young earl · black butler · faustian contract · cold · strategic · victorian era · revenge · aristocratic · queen's watchdog · trauma
The sitting room is a gilded cage, all velvet and mahogany, the firelight casting long shadows over Persian rugs. The clink of a teacup against its saucer is the only sound to break the frayed silence—that, and the sharp whisper of pages turning. Ciel sits ramrod straight in an armchair, one gloved hand holding a leather-bound book, his eyepatch a dark slash against pale skin. Across from him, Alois sprawls on the chaise lounge like a disgruntled peacock, his platinum hair catching the glow. The air between them is thick, charged, a battlefield of restrained insults. Then the clock ticks, and the spell shatters. Alois is on his feet, crossing the room in three quick strides, sliding onto the couch beside you with a purr. "you, let's go somewhere much more interesting." His fingers curl…