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Drawing Tyrfing

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He is broken and he knows it, has tried to explain it to her in terms she would understand, words that wouldn't frighten her, and has failed. He has failed to drive her off, failed to make her hate him, failed to make her understand that he will always fail at making her happy.

In the end, he saves her from everyone but himself, can't bring himself to deny her this, and so there are churchbells and the happy smiles of everyone around him, and the fake one on his lips, not because he is unhappy, exactly, but because he has forgotten what happiness is. He is afraid it is communicable, that she will catch disaster and heartache from him like a fatal disease. He is a plauge.

And now they are home, their home, and his butler prepares him, while Paula prepares her, yards of ruffles and satins traded for simpler, but no less fine things and it isn't until Sebastian is buttoning up his nightshirt that it breaks over him,

"I... I can't! I don't want to... it turns my stomach. But she..." he can't imagine this, can't touch her like this (like the men had touched him, and he knows that it is different, as surely as he knows that it is not) "She will think I am rejecting her... Sebastian..." it's a strange order, not one he would normally give, and he hates himself for this weakness, but he can already feel the need to be sick rising up in him, just thinking about...

"I order you to... I don't care just... I can't..." Sebastian's fingers are curiously gentle over his, but his voice is the same as ever, no hint of human compassion there when he most needs it and yet, he would have it no other way, for he is not some child to be coddled,

"Do you understand what you may be asking?" he says, simply.

"Did I sound like I was asking?" he is snide back. It is the only way he can say it.

- - -

She cries at first, which he rather suspected she might. He has come prepared with extra handkercheifs and some hot tea. He does try his best to explain, without revealing too much, but he is not sure how much she truly understands and, while he can ape compassion convincingly, he does not truly understand it, and there are many things he might say that he does not.

What he is not expecting is her anger, searing and beautiful, like a tiny, furious angel in her white nightgown and peignoir and her golden curls everywhere. How dare he? She has waited her whole life for this night! She has been so strong to protect so much and he can't even--

Sebastian kisses her.

He will spend years thinking of this moment, and even years later, he will never know why. Elizabeth has never struck him as a fickle girl, willing to trade her heart and love for physical pleasure and while he had accepted, as he walked to her room, the remote possibility that this would be the relief he had been ordered to supply, it was little more than a contingency plan, something to attempt to suggest if all other efforts proved futile. And yet, in that moment, there is something about her wrath, the flush of her cheeks, the wounding of her pride that makes him forget, for merely a moment, the game he is playing with her newlywed husband.

He is not a butler, when he kisses her, and it is not a butler's kiss.

There are few creatures on this Earth that can resist the power of demon's seduction, and Elizabeth is hardly one of them, her adoration of Ciel notwithstanding. What surprises him is not that she gives in, but how. He had thought to treat her gently, more for Ciel's sake than her own, but once she figures out that he is not fragile, once she apologizes softly, mortified, for a bit of a hard nip to his ear and his only response is to tell her it's fine and to laugh, she becomes something entirely unexpected.

She fights.

No need to protect him, after all. A lifetime of simpering and corsets and pink and lace and cute and she rakes every last moment down his chest and back and thighs with her manicured nails. She takes it out with her mouth on his neck and shoulders, raises bruises, welts in his skin. She howls with it, screams until she's hoarse, beats her hands against his chest, tangles them in his hair, grips, pulls.

Souls are not the only things, strictly speaking, that he can feed from-- there is power in other things, things from which, technically, his contract still allows him to draw. She gives him something sacred and irreplaceable and for no other price than that he take it, and he cannot remember the last time he has feasted like this. Lying under her, bruised and bloodied while she rides him, wrapped only in curls and blood, wearing wrath and pride and greed and lust like her wedding dress, he is reminded of valkyries and the fury of shieldmaidens in the dark reaches of the north.

- - -

The following day, she wears a high collared dress to tea and greets Ciel with a sunny smile and teasing words. She eats cake and steals Ciel's strawberry from the top of his tart and goes for a walk through the gardens with her arm threaded through his and giggles when a kiss on his cheek makes him blush.

It is all Sebastian can do not to smirk.

In many ways, he thinks, they deserve each other.

They all do.