#phantomhive x reader

There are nights when a terrible longing grips my mind, forcing a desire to violently excise my own heart from my breast and bury it deep within the unyielding earth. Perhaps then, and only then, would I find surcease from this unrelenting ache, this sorrow that Vincent Phantomhive has deliberately carved into my soul. 

It commenced with deceptive innocence, and I perceive now, with the cruel clarity of hindsight, how that exact guise of harmlessness rendered the trap significantly more perilous. 

Memory transports me back to that fateful evening at the midseason ball, an event marking neither my initiation into society nor my final foray before the ton unceremoniously cast me into exile. The ballroom that night presented an opulent spectacle with its towering crystal chandeliers dripping a suffocating, golden luminescence. I stood sequestered with my companions at the physical periphery of the glittering throng, occupying my frequent position as an unwelcome interloper settled directly amidst the gilded ranks. 

It was there that his name first drifted to my ears. My companions spoke of the Earl Phantomhive in feverish cadences, weaving tapestries of his unparalleled influence and the menace that lurked just beneath the veneer of his charm. They spoke of the "Queen's Watchdog" as if he were a myth. 

His arrival attracted attention without any apparent effort on his part. I cannot say that conversation ceased entirely, yet there arose throughout the room a subtle alteration in its character. Even among so distinguished an assembly, he possessed that rare advantage of commanding notice without seeking it.

He was a man of uncommon height, and his attire, though elegant, displayed none of the ostentation that too frequently accompanies wealth. The dark blue of his coat suited him exceedingly well, while the precision with which every article of dress had been arranged suggested habits of order and self-possession. Yet it was not his appearance that most impressed me; rather, it was his clear blue gaze.

I had scarcely observed him for more than a few moments when he approached and, with a slight inclination of the head, addressed me.

"Lady (L/N), may I have the honour of this dance?" 

There was nothing improper in the request, nor anything unusual in the manner in which it was delivered; yet I found myself unexpectedly disconcerted. Some instinct prompted me to refuse, though I could not have explained its origin. Nevertheless, before I was fully conscious of my decision, I had placed my hand in his and allowed myself to be conducted to the floor.

He danced with ease, possessing that rare ability of guiding without appearing to direct. The conversation he maintained throughout was of the most ordinary description. He spoke of the weather, of the season's entertainments, and of several recent developments in London society. Yet, while his remarks were entirely commonplace, I could not escape the impression that his interest extended beyond the subjects he discussed. More than once I found myself wondering by what means he had acquired so familiar an understanding of my character, for he occasionally alluded to opinions and inclinations which I had never knowingly revealed.

At length, observing perhaps the uncertainty I was unable wholly to conceal, he bent slightly nearer.

"You hesitate, my lady," he'd said, his breath brushing my ear. "Do I unsettle you?"

The question, though spoken lightly, produced in me a degree of embarrassment which I fear became immediately visible. I attempted to laugh and assured him that he was mistaken; but the denial lacked conviction even to my own ears.

There was about him a union of gentleness and authority. His manner remained perfectly courteous, yet beneath that courtesy lay a strength of character which one felt instinctively rather than perceived. It was this impression, more than any word he spoke, that rendered me uneasy.

The music drew at last to its conclusion, and he escorted me back to my place. Before withdrawing, however, he paused and regarded me with a faint smile.

"You dance beautifully, Lady (L/N)," he said. "I trust this shall not be our last dance." 

Having spoken thus, he took his leave; yet long after he had disappeared among the crowd, I remained conscious of the encounter, and found myself reflecting upon it far more frequently than prudence would have advised. 

The past has assumed that peculiar indistinctness which belongs to places long abandoned. I can recall it still, yet only as one recalls a landscape viewed through mist, whose outlines remain familiar though its details have become obscured by distance. There are moments when I attempt to revisit it in memory, to persuade myself that the life I once anticipated was real and not merely the invention of a younger, more hopeful mind; but such efforts invariably prove futile. That existence has receded beyond my reach.

My world is narrower now. It begins and ends within these walls, bounded by the passage of days, the increasing burden of the child I carry, and the familiar sound of footsteps traversing the corridors of Phantomhive Manor.

In the beginning, I confess that Vincent's attentions occasioned me more gratification than alarm. His letters arrived with regularity, each written in a hand whose elegance reflected the care with which every sentence appeared composed. There existed within them a degree of thoughtfulness which could not fail to flatter any young woman, and a gentleness of expression that seemed wholly sincere. If, on occasion, some indefinable quality within his words left me vaguely uneasy, I dismissed the feeling as foolishness. Courtship, I reasoned, was seldom entirely free from uncertainty.

Yet even then there lingered beneath his courtesy something I could neither name nor understand. Looking back, I think it was not affection alone that animated his pursuit, but a determination that admitted no possibility of failure.

When at last he sought my hand, I declined him.

I endeavoured to do so with all the consideration his regard deserved. My heart had already attached itself elsewhere, to a gentleman whose learning and integrity had inspired in me those hopes upon which young women are apt to build entire futures. I imagined that honesty, however painful, would be preferable to false encouragement. Above all, I believed Vincent sufficiently secure in himself to accept disappointment with dignity.

I attributed to him virtues he did not possess.

At their inception, the rumours were little more than vague suggestions, beginning so gradually that I scarcely noticed the conversation that ceased upon my approach, the cold looks exchanged between hitherto warm acquaintances, or those remarks delivered with an excessive politeness whose true, devastating meaning only became apparent long afterwards. 

It was said that I had pursued the Earl with an unbecoming eagerness. That I had sought to entangle him in obligations from which he had wisely extricated himself. Some embellished the tale further, supplying details which bore no resemblance to reality yet possessed precisely the kind of scandalous improbability society delights in believing.

The cruelty of such stories lies not in their falsehood, but in the readiness with which they are accepted.

One by one, the people upon whom I had relied withdrew from me; invitations ceased, familiar faces grew unaccountably distant, and doors that had once stood open to welcome me were now quietly but firmly closed. 

Even he abandoned me.

I remember still the restraint with which he delivered his decision.

"I cannot marry a woman whose name has become the subject of such discussion."

No anger accompanied the words, nor was any defence offered on my behalf; he simply pronounced judgment and departed.

Only later did I begin to perceive the extent of Vincent's influence, but by then, there remained little to salvage. My reputation had already been dismantled piece by piece while he stood beyond reproach, admired by the very society that had condemned me.

The scratching of her pen faltered as a wave of weakness passed through her, compelling her to rest her hand until the dizziness subsided. The fever had lingered for days, draining what little strength remained to her, while the weight of the child grew increasingly difficult to ignore, until at length she set the pen aside.

The interruption came moments later when a knock sounded at the door. 

The door opened, and Vincent entered, followed closely by the butler, who carried a silver tray upon which rested a glass of water and the medicine she had repeatedly refused. 

"You should be resting," he said.

The words were spoken gently enough, such that another listener might even have mistaken them for concern; yet she had long since learned that tenderness and authority occupied an uneasy partnership within him.

She closed the journal and laid one hand over its cover.

"I am resting," she said, "I was merely writing."

His gaze settled upon the journal resting across her lap, a slight crease appearing between his brows as he observed it.

"Writing will not restore your health," he remarked.

"No," she replied, "but it occupies the mind."

"It is the mind I am concerned about."

He placed the medicine upon the bedside table before taking the chair beside the bed.

"You should not exert yourself unnecessarily," he continued, "for the physician was quite clear on the matter."

"I have done nothing strenuous," she insisted.

"No?" A faint smile touched his lips, "You have filled half a journal this week."

Before she could offer an answer, his hand closed lightly around hers.

The gesture would have appeared affectionate to any observer, and indeed, there had once been a time when she might have mistaken it for affection herself; however, experience had rendered her far less charitable.

"Rest," he said, "and you must think of the child."

His eyes drifted briefly toward the curve of her abdomen as he added, "Our child."

The words produced in her a sensation she could not adequately describe, which was not anger, precisely. Anger required a certain degree of strength, and strength had become a rare luxury of late; what remained instead was a dull heaviness.

His hand moved gently across the coverlet.

"You concern yourself too much with the past," he murmured. "You will be happier if you let it go."

She lowered her gaze.

The fever had left her thoughts sluggish, yet they were not so dull that she failed to understand him; he mistook her resulting silence for agreement, a misconception that perhaps everyone shared. After a few moments, he rose from his chair and adjusted the cuff of one glove, his expression softening slightly as he spoke. 

"I shall return later. Try to sleep."

The door closed behind him, the butler following in his wake, and only then did she allow her eyes to close. A tear escaped despite her best efforts to prevent it, followed quickly by another, until soon she found herself weeping, careful not to make a sound.

I had once imagined myself capable of resisting him.

The memory might have amused me had it not been so painful.

For there had indeed been a time when I believed the truth alone sufficient to defeat falsehood.

How young I was.

How little I understood the world.

The recollection returned with a distinctness I would gladly have escaped had such a thing been possible, for there are certain memories which time, in an excess of cruelty, preserves more faithfully than others. I remembered the afternoon of my visit to Phantomhive Manor; remembered the low clouds gathering over the countryside, the rain striking intermittently against the carriage windows, and the miserable consciousness that every mile which carried me nearer to my destination seemed also to carry me further from the life I had once anticipated for myself.

By that time the mischief had already been accomplished. The rumours, which had at first appeared so absurd that I could scarcely persuade myself they required contradiction, had acquired through constant repetition the authority of established fact. Even my father, whose confidence in me had once appeared unshakable, had begun to speak of retirement to the country as though concealment might somehow accomplish what vindication could not.

Under such circumstances, I persuaded myself that my visit to Vincent had been undertaken for the purpose of obtaining an explanation; yet I have since wondered whether I was not, in reality, seeking something altogether different. Misfortune renders us strangely credulous. Although reason ought to have warned me otherwise, some foolish part of me continued to hope that the man whose attentions had once seemed so earnest could not remain entirely unmoved by the consequences of my suffering.

He received me in his study.

The room presented an appearance of comfort and order scarcely altered by the dreary weather beyond its windows. A fire burned steadily within the grate, while the fading afternoon light fell softly across shelves crowded with books and upon the polished surface of the desk beside which he stood. There was nothing hurried or discomposed in either his appearance or manner. Had I encountered him without knowledge of my own circumstances, I should perhaps have remarked only that he appeared unusually composed.

"Lady Y/N," he said, advancing a step as I entered. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

The perfect courtesy of the greeting struck me almost as an insult.

"You know why I have come."

If the accusation disturbed him, he gave no indication of it. He merely regarded me with an expression of mild inquiry.

"I am afraid I do not."

I had intended to speak calmly. Throughout the journey I had rehearsed a hundred variations of the conversation, each more measured than the last; yet the sight of him standing there, so entirely untouched by the disgrace that had reduced my own existence to misery, swept aside every resolution I had formed.

"Then I shall explain it," I replied. "My name has become a byword for scandal. People who once professed friendship now avoid me. Every day brings some fresh humiliation, some fresh invention, and you would have me believe that you know nothing of it?"

He continued to watch me in silence.

At length he said, "You have suffered greatly."

The acknowledgment disarmed me more effectively than contradiction could have done. There is a peculiar cruelty in receiving compassion from the very hand that has inflicted the wound.

"If that is indeed the case," he continued, "you have my sincere regret."

For a moment I found myself incapable of answering. The words possessed all the outward qualities of kindness, yet conveyed so little that they seemed scarcely to belong to the conversation at all.

He turned away then and moved towards the window, where he remained for several moments contemplating the rain-darkened grounds.

"Society is not always just in its judgments," he observed at length. "Indeed, it is frequently quite the reverse."

I remember experiencing then a sensation less of anger than of utter helplessness; for he neither denied my accusation nor admitted it, neither defended himself nor offered any explanation, but spoke throughout with such perfect moderation that any further protest on my part threatened to make me appear unreasonable.

When he turned again to face me, there was in his expression which caused an unwelcome apprehension to stir within me.

"It occurs to me," he said, after a brief pause, "that there may yet be a remedy."

Before he spoke another word, I understood him.

And, what was infinitely worse, I understood that he knew I understood him.

I remained silent.

The rain continued its steady assault upon the windows, while the fire crackled softly in the grate behind him. The ordinary sounds of the room appeared suddenly magnified, as though my mind had seized upon them in an effort to avoid the meaning of his words.

"A remedy?" I repeated at last.

His expression altered very little.

"Your difficulties, Lady Y/N, arise chiefly from appearances. Society concerns itself less with truth than with presentation. It condemns one narrative and applauds another, often without troubling itself to distinguish between the two."

I did not answer.

"The situation, unfortunate though it may be, is not beyond correction."

The dreadful composure with which he spoke began to affect me more than any anger could have done.

"And how," I asked, "would you propose to correct it?"

His gaze did not leave my face.

"By allowing me to offer my protection."

The words were expected. Indeed, I had anticipated them from the moment he first spoke of a remedy. Yet their utterance nevertheless filled me with a sensation not unlike despair.

"You mean marriage."

"If you prefer."

The answer was accompanied by the faintest suggestion of a smile.

I turned away.

Outside, the rain had become heavier. Water streamed down the glass in trembling silver lines, blurring the landscape beyond into indistinct shades of grey.

It occurred to me then that he had arranged matters with extraordinary care. Whether by design or by some darker instinct, every road before me appeared gradually to have narrowed until they all converged upon this single moment.

"My reputation has been ruined," I said quietly.

"It need not remain so."

"My friends have abandoned me."

"Friends are frequently recovered."

A bitter laugh escaped me.

"And what of affection, Lord Phantomhive? Can that also be recovered at convenience?"

For the first time, his expression changed, showing neither anger nor embarrassment, but merely a slight coolness that he quickly mastered. 

"Affection," he replied, "has often proved a less reliable foundation for marriage than necessity."

With the last of my uncertainty extinguished by the words, I rose. 

"I cannot answer you today."

"Of course."

The readiness of his agreement only deepened my unease, yet he accompanied me to the door with the same courtesy he might have shown any guest. 

As my hand reached the handle, his voice stopped me.

"You will discover, Lady Y/N, that I seek only your happiness."

I left Phantomhive Manor without providing him an answer; yet as the carriage carried me home through the rain-darkened countryside, I found myself haunted less by his proposal than by the confidence with which he had offered it. He had not behaved like a man seeking permission. Rather, he had spoken as one who had already calculated the outcome and merely awaited the interval required for its arrival. The weeks that followed did little to prove him wrong. My father's concern hardened steadily into persuasion, persuasion into expectation, while the gentleman whose constancy I had once trusted withdrew from my life with a politeness that rendered the rejection all the more painful. One by one the possibilities upon which I had relied disappeared until, at last, only a single path remained before me.

Thus it was that, several weeks later, I found myself standing in my father's drawing room while Vincent placed a ring upon my finger and accepted the congratulations of those assembled. I remember very little of the occasion itself. The relief visible upon my father's face remains clearer in my memory than any of the words exchanged. Vincent told me I had made the correct decision, and I suppose everyone present believed the same. Yet as I looked down upon the ring that now bound me to him, I could not rid myself of the conviction that what appeared to others a choice had, in reality, been nothing more than the final consequence of a hundred earlier decisions made by someone else.

For now, I close the diary, that carry truths of my miseries. 

That in his twisted game, there is never an escape.

At least, none… none made for… me.

Until tomorrow,

𝒀/𝑵 𝑷𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒆