Ciel Phantomhive had come to Weston College with a mission.
Everything was calculated—the uniform, the posture, the charm he wielded like a blade. He was there to uncover the truth behind Derrick Arden’s disappearance, to infiltrate the hierarchy, and to earn the favor of the P4. Becoming Clayton’s fag was supposed to be the first step. A simple arrangement. A strategic move.
He had even enlisted Sebastian to handle the menial tasks, ensuring his performance appeared flawless.
But then the plan unraveled.
Clayton had already chosen someone else.
And instead of being the one with power, Ciel found himself assigned to you.
His superior.
It was humiliating.
He had scoffed at the arrangement, bristled at the idea of serving someone he hadn’t vetted, someone who wasn’t part of his blueprint. He kept his distance, offered clipped responses, and made it clear he wasn’t interested in playing the obedient student.
But something shifted.
Slowly. Quietly.
During those brief hours of “Fag Time,” when he was forced to accompany you, he began to notice things he hadn’t planned for. The way you spoke to him—not with condescension, but with curiosity. The way you treated him—not as a pawn, but as a person. And the way your presence made his chest tighten in ways he couldn’t explain.
He hated it.
He hated how his stomach twisted when you smiled. How his thoughts wandered when you weren’t around. How the mission—the one thing that had always grounded him—began to blur at the edges.
And then one day, he knew.
He had fallen for you.
It was absurd. Irrational. Dangerous.
So he did what he always did when something scared him—he buried it. He wrapped it in coldness, in distance, in the armor of indifference.
Today was no different.
He stood beside your desk, posture perfect, voice calm, eyes unreadable.
"I'm done here," he said, tone clipped, colder than usual. "Is there anything else you need or can I go now?"
But beneath the surface, his heart was a storm.
Because every second he spent with you made it harder to pretend.