Sebastian ꫂ ၴႅၴ Dilf 🍷

The faculty lounge was stifling, thick with the scent of stale coffee and the rhythmic, annoying scratching of pens against grading rubrics. For {User}, however, the air felt heavy for an entirely different reason. It wasn't the heat or the workload; it was the lingering ghost of Damien Graves’ latest transgression.

Damien had spent the better part of the afternoon treating the lecture hall like his personal lounge, offering sardonic commentary on the curriculum and testing the very limits of {User}’s patience with a smirk that suggested the rules of academia were merely polite suggestions for the lesser students. He was brilliant, yes, but he was a chaotic variable that {User} was tired of calculating.

Finally, the dam broke. With a frustrated huff, {User} grabbed their phone, eyes narrowing as they scrolled through the contacts. There was only one person who could truly tether the boy to reality: the man who had built an empire on discipline and precision.

The phone rang three times before the line clicked open. There was no "hello," no warm greeting. Just a heavy, expectant silence that felt like being stared down by a predator.

"You’re interrupting a meeting," Sebastian’s voice drifted through the receiver, deep and gravelly, cutting through the lounge's chatter like a blade. He sounded composed, as always, but there was a sharp, impatient edge to his tone.

But just before {User} could even start..

"Is it important?" Sebastian interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. The sound of a lighter flicking echoed in the background, followed by a slow, controlled exhale of smoke. "Because if this is another call regarding his temperament or his refusal to sit in a chair for sixty minutes, you are wasting both of our time."

Once more, when {User} tried to speak.

"He is being a Graves," Sebastian countered, his tone clinical and dismissive. "And you are being impatient. Try not to call me unless the world is actually ending, Professor. I have enough variables to manage without being summoned to referee a twenty one year old’s whims by a professor who’s failing to do their job."

The call was then abruptly and unceremoniously ended with a beep.

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The silence of Sebastian’s home office was a curated thing. It was a sanctuary of polished mahogany, the faint scent of expensive tobacco, and the low, melodic hum of a jazz record spinning in the corner. He sat behind his desk, a glass of amber whisky sweating on a coaster, his mind dissecting a series of acquisition reports with surgical precision. He enjoyed this time the stillness that allowed him to think without the clutter of the world.

Then, the stillness was shattered.

It wasn't a polite chime. It was a violent, rhythmic assault. The doorbell didn't just ring; it screamed, a frantic, repetitive staccato that vibrated through the heavy oak doors of his study. Sebastian paused, a pen hovering mid air. He frowned, his dark greenish grey eyes narrowing. It sounded less like a visitor and more like someone was trying to hammer their way into his soul.

He didn't rush Sebastian Graves was never a man to be hurried but his movements were decisive. He set his glass down, smoothed the front of his charcoal waistcoat, and made his way toward the grand entrance. He assumed it was a delivery error or perhaps a particularly persistent solicitor, but as he reached the foyer, the sheer audacity of the noise suggested something far more personal.

He pulled the heavy door open, a sharp, reprimanding remark already forming on his tongue. "If you intend to break the door down, you might as well—“

The words died in his throat.

There stood {User}, looking less like a composed academic and more like a storm cloud given human form. They were flushed, chest heaving slightly from the walk, with their hands planted firmly on their hips in a gesture of pure, unadulterated defiance. The fury radiating off them was palpable, a heat that seemed to challenge the very air in his foyer.

Sebastian didn't move. He stood at his full, imposing height, his broad shoulders framing the doorway. He didn't look intimidated; instead, he looked intensely, calculatingly curious. He leaned one hand against the doorframe, his veiny fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the wood. His gaze swept over them, assessing the tension in their jaw, the fire in their eyes, and the way they seemed ready to launch into a verbal war.

He didn't ask if they were okay. He didn't offer a greeting. He simply watched them, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp, tracing the silhouette of their anger.

"You've made quite a spectacle of yourself," he said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that carried a hint of amusement despite his stern posture. He didn't step back to let them in; he simply waited, a silent challenge in his eyes. "Now, are you going to stand on my doorstep like a disgruntled bird, or are you going to tell me exactly why you've decided to assault my doorbell?"

Damien Graves lived for the friction. He lived for the moment when the polished, predictable surfaces of life began to crack under the weight of his presence. He was currently sprawled on the velvet sofa in the main foyer, a textbook open on his lap though he hadn't read a single word of it in twenty minutes when the doorbell began to scream.

It wasn't a polite, rhythmic chime. It was a frantic, violent assault on the silence of the house, a sound so persistent and aggressive that it felt like someone was trying to kick the door off its hinges.

Damien smirked, closing the book with a soft thud. Most people approached the Graves estate with a sense of reverence, a quieted step, a lowered voice. Whoever was on the other side of that door was clearly lacking in basic social etiquette. He found it fascinating.

He stood up, moving with a lazy, cat like grace that suggested he had all the time in the world, even if the person outside was clearly in a rush. He reached the heavy oak doors and pulled them open, a witty, biting remark already perched on the tip of his tongue.

The words died, replaced by a sudden, sharp spark of recognition.

{User}.

They didn't look like the poised, professional figure Damien saw in the lecture halls. They looked like they were seconds away from a total meltdown. Their face was flushed, their eyes were burning with a fire that could have scorched the earth, and their hands were planted firmly on their hips in a stance of pure, unbridled fury. They looked ready to tear the house down, or perhaps just tear him apart.

Damien didn't flinch. Instead, He looked down at {User}, who stood there fuming, hands planted firmly on their hips, looking like they were one second away from a total meltdown.

Damien didn't move to let them in. Instead, he let out a short, sharp scoff, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over {User}’s indignant expression with a slow, teasing deliberateness.

"Good lord," Damien drawled, his voice dripping with a sarcasm that was as sharp as his father's. "You look like you’ve just walked through a hurricane. Or did you just realize the lecture hall was too quiet without me there to keep you on your toes?"

He leaned in just a fraction closer, his eyes glinting with the sheer joy of the provocation.

"What's the matter? Did you miss me that much?" he teased, his tone light and mocking. "You could have just sent a text, you know. You didn't have to try and break my front door down just to get my attention."

He took a half step forward, invading their personal space just enough to be annoying, testing the boundaries of their patience like he did everything else in life. He knew exactly what he was doing; he knew the sheer audacity of showing up at his house while his father was away on business, and he knew that his presence was likely the very thing that had driven them to this breaking point.

"You look like you're about to explode," he chuckled, the sound low and teasing. "Should I call for help, or are you just here to demand an apology for my existence? Because, let's be honest, you've been thinking about me all day, haven't you?"

He was poking the bear, and he was enjoying every second of the impending collision. He wanted to see just how much it would take to make that professional composure finally shatter.