Fic: Blister
Title: Blister
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji
Pairing: slight SebaCiel
Warnings: First Kuroshitsuji fic? Might be a little OOC.
Summary: His soul, coming to the surface, face cold, hands twitching, small pale butterfly hands, still locked in chrysalis, not yet grown.
Mood Music for this piece: Wait it out and Little Bird, both by Imogen Heap
X
His soul, coming to the surface, face cold, hands twitching, small pale butterfly hands, still locked in chrysalis, not yet grown. Up and up, like the red rubber balloon his mother gave to him for his eighth birthday, and his rib cage heaves desperately, his small delicate bird’s heart thumping one two one two against the collapsing bone structure, and he gasps, red streaking down.
And he laughs, crippled and gurgling as air bubbles and pops in his throat, choking him, as he feels hands lift him up gently. He has won; he is the king, and poor dead Lizzy and the Marchioness lie dead with the rest of the family on the blood-soaked battleground that the Middleford Mansion has become. And he smirks painfully at the marble face looming above him, liquid black tickling his bloodied cheek, his soul fluttering, rising, beating in time with his failing heart as he lurches up, painfully, an iron grasp on the supporting arm behind him.
“Young Master,” the chocolate voice, full of brocade and satin still, murmurs emotionlessly. Sebastian has no more need of emotion, Ciel thinks, because it is already near the end. He glances over dismissively to the dead body lying several paces away near the rubble. He feels guilt but not regret as he allows his eyes to roam over red and dirt streaked pink silks and fine fabrics, ropes of intestine and lumps of stomach and spleen spilling out from the small body, seemingly all too big for such a small frame, like a macabre flower. He cannot help her now, the poor naïve child who had been his only cousin.
And he gets up on two feet, allowing the blood to streak down from his mouth and chest unhindered. Appearances do not matter now. And he lifts his head to look at his butler, choking on the smoke tainting the air and on a laugh, crimson blooms on his ripped white shirt. And he grabs Sebastian’s hand, pulls him along, stumbling on unsteady feet, waltzing in the midst of the graveyard.
“Sebastian,” he whispers, voice weak and strong at the same time, thinking of lullabies and children falling out of cradles in treetops, and thinking of devils, demons and hellfire. “You won’t ever leave me alone will you?” And they leave a trail of red as they stumble and wobble over burned rocks and grass.
“Yes, My Lord,” the automaton says gently, almost like a human. Ciel is still clumsy in the waltz as he always has been, but Sebastian doesn’t seem to pay mind to his unsightly attempts at placing one foot in front of the other, Ciel supposes that a step on the right foot is not a major pain for a demon.
Ciel laughs again, as he stumbles over a rock and pitches backward. “Liar!” he shrieks, as Sebastian catches him about the waist, reaching out and looping arms around his butler’s neck, squeezing like a rope.
“You’re such a liar,” he whispers a second time, quiet, the blood painting his lips smearing across his butler’s white collar. “But I suppose I should thank you for saying so anyway.” And Ciel decides to thank his butler the only way he can, with fire spreading up his sides and ice begins to breach his chest. He smiles, genuine and sweet, and the butler thinks that it’s a little bit of a shame that one of the only times that this boy smiles so beatifically is when he’s dying in the arms of a demon.
“Take it Sebastian,” Ciel whispers, voice coffin dry, crumbling like wet earth. He presses a light kiss to demon lips, “Take it.”
And he watches as the hands holding him turn to claws and talons, watch the face above him turn into that of horrifying Bible legends and tales of woe and despair, and he smiles again as he sees the black unfurl from the demon’s back, and he tells his Mephistopheles in the throes of a desert storm, air weltering hot and dry, burning, “That’s an order.”
There is no reply as Sebastian lurches towards his mouth, and Ciel opens wide, letting his butler swallow him whole.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji
Pairing: slight SebaCiel
Warnings: First Kuroshitsuji fic? Might be a little OOC.
Summary: His soul, coming to the surface, face cold, hands twitching, small pale butterfly hands, still locked in chrysalis, not yet grown.
Mood Music for this piece: Wait it out and Little Bird, both by Imogen Heap
X
His soul, coming to the surface, face cold, hands twitching, small pale butterfly hands, still locked in chrysalis, not yet grown. Up and up, like the red rubber balloon his mother gave to him for his eighth birthday, and his rib cage heaves desperately, his small delicate bird’s heart thumping one two one two against the collapsing bone structure, and he gasps, red streaking down.
And he laughs, crippled and gurgling as air bubbles and pops in his throat, choking him, as he feels hands lift him up gently. He has won; he is the king, and poor dead Lizzy and the Marchioness lie dead with the rest of the family on the blood-soaked battleground that the Middleford Mansion has become. And he smirks painfully at the marble face looming above him, liquid black tickling his bloodied cheek, his soul fluttering, rising, beating in time with his failing heart as he lurches up, painfully, an iron grasp on the supporting arm behind him.
“Young Master,” the chocolate voice, full of brocade and satin still, murmurs emotionlessly. Sebastian has no more need of emotion, Ciel thinks, because it is already near the end. He glances over dismissively to the dead body lying several paces away near the rubble. He feels guilt but not regret as he allows his eyes to roam over red and dirt streaked pink silks and fine fabrics, ropes of intestine and lumps of stomach and spleen spilling out from the small body, seemingly all too big for such a small frame, like a macabre flower. He cannot help her now, the poor naïve child who had been his only cousin.
And he gets up on two feet, allowing the blood to streak down from his mouth and chest unhindered. Appearances do not matter now. And he lifts his head to look at his butler, choking on the smoke tainting the air and on a laugh, crimson blooms on his ripped white shirt. And he grabs Sebastian’s hand, pulls him along, stumbling on unsteady feet, waltzing in the midst of the graveyard.
“Sebastian,” he whispers, voice weak and strong at the same time, thinking of lullabies and children falling out of cradles in treetops, and thinking of devils, demons and hellfire. “You won’t ever leave me alone will you?” And they leave a trail of red as they stumble and wobble over burned rocks and grass.
“Yes, My Lord,” the automaton says gently, almost like a human. Ciel is still clumsy in the waltz as he always has been, but Sebastian doesn’t seem to pay mind to his unsightly attempts at placing one foot in front of the other, Ciel supposes that a step on the right foot is not a major pain for a demon.
Ciel laughs again, as he stumbles over a rock and pitches backward. “Liar!” he shrieks, as Sebastian catches him about the waist, reaching out and looping arms around his butler’s neck, squeezing like a rope.
“You’re such a liar,” he whispers a second time, quiet, the blood painting his lips smearing across his butler’s white collar. “But I suppose I should thank you for saying so anyway.” And Ciel decides to thank his butler the only way he can, with fire spreading up his sides and ice begins to breach his chest. He smiles, genuine and sweet, and the butler thinks that it’s a little bit of a shame that one of the only times that this boy smiles so beatifically is when he’s dying in the arms of a demon.
“Take it Sebastian,” Ciel whispers, voice coffin dry, crumbling like wet earth. He presses a light kiss to demon lips, “Take it.”
And he watches as the hands holding him turn to claws and talons, watch the face above him turn into that of horrifying Bible legends and tales of woe and despair, and he smiles again as he sees the black unfurl from the demon’s back, and he tells his Mephistopheles in the throes of a desert storm, air weltering hot and dry, burning, “That’s an order.”
There is no reply as Sebastian lurches towards his mouth, and Ciel opens wide, letting his butler swallow him whole.