Male Reader inserts

do not fear the reaper || charles-henri sanson

[fluff&angst]

source: INNOCENT, INNOCENT Rouge

~

You hated your family.

Tight, constrained, as if locked in a heavy and gaudy jewellry box. You were scorned by your parents, treated as if you were lower than a stray dog in your own home. Your father was an earl of some kind, pandering to whatever aristocrat he came into contact with. Your mother was despondent when not masquerading in the face of the affluent or cruelly reminding you of your faults. You were their only child, and you were a disgrace.

You were a frail child, easy to hurt and hard to heal. Your mother was in the same way, but your father was a robust and athletic man considering how often he went on hunts with those of higher standing than he. Your father didn't lord your fraility over you unlike your mother, but then again, he rarely bothered to loiter around the house and instead preferred to be with those holding ties to Versailles. You were too sick to hold his attention long anyway, since the family physician often said there was little chance of you ever being healthy enough to deal with the stress of hunting. Every conversation with him was backhanded in some way, far and few between.

Your mother always looked at you as if you were dirt. You'd once gotten a headcold as a child and, although it had not been very serious, it had you bedridden for a few days to ensure complete recovery. The only instances of her coming to visit you then were when the physician begged her to since he needed to step out and couldn't keep an eye on you. You had asked her why she'd visited, glad to see her. She wasn't nearly as joyful and merely told you that, should you ever feel too overburdened by life, to rush towards death and not look back. You, young and confused, thought it a joke and so, quipped back that it was merely a headcold and you'd be fine.

"A pity," she spoke, voice sharp and face hard.

Your smile disappeared. You leaned back against the pillows stacked behind you and looked away. She never came to visit you when sick again, against the behest of the family physician.

That was fine. You'd cursed her womb, so to speak, and she hoped that upon your death she'd be blessed with a child much different (see "better") than yourself. Out of spite you grew and your body, though unable to ward against, refused to succumb to illness. Your mother cared little, in the end. Wealthy women were never gifted with what they dreamed of. One learned to get used to it.

Your father, as absent as he was, did not leave you behind on visits to relatives though. That was where you'd met your father's older brother, Gabriel-Adam. He adored you and it was such a foreign feeling. Gabriel-Adam, with his long hay colored hair and his eyes green like summer leaves, had lost two little girls and his wife. He took on the role your father refused to fulfill. And for once, you felt happy. You felt wanted. Uncle Gabriel listened, Uncle Gabriel loved. For once, you had somebody who respected what you had to say and didn't hold your weak constitution above your head.

He bought you gifts that you adored, a telescope for looking at the stars, preserved sea creatures encased in clear glass balls, anything and everything that you came to love and adore simply because it was from Uncle Gabriel. He'd even let you tag along on a hunt once, although it devolved from a hunt into more of a horseback riding practice. No matter what time you spent, with your uncle you always felt like the luckiest boy in the world. You'd almost forgotten what it was like to not be loved.

But that had been when you were a child. Gabriel-Adam had died early in the 7 Years War, wrought by a sickness. Just like that, your world crumbled and you once again lived in a hostile world that wanted you dead. No more lovely uncle to give you the affection and respect you craved. But you were old enough to do things on your own. Nobody would hover over a 20 year old's shoulder, breathing down his neck to make something of himself.