Series: Black Butler
Prompt: #08: Addicted
Word Count: 10,572
Characters, Pairings: Sebastian/ Ciel
Summary: It’s a twisted addiction, he knows—some rules are meant to be broken; some lines are meant to be crossed.
Warnings: sexual content (including rimming, if that bothers you), and a speck of almost-sap at the end.
Notes: It had to happen sooner or later, and boy did it happen. Excuse me while I try to find my brain, which has exploded. Falls in with ‘Lust is but Gluttony’s Twin’, ‘The Thin Line Between’, and ‘Lead me (not) into Temptation’. Takes place after ‘Lead me (not) into Temptation’.
Ciel has tried to categorize it—this strange, terrifying, exhilarating thing between Sebastian and himself. He likens it to a moth being drawn to a dancing flame; he thinks of it as a sort of gravity, or as a thousand tiny strings pulling him towards Sebastian, tightening and shortening and choking him, stealing the air right out of his lungs.
Asphyxiation, he thinks, or drowning.
Except Sebastian is always there to give him breath, only to steal it right back with a skillful touch or a sly smile or a brush of his lips against Ciel’s own.
He settles for classifying it as an addiction—twisted, dirty, wrong. Then again, what addiction is right, or clean, or wholesome? He is an addict, plain and simple (even though his situation is neither and both of those things); he makes lines, although his lines are not made to be inhaled or licked or (eventually) injected or ingested in any manner. No, Ciel’s lines are made to be pushed, crossed, blurred, broken, and fallen from.
Tonight, he is the one who does the pushing – the walking over – without caution or concern. Fingers delicately caress the spot where Sebastian’s mouth had been several nights ago; the mark on his neck has faded, but Ciel still remembers how it had felt and he wants more now. He can feel the growing need pushing at him just as he pushes at that invisible line (pushes it away, out of sight), and there is heat unfurling in his lower belly at the memory alone, the memory of his butler’s mouth and his hands, and he whimpers in the darkness—a half-strangled sound.
He is an addict craving his next fix, but he is not the only player in this game, and he knows that even demons have yearnings.
He knows, for instance, how his very own demon (yes, his, for as long as his own miserable existence will continue, until the instant that Sebastian swallows his soul) craves him—how those separate hungers of Sebastian’s merge and meld and melt together until one is indistinguishable from the other (hasn’t Sebastian taught him that lust and gluttony are very much the same, after all?).
He sits up and he pushes the silken sheets off of his body, taking a moment to deeply inhale. It is on the slow exhale that he orders, “Come to me, Sebastian.”
There is no pause or preamble; there is no opening and shutting of Ciel’s bedroom door. Sebastian simply is not there one instant, and in the next, he is at the young Earl’s bedside, all gleaming red eyes and sinuous, sleek movements.
He dips in a low bow, and his voice is deep and strong, vowels and consonants flowing smoothly from his devil’s tongue as he speaks: “My young master has summoned me at a late hour—I do wonder what it is that ails you at this time of night, my Lord. It has been hours since I bathed you and tucked you in.”
When his butler straightens, Ciel notes how his gaze is full of knowing and how his smile is one of amusement and perhaps even anticipation. He doesn’t have to ask any questions, because the answers are already his (he’s always, always known far too much and has never truly suffered any consequences because of it), but he has morphed his statement into a question all the same, and even though both of them know better than to believe an answer is demanded, Ciel gives one anyway.
“Just a taste,” Ciel murmurs, and his fingers linger at the spot Sebastian had suckled at nights ago. “That’s all you received on that night—not much at all, even when thinking in terms of a light snack.” Ciel feels his lips curving upwards and he does not fight the pull. “I know that you are hungry still.”
It is not a question this time, merely a statement of fact.
The demon’s eyes are alight with the two hungers that fight for control, and ultimately it is lust that wins over gluttony, because Sebastian does not have free reign to indulge in the latter sin just yet, and thus it is perhaps because of that fact that he takes comfort in the ability to indulge in the former.
Or perhaps he would indulge in the former even if it were not a second resort—it is a topic that Ciel sometimes wonders about, but does not dare to ask. When one has lost everything, one learns to not always question what one is given.
(Or what one takes.)
“My master is very observant,” Sebastian murmurs, and the smile he offers is at once predatory and derisive—though more one than the other. “But being your butler, it would be a shame if I were unable to detect the fact that you are also still hungry; quite the appetite my master has.”
It is a harmless, teasing jibe, but Ciel half-glares all the same, even as his cheeks turn bright pink. “The hunger being addressed here, Sebastian, is not my own, but yours,” he reminds the devil (and lies to himself in the process, because this is partly about him, too—Sebastian knows and acknowledges it; Ciel knows and is trying his damndest to ignore it).
“Of course,” Sebastian replies readily, and though his tone is agreeable enough, those red eyes see through every pretense and they taunt Ciel in ways that his words never could. His eyes and his smile are at odds with his words—irritatingly defiant, but the young nobleman supposes that he should know better than to expect anything else from the demon.
“As I was saying,” Ciel resumes, gaze now downcast, “I was thinking that I would make you an offer.”
“And what sort of offer would that be, my Lord?” Sebastian queries, and there is want tucked into the folds of humor—yes, there, Ciel can hear it and it makes him ache in ways that he hasn’t quite yet begun to understand.
He suspects that Sebastian knows this, too, and wants to hate him for it.
He cannot, though, and that frustrates him all the more.
“I came to the conclusion that you would perhaps enjoy a better taste,” Ciel murmurs, and his quick glance upwards tells him all that he needs to know: red eyes momentarily flare, and even though Ciel is currently clad in his nightshirt and his underwear, he feels as if he is (already) naked.
He wonders – even as he once again turns mismatched eyes away – if Sebastian can see not only through his clothing but also through flesh and muscle and sinew, through bones and tendons and organs, through veins and arteries and capillaries, through the battling light and the darkness to the very core of himself. To his soul, the now-accursed thing that he had offered the demon years ago.
It would not surprise him in the least if he were to learn that Sebastian does indeed possess such an ability.
“My master is very considerate,” Sebastian says, voice dipping an octave lower, making Ciel’s stomach do delightfully frightening flip-flops; that now-familiar flame licks at him and he welcomes it, indeed a moth drawn to the blaze (and he knows that he will inevitably burn sooner or later but is content with this knowledge).
Ciel does not speak of the fact that he is also selfish—there is no need to; Sebastian’s already made light of it; yes, he is hungry, yes he wants. It’s strange how there can be mutual give-and-take in instances such as this. Then again, that give-and-take has been the entirety of their story, hasn’t it? Ciel has given his soul and has taken an otherworldly being—one who is both very good and quite terrible at playing pretend. Sebastian has given his services and taken the promise of a meal (for youth and purity and sweetness had already been taken from Ciel just before they met, and perhaps that is what drew the demon to him in the first place).
This is not parasitism, but mutualism; both parties benefit. Both give (both make promises, both make offers) and both take.
Ciel lifts surprisingly steady hands to the front of his nightshirt and he carefully unbuttons it, starting at the top. The buttons themselves are small and annoying and he doesn’t exactly make quick work of them – not like Sebastian would – but he’s been practicing this ‘unbuttoning’ thing, and he knows that it shows.
“You do not begin the game unprepared, do you?” Sebastian quietly muses, and even though there is an edge of quiet mockery in his words, there is that aching hunger in his eyes, and Ciel notes that Sebastian watches him the whole time, as if riveted. Yes, he certainly has his servant’s full attention, and those garnet eyes slide down, down, down, for every button that is undone.
Sebastian is no stranger to Ciel’s naked flesh, but the young Earl knows that the devil is seeing it in quite a different light, now, and if he weren’t so focused on the task at hand, he might actually grin just a little.
Once the buttons are undone, Ciel lays back against the pillows, choosing to leave his nightshirt on and open instead of simply shrugging out of it. Sebastian can worry with that little detail, he thinks, if he so chooses.
For a moment, things are quiet and tense between them, and for a moment, Ciel feels more than a little unsure and lost and maybe even a little afraid (even here and even now the memories won’t leave him—not that he exactly wants them to, but this is not the time nor the place for them). However, he is nothing if not stubborn, and he loftily – almost icily – asks: “Do you not intend to sample what your master is offering you?”
The mattress dips as Sebastian’s weight is added to it, and on the butler’s lips is a soft, polite smile. “What sort of servant would refuse such a tempting offer from his master?” he queries as he leans down and in, practically nose-to-nose with Ciel. The gentle curving upwards of his lips becomes decidedly less soft and kind in the blink of an eye (or in the span of time between one heartbeat and the next, since Ciel’s eyes are wide open and unblinking). When he speaks again, his smile is all teeth: dangerous, voracious. “Tonight my young lord has decided to cross the line he’s drawn all by himself, hmm?”
“Not entirely by myself,” Ciel replies somewhat haughtily. “You yourself are crossing it at this very moment, you know.” He pauses, looking down at his own bare, pale skin, which is illuminated by the silvery moonlight that is streaming in through the sliver of space between his curtains. Even softer, he adds: “I originally drew this line with no intent of crossing it, but my plan changed somewhere along the way.”
Sebastian chuckles, soft and low and seductive, and Ciel’s breath catches and his spine tingles at the sound. “Young Master, you are giving absolutely no credit to fate, here. Isn’t it true that some lines are meant to be crossed, just as some rules are meant – and indeed, made – to be broken?”
Ciel snorts indelicately. “And some lines are crossed whether they’re meant to be or not. Fate has to place here.” (It is a lie, he knows, because his fate is sealed and he cannot alter it, but he can at least do what he pleases until that day arrives.)
This? It is his choice, his decision, and he does not hesitate to tell Sebastian as much.
“I would expect to hear nothing less from my master,” Sebastian replies with a slight (perhaps respectful) nod. In the next instant, his head is tilted to the left, and he asks: “Might I make a request?”
Ciel breathes in and out, slowly and evenly—carefully controlled, for it would do no good whatsoever to fall apart right now, so early in the game. He has to concentrate on his breathing instead of the solid weight of his butler above him. If he were to let himself focus on nothing but Sebastian right now, he would surely surrender entirely, and that isn’t the way he wants this to go; he wants to enjoy this game to the fullest extent—wants to drag it out, because a truly good game always ends only during overtime.
His body is currently demanding that he breathe quicker to match the staccato thump-thump of his heart, for there isn’t enough oxygen in his alveoli to accommodate the sudden increase in cardiac output. He does not give in, however; he keeps inhaling and exhaling nice and slow, in and out through his nose. The notion of supply and demand has gone all awry, but he cannot say that he cares much.
When he speaks, his voice is as controlled as his breathing. Curiosity pushes at the edges of his mind, but he does not allow it to trickle into his tone as he replies with a question of his own: “What is your request?”
“Close your eyes, and please do not ask why.” Sebastian’s smile is equal parts imploring and cunning, a combination that proves to unnerve Ciel—perhaps more than the request intrigues him.
“Why?” he demands to know anyway, because he can, and because he knows that Sebastian will not lie to him.
The smile disappears. Sebastian’s lips do not curve downwards, however. They merely straighten. “Does the young master not trust the servant that has sworn to remain loyal to him – and him alone – until he breathes his last breath?”
Damn you, Ciel thinks, because yes, he does trust Sebastian. If he did not trust him, he would not have ever made such an offer, and both of them know this.
How strange it is, to place all of one’s trust in one’s future murderer.
Without another word, Ciel closes his eyes, only to open them again when Sebastian leans in, brushing his lips ever so lightly against Ciel’s own.
Sebastian’s eyes are open as well. “Young Master,” he murmurs, the vibrations of his words tickling Ciel’s lips, “Eyes closed, remember? In truth, what should be open is this.” His tongue is wet and warm as it licks against the seam of Ciel’s lips.
Ciel’s eyes close again of their own accord – most certainly not because Sebastian wants them closed, damnit – and the instant Ciel grants Sebastian the access that he seeks, he forgets about breathing. The air in his lungs leaves in a rush, and Sebastian greedily swallows Ciel’s breath, along with the little sounds that he makes as Sebastian explores his mouth leisurely and fully.
Ciel has never been kissed before – not like this – and his inexperience shows. He stumbles and he falters just as he had when Sebastian had tried to teach him to dance, but his butler does not seem to mind his lack of skill much at all; in fact, said butler seems all too happy to prove that he has enough skill in this particular area (as is true for all areas) for the both of them.
The language of love – or at least lust, in this case – is obviously one that Sebastian is fluent in, and Ciel? He has discovered that he becomes tongue-tied (metaphorically speaking) rather easily, but he is nothing if not a good pupil. He is a quick learner of almost any subject, save dancing.
He refuses to be anything but a perfect student now, for he was the one who first crossed the line months ago when he held out a bloodied hand and asked, “Are you hungry, Sebastian?”
The young Earl kisses Sebastian back, and even though it is without finesse and without expertise, it is certainly not without fervor or heat. His tongue tangles with Sebastian’s—rubs against it, slick and hot, and his body is rubbing too, hips arching up, off of the mattress and against the body above his own.
Smaller hips fit imperfectly (but well enough) against larger ones, and Ciel is pleased to find that he is not the only one who is aroused: clothed heat against clothed heat (and hardness, and oh--)
It is Ciel who breaks away from his first kiss with a gasp and then a moan, his lashes at half-mast and his carefully-reigned control practically in shambles around him. His breathing is in sync with his heartbeat now—fast and uneven, and this wasn’t part of the plan (at least, not yet), but this whole scenario wasn’t much of a plan to begin with, was it? No, it was and it is more or less (and leaning very heavily towards ‘more’) a bold and reckless act based entirely on want (gluttony) and hunger (lust).
(And maybe, just maybe need fits in there somewhere, but if it does, he’s too damned proud to admit it.)
Sebastian is as perfectly composed as ever, save for that burning look in his eyes. Ciel savors it, wants more of it, and he scoots his body downwards a fraction before inexpertly grinding his hips upwards again. It’s a little easier this way, and he supposes it must be for Sebastian as well, since the demon doesn’t have to awkwardly position himself to keep both mouths and hips in contact.
Ciel is not the only one who softly groans, and his mismatched gaze is settled on his butler as he says, “It would seem that my devil-servant is not entirely immune to human wants, but I suppose I knew that already—you took that ‘holy’ maiden after all, didn’t you?”
This time, it is Sebastian who moves, rocking his hips down against Ciel’s, derailing Ciel’s train of thought and thus sparing himself from further interrogation—for the moment, at least. “I did hint at that during our conversation in the bathroom some time ago, after the death of your aunt,” Sebastian reminds him. “And yes, this body can feel pleasure and react to it just as yours can.”
Sebastian leans down then, clearly not minding having to bend his neck and spine in such a manner that would possibly make a contortionist admire him, and his next statement is whispered silkily against the shell of Ciel’s ear: “That exchange was for information only—this is an animal of an entirely different nature.”
“How so?” Ciel dares to ask, and he’s blushing again for no definable reason.
“This exchange is not only one that my master desires, but one that I desire as well.” There’s his tongue again, quick and wet, tracing the outer edge of the ear he’s just whispered into. “The more I taste of you, the hungrier I become, and the more I want to devour you—to have every part of your being as my own.”
Ciel should possibly feel offended, for Sebastian is not the owner here, he is. He should also probably feel at least the tiniest twinge of terror, for what the demon above him desires most is his soul, and in order to obtain it, Ciel’s own death is a necessity.
He feels neither of these things. What he does feel is another surge of heatlustwant, and his arousal twitches within the confines of the white cotton underwear that he is still wearing.
“Is that so?” he asks, more breath than voice, and Sebastian all but leers at him and nods.
“It is very much so, my Lord,” Sebastian answers, and Ciel knows it is truth—Sebastian will not (cannot) lie to him.
“Then what is it that you are waiting for, Sebastian?” It is more a challenge than anything, Ciel tells himself, even though he knows that yes, it is a means of hiding his own aching impatience.
He has a feeling that Sebastian notices the poor cover-up, but if the demon indeed does, as he suspects, he (quite thankfully) does not comment on it. Instead, he only grips lightly at Ciel’s sides and easily moves his body upwards, which is slightly annoying, because Ciel had scooted off of the pillows for a reason, and what the hell does his servant think he’s doing?!
“The sampling will go much more smoothly this way,” Sebastian tells him, and it might as well be as good an explanation as any, because his butler doesn’t bother to elaborate further.
Which also grates on his nerves, but it’s not like he’s going to give Sebastian the satisfaction of knowing it. So, he shifts, arms above his head and thighs slightly open in blatant invitation, whether he realizes it or not—
--And Sebastian takes the invitation, bending again, kissing Ciel’s mouth briefly before moving on to his chin and then the pale column of his throat. Lips and teeth and tongue work together, and they feel like fire on Ciel’s skin, but the little nobleman does not protest. Instead, he encourages his butler to continue, tipping his head back further to allow access to more of his slender neck, which Sebastian takes full advantage of.
Ciel’s making little sounds low in his throat; they work their way up to his tongue and past his slightly-parted lips, and he’s embarrassed over the noise he’s making; he knows that Sebastian is probably soundlessly laughing at him, and that makes him feel even more discomfited, and more than a little irritated as well.
So he bites down lightly on his bottom lip to hold the whimpers and moans and groans in; he bites harder when that talented mouth places butterfly kisses along his clavicles and then his sternum. He bites harder still when that wicked tongue circles first one nipple and then the other.
And when Sebastian draws one of those nubs of flesh into his mouth and sucks, tongue swirling, Ciel bites down hard enough to taste the metallic twang of blood, and he still can’t quite manage to keep himself quiet. The little moan escapes him, even for all of his efforts to keep it contained.
“Such delicious little sounds the young master makes,” Sebastian purrs, moving to lavish Ciel’s other nipple with similar attention, and Ciel huffs and wriggles in protest, though he makes no real effort to push himself away from his butler’s ministrations—after all, Sebastian isn’t the only one whose appetite has been whetted.
“You’re talking too much,” Ciel tells him, cheeks flushed and eyes open to little more than slits. His breathing is erratic, and his thighs are scissoring together in a sign of his impatience—they can do little else, trapped as they are beneath Sebastian’s weight.
“I am taking my time,” Sebastian corrects, lips finding and lightly kissing (and occasionally biting) the spaces between each of Ciel’s ribs: first the right side, and then the left. “Do you not do the same with the meals that I prepare for you, my Lord? Has your butler not taught you that even appetizers are meant to be savored?”
Sebastian’s words prompt him to ask a question, and he knows it’s stupid, knows it’s silly, asinine, ridiculous—anything but sensible. He also knows that it will mean more talking (which is something that he currently wants less of), but Ciel can’t quite help it when the words slip past his lips: “Are you going to be so methodical and thorough when it’s time for the main course?”
“I will,” Sebastian answers, no hesitation, all quick-fire and then there’s the lazy roll of his lower body, and Ciel gasps quietly, the sound not muffled and not caught—let loose and free in the heavy mix of dark and light in the bedroom. “And I can make it as sweet or as painful as my master pleases,” the demon adds a moment later, mouth moving slowly and steadily downwards, his words and tongue tickling Ciel’s skin, making the muscles of his abdomen bunch and tighten and making his erection throb almost painfully.
Or… perhaps it isn’t the motions of his lips; perhaps it’s his words.
And perhaps it isn’t his words, but the honey-sweet promise (swaddled in darkness) that lies beneath them.
For whatever reason, Ciel finds himself shuddering and arching and pressing, trying to get Sebastian closer to where he wants him, even while he’s uncertain as to exactly where he wants him. Still, he believes that he knows precisely where his butler is heading, and that knot low in his belly tightens all the more, and Sebastian—
Sebastian does something rather unexpected, much to Ciel’s disbelief and displeasure. Instead of zoning in on the part of Ciel’s body that is currently aching the most and is in need of attention, he bypasses that part of the nobleman’s body altogether, not even giving the thin cotton covering it so much as a cursory glance.
The butler fits his upper body between Ciel’s legs and he kisses his thighs; his lips part and he sucks hard on pale, soft, sensitive flesh, marking one inner thigh and then the other.
Sebastian likes to do that, Ciel realizes—the marking. It is as if the one on his right eye (the one that is proof of their Contract) isn’t enough for the demon, and it probably isn’t. Demons, Ciel has learned, are a bit like humans when it comes to greed.
And entirely unlike humans when it comes to patience, or the lack thereof.
His butler’s hands and mouth work their way still further down, to his knobby little knees and his calves and his ankles, to his feet and his toes and back up again. Once he reaches Ciel’s underwear, he pauses. He hovers and he breathes slowly in and out; Ciel can feel the warmth of his breath even through the cloth, and it makes his shaft jerk. It makes his entire body tremble with anticipation and the wait proves to heighten and lengthen and broaden the longing that he refuses to speak of (not that speaking of it is necessary).
Ciel lifts his hips, silently urging Sebastian to continue, and in turn, his servant chuckles and ducks his head (though only for a moment), quickly pressing his lips to Ciel’s clothed erection. There is wetness there, and it isn’t from Sebastian’s mouth, either.
Ciel makes a noise that is more a keening whine than anything else, and when he says Sebastian’s name, the demon hums in what sounds like approval.
“I would like to hear sounds like these on that day as well,” Sebastian tells him, one ungloved palm flat against his belly, gently pushing him back down against the mattress. Lips again brush too fleetingly against cloth and flesh, and Ciel hisses long and low before proceeding to glare at Sebastian for all he is worth.
“Sebastian.” Perhaps it is a threat; perhaps it is an order; perhaps it is simply a sign of his exasperation and his impatience.
(But, above all, it is not a plea—never that, never.)
There is a self-satisfied smirk dancing on Sebastian’s lips, and Ciel has half a mind to slap him, but he’s also of the opinion that if he were to strike his butler at this particular moment, that smirk would only grow all the wider.
Sebastian’s thumbs dip beneath the waistband of Ciel’s underwear, dragging slowly across sensitive, ticklish skin, and the muscles of Ciel’s lower abdomen tense and tremble. His butler seems pleased at the reaction, and so he does it again—slow, lazy caresses, nowhere near enough to satisfy, and well Sebastian knows it.
“Are you going to say ‘please’?” his servant asks, all heat and darkness and deceptively-sweet persuasion. For an immeasurable moment, Ciel pauses, mind foggy with pleasure and gaze heavy-lidded.
For an immeasurable moment, he almost does. For an immeasurable moment, he almost wants to.
He regains his senses shortly thereafter, just enough to sharply and coldly reply: “It’s very unwise of you to make such a comment when it is not your right to do so, demon. You ought to know quite well by now that it is not the master who does the begging.”
“Do forgive me, Young Master. Perhaps I did indeed forget my place for a moment—what sort of butler does that make me?” His smile is at odds with his words; it is altogether unapologetic.
“One who is not currently pleasing his master in the slightest,” Ciel replies curtly, noting the quick flare of what-could-be defiance in Sebastian’s eyes. Something twists sharply within him, and his breath catches as he waits expectantly for his servant’s response.
When it does not come, Ciel none-too-softly prompts, “Well?! Have you also forgotten, Sebastian, that it is I who made this offer and it is I who can withdraw it?”
It is a bluff – an empty threat – and well they both know it. Ciel will not tell Sebastian to stop now—he lacks the will to do so, and judging from the way his body reacts to even the slightest touch from his servant, it would seem that he is quite famished.
(And judging from the way Sebastian drinks it all in, he is, without question, enjoying the show.)
“I have not,” Sebastian answers, head lowering. He presses a light kiss to a patch of skin just below Ciel’s navel. “Please allow me to continue with this ‘sampling’, my Lord.”
Ciel gives a brief nod in response – it is the only permission that he will grant – and he watches as Sebastian gently (and terribly slowly) tugs at his underwear, slipping it down the length of his legs and off of his dainty feet.
Ciel’s heart is thudding rapidly, his own pulse loud in his ears. He says nothing, and he does nothing but wait, scarcely breathing, not daring to blink.
Sebastian’s head lowers again, and the first touch of his tongue to Ciel’s arousal makes the young nobleman gasp raggedly; he finds himself uncertain as to what he should do now—he doesn’t know if he should arch forward or scramble backward.
His hips choose for him, jerking upwards of their own accord when Sebastian’s lips wrap loosely around the head of his length, tongue flicking over the slit at the very tip.
Sebastian hums (it does not sound like it is in disapproval), and Ciel acutely feels the vibrations, thighs trembling and erection throbbing. “More,” he chokes out before he can stop himself, and it is both a plea (damn that demon!) and a command. He finds himself hoping that it sounds more like the latter rather than the former, but when Sebastian’s eyes meet his own, he knows the truth for what it is, and he curses himself instead of the devil that is currently positioned between his legs.
Ciel has the feeling that Sebastian would be smiling if his mouth weren’t currently occupied—but then again, the smile isn’t at all necessary; Ciel can see the amusement and the satisfaction in those dark eyes, and he knows that Sebastian is inwardly celebrating a small victory, and wants to hate him for it.
Sebastian takes more of Ciel’s length into his mouth, sucking softly at first and then harder, tongue whirling and lapping and dragging along sensitive skin. Ciel isn’t even remotely able to hold back the sounds that force themselves from his lips, nor is he able to keep his fingers from burying themselves in soft black hair and tugging sharply.
He isn’t able to keep himself from writhing underneath Sebastian, either, hips rolling upward with every bob of his butler’s head. A steady rhythm is built between his hips and Sebastian’s mouth, and Ciel can’t help but think of the difference between his butler’s hand and his mouth—the building of that now-slightly-familiar pressure in the Earl’s lower belly is all the more sweeter and all the more intense thanks to the heat and the wetness and the tightness, and—
Sebastian stills, and Ciel’s eyes abruptly open (he does not remember closing them). “You stopped,” he states simply, the words spoken in a tone of obvious disapproval.
“There is more for me to taste, my Lord,” Sebastian replies once he draws back. “It is only polite to sample a little of everything that the host provides.” He then presses the flat of his tongue against the softness of Ciel’s sac, and he licks like a kitten would the first time it tries milk from a saucer—soft and hesitant (and they are untruths, for Sebastian is neither of those things, but he most obviously does enjoy teasing), and then bold and certain.
“S-Sebastian,” Ciel pants, knees bending, toes curling, back arching. Oh, he aches, but he won’t say it—he won’t give Sebastian the satisfaction of hearing it.
(The thing is, though… Ciel is certain that he already hears it in the way he says Sebastian’s name, and in the way he whimpers and begs without begging.)
Sebastian drags his tongue along the underside of Ciel’s length – from base to tip – and then he draws back entirely, resting on his knees as he gazes down at his frustrated master.
There is a brief stretch of silence (save for Ciel’s shaky breathing), and then Sebastian resumes speaking completely nonchalantly, as if they are doing nothing more than taking a lazy afternoon stroll out in the garden. “And if one were to ignore even part of the whole, one’s host – or his master, in this case – might think that one is not grateful in the least. That would be very inappropriate, don’t you think?”
“What is inappropriate,” Ciel hisses, all spitfire and obstinacy and wantneeddesirelust (and maybe even a little trepidation, but that doesn’t really have a place here, does it?), “is the fact that you are currently not ‘sampling’ anything at all.”
“If you would please allow me to discard the nightshirt hanging so haphazardly from your shoulders, my Lord, it would be my pleasure to continue where I left off.” Sebastian is eyeing said nightshirt as if it is indeed an obstacle of some kind, though Ciel can’t say he understands just how—he figures all the ‘necessary’ parts of his body are uncovered, but….
He shrugs out of the nightshirt on his own, leaving it a rumpled mess beneath his upper back. His eyes are on Sebastian the entire time, and oh how Sebastian watches him in turn (like a predator waiting for the opportune moment to strike, like a lover waiting for the perfect moment to touch)—it’s distracting, the way his butler watches him, and Ciel both does and does not want to look away.
“What was the purpose of that?” Ciel asks, trembling with want and anxiety; it is a weakness that he does not want to show, but when it comes to him, there truly is nothing at all that he can hide from the demon.
Sebastian then asks him to roll over onto his stomach, and even though Ciel does as his butler asks, he does not perform the action without first narrowing his eyes both in confusion and in warning.
His belly is flat against the mattress, his head is resting on his folded arms, and his weeping arousal is pressed against the warm sheets when Sebastian leans gingerly over him and whispers against the back of his neck: “That is perfect, Young Master—of course, your servant expects no less from you.”
The (faux-)compliment sends a delicious tingle down Ciel’s spine, and the feel of Sebastian’s lips against his skin – for whatever unknown reason – makes him drive his hips into the mattress, though only just once. Through sheer force of will, he succeeds in stilling the restless, needy movements and he lies (almost perfectly) motionless beneath Sebastian’s ministrations and his scrutinizing gaze.
Those lips follow a detouring curve of his spinal column, kissing and licking and nipping above and below and in-between and all around the vertebrae, and though Ciel remains surprisingly still, he does not remain entirely quiet. Half of Sebastian’s name falls brokenly from his lips (just the half, not the whole--S-Sebas--!), and his cut-off whimpers and soft hisses and little mewls are testament enough to this undeniable weakness of his—this despicable addiction, this forbidden attraction.
This need to repeatedly cross a line that was never meant to be crossed in the first place.
Sebastian’s mouth works its way lower and lower, and Ciel says nothing that even remotely resembles protestation, until clever hands part the cheeks of his buttocks, and an even cleverer tongue darts out to swipe at the opening found there.
Ciel gasps and starts, looking over his shoulder at his butler, who has paused and is in turn looking at him questioningly.
Filthy, Ciel thinks. Filthy, dirty, vile, wrong, unclean. They had called him that. A puppet had called him that. An angel had called him that.
Ciel balances his upper body on trembling arms as he gazes (wantonly, nervously, uncertainly) at Sebastian, and when he feels that tongue press against him again (there, yes), the tremors intensify and he closes his eyes, moaning softly.
“Isn’t this filthy?” It is a question, not a statement, because with Sebastian doing that (and Ciel is admittedly having to struggle now to keep his hips still), Ciel finds himself needing some form of reassurance, and he knows that he won’t get it by uttering some flippant declaration… be it true or not.
Sebastian pauses, his breath cool against wet skin, which is quite funny really, because Ciel’s entire body feels as if it is overheated. “Why?” Sebastian asks. “Why should this be filthy?” His tongue circles the edges of Ciel’s entrance with a slowness that Ciel simply knows is deliberate. “Because society deems it such? Because God declares such an act to be filthy?” He laughs then, the sound low and luscious. “Have you not realized yet, my young master, that neither society nor God has any place at all between us? I am afraid that there is simply no room.”
Ciel considers Sebastian’s reply—he considers actually answering with an affirmation of some sort, even though he’s the one that has all of the questions here, even though he’s the one that is almost desperately seeking answers when the two of them are too far gone for answers to be a requirement.
(Requirement… perhaps not, but a bit of a comfort? Of course.)
Whatever response he might have given is abruptly forgotten due to Sebastian’s next words: “This is only filthy and vulgar and wrong if my master considers it such. Tell me, my Lord, what would you call this?”
Ciel can think of a number of colorful adjectives, but cannot bring himself to name any of them as Sebastian’s tongue prods and presses and pushes inside; all he can do at this point is pant and groan and press his own hips backward – against and onto Sebastian’s tongue – and then forward – for he’s discovered that the friction of the sheets rubbing against his erection is delightfully pleasant if not somewhat frustrating because it’s not enough - and he knows that his butler is more than likely feeling pretty damn proud of himself at the moment.
If Ciel could do anything to negate such foolish pride, he would. As things are now, though, he finds himself quite incapable of it, and part of him is content to let Sebastian have his moment of smug superiority.
He knows it shouldn’t feel so good—it shouldn’t feel nice or right or fantastic, but it does, and he can’t stop the steady rhythm of his hips, and he doesn’t want his butler to stop either, doesn’t want it to end (and he distantly wonders if it is possible to go mad from pleasure alone).
However, the demon obviously has other plans, because he stops, and Ciel can’t help the whine of objection that follows the cessation of Sebastian’s actions.
“How do you wish me to continue, Young Master?”
What a question, indeed—one that Ciel isn’t certain as to how he should answer. He’s thought of how this scenario should (could, would) perhaps play out, and thus far, Sebastian hasn’t exactly conformed to his daydreams (nightmares, whatever they should be called) of this particular moment. Why should the butler start now?
No, Ciel never expected Sebastian to ask, for he’d never been asked before.
Those vermin had only taken.
There is stillness and silence just long enough for Ciel to become momentarily lost in the horrors of what-had-been; the chill of fear drives away the heat of passion and he trembles for reasons that have nothing at all to do with pleasure.
“They did not ask me,” Ciel informs unnecessarily, because it is a fact that Sebastian already knows. Yes, Sebastian knows the color white (virginal, pure) does not suit him, and Sebastian knows that his soul was already stained black and red when the Contract was formed between them.
“They did not,” Sebastian agrees softly, evenly. And then, almost reassuringly: “You are not in that place anymore, my Lord. You are not with those creatures. May I remind you that you ordered your servant to kill them, and therefore I did indeed kill them with my very hands?”
The nobleman inhales and exhales slowly, eyes screwed shut as he fights to bring himself back to the here and now and to push himself away from the past. He is not one of them, he reminds himself even though it is a truth that is already deeply rooted inside the core of his very being. Sebastian may be the ultimate bringer of his demise, but Ciel knows that this act is not one of violation; he knows that Sebastian will only take what is offered, what is given.
(And since Ciel has already handed over his soul to the demon, the Earl believes his body to be of minor consequence.)
“… I do not need reminding,” Ciel eventually replies, once he’s escaped the cold, bruising grasp of his past. “There is nothing wrong with my memory, Sebastian.” He takes another breath and without any subtlety whatsoever, he pushes his hips back, closer to his butler, and he glances over his shoulder. “Just how hungry are you?”
Sebastian’s fingers skate along his sides (upwards now instead of downwards), and Ciel looks away, down at his pillow, at his knuckles which are gripping said pillow so tightly that it almost hurts.
“Quite,” his butler answers as he leans over Ciel, and the boy feels the press of Sebastian’s clothed erection against his naked rear, and Ciel has to agree—yes, the demon is indeed quite hungry.
Sebastian’s teeth sink into his right shoulder, quick and sharp; pleasure and pain tangle until Ciel cannot tell where one begins and the other ends, but it doesn’t matter. He’s fairly certain that Sebastian has drawn blood, but even that does not bother him.
“Then take what you want,” Ciel bites out, and it is a breathless command, but it is one that brooks no argument all the same. Of course, he does not speak of his soul, for their Contract has not yet expired; he speaks of his body, and surely his butler understands, without question.
Just in case he needs further clarification, though, Ciel (boldly, carelessly, abruptly) shoves back against him and rubs, and the sound that his always-perfectly-composed servant makes in response is priceless. It is a low growl, full of possession and want, and Ciel’s whole body seems to react to it—from his fluttering lashes to his straining vocal cords to his rapidly-beating heart… and lower, yes. From the tensing muscles of his abdomen, to the almost-painful throbbing of his erection, to the curling of his toes.
“As my master desires,” Sebastian whispers, and Ciel suddenly finds himself struggling to adjust to the lack of his butler’s proximity as well as the absence of body heat.
He is not left waiting long, and when he next feels Sebastian’s fingers against him (circling and pushing and probing at his entrance, just as his tongue had), he notices that there is something cool and wet and slick coating those fingers. He’s not sure he wants to know just exactly what the mysterious substance is, and thus refrains from asking. He also refrains from glancing over his shoulder again to see exactly what the demon is up to.
Instead, he decides to simply ask precisely what it is that Sebastian currently thinks he’s doing. “What are you—?”
But his question is interrupted when one of those long fingers slips carefully inside of him, and Ciel cuts himself off with a quiet whimper. The feel of Sebastian’s finger there is very different from his tongue, but it isn’t exactly an unpleasant sensation—it’s just different.
Then again, what has transpired between them tonight thus far that has not been different?
“I am preparing you,” Sebastian replies, slowly pushing that lone finger in and out of Ciel, mimicking what Ciel knows is to happen next. “If it is done this way, the initial penetration will be less uncomfortable for you.”
Ciel is at once reminded of the fact that they had not bothered to ‘prepare’ him; they had not cared about how much pain they had inflicted upon his small body. In truth, they had enjoyed hurting him, Ciel knows.
He shoves such thoughts away; he forces himself out of one darkness and into another—one of an entirely different kind… but that does not mean that he is any less blinded.
Ciel almost asks Sebastian why he would bother to be so careful with him, but the words freeze in his throat and he can’t; perhaps because the question would open a can of worms that he isn’t quite ready to open yet. Perhaps it’s a can of worms that he’ll never be ready to open.
(He briefly considers the fact that a lack of readiness has not influenced him much in the past, but that is another thought that goes slipping through the creases of his mind like water through a person’s fingers.)
He says nothing by way of response—he simply forces himself to relax and he accepts the intrusion; he accepts the leisurely movements of Sebastian’s finger within him, and he accepts a second finger when Sebastian sees fit to add it.
That is when the scissoring begins, and that is when it gets better; Ciel is aware of the slight stretching of muscles and tissue, but he is even more aware of the fingers steadily pushing in and out of him, and he is also aware of the fact that he is rocking his hips backwards—how ridiculous he must look (like some all-too-willing little whore), but he doesn’t care. In this moment, caught between pleasure and trepidation and impatience, it’s surprising to realize how very little other things seem to matter.
Sebastian’s fingers press deep and they curl, and they brush against something that makes sparks of bright silver dance across Ciel’s vision. Whatever it is that Sebastian has touched causes Ciel to tighten around his fingers and release a guttural moan, nails raking across the bedsheets and knees nearly giving way.
“That is your prostate,” Sebastian informs as he repeats the action again and again, making Ciel writhe and release sounds that are closer to sobs more than anything else, but his cries are not those of pain.
“Every human male is born with one,” the demon continues, words a lazy drawl as he pushes a third finger into Ciel’s willing body (press and twist and ohhhh). “Every once in a while, one will discover how pleasurable it is for that hidden part of him to be stroked—just as you are discovering it now.”
Ciel wants to snap that he cares naught for a lesson in anatomy right now, but he decides that it isn’t worth the effort (it is wise to choose one’s battles when possible, after all). As opposed to arguing, he shamelessly shoves his hips back and his demand comes in the form of a growl: “Again.”
“But of course,” is the reply that he receives (and it seems to be rather easily – if not eagerly – given, too). Sebastian’s fingertips brush against his prostate over and over (too many times to count), and then there’s more scissoring and more stretching and Ciel finds himself panting and trembling all over, beads of sweat sliding down his body and falling onto the linens beneath them.
Ciel then feels the fingers of Sebastian’s other hand wrap around his aching arousal, and when Sebastian lightly squeezes, Ciel very nearly comes. “S-Sebas--”
It’s too much and it is too little, and Ciel knows if Sebastian keeps it up, he will not (cannot) last; Sebastian certainly knows it too, and is simply toying with him, a fact which Ciel simultaneously despises and seemingly cannot get enough of.
The word please is repeated over and over again inside of his head until it becomes a mantra of sorts, and if any part of his single-word mantra falls from his lips at any point, Ciel does not notice it. He’s too far gone for that.
“May I have my dessert now, Young Master?” Sebastian queries, thumb gently stroking over the head of Ciel’s erection, gathering the wetness there. His fingers are still moving within the nobleman as well: deliciously, teasingly.
Ciel can’t decide which way he wants to move, and forcing himself to not move at all proves to be more difficult that he could have ever imagined. However, he ceases all movement save for that of his lips as he gives his butler the answer that he seeks: “You may. Remove your clothing, Sebastian.”
He has to crane his neck again just so he can see—so he can watch as Sebastian removes each article of his clothing with care; he neatly folds said clothing before setting them on the floor and then he straightens, and Ciel has to admit (even if only to himself) that the devil’s naked (and false) body is truly a magnificent sight to behold. He possesses an unearthly beauty, one that Ciel could never hope to ever capture for himself, and he’s almost jealous….
Almost, of course, until he reminds himself that this is the form that he’d wanted Sebastian to take. And it’s only fitting for a devil to possess beauty beyond all measure (all the better to tempt him with).
Ciel does not think of his own flawed body. He does not consider the brand or the ragged scars that were the cause of a sharp, silver blade. He does not think about his skinny arms or his likewise-scrawny legs. All he considers as he stares at Sebastian (who is also staring at him) is that this otherworldly being wants not only his soul but his body as well: The proof is in Sebastian’s gaze, in twin pools of scarlet that currently aren’t hiding anything. Garnets gleam brighter than spilled blood in the moonlight, and the fire in those eyes is smoldering.
Sebastian’s right hand moves, fingers encircling his own length and stroking, and just the sight of it is enough to send heat rushing back to Ciel’s lower belly (like molten lava, like a wildfire—you can’t put out a fire with gasoline, can you?); it is Ciel who moans, and it is Sebastian who smiles satisfactorily.
Ciel watches the up-and-down motion of Sebastian’s hand for several beats, and then breathily asks, “Is this just for show, or does it serve a purpose?”
“Both,” is Sebastian’s answer, and it is spoken without hesitation but not without another faint, wolfish grin. “The substance that you felt earlier… you will feel it again; it decreases friction and it makes the act of penetration easier—more pleasurable and much less uncomfortable.”
Sebastian arches into his own touch, eyes momentarily closed, and Ciel can’t help but say, “What are you thinking about, while you touch yourself like that in front of your master?”
Dark eyes open to mere slits. “The taking,” Sebastian murmurs. “Both of them, that is—the one at present and the one that will take place in the future.”
“Which one excites you more?” He doesn’t know why he felt the need to brazenly ask such a ridiculous question, but it’s out in the open now and the young nobleman can’t very well take it back. Besides, there is the fact that he is curious, and there is also the fact that Sebastian will answer him honestly.
“Now, now, Young Master.” Sebastian waggles a finger at Ciel, and his tone is almost scolding, as if he has just caught Ciel with his hand in the cookie jar right before supper. “Have you forgotten what I’ve told you about separate hungers and the line between them?”
The roundabout response is not an answer at all, and Ciel discovers that yes, Sebastian’s riddles are even more annoying when his mind is hazy with pleasure and when his body is shivering with anticipation. “That is not a proper response,” he replies, all hard edges but with no real threat lurking in the middle.
Sebastian’s hands are on him again, at the backs of his thighs, gently caressing. One hand is dry, the other slick, and Ciel doesn’t mind the contrast. “Shall I speak of coins, then? Or shall I simply tell you that in this moment, one hunger does indeed outweigh the other – if only by the slightest bit – and I find myself quite ready to partake of what my master is so graciously offering.”
Better, but still not the words that Ciel wants to hear, which is not surprising, given who and what Sebastian is.
“I would request that you lay on your back, my Lord.” Sebastian is already gently urging him to roll over, and Ciel doesn’t protest—his body is pliant and willing, and within seconds, the sheets are warm against his back and his arms are above his head, crossed at the wrists. His thighs are spread and glistening (with pre-cum, with saliva, with that slick substance on Sebastian’s hand and his erection), the balls of his feet resting on the mattress.
“Why?” Again, he seeks an answer; again, he expects some hidden truth.
But his butler surprises him. Ruby meets marred sapphire as Sebastian says, “They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, Young Master. If I am going to feast, I should like to do it properly.”
Ciel’s eyes widen and then close again as Sebastian leans in to kiss him once more. A warm tongue snakes past lips that are already half-parted—just a quick taste, and when their lips part, “As you will,” is what Ciel tells his butler. Permission made verbal, for unspoken permission has already been given.
It’s almost strange how easily Sebastian’s hips fit between his legs, and it’s almost strange how nice (even right, perhaps) it feels to card his fingers through soft ebony locks before letting his touch drift downward, hands settling on Sebastian’s shoulders. Pale legs wrap ‘round the demon’s slim waist and Ciel waits, and breathes—
--And forgets how to, when he feels the head of Sebastian’s length brush against his opening, and even though he forces himself to relax, nails and heels alike bite into Sebastian’s soft skin once the butler really starts pushing inside.
The slight discomfort is expected, but it isn’t like before (with those brutes); there is no warm stickiness to follow, no metallic smell to indicate that something has been torn. There is only the stretching, the accommodating; there is only Sebastian pushing slowly inside of him, and there is the delicious throbbing of his butler’s arousal within him. There are soft cries, too—his own, and when Sebastian is fully sheathed within him and perfectly still above him, as if giving him time to adjust, Ciel all but barks: “Your master did not tell you to stop.”
Sebastian leans down, momentarily resting his forehead against Ciel’s, and the change in angle tears another ragged moan from the nobleman’s throat. “No, he did not,” Sebastian smoothly agrees, and then he lifts his head and draws his hips back, only to press forward and in again, with more force this time, and Ciel’s cry is louder because of it.
Even now, he can’t help but compare past and present, but admittedly, he’s far more focused on the pleasure currently coursing through his entire body as opposed to the pain of old wounds inflicted by individuals perhaps more demonic and cruel than the false butler currently moving above and inside of him.
His own hips move on instinct, forcing Sebastian in deeper (when before, back then, all he’d wanted was to pull away), and he is very pleased to note that he is not the only one making noises—granted, Sebastian’s are softer, but they are there and they are for him.
They move together; they find their rhythm and Sebastian makes it utterly beautiful somehow even though Ciel’s inexperience nearly threatens to make it anything but. Sebastian shows him, with care and then with abandonment, and even that is beautiful and there is no pain at all now—just the steady in and out, the thrusting and groaning and shoving and scratching and biting and begging.
Hips shift and the angle changes again, and Ciel almost snaps at Sebastian out of frustration and for the sake of protestation, but when Sebastian sinks into him again (and deep, and good), Ciel’s legs tremble uncontrollably and clamp down around Sebastian’s waist like a vice, for Sebastian has once again found that place that his fingers so easily found earlier.
It isn’t Heaven, Ciel knows, for that place will forever be out of his reach (he is reminded of that every time he looks in the mirror and every time he glances at Sebastian’s left hand, sans the glove), but it is perhaps worth the Contract and worth the damning of his soul. It is perhaps as good as well-thought-out revenge.
Faster, deeper, harder, and Ciel’s nails rake over Sebastian’s back, leaving deep red lines in their wake (lines that will not be there in the next breath, even though he knows evidence of this tryst will be all over his own body come morning). He is panting, straining, aching, but he focuses on the rhythm they’ve built and he struggles to keep his eyes open, because seeing red gleaming in the darkness adds to all of the other sensations and it’s right even though it isn’t and shouldn’t be.
Ciel’s thrusts falter when one of Sebastian’s hands finds his erection and begins to pump in time with the motions of his hips, and that is the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back—Ciel lasts all of three strokes and then he shudders and wails and writhes and falls entirely to pieces, his release spurting on his own belly and on Sebastian’s chest and hand. His eyelids slam closed without his permission, and behind them, everything is whiter than a pampered lamb’s fleece, and then everything is darker than even a starless night.
He is acutely aware of the warmth spilling into him even as his own body continues to spasm, and then there is a sudden lack of movement and there is silence, save for his own erratic breathing. Sebastian, of course, is nowhere near winded, though it is long moments before he shifts again, carefully pulling away from and out of Ciel’s body.
Ciel’s muscles are sore already, and he lies limp and boneless and dizzy as his servant whispers, “I shall be right back.”
He acknowledges the statement with little more than a grunt, and then Sebastian is gone, though not for more than a moment. Ciel soon finds himself being wiped down with a warm, damp cloth, and it feels nice, and he sighs, the hunger within him sated and quiet—for now.
But that’s the thing about addictions: ‘fixes’ are only momentary, and it isn’t long before the addict goes searching for another hit.
“Addiction.” He is unaware that he’s said it aloud until Sebastian softly laughs and settles beside him, still naked. Ciel cracks one eye open (the right one) and yes, Sebastian is still beautiful.
“Every human has one,” Sebastian tells him as he brushes sweaty bangs away from Ciel’s forehead. “If a human were to tell you otherwise, it would be a lie.”
“And demons?” Ciel prompts, eye falling shut again. “Do they have addictions as well?”
He does not see the bright glint of sharp teeth as Sebastian answers, “When we stumble upon one that we find worthwhile.”
There is a stretch of silence, and the lack of sound nearly lulls Ciel into sleep, but Sebastian’s next words (or rather, the sincerity with which they are spoken) startle him back into full awareness: “Thank you for the light snack, my Lord. I must say that this world will be quite different once you are no longer in it—pity to the rest of them, for a truly magnificent soul will be lost.”
He searches Sebastian’s eyes for any hint of mockery or disdain, and when he finds none, he half-smiles, hesitantly brushing his fingers along the curve of Sebastian’s cheek. “I think you may have been correct earlier,” he says.
Perfect brows lift in question. “About what, Young Master?”
Ciel yawns, eyes closing again of their own accord. “About rules being broken, and all. Maybe sometimes, some lines really are meant to be crossed.”
Sebastian hums softly (a sound of agreement, perhaps).
Ciel does not tell his butler to stay, nor does he order him to go. Sebastian does not ask to take his leave from Ciel’s bedroom, nor does he ask if he may remain by his master’s side.
Neither boy nor demon moves, however—they remain side-by-side, close together, and at this particular moment in time, just this is good enough for Ciel.
It is nearly ten when he awakens that morning, and Sebastian is still beside him, silently watching. Strangely enough, the demon’s vigil does not make him feel uncomfortable.
Ciel slowly blinks the sleep out of his eyes and he lets his gaze travel the full length of Sebastian’s still-gloriously-naked body, and he already begins to feel the first stirrings of withdrawal.
Sebastian’s head is tilted just slightly to one side, and that damned knowing smile is playing on his lips once again. “My master is hungry this morning,” he states (he does not ask), and their game, Ciel finds, is still very much the same—if not more dangerous, more thrilling, more intense, because there are no questions now.
Ciel sees no reason to lie, and so he doesn’t even bother to attempt it; his answer is a brief nod and a roughly-spoken, “My servant is also hungry this morning.”
Some lines are meant to be crossed (again and again and again and--)
Sebastian’s nod mirrors his own—a brief acknowledgement. “Would my master like a late breakfast first?”
“No,” Ciel impatiently replies, already reaching for his butler, tangling his fingers in Sebastian’s hair.
Sebastian grins at him, looking very much like the Cheshire cat. He leans forward, his mouth just centimeters from Ciel’s. “I think that is a good answer, my Lord.”
And just before their lips meet, Ciel’s (very appropriate) response is this: “So do I.”
Do pretend that you didn’t see that little hint of sap sneak its way in there at the end. *laughs* Oh, man, I think this one might’ve broken my poor little brain. I hope it broke yours too, in a good way. XD Thank you all, as always! <3