side story club retreat

The underground club does not travel in large numbers. One must be selective, discreet. Introverted. Misunderstood. Outsider enough to appreciate isolation and intellect. I have cultivated it carefully over the years.

This weekend, I am their guide. Not their teacher, not their evaluator. Just Diana.

They arrived by me personally via one of my personal vehicles a hearse morbid for many but to them homely enough to enjoy to ones own amusement.

The manor looms as they arrive: gothic yet familiar, dark stone softened by creeping ivy, the kind of home that could be intimidating from a distance, yet welcoming once within its walls.

“Welcome,” I say. My voice remains calm, controlled.

The group murmurs. One of the girls tilts her head. “It’s… less intimidating off the clock.”

“Yes,” I admit, leading them through the halls. “A little more down-to-earth than the professional façade. That does not mean it is… ordinary.”

Beckett waits in the library. Mask, gloves, the usual trench coat and casual outfit he wears of course. He steps forward.

“My name is Beckett im mrs,bloodbriar’s husband.,” he says softly. “I’ll be assisting your creative exercises this weekend. If you need help with anything… visual, literary, or technical, I’m your resource.”

A few girls whisper behind their hands, noting the way he moves deliberately, quietly, the shadowed mystery of his mask, the subtle weight of his presence. One murmurs: “He’s… attractive… even like that.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Focus on the learning. Or the drawing. That is far more productive than idle observation.”

The twins, Persephone and Hades, flit about the room as my “assistants.”

“Mother says to bring the pencils and notebooks,” Persephone announces in a tone far too calm for her age, the sort of clarity only children of our household possess.

“I’ll help with the candles,” Hades adds, adjusting one flickering battery-operated candle in the corner.

The students blink. The children are morbid, polite, eerily composed—but undeniably adorable. One student whispers: “Better them than the Ant Hill kids cult.”

I nod slightly. Yes. That is exactly the level of appreciation I require.

The retreat begins in earnest.

Gothic music hums softly in the background.

Candlelight flickers across bookshelves filled with nightshade illustrations, novels, and Beckett’s manga-inspired graphic designs.

I have arranged my sketchbook nearby; a few otome games and visual novels lie stacked discreetly but accessible.

Lavender and nightshade oil scent the air faintly.

The students are invited to explore, draw, and write in quiet reflection.

Beckett demonstrates some digital techniques: manga-style paneling, character sketches, composition.

Students lean in, fascinated.

Girls glance up at him briefly, catching glimpses of his masked face, and—rarely—the faint curve of a jaw when he tilts his head.

“He’s… intimidating but kind,” one whispers.

Another nods: “Yeah… I see why they love him.”

I wander among the students, observing.

Some draw, some write. Few speak. Those who do are careful, deliberate. Their quiet focus pleases me.

I offer occasional guidance, my tone softer than usual. A small smile escapes when a student nails the contrast between light and shadow in their illustration.

Beckett catches my glance and smiles faintly. My prince, I think, observing him. Later, I brush the scarf across his shoulder, whisper softly, “Relax, you don’t need to hide from me.” “Of course mistress” if there is anything you need or the club needs i am more than happy to assist.

He hums quietly, a warm presence against the cold elegance of the room.

Lunch is served quietly. The twins pour herbal iced tea, Persephone and Hades moving with eerie precision. Beckett sits nearby, sketching a character suggested by one of the students, his mask slightly lowered for comfort.

PDA is unavoidable. A soft kiss on his hand. A whispered, “Prince…” from me. Beckett’s gentle, almost shy acknowledgment, “Mistress.”

The students glance briefly. Then nod.

“They really… love each other,” one says, without judgment. “Even if they hate everyone else.”

“Yes,” Hades says matter-of-factly, arranging a plate of cookies. “Much better than the Ant Hill kids cult.”

The afternoon is spent in structured creativity:

Gothic illustrations

Writing exercises with darkly ironic prompts

Beckett providing digital design guidance

Me providing commentary on story structure, hubris, irony

The students are fully engaged. Quietly fascinated. They occasionally catch glimpses of my hobbies: sketching a dark manor, flipping through a visual novel, humming softly to the gothic music.

Beckett’s influence is subtle but powerful. The students notice his patience, the calm way he reassures a struggling artist, or guides a shy writer.

By evening, the retreat reaches its zenith.

Candles illuminate the room. Shadows flicker against the walls. The students share their work.

One girl shows a sketch inspired by Persephone’s precise, morbid pose.

Another shares a poem about human folly, reflecting the gothic humor and dark morality I emphasize.

I offer measured praise. Beckett offers gentle feedback.

No one asks for more than they can handle. No one overperforms.

The students leave with quiet awe. Whispered comments linger:

“Their family is… terrifyingly loving.”

“The twins are creepy but adorable.”

“Beckett… wow. No wonder why one of the reasons they look like they’ve been married for like ages now is because hes just simply put perfect for each other.”

“Diana is… cold, but deep down, really nice off the clock.”

Later, I retreat to the balcony. Beckett joins me.

“Quiet went well ?” “for me personaly no items were missing be it household personal effects or anything of that nature everything is all in order and in place.he asks.

“Perfectly,” I say, allowing a small, genuine smile. “They understand boundaries. Even curiosity must be earned.”

He hums softly, brushing a hand across mine.

“Your prince is pleased,” I murmur.

“Your mistress,” he corrects with a soft grin.

The candles flicker. The night is still. No accidents. No complaints. No thefts. Nothing out of place.

The manor is at peace. The students leave enriched.

And for once, I allow myself to feel satisfied.

The retreat was worth it.

Beckett was a highlight. The twins were perfect. And the club… finally understood that darkness and love can coexist, beautifully contained.