Chapter Text

That Lady, fucked

Lizzy had just skipped a few steps ahead, tugging Edward along to show him a cluster of early spring blossoms when Ciel abruptly slowed his pace.

Then he stopped entirely, grabbed Emma’s sleeve, and pulled her two discreet steps out of Lizzy’s orbit.

Emma blinked at him. “What—?”

Ciel’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “Rescue me.”

She stared.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” she hissed back. “Shield you with my body? Threaten her with scissors? Ciel, she’s your fiancée—”

“Exactly,” he muttered, looking personally victimized by romance. “She’s determined to make me look at every flower in the entire park. I can feel the pollen invading my bloodstream.”

Emma deadpanned. “You’re dramatic.”

“I’m suffering.”

His eye narrowed. “Pretend to faint or something.”

Emma opened her mouth to reply—possibly with violence—when Edward returned at a jog, breathless but beaming, two flowers clutched triumphantly in each hand.

He turned to Ciel with the other flower, and his voice shifted into a kind of older-brother-menacing-the-younger tone Emma didn’t know he possessed.

“Phantomhive,” he said firmly, holding the bloom out like an order. “Put this in my sister’s hair.”

Ciel blinked. Emma blinked harder. Edward blinked not at all.

Lizzy, behind him, clapped her hands. “Oh! That’s such a lovely idea!”

Ciel looked at Emma as if asking whether she was also being threatened right now. She raised a brow that very clearly said: You heard the man.

With the grace of someone walking to the gallows, Ciel stepped toward Lizzy, lifted the flower, and—after only a brief hesitation—gently tucked it behind her ear. Lizzy lit up immediately and Ciel’s ears turned pink. Emma would treasure this image forever.

Then Edward turned toward her, suddenly shy again, but pushing through it, chin lifted a little higher than before.

“May I?” he asked gently, offering the second flower.

Emma smiled. “Yes.”

He stepped closer, hand steady this time, and slid the flower into her hair with surprising care. His fingertips barely brushed her temple, and he pulled back almost immediately, cheeks warm but proud of himself.

“There,” he said. “Perfect.”

She almost teased him. Almost. Instead, she squeezed his arm the same way she had before, and saw him straighten, confidence settling in his posture like breath finally coming freely.

They continued walking. A few steps later, Emma’s gaze drifted back toward the chaperones. Francis was pretending not to watch them like a hawk. Sebastian…

Sebastian was watching her. His expression didn’t shift, didn’t flare with jealousy or annoyance or any petty human emotion. But—

There was a gleam in his eye. A slow, deliberate slide of gaze from her face… to the flower Edward had placed… then back to her. Possessive awareness. Not sharp. Not angry. Simply a silent, velvety acknowledgment:

I see you. I see him. And I know exactly who you belong to.

Then, when she narrowed her eyes playfully at him, he gave her the faintest smile—unreadable to anyone but her. Calm. Confident. Not threatened in the slightest. Because of course he wasn’t. He was Sebastian Michaelis. And Edward Midford was… an earnest, slightly overwhelmed golden retriever boy trying very hard to impress his fiancée.

Emma bit back a laugh, turned forward again, and resumed her stroll with a warmth blooming in her chest that had very little to do with the spring sunshine.

Emma barely remembered the ride back to the manor. One moment she had been forcing a polite smile at Francis Midford while Ciel promised to write Lizzy, and the next, she was finally—finally—inside the quiet safety of Phantomhive walls again.

Never again, she swore to herself, dragging her tired body down the hallway. Her feet ached, her head buzzed, and her nerves still felt pulled thin from smiling for hours. She just wanted her bed, her blanket, silence, and perhaps the comforting knowledge that absolutely no one would ask her to discuss flower symbolism or marriage prospects for the rest of the day.

She reached her door. Turned the handle. Stepped inside. Closed it.

And didn’t even get the chance to take a single step further.

Something moved—swift as a shadow—and pressed her face first to the door with a force that pulled the breath from her lungs, though not painfully. Just inescapably. Hands braced against the door to cushion the impact, her muscles tensed. Her instinct flared for half a second… before the familiar scent hit her.

Cloves. Dark spice. Smoke and cold night air. Sebastian.

Warm breath brushed her neck, just beneath her ear, sending a sharp shiver through her spine.

“Did you enjoy your afternoon, my dear?” he asked, voice a low ripple of velvet amusement. His chest was aligned perfectly against her back, hands braced on either side of her waist, caging her without effort.

She swallowed, heartbeat kicking up with embarrassing speed. “If I say yes, are you going to let me breathe again?”

His chuckle slid over her skin like a touch, and she shivered in response.

“Perhaps. Depending on your definition of enjoyment.”

One gloved hand rose slowly, and she felt his fingers slide into her hair. He plucked something free—petals brushed her cheek—and held it up where she could see it.

The flower Edward had placed there. She had forgotten all about it.

Sebastian’s voice was deceptively mild. “Did you like it?”

Oh. Delight curled through her fatigue, and a grin spread slowly on her face.

Emma tilted her head just enough to glance back at him. “Sebastian Michaelis,” she murmured, all faux sweetness, “are you jealous of Edward Midford?”

She didn’t see his smile, but she felt it, sharp, curved, unmistakably predatory against the shell of her ear.

“Jealous? I fear I am not able to feel such human emotions.” His tone was silk and smoke and entirely unconvincing. “That does not mean I particularly enjoy watching that boy put his hands all over what is mine.”

Ah. Possessive, then.

He reached for her hand, the one wearing Edward’s engagement ring. Without breaking the closeness, he lifted her fingers and examined the band as though it were an object of very little consequence. The ring slid from her finger with effortless precision. It fell to the ground with a soft clink.

Emma tried to turn around, but his body kept her pinned. Her pulse was ridiculous, and she knew he could hear it, was probably enjoying the sound and the effect he had on her.

Her back was still pinned against the door when she let out a breathy, incredulous laugh.

“So possessive,” she murmured, voice low and taunting, “for someone who supposedly doesn’t get jealous.”

Sebastian didn’t move away. If anything, his presence sharpened around her. The air grew colder—no, not cold, just wrong, like the temperature in a place sunlight never reached. His voice followed, quiet enough that her bones felt it more than her ears.

“Possession,” he said, “is not jealousy.”

His fingers trailed up her arm—not gentle, not harsh, but with the slow certainty of something that didn’t need to rush. Something that had all of eternity to decide what to do with her.

“It is simply… truth.”

She swallowed. “Oh?” She was aiming for playful, but her voice betrayed her with a shake. “And what truth is that, exactly?”

Sebastian leaned in, hair brushing her cheek like the sweep of a wing. When he spoke again, his voice was no longer smooth silk—there was grain in it, a low vibration beneath the words, ancient and not entirely bound to human speech.

“That you are mine by right. Not by permission. Not by agreement. By nature.”

A soft hum crawled under his skin—she could feel it through the fabric of her dress. Something vast stirred beneath the surface, like claws dragging just under water.

Emma’s pulse spiked. He heard it. Of course he heard it.

He smiled against her jaw. “There it is.”

“Sebastian—” she tried, but didn’t know what she meant to say.

He beat her to it anyway.

“You think of me as though I am human,” he whispered, “as though I am bound by human etiquette, and must simply smile while another male offers flowers and rings and lingering looks.”

The gloved hand that wasn’t braced near her waist came up, sneaking around her throat. There was no pressure, no pain, just the simple weight of it against her skin, making her breath hitch, her head tilting back all on its own.

For a moment, that fear returned. That fear Emma had thought she had lost of him weeks ago, running through her body and making her muscles tense in anticipation. Of course, he noticed, and as if to soothe her, his thumb brushed over the skin of her throat once, twice. He didn't remove his hand, but he also didn't put any pressure on her neck.

Slowly, shakily, Emma exhaled, muscles relaxing in his hold once more. She was fine. He was her mate. And although she was sure he wasn't joking about his words, she was sure that he wouldn't hurt her. He had told that plenty of times. So she was fine. She was safe. 

He cataloged her calming down and continued.

“I am trying,” he said, words softer but far more dangerous, “to behave.”

Her breath hitched. Not fear—no. It wasn’t fear. It was the exact feeling one had when leaning too far over a balcony, looking down, knowing they could fall and not stepping back.

“Lucky me,” she managed, smirking even as her heartbeat betrayed her. “This is you behaving.”

His laugh came quiet and delighted, teeth grazing her shoulder through her dress—not biting, just a reminder that he could.

“If I were not,” he murmured, “the young Midford boy would not have made it home.”

A shiver ran all the way down her spine. “Sebastian.”

His answer was a purr against her skin. “Emma.”

She found her voice again, thin and breathless. “Edward is harmless.”

“Hm.” Sebastian’s nose skimmed her neck, inhaling. “He thinks of you when he should be thinking of his god, his duties, or at the very least his manners.”

“You’re dramatic,” she whispered.

“And you like it.” His lips curved against her skin.

Damn him, she did.

“Edward is harmless,“ she repeated, but Sebastian clicked his tongue as if to scold her.

“You cannot smell his arousal when he's near you, my dear. But I can.“ 

“So what?“ She replied, breathless. “He's an eighteen-year-old boy, and I'm kinda pretty!“ 

Silence.

Then—a low, incredulous sound at her ear, halfway between a laugh and a growl.

“Kinda,” Sebastian repeated, as though the word were an insult to both their intelligences. The hand not on her throat slid to her back, beginning their work at the laces of her dress—slow, deliberate tugs. Not enough to undress her fully, yet enough that she felt every shift of fabric against her skin.

“Kinda pretty,” he echoed again, voice rich with disbelief. “How fortunate that your self-appraisal does not determine reality.”

She tried to turn her head toward him, but he kept her in place, the faintest squeeze of his hand around her throat. It neither hurt nor stole her air. Still, she got the warning.

“And what exactly is the reality?” she asked, trying for bold, though her voice sounded softer than intended.

The next lace loosened with a soft whisper of thread.

“The reality,” Sebastian murmured, lowering his mouth to just beneath her ear, “is that if I were capable of vanity, it would be solely from being allowed to stand at the side of a woman who makes angels jealous and devils reconsider their allegiance.”

Her breath left her in a shiver. “That’s… excessive.”

“Accurate,” he corrected simply, and pulled another lace free.

The back of her dress eased open by a full inch.

“With respect, my dear,” he added, tone silk-wrapped steel, “if you ever again refer to yourself as ‘kinda’ anything, I may be forced to demonstrate precisely how incorrect you are. Thoroughly. And repeatedly.”

Her fingers curled against the door at that. “Sebastian—”

“Yes?” He almost purred it, fingertips brushing the newly exposed strip of her spine, cold leather against fever-warm skin. The next lace loosened. Her dress shifted lower.

Her breath hitched, and she managed, “Sebastian—what are you doing?”

He didn’t bother pretending innocence. His chuckle was low, pleased, vibrating against her back.

“I already told you,” he murmured, loosening another lace, “I am correcting a mistake.”

Her pulse jumped. “The mistake being… my vocabulary?”

“Your estimation of yourself,” he corrected, lips brushing the spot just beneath her ear. The kiss was soft—too soft—followed by the faint scrape of teeth that stole the strength from her knees. “Watch your wording next time.”

She should say something sharp. A joke, a deflection, something to keep her balance, but then his fingers slipped beneath the edges of her dress and began working on her corset laces—methodical, unhurried, devastatingly sure of themselves. Every tug freed another inch of her breath.

“Sebastian,” she tried again, though she wasn’t sure if it was a protest or a plea.

“Yes, my dear?” His mouth found the line of her throat, slow kisses placed like a seal of ownership. 

She had half a mind to refuse, was half inclined to ask him why he was acting like this over Edward-fucking-Midford. But his teeth grazed her pulse, and logic shattered like spun sugar.

Her corset gave way another inch under his hands, and Emma tilted her head farther back, giving him more access to her throat. And fuck, did he take advantage of it.

His tongue traced a slow, claiming line along her neck; then his teeth caught her earlobe, a sharp little warning disguised as affection. She heard her own breath leave her—too soft, too willing.

“Sebastian…” It came out thin, unsteady.

He didn't waste another second. His hand and lips vanished from her throat, and he had to have used magic or whatever it was that he possessed, because suddenly, her dress was gone, along with everything else she had worn. Even the pins in her hair seemed to have vanished, the red strands tickling the naked skin of her lower back.

In one swift movement, he had her turned around, and she yelped when her back pressed against the cold wood of the door. Her breath hadn’t even caught up to her body before his mouth was already on hers—hot, sure, unhesitating. The kiss hit her like impact, stealing every coherent thought she might’ve had left.

Her hands shot up, fingers searching into his shirt, needing something—anything—to hold onto, only to realize his clothes had vanished as well. He tasted like storm-warm air and the faint spice she couldn't quite place, a contrast so dizzying she felt the floor sway under her feet. Then the floor wasn’t touching her anymore.

With effortless strength, his hands slid beneath her thighs, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. A startled noise—half gasp, half laugh—escaped her as her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The wooden door at her back was cool and solid, a sharp contrast to the heat of him pressing against her.

“Sebastian—” she tried again, but his mouth stole the rest of her sentence, kissing her deeper this time, slower but somehow even more devastating. She felt him smile against her lips, the infuriating, knowing kind.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, loosening the dark strands until they fell over his forehead. He drew back just enough to look at her—eyes glowing, pupils thin and red in the low candlelight, every inch the demon she knew he truly was.

“You were saying?” His voice was velvet and smoke, as if he hadn’t just kissed the sanity out of her.

She meant to answer something clever, something cutting and witty. What came out instead was a breathless, humiliatingly honest: “Don’t stop.”

Something hungry flickered in his gaze—satisfaction, yes, but also something deeper, older, a vow made without words. He leaned in again, forehead brushing hers, and his voice dropped to a whisper meant for her alone:

“I wasn’t planning to.”

And then his lips were on hers again—slower this time, but no less intense, every kiss a claim she felt all the way down to her bones. His next kiss didn’t land on her mouth. It trailed lower.

Sebastian’s lips brushed the corner of her jaw, slow and deliberate, as if relearning the shape of her. A shiver chased down her spine, and he followed it—kissing along the line where her pulse fluttered, down to that spot beneath her ear that stole the strength from her body. A soft moan escaped her.

He hummed, satisfied, and let his mouth wander to her throat, kisses deepening into something that felt far too much like worship for a creature who claimed he couldn’t feel. The world tilted, the cold wood disappeared—

—and then her back met the soft give of the mattress.

The sudden change in sensation stole another breath from her lungs. Sebastian braced himself above her, bodies close enough that she could feel every rise of his chest as he breathed. His teeth grazed her skin once more, right where her shoulder met her throat, and Emma's breath hitched—excitement and worry crashing through her, tangled and inseparable.

Her hand slid up his back, fingers tracing the line of his spine. She had never felt the skin of his body before, and suddenly, she couldn't get enough of it, palms flat as she explored him. The soft sound he made—almost a sigh, almost a growl—went straight through her. He shifted closer, and her legs instinctively tightened around his hips, drawing him down until there was almost no space left between them. His cock, hard as a rock, nudged against her thigh.

His lips trailed up her neck again, slower this time, as if savoring every inch.

“You tremble,” he murmured against her skin.

Emma huffed a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all.

“You’re— doing a lot of things,” she managed, hands sliding into his hair, tugging just enough to make him look at her.

His eyes—glowing, endless, hungry, and tender at the same time—met hers. For a moment they simply stared, breaths uneven, hearts refusing to calm. Then he kissed her again, and everything in her went beautifully, helplessly quiet.

Lips, tongue, teeth, all these different sensations, trailed down her body, leaving her breathing heavily. She felt the muscles of his back move beneath her hands as he shifted down, until her hands threaded in his hair, his breath hot against her skin.

“You know,“ she said, breathlessly, looking down to find his head right between her thighs, smiling up at her. “I really like this view.“ 

“How fitting,“ he muttered and pressed a kiss to her clit. “As I enjoy my view just as much, if not more.“ 

Her witty answer was stolen from her when she felt the press of his tongue against her, working her slowly and deliberately. She still had no idea how he managed to figure out what she liked this quickly, but he was wasting no time, having her arch her back over the mattress in a matter of minutes. Fingers tucking violently at his hair had him actually moaning against her, and when she came with his name on her lips, Sebastian didn't falter a bit. His rhythm slowed, the pressure softened, but his tongue stayed where it was, circling her so softly, so gently, even through the violent spasms of her thighs around his head. 

And when he pulled away, Emma lay breathless on her back, eyes closed as her muscles clenched and unclenched, the sensation of pleasure still pressing against her bones. Her breath hadn’t even found its rhythm again before the world flipped. His hands settled on her hips, guiding her gently but firmly onto her stomach. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he pulled her ass back against him, and a helpless sound escaped her—a plea, a warning, a welcome, she wasn’t sure.

“Sebastian…” It came out raw, unsteady.

He leaned over her, his mouth finding her shoulder, then the curve of her neck. His voice was a low ruin against her skin. “Say it again.”

Her fingers clutched at the sheets, trying to hold onto something solid. “Sebastian.”

A pleased sound rumbled from his chest, and his hands slid slowly up her sides, over her waist, mapping her like something he fully intended to memorize. He kissed along her spine, unhurried and devastating, each brush of his lips leaving her trembling all over again.

One of his hands threaded through hers, pinning their joined fingers into the sheets—an anchor, a promise, a claim.

“You are,” he whispered, lips against her shoulder blade, “utterly intoxicating.”

Her hips jerked when something hot and pulsing pressed against her clit, and it took her brain a moment to catch up with the fact that he was rubbing his cock against her, slow and deliberate, until he had her moving her hips on her own, increasing the friction.

The room spun, or maybe she did, heat rising, breath tangling in her throat. Her name spilled from his mouth like a vow, and she felt herself melt into the sound, into him, into everything that was them and had been building for months.

Sebastian pulled his hips away, but her sound of protest had been wholly unnecessary as she felt him press against her entrance. The stretch burned deliciously, pushing in deep and slowly, until she felt his hips pressed against her ass again. 

“Look at that,” he murmured, voice dark and reverent against the skin of her neck. “You were made for me.”

Emma’s fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles pale, breath breaking on a whimper she didn’t manage to swallow. He moved—just enough to make her feel the slow drag of him, the way her body adjusted around every inch of heat and pressure. It wasn’t fast. It was deliberate. Measured. A lesson in losing her mind one slow push at a time.

Sebastian’s hand slid up her spine, not rushed, not careless—like he was mapping the curve of her body for the hundredth time and still finding new ways to worship it.

“Relax,” he whispered, though he sounded anything but calm. “You take me better when you breathe.”

She hadn’t realized she’d stopped.

So she inhaled—shaky, uneven—and when she exhaled, he sank deeper, and the breath left her again in a helpless, broken sound he swallowed with a kiss to her shoulder.

“That's it,” he praised, and her vision sparked at the edges.

He set a rhythm then—slow at first, maddeningly controlled. Each movement stole another sound from her, made her push back into him without thinking, seeking more, needing it. The room felt too small for the way heat pooled between them, for the way every glide of his hips sent sparks up her spine.

“Listen to you…” His voice curled around her ear like smoke. “So eager for something you pretended you didn’t think about.”

“I didn’t—” The denial fell apart as he rolled his hips in a way that tore a gasp from her throat. “Sebastian—”

He chuckled low, pleased and merciless. “You’re not very convincing, my dear.”

One of his hands caught hers again, fingers threading through hers and pressing both into the mattress, grounding her while his other hand traveled down, spreading heat and shivers everywhere it touched. The rhythm shifted—still deep, but more certain now, more intent, like he’d decided patience had served its purpose.

Her voice cracked on his name. He answered it with a quiet, feral sound of his own.

She wasn’t sure whether the shaking was hers or his anymore, whether the world was tilting or if it was just him undoing her piece by piece. Heat gathered low and fast, sharp enough to make her dig her nails into the back of his hand. And when the tension snapped, it was with a soft cry she couldn’t contain, her body clenching around him, her mind blurring out everything except him—his voice, his hands, his pulse against her skin.

He followed her into it, but not loudly—not with a roar or a snarl. It was a quiet, devastating sound against her shoulder, like she had stolen something from him without even trying. His teeth made contact with her skin, and a moment later, she inhaled sharply when they drew blood.

It took a long moment before Emma could fully hear the room again—before the pounding in her ears faded and she realized the faint sting at her shoulder wasn’t imagined. Warm. Damp. Throbbing.

She hissed softly and brought a hand up, fingertips brushing the tender spot. When she pulled them away, there was the smallest smear of red.

Her eyes snapped open. “Sebastian.”

He hummed contentedly, utterly unrepentant, still pressed along her back like he owned every inch of skin he touched. Which, apparently, he had now decided to prove.

“You bit me.”

“A very small bite,” he corrected, voice lazy and pleased. “Barely more than a kiss with teeth.”

“That is not what a kiss is.” Her glare would’ve been more effective if she weren’t still breathless and melted into the mattress.

Sebastian, of course, noticed.

“Are you upset, my dear?” he asked, brushing her hair aside to admire his mark with indecent satisfaction. “You sound upset. You don’t smell upset.”

She swatted at his arm. “That’s not the point.”

His chuckle was pure sin. “You expressed concern for your mortal suitor's feelings. I merely leveled the field.”

Emma blinked. “Leveled what field?”

He shifted, just enough so she could see his expression—eyes bright, pupils thin and predatory, lips curved in a smile that promised trouble for centuries.

“Edward Midford gives you gifts.” He tapped her shoulder, right over the bite. “I give you something far more… lasting.”

Her jaw dropped. “He gave me flowers, Sebastian. A flower. Not a—” she gestured angrily at her shoulder, “—not a demonic hickey!” 

At the word hickey, something changed in him. A sound left his throat—low, ancient, not entirely human. Not threatening, but undeniably possessive, as if the word itself pleased a part of him with far too many centuries behind it.

His voice dropped, velvet and shadow: “If a mere boy may adorn what is mine with petals, then I will adorn it with something that does not wilt by morning.”

Emma stared at him, torn between outrage and the very inconvenient feeling that her entire soul liked the sound of that way too much.

“That’s not how normal people express affection,” she muttered.

“Yes,” he agreed smoothly, leaning down to place a chaste—well, chaste for him—kiss beside the mark, his fangs no longer bared. “How fortunate that I have never claimed to be normal.”

Despite herself, she felt her lips twitch.

“This better not scar,” she warned, even though the idea sent a confusing, traitorous spark of heat through her.

Sebastian pulled back just enough for their eyes to lock. His smirk softened into something quieter—still dark, but warm in a way she didn’t have words for yet.

“It will heal by morning,” he murmured. “Unless you want it to stay.”

Her breath stuttered—and that was all the answer he needed. He gave a soft, satisfied hum and stretched beside her, one arm sliding possessively around her waist as if to anchor her to him.

“Rest,” he said, brushing his thumb along her hip in slow circles. “I believe our conversation about Edward Midford has been… thoroughly resolved.”

Emma made a dignified noise that sounded nothing like a whine and pulled the blanket over her head.

“Shut up.”

“Yes, my dear.”

The bed shook faintly with his laughter.