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It’s strange, the day Ciel finds a jar of Madam Red’s lip rouge in the crease of the parlour couch cushions. She must have dropped and lost it ages ago. Before…
At first, he doesn’t know what to do with it. Surely he should just throw it out; what use does he have for such things? Yet each time he holds the golden pot in his grasp, he can’t seem to rid himself of it. Can’t seem to let go, like he’s fine doing with so much else. So against his better judgment, and Sebastian’s vulture-like hovering, he allows sentimentality to overshadow logic.
Finally, having decided to place it upon what was once his mother’s vanity, that now belongs to him alone, he feels a sense of calm as it rests there, a constant, always within view from his bed.
This particular morning, as Ciel sits in front of the mirror—while Sebastian fusses with his hair, combing it this way and that—he takes a moment to trace the flowers engraved on the lid. To close his eyes and imagine his father handing a pair of roses he’d cut from the manor gardens to both his mother and aunt.
It was a gesture the twins had found so gallant, they couldn't help but to imitate it when playing on the grounds together. His elder brother would pluck a rose, careless of its thorns, and bow as gentlemanly as he could with his tiny legs and lack of balance. An offering to his younger brother, whom he said deserved it more than anyone in the entire world for his beauty and bravery and kindness. To which the younger would respond by giggling and saying that they looked the same, how silly, before inevitably spotting blood dripping down his twin’s wrist.
Flowers and playtime were forgotten as both boys couldn’t help but be distracted. One brother was caught in a fit of tears and warbled promises to make it better, all while taking his big brother’s wounded finger past his lips. And the other, he could do nothing more than squirm in place, blushing, and mumble that it wasn’t anyone’s fault; that he shouldn’t worry or tell their parents of his foolishness.
He can still recall how the real Ciel Phantomhive’s blood tasted on his tongue. He wonders if it still tastes the same. If his own would be any different.
Quickly, as if tugging out another thorn, Ciel shakes the thought and pops open the little golden jar. By doing so, he allows the smell of petal-infused wax to trigger memories much more recent. More visceral. Of pinched cheeks and forehead kisses. Of a rain-drenched alleyway and the roaring of a death scythe.
“My, what a lovely shade,” Sebastian remarks at his back, a nasty smirk curling the edges of his seductive mouth.
Ciel scoffs, a fool to take the bait, but curious to see where it will lead. “I find it resembles spilt blood.”
“Mm, precisely.” Sebastian lifts Ciel’s chin, directing his gaze to the mirror as the demon leans in close. “Best suited for those with fair skin and blue undertones. Wouldn’t you agree, my Lord?”
Ciel’s eyes meet their reflection with a scowl. “Do not pretend to speak of color theory when your true objective is describing a corpse.”
“Silly me,” Sebastian says loftily, releasing him and taking a step back. “I thought that’s where your mind had wandered off to, young master.”
“And where exactly would that be?” Ciel snaps, realizing too late that he should not have—Sebastian’s hook already sunken deep into his belly.
“The dead.”
Blasted demon.
“Watch yourself.”
“Oh, but do you not do that enough for the both of us? Perhaps you should focus more on what’s in front of you than what’s behind.” Sebastian says this casually, patronizing, as he strides into the dressing room to gather Ciel’s clothing for the day.
With the demon out of sight, Ciel sighs and looks to his reflection again, at his delicate features that cost him much more than they could possibly ever be worth. Features that do not even belong to him alone.
Then, he glances to the pot of rouge, his finger dipping into the carmine mixture as if it has a mind of its own.
His first observation is that it’s smoother than he expected, not sticky nor gritty. His second is that he finds it quite captivating, how the brightness clashes against his pale skin. How it draws attention to the indigo of his veins.
He supposes he’ll have to agree with Sebastian’s macabre prattling, though it’s no surprise that his aunt would purchase a shade that suited them both. After all, Ciel was often told he favored his mother, despite his and his brother’s resemblance to their sire. Yet, no one knew how right they were. How he held her sickness in his lungs. How he once felt her isolation.
Not until his aunt held a blade to his throat and told him he should’ve been the one to die, did another human besides himself speak the truth.
Taking a breath, he coats the tip of his finger in a generous layer and brings it to his mouth. He paints his lips until they’re fully covered and as vibrant as one of Jack the Ripper’s crime scenes. As the gown he placed over Angelina Dalles’ open casket.
“Oh dear,” Sebastian’s voice suddenly rumbles, dark and sultry in his ear. “I leave an Earl and return to a common whore.” Ciel’s eyes slip shut, just as a gloved hand brushes along his bare inner thigh where his hemline must have ridden up. Where it now continues to. “Tell me, what’s your price, madam?”
Ciel swallows, head lolling upon Sebastian’s shoulder and his spine pressed to the warm chest trapping him in place. Nimble fingers find the buttons of his night clothes, well-versed in undoing, and slide each through the tiny holes.
“You couldn’t afford me,” he murmurs, a pant in his voice.
The demon’s huff of laughter is hot against his throat. “Hm, I find that hard to believe. Just look how eagerly you spread your legs.” And sure enough, when both hands—now missing those ever-present gloves of his—reach for Ciel’s thighs, he puts up no resistance, allowing Sebastian to do as he pleases. To grip him above the knee and part his thighs as wide as they’ll go, exposing how he always remains bare beneath while he sleeps.
Because as much as he watches Sebastian, Sebastian watches him in turn.
And as those devilish black nails dance higher, the demon tilts Ciel further back, granting him much easier access for two of his skilled fingers to disappear into where his master is wet and aching. The moan that falls from Ciel’s lips at being filled is drawn out and obscene, unable to control himself with bittersweet nostalgia and unadulterated lust swirling in his belly.
“Seba—”
“I said, look.” The last word is growled, fangs dragging along his nape.
Ciel fights the urge to question why a dog thinks it’s suddenly able to order around its master; but he is no better than any other human tempted by sins of the flesh, and he surrenders. Pliant in the loyal arms of his future executioner.
Befitting, given he looks like a lamb sent to slaughter.
Exposed and splayed out, with flushed cheeks and crimson lips. His eyes never stray from where Sebastian’s fingers are thrusting in and out of his core as his body chases after them, hell-bent on dying by his hand. Meanwhile, his own are tangled in Sebastian’s disheveled locks, a makeshift leash for a beast hungry enough to lower itself into domestication.
Quite the pair they make.
But what Ciel hungers for, what he demands is— “Kiss. Nuh-now. Sebastian, kiss me.”
Sebastian's responding smirk is a harbinger against his skin, yet Ciel’s gaze remains steady, unable to look away from the butchery occurring by teeth and claws and that serrated gaze. Even his words, as they’re spoken, are bitten possessively into Ciel’s shoulder, his neck. “By your command, my Lord.”
The kiss itself is nothing more than a smear of red gloss, stuttered gasps, and Ciel’s cries fed directly onto Sebastian’s tongue. The demon makes sure of that when he adds a third, then fourth finger alongside the ones already plunged deep within his cunt.
“Ah! Mmph—fuck!”
The unexpected stretch sends Ciel toppling over the edge, and his climax ravages through him, sudden and violent, only to leave a syrupy sweetness trembling throughout in its wake.
“God...” Ciel sighs, catching his breath and blowing strands of hair from his eyes.
“I’m afraid not,” Sebastian replies with a click of his tongue. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”
Pulling away, Ciel can’t help but snort at both the moronic quip and splotches of rouge streaked across Sebastian’s handsome face as he laps at his messy fingers like the hound he is. “You look ridiculous.”
“Do I?” Sebastian asks, his mouth close enough to brush against Ciel’s when he speaks. “Well then, I suppose that makes two of us.”
Just as a handkerchief begins to wipe at Ciel’s chin, he catches the demon’s wrist before it can remove anything else. “Leave it. Take me to bed.”
Sebastian eyes the fervent grip halting his duties with mild amusement. “And your price, madam? You have yet to name one.”
In lieu of an answer, Ciel crashes his mouth to Sebastian’s once more, cutting his lips on too-sharp teeth, and leaving blood to color them a deeper shade of red. Carnal in nature. But on the tip of his tongue, the taste is exactly as he remembers—like Ciel Phantomhive, on the cusp of tragedy.
“I believe I just did.”