarchists?”

            “No.”

            “The French?”

            “No.”

            “The suffragists?”

            “Is there any large body of people you’re not concerned about?” said Mycroft.

            (Y/N) noted the lack of a “no.” Interesting. The suffragists are a group of women fighting for the right to vote—for equality—and are ignored. They would fit. But so would so many marginalized people. Still, it was likely a group with such characteristics.

            “Dr. Watson is endlessly vigilant,” said Sherlock. “Elaborate.”

            “No, investigate,” said Mycroft. “This is a conjecture of mine. I need you to confirm it. I’m sending you a case.”

            “The Scots,” interjected John.

            “Watson, this is hardly helpful,” said (Y/N).

            “Are you aware of recent theories concerning what is know as paranoia?” remarked Mycroft.

            “Sounds Serbian,” said John.

            Sherlock and (Y/N) exchanged looks.

            “A woman will call on you. Lady Carmichael,” said Mycroft. “I want you to take her case.”

            “But these enemies, how are we to defeat them if you won’t tell us about them?” said John.

            “We don’t defeat them,” said Mycroft. “We must certainly lose to them.”

            “Why?” said John, confused.

            “Because they are right,” said Mycroft mysteriously. “And we are wrong.”

            So likely a marginalized group looking for change, thought (Y/N).

            “Rest assured, it has features of interest,” said Mycroft.

            “Do I truly say that?” said Sherlock, already sighing. He looked at Mycroft. “And you’ve solved it already, I presume?”

            “Only in my head,” said Mycroft. “I need you for the, uh, legwork.”

            “Why not just tell us the solution?” said John.

            “Where’d be the sport in that?” said Mycroft. “Besides, it’s simple enough.” He looked at (Y/N). “When you’re clever, you put it together easily.”

            (Y/N) cocked their head. They wondered if Mycroft was trying to say something to them. Unfortunately for him, subtext was not the way to communicate with them.

            “Will you do it, Sherlock, (Y/N)?” said Mycroft. “I can promise you a superior distraction.

            “On one condition,” said Sherlock. “Have another plum pudding.”

            “There’s one on the way,” said Mycroft sportingly.

            “Two years, eleven months, and four days,” said Sherlock.

            “Two years, nine months, twenty-one days,” said (Y/N).

            John rolled his eyes.

Taglist:

@stilesstilinskiforlife-blog

@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

@awsedrftgyhujikol

@lxserthxngzzz

@forever1313

@mentallyunstablemanlover

@roo024

[webism]

okay this ask is going to be an amalgamation of my stupid stupid thoughts first of all — you KNOW how i feel about slasher toji. GOOD LORD. he puts on the ghostface mask n shit and i cum on the spot. he would definitely go around the neighborhood scaring kids (sukuna as well but WE'LL GET TO HIM). toji probably would end up just wearing the outfit for fun around halloween and scare the absolute shit out of his.. uh.... "clients". he'll be a bit more brutal than usual bc he's really FEELIN the murder. then his ass busts right into our house. for some reason i believe he should just happen to walk in when our poor reader is masturbating. uh oh! murderer! in your house! with blood all over him! and your fingers are knuckle deep in that pussy! guess he should... help out! now this next one is gonna sound crazy. KENTO NANAMI AND HIROMI HIGURUMA. they are a bonded pair do not seperate in my mind soo obviously. i would like to note higuruma's whole THNIG is him snapping from his job.... what if he went MURDERER from that. (which he technically did in jjk.... just under the culling games??). kento was originally supposed to be the same, so lets just. make him a little crazier. these men are GENTLEMEN they are very PROPER and very NICE. until it's night time and they go wild. that's just my general thoughts abt those two because if i went into the sex we would be here for another 2k words. sukuna.... okay, he's more or less the same. slap that cutesy little mask on his face and WOW. We've gone over this one. he fucks nasty. KNIFEPLAY good morning KNIFEPLAY umm i have so many words on this. it's a BIIIT of temp play too but mostly knifeplay. he's definitely holding a knife to your throat while fucking doggy. cuz he's like that. and i'm into that. i would type a whole paragraph abt yuki but i have like nothing to say. SHES HOT. im her NUMBER ONE SUPPORTER. accomplice in the crimes. everything. my face is in her tits (pretty sure everyone wants that anyways.) for the last part of this message. ino. oh ino.... very bad murderer. he's not very good at his whole schtick. he's probably on the run and ends up in hiding. probably in our dear reader's house or backyard. and how can this killer on the run repay you? um obviously with his monster dick. i'll probably throw in more tomorrow or later. im eepy.

south baby you dont know how much i love u holy SHMOKES youre a godsend i NEEEEEEDED this energy yummy yummy

[scribbleseas]

Straight Laced, Chapter VI: To Be A Fly on the Wall…

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

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

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

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

Author’s Note: Hi! Please pay special attention to these story warnings! This chapter does get slightly intense, and I just want to flag that there is brief choking as well. Please do not hesitate to contact me if you have questions prior to reading this— your health and safety comes before anything I write!

That being said, this chapter was a long time coming! Thank you for being so patient and considerate of my time. You’re the best, and if I knew it would be a little less than 4 months of a wait, I wouldn’t have ended the last chapter like that! But thank you for sticking with me. I love you all, and if I don’t get another chapter out in time, Happy Holidays!

Happy Reading!!

Dan

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

MASTERLIST

November 1, 1895

The New Dance Studio

Ciel Phantomhive lingered in front of his new dance studio’s door for a moment too long. His fingers grazed the copper doorknob, and he ignored the twinge of cold the mental passed to his bare fingertips.

Ciel cringed at himself. It was his bloody estate! He could enter and leave any room he pleased at any bloody time.

Ignoring his reservations, the Earl twisted the knob open and opened the door. His new dance studio was around the same open and opulent size as his study in the main building. It featured floor-to-ceiling mirrors on one wall, and a long barre tracing the perimeter of the rest of the room. Even the floor’s wooden planks were ballet-grade smooth, suitable for the delicate satin the pointe shoes were made of.

Sebastian constructed the studio in a day, but not without loaded glances and annoyingly impish half-smirks aimed at Ciel. The demon wanted to provoke the real motivation behind the estate addition, but Ciel was steadfast. While the noble fixated on the studio being a symbol of his affinity for supporting the arts, the demon had another driving factor in mind. Unfortunately, he understood that even though the dance studio technically belonged to his master, the Lord Phantomhive, it was truly Y/n Y/l/n’s.

Y/n was the first and only person to use the studio. It made sense— Ciel only had it built after she told him about her late-night trips from her dilapidated shack of a home to the company studio. She initially neglected to tell him about these walks out of worry that he would send one of his staff members to escort her during the inane hours. For someone so self-important, Y/n seemed to dislike inconveniencing others.

Ciel offered her an alternative: she could live in his guest wing and practice in a studio paces from her room. He could sleep peacefully at night, decently assured that Y/n was safe, and she could practice when she pleased without having to make a dangerous trek through the unlit backroads of London’s worst.

Besides, Ciel was committed to teaching the woman the basics of chess. He needed more time with her to do so. Besting her over late night tea was beginning to get rather dry.

Y/n was watching herself in the mirror, her lips pursed in a contempt line. There was a hard, frustrated look in her eyes as they followed her moving body. She wore a black leotard and nude stockings that matched her complexion perfectly— if there wasn’t a conspicuous sheen on them, Ciel wouldn’t have noticed they weren’t her bare legs.

He looked away, but he couldn’t will it to last longer than a moment.

Y/n was agile like a swan, her neck elongated gracefully, her arms strong, yet carefully extended and raised. She was practicing a sequence of short steps, her pointe shoes hitting the floor silently as if she were as weightless as a feather.

Of course, Y/n was a decent ballerina. She was the company’s only prima ballerina. Ciel wouldn’t put his most qualified manager in charge of an unimportant department; Natasha wouldn’t put her most talented dancer in the faceless ensemble.

“Yes, Ciel?” Y/n asked, her eyes catching him lingering in the doorway behind her. Sweat ran down her hairline, beading down her forehead. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, her expression softening when he hesitated to speak.

What did he need to tell her?

Ciel came from the main house himself with a reason to speak with her. Normally, he would send Mey-Rin or Sebastian to fetch her when he needed her.

“Speechless? You should walk in on my rehearsals more often,” Y/n winked at him playfully, settling into her patented attitude.

Her winsome demeanor set Ciel’s nerves on fire. It made his cheeks sting, and his palms sweat. His mouth was a desert.

“No. I’m not.” Ciel replied a bit too stiffly, but she didn’t react, used to being in his line of defensive verbal fire. She was rarely bothered, accustomed to his stormy disposition. Still, he cleared his throat, making a haphazard attempt to fix his tone. “We must review tonight’s plan. There can be no mistakes.”

“Of course,” Y/n agreed, but her compliance came too simply. She was never this obedient with him. Where was the negotiation? “But before we do, I need your help.” There it was. Ciel knew her well enough to expect some sort of diversion before getting to work. He supposed that was the trade-off: she was advancing his investigation and he was advancing her career. Ciel’s support gave her enough financial freedom to rely on herself, rather than the sick lips of the men in the foyer.

No one deserves to sell their body to succeed in their career. It was on Ciel’s agenda to inform Her Majesty and extinguish the practice the moment he took William Wood into custody.

The Earl watched her, unsure of what she was referring to. Although he was well-versed in several artistic pursuits, (Sebastian insisted such talents were a requirement of a nobleman of Ciel’s stature) dance was never one of his strengths. After Huntington’s ball, Ciel would have expected Y/n to know that. What could she need him for?

He prompted her answer with a raised eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I need a pianist,” Y/n declared. “Without the music, I cannot keep time,” she motioned to the new upright piano in the corner of the studio. Ciel expected she had her own pianist— the musician working with the whole cast. Unfortunately, he was mistaken. “You play the violin, and Sebastian said you are proficient with the piano?” She pronounced the statement like a question.

Ciel started playing the violin when he was 12, advancing levels by the week. When he turned 13, he already mastered most of Bach’s repertoire. Sebastian taught him the basics of piano and the cello in his late adolescence, but Ciel always preferred the melancholia that he could pull from the violin’s strings. The piano was a delicate creature. Ciel was not.

“I’m passable,” Ciel admitted, briefly wondering if he could complete a C-major scale after being estranged from the instrument for such a long time. “Have you asked Sebastian?”

The ballerina raised her chin in a slight tilt, expecting the question. “He suggested I ask you. According to him, you could use the opportunity to refine your skills,” Y/n smiled impishly, nodding her chin towards the open score on the piano’s stand. “Give it a chance.”

Bloody demon. Ciel should have expected this. Even though his official ‘tutoring’ ended in his 20s, the demon never ignored an opportunity to challenge all of Ciel’s learned abilities. How in the world could piano proficiency make Ciel a better Earl?

Ciel’s gaze returned to Y/n’s expectant look. If she could bounce on her toes in the pointe shoes, he imagined she would have.

The Earl’s resolve melted like thin ice, fracturing with the remnants of his pride pooling around him uselessly. “At least give me a moment to look at the notes,” he acquiesced. With a sigh, he took measured strides towards the Steinway & Sons piano. The open sheet music was the piano variation of the Sugar Plum Fairy Variation. There were several measures already circled in the pen.

“Could you start with the circled measures?” She requested. Ciel hummed in confirmation, noting the key signature and any accidentals to himself. If his butler had bothered to give him any forewarning, Ciel would have prepared his own marked sheet music. But that would have been too simple.

“It is a simple sight reading challenge, my Lord. It should practically be a warm-up after you completed Chopin’s Revolutionary Etude,” Ciel could hear Sebastian’s fastidious accent say. He was a demon— he was choosing to speak like the most pretentious British man — as if he was a purposeful and unsettling caricature of Ciel. Frankly, the Earl wouldn’t put it past the hellspawn.

“Give me a moment,” Ciel mumbled, taking the music off of the stand to give it a closer read. He didn’t moonlight as a pianist— he moonlighted as a bloody detective. The last time he so much as touched ivory keys was when Sebastian was satisfied with his Chopin, and even that was a battle scarcely won. One sharp— F sharp— means the piece is in G major. Bloody hell, there have to be over ten accidentals just in the first few lines of music.

Two beats per measure; quarter notes receive one count, Ciel started the count in his head, longing for a metronome. How was she practicing— rehearsing — without music or a metronome?

“Ready?” Y/n prompted, spreading her arms and entering the first of many small steps in the choreography. It was the same move Ciel watched her practice from the threshold. He shook his head to focus, his fingers finding the left-hand chord to keep up with the rhythm

Sebastian was perfectly capable of playing this variation himself. He could have played it with his eyes closed. For all Ciel knew, the butler was alive when Tchaikovsky was composing it. He could have played the notes perfectly — without danger of distraction.

Ciel attempted to focus on either the score on the stand or his fingers dancing on the keys, but he couldn’t help but watch Y/n. Her movements were fluid and confident. They were regal, just as a fairy queen ought to be. Anyone could see that she looked the part, surely.

The Earl tensed, noticing that his rhythm was falling behind because of his staring. Y/n was seasoned enough to ignore his fumbling and execute her steps without any semblance of hesitation. For the first time, she was in control, leaving Ciel to fumble behind her. After all, he was out of his depth for once— an expert violinist before a novice pianist.

Y/n embodied The Sugar Plum Fairy— mind and soul. She was technically flawless from Ciel’s perspective, though he was admitted under qualified to make that observation. What Ciel was, however, was a skilled actor. A liar.

Y/n was a masterful actress. She was no liar.

“One more time,” the ballerina requested, ending the song in a still position. Her arms stretched towards the ceiling, her back rounded, and her left leg poised behind her right. Despite her stillness, her chest fluttered with active inhales and exhales, attempting to steady her racing heart. Ciel noted the sheen of sweat shining on her forehead and her wild smile. “Please, Ciel. This was the best my pas de bourreé has ever been.”

Pas de bourreé translates to beating steps. Ciel assumed the term referred to the number’s starting steps.

Knowing Y/n, Ciel would be stuck there for the rest of the day, replaying the music until she ensured that the proper movement became second nature, laced in her muscles as intimately as walking. Strangely, he appreciated the catharsis that came out of playing an instrument and glancing up at her. Until that day, he never bothered to watch her nightly performances, opting to pretend he did for their societal audience. Now…he understood why Natasha picked her to be the principal dancer over Maisie and Rose. There was no detaching his gaze from her.

“Fine. Once more,” Ciel relented, making a considerable effort to seem more bothered than he truly was. He couldn’t have her assume she could disrupt his work schedule at any point she pleased. That would be preposterous— Ciel had a business to head, an earldom to cultivate, a murder mystery to solve. He was no pianist, slaving away for someone like…her.

Despite himself, the Earl turned his sheet music back to the circled measures at the beginning of the piece. His fingers resettled on the chords.

A satisfied grin replaced Y/n’s wide-eyed pleading. She took her earlier position and counted down, syncing her dancing with Ciel’s music.

Her gentle grace reminded him of a music box’s porcelain ballerina spinning within a fixed pirouette. Lizzie’s old jewelry box had a fixture like it.

Ciel tensed, his mood souring. Lizzie — Elizabeth Midford — was the woman he was betrothed to until her family ended the arrangement two years ago. Now, she was Elizabeth Livingstone-Midford, settling with Charles Livingstone, the next Earl of Sherwood. They fell in love at her brother’s wedding, and Elizabeth grew tired of Ciel’s lack of courtship. She decided that failing to secure a ring from Ciel after they reached their 20s was a personal failure. In truth, Ciel had other concerns.

And that’s what exposed their fault lines: she wanted the only thing Ciel couldn’t buy for her. Intimacy. Love. Appreciation. If such feelings were purchasable, he would’ve run himself into poverty.

Her leaving him was an embarrassment as well as an inconvenience, but he supposed his cousin deserved to be with a man who truly loved her as a wife. Both Ciel and Lizzie knew that the best he could offer her was a lukewarm marriage that would keep her well-provided.

Distracted, Ciel missed a note. He struggled to recover, losing where he left off in the measures, leaving a pregnant pause where the soft variation used to play.

“Are you alright?” Y/n paused as well, using the break to roll her shoulders back.

Ciel glanced upward at her concerned expression, allowing his anger to melt. He was better off alone; without a fiancée to coerce him into demeaning himself into love, or any sort of construction of it. He was incapable. He would forever be incapable.

Any love, could and would inevitably be a loss. That was his life, his punishment, his purgatory.

“Just fine,” Ciel replied, swallowing down the forming lump in his throat with surprising ease. “Though we do need to review my plan.”

Y/n rolled her eyes. “I can assure you, I am well acquainted with our plan.”

Lizzie deserved to have the passionate love she craved. Ciel deserved to be alone, his only form of care towards him being a starving demon who was protecting his hard-earned meal.

Impatient with his silence, Y/n took measured steps towards him, stopping to lean on the piano from the side. “It is nearly this close. Do me this small favor,” she displayed a small gap between her thumb and index finger, putting her hand in front of his face. He couldn’t help the derisive snort that punctuated his diaphragm and his smile. He needed to twist into a begrudging smirk that lifted the side of his mouth instead.

Our plan.

“Again, Ciel!” She snapped, her thumb snapping against her middle finger centimeters from his nose. He hadn’t noticed how close she was.

“Fine. Get your filthy hand out of my face,’ Ciel ordered without any real venom. He found himself obeying her, his fingers re-settling to the piece’s beginning chords. A few minutes longer wouldn’t hurt. In all fairness, some of the plans sprung from her impulsive head.

The Same Day, Late Evening

The Woods’ Southampton Country House

William and Natasha’s country home was unimpressive, to say the least. There were two mid-sized buildings on the estate, neither was particularly well-kept. Dead and dying decorative plants spilled over the walkways and the perimeters, and unsightly moss grew up the cobblestone walls.

“I have to wonder,” Ciel mused, “Miss Y/l/n’s company is the most prominent in all of England; Mr. Wood should have the revenue to support his full real estate portfolio’s upkeep full-time.”

“You would think so, sir,” Sebastian agreed. “This is the only property of Mr. Wood’s that he does not have fully staffed.” The demon opened the front door for Ciel, having unlocked it from the inside. Ciel locked it behind him once more, surveying the open space.

“Start down here. Let me know if there is anything of note. If you find nothing, catch up with Y/n. Stay with her and out of sight— do not kill William or show yourself unless the situation absolutely demands it,” Ciel directed. He could handle himself— years of self-defense under Sebastian were life-changing. Gone were the days when his demon butler would handle him like a defenseless child or a damsel in need of saving. There was nearly nothing he detested more, at the time. Ciel was a master marksman and he towered over most (human) men. He was the Earl of Phantomhive.

He had a Nagant Revolver in the depths of his winter jacket’s pocket; and more importantly, himself.

Besides, Ciel needed Sebastian to keep watch over Y/n. There was no way to guarantee William was honest when he told Y/n that his carriage driver would bring her down to Southampton with him. Ciel didn’t like the variables, the possibility that he could be taking her somewhere remote to kill her or worse. Sebastian could protect her with less than half of his strength. William wouldn’t be able to so much as lay a threatening hand on her.

“Yes, sir,” Sebastian bowed his head, a gesture that was significantly less impactful, given that they stood around the same heights now.

Ciel nodded in acknowledgment, starting towards the staircase to find the master bedroom. He paused to turn back and look at Sebastian, his foot stationery on the first step up.

“And Sebastian— protect her as if you would myself,” Ciel said, quickly clarifying his words before the demon could ask. “That is a direct order.”

“If I couldn’t do at least that much for my master, what kind of butler would I be?” Sebastian questioned, red eyes sparkling in the low light. The orange sunset streamed in from between the curtains.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Sebastian,” he replied, ignoring the demon’s playfulness. From the amusement tugging at the demon’s lips, there was clearly a joke with Ciel at the butt of it. He didn’t care to find out what the punchline was, nor did he want to.

The Earl started up the stairs once more, starting his search. To his surprise, there was nothing noteworthy in the master bedroom. There were old summer ensembles belonging to both William and Natasha, few valuables, few personal items. There was a light screen of dust over all of the surfaces, nothing to hide behind the paintings, and no locked drawers.

The first guest room Ciel passed was the same. Nothing to note.

There was nothing in the study, in the miniature drawing room, the master bathroom. The belongings present were minimal; most of them belonged to William, and nothing recognizably expensive. The place might as well have been abandoned… until Ciel found the guest room at the end of the hall.

The guest room was full stocked with winter clothing, a departure from the worn summer ensembles left in the main room. Expensive watches waited in one of the drawers, thick belts in another. There was no dust on the furniture.

Two matching wine glasses and an unopened bottle of 1890 Chateau Latour.

Y/n would detest that selection. She favored sweet wine. Ciel scowled at the bottle, picking it up. It was more expensive than William’s watches combined. It was a waste. It was a rubbish selection to match the maggot of a man that William was. How fitting. How unseemly.

Ciel opened the drawer at the bottom of the dresser, kneeling on the floor to steady himself. He sifted through the assortment of socks and hastily balled trousers until he found a…hammer?

The tool was rusty, the face double sided. Although the hammer didn’t appear to be a murder weapon, that didn’t make it innocent. Sebastian had made a point to say that Janet Fisher’s head injury was circular as if she was struck by a hammer. Could this be the same tool?

Ciel used the clean handkerchief in his pocket to pick up the tool, keeping any potential prints or fibers on his gloves from infecting the evidence. He squinted, inspected the tool’s head. Some of the metal seemed cleaner than others, the rust clearer in specific spots.

The sound of a distant door opening and closing redirected Ciel’s attention. Y/n and William arrived; Sebastian was back on the property. Most likely, they would be up the stairs in seconds. Ciel ordered the demon to stay out of sight, only to intervene in the event Y/n used her safe word or was rendered incapable to do so.

Without another thought, Ciel put the hammer back in the drawer, closed it, and stepped into the wardrobe set against the wall. He settled into a crouch among the hanging jackets, and left the closet doors slightly ajar to give him a view of the scene unfolding in front of him. Seconds after settling into his position, the bedroom door opened once more, revealing Y/n with William close behind her. His predatory eyes were locked on her backside as she walked in, tugging him along by his suit tie.

Ciel’s fingers curled around his handgun’s grip, tempted, but he left the firearm comfortably in his pocket.

“Thank you again for joining me, tonight. You’re beautiful, Prima,” William said, flourishing the nickname like a clever inside joke that he was proud of making. She was the prima ballerina— that was about as clever as any brain dead scoundrel could get.

Y/n smiled, her accompanying giggle was artificial. It was practiced in a way that sated Ciel, somewhat. Her lipstick was faded; the face makeup sparse on the top of her nose. “It is a privilege to be here. With you,” the addition was a beat off. She made a show of releasing William’s tie, letting her hand run down his chest slowly until it made a strategic stop inches above his belt.

Predictably, her gaze recaptured the door and the window next to the queen-sized bed from over her shoulder.

Ciel told her to identify an alternative escape route immediately upon stepping foot in a fully enclosed room, positioned away from the most obvious way out.

“Don’t be so coy,” William said in reference to her wandering gaze. His lips were unnaturally pink, his curly hair relatively amiss, as if fingers were running through it seconds ago. Ciel found where Y/n’s face makeup smeared on William’s face. “Give me your jacket. Sit.”

Y/n shouldered off the long winter coat Ciel bought for her, watching warily as William laid it over the loveseat in the corner of the room. He left his coat splayed across the seat with hers. They were about a month away from winter, and all she had to keep warm was a sweater. She would’ve caught a cold in under a week.

Y/n sat on the edge of the bed, straightening her back to exaggerate the curve of her neck and pronounced collarbones. She watched William through her long eyelashes, more than aware of what she was doing. Enchanting him. Convincing him.

Playing him.

“What if I took off some more?” she questioned, voice dipping low into that of a temptress’. She crossed a defined leg over the other, toying with a leotard strap on her shoulder. There was a long tear in her tights that ran up the leg. Ciel wondered if that was William’s doing. It had to be. From what Y/n told him, Natasha would never allow one of her dances to perform in a ripped pair of stockings.

Ciel felt his face heat. His heartbeat picked up. He couldn’t focus on her legs like this.

“I think I would prefer that honor,” William smiled, pulling his wedding band off of his finger and leaving it on the dresser. He made quick work of unbuttoning his shirt, shouldering it off, and letting it fall to the ground carelessly. While Ciel fixated on William across the room, he couldn’t see Y/n through the gap in the wardrobe doors until William came closer to her.

William stalked closer to the bed. “Sit back— that’s it— perfect, doll,” he praised, claiming every inch of space that Y/n relinquished to him. He settled between her legs, allowing her to lay flat on her back.

Ciel felt his pulse augment in his ears. It was rapid, sickening. A foreign class of adrenaline that could only be early arousal. It was embarrassing, but not surprising. While Ciel could easily deny feeling any genuine sexual attraction to anyone up until this moment, he wasn’t inexperienced. He, like his butler, wasn’t innocent of using untoward approaches to gather information, when the situation demanded. Sometimes, women were easier to persuade when he convinced them that he cared about them. That in of itself often escalated to sex, or something close to it, at the very least.

From this angle, Ciel could only see Y/n legs spread to accommodate William's body between them. He could only hear their quivering breaths, the bedspread rustling underneath the weight of their bodies.

Ciel’s pants tightened against his will, a far cry from being part of his plan.

“Of course, you’re flexible,” William grunted. Y/n moaned in response. “Undo my belt,” he ordered, his following sigh suggesting that Y/n did as he asked.

If Ciel knew Y/n, she was reaching her limit. She knew what she needed to say. He asked her to confirm her understanding repeatedly.

“Mr. Wood, wait,” the ballerina started, likely between intense liplock, given the way his hands presumably flew from her hips to hold her head in place.

“Say it in French,” William teased, ignoring the palpable concern in her voice. Was she acting? Or truly concerned? Ciel had deliberately said they would need to let the situation escalate as much as possible for this plan to work as they desired. That’s why she was armed with a safe word— a clear hint that her boundaries were being trampled. Ciel hadn’t expected himself to be a fly on the wall, (or in the closet, rather) and initially, the word was supposed to trigger Sebastian to interfere.

There was a sharp ache in the bottom of Ciel’s abdomen, reminding him of his untended arousal. It was now beginning to die off, unnerved by the alarm Y/n conveyed and an album of repressed memories.

“I— you are married! To my director!” Y/n exclaimed, now squirming under William’s body weight, but to no avail. “We can still stop! Stop! My leotard!” Ciel heard fabric rip.

“My marriage didn’t seem to stop you before, now did it? Not in your dressing room yesterday, and not in the carriage,” William’s voice was alarmingly aloof. Ciel unlocked his gun before hesitating and relocking. Shooting William while he was wrestling her into submission was too dangerous— the bullet could hit Y/n.

“What? You don’t want to be the guilty party anymore? Tired of begging for little scraps of attention to fuel your thoughtless little head?” he demanded. “Answer me!”

Say it, Y/n.

“Get off of me!” The sharp sound of a slap pierced the room, followed by a grunt. “You bitch! Why in the hell do you all do this then?” William yelled.

“Stop!” The word was laced with fear.

Say the word and I will get you out.

“Listen to me: I will ruin you. You will be out of a job. Poor— dirt poor— living on the side of the road until this is all you’re good for. What don’t you understand about this arrangement?” William asked, feral with violence. He sounded like he was gritting his teeth, exerting excess force. “I suppose I thought you already understood that it doesn’t matter what you want when I want you.”

“Nutcracker!” Y/n rasped, her voice sounding lightly compressed as if she was choking.

Before Ciel realized he was moving, he had William pinned against the door by his neck, the nose of his handgun pressed against the businessman’s pulsepoint. He was taller than William by several centimeters, pinning him was truly effortless, even if physical endurance was far from one of Ciel’s strengths.

“What the hell is this?” William demanded, starting to struggle against Ciel’s grip, but freezing once he realized the gun against his jugular. “Phantomhive?! But—”

“Move, and your brain matter stains your carpet,” Ciel hissed. He could vaguely hear Y/n coughing behind him, Sebastian appearing now that she used her safe word. That told Ciel the Yard was waiting for them outside, and his butler opted to allow Ciel restrain William and tend to the ballerina instead. “William Wood, you are under arrest for the murder of Amelie Langston, Janet Fischer, Eliza O’Malley, Harriet White, Analisse Sterling…” Ciel didn’t know he memorized all of the victim’s names. He knew them as the names he spent hours staring at, searching for answers within them, parsing their lives, their habits, their relationships.

As he understood it: they most likely died at the hands of a greedy, lustful, man.

“Murder?” Surprise replaced the frustration in William’s voice, indignation that he was caught. He was going to rot in jail for the rest of his pathetic life. “But I didn’t kill anyone…!” he started to insist, attempting to turn to look at Ciel. “All I did was…” he started, before stopping himself, pursing his thin lips tightly. Even William knew better than to offer a confession of any kind.

“Sebastian, take him outside,” Ciel ordered, fighting the satisfaction that threatened to show in his face. William was caught, Y/n was unharmed, they managed to put a stop to the killings. He won.

“Don’t think you’re so righteous, Prima!” William called over his shoulder, despite the demon urging him out the door. Sebastian had his arms pinned behind him in handcuffs, the man’s arms speckled with gooseflesh, given that his shift remained on the floor. “You’re still a glorified whore! Let’s see how Lord Phantomhive decides to have you help him out next, yeah?”

Ciel ignored a distant throb of guilt, recalling how easy it was to focus on Y/n’s seductiveness.

Y/n merely shrugged at William, appearing unaffected by his taunts. The principal dancer was indeed tougher than she appeared, her main concern appearing to be her ripped leotard as she wrinkled her nose at the broken strap on her shoulder. Despite her steady disposition, her shoulders noticeably relaxed once Sebastian drove the manager out of his own guest room.

“Are you alright?” Ciel demanded, ensuring his handgun was locked before slipping it back into his pocket. He offered Y/n her jacket, holding the outside steady for her while she put her arms through. She worked the jacket buttons through their holes.

‘Fine. Though, I cannot say the same for my poor ensemble,” she said, struggling haplessly. Her clothes were of the least concern; Ciel could buy her as many new leotards as she desired, but there was no purchasing a new prima ballerina. “That being said…” she paused dramatically, “I told you my plan would work!” A mischievous smile pulled at her lips.

Ciel rolled his eyes. The teasing and her winsome smirking reinforced that she truly was fine, rather than posturing to be. Being in a stressful situation such as hers, even if it was staged, put the human body through a lot of stress.

“Our plan was successful,” Ciel amended. “We should take our leave. I must bring the evidence I found to the Yard for further analysis,” he added, returning to the front dresser to take the hammer to the officers on their way out. That hammer was the evidence they needed to implicate William as the murderer with their combined testimony more than enough to convict him as a rapist.

They won.

Later That Night

The Terrace

“For the last time, I am fine. It was barely 15 seconds,” Y/n said, referring to his wary gaze on her neck. For the umpteenth time, he was searching for marks or leftover redness, but to no avail. Sebastian put a cold compress on her neck the moment they returned to the estate, and as she said, William wasn’t applying pressure for longer than 20 seconds, at the most.

They were sitting out on the back terrace. Y/n convinced him to celebrate solving their case together, despite the late hour. Normally, she was begging him to let her sleep after her long, athletic days, but now, she was essentially holding him hostage in the cold.

Ciel nursed a tea while Y/n brandished a wine bottle, a selection that was probably from his wine cellar. She liked sweet French wine, and Ciel was begrudgingly thankful for her assistance with this case. Simple as that.

“I thought you were awaiting dessert from Sebastian?” he asked, not blind to Y/n poor eating habits. She was an athlete; she had to eat.

“Ciel, this is my dessert. We are celebrating, no?” Y/n grinned, shaking her chilled bottle of Quarts de Chaume wine. She pulled the cork off the bottle and took a long drink from its contents from the bottle.

Y/n didn’t so much as shutter from the heavy gulps of sweet wine. Instead, she took a long inhale and released it back through her nose slowly, rolling her shoulders back as if the alcohol rejuvenated her. The ballerina extended the bottle towards the Earl, offering him a drink.

Sensing his hesitation, the principal dancer laughed to herself. “Let go. We already won,” she shifted in her seat to face him properly. Y/n extinguished her dying cigar under her boot heel, satisfied with the long drags she took from it. That’s why they opted to sit outside— the smell of smoke used to give him horrific flashbacks. While he still felt on edge, now the cigar smell was forever associated with the woman next to him. It was unpredictable, but it was safer.

I am the Earl of Phantomhive.

“Ciel,” Y/n said, leaning in closer to him. They were already sitting uncharacteristically close, but now Ciel could smell the rose oil she put in her hair. She said it made her hair easier to pull into ballerina buns every day.

“You think too much,” the dancer insisted, continuing to offer him the wine bottle. Ciel’s fingers closed around it before he could ponder over the action any more. He detested drinking— the way alcohol forced him to surrender his rational thought and lock away his strategic mind. How it made him act on impulse— essentially thoughtless.

He had to think— it was all he was. He had to think from the moment he was saved by a demon and dispensed into the life of an adult.

There was no way a night with Y/n, wine, and the exhilaration granted by a fresh victory could end well. It wasn’t possible— especially not after the way he felt in that wardrobe. Ciel was smart enough to realize that. He was too close to her, he was caring too much, he was thinking too much.

The Earl’s fingers curled around the bottle. He gave it a final questioning look before drinking it with the same vigor Y/n did, welcoming the notes of honey, tangy pineapple, and lime. It was no question why Y/n favored this selection, Ciel could only taste a distant sting of fermented wine.

“Amazing, is it not?” Y/n asked, her stare softer than he’d ever seen it. She made no effort to move away from him, and more curiously, Ciel had no desire to create that distance himself. “I would say I have decent taste,” she shrugged, reaching for the bottle.

“Acceptable, I would say,” Ciel replied. Before he returned it, he took a longer drink out of it, feeling a long shiver travel down his spine.

“Acceptable? Please,” Y/n took an indignant drink, purposefully maintaining eye contact to prove her point. “You are no tastemaker; I have tried Funtom’s chocolates,” she snickered, knowing that the simplest way to irritate the Earl was by insulting his title or his busines

As much as it swung as his pride to admit, Y/n was instrumental in solving the case. She led them to Alexander Huntington with her tip, discovered that William Wood was a rapist, and convinced Ciel to support a successful plan to arrest him. Without her, Ciel would have taken much longer to solve the case, resulting in the deaths of plenty more dancers.

Y/n saved the rest of her company members’ lives, and quite frankly, her own.

“I do admit you were instrumental. I did need you. Why else would I have left my phone number in your dressing room?” Ciel asked, surprising both Y/n and himself. He had Sebastian adhere his office number on Y/n’s dressing room mirror in such a way that it was irremovable. Although Ciel hadn’t predicted her to use it in an emergency situation, he was prepared to make another offer to incentivize her to work with him. Her participation was essential, given that he couldn’t put himself undercover in a ballet company. Ciel drew the line at pretending to be a circus talent.

As his stomach plummeted to the ground, Y/n’s face was serious, startled by his admission, and then she was pleased, her eyebrows drawing together in an appreciative pout. In a moment of new vulnerability that he had never seen dawned on her face, she was flustered. It was a certain appreciation he had never experienced from her— or anyone. He took a drink, but left the bottle on the side table next to the sofa, more focused on Y/n.

She was leaning in closer to Ciel, gradually enough for him to pull away if he wanted. He made no effort to move, tilting his head to meet hers. Their lips met tenderly, molding to accommodate one another instantaneously. Her lips tasted like Quarts de Chaume, he could feel her quivering exhale on his lip.

Y/n’s body leaned towards him from the side, Ciel’s hand tentatively falling down her back and stopping in the middle. They needed to move inside, but he didn’t care. Not when she leaned into his touch, softening like clay against him. Her fingers laced through his hair as she settled into his lap, freshly changed into drawers, an oversized nightshirt, and stockings that stopped high on her thighs. While young women were supposed to wear long nightgowns, she long expressed her discomfort in them.

“Comment cela se passe-t-il?” Y/n whispered in his ear, using her first language to ask how he felt— if her ministrations were acceptable. She pressed frenzied, incredibly sloppy kisses below his ear, nipping centimeters above his collarbone before smoothing the ache over with her tongue.

Morally wrong, yet perfect, Ciel wanted to answer. He wouldn’t bring himself to stop, now that they’ve started. Who could hope to, in his position? It felt too right. He could sit outside on the terrace — doing just this— for as long as he could handle it.

“Je ne veux jamais m'arrêter,” he affirmed, fingertips running up her calf as it was bent on the side of his lap, leaving his other hand to keep her back arched close. The muscle was sculpted and strong, matching most of her body, taut with her profession.

Y/n chuckled like she expected that answer, and kissed him again. Her cheeks were red, likely from the cold and the wine having a chance to settle in her body. Ciel could feel it reverberate in the back of his brain ever so slightly, making his body feel much warmer than it was in the cool evening.

Still, Y/n wasn’t wearing a jacket herself. They couldn’t stay out.

Ciel’s hands wrapped under her upper thighs, finding a steady hold before committing to it. He told Y/n to wrap her legs around him when he stood, facing little obstacle in supporting her in his arms. He grunted, ensuring that he could keep Y/n steady while he walked, despite his attention dividing threefold: holding her, walking, and going half-mad over her mouth. Y/n seemed intent on leaving contusions in his neck, condemning him to a week and a half of high-neck sweaters.

“Attendre,” Y/n requested him to stop, only for her to reach out towards their wine bottle, opting to bring it inside with them. She wrapped her arms back around Ciel’s shoulder’s holding the bottle behind his back. “Vous pouvez maintenant partir,” she chuckled, telling him to proceed back into the house where Ciel made a clear effort to avoid the halls where his staff would most likely be

The Earl took the longer route to his room, but it hardly mattered. He was stronger than he looked, and he rather liked supporting the ballerina’s full weight in his grasp. He was no longer watching her from a wardrobe; he was with her.

Ciel let Y/n down and locked his bedroom door behind them.

[fandomnerd9602]

Love love love the Scream content you’ve been putting out as of late. I’ve also liked the interpretations you’ve done where someone uses the Ghostface mantle for good/targeting other killers.

So, my idea: Tara x Reader x Amber throuple, where each of them are Ghostface’s, but they’re essentially horror-themed vigilantes.

Scary Movies

Tara Carpenter x Reader x Amber Freeman

Simon Trent was a college professor and a terrible man. A killer who hunted on the web and ensnared young people in his own. He just completed his last hunt: a young pair of lovers. His intellect versus their lack of real world knowledge: they never stood a chance.

The police found no trace of evidence. No fingerprints. No identifiable marks on the bodies. But justice would come.

Simon found himself scrubbing his hands of the young lovers' blood and cleaning his instruments of torture. And then the phone rang...

"Hello?" the rather unsuspecting looking killer asked.

"Hello Simon" the voice of Ghostface answered, "I'm calling to ask a few questions for a survey"

"I'm not interested. I have papers to grade." he hung up. The phone rang again.

"Hang up again Mr. Trent and I'll gut you like a fish!" Ghostface basically screamed into the phone receiver. "so will you listen?"

"I know how this ends" the professor found himself fearful, probably for the first time in his life.

"Good now onto my first and only question really"

"Fine. What is it?" the psychotic professor huffed

"Do you like scary movies?"

"Not really" the professor responded, unaware of the movement of shadows in his own apartment. "I'm more of a true story biopic sort of guy"

"Oh that's a shame." Ghostface answered, their voice sounded less like it was on the phone and more from behind him. "Because you're in one."

SLASH! Simon screamed as a knife made contact with his back. One Ghostface stood right behind him.

SLASH! Another knife comes from the side and stabs him in the lung. The second Ghostface took her mark and twisted the knife.

Simon throws off the two Ghostfaces and bolts to his room, his breathing quickly becoming ragged as the loss of blood gets to him.

"I know where you are! There's only two!! I've seen the movies, you freaks!!!" He tries to pull out his phone as he screams through the door.

"Who said this was a movie, Mr. Trent?" one more Ghostface whispers in his ear before driving it's own knife into the psychotic man's throat.

The man collapses to the ground. Another killer leaving his mortal. The third Ghostface pulls off their mask, revealing (Y/N).

"You?" the professor tried to say, blood gurgling in his throat. "Why?"

"We speak for the dead" (Y/N) whispers as they swipe their blade one last time across Simon Trent's throat. The professor chokes on his last ounce of blood as he dies.

There's a knock at the bedroom door. Y/N opens it to see their accomplices who pull off their masks revealing Tara Carpenter and Amber Freeman.

"You got the evidence, baby?" Y/N asks Amber as she pulls out the hard drive of Simon Trent's computer. All the evidence to connect the recent string of unsolved killings back to their culprit.

"All right here." Amber smirks. "Did you wipe the phones, sweetie?"

"Any trace of us is gone," Tara smiles. "I just wish we could've saved them."

Y/N gives Tara a light kiss on the forehead, "the dead can rest easy now" Tara rests her head against Y/N's chest, just relieved that another killer was brought to justice.

"Wanna go home and have a three way make out session?" Amber smirks

"Is there any better way to celebrate?" Tara smirks back as she wraps an arm around Y/N and Amber.

The three vigilantes make their way out of the house of the serial killer. The police would eventually find all the evidence that Y/N, Tara and Amber had already unearthed and justice would be served.

But for now, there's only a little rest for the wicked as the three Ghostface killers remain out and searching. Let's just hope that any would be killers are up to date on their scary movies, because sooner or later they'll find themselves in one of their own.

[deepspacedukat]

Accomplice

Okay, hear me out. I've been listening to the audiobook version of "Butcher & Blackbird" by Brynne Weaver (a romcom about 2 serial killers), and this idea just popped into my head. This is definitely a watered down version of that premise, and so NOT A ROMCOM, but given that my writer's block has been pretty severe lately, I'll take a win where I can. So...enjoy? I guess? This is dark, so be warned.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

~*~

Chu'lak (ST:DS9) x Vulcan!Reader

[A/N: This is smut, so 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI!!!]

Warnings: Vulcan/Vulcan sex, Vulcan/Vulcan romance, serial killers, mentions of blood, spoilers for DS9 S7E13 "Field of Fire," mentions of murder, evil being mentally justified as logical, THIS IS DARK.

~*~

Even as he removed the targeting display Chu'lak knew that she understood. They were the only Vulcan survivors. They were the only ones who could carry out this task.

The elimination of emotion by any means necessary.

They would purge the entire station if they had to. They would make the galaxy understand.

She knelt on the meditation mat in their shared quarters and watched as he stowed the display and the TR-116 rifle in their proper places. Her patience was finely-honed after years of dealing with those disgusting, emotional beings.

The ones whose populations they would cull together.

Rising obediently to her feet as he'd ordered her to do after each kill, she slipped the traditional robes from her shoulders, allowing them to pool at her feet as she bared herself for his appraisal.

Even this was logical. They were slaking a thirst - a natural impulse that occurred after each time they snuffed a minuscule fraction of emotion from the universe. The rush of adrenaline was an ancient thing, a holdover from the savage days before Surak brought their people logic. Solving the problem as quickly as it popped up was something she excelled at.

Chu'lak had no doubt that he looked as savage as their ancestors had back in the dark days before logic lifted them from the blood-soaked sands of their planet. He stalked toward her slowly, steadily, as his blood rushed in his veins, hot and filled with desires that required purging.

His large, callused fingers wrapped around her throat as he backed her up against a wall. Her pulse's rhythm sped up beneath his fingertips, and briefly, Chu'lak wondered how easy it would be to crush the life from her...wondered if he could handle seeing the life drain from her eyes as it had been extinguished from the rest of their crew at the Battle of Ricktor Prime.

But he would never do that to her. She was necessary, not only for his plan, but for...himself. For his logic. There was no emotion involved. There would never be - could never be - but he would allow himself the necessity of a companion.

Even as her nimble digits unfastened his uniform trousers and he stepped between her legs with his lok bouncing hard and free between them, Chu'lak dismissed this as nothing more than what logic dictated. The warmth between her legs...the slick dripping slowly down her inner thighs was no more than her body's entirely logical preparation to serve his needs after such exertion.

As he hilted himself in her welcoming depths, he dismissed the strangled sound that escaped him as a completely logical reaction to the physical sensation. He could not tear his lust from his body without fucking her. He could not fuck her without feeling her. He could not feel her without reacting...

And he could not acknowledge the wet sounds accompanying each rough thrust without closing his eyes and seeing the splatter of deep, wine-red blood expelled from his latest victim's body before they collapsed in a lifeless heap on the floor.

A low, dangerous snarl spilled from his lips as he pounded relentlessly into his partner, and she tilted her head to the side just as she knew he preferred. Baring the scar that he'd left on her soft skin with his sharp teeth, she made herself vulnerable to him again - the prey submitting to the predator, admitting freely that her life was his.

The smirk crossed Chu'lak's lips before he could even begin to think of stopping it. He was too far gone. He was lost in his lust and his primal instincts. That's what these were - instincts, not emotions. The taste of her blood on his tongue as he bit down was as sweet and metallic as it always was.

She yelped so beautifully below him - beauty was aesthetic, not emotional - that he couldn't help but shift his grip to her hips. He lifted her easily off the ground, pressing her back harder against the wall as her arms and legs wrapped securely around him.

Her fingernails, while practical and blunt, still bit into his back hard enough to pierce the skin and draw some of his own green life from beneath his skin. Their exchange of savagery made all of this worth it. The planning, the meticulous care that went into the selection of a victim, and the execution of each plan...it was extra exertion outside of their duties, but they did it together. They split the load.

Then she took his load.

There was never any protest. She never questioned his needs. She never would, because she understood.

He remembered the way it started, and mentally he praised her logical reaction to seeing the bulge in his uniform for the first time. The Lieutenant had melded with her afterward, and her reasoning became clear:

He'd proven himself strong, meticulous, clever, resourceful...and his endowment had allayed any sort of doubt she may have had about his worthiness as a sexual partner.

Even as his climax overcame him and he filled her with his seed, she gasped his name and thanked him for allowing her to be of use.

So dutiful. So accepting. She didn't protest when, for the first time, he lifted her from the wall and carried her to his bed without pulling out. He required more than one release tonight.

She would give it to him. She would give him as much as he desired.

Because it was logical.

Because she understood. She was the only one who could.

Next time, he'd give her the rifle...place the targeting display on her head while he donned the secondary one. Next time, he'd wrap his arms around her and feel her blood begin to thrum as she experienced the rush that now consumed him so fully.

Next time, he'd bare his neck for her and allow her to bite him...to taste his blood for the first time.

Because it was logical.

~*~

Taglist:

@akamitrani @android-boyfriends @attention-bajoranworkers @bigblissandlove1 @darkmattervibes @emilie786 @horta-in-charge @live-logs-and-proper @slutty-slutty-vulcans @starrynightgardens @toebeans-mcgee

[strangethings-everywhere]

Before You Go // Ethan Landry // Ch.5

Masterlist Word Count: 1231 Warnings: ANGST Author's Note: I'm seriously contemplating just dragging this story out because I'm enjoying Ethan SO MUCH. Anyway, enjoy

After moving to New York with your friends after the Woodsboro killings, you try to leave all of it behind you and start over. You become friends with Ethan Landry, but after Ghostface returns, you start to become suspicious of everyone, especially him.

“You died. I saw your body.” You gasped. She laughed.

“I just needed to get off the suspect list. Faking my death was too easy.” She shrugged. “You all fell for it.”

“Yeah, because you fucking died.” You shook your head. “Does this mean-”

“Points for Y/N, yeah.” Quinn did jazz hands. “I’m Ghostface. One of them.” She took the knife at your throat and pointed it at your stomach. “Just wanted to have a little fun, since my accomplice was too pussy to finish you off.” You could feel the point digging into your skin through Ethan’s shirt. 

“Wait, your dad even said you were dead. How did…” You trailed off. The pieces started to fall into place. Officer Bailey knew that she was alive, there was no other way she could’ve gotten away with it. 

“Look at you!” Quinn cackled. “Maybe you aren’t so stupid after all.” She continued to slowly press the knife against you. It was starting to hurt. “Too bad you won’t get the chance to warn everyone.” 

“Was he the one in the apartment?” You asked. Quinn opened her mouth to answer but was suddenly pulled away from you. It was Ethan, he must’ve followed you.

“Get away from her.” He growled, tossing Quinn to the ground. She didn’t seem to care. She just kept laughing. “She’s not part of this.”

“You are so fucking predictable.” Quinn grinned up at him. “I knew you’d come to save her. I also knew you’d be too chicken to kill her.” 

No. 

It all began to make sense. His earlier defense of the Ghostface killers, his absence from group activities, and even his reluctance to talk about his childhood. He was acting, pure and simple. The young man you’d grown to care about was just a facade, a lie. You began to hyperventilate, sobbing harder and harder. “No.”

“Y/N, I can explain.” He moved towards you and you scrambled backward. Quinn took the convenient distraction to disappear. “Please, let me explain.”

“No.” You tried to stand, but Ethan grabbed hold of you. You knew he was strong, but his arms were locked around you and you couldn’t break free. He wrapped a hand around your throat and began to squeeze.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He whispered in your ear. You pulled at his hands, digging in with your fingernails as hard as you could. It was no use and you fell into darkness, Ethan’s apologies echoing in your mind. 

You came to a few hours later in what looked to be an abandoned office. Someone had put duct tape over your mouth and bound your limbs. Your throat throbbed and some of your stitches had reopened. 

Memories slowly started coming back as the fog lifted from your mind. Ethan… it was Ethan. He was Ghostface and he had tried to kill you.

Or had he? The Ghostface that had attacked you in the apartment the other night had hesitated and left you with non-fatal wounds. If Quinn was right, or could even be trusted, your attacker that night had been Ethan and he had shown you mercy. Of course, that didn’t do much to redeem him, considering he’d butchered the guy in the shower and thrown Anika to her death. He was still a killer. 

Your vision was still recovering when the door to your prison slowly opened. It was Ethan. His face was red and his eyes were raw as if he’d been crying. His jaw was set and he looked frustrated.

“Hi.” He whispered, leaning down to you. You shook your head and tried to move away, but you were stuck. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” He sat down next to you. “I have to do this.”

You tried to scream at him through the duct tape to no avail. With a finger to his lips, he ripped the tape from your mouth. “No, you don’t.” You gasped. “Please, you aren’t a killer.” 

“Y/N, you don’t understand.” His voice was so soft, so tender. It was almost enough to distract you from the Ghostface robe he was wearing. “Sam killed my brother. We have to avenge him.” 

“Your brother?” You cocked your head. “Ethan, what brother?” 

“Richie.” He sighed. “My name is Ethan Kirsch. I’ve wanted to tell you since the day we met, but my dad would’ve killed me.” Ethan’s lip began to tremble. “He’s done so many awful things, Y/N. He’s asked me to do bad things.” 

“Ethan…” You felt your eyes filling with tears. “You don’t have to listen.” 

He nodded furiously. “Yes, I do. I want him to be proud of me, I…” He trailed off. “You just make this so much harder.” Ethan took your hand. He was wearing gloves, but you could still feel his hand shaking. 

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t focus when you’re around, Y/N!” He cried. His whole body shook as he spoke, his grip on your hand growing tighter and tighter. “You drive me insane. I’m supposed to complete this, to kill them, and all I want is to touch you like I did in the hospital.” 

“Let go of me.” You could barely get the words out. “Please, let me go.” 

“I can’t.” He growled. “If I let you go, Quinn will find you and she will kill you. She’ll kill you to get at me and my dad will encourage it because with you gone, I’ll finally be free of distractions.” Ethan let out a strangled laugh. “I just want to be free of this. I just…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Please, I can’t do this.” 

Part of you wanted to feel sorry for him. It felt authentic, this display of sorrow and conflict. However, he’d been lying to you for months and you had no idea if you could trust him. You were still grappling with the fact that Ethan was a killer. It didn’t compute. He had always been so sweet and gentle. You and Chad had always joked that he could never hurt anyone, he was too empathetic. He’d feel bad. 

“You betrayed me.” It came out in a whimper, but all you wanted to do was scream. “Ethan, you betrayed me.”

“I know.” Tears were streaming down his cheeks. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“You think this is right?” Finally, anger exploded in your chest. “Ethan, your brother nearly killed me. He doesn’t deserve to be avenged, he doesn’t need it! Richie made stupid choices and he paid the price.” 

“I know that now.” Ethan desperately held onto you. “Please, I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“Then let me go.” 

“I’m trying to protect you!” He leaned his forehead against yours. “I can’t make it through this without you.” 

The two of you sat in silence for a while, staring at each other and weeping. You had no idea what to say or how to help him. You weren’t sure if you should help him. All you could do was watch the tears fall down his cheeks and wish that you could wipe them away. 

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. An unfamiliar male voice spoke and Ethan let out a shaky sigh. “Stay here.” He whispered. “I’ll be back. My dad needs help getting set up.” With one last look back at you, he was gone.

[amandav09]

Pov You get robbed - Ghostface (DBD)

----------------------------------------    Masterlist   -----------------------------------------------

Summary : Intruders enter your home, but who said you were alone?

Warning: violance, death, robbed

Word count: 5,5 k

Gif not mine - English it’s not my language of birth

You both were surprised. After a night of hunting for Danny, he had come home where you expected him to eat – and he had often harped on you about not waiting for him.

The night was followed by the two of you going to bed, it was a moment of normality that disrupted Danny’s long and dark days, before, he came home to eat a dish already nearly often even, He didn’t eat anything, and found himself in his office planning his murders until early the next morning.

Now, because of you through, he had to have a steady diet and sleep. The only thing that was blameless, whether it was before or now, was the showers, besides everything that was used to make her physical attractive was taken seriously (arrogant son of a bitch)

It was one of those nights that the action happened. You were both wrapped up in the sheets in each other’s arms, when a slight cracking sound sounded, not low enough for Danny not to hear, after all, he’s a killer.

He’s the reason you knew there was a problem.

You were quietly reading a story using your phone when your spouse sat down in bed, removing his warm arms from your body.

You put your phone on the mattress looking at him while he stared at the door.

“Y/N” The whisper of your name was enough to know that something was wrong.

He got up slowly from the bed, going to the bathroom to rush inside, do not even turn on the light.

You quickly turned your eyes away from the small room while the bedroom door slammed against the wall, a group of three men masked with hoods entering the room

"I told you there was still someone!" cried one of them on his comrade.

“It’s okay, we tie her up, she’s at home, she’ll tell us where her jewelry is going to end badly,” he said, “the last part is indirectly directed at you as a kind of threat.

His two colleagues came to drag you out of your seat to squat you in the middle of the room.

One stood behind you, while their leader stood before you at your height. The last one to search the closets to find his happiness

Both had tried several times to make you talk, going to threaten to hit you. But they get nothing, the only expensive items were not even in the bedroom, but rather in Danny’s living room or office.

"Hey?" Began to call the chief, analyzing the room to find no trace of his accomplice in the room "He’s where the hell I said we stay together!" Did he start getting angry

Footsteps made you all look up to the bathroom. There, at the door, the silhouette of the missing man approached gently, but something in his gait was strange

When he arrived in the light, he no longer wore his mask, one of his hands was holding the blow while the other tender towards his friends in a silent request for help.

He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out of it was tons of blood just before falling to the ground… Inert

"What the hell is this!" Bellowed the man from behind, at the same time stepping back in shock

The greatest had remained silent and frozen on the spot.

Another form was guessed, retrace the course of the previous, but with more confidence, his body covered with a black costume and his face hidden by a mask represent a face that cries so familiar

He turned his face towards you, sending you a silent message: ‘It’s okay, I’m here.’

“It’s the ghostface!” Keep vocalizing the smallest

The leader turned his head to his colleague in an attempt to resonate with him, “We’re two assholes!” But when he came back to the killer, he went face to face with his mask. Receiving at the same time a stab wound in the side of the abdomen

He wanted to catch Danny, but to the surprise of the blow, this left time for ghostface to rush towards the last survivor who, fearful of seeing his friends killed, had started to run towards the door of the room.

He barely set one foot outside before being pulled by the collar of his outfit and thrown to the ground. The man began to crawl in vain attempt, but quickly got nailed when Danny sat on his back, stabbed the knife in his back several times until he stopped moving.

He got up quietly, wiped his weapon with the help of his suit, and then put it in the sheath attached to his calf.

«Bastard» Spit out the chief, bleeding on the floor

The killer’s mask turned towards him, putting his finger in front of his mouth deforming.

Then he got closer to you, helped you to get up so that he could then take your face into his hands.

«Sorry to have left you only love» Murmura before turning to the leader of the burglar group

He stood in front of him, grabbed his shoulder and began to pull him into the hallway to one of the doors on the right, he opened it and dropped the man down the stairs.

He bumps on each of the steps in a mixture of noise of noise and moan of pain

Danny follows him quietly to recover him once in the cellar

It was going to be a long night, but that’s what happened when you dared to take to the ghostface and his wife