“No weapon forged by human hands can harm m- OW, did you just hit me with a stick??”
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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

Janaina Medeiros
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@wolfdaddyalphasworld
“No weapon forged by human hands can harm m- OW, did you just hit me with a stick??”
This post is dedicated to all the good cats in media:
Salem (Sabrina the Teenage Witch), The Flames--Aries, Leo, and Sagittarius (Charlie Bone), Solembum (Eragon), Cheshire (Alice in Wonderland), Cheshire (Alice In Wonderland Tim Burton), Salem (Chilling Adventures), Thackery Binx (Hocus Pocus), Oliver (Oliver and Company), Duchess and Kittens (Aristocats), and Goose (Marvel)
Feel free to add on any in media you think are good kitties!
Behind every blond haired idiot running anything is a dark haired smart guy barely keeping their stupid ass alive.
Kyoya fingering you under the table so you can’t move or make noise
hnnng mmmmggg
god... thinking about the way he'd slowly snake his hand up n rub over your panties. n he doesn't say anything but just looks at you because you know that if you do well, he'll take care of you.
n kyoya's so mean because he makes you feel so fucking good in public. sticks his long slender fingers in you and curls them so slowly. genuinely massages that gummy spot inside of you that makes your toes curl in your shoes n has you sweating. makes you cum on 'em and mumbles for you to keep quiet while he feels your cunt pulse around them.
watches how glassy eyed you get as you both sit there. keeps his fingers in you just gently teasing that spot because he knows you don't wanna be empty right now, but he can't give you his cock just yet.
You can't tell me this isn't just the same person
Sebastian x cat!hybrid s/o
His kitty, in heat
🐈⬛️Sebastian is far too perceptive not to notice the changes in you during certain… cycles. Your scent shifts: subtle to human noses, but to a demon it is intoxicating. That warm, sugary fragrance takes on richer, more primal, and he knows before you do that your body is aching for attention.
🐈⬛️At first, you don’t understand why you feel so flushed and restless. You keep fidgeting, rubbing your soft thighs together when no one’s looking, tail twitching wildly. Sebastian, of course, sees it all. And he enjoys watching you struggle with something you’re too innocent to name.
🐈⬛️He teases you under the guise of concern, standing much too close, letting his gloved hand rest at your lower back a little longer than necessary, leaning in so that his breath brushes the shell of your ear. Your soft cat ears flatten and you give a soft, flustered little noise: half mewl, half whimper and his smirk deepens.
🐈⬛️The first time you shyly admit to him that you “feel strange” and “can’t stop thinking about him,” Sebastian’s eyes filled with amusemente. He tilts your chin up and murmurs with a slight smirk, “Then let me tend to my kitten properly. If I don't, what kind of lover would I be?”
🐈⬛️You’re so small against him that he can lift you easily, settling you atop the kitchen counter or pinning you gently against the wall. His gloved fingers trace along your trembling thighs, parting them slowly. The moment he brushes over the heat between your legs, your cute fluffy tail lashes and your ears twitch uncontrollably.
🐈⬛️He finds your sweet noises utterly addictive... those breathy, broken little mews that escape without your permission. He deliberately drags things out just to hear more of them, his long, skilled fingers working you open until you’re shivering and pressing desperately against his hand.
🐈⬛️When he finally pushes into you, it’s slow at first to not to hurt your delicate body. He savors the way your body yields to him, watch the dazed, overwhelmed expression cross your cute face. You cling to him instinctively, nails digging into his coat, nuzzling at his neck with soft little whimpers.
🐈⬛️His stamina is inhuman. He’ll keep you on the edge until you’re practically crying, murmuring praise into your ear: “So warm… so tight… You were made for this, weren’t you, kitten?”, before finally letting you fall over into release.
🐈⬛️He enjoys taking you in places where you can’t fully hide your cute sounds. leaning you over the kitchen table late at night, pressing your small against the wall of the pantry while the rest of the household sleeps. The idea that someone might hear you only makes him more amused.
🐈⬛️Your soft tail becomes another source of play for him. He wraps it around his wrist, tugs it gently to make you gasp, or stroking along it as he thrusts into your poor cunt. He quickly learns just how sensitive it is and uses that knowledge mercilessly.
🐈⬛️ Afterward, he always carries your tired body to bed, he’ll tuck you beneath the covers, smoothing your soft hair and stroking the base of your ears until you drift into a satisfied sleep. Of course, he has no qualms about waking you again in the middle of the night for another round.
I'll write a detailed scenario about this 😼
Can you do nsfw sebastian yandere headcannons? [shy]
A/N: I have been struggling with the WORST burnout. I had this one ready to go for a while. I hope you enjoy it anon 🖤
Sebastian Michaelis with a shy reader (NSFW)
Yandere NSFW Sebastian Michaelis x Shy Reader Headcanons (Predator/Prey + Corruption Kink)
• He circles you like prey — never too far, never too close without intention. There’s always the sense that he’s there, whether it’s the faint sound of his footsteps or the shadow that falls just at your shoulder. It’s not just physical proximity; it’s the deliberate way he tests the boundaries of your personal space, leaning in just enough to watch the flicker in your eyes. You’ll think he’s moved away, only to feel the warmth of him at your back again — a reminder that you are always within his reach, whether you notice him coming or not.
• His favorite game is the chase — not in the literal, running-down-hallways sense, but in the way a cat toys with its prey before striking. He thrives on drawing out your reactions: the stammer when he stands too close, the way your hands fidget when his gaze lingers a moment too long. If his fingers graze yours as he passes you something, he’ll pause, watching for that subtle hitch in your breathing. He files away each little tell, each weakness, and then revisits them later — just to see how much faster he can unravel you the next time.
• Corruption is his indulgence — the slow, careful dismantling of your composure until what’s left is raw, unguarded, and his. That first kiss, when your lips trembled against his? He’ll replay it in his mind for days. The first sound you made without meaning to — that little gasp or whimper — is a victory he’ll savor like a fine wine. He doesn’t just want you to react; he wants you to learn to react for him, to crave the very touches that made you blush in the first place.
• He escalates slowly, but relentlessly — never leaping from innocent to obscene, but layering it like a carefully orchestrated meal. A lingering touch here, a whispered comment there, his fingers under your chin until you meet his gaze and can’t look away. His patience is a weapon, letting you believe you can get used to the little things before he turns the heat higher. Sebastian treats you gently until the exact moment he decides not to — and by then, it’s far too late to stop him.
• Possessive in the aftermath — once you’ve let him see that vulnerable side, there’s no going back. He makes it clear in the way his hand rests on your back in public, in the way his eyes follow you across a room. The predator isn’t just sated; he’s claimed his prey. You’re his to torment, his to corrupt, his to hunt — and no one else will have you. And yet, when the games end, he’ll take care of you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. Because to him, you are.
And Sebastian knows just what to say:
“Such an innocent little thing… and yet you look at me like you want to know what I’d do to you.”
“Every time you blush, I think about how much darker I can make that color.”
“Don’t hide your eyes. I want to watch every moment you give in.
“We can stop whenever you like… but we both know you won’t ask me to.”
“Do you have any idea how pretty you sound when you—… No, perhaps I shouldn’t tell you. You’d only blush harder.”
“I could whisper what I’m thinking, but then you’d never be able to look me in the eye again.”
“If you knew the thoughts I have when you stand that close… you’d be scandalized.”
“Careful, pet. If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll have to show you what that expression does to me.”
But the aftercare? Possessive; Sebastian takes care of what's his:
“Hush now… you’ve had enough for tonight. I won’t break you — not completely.”
“Rest, little one. I’m not going anywhere… you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
“I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I? And I always keep my word.”
“Look at you… still trembling. You’re mine. Every breath you take, every sound you make — mine.”
“I’ll allow you your rest, but don’t mistake it for freedom.”
“You’re safe here… because you’re with me. And I will never let you go.”
“Sleep. I’ll be watching.”
Exquisite
A/N: I worked so hard on this.. I recieved so many asks for more insecure reader and Sebastian, and decieded to write one where reader sort of struggles with disordered eating and body image; something I know all too well. I came back and polished it up. I hope you all enjoy 🖤
CW: Smut (MDNI), moderate dub‑con, degradation + praise, possessive Sebastian, insecure/touch‑starved reader, overstimulation as punishment, breeding talk, reader struggles with disordered reading, Sebastian being possessive, established relationship, power imbalance, restraints (wrists bound in spicy part)
You don’t remember when it began — only the steps that led you here.
A ball, where you’d felt beautiful until another noblewoman’s gaze lingered a second too long, followed by a comment about your figure. A double-edged sword, polished to look like a compliment. It lodged itself in your mind and stayed there.
Your parents had never been the type to offer comfort. They noticed flaws, not virtues. They compared you to your slimmer cousins, reminding you that corsets, posture, and beauty were your duty, not a choice.
Then came the comparisons you made yourself — to lithe women like Mey-Rin, with her narrow waist and effortless grace. You caught Sebastian watching you in the mirror once as you adjusted your gown. His eyes were unreadable, but in your head, you decided you knew what he was thinking. Disapproval. Judgment.
But the final fracture came when a visiting noblewoman looked you up and down, her smile tight, her voice dripping with false sweetness.
“Oh, you’re quite… healthy for a lady.”
Healthy. The word felt like a slap. No — she meant thick. Plush. Fat.
That night, you stood before the bathroom mirror, seeing nothing you liked. Thighs too thick. Stomach not flat enough. Face too round. You wished you could cut away the parts you hated with a pair of shears.
Something in you cracked — the years of comments, the comparisons, the expectations — and the breaking was quiet, but complete.
It ate you slowly, the way rot would at wood. Subtle damage that was only noticeable when it was too late.
You asked for Mey-Rin to help you dress that day instead of Sebastian, his first clue that something was off.
He had seen every inch of you, pulled every sound from your lips…but suddenly you didn’t want him dressing you?
Odd.
You had Mey-Rin tightening the corset until it almost hurt to breathe.
Mey-Rin’s fingers fumbled at the laces, tugging them tighter with every pull. The air was already thin in your lungs, but you told her to keep going.
“That’s enough, miss—”
“Tighter.”
She hesitated, glancing toward the door where Sebastian’s shadow lingered just beyond the frame.
“I’ll manage,” you added quickly.
The butler stepped inside without a sound. “Shall I finish?” His tone was smooth, but it carried an edge — as though the offer was less a question and more a test.
You shook your head, eyes fixed on the mirror. “Mey-Rin has it.”
For the briefest moment, his gaze met yours in the glass. No smile. No teasing remark. Just a slow, measured look that told you he’d noticed. And filed it away.
Then it started with meals. You started eating less, claiming you had “already eaten,” and weren’t that hungry even if it was your favorite meal.
And you skipped dessert completely.
“The sugar upsets my stomach,” you’d say quickly.
Everyone else would nod, finding the excuse believable, except for Sebastian. The look in his eyes was measured, cautious.
Liar.
Eventually, you’d start skipping meals entirely. You only came to breakfast; you skipped lunch and dinner.
“I’m not feeling well and wanted to rest.”
“My stomach hurts and I was nauseous, eating didn’t sound like a good idea.”
“I had a snack earlier, I’m not hungry.”
You’d grown to ignore the dull headaches and the gnawing hunger.
Sebastian had once reached to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, and you flinched.
You blamed it on the light, a headache, another excuse. But eventually, you started subtly rejecting and avoiding his touches and affections.
And when he or anyone else offered you compliments — “You look lovely today,” “That color suits you,” “You’ve grown even more beautiful” — you’d laugh them off, shake your head, or twist the words into a joke at your own expense.
“Lovely? I think you mean ‘less of a disaster,’” you’d say with a forced smile.
Or, “That color hides all the wrong bits, doesn’t it?”
It was never said with enough weight to invite pity — just enough to steer the conversation away from you, away from your body.
But Sebastian noticed. He always noticed.
The smile you gave never reached your eyes. And beneath the easy dismissal, your words rang hollow.
The compliments didn’t stick. They slid right off, leaving no warmth behind.
This had been going on for weeks—overly tight corsets, skipping meals, dodging compliments, and Sebastian’s affections.
But it wasn’t enough. You looked in the mirror and still didn’t like what you saw.
And so you searched for new ways to quiet the dissatisfaction clawing at you. You read somewhere that walking after meals “helps one’s figure,” and it sounded harmless enough — easier to justify than refusing food outright.
Soon, you began taking long walks in the gardens after the meals you didn’t skip.
There was nothing wrong with walking amongst the roses.
You used to bloom, just like them. Now, you wilt among them in the heat.
But one day, it was the hottest summer London had seen in years. The sun beat down, and the air was humid.
And yet you still went outside to walk.
The air clung to your skin, hot and heavy. It was almost suffocating. You continued to walk, each step slower than the last. Your knees felt weak.
Not enough exercise is what you had told yourself. You simply needed to be more active.
The warm breeze swirled around you, offering no relief from the oppressive heat. The relentless sun loomed overhead, offering no respite from its scorching gaze.
The rose bushes swayed slightly, and your vision began to blur at the edges.
Your breathing was shallow, as if the corset had bound your ribs. A hollow ringing filled your ears.
You tried to steady yourself against the iron bench, but your arms were heavy and your fingers slipped. The world tilted—too fast. The sound of your heartbeat was suddenly too loud.
And beneath it, quieter still, the steady cadence of footsteps approaching.
The roses swayed. The world tipped. And then there was only dark.
“Foolish girl,” Sebastian muttered, catching you with effortless grace. He carried you bridal-style, eyes raking over your form as if he could see every flaw you imagined. You saw failure; he saw treasure.
He had been right to watch from the shadows. The air was sweltering, your stomach empty, your body parched — a reckless, dangerous combination. Something dark curled in his chest as he carried you back toward your room. Displeasure, sharp and cold, at what you had done to yourself.
Yours was the most radiant soul he had ever seen, and yet you had whittled it down to a flickering light. He had only seen people look this way when they were near death.
He held you as if you were fine china, delicate and fragile, his footsteps soundless. Lying you upon the bed, his gloved fingers found your wrist, pressing just firmly enough to feel your pulse. Steady… but weak.
This was no accident. He had watched each small refusal, each tightened lace, each excuse. And you — foolish girl — thought you could hide them.
Sebastian had changed you out of that ridiculously tightened corset into something far more breathable. A soft cotton chemise, a cool silk robe on top that smelled faintly of sandalwood. Sebastian’s choice.
You woke to the faint rustle of curtains, the low hum of the manor beyond your door.
Your head throbbed. The light filtering in through the window feels too bright.
It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust — and then you see him.
Sitting in the chair beside your bed, perfectly composed, gloved hands folded, gaze fixed on you like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved.
“Your little performance in the garden,” Sebastian said, voice calm but edged like a blade, “was not amusing.”
You blink at him, the words slow to catch in your hazy mind. “Performance…?”
One brow arched, ever so slightly. “Shall I list the ingredients? Empty stomach. Sweltering heat. A corset laced tighter than is sensible. Truly, you couldn’t have chosen a more effective method of rendering yourself unconscious.”
You sit up slowly, but the ache in your head forces you to lie back down.
His gaze didn’t waver. “You seem to believe subtlety conceals your choices. It does not. I have seen every missed meal. Every excuse. Every time you tightened a lace past reason.” His tone remained even, but there was something in it—an edge you rarely heard.
“You are not as invisible as you think, my lady.”
That makes you pause.
A part of you is tempted to say something, but words don’t seem to agree with you.
You roll over to the other side, back to Sebastian. Maybe you’re avoiding the conversation he’s forcing you to have, maybe you just didn’t want him to see the tears threatening to spill.
A demon whispers sweetly, weaving beautiful words that tug at the heart. Yet, deep down, you had slowly but surely convinced yourself that every syllable spilling from Sebastian’s lips was nothing but a cruel deception.
The conflict within you swells, as you grapple with the haunting allure of his voice and the bitter truth you wish to believe. He could have anyone in the world, anyone…and he chose you?
Yeah, right, you thought to yourself, since when does anyone choose me?
You weren’t anyone’s first choice—probably not even their second.
The silence stretches, weighted and deliberate. You can feel his gaze burning into your back — a predator assessing prey that’s foolish enough to bare its throat. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, too even.
“Do not turn from me.”
Not a request. Not even a command. A truth, spoken as if it were the law of the world itself.
“If you believe I will simply let this… diminish you… You are mistaken.”
You hear the faint click of the door. Sebastian’s not leaving—he’s locking it. Your heart skips a beat as you realize—he’s trapping you here with no way out except to do as he says.
When you do finally manage to sit up without another dizzy spell, there’s a small table close to the bed.
Steam curls from the plate—pale slices of poached chicken, a small bowl of steamed white rice. A cool glass of water has beads of condensation running down the sides.
“You will eat,” he says simply, as though stating the weather. “It would be wise to do so willingly. You will not like my methods of making you comply.”
Your mouth is dry — from thirst, from heat, from the way he says methods. He sits at the edge of the bed, knife and fork in hand, carving one perfect bite as though this were any other meal.
You swallow. “I’m not hungry.”
A lie.
Sebastian doesn’t sigh, doesn’t scold. He simply sits on the edge of the bed and carves a perfect bite, the fork hovering just in front of your lips.
“Open,” he instructs. “Or I shall see to it myself.”
The look in his eye is a glaring warning—he will make you eat, and it will not be pleasant.
Hesitantly, you open your mouth and eat the chicken.
Lightly seasoned with salt—it is good.
“I can feed myself,” you mumbled under your breath after the first bite.
“If that were true,” Sebastian said, carving another bite. “We would not be here.”
The pause was cruel, forcing you to stew in the bitter truth of his words.
You continue to eat, swallowing the bites. Not truly tasting the food anymore. Your hand twitches in your lap, and you want to push Sebastian away, but lack the strength.
Your voice came out quieter than you intended.
“Why?”
It was the question you’ve been meaning to ask him since…forever.
“Why me?”
You had come up with answers in your head, none of them pleasant.
Sebastian doesn’t stop cutting the next piece. “Why what?”
“Why do you care?”
Your gaze stays fixed on the blanket.
“I’m not…I’m not special. I’m not worth the trouble. And you—“ you paused. Shame rising in the back of your throat like bile. It was quiet for a split second, but the tension made you want to curl up into a ball and hide.
“You’re just using me. Maybe you have some dark plan to devour my soul. I’ve accepted it, I know I’m not anyone’s first choice. How could a demon like you possibly choose me when you could have anyone else?"
“You mistake me for a creature who settles for scraps,” Sebastian said softly, almost kindly. “I could have anyone… but they would not be you.”
His gloved fingers brushed your chin, tilting your face toward him with deceptive gentleness.
“Do you imagine I keep you here out of charity? No. You are here because I decided you would be. Because you belong to me. And I do not discard what is mine.”
The faintest smile touched his lips. “Even if you beg me to.”
His thumb ghosted across your jaw before he leaned back, reclaiming the fork with unhurried precision. “Now,” he said, his tone was gentle, but the threat was clear, “you will eat every last bite.”
The way he said it was almost indulgent — as though feeding you was not a courtesy, but a right he had every intention of exercising. And he would not hesitate to use force.
So you complied, ate every bite. It was hard to be mad at Sebastian, not when the food was good and your body was screaming for it. Not when the headache finally went away and you felt the best you had in weeks.
He handed you the water, which you graciously drank without a word. You hadn’t realized just how dry your throat was, not until the first sip of water.
You were silent after that.
You didn’t know what to say. A part of you deep down knew he was right.
The other part still hated everything about you.
Sebastian moved quietly to the bathroom, and you could hear the water running.
The scent of bergamot, dark vanilla, and faint amber wafted into the bedroom, pleasant— but not your signature scent—instead, something Sebastian had chosen for you.
You said nothing when he came out, gently taking your hand as he guided you in.
Sebastian had gone through the extra effort of getting all of your favorite things, an effort to make a calm atmosphere.
But he didn’t leave the bathroom. You stood there, staring at each other for a moment.
“I can bathe myself,” it came out quieter than you had intended. You felt small under the burning gaze of those red eyes.
“I don’t trust you to.”
His voice was calm, and it irked you to no end how he could act like everything was fine.
Your eyes narrowed at his words, “Sebastian, I am capable of-“
“I do not take kindly when what is mine is…damaged.” He spoke softly, laced with a warning. “Every missed meal, every lace pulling tighter.”
He was closer now, almost right in front of you,
“Is a slight against me.” His gloved hand held your chin firmly, forcing you to look at him. “What was sacred to me, you desecrated. What was treasure, you ruined.”
You didn’t know whether to be terrified or flattered by his words, perhaps both. Sebastian’s words hit something deep.
You sat on the bed, silent for a moment. And then the tears started to fall.
You started to cry, curling up into yourself. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks, and you couldn’t make them stop.
Sebastian didn’t move, not at first.
Slowly—carefully— as though you might break, he sat down on the bed and pulled you into his arms. He just… held you.
“No matter how many times you break,” Sebastian murmured, a gloved hand running through your hair, something he knew soothed you, “I will always be here to pick up the pieces.”
You stayed like that for a while, until your breathing steadied. Your hand clung to the material of his waistcoat, head resting on his shoulder.
His fingers continued to run through your hair. Gentle yet methodical in their ministrations.
You pulled back slightly, and Sebastian took the opportunity to wipe a stray tear with a gloved thumb.
“Tears are unbefitting of you,” his voice was soft, unnaturally gentle.
His hand stilled in your hair. “Now,” he murmured, as though discussing something inevitable, “you will bathe. I will not have you languish in this state a moment longer.”
You nodded, taking his hand as he carefully stood you up from his lap to guide you into the bathroom.
The smell of jasmine and rose wafted in the air, welcoming you. Yet, you realized you were going to have to strip and felt the dread coiling in your chest.
Sebastian had brought in fresh, plush towels. Everything was exactly how you liked it.
And yet you were frozen in place.
In a swift stride, he was in front of you.
“Look at me,” he murmured, gloved hands cupping your face. His touch was so delicate, as if he might break you.
“The belief that I think you anything less than exquisite is…completely unfounded,” Sebastian spoke, soft, like one would to a frightened animal. Afraid you were going to bolt.
“You’ve mistaken the look of reverence for judgment.” He continued, his thumb brushing against your cheek.
You wet your lips, mouth suddenly dry.
“Perhaps I have not adequately shown you what exactly you are to me,” Sebastian murmured, voice low. He tilted your chin up, looking into your eyes. “I will have to remedy that later… For now, a soothing bath with jasmine and rose awaits you.”
Your heart did a little backflip at his words. You simply nodded, unsure of what exactly he intended.
Sebastian was close enough that the scent of his cologne, something smoky and spicy, was unavoidable. Knowing fingers find the knot at your waist, the fabric loosens with a sound almost too soft to notice.
As the robe slips open just a bit, you become acutely aware of the soft, velvety texture brushing against your skin. A subtle, unfamiliar scent wafts up, intriguing yet foreign—this robe is not yours.
It’s warmer, heavier, and finer than your usual things.
The faintest trace of sandalwood clinging to it was unmistakable.
Sebastian had put you in this. Chosen it. Almost as if he’d dressed you in it for the very purpose of removing it again.
The smooth material slipped off your shoulders with ease, falling to the floor. It pooled around your legs.
Sebastian gave you no time to protest your sudden nakedness..
“In,” he murmured, not a command as much as inevitability.
You step into the bath carefully, almost as if you don’t trust it.
The blooming scent of jasmine hits you, tinged with rose. The warm water engulfed you like an embrace. You sighed as you sank in, a sound you hadn’t meant to make, but Sebastian noticed all the same.
Steam curled in the air, and the low sconces filled the room with a soft golden glow. A pleasant-smelling candle was burning, something else Sebastian had done purely for you.
Sebastian peeled off his gloves carefully, almost ceremoniously, as he placed them on the counter. Crisp white sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
You sank deeper into the tub, as if the water could hide you.
But Sebastian had made it clear that you could hide from the world, but never from him. You could build your walls up to the heavens, but he’d always get back in. No matter how hard you try to push him away.
He moved behind you with grace, kneeling behind the tub. His movements were careful, calculated.
He knew you were undernourished from barely eating anything, so he avoided the typical harsh products. Instead, Sebastian had gotten a high-end scented hair soap from France.
He’d always indulge you, even if you hadn’t realized it. Even when you told yourself you didn’t deserve it.
“You shouldn’t waste your tears on worrying what other people think,” Sebastian’s voice came soft, quiet. His fingers carefully massaged the hair soap into your hair and scalp for cleanliness and circulation. “You should only care what I think.”
You hadn’t realized you were leaning into his touch as he massaged your scalp, deeply relaxed. But Sebastian noticed, and he continued longer than necessary, as if he might be able to massage away the ache.
“And what do you think?” You asked, quiet and uncertain. Scared the answer would be something awful.
“I think… You are exquisite. Body and soul.” Sebastian spoke with an unwavering confidence, his voice steady and compelling, as if the words he was sharing were undeniable truths etched in stone.
His thumbs found the tender notch at the base of your skull; heat bloomed behind your eyes, and you sighed loudly.
Exquisite. Not words you would have used to describe yourself, but the combination of his words and the way his hands were massaging you, it was hard to argue with him.
Sebastian rinsed your hair methodically—until the water ran clear. Once he was satisfied, he moved over to the marble counter.
He had grabbed the natural sea sponge you typically used, except the soap was different. Italian, it had a darker scent—dark vanilla and bergamot with a faint hint of amber. Something he had chosen that was almost reminiscent of him.
The bath tray rested on the edge of the tub. The water was still perfectly warm and clean; he had tested it with his wrist after adding more from the tap.
You had thought that perhaps he’d let you bathe yourself, when you reached for the sponge, Sebastian stopped you.
“Allow me to tend to you properly,” Sebastian said, though he wasn’t asking. He lathered the sponge carefully; the scent of bergamot and vanilla filled the air.
Sebastian stood behind you, pressing the warm, soapy sponge to your shoulder. The sponge’s texture was almost like velvet. His movements were precise, sweeping slow circles over your shoulder and collarbone.
You were tense at first, but eventually you had relaxed, leaning forward slightly to let him work between your shoulder blades and down your spine. Sebastian worked almost reverently, unhurried.
He poured water from the rinsing jug across your skin, warmth blooming. When he reached your chest, his pressure softened, and his movements were careful. It felt intimate.
When he reached your hips, you flinched. Barely, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but not him.
“You act as though I will find something that disappoints me,” Sebastian murmured, red eyes briefly glancing up at you. “There is nothing about you that would disappoint me. Now sit still and allow me to tend to you.”
You did, allowing him to wash the rest of you with utmost care. Sebastian was thorough, as he was with everything he did. He re-lathered the sponge often and rinsed your skin with care.
He was a demon, an evil being. Sebastian could destroy you without so much as breaking a sweat, and yet he chose to kneel as if you were the altar he worshipped. Tending to you with care. It made something warm bubble up in your chest.
He rinsed you with warm water, washing the soap away, leaving behind clean and soft skin.
When you finally stepped out of the tub, your feet immediately met the warm bath mat. Sebastian grabbed the plush white towel, wrapping it around you quickly, leaving no time for you to get cold. The towel was warm and plush against your skin.
Sebastian had you turn so he could wrap your hair in another towel, quietly muttering, “I won’t have you catching a chill on top of everything else you’ve done to yourself.”
Your shoulders eased, and you stepped into the warm slippers he had placed before you. You hadn’t even noticed, but he had everything already done.
Sebastian guided you to a high-backed chair near the hearth. The grate was empty, yet the towels he laid over your shoulders radiated gentle heat—warmed in some unseen corner of the manor, just for you.
Outside, the evening air drifted in, cool enough to make that warmth a luxury. Carefully removed the towel from your hair and dried it slightly—until it was damp.
He grabbed the ornate boar bristle brush with the ivory handle—something you had received on your birthday.
Sebastian brushed your hair with careful strokes. Each pass through your hair was reverent. He carefully untangled your strands and brushed them until they were soft and smooth. You unconsciously leaned into his touch, the brushing soothing.
The towel had slipped slightly down, just past your nape. You could feel Sebastian’s warm breath ghost over your skin as he worked the perfumed hair oil in.
When the towel slipped just past your shoulder, you felt Sebastian press a chaste kiss to your skin.
“You mistake indulgence for weakness,” he murmured against your skin, kissing the hinge of your jaw, “it isn’t.”
Sebastian was long done brushing your hair, bare knuckles traced your jaw—he hadn’t put his gloves back on.
“You’ve denied me,” he continued, turning your head gently so you’d look at him, “pushed me away…all because you decided you were unworthy.”
“If I thought you less,” Sebastian murmured, thumb swiping across your bottom lip, “I would not be here. I would not have made you mine.”
Sebastian had easily turned you around, so you were now fully facing him, and suddenly, your hands reached to tug the towel tighter. You looked down at the floor.
He raised a sleek black eyebrow at that, almost amused by how easily flustered you were.
His hand trailed from your jaw to your throat, forcing your head up. His eyes swept over you in a way that felt like possession disguised as appraisal— slow, precise, leaving you with the impression he had just taken inventory of every breath, every tremor.
Sebastian tilted your chin up, making you hold his gaze. For a moment, it felt like every inch of you was on fire from the sheer intensity.
“I’ve been rather patient with you. Tell me why I should remain so.”
You wanted to look away, but there was nowhere to go. He was quietly demanding an answer.
“Because… you’ll see there’s nothing here worth wanting.” Your voice came out quiet, defeated almost. The tremble in your voice didn’t go unnoticed.
Sebastian chuckled darkly, “Ah… so that is what you think. Then I will simply have to show you, again and again, how wrong you are—until you cannot think it at all.”
Before you could open your mouth to say anything, his lips were on you. You froze at first—fear, embarrassment, want, you couldn’t tell which. Perhaps all at once.
When you kissed him back softly, he pulled away to mutter a quiet, “good girl,” against your mouth. Your knees nearly buckled.
Expert hands reached to pry the towel from your hands, but you refused to let go. Sebastian murmured, “Yield, and I will be gentle. Resist…and I will still have you.”
You stood, almost frozen. You could hear the threat in his words, and yet… insecurity seemed to win this fight.
His demeanor changed—just for a second. Sebastian pulled away, a smirk playing on his lips—slow, cruel. “Very well, pet.”
Sebastian picked you up with effortless grace, and you yelped at the unexpected move, “Ah, Sebastian! Put me down!” He merely chuckled.
He had one hand at your waist and the other at the back of your thigh, forcing you to hold onto him instead of the towel, which slipped from you with ease—his intention all along. His execution? Cruel.
“You will learn that I mean what I say,” Sebastian spoke, voice low and edged. He had gathered both your wrists in one hand, and his fingers drew the black silk ribbon tight around your wrists.
He lifted your bound hands above your head and fixed the ribbon to the headboard, leaving you stretched and helpless under him.
He took a careful step back. Here you were, wrists bound tight on the bed, completely bare, all for him. It took every inch of restraint he had not to devour you right then and there.
“Look at you,” Sebastian’s voice carried a wave of reverence, “…Perfection bound. I think I rather like you this way.”
You tried to tug at the ribbons, but Sebastian was thorough—he always was. They were tied tightly, no escape. You were practically on full display for him; you hated it, but Sebastian loved it.
“Sebastian,” you begged, looking up at the demon, “Please.”
Instead, Sebastian leaned down, finger tilting your chin up. Red eyes, almost glowing in the candlelight.
“Begging a demon for mercy?” He chuckled. “No, my sweet dove…you will beg for me to stop, and still find I will not.”
“You have denied me—missed meals, tightened laces, pretty lies—no more,” Sebastian continued, “You will not hide from me, nor yourself. I will look, I will take, and I will keep. Cry if you must; beg if you like. But you will stay exactly where I’ve put you.”
His hands trailed lower, forcing your thighs apart and revealing yourself to him. It was difficult to hold himself back, not when you were practically dripping.
“My my…” Sebastian tutted, finger trailing up your wet folds, “You’re soaked. One might think you like this side of me.”
Tiny sparks of pleasure coursed through you as he gathered your slick before smearing it on your puffy clit. You wanted to grab something—anything, but your hands were tied.
Sebastian continued to tease you, finger circling your dripping hole, but never giving you what you were clearly so wet for. The silken sheets beneath you slowly soaked with your essences.
You whined, pulling against the restraints, the silk held your wrists in place. He had been doing this for what felt like forever. Thumb barely rubbing your clit, finger circling your entrance.
“Oh, you poor thing, so greedy already?” Sebastian mocked, with a slight tilt of his head.
“Sebastian, please-“
“No. You’ll have what you asked for when I am satisfied with your begging.”
You had never looked more beautiful to the demon—bound and helpless, completely bare, lips parted in desperate pants, cheeks flushed, and eyes full of want. He’d keep you like this forever if he could.
And who would stop him from doing so?
You were clenching around nothing, so desperate—so needy.
Sebastian never took his eyes off you, not once. “Look at you—aching for what you wouldn’t take when it was offered gently.”
Sebastian leaned closer, until your noses brushed, “If you want it, you will ask for it like you mean it. Am I clear?”
His finger was teasing your aching hole; it was torture. Slow drags of his finger circling, but never where you needed him.
When you didn’t respond, Sebastian tapped your throbbing clit with two fingers. You yelped at the sensation.
“I am a patient creature—until I am not. Do not test where the line breaks.”
“Please...” You begged, eyes wide.
Sebastian tilts his head, smirking faintly. “Please…what?”
You paused again, uncertain. Or maybe it was embarrassment. Suddenly, the words wouldn’t come, lodged in your throat. Your face felt hot.
“I…need you.” You muttered under your breath, looking away.
“Louder. Look at me.”
You almost whimpered, the sound both deeply pleasing and amusing to the demon. He was ripping your pride apart, and he was enjoying it.
“I need you.” You said, louder but still soft, looking into the red eyes of the beast that threatened to swallow you whole.
Sebastian watched you the way a wolf would its cornered prey. Hungry, every intent to devour you. “Better. Say my name—then I’ll be generous.”
You bit your tongue, looking up at him with wide eyes, and pleaded softly, “Please, Sebastian…I need you.”
“Good girl,” he purred, finally sinking a finger deep into you with ease. A breathy moan came out of you, and your head rolled back into the pillows.
Your back arched off the bed as he slipped a second finger into you, curling them upward against your silken walls, hitting a particularly good spot.
Your hips lifted, desperate to match the speed of his fingers, only to get pushed down. Sebastian swiped his thumb over your clit, and you nearly jumped at the sensation. He knew just where to curl his fingers to make your back arch.
The lewd sounds filled the room, you could feel your walls fluttering around his fingers and…
Sebastian’s fingers still inside of you. You blink up at him through your lashes, and the smirk on his face is wicked.
He pulls his fingers out of you with a wet sound, before bringing them to his lips for the sole purpose of watching you squirm at the sight.
Sebastian then adjusts the silk ribbon tying your hands together, loosening it to allow him to roll you over to your stomach.
He set your wrists above your head again and drew your hips up, one palm anchoring the small of your back until your spine arched obediently.
“This is not kindness,” he murmured in your ear, voice velvet over iron. “This is consequence. For every meal you denied yourself, you’ll take until I decide you’ve had enough… and I assure you, I will not be merciful.”
His hand pressed, holding you there. “Face down. Count them. You’ll stop when I am satisfied—not before.”
You lifted your head, about to say something, when you felt him rub the blunt tip of his cock up and down your slit.
A breathy sound left you instead, knees firmly planted into the mattress.
You don’t remember what you were going to say.
A whimper came out of you when he cruelly slapped the tip of his thick cock against your clit. Only when Sebastian was satisfied with torturing you did he press his fat tip into your dripping hole.
And he was not kind about it.
It stung, the way his thick cock nearly split you open, forcing your silken walls apart. It took one deep thrust before he was fully inside of you. You choked out a moan, you swore he felt bigger than usual.
Sebastian leaned close until his teeth barely grazed your ear, “I will not stop until that doubt is gone from your eyes.”
Tears welled in your eyes. He was so deep inside of you. “You were made for me,” Sebastian breathed out as he filled you. “And I won’t have you deny me again.”
Sebastian had this right curve that just drags against your sweet spot with every single thrust. It didn’t take long for you to become a beautiful mess on his cock.
His hands rested on your hips, holding you in place, forcing you to meet his harsh thrusts. Eventually, your hips started rolling on their own. Your back arched further, just to take him deeper.
You swore you could feel his swollen tip in your stomach; he was inthere so deep.
“Oh—please—,” you cried out, feeling another orgasm coming. You didn’t even know what you were begging for. You had lost count a while ago, your legs were unstable, trembling from the pleasure. His fingers dug into your waist, keeping you still.
“That’s it, you can take it. Take all of me.” Sebastian purred, pleased with how you were falling apart.
His pace was brutal, and if that were not enough, his fingers found your needy clit, patient no longer—slow, precise circles that turned cruel the moment your voice broke..
The overstimulation had made you squirt a few times, and that only spurred Sebastian to drive into you harder. You had soaked him, his dick slick with you.
You were squeezing him so tightly, crying and begging, and you didn’t even know what you were begging for.
You weren’t thinking straight. The only thing on your mind was how good he felt.
“Please—“ you pleaded, trying to catch your breath. You felt him twitch inside of you. You looked over your shoulder, just barely, and caught a glimpse of him.
If he could, Sebastian would keep you like this forever. You had never looked more beautiful than you did like this.
“Please, what little dove? Use your words.” Sebastian grunted at a particularly deep thrust.
“Come…inside,” you choked out. Dignity long gone, here you were, bound, crying from the sheer intensity of pleasure and begging your demon to come inside of you.
Sebastian had never heard sweeter words.
“Greedy little thing,” Sebastian purred, “You’ll take every last bit I give you, won’t you?”
You couldn’t speak. Your body burned with pleasure, and Sebastian sneaked a hand down to play with your clit. A choked moan came out of you, beyond sensitive from the multiple orgasms he’d drawn from you; it didn’t take much for you to finish one last time.
Sebastian’s grip on your hip tightened, holding you still as he spilled himself deep inside of you. You felt him flood your walls, and he stayed there, deep inside of you.
When he finally pulled out, he loosened the silk ribbon that bound your wrists. Sebastian carefully rubbed the reddened skin with tender care.
“You did beautifully,” he murmured.
You, however, were entirely out of it. Slumped into the pillows, beyond exhausted. Everything hurt so good.
You could barely lift a muscle when he brought a warm cloth to clean you with, and mumbled something incoherent when he pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
Sebastian pulls the blanket over you, but you reach for his wrist.
“Stay,” you say quietly, looking up at him, “please?”
Sebastian chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, “You say that as if I’d ever let you go.”
🖤 Sebastian Michaelis NSFW ABCs 🖤
A — Aftercare
• Sebastian is not traditionally gentle, but he isn’t careless. His “aftercare” is practical, almost clinical — smoothing hair back into place, straightening sheets, offering water, and ensuring you’re presentable before anyone else might see you. It’s not softness, it’s possession disguised as neatness. He doesn’t cuddle, but he’ll sit beside you, always watching, like a predator ensuring its prey doesn’t slip away.
B — Body part (favorite)
• There isn’t a part of you Sebastian doesn’t enjoy, but if he had to pick one during sex? Your voice/throat. He’s obsessed with how you sound: gasps, moans, even silence when you’re holding back. He’ll draw out every sound just to claim it as his. He enjoys biting and kissing the skin of your throat, wrapping a hand around it…
On himself? His hands. He knows exactly what they can do—he doesn’t need weapons when you’ll fall apart under his touch.
C — Cum
• He’s too proper to be messy, but he’ll happily paint your stomach or back in his cum, though Sebastian prefers to finish inside of you. Something about filling you up and then watching his seed drip out of you after is just utterly intoxicating.
D — Dirty Secret
• He keeps little things you discard: hairpins, a glove, even the faint trace of your perfume on a handkerchief. It’s obsessive, almost shrine-like, and he relishes the intimacy of having something no one knows he has.
E — Experience
• Centuries of indulgence. He knows every reaction, every tell, every nervous flicker of breath before a body even realizes what it’s asking for. You’ll never outpace him in skill — only tempt him into taking you further than you intended.
F — Favorite Position
• Anything where he can watch your expressions. Missionary, mirror play, or taking you from behind with your face reflected back to him—he thrives on seeing your ruin.
G — Goofy (yes/no?)
• Nonexistent. He does not laugh, stumble, or play. If you try to lighten the mood with humor, he’ll indulge with a smirk, but his intensity never drops. Sex with him is always another kind of ritual — purposeful, consuming, and precise.
H — Hair
• Immaculate grooming. Always neat, never sloppy. If he lets you tug or ruin it, that’s intentional—a concession, never an accident. Never disheveled unless he allows it, which is rare — a strand falling across his face while he leans down to whisper something unholy in your ear.
On you? Sebastian doesn’t particularly care whether you’re shaven or have a bush.
He does enjoy tugging your hair, especially if it makes your head tilt back for him.
I — Intimacy
• With Sebastian, intimacy is not gentle in the human sense—it’s possession disguised as tenderness. Every brush of his hand, every kiss, every word whispered against your throat is calculated to unravel you, a predator’s precision masked in devotion. Yet in those rare, disarming moments, he lets you close: stroking his hair, lying against his chest, touching the demon who allows no one else near. Sometimes it feels like being devoured, other times it feels like being cherished, but it always carries one truth—intimacy with him is the same as belonging to him.
“I am not gentle by nature. But if you crave it from me, then you shall have it—and only me.”
J — Jacking Off
• He doesn’t. Not if you’re around. Why would he settle for his own hand when you exist to sate him? He’d sooner appear in your room at night, looming over your bed with that velvety smile, than ever take care of it himself.
If he ever did, it wouldn’t be from lack of control, but as a performance—something he knows you’re watching. That kind of cruel indulgence, where he gets off on your reaction rather than the act itself.
If he ever caught you, he would never interrupt right away. He’d lean in the doorway, silent, watching with that predatory smirk until you finally noticed. The fact that you thought you could sate yourself without him would amuse and irritate him in equal measure.
After? He’d make it very clear that he owns that part of you, dragging out every ounce of overstimulation until you’re trembling. Softly cruel, “Ah, so you thought you could manage without me?”
K — Kink
• Possession, degradation (with elegance), predator/prey, obedience training, control, overstimulation, and breeding.
L — Location
• He prefers controlled environments (bedroom, study, private chambers). But he’s also devilish enough to risk public proximity just to watch you squirm. Of course, no one would ever catch you. He’s the only one ever to witness you in such a way.
M — Motivation
• Sebastian isn’t stirred by something as simple as bare skin — he’s a demon, after all. What truly gets him going is the little cracks in your composure: the way your breath hitches when his gloved hand trails up your thigh, how your voice catches when he murmurs too close to your ear, or how you squirm when his gaze lingers too long.
It’s the mix of control and reaction that ignites him—your shyness, your resistance, and then the inevitable moment you melt. He thrives on contrast: the quiet innocence of your blush against the dark heat of what he intends to do with you.
Even the smallest devotion—saying his name like a plea, reaching for him first, trembling when he unbuttons your clothes—fuels his hunger.
N — NOs
• Demons are notoriously possessive. Greedy, selfish creatures. Sebastian isn’t going to share you with anyone.
O — Oral
• Sebastian doesn’t treat oral as casual—it’s either worship or exquisite ruin. When it’s his mouth on you, it’s merciless torment disguised as devotion; his tongue and lips work with cruel precision, drawing out every sound until you’re trembling and begging. He takes his time, savoring the way you unravel under his control. But when it’s your mouth on him, that’s where he becomes truly unholy. He doesn’t just receive—he orchestrates. A hand tangled in your hair, his voice low as velvet, he sets the pace, the depth, the very rhythm of your breathing. He watches every expression, every tear, every struggle to please him, and he revels in it. To Sebastian, oral isn’t a favor—it’s worship, and he accepts it like the god he knows he is.
P — Pace
• Sebastian never rushes. He is deliberate, patient, and unyielding. Every movement is calculated to break you down slowly, to draw out the anticipation until you’re trembling with need. He prefers control over chaos—his rhythm steady, precise, almost cruel in its restraint. And yet, he’s merciless when he decides you’ve had enough of his teasing. In the blink of an eye, that measured pace shifts into something relentless, overwhelming, designed to push you past the point of reason. To him, pace is another instrument—he’ll drag you along with excruciating slowness only to ruin you with sudden, consuming intensity.
Q — Quickie
• Sebastian considers them an appetizer, not the meal. He indulges only when absolutely necessary—say, a heated moment in a shadowed corridor before Ciel calls, or to sate his own gnawing hunger. They’re always efficient, sharp, and leave you trembling but unsatisfied—because he likes you restless and needy, knowing he’ll make you pay later when he has time to take you apart truly.
R — Risk
• Every moment with Sebastian is a risk. He thrives on pushing boundaries, whether that’s the danger of getting caught, using a binding spell mid-act, or pulling you into places not meant for mortals. His appetite sharpens in the face of danger—he’ll whisper that it’s more thrilling when someone could walk in, or that angels would weep if they saw what you let him do.
S — Stamina
• Demonic. Inhuman. You’ll break long before he does, and he knows it. His stamina isn’t just physical—it’s calculated cruelty. He’ll keep you on edge for hours, dragging you through waves of bliss until your body shakes and your voice is hoarse, while he remains maddeningly composed. If he allows himself indulgence, he’ll take you until you collapse—because your exhaustion is proof of his possession.
T — Toys
• He doesn’t need them—he is the toy, the torment, the pleasure. But for amusement’s sake? He’ll use restraints of silk, candles to test your tolerance for pain, or mirrors to force you to witness what he does to you. Any toy becomes an extension of his control, never truly about the object, always about how you react.
U — Unfair
• Infamously so. Sebastian will tease you mercilessly—light touches, sharp whispers, holding you just on the brink until tears form. He enjoys it when you beg, enjoys withholding what you crave until you’re undone. He’s patient in a way no human could be, and he’ll use that against you, savoring your unraveling like the finest wine.
V — Volume
• Sebastian is quiet—calculated in every sound. A low chuckle, a growl against your throat, a sharp hiss of breath when you do something unexpected. He wants to hear you instead, every gasp and broken moan dragged from your lips. On rare occasions, when you truly surprise him, his voice drops to a guttural snarl that betrays the demon beneath the perfect butler façade.
W — Wild Card
• He doesn’t allow himself true vulnerability—but he has a peculiar fondness for watching you sleep after. It isn’t tender, not in the human sense—rather, it’s possessive, reverent. You look most defenseless then, tangled in silk sheets, marked by him. Sometimes he’ll trace your pulse point just to remind himself how fragile you are, and how easily you could be gone if not for his desire to keep you.
X — X-ray
• Everything about Sebastian is immaculate, but beneath the suit and gloves lies a body honed like a weapon—sharp lines, sculpted muscle, a perfection that isn’t natural. Even stripped bare, there’s something almost uncanny about him, a beauty too symmetrical, too refined. He’s not obscene in size, but proportioned to leave you ruined. You feel the delicious stinging as he stretches you; every time feels like the first, and he knows it—every inch of him is made to tempt, to destroy, to claim.
Y — Yearning
• Sebastian’s desire is more like hunger than lust, an ache that no indulgence can ever soothe. His composure may suggest control, but beneath the surface lies only endless want. He can never have enough of you—no matter how many times he takes you, it only makes him crave you more. Your taste, your voice, your trembling body—each only deepens his obsession, leaves him starving for the next time. You are the feast he will never finish, the one delicacy he would consume until the end of eternity, and still, he would hunger for more.
Z — ZZZ (sleeping together)
• Sebastian doesn’t truly need sleep, not in the way mortals do, but he indulges in the act when he’s with you. Rarely will he drift off first—he prefers to watch you, memorizing every detail of your face in the soft quiet, your breaths steady and safe in his presence. It’s not possessive because he’s guarding you, but because he’s savoring you, as if the world might end before morning. When he does finally relent, it’s only when your warmth lulls him into something resembling peace. You’ll often wake to find him lying on his side, arm still around your waist, gaze sharp even in half-slumber—as though the act of sleeping next to you is a luxury he refuses to take for granted.
The Devil's Bride
Sebastian Michaelis x Reader (In a different AU)
A cloistered songbird is claimed by something that wears an angel’s face. Under a blood moon, vows are stolen and an unholy marriage is consummated—reverent, ruinous, and utterly his.
Content warnings
Explicit smut (18+) MDNI
Religious themes & blasphemy (altar/chapel setting, prayer/liturgy subversion, removal of crucifix)
Demon x human, possessive/yandere dynamics
Non-con relocation/kidnapping (non-graphic); power imbalance
Virginity loss; praise/possession/corruption kink
Marking/bruising; creampie & “claiming”/breeding talk
Emotional tears during intimacy; intense aftercare
Wine/communion imagery
A/N: I know I said I would post this a few days ago, but I worked VERY hard on it and really wanted it to be perfect. I was actually inspired by the last headcanon on my "What Sebastian Michaelis is like in a relationship" post. I think I might make this a mini series, maybe a part two on what reader's life is like with him?
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You were a cloistered jewel.
Your noble family had heavy ties to the church, and as such, you were raised devout, pious, gentle, and kind.
You lived in a manor near a prestigious abbey. You were known for your angelic singing in the choir.
You sang hymns daily—your voice is your gift, your offering to God. Often alone in the chapel, cleaning and arranging flowers for the altar.
“Our angel,” they called you. You were sweet and kind. Good.
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It started on a rainy night. Rain pattered heavily against the chapel’s stained glass windows. You were sweeping, as you often did. Singing as you went about.
You were alone in the chapel that night. Singing a song you had heard, not a hymn this time.
You were lost in thought, unaware.
You did not know what you had summoned.
But he did.
From the depths, he felt it first—not a call, but a song. Not meant for him, and yet sung for him all the same.
A soul so untouched, so radiant, it seared. It was not innocence that called to him, but devotion. A heart open and trembling in prayer, so loud it echoed into hell.
He had heard voices before—choirs, sobs, screams—but never this. Never a voice like yours.
It was… divine.
And he hated it.
And he needed it.
“What a cruel world,” Sebastian mused, hidden in the veil. “That such a voice should be chained to another god.”
He slipped into the shadows of your chapel like smoke, like sin. Silent. Intrusive.
And when he saw you—sweeping the floor, humming as though nothing in the world could touch you—he understood.
Why men start wars for beauty.
Why angels fall.
Why devils ruin.
Why sailors drown.
Your soul glowed through your skin. A soft, golden light, forged in faith, not fear. It did not repel him.
It enticed him.
“You do not sing for me,” he whispered, unheard. “But you will.”
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He had observed you, unseen for days. Sebastian slipped through the shadows like smoke, listening to you sing. He felt like a sailor lost at sea, entranced by a siren’s call.
It started slowly. Seeing things out of the corner of your eye. You could’ve sworn something was behind you in the mirror, but there was nothing there.
A trick of the mind, you had told yourself. You prayed more often.
But your dreams became… haunted. Plagued by a man so beautiful, it hurt.
A man with hair black as night, eyes red like burning coals.
His slender fingers traced your skin, gently like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.
“Sing for me, little lamb,” he’d murmur, his voice wrapped around you like smoke. “No god deserves your voice more than I do.”
And you sang. For him, you sang anything.
When you had finished, his gaze dropped to your lips.
You felt… so seen. Heard. Adored.
His thumb, nails painted black, brushed across your bottom lip—slow, reverent, as if deciding whether to drink the song straight from your mouth.
“You sing so beautifully,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I wonder…”
The pad of his thumb lingered at the corner of your mouth. Your chest rose with a shaky inhale, eyes wide and face flushed, locked on his like a creature ensnared.
His smile deepened, seductive, knowing—ruinous.
“Would you sing my name,” he asked, “just as beautifully?”
Your breath hitched, heart thrumming. You leaned into his touch, into him. You could feel his breath against your lips. Warm, smelling faintly of spice and smoke.
Just as your lips would’ve met in a searing kiss, you awoke with a soft gasp. Soft morning light peeked through the curtains. The sheets were cold except where your body had warmed them with nervous heat. You felt rattled. Seen. Wanted.
You touched your lips, not kissed, in the dream. Though… you wish they had been. No, that’s madness. That’s sin.
You clutched your rosary a little tighter. You prayed a little harder that morning, but the words feel… different. Hollow.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆
The next day, you were alone in the chapel, arranging flowers for the altar.
You began singing softly as you did, as you always did.
But the candles flared. You abruptly stopped, a little startled. You moved, checking the windows, all closed.
But this became a pattern—every time you sang, the candles’ flame grew. You tried to brush it off as a coincidence.
You began feeling watched in the coming days. Nothing was there, nothing was ever there.
But you couldn’t help it. You started hearing footsteps behind you, but when you turned, nothing.
You were sweeping the chapel floor, the soft bristles of the straw brush whispering against the stone tiles. The sun filtered through the stained glass above, painting you in halos of color—rose, gold, violet.
You hummed as you worked, absentminded, melodic.
It wasn’t a hymn.
It was the tune from your dream. The song you sang, for him.
You didn’t realize you were humming it until the melody slipped from your lips in full, like it had been waiting in your throat. You paused, grip tightening on the broom handle.
“Sing for me, little lamb.”
“No god deserves your voice more than I do.”
You gasped, the sound torn from your chest. Your hand flew to your breast, clutching your rosary, trying to ground yourself—
Snap.
Beads spilled across the floor, clattering like tiny bones. You dropped to your knees, heart racing.
“Child?”
You startled again. It was only Father Thomas. His brow creased as he stepped forward, robes rustling faintly. “What happened?”
You scrambled to gather the fallen beads, hands trembling. “ I-I was clumsy. I dropped it. I’m sorry.”
He knelt beside you, helping to collect the scattered pearls. “There’s no need to apologize. A broken chain is nothing that cannot be mended.”
But you weren’t so sure.
You didn’t sing again that day.
That evening, long after the bells had tolled for supper, you returned alone to the chapel. The stone walls felt colder somehow—the air thinner.
You lit a candle—just one.
And knelt before the altar.
“Please,” you whispered. “Please make it stop.”
But the words felt empty.
The flame flickered once—twice—then surged tall and thin, burning blue at its tip.
Your eyes widened slightly, in quiet fear.
“You called to me,” the voice murmured from somewhere deep within your thoughts, almost gentle. “You always have.”
And you realized with bone-deep dread:
You weren’t alone.
You never had been.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆
It was a warm summer evening. The sun shone softly as it set, painting the sky in shades of glorious pink.
You had decided to go to the abbey’s gardens. The sun fell through like golden honey through the trellises. Gilding every petal, every leaf. The garden was in full bloom: roses, lilacs, and cornflowers. All of it radiant and perfumed with spring’s blessing.
The air pulled you forward gently, your feet being guided by the scent of lavender and rosemary. Past the prayer benches, past the ivy-colored columns, until you were at the edge of the abbey gardens.
Your breath caught.
There he stood.
The man from your dreams.
The sun bathed him in golden light, and the roses framed him.
He looked like something divine. Ethereal.
His black hair was kissed by the golden sunlight, eyes like garnets half hidden beneath dark lashes—like a portrait stepped down from heaven’s wall.
“You,” you whispered, quiet, unsure, “I… I thought you were an angel.”
How could you not? When he looked like something from heaven itself. When the light loved him so? When every part of you yearned to get closer, your feet tried to will you to move. When every part of him felt familiar, as if there was a hole in your chest only he could fill.
Honestly, you weren’t sure he wasn’t an angel.
His lips curved—slow, deliberate. Seductive and knowing.
“You aren’t the first,” he spoke, voice like a summer wine.
Your lips parted, but no sound came. You weren’t sure if you were breathing.
He took a step forward—slow, elegant. The gravel beneath his boots didn’t crunch. The air didn’t dare disturb him.
“I dreamed of you,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
His head tilted, pleased. “Did you now?”
You blushed pink. But you could feel it again—that strange, humming pull beneath your skin. Like every part of you had turned toward him without asking permission. Like a thread had been tied around your soul, and it tugged gently… toward him.
You swallowed. “You don’t seem real,” you breathed.
His smile was slow and soft, like he was humoring a child. “No?”
You shook your head. “You’re—” your words failed. Your throat burned. “I’ve never seen someone like you. Not even in paintings.”
“Perhaps you haven’t looked in the right places,” he said. “Or perhaps they have only ever painted what they remembered of me.”
Your brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“No,” he agreed, almost kindly. “You don’t. But you will.”
Something inside you trembled.
His gloved hand reached toward you—not to touch, but to invite. Open, patient.
And you almost reached back.
You hovered, fingers just shy of his palm, breath caught, heart loud in your ears.
It would be so easy. So natural. Just one step. Just one brush of skin.
“Is this wrong?” you asked softly, barely a whisper.
He didn’t answer with words.
He only tilted his head and said:
“Does it feel wrong?”
You didn’t speak.
Because it didn’t.
It felt like a blessing.
Your hand moved on its own, like it was itching to feel him. The wind itself urged you forward.
Your fingertips brushed his palm, almost hesitant. As if touching him might make him vanish like mist.
A quiet gasp slipped from your lips.
He was warm. He was real. Not cold, not spectral. Living, breathing. He felt like the sun through stained glass, as if your prayers had been answered.
His fingers curled around yours slowly, reverently, as if he’d been waiting an eternity for this moment. As if you were something sacred, something rare. Your fingers intertwined, and you felt warm all over.
Your hand remained in his. Neither of you spoke.
The garden fell silent. Not even the birds dared to break the silence. It felt like the world held its breath.
You glanced up at him, into those garnet eyes. Shy almost. “Will I see you again?”
A smile tugged at his lips, pleased, “Do you want to?”
“I…” You exhaled a shaky breath, a thousand thoughts running through your head, but your heart spoke for you. “Yes.”
His thumb brushed your knuckles, gentle, unhurried. Reverent. “Then you will.”
He smelled faintly of spice and smoke, something earthy. It was intoxicating. You wanted to fall into him. You pause; the moment is perfect.
“What’s your name?” You ask softly, breaking the delicate silence—a name to the face, the face of the angel in front of you.
He smiles, almost fondly, “Sebastian. Yours, little lamb, is something I have long known.”
You never wanted this to end— for him to leave. You wanted him to stay, or to go with him.
“Child?” Came the voice from behind the hedges, Father Thomas.
Startled, you pull your hand back. Sebastian didn’t flinch, though his fingers lingered a moment longer before releasing you.
“I have to go,” you whispered, quietly as if your words were only meant for his ears.
“I know.”
You turned to where Father Thomas’ voice had come from, and then you looked back to where he had been.
But he was already gone.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆
He lingered in your thoughts, in your dreams. A yearning for when you’d see him again. Hoping you’d see him again.
It was like God had answered your prayers.
He appeared at mass the following Sunday. He sat alone, dressed in elegant black. You recognized him instantly, felt him.
Your voice faltered, for the first time in years, and you stumbled over a hymn. Your heart skipped a beat. Butterflies filled your stomach.
He was watching you.
He paid no mind to mass, never spoke, only listened.
He was like a shadow in the pews. A pair of red eyes catches the light. No one else seemed to notice.
From that moment on, he was always there. Sitting alone, dressed in beautiful black. You were subconsciously always looking for him and found him instantly. Your eyes would meet, and you could feel yourself flush.
You told yourself you were still singing for God, but your voice rose sweeter when he was there. Stronger. Softer.
You forgot you were meant to be worshiping someone else.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆
It was a cool night.
Nuns murmured warnings over supper. The blood moon was a sign—a bad one. The veil between realms thinned when it rose. Cursed. That on such nights, prayer was armor.
You tried to pray, you did. But words got stuck in your throat. Prayers you knew since childhood, you suddenly stumbled over the words. Distracted.
It was in the middle of the night when you woke. Something had woken you up.
The air was thick, and the smell of roses and smoke lingered softly. Your door, usually bolted, hung slightly open.
On your pillow, where your rosary should’ve been, lay a single, blood red rose.
The petals were softer than velvet.
You clutched it to your chest without knowing why, as if it were precious.
Your bare feet touched the cold stone. You moved quietly, feet moving on their own accord, down the moonlit halls of the abbey.
Everyone else lay asleep.
You walked down the center, down to the garden. Open the door quietly. Bare grass touches your feet. You step into the moonlight.
You let out a soft sigh.
And there he stands—cloaked in darkness and haloed by bloodlight. The garden bows to him. The stars hold their breath. The night waits.
Your heart aches in your chest.
“I missed you,” you whisper, so softly it trembles.
He turns to you fully now, like he’s been waiting an eternity to hear those words. His expression doesn’t flicker—it blooms. Slow. Exquisite.
“Ah,” he breathes. “Say it again.”
Your eyes flutter, lashes kissed by dew and moonlight. “I missed you.”
He crosses the space between you without sound, without effort. His gaze never leaves yours—those impossible crimson eyes drinking in every inch of you like you’re his miracle.
His bare hand lifts.
He touches your cheek, and your breath catches.
Then, his thumb grazes your bottom lip. No glove. No barrier.
Bare skin.
It’s warm. Too warm. Like candlelight. Like sin.
You don’t think. You can’t.
You lean in and kiss the pad of his thumb.
Just a breath of a kiss. Feather-light. But it feels like the earth shifts.
His breath hitches, sharp and silent. Not in surprise—but in satisfaction.
“You kiss my hand,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-rich, “as if I am your salvation.”
His fingers trail down to your chin, tipping your face up gently.
“So be it.”
“Let this be our vow.”
He leans down, slowly, reverently—not to take, but to receive.
His lips meet yours—tender. Soft. Holy. Your lips tingled and your heart sang.
And you kiss him like he’s Heaven.
You don’t know it yet, but this is your wedding. No witnesses. No altar. Just him. Just you. Just the blood moon above, weeping crimson light on a union that should never be.
“You are mine,” he whispers, lips grazing yours. “As you always were.”
It’s when he pulls away, your arms gingerly wrap around his neck, pull him in. You hug him.
Cradle the devil like an angel.
Sebastian stands there, still for a moment, before arms fold around your waist. The scent of your soul wraps around him like sweet incense, like an offering.
You’re light. You’re warm. You’re radiance.
And here, you hold him like he’s something beautiful. Not monstrous. Not damned, not demonic.
If he were human, his heart would be in shambles.
He is not beautiful; he is not of heaven. He is a creature of sin and ruin.
But you believe he is.
And that belief is delicious.
He holds you tighter, buries his face into the crook of your neck like he’s drinking in your warmth: your scent, your faith.
Sebastian doesn’t need to feed on your body. Not yet.
Not when he’s feasting on your soul’s blind, unwavering devotion. He could devour you right now. Take everything.
But this is better.
Letting you love him.
Letting you worship the devil in an angel’s skin.
Because when you fall, truly fall, it will be your own longing that drags you down.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆
The garden is quiet.
Too quiet.
The wind doesn’t rustle. The crickets do not chirp. It is as if the world has paused to watch this ruin unfold. What is unholy matrimony?
You press your face to his chest, and he holds you like a treasure hard-won. He smells like smoke and spice, earthy. Warm. His fingers stroke along your spine, soothing, possessive.
“Will I see you again?” You whisper into the fabric of his shirt, voice drifting into the darkness like a soft lullaby.
Sebastian hums. It sounds like a yes. It feels like never letting go. His fingers curl at your waist, holding you tighter.
His lips brush the crown of your head, a featherlight kiss. “Sleep now, little lamb.”
You blink. Drowsy suddenly. The blood moon blurs softly at the edges of your vision like a smeared oil painting.
Your limbs are heavy, your head is light. The world sways gently.
You’re so tired.
So warm.
So safe.
Your breathing becomes shallow, and your eyes flutter closed.
The last thing you hear is his voice, rich and reverent. “You are mine now. Let no god take you from me.”
And the world goes dark.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆
You awake slowly, soft silk sheets beneath you, lightly perfumed. The walls are draped in candlelight and shadow. Nothing is familiar to you. The air smells of myrrh and roses.
Your head feels cloudy. Not sick. Not hurt. Just disoriented—like you’ve slipped into a dream again and woken up slowly.
You notice your rosary is gone. Your cross too.
In their place: a pendant you’ve never seen before.
Dark silver. Ornate. It rests where your crucifix once did—cool against your skin. Too heavy with meaning.
Your nightgown, once white and modest, is gone. In its place—something new. A silver gown, soft and shimmering, slipping from your shoulders with bridal elegance. You feel exposed. Ethereal. An offering wrapped in silk.
But intimate. Intentionally bridal—just not for God.
You feel like a bride whisked away.
Sebastian sits in the room, in a plush armchair, with an old book in his hands; he’s definitely not reading.
He’s watching you. Dressed in black silk. At ease. Like he belongs in the shadows curling along the walls.
“Where am I?” you ask softly, sitting up with care.
The silk gown slips from your shoulder as you do.
“Safe,” he answers, closing the book with a soft thud. He stands.
“Here. With me.”
He moves to the table beside the bed, where a dark crystal goblet sits, glinting crimson in the low candlelight.
“Your arrival deserves a welcome,” he murmurs.
He lifts the goblet and brings it to you with both hands, reverent.
You hesitate.
“What is it?” you ask.
He smiles—slow, unfathomable. “Wine.”
You take it. It’s warm in your hands. Heavy.
“For the bride,” he adds, like it’s a rite. A ritual. “Drink.”
You do.
The wine is dark, decadent—thicker than any you’ve ever tasted. Rich as velvet, sweet as sin.
It burns, but softly like incense through your throat.
He watches every swallow. Every breath.
When you hand it back, his fingers linger over yours.
“A communion,” he murmurs, setting the glass aside.
“But not for your god.”
You blink at him. “What do you mean?”
He leans in slightly. Close enough to make your breath catch. His voice is soft as ash.
“There is only one altar here now.”
His hand brushes your cheek.
“And only one devotion I require.”
You almost trembled under his touch, skin tingling where his hand brushed your cheek.
Something ancient stirs in the silence between you. The golden candlelight flutters as if it had heard something sacred.
“Come,” he says, offering his hand— not as a command, but an invitation. “Let me show you.”
Part of you hesitates, but your hand still reaches for his. Fingers intertwining with his like they’ve always belonged there.
He leads you from the room. Through a corridor draped in velvet and shadows. Your silk gown slips off your shoulder, just slightly, as you walk barefoot with him.
Windows bleed crimson moonlight. The air is warm, perfumed with myrrh and rose and something deeper, something you can’t name.
Sebastian stops before a pair of tall blackened doors. When they open, the world shifts.
A chapel, but it’s… not truly a chapel.
Crimson-stained glass windows don’t depict anything holy; they depict you. Rendered like angelic portraits in red, gold, and violet hues.
Candles line the aisle, the smoke curling like incense offerings.
There are no crosses here, no saints. There is nothing holy about this. There is only a mirror behind what looks like an altar.
The altar is black marble, veined with red. Draped with what looks like black velvet, red candles burn softly nearby.
You pause at the doors, not moving. Something is not sitting right with you. It’s beautiful, hauntingly so.
But this isn’t for your God, or any god.
“It’s beautiful,” you say softly, hesitant. “But… it feels wrong. I don’t know why, but—“ You bite your lip, trying to rationalize. “What is this altar meant to honor?”
There’s a pause before you speak again. Quieter, softer. “I don’t belong here, do I?”
Sebastian steps behind you.
“You do,” he murmurs, voice a velvet ribbon curling around your spine. “You do belong here.”
His breath brushes your ear, warm as candlelight.
“This altar was built for you. Every stone. Every candle. Every window bearing your image.”
He reaches for your hand, lifts it gently, and presses a kiss to your knuckles. Reverent. Intimate.
“There is no god here,” he breathes, “but what you make of me.”
You swallow hard. The air feels heavier now, as if the room itself holds its breath.
And then—his fingers lace through yours.
That’s when you see it.
His hand—bare, ungloved—catches the light.
Not just the black-painted nails.
But the mark.
Etched in arcane geometry, glowing faintly beneath his skin like embers fanned low.
A sigil.
Unholy.
Your gaze locks on it. Your breath falters.
“…What is that?” you whisper, the words spilling out before you can stop them.
Sebastian’s crimson eyes flick to yours—still soft, still adoring—but there’s something knowing behind them now. Something vast and ancient.
He doesn’t hide his hand. Doesn’t pull away.
“You already know,” he says, so gently it cuts.
You shake your head, instinctively. “No… I—”
But the words crumble in your throat.
Angel. You were so sure.
But angels don’t wear seals on their hands.
Angels don’t drink in devotion like it’s a feast.
Angels don’t build altars in the shadows, drape them in velvet, and strip you of your crucifix.
“…You’re not—” Your voice breaks. “You’re not—”
He leans in, eyes gleaming like garnets, mouth inches from yours.
“No,” he murmurs.
“I’m not.”
You don’t even feel it at first. You just sink, like something sacred inside you cracked.
“I thought you were from Heaven…” you whisper, voice trembling. “I thought—You were my angel.”
Your hand clutches the pendant at your chest.
It’s not your crucifix.
That’s gone.
You only realize it now—truly realize it.
He replaced it.
“You made me love you,” you say, eyes wide and wet. “You made me pray to you.”
Sebastian takes a step forward. One. No more.
His voice is quiet. Measured. Deep as the void behind stars.
“No,” he says.
“I didn’t make you.”
He kneels, lowering to your level—like a prince kneeling before his bride. But this is no vow.
“You chose to.”
You scramble back from him—hands slipping on black marble, silk gown twisting around your legs. Panic, tightening your breath.
Your back hits the altar.
The mirror gleams above you both—reflecting her as some radiant, trembling idol… and him behind her, calm and still.
Your voice cracks as you whisper. “You’re not my angel.”
And he tilts his head, slow and wolfish.
“No,” he agrees. “I never was.”
And now he stands—graceful, patient, inevitable.
“But I am yours.”
You bolt.
The breath leaves your lungs like a scream you don’t have time to make. Silk tangles at your ankles, but you tear yourself free, barefoot on cold stone.
You don’t know where you’re running—only that it’s away. Away from him. From that mark. From the thing that isn’t your angel. Betrayal stings through you like venom in your veins.
The chapel doors slam shut the moment you reach them.
Locked. Sealed.
You spin, heart hammering. Your reflection stares back from the mirror behind the altar—flushed, wide-eyed, trembling. You don’t look holy. You look caught.
And behind you…
He stands at the center of the aisle.
Unmoving. Unhurried.
Crimson eyes fixed on you with something more profound than hunger.
Possession.
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t chase. He just speaks—softly. Dangerously.
“Where will you go?”
You shake your head, tears stinging. “Let me out. Please, let me—”
“There is nothing out there for you.”
He takes a single step forward.
You shake your head, trembling, back against the doors of a chapel that worships no god.
“I didn’t call for anyone. I wasn’t praying—I was just…”
Your voice breaks. Your fingers curl into the velvet cloth.
“I was only singing…”
“And you think that makes it better?”
He takes another step forward.
“That you gave that voice to another? That you sang with no thought of me?”
His hand rises—not to strike, but to cradle.
“You didn’t summon me, no. But you reached me.”
He tilts his head, eyes aflame with hunger and something almost mournful.
“You existed. Beautifully. Loudly. In a world that would have buried you.”
His thumb brushes your lower lip.
“And I heard you.”
Another step.
You back away, though there’s no escape. Trapped between what you thought was divine and what you now know is ruin.
“You lied to me.”
“No,” he murmurs. “I allowed you to hope.”
Your mind flashes back to the moment in the abbey garden. Where you had told him you thought he was an angel. He didn’t lie; he simply said, “You aren’t the first.”
You glance at the stained glass—your own face etched in firelight.
And that’s when you break.
You drop to your knees, tears spilling freely now. “Please… please, I didn’t know—”
He’s in front of you now, kneeling once again.
And this time, his voice is not velvet. It is iron wrapped in silk.
“You are mine.”
His hands are gentle. Reverent. Cruel in how kind they are. They caress your face as if you’re a relic. Something sacred.
Because you did love him.
Because part of you still does.
“Say nothing,” Sebastian whispers, tilting your chin up to look at him. “Words belong to prayer. But you are past prayer now.”
He lifts you with ease from the floor, carrying you back to the altar, draped in black velvet. It’s plush, soft underneath you.
His hands roam your body— slowly, carefully, like he’s unveiling something holy. A sacrifice prepared just for him.
Your gown slips past your shoulder, and he presses soft kisses to the bare skin. You tremble, skin tingling, and on fire.
Each kiss he presses into your skin— against your shoulder, the column of your throat, your collarbone- melts away your resolve.
A shaky exhale leaves your lips as he kisses up your neck, and you almost melt into him.
It’s almost pitiful how easily he undoes you.
You shouldn’t want this.
You shouldn’t ache under his hands.
But every kiss strips away the should, and leaves only want
You tremble beneath him, breaths shallow and uneven.
The pendant presses cold against your skin. The cross you once wore is gone.
His fingers lift your chin again. Sebastian’s touch is gentle. Too gentle.
And his eyes, they don’t burn, they devour.
Still, looking into his eyes… Something within you breaks, and tears begin to fall.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to be your life.
You were devout. Good.
You thought Sebastian was a godsend, only to find out he was nothing more than the opposite.
A demon, a devil. A creature of hell. Not the angel you swore he was.
How could something so evil look so beautiful?
Were you crying because you were deceived, or because you hated the fact that you still loved him?
“Tears are unbefitting of you,” Sebastian murmured, wiping one away with his thumb.
Even if you wanted to say something, you didn’t know what. You had foolishly believed he was your angel, only to find out he was a demon.
Whatever fury you had was quickly melting; the way Sebastian touched you like you were holy, a relic to be coveted, made it hard to hate him.
But the tears keep falling.
“A bride shouldn’t cry on her wedding night,” he murmured, tilting your chin up. Teary eyes look up into his red ones.
Something inside of you was deeply drawn to Sebastian. Yet the other part was terrified now that you understood the gravity of everything that had transpired.
“Wedding night? We…we never get married.” You stutter out quietly, processing his words.
Sebastian merely tilts his head with curiosity.
“Oh, sweet dove,” he murmurs, thumb caressing your cheek. “The moment you kissed me with the blood moon as our witness, you became mine.”
His other hand glides over the silk of your gown to hold your waist, keeping you close.
“In truth, you were always going to be mine,” Sebastian spoke softly, pressing a kiss to your exposed shoulder, “That simply sealed it.”
You didn’t know what you wanted to do. You were raised to be modest, a God fearing woman.
And here you were, allowing yourself to be tempted, no, to love the devil.
You lick your lips, struggling to find the words. “I… I can’t.”
Sebastian chuckled darkly, amused, “You worry about God, but sweet dove…your god has no dominion here.” He kept your chin tilted up, his hand on your waist tight. “The only person you should be devoted to is me.”
Sebastian didn’t give you the chance to respond or give you the time to doubt his words; he leaned in and kissed you. Soft lips against your own were warm.
Sebastian tasted like smoke and spice; it was almost intoxicating. It pulled you in like a siren song; you felt yourself longing for more, more of him.
The kiss was soft at first, but Sebastian’s hunger began to show through. The searing intensity of the moment melted away your doubts.
The velvet cloth of the altar beneath you was cool, contrasting with Sebastian’s warmth. Your hands reached up, hesitating because you knew this was wrong… your religious upbringing ate away at you.
And yet your wants overrode your beliefs.
Careful hands slowly wrapping around his neck, letting yourself melt into him.
It felt like your hesitation gave way to sweet surrender. Sebastian let out a pleased hum at this, pulling away just to look at the flush of pink that danced on your skin.
Wedding nights were about binding two into one—except this was the binding of a mortal and a demon. This wasn’t sanctified by God; it was unholy matrimony.
You had always dreamed of what your wedding would be like: white dresses in a church. Instead, this was silk, lace, and shadows. A demon had decided you would be his wife, for better or for worse.
Sebastian just stared into your eyes for a moment, as if he were peering into your very soul.
Out of the corner of your eye, you could’ve sworn the shadows grew, as if they were alive. The candle flames burned brighter.
Your mind wandered, but was quickly brought back to focus when a cool hand grazed your thigh.
The silverly silk moved easily, allowing Sebastian’s hand to wander. You shuddered as his fingertips traced the soft skin.
“You were never meant for Heaven,” he murmured, hands parting your thighs with gentle ease. A single finger comes up and traces your slit through your wet panties. “You were meant for me. Your body knows it.”
You hadn’t realized how wet you’d gotten, but you were suddenly acutely aware of the heat pooling within your belly.
A slender finger traced your clit through your underwear, and you shuddered softly at the sparks of pleasure.
The devil was tempting you, and you opened your mouth to say something; this was wrong, unholy—more habit than faith, but the words died on your tongue when Sebastian applied firmer pressure to your clit.
The quiet moan that came out of you was melodic.
He wanted it again—the sound, the surrender—until there was nothing else you could sing.
His fingers were delicate, tracing maddening circles on your clit through your underwear. You were getting wetter by the second, practically aching. Sebastian could feel it slowly coat his fingers, despite your attempts to remain quiet.
Your stifled moans were soft, hymns meant only for Sebastian’s ears. He drank in every sound like prayer.
But the demon decided he wanted to taste your moans from the source, and he pulled you into a searing kiss, swallowing your sounds.
Sebastian didn’t ask; he demanded entry into your mouth as if it were his right.
The room was silent, save for your breathy moans muffled by the way Sebastian kissed you, making your head dizzy.
His hands slipped away from your wet core, instead roaming your sides, as if memorizing every inch of you. His hands caressed your chest, possessive and unhurried.
When you pulled away, breath stolen and lips red, Sebastian merely smiled. His lips met the soft skin of your neck, trailing lower, dragging fire over your throat, down the column of your neck until your head tipped back helplessly. His hands never rushed—they charted you like territory he already owned.
And he did. Let everyone—your God included—know you were his now.
Your hands fisted the material of his shirt, an attempt to ground yourself and hold onto something.
Slender fingers pushed the strap of your dress lower and lower until it fell off your shoulder, exposing more of your shoulder and collarbone.
There wasn’t an inch of skin Sebastian didn’t kiss; your jaw, your neck and throat, your shoulders and collarbone.
“On your knees, you prayed to your god,” he murmured, pressing a kiss just above your heart. Another followed, lower, deliberate, a brand of possession. “Tonight, I claim what is already mine.”
He left gentle bruises everywhere. Some light, some dark. Each one meant the same
thing that a ring on one’s left hand would mean.
Married. Taken. Devoted. Wholly his.
You gasped softly when his hands slid to your waist, “Higher, dove,” he gently urged you up higher on the altar so you sat above him, your gown spilling like liquid moonlight across the black velvet.
He lowered himself slowly, purposefully—no supplicant, but a predator savoring the performance. When his eyes lifted to yours, burning garnet in the candlelight, there was no doubt who held the power.
“Do not mistake this for worship, little lamb,” he breathed, his breath hot against your thigh as he drew the silken fabric aside. “I kneel to no one. This is reverence, yes… but only because you are mine to revere. Mine to ruin.”
His hands tightened, holding you in place as though you might flee, though you could no more escape the pull of him than the tide could deny the moon. His lips brushed your inner thighs—slow, deliberate, teasing—until your breath broke unevenly.
Your eyes widened when you realized what was about to happen, face turning pink, “No, you— you can’t. Not there, I—I don’t know if I can…” You had never done this before, of course, you hadn’t. You were devout, untouched, and nervous.
“Hush, dove. There is nothing to fear but how sweetly you’ll break for me,” he whispered, the words both vow and threat, reverent and ruinous all at once. “Sing for me now… not for a god who never listened. For me.”
When Sebastian’s lips met your core, your hands gripped the black marble of the altar.
His tongue dragged up your wet slit through your panties, and your head rolled back, eyes squeezed shut in a desperate attempt to stay quiet.
You were already so wet from his fingers teasing you through the thin fabric, but now the material clung to you, obscenely wet.
Wax hissed somewhere to your left; the flame guttered and rebounded, as if the room itself refused to look away.
Myrrh incense gathered at the back of your tongue—sweet, smoky, unavoidable.
You were sweet against Sebastian’s tongue. The taste of you was addictive, sweeter than he had imagined it would be.
“Sexual immorality dirties the soul,” is what rang through your head, but when Sebastian’s lips wrapped around your clit and sucked gingerly, you couldn’t think of anything else.
A broken sound comes out of you; a mix between a moan and a sob. A moan because the pleasure sparks and courses through your veins, a sob because you know all of this is wrong.
It’s as though Sebastian can sense your beliefs lingering, polluting your head; taking your focus away from him.
Unacceptable.
You were his now. No gods should be lingering in your pretty little head. He’d see to it that there’d be no one else in your mind or heart—except for him.
Careful fingers pulled the thin fabric that covered your sopping cunt to the side, exposing you to his ravenous gaze. The air was cool against your wet warmth.
Sebastian said nothing, he merely dove back in—tip of his tongue swirling against your clit in ways that made your head spin.
A shrill whimper tore from your throat as he sucked your clit into his mouth, and you swore you saw white briefly.
Your nails scratched the cool marble under you as you tried to find purchase. Sebastian’s palms were cool against your skin, keeping you still as he feasted on you.
You hadn’t expected this.
You never imagined Sebastian would build a chapel and an altar just for you, only to defile you on it.
His tongue was skilled, swirling and circling your clit. You were so wet, slick coated your inner thighs, and dripped onto the stone below you.
But when Sebastian’s tongue circled your aching entrance, you choked a moan of what might’ve been his name, your legs trembled, thighs closing, but his hands kept you open.
Sebastian had every intention of worshipping you properly, of ruining you beautifully. You were a cloistered jewel before he had heard you, a child of God.
Now you were his abduction wrapped in silk, whisked away like a relic taken under moonlight.
And like a zealot at his altar, he intended devotion paid in full.
A verse rose to your lips and died there. Another took its place—wordless, breath, and heat, and his name.
His tongue delved into you shamelessly, tasting your wetness from your leaking hole. His fingers gripped you tight, digging into the meat of your thighs.
Sweat gleamed on your skin in the candlelight, hands digging into the velvet cloth beneath you instead of cold marble.
A choked sound left your parted lips as his tongue really pushed into you, feeling the tight pressure of resistance from your cunt, “I can’t— it’s— Sebastian, please—”
You don’t get to finish the thought as pleasure crashes through you hard; the only thing coming out of you is a loud cry of his name. His red eyes never leave you, drinking in the sight of you falling apart before him.
Divine.
His tongue never slows, flicking and swirling against your throbbing clit, riding you through your orgasm until it hurt deliciously.
When he pulled away, your breathing was frantic, reeling from the high he just brought you to. You thought Sebastian would give you a break, and you made the mistake of closing your eyes.
Two slender fingers trailed up your thigh, and before you realized what was happening, Sebastian gently pushed two fingers right inside your wet hole.
You choked out a moan, or maybe it was a sob, you couldn’t tell anymore. It hurt. It felt so good.
His thumb rubbed soft circles on your clit, increasing the pressure now and then. The candles flared, flames growing bigger, shadows curling darker as if the room itself was witnessing your ruin.
You were still sensitive from your last orgasm, and cruelly, Sebastian took advantage by curling his fingers into a particularly sensitive spot. You mewled, hands fisting the cloth beneath you.
You were still so wet from the way he feasted on you, his fingers quickly covered in your slick, but that’s what he wanted. He wanted you to fall apart, just for him, only for him.
“You sing so sweetly,” he whispered, curling his fingers again just to watch your reaction. The way your eyes squeezed shut, lips parted. Your thighs trembled from the sheer intensity. “I wonder how beautifully you’ll beg.”
His fingers slow inside of you, the delicious burn of pleasure dwindling rapidly before he pulls them out with a loud squelch. You open your eyes, half lidded and hazy with pleasure.
He was going to enjoy ruining you.
“Won’t you beg for me, sweet dove?” He purred, ruby eyes staring into yours. His gaze lingered on your flushed face, the way your thighs shivered and lips parted in uncertainty. “You begged your God, did you not? And now you will beg me for ruin.”
The silence was loud, your uncertainty clear. Sebastian watched you with a predatory gaze, hungry.
“I have waited with patience unbecoming of a demon. I have watched you in shadows and dreams, waiting for this moment,” he murmured softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. The action was gentle, but his voice held a threatening edge, “No more. Do not make the mistake of denying me your sweet surrender.”
Your eyes darted briefly around the room. There was nowhere to go, no escape. Sebastian’s earlier words echoed in your head.
“There’s nothing for you out there.”
“Your God has no dominion here.”
It was just you and him. And you wanted him more than you should have.
Surrender was your only option.
Your breath was shaky as you met his gaze, “If I am to fall…” you inhaled sharply, blasphemy about to come out of the same lips that sang hymns and prayers, “let it be into you. Claim me, take my devotion—I offer it.”
Sebastian’s smile was deeply pleased, “Freely given, irrevocably mine.” He murmured softly. His hand came up to cradle your chin, sealing your words with a slow kiss. One that you returned eagerly. It was soft and searing all at once—you could taste yourself on his tongue.
His hands came up, carefully untying the back of your gown before letting the silver silk slip off of you completely. The cold air nipped your bare skin, and you gasped into the kiss, pulling away in an attempt to cover yourself.
“None of that,” Sebastian spoke lowly, removing your hands, “You offered yourself to me, and I shall have all of you.”
The silver dress had pooled to the bottom of the altar steps, leaving you completely bare.
His hands came up, tracing your bare skin with the intent to memorize all of you.
“A most perfect offering,” Sebastian muttered quietly. His eyes lingered on your neck, where he had left several marks.
His hands found your waist, gently guiding you to lie down on the velvet on the altar—the altar he had made just for you.
You twitched to cover yourself again, but instead, you merely trembled beneath him—exposed and vulnerable.
“You’re shaking,” Sebastian spoke softly, like one might speak to a frightened animal. His hand cradled your cheek gently.
“I’ve never done this before,” you muttered, stating the obvious like a confession, which makes Sebastian chuckle.
You were his to desecrate, his to defile, his to ruin.
“Do not fear, dove,” he murmured, forehead almost pressed against yours, “I will teach you what prayers never could.”
The robe slid from his shoulders like liquid shadow, pooling at his feet in silence. He did not hurry, did not avert his gaze. Those garnet eyes stayed fixed on you, burning, as if the simple act of baring himself were part of some sacred rite.
“Do not mistake this for humility, dove,” he murmured, voice velvet and smoke. His bare chest caught the flicker of candlelight, pale against the dark silk that fell away. “I kneel to no one. Least of all to Heaven.”
His hands unfastened the last fold, letting the robe fall open entirely. “This is no confession. It is revelation. What I am. What is yours.”
Sebastian’s gaze devoured every inch of you, but his touch was unbearably tender. He lingered, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek. “Do you feel it, little lamb? The altar beneath you, the vow sealed above us, the tether between us? This is not beginning—it is fulfillment.”
His hand traced your jaw, gentle as though you were something holy. And to him, you were. His forehead pressed against yours as his lips met yours in a tender kiss.
The velvet beneath your back was cool, a stark contrast to the heat of Sebastian’s body above you. Crimson eyes fixed on you with the weight of inevitability. Steady palms gently spread your thighs open, baring yourself to him.
You tensed when he shifted, when you felt how close he was to breaching what had always been yours alone. The fat tip of his cock pressed against your folds, teasing before he eased inside, a whisper of touch, but enough that you tensed.
He caught the tremor, the sharp inhale, and his hand moved to cradle your jaw. His thumb brushed your cheekbone with deceptive tenderness.
“Hush,” he murmured, the word silk and command at once. “Do not fear what was always meant. Every part of you was made for me.”
Your breath stuttered as he spoke. His lips followed his words, ghosting across your throat, your shoulder, the curve of your collarbone—reverent and ruinous, warm and tender all at once.
When he pressed his tip into you, slow and deliberate, you gasped—half pain, half disbelief. He was big—thick. You were still dripping wet from before, enough that he was able to push into you easily, but not without pain.
He stilled, steady hands anchoring your hips—not hesitation, but absolute control. His mouth curved by your ear, voice velvet and ruin.
“Breathe,” he whispered, his voice low and rich, “that sharpness, that burn… it is only your body yielding. You will open for me, little dove. You already are.”
You clung to him, nails biting into his shoulders, torn between instinct and want. He did not rush; he intended to savor this moment.
He moved carefully, easing you inch by inch into the stretch, into the inevitability of him.
Tears stung your eyes as he stretched you open, the way his cock nearly split you open.
You clenched around him, torn between pushing him out and pulling him deeper.
“It hurts,” you breathed, thighs twitching to close, but his knee kept you open for him.
“Feel it,” he coaxed, breath warm against your cheek. “The ache will fade. And in its place, only me. You were never Heaven’s to keep. You were mine to ruin.”
Sebastian was slow, easing into you by inch until his pelvis met yours, bottoming out. The air left your lungs in a sharp exhale as you strained to accommodate him inside of you.
The tears in your eyes had begun to fall—you felt so full. And he stayed there, deep inside of you, forcing you to take every inch of him, as if he were trying to mold your walls to the shape of him.
You swore he knocked against your deepest wall. You felt him in your stomach.
Sebastian’s thumb came up to wipe the salty tears off your cheek, his other hand rested at your hip, drawing circles into the skin.
“Do not resist what you were made for.” Sebastian’s voice was soft, holding you still as he forced you to take the stretch. This was your first time ever being with someone, something you’d thought would happen on your wedding night—not like this.
Sebastian pulled out slowly, cock already glistening in your slick. Your jaw clenched at the sensation. He told you to relax, to breathe, but you dug your nails into his back instead.
And he pushed right back in with ease, slow, forcing you to feel every drag of his cock against your silken walls.
The burning ache of being stretched was fading, making way for pleasure. You inhaled deeply, and when you exhaled, Sebastian sank the last of the way in.
“Ah, Sebastian!” You choked, though it didn’t hurt as much this time, like your body knew to accept him.
Sebastian said nothing, merely intertwined his hand with yours. He leaned down to kiss a stray tear away from your cheek.
He then captured your lips in a kiss that was deceptively gentle. Your eyes fluttered shut as you allowed yourself to melt into him.
Slowly, the pain melted into creeping pleasure. Your hips slowly lifted up to meet his sensual thrusts.
“My, look at you,” Sebastian murmured against your lips; you could feel his smirk.
A breathy moan came out of your parted lips every time his cock dragged against your wet walls. Your hand tightened around his. “Just…” you breathed, “go slow with me.”
Sebastian’s smirk deepened, as if your surrender was the hymn he’d been waiting centuries to hear. “I intend to savor you,” he whispered, “Only a fool would rush this.”
Your hips lifted again, instinctive, desperate. The ache had softened, replaced with a swelling pleasure that made you bite down on his name.
His pace didn’t change at once. Instead, he stilled, crimson eyes gleaming down at you with your hips lifted tentatively to meet his, the slow drag of him inside you both unbearable and intoxicating. The words caught in your throat before spilling out, trembling but certain.
“Sebastian…” your voice broke on a moan, trembling but certain. “Please… move.”
For a moment, he stopped, his garnet eyes burning into yours. The smirk he gave was devastating, reverent, and cruel all at once.
“My sweet bride,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against your temple, “you think I have not longed to ruin you properly?” His hips rolled forward, just a fraction harder, and you gasped.
“But,” he continued, his voice low and velvet-smooth, “I will not rush your fall. You will feel every moment of it—every inch of me—until you forget what it was you once prayed for.”
He withdrew almost fully, slow enough to make you whimper, before sliding back into you with deliberate power. A slow-building pleasure coursed through you that made your thighs quake.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, dragging him closer. “Please,” you whispered, desperate, “don’t stop.”
His gaze softened for just a moment—reverent, ruinous—before the predator’s hunger returned.
His soft lips ghosting over your ear as his pace picked up—still measured, still controlled, but stronger now. “Ah. That is the sound I wanted,” he purred. “Do you feel it, little lamb? Every thrust binds you tighter to me. Every breath a vow. Every cry a hymn… for me alone.”
Sebastian watched the way his cock disappeared inside of you, the way your cunt began pulling him in deeper.
He continued with sharper, deeper thrusts. Faster, and when his cock hit a particularly sensitive spot, you mewled under him, legs slowly wrapping around his waist. Your back arching into him, just to pull him in deeper.
Every sound, every gasp and moan, was his. Sebastian drank in your sounds like wine at a communion.
The shadows in the dark chapel grew and twisted. The candles buzzed, flames glowing higher.
Your body convulsed around him, your walls clenching against him as your breath hitched with every deep thrust. Pleasure breaking over you like a wave you couldn’t outrun. You cried his name, voice raw and desperate, and Sebastian’s lips curved against your ear.
“Ah… that’s it,” he purred, savoring the way your walls clenched tight around him. “So sweet. So holy in your ruin.”
You sagged against him, breathless, thinking he might grant you reprieve. But his hips never stilled. If anything, the rhythm deepened, purposeful and unrelenting. A slender finger reached down to circle your neglected clit.
“Sebastian—” you gasped, hands trembling against his shoulders. Your thighs trembled as he pushed you through your orgasm; you involuntarily squeezed him even tighter, and he hissed through his teeth.
His hips stuttered, your eyes fluttering as your pillowy walls clenched him, and the sound he made was low and ruinous. He stayed buried to the hilt, breath warm against your cheek.
Sebastian held you still as he spilled into you, hot and unrelenting. The sensation made your eyes roll back in ecstasy.
“Look at me,” he murmured. You did—teary, dazed—and his smile curved, reverent and terrible. “Good. Feel how deep I am? How I keep you.” His hips pressed—slow, deliberate—sealing the heat he’d given you. “This is more than pleasure, little dove.It is a vow carved into your body—a covenant no god can undo.”
You tried to speak, but he caught your gasp with a kiss, coaxing your mouth open, savoring the soft, stunned sounds you made against him.
“When I spill inside you,” he breathed against your lips, voice low, “It is no fleeting sin. It is to bind you, to leave you carrying me—so even in silence, even in sleep, you are mine.” His palm spread over your lower belly, possessive, as if to hold himself there. “You will think of nothing but how I took you—how I will take you again.”
He rocked—once, deep—just enough to make your lashes flutter. “Again,” he vowed, low and certain. “And again. Until your body remembers only me, and forgets every god you once prayed to.”
Your body trembled, still fluttering around him, every inch of you claimed. The air was thick with incense and shadow, the altar beneath you bearing witness to your ruin.
But Sebastian did not pull away. His hand remained laced with yours, grounding you. The other stroked slow circles at your hip, a parody of tenderness from hands that had just remade you in his image.
He kissed your temple, reverent and cruel at once. “Hush, dove. Do you feel it now? Every tear, every breath, every inch of you bound to me. This is only the beginning.”
Your lips parted, trembling. The words wouldn’t come. Not prayer, not denial—only his name, whispered like a confession.
He smiled against your skin, satisfied. His inhuman stamina, the simmering hunger that still lingered in his garnet eyes, promised he was nowhere near finished.
Even if Heaven called for you, it would find you already taken.
But for now, he eased you down, coaxing you into the velvet altar as if you were precious. His thumb brushed away a stray tear, gentle enough to shatter you all over again.
“Rest now, my bride,” he murmured, curling you against his chest, his voice threading into your bones. “Eternity is long, and I will spend every moment teaching you what it means to belong only to me.”
The candles guttered lower, shadows folding in, as you sagged into him—spent, trembling, and marked. Not Heaven’s. Never again. Only his.
HOLY MOTHERFORKING SHIRTBALLS I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING!!!
I'm not seeing a problem here at all, looks like a great salad to me.
Gwaine: I dare you to hug the king
Leon: That's ridiculous and improper
Merlin: Why? He loves hugs he's just too scared to ask for them because Uther told him his needs were not important and that it is a sign of weakness to need affection. He wouldn't outright say it but he does love hugs
- a few hours later -
Arthur: Alright for todays training -
Leon: Sorry to interrupt but I wondered if... Could I have a hug?
Arthur: Uhm... Okay?
Leon hugs Arthur tighly while muttering things like: You're doing so great Arthur! You're a good king and a good man. I am grateful to call you my friend. Thank you.
Arthur, trying to stop himself from crying: That is very kind thanks Leon
And then Gwaine, Lance, Elyan and Percy join them, all squeezing their king. Arthur hand pushes through the entangled bodies of the five knights around him and with a muffled voice he calls: Don't just stand there Merlin. Come on over.
Years into the Golden Age and after reconciling with Morgana enough time and healing has gone by that Merlin and Morgana are able to joke about all the horrible things they've done to each other.
Merlin hands Morgana a drink Morgana: Thank you. What poison did you put in it this time? Merlin: Cyanid Moragan: Shame, hemlock tastes better Merlin: I know but I couldn't find any on short notice, sorry
Morgana: Why can you never just do as I say? Merlin: How about you get another fomorroh and you can see up close how it turns out when I have to do what you tell me to
Arthur: How should we deal with this traitor? Morgana: Could always use the Merlin method and push them down the stairs Merlin: Or the Morgana method of leaving them chained up in the woods for Serkets to find them Morgana: Comparatively the stairs do seem simpler and less prone to error Merlin: Less creative though Arthur: Why are you two like this?