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As you crouched (notcowered) in the filth and grime of your rusted steel prison, stripped of all your material posessions, the only thing that remained was your pride. You watched as the other children died right in front of your eyes, victims of circumstances which were beyond your control. You, son of – no, the earl of the family Phantomhive.
But you refused to let this demeaning fact even enter your mind, refused to give up the one thing you had left (youarrogantb******). Flashes of your past arose in your mind, which was slowly waning away, but all you could see was your father, standing tall and looking smug with your mother clinging to his arm. The love was gone, and the image zeroed in on his face, proud smirk growing and growing and growing until you could take it no more because it had turned into your face, your filthy, grimy face, looking so proud it was downright pitiful.
You knew it was a sin. Yet you embraced that sin, for it was the only thing keeping you alive in that hell hole. The reason they saved you for last, treasured your presence in that sick and perverse way, was your pride. Not once did you close your eyes; you refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing you break.
Little did they know you were already broken.
Your soul, the very foundation of your being, had a deep fissure running through to your core, and your pride had dried and clotted, covering the crack with a stone-like mask that no one could tear down. No one but him.
But that was another story altogether.
You wanted, you received. It was as simple as that, but it was never enough. The one thing you truly wanted, truly strived for, you would never have. You knew it was but an order away, yet it was an order you refused to give. You wanted, but you wanted something real this time. Something that could not be taken away.
You knew he saw you differently. But you didn't care because you wanted him more than life itself and you didn't give a damn about who you had to kill to get him. As long as he came of his own accord.
When was it that this less-than-innocent relationship turned into sweat and screams late at night that would have echoed through the mansion were it not for the so literally devilish lips locked over your own?
It wasn't the first time he did something without your asking for it, but that wasn't to say you didn't want it. You welcomed the fire, the pain and pleasure that combined in such a delicious way as to tear away your mask for those few moments that you were lost in that cloud of lust, stripped bare not only of clothes, but of all other feelings.
This was not love. And you were okay with that.
It was no fault but your own when it came to the demon. Everything he did was under your explicit command, twist it as he may.
Your wrath beckoned him. You ordered him to kill.
And so he did.
It was your own desire for revenge that called him over and over again to do your dirty work, and you lived with no guilt. He poured his heart and soul – or would have if he had them – into what you asked of him, only to meet your cold, hard gaze in the near-dark over bloodied bodies or foul smelling ashes (itwasnotyourfault).
Then again, you knew he had his own agenda. The wrath that twisted through your (heartlessshellofa) body blackened your soul, making it all the more delectable for when the time came that he would rid you of that particular burden.
You could not quit him. He was nothing but a greedy indulgence, but you had become addicted. You were a regular glutton, unable to pull yourself away from your ecstacy for even a moment.
When he marked your body, you relished the feeling of being owned, unlike you had all those years ago, because it was different now. You wanted him to possess you, wanted him to upset the delicate angel swathed in white that balanced ever-so-precariously on your shoulder.
You did nothing. He was your slave; your cook, maid and gardener, there to make up for the incompetence of those who took the 'official' titles. He cooked your food and cleaned your house and this is how you pay him back for all his kind unselfish loving deeds?
When you were thrust out into the real world, to fend for yourself for the first time (even back in your hell hole you didn't have to) you found yourself alone in a circus tent, struggling to dress yourself because that is karma. And when you entered a marquee full of murderers, gods, and demons, your shirt was inside out and unbuttoned, and your socks wilted at your ankles. Now whose fault was that?
He was gone, and you were alone. But this time you knew he wouldn't come back, because his cold body was rotting slowly (yes, you knew you were crude) in your basement, and you wanted nothing more than to be there by his side, as he had always stood by yours.
When had your mentality changed? When had your lust abated in favour of soft caresses and a longing that you couldn't quite define? You chalked it up to jealousy, a weird desire to be the same as him in every essence of the words.
He was perfection. An infinite hall of smoke and mirrors, wearing a different mask every time you managed to catch a glimpse. He radiated strength, his cool, collected exterior never cracking to show the fire that burned within except for in those few moments, when he was enveloped in you, when he released everything inside him and just for a moment, you could see him. The real him. And while it terrified you, left you shaking and screaming in your sleep, covered in cold sweat and tears, it was also the most beautiful thing you had ever witnessed.
Yes. It was jealousy.