Disclaimer: If you don't know the answer by now…
Author's Note: The first of about a bajillion (give or take) new fanfic ideas that I've had. Why don't I have more free time? WHY?
Warnings: Follows the end of season II. SebaCiel. OC death (though I hardly think that deserves a warning). ADD editing, so I'm sorry if it sucks. Inspired by conversations with Amanuensis.
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Dessert
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"I'm bored."
Elongated talons tip-toe up, up, up, leaving pin pricks of cherry-red upon a plump porcelain cheek. A delicate palm cups an angled chin, fluttering lashes tickling the velveteen edge of a pinkie finger. The face that is-not-his begins to ooze crimson liquid, like a jam-filled pastry.
The fledgling wets his glossy lips; the looming shade beside him sighs.
"You have only just started."
A grunt, a grumble. The ebony claws sink a half-centimeter deeper into foreign flesh, drawing colors that match his flashing, cat-slit eyes.
"I don't like this."
It is a sentiment echoed by the boy bound in his bed, tight coils of rope cutting into his wrists, ankles, stomach, mouth. He attempts to snap a command, to set himself free, but succeeds only in choking on synthetic fibers and spit. He can taste the beginnings of a sob in the back of his throat…
The silhouette is speaking again, in the casual drone of an exasperated parent.
"You agreed to this responsibility. I did warn you…"
The chastised demon's response is a pretty pout, cobalt gaze boring into the tear-filled irises that lie directly beneath him.
"Hmph. Can't I just eat him and be done with it? I'm so hungry…"
His breath smells like bonbons, toffees, and caramel; his lips feel like satin, luxurious and soft. His tongue trails a leisurely path down the side of his contractor's salt-stained face— an eager child stealing a lick of cream from his birthday cake.
"You really shouldn't, young master— your contract is not yet complete. It would speak poorly of my tutelage if you were to so violate demonic aesthetics."
The demonling pulls back, if but for a moment, in order to cast the gloom behind him a wry glare.
"They're really just your aesthetics."
The blackness murmurs begrudging assent, twin stars twinkling vermillion in the void. Even still, there is the faintest glimmer of amusement in their luminescent sheen—as if this was a joke, or a game, or a script that they'd rehearsed many, many times.
"All the same. What if someone were to find out?"
Five spider-thin fingers flex, creep, and linger, searing the back of a prone, fragile neck. There is more strength in that ginger touch than there is in all the ropes in all the world, and the boy knows that it is futile to try and struggle. But he is human, and so he does so anyway.
"I certainly won't say anything. Will you?"
The laughter is palpable now— coating the fledgling's lilted words like the finest, darkest chocolate, making them seductively-saccharine and bitterly-cloying. And his elder swallows the syrupy sweet-talk with notable pleasure, dry humor twisting his lips in the silvery rain of moonlight.
"You know that I cannot disobey an order."
As if this was a joke, or a game, or a script that they'd reheard many, many times…
"In that case… I order you to close your eyes for a moment, Sebastian."
The child on the feather mattress thrashes, writhing as much as his bonds will allow; adrenaline pumps through his veins like acid, burning in his heart and mind and belly and limbs. His own eyes bulge, as if in some strange attempt to keep the other's equally wide… But the world turns black all the same, vision swallowed by shadows and sparks and playful baby giggles. And he can hear the creak of a jaw hinge, the whisper of hellfire, the silent slip of saliva-slickened incisors…
"Yes, my Lord."
The fledgling is learning, his butler must admit; such affairs used to be much noisier. There is still the throat-ripping scream of the damned, the squelch and splatter of insides meeting outsides… but the little once has since-realized how to keep his exuberance contained, how to muffle the sounds of his chewing-gulping-cackling-delight. Such restraint denotes his gradual progression into maturity, like a toddler who is finally becoming accustomed to the knife and fork.
Sebastian is quietly proud.
And soon, that quiet becomes utter silence, and the silence becomes deafening.
"…may I open my eyes now, young master?"
The scent of sugar, a breathy purr. His answer is a wet brush of copper-scented sauce against his cheek; the taste of juicy lips against his own, candied and smiling. Leather-bound knees meet the mussed edges of the bed, and legs tangle as the pair falls backwards into the welcoming embrace of evisceration and gore.
"No."
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