This was written while listening to Eyes on Fire by Blue Foundation, so if you don't think it doesn't quite make sense, I suggest youtube-ing this song. Just a little bit of what my mind spits out at 2 am in concern to my OTP. Hope you like it too. Don't own Black Butler, wish I did lol
It's a game they play.
Hidden by day in masks of duty and honor. By night, their images of all that should be good twisted in looks of sin. Their shadows dance a waltz of steps almost forgotten, but the oldest has seen time beyond life, knows every twist and turn, and leads his puppet with a grace of a an angel: A demon at play.
Petal soft, pink lips part on pleas of want, of lust, of more, more, more. The raven gives so generously, watching his pet drink greedily of this sin of want. The whimpers and begging are just music of a song bird who has yet to grow his wings.
Black nailed fingers rake through downy soft hair, grip it in passion when the little one's hips shift just so, making even this twisted soul's world seem white. This little butterfly, spread before him upon the rug as though he were a feast, makes the raven quake and want, feel in ways his black heart should not be capable of.
This dance is always the same. Among the bedsheets, sprawled upon the cherry wood desk, no place is unfit for them to release this craving neither can understand but both know so well. This place on the rug does for now, only a few steps into the study. But the sound of the door closing was a few seconds neither could handle.
It comes on fast and strong, like waves upon the shore. Little things make the tide: The touch of a gloved hand, the flash of crimson eyes, or the huff of an embarrassed butterfly, the batting of lashes so long they could be wings of their own.
No matter the rhyme.
No matter the reason.
The tide comes in, and rolls back out.
And the butterfly cries in a love only the raven could give him.