Rating: Mild M. (I think I could still post it under T, but better safe than sorry.)

Warning: Mentions of sex, mild gore

Disclaimer: I don't own Kuro.

A/N: A very short oneshot. It occurs to me that I've been really inspired in the last weeks... I hope there aren't any creativity-downs coming their way... Whatever, I hope you enjoy this little fic! Feedback is much appreciated.

The Art of Telling Lies

I. Let me tell you a story

There once was a boy who lived sheltered from all evil. His mother was a loving woman who would read him stories before she'd kiss his forehead and leave the room silently. The boy would watch her, warmth and comfort spreading inside his body, and then close his eyes and drift into deep slumber.

His father was an honest, hard-working, charming man who cared deeply for his son. Being the Queen's watchdog, he maintained the peace in his hometown by bringing justice over dangerous criminals. The boy looked up to his father, to this successful businessman, to this elegant noble, and tried his best to become like him. He absorbed his father's words of advice like a sponge, practiced the violin for hours to entertain him with his latest achievement at the evenings, when the three of them gathered in the saloon after dinner, shortly before bedtime.

The three of them represented a successful, loving little family.

Until one night, the boy woke up to thick smoke and fire.

Immediately awake, the boy ran to his bedroom door. When he touched the handle, the heated metal burned his skin. The child, realising with pained horror that he was trapped, cried out, his breath coming in short puffs. A thread spun itself around his throat, preventing him from exhaling properly. He wanted to open the window to fresh air, but never made it across the room. The carbon monoxide had already found its way into the boy's lungs.

He lost consciousness, and the fire burned down the wooden bedroom door.


II. No, it did not quite go like that. It went like this

The butler saved the child from the fire. A cult stole the boy from the old butler.

A demon found the boy in a cage and offered a contract.

But the child, weak and weary and broken, couldn't hear him anymore.


III. Or rather like this

The demon was a deceiver, so the boy forbade him to ever utter a lie while the contract lasted. You are never to leave my side, he said, and the demon rested a hand above his cold, shrivelled heart and said Yes, my Lord.

And he danced like a puppet to his master's whim, danced and twisted and killed.

Yes, my Lord. I shall fulfil your every wish.

And he said it often enough for the boy to believe it.

For him to believe it.

However, at the end, he couldn't grant that one wish.

He was able to be the tool, the key to his master's revenge. He was perfect in almost every sense.

But the master grew into a young man, into a beautiful young nobleman, and suddenly demanded more. At first, it was only the demon's flesh. Always quick to corrupt, the creature didn't even need an order to lie down on the bed and be taken by the other male. The second time the master desired him, they fought for dominance. The demon pinned him down at least and hummed appreciatively into his ear.

Take me, the master said one day, watching his servant's hands with a strange interest.

Yes, my Lord.

The demon fulfilled that wish quickly, right there in the master's study, and smiled as he towered over the slim body, as he relished the little groans and other sounds of pleasure that tumbled over his master's lips.

Love me, those eyes demanded during the peak of their little game, when the other male was careless, unaware of the emotion inside him, Love me.

And the demon couldn't.


IV. This is how it really went

They never touched until the day it all came to an end.

I want you to hurt me, those eyes said, and the demon lay his hands on his former master's body to rip, shred and stain in red. Mismatched eyes – one blue, the other had just turned grey and dead – never closed, never broke the gaze as the demon clawed his way into the body. Those rosy lips were clamped shut but the demon forced them open to breathe in those delicious screams. Hands were surprisingly strong when they gripped at the demon's arms to distract from the pain, but it wasn't enough. The former servant bit and shredded with delight until there were no screams to fill the air, until the body sagged against him, staining his butler uniform with noble blood.

Before he could take what he had worked hard for, the bones and flesh crumbled into dust and one blue eye turned black, staring accusingly at an uncomprehending creature.


V. Because, in truth, it went like this

Ciel Phantomhive died at January 14th, 1885 from blood loss. He'd been a sacrifice to call the demon who never received a name from the members of the cult.

The boy's soul wandered around the hideout for months, restless and unable to go anywhere. One rainy summer evening, the contracted demon approached it. "I won't hurt you," he said and held out his hand.

The soul didn't budge, clear blue eyes watching him suspiciously. Such a beautiful boy, the demon thought and put an effort into his smile. He would have loved to form a contract with him, but this was just as well.

The soul drifted closer but didn't touch him. "I saw you," he said.

"I saw you, too," the demon responded evenly. "But why are you still here?"

"I never achieved what I wanted to. They killed me before I could kill them."

"Oh?" The demon almost smirked but maintained his friendly expression. "Believe me when I say that they have sealed their own fate."

"Have they now?" the soul asked and drifted a little closer yet.

The demon, starving and almost losing his mind at that scent, that need for revenge, that hate, nodded. And they spent the night talking to each other, planning, the hunter and his prey that was lured into coming closer, and closer, and closer. The hunter was a formidable deceiver, quick to deliver just the right words to a desperate dead boy with only one thing in his mind. The child, unable to distinguish lie from truth, couldn't help but fall for the words formed by a sharp tongue.

(Perhaps he just didn't care anymore.)

By dawn, the soul was in the demon's arms, head resting against his chest, listening to the silence inside the ribcage. "Avenge me," it said.

The demon, ever the manipulator, had finally reached his goal. He nodded.

Then he bent forward and swallowed down the soul in one single gulp.


And maybe, there was no truth to begin with.


The End