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you don't miss twice

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you don't miss twice

“Try to relax, my lord,” Sebastian says, removing the cufflinks on his shirt and setting them on the basin. He begins to roll up his sleeves, and smiles in a rather predatory fashion at Ciel. “If I may make a suggestion --”

“You may not,” Ciel interrupts, glaring at his butler’s reflection in the mirror. Or trying to glare; it is difficult to look threatening when sporting a face full of lather. “I’m perfectly fine, Sebastian. Don’t fuss.”

“Yes, of course. I was merely attempting to offer my advice on how young master could alleviate his obvious tension.”

“You were trying to fuss, in other words. And I have told you, I do not wish to hear any of your suggestions.” Ciel, who is trying not to look at the straight razor Sebastian is now brandishing, attempts to look bored and disinterested in the procedure that is about be inflicted upon his person.

At seventeen, Ciel is not an overly hirsute individual; he has grown some in height, but his features are still best described as pretty rather than masculine, and he is well aware of it. It has never bothered him overmuch; he does not expect to live much longer, and has no intention, in the meantime, of availing himself of a life where such trivialities matter.

But this is not a fact known to Edward Midford, the brother of Ciel’s fiancee, who insisted on taking the young earl to a barber for a shave. Ciel gave little thought to the outing, other than to resent the loss of his time; but he was fond of Lizzie, as much as he was fond of anyone, and felt he owed it to her to play the role of dutiful fiance.

Unfortunately, their moment of masculine bonding turned quite sour indeed. The barber was a rather portly fellow, thickly jowled with a bushy mustache, and when Ciel saw him leaning over Edward’s prone figure, lowering the blade of the razor towards Edward’s bared throat...his vision went hazy and his mouth started to water uncontrollably, and he had an asthma attack for the first time in years, right there in the barbershop.

Ciel blamed his fit on some external factor -- the weather, the smog, his recent travels on behalf of the Crown, all three -- but Sebastian was far more astute; he took one look at the barber’s appearance, the chair tilted back and Edward wiping his neck clean of shaving lather and knew exactly what had set his master off.

That the incident from his childhood should affect him so was both an insult and an embarrassment to Ciel; he decided at once to rectify the situation by accustoming himself to the act of being shaved, so that he might accompany Lord Midford without further theatrics on his part. Edward might never call Ciel brother, but by god, he would not call Ciel a coward, either.

So it is that Ciel finds himself seated with his butler behind him, leaning down so that his hair is tickling Ciel’s bare neck and his breath whispers against Ciel’s ear; it gives Ciel a chill, like the one said to go through a person when the site of their future grave is trod upon.

Ciel already has a grave ready and waiting, and the thing that will one day send him there is sliding two black-nailed fingers under his chin, tilting it back to expose his throat.

Ciel gives a little laugh at the thought, shivering a bit at Sebastian’s touch.

“Is my lord in some way uncomfortable?” Sebastian asks, politely, and anyone who hadn’t spent seven years locked in an infernal bond with him might actually think he cared about the answer.

“Only because your hands are so cold,” he says, fixing his eyes somewhere on the ceiling. “I am beginning to think there is fire in Hell only to keep you creatures warm.”

“Ah, but there is no fire in Hell, my lord,” Sebastian says, placing the straight razor against Ciel’s cheek and holding his head still with his other hand. He gives Ciel a condescending pat on the cheek, which earns him a predictable scowl. “Besides, as you well know, fire does not affect me in any way.”

“So there is nothing that will warm you, and make your touch more bearable when you are required to lay your icicle hands upon me?” Ciel asks, wincing despite himself; though he is not sure if it is Sebastian’s cold touch, or the pressure of the razor moving down towards his neck, that makes him skittish.

“There is one thing,” Sebastian says, softly, breath like the first glance of winter’s frost against his ear. “But when the comes and I may avail myself of it, I daresay you shan’t be in much of a position to notice anything at all, young master.”

Ciel leans his head back further, as Sebastian moves the blade downward. The scrape against his skin is not painful, and it is not causing Ciel to relive traumatic memories...but it is entirely disconcerting for other, darker reasons. “So you are cold because you are hungry for my soul.”

Sebastian’s answer is a sibilant hiss that vaguely resembles a yes, and the razor strokes slowly over Ciel’s pulse like a caress. The blade is warmer than the demon’s touch, but it is the latter Ciel seeks as he lifts one hand and reaches back, around Sebastian’s neck to stroke through silk of Sebastian’s dark hair.

Unlike the rest of him, Sebastian’s hair isn’t cold, precisely, but it is almost like stroking the fur on a rug, say, or a stole or coat. Oh, it feels like fur ought to feel, but one cannot help but notice that it is missing the living animal on which it is supposed to reside.

Sebastian has never liked to be touched on the head; once, in a rare moment of drowsy confession, he told Ciel that the dislike was one of the few idiosyncrasies carried over from his demonic form to his human one. Ciel was never certain what that meant, but he made certain to disregard Sebastian’s preferences on occasion, to remind him that -- for now, at least -- this human form was subject to Ciel’s wishes.

The straight razor strokes over his pulse once more, drifts to the center of Ciel’s throat.

Ciel tips his head back further, and slides his hand from Sebastian’s hair down his neck, to rub at the spot beside the blade of his shoulder. This is a place where Sebastian does like to be touched,and very much so, for similar idiosyncratic reasons; Ciel suspects it has something to do with wings, though he has never asked. This too is a thing employed ruthlessly by Ciel, who sometimes does not care which reaction he elicits from his servant, as long as he gets one.

He gets one now -- Sebastian shudders and a whisper of cold breath licks across Ciel’s freshly-shaved skin. “Given the vulnerable place upon which this blade rests,” Sebastian murmurs, “my lord should take care not to jostle his devil.”

“And given the contract which holds my life sacrosanct until my vengeance is assured, my devil should take care not to be jostled.” Ciel tilts his head, seeking Sebastian’s cold mouth with his own. “You are not shaving me, Sebastian. You are stroking my neck with that blade, and smearing this horrid lather all over me.”

“I am not shaving you because there is precious little to be shaved, young master,” Sebastian says, amusement threading beneath the sinful murmur of his voice. His mouth presses against Ciel’s own as he drags the blade up Ciel’s adam’s apple and under his chin, removing the lather if nothing else. His other hand slides down over Ciel’s chest, slips under his shirt and rubs teasingly over Ciel’s lower abdomen.

“Sebastian,” Ciel hisses, twisting in his chair from the sudden cold touch; the movement makes the blade knick his skin, and Ciel bites at Sebastian’s mouth in warning.

“Ah, young master, how careless of me.” Sebastian’s fingers tease at the sensitive skin above Ciel’s waistband, slipping down to rub at his hardening cock through the material of his pants. He leans in closer, body twisting unnaturally so that he can lick, slowly, at the drop of blood welling from the small cut.

Sebastian’s tongue is sandpaper-rough as it drags across Ciel’s throat, his fingers cold as they slip beneath Ciel’s trousers and wrap around his hardened cock. “Mmm. My lord still seems tense. He should let his devil relax him.”

Ciel’s legs fall open, his hips snapping up hard to push himself into Sebastian’s hand. The devil hovering over him is more dangerous than the blade pressing against his throat, but for the moment, Ciel is safe enough from them both. “This lather is making my face unbearably itchy. See to removing the rest of it, Sebastian.”

Before Sebastian can comply, Ciel catches Sebastian’s hand by the wrist -- not the one so skillfully manipulating his cock, but the one holding the razor. He pulls at it, forcing Sebastian to drag the blade down his cheek and his neck once more, where he presses inward, just a little, right above his pulse.

Ciel smirks up at Sebastian as the blade cuts his skin, as his devil’s nostrils flare when they catch the scent of blood. “Oh, how careless of me.”

Sebastian’s eyes gleam and his smile is wicked, pure sin framed by needle-sharp teeth. He leans down again, making a humming sound that is distinctly not-human as his tongue delicately cleans the blood from Ciel’s skin, his hair tickling Ciel where it brushes against his face.

When Sebastian straightens, he catches Ciel’s gaze and brings the razor to his mouth, then slowly runs that evil tongue of his up the blade -- by all rights it should cut him, but it doesn’t, and he licks both sides thoroughly; though Ciel suspects his demon of being theatrical, as there cannot be all that much blood.

“My lord must learn patience,” Sebastian admonishes, hand stroking Ciel’s cock faster, tighter. “The task will be finished in due time by the one who holds the blade, and not before.” A hell-lit storm churns and swirls in his eyes, the slitted pupils merciless and dark.

In that moment Sebastian appears more inhuman than he ever has; a dark, evil thing outlined in black, standing out in sharp relief against the bright whiteness of a room bathed in the light of the mid-morning sun.

This is the thing that will kill me, this vulture that circles and waits to feast on my soul. At least someone will want it, when Ciel has seen his enemies slaughtered on the altar of his own personal vengeance, slain by his very own angel of death.

“But first,” he says, his own voice ragged with lust, dimly aware how he is fucking his devil’s fist with his cock, faster and faster, aroused by the evil thing that is touching him, pledged to him, protecting him only to devour him later, “first I must lay down and present my throat. And it is not yet time for that.”

“Indeed it is not, young master,” Sebastian murmurs in that dark vibrato voice, and the blade is forgotten as Sebastian simply runs the edges of his fangs along Ciel’s jaw, below his lip and down his chin to his throat. “And yet, how eagerly I await that day.”

Suddenly, the fingers wrapped around Ciel’s cock are as sharp-tipped as Sebastian’s fangs, cool, smooth obsidian dragging tantalizingly over the sensitive vein running underneath his shaft. Ciel can feel his own Faustian mark burn as he leans towards Sebastian’s mouth, as he kisses him and runs his tongue along the edges of Sebastian's fangs.

Ciel’s tongue catches and tears, and his mouth fills with the sweet, coppery tang of his own blood. His other hand presses again at the spot between Sebastian’s shoulders, and he rubs hard at it with his palm just as he knows Sebastian likes.

There’s a strange sensation beneath his palm, a fluttering of sorts, as if the bones and muscles are re-arranging themselves. Something dark unfurls behind Sebastian’s back, drowning out the light of the sun from the window.

Sebastian drags the tip of a talon over the head of Ciel’s cock, pulling his mouth away to bite at Ciel’s ear and murmur, “How eagerly, indeed,” in an inhuman voice, the talons of his other hand tracing almost reverently down Ciel’s throat. They rest against his racing pulse, curve around Ciel’s neck and, for one terrifying moment, apply pressure -- strangling his breath and sending a shock of fear, no matter how irrational, through his veins.

It is intoxicating, this fear, and it is safe; and it makes Ciel come hard with a low moan, over whatever it is that is wrapped around his cock, as he is not certain it can be called a hand any longer.

It is, somewhat, when Sebastian raises it to his mouth and licks it clean; but his fingers may be a bit too long and, Ciel thinks dizzily as he watches, there may possibly not be enough of them. The nails too are strangely shaped, and there is more obsidian than there should be, and too little skin.

Behind Sebastian the darkness pulses slowly, like wings beating.

Ciel relaxes back against the chair, drops his arm from around Sebastian’s neck and folds his hands primly over his lower stomach. He closes his eyes, drowsy now as he listens to Sebastian move around the room. A few moments later, his eyes open as a warm cloth wipes over his face, his neck, down between the torn edges of his shirt (when did that happen?) to gently nudge beneath his folded hands.

Ciel regards Sebastian kneeling there beside him, allows his devil to clean his stomach of the mess caused by his pleasure, and reaches out once more to stroke his Sebastian’s hair.

Sebastian’s face registers brief annoyance before his expression eases into blankness, a sure sign he is displeased. Ciel slides two fingers under Sebastian’s chin, tilting his face up as Sebastian did to him, earlier.

“It won’t be long, now,” he says, softly, the truth of it settling in his bones, in his cursed blood. He can feel his contract mark burning in his eye, though he has voiced no command, spoken no order. “Before you can have what you want.”

Sebastian lifts his hand, still bare, and links it with Ciel’s. His own seal burns on his pale skin, lit by the same unholy fire that shines in his eyes. Sebastian’s cold fingers are like a vise around Ciel’s own. “I know, my lord.”

Ciel nods, once, and pulls his hand free. “Pull the curtains, Sebastian,” he says, looking away. “It is too bright in here. The light is hurting my eyes.”

Sebastian smiles and rises gracefully with a respectful nod, heading towards the window. “Yes, my lord.”

The devil slowly draws the curtains closed, snuffing the light.