sebaciel modern student/teacher au where ciel is super skeptical of weston's latin teacher, a seemingly perfect man who is beloved by the entire school. ciel is the only one who recognizes it's all one massive farce. even worse, his teacher appears to be targeting him with quite a lot of attention, constantly calling him out in class, always claiming he needs help from the top student during lunch break (and bribing ciel with homemade sweets so he agrees). ciel thinks he's trapped in some death note style psychological battle, where his teacher is playing mind games to manipulate him. and to what end? could he be looking to use ciel as a means of getting to his socialite of a father? or is he just some gross pervert trying to get ciel truly alone? (and ciel totally isn't secretly hoping for that to be the case)
sebastian is indeed putting up the facade of being a confident perfect teacher, though he's no master manipulator. in reality, he's just a loser who's enjoys what little attention he can get. he has hardly much of a life outside his job, with only a very small friend group, and his only hobbies involve cooking and feeding the neighborhood stray cats behind his landlord's back. and now he's developed a pathetic crush on the equally lonely boy who eats lunch in his class with him every day. a crush he knows he can never act on.
First WIP chapter for my "servants find out about SebaCiel AU". The fic's from Mey-Rin's POV where she (+ Bard and Finny) slowly realize that Sebastian and Ciel are in a secret relationship, only the servants assume it to be non-consensual and believe Sebastian is actually molesting Ciel. Whoops!
1.5k words. I still need to re-edit it and the end's a bit sloppy right now, but hey, it's done. If you want to, please let me know your thoughts and if I should continue it.
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It starts with bruises.
Deep into the night, the servants are finishing up their work. Just a few moments ago, Mey-Rin had managed to knock into another china cabinet, shattering not only five ornate plates, but also her week-long clean streak of not breaking anything. Tonight, however, she lacks the energy to dwell on it. She's been up far too long and simply yearns to retire to the soft confines of her bed as quickly as possible.
Now she kneels on the floor in search of stray ceramic shards. A broom would be faster, perhaps, but the pieces scattered upon being dropped, and with her eyesight she would surely miss some were she to rely on the broom.
“Mey-Rin, how close are you to finishing? I want to get to bed already.” Bard calls as he comes into the room, seemingly finished closing up the kitchen.
“Go on to bed, I’m just finishing up.”
“Can’t. Sebastian said he won’t dismiss me ‘til we’re both done.” He looks down at her on the floor, hands filled with the desecrated remains of plates and a trash can. He snorts. “How many weeks worth of pay d’you reckon that is?” She ignores him.
It's just the two of them now, the others in the house either busy or asleep. Sebastian is in the cellar working to fix a leak that had sprung up earlier in the evening. Finny and Tanaka have already gone to bed. Snake is… well, she's never quite sure where it is that Snake goes on any given occasion.
Mey-Rin chances a glance up at the clock. It's a quarter to midnight. Sebastian will likely be back from the cellar any minute. If he catches her before the mess is cleaned, she’ll have to sit through another scolding, and more importantly, wait even longer to finally be dismissed for the night. She is running out of time.
Mey-Rin lets out a whine. “Oh, Mister Sebastian will have my head once he comes up, yes he will.” She frantically snatches at the remaining shards, piling them into the trash.
Bard kneels next to her in an attempt to aid in the cleanup. Three-quarters of the way through, she grabs a particularly jagged piece.
“Shit.” The pain is instantaneous. A persistent, stinging burn down the length of her forefinger. She shoves her finger in her mouth, the coppery tang of blood pooling on her tongue.
“I’ll go get the bandages.”
Just as Bard stands up, they hear it. Faint shuffling coming from a nearby hall. Both servants still. Footsteps far too timid to belong to Finny, yet far too rushed and unstealthy to belong to either Sebastian or Snake.
They glance up at each other, exchange a curt nod, and draw their guns.
They trail the sound through the dark corridors, keeping a distance. Attacking immediately, as Bard so often points out, would be foolish. Gathering information is the priority.
Soft, hurried footsteps patter across the hard floor. It is clear there is only one assailant, an inexperienced one at that. At least the job will be quick.
The intruder leads them to the male servants’ wing. Odd. Perhaps they wish to rid the manor of any witnesses before going after the young master.
The footsteps come to a stop. Mey-Rin and Bard assume position behind the corner of the hall, just a few meters away from their guest. The lamps have long been doused, but Mey-Rin can still make out a bleary figure through the darkness.
Rattling of a doorknob. The first door is to Sebastian's room, which he often keeps locked. A light scuffing along the wood, as if the intruder is attempting to force the door open.
Mey-Rin takes the distraction as an opportunity to jump into action. Sliding her glasses up her head, she rounds the corner. Guns steady in her hands, fingers itching on the triggers, aiming straight for the oddly low head of the intruder.
She freezes in place. At the end of the barrels, partially obscured in shadow, stands the young master, his eye widened in shock.
Mey-Rin shrieks. She attempts to throw away her guns, but the blood from her finger has been pooling around one handle. The gun slips.
Bang. Her bloodied hand jams into the trigger, setting it off, and sending a bullet ricocheting into the wall.
In panic, Mey-Rin lunges forward to shield Ceil. The glasses slip back down over her eyes, the bottom of her boot catches on a loose lace forcing her to trip.
She stumbles directly into Ciel, and for a brief moment she fears she's about to knock him to the ground. She grips the front of his nightshirt and pulls him forward as hard she can. The boy shouts in surprise, but he stays upright in her impromptu embrace.
Bard rushes out from cover. “What the hell happened?!”
There’s a brief moment of pride in her that she hadn’t accidentally crushed the young master, though that pride is quickly replaced with the horror of knowing she nearly shot him. Twice.
“Young Master! Are you alright, sir?!”
Ciel jerks his head away from her chest. “Get off me.” He grumbles.
Mey-Rin immediately breaks her hold of him. “I am so, so, very, very sorry, Young Master. I’ll go fetch Mister Sebastian right away, I will-”
“No!” The two servants stare at him. Ciel lets out an exasperated sigh. “Enough, Mey-Rin. Don’t make this into something larger than it needs to be. And do not call for him, don’t even mention it to him. I am fine.” He begins to walk away, but the servants trail him closely.
“Young Master, where are you going?” Bard asks.
Ciel comes to a sharp stop. “Bed. And I can get there myself, I don’t need an escort.”
“But, Young Master, it’s too dark, yes it is. You could trip and get hurt!”
“Young Master, here, let me…” Bard strikes a match, filling the corridor with just enough light to see. Mey-Rin nearly gasps at the sight now clear to her.
There stands the young master, now illuminated by the small match. His white nightgown loose against his chest, slipping off one shoulder, the first few buttons of it having been snapped off by Mey-Rin. The sleeves now ride up ever so slightly on his forearms, exposing what’s underneath.
Bruises. Hardly over a day old from the color; deep red and purple splotches marring ivory skin. Wrapping all the way around bony wrists. Smaller blemishes scattered across his neck and chest, circling the dark shape of a large hand imprinted on his neck. Worse yet, bite marks, sharp enough to have been made by an animal, branded deep along his collarbone.
The servants can do nothing but stare. The sight of the young master in a battered state is, unfortunately, not novel, but Ciel has not left the manor for watchdog duty in some weeks. Even then, this, this is far different. None of the marks reach outside of what would be covered by his day outfits. They are deliberate. Calculated.
Cautiously, Mey-Rin reaches out to him. “Young Mast-”
“Young Master.” A chillingly calm voice cuts in from right behind her. Mey-Rin nearly jumps out of her skin as Sebastian emerges behind her. He holds a lit candelabra to his chest, though the shadows still seem to cling along the outline of his tailcoat.
Ciel groans upon seeing the butler. Sebastian returns it with a wide grin. “It is late. You should be in bed, my lord.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware that I have a bedtime now.”
Sebastian kneels down in front of the young master, tracing along the damaged part of his shirt with a gloved finger.
His hands move to fussing with the shirt's collar. “You've made quite the mess of yourself.” A notably deep bruise along the dip in Ciel's collarbone. Sebastian briefly slides the pad of his thumb over it. “Young Master, why, pray tell, were you so intent on this little nighttime venture of yours? Surely not just to break into my room.”
“I was not–” Sebastian tugs the young master’s nightshirt back into place with his free hand, covering the marks. “This is my house. I can come and go wherever I please.” Ciel huffs, his face bright red.
An amused scoff. “You know very well that it is not safe for you to traipse through the dark on your own. I could hear you bumbling about from all the way downstairs.”
“I was not being that loud.” Ciel crosses his arms over his chest.
“Ah, but loud enough to alert the others. Your stealth skills are lacking, sir, severely so. Of course, even if you were some master of the shadows, you would not be able to elude me.” Sebastian readjusts the nightshirt one last time, smoothing it down. Once satisfied, he stands back up, and beckons Ciel to follow him down the hall. “Come, Young Master, let us get you back to bed.”
Out of huffs to puff, the young master concedes in following him.
Sebastian pauses a moment. “Mey-Rin.” He turns back to finally acknowledge Mey-Rin and Bard, who have been standing in stunned silence through the entire interaction. “Do exercise better caution next time. As Phantomhive servants, the young master’s safety is to be our top priority.”
“Y-yes… Of course, Mister Sebastian, sir.”
Pleased, he returns to guiding the young master back to his quarters. Bard’s match goes out, leaving the two servants in the dark, dumbfounded.
snippet of my wip student/teacher au. only about 940 words. I do have quite a bit more than this, but I have a really bad habit of writing out of order and in pieces, so rip to any chances of deciphering my notes. also it's my first time writing any fic, please be gentle as you pick me up to throw me to the wolves.
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‘Meticulous.’
If one were to describe Mr. Michaelis, that would be the ideal word. And Ciel Phantomhive would, regrettably, be inclined to agree.
The near universally beloved History teacher of Weston College, Sebastian Michaelis, meticulous in absolutely everything he does. With a tight, effective schedule he never strays from, an undeniable talent in teaching even the most hopeless of lost causes, and a natural charisma which has procured him quite the entourage. His reputation certainly precedes him. And Ciel has never detested anyone more.
Of course, said entourage consists of nothing more than overexcitable schoolboys yipping and pawing at his feet for attention. Still, they feel the need to make their admiration known, constantly prattling on about the teacher’s supposedly endless angelic qualities. Their sickeningly sweet words are all but seared into Ciel's memory at this point.
‘Smart in appearance.’
First period everyone slinks through the door, threadbare and half-asleep. And yet there’s Mr. Michaelis, just as he is every morning; freshly-pressed black slacks, a starch white button down under his dark vest, sleeves perpetually rolled up to his elbows, and thin-framed spectacles sat sharply on his angled nose.
The students sluggishly limp to their desks. He readjusts his tie as if it were ever out of place to begin with. One would think he’s attending some lavish gala, not teaching History to fourteen-year-olds at nine in the morning.
‘Mindful to those around him.’
Ciel takes his seat in the front row. At the start of the year, he sat obscured in the back just as he did for every other class, yet Mr. Michaelis insisted his ‘visual impairment’ necessitated the seat change. Ciel has lacked half his vision for nearly his entire life. He gets on just fine in the back, or at least none of his other teachers have ever shown concern. Not many dare to acknowledge the patch hidden under his bangs, and he prefers it that way. Sick all his life, he’s never needed the empty pity attention would garner him. And Ciel certainly does not need a pity seat.
‘Punctual as ever.’
Never a day where he’s not there before a student. Mr. Michaelis lets out a practiced sigh. He glances at the clock above the door, then to the seats in front of him for a vague head count. Idly, he swirls an ornate mug in his hand as though he’s deep in thought. It’s filled with the same carefully prepared tea as always; Earl Grey. Golden brown in color, the very same shade as his eyes– Ciel suppresses the urge to puke at that thought.
Ciel has heard it all before. Not a soul in this blasted school is capable of shutting up about how, ‘Oh what a wonderful, kind teacher Mr. Michaelis makes…’ And now, apparently their debauched musings are railroading his own thoughts.
The clock overhead ticks into the new hour. Class begins. Mr. Michaelis takes one careful, final sip of his tea before rising to start the lesson.
Over-dramatically, he clasps his hands together before picking up the chalk. Ciel rolls his eyes as he thumbs through his notebook to a fresh page. As always, Mr. Michaelis takes the time to write out the date and lesson topic on the board in swooping, over-the-top letters. He very well could have written out everything beforehand, but no. With him, theatrics take all precedence over convenience.
Mr. Michaelis greets the class in his typical, ingratiating tone. “I hope we're all having a cheerful morning,” judging by the several half-asleep groans, he is the only one who is. “Today we'll be moving on in our unit on the Industrial Revolution. This week, we’re to learn the joys of the textile industry. Textbooks to chapter fifteen. Would there be any volunteers to begin?” He is met only with more groans. A common conundrum, one in which most other teachers would resolve by simply choosing an unwilling student. Mr. Michaelis fortunately, or unfortunately, is not most other teachers. He simply smiles, raises his own textbook to his chest, and readjusts his glasses. “None yet? Well then, I shall be the one to start us off, yes?”
The freckled boy next to Ciel, who was just on the verge of falling back asleep, jolts upright and alert at the sound of Mr. Michaelis’ smooth reading voice. Ciel scoffs at the shamelessness of it all. Acting as though Mr. Michaelis is some idyllic saint. He makes half the faculty and student body practically swoon.
Really, it’s all bullshit. Anyone with eyes – well, one at least – could see through that frail farce. Mr. Michaelis is nothing more than a conman, his facade a honeypot crafted to attract the very same mindless flies always buzzing around him. Ciel would not fall for it. Never. Not in a million years.
A pen twirls between Ciel’s fingers, any attempt at note-taking already long abandoned. He props his chin onto his fist, craning his neck to survey Mr. Michaelis as the teacher paces around the classroom, book in hand. It’s almost cute that Mr. Michaelis believes he can hide his ulterior motives.
Hardly ten minutes into class, and his thin-rimmed glasses are starting to slide down that sculpted roman nose in such a way that it only accentuates the rest of his features. That ink black hair, which he tries so desperately to tame, has already managed to come into utter disarray. Dark strands falling into his face and a spiky cowlick rising up out of gel. A very controlled, charming mess. Just enough to not receive scorn for unprofessionalism.
Deliberate. It must be. Even the cracks in his porcelain persona are painted on.
