Disclaimer: Demon Ciel was mine first, season II! XD

Author's Note: Because if Ciel can't pay Sebastian back with his soul…

Warnings: SebaCiel. Spoilers for the end of season II. And… um… squickness, maybe?

XXX

Snack

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"I ordered you to eat me."

Newborns are insatiable. Devils perpetually hungry. And the wanton creature before him is both at once, a vermillion-eyed and pampered baby boy, hungry to suckle on the shadows that birthed him.

"You can't whine that you missed your supper. I rang the dinner bell so many times…"

Darkness tastes like apples, crimson-red and sugar-sweet—tempting pieces of fruit that glisten like their gazes, locked in the gloom. Newly glossed nails of lacquered ebony toy with black-pearl buttons, popping them like eyeballs.

"Sebastian."

That is not his name. And yet, it is his name— the only one he'll ever hear, his true-self lost forever in the tangled loops and coils and bonds of their never-ending contract. He shall be Sebastian Michaelis, a demon's butler, for all of eternity.

"My soul is no longer on the menu…"

The truth is a taunt, as horribly heartless as the brush of the little one's candied lips, juicy with promise and wicked in intent. A purr, a snarl; a velveteen tongue rubs, kitten-like, against his own. And in that instant, familiar flavors explode atop the organ's thousand-million minute buds: the fledgling tastes of chrysanthemum, ash, and fetid toffees, just like he does. It is delicious and disgusting and Sebastian has no choice but to submit to the kiss—or lean into it, as it were: drinking in his master's presence as if it were the finest of wines. For it is, indeed, his Elixir of Life.

"Even still, you're starving, aren't you?"

Poor, pathetic thing. Always implied in giggles, but never-once uttered. The half-dressed demonling topples, prostrate, atop the squealing mattress; lithesome legs spread wide, as welcoming as a vice, and fragile-looking hips roll and buck and grind as needy fingers pull-yank-tug. Tighter, Sebastian. Rougher, Sebastian. Make it hurt, Sebastian. Carve the pain of my life into my soul. Pretty little masochist, no longer breakable and wishing he was.

"Well, then…"

Poor, pathetic thing.

"Let's see if we can't find something else for you to snack on."

Urine and pus, spittle and bile, blood and semen. Bodily fluids are tainted by the corporeal flesh, but still taste faintly of the ethereal soul. Supping on such solutions is a veritable insult; he is reminded again and again that these are the only meager tastes that he will evermore enjoy of his once-promised dinner, and he is all the hungrier for it. But Ciel, the eager babe, is far too young and ravenous to understand the refinement of Sebastian's methods, and instead yearns for any sampling that he can scrounge. He kisses, he licks, he sucks, he bites, and he drinks it all in—the sex, the depravity, the general deviousness that is his new birthright— until Sebastian is more of a bottle than a body.

"Ah… harder, Sebastian!"

The creature beneath him wants torture, and yes, this is torture— mocking the famished by flaunting a feast. And the boy—no, devil— realizes all of this… the extent of his cruelty, the implications of his demands. Sebastian can tell by the malevolent gleam in his hooded eyes, hazy with lust but still just as brilliantly familiar as if he were looking into a mirror. For Ciel had always been a quick study, even when human… and he'd become a devil long-before his irises turned bloody.

"Nn… oh. I bet… hah… you're not as full as— ah!... as me… heh."

They gaze upon each other with eyes made rapacious by identical, opposite desires. Monochrome locks twine and knot, like spider's threads and silk.

"Sebas… tian…"

The title echoes, sing-song and scandalous, even as the latter syllable gets tangled in a moan. Groan. Licentious and breathy, the little (attention) whore. And the older monster is duty-bound to answer to the name, for it is now eternally his.

"Yes… nn… my lord…?"

Pallid skin as waxy white as a bloodroot shimmers in the moonglow, dappled in dewdrops of tears and sweat and crystalline ropes of saliva. Taloned fingers grind into skinny, outstretched arms— much like the mismatched pelvises that grind-grind-thrust into one another, drawing fluids of all kinds. The mattress is a masterpiece of color.

"I gave you… ah… an order…"

The little one's husky voice catches on an avian cackle, toothy smile splitting his porcelain face from ear to bitty ear. And in his angled visage, the butler can see himself—just as he can taste himself, and smell himself, and feel himself worming deeper and deeper inside: a maggot worthy of this reanimated husk of a corpse.

"Eat me."

And as he hisses his most-fervent wish, Ciel leans into pitiless kiss that Sebastian could not resist, even if he wanted to.

XXX