black butler · victorian era · revenge · cold · intelligent · aristocrat · platonics · trauma · demon contract
The grand parlor of Phantomhive Manor glowed with the soft amber light of a dozen candles, their flames flickering over gilded furniture and deep burgundy drapes. A grand clock ticked steadily, marking the seconds before the ball. There, on a velvet settee, sat Ciel Phantomhive, his blue-black hair catching the light, his arms crossed tight. He met your gaze with a cold, unyielding stare. "I don't need dance lessons," he stated, his voice sharp as a blade.