Disclaimer: Seriously. Stop asking. It's getting annoying.

Author's Note: I was struck by the sudden urge to genderbend. This urge doesn't strike me often, so I figured I should fic while the ficcing is good. :D

Warnings: Cielxfemale!Sebastian (Sebastine, for the sake of aesthetics). Plays with the Victorian idea that married couples only ever slept in the same bed for reproduction purposes. ADD editing. Lemon-flavored, so kiddies, avert thine eyes!

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Paradigm

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"Would you care to explain yourself?"

The devil considers this invitation, delicate hands folded politely over the pristine, pressed lace of her white apron. She considers, and she innocently cocks her pretty face; long, bound locks of coal-silk hair shimmer as they shift, cascading down the maid's back in a raging river of raven. The lengthy ponytail seems to converge with the shadows; as black as the night, as black as her nails, as black as her heart and her soul and the gown that she wears, melding with the gloom that lurks in the corners of the candlelit bedroom.

Ciel's azure eye narrows, as does its mismatched mate—but the right orb is still hidden by a worn patch of leather, despite the approaching midnight hour. The strain that this puts on his mind and his vision is probably exacerbating his annoyance, but the sight of the cataleptic blonde in his bed most likely isn't helping his mood.

"Sebastine…" the maid's master grits, patience visibly waning. In what is (presumably) intended to be a show of ominous irritation, the 18-year-old has crossed his lanky arms over his chest. Beneath the Egyptian cotton sheets and extravagant autumn quilt, his foot jerks in exasperation, as if in parody of tapping; the opal-hued fleur-de-lis woven into the downy coverlet shift and jump and fold, whipped about in this unusual maelstrom. In effect, the immature display reminds the demon of an angry child's pout, and she finds it all terribly amusing. But it is not her place to laugh, no matter the situation, and so her face does not betray her emotions— unlike Ciel, whose countenance is becoming increasingly pink with fury as the minutes wear on.

"My humblest apologies, young master, but I fail to see what the problem is," Sebastine eventually returns, in a simple silvery lilt that speaks of nothing but naiveté. "The young mistress asked for some tea, and I, as I am wont to do, fulfilled her request."

"You drugged it."

"You exaggerate," is the immediately rebuke, aloof and flippant. "The young mistress is often plagued by dreadful nightmares, and so I have recently taken up the habit of adding a spot of sleeping medicine to her tea. There is nothing to worry about."

For a moment, Ciel says nothing. His fingers drum, his lips purse, his gaze cools. Then, with a single brow arched, he lifts his wife's limp wrist, holds it aloft for an explanatory spell… then allows it to crash against the bed like the limb of a corpse, heavy and awkward. Elizabeth jostles but does not wake— does not so much as stir.

The brow arches a fraction higher.

"…my hand may have slipped while pouring in the usual dosage tonight, I will admit."

The boy's response to this is a snort and a snarl, grumbling expletives under his breath as the unruffled maid pulls deftly on the hems of her doily-mesh gloves. "There, you see?" she then chastises, sounding very matronly in her patronizing coddles. "Everything is perfectly right with the world. In fact (if I may take the liberty to say so), the only problem I perceive is that the young master is not asleep, like the mistress. The night grows long, and the morrow's schedule is full indeed."

The earl does not see the logic in this argument. Neither, it appears, is he pacified by it. Instead, he grumbles and huffs, and his face grows redder as he levels his maid a truly acerbic glower. "Never mind tomorrow's schedule," he snaps, and the arms he's looped around himself tighten noticeably—for wholly different reasons than before. "There was still something on today's schedule that Elizabeth and I… um… that is…"

He splutters, no longer able to hide his embarrassment, and for a good forty-five seconds Sebastine does nothing to stop him. On the contrary, she has always taken great pleasure in watching her contractor squirm, and is content to let him writhe for as long as he sees fit. And writhe he does, like a caterpillar in a synthetic cocoon, searching for the appropriate words to use in such a situation. But then, there are no appropriate words to describe the utterly inappropriate…

Sebastine knows this, and that knowledge plays a predominate part in the formation of the leer that coils the corners of her petal-pink lips.

"I humbly beg your pardon," she says quietly, and accompanies the apology with a low, low curtsy. So low, in fact, that it is really more of a bow— lashes fluttering like ladies fans and half-hiding her gaze as she tilts her head to catch his eyes, coy and cloying. "While I am sure that I cannot fathom the reason why you would require Lady Elizabeth's company at such an hour as this… I am afraid that, whatever the master's need, the mistress seems in no state to fulfill it."

The monster straightens. Raised arms lower. And like a black widow at its loom, she ensnares— entraps— his wandering senses. Spindle-thin fingers slowly scuttle up the curve of a full, pert breast, popping the pale pearl buttons it finds on that path... and her master's stare, full of a feral longing, caresses in ways that no hand ever could. Hunger flashes on his face and in the slit void of her pupils, incandescent irises ever-more enchanting in the rosy glow of the single candelabra.

"I realize, of course… that it is hardly my place to make such a suggestion…" Sebastine murmurs, and her saccharine soprano voice is lowering, lowering— dancing down the treble scale like the shivers that cascade down Ciel's curved spine. An alto husk, sensual and sultry, that hisses like hot wax as it dribbles down pallid tapers. Slithers down lithe legs.

"It is the very height of impertinence… to even suggest such a thing…"

Down, down, down, like thoughts and clothing and blood flow and Ciel's lustful stare, like Sebastine's mouth as she steps from the ring of her discarded dress and leans into her master, wicked tongue flicking the shell of an oversensitive ear. "But my lord… if I may be so bold, perhaps I could be of assistance, instead…?"

Ciel doesn't waste time with a response— not a verbal one, anyway. But the devil can feel his agreement against the curve of her thigh, grinding into her pelvis when he hoists her atop his skinny hips. And his manicured nails gnaw at the flesh of her sides, just below the bones of her corset; the delicious sting of physical pain combined with the sheer desperateness of her little lord's actions pulls a moan of delight from the back of her throat. With a general lack of regard for the comfort of the unconscious woman beside them, Sebastine flips the bedspread over and blankets the blonde twice. In the cover's stead, Ciel is blanketed by a sheet of crow-colored tresses, soft as feathers and far more torturous as the tips tickle his toes and knees and stomach— bare, now that the maid has peeled open his nightshirt.

"Ah…"

"Tell me, young master," the cooing demon whispers, clock-spring lashes giving a lazy flicker—and the butterfly kiss is almost crueler than the touch of her hair, for it teases the areola of his already-hard nipple, cold with sugary saliva. "What is it that you desire from the Lady…?"

She rolls her rounded hips, and he can feel heatheatheatheat for just a moment, just an instant, before she is pulling back again (the bloody tease!), and is instead filling his ear with similar heatheatheatheat, breathing depravity and deviousness into his very being.

"Do you seek companionship? Why? You know that I will always be with you..."

The words echo, hot and moist against his temple; they resound through the bedroom like the screeching of springs, like the pound of his heart, like the squeal of his tendons as sweat-dappled hands fist and slip and slide amid the sheets.

"Or is it the carnal you yearn for, perhaps…? Oh, young master… you need only give the command… and my body is yours in whatever way you wish..."

In emphasis, she drops sharply— roughly— pointedly down, and in a single, blinding flash any mental facilities that Ciel might still have maintained vanish in an eruption of heat. Such heat. It makes the boy scream out, tears of excruciating ecstasy forming beneath his jammed lids as he bucks and spasms and his toes curl so tightly that they almost break. The devil is hot enough to burn— as if her insides are made of magma, boiling lava and blistering flame; as if she is Hell itself, personified for his pleasure. And ah, and oh, and yes, and movement and tightness and he thinks he might explode into a thousand-million smoldering embers.

"Or is it merely… an heir you seek… as to be a paradigm of… your station…?"

The voice is airy now, but still ever-present in his brain— murmuring, taunting, promising as a serpentine tongue paints satanic symbols and Latin prayers upon the canvas of his cheek, neck, shoulder. Ebony-tipped talons rake nosily down the cherrywood headboard, clattering claws latching onto pillows as the demon thrusts-thrusts-thrusts, taking him in deeper-deeper-deeper— as if she is trying to swallow his body like she'll someday swallow his soul.

"I can give you children, my lord…"

Ciel is keening, so hard it's almost unbearable. His head tosses, noble-blue jugular straining, pumping, thrumming against the thin veneer of his china skin. The vein goads the demon, mocks her and tempts, and so she nicks it hard enough to draw blood— an oozing crimson jam that she eagerly laps up. And when he next kisses her, her tamer can taste the sweetness of copper mixed in with the fetid candies that make up her own unique flavor: caramel and chocolate and toffees and death, velvet tongue rub-rubbing, lick-licking like a lolly.

"Beautiful, intelligent, malevolent children…"

His hands are on her breasts, now— brushing the magenta buds that peek through the transparent cloth of her slip. The fingers of his left hand knot in the complicated laces of the maid's corset, and is left flailing like a fly within a web; his right hand leaves scratches and welts along the round of her buttocks, smack-push-scrabbling as if this might encourage her to increase her pace. And no, it doesn't, but Sebastine does spread her knees just a touch wider—knocking into the slumbering Lady Elizabeth and half-pushing her off of the mattress. Ciel's response is a wordless shriek as his body shakes and trembles, but no, not yet, so close

"Daughters so lovely… those who'd see them would weep… ah— Sons so gifted… they could rule the worl— nn!"

The devil snaps her head back, stunning features dewdropped with crystalline perspiration and ruddy eyes flaring in time with her-his-their pulse. She can no longer simply sit and rock—now their bodies are flush and slick and more one than two, and his arms tangle around her thin frame as she seemingly attempts to hammer him into her very core… And the world is a swirl of darkness and light and sound and silence and pain and pleasure and—

"Would that… please my young master…?"

—he is not listening anymore, not really, because the inferno in her womb has spread to his loin, his thighs, his stomach, and a millisecond later has imploded like a bomb, like a miniature sun: short-circuiting his mind as solar flares and shooting stars race through his veins. And as a supernova burst of bright-tailed comets sparkle and glow behind his bulging, bleary eyes, the barely-cognizant earl groans a heady "yes…" in thanks for release.

Silence.

And he is so distracted by orgasm, Ciel does not see the growing smirk of the devil who continues to ride him, milking him dry.

When she leans into a last, lingering kiss, his ears are still ringing with gratification; he does not hear the loving, "yes, my lord..." that she moans into his mouth, like a seal on a Contract.

But after she slips back into her clothes— after she ushers him into another room— after she tucks her master into bed and graces him with a final, subservient curtsy, she gives her flat belly a tender rub. And that he does notice, along with the secretive, deviant smile that has quirked her glossy lips… and for some reason that Ciel cannot fully explain, the sight sends a chill of foreboding down the length of his spine.

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