Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Note: In addition to being my first entry for Kurohedo, this is also a very, very late birthday fic. I'm so sorry for the wait, 12gatsunohime! I hope you enjoy it, for as fail as it is… orz
Warnings: AloisxCiel. No idea where to throw this in the canon, but eh. I've only written for Alois once or twice before, so I apologize for OOCness. FF(dot)net formatting fail.
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Hellfire
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There is a peculiarity to the sensation, a sense of impending disaster. Too dangerous, too perilous— like white-hot sparks crackling on the frayed ends of copper wires, threatening to rain and ignite and engulf. The invisible lightning collects on the tips of all things pointed—tongue and toes and unholy script, hidden behind a fragile lid of waxen gray. And he wonders (with whatever brain capacity he has left) if that electric current is to blame; if it is draining all of the life, all of the energy, out of him… if the passionately licking flames are turning him to ash. A luminescent murderer, that silken flare: sweet and soft. Virulent and merciless.
My insides are on fire. Can you feel it? Pressed so close to you, can you feel the heat through my bones? It's eating me alive—I can't feel anything, anymore. I want somebody to put it out. Put it out before it kills me—!
The serpentine tongue continues to lap; a pentagram of moistened velvet caresses the cradle of his eye socket with all manner of tenderness. He traces the orb's rounded edge, where cheekbone meets temple meets forehead; he teases the fringe of coiled lashes, delighting in the tickle of one hundred unvoiced wishes. He presses the sallow brand of his seal flat to his prisoner's fuchsia-flushed flesh, and allows the full intensity of two conflicting Contracts to flash and sputter and sizzle. The air is filled with hellish hissing, and his vision with evocative embers, and his loins with churning infernos— tendrils of smoke and heat and desire ensnaring his wanton innards.
I desire…
He knows what his companion desires. But Ciel doesn't know what he desires— if he wants this to stop, to end, to continue, to intensify. Doesn't know what to think, what to do, how to stir, how to breathe. Alois is writhing atop his waist— dancing like a witch condemned to the stake— as he struggles with two sets of buttons, gleaming silver and gold; should he help? Should he fight? Should he run? Should he stay? That devilish tongue is upon him again, leaving lust and cinders and fairy dust upon his papery nape. The blaze is mounting (much like the blonde); the older boy's lips smolder and singe, eating away at his captive's skin like acid and magma and he wants to scream and thrash and move but—
Oh…
Oh, that's right…
If we burn, we burn together… Ciel.
He is already dead.
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