Discipline

Author's Note: For Talonsage's "shoes" prompt. OT rated, suggestive but nothing overt. A tasty trifle.

Wardrobe Discipline

Ciel threw a boot at Sebastian. Perhaps not directly at Sebastian, but certainly in his direction.

Rarely had it mattered to Ciel precisely what he wore, or so it seemed to Sebastian. There were childish protestations over bootlaces, ribbons, and buttons on nightshirts, but all were simple and easily silenced by a determined and devoted butler. Sebastian knew Ciel also trusted him to choose just the right outfit for every occasion, and the demon always had a damned good argument to back up any choices that Ciel might question. Exactly what the little Earl of Phantomhive should wear to a ball, to the opera, to a banquet, even to meet the Queen herself: the perfect butler who was also the perfect valet knew. Ciel would always look stylish, debonair, and deceptively unthreatening. It was part of the contract as Sebastian interpreted it, and Sebastian enjoyed his young master's innocence of appearance combined with his determined, aggressive personality.

Today, however, Sebastian had apparently gone a little too far. He grinned to himself, in a low deep bow, as Ciel complained loudly that the new boots he had chosen pinched and that the shade of purple offended. Sebastian apologized solemnly and reminded the Earl that he had refused to try anything on when his bootmaker had come to call with new items for him to try on, and had left it to Sebastian to choose which to keep and which to reject. He lamented his misperception of the width of the new footwear, but he could not regret the color. They were vivid and matched perfectly to his favorite violet hat and gloves.

Sebastian could not remove the single boot he had fastened quickly enough, however, as Ciel writhed and kicked him with his bare foot, and then grasped and threw the mate at the wall, just beside Sebastian's head. He seemed to be aiming at the fireplace.

"You did it on purpose," Ciel whined as the boot was at last removed and he could take it roughly from Sebastian's hand and throw it, too, at the far wall. "You enjoy seeing me in pain."

He could not deny the latter, though not in the way Ciel was pretending he meant it. "You have my most humble apologies, young master." He got pleasure from Ciel's obvious streak of masochism, just as Sebastian got pleasure from a similar streak of his own. Ciel needed to complain of mistreatment as Sebastian needed to be stimulated by the boy's everpresent dissatisfaction. Their symbiosis was undeniable, a perfect bond that Sebastian had never dreamt of achieving with any mortal. He would do much to draw it out and bask in its delights.

Neither boot landed in the fireplace proper, for which Sebastian was glad. Ciel did not have a strong arm, but he could have aimed the beautiful little bootlings directly into the fire, had he truly wished to do so. No, it was a display of temper, little more, and they both played their parts. A little stretching and they'd fit, both knew, and Ciel would secretly love the way he looked in them while denying it. Petulance truly was one of his most vivid traits, and Sebastian loved to prod it just as much as he loved fulfilling his contract to the letter. And, of course, he had not ordered the bootmaker to make them too small. Sore feet provided a lovely opportunity for Sebastian to kneel and massage them, but affecting the Earl's delightfully arrogant little gait was far from his thoughts. Ciel must always look and carry himself perfectly; to that the demon known as Sebastian Michaelis was entirely and irrevocably committed. The leather of the boots was just new and the dye had perhaps shrunk them a bit. He would insert a damp rag and press from inside with his hand to stretch them nicely over the next several days. Soon, they'd fit just right, he had no doubt. They'd repeat this scene with a little variation in the result and that would be gratifying, too.

But for now, the butler had a flailing, angry little boy on his hands, a situation requiring its own special accommodation. So thoughts of boot-stretching and contemplation of his connection to Ciel Phantomhive were put away to address more immediate needs. Ciel pounded the arms of his oversized chair and kicked out with his silk-stockinged feet. The kick was more of a push at his shoulder, and Sebastian allowed himself to be rocked back by it. Head still down, hand across his chest, he said softly, "I will endure your expressions of discontent as you see fit to display them, young master, but the ambassador from Spain will arrive in a short time and I should be sure your tea is properly prepared."

Ciel huffed, considering Sebastian's words, weighing, as he must, the pleasures of a tantrum against high tea prepared without his butler's oversight. "It's not fair," he pouted, striking his chair once again.

"No, young master, it's not," Sebastian replied with all due seriousness, for life—and death—were indeed never fair. He rose and brushed the hair from Ciel's eyes. Then he pressed a soft kiss to his forehead before the young Earl could react.

"Sebastian!" Ciel snapped, wiping off his face, as if the kiss disgusted him.

Sebastian bowed low and smiled, then rose and turned to fetch another pair of boots from the armoire when he would far rather have indulged them both in far more "disgusting" acts, were the ambassador's visit not imminent.