December 14, 1889. Ciel, Earl Phantomhive, turns 14 years old. You’ve been invited to his birthday party-along with half of London’s upper crust. It’s rumored that the earl hates his birthday; and why shouldn’t he, given that it’s common knowledge that his parents were killed and his home burned down on this day exactly four years ago? This party
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An eyebrow rises, though, at the man's next request. The young earl gives a quiet, condescending chuckle. "Too risky out here, is it, Doctor?" He mocks, tilting his head upward a little more, the tilt of his chin defiant and cocky. "In that case, I do know of a more private room nearby. Elizabeth's bedroom is just down the hall." And by 'Elizabeth' he means Lady Elizabeth Middleford, of course. Which means that, yes, he is indicating that it would be most convenient to fuck in his fiancée's bedroom.
He presses forward, hands sliding from the man's waist to rest his palms against his chest. "If you'll let me out, I'll lead the ( ... )
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