Disclaimer: Never owned it before…

Author's Note: Inspired by a panel in Pink Kitten's "Under the Rose." I'll leave it to you to decide which panel.

Warnings: ADD editing. Squick-ness like woah. Mentions of rape. SebaCiel.

XXX

Moment

XXX

For a moment, he wonders if it was worth it.

It is thy wish to form a Contract, is it not…?

He thrashes, he groans; the lionizing darkness releases a sickly-sweet snicker, velvet breath and serpentine tongue tickling the nape of his goosepimpled neck. The child can feel his knobby knees grind and chafe against the graveled marble, the sensation too-familiar and wholly nauseating— much like the strain of spread thighs and the ache of an inverted-arch back. The disconcerting tingle of beneath-the-skin shivers, sparking and sizzling like frayed nerve endings. The bitter sting of jagged nails rake-scrabble-clawing at the stone beneath the altar coverlet, the crimson fabric sullied by bile and piss.

"Wh— what do you think you're doi—?"

The sacrificial lamb is used to being tupped. Roughly. Viciously. 'Til his insides (and outsides) are torn, wet, and weeping. He is used to feeling starved and stuffed; pain and pleasure. He is used to suffering through life's cruelties as a soulless husk… So if that truth is just a little truer now, it does not bother him.

"N— no…!"

He is used to it.

"N…"

But that does not mean Ciel likes it.

"…oh…"

So when his devil first approaches— first slips his taloned fingers down his tiny tamer's torn chest, whispering, wheedling, and weaving honeyed enticements— the little one tries to flee. Tries to worm off of the blasphemed altar; tries to escape the thighs that trap him, the hands that hold him, the pelvis that grinds ever-so pointedly against the crease of his rear…

Mmm… For being such a small master, you are quite a good fit...

But that was foolish, really.

"Ohr…"

For a moment, he wonders if it was worth it. Wonders if he has truly managed to take hold of the spider's thread, or if he has instead tangled himself in the loops and snares of a black widow's web. Wonders if he has sold his soul for nothing more than the promise of continued servitude; wonders if he has simply chosen cantarella over cyanide. And when the sticky hands that coil around his brittle hips leave prints that seem to confirm his darkest fears, the boy's heart stalls, hardens, sinks; the pungent aroma of copper and spice hits his bitty nose and puckered hole in tandem, and he almost vomits atop the marble. Another familiarity, this scarlet lubrication…

"Or…der…"

But when Ciel chances a glance over his shoulder— one eye cloudy blue, the other foggy lilac— he finds that the devil's porcelain palms are coated not in his own spilt blood (which even now drips and dribbles and dyes the cloth beneath him) but the liquid remains of so many recently-eviscerated occultists, flecks of fat and brain still drying on his fingertips.

"Mo…re…"

The boy's voice hitches on a gasp.

"More… !"

Sebastian, in turn, offers a Cheshire smile.

Yes, my Lord…

And for a moment— the final half-second before the demon's first, gory plunge— Ciel wonders if it was worth it. As an unseen organ squelches, forcing its way into his battered body— as embers and hellfire make ash of the constricted gears in his jack-in-the-box spine— as he screeches towards the Heavens that he has willingly forsaken— he turns things over in his mind.

"Mo—ah!"

And then he comes (to his decision).

"Yes—!"

XXX