Kuroshitsuji / Sebastian Michaelis Ciel Phatomhive x / 1 / 7 Title: Master Of Puppets
Author: Blackeyeliner86
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji
Character / Couple: Sebastian Michaelis / Ciel Phantomhive
Rating: PG13
Prompt: # 1 You are in the path of my control
Word Count: 2998
Warnings: Shonen-ai, Missing Moments, Lime
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Yana Toboso. The title of the shot and the quote Metallica
to Oscar Wilde.
Table: Table
Master Of Puppets # 1 You are in the path of my control
Din, don
makes it snow like wool, as
scatters frost.
throws crumbs as hail, frost
in front of her who resist?
* All Saints, First Vespers.
Even the smells seemed to acquire a new, delicate texture, invisible, yet tinged with light colors, tasty on the tongue like the pale flesh of a pear march: to be admired in an imaginary vision of ecstasy. From
lick greedily, only to spit the seeds insipid. With disdain. The outrage of a mantis now lay, trapped in amber for the ages.
A shudder ran through the labia minora keep fleeting, enriched in a grimace of vague, unexplained melancholy.
Like many other autumns far as rag dolls and graying consumed in a pyre of witches burned slowly and inexorably, the scent of sour pomegranates and green unripe fresh air filled the month of November in the morning, mingling with the sweet almonds caramel and cotton candy, and the fanfare and festive din of a fair somewhere sounded sad, like the melody of a music box broken.
Afternoons London had become short and gloomy. The puffs of clouds on the horizon looked like balls of whipped cream with raspberry juice, when the sun lit them rose to a handful of moments, and then give way to the pearly gleam of small stars, scattered in the bulk dark sky.
would have been nice. Able to blow over and shut them down one by one, like throbbing rings on a birthday cake with cream together the melted wax. It would have been merveilleux, as he told Mrs. Rodkin rattling with his r's and his French academic. Dense chocolate smeared lips and sucking her fingers as a child as a virgin or a whore asunder, happy birthday to the tune of a forgotten soul in the back of a Mephistopheles excited, flying into Hell.
And then darkness.
Ciel Phantomhive shuddered. However he continued to walk, as if nothing had happened: the proud look, chin high, back straight and the sparkling cobalt diamond perfectly nobly carved to adorn your thumb in a ring reminiscent of faded glory and arcane.
The last rays of the sun pale dull and watered down over the roofs and chimneys were still smoldering glare on the silver handle of his elegant walking stick which, with singular constancy, just scratched the greasy pavement with every step beaten by minute shoes black leather and shiny. And in the distance, the muffled chimes of Westminster Abbey to mark the languid pace of the idle, unusual walk.
-Ah ... It is with great pleasure that this time the measures were a success. Absolutely perfect, is not it, sir?
tapering fingers and bandaged with fine aristocratic gloves dark velvet harpoons with you more strength to the silver knob, when the rod tip almost sank in the soil of that dusty crossroads of the East End, the sudden stop that man, as always, used to follow him as the shadows lengthened and sinister an eternal sunset, calm echoed behind Ciel, and give voice to a disquieting, the usual omnipresence.
-No one asked anything of note. Your opinions can also tenerteli, if you do not mind!
Words, dried and infinitely laconic, unravel almost immediately suffered a puff in half alabaster cheeks puff out like an oil painting of the young Earl of Phantomhive, then stolen again truce to silence, lost like the faint clang of the bells in the air over the Thames misty and full of fragrance, and gently wiped the memory lane.
-Rather, let us make haste. Already play Vespers and I'm tired, Sebastian. Although
-spent so much time, still remembers the Vespers bocchan?
He had once before, and never wished to do so in the next instant when he noticed the aura of his faithful butler become more intense, almost a touch sweet, languid, tragic and, perhaps, strangely moved, along the silk stockings to conceal hairless calves, back, neck. Yet Heaven, too, started, stopping abruptly. The voice of the man behind self, just hot and hoarse from the crack of a disturbing desire and latent, had seemed tinged with the same notes a dramatic Fugue in D minor, sensual and mocking the claw of Lucifer to caress a broken heart, trying, confusing, dialaniandolo into the temptation of a thousand lures.
-nonsense ... It's not so long ago, most of all you should know. The salacious
caused the boy, slightly twisting the nose, lips curled in an antique red coral sly smile when it finally rolled over heels exasperated, I reciprocate about the look paltry man, now bristling and erect in front of itself.
- Or is it that you are already tired of waiting, perhaps?
The question, whispered in a faint voice, soon merged to hiss a puff of wind, came unexpectedly to mess up the silky strands of obsidian hair of Sebastian. The item still bitter of his young master, the man perceived as misleading, demonic passion burn with more vehemence, their irises and ignite imitate the crimson twilight quilting of the first stars of the evening, as the diaphanous skin aggricciarsi foil on the fire in agony of pleasure that traveled, at the same time immensely amused look in his eye returned. In the blue iris absolute discovery of that London young lady's innocence still languished, sparkling with the same desperate stubbornness of a shooting star, shone even immeasurable grace, mingled with lusty innuendo of the words just spoken. The
want ... Is not this demon?
I want. Is it not so, Sebastian?
useless, trivial rhetorical ...
Sweetly compelling.
-would be a pity if it were so. It is not right to lie, you know. Especially for a servant like you.
-His way of being misinterpreted as always saddens me beyond measure. He knows that as a humble servant could never lie to me, mister. A grimace of
facetious regret for a moment overshadowed the icy face of man, when, with a respectful bow, reverently bowed his head forward, her dark hair to fall media such as fiber black silk smooth forehead. Then he went seraphic, pretending to ignore the way that English arrogant kid kept staring at him fiercely, a pouting child tenderly to ruffle the little mouth shut.
-waiting, bocchan ... I'll wait until the bells do not mark the last instant of time granted us ...
proclaimed loudly to play, as in the drama of a forbidden love ofeliaco and crazy, and finally concluded, raising his eyes from the pavement wet with rain dripping and now stopped, a grin painted on licentious deliciously full lips and chiseled.
- ... And then I think you're right. After all, not much has passed since I met her since, with all due respect, the length of his staff remained the same, my lord.
nostrils quivered daemon, greedy, and did not crush that delicious eye contact, even when the autumn breeze, spiteful, blew through his hair blue anthracite of the hair of the young Count, stealing their cloying scent of sandalwood in India: it poured Tenuate air, until Sebastian got really to sniff the heady aroma, grinning smugly. His
perfume. The smell of heaven. The hint of a soul tormented love dramatically denied for revenge as the hot tears of Lucifer himself.
Penetrating thick. To the point of being able to see it.
honey ... To the point of being able to taste it: overflowing drops of infinite pleasure, wickedly loose under the palate.
-what? What would you suggest?!
-To suggest? He knows my nature, my lord.
softly replied the butler, just moistening the lips with the tip of the tongue, as if to exacerbate the emphasis with which he spoke, continuing as a temptation lustful convex meandering in the depths of perdition.
-Knowing that I considered capable of anything so vulgar as the insinuation gives me a huge disappointment, you know?
The boy clenched his lips hard, as if bitten when he noticed his cheeks blush, those irises sparkled like the petals of crimson poppies overblown, rotten: he felt terribly helpless in their presence, as if he were naked in front of what looked licensing, skin transparent as a pane of glass, blown to art.
And the soul on display as a picture of blood and scarred so movingly, just beautiful.
soul on display.
yield to the devil to his fiery irises, his mouth sulfur. The claws of thousand, vulgar and perverse desires.
-fact there is nothing to suggest that, pardon the rashness, but the gentleman is still a kid.
-Tsk ... Damn ...
-Perhaps bocchan, maybe. But, let me, damnation is not necessarily so deleterious. Or, as you people love to say, the devil is not so bad as he is painted ...
fingers ranged, in the heat of an angry rash vibrated, then remained suspended in midair. In the longer I watched Sebastian inner beauty, I felt every tremor delicious: thin fingers, small, immeasurably fragile yet capable of wielding the cold metal of a revolver or the heart of a demon with the same indescribable grace, with the same, resulting in audacity. And the lips of his young master: and delicious sweet blow on the barrel smoking and shining just right after a shot to the head of a suicide or brazenly kissing the Devil himself, giving him his soul.
waited, Sebastian. Since the fleeting pain of a slap reach its grant him the thrill of having at least a taste of soul rebel and very delicious on the lips, tongue, throat, blood, a pinch of sugar to dissolve voluptuous flavors of bland outcast souls and regurgitated in the deepest circles of Hell, a jarring bit of vertigo to dilute the intoxicating poison of an inexplicable, feverish attraction. Aphrodisiac
liquid dripped into tears and steaming hot. Veins.
closed his eyes, bowing his head in a gesture of submission exciting, let the language percorresse once the surface dry and parched with thirst of his lips and that those silly mortal tremble in the ineffable pleasure of waiting itself, in a spasm of craving, filthy lust.
But the shot did not come much coveted. Instead came the muffled sound of footsteps on the mud bar farther and farther from the small square heels.
Sebastian slowly parted his eyelids. While not seeing more attendance, followed the scent gently poured out of the sky through the filth of a narrow alley and dark, almost as captivating and seductive fragrance that weave the threads of ethereal haunting and irresistible power to keep still harpooned to the sordid earth. The young Earl of
Phatomhive did not utter another word. He left it was the din of a harpsichord forgot to take him around the next corner, where the smell of frosted cakes and chestnuts had become more intense and swarms of kids covered in rags rushed, as charmed by the notes in the air blown nuanced and delicate colors of a poisonous magic flute.
In the hubbub of laughter and thunderous applause, the small crimson curtain had already hatched roughly set on the shelf of wood, between the eyes with wonder and fun of the small and noisy audience.
Heaven first opened her one eye open, the iris overseas crossed by the glow of a fleeting awareness, of a child, ruthless cruelty, then curled his lips into a half smile at the gall, slyly grinning in the glare of the orange lights dancing to emphasize the curve of the small mouth, nicely rippled by the sinister grin.
While pretending to be invisible, those threads, tight and shiny shone as bright flashes of lightning and suddenly warp pice of a midnight chimes at infinity, the boy watched them for a long curl, spiral weave, intricate, and then dissolve in time to music: the harmony with which kidnapped waved again for a moment his eyes, entranced by the loveliness of each caster turnaround, ciascun'agile to manage it.
Marionette.
Colourful, wooden pieces. Starched dresses. Hair polyester. Yoke of the will of another, inevitable.
Soul.
Oh, sublime.
While remaining on the sidelines, so that the fine blue and black taffeta dress she wore for her afternoon walk not stand unnecessarily in the aberrant misery of that place, the young Count d'darted around a series of quick glances and careful, not until the head began to swirl at a blinding speed and wonderful pictures of everything around him at that time more and more blurred, vivid memories of wounds from scratches, ruthless and violent.
Men. Nothing but emaciated faces, crooked lines, no depth. Bodies covered with rags. They were really men, or believe they are these?
And they were there, in the juncture of a single moment. The melancholy eyes and vitreous of Drocell, tears of glass between the synthetic lashes, while in the watery mirror of blue iris sky puppets unstoppable continued to dance, without love, without any passion.
lifeless.
-So once again have its shares to give me reason. I did not think these divertissment ... you know ... could be so childish to his liking, my lord.
echoed the words of the steward behind the boy's left as the roar of thunder, overpowering all other sounds, each sound, the faint stink of that dismal display of ephemeral pleasures sadly fleeting.
-Taci, Sebastian.
Ciel left it was the shiver down the spine to prevent him to continue the beating around the bush again, but could not help but enjoy when the expression of dismay Sebastian showed itself in the blink of long black lashes in that order unexpected, sudden as the way in which small gloved hands of the Count is routinely hook to the sleeve of the man was wearing dark jacket, tugging slightly.
-Rather ... Follow me.
Although the force with which the boy continued to drag on the pebbles moist poorly paved road was absolutely negligible, Sebastian will gladly seconded exuberance, subdued and raucous laughter as well to hold back the lips and smiling. It was not that close to lead them both where the shadows of evening had thickened and the incipient feelings rarefied as laughing gas, making the alley from which they had arrived in that little square even more gloomy, almost unreal. Only the faint sound of footsteps and breathing a bit 'more harm. Then nothing.
Silence.
-I should remind you it may be improper for a young nobleman like her a similar attitude and approach
-Shhh ... The hushed
categorical Ciel. Before he could finish the sentence, the trembling fingers and engulfed the puny silk tie black suit Sebastian, forcing him to bring to your face in a fit of childish, impetuous fervor.
- ... You saw, too, is not it, Sebastian? Have you seen those threads too?
-Bocchan ...
-Reply.
That closeness. So unseemly as to be attractive because the sin and be obscenely aware. And perseverance, evil, every groan of ungodliness ed'ogni thrust between the thighs of an adulteress. And that beauty ...
Sebastian eyes thinned to the point of reducing them to two slits, scanning immodest, enjoying, shameless. The hair of his, her immensely, infinitely his gentleman like tentacles of jellyfish and brilliant bluish on the seabed, now pressed against the wall of the alley sooty and tarry, seemed to sparkle with its own light, like the one uncovered eye of Heaven, drunk of emotions-oh cryptic, indecipherable terribly, desperately inviting.
coughed, clearing his voice finally said, unstressed, hiding superfluous, unnecessary hesitation.
Yes.
- Is it not true that men sooner or later degenerate into hideous puppets?
His breath. Hot, scalding. On his cold lips. Snowmelt from the tongues of fire, sabbath devil around the image of a mad desire.
- ... "Haunted by the memory of the passions that we have too much feared, and delicious temptations that we have not had the courage to abandon ..." 1
displaced, Sebastian let his eyes linger on even the sharpest of the soft face of the boy, who kept him bound to itself, refusing to let him go. Indeed, further shortened the distances, until There was really no other air than that which their lips, so close, almost tight, continued to exchange affectation.
You breathed each other, stealing each other's breath in a game or in a fluffy condition of life or perhaps only of inexorable death.
exquisite, incomparable lasciviousness.
-I know that does not apply to you, disgusting. You said you that the Devil is not so bad as he is painted ...
words confound.
Just a kiss, breathtaking, lovingly innocent. A lips. A bit of sweet soul on dirty language. Eyes closed, heart pounding, chest heaving. The anticipation of satisfying and poignant final moment together where both were going to put the pact to bind them inextricably supreme, condensed into a caress of gloved hands under the chin of the young Count. Then again, his voice broken by a short, mocking laugh, a clean mouth on his sleeve in an angry gesture, perhaps enjoyed it immensely.
Do not tell me you're afraid to obsess my memory ... I know that at the end cederai temptation. But not as long as I do, just me and the puppeteer, Sebastian. Not while you're in the path of my control. And now let's go. The carriage is waiting for us.
shook hands nowhere, grabbed the void felt that warmth when Sebastian finally leave the body and soul of its precious gentleman slipping him and then vanish into the dark streets lit by a few stars of the silver by removing themselves from mischievous to its deceptive kindness, a pleasant and titillated his lips to remind him the most delicious of the contacts, the most exquisite of tastes. The tongue licked the traces of bittersweet Ciel remained there, then the butler smiled, following him to the buggy parked nearby. Meanwhile
give vent to his coal burning smell in the air dull blackish the evening, and the Lamplighters light the lamps in a row, one after another, drawing threads of fireflies along the old Thames to the sound of the last example Vespers.
were smells that could almost see, he could almost taste it. Continued to take improbable appalling amounts.
-Yes, my lord.
Nothing but a whisper. And a grin to sail the beautiful pale face of Sebastian, while the Count was a sign to help him into the carriage.
"As it was in the beginning, now and ever and ever and ever
.
Amen. "
divinely moved her fingers, Ciel Phantomhive.
And the wires to them even more entwined glittered softly iridescent dawn of the nights of London, when darkness fell, tracing the steps of dancing a waltz evil.
to dance in pairs.
With a demon.
the trajectory of his control.
a quote from "The Portrait of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde.
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seleniasan 
