You and Yours
By: Mistress of Lost Souls
Disclaimer: I don't own Kuroshitsuji. (Though I do want to keep Ciel, Sebastian…. and William maybe.)
Warnings: Mild slash and spoilers for episode 17.
Summary: You feel a sense of pride and satisfaction when people look longingly at him; they could only do so much. They could never have him. For this lifetime, he is yours. Even when he indulges another in carnal pleasure, in order to gain information from unwilling informants, you would simply look away, a slight pout on your lips the only indication of your displeasure. It never lasts longer than necessary and once again, as if he never left, he would return to your side—where he belongs—ever loyal to the young master who holds his leash for a span of mortal years. And you are as much his as he is yours. He owns you in a way no other, not even your fiancé, Lady Elizabeth Middleford, could.
You wake up to the bright rays of the sun filtering through the windows as he pulls the heavy draperies open. On your bed, you stretch out gracefully, much like a cat basking in the warmth of the sun, throwing off the covers as you sit up rubbing your eyes sleepily.
You're not quite sure if it is amusement that you see in his eyes and in the slight curve of his lips as he reenters the room, pushing a small trolley with your morning tea. He should know by now that you wouldn't be able to function properly before you've had your early morning cup of tea.
As if on cue, he pours you a cup and says, "Bocchan*, for today is an exotic Indian blend with a dash of ginger — a gift from Prince Soma on his last visit"
You take a sip, closing your eyes to savor the spicy, tangy flavor of the tea— its warmth slowly waking you from your seemingly catatonic state. You feel a slight tingling sensation as his fingers graze yours as he takes your empty cup and set it down.
He helps you stand and undress, his fingers working swiftly and carefully as he unbuttons your plain night shirt. Automatically, your hand reaches for the eye-patch that lay atop your side table. Mismatched eyes communicating a silent message, you place the patch over your right eye- the one with a faintly glowing pentagram etched on its surface, making the blue of your eye appear purple. He takes over, deftly knotting that leather straps that held the eye-patch in place. He then helps you select and dress in a dark blue-gray suit that brings out the color of your visible eye.
You walk the hallways of your manor with him trailing behind you, ticking off the things that you have to do for the day, his eyes on his pocket watch, silently keeping track of how many minutes you are behind schedule. He is always there, a comforting presence at your back — a tall, dark-haired man immaculately dressed in a black tailcoat, a truly handsome gentleman with a touch of exotic beauty with his glowing wine-colored eyes in stark contrast against his pale skin.
Many people wondered how a twelve— now thirteen— year old child like you have found such a butler. He was seen at your side after the tragedy, after all — when you as a mere child, took over as head of the Phantomhive household after the tragic death of your parents, when your manor was set on fire.
You made the company what it is today — the top supplier of toys and sweets all over Europe; a remarkable earl — a shrewd and ruthless child known as the Queen's hound— with an extraordinarily talented butler at his side. A butler who could do things that no one else can and would follow your every order —your every wish— until you bring down all your enemies and draw your last breath. And then, he would collect his prize.
People often wondered what price you had to pay to get a hold of such a man. Such people would never learn the truth about Sebastian Michaels' terms of service. No, that secret would stay between the two of you.
You feel a sense of pride and satisfaction when people look longingly at him; they could only do so much. They could never have him. For this lifetime, he is yours (Just as you are his once your time is up). Even when he indulges another in carnal pleasure, in order to gain information from unwilling informants, you would simply look away, a slight pout on your lips the only indication of your displeasure. It never lasts longer than necessary and once again, as if he never left, he would return to your side—where he belongs—ever loyal to the young master who holds his leash for a span of mortal years.
Your relationship is much more than that, of course and as he washes your back at the day's end and you voice your annoyance, he claims that he just wants to make things move more smoothly for you. He says he doesn't want to put you in a risky situation; after all, you are in the heart of the lion's den again— a faithful dog investigating on the orders of the Queen of England.
Although you know that he is a demon with a silver tongue, his honeyed words make you relax under his touch, even as he trailed butterfly kisses on your neck and shoulder and his hands strayed from your back and ghosted over the blood-red brand on your side — another product of the tragic night so many-a-year-ago, the night when you summoned him and bound him to you.
There is no one else left to trust. You are as much his as he is yours. He owns you in a way no other, not even your fiancé, Lady Elizabeth Middleford, could. You surrender yourself to his touch— to his lips— even as you talk of not climbing out of hell but dragging all your enemies down with you. You turn around to face him and see a familiar smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
You stand in front of the fraudulent priest as he turned the pages on the "Book of Doomsday" — the book the Queen asked you to investigate about. Your face registers surprise when the burly man calls you by name and motions you closer. He ruffled your hair and crooned familiar words into your ear. The night is special, he claims, and your eyes burn as his touch and his words trigger the memory of the night your parents died. His touch reminds you of your father's — no, that can't be! You slap his hand away and he growls dangerously.
The burly man has his hands around your throat, gripping your windpipe tightly and cutting off your air supply but there is no trace of either fear or panic on your youthful face. Instead, the fire of defiance and determination burns brightly in your visible eye. You are secure in the knowledge that he would find you wherever you are — that is one of the terms of your contract. "Sebastian", you call out in a hoarse but resolute voice, "This is an order. Kill this man"
"Yes, my lord", a disembodied voice echoes in the domed ceiling of the cathedral. And in an instant he arrives, breaking through one of the stained glass windows of the cathedral, sailing swiftly through the air in a shower of shattered glass.
*Bocchan – young master
Author's Notes: I wanted to try writing something new in the 2nd person POV. This is a one-shot, unless you guys have any ideas you care to share. Comments and criticisms are highly appreciated (I need to brush up my writing skills, I know, just tell me how to...) ^_^;