plotted starter // @dnangelic ’s Daisuke + Dark
Preparations for guests were always touch-and-go in the Phantomhive Manor, but for once in his long life, Sebastian actually worries that they have not done enough.
Time management is something many humans aren’t as well-versed in as they believe themselves to be, but this situation truly took the prize for being among the worst. It was all the more irritating that their newest guest wouldn’t even be aware of the fact—not that many are to begin with—but to receive someone into the Manor when they’re in the course of tracking down a thief is the height of unneeded distractions. Were it that he could have convinced his young master, in some way, to reschedule the stay, Sebastian would have taken it in an instant.
Unfortunately, Fate is not so kind to him. Not that he expected otherwise, but he can’t help but to inwardly curse about it all the same. Especially since he must now act kindly; receiving guests in any manner but would be an insult to not only them, but his master as well, after all. No matter the situation before them, no matter the work to be done, he has a duty to see to all the guests that cross his master’s threshold.
It’s why alongside his worry does his intrigue, his excitement come forth as well—could their business be handled while their guest is here? Would their guest be blissfully ignorant of the situation, or will they find out due to some unforeseen circumstance? The possibilities were many, and Sebastian is eager to see which one will play out; it’s why he wears a smile, bright upon his features, as he interacts with this Daisuke fellow.
“This here will be your room, sir,” He tells the young man, his tone polite—possibly too polite, he can hear his master taking note of it already, but he can’t help it—as he holds the door of one of their guestrooms open. “We are proud to announce that our Manor’s furnishings are only of the highest quality, but please do not hesitate to make a request of us, should you find that we are lacking or something is not to your liking. We are well-prepared to suit your individual wants and needs as they come.”
There’s not too much he knows about the young man, as, to his understanding, his master knows Daisuke’s mother more than he does Daisuke himself. Thus does it stand that his satisfaction is of the utmost importance. Were it that he returns home having had an unpleasant experience, it would reflect poorly on themselves, the Estate, and the young master, and that is something Sebastian cannot permit. That he will not permit.
What a most interesting situation we have found ourselves in.
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A short masquerade au ectoloader snippet :]
context will be needed however so here is some basic info for them in this au:
Ecto is a demon. His host and the body he ends up taking was originally named Akira, who was in love with the previous incarnation of Higari.
The two of them die (just before the snippet) and Ecto takes Akira's form, and lives his life until Higari kinda reincarnates.
In the snippet: Ecto - 'The Sinner', Akira - 'The Lover', Higari - 'The Light'
^in its simplest and shortest form.
CW: blood and death mentioned
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"A reflection of the burden of Sin."
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Cold.
Blood staining red the purity of snow.
Frozen remnants of a time where souls were once thriving, happy, loving.
The hands-almost-claws, broken and scarred, burnt and shaking from the so-called righteousness of a god. The hands, bearing the weight of many sins, curling into the cold and bloodstained snow.
The hands that taint any soul it touches, spreading its affinity to sin like a plague to be captured and locked away. Chained. Broken. Longing for touch, yet bringing darkness and sorrow to that which it yearns for.
What do these hands yearn for?
Warmth?
Warmth, unlike the bitterness of snow, nor the white and blinding layer it paints across the earth, hiding any drop of colour or imperfection it touches. Warmth, like the sun on a summer's day, the welcoming touch of a fireplace in a home that had always been there, the feel of comfort from hands that are accepting and kind - reaching out with understanding.
It is a warmth that a soulless being can only yearn for.
To what do these hands belong? What could possibly yearn for such things, but a being not of the warmth of life nor the cold of snow and death? A demon?
A sinner.
It kneels, not to a god, but to the tragedy of its own making. Blackened-red blood and tears seeping to the stone of the grounds it shouldn’t touch, near-reaching yet not meeting the pure red snow that had bloomed in front of it.
It weeps.
But how could a sinner ever cry?
It weeps for that which it thought it could love.
Muted orange and blue, met with the stone cold floor, gaze broken and ever-staring. Once, a softness that only the kindest soul could’ve had, filled with light and hope, acceptance and care. Now, only the carcass of a being no longer living or breathing, cold and lifeless, carved open like words and vows into the mind and stone of life and dedication.
It weeps over the death of the only light it ever yearned for and the only light that did not cast it away.
Yet it weeps for another.
Another, not in sight, cast down, down, down where life escaped from the instant the cold ground hit, and the sharpness of rock and stone soon rid that body of its soul.
Another comforting warmth, but this one much more different. Wise eyes, kind hands, an open mind, even for that which could have killed him. Caring for the other so much that his love and sense of warmth soon afflicted the sinner too.
The sinner, using his body as a means to escape the cruelty of its punishments, of its burdens. Its face. All scars and the harsh gaze of the divine that caused them, always watching and punishing and so adamant in their so-called-discipline.
Yet with him all felt secure, safe. A sinner feeling at home within the cages of that living soul who loved and cared. The two of them showed more kindness than anything else in the cold harsh world.
The light of one, shining upon the body of the lover with sweetness and care. The shadow being cast, that of the sinner itself. A shadow - the absence of light - following blindly and yearning for all that it cannot be or feel or touch. The shadow being cast in the shape of that which it never had, which was stripped from it among years of torture and pain. The confines of a body.
A physical body, so that the sinner can feel and touch and love and oh…
A body to feel alive. To feel like it could one day be a someone again.
A body, down, down on the ground.
The broken hands reached out yet again, the sinner knowing that the body of the lover would soon be its own… yet the sorrows of the death that was endured drowned out all of the happiness that it once thought it would have.
The wispy broken form of a sinner, consumed by shadow and wrath and pain. It once had been formed by light and belief, all that divinity could shine upon, it held hope.
Yet that light was never warm.
That light flickered and burnt until it was cast down. Falling just as the lover did. Down through the cold and unfeeling air, until there was nothing.
But now, that nothing could be something yet again. Hands gripping the bloodstained snow, now not its own yet familiar as always. Legs that may have been sturdier at an earlier time, yet there nonetheless. Lungs that push the cold stinging air through the body, not always pleasant but welcome.
A heart that would no longer beat, its warmth now wasted with the life that had left. But that's okay, that heart belonged to the lover, and to expect the sinner to use it to love would be to ask it to be tortured again.
It had become the lover now, only with the absence of light.
He is the shadow of the lover that once was.
He is a sinner, but he is safe again.
However, that safety truly did come at a cost that made him question whether his punishment from the divine hadn’t really ever ended when he fell.
What torture had it been for the lover to watch his light be snuffed out in front of him, blood that had been innocent spilling into the blank canvas of the snow as his tears conveyed his sorrow. The sinner could recall the pain in the lover's soul as his head met with the ground in grief and anger, and the emptiness as darkness returned.
All for the sake of the sinner that they had let into their lives out of the kindness and love of their own hearts. Innocent and caring lives, now lost because of the burden that the sinner carries and heartless folk that hold that same so-called-righteousness as the divine that started it all.
And as the lover fell, what was there but sadness and yearning left to trail through the air like the ribbons across the stage of the theatre they had all loved so much.
The theatre, their theatre. Putting on a show to bring happiness to others. For the sinner, a facade. Hiding behind the kindness of the two, while being rotten and broken truly inside.
A masquerade.
For now that the light had been extinguished and the love all drained, what could be left for the sinner to show except to keep up the masquerade of what was left?
When the light burns out, all that remains would be embers. But even embers could provide a warmth for the shadow of the lover to yearn for, though there will be time before they can be relit.
Until then?
Cold.
Nothing for the sinner, but the cold of the crimson snow and the hollowness of a loveless heart. For he must wait the warmth he so yearns for again.
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