Disclaimer:I don't own Kuroshitsuji, and the enthralling beauty of Phobia belongs to the talented Neneko
Warning:Yaoi. Rated M for, 'Maybe I ought to think twice before reading' =D
"He loves me."
A lone cerulean eye watches as a collection of things- cousin, fiancé, and adoring young woman- pluck at a flower. Elizabeth sits upon a bench in the garden of the estate, poised in a manner no doubt enforced by her upbringing: back straight, a slight arch setting her bosom on display, her legs tucked beneath her with one dainty foot crossed behind the other.
A sudden tempest flows over the coils of her golden hair, her fringe teasing the lashes above deeply emerald eyes. The skirt of a frilly, cyan, lace-and-chiffon dress is disturbed by the breeze.
Her hands command all of his attention; they pluck delicate petals one after the other, the stark white scattering over the ground beneath her. Like pallid snowdrops falling against a springtime canvas. The tears of a living thing, dotingly torn by a love-lorn human being.
"He loves me not."
She continues to whisper to herself. Elizabeth's brows furrow as the number of petals lessens, bringing her closer to the fate that she believes they can decide. Sweet, ridiculous folly that he has come to expect of her. It is difficult not to feel the faint affection that he holds for her escalating, filling his lungs like the air. A bubble that swells and bursts as his mind flits swiftly to something else. Someone else.
At long last Ciel decides to emerge from his place amongst the rose laden bushes and make himself known to her, just as her high voice fills his ears with a trill of exaltation.
"He loves me!"
Lizzy jumps up immediately, eyes glowing like jewels embedded in the face of a living porcelain doll, and she wraps her arms around him. Lilies and honey and other notes that he does not care to name cocoon him as she does. Smother him, and it is wrong. Nothing like the molten, lasciviously aberrant fragrance of something- someone- else.
"Ciel, you love me!" she declares childishly, wholeheartedly, and he does. It is not the emotion that she wishes of him. It will never be the undying, binding affection that has filled all of her dreams and fantasies. He cannot give that to her, because someone else lay claim to it long, long ago.
Still, he returns the gesture as a monstrous guilt ravages his heart, poison-tipped fangs stinging as they are embedded, until they remember for whom the wretched, blood-soaked organ beats. The monster relents at the thought, and purrs.
"Of course I love you," Ciel lies, and yet he does not.
He also neglects to tell Lizzy that her haste has left one forgotten petal attached to the stem of the broken, dying daisy.
He wants me.
It is an undeniable truth that settles gently upon the apex of his thighs, a place that Ciel has yet to exploit on his own.
Sebastian shows no qualm in fawning over the feverish skin as if it were a favorite possession. An offer of indulgence drips from devilish lips along with the saliva that can make it a reality, and he begins to take-
Trust, dread, newborn desire-
Plucking, plucking, plucking.
It is a whirlwind of unwanted affection. Palms pressing to the supple curve of his backside. Tongue wandering the inside of his calves. Will and body being stolen by something that Ciel cannot resist. He never could. Seven years have not made him any stronger.
A nightshirt of girlish design that had been the source of both amusement and embarrassment is splayed, very nearly undone.
Vulgarity and plea alike erupt from Ciel's mouth, earning him reassurance that he hardly believes.
"I'd never ever hurt you… I care too much…"
The smile on Sebastian's mouth as he bids him good night leaves Ciel half-ravished, and completely confounded.
All he knows is that he is wanted.
And that, for him, is not enough.
He loves me not.
Ciel bites his lower lip with enough force that he begins to consider how much harder his teeth would have to press to make it bleed.
The water in the tub has grown icy, but his skin remains ablaze. Whether it is from being scrubbed so forcefully, or the drunken haze of the force-fed belladonna, he cannot say. The ridiculous ensemble from a few hours prior lies discarded upon the damp bathroom floor, torn and miserable. Fabric darkens as it soaks, locks of false hair trailing about in disheveled, cobalt paths.
Unblemished skin is slowly rubbed raw by inhuman strength, pale peach giving way to irritated rose. Time is lost. Waves slosh and rush over the edge of the bathtub as the treatment becomes nothing more than a useless endeavor.
Sebastian remains in denial, the smell of belladonna lighting his eyes a livid ultraviolet. In response, Ciel remains as still as he can. He tolerates the abuse without a word, wondering why this is happening. Why Sebastian's composure is rippling and clashing and trickling away, just like the water in the tub. Why a multitude of scents that he cannot recognize wafts from Sebastian's neck and mingles with the perfume of his soap.
Why the look in Sebastian's eyes is tortured, furious, and hungry.
The butler is trembling as he offers a towel, and Ciel's heart leaps into his throat. There it remains, its tempo creating a song of uncertainty that pounds against his ribcage. He swallows, but it does not cease.
He cannot best the strength of a plant, and it frustrates the young earl beyond reason. Makes his hands tense as he dresses himself in attire so lewd that he no longer questions if Lau is at fault. The shirt, stockings, and barely-there trousers fail to unnerve him as they normally would.
The sight of Sebastian as his eyes glow by the candlelight does that particular job well enough.
Words full of tension hang in the air like precarious mines keen upon being triggered.
Mismatched buttons are rectified…
And everything catches fire.
Blazing. Yanking. Tugging. Tearing at a different sort of flower, the nectar at its center irresistible, and unfathomably desired.
The pleasure is unbidden. Lithe limbs, milky skin, and lips desperately pried by lust cannot understand. It is almost as sharp as pain. Almost as searing as the brand upon his back, or the acid that churned within him as he starved, or the edge of the dagger that tore his flesh and bled him, long, long ago. It overtakes him in much the same way- without warning, permission, or mercy.
It is such a wonderful thing. Marvelously frightening, Ciel decides with a shivering moan, as he begins to lose himself. To drown. To be thrust beneath a sea of something thick and inescapable, shedding the need to return to the surface as he slips further and further away.
"My Lord," the offender sighs into the shell of a reddened ear, hands crawling lower, where they tease and caress in haphazard strokes meant to stifle his sanity. They are effective, and Ciel is disgusted.
His neck cranes, exposed as if in offering. It is graciously devoured, and it thrills him.
The circles kneaded over the rise of his hips bear a request that is quickly complied. Legs covered by the thinnest veil of fabric part wide, an explicit invitation extended only by the instincts of his body. It is a dangerous acquisition… he's being toyed with… used…
Hadn't he sworn to himself never to let that happen again?
"Or…der…!" Ciel barely manages the words.
The answer makes his body ache as the hands wrapped in sin-and-cotton drift upwards towards his heaving chest.
Plucking, plucking, plucking.
It startles him, and a hiss rushes forth from his throat. It all feels much too good.
"…Stop!" He commands. Or begs. He no longer knows.
Sebastian appraises him with sanguine eyes that gleam with enough emotion to swallow him whole. Ciel pants heavily. He knows that there will be no defiance, but remains unwillingly ensnared by the insistent want that has yet to leave him. The desperate rhythm of his heart. The need that has swollen between his sweat glazed thighs, flushing carmine and throbbing perversely as it solicits fulfillment.
The butler… demon… invading touches… sweet contact…
Ciel cannot settle upon an accurate depiction within his muddled thoughts. It is all of these things within the guise of a human body which continue to stare at him. Fiery red rings have never looked so pathetic.
"I'm sorry," Sebastian gives as an answer, retreating slowly out of the lavish master bedroom. Though his presence is gone, the arousal he's created and the erection it has birthed remain completely intact. Defeat and gratification war with one another at an instant. Longing becomes agitation, and it is with hesitant movements befitting a virgin that Ciel begins to seek relief.
His legs part further, but the cool air makes him groan.
Fingers touch curiously, grasping and pulling-
Plucking, plucking, plucking-
But it hardly suffices. It is not until he loses himself completely that Ciel twitches and shivers; he screams his surrender and paints his body with ribbons of pearl, releasing spent breaths and forgetting to care why he detests this as feathery lashes meet for a final time. He falls asleep.
Ciel does not ask himself why he chose to howl his pleasure in the form of Sebastian's name. He does not hear the crazed thoughts of a frantic devil just outside of his door.
That night, he is nothing more than a tainted, coveted drug.
He loves me.
Cloying doom and ultraviolet would suggest the very opposite.
Being pressed to a wall and kissed until everything fades might imply the same.
Ciel is lured by growing attachment, cornered as the unforeseen trap creaks shut. Sebastian's passion mounts quickly, wrathfully, as hands attempt to engrave wicked confessions. To touch what can and cannot be felt.
Plucking, plucking, plucking-
Body, heart, soul.
Canines feast of the injury they bore into Ciel's pale neck and he shouts, twisting and fighting. The prelude never changes. Neither does the main event.
Again his body grows intoxicated by the spell of dribble, a liquid meant to create thirst rather than quench it. Clothed, emboldened fingers move to a spiral of muscle that tightens furiously as soon as it is touched. The rejection does nothing to dissuade the intended defiance: the digit continues its quest without objection, and the soft touch of cotton is barely that is it slips inside of a once-secret place.
Shrill cries fill the halls; Ciel's raised voice. He wants those hands far away. He wants those fingers out of his body. He wants for Sebastian to stop nuzzling him as he weaves tales of sweet nothings into his skull.
"I want to be the one you love the most!"
Ciel's arguments dissolve into sounds of ecstasy-
This isn't love.
This is calamity wrought by selfish want.
This is a seduction that he cannot fight anymore.
The insistent rise of one-sided desire meets its counterpart, and Ciel cries out. Hot, substantial, and foreign, it begins to thrust against him, to undulate in such a way that it delights him, and it is that newfound, carnal glee which touches the palpable air and shatters everything.
The movements are agonizing. Undeniable. Delicious. Hips rub, rise and urge, forcing what they can.
Plucking, plucking, plucking-
Ciel can feel them spill along his cheek. He can no longer hold them back. He cannot explain why the crystalline lines are flowing over his cheeks.
Because it feels good? Because he loathes it? Or was it because the words were so beautiful that he wanted to believe them?
He truly does not know.
Sudden pain shocks him as he falls to the ground.
Footsteps echo throughout the hall as he obeys the strained, velvet voice. Ciel pauses once he believes that he is well distanced. Everything aches, needs attention. Seeks black and crimson and moon-pale skin, fluttering tailcoats and raven locks-
Debauchery is revisited within Ciel's mind as he pleasures himself for a second time. All that he knows in that moment is that wretched, lovely creature. All that he needs is the same, for once the pressure of reality is gone, he finds the mental image to be electrifying. Enough to make his body quake as release adorns his quivering hands.
Realization prevails thereafter:
Sebastian needs him.
The immaculate façade of perfection is crumbling, and only Ciel can gather the pieces to make the demon whole. Only he can hold his hand and beckon him to the solitude of an empty bedroom. His body alone is the cure that wraps about Sebastian as he holds him close.
It is awkward. It is pleasant. It is cinnamon and hellish transgression roiling off of monochrome garments as their embrace pieces them together, so perfectly that Ciel sighs and wonders how this could be. So warm and fragile; was Sebastian always this way? Was the sinew of Sebastian's arms always so enticing? Was his mussed hair always the midnight silk that is slipping against his neck and cheek?
Yes. No. He cannot decide.
Even in this broken state, Sebastian continues to seize things that he did not know were there.
Plucking, plucking, plucking-
And something eerily similar to love.
He wants me not.
The endless navy of night, emblazoned by moon and diamond-bright stars, brings comfort. Blurs the lines that had already been mutilated. Cloaks master and servant in apologetic caresses that meld the shadows on the wall into one.
To sleep is to dream in the arms of temptation. Ciel sighs as he clings. Purrs as the hold around him envelops tightly. Is driven mad by the joy of having such warmth all to himself. Until he awakens to the sight of sunlight glowing over Sebastian's face.
Then he is at a loss for words.
Devil, or fallen angel? Neither, or both?
Sebastian is still. Sleeping, perhaps dreaming, though he once claimed himself to be a creature that did so very rarely. A full lower lip is nearly pouting, lengthy coal lashes trembling serenely. It makes Ciel's heart tighten. Already he is ghosting hesitant fingers over a pale cheek.
Sebastian is nothing short of exquisite.
Captivating, when twin suns of blazing crimson rise with Sebastian's awakening, paralyzing the boy with awe and prideful embarrassment. A single thought perpetuates within him: Sebastian's skin is utterly smooth.
His hand is pressed close, and Ciel jumps. Erects a transparent shield of reprimand that is slowly lowered as he inquires if Sebastian's condition has bettered. Dissipates entirely when the butler croons thankful sentiments and a playfully worded idea. A way to make things up to him, Sebastian assures.
A way to make Ciel groan beneath the intoxicating massage that is pressed to his scalp, his hair regaining its proper luster after days of inexperienced washing.
Bliss continues to thread through damp, lathered locks. The honest effort to please nevertheless begins to extort-
Plucking, plucking, plucking-
Moans, praises, and lust-filled fantasies-
Until Ciel chases them away with typical rejection.
He is ashamed that it is not as vehement as it once was.
They share many things beneath the secrecy of dusk:
Everything, and nothing all the same.
Ciel assumes the role of compliant prey. He adores the way in which he is devoured- with caution, so gently that every movement makes him feel impossibly precious. Coveted. Desired.
A silent mouth traverses the slope of a collarbone, journeying north to the hollow valley above it. It continues, finding refuge upon the sensitive flesh tucked behind the intricate curvature of an ear. The hold upon Ciel's hip is singularly desperate, opposed by the leisurely sweep at the knee of a trembling leg. A parted thigh. Provocation.
Giving in to this passion is no longer a choice that Ciel questions. Instead, he accepts it completely.
The shirt that rests suggestively low upon his shoulders is the perfect costume for such an occasion. Dainty and thin, the addition of garters stretches taut with every minimal shift. They graze against his thighs, teasing, and it excites him. Makes him throb whenever they ride higher. Flimsy underwear is pulled against him whenever they do, and Ciel is certain that he must look like a harlot at every angle. But the deprecating thought does not last; Sebastian's eyes are looking for more as the demon pets him sweetly.
He wonders if Sebastian knows what that does to him.
Can he tell? Does he comprehend how deeply it undoes him? Ciel does not have an answer. He has only a wish; to be bare and rapt beneath the strong form beside him.
The intimate physical study coaxes legs to unfurl and perch upon air as heat lingers on the back of his thighs. Dangerously close to his rump, to his loin, torturing with an elegant line that barely drifts over flesh before crossing over the lace border of sheer stockings.
Now it is Ciel's turn to grow ravenous. To feel the agitated churn of his willing body; molten, it simmers, but never quite boils. Not once does it reach that blinding, rapturous peak that Sebastian has taught him.
Cerulean eyes glaze at the erotic visions that Ciel refuses to voice. At the delectable ache that accompanies his every breath as he pictures it-
Plucking, plucking, plucking-
Suffocating, gripping, pounding-
Though he knows that the barrier that forbids this is his own fault. An order that he regrets. A result of his unyielding arrogance.
Sin lays before the two, just out of reach.
Ciel chants the haunting little game within his mind:
He loves me. He loves me not. He wants me. He wants me not.
Plucking, plucking, plucking, pluck-
I want him not. I want him. I love him not. I lo-
The last petal remains, intact and uncertain. It mirrors the long-forgotten, withered flower that graces the garden floor.
A mutilated daisy.
AN: Hope you enjoyed