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.
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
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.
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.
“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.
Your soul glowed through your skin. A soft, golden light, forged in faith, not fear. It did not repel 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.
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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 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—
Beads spilled across the floor, clattering like tiny bones. You dropped to your knees, heart racing.
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.”
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:
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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.
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:
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.
You turned to where Father Thomas’ voice had come from, and then you looked back to where he had been.
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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 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.
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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.
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.
He touches your cheek, and your breath catches.
Then, his thumb grazes your bottom lip. No glove. No barrier.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.”
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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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
His hand—bare, ungloved—catches the light.
Not just the black-painted nails.
Etched in arcane geometry, glowing faintly beneath his skin like embers fanned low.
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.
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.
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.
You only realize it now—truly realize 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.
He kneels, lowering to your level—like a prince kneeling before his bride. But this is no vow.
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.
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.
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.
He stands at the center of the aisle.
Crimson eyes fixed on you with something more profound than hunger.
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t chase. He just speaks—softly. Dangerously.
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.
“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.
You back away, though there’s no escape. Trapped between what you thought was divine and what you now know is ruin.
“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.
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 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 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.
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.
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.
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