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scribbleseas · 1 year

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The Indignant Pawn, Chapter XVII: The Inevitable Equalizer

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault (once in the prologue), objectification, misogyny, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, kissing

CHAPTER WARNING: suicidal ideation, drug dealing, mentions of overdose, drugs, there’s debate as to whether drug abuse is the fault of the dealer or the individual, mentions of murder, detailed gore

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! Second to last chapter...how are we feeling? I’m so happy to have gotten this out for you, even if it was a little later than planned. This chapter was hard to perfect, and I’m very proud of it! Don’t hesitate to let me know how you feel about it. Another quick two notes: 1. MC’s views do not reflect my own & 2. I opened commissions! If you really like how I do things, have an idea you’ve always wanted to see on screen, and the financial means, maybe consider sending a request! I would seriously appreciate it, and it would really help me out.

As always,

Happy Reading!

- Dan

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MASTERLIST

. . .

MAY 7TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

“You are rather terrible at this,” Ciel noted, watching Y/n shift her croquet mallet to find a better angle. She opted for the red and yellow set of balls; she had aimed poorly throughout the game, making them painfully strewn about the garden. Meanwhile, Ciel hit his set concisely through the hoops, with a marksman’s precision. His blue and black balls consistently sailed through the course. It was clear that he was the victor in this game.

Sebastian taught him how to play properly since many betting men liked to stake claims on their prowess with a wooden mallet. Ciel wasn’t ashamed to admit that he closed one or two business deals based on the stakes of such a game. Humans were overconfident creatures, and it was a fault he would exploit in any way he could.

“Unlike you, I have not had the leisure to spend my time perfecting my proficiency in childish garden games,” Y/n replied instantaneously, a terrible loser. Ciel was an even worse winner, much in the same way she liked to gloat when besting him at draughts. They made fierce competition for one another, nearly equal in every aspect that was important, yet immensely unbalanced when it came to useless skills: croquet and board games.

“I’m not sure I would consider hitting a ball through a checkpoint proficient,” Ciel replied, confidently crossing his arms across his chest as he watched her aim her next turn. He squinted, the bright spring sun shining on the fresh garden. It caused a bit of sweat to bead in his hairline. The warm weather was a light at the end of a bitter winter, enriching his fiancée, as well. Y/n looked polished, yet attractively unsophisticated in her white linen dress. It was short, hardly falling past her kneecaps.

With a frustrated exclamation, she hit the ball into the hoop’s thin leg, bouncing off the cast iron. It bounced down the cobblestone trail and into the bushes, causing Carl to sprint after it energetically.

“Case in point,” with a nod, Ciel gestured to the dog as he crawled under the bushes and blindly swept with his paw in search of the fugitive ball.

“I did aim, though I’m not sure how much smaller these bloody hoops can be before they’re too small to let the ball through them!” she protested.

“Right,” Ciel arched his eyebrow in an incredulous look before turning his attention to his mallet and the ball. After a brief moment of angling his hold, he gave the ball a sensible hit, sending it flawlessly through the course’s last hoop. With a self-satisfied chuckle, Ciel turned his focus back to her. “They are small, I reckon.”

“Watch yourself, or I might have to angle my mallet flat into your skull,” Y/n threatened with no real malice. In a silent surrender, she let her mallet fall into the manicured grass, opting to crouch and scratch behind Carl’s ears instead. Even though he retrieved Y/n’s adlib ball, the dog seemed unsettled, his head craning towards the tree line.

A growl rumbled in Carl’s throat, though it wasn’t entirely intimidating, considering his head barely came up past Y/n’s shin. His sandy-brown hair was stained with rich dirt, causing Ciel to wrinkle his nose; though the thought of ordering his butler to bathe the creature was amusing enough to make up for it.

Frowning, Y/n faced the same direction Carl’s ardent gaze pierced into, and sure enough, Sebastian emerged from that direction with a man in tow. The man cursed in Spanish, his hands bound behind his back as the demon pulled him by his lapel jacket. However, the moment his gaze landed on Y/n, he stopped fighting Sebastian.

“Y/n! It is Diego! Tell him to let me go!” he insisted, stumbling over a loose piece of cobblestone. “Please! He ties so tight, I cannot feel my hands,” Diego complained, making a show of pain in his tight facial expression.

“Your hands will survive, you dramatic fool,” Sebastian clicked his tongue, fastening the man to an outdoor chair in seconds. He left Diego’s satchel limp in the grass to his side. “Do relax, Miss Y/n, I have already taken the liberty of disarming our guest here,” the butler said, but that did little to calm her stance. Her mallet merely dipped as Carl sniffed around Diego’s bound legs, each one tied to the chair’s front counterparts. The dog picked a sunny spot in the grass once he was satisfied.

“Why are you here, Diego?” Y/n insisted suspiciously, her attitude did nothing to quell Ciel’s disdain. He made no effort to keep the disgust out of his face, quickly noting the dirty, yet well-made, clothing Diego sported. He was a young man, he couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five. His skin looked gold in the sun, a contrast to his dark brown eyes and hair.

“Who are you,” Ciel demanded before Diego could respond. Y/n already told him that Doña, her former benefactor, was Spanish. Diego was clearly of the same nationality, and she seemed suspicious of him, and Sebastian had to disarm him. He had been lurking in the forest. He was likely a subordinate of this… Doña.

“You mean, Y/n didn’t tell you about us while you were falling in love?” Diego batted his eyes sardonically. Surely, he would have clasped his hands if his wrists weren’t tied to each arm of the chair. “That is rude. Poor, poor manners the princess has.”

“Falling in love,” Y/n repeated with enough dubiousness to nearly convince Ciel that they were far from such a relationship.

“The paper. In my bag,” Diego snapped, gesturing to the well-loved leather satchel to his side. Sure enough, he had an issue of The Daily Courant rolled up and shoved into it. The paper was wrinkled in Ciel’s hands, as if someone had held it angrily, crinkling the pristine print. The front page’s expanse was overcome with a photograph of himself and Y/n boarding the S.S Highness before they left for Italy— the issue dated back to April 28th.

The public heard word of their engagement while they were overseas.

“What does it say?” Y/n demanded, abandoning her mallet in the grass yet again and leaning next to Ciel to read the headline:

New Royal Pair: Queen’s Granddaughter: Her Highness Princess Marie Louise and Lord of Phantomhive Spotted. Engaged?

The photograph was unmistakably them, arms intertwined. At the time, what was likely a brief look to the side of Ciel’s, was pictured as a long, loving look from Y/n.

“Everyone on this damn continent knows. Doña knows, we know,” Diego added. “Do you see why I’ve come here now?”

“I have no obligation to tell you anything. I stopped being a puppet for that woman the moment she sent a dozen gunmen to kill me,” Y/n seethed, ripping the newspaper out of Ciel’s grip. “Get him out of my sight,” she told Sebastian.

“My Lord?” Sebastian questioned, never one to take orders from Y/n.

“I order you to—” Ciel started to comply.

“Hey, hey, hey. Whoa! Stop doing that, you strange devil-man!” Diego protested, shifting violently in his chair to angle his front towards Y/n. Sebastian’s glowing eyes frightened him, but the light was subtle enough for Y/n to assume it was from the spring sun. She knit her eyebrows together in confusion. “I come here to warn you. I have information. I cannot tell you what she’s planning if I am dead. Can I?”

Ciel frowned. Of course, a powerful figure from the Underworld would never let such a mortifying betrayal survive. “Forget it, Sebastian,” he sighed, rubbing his thumb and index finger into his forehead. In her hesitation to protest, he suspected Y/n felt the same way.

“Why would you betray her?” Y/n asked, clearly not believing Diego’s defense. Ciel was hesitant as well.

“Doña is family— our sister-in-law. When Phantomheave killed Manuel, we wanted to kill him right back for it,” Diego said pointedly, his scowl dark enough for Ciel to be thankful that Sebastian had him bound tightly to the chair. “Ojo por ojo, though it seems my Lord is down one of ‘em already.”

Manuel.

“But now…it has been too long, and Doña has grown too dark and obsessed. Me and Carmen and Andrea just want to return home. I am a good painter, Y/n, this is not my life. Manuel was supposed to manage the family business,” he continued. Under his vengeful exterior, he did look tired, like a man who couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, recognize his life. For years, Ciel felt the same way. Especially the first several years with Sebastian; he’d look into the mirror and see someone completely different.

“We just want to be home,” the man said, “but Doña wants you— both of you— dead, no matter what happens to her. She is planning to intercept your wedding.”

The wedding location was so minimally disclosed that Ciel was uncertain about it. How could she have the means to find out?

But Y/n seemed convinced. “How?”

“She will not say, I swear,” Diego swallowed with difficulty, shifting uncomfortably. His stare didn’t leave hers, though sweat rolled down his low hairline. “Please, Y/n. Without Carmen and me, she has no one in England. The rest of us are home, managing business.”

Business.

Manuel, business, Spain. Manuel, business, Spain. Manuel, business, Spain.

“What is this Doña’s real name?” Ciel demanded. The sudden intensity in his voice was enough to startle both Y/n and Diego, while Sebastian’s grin only deepened. The demon knew what was going on. He knew how Ciel was related to this woman, Manuel, Spain, and why she wanted him dead. That grin of his made a joke of his imperfect memory— thinking nothing of a simple mission for Her Majesty that took less than three days of his time.

Ciel told Elizabeth it was a business trip to discuss textile exports. He brought back a gown for her, and Spanish wine for her family as if it had been a vacation of leisure.

“I cannot betray my family more than I have. Though, surely you know, Ciel Phantomheave. You would truly be a sick bastard if you did not remember the family you slaughtered.”

Y/n paled, taking a step away out of surprise. He didn’t blame her. It sounded horrific. The memory was more graphic than most missions. Sebastian and himself killed everyone that passed... all except for one woman, who Ciel found in the leader’s study, cradling the dead body of a man in her lap. Sebastian left a bullet precisely between his eyes.

“Shall we finish this one, too?” Sebastian had asked him, approaching from behind.

“No. We’re finished here.”

“Master?”

“Look at her. She could not possibly rally now.”

Apparently, Ciel had been wrong about that.

“What does he mean?” Y/n asked, looking every bit as queasy as the moment after she met her family and sicked every bite of her breakfast into Buckingham Palace’s shrubbery.

Ciel took a sharp breath in, “I will not repent for harm that was just in its end. If you’ve come here searching for an apology, then I am afraid you will be sorely disappointed.” His voice came out steadier than he would have expected, given that he was the subject of such an unfiltered look of pain and confusion on Y/n’s face.

For a moment, Diego looked as if he might curse Ciel out for his indifference, or sob over the loss of his family. But instead, he pursed his lips and retrained his gaze on Y/n, too hurt to continue looking at Ciel after such a blunt response. He tried his best to look detached, scarcely maintaining his composure.

“Y/n, I ask for the means to return home in exchange for this information. This man has claimed the soul of my entire family — and Doña’s. He will not have ours,” he said.

“Mariana’s soul,” Ciel corrected. He had to have confirmation that it was his pity, his rare show of mercy, that put him in these circumstances. “That’s her name, is it not?”

“…It is,” Diego admitted hesitantly, still refusing to look at him. There was a new note of respect in his voice, less aggressive than when he presumed Ciel had forgotten about the family entirely. “Manuel was her husband, me and Carmen’s brother.”

“Release him, Sebastian,” Y/n ordered after a halting pause, her nimble fingers quickly unclasping her earrings. They were teardrop diamonds set in gold, an engagement gift sent from her Uncle Edward and Aunt Alexandra. The Prince of Wales and Princess of Denmark, respectively. The heirs to Her Majesty’s throne.

Those earrings sat between the flesh of generations of royalty, and Y/n unclasped them and offered them in her palm without a semblance of hesitance. When she refastened the stoppers on the back of the earrings, she repeated herself: “untie him, Sebastian.”

“Unfortunately, I take exclusive orders from my Lord, Miss Y/n. Forgive me,” Sebastian replied without a hint of apology. He was awaiting Ciel’s response, trying to predict which would win: his affection for Y/n or his pride.

“Ciel,” Y/n’s stare pried into the side of his head. “He wants to go back to Spain with his sister. You killed the rest of their—”

“His family was made of drug dealers, responsible for the overdoses of potentially dozens of English li—” he started to explain.

“Drug dealers coerce no one to take the drugs that cause overdose,” Y/n fired back incredulously, crossing her arms over her chest. She wanted Ciel to release Diego; therefore, she expected Ciel to release Diego. Sometimes Ciel wondered if she still thought herself a royal in their dynamic.

“They supply it!” Ciel replied.

“The individual decides to take their supply! It’s a business! It is not the same as pulling a trigger and murdering like you did them.”

Sebastian observed the argument with the same amusement he would watch a sparring match. Diego seemed interested in expecting his boots, all too calm considering they were debating his future.

Y/n continued breathlessly, “Diego risked his life to come here and warn us today. We can make preparations against her now. Our wedding can be safe from her because of him. What will you do, otherwise? Kill him too? Make her more determined to kill us? You don’t wish to give him your money? Fine! I can fund their way. All you stand to sacrifice is your pride.” Her face was red.

Sensing the growing tension, Carl picked up from the sunny patch in the grass and whined, rubbing against Y/n’s dress. At least Ciel knew which side their dog was on.

There was no reason for Ciel to kill Diego beyond wetting his own thirst for blood and self-righteousness. His morality wouldn’t let him kill uselessly, particularly when the man provided him with invaluable insight that could save the woman he was rather fond of, himself, and a significant day for both of their lives. Their wedding was a day that needed to go flawlessly, and the forewarning gave them time to make the preparations to ensure it.

His resolve melted, and judging by the way Sebastian’s smile fell, he sensed it as well.

“Let him go,” Ciel said. “That is an order.”

Y/n released a long breath, watching Sebastian expertly undo the knotting around Diego’s limbs. The Spaniard cursed, rubbing at the red imprints the rope left in his skin. His movements lagged as he picked his satchel up and hung it over his shoulder. Sebastian returned his handgun.

“Take these,” Y/n said, offering the heirloom earrings. Just as Diego extended his hand obediently, Ciel interrupted.

“No, Her Majesty will notice if you stop wearing those. Sebastian, get him a cut of last week’s profits from the company. We wouldn’t want to have to explain to the Queen that you’ve given away a classic royal heirloom as a gift to a commoner,” he explained.

“Consider this payment my reparations to you. Although I do not regret fulfilling the Queen’s wish— dispelling drug trade between Colombia and Britain — I will give you the means to move forward,” this was the best manner to proceed. At least it would take the target off his back, somewhat. Unless Diego was double-crossing him. That offense would have to result in death, no matter how Y/n pleaded with him.

“Thank you,” Diego nodded. “Y/n, I hope he makes you happy,” he tacked on, somewhat awkwardly. Naturally, he couldn’t fathom the idea of his family’s killer inadvertently romancing someone to the extent that they couldn’t kill him, abandoning their mission and lifestyle, altogether.

After all, being a princess was a full-time commitment. Surely, Y/n recalled that she could never return to the life she lived before stepping onto his estate. There was no feasible way for her to continue living the life she lived.

“Thank you, Diego,” Y/n finished refastening her earrings. “Good luck, truly.”

“Come, I will show you the cut the Lord wishes to offer you,” Sebastian said, guiding Diego into the manor. The Spaniard sent Y/n one final wink before following the demon.

The moment the two were out of earshot, Y/n faced Ciel once more. “To best prepare ourselves, we need to pool our knowledge. Tell me about her while we walk,” she motioned for him to follow. This was the trail that rounded the estate perimeter, weaving through the structures that were on the grounds; the guest house, main manor, stables, and conservatory. The sun had been at its peak during their game, and now it was beginning its descent for the early afternoon.

“Fine,” Ciel said, offering her his hand while they walked. They were only able to act so frankly when they were alone, holding bare hands. Nothing was quite as grounding, save for the way she ran her thumb over one of his knuckles methodically. He could never tell if the repetitive motion was to soothe him or herself.

He told Y/n about Queen Victoria’s request for her Guard Dog to sever ties between the Colombian drug trade and British consumption. The number of overdoses and drug-related theft in her nation was beginning to upset her, and her researchers traced some of the cocaine influx to Os Caeos, a branch of the Spanish mafia. The group was facilitating connections and trade over the Atlantic, and Victoria wanted it to cease.

She gave Ciel the assignment, and the best way to end the business was to pull it up by its roots. The family was too enshrined in its work to stop after a mere threat, and much too far removed from the British Underworld. They wouldn’t connect Ciel, a young British nobleman, to being the Queen’s Guard Dog. That left him with leaving them no choice but to stop— killing them.

Ciel and Sebastian took a steamship into Barcelona. It wasn’t difficult to find the Baulo operations manor; the family lived there for decades. Civilians could point to it from the street. Everyone knew the Baulo family by face and name. Their mafia was a close, family-operated company, spearheaded by Manuel, the eldest son of the previous head. He was married to Mariana Baulo-Hernandez; they were expecting their heir.

“Clear it out. I want the whole lot of them killed,” Ciel ordered, “I will find their records for Her Majesty.” He took his gun out of his deep pocket, the metal heavy in his hand. “Do not let them kill me, Sebastian,” he said, an ironic smile twisting his lips. His heart raced with adrenaline, excitement. Not fear. Anticipation. It was the same sureness and clarity he used going into any chess match, really.

Ciel would stomp out these enemies for Her Majesty. Such was his duty as a nobleman and a Phantomhive. He crushed who she wished silenced.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my Lord,” Sebastian chirped, pulling his gloves off neatly and tucking them into his pocket. He never liked to soil his gloves. The contract on his hand glowed now that it was exposed, a manifestation of the sheer supernatural power that flowed through the demon. He made easy work of bending the metal gate open, each hand holding one fortified metal bar and pulling it apart with the strength and disquieting pleasure of an automaton.

The butler wasted no time afterward, shouldering through the main door and killing the servants who met him. Ciel heard their brief screams from a grotesque choir, each fallen one replaced by a new terrorized individual. It didn’t take long until gunshots accompanied those cries. Of course, nothing of such earthly strength could stop a demon.

After another brief moment, Ciel took after his butler, looking at the sparse corpses adorning the halls with contempt stoicism. They were servants dirtying his shoes with their blood. No one aiding these criminals was innocent, whether that came in the form of cooking their dinner or washing their floors.

This was how to pull an ingrained institution out by its roots. Like a weed— the gardener doesn’t simply cut the plant down, he pulls it out of the ground and chars it.

Ciel stepped over a maid’s limp body and started up the staircase. He already knew where he was set to go, forward-thinking enough to have mapped out the manor’s vague layout beforehand. Even so, any smart business leader would keep their office secluded on the top floor.

It was easy to ignore the pained screams from around him when he had a fixed mission in mind. No one was going to escape. Ciel was the cat, these foolish drug dealers and their staff were the mice, and he supposed…Sebastian was the trap.

Curiously, the office door was closed when Ciel reached it. There were notably more guards on this floor and near this room— loyal servants to their very end. How kind.

Even still, blood pooled under the door and it stained the copper door knob. As the cacophony of sounds quieted, he could hear the soft, labored breaths of someone crying.

Cry. Nothing in front of you will change if you cry.

The knob only jiggled stubbornly when Ciel turned it. He frowned.

Locked.

The crying stopped, the person in there likely realizing that there was someone outside, trying to get in. Demanding to get in.

Ciel took one of the fallen guard’s truncheons. The weapon was about a foot long, and heavy in his hand. With a grunt, he put all of his strength into ramming the end of it into the knob. It gave slightly, the copper denting and leaning out of the hole. He repeated the process twice before it gave way, roughly falling to the floor. The door swung open, revealing a hastily made, and last-ditch barricade: two office chairs.

He grew tired, but he forced himself to refocus on the new room. The office was a wreck, a mess of scattered papers, two bodies and books were strewn about the room. There was a bookcase next to where the door was, most of its books carelessly thrown across the floor. The piece of furniture seemed like someone pulled it several centimeters out, likely trying to add another layer to the haphazard barricade before they realized the wooden fissure was too tall and dense to move alone.

Ciel wouldn’t have noticed her if she hadn’t stayed insistently close to the man’s body. His legs peaked out from behind the desk, but she was small enough to have stayed reasonably hidden if she wanted to.

He unlocked his gun, but she didn’t seem to care. Instead, she sat on her haunches and cradled the man’s head in her lap. It made sense that Sebastian found and killed Manuel Baulo in his own office. A bloody serrated knife sat to her side, pulled out from between his eyes. She pushed his wavy hair down his forehead to hide the wound.

She kept her eyes closed, surely aware that Ciel was with her, but she ignored him. Instead, she held Manuel’s limp left hand with both of hers, intensely whispering into it in Spanish. Likely praying. Her matching ring sat on her left ring finger as well, a big diamond set in gold.

This was his wife, Mariana.

“Descansa, fácil. Mi amor,” Mariana kissed his knuckles, leaving a smear of her crimson lipstick on him. Tears streamed down her cheeks when she opened her eyes again. She was rather young, but then again, her husband was as well. The previous head of Os Caeos contracted some unlikely disease and died early, leaving his eldest and his wife to run a business when they couldn’t have been older than thirty.

Very slight smile lines creased on either side of her mouth, twin dimples on her cheeks. Her eyes were dark and soulful as if her pupils took over her irises entirely. They were intelligent, easily taking Ciel in— from the top of his head to the bottoms of his shoes. Despite his best efforts, they were stained. Her eyes lingered on his gun.

“If you are killing me, you do quickly,” she said, finally addressing Ciel. She wore a white nightgown, dressed down like her husband’s body. After all, the sun was just beginning to rise, breaking through the gloomy clouds. It was rather untimely, the glorious light made the man look like a martyr when he wasn’t.

“Or if you feel nervous to kill a pregnant woman, give the gun,” Mariana added, “there is nothing left for me in this world, Ciel Phantomheave.” Her position and small maternal bump would have concealed evidence of her pregnancy. It had slipped Ciel’s mind.

“You know of me?” Ciel asked, masking his surprise. He let his gun waver. She was in no state to so much as threaten him, much less attack.

“Of course. We thought we might meet you soon, although…Manuel thought we would have time to negotiate. His father thought we needed to kill you after your return. But…my husband disliked the thought of killing children,” Mariana sighed, gently running her fingers through Manuel’s curls.

“I make it a policy not to negotiate with criminals,” Ciel said. She was not going to manipulate him.

“I know that now,” Mariana replied, “almost my entire family was in this manor. Let me be with them. I only want to be with them.” She wiped a stray tear away with the back of her hand, collecting herself admirably, given that her husband’s lifeless body was splayed out in front of her.

“My Lord?” Sebastian entered. He must’ve been silent coming in, given neither Ciel nor Mariana noticed his entrance. “Shall I finish this one off, too?” he questioned, knife at the ready. The demon was the trap. Mariana was the final mouse in the maze, but she didn’t want the cheese. She wanted the trap.

“No, Sebastian. We’re finished here.”

There was nothing Sebastian disliked more than when Ciel showed mercy. “Master…?” he asked, confused. He was reluctant to put his knife away.

Mariana sighed as if she had been expecting Ciel’s response. She looked up at the two of them, her hands never left her husband’s body. She wasn’t a woman who wanted to die. She was stronger than that and smarter not to re-establish the Spanish mafia after Ciel had crushed it so decisively. Letting her go would let her raise her child in the country, and Os Caeos could remain some distant memory. A story Mariana would relay to the child when they were old enough to learn about their father.

“Look at her. She could not possibly rally now,” Ciel replied, gesturing to the broken woman’s scattered stare. They would be leaving her to her own devices— whether she survived would be up to her will. “I want to leave, Sebastian. Now.”

Y/n listened to Ciel’s recollection of that morning with surprising calmness. She merely nodded along, keeping her thoughtful gaze fixed ahead as they walked. Nothing about it seemed to surprise her, though he suspected she worried more than he was letting on.

“I see why she would want you dead,” Y/n admitted. Ciel did as well; he went through a similar trauma to Mariana, and his sole purpose in life is to find those responsible and force them through the exact torment and pain he suffered through. She was no different. Those who Y/n killed for were no different.

“Frankly, you might have asked this woman why she would want me dead before ensuing on this mission,” Ciel replied, “why did you never ask?”

Y/n waited a moment, unsure how to reply. “I knew she was telling the truth. Sometimes…people go through suffering that goes beyond words,” if any kind of pain that would qualify, it would be cradling your killed spouse in your lap; feeling so hopeless that you’d prefer their murderer take you too as opposed to living in a world that he was ripped away from.

“Ciel, she isn’t going to give up, even if Diego and Carmen really do go back to Spain. I know her,” Y/n added after a beat of silence.

“Then we will simply need to make every defensive measure,” he replied, not entirely believing his own words. Mariana showed what she was capable of— finding and locating the lost German princess, manipulating the monarchy into believing she was her sister, and even picking up a destroyed business and restoring it to its former empire without Ciel so much as noticing.

To be able to out think a capable woman her would take immense planning and luck, but fortunately, Ciel had a demon for a butler. No matter what he thought of his fiancée, Sebastian would be duty-bound to protect them if that was what Ciel ordered him to do. It wouldn’t be the first time Ciel forced Sebastian to act despite his will.

After all, that’s what their contract was. Sebastian obeyed him, and in the end, Ciel would let him take his soul.

Y/n shook her head, “she will find a way, no matter what we do. Whether it’s next week or next year.”

“You underestimate us, and the staff. We can handle her,” Ciel insisted. His servants were the most elite in the world, handpicked by Sebastian, the protectors of Phantomhive secrets. They’ve fought off mafia men, psychotic circus performers— even Y/n herself. He was unwilling to allow his confidence to tremble in the face of a grief-stricken woman, looking for vengeance as a means to give her life purpose once again.

“But you would be underestimating…Mariana.” She said, stopping in the middle of the pathway. Saying the woman’s name made her face contort uncomfortably.

“Our wedding will be perfect, Y/n. Honestly,” Ciel said, stopping with her. He turned to face her properly and let her hand go to properly brush strands of her hair out of her face. The pads of his fingers settled on either side of her neck, touching her skin so lightly, he barely felt it. He could feel her pulse drumming beneath his thumbs, but her gaze softened.

He’d put everything he had and more into protecting her, no matter what the cost.

“There is nothing I would not do for you. And I know you feel the same,” Ciel insisted, unlike himself. He was always unlike himself when he opened his mouth and failed to filter what came out. It was disgusting, but no one could bear witness besides her.

Her.

She was classically beautiful with a regal face that was unmistakably royal. How could anyone think otherwise?

Ciel’s thumb brushed over her scar, the only defining quality that separated her likeliness from her twin. It was so thin and faded, one would have needed to know where to look in order to notice it.

“You’re right. I suppose we can sort it out,” she conceded reluctantly, but Ciel still disliked the worried frown on her lips. She was the most important person in his life— even if his priority was and would always remain vengeance. This woman was the first person to bring light back into his world.

No one was going to ruin this for them, not when they’d finally gotten all of the rubbish out of their way. Life couldn’t be so cruel. The world was an inevitable equalizer. It was not cruel. It would not steal from Ciel more than it already had.

“Whatever might happen, we can face it together,” Ciel said, internally bristling at himself. He loved the warmth he felt toward her. He detested the way it made him act, the vulnerability it gave him.

Something you love is something you can lose.

Ciel wasn’t sure if the thought of losing her lit an irate fire in his stomach, or if it hurt so much it made him feel ready to be consumed by such an inferno.

Though, of course, Ciel trusted her to fight for herself more than he trusted himself. Still, he wanted to kill her enemies, leave their bleeding bodies strewn about the corridor, left for dead. He wanted to be the person to tether her when the night tried to consume her.

Without realizing it, he had been leaning down, and closer, his stare locked on her pensive lips. Quick to react to any subtle movement, Y/n tilted her head and closed her eyes, meeting his lips with hers.

Slowly but surely, they were beginning to improve each instance they kissed. They found a balance, a smooth rhythm that allowed control to oscillate between the two of them. Y/n’s lips pressed and moved impassionately, his would follow. Like a waltz.

Feeling her lips against his always awakened something in him.

The air around them grew thicker— and thicker— and if Ciel had half of his wits about him, he might have noticed the intertwining clouds in the sky. He might have smelled the musky smell of the earth moments before the rain. But at that moment, he was rather occupied, and the sheets of rain that fell came by complete surprise.

The rain drizzled. The tree leaves whispered, and the sky rumbled. Ciel broke their kiss to regain a sense of their surroundings; unmoved in the middle of the pathway, lined with manicured rose bushes. The trail of dirt and paw prints told him that Carl was smarter than his owners, likely having sensed the new pressure in the air and rain back to the house. Sebastian installed small doors for the clever dog, and it took less than an hour to train him to find them.

Ciel gasped in surprise, somewhat from the sudden rainfall, but more so from Y/n’s clenching on the front of his shirt to bring him back down to her level. She was commanding him to act, putting every bit of her assertiveness into the way she moved with him, channeling all of her worry into something tangible and intoxicating.

“I want to go to your room,” she whispered against his lips. “That is an order.”

Ciel’s heart pounded. Y/n chuckled, clearly feeling it as her right palm trailed down his chest. Every touch electrified his skin. He was static. She was electric. The air was growing heavier by the moment, and it wasn’t only from the rain.

“Yes, sure,” even if Ciel wanted to, he couldn’t have made himself say no. He wasn’t sure he knew how to pronounce such a word.

Within moments they were making a horribly uncoordinated effort to run up one of the side staircases. Y/n was practically dragging him, her soaked dress was thin and sticking to her corset, a gown that would have been improper if they were anywhere but on manor grounds…simply playing croquet. Ciel remembered making a conscious effort to disregard the simplicity and inherent lewdness of such a dress.

It hardly covered more than a nightshift.

He closed his door and locked it before Sebastian could materialize and suggest Y/n leave and catch a warm bath before she caught a cold, or before he could offer a tray of tea.

There was something Ciel wanted much more than a steaming cup. He wanted her. He took a sharp breath in, so much that it made his lungs stutter in his chest. She was straining to unlace the back of her gown, pushing her hair over the side of her shoulder to get it out of the way.

Something about the back of her neck…

“It’s cold in this thing,” she complained, her cheeks growing fiery. “Ciel.”

“You would allow me?” Ciel felt as if he was barely in control of his transgressions, his fingers gracing over the delicately tied satin. “Are…you certain?”

“Yes,” she replied, keeping her hair out of the way. “You can do it, or I will.”

Ciel had it undone in seconds, and the wet garment fell to the floor, leaving Y/n in her corset, tall stockings, and surprisingly short drawers. They ended centimeters above her garters at mid-thigh. Ultimately, she exposed nothing entirely incriminating, but seeing the curve of her waist and her stockings’ garters wrapping around her upper thighs was certainly…more. Her necklace sat between her collarbones, guiding his focus down her corset’s hemline, which kept her breasts pushed upwardly.

His face burned. He was sure if he were to put the back of his hand against his cheek, it would blaze.

“Speechless. And this was all it took,” Y/n made a haphazard attempt to joke, clearly content with being stuck in wet undergarments for the time being. He didn’t blame her, and frankly, Ciel wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle her needing to dry off in front of him more. “If I knew this would be the outcome, I might have tried it much sooner.”

He rolled his eyes, “you’re impossible.’

“Perhaps,” Y/n fired back, growing more comfortable. She smiled at him, her eyes soft, yet searching. It was a strong façade, but she was nervous. Of course, she was nervous. He was nervous.

Ciel reluctantly shouldered off his jacket, which took the brunt of the rain. They didn’t stand out there for long enough to be soaked to the bone, so it was likely Y/n truly was much drier without her most superficial layer of clothing.

He wanted to unbutton the top of his shirt, but his fingers stopped. He paused as if she’d slapped him across the face.

She would see the mark. The Mark of the Beast.

If knowing the sorts of atrocities he pleasured in carrying out for Her Majesty wasn’t enough to fully drive her away, then surely, being marked by sadistic cultists would be.

“Ciel?” The playfulness in Y/n’s face dropped the moment he hesitated. “Are you alright?”

Ciel was, but he wasn’t.

He wanted to unbutton his shirt and bury his face into the floral scent of her hair, and kiss her lips until they chapped.

But she couldn’t know yet, could she? Could she handle it?

Of course she could. She knew the worst of him. He knew the worst of her. This mark wasn’t something he wanted; it wasn’t a deal.

He pursed his lips for a moment, swallowing despite his dry mouth. “If I am to show you this, then you must not tell a single living soul, do you promise?”

Y/n tilted her head but nodded once nevertheless. “Of course not. Your secrets are my secrets,” she said, and frankly, that sentence shot fresh jolts of electricity down Ciel’s spine.

What’s yours is mine; what’s mine is yours.

They were one another’s great equalizer.

“Alright,” he released a breath and went to unclasp the pair of buttons, but Y/n reached upwards to put a gentle hand on his chest. She stared at him— sometimes he detested the bloody eyepatch he wore — her face was stern.

“Not if you are not ready, Ciel. I mean it,” she insisted, but he had his mind made.

Your secrets are my secrets.

“I am,” he said, carefully removing her hands from his shirt to unbutton it. Y/n stopped refuting him, newly distracted as he took his shirt off. Now he understood where her reluctance came from, once he’d finished unlacing her dress. She looked at him with a barely restrained passion, and it was a heavy gaze to be picked apart under. He imagined he looked just as intense and serious as she did.

“Ciel…” Y/n frowned, immediately catching onto the brand on his left side. The mark was burned into his skin, slightly under and to the side of his torso, the far part of his ribcage. While all the redness and irritation were long-subsided, the brand left the afflicted skin slightly raised and swelled, like a stamp. It was going to remain there forever— until the day he died.

“Who did this to you?” she asked, anger flashing in her eyes. Strangely, it was a comfort to him. The Queen on his chess board was prepared to fight for him, much in the way he wanted to kill every last one of her enemies.

I returned to discover the same thing. We can take them down together.

“It’s an old wound,” Ciel guided her fingertips over the raised skin to show her that it didn’t hurt. He was healed, stronger than ever at one another’s side. The foreign touch made goosebumps raise in his arms, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. “Those who did this to me are dead.”

Sensing his unwillingness to speak about it further, Y/n didn’t press. She seemed satisfied knowing that the perpetrators were long gone, but almost sorry she couldn’t do it herself, judging by her frown and the protective toughness in her eyes. Ciel was sorry he couldn’t kill those cultists himself, either. Sometimes, he’d dream about aiming his gun and shooting them between the eyes, or in the heart. Anything to watch them bleed out.

Y/n kissed him, putting another intimate kiss further up his jawline, close to his ear. “I hope they suffered immensely.” Such a curse shouldn't have been erotic, but it was.

Her fingers wrapped around his wrist, guiding him to the edge of his bed to sit. Ciel moved without another thought, blushing when she stood in between his legs once more. She was ethereal in the orange candlelight, her skin deceptively soft, despite the number of healed wounds all over it. He wanted to trace each one. Kill everyone who inflicted pain on her, though he was sure most of them were dead. Not to mention, he was one of those people. Ciel’s gaze flittered to the light scar next to her throat.

She was poetically beautiful. Pulchritudinous.

He thought of the first time he read William Wadsworth: she was a Phantom of delight, When first she gleaned upon my sight; A lovely Apparition…

At the time, Ciel thought the man had been a lust-struck fool, thinking with the contents of his trousers. Now the American poet was beginning to make sense; did that mean they were both lust-stricken fools or was this idolatry normal?

Y/n chuckled when he pressed his lips into her knuckles, then the inner part of her wrist.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Ciel didn’t have an answer for her. He preferred to find her lips again and let her climb onto his lap, her thighs bracketing his legs. Her garters were white and made of lace, matching the dress that they left in a heap on the floor. He couldn’t keep his hands from fiddling with them, grazing over the sheer material her stockings were made of. Eventually, his hands settled on her hips, comfortable on the junction between her upper thighs and waist.

This is why polite society made married women chaperone nobility. If Ciel had known that something this pleasing was possible between himself and Y/n he would have struggled much more. Truly, it was no wonder couples never engaged in such illicit acts until they were married.

Y/n attacked every one of his senses. The moment she had him unlace her dress, he was finished. Now he was touching her warm skin, close enough to smell powder and rosewater. She made soft gasps each time she rocked in his lap, sounds that would undoubtedly haunt him.

Ciel was not a gentleman with her; he was not the Queen’s Guard Dog; he was not the head of the Funtom Company; and most significantly, he was not the next head of Phantomhive.

For the first time in his life, his identity was irrelevant. Privately, Ciel found solace in that.

Solace with her.

. . .

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