"skin's a devil's canvas"
Title: "Skin's a Devil's Canvas"
Series: Kuroshitsuji
Genre: Smut, just, smut
Characters/Pairings: Sebastian x Arthur
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,300
Summary: A lifetime's worth of calluses and ink-stains pressed into the blades of his back.
Warning: Just some random sex between demon and human that probably doesn't make sense to no one else except for two people.
Author's Notes: This has been itching to get out of me for a while. :'D (Everyone knows my current OTP is Sebastian x Arthur, right? Right. Good. Let's carry on.) This was actually born of a new word that I had learnt while checking Dictionary.com's Word of the Day. Bedaubed, which means to smear and cover thoroughly. Let's see if you all can catch this word within these other words. ;) Also, first fanfiction attempt to get Vix's Sebastian back in action. This fanfiction is also un-betad. Please, enjoy the crack pairing.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - x - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The year was 1890, a year since that tragic, stormy night - the very same which both haunts and inspires him now, still. The cause of many restless nights spent bent over a desk, shoulders tense on a writer that bears such knowledge, and his pen, overflowing, could not keep with the demand of such thoughts. Rushed, frenzied he had been, racing against an internal limitation which would give way at any moment; racing to grasp onto a tiny, delicate string that suspended him, like others, between reality and fantasy. The truths of the world, and the lies of them all, each marked on paper, captured. Everything was left to the readers themselves to differentiate falsehood from fact. Sometimes, reality is much stranger than any fiction, indeed. A lesson that Arthur had personally learned for himself, a year ago.
And the windows are darkened, as they had been that night, overcome with a gloom that settled over the English moon, and stray candles compensate for the lack of lighting. Rain bantered against his bedroom windowpanes, sheets of run-off cascading downward - down, down, down - reminiscent to the wandering, precise fingertips. But he was not looking at the glass now, barely able to hear the poundings over another, the blood throbbing (among other places) within his overly sensitive ears.
Now, however, he was bent over his desk for another reason entirely, nightshirt drawn up across his stomach and cotton leggings shuffled low upon his legs. The author could not see much else than the backs of his eyelids - the hand-written manuscripts pressed to his face, muffling bubbled gasps, breathless moans. Arthur felt as if there were hands everywhere about his body, trailing and brushing, stroking and urging; already he was in such a shameful, dominated state. There was only a pair on his person, he knew, but his imaginative mind did little to hinder. Before he realized, the hands moved, grasping his exposed thighs as they smoothly turned him in one swift, fluid motion. The effortless, inhumane power stunned him. The hands continued and he had nothing to shield himself, nothing to restrain a surprised moan at the touch. Biting his lip helped, he continued whimpering instead.
“Although I have only touched you a little - here - you are already in such a state, Mr. Wordsmith.” The words did not mock, but, rather, embarrassed the poor man. “I’m flattered, truly.”
The burning prickle of his cheeks worsened, coloring deep crimsons on red skin, and not even his teeth could withhold a groan as fingers twisted and squeezed him thoroughly. Arthur writhed around lightly, held in place by one hand on his hip and another close by. Puffy, uneven breathes left the author (of the very works strewn below him), quite unsure of himself in such an indecent position. His hands that spilled poetry and mystery were useless, clasped desperately to the edge of the desk with no other destination to be placed. The experienced and inexperienced; their contrast was as clear as white and black. In this case, red and black; flamed skin and cool charcoal.
Soon, very soon, all he could see was a brief flash of white, thoughts splintered by the hand that left him. Spent, his fragile human-adult chest heaved deeper than that of a virginal boy’s. A grown man sent spiraling by firm, purposeful touches, reduced to mere sighs and betraying moans.
Sebastian’s grin widened as if amused by his desperation for breath, the image was accompanied by a melodically low chuckle. “It’s regrettably rude of a host to attend to his own needs before that of a guest’s.” The hand did not travel further than inches across muscles that nervously withdrew, sucked inward. Fingertips, bare of gloves, bedaubed the remains across the plane of his lower abdominal, and there it rotted upon his skin.
Arthur had not the tiniest inkling to what had led to this-
This.
He thought Sebastian was done with his exploits when his hands withdrew from his sensitive coat of nerves. Originally, that night had been yet another restless one for the author, tired and wary as he just arrived home from a friendly visit in London. (Shaken, perhaps, because nowadays it puts an emotional strain on him to go out alone.) There was company waiting for him, one he hadn’t seen until he settled into his nightwear and to his desk. In the dark of night, spidery fingers and amber eyes caught him. The company that anticipated him during evenings alone greeted him as such, always. Before he knew…before he knew-
Digits, slicked by what he had smeared over his shuddering skin, twined and prodded inside of him. He was tense, discomforted by what he wasn’t, by any means, used to. Unbuttoned, the shirt began to slip over his shoulder, exposing a taut collarbone to the sinful crimsons that saw all. Careful lips brushed the base of man’s neck, smooth as silk and light as a feather, comforting for the first time on his person. Carefully tucked behind rows of bones and muscles, his human-heart fluttered, in turn.
“…Relax, Arthur,” the less tousled gentlemen murmured in his velvet voice, guiding his tongue where his breaths heated. (For what kind of servant under the Phantomhive name would he be if he treated a previous guest of his master with such discourtesy?) And the words reassured him when they shouldn’t - not by a creature of his caliber - and Arthur, in return, inhaled sheepishness, obeying. It did not take long, not at all, for protruding black nails to find what they were searching...
Sebastian was certain to retreat his efforts before that time when toes curled and limbs trembled for a second time, replacing steady fingers with a heady groin. “I will trend carefully, but please bear with it for now, Mr. Wordsmith.” Buried deep inside of Arthur whose arched ribs slid against his own in an intangible mixture of feelings, sensitivities, a choked sob tore through.
As expected from a man - demon such as he, customary pain mounted into red-hot pleasure, and Arthur could no longer differentiate just where he ended and where Sebastian began. Entwined, entangled as his arms which spun around elegant, porcelain shoulders in desperate attempt to get himself grounded. A lifetime's worth of calluses and ink-stains pressed into the blades of his back. It was as if reality itself had been altered by hands and mouth alone (those were the only tools a demon required, really), his thoughts manipulated by the butler. Arthur could feel the tilted corners of his smile as their tongues, lips, teeth met in a feverish passion, on the edges of his shoulders, along the lethal lines of his neck. Just one bite too rough, too uncontrolled, and-...
The thrill of paranoia sent his pulse hammering just below his skin all the faster. His throat let out a broken groan, encouraging the thrusts, grinds to his insides. Sebastian could not have been more glad to compel to the writer's needs.
In that scene of a carnal pleasure being sated, the young man was wordless, breathless underneath his offender. He was unable to form a single word, much less a name - more of an alias to mask the monster that was his true self. His thoughts were filled of it though (Oh, god, oh god, oh- Sebastian, Sebastian...Se-ah!), and he assured that he was able to hear it all the same, the words that reverberated across the spaces of his mind. Demons were remarkable, terrifying, with their powers no human could comprehend…
Such evidence of it remained on Arthur's skin long after their exploits had ceased, finding himself riddled with residue and markings the morning which always followed the darkest of nights.
(“Until the next time, Mr. Wordsmith.”)
Series: Kuroshitsuji
Genre: Smut, just, smut
Characters/Pairings: Sebastian x Arthur
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,300
Summary: A lifetime's worth of calluses and ink-stains pressed into the blades of his back.
Warning: Just some random sex between demon and human that probably doesn't make sense to no one else except for two people.
Author's Notes: This has been itching to get out of me for a while. :'D (Everyone knows my current OTP is Sebastian x Arthur, right? Right. Good. Let's carry on.) This was actually born of a new word that I had learnt while checking Dictionary.com's Word of the Day. Bedaubed, which means to smear and cover thoroughly. Let's see if you all can catch this word within these other words. ;) Also, first fanfiction attempt to get Vix's Sebastian back in action. This fanfiction is also un-betad. Please, enjoy the crack pairing.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - x - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The year was 1890, a year since that tragic, stormy night - the very same which both haunts and inspires him now, still. The cause of many restless nights spent bent over a desk, shoulders tense on a writer that bears such knowledge, and his pen, overflowing, could not keep with the demand of such thoughts. Rushed, frenzied he had been, racing against an internal limitation which would give way at any moment; racing to grasp onto a tiny, delicate string that suspended him, like others, between reality and fantasy. The truths of the world, and the lies of them all, each marked on paper, captured. Everything was left to the readers themselves to differentiate falsehood from fact. Sometimes, reality is much stranger than any fiction, indeed. A lesson that Arthur had personally learned for himself, a year ago.
And the windows are darkened, as they had been that night, overcome with a gloom that settled over the English moon, and stray candles compensate for the lack of lighting. Rain bantered against his bedroom windowpanes, sheets of run-off cascading downward - down, down, down - reminiscent to the wandering, precise fingertips. But he was not looking at the glass now, barely able to hear the poundings over another, the blood throbbing (among other places) within his overly sensitive ears.
Now, however, he was bent over his desk for another reason entirely, nightshirt drawn up across his stomach and cotton leggings shuffled low upon his legs. The author could not see much else than the backs of his eyelids - the hand-written manuscripts pressed to his face, muffling bubbled gasps, breathless moans. Arthur felt as if there were hands everywhere about his body, trailing and brushing, stroking and urging; already he was in such a shameful, dominated state. There was only a pair on his person, he knew, but his imaginative mind did little to hinder. Before he realized, the hands moved, grasping his exposed thighs as they smoothly turned him in one swift, fluid motion. The effortless, inhumane power stunned him. The hands continued and he had nothing to shield himself, nothing to restrain a surprised moan at the touch. Biting his lip helped, he continued whimpering instead.
“Although I have only touched you a little - here - you are already in such a state, Mr. Wordsmith.” The words did not mock, but, rather, embarrassed the poor man. “I’m flattered, truly.”
The burning prickle of his cheeks worsened, coloring deep crimsons on red skin, and not even his teeth could withhold a groan as fingers twisted and squeezed him thoroughly. Arthur writhed around lightly, held in place by one hand on his hip and another close by. Puffy, uneven breathes left the author (of the very works strewn below him), quite unsure of himself in such an indecent position. His hands that spilled poetry and mystery were useless, clasped desperately to the edge of the desk with no other destination to be placed. The experienced and inexperienced; their contrast was as clear as white and black. In this case, red and black; flamed skin and cool charcoal.
Soon, very soon, all he could see was a brief flash of white, thoughts splintered by the hand that left him. Spent, his fragile human-adult chest heaved deeper than that of a virginal boy’s. A grown man sent spiraling by firm, purposeful touches, reduced to mere sighs and betraying moans.
Sebastian’s grin widened as if amused by his desperation for breath, the image was accompanied by a melodically low chuckle. “It’s regrettably rude of a host to attend to his own needs before that of a guest’s.” The hand did not travel further than inches across muscles that nervously withdrew, sucked inward. Fingertips, bare of gloves, bedaubed the remains across the plane of his lower abdominal, and there it rotted upon his skin.
Arthur had not the tiniest inkling to what had led to this-
This.
He thought Sebastian was done with his exploits when his hands withdrew from his sensitive coat of nerves. Originally, that night had been yet another restless one for the author, tired and wary as he just arrived home from a friendly visit in London. (Shaken, perhaps, because nowadays it puts an emotional strain on him to go out alone.) There was company waiting for him, one he hadn’t seen until he settled into his nightwear and to his desk. In the dark of night, spidery fingers and amber eyes caught him. The company that anticipated him during evenings alone greeted him as such, always. Before he knew…before he knew-
Digits, slicked by what he had smeared over his shuddering skin, twined and prodded inside of him. He was tense, discomforted by what he wasn’t, by any means, used to. Unbuttoned, the shirt began to slip over his shoulder, exposing a taut collarbone to the sinful crimsons that saw all. Careful lips brushed the base of man’s neck, smooth as silk and light as a feather, comforting for the first time on his person. Carefully tucked behind rows of bones and muscles, his human-heart fluttered, in turn.
“…Relax, Arthur,” the less tousled gentlemen murmured in his velvet voice, guiding his tongue where his breaths heated. (For what kind of servant under the Phantomhive name would he be if he treated a previous guest of his master with such discourtesy?) And the words reassured him when they shouldn’t - not by a creature of his caliber - and Arthur, in return, inhaled sheepishness, obeying. It did not take long, not at all, for protruding black nails to find what they were searching...
Sebastian was certain to retreat his efforts before that time when toes curled and limbs trembled for a second time, replacing steady fingers with a heady groin. “I will trend carefully, but please bear with it for now, Mr. Wordsmith.” Buried deep inside of Arthur whose arched ribs slid against his own in an intangible mixture of feelings, sensitivities, a choked sob tore through.
As expected from a man - demon such as he, customary pain mounted into red-hot pleasure, and Arthur could no longer differentiate just where he ended and where Sebastian began. Entwined, entangled as his arms which spun around elegant, porcelain shoulders in desperate attempt to get himself grounded. A lifetime's worth of calluses and ink-stains pressed into the blades of his back. It was as if reality itself had been altered by hands and mouth alone (those were the only tools a demon required, really), his thoughts manipulated by the butler. Arthur could feel the tilted corners of his smile as their tongues, lips, teeth met in a feverish passion, on the edges of his shoulders, along the lethal lines of his neck. Just one bite too rough, too uncontrolled, and-...
The thrill of paranoia sent his pulse hammering just below his skin all the faster. His throat let out a broken groan, encouraging the thrusts, grinds to his insides. Sebastian could not have been more glad to compel to the writer's needs.
In that scene of a carnal pleasure being sated, the young man was wordless, breathless underneath his offender. He was unable to form a single word, much less a name - more of an alias to mask the monster that was his true self. His thoughts were filled of it though (Oh, god, oh god, oh- Sebastian, Sebastian...Se-ah!), and he assured that he was able to hear it all the same, the words that reverberated across the spaces of his mind. Demons were remarkable, terrifying, with their powers no human could comprehend…
Such evidence of it remained on Arthur's skin long after their exploits had ceased, finding himself riddled with residue and markings the morning which always followed the darkest of nights.
(“Until the next time, Mr. Wordsmith.”)