Adult-FanFiction.org : Anime

Devilish Impulses	By : Arianawray Category: > Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji ???) Views: 13948 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji or any of its characters, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 1-Unwanted
- 2-Whim
- 3-Trust
- 4-Taste
- 5-Scheme
- 6-Command
- 7-Competition
- 8-Advice
- 9-Enlightenment
- 10-Sustenance
- 11-Caught
- 12-Breath
- 13-Arms
- 14-Inflammation
- 15-Imagination
- 16-Intent
- 17-Compromise
- 18-Sacrifice
- 19-Despair
- 20-Compassion
- 21-Interest
- 22-Equality
- 23-Mentor
- 24-History
- 25-Disorder
- 26-Reputation
- 27-Gifts
- 28-Admission
- 29-Watching
- 30-Bonds
- 31-Revelations
- 32-Confrontation
- 33-Struggle
- 34-Separation
- 35-Duty
- 36-Change
- 37-Together
- 38-Love
- 39-Epilogue: Heaven
- 5
- 6
- 7
Command

Millie Clarke giggles as her supposedly dead lover kisses her neck and fiddles with her short stays. He should not be having so much difficulty with them, for these stays are only made of stiff fabric, not bone. All they do is keep her simple dress and figure neat and decent without preventing her from getting down on her hands and knees to scrub and scour, and haul all sorts of things about, as her job demands.

She giggles because she is thinking of how she will no longer have to do the miserable work that pays her a sorry ten pounds a year, and often sees her being told off by everyone in the kitchen who is above her. And everybody is above her. Or was. Because very soon now, she will be far away from here and able to afford maids of her own. She will no longer need to wear these short stays, but can choose to be laced up into those fancy, incredibly uncomfortable full stays if she wants, the ones that make ladies’ figures look so prettily shaped under their fabulous gowns.

I’d look grand in one o’ them dresses, I would,she thinks, for she is a statuesque girl, tall and fair and certainly good-looking enough to be a parlour maid, except she has plenty of cheek, and her betters don’t like that in upstairs servants.

Her lover seems happy enough to fondle her now, although she knows that he has long fancied himself a man who could woo a parlour maid, or even a lady’s maid. Just think o’ that – a lady’s maid! What a funny man! Millie snorts inwardly. In fact, Millie sometimes even believes that Stephen thinks he could snare a proper lady from a middling-respectable sort of household.

Silly chap,Millie laughs to herself. Weren’t no lady would look at the likes of him!

Some newspaper reporters might be proper gentlemen, with university backgrounds and good families and such, Millie knows, but Stephen Chapman is not one of them. He is just a man from a family nobody ever heard of, with just enough learning to let him do the work he does for the scandal sheets and the Sunday titles, but little else.

Now I’m fancy enough for ’im, am I?she thinks. She experiences a moment’s resentment that it takes the promise of a large sum of money to have him pay full attention only to her, but the moment passes quickly enough, for she is a girl who does not think too deeply about things.

“Get these off,” Chapman says to her, somewhat roughly, tugging at a stubborn knot in her stays. But she likes that, Millie does – a bit of roughness in bed has always appealed to her.

He gropes her thighs through her drawers, and his hands quickly make their way up to her crotch, where he can easily slip his fingers through to her bare skin, for the two halves of her drawers only overlap there and are not stitched together. Millie has seen some new drawer fashions which have the seam completely sewn up, so that a girl needs to completely pull down the undergarment just to use the chamberpot, but in her line of work, that sort of fussing with clothing when one is constantly being hurried to do this or that is simply impossible.

Her lover’s fingers swiftly find what they want and slip inside her as a prelude to much, much more to come. Millie gasps, giggles again, then gives in to the urges of her body – with which she is most familiar, because a pretty girl like her isn’t left alone much by delivery boys and footmen, and she has worked in two ill-run households where servants as grand as butlers would coax her into their beds. She has even (she whispers this to herself, in her mind, as if she were telling a friend a secret) had a gentleman or two. Oh yes, gentlemen. Not would-be ones like Mr Chapman, but real gentlemen, mind.

As her bloke mounts her and pushes his swollen staff inside her eager, wet sheath while his hands free her breasts from their restraints, she cries out and clutches his back, pleased with the fast, passionate coupling. She could stay in this big house for days more, she thinks. It may be cold, because they are not allowed to light a fire, but the bedcovers are soft and thick and warm, and they have shawls and coats. Scarcely anyone knows they are here – the Easton brothers have left it looking like an empty house, with some cured meats, good bread and fruit for them to eat. All will be well as long as they do not venture out of doors for the next few days.

No one else knows we’re here... no one else knows a thing... we can go on and on like this in this ’normous, grand bed for ages!Millie thinks as Stephen Chapman thrusts away, driving her towards the heights of pleasure – until she thinks she sees something move in the shadows at the far end of the room. She stiffens.

Her lover thinks she is tensing as she scales towards her climax, and only pounds away faster, but Millie starts to whimper in fear, and very soon she is screaming not with pleasure but in terror as someone – no, something – glides out of the shadows like a bat and swoops down on them.

Chapman turns around too late to react in any sensible way, when Millie’s terror finally communicates itself plainly to him.

The last thing they see before they are both rendered senseless is a tall figure in black with eyes that glow like garnets afire, and their fleeting impression of it before they sink into unconsciousness is that it is dressed very like a butler, but surely no butler from anywhere other than hell ever moved in so inhuman a manner.

***

“Even if he suspects us, he’ll do nothing if he wants none of the tales we could tell reaching the queen’s ears,” George Easton declares confidently to his brother, as he straightens his stiff white jacket before settling into the cushioned semi-comfort of the new, French-style couch that has just been moved into their withdrawing room in their London house. He is the older and braver of the two, with a soft, plump figure that makes him appear benign – until one looks closely into his watery blue eyes and sees their cold, avaricious gleam.

The Prince of Wales has never looked too closely, having been taken in by his easy, jovial air, and the stoutness of body that mirrors the prince’s own.

Robert Easton, dressed in pristine white like his brother, does not share the elder one’s confidence. As tall as his sibling, but significantly slimmer of build, he is of a more nervous disposition. In society, that nervousness transforms into a self-deprecating humour that entertains his associates; in private, he is quieter and has a tendency to tap his feet and fingers.

“Are you sure?” he asks, massaging the back of his left hand, which is still slightly bruised from the mock-scuffle with Millie Clarke. “What if he learns the truth? Even if he does nothing, he’ll hold it against us – and he’ll soon be King of England!”

“Nonsense!” George dismisses his concerns. “The old bat will live for a hundred years more!”

“The ‘old bat’ has been frail since her fall; His Highness will be king sooner than you might think,” Robert returns.

“When that comes to pass, we’ll be making fortunes by the day out in the East, and he won’t bother to rake up old grudges,” George declares. “What we must do now is to pay off all our gaming debts, and obtain the prince’s backing to be awarded the exclusive contract we need. He will give us his backing, if he knows what’s best for his reputation.”

“I don’t know, George. What if Millie and her man tattle?”

“They’ll remain out of sight for the rest of their lives if they want to keep the money that will be going to them once this matter is settled.”

“What if His Highness changes his mind about handing over more money?”

“He’ll hand it over quietly,” George decides. “His future depends on his staying in his mother’s good books. If the mere sound of His Royal Highness’ name grows black enough to the ears of the people, it will not be impossible for Her Majesty to change the succession, although he has been crown prince for forty-eight years. She could decide that the crown should pass to his son instead of him, or even to one of her other surviving children. And the prince knows well that if this latest matter becomes publicly known, the queen and the people, who have lately begun to forget the misbehaviour of his younger days, will be convinced that he will never change.”

“Still, he is very likely to be king, and I do not know how wise it is to get into the black books of the future ruler of Britain.”

“But if this works, we will be ridiculously rich, and living far enough away from here to be mostly forgotten by him, and Mother will be pleased.”

“Yes, she will.”

Their mother, Sophia Easton, whose family boasts descent from a former Duke of York, unfortunately married a man of great wealth but little breeding. She has often lamented how her worthless sons take after their father’s people rather than hers in terms of their weaknesses of character, without having inherited any of his industriousness. If they succeed in this scheme of theirs and raise their family name, perhaps Mother will not think them such disappointments.

As they are considering what their mother might think of their success, a knock sounds at the door of the withdrawing room.

“Enter!” Robert calls out.

Their butler steps into the room to announce: “Sirs, the Earl of Phantomhive has arrived.”

The brothers glance at each other.

“The Earl of Phantomhive?” George murmurs. “What could he possibly want with us?”

“Maybe he has come on His Royal Highness’ business,” Robert suggests uncertainly.

“Surely not. I’ve never heard the prince speak of employing the earl in any capacity. Is he not a trusted pet of Her Majesty alone?”

“Perhaps while Her Majesty is away at Balmoral, the prince...”

“It hardly matters. He is only a boy. If the prince has asked him to deal with us concerning the third sum of money we have asked for, all the better for us – a little fellow like him will be no trouble for us to intimidate.”

“I’ve heard things about the child...”

“Stupid rumours. I’ve never believed a word of them,” George mutters dismissively. To the butler, he says: “Show His Lordship in.”

The butler hurries to do so, and the brothers rise as the young earl enters.

“Lord Phantomhive, how good of you to call on us, despite our never having been introduced to you,” George Easton says condescendingly to the slightly built boy with the black silk eye patch.

The brothers have only ever seen the earl at a handful of public events which the queen has graced with her presence. The child may outrank them many times over, but he is an absurdly small boy, and simply cannot be taken seriously. With his fine-china complexion, and clothed in an elaborate, white lace shirt that peeks out from under a perfectly cut black frock coat, he looks like a doll.

“Mr Easton, and Mr Robert Easton,” the child greets them in a firm voice, which only makes George Easton want to giggle, for no one so small ought to sound so serious.

“What can we do for you, Lord Phantomhive?”

To the surprise of the Easton brothers, the earl – without being invited to sit – drops with insouciant ease into the elder brother’s favourite wingback chair, and interlinks his delicate fingers under his chin as he pierces them both with a single eye in a shade of ocean-deep blue.

“Oh, there’s a lot you can do for me,” he states coldly. “Let’s start with the sums of money His Royal Highness has paid you, and what more he will be paying you.”

The brothers immediately find themselves on uncertain ground. They have no idea if the earl is here on behalf of the prince, or behind the prince’s back, and thus have not the faintest notion of the best way to respond to his statement.

“You are confused,” Ciel smirks. “Allow me to enlighten you. I do not care a whit for the cash you are extorting – what use have I for such tiny sums? What I am interested in is the bigger prize.”

“I beg your pardon?” George Easton says with a strained smile. “I am not certain that I understand Your Lordship’s...”

Another knock sounds at the door of the withdrawing room, and Robert Easton snaps out: “Not now, Andrews! Leave us alone!”

But their butler calls out in an apologetic voice: “Forgive me, sirs, but there is an Indian man at the door with a servant. He says he is a prince.”

In utter disbelief, Robert marches over to the door and pulls it open a few inches, to say to the butler: “For heaven’s sake, Andrews – what have we to do with an Indian prince?”

“I am sorry, sir, but he says he is here on important business.”

“For God’s sake, put him in the morning room and tell him to wait! We are engaged in far more important business here than whatever his could be!”

“Yes, sir.”

“What interesting associates you have,” Ciel remarks ironically, when the door is closed again.

The Easton brothers wonder whether they are imagining it, but the room seems to have grown a shade colder, although they had made a point of closing all the windows earlier.

“Fascinating company you keep,” the earl continues with a mocking smile. “Everyone from the crown prince of England to Indian princes, and even reporters and scullery maids. Intriguing.”

“My lord...?” Robert Easton begins hesitantly.

“Don’t play games with me,” Ciel says. He has not moved in the armchair, but he suddenly looks different – more menacing, and less doll-like. “I know all about that business in Chelsea. I know the reporter isn’t dead, whatever you may have told His Royal Highness.”

“What reporter?” the younger Easton laughs nervously.

“I told you not to play games with me. This is but the prelude to the main score. Don’t drag this out.”

George Easton decides to stop playing dumb. “Phantomhive, what exactly do you want from us?”

“A cut of the profits. I am referring to the big profits, not the petty blackmail.”

“Please, you must be more specific,” George drawls. “You can hardly expect us to speculate –”

“First of all, answer my question: Did you or did you not, last night, inform His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, that you had accidentally killed a reporter who had attempted to sketch a scene that might compromise His Highness’ reputation?”

“And if we did?” George asks.

“If you did, I want to know what the reporter is doing alive.”

“Who said he was alive?” George titters.

“Sebastian,” intones the child, as if speaking a command.

“Who is Sebastian?” Robert demands, sounding slightly hysterical now.

In a moment, however, it becomes clear to the brothers that the child was not only replying to them, but in fact was summoning the “Sebastian” in question merely by uttering his name. For anxious voices sound beyond the room, as the Eastons’ butler is heard protesting indignantly: “What do you imagine you are doing? Who do you think you are? You cannot just come in and do as you please!”

But Andrews’ objections are futile, for the door of the withdrawing room opens once again, and a tall, black-clad butler stands there as if blown in by the wind, with the half-dressed, fully trussed-up-and-gagged Millie Clarke and Stephen Chapman held securely in his left and right hands respectively.

“Bloody hell!” Robert gasps, losing whatever self-control he has attempted to maintain up till now.

“So the reporter is not dead,” the earl says in an amused voice. “And it seems that the scullery maid was having a good deal of fun with him this morning, until my butler interrupted them. Therefore, I ask that you be so good as to explain to me what you were playing at.”

“We didn’t mean any harm,” George says in placating fashion. “If we had, we would truly have killed him, wouldn’t we?”

“I think you left him alive only because your brother has a soft spot for the maid, having once amused himself with her while he was a guest in her former employer’s house,” Ciel says, examining his nails and seemingly finding a speck of dust on one of them that offends him, for he blows on them. “You knew she fancied the reporter, and sending them away together with what they would regard as a pile of money – after you had paid off your gaming debts, of course – would be one sure way of keeping her happy, and both of them out of the way. If not for that one weakness, I have no doubt that you would have killed them both.”

“What do you want from us?” George inquires.

“What I said I wanted. Not the trifling sums of cash you could extort for a short time before His Highness sees the truth of the scam, but the bigger prize. Come now, you know what you’re aiming for.”

“The tea-trading contract?” Robert spits out frantically, speaking too fast to be shushed in time by his brother.

“Of course. The tea-trading contract. If His Highness knows that the reporter is not dead, he will hardly be so keen to help you with that, will he?” Ciel asks rhetorically.

“What are you asking for?” George demands from between gritted teeth.

“Tell me what you hope to obtain, and I shall tell you what I want from it,” Ciel proposes smugly.

“For God’s sake,” Robert groans. “This is not a fair way to negotiate! We don’t know how much will come in, but if our company is given exclusive rights to trade in the white tea that some merchants in China are saying has never been drunk in Europe, there’s no telling how much our profit could be.”

“I see. Fifty percent, then?”

“Fifty percent!” Robert gasps. “Be reasonable!”

“Pray tell me what you would consider reasonable.”

“One percent!”

“Ridiculous,” Ciel scoffs. “What kind of men am I dealing with? I thought you were more determined to succeed than that. I thought you made such elaborate plans to improve your chances of success. Am I or am I not correct in saying that you arranged with the scullery maid Millie Clarke, and the newspaper reporter Stephen Chapman, to create a scene when you called in detectives from Scotland Yard to deal with the prostitute who died in the house at which His Royal Highness was a guest?”

“What if you are correct?” George asks warily, wondering again why the room feels so oddly cold – he is certain that he and Robert had closed all the windows earlier.

“Answer me: Did you do all that?” Ciel asks.

“Yes!” George snaps impatiently, reluctantly.

“Did you or did you not then tell His Royal Highness that Stephen Chapman was dead from having been hit over the head, and did you not then tell His Royal Highness that he could keep the maid quiet by paying her a sum of two thousand pounds?”

“We did,” George hisses. “What of it?”

“You had not planned for the detectives to be arrested by their fellow police officers, but when you saw that that had happened, you took the opportunity to ask His Royal Highness for a further sum of three thousand pounds to be paid as a bribe for the officers’ silence, am I correct?”

“Yes,” George rumbles.

“But in fact the bribe was never paid, for you knew that the officers would be discreet concerning the Prince of Wales once they learnt what had really happened. Where was the sum of three thousand pounds meant to go, then, once you had drawn the money from the bank with the prince’s orders?”

“We would have used it to pay off our gaming debts, and kept the rest for ourselves,” Robert reveals.

“Dear me, where is all the famed wealth of the Eastons?” Ciel mocks. “Why would you even need to extort money from the Prince of Wales?”

“Our mother is no longer willing to support those of our habits which she detests,” George admits.

“Ah. But even those thousands of pounds would not be enough to satisfy you, would they?” Ciel asks. “That is where the tea-trading contract comes in – the real prize. Am I right to say that with this little business supposedly being a secret between you and the prince, you knew that His Royal Highness would then support your bid to win the business, and that his backing would almost certainly secure the contract for you?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Robert growls before his brother can answer. “Is that enough for you? Just tell us how big a share you will accept from it, damn it! And be reasonable!”

“Before I do that, there is one more matter to clear up: How did you know that a problem would arise in the course of the evening you spent with the prince? How did you know to arrange for the reporter to be there at the house which the maid you were collaborating with was working at? I know by now that you recommended Millie Clarke to that very house not two months ago, most certainly with the aim of having her in place for just such an occasion. But how did you know that a prostitute would die that evening? You murdered her, didn’t you?”

“How dare you suggest that we–” George begins, red with anger.

“You surely helped her along with a small dose of other poisons which would enhance the effects of the liquor she drank. Taking a human life just to set your plan in motion to put the prince in a difficult spot – what fine behaviour.”

“Dammit, Phantomhive. So what if we did? She was nobody.”

Ciel regards the brothers coldly, with a contemptuous smile on his face, before surprising them with his reply: “Nobody? Her name was Sally Miles.”

“Just cut to the bloody chase and tell us how much you want from us,” George hisses.

What if I were to tell you that I want nothing at all from your hoped-for contract and all its profits?”

“What do you mean?” George asks hopefully, greedily, even as he shivers again, for the room does feel very cold.

“I mean what I just said. I want nothing to do with your contract and its profits. All I want – all I wanted – was your admission of plotting to deceive and blackmail the Prince of Wales, whose greatest mistake in this matter was to believe you to be his friends. All I wanted was your admission that by those deceitful methods and suggestion of the possibility of further blackmail, you intended to obtain a means to a trading fortune. All I wanted was your admission that you murdered a woman to achieve all that – a young woman named Sally Miles who did not deserve to die in that manner.”

“Our admission? What the hell...?”

His words trail off into nothing as the thick curtain in front of the windows that he is so certain he had closed earlier is unexpectedly pulled aside from behind the fabric by a strange, tall Indian man wearing a turban.

“Thank you, Agni,” Ciel smiles.

“What–? Who–?” George splutters, only to fall silent as the stranger called Agni steps aside to reveal the Prince of Wales himself, the expression on his face one of absolute shock and fury from the revelation of the betrayal and deceit.

At the same time, the door of the room opens, and another Indian man enters, accompanied by someone who initially appears to be a servant, but who then whips off his shabby black greatcoat and flat cap to reveal himself as Lord Arthur Randall, Commissioner of Scotland Yard.

“Have you heard enough to make the arrests, Lord Randall?” Ciel asks smugly. “His Royal Highness too has heard the admissions of guilt with his own ears, and will confirm that these are the same men who misinformed and misguided him, and took money from him.”

“George Easton and Robert Easton,” Randall says grimly. “You are under arrest for attempting to blackmail the Prince of Wales, which carries a charge of treason; and for the murder of Sally Miles.”

“No, we aren’t,” George states boldly. “If you arrest me, I’ll tell the world what His Highness was up to that evening, about all the whores there, and about how willing he was to pay us to shush the girl...”

“A charge of treason means that the one charged shall be tried in a closed court, with no access to the press or indeed to anyone who would prattle, for treason involves state secrets, which are by law not to be broadcast in any manner,” Ciel says. “You will have no one to tell.”

George and Robert Easton turn as pale as their jackets, then George suddenly becomes so red with rage again that he looks as if he will burst.

“You disgusting little pest!” he shrieks, as he whips a pistol out from a drawer of the table he stands beside, and points it at Ciel. “If I’m going down, I’ll make sure you arrive in hell before I do!”

In the same instant, Robert Easton draws out his own gun from a holster concealed under his jacket and aims it in the direction of Sebastian, the maid and the reporter. The wild look in his eyes suggests hysteria, and an intention to take down as many people with him as he can.

But when Lord Randall himself draws his weapon, Robert nervously swings his gun towards him instead, so the two men end up pointing their pistols straight at each other.

“Agni!” Ciel calls out despite the gun aimed at him, as he sees how dangerous the scene has become. “Protect His Royal Highness with your life! I give you my word that Sebastian will protect Prince Soma.”

“Yes, Lord Ciel,” says the Brahmin noble, before turning to Prince Edward to say quietly and very respectfully: “Your Royal Highness, I ask your pardon for having to bear you from this room in the same unconventional manner in which I bore you into it.”

The queen has an Indian servant known as The Munshi, for whom the crown prince has no affection – but that is only because of the man’s abuse of his position. Edward has in fact visited India and had a good impression of its people in general. He has even publicly declared that he does not see why Indians should be treated differently from Englishmen. He certainly likes what he has seen of this particular Indian man before him – his loyalty to his own prince, his respect for his fellow men, his handsome face and noble carriage, and his incredible strength. So Prince Edward says: “You may transport me from this room in any manner you see fit. I trust you.”

Agni lifts the heavy, middle-aged prince onto his back as if he weighs no more than a feather, and leaps easily out of the window into the grounds below. There, he carefully sets him down and ensures he is steady on his feet before he starts escorting him towards where his carriage and his own attendants wait to convey him back to the safety of the palace.

Through all this, George Easton’s gun never wavers in the direction it is pointed in – straight at Ciel’s head. The man has a look of suicidal determination on his face, but he is waiting for the flurry around him to settle so that he can calmly kill the boy and then himself, preferably without any interruption from any source.

“Sebastian! Deliver the prisoners into the custody of the detectives outside, and get Soma to safety,” is Ciel’s next order, given as smoothly as if there were no pistol trained on him. The maid and the reporter are witnesses against the Eastons and must be kept alive, and he has given Agni his word that Soma will be protected, so it must be done.

“Young Master, you are my priority–” Sebastian begins, only to be cut off by the earl.

“I promised Agni that you would protect Soma, and I command you to do just that,” Ciel says, evidently suspecting that his butler might well sacrifice Soma the way he sacrificed Abberline.

“No, Ciel! Sebastian must stay with you–” Soma protests, but the butler hesitates only a split second longer before he obeys, transferring both the tied-up reporter and maid to his right shoulder, and seizing Soma with his left arm, then rushing all three out of the house with superhuman speed.

It is the work of a mere moment for the butler to whisk the Indian prince and the prisoners out to where Lord Randall’s men wait further down the street. But once he is there, he is frustrated by having to slow to human pace to explain to the officers: “These two are the reporter and the maid who conspired with the Easton brothers to deceive the Prince of Wales. Lord Randall’s orders are that you take them into secure custody at once, for they are to be charged with conspiracy to commit treason. And this is Prince Soma – you are to protect him against all danger until his servant comes for him.”

That done, Sebastian practically vanishes before the astonished eyes of the men from Scotland Yard so that he can tear back into the house, where he has left his master in the withdrawing room with George Easton’s gun pointing at his head, and Lord Randall with his gun trained on Robert Easton. Sebastian takes only another moment to return to the house, but as he flies down the long hallway, two gunshots ring out.

He bursts through the half-closed door, his unfeeling devil’s heart experiencing, for the first time, something akin to the dismay of realising that he has failed to protect the one to whom he is contracted. For his senses have informed him that one of the pistols that has gone off is George Easton’s.

But the second he enters the room and sees what has happened, those newly hatched sensations alter.

For Agni has managed to return to the room in time after escorting the crown prince to his attendants, and has safely deflected away from Ciel and into the wood panelling the bullet fired by George Easton’s gun with a silver trencher that he has also used to knock out the elder Easton.

Robert Easton is down on the floor beside his unconscious brother, wounded in the shoulder by a shot from Randall’s pistol, his own weapon kicked out of his reach by the Commissioner.

“Lord Ciel, are you all right? Please tell me you are all right!” Agni pleads anxiously – he cannot yet properly check the boy over visually, because he has scooped him into his arms and held him tight to his body to shield him from further danger.

“I’m all right,” Ciel whispers back in a soft voice which only slightly betrays how shaken he is.

Sebastian’s unfeeling devil’s heart then feels the oddest sensation of displeasure when he can only watch as his master leans into Agni’s chest, closes his left eye as if preparing himself to sleep, and lowers his delicate head to the Brahmin man’s shoulder with a readiness that looks to the demon like pure, unadulterated trust.
- 5
- 6
- 7
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Devilish Impulses