Disclaimer: I feel, at this point, like I really should own part of "Kuro," haha.

Author's Note: Directly inspired by the last episode of season II. So, you know. Spoilers.

Warnings: Character death.

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Skip

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The gramophone is skipping, warping the tinny melody into a distorted parody of itself— like the mirrors at the circus, or one's reflection in a spoon, or her visage in his eyes.

The gramophone is skipping, but they are not. Their half-tangled feet are stationary now, bitty little bootlings almost-touching as Ciel's ebony fingers caress the curve of her cheek. Tenderly. Fondly. As he had inadvertently been taught.

The gramophone is skipping, but not as fast as Lizzie's heart. Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump goes the organ, and the boy (who is not a boy, not any longer) can hear it, and he wonders if it is as red as her blush, or as pink as her dress, or as black as his soul.

Tha-thump.

The girl's lashes flutter, jumping up and down like the needle that skims the track's bumps and grooves. Up and down, like his hand on her face. Up and down, like his hooded, wandering gaze— considering and dark and forever cobalt-blue. Blue, blue, blue. Because irises can't change color, that just isn't natural.

The music sounds unnatural.

But Lizzie can no longer hear it, not over the ringing in her ears. Not over the sound of her startled gasp, shallow and heated as her fiancée leans close, moonstone forelocks tickling her temple as he whispers, pleads, moans, "may I…?"

And she, foolish thing, gives him permission without ever asking what it is that he wants. For what does it matter? There is nothing in the world that Elizabeth Middleford will not willingly give to her beloved, so long as it is in her power. And Ciel knows this.

And so he takes.

His lips fall upon hers with a deceptive gentleness, as cloyingly innocent as a music box melody. The barest flick of flesh on flesh, and small sparks of electricity tumble down the tightly-wound gears of her spine, transforming the innocuous soprano tune into something alto-rich and sultry. And the gramophone whines, and Ciel presses closer, and soon his mouth has all but encompassed hers, tongue poke-prodding against her own and willing her to open wider, wider, wider.

She complies until she is no longer able, jaw straining and stretching and close to popping. Tha-thump, crack, hiss.

Her nose is crushed against his cheekbone. The throbbing ache of flattened cartilage sears in time with the burning sensation flaring in her empty lungs, replacing the fire that his kiss had originally kindled in her stomach. What had once seemed grown-up and daunting is now simply scary; her lidded eyes snap open, throat trying to close itself against the intrusion she can feel jabbing against her uvula. And she suddenly notices that Ciel's hands are no longer lightly cupping her own—instead, one is fisted in her golden curls, and the other is grinding into the small of her back, and when she attempts to wriggle from his grasp, she finds that she cannot.

Tha-thump-tha-thump.

Humans are animals by nature. Ciel knows (remembers) this. So he is not surprised when the frightened Elizabeth instinctively starts to struggle against his ministrations, flimsy mortal arms lifting to pound-scratch-rake-claw at his chest, manicured nails catching on stray threads of silk and the decorative lace of his top. But the demonling doesn't mind. This body is used to—no, thrives on— no, was born of pain, and so he relishes her attempts to break the unbreakable.

In fact, he wants her to try harder.

The gramophone screeches; Ciel swallows an identical sound. He swallows her screams, swallows her air, swallows her hopes, swallows her dreams, swallows her love, swallows until it seems that she has nothing left within— and still he swallows, swallows, swallows, suckling like a newborn at the teat. For that is what he is. And he is hungry, ravenous, has never felt so starved, really, and wants nothing more than to eat.

And Ciel Phantomhive always gets what he wants.

Pulling out her soul is like sucking a berry through a straw, the sweetness of her pampered life flavoring the delicacy like the lemonade in which the fruit was steeped. Ciel has always had a perchance for the saccharine; when he finally gulps down his prize, it is with a groan of unreserved delight, heady and soft.

The gramophone falls silent. In the crook of his right arm, Elizabeth lays motionless. Not a heartbeat to be heard; quiet, if but for the first time.

Bliss.

With a kitten-like grace, Ciel's velvet tongue darts around the curved corners of his mouth, cleaning and preening, and sucking on his pale, petite fingers, like any other spoiled noble-child following a good meal.

"Maylene, Finny," he then calls blandly, eyeing his crumpled fiancée with even less interest than before. "It appears the lady has swooned. Might I ask the two of you to bring her to the spare bedroom?"

The servants who come running in may not be smart, but neither are they stupid. They do not ask why the unconscious mistress is no longer breathing… Nor do they dwell on the fact that, when the young master smiles, they can no longer breathe, either.

The gramophone crackles. Warbling music again fills the checkered hall, skipping up the treble scale as Ciel skips up the foyer stairs. A, B, C-sharp, E; one, two, three, four.

Oh, that's right.

"Tell Sebastian that he need only prepare four gifts," Ciel adds flippantly, speaking over his shoulder as he waves a regal hand. "He can skip the fifth."

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