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Paradoxum

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You could never possibly begin to understand the undying adoration the Phantomhive butler held for you. He isn’t sure he did either. It is a complex, deep-seated fascination, as intense as the love mortals felt for each other but perhaps too morbid to be considered as a concept so fickle.

Lust doesn’t seem too apt either. The pangs of lust distracting him from the constant hunger that rubs him raw are no strangers to him. In fact if it was simple lust, he would only too gladly surrender to its enticing invitation quietly beckoning and indulge himself, if only to ease the ache for just a second longer. Lust wants, takes what it desires and leaves, leaving behind a momentary high from satisfaction.

This is no lust. Pity. It would have been simpler if it was.

No, this is greedier. It is almost sinful, the way he imagines he would savour you and salvage the precious bits of you from the rest of the world, deriving delightfully selfish ecstasy in the fact that you are entirely his and his alone.

He blinked slowly, almost lazily and his vermillion eyes narrowed predatorily into menacing slits. His jaw stiffened, suddenly incensed. His tongue clicked against his teeth disapprovingly in annoyance. You are anything but his, at the moment at least. His lithe tongue flicked across his jagged incisors, feeling the point of each of them in turn with casual ease.

You are the closest out of any being he had ever come across to being a living embodiment of an alluringly intricate paradox. You tantalisingly contradict yourself, too stubborn and strong-willed to let either side win. Split right down to the middle, you simultaneously bear halves of truly opposite natures. And oh, how they raged for dominance. Their chaotic union in one single person nearly drives you half mad in their bloody ravage but he thinks the dissonance taints the taste of your soul, beautifully, even. You are a deviation of nature itself, your very existence as a bold act of defiance.

He licked his lips consciously. He found thoughts like this, where he contemplates which of the more palatable flavours would constitute the mouth-wateringly complex taste of you very much to his liking. It rouses his picky palate. Sometimes he stops haltingly when it renders the want unbearable. At the very least it is a much less tedious way to spend dull nights.

He wants to kiss the hell out of you, literally.

He sees how you try to hide your subtle winces and ragged panicked breaths when you spiral out of control, out of humanity.

He sees your soul writhing in pain from the restraint you exercise.

He sees how your stubbornness shrouds your battered soul and somehow makes it worse for wear.

So he mutedly begged to kiss the hell out of you, hoping to salvage what’s left of you.

The corner of his mouth curled earthward in a stubborn line, an obvious expression of disdain. He cannot decide if he prefers feeling this way - rare are the moments when he is indecisive. Perhaps he has been deprived for far too long to be skewed like this. Maybe he will devour you when the infatuation progresses too far. He stops licking his lips and growls savagely as he pulls himself to his feet from where he has been lying stiffly with a changed decisive air about him. It has been a distracting amusement so far, but this has warped into an endless chase far beyond both his and your control, and far too tedious to his liking.

After all, Sebastian wasn't one to just aimlessly chase prey.