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neko-michaelis · 24 days ago

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one hell of a headache pt three

Summary: a week after the mission you and Sebastian were sent on, the tension grew and grew. Late night reading in the library turns out to be a good option…or a regretful choice.

Sebastian Michaelis x fem!reader

Warnings: sexual acts described MINORS DNI

WC:5530

part one part two

It had been a week since the kiss.

A week since you’d crashed your mouth against his in the middle of a mission, furious and breathless and too close to snapping. A week since Sebastian had kissed you back with the kind of precision and hunger that had haunted your sleep every night since.

And nothing had been normal.

If anything, it had gotten worse.

The insults were sharper. More frequent. The two of you barely made it through a hallway without exchanging barbs, and even Ciel had begun watching you both with the wary expression of a boy caught between two impending explosions. Every eye roll, every sarcastic retort, every deliberate brush of shoulders in the corridor was laced with something taut and electric that neither of you acknowledged.

You refused to talk about it. So did he.

But the silence between words said enough.

Now, on the eighth night since the mission, you sat alone in the manors east library- legs curled beneath you in a high backed chair, a thick novel propped open across your lap. The only sounds were the soft crackle of fire and the whisper of turning pages. Candlelight flickered across the dark wood shelves, bathing the room in gold and shadow.

It was late.

You knew it. But sleep has been a stranger lately. You haven't told anyone why.

The door creaked open.

You didn't look up. You didn't have to.

“I should've known the stench of arrogance would find its way in here eventually,” you muttered.

Sebastains voice was as smooth as ever. “And I should've known the source of my migraines would be ignoring curfew again.”

You turned a page, deliberately slow. “Did Ciel send his favorite lapdog to fetch me, or are you just bored of polishing silverware and your own ego?”

“Neither,” he replied, gliding toward you with irritating grace. “You've been neglecting your schedule. Again. As the manors butler, it is my duty to remind you that sleep is necessary for humans. Even those as stubborn as you.”

You glanced up, met his gaze, and let your voice flatten. “If you're trying to mother me, you’re several centuries and one apron too late.”

He leaned against the bookshelf beside your chair, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded with that unshakeable calm that made you want to throw the book at his face.

“Why is it,” he said casually, “that every time i try to carry out a task, you interpret it as a personal insult?”

“Because you breathe like its an act of condescension.”

“And you speak like sarcasm is an art form you're desperate to fail.”

You closed the book with a snap and stood, stalking toward him until you stood toe-to-toe, looking up just enough to glare him in the eye.

“I don't need your help. I don't need your reminders. And I certainly don't need you lurking around like some smug shadow with a superiority complex.”

“And yet,” he said, head tilting, “you never seem to ask me to leave immediately.”

“That's because I know you won't.”

“Correct.”

There it was again. That look. That unbearable, unreadable expression that danced just on the edge of amusement and something else, something hungrier, darker, caged behind centuries of control.

You hated it.

You shoved past him, heading for the door. “Fine. ill go. If only to escape your voice.”

He followed, of course. Silent as always, stalking behind you like a shadow that smelled faintly of tea and fire and rain. The library doors closed behind you both with a soft thud, and the hall stretched ahead-dark, empty, echoing with the sound of your sharp footsteps and his measured ones behind.

He caught up.

Naturally.

“You're impossible,”

“So i've been told.”

“I meant it as an insult.”

“So did they.”

You whirled on him halfway down the courier, words spilling from your mouth before your brain could catch them. “What do you want, Sebastian? Why are you always there? Watching. Smirking. Breathing down my neck like some demonic mosquito-”

His eyes flashed red, just for a second.

“Mosquito?” he repeated, tone dangerously amused.

“Bloodsucking. Annoying. Impossible to get rid of.”

He stepped closer.

You didn't back up.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You're starting to sound obsessed.”

“Obsessed? Please. I've had splinters I cared about more than you.”

“And yet here we are again. Alone. Arguing at night.”

You laughed, a sharp, bitter thing. “Right. Because you showed up in my library.”

“Correction,” he said, stepping closer, “it's the manors library. You merely infest it.”

You turned again, storming the last few feet to your room, and when your hand hit the doorknob, his voice stopped you cold.

“Running away again?”

You froze.

Turned.

The smirk on his face was smug enough to murder.

“You think you've won something?” you snapped. “You think this is a game?”

“No,” he said, voice low. “But I do enjoy watching you pretend it isn't.”

Your hand fell from the doorknob.

You turned, slowly, jaw clenched tight, the silk and lace of your evening dress rustling with the motion. The corsets pressure at your ribs was nothing compared to the heat pounding in your head.

You took one step toward him, then another. The corridor was empty, save for the two of you and the echoes of war that hadn't even been spoken yet. Your slippers made no sound against the polished floor, but the look in your eyes was louder than a shout.

“You really are a smug bastard,” you said, voice calm in the way broken glass is calm, still sharp, still dangerous, still seconds from drawing blood.

He didn't flinch. He stood there, one hand behind his back, the other adjusting the cuff of his glove with infuriating precision. His expression betrayed nothing but an elegant boredom that only enraged you further.

“A bastard with a point,” he murmured. “Your anger always arrives when I'm closest to the truth.”

You stepped close enough to grab the lapel of his coat, to ruin the perfect fold of fabric he’d ironed into sharp submission. “You're not close to anything but a well-deserved punch in the mouth.”

His gaze flicked downward, briefly-at your hand, curled into his coat, at the pale silk of your glove against his black wool. “If you wished to tear my clothes, my Lady, you need only ask.”

The slap came instinctively.

He caught your wrist before your palm could land. Not rough. Not tight. Just firm enough to stop you. The fabric of his glove was smooth against your skin, infuriatingly cool while your blood burned under layers of velvet and lace.

“I'm not playing your game.” you hissed.

“No,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You're losing it.”

That was it. The last fraying thread of patience snapped.

You shoved him back against the wall, the motion sending a curl of black hair over his brow. Your dress rustles sharply as you moved, skirt catching the candlelight in the fold of dark burgundy and cream. The bodice fit tight against your chest, every breath shallow, every word sharp. You stood your ground, shoulders squared, chest heaving.

He stared down at you like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or let his more demonic nature take over.

“You infuriate me,” you snapped.

“Likewise.” he said, voice low and quiet, not bothering to straighten his coat.

“I can't go ten paces without hearing your damn voice. I can't walk through a room without you looking at me like you're above it all-”

“Because I am.”

You shoved him again.

He caught you this time, his hands gripping your upper arms through layers of satin and corset boning, and before you could throw another insult, he pressed you back against your bedroom door-hard.

Your back hit wood. His mouth hit yours.

The kiss was sudden, brutal, a collision of hatred and hunger, and you answered it with equal force. There was nothing soft in it. This wasn't love. This wasn't even lust. This was frustration, fire, rage- everything you'd both refused to name, now screaming through clenched teeth and parted lips.

His hand slid down your side, fingers brushing over the embroidered satin of your dress before gripping your waist, pulling you closer. The corset kept your spine stiff, chest lifted, but you didn't need leverage. Your hands tangled in his coat, yanking him forward as your teeth scraped his lower lip. He groaned against your mouth, low, controlled, the sound of a man trained not to show weakness, failing just a little.

He reached behind you, turned the doorknob without looking, and you stumbled backward into your room, still fused at the mouth, still tangled in silk and fury.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stepped back. He followed.

He crowed you until the backs of your legs hit the chaise at the foot of the bed. You fell back with a gasp, skirts fanned around you like a storm had dropped you there. He loomed above you, cravat askew, coat undone. You hated how good he looked like that. Disheveled. Messy. Uncontrolled.

He climbed over you like a shadow, knees planted on either side of your skirts, one hand braced beside your head. He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less intense, like he was memorizing the taste of someone he’d vowed not to want.

Your hands found his cravat, yanked it loose. His gloves hit the floor without ceremony. You felt the warmth of his bare hands through the thin lace at your wrists.

“You're insufferable.” you breathed.

“You're exhausting.” he answered, his breath fanning against your jaw.

“And yet you're still here.”

“And yet you're still under me.”

That shut you up.

His mouth was on yours again, unforgiving and hot, and the back of your head pressed into the velvet cushion beneath you as he deepened the kiss. The silk of your dress rustled against his waistcoat as he leaned down, arm braced beside your head. One knee dipped into the bed, grazing the folds of your skirts, and you hated the way your stomach twisted when you felt the weight of him settling against you.

His hands, no longer gloved, were colder than they should have been. One slipped around your side, fingers trailing the curve of your corseted waist with unsettling precision, pausing just where the whalebone cinched too tight to bend. The other found your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips like he was taking inventory of something he never should've touched.

You bit his lower lip, hard enough to punish. He barely flinched.

“Still not submitting, I see.” he murmured against your mouth.

“Try harder,” you snapped back, eyes flashing.

He growled- soft, not quite human- and kissed you again, harsher this time, like he meant to bruise. Your fingers were in his hair now, tugging, pulling, ruining that perfect slicked back style he clung to like armor. You wanted it undone. All of it. The mask, the polish, the facade. You wanted to strip away the inhuman calm and see what he was under the suit and silk.

You succeeded, just a little.

He shifted against you, mouth trailing briefly down your jaw, tongue flicking against your neck once- cold, calculated, and deliberate. A warning, not affection. The threat beneath it curled something tight inside you.

“Do you think this means anything?” you said, voice breathless as you shoved at his shoulder- not enough to move him, just to make the point.

“I think,” he said, not moving away, “that you talk far too much for someone who keeps pulling me closer.”

Your breath caught. Because it was true. Your hands had curled into the lapels of his open coat, dragging him down with each gasp and curse, as if proximity could silence the noise in your chest.

He tasted like wine and heat and something darker- something unnatural. Every kiss left you dizzy, furious, and desperate to win a battle you didn't understand. He was still above you, weight braced just barely, like he was giving you a choice to push him off, daring you to do it.

You didn't.

Instead, you surged up and kissed him again, open-mouthed and unforgiving. His hand slid down your side, over embroidered satin, across the ruffled detail at your hip, to the fine silk and lace underskirt cinched beneath it all. The weight of him settled more fully against you now, and the heat in your cheeks spread down your throat, your chest, even as your mouth curled in a sneer mid-kiss.

“You're disgusting.”

“So you've said,” he replied, teeth dragging over your lower lip.

“Do not ruin my tailoring.” he warned.

“Do not ruin my sleep schedule.”

He smiled against your neck.

Bastard.

Your breath hitched as he dipped lower, mouth trailing down the column of your throat, just above the lace collar that peeked out from the neckline of your corset. He wasn't touching skin- yet- but he was close enough to set your nerves alight. You hated that he knew exactly how close he could get before you snapped. You hated that you haven't snapped already.

“You'll regret this,” you whispered, voice low and dangerous.

“I already do,” he said simply.

But he didn't stop.

Neither did you.

The room was too warm now. Between the fire, the layers of silk, the sheer weight of him pressing against you- it was unbearable. You didn't want to think. You didn't want to feel. You just wanted to drown in the violence of this one thing, this one place where words didn't matter and power didn't shift like sand beneath your feet.

You kissed him again, slower this time. He answered with that same cursed precision, like he wasn't just indulging you, but studying you. It made your blood boil.

You shoved at his coat again, and he let it fall, shrugging free of it like it was nothing. You almost hated how quickly he adapted, how easily he moved between composed butler and this-this inferno in a suit.

“I swear,” you muttered between kisses, “if you hold this over me, I'll stab you with a cake fork.”

“I'm insulted,” he said, teeth grazing your collarbone through fabric. “You think I'd need blackmail. You fold quite easily when angry.”

“I don’t fold.”

“Then what do you call this?”

You growled and rolled him off of you, climbing into his lap in one seamless, angry motion that left your skirts tangled around both of you and your breath sawing in your throat. You gripped his chin, forcing him to look up at you, those crimson eyes glowing faintly under the low light.

“This,” you hissed, “is tactical dominance.”

He looked delighted.

“Of course it is.”

You kissed him again, biting his lip for good measure. His hand gripped your hips now, the layers of your dress crinkling between his fingers as he pulled you closer. You didn't care If he tore the damn thing, you'd consider it a favor. It was too hot, too heavy, too suffocating- and not just because of the corset.

When you pulled back, both of you were breathless. His eyes were half-lidded, lips swollen, shirt wrinkled and askew. He looked, for once, less than perfect.

You loved it.

“You are going to ruin everything,” you said.

He tilted his head. “And you weren't already doing that?”

You leaned in, your mouth a breath from his. “If you tell anyone-”

“Who would I tell?” he whispered, voice gone low and rough. “The rats in the cellar? Or perhaps the dishes?”

Your breath returned between kisses, each one deeper than the last, desperate, indignant, laced with fury neither of you had language for. Your fingers found the edge of his shirt collar again, now damp with heat, clinging to him like he was the only steady thing left in the room. His mouth moved down to your throat, careful, unhurried.

But his hands-

One found your back. The other settled at your hip, palm pressing through the stiff structure of your corset, as though he could feel your racing pulse even through the layers. Then- without a word, without even breaking contact- he began to undo the laces.

It was methodical. Precise. Predictable, damn him.

You should've expected it. Of course he would know how to unlace a corset without pause, without hesitation, without even looking. He'd probably done it a hundred times. For noblewomen, duchesses, perhaps even corpses. His fingers moved easily along the back of your gown, unthreading ribbon from the reinforced eyelets like he was disarming a bomb-silent, efficient, no wasted movement.

You froze for half a second, heart hammering.

“You undo corsets like you iron shirts.” you muttered against his open mouth.

He didn't miss a beat. “That's because most corsets are less stubborn than you.”

You wanted to slap him again. Instead, you kissed him harder, frustration snarling at the base of your throat.

One last pull, and the tension in your bodice gave away with a sharp whisper of loosened silk. The sudden lack of pressure made you gasp. The corset no longer bit into your ribs. You could breathe again, but that was hardly the issue now. You could feel the loosened weight of the dress starting to slip down your shoulders, satin and lace whispering against your skin as gravity reclaimed it.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, really look. The dress was half-undone, your skin flushed and bare in places the neckline had concealed, your breath uneven, your lips swollen. Candlelight caught the outline of your collarbones, the slope of your throat, the faint sheen of sweat just beneath your hairline. Your eyes burned with the same fire you'd used against him for months. Only now, it wasn't defense.

It was want.

Regret came later.

You didn't give him the satisfaction of silence. You reached behind you, shrugged on shoulder, then the other, and the gown slipped off entirely. It slid down your arms, your hips, pooling in layers of silk and petticoat around your waist and thighs, leaving only the underlayers: lace, ribbon, skin, breath.

He said nothing. His eyes were unreadable. Still red. Still unnatural. Still fixated.

You straddled him again, now without the weight of noble fabric or laced-up pride between you. Your arms wrapped around his neck and you pulled him in with both fury and grace, mouth on his again before he could give some clever, cutting remark about your state of undress.

“Say one word,” you warned between kisses, “and I'll shove a candlestick where the sun doesn't shine.”

“You assume I was planning to speak.”

He leaned back just enough to let the light catch every inch of you. His hands ran over your waist, bare now, save for the thin fabric of your chemise, before sliding up your back again, as if to feel the aftermath of his handiwork. Your skin prickled under his touch. You were trembling, but not from fear.

It was this. The proximity. The heat. The unspeakable, shameful knowledge that you’d wanted this long before you ever admitted it aloud. And the fact that it was him. That it was sebastian. That it was your butler, the infuriating, flawless, hell-born butler you'd spent every waking moment fighting just to keep your sanity intact.

You hated how good he felt.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Less war, more fire. Your hands tangled in his shirt, this time tugging it from his waistcoat in one angry pull. His breath hitched- subtle, but there- and it gave you just enough satisfaction to grin against his mouth.

“You're enjoying this far too much,” you whispered.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw.

“I was bred to serve,” he murmured, voice velvet smooth. “And you are very, very difficult to serve.”

That earned him another bite to the shoulder. He flinched, barely, and smiled.

You could feel the consequences coming. Creeping in like fog beneath the door. But neither of you moved. Neither of you stopped. There was no going back now. Only heat, and breath, and hands on skin that should never have met.

And regret could wait for the morning.

His lips didn't leave yours for long. Every kiss was a silent battle, each gasp, a truce, each bite, a declaration of war. His hands were colder now, like his patience had returned even if his restraint had not. They smoothed down your sides with quiet control, curving around the faint bones of your hips before dragging upward again, following the soft folds of your chemise with ghostlike pressure. It was only still on, not because he was hesitant, because he was toying with you. Watching you come undone in slow motion.

You loathed how methodical he was. You loathed the goosebumps he raised with a single sweep of his palm across your back, the way he paused just before slipping beneath the final fabric barrier, like he was giving you one last chance to tell him to stop.

He knew you wouldn't.

The fireplace crackled behind you, shadows moving across the room like silent spectators. His mouth moved lower again, trailing from your collarbone to the top curve of your chest, lips barely grazing lace and skin with maddening restraint. You hissed through your teeth, nails dragging lightly down the back of his neck in warning.

“If you keep kissing like that,” you muttered, voice rough, “I might start thinking you like me.”

He huffed a low, sharp, breath, close to laughter but too bitter. “Perish the thought.”

You grabbed his cravat and yanked, throwing it somewhere else in the room. “I’d rather perish you.”

“Such affection.” he said dryly, even as his fingers curled around your waist again, tugging you forward until you were flush against him. The heat between your bodies made your head spin. He kissed you again, deeper now, slower, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before he dragged his tongue against it in apology. Your whole body responded before your mind could catch up.

You hated the way your thighs tightened around him. Hated the way your breath stuttered. But you hated him more.

Your hands slid down his chest, undoing the last buttons of his shirt without asking. The crisp white cotton gave way, revealing marble skin that shouldn't have looked real. Not on something like him. He was too perfect. Too still. Too constructed. Like a weapon dressed in a gentlemans shell. You pressed your palm flat against his chest, half-expecting it to burn.

Instead it was cool. Smooth. Infuriatingly steady.

He watched you through half lidded eyes, letting you touch, letting you explore. And it wasn't submission. It was worse. It was permission.

“Are you going to sit there smirking like an oil painting,” you said, “or are you going to help?”

“I was waiting for you to tear it off like you did my patience.”

You made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a growl.

“Fine.”

You shoved his shirt down his arms. He let it fall. The room swam with heat. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Still, you stared him down, defiant even now.

“I hope you hate this as much as I do.” you said.

“More.”

You didn't know which of you moved first. Just that your mouths collided again with enough force to bruise. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down as you fell back against the bed. He followed, blanketing your body with his again, teeth grazing your throat like he meant to devour you and restrain you at once. You arced into him, hands twisting into his dark hair, legs curling around his hips, and you felt him press against you, solid and undeniable through the last layers between you.

No one spoke. There was no need.

Just breath. Heat. Mouths and teeth. The sound of lace tearing, silk rustling, breath hitching. You didn't moan-heaven forbid- but you gasped, you bit, you exhaled his name in a curse that didn't sound like a curse at all.

And the space between you ceased to exist.

His mouth captured yours again with hunger that felt more like punishment than passion, his hands sliding down the length of your body with precision that made your skin tighten beneath his touch. Every movement he made was like he was reading you by touch alone, learning how to unravel you from the inside out.

Your chemise slipped off your shoulders. Not roughly. Not hastily. Just enough to make you feel the air against your skin before his mouth replaced it, warm, open, merciless. His lips trailed along the line of your collarbone, then lower, teeth dragging with just enough pressure to make your stomach clench. You grabbed at his arms, nails leaving faint croissants against his forearms as he mapped every part of you with maddening control.

He moved like he was still in command. Still your butler. Still the one orchestrating this chaos, even as he knelt between your thighs and let his hands roam up the backs of them, dragging you slowly toward him with a strength that made it impossible to think.

Your body shifted under his, instinctive and tense. He pressed against you deliberately, letting you feel every inch of him. The friction burned. Your breath hitched. Your back arched. His lips were at your throat again, his hands bracketing your hips, anchoring you like you might disappear if he let go.

You fought the urge to whimper. You let out something between a growl and a broken breath instead, teeth clenched, pride intact.

“Dont…dont think this means anything.” you muttered, even as your fingers tangled in his hair and pulled.

“Believe me,” he said low against your skin, “I don't.”

And still, his hands moved. And still, your body betrayed you.

You met him in equal measure, every touch, every shift of his weight answered with your own. You pushed back against him, lips swollen from kissing, thighs trembling with pressure you refused to give voice to. Your whole body was heat and tension, locked against his as if the closer you were, the less your mind could scream at you to stop.

He pressed you deeper into the bed, one hand splaying wide against your stomach, the other threading into your hair. He tilted your chin just so-just enough to expose your neck again, to make you feel it when he dragged his lips down your throat and let his breath tickle across your pulse point.

You shuddered.

And he moved again, slow and steady, and every breath caught somewhere behind your teeth.

It was maddening, the way he refused to rush. The way he held your gaze, watching the way your body reacted before doing it again, again, and again. He worked like a craftsman, silent and sure, unbothered by your insults muttered through clenched teeth and gasps.

You tried to keep the upper hand, even now. You tried to insult him, to bite him. To act like this meant nothing. But every time he moved, your resolve cracked a little more.

The bed creaked beneath you, the fire snapped in the room, and all that filled the room was the sound of breath, rustling linen, and bodies moving in rhythm. His name escaped you again, this time quieter, hoarser, like a secret you hadnt meant to say aloud.

His smirk returned when he heard it.

“I'll pretend I didn't hear that,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against the corner of your mouth like he'd earned it.

“I'll pretend..pretend you're not en..enjoying yourself.”

“I'm always efficient.”

and then he did something that made your whole body arch, deliberate, punishing, perfect and you forgot every insult you'd ever prepared.

Morning came slowly.

Your body was the first to betray you, aching in places you hadn't expected, sore in ways that made last night echo louder than any dream ever could. You shifted beneath the covers and felt cool cotton brushing against your skin. Not the scratchy remnants of your chemise. Not the ruined ribbons of your corset. A full linen nightdress. Clean. Soft. Modest.

Your brow furrowed.

The room was warm. The fireplace had been tended to. Sunlight stretched in pale beams across the floor, catching the faint shimmer of the discarded dress draped carefully over the chaise.

You sat up.

You were tucked in.

Tucked in.

Like some delicate little noble daughter who hadn’t just spent the entire night entangled with a demon. Like you hadn’t kissed him like you meant it. Like you hadn’t let him. You gritted your teeth. Your hair had even been brushed, neatly gathered to one side, not a single knot in sight.

And he was gone.

Typical.

You didn’t know if you were furious or grateful. Probably both. Probably more furious. You threw the blankets back with too much force and swung your legs out of bed just as a polite knock sounded at the door.

“My lady?” Mey-Rin’s voice chimed sweetly through the wood. “I’ve brought your morning dress, if you’re ready.”

You cleared your throat. “Come in.”

Mey-Rin entered carrying the usual bundle of silk, lace, and rigid propriety that passed for a day ensemble. She gave you her usual bright smile, but her eyes flicked toward the empty fireplace, then to the disturbed sheets. Her grin faltered just slightly.

“Didn’t mean to wake you early,” she said quickly, setting the dress over the screen. “Sebastian mentioned you had a long night of reading.”

You blinked. “Did he now?”

She fumbled with the hangers. “Yes, well, he said you’d fallen asleep in the library, and he carried you back. Said you were too stubborn to admit you needed rest.”

Of course he did.

Your jaw clenched as Mey-Rin helped you behind the screen and began the slow process of lacing you into a sapphire-blue day dress. It was modest, buttoned to the throat, sleeves down to your wrists, corset tight enough to remind you how hard it was to breathe around your own pride. As she worked, she filled the silence with casual chatter about weather and deliveries and Lady Elizabeth’s most recent correspondence. You heard none of it.

Your mind was still back in the library. Or on the bed. Or beneath him. The heat of his breath. The press of his hands. His voice, low and venomous, I’m always efficient.

You wanted to punch him again.

Once dressed, you made your way to the dining room, boots clicking across the polished floors of the manor. Everything looked so... normal. Like nothing had happened. Like the night hadn’t cracked something open between the two of you that you couldn’t seal shut.

The doors to the dining room opened without fanfare. Inside, Ciel was already seated at the head of the table, tea steeping beside his untouched breakfast. His eye shifted toward you briefly, then returned to the paper in his hand.

You took your usual seat across from him, posture prim and spine stiff.

Silence.

And then the door behind you opened.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.

You felt it.

That impossible stillness that only came when he entered a room. The graceful glide of footsteps, soft and sharp, like a wolf pacing around a ballroom.

“Good morning, Young Master,” Sebastian said with his usual perfect cadence. “My lady.”

You didn’t look at him.

You refused.

He placed your tea beside you, then set down Ciel’s breakfast with surgical precision.

“Thank you,” Ciel murmured without looking up. “You’re late.”

“My sincerest apologies. I was detained by… unfinished duties.”

Your grip on your teacup nearly cracked the porcelain.

Ciel blinked once, then glanced between you and Sebastian. His one visible eye narrowed.

“You’re both unusually quiet.”

No one responded.

Sebastian stood at his left shoulder, expression unreadable. You sipped your tea too quickly, scalding your tongue, just to avoid speaking.

Ciel looked back and forth between the two of you, then lowered his paper entirely.

“What happened?”

You and Sebastian answered at the same time.

“Nothing.”

“An ordinary evening.”

The silence that followed was louder than any outburst.

Ciel raised a brow.

“Ordinary?” he repeated. “With the two of you involved? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

You stiffened. Sebastian didn’t flinch.

Ciel exhaled slowly, setting down his tea.

“Fine. Keep your secrets. But don’t let whatever this is interfere with your duties. Either of you.”

You nodded tightly.

Sebastian bowed. “Of course not, my lord.”

Ciel gave one last look of suspicion, then returned to his paper.

But the damage was done.

You could feel Sebastian’s gaze even now, burning beneath his lashes as he stood motionless at Ciel’s side. Not looking at you. Not needing to. The tension between you buzzed like static, impossible to ignore, impossible to voice.

It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

113 notes · View notes

neko-michaelis · 1 month ago

Text

The Best Remedy for Nerves

Warnings: Bad Touch Sebastian thinks that his magic finger are the cure for anxiety, Non'con Touching, Short Drabble, Anxious!Y/N, Female Maid Y/N

This content is intended for readers 18+

🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩

The grand halls of the manor echoed with the patter of footsteps and the murmur of your fellow servants as they carried on with their daily tasks. You however, struggled with yours, transporting a tray of fine china. Your hands trembled, the delicate teacups rattling precariously.

You could feel his gaze on you before you even saw him—Sebastian Michaelis, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes tracking your every misstep.

"You’re nervous," he observed, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. "And nervous hands make for broken dishes."

You swallowed hard, "I—I’m fine."

Sebastian sighed softly and then approached you, "No, you’re not. But don’t worry. I have just the remedy."

Before you could protest, one of his hands was on your elbow, the other effortly removed the tray from your grasp. He guided you firmly into a vacant study. The door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly, the air felt thicker, charged with something unspoken.

"I need to have you relaxed, Y/N" he murmured, pressing you gently against the edge of a mahogany desk. Just one of his hands had the persistent strength to keep you pressed flat to it's surface. His other hand traced the curve of your waist, before gathering up the edges of your skirts. "And I can ensure that my methods will be an effective soother."

"Please, allow me," he was not asking. Your bloomers were quickly peeled down.

You gasped as his touch found you, his fingers skilled and unrelenting. One single finger to feel, then two to rub expertly at your button. There was no arguing, no room for refusal—certainlly not when his voice dropped into a dark, persuasive tone. "You’ll feel much better after," he promised, "And if you keep making mistakes? Well… we'll simply have to sooth you again and again, won't we?."

His efforts were slow, deliberate, and you realized with a shudder that he wasn’t just calming you.

He was training you.

And then—oh, god—his fingers found just the right spot, and pleasure shot through you like lightning. Your back arched, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps as the tension coiled tighter and tighter until—"O-oh, S-sebastian!" Your voice broke as you crashed over the edge.

So intense, it left you trembling. Your body alight with sensation. And then, just as suddenly, a wave of calm washed over you, so profound it was like sinking into warm water. Your muscles loosened, your breath evening out as the last of the tension bled away.

And by the time he pulled away, your breath came in steady, obedient waves.

"Better," he stated, a self-satisfied smirk etched on his face.

You nodded against the desk, your cheeks flushed.

"Good, now you can continue with your chores." Finally his hands lifted off you. " And remember—my door is always open. But if I have to come find you again… I won’t be as gentle."

The threat—or was it a promise?—lingered as he straightened your skirts with meticulous care.

You left the room with your hands steady.

And your pulse racing.

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neko-michaelis · 2 months ago

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So the "don't call trans women dude" discourse is back on my dash, and I just read something that might explain why it's such a frustrating argument for everyone involved.

TLDR: There's gender-cultural differences that explain why people are arguing about this- and a reason it hurts trans women more than you might think if you were raised on the other side of the cultural divide.

I'll admit, I used to be very much on team "I won't call you 'dude' if it feels like misgendering, but also I don't really grok why it feels like I'm misgendering you, especially if I'm not addressing you directly." But then I read an academic paper that really unpicked how people used the word 'dude' (it's Kiesling (2004) if you're curious) and I realized that the way I was taught to use the word was different from the way most trans women were taught.

... So the thing about the word 'dude' that's really interesting is that it's used differently a) by people of different genders and b) across gender lines. This study is, obviously, 20 years old, but a lot of the conclusions hold up. The gist is, there's ~5 different ways that people use the word "dude":

marking discourse structure- AKA separating thoughts. You can use the word 'dude' to signal that you're changing the subject or going on a different train of thought.

exclamation. You can use the word "dude" the way you'd use another interjection like "oh my god" or "god damn".

confrontational stance mitigation. When you're getting in an argument with someone, you can address them as 'dude' to de-escalate. If you're both the same gender, it's homosocial bonding. If you're different genders, it's an attempt to weaken the gender-related power dynamic.

marking affiliation and connection. Kiesling calls this 'cool solidarity'- the idea is, "I'm a dude, you're a dude. We're just guys being dudes." This is often a greeting or a form of address (aka directly calling someone dude).

signaling agreement. "Dude, you are soooo right", kind of deal.

Now, here's the important part.

When [cis] men use the word 'dude', they are overwhelmingly using it as a form of address to mark affiliation and connection- "hey, we're all bros here, dude"- to mitigate a confrontational stance, or to signal agreement.

When [cis] women use the word 'dude', they're often commiserating about something bad (and marking affiliation/connection), mitigating a confrontational stance, or giving someone a direct order. (Anecdotally, I'd guess cis women also use it as an exclamation - this is how I most often use it.)

Cis men use the word 'dude' to say 'we're all guys here'. It is a direct form of male bonding. If a cis man uses the word 'dude' in your presence, he is generally calling you one of the guys.

Cis women use the word 'dude' to say 'we're on the same level as you; we're peers'- especially to de-escalate an argument with a cis man. Between women, it's an expression of ~cool solidarity~; when a woman's addressing a man, it's a way to say 'I'm as good as you, knock it off'.

So you've got this cultural difference, depending on how you were raised and where you spent time in your formative years. If you were assigned female at birth, you're probably used to thinking of the word 'dude' as something that isn't a direct form of address- and, if you're addressing it to someone you see as a girl, you're probably thinking of it as 'cool solidarity'! You're not trying to tell the person you're talking to that they're a man- you're trying to convey that they're a cool person that you relate to as a peer.

Meanwhile, if you were assigned male at birth and spent your teens surrounded by cis guys, you're used to thinking of 'dude' as an expression of "we're all guys here", and specifically as homosocial male bonding. Someone using the word 'dude' extensively in your presence, even if they're not calling you 'dude' directly, feels like they're trying to put you in the Man Box, regardless of how they mean it.*

So what you get is this horrible, neverending argument, where everyone's lightly triggered and no one's happy.

The takeaway here: Obviously, don't call people things they don't want to be called, regardless of gender! But no one in this argument is coming to it in bad faith.

If you were raised as a cis woman and you're using the word the way a cis woman is, it is a gender-neutral term for you (with some subconscious gendered connotations you might not have realized). But if you were raised as a cis man and you're using the word the way a cis man uses it, the word dude is inherently gendered.

Don't pick this fight; it's as pointless as a French person and an American person arguing whether cheek kisses are an acceptable greeting. To one person, they might be. To another person, they aren't. Accept that your worldview is different, move on, and again, don't call people things they don't want to be called.

*(There is, of course, also the secret third thing, where someone who is trying to misgender a trans woman uses the word 'dude' to a trans woman the way they'd use it to a man. This absolutely happens. But I think the other dynamic is the reason we keep having this argument.)

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neko-michaelis · 2 months ago

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"GEt YO F**INK DOG, B****" "it don't bite" " YES IT DO!"

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neko-michaelis · 2 months ago

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Oh how I miss my daughter Lizzie…

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neko-michaelis · 2 months ago

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Shout out to Seb being gay again, can't let him be around other single fathers fr

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neko-michaelis · 2 months ago

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This is not a complain, all right. I have always thought that S’ toenails would be painted black like his fingernails. Bc if there’s something the anime crew added it is this scene highlighting S’ foot.

But look how pretty his toenails are.

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neko-michaelis · 2 months ago

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like to hit sebastian, reblog to kill him

og image under the cut

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neko-michaelis · 2 months ago

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should I have done this....

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neko-michaelis · 2 months ago

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please god let ciel feel loved for who he is before he dies. im on my knees begging

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neko-michaelis · 2 months ago

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“I told you so many times! Why did you go? It’s not as though werewolves want to hurt every human they see!”

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neko-michaelis · 2 months ago

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Sebastian Michaelis x Reader: The young Lord's butler and your one-time fling keeps trying to become your lover

Contains: workplace harassment, pining, manipulation, not any direct smut but lots of allusions to sex

"You are always so intent on teasing me, my dear. Yet in bed you always protest..." He whispered in your ear, hand rubbing at the side of your hip. You shifted when his lithe fingers began to travel towards your ass in an effort to grab a handful. This had not been his first attempt to rekindle the passionate night you had a few weeks ago. The delusional butler was persistent, finding any and all opportunity to flirt with you and dismiss your claims about "a one-time lapse in professionalism".

"I am NOT teasing you, or seducing you, Mr. Michaelis. Please, just let me grab my books in peace." You needed a book on maritime regulation but it was on a high shelf and you dare not reach for it in his presence.

"Oh? Are you sure? Why else would you meet me in an empty library if not to seek my embrace?" Sebastian leans against the bookshelf, choosing to loom over you now that groping your hips was no longer an option.

"I didn't meet you anywhere, I came to get- you know what? I don't have to justify myself. Aren't you busy?" You cut yourself off, knowing how easy it is to get into the weeds with the butler when he decides to trip you up with semantics.

He clicks his tongue, a look of resignation and annoyance settling on his beautiful features for a second. "I imagine I will be soon, knowing how the residents of this house conduct themselves."

You cannot help but be amused at his quick change in persona- this was the Michaelis you were most familiar with. The dry, exhausted butler who invites himself into your office to complain. He notices your wry smile and lightly pouts.

"You delight in my suffering." This draws a laugh from you.

"I delight in your wonderful work ethic. Speaking of, grab me the book with the blue binding." You tap at the bottom of the wood shelf as an indicator. He sighs dramatically, making you stifle your giggles, and pulls the book from the shelf for you.

"Ah...an interesting title." He is looking at the cover, despite his words he doesn't seem the least bit intrigued. When you go to pluck the book from his hands- he predictably pulls it out of your reach. "Hmm, what a fascinating read..."

"I know you can perform better than that, Mr. Michaelis."

"May I borrow this first? I promise I will return it to you posthaste. In fact, I believe I could finish it just before the evening. I will bring it to your room to save you the trouble." He adopts his usual suave facade, his voice seductive. He is close to you again, and enjoying the heat of irritation that comes from your body. The opposite of love is apathy, sure he would prefer you to look at him with adoration and affection-- but your ire and scrutinization also sends a pleasurable lick up his spine. The book out of your reach, he wishes you would so cutely stand on your tippy-toes and lean against him to grab it. To have you press your chest against his, where your heart patters away. Maybe you would even have to allow his pelvis to touch your body. Would it remind you of your night together? Would you blush as you try to ignore the memories of his length sliding against your slit? If he was lucky, your thighs would tense with restraint as they instinctively try to recreate the motion of you riding against the underside of his dick (at his behest, of course). He wanted to see it again- the swivel of your hips against his flesh with passion and precision as you chased after the relief found in his body.

You elbow him sharply in the gut- and he doesn't so much as flinch. He holds in a groan, not in pain but because he is trying to keep himself from falling into a pit of disappointment. Obviously, you had charmed him thoroughly if he allowed himself to get caught up in his fantasies. The butler was stifling his own bemusement, partially at his own human-like behavior but mostly because you were trying to mask an expression of annoyance and confusion. You file this away in the Things That Are Unnatural About Ciel Phantomhive's Butler folder inside your brain.

"Oh my, were you doing something down there?" Sebastian looked down at your (now sore) elbow with far too much amusement. You resisted the urge to see if the sharp butt of your heel could damage his body where your elbow could not.

"The library is not a school playground, Mr. Michaelis. If you wish to bully someone, I would petition you to find another." Your tone is clipped with frustration. Normally you would have turned around and returned to your desk but this book was unfortunately the cornerstone of your afternoons work.

"I do believe someone was here throwing elbows but a minute ago..." Sebastian is smiling. You take a deep breath to calm yourself.

"Mr. Mi-"

"A kiss." You don't even have to ask him what he means because the expectant look on his face says it all. There is an imploring twinkle in his eye that compels you to bed the knee, a feeling you occasionally receive around the butler. Unbidden and out of character for you, to want to put your head in his hands and curve your body against his. Two halves of you fight, one says that the butler would care for you deeply and love you tenderly. You should kiss him gratefully, you should beg at the alter of his body and serve his every whim because the pleasure he repays you in will be worthwhile. Life would be comfortable and easy in his palms, shaped to his desire. The other half says that the butler is a mirage, a poisonous gas that only decays you from the inside out the more you breathe. You should run and hide and pray that he is too preoccupied to seek you out. In his grasp you would be no better than a caged animal beholden to his amusement. One half implores to kiss him and beg him to fuck you hard and fast against your desk, discard your work and commit yourself to the worship of his body. One half urgently whispers to run- pack only the essential and abandon your life entirely in the interest of survival.

Both halves are wrong, your brain reins supreme.

"May I be frank for a moment, Mr. Michaelis?" You turn and walk away but signal him to follow you. He does so with natural grace, falling into step behind you as cleanly as a shadow would.

"Of course, my dear." His smooth voice seems to glide over your very bones. You ignore the feeling, set your books down on your desk, and sit in your chair with a heavy sigh.

"I have misled you. It was wrong of me to approach you because I didn't make my intentions clear. I have no interest in romance, I sought you out to use you as relief for my own..." you struggled to find the words. Sebastian set the maritime book ontop of your stack and knelt before you. This action made it even more difficult for you to continue.

He looked up at you with a rare look of tenderness and called out your name softly, "I am quite taken with you." For whatever reason that sentence made you melt more than anything else he had done. Likely because you were now swimming in guilt.

"Yes b-"

"Please, would you allow me the opportunity to please you again? To prove myself worthy?" His voice dripped with sincerity, he grabbed one of your hands in his and looked at you with eyes that looked near tears.

"What I'm trying to say i-"

"I have never had someone so...kind, in bed. As you know I occasionally use my..." He sighs and lowers his head in shame, "Use my body to gather information necessary for my Lord's missions." That stabbing guilt is hitting again.

"I'm so-"

"But you were different. I...got to choose you. Perhaps this is why I am so insistent, I thought you had chosen me as well."

"I mean- I did choose you, it wasn't random. There was no one else I wanted to sleep with-"

"I am the same, my dear." He was now looking at you with shining eyes, he clutched your hand to his chest. You could swear you saw sparkles in the air, "I'm glad we agree. I was worried you hated me, that I had failed you in bed."

"You absolutely did not fail me in bed Mr. Michaelis."

"Wonderful, than I leave you with this."

He pulls your hand from his chest to his face and cradles your palm against his cheek. A look of peace crosses his face, and something else. Something possessive, smug, reassured, confident, dangerous. The pleasure he derived from the simple actions set you on edge but it was also undeniably charming. He pressed a soft and long kiss to the inside of your wrist.

You open your mouth to protest again but this time nothing comes out. The sight of him kissing you in reverence, kneeling on the ground and nearly hovering over your lap, his eyes closed as if in prayer, has you feeling defeated.

After a tense minute, he pulls away and stands up- still looking immaculate.

"Now then, I'm glad you spoke with me. It would have greatly disturbed my peace if we hadn't cleared up this misunderstanding. I will leave you to your work, call for me if you are in need of anything. I will fetch it posthaste." He is beaming, you think the only other times you have seen him so happy are when Ciel has been fuming or a crowd of people is cheering for him.

"...Alright, fine. Thank you, Mr. Michaelis." You sigh and shake your hands, hoping to rub off the feeling of heat on your skin where he kissed you. It doesn't work. He leaves the room with an elegant bow and you turn to your books and paper.

The feeling of his lips doesn't leave your wrist for the next few days and you find yourself using this hand to touch yourself at night. It feels more pleasurable than ever, like a phantom touch is against your skin as you lose yourself to sexual relief.

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neko-michaelis · 2 months ago

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can we get sebastian michaelis x afab (f or nb) reader smut? would love professor michaelis but i’ll be happy with anything. i’m down so bad and this new season is going things to me 🥺😫

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Fandom: Kuroshitsuji/Black butler

Summary: You purposely failed your assignments so you can have Professor Michaelis tutor you every night. He notices your devious little plan and punishes you accordingly.

warnings: the reader has fem parts but the gender isn't mentioned, teacher x student, dirty talk, use of the word sir, dom x sub dynamics,

Rated: 18+

Admin Harmony: As someone with a teacher kink i understand. I love me some sexy teachers. So here you go enjoy!

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The Proper punishment (Professor! Sebastian Michealis x Student! Reader)

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The day that Professor Michaelis walked into your class at Weston College was the best day of your life. You couldn't believe how attractive he was, from his pretty crimson eyes, to his attractive facial features. You could see why everyone was captivated by him. He was also serious, intelligent but cared for each of his students, making sure they pass and show all of their true potential. Each day it was harder to focus on classes, you would often day dream about him, lost in his words and the many fantasies you had involving him. You are one of the star Sapphire Owl students, having one of the best grades in the whole school, so surely, why would you need a tutor? Simple, to spend time with Michaelis of course. It wa sa brilliant plan after all, so you decided to fail on purpose just so you get his attention. So when Professor Michaelis handed you your paper with a D on it, he looked at you with disappointment. “Not your best work, y/n. See me after school hours.” He crimson eyes show a hint of all. You did feel a bit bad, for a moment until you realized, you get to see Sebastian again,just the two of you. “Yes sir.” You gulped, your cheeks turned a cute color pink. Professor Michaelis hadn't noticed as he continued to pass each assignment out to the the other students.

By the time school was over you entered his office, he greets you with a warm smile. He then motions you to sit down so you both could work together and help with your assignment. The sad part is…that you knew every single problem on the work sheet. But of course you listened intently pretending that you didn't know anything. You bit your lip as he praised you for getting each question right. You preened at his praise.

“You’re doing a wonderful job, dear.”

You tried so hard not to blush as you worked on each equation, then, it was was almost curfew. He then sees you out, shutting the door behind you.

Your mind in a daze at this interaction.

Your plan was starting to work.

You decided to keep purposely fail tests and quizzes for a whole week just so you could spend more time with professor Michaelis. Unbeknownst to you, he was slowly getting suspicious. This was much proven when he sees you after school hours one day.

“Do you know why I asked you come into my office?” He asks. “To…tutor me?” You ask innocently, trying to keep up the act. “Yes, well that is true but i also notice something else.” He gives you the quiz you took last week, placing it on his desk for you to see. “The work you showed is all correct but not the answers. If you are able to work out each equation correctly, how come you can not come up with the right conclusion Ms. l/n?” Your heart was beating fast. Did he find out…? “Oh um.. well you see… I…”

The look on his face says it all, you were in trouble.

“Care to have me explain my theory?" He asks you. You gulped, slowly nodding your head.

his silky voice was all you can hear. “I think you were being a naughty little thing. You knew all of the answers to each assignment and tests but purposely failing each and every single one. Isn't that correct?” He leans over his desk, his face close to yours. Your stared into his eyes, his pretty red eyes. “I..um…well…” “Be honest.” His voice was firm and sharp. You knew you had to come clean. “Yes…” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. Professor Michaelis chuckles. “Oh? And why is that?” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. Something tells you that he already knew deep down, he was just reveling in the fact that he had this sort of affect on you.

“I… i wanted to spend more time with you…” You blushed and looked away. “And why is that? Look at me in the eyes and tell me.” He says sternly. “I… find you attractive…” you admitted to him.

Silence.

A dark chuckle escaped his lips. “Silly silly little thing you are. But mostly naughty.” He gets up from his desk, going around it until he was standing right behind you. He leans down, whispering in your ear. “You do know this could get you in trouble? Especially for someone in the Sapphire Owl house?” You shivered as he whispers in your ear. He pulls away, waiting for your answer. “Well, do you?” He inquires. You turned to face him, “Yes i know! But i just can’t help it! You were so busy and i didn't know what else to do..” He pushes up his glasses and chuckles. “Such a naughty naughty little student. Can you guess your punishment?” You looked down, your face red as tomato as you said shyly, feeling ashamed that you risked your grades just because of your own desires. “A lot of Ys? or even get kicked out of the sapphire owls?” He nods, “Very well assumptions and in most cases yes. But for you, since you are a one of our star students and you already know the material, I will let you retake each test and assignment.” Your eyes shined with gratitude. “Oh thank you so much Professor Michaelis-” “But.” his voice was still stern. “You still need a proper punishment.” You can only nod you head, you were ready for your hand to be in so much pain because of all of the Ys. “Band over the desk.” Your eyes widened at his request. “What?” You said breathlessly. “You said wanted to spend some time with me by lying and purposefully failing your tests and quizzes and such devious actions should not go unnoticed. Now, bend over the desk.” Your heart was about to burst from your chest, you couldn't believe what professor Michaelis was saying. “But-” “Do. as. I say.” He growls, his voice shows dominance.

You were trembling but not because you were scared. It was something else. You did as he says, your body now leaning over the desk, your ass now on display. “You poor thing… you're trembling but i don’t think it is because you are scared, are you?” You could only whimper, you could already feel the wetness form on your panties.

Professor Michaelis chuckles, he was still standing behind you as he takes his fingers and rubs his his fingers over your wanton pussy. “Oh? You’re already wet for me.” He chuckles darkly. You gasped at his touch, you’re knees buckling from the intensity of your arousal. You leaked some more which caused him to spank you, hard. “Ow!” You exclaimed. “You are too naughty for own good, my dear. You should not be having such…devious thoughts.” He spanks your other butt cheek equally hard. “Now, count and Apologize after each spank. We are going to ten. Is that clear?” You whimpered louder, and nod. He smacks your pussy, hard. “I said is that clear. Use your words.” “Ow! Yes Sir!” “Good girl.” He takes his hand and spanks your right cheek, it was softer than the first two. “One…I’m sorry for lying…” He take his other hand and smacks your left cheek harder. “two…I’m sorry for purposely failing…” He hums in approval as he spanks the right one 3 times in succession each one harder than the last. “Three… four… five Ah! I’m sorry I should have ask to spend time instead of lying!” He was entertained by the sight, marveling at your state, but he had to admit, the scent of your growling arousal was rather intoxicating for him. He then switches to the left cheek giving it equal treatment. Six…seven…eight ..ow! I apologize! Next time I won’t purposely fail!” You were practically in tears, and the burning sensation was both painful but was equally arousing for you. He gives you right cheek a extra hard smack the hardest he could do without doing so much damage. “Nine! ow ow ow! I’m sorry! please!” you were sobbing but your panties was soaked. “Such a naughty thing… this is supposed to be a punishment. Not for you to get off.” Instead of hitting your left cheek hard, he spanked your pussy extra hard on the last one. “Ow!! I’m sorry!” You exclaimed as you sobbed. You couldn’t tell, was his eyes glowed red, licking his lips as he sees you sobbing uncontrollably.

He takes his hand and gently rubs your butt cheeks in soft, soothing circular motions. You flinched at first but sighed in relief, slumping against his desk. You were still so turned on, and you needed relief. “Professor Michaelis…please..” You whimpered. “You did so well taking your punishment. I should grant you a reward for being obedient.” You nodded your head, “Please please please!” You begged him, you were still sobbing from the pain and the arousal. “What do you need? Tell me loud and clear.” He stares at you, you turned your head so you can look at him in in the eyes. “I-i need you to make me cum please. Anything will do!” Sebastian chuckles darkly as he takes a seat at his chair. “Anything at all?” You nodded. “Yes!” He thinks for a moment. “Come here.” You didn’t hesitate as you made walked up to him, you legs buckling. “Sit.” He says, motioning you to his lap. You did, whining as you felt the sting from the intense spanking. “You poor poor poor thing. But this is what happens when you enjoy a little pain with pleasure.” He says, whispering seductively in your ear. “You can only cum with my thigh. Nothing more than that and you only cum when i say so. Understand?” You nodded vigorously, “Yes.” “Yes what?” “Sir…” “Good. Now start.” You wrapped your arms around his neck, blushing in embarrassment as you begin to grind on his thigh. You looked down, you wouldn’t dare look at him in the eye as you humped is leg. “You devious little student. You do know this isn’t a proper way a Weston college student should behave?” He forces your face to look look at him in the eyes, which has some kind of unworldly look to them. You couldn’t put your finger on it. “Weston college is school to teach values and how to be an upstanding gentlemen and ladies. Do you think a student should be behaving like this? Humping their professor's leg like a wanton whore?” Your face was red and you were panting like a dog in heat, your pussy glides across his thigh fast and hard. “Well? Answer me.” “N-no sir… I shouldn’t be doing this…” You whimpered out, but you were so turned on. You were leaking all over his pants and he could tell clear as day. You whimpered and moaned out in pleasure, the stinging from the spanking only adds the intensity of your humping. You were on the verge of letting go and cumming all over him. He could feel you clench around nothing. “ ah ah ah, remember our conditions. You don’t cum until i say so.” you nodded your head, “Y-yes sir..” You whined and whimpered pathetically as you kept humping him. His eyes never leaving yours as you let your desires take over. “Professor Michaelis…I.. need to cum.. please!” You weep as you humped his thigh faster and harder. “Such a desperate thing you are.” He smacks your ass. “Not yet.” You whimpered and cried into his neck at the pain again, your pussy was aching and was on fire with need. “Please please! I’ll be good and behave for you!” He listens intently and chuckles. “Is that so? Then perhaps i should… very well then, You may cum.” You moaned out as you squirted all over his leg, your juices soaked through his pants as he watched you come undone. You finished, slowly coming down your high as he stared up at him. He chuckles darkly, “Such a messy little thing, making a mess all over me…” You whimpered, “I-i’m sorry!” He gives you a smile. “No need to apologize. As long you behave yourself there won’t be any problems. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes…sir.” You said breathlessly. “I promise to behave myself.” You crossed your fingers behind your back, but little did you know he already knew that you were lying.

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