Summary: Nights like these tip the balance, set the scales to spinning like nothing else, and they revel in it.
Really, I think that Ciel has little to no power in the relationship, and I kind of wanted to write a fic about that. So this was originally the first attempt at the second prompt for kurohedonism instead of "quid pro quo", but I didn't like it too much, and it was too long. Looking at it again, I don't feel so bad about it, so I decided to release it anyways. :D
Also, originally, there was a small section in the front about that stereotypical "no kissing" rule, but I deleted it because it was too cheesy. If any of you want to read it, just comment.
It's some kind of freak reaction because a demon should never be able to hold light as he does. He sucks up all the moonlight streaming through the large glass windows, drinks it in like his life depends on it, a black hole absorbing all remainder of white, light and purity. He keeps it all right under his skin, glowing deadly sharp.
Here it's all touch and vision, here it's all smell and taste, here it's all debauchery and the boy doesn't really care much. The contract shifts restlessly under his skin, and his head lolls back as a stream of heat seems to leave him, and he fights down the urge to moan when the demon licks up his neck. He's drunk on it, not on wine, on power, on losing power, on gaining power, on having any power at all. Nights like these tip the balance, set the scales to spinning like nothing else, and they revel in it.
The boy tries to stifle a mewl as the demon toys with his chest and latches onto the pale neckline before him and bites down, lapping up what blood escapes. The boy is the prey tonight, the power in the other's hands. There is no shame in this; the contract goes both ways, and the defining roles have long since crumbled down to equal parts of the same thing. Domination. Subjugation. Weakness. Strength.
They play on.
The boy, with a sudden spurt of strength, shoves the other back, and climbs up the other's body in a vague saunter, little hips swinging gently. The pull of a zipper, and he nuzzles the cock that juts out by his face, licking off the cum that drips onto his rosy cheek. He has no power, but the move is his. He wants it, he wants the demon to feel it, he feels the desperation and the voices clawing vainly at his mind, and as he comes down the demon with his tongue, he silences them ruthlessly. The contract throbs in him, setting him on fire, setting upon him the heavy want that has set in his chest since the first time, and in the night he watches his demon gleam like an axe.
He's still waiting to be cut down.
The contract is a live thing, pulsing, and the demon yanks him up, murmuring cruel things about dogs, cats and masters, choking him with one hand as a finger probes him none too gently. Black spots dance before him, and he's intoxicated, inebriated, in this demon, in this contract, in this sin of his own making. For him there is nothing else. And when he can breath again, it is the sweetest air he has ever breathed; he can feel his lungs expanding, his heart pumping futilely against the strange magic that seems to bind him, he can feel his blood rushing every which way at once, and he is asphyxiated once again, with a single, heady thrust.
He scrabbles at the demon's back, little bird throat singing. White heat bolts up his spine and he presses closer, ever closer, trying to meld, trying to absorb, trying to feel. I want it give it to me give it and he doesn't understand the burning clenching his heart, he doesn't understand the tears coming from his one cobalt eye, he doesn't understand the large black-tipped hand gently tracing the choke marks around his throat, or the reason why he can suddenly see in both eyes. He only faintly feels the supporting hand on the small of his back as he jerks helplessly up and down, riding the demon as if he was born for it, and the rush is winding down, and he hates it. He has no power. He has no strength. He has only his demon.
He stares deep into red, silent and panting, body jerking on an autopilot of lust. His hand, almost not of his will, comes and pulls away the hair that has fallen into the demon's face, tucks it behind the demon's left ear, as is customary. It won't do to have a Phantomhive servant (master) look so unruly. He doesn't notice the sweat, the flush, on the demon for it is only a human reaction, and as he traces the contours of the demon's face like a blind man he can almost fool himself into believing that there is a Sebastian, that there is a Ciel, that there is a life ahead of him.
They kiss, and a firework explodes behind his vision, bright and blinding.