Sebby’s Neko

💌 Sebastian Michaelis x Reader

💭 MNDI: Heavy smut • spanking • some fingering • edging • overstimulation • mostly degradation with slivers of praise • Sebastian lowkey treats you like a toy • some aftercare included but no emotional attachment bc cruel Sebastian

—

you’re already across his lap when the first crack rings out. Sharp. Sudden.

The sting spreads like wildfire across your skin.

And Sebastian?

He doesn’t flinch.

He sits at the edge of the bed, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand splayed across your back to keep you bent — spine arched, cheek pressed to the mattress — while the other delivers another devastating strike.

Crack.

Your breath catches, a whimper slipping through clenched teeth. But it’s not the sound that makes his brow lift — it’s the way your hips twitch. The faint flutter of your walls around nothing.

He sees it.

Of course he sees it.

And worse: he smiles.

“Fascinating.”

A gloved hand traces the curve of your ass — warm from the attention he’s given it — then dips down between your legs, dragging the pads of his fingers through the slickness that’s gathered there.

He clicks his tongue.

“So wet. And I’ve barely touched you.”

You turn your face away. He doesn’t tolerate it.

“Ah, ah, none of that.”

His voice is silk-wrapped steel. One gloved hand curls into your hair and turns your head to face the floor-length mirror directly across from the bed — deliberately placed, precisely positioned.

“You wanted to misbehave,” he murmurs, lips close to your ear, “so now you’ll watch what becomes of you.”

Another spank. Your thighs quiver.

But this time — this time — he sees it. The way your hips roll forward, seeking friction. The way your inner muscles flutter as if begging to be filled.

His smile darkens.

“Oh… you like it.”

He says it like it’s adorable. Like it’s a discovery he’s delighted to make — not because it pleases him, but because now he can use it.

And he does.

He strips off one glove. Slow. Controlled. Only to toss it aside.

Then: his bare hand dips between your thighs again. Fingers glide through your folds, lingering at your entrance, circling your clit with slow, unbearable precision.

You twitch. Moan.

“So eager,” he murmurs. “So messy. All from a little discipline?”

You can see the reflection in the mirror: your face flushed, lashes fluttering, thighs trembling with each stroke of his fingers.

“Don’t look away,” he instructs, voice low. “You wanted to be a brat? Then be a good one and see how pathetic you look when you’re like this.”

Two fingers push inside.

Deep. Slow.

The kind of pressure that makes your eyes roll back, but he tugs on your hair just enough to keep your gaze forward.

“That’s right. Watch.”

And you do.

You watch yourself fall apart as he works you open. His fingers curl inside you, hitting just the right spot — again and again — until you’re panting, gasping, clenching. But every time you get close?

He stops.

Withdraws.

Leaves you aching and empty.

“Did I say you could come?”

“Ah— no—”

“Then why,” he breathes, leaning in close, so close, “do you keep trying?”

You whine.

He laughs — gently, cruelly — and lands another spank, this one low and deliberate, right over the tender wetness between your legs.

“Still dripping. Still misbehaving.”

His ungloved fingers return. Slower this time. Circling. Pressing. Edging you toward that peak again with no promise of letting you have it.

“You’ll finish,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers back out with a wet sound, “when I say you will. And not a moment before.”

You can feel how wet the inside of your thighs have become. Embarrassingly so. The sensation of it — slick, sticky, denied — makes your eyes blur with frustration. You can barely catch your breath, and still he hasn’t given you release.

Not even close.

Sebastian tuts softly above you, fingers slow and unforgiving between your legs.

“You’re being awfully ungrateful,” he murmurs. “Most would thank me for even a fraction of this attention.”

Two fingers slide into you again — shallow, mocking. Not deep enough to give you what you need. Not fast enough to offer relief.

Your hips twitch. His palm lands hard across your ass. The sting sings.

“Did I permit that movement?” he asks, voice calm.

You whimper something incoherent, and Sebastian sighs as though you’ve disappointed him deeply.

“I gave you an order, pet. Stay still.”

His hand shifts. The tips of his fingers press inward, curling just enough to skim that spot inside you that makes your knees buckle. But he doesn’t follow through — no. He drags it out. Slow circles around your entrance. A faint tease against your clit. And still, no rhythm. No mercy.

The worst part?

He leans forward, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re going to come begging, my dear,” he purrs. “Properly. On your knees, if I feel generous. But not before I’ve ruined you for anything else.”

You try to respond, to shift, but his hand is on your lower back again, pinning you in place.

And in the mirror, you see it:

Your own eyes — wide, teary. Lips swollen from biting down every whimper. Cheeks flushed with heat. You look ruined already.

Sebastian’s ungloved fingers glide back down. He doesn’t even pretend to be gentle anymore — the sounds are obscene, wet and loud and cruel. He watches your reflection as your thighs tremble.

“You’ve made such a mess,” he hums, dragging his fingers across your folds only to spank you again. “Sloppy. Needy. Do you even know how disgraceful you look like this?”

He slips his fingers back in.

Deeper.

Slower.

Until your entire body jolts. But just as your breath catches, just as you feel your stomach coil — he pulls out again.

“No. Not yet.”

You sob.

Sebastian laughs — a low, fond sound — and presses a single, mock kiss to your lower spine.

“Darling, you should be grateful. I haven’t even begun to be cruel yet.”

He doesn’t give you time to recover when he moves you.

You barely register the moment he pulls you off his lap — your legs jelly, brain fogged — before he drags you to the center of the bed, bends you forward, and presses your chest into the mattress.

Your face hits the silken sheets. Your hips are lifted with exacting ease. And when you glance back — just barely — Sebastian is shedding the last of his uniform. His gloves are already off. His shirt unbuttoned. The contrast of him, always so put-together, now standing behind you naked and hard…

You swallow hard.

Because he’s big.

Of course he is.

And when he strokes himself once, languidly — just once — the sound alone makes your thighs twitch.

He sees it.

“Still eager?” he murmurs. “Even now?”

You nod against the sheets. He tsks.

“You’ll regret that answer.”

He kneels behind you.

And without another word, he presses in.

No teasing. No easing. Just a slow, unrelenting push until he’s stretching you open — inch by deliberate inch — and the burn is instant. Sharp. Glorious.

Your breath punches out of you like he’s knocked the wind from your lungs.

You gasp. Clutch at the sheets. Eyes wide.

Tears prick your lashes.

“Tears already?” he hums behind you, entirely unbothered. “How pathetic.”

And then he moves.

He thrusts forward — hips snapping into yours with enough force to make the mattress groan. Your entire body jolts. You cry out, legs trembling.

He doesn’t stop.

He finds his rhythm immediately — cruel and deep, paced to make you feel every inch. His hands lock around your hips, dragging you back onto his cock with every stroke, using your body like it’s nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes—ah, yes—”

“Then take it.”

He pounds into you.

The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet and sharp, and the slap of his hips against your ass echoes between your moans. Your fingers scrabble for something to hold, but there’s only silk — you’re left gripping the sheets with white knuckles as he ruins you.

Tears streak down your face. You’re sobbing, but it’s not pain — not really. It’s too much pleasure, too fast, too intense. Your body is unraveling.

“Look at the mess you make,” Sebastian growls, fucking into you so deep you can feel it in your throat. “So noisy. So empty-headed.”

One hand slides down your spine, not to comfort — to press you further into the bed, flatten you. The angle shifts. The stretch sharpens. Your eyes roll back.

“You’ll remember this, pet,” he whispers, hips still pistoning. “Every time you sit. Every time you walk. You’ll feel me. Right here—”

He thrusts. Hard.

You scream.

“Right here.”

You gasp — again — when he shifts behind you.

His hand slides up the small of your back, between your shoulder blades, and then—

“Arch.”

The command slices through you, low and sharp.

You obey.

Your spine curves deeper, hips tilting up, and the moment you do — oh. The next thrust lands exactly where it makes you scream.

“There you are,” Sebastian purrs.

And then he won’t stop.

Again. And again. And again.

Each stroke is devastating — deep, precise, punishing — and always angled just right to batter that perfect spot inside you that makes you sob. Your body jerks with every thrust, tears spilling freely now, lips parted in breathless whimpers.

“Listen to yourself,” he says softly, mockingly. “You don’t even know what you want, do you?”

“I— I— please—!”

“Please what?”

“Please, I don’t— I don’t know—”

You’re babbling now. Mindless. Ruined.

He loves it.

You hear the smirk in his voice when he leans forward, chest pressing to your back, hips still driving into you with relentless control.

“Begging without knowing what for? You truly are nothing but a toy in heat.”

You sob. Clench. Shudder.

“Is this what you were hoping for?” he whispers against your ear. “To be used until there’s nothing left? Until your voice breaks and your body forgets anything that isn’t me?”

He grabs your hips again — tight, bruising — and slams into you.

You scream.

“Answer me.”

“Yes—yes—Sebastian, I—!”

The rest dies in your throat, strangled by the way he keeps hitting that spot over and over, abusing it until you’re practically convulsing, mouth open and useless.

“You’re crying,” he observes. “And yet you’re still clenching around me so tightly.”

You whimper.

“Disgusting,” he murmurs. “Pathetic. Filthy little thing.”

Another thrust. Your arms give out. Your body folds, trembling. But his grip holds you up — keeps you where he wants you — so he can keep using you, fucking into you like he owns you.

Because he does.

“You don’t get to come yet,” he warns, slowing just enough to make you cry harder. “You’ll wait. You’ll suffer for me.”

And you do.

Because you can’t do anything else.

Because Sebastian has you right where he wants you: a weeping, overstimulated mess, body aching for release while he uses you for his pleasure — and only when he’s ready will he give you what you need.

You don’t know it’s coming.

The warning never comes. The rhythm falters just once — a sharp, deliberate snap of his hips that drives him impossibly deep — and then you feel it.

The heat.

The sudden, searing warmth spilling inside you as he groans — low, guttural, but still elegant, like velvet dragged through smoke — and his hands tighten on your hips.

“There,” he breathes. “Take it.”

You cry out.

The sensation alone — being filled, claimed, used — is what tips you over.

Your body clamps down around him so tightly it punches the air from your lungs. You tremble, shudder, scream, hands clawing at the sheets, face buried in silk as you fall apart completely.

You expect it to end there.

You expect him to go still. To soften. To exhale and cradle you through it like he’s human.

But he’s not.

And you forget that.

Until he pulls back — and thrusts in again.

You gasp, eyes flying wide, body still pulsing around him. It’s too much. Too soon. You’re raw, sensitive, still fluttering with aftershocks.

“No—Sebastian—!”

“Hush.”

His voice is calm. Controlled.

And his cock is still hard. Still throbbing inside you.

“You didn’t think we were finished, did you?”

You choke on a sob.

“I’ve barely begun.”

He pulls back and snaps his hips forward again, hips slapping wetly against your ass. The stretch burns anew, slick with his seed and your own release, and your body jerks forward on the bed.

“Don’t tell me you’re already spent,” he mocks, watching the way you twitch under him. “You were begging for this moments ago.”

You whimper.

“You wanted it,” he says. “All of it. Every inch. Every thrust. Every cruel word.”

His pace returns — faster now, harsher — and each thrust shoves his release deeper into you, messy and obscene.

“Then take it.”

You cry out, high and cracked, tears slipping down your cheeks again — not from pain, not from fear, but from the unbearable sensation of being filled, used, fucked through your orgasm.

Your body can’t tell if it’s breaking or climbing toward another one. You’re boneless and hypersensitive and completely at his mercy.

And he?

He’s not stopping.

Because he can’t stop.

Because he’s a demon — your demon — and you offered yourself up so sweetly, so willingly, and now he’s going to enjoy every second of your surrender.

“I told you,” he murmurs, low and silken. “You’ll be ruined when I’m through with you.”

Your second orgasm doesn’t come with warning.

It bleeds through you in waves — slow at first, like a shiver, and then all at once, crashing through your spine until your vision whites out and your limbs give way completely.

You’re trembling. Boneless. Unthinking.

Still, Sebastian fucks into you.

“There it is,” he purrs, voice like velvet and fire. “You’re soaked.”

You are.

The sheets beneath you are ruined — damp, warm, a testament to everything he’s drawn out of you, everything he’s forced from you.

“So eager to come for me again, pet. And so easy, too. I do wonder—” he thrusts deep, slow, dragging his cock through the mess he’s made of you— “if you even realize how shameful this is.”

You can’t speak.

You can barely breathe.

You moan — broken and distant — into the sheets, drool smearing the silk, hands twitching at your sides.

You gave yourself to him. Asked for this.

And now you’re his. Just his. Utterly.

“Your body has no dignity,” he murmurs. “Look at the state of you. The filth. The tears. The way you’re clenching around me again—”

Another thrust.

You sob.

“You want more, don’t you?”

Your head lolls, a whisper of a nod.

“Yes.”

It’s ruined, cracked, barely a sound at all — but he hears it.

And he smiles.

“Greedy,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss the back of your shoulder, even as his cock drives into you with merciless depth. “You’ve always been greedy.”

He pulls you back by the hips, pressing you flush against him, and then— again. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but tremors and slick and ruin beneath him.

“You’ll let me do anything,” he says, watching your glassy eyes flutter back, “as long as I speak softly while I break you.”

You gasp.

He slows.

Not merciful — appreciative.

Admiring.

And then, with deliberate cruelty, he pulls out.

You sob at the loss.

“Hush,” he says, palm pressed to your back. “We’re not finished yet.”

You feel it before you see it — the thick warmth trailing down the insides of your thighs, his seed spilling from you, and then— the drag of his gaze over your bare, used body.

“Look at you.”

You try. Your eyes flutter open as he shifts, standing beside the bed, and then— the mirror.

He turns your face toward it.

You catch a glimpse of yourself: flushed, wet, trembling, thighs slick and glistening, your body shining under candlelight, leaking around the edges from where he’s just bred you.

“Dripping with me,” he says with deep satisfaction. “Perfect.”

He strokes himself once — slow, lazy, still hard.

Still not finished.

“Now,” he says, fingers curling in your hair, “on your back.”

His voice is satin — but the hand wrapped around your wrist is steel. He doesn’t guide you so much as place you, laying you back against the ruined sheets like a doll too delicate to move herself. You’re pliant. Shaking. Glistening.

A mess. His mess.

Your eyes barely focus when he lifts your legs, spreading them open, pushing your knees to your chest with a slow, reverent grip.

“Good girl.”

You whimper.

He settles between your thighs like he’s slipping into a throne built just for him. The head of his cock nudges against your swollen, puffy entrance — flushed from use, fluttering from being emptied.

“Just once more,” he lies.

And he thrusts in.

You sob.

It’s too much. He’s too big, the stretch too deep, and the angle—gods, the angle—has your back arching off the bed, stars bursting behind your eyes as his cock hits a spot that feels like it’s never not been his.

He doesn’t give you time.

Sebastian folds you in half, hands braced on the backs of your thighs, pinning you down like it’s instinct — like he was meant to fuck you this way — and then he begins to move.

Hard. Deep. Precise.

“There we are,” he murmurs, watching your eyes roll back. “Back where you belong.”

You can’t speak.

All you can do is gasp, cry, take it. Each thrust slaps wetly against your skin, your slick and his cum combining into a ruinous sound between your thighs. You’ve never felt so full — so wrecked — and he hasn’t even begun to slow down.

“You’re trembling,” he notes, voice velvet-drenched cruelty. “What a sensitive little thing you’ve become.”

He grinds his hips — grinds — and your thighs tremble in his grip.

“My poor, pretty toy. You thought I’d stop.”

You mewl, broken, clenching around him like your body wants to be punished.

“But you asked for this. You begged for this.”

He’s right.

And you love it.

Every degrading word. Every bruising thrust. Every possessive, overstimulating snap of his hips that sends your brain fizzling into static.

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until he leans in, careful kisses at the trail on your cheek.

“Beautiful even when you weep.”

He doesn’t stop.

He won’t stop.

Not until he’s emptied himself inside you again — until the soft, wet sounds beneath your hips turn into something obscene. Until you’re fucked full enough to feel him in your throat, dazed and blank, mouth parted in a helpless moan as he pistons into you one final time—

“Yes,” he hisses, teeth gritted, eyes blazing red. “Take it.”

You do.

You fall over the edge again, for the last time — tears streaking your cheeks, thighs locked around him, the warmth of his release pouring into you like a final, finishing blow. You come apart like parchment in flame.

And still, he holds you there.

Pinned.

Possessed.

Marked.

He stays inside you.

Just for a moment.

Long enough to feel the last flutter of your walls around him. Long enough to savor the final tremble of your thighs. Long enough to press his forehead to yours and murmur—

“There it is.”

Then he pulls out — slow, deliberate.

You feel it before you see it. The warm spill of his seed leaking from your ruined cunt, seeping down your thighs, soaking into the sheets beneath you. You twitch from the overstimulation, breath shuddering, body slack.

He says nothing.

But you feel the weight of his gaze.

There’s no shame in it — only pride. He takes in the mess he’s made of you: the bruises on your hips, the handprints on your thighs, the tremble in your fingers, the saliva dried at the corners of your lips from crying out his name too many times to count.

And the leaking.

The way his release seeps from you in obscene abundance — it’s enough to ignite that dark gleam in his eye again, but he tamps it down. For now.

“Stay.”

You couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

You hear the rustle of fabric — a practiced motion, efficient, seamless. By the time you manage to flutter your eyes open, he’s gone.

And when he returns?

He’s perfect.

Immaculately dressed, gloved, composed — as if he hadn’t just turned you into a plaything to be filled and fucked until your sanity fractured.

A faint hiss of water echoes from the adjoining chamber.

“The bath is ready,” he says, coolly. “You’ve made a dreadful mess.”

You blink up at him, dazed. Your body aches in that hollow, delicious way that says you’ve been thoroughly used — marked, owned. You don’t move.

He doesn’t scold.

He steps toward the bed and lifts you effortlessly, bridal style, his gloves somehow warm against your skin. You instinctively curl against him, the scent of sweat and smoke and him washing over your senses.

“You asked for this,” he reminds you, voice low.

A pause.

Then softer:

“But I won’t have you breaking on me just yet.”

It sounds affectionate.

But it’s not truly.

There’s no love behind it — only satisfaction. Possessiveness. A master tending to his favorite thing, his most prized possession.

He lowers you into the bath like he’s setting fine china on silk — slowly, reverently, letting the water soothe your skin, wash away the evidence without erasing the memory. He kneels beside the tub, sleeves rolled precisely, a cloth already in hand.

You’re too exhausted to speak.

So you let him wash you.

And he does — thoroughly, but never indulgently. Gliding the cloth down your shoulders, over your breasts, between your thighs — cleaning you with the same hands that destroyed you.

Sebastian Michaelis x Reader (smut)

A/N: This is filthy, very filthy. Also my fist post involving a bj so I hope it’s not too shabby. I know at the bottom of the WIPS on my pinned post I said I’d be pausing my longer fics, but I had this in my drafts and it just needed some editing.

A/N 2: I'm writing a part two to this, a different fic in my drafts but I feel like it could be perfect.

Content Warnings MDNI: thigh riding, degradation, Sebastian being Sebastian, oral (male receiving), gagging, choking, kind of free use?(i mean he uses your throat like it’s his right so-)

The room is quiet, save for the shallow gasps escaping your lips and the soft, damp drag of your core against the fine wool of his trousers.

You’re seated astride his thigh — not by command, but by desperation. Your hands rest on his shoulders, trembling, as you grind down again, chasing friction with a fever that’s far beneath his notice.

He doesn’t move.

Not even a twitch of his leg beneath you.

Just sits there — poised, perfect, gloved hands resting lazily at your hips, the pads of his fingers pressing just hard enough to leave their imprint. Not enough to guide you. Not enough to help.

Because that would be merciful.

Instead, Sebastian merely watches you. Crimson eyes half-lidded, mouth curled in the faintest shadow of a smile. Not kind. Not cruel. Merely… amused.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice smooth as dark honey. “So eager to shame yourself for so little.”

You whimper as your slick smears across his trouser leg, leaving a damp, glistening patch behind. His gaze flickers down, inspects it like a stain.

He tuts.

“This is Italian wool,” he sighs, tilting his head. “And yet you treat it like a common pillow to rut against.”

You bite your lip, panting now, thighs trembling from the effort. You’re still wearing one of his shirts—unbuttoned at the top, collar too big for your throat—and nothing else but stockings. The air is cold against your skin, but his thigh is warm, solid, a cruel promise of what he hasn’t given you.

His fingers flex at your hips, and for a moment you think—hope—he might help.

He doesn’t.

“You’re quite the sight,” he says, his voice low, clinical. “All this wetness, and yet… you’ve hardly earned anything at all.”

You moan, pressing harder, your pace faltering with each trembling grind. Your forehead falls to his shoulder, and he lets it. One gloved hand rises slowly, brushing the back of your neck — almost tender.

“So desperate,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I wonder—will you soak me entirely before you break?”

You whimper again, helpless now, thighs clenched tight, the peak just out of reach. He won’t move. He refuses.

But oh, how he watches.

He drinks in every gasp, every stutter of your hips, every breathless plea you haven’t quite dared to give voice to yet.

Because to ask would be to admit defeat.

And Sebastian?

He already knows you’ve lost.

You’re close.

So close it hurts. Every roll of your hips feels clumsy now — no longer seductive, just needy. Desperate. The slick between your legs has soaked the seam of his trousers, glistening in the low light like a mark of disgrace.

Still, Sebastian doesn’t move.

His thigh remains maddeningly still beneath you, firm and unyielding, the muscle twitching only when your pace stutters or you moan a little too loudly. The grip on your hips? Still poised. Still indifferent. As if he’s holding you there not to steady you, but to witness your undoing.

“I did warn you,” he says mildly, one gloved finger brushing a strand of hair from your damp forehead. “If you insist on acting like an animal, I see no reason to dignify it with assistance.”

Your breath hitches. Shame burns hot in your cheeks, but your body doesn’t stop. It can’t. The pressure between your legs has built to something sharp and unrelenting, and it’s so close you can taste it.

“Such a mess,” he murmurs, glancing down at the soaked fabric beneath you. “Ruining my uniform for the sake of a few seconds of pleasure. You should be embarrassed.”

You are.

And still — you keep moving.

His thigh is slick now, the friction less harsh, but every pass of your clit against that firm muscle sends sparks ricocheting through you. You’re panting, open-mouthed, moaning low and breathless with each grind. It’s not graceful anymore.

It’s pitiful.

You clutch at his shoulders, burying your face into the collar of his waistcoat as your rhythm falters entirely.

“Sebastian—”

“Mm,” he hums, almost indulgent. “Yes. That’s it. Go on.”

You whimper. Your thighs tremble violently as the heat in your belly snaps — a sharp, shaking climax that steals the air from your lungs. Your hips jerk, stuttering, grinding through it without rhythm, without grace.

He lets you fall apart.

Lets you moan, breathless and broken, as you soak the dark wool of his trousers. Lets you sob once, softly, into his collar.

Only then — only then — does he move.

His hands rise from your hips. One catches your jaw, tilts your head up to look at him. His expression hasn’t changed.

But his eyes?

They glow.

“Was it everything you hoped for?” he asks, softly. “Rubbing yourself to completion like a common dog?”

You shudder. Unable to speak.

You’re trembling in his lap, thighs weak and soaked, forehead still pressed against his collar.

Sebastian strokes your back once. Twice. A mockery of affection, almost tender.

Then he speaks.

“Well.”

Just that.

You lift your head, glassy-eyed, breathing uneven.

He’s looking down at his trousers — the damp, glistening stain at the apex of his thigh. The curve of his mouth is cool, impassive. There’s no anger. No heat. Only judgment.

“What a mess you’ve made,” he says, with a sigh so soft it almost stings. “Not that I expected better.”

You flinch. Your hands clutch at the fabric of his waistcoat, your voice thin. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Mm.” He cuts you off, pressing a single gloved finger to your lips. “No need for excuses.”

His eyes meet yours.

And there it is. That dark glint. The one that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You may not have meant to ruin my uniform,” he says, “but you certainly meant to use me.”

The word lands heavy.

Use.

Your cheeks flush. Your gaze drops.

Sebastian leans back, his thigh now cool beneath you, and gestures lazily with one hand.

“Up.”

You obey, legs shaky as you rise. He follows — smooth, graceful — and stands before you, inspecting the damage with faint disapproval.

“Kneel.”

You do.

The carpet is soft, but it doesn’t matter. Your focus is on the silver buttons of his waistcoat, the way his gloved hands move to unfasten them, one by one. Beneath the fabric, the bulge in his trousers is impossible to ignore — still hard. Still untouched.

He’s let you grind yourself to ruin on him, and yet, he remains composed.

Untouched.

Untaken.

“If you truly wish to apologize,” he says, undoing the last button, “you’ll prove it. With your mouth.”

You stare up at him, breath caught in your throat.

He tilts his head. Smiles faintly.

“And if you do it properly…” His hand threads gently through your hair, guiding. Not forcing. Expecting. “I may consider letting you feel something more than my thigh.”

Your knees ache.

You’re still trembling from the high he allowed you — and now, kneeling at his feet, the ache in your thighs feels like nothing compared to the fire creeping up your spine. Sebastian hasn’t touched you since he told you to kneel.

And he still doesn’t.

He simply gestures.

Downward.

To the patch you left behind — the dark stain on his trousers, still damp with the wetness you’d soaked into the wool.

“Clean it.”

You hesitate, swallowing hard.

He arches a brow. “You seemed perfectly eager to grind against it. Surely your mouth isn’t too precious for the aftermath.”

Your face burns. But you obey.

Leaning forward, humiliated and breathless, you press your lips to the stain — open-mouthed, tongue dragging slowly over the damp fabric. It tastes like wool and shame and the lingering tang of your own need.

“There,” Sebastian murmurs. “Good girl. Nice and slow.”

You hear the smug satisfaction in his tone — the pleasure he takes in watching you debase yourself. But it’s not just that. It’s the lesson. The reminder that you are his. That you do not take. You serve.

When he’s satisfied with your work, he slides one gloved finger beneath your chin and tilts your face up toward his.

“Now,” he says, voice velvet-dark. “You may show your gratitude properly.”

You look up at him as he begins to undo his fly, revealing the full weight of his arousal — flushed, thick, and achingly hard.

He doesn’t guide you.

He waits.

Expecting.

You open your mouth, taking him slowly — the warmth, the taste of him, the overwhelming fullness that makes your eyes flutter shut. But you barely make it halfway before his hand curls into your hair.

“Eyes open.”

You obey instantly, lashes fluttering as you look up at him.

And then — he pushes.

Not harshly. Not quickly.

But firmly.

Enough to make you gag.

You choke around him, throat clenching, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull back. Just holds you there — still, trembling, his cock thick on your tongue and halfway down your throat.

“There it is,” he breathes, low and satisfied. “Now you remember.”

When he finally lets you pull back, gasping, he strokes your cheek with the back of his hand.

“Try again. And this time, be obedient. No hands. No whining.”

His smile sharpens.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?”

You nod, throat burning, lips slick with spit and shame.

“Then take it.”

You don’t remember when you stopped thinking.

Only that your mouth is full of him — the hard weight of Sebastian’s cock pushing past your lips, slow but relentless, again and again — and that your throat is burning in the most exquisite way.

He doesn’t thrust with violence. He doesn’t need to. His hips roll in smooth, deliberate motions, guiding his cock into your mouth with surgical precision. Each stroke is deep, unyielding, patiently ruinous.

One gloved hand is locked in your hair — the grip firm enough to ache, forcing your head still. You can’t pull away. Can’t shift. Can’t even breathe unless he allows it.

And still, he speaks to you like he’s correcting a child.

“There,” he purrs, voice like smoke. “Keep your tongue flat. Let me in, like a good girl.”

You choke when he reaches the back of your throat. Tears spill, not from panic, but from pressure. From the sheer concentration it takes to remain still while he takes your mouth like it belongs to him.

Which, of course, it does.

Your eyes flutter upward, searching for his. And when you find them — crimson, gleaming, narrowed — the look on his face nearly undoes you.

Not cruelty. Not lust.

Possession.

“You look divine like this,” he murmurs, hips pressing forward again, this time enough to make you gag. “Eyes watering. Lips stretched. Every breath you take, filtered through me.”

Your lashes flutter.

He twitches on your tongue.

The soft groan that leaves his lips then is low — not loud, not strained. Just controlled pleasure, perfectly measured.

He pulls out just slightly, letting you gasp around the head of him, then pushes back in with practiced ease.

The sounds are obscene.

Wet. Tight. Gasping.

Your spit slicks your chin, and the smell of him — sharp and dark and male — is dizzying.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “You’re learning.”

His hand in your hair tightens.

“Now hold still.”

You brace. You try.

And he begins to fuck your mouth properly — not rough, but thorough, like he’s teaching you. Like your throat is his personal instrument and he’s playing it until every whimper, every gasp, every twitch of his cock is in perfect harmony.

He groans again. Deep. Close.

Then — suddenly — stillness.

His cock throbs on your tongue, hot and heavy.

“Open,” he says. “Wider.”

You do.

And with a quiet, ruinous sigh, he finishes.

Spilling onto your tongue, the first pulse hitting the back of your throat. The next coats your tongue, your lips. You stay perfectly still, swallowing once, twice — and still, he doesn’t let go of your hair.

“Don’t waste a drop,” he says softly. “You’ll make it up to me properly, won’t you?”

You nod.

His cock, softening slowly, slips from your mouth with a wet sound, and he finally releases your hair. You sit back on your heels, throat sore, lips swollen, tear tracks glistening on your cheeks.

He looks down at you like you’re art.

Like you’re his.

And then, with maddening calm:

. ˳༚༅༚ explicit content, smut, mdni: pet names, heavy marking (biting, hickeys), blood, condescending praise, oral receiving

♱ word count: 2k

You sit down without thinking.

That is mistake number one.

The sharp bite of pain makes your breath hitch before you can catch it, and you have to cover the sound with an exaggerated sip of your drink, eyes darting around the café to check if someone might have seen you flinch.

Nobody has, obviously not. No one ever does. They will never know what kind of mess you are under your coat.

And he? Of course, he planned it that way.

You should be focusing on your planner, or the pastry on your plate, or anything other than the heated flicker of memory dragging its nails down your spine.

But the ghost of his voice hums in your ear, laced with pretentious care and unshakable smugness. "Did I go too deep, darling? You do squirm so prettily when it stings."

You feel your face heat up immediately. Not just because it does sting, but because the barista just asked if you need anything else, and you may have squeaked a tiny "No thank you," like a guilty schoolgirl.

You shift again. 

Mistake number two.

Good day, my Mice...

I give you this to feed your souls in these dark times of waiting on fictions and requests 🙏

Sebastian x reader smut

Sebastian x female reader

You were invited to a costume party planned by Lady Eiizabeth. After drawing the worst possible option from a lottery, you decided to swallow the bitter pill and make the best of it. If you are successful in your roll as a demon can only be judged by the one true demon- Sebastian.

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?

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ 

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. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ 

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.” 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ 

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.”

Sebastian Michaelis with a “pathetic!Reader” part 2

A/N: This took me a while and isn't proofread, but I had SO many asks in my inbox for a part 2 to this one with nsfw. This is the last part in this series. if you want more of this "insecure/undesirable/pathetic" reader trope, just send a new ask!

Not proof read

Content Warnings:

CW: Smut (MDNI), moderate dub‑con, degradation + praise, possessive Sebastian, insecure/touch‑starved reader, semi‑public (library), overstimulation, breeding talk.

Read part one here

You’d retreated to the quietest corner of the manor’s library, curled up in a chair with a book you’d barely been reading. The words blurred; your focus was elsewhere.

On staying small. On keeping unnoticed.

It didn’t work.

“You hide poorly,” came that low, velvet voice from behind you.

You stiffened. “I’m not hiding.”

Sebastian stepped into view, his hands clasped behind his back, gaze sweeping over you in a way that felt less like looking and more like possession.

“No?” His head tilted. “Then you sit here alone because you’re content with it? Or because you’re waiting for someone to notice how very desperate you are for attention?”

The words struck low, deliberate. Your breath caught. “That’s—”

He didn’t let you finish.

A single step closed the space between you, the shadow of his presence draping over your chair like a net. “You wear it like perfume,” he murmured. “That aching little need to be seen. To be wanted.”

You stood too quickly, heart pounding. “I’m going back to work.”

His hand shot out, catching your wrist—not harsh, but immovable. You turned, eyes darting anywhere but his.

“Run from everyone else if you must,” he said softly, dangerously. “But not from me.”

His free hand rose, gloved fingers brushing the side of your throat in a touch that made your knees feel unreliable. “You don’t get to hide from the only one who sees you.”

Your pulse was a hammer beneath his fingertips.

When you tried to step back, he didn’t let go—instead drawing you closer, his other hand already at the laces of your corset.

You froze. “Don’t—”

That earned you a low chuckle against your ear. “Ah… embarrassed? How very sweet.” His lips curved against the shell of your ear. “Do you truly think there is a single inch of you I would find anything less than… mine?”

You stiffened under his touch, hands catching his wrist and pushing it away. “Why?” you breathed, not meeting his eyes. “Why me? Is it because I’m—” your voice caught, bitter and low “—so desperate you think I must be easy?”

His brows rose, just slightly. “Easy?”

You swallowed, eyes fixed on the floor. “No one else has ever wanted me. Not really. I’m not—” the words trailed off into silence, but the weight of them lingered between you.

For a moment, Sebastian simply watched you, that unreadable gaze taking in every inch of your flustered posture, every trembling exhale. Then he leaned in, voice a silken thread wound tight with something darker.

“Mm. Not easy,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Just… starved.”

Your breath hitched.

“And tell me, little one—” gloved fingers found your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes “—should you only be this way for me?”

Your heart hammered. “I—”

“Shouldn’t every pleading look, every shiver, every desperate thought be mine alone?” 

You looked away again, staring at the row of spines on the shelf beside you as though one might hold the answer you couldn’t find in him.

“Why?” you asked quietly. “Why me?”

The smile he gave you was maddening — unreadable, deliberate.

“Because you hide.”

Your brow knit. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get until you’re ready to believe it,” he replied smoothly, taking one slow step forward. The edge of the table pressed into the backs of your thighs now, caging you in.

His gaze roamed your face, lingering — seeing. “You think yourself plain. Pathetic, even. That is what they told you, isn’t it?”

Your throat tightened. “It’s true.”

“No,” he said, the word firm but quiet. “It’s convenient. Convenient for them to overlook you, because then they never had to admit they lacked the discernment to see you.”

You almost laughed — a bitter, shaky sound — but it died when his gloved hand came up to cup your jaw.

“I see you,” he said simply. “Every flicker of doubt, every hesitation, every time you shrink away from kindness because you’re certain it’s a trick. And yes—” his thumb brushed over your lower lip “—I enjoy breaking those habits. I enjoy watching you remember that you are not small.”

You swallowed hard. “You make it sound like I’m some… project.”

“I don’t waste my time on projects,” Sebastian said, his voice dipping lower, silk drawn over steel. “I invest in treasures.”

For a moment, you just stood there — your breath catching, your heart in your throat.

Then, because you couldn’t help it, you whispered, “And what do you want with this… treasure?”

His smile deepened, but there was nothing kind in it. “To keep it,” he said without hesitation. “To make certain it never forgets who uncovered it.”

Your knees felt unsteady. “That sounds… possessive.”

“It is,” he admitted readily. “And I will not apologize for it.”

You should have pulled away. You should have moved. But the heat in his voice — the quiet, unshakable claim in it — held you in place.

His thumb stroked along your jaw, tracing the line to your chin until he tilted your head back just enough to make you meet his eyes. “Still trembling,” he murmured, almost like he was savoring it.

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” The hand at your jaw slipped lower, his knuckles grazing the hollow of your throat. “And I think we both know it isn’t fear.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.

Sebastian leaned closer, so close that the edge of his coat brushed your skirts. “Say it.”

Your brow knit. “Say… what?”

“That you want this,” he said simply, voice dark and quiet. “That you want me.”

Heat flooded your face, and you turned away, eyes catching on the rows of books like one of them might save you. “I’m not saying that.”

A low hum, deep in his chest. “Then I’ll make you.”

His gloved fingertips skimmed the neckline of your dress, slow, deliberate — not enough to give, only enough to remind you how close he was to undoing every inch of your composure. “Halfway to worshipping you properly,” he murmured, “and I will stop if you don’t give me what I want.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re—”

“Cruel?” he suggested with a faint smirk. “Perhaps. But if you want me to keep going, little one…” His lips brushed your ear, velvet and venom. “You’re going to say it.”

Your silence stretched between you, fragile as glass.

Sebastian’s smile didn’t falter. “Mm. Stubborn little thing.”

The hand at your jaw slipped lower, gliding down the column of your throat until it found the first lace at your back. Hisfingers toyed with it idly, almost as if he were distracted — though you knew better.

“Every ribbon you hide behind…” he murmured, giving it the faintest tug, “I could undo in a breath.”

You stiffened, pulse spiking under his touch. “Don’t.”

A low chuckle hummed against your ear. “You think I haven’t already imagined it? Lace by lace, until there’s nothing between my hands and the truth of you.”

His fingers tightened on the cord, just enough to make you feel the promise in it. “Say it, little one,” he whispered. “Say you want this… or I’ll find out anyway.”

The cord slid free with a whisper, loosening the first layer of your defenses.

You inhaled sharply, shoulders curling in on themselves. “Sebastian—”

“Shhh…” The sound was almost soothing, but the way his hand splayed over your back felt like a brand. “You flinch as though I’m going to find something to disappoint me.”

Another lace came undone — slow, deliberate — the fabric slackening under his practiced fingers.

“You’ve convinced yourself,” he murmured, close enough that his breath stirred the hair at your nape, “that no one could look at you without seeing flaws.” His tone dipped lower, dangerous. “I will undo every lie they told you… even if I have to strip them from your skin.”

The next cord loosened. The bodice shifted. Your pulse thundered.

“Tell me, little one,” he said, fingertips brushing bare skin now, “if I looked my fill… would you still think yourself undesirable?”

You made a sound — small, half-protest, half-something else — and he caught it with a low, knowing hum.

“Say it,” he urged again, the laces hanging loose now. “Say you want this… or I’ll prove it to you without your permission.”

Your lips parted before you could think better of it, a sharp inhale catching between you. His mouth followed like he’dbeen waiting for the opening, deepening the kiss with a languid certainty that left no room for doubt — only the taste of him, the press of his will against yours.

The loosened corset shifted again under his hand. The other gloved palm skimmed the curve of your cheek, down the line of your throat, like he was relearning you by touch alone.

“You see?” he murmured against your lips. “Not fear.”

Heat pooled low in your stomach, sharp and insistent, but you shook your head — or tried to. His hand on your jaw kept you from turning away.

He leaned back just far enough to look at you, his crimson eyes catching the low lamplight. “I could worship you for hours,” he said, the words silk and steel all at once, “and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

The way he said it made your pulse trip — not a compliment, but a promise.

His fingers brushed the edge of your bodice, knuckles grazing bare skin in a touch too light to be accidental. “Shall I?” he asked, but the slow curl of his mouth told you it wasn’t a question.

When you didn’t answer, he smiled like you’d given him exactly what he wanted.

“Good girl.”

The laces gave way under his practiced fingers, the fabric loosening further. His mouth brushed your jaw, then lower, leaving deliberate, reverent touches as he went — worship in the shape of possession, each kiss a claim staked deeper.

By the time his hands slid to your waist, drawing you flush against him, you weren’t sure if he was holding you up or holding you still.

The edge of the table dug into the backs of your thighs before you realized he’d moved you that far, his presence crowding every escape route.

Then, without warning, his hands shifted — one at your waist, the other at the back of your thigh — and you were lifted clean off the floor.

A startled gasp escaped before you could swallow it. The skirts and petticoats shifted around you, and heat rushed to your face. “Sebastian—” Your hands caught at his shoulders, the embarrassment coming sharp. “Put me down, I’m—”

“—light as air,” he finished smoothly, setting you on the edge of the table as though you weighed nothing at all. The faintest smirk touched his mouth. “Or did you think I’d struggle?”

You looked away, jaw tight, and his gloved hand caught your chin again, forcing your eyes back to him. “Mm. That’s it, isn’t it? You think yourself too much in every way… too much to want, too much to lift.” His eyes narrowed just slightly, crimson deepening. “But I will tell you the truth you won’t say aloud—there is not enough of you in this world to satisfy me.”

“…there is not enough of you in this world to satisfy me.”

You barely had time to register the weight of the words before his mouth was on yours—firm, claiming, not the gentle brush that would have given you space to think. No, this was a kiss meant to consume.

His gloved hand still cupped your chin, holding you right where he wanted you, while the other slid from your thigh to your hip, anchoring you against him. There was nothing tentative about it. Each press of his mouth was deliberate, coaxing and taking in equal measure, as though he’d been waiting far too long to taste you and now had no intention of stopping.

When you drew in a sharp breath, he used it—deepening the kiss until you felt dizzy, his tongue tracing the shape of a surrender you hadn’t meant to give. The table edge bit into you with every inch he closed between you, his coat brushing your skirts, the faint scent of clove and something darker wrapping around you like a trap you didn’t want to escape.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to let his words ghost across your lips. “I’ll have all of you, whether you give it freely or not.”

It was at that moment you felt that his hand had slipped underneath your petticoats, zeroing in on the wet patch of your underwear that you practically melted against him. 

He angled your chin so you had to meet his gaze, his eyes crimson and utterly certain.

“Tell me to stop, and I will… but you won’t, will you?”

When you don’t answer, his smirk deepens — slow, knowing, cruel in its confidence.

“Ah… there it is. That sweet little paralysis.”

His fingers shift, teasing rather than claiming, making your thighs tense under the layers of skirts.

“You want to deny me, but you don’t. You want to pull away, but you won’t. You’re caught, little one — and I intend to savor every second of it.”

He leans in, his lips brushing the edge of your jaw in a kiss that feels far too much like a brand.

“So stay very still… and let me show you what happens when you stop running.”

His gloved hand pressed just enough to make your breath stutter, rubbing your clit through the material of your underwear. 

Small shocks of pleasure coursed through you, and you could do nothing but fist the material of his shirt, trying to ground yourself in something. 

Soft kisses littered your jaw while a gloved finger pulled your underwear aside. Sebastian could feel you freeze against him. 

It dawned on you then that you were in the middle of the manor library, and you felt the sudden urge to cover yourself, but there was nowhere to go. Sebastian had caged you in. 

“Your body’s honest, telling the truth you won’t.” He murmured, pulling out gloved fingers soaked with your slick. “You come apart so easily for me, it’s both pathetic… and perfect.” 

Perhaps you wanted to say something in retort, but there was nothing that you could think of. But within that split second, Sebastian had managed to take his gloves off and plunged two fingers right inside your wet hole. 

You choked out a moan, or maybe it was a sob, you couldn’t tell. His thumb rubbed soft circles right on your clit, increasing the pressure now and then. Your eyes stayed shut as you breathed deeply. 

You whimpered slightly when he picked up the pace, fingers curling into a particularly sensitive spot. Sebastian could feel the heat radiating from you, feel you soaking his fingers. 

His fingers stilled entirely, leaving you clenching around nothing. “Tch… look at you,” he said, voice low and edged. “Pathetic enough to soak my hand, but too proud to ask for more.” His eyes lingered on your flushed face, the shiver in your thighs. “You’d be exquisite if you begged. Say it, and I’ll prove it… or I’ll leave you aching and desperate for the rest of the night.”

You looked up at him, flushed with wide eyes. Sebastian resisted the urge to devour you whole; you looked like a delicacy to the demon. 

You swallow hard, voice barely above a whisper.

“Please…”

He tilts his head, smirking faintly.

“Please… what?”

When you hesitate, he leans in until the tip of his nose brushes yours, his hand still motionless between your thighs.

“Mm, that won’t do. You’ll be very clear for me, little one. What exactly are you begging for?”

Your cheeks burn hotter.

“I… want you to—”

He presses just enough to make you gasp, then pulls his hand back entirely, forcing you to chase the sensation.

“You want? No… You need, don’t you?”

Your throat tightened, the word caught somewhere between shame and want.

“I—”

His fingers traced lazily along your inner thigh, maddeningly close but not giving you what you wanted. “Say it,” he murmured, voice low enough to feel rather than hear. “Tell me exactly what it is you need… or you’ll get nothing.”

You shook your head faintly, but his hand didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned in, lips brushing the edge of your jaw. “Mm… stubborn. You’d rather suffer than admit you want me here—” his touch skimmed dangerously near your clit, and he rubbed a soft circle on it, “—doing this.”

A sharp inhale gave you away.

“Ah… there it is,” he purred, catching the sound like a prize. “That little gasp that says you’re halfway undone already.”

You tried to speak, but he interrupted with a slow drag of his knuckles where you were already warm and aching. “You’re trembling. That’s not fear… that’s your body begging for me.”

“Sebastian…” you whispered, the plea unintentional.

His smirk deepened. “Better. But you’ll be clearer than that.” His free hand tipped your chin up so you had to look at him. “Say exactly what you want me to do to you, little one.”

Your cheeks burned. “I… I want you to—”

The lightest press of his fingers had you catching your breath, but before you could finish, he pulled them away entirely. “No, not like that,” he said, voice edged with mockery. “You don’t want. You need. You’re pathetic for it, and I adore it.”

He stepped closer, crowding you on the table until there was nowhere to go. “Say it,” he commanded softly, “or I’ll leave you here flushed and aching until you come to me on your knees.”

His gaze stays locked on you, crimson burning, hand still cruelly absent.

“You need,” he says again, quieter now, like he’s savoring the admission you haven’t given him yet. “Say it.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“Mm…” His smile tilts, dangerous. “You’ve spent your life being overlooked, little one. But now that someone is looking… You can’t even ask for what you want?”

The words sting. Your pulse stutters.

“I—”

“Clear,” he interrupts softly, as if it’s the simplest demand in the world. His hand hovers, the ghost of a touch where you’re still throbbing for him. “Tell me exactly what you need me to do to you. Or I’ll walk away and leave you to stew in it.”

Something in you gives — a shiver, a crack — and the words tumble out before you can catch them.

“I need you—please—”

“Better,” he says, though the slight arch of his brow dares you to go further. “Finish it.”

You swallow hard, shame and heat tangling in your voice. “I need you to touch me.”

His smile sharpens, satisfied. “There you are.”

And just like that, the restraint snaps — his hand is on you again, not teasing now, but claiming, his mouth crashing back to yours with the kind of hunger that says he was always going to win this.

You whined against his lips, hips moving on their own, desperately against his hand. It was like he already knew every inch of you. Knew where to curl his fingers just right to make you moan into the kiss. 

It’s messy, his hand covered in your slick, but that’s what he wanted. Sebastian wanted to be the one to take you apart and put you back together. 

“I knew you’d be beautiful when you begged,” he murmured, thumb rubbing harsh circles on your puffy clit. 

“Look at you, so desperate for pleasure you’re practically humping my hand,” Sebastian mused, watching the way you were already falling apart. His hands were still fisted in the material of his shirt. 

“I could make you fall apart like this all night,” he murmured, fingers never slowing. “But I think we both know that won’t be enough for either of us.”

Your breath caught, hips stuttering against his hand. “Sebastian—”

He silenced you with a kiss, deeper and hungrier than before, the kind that left no question about where this was headed. His hand left you just long enough for him to pull at the loosened bodice, the fabric sliding further down your arms.

“Off,” he said, voice like a command and a promise in one. “All of it.”

When you hesitated, his smirk returned — slow, dangerous. “Don’t tell me you’ve come this far just to shy away now.”

His hands were on you again, turning you easily before pressing you forward along the table, the wood cool against your front.

“Down,” he said, voice like velvet over steel. You caught yourself on your forearms, skirts shifting as he stepped in behind you, between your thighs.

His hands slid under the bunched fabric and stilled. A soft, dismissive click of his tongue. “Mm… no. I won’t have these in my way.” The words were smooth, but there was a blade in them. “I want to see you. Really see you.”

Before you could ask, he caught the hem of your petticoat and peeled it away — slow, deliberate — until it was gone, leaving you bare from the waist down, the cool air licking at your skin.

“There…” His tone shifted, softer now — not gentle, but reverent, as though he were taking in a priceless artifact. His bare fingertips traced the slope of your hip, slow enough to make you shiver. “Perfect.”

The reverence didn’t last. It never did with him.

“Now there’s nothing between my hands…” His voice dipped, steel under velvet. “…and the only soul I might ever keep.”

He leaned in, his breath brushing the shell of your ear, words sinking like hooks. “I’ll give you what you begged for, little dove…” His grip on your hips tightened — not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you he could. “…but you’re going to take all of me when I do. Every inch, every moment. Until you forget there was ever a world without me in it.”

You could hear Sebastian shuffle behind you, but you couldn’t look, not with the way he had you bent over the table. The wood was cold against the thin chemise you were in. But you were completely bare from the waist down. 

There was a slight draft in the library; the cool air nipped at your skin. But that quickly left your mind the moment you felt the blunt tip of his cock rub up and down your slit, gathering your slick.

His hands locked on your plush hips, something you always hated about yourself, but was quickly becoming something Sebastian loved. His grip was tight, drawing you back into the first slow push, forcing you to take him. 

It stung, the way his cock nearly split you open. Sebastian gave you no mercy as he pushed into you, forcing your silken walls apart. “Shh… breathe, little one. I’ll make every inch fit.”

A low hum rolled in his chest. “Mm… already shaking,” he murmured, savoring the tension in your body. “It’s almost adorable—how little it takes to undo you.”

He leaned in until the edge of his teeth grazed your ear. “You’ve been empty for so long, you don’t know what to do with yourself now, do you?”

A slow thrust punctuated his following words, before he was fully inside of you. “Don’t worry… I’ll fill you until you remember who you belong to.” The air left your lungs as he filled you completely, and stayed there. 

You could’ve sworn the tip of cock had knocked at your cervix. 

“It’s like you were made for me,” he breathed at a particularly deep thrust, making you cry out. 

You felt so full. Tears stung your eyes as your fingers dug into the table, looking for purchase. You wanted to close your thighs, but he prevented you from doing so. Forcing you to take the stretch. It hurt so good. 

Every movement kept you trapped between him and the table, your palms sliding against the wood as you tried to ground yourself. 

“Look at you—gripping me so tightly, like you’re afraid I’ll leave you empty,” he said, his tone a cruel kind of amusement. You couldn’t help it; he felt so big, even if you tried to relax, your body just wouldn’t listen. “Your body begs like it’s been waiting for me all its life. Look at how wet you are. Practically drooling for my cock.” 

You shivered when his fingers curled tighter into your hips. “Pathetic… and yet—” his voice softened, enough to make your knees weaken— “this is exactly how I want you. Starved for every inch I give you. Needing me more than you can admit.”

Sebastian tilted your chin back so you had to feel his breath when he said, “If I stopped now, you’d beg me to keep going before the minute was out.”

Two fingers reached down, smacking your puffy clit. You mewled, fingers digging into the wood. 

The rhythm shifted, less coaxing and more claiming now. Harder. Rougher. It stung so deliciously, you hadn’t realized you were arching your back just to take him in deeper. “That’s it—take it. Take all of me,” he purred, the sound edged with satisfaction.

“You’ll think about this later,” he murmured against your hair, “when you’re alone, aching, wishing I’d kept you on this table until you forgot your own name.”

You choked out a pathetic whine as his fingers dug into the meat of your hips. Every few rolls and snaps of his hips against yours had you moaning, desperate to stay quiet, but Sebastian pulled every sound out of you.

Your legs trembled, threatening to give, but he held you steady, pressing you down into the wood with every sharp drive of his hips. “Remember this—remember me—because you won’t be satisfied with anything less.”

His pace was brutal, and you did nothing but surrender to the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you. “Look at this, squeezing me so tight.”  And gods, were you wet. His dick is slick with you, creamy almost. 

His hips stuttered, your eyes fluttering as your pillowy walls clenched him. Sebastian buried himself inside of you one last time, holding you still as he spilled deep inside of you. The sense made your eyes roll back in ecstasy. 

When you sagged forward, spent and breathless, Sebastian only leaned in closer, his mouth grazing your skin. “Pathetic little thing… and still, I’m not nearly finished with you.”

And he wasn’t, Sebastian took you again and again on that table, where anyone could’ve walked in. 

But he made sure no one would. 

No one was going to interrupt him, not when he had you begging and moaning for him not to stop. 

He had made you come so many times that your head felt hazy, the overstimulation had made you squirt a few times, and he mocked you for it. 

“Look at that, like a little whore, aren’t you little dove?” 

“Oh my, I could watch this pretty pussy all day.”

“That’s it—give me all of it. Every last drop of you.” 

At last, he slowed — not out of mercy, but as though simply choosing to let you breathe. His hands stayed on you, anchoring you there, the weight of his claim still heavy in every place he’d touched.

You sagged against the table, lungs working hard, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks he’d pulled from you.

Sebastian leaned down until his mouth brushed your ear. “You’re coming with me,” he murmured, voice low and certain, “because you’re mine now. Every breath, every thought, every inch of you belongs to me.”

A shiver rolled through you, and his smirk deepened. “No one else will touch you. No one else will have you. I’ve made certain of it.”

SYNOPSIS - curiousity has played its role well with you - leaving you in between pleasure's whirlwind with the Phantomhive's most cunning, most skilled butler. How will you handle this arrangement?

■ ` ♡ characters / fandom ; f!reader x sebastian michaelis - kuroshitsuji + in a binding agreement

■ ` ♡ tw ; MINORS DNI

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■ ` ♡ A/N → YKTV! She's baaaaaaaack! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! thank you guys so much for your patience and support! My tag list is still open--just shoot me a reply to be added to the next bunch!

“Haaah, I’m so exhausted.” you slowly rolled your neck around in circles, counting your breaths starting from 5.

5…

You could hear the clicks in your neck after each roll, each click quieter than the last.

4…

You rolled your shoulders forward, feeling your trap muscles extend. The discomfort transforming into relief in seconds.

3…

You reached forward to touch your toes, hamstrings pulling all the way from your butt to the back of your calves.

2…

You turned your neck up and down, your cervical spine clinking back into place. You were in Desperate need of a massage.

And 1.

Sebastian Michaelis x Maid!Reader (not really a virgin anymore lol)

A/N: I accidentally deleted this when I was trying to edit it, so it's no longer attached to the ask. Anon asked for part 2 of Sebastian x Virgin Maid, and so here you go! I took the "good girl gone bad" and made it my own, made it smutty as hell, and got this. This is the smuttiest smut I've ever written, see warnings below. I hope you like it 🖤

Read Part One Here

Content Warnings, MDNIs:

Explicit sexual content (18+)

Power imbalance (demon x human, employer x maid)

Somno-adjacent teasing (mild — she’s shy/delirious but consenting)

Consensual dubcon vibes (emotional repression, corruption kink, shame-play)

Mirror sex

Mild choking (hand on throat, no asphyxiation)

Virginity loss aftermath / “ruined for anyone else” themes

Religious and purity-based corruption themes

Degradation (pet names like “pathetic,” “filthy,” “good girl”)

Obsessive/possessive dynamics

Mentions of manipulation (emotional, sensual)

Spiritual blasphemy undertones (forgetting every god but him)

It had been two weeks. 

Two weeks since Sebastian defiled you on the sterile counter of your lab. Two weeks since you had given yourself to him. 

And now you were avoiding him.

You were where he was not. If you were forced to be in the same room, you didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. 

You couldn’t name it, but something terrible had filled you—like bile rising in your throat. Perhaps it was shame. Guilt. 

Every time you even so much as stole a glance at Sebastian, all you could remember was the sounds he pulled out of you with his fingers stuffed deep inside of you. 

It replayed in your mind like a broken record, one that couldn’t turn off. 

You buried yourself in your duties just to avoid him. 

Suddenly, all of your ingredients need to be organized in alphabetical order. 

Even though you had just done that this morning. 

Or all of your beakers needed to be sterilized. Again. 

But no matter how many times you wiped and cleaned that cursed countertop, the memory lingered like bad perfume. 

You hated what he’d done to you.

You hated that you liked it even more.

You hated that you wanted to do it again most. 

But even your lab wasn’t safe, not really. Even in the dead of night, you’d hear footsteps right outside the door. Once, there was a cup of tea right next to your lab journal. One that wasn’t there before you quickly left to grab something. 

Or a fleeting glance over his shoulders. Your eyes would meet his red ones, and it was like he knew. 

Knew you were losing it. That shame was eating you alive, and it was living in your head. 

And he liked it. 

You were an alchemical genius. You could create lethal poisons by memory, antidotes that doctors would struggle with. 

And you were being undone by a man. 

Every time he looked at you, even from across the room, it felt like he was pulling the thread that held you together. Bit by bit, he was going to unravel you. 

You knew you couldn’t avoid him, not forever. Maybe you could. 

It was late evening. The lab was clean, too clean. You had scrubbed every surface twice. The air smelled faintly of soap and chemicals. 

The chalkboard had the same formula it did yesterday, but in a neater script. The vial beside you was still warm from sterilization—again. 

You were pretending to work, sort of. You had done everything you needed to do, which means you ran out of busy work. So you were scribbling down notes that meant nothing. Uncorking things, sterilizing what was already sterile. 

You moved mechanically, hollow. 

It was late. You should’ve gone to bed. 

The door opens with a creak, and you pause. You know who it is without turning. 

“We’re running low on cold tincture,” Sebastian said, low. You could just feel him watching you. 

You don’t turn to look at him, just nodding before you scribble something into your lab book, “I’ll handle it.” 

Half of the lines you had written were the same ones, over and over again. 

You turned back to the chalkboard, feigning deep focus. You expected him to turn, to hear his footsteps retreating and the door close. 

You do not. 

He lingers instead. Standing there, eyes raking over you. 

“You’re avoiding me.” 

You stiffen—just slightly, but enough. He notices, he always does. 

“I’ve… been busy,” you said, quietly. As if you weren’t sure you believed it yourself. 

“Busy with a formula you perfected yesterday?” 

You’re silent. You’re caught. You know it. 

Sebastian steps closer, not touching you. Not yet. But you feel it, the way he’s lingering behind you. 

“You are many things,” he says softly, almost reverently. “Brilliant. Kind. But a liar is not one of them.” 

You still won’t meet his eyes. 

But he’s so close you can smell him—smoke, spice, and sin. 

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you whispered. 

“Liar.” 

It wasn’t a cruel accusation— just a fact. 

You flinch nonetheless. 

“You wanted it,” he continues, soft, relentless. “You still want it.” 

You open your mouth to say something, anything. But words fail you. You shake your head, barely. 

Sebastian leans in. His breath ghosts the shell of your ear, and a shiver runs up your spine. 

“You don’t know how to lie. Not properly. It’s why it’s so easy to read you.” 

“You don’t hate me. You hate that you enjoyed it.” 

Still, you say nothing. Your throat is too tight, and something hot coils deep inside of you. 

“You’ve always been good. Always kind. Untouched not just in body, but in soul.” 

“And now I’ve ruined you,” Sebastian said it gently, devastatingly. 

You exhale shakily. That word, ruined. It shouldn’t make your stomach clench like that. It shouldn’t make your heart flutter. 

“But do you want me to fix it?” He murmured, “Or do you want me to ruin you again?”

You were burning. Sebastian hadn’t touched you, and yet your skin was on fire. Heat pooled in your belly, and you ached between your thighs. 

When you finally turn around to look at him, you almost melt. 

He’s so close. Too close. His presence coils around you like smoke, like velvet—like everything you’ve been trying not to want.

Your eyes lift to meet his.

And the look he gives you?

It’s ruinous.

A heat blooms in your chest—your belly—low and aching and helpless.

“Sebastian,” you whisper, unsure whether it’s a plea or a warning.

But then his hand rises—slowly. Carefully.

And his fingers brush your cheek. Your jaw. His thumb ghosts over your lower lip, and you feel the heat spike, a tremor running through you.

Still, he doesn’t kiss you. He’s waiting for your collapse. Sweet. Inevitable. 

You lean forward first.

Just barely. A breath.

But it’s enough.

His lips capture yours like a secret stolen in the dark.

The kiss is soft at first—shockingly so. Reverent. Gentle.

But you gasp.

And that’s all it takes.

He swallows the sound. His hand cups the back of your neck. The other anchors your hip.

He kisses you like he’s claiming the breath from your lungs. Like he’s dragging you back into sin, and you’re letting him.

You arch against him, and suddenly the world becomes smaller—quieter—until there’s only his mouth, his hands, him.

It was the way you melted into him, breathed him in like he was the air you needed to breathe. 

“Do you remember?” he murmurs against your throat. “How sweet you tasted when you broke?”

You do. Gods, you do. But this time… you want more.

“Sebastian…” you whisper again. Your fingers curl tighter in his waistcoat. “Not here.”

His lips still against your neck. You expect him to tease. To say something cruel and soft.

Instead, his voice lowers, velvet-sinful. “Then say it. Tell me where you want me to ruin you.”

You hesitate. Just a breath. And then:

“Somewhere… softer,” you say. “Somewhere I can feel everything.”

His eyes darken, delighted. And without another word, he lifts you again—arms like iron, touch like reverence.

You bury your face in his shoulder, suddenly shy as he carries you down the hall, past flickering lamps and empty corridors, into the quiet hush of a room that smells like sandalwood and secrets.

When he sets you down atop the soft sheets, the moonlight slicing across the bed

That’s when he says it:

“I’m going to make you beg me to do it all over again.”

Jackets and shirts came off and fell to the floor. You didn’t even notice his gloves were gone until you felt his bare hands cup your face, as if you were something delicate. 

To him, you were—a dove who flew too close. 

He was on top of you, caging you in the way a predator would the prey they caught. And perhaps it was fitting—Sebastian planned to devour you. 

And god, you were going to let him. Hands fisted into the material of his shirt and desperately pulled him closer. 

As if he wasn’t going to be your ruin. 

His knee was placed between your thighs, and you whined. Grinding against his knee, he could feel it. How wet you were. 

“Needy little thing, aren’t you?” He chuckled against your lips, dark, low, and amused. “Surely, you aren’t this desperate for me?”

Your face flushed, and before you could blink, his hand had slipped beneath your petticoats, fingers stroking the large wet stain on your underwear. 

“You’re dripping, and I haven’t even touched you properly. How pathetic. How precious.” 

You were drooling between your thighs, all for him. The knowledge made something dark curl into his chest. 

Sebastian wanted nothing more than to make you sob his name. Loud enough for the whole manor to hear, until it was imprinted into the walls. 

Without warning, ruthless hands were pulling your petticoats down, tossing them to the floor without a care. You suddenly tried to shield yourself, earning an eyebrow raised from him.

Sebastian tsked, “You’re trying to be modest now? Adorable. Almost believable.” 

 A mere flick of Sebastian’s wrist had you suddenly exposed, hands pinned above your head with ease.  

He parted your thighs with ease, revealing the way your slick spread thing. Eager, all for him. 

Sebastian let out a soft “Hm,” before his thumb found your clit, smearing your slick against it in slow circles. It made you gasp softly. 

It was amusing to him that barely touching you elicited such reactions. You were already struggling to bite back a moan. 

“Even now, you’re clenching around nothing,” his voice was soft, dangerously soft. 

It was then that he slipped two fingers inside of you with ease, the sound was obscene—slick, eager, sinful. He paid no mind, massaging your insides with slow curls of his fingers. 

“Ah, Sebastian!” You cried out, biting back a moan. The demon did nothing but chuckle, watching as you fell apart on merely two fingers. 

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be undone. To be ruined.” He teased, with a slight tilt of his head, as he suddenly roughly slammed his fingers into you. It made you cry out; it stung deliciously. “I’m merely doing what you asked of me, little dove.” 

His pace was not kind; it was rough. As if he were determined to be the one to push you off the edge and watch. 

Even if you wanted to retort, the only thing that left your lips was broken cries and moans. 

You felt it in your belly, the tight coil about to come undone as you reached your peak. Sebastian knew it too. He saw it in the way you were gripping the sheets tightly. 

“You break so sweetly…. I almost feel merciful.” He breathed before pulling his two fingers out of your wet cunt with a squelch. The coil in your stomach, the pleasure building to your orgasm, was quickly dwindling. “But I’d rather not.”

You blinked up at him, confused. Needy. “Why’d you stop?” You whined, hanging on the edge of release. The need in your voice made Sebastian chuckle. 

“Be a good girl and lick it off,” he purred, holding up two fingers covered in your slick. “And I’ll give you what you’re so wet for.” 

You had never done this before—obviously— but the promise of relief after two torturous weeks was reward enough. 

Your hands held his, bringing them to your lips. The taste was heady, a dark blend of salt and something faintly sweet—you.

You were so eager to please—sweet little dove. 

The way you looked up at him through your lashes with wide eyes, sucking on his fingers, swirling your tongue around them. 

It was sinfully erotic. 

And you had no idea what a feast for the eyes you were. 

His cock throbbed, straining against fabric—aching for the softness he’d already claimed.

It took everything in him not to shove you down and make you forget your own name.

“Hands and knees, little dove,” Sebastian says, voice low and dark. “Let me see where you’ve been aching for me most.”  

His words make you flush, but you do as he says, almost under a spell. 

And what a sight it is. 

Watching you in such a position— thighs spread, a perfect view of how wet you were— was delicious—the slight arch in your back. 

“Look at you,” he murmured, leaning down to wrap his hand around your throat. Not choking, but firm. Guiding your head to the dressing mirror in the corner. “You look like a delicacy.” 

The sight in the mirror made you want to look away, but you couldn’t. You were completely bare in every sense. 

“A banquiet laid bare,” Sebastian said softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder that felt unnaturally gentle. “…And it’s all for me.” 

He shuffled behind you, not fully visible in the mirror. You felt the blunt tip of his cock drag up and down your cunt, gathering your slick. Teasing. 

You shuddered, back arching. 

It was then that Sebastian pushed the tip into your aching cunt, pushing deeper past the tight ring of muscles with a shallow sigh. You were squeezing him so deliciously. 

He held you still, preventing you from trying to escape the stretch you were feeling. 

It took one forceful thrust of his hips to push into you halfway. 

He gave you the small mercy of adjusting before he fully sank into you, the air leaving your lungs. You’ve slumped into the bed, face in the pillows with your ass up. 

You were temptation made flesh to the demon. 

A pure soul—not naive— and he was the one who got to ruin you. 

It took a few slow thrusts, but it wasn’t long before you were muffling your moans into the pillow. 

To think, you avoided him for two weeks only to end up naked with his cock sinking into you. The thought made him chuckle internally. 

“You play the good little maid,” Sebastian muttered, fingers gripping your hair tighter at an intense thrust that has your whining moans hushed by the pillow. 

“But you’ve always wanted to be filthy for me, haven’t you, little dove?” 

He got his answer when your hips began to roll on their own—slow, deliberate, sinful. When your spine arched deeper just to take him further. When you dared to lift your gaze to the mirror and meet his eyes, a silent plea was written across your face, ruined and radiant. The good girl was gone. In her place was something hungrier. Bolder. Desperate to be filled, to be wrecked, to be his.

The good girl died a few orgasms ago. 

Now? 

You moaned at every drag of his cock against your silken walls.

Your cunt greedily swallowed every inch he gave you. Like it couldn’t be sated. 

Maybe you couldn’t be either.

Not when tears are wetting your lashes, not when your eyes are almost rolled back. Especially not when your hips bounce back to meet his deep thrusts. 

You were almost as insatiable as he was. 

You couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. 

Perhaps the whole manor had heard you moaning his name— for once, Sebastian didn’t care. How could he, when he had you like this? Begging for more? Begging for him? 

No man could make you feel like this— in fact, he was determined to ruin you for anyone else. 

You were a vision of debauchery and devotion.

Sebastian wanted to burn the image into his head. He wanted to keep you all to himself. He was greedy. Selfish. 

He didn’t want you moaning or falling apart like this for anyone except him. 

Only him. 

Drawn to Ruin

Sebastian Michaelis x Maid!Reader who’s a virgin 

A/N: Based on your asking for her to be a virgin, I assumed you wanted some smut/suggestive content. Moderate ish smut towards the end, I did my best to make this canon compliant and interesting. Hope it hits the spot. 🖤🖤🖤

Edit: Read Part 2 Here

MDNI

Content Warnings:

Canon-typical dark themes, suggestive content, virgin!reader, dominant Sebastian, mild humiliation/degradation (verbal), power imbalance (employer/employee), sensual hand-play, reader sketching Sebastian (obsessively), emotional manipulation, and possessive obsession, moderate smut towards the end.

You were an enigma to Sebastian. 

It defied logic that a mind so rooted in science could also harbor such joy. Such idealism. That intellect belonged to a soul so…pure.

And yet you made his life easier. Sebastian never had to correct you. 

At the manor, you worked as a second maid. And you were good. Unlike the rest of the staff—well-meaning, but hopeless (save for Tanaka)—you possessed a rare and precious competence—a unique ability to understand and anticipate Sebastian’s needs. You saved him hours of wasted effort and unneeded intervention.

With you around, the manor felt transformed—fewer shattered teacups—no more scorched soufflés. Even the garden remained intact. A miracle. That alone was a testament to your competence and the positive changes you brought. 

Sebastian had been stuck with them for years, and he could never get them to stop messing something up. 

But you? You had somehow managed to do it overnight. 

Sebastian watched you one day, and it only served to prove how little he understood you. It all started in the laundry room. 

“I know you’re farsighted, so try holding it a bit farther away,” you explained gently to Mey-Rin, holding the powered detergent. “It wouldn’t make sense to use thirty cups of detergent to wash the linens, would it?” 

Mey Rin shook her head, “No, no, it would not!” 

Even if you had to show Mey-Rin another dozen times, you never grew frustrated. You always did it with a smile. You had the patience of a saint, and Sebastian had met actual saints in his lifetime. 

“You can always add more later if it’s not enough,” you said, and let Mey-Rin attempt to do the laundry. 

And then Sebastian watched you in the kitchen with Baldroy—the damned American who insisted on using his flame thrower to cook everything. 

“See, you want to dice the onions like this,” you said, showing Baldroy how to cut things up properly. 

You added the diced onions to the pan, showing Baldroy how to sauté the onions properly. 

“I know it might be tempting to turn the heat up all the way, or use your flame thrower because you think that’ll make it cook faster, but it won’t.” You explained, “Patience is key.” 

Then, in the gardens, you were teaching Finnian to be more careful. He needed to be aware of his strength so he wouldn’t go around destroying everything. And somehow, you managed to get it into his thick skull. 

In fact, every time the servants messed up now, they didn’t come running to Sebastian. They came to you. And you always helped with a smile. 

As if that were not enough, you were a genius—an alchemist. Every Phantomhive servant served another purpose, and yours was alchemy. 

Brilliant and focused, you could whip up a paralytic in thirty seconds, antidotes in minutes, and explosives with terrifying precision.

Sebastian had dismissed your presence as merely convenient. Useful. But lately, the way you moved — precise, unbothered, radiant — left something… unresolved inside him.

It was the kind of feeling that lingered, uninvited. Unwelcome. And yet, he found himself watching you more often than he cared to admit.

He had caught a glimpse of you in your lab once. Sleeves rolled up, hair tied up, lips parted slightly in concentration as you transcribed something in blood red ink. You were focused and worked with the utmost precision. 

He stood there in silence, watching you longer than he should have. 

As if that all weren’t enough, you weren’t scared of Sebastian. 

The other servants were terrified of angering him, and he could silence them with one look. 

But not you. Sebastian didn’t intimidate you. 

You never flinched, never cowered in his presence. You were just as quietly fearless around Sebastian as you were working with dangerous materials. 

Sebastian did, however, make you nervous. 

The lab was your sanctuary. A place where logic reigned, where you were never anything but in control.

Except when Sebastian walked in.

Once, he’d appeared while you were bottling an antidote, and you’d tripped over your own words — a rare and telling lapse.

It was then that Sebastian noticed how divine you smelled. Your soul was unlike any he had encountered before—but it was the scent of your hands, always tinged with crushed rosemary, citrus oil, and old paper, that lingered with him the most. One he found himself quietly enjoying. 

The true downfall began a week later.

You were working on an elixir — a complex poison resistance compound meant to safeguard the young master. Your hands moved with brisk precision, lips parted in focus, the chalkboard behind you scrawled with formulas only you could fully understand.

And then it happened.

Your soul flared.

Not metaphorically — not in some sentimental, poetic way — but visibly. For the briefest moment, Sebastian saw it: luminous, intricate, impossibly untouched.

It startled him.

No, it unnerved him.

Of course, her soul would glow like that, he thought bitterly. Radiant. Pure. Entirely unclaimed.

And for the first time in centuries, he felt that old hunger twist into something filthier. Not for the soul itself — but to leave his mark on it. To see if something that clean could still burn.

It happened on a Friday. You were in the lab, mid-concoction — a volatile compound Sebastian didn’t bother to identify. He could see the formulas chalked behind you: sharp, meticulous, brilliant. You were brilliant.

But even brilliance falters.

A miscalculation. A flash of heat. A hiss.

You yelped, barely flinching, but a raw bloom of red had already begun to form on your palm.

Sebastian was beside you instantly.

He took your hand without a word — washed the burn with cool water, dabbed ointment over the angry skin, and wrapped it with practiced precision. His touch was featherlight, reverent in a way that should’ve unsettled you.

But you only looked at him — eyes soft, trusting, adoring.

“You’re one of the good ones, Sebastian,” you said, voice warm with quiet certainty. A small smile curved your lips.

He paused.

It was imperceptible — a microsecond delay in the smooth machine that he was. But it was there.

You didn’t notice. You’d already turned back to tidy the lab, humming faintly to yourself.

“One of the good ones.”

As if he could be good. As if there was anything in him worth admiring.

The irony twisted in his chest like a blade turned backward.

You were supposed to fear him. Not speak to him like that. Not look at him like that. Not believe in something that didn’t exist.

But you did.

You believed there was goodness in him. That some piece of him — buried deep — was still capable of warmth.

He would ruin you for that alone.

And not out of cruelty.

Out of necessity.

He could ruin you. He will. Just to prove he can. 

The last straw was something small.

He hadn’t meant to find it. He was merely searching your lab for a report the young master requested — the one you insisted you’d left on your desk.

A brown notebook lay there, unassuming. He opened it.

It was not the report.

It was a sketchbook.

His breath did not hitch. His pulse did not quicken. Demons had no need for such things.

And yet.

Page after page — him.

Not caricatured. Not crude. Not lustful.

No, you had drawn him as you saw him. With reverence. With aching, unspeakable detail. The angle of his jaw. The curl of his smile. The exact way his gloves folded at the knuckle when he served tea. The faint shadow beneath his eyes when the night ran long.

You had studied him. Memorized him. Worshipped him in silence.

Some were soft, warm sketches of idle moments, when you thought no one was watching. Others… others bled with something unspoken. Intimate. Sensual. A hunger neither of you had ever named.

You had drawn him like he was divine.

And Sebastian — a creature forged in sin — felt something split inside him.

You weren’t simply fond of him. You didn’t just admire him. You adored him.

And that was far more dangerous.

Because now, he had proof. That your sweetness wasn’t naivety. That your softness wasn’t accidental.

You chose to see him this way.

And he would destroy it. He would destroy you for it.

Not out of malice. But because something so untouched — something that saw him and still glowed — had no business existing.

He would make you cry out his name. He would ruin your hands, your voice, your soul — and see if you’d still dare to sketch him as holy.

If you’d still call him good.

If you’d still love the thing that dragged you to hell.

But your downfall happened on a warm summer evening. 

It was late, quiet. The candles flickered softly, casting a warm golden glow on you. Concentrated on the formulas on the chalkboard in front of you. 

You had thought you were alone, that Sebastian had left long ago. The hallway was empty of the sound of footsteps. 

It was when you turned that you jumped, startled. 

Sebastian stood in the doorway, silent, watching, holding something. 

Your sketchbook. 

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. 

“It’s not the report the young master requested,” he says. “But I found it… enlightening.” 

You move quickly, hands outstretched. 

“That’s private—Sebastian, I—please don’t—”

Sebastian doesn’t move. Doesn’t give it back, just flips a page slowly—one of the more… vulnerable pages. 

You stammered, words failing you. Your cheeks burned with humiliation — and still, you couldn’t look away from those red eyes.

“Is that what you tell yourself? That this is harmless? Scientific?” 

Sebastian steps closer. Not angry, never angry— not with you. He’s amused, intrigued… hungry. 

“And what exactly were you studying when you sketched these?” He murmurs. “The angle of my hands? Or the way you’d imagine they’d feel?” 

Your back gently hits the lab counter— cornered and flustered. 

Even if you tried to explain, you stammered over your words like a fool. He had unraveled your composure within seconds. 

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your hands.

You glance down — damn it, you are. Slight tremble in your fingertips, even though you’re trying so hard to hold your ground.

“Why?” he asks softly. A tilt of the head, eyes unreadable. “You’re not afraid of me. We’ve already established that.”

He’s so close now, you can feel the heat of him — unnatural, wrong, overwhelming.

“Is it me?” he whispers. “Or is it what you want me to do to you?”

His hand lifts — not to touch, not yet — but to hover, gloved fingertips just shy of your jaw. The suggestion of touch without giving it.

“Innocent little thing….” he says. Not a question. A fact. Like he already knows.

You freeze. He smiles — not kind.

“Let’s find out what sounds you make when you’re being broken.” 

And that… is how you found yourself on the sterile lab counter… undergarments pooled around your legs with Sebastian’s bare fingers inside of you. 

He peeled his gloves off with his teeth — a sight that only deepened the heat pooling low in your belly.

But now? You were a beautiful mess, all for him. 

You were so sensitive, so eager. How delightful — it made ruining you all the more fun.

The counter was cold on the bare skin of your thighs, but you paid no mind. Not when Sebastian was pumping his fingers in and out of your wet cunt. Not when he curled his fingers just right to hit that spot. The spot that had you trembling and moaning for him so beautifully. 

You begged so sweetly every time he teased you. When he slowed down his movements, cruelly so, he had you begging and whining for him so easily. 

Sebastian played you like an instrument, a most beautiful melody he made of you. 

You came undone with a sob — trembling, gasping, your nails scraping across the countertop as wave after wave crashed through you. The pleasure was white hot, coursing through your veins. His name tore from your throat, breathless and broken.

And still, his fingers didn’t stop — slow now, almost lazy, drawing out every twitch, every shudder, like he was savoring it. Savoring the way you fell apart so beautifully. 

You slumped back, wrecked — breathless, incoherent. 

But he leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Oh, darling,” he purred, voice like smoke. “Did you think I was finished with you?”

A wicked smile.

Read part one here

a/n: part 2 is finally out! I spent ALL day on this, and I'm really proud of it. it is REALLY, REALLY LONG. I think I cooked, and the fandom deserves this. smutty smut smut in here. it is me and GRAMMARLY PREMIUM AGAINST THE WORLD.

⚠️ 

CONTENT WARNINGS – 18+ ONLY.

This fic contains:

Explicit sexual content (PWP adjacent, heavy smut)

Power imbalances (demon/human)

Soul-binding / ritualistic sex

Slight dub con.

Dubiously consensual magic (but emotionally consensual)

Biting / bloodplay (minor)

Psychological manipulation

Dark romance themes (obsession, possession, degradation)

Mirror kink / forced to watch

Religious imagery and spiritual corruption

Slight somno/ritual passivity (during binding)

HEAVY supernatural elements and emotional intensity

Reader cries from pleasure and/or spiritual ruination

NOT for the faint of heart.

🔞 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. 🔞

That Witch, Hunted (part 2)

Sebastian Michaelis x Witch!Reader

It had been a week and a half since your last attempt to escape. Where you were so close to the gate, you could taste freedom. 

But he had stopped you. You may have fooled Ciel into thinking you had accepted your fate here, but the devil knew better. He knew better than to let his bride escape. 

You’d been at the manor for nearly four weeks now. 

And every day since that encounter with Sebastian, he haunted your mind. Intrusive thoughts? More like intrusive feelings. 

His words lingered in your mind, the way he had spoken with unnerving gentleness. 

“Run,” he said softly. “You’ll be mine by the end of the night either way.”

A pleasant shiver ran up your spine as you recalled the memory. The way his voice lingered like smoke, staining you.  His voice had made your skin crawl and burn in the same breath. 

The way his eyes glowed red faintly in the dark night, like embers. 

For some reason, Sebastian had yet to inform the little Earl of your escape attempt. You were almost certain, because you weren’t called into the study or scolded. It was like a secret between you and the devil, 

And he had told you another secret that night. He had let you run. 

Because he enjoyed the chase. Enjoyed watching you squirm. He could taste your thrill. 

You had tested boundaries. A flicker of magic here and there. You held his gaze for too long, a quiet challenge. Getting cozy with the other staff. 

Occasionally, you had skipped a meal here and there. Didn’t show up when summoned. You had even cast a harmless little ward on your room, simply because you hoped he’d notice. 

Sebastian always notices. But he lets the leash slip, lets you think you’re in charge when that couldn’t be farther from the truth. 

Whether Ciel knew what was going on or simply chose to ignore it was irrelevant. You did, however, become the weapon he intended to aim. He had put you to work, cursing his enemies. Business deals fell through, and family members fell ill. Slowly chipping away at their good fortune. 

Because he realized killing them would be too easy, and torture was boring. Why not have you ruin their lives instead? 

The rituals left you drained, but buzzing with power. 

It had given you a terrible idea. 

You had read about binding spells, used on humans, the supernatural. Spells to seal, spells to control.

You padded barefoot down the hallway in nothing but a soft cotton nightgown. All the way down the hall to the library. 

There was no harm in a little late-night reading; you couldn’t get in trouble, surely not. 

The door opens with a slight creak, the room pitch black. You mutter a soft incantation in Aramaic, and the air buzzes as all the candles in the room suddenly light. 

It was clear the Phantomhives were no innocents, not with a demon in their employ. Surely, they must’ve had something in here. 

Tucked into the south corner of the room are the more… occult-related books. You combed through them, surely hoping to find one. 

Protective Magic and Binding: Spells to Keep and Control 

It wasn’t exactly what you wanted, but it would do. You pull it from the shelf with ease, the book dusty with time. 

Carefully, you flipped through the pages. Protective spells, sigils, things you already knew. You wanted binding. 

And you found it. A binding spell meant for demons. It was complicated and would require blood, but it was doable. 

Unease settled into your stomach as you read the warning. 

This spell is not meant for the faint of will. 

To attempt dominion over a demon is to dance with your own death. 

Proceed only if you are prepared to become the damned and to suffer the consequences should your leash slip. The one you sought to bind… will not be merciful. 

You scoffed. You knew what you were doing. You weren’t some novice fool. You were nearly stoned and burned to death. You had become some earl’s personal witch. 

It was Sebastian, who didn’t know who he was messing with. Demonic bastard. Always watching, always so smug. Thought you were some… pet. 

You had briefly glanced up at the library window, watching the rain patter against the window. It had begun to rain, soft, then harder. 

Briefly, for a moment, you saw something behind you in the reflection. 

You whirled around, almost in a panic of being caught. An excuse lay in wait on your tongue-

There’s nothing behind you. Not a soul. The hairs on your neck stand, and you can feel the eerie watchful eyes of something lurking in the shadows. Despite the fact that the room is lit, it feels dark. 

You couldn’t tell if the feeling creeping up inside you is fear, excitement… or a twisted combination of both. 

You had waited another five days until the next full moon. Until midnight, in the privacy of your room. 

A blood-binding. Forbidden and highly dangerous. 

Were you doing this for freedom? You kept telling yourself you were, but a small part of you kept wondering what would happen if he caught you. 

Still, the chance of escape instead of being a prisoner to a bratty child lord was a better prospect than staying here, and so you began. 

A circle of salt, black candles, and small crystals of obsidian. A red thread. Crushed herbs. An ornate dagger you’ve had for quite some time. 

You repeated the Latin spell directly from the book, but your hands shook. You felt off, the air too thick. 

You continued to chant the incantation as you grabbed the dagger and sliced your palm. You wince hard, the pain worse than you had anticipated. 

Your blood dripped onto the sigil you had drawn on the floor in front of you with salt. 

You hear nothing.

Not the wind. Not the candles. Not even your own breath.

Until a hand—cold and gloved—shot out from behind you, wrapping around your wrist and yanking you up off the floor like a doll.

You gasp—a cry caught in your throat—as your body crashes into something solid, unyielding.

Someone.

The dagger fell from your hand with a clatter.

His voice is velvet and smoke. “Now, now. What a dangerous thing to do in the dark.”

Your heart thrums violently in your chest. You try to pull back, but his grip tightens, not painfully—just… completely.

“Blood magic,” he mused, lifting your wounded hand. “How quaint.”

Then he tilts his head. Smiles.

And slowly—deliberately—he brings your palm to his lips.

You freeze. The air thickens. The candles flicker.

His tongue brushes your skin, and the sting of the wound disappears under his mouth—heat meeting heat.

You can’t breathe.

“Wasteful,” he murmurs against your flesh, not looking at your face. “You shouldn’t spill something so precious.”

He licks the last streak of crimson from your palm, gaze rising to meet yours.

His eyes are glowing faintly red now. Slit-pupiled. Hungry.

And far too close.

“You wanted to bind me,” he says softly, almost with amusement. “Isn’t that right?”

His hand doesn’t leave your wrist.

Instead, it slides slowly up your arm, gloved fingers ghosting over your skin with a mockery of tenderness. You try not to shiver. You fail.

His body crowds yours—not quite touching, but close enough that the air between you disappears.

You feel him. Smell him. That awful, intoxicating mix of spice, smoke, and something you’ve never been able to name.

Sebastian leans down until his lips are beside your ear.

“You were shaking when you said the incantation,” he whispers. “Nervous? Or excited?”

His voice is all silk and sin. You don’t answer.

“I wonder,” he continues, eyes dragging across your face, “if you’re trembling now because you’re afraid of what I’ll do… or what I won’t.”

Your breath catches.

“Because if you truly feared me…” he murmured, letting his fingers trace the line of your jaw, “you wouldn’t have tried to own me.”

He tilts your chin up, thumb resting under your mouth—almost a kiss, almost gentle.

“You wanted to be the master, didn’t you?”

Your heart stammers. The salt circle crumbles under your feet. You feel caged.

“Tell me—” he tilts his head, expression soft as velvet, “—does the leash burn more… when it’s wrapped around your own throat?”

Then, he smiles.

Not kindly.

Not human.

And that’s when he takes your jaw fully in hand—not hard, but decisively—and pulls you toward the tall mirror, shadows warping behind him.

Your knees give out.

You don’t even realize it until your weight shifts—and he catches you. Effortlessly. As if he knew. Of course he did.

His hand never leaves your wrist. He just guides you back to your feet with the ease of someone handling something delicate… and breakable.

“You always tremble right before you do something foolish,” he says softly, as if commenting on the weather.

His breath brushes your ear. The heat of him burns without ever touching you.

In the mirror, you barely recognize yourself.

Flushed cheeks. Chest rising fast. Lips parted, eyes wide and dark—pupils blown with something dangerous. Not just fear.

Want.

“Look at you,” Sebastian murmurs, voice low and velvet-slick. “You look like a delicacy, just like this.”

His gloved fingers ghost along your throat—not squeezing, just resting there.

“You burn when you’re like this. No wonder they wanted to put you out.”

He leans in closer, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“Do you remember what they called you? Back in that darling little village of yours?” A pause, thick with venomous sweetness. “The devil’s whore.”

You flinched. His smile grew sharper.

“And now look at you,” he whispers. “Shaking in a demon’s arms. Spellbook in one hand, blood on the other. Almost makes them look right, doesn’t it?”

You whip your head to snap at him, fury boiling to the surface. How dare he—

But he catches your chin, fingers firm now, commanding.

“No,” he says.

And he turns your face back to the mirror.

“Watch.”

What stares back is no longer just you. The shadows behind you pulse like breathing things. Sebastian’s reflection is distorted—elongated, inhuman. His pupils gleam crimson, slit and sharp like a predator’s. His smile stretches too wide. He looks less like a man and more like a demon carved from smoke and hunger.

You can’t speak. The words shrivel in your throat.

“You wanted to control me,” he says, tone mockingly gentle. “But look at you now.”

His hand trails lower, down your arm, just barely grazing the side of your waist.

“This is who you really are.”

He lets it hang, delicious and deadly.

And then—softly, cruelly:

“Ripe. Willing. Mine.”

His other hand continues to hold your chin firm, never letting you take your eyes off the mirror. 

His hand, which was grazing your waist, now trails lower. Your body reacts before your mind does; your heart races, your skin feels like it’s burning. 

You unconsciously press your thighs together, feeling just how wet you are. You felt dizzy, whether it was from the heat of him or the maddening embarrassment, you couldn’t tell. 

Sebastian chuckled, dark, low. You could feel the warmth of his breath against the shell of your ear. It was like he knew. He always knew. 

He lifted his hand from your waist, only to peel his glove off with his teeth. It’s a sight that has heat blooming within you. It stole the air out of your lungs. 

Nails painted black, a demonic seal on his hand. A reminder that served to tell you, this was not a man.

You didn’t hear the soft sound of his glove falling to the floor over your own heartbeat. 

His hand returned, drifting lower before reaching under your nightgown. As if it were his right. You made no effort to stop him; you didn’t want to. Even though you knew you should’ve. You hated how much you wanted this. Wanted him. 

Sebastian’s skin was both too cold and too hot against your bare thigh. You could feel your magic thrumming under your skin at his touch. 

A choked sound comes out of you the moment his hand zeroed in on your soaked panties before you could think. Your thighs trembled, and a shiver of pleasure crawled up your spine. 

Sebastian tsked as his finger stroked the wet stain that traced the length of your slit. 

And he forced you to watch in the mirror. 

“One might think this side of me excites you,” Sebastian purred, “You’re dripping.” 

You had nowhere else to look. Forced to watch in the mirror as he continued to tease. Your cheeks were bright pink, your chest rising and falling quickly as you struggled to process the sight before you. 

It was clear he had begun to grow bored, playing with his food. Instead, he had pulled your soaked panties to the side, taking no care before he spread you apart with his fingers. 

You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, and a shaky inhale filled your lungs. 

“A feast for the eyes,” Sebastian murmured, as if offering praise to something divine, something he meant to defile. 

Your legs trembled when his thumb found your clit, and he began to rub maddening circles on it. Your knees threatened to buckle, but he held you firm. Relentless. 

The shadows in the room grew and bent unnaturally in the mirror. Sebastian’s eyes glowed red, his pupils thin as slits. 

Less a man, more beast. 

A beast who planned to drag you to the depths with him. 

You refused to let out a sound, except for that of a shaky breath. You hated the sight before you in the mirror; you loved it at the same time. 

“Quiet little thing,” he whispers, dragging his fingers slowly. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Sebastian gives you zero warning before a slender finger slips into you with ease, given how wet you are. The sound fills the room. 

A trembling moan you can’t hold back escapes your lips; the sudden intrusion has you gasping for air as you adjust. Your free 

His finger drags slowly against your slick walls, teasing. Torturous. The only mercy you’ll get from him tonight. 

“There she is,” he says when you moan again. “Don’t hide from me. I want to hear you fall.”

You want to say you hate him, that you hate this. You should. But you don’t want him to stop. 

Instead, he adds another finger. Curling both immediately, pumping them in and out at a much faster, less forgiving pace. Hard. Every movement is precise. 

Slick, wet noises fill the air. Trembling moans.  Heat blooms in your chest. Your slick coats his fingers and your inner thighs.

The sight in the mirror is absolutely filthy. 

His hand around your throat, forcing you to watch. His other hand, fingers buried deep within your wet cunt. Your nightgown, bunched around your hips. Your face is flushed pink, chest heaving, lips parted with moans you try to stop from escaping, pupils blown wide. 

“Don’t,” you breathe, voice shaking, “Don’t think this changes anything.” 

A pathetic attempt to salvage whatever dignity you have left. 

“Doesn’t it?” Sebastian answers, smiling darkly. “Look in the mirror again.” 

At that moment, his fingers curl deep within you, searching for that one spot that will wreck you entirely. Sebastian finds it with ease, of course, he does. 

“Right,” he breathes, breath hot against your neck, “There.” 

Your body trembled with pleasure as his fingers curled right into that spongy spot deep within you. The spot that had set you on fire.  As if electricity was coursing through you. Your hips rolled against his hand without meaning to. 

“Oh, oh fuck.” It came out of you in a whiny, breathless moan. 

Your cursing elicited a dark chuckle from Sebastian, delighted he had managed to unravel you. 

Your head is slack against his shoulder, lips parted, the pleasure building fast within you. Tears well in your eyes— not from pain, from pleasure. From how good this feels. 

A soft whimper is muffled against his shoulder. The pressure is unbearable now, white-hot and consuming, curling tight in your belly like a lit fuse—

And then he slows.

Not stops.

Just enough that the heat falters. Just enough to make your body lurch in betrayal.

Your hips chase his hand before you can stop them, grinding against his fingers. 

Sebastian hums against your ear, a cruel little sound of feigned curiosity. “Hmm… strange,” he says, fingers moving too soft, too slow. “You were right there a moment ago.”

You make a sound—something wounded and desperate. You don’t mean to.

His hand around your throat flexes, just slightly. “I thought this changed nothing?” he whispers, mockingly gentle. “Why so eager, then?”

You clench your jaw. You refuse. You won’t.

But he’s relentless.

He drags his fingers through your slick at an excruciating pace, barely curling—never giving you enough.

“I can stop, you know,” he murmurs into your ear, all silk and poison. “Let you keep your pride. Would that make you feel better?”

His fingers start to pull away.

That’s when you break.

“No—!” you gasp, desperate. “Please, please, don’t stop—!”

Silence.

He smiles, sinister. 

“Oh, darling,” he says softly, like a reward. “There it is.”

Sebastian suddenly slammed his fingers into you—hard. His thumb rubs harsh circles on your clit, the dual stimulation has you trembling against him. A choked sob comes out of you as your pleasure builds with terrifying speed. 

“Oh god,” you shudder, eyes squeezed shut. 

“Don’t say His name,” he hisses, “Say mine.” 

It didn’t take much. Your dignity gone, debauched in the arms of a demon. You cried out his name, loudly, as your orgasm ripped through you. His fingers never slowed, ever. He continued to overstimulate you until tears brimmed in your eyes. 

You’re still trembling when his fingers finally still, slick and glistening as he pulls them away with maddening leisure. He brings them to his mouth, holding your gaze as he licks them clean, tasting you. 

You barely have time to catch your breath, but watching him, you’re certain your heart is about to explode. 

Then, you feel it.

The shift.

The air crackles—not with your magic. With his.

His eyes flick to the salt circle on the floor. The broken ward. The ritual you tried to use against him. There’s a sinister gleam in his eyes. 

And he laughs.

Low. Dark. Reverent.

“You tried to bind me,” he says, voice silk-wrapped malice. “And now I’ll return the favor.”

You open your mouth to speak—but there’s no time.

He lifts you—effortless, inevitable—and lays you down in the very center of the circle you drew. The lines of salt smear under your back. The cold obsidian digs into your skin. The candles gutter violently.

His coat falls away. His seal glows faintly on his bare hand—not human. Never human.

“You carved out a space to own me,” he murmurs, hovering above you. “But all you’ve done is made a temple. One I’ll use to mark what’s mine.”

Then he leans down.

His lips at your throat.

“Do you want to know what binding really feels like?” 

You don’t get a chance to answer before his cool, slender fingers reach up to your chest. Teasing, groping the soft flesh before rending the nightgown clean in two. The sound of the cotton garment ripping cuts through the room. 

You gasp at the sudden chill, hands reaching up to cover your chest. 

“Oh? Hiding already?” he murmurs, voice like silk stretched thin. “That’s adorable.”

Sebastian easily pries your hands away with ease, revealing yourself to his hungry gaze. 

“If you were really that shy… you wouldn’t have soaked my fingers while moaning my name like a prayer.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. It was apparent he intended to shatter your dignity like glass while defiling you in the process. The weight of his gaze, taking in every inch of your bare body, only worsened the flush on your skin. 

There was nothing to ground you, no solace, just him. 

Sebastian leaned down, lips at your throat. You could feel the warmth of his breath, the graze of his fangs against your skin. 

He bit the slender column of your neck, breaking skin. It stung bad enough that tears threatened to spill from your eyes. 

It was strangely just as intimate when he licked the blood from your palm. Something about it felt primal. 

A sweep of his hot, wet tongue licked across the bite marks he left. Tracing the indents of his fangs, a quiet hum of approval sounded from him. 

Sebastian’s cool hand gripped your jaw with unnerving gentleness you didn’t trust. He turned your head to the mirror, where your bodies lay tangled together. Your nightgown ruined, body bare. 

“Do you see what I see?” Sebastian’s voice is low, nearly reverent.

In the mirror, you see it all—your body marked, your throat bitten, your magic tangled with his in threads you’ll never untie. Your legs tremble. Your chest rises fast. He’s everywhere—in you, around you, written into the very shape of your shadow.

“I see a woman,” he murmurs, “laid bare. Beautiful. Broken. And finally… honest.”

You wrench your gaze from the glass, fury flaring in your throat like bile.

“I am not yours,” you spit. “You don’t get to decide what I become.”

He hums. Not amused—something quieter. Almost pitying.

“Of course not,” he says gently, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. “You made that choice yourself.”

He turns your head back to the mirror—softly. No force. Just inevitability.

“You summoned me. You tried to bind me. You bled for me. You begged.”

His lips graze your temple.

“You became mine the moment you looked at the circle and said yes.”

A breath, soft as a prayer.

“And now?” he whispers.

“You’ll never see the gates of heaven again.”

Then he kisses you—not your lips, but just beneath your eye, where the tear fell.

“Not that you’ll ever want to.”

For a moment, the room is quiet. The shadows still. The circle burns faintly beneath your back, the salt smeared by your own body.

And then—his lips move again. Lower. To your cheek. Your jaw.

And finally, your throat.

Right over the fresh bite.

He doesn’t kiss like a man. He tastes. As if the memory of your blood still lingers on his tongue.

“You offered yourself,” he murmurs against your skin. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

His hand trails down your side, cool and slow.

“But I’ll show you, little witch,” he purrs. “What binding really means.”

Sebastian’s eyes glow faintly in the darkness, pupils slits. 

His hands rest on your trembling thighs, your slick pooling beneath you—proof of your surrender. But he doesn’t move.

Not yet.

Sebastian only watches you. Drinks in the sight like a man admiring his own ruinous masterpiece.

“So eager just moments ago,” he murmurs, voice deceptively calm. “And now? You tremble like a sacrifice.”

One hand slides slowly up your thigh—achingly slow—pausing just before reaching where you burn for him most. His fingers brush the skin, ghosting, never touching fully.

“You wanted to bind me,” he says again, softer this time, like a secret. “But it’s your body that’s marked. Your soul that quivers beneath mine.”

He leans in to kiss your neck again—open-mouthed, slow, teeth dragging just enough to make your breath hitch. Your back arches slightly into it. 

His hand moves—finally—and he touches you with the faintest pressure. Barely there. Cruel.

“Let’s begin,” he whispers, “your education in submission.”

His fingers ghost along your inner thigh, gathering your slick against his fingertips. Your skin tingles. Strong hands part your thighs, revealing your glistening cunt to his hungry eyes. Your face burns, you try to look away, but the only other sight is the mirror. 

Which is even worse. 

“So wet,” Sebastian cooes, laced with mocking, “Such a pretty little thing.” 

You hated that you could feel yourself clench around nothing, his praise going straight to your center. 

And of course, Sebastian noticed. The way his eyes watched. 

He caught you by surprise when his thumb swiped at your clit, a choked sound came out of you, and your thighs shook at the pleasure that ran through you. 

“So sensitive already? How pathetic.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. His thumb circles your clit again—slow, unrelenting. Your hips jerk, your thighs twitch, but his grip keeps you open for him.

“You’re already trembling,” he murmurs. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

His fingers slide lower, slick with the coating from how soaked you are. He teases your entrance, never quite pushing in. Just circling, dragging, letting you feel how close he is to giving you what you need—then withholding it.

“You’ll beg again,” he says, voice like velvet and fire. “And I’ll take my time with you. Savor it. Because you asked for this.”

A steady hand grabs a handful of your thigh, guiding it around his waist. Keeping you open for him. 

A finger presses in slowly, deliberately. Deep. His other hand comes up to cradle your throat, a soft reminder that he ownsthis moment. A moan gets stuck in your throat. 

“Look at yourself,” he whispers. “Ruin made flesh.”

The candle flames hiss and grow wildly. The salt that digs into your back from the circle feels hot. The air is electric with ritual energy. 

Sebastian leans down, cool lips meeting yours in a searing kiss. Your eyes flutter shut as you melt into him. For some reason, the kiss eats away your inhibitions, or whatever’s left of them. Trembling hands reach up, almost unsure, but you reach for him anyway. Hands tangling in his black hair, pulling him impossibly closer. 

Sebastian hums in approval. 

As he pulls his fingers back, a second one joins, pushing in all the way and curling. The feeling makes you moan into the kiss, and he uses the moment to force his way into your mouth. 

There isn’t a part of you that isn’t seeping with him. He’s everywhere all at once. Dominating, controlling. A reminder that he doesn’t just own this moment. 

He owns you. 

His fingers slide out of you, slick and glistening, leaving your body aching and open. The air is heavy now—buzzing, humming, charged.

Sebastian doesn’t speak right away. He looks at you. All of you. Spread across the smudged sigil, framed by flickering black candles, the salt under your back hisses as if it knows what’s coming.

“Do you know,” he murmurs, reaching to the side, “what red thread is meant for?”

He lifts it—the red thread you’d prepared for your spell. Holds it between his fingers like something fragile.

“In some traditions…” He winds it slowly around your wrists, binding them together with a loose, elegant knot. “It symbolizes fate. Connection. The invisible line between two souls.”

Sebastian tugs the thread once. Firm. Final.

“In mine,” he says, voice low and rich with something far more ancient, “it’s the mark of a contract.”

He lays your bound wrists above your head, anchoring them in place with just one hand.

“And you’ve already signed in blood.”

The circle flares beneath you.

The salt burns. The obsidian pulses with unnatural heat.

You can feel it—power curling around your legs, your belly, your chest. Like invisible hands. Like vines. Like chains.

Sebastian hovers above you, coat and pants gone, shirt discarded. His skin glows faintly in the firelight—inhuman. His seal burns on his hand, pressing to your thigh, leaving a warmth that sears into your soul.

“This isn’t just pleasure,” he whispers as he lowers himself over you. “This is claiming. This is binding.”

It was at that moment Sebastian pushed his bulging tip into your glistening cunt, pushing deeper into you, past your tight, silken walls. A choked sound left your lips. 

And the sigil beneath your spine ignited.

Like fire branding itself into your soul, into your skin, into your very essence. 

Sebastian held you still, hands gripping your waist to prevent you from trying to escape the stretch you were feeling. It felt like he was splitting you open, body and soul. 

It burned. It stung. Your soul felt like it was on fire. 

It took one forceful thrust of his hips to sheath himself halfway into you, forcing your walls apart. It forced the air out of your lungs, and there was no escape, not from him. 

Tears welled in your eyes from the pain, and a whiny whimper escaped your throat. 

Fangs bit into the skin of your shoulder, leaving surefire marks. The fiery pain made the tears spill. 

It didn’t take long before your body practically opened up for him, Sebastian fully buried deep inside of you. 

“You take me so well,” he purred, “As if your body already knew who it belonged to.” 

You had squeezed your eyes shut, breathing heavily as you struggled with how full you felt. 

Sebastian gave you the small mercy of adjusting before he began to move inside of you. Slow, deep thrusts. You could feel him drag against your wet walls before he slammed fully back into you. 

His pace changes—subtly at first. The rhythm is less reverent, more possessive. His grip tightens. His hips slam harder into yours, the force shaking the candles in their holders.

The air shifts.

He’s no longer just taking his time.

His fingers dig into the meat of your waist at a particularly deep thrust, causing your back to arch and a choked sob to come out of you. 

A choked moan slips from your throat—raw, instinctive.

“I can feel you,” you gasp, voice barely your own. “Everywhere.”

Not just inside you. Through you. In your veins, your breath, the trembling beat of your magic as it folds into his.

Sebastian laughs softly, dark and full of ruin.

Your head lolls to the side. You catch your reflection.

Your body—pliant, trembling, bared beneath him. And yet, in the mirror…

A flicker.

The glamour cracks.

Horns. Claws. A shadowed form that stretches behind him like smoke made flesh. Glowing red eyes. A mouth full of too many teeth. 

The thing inside him—the real him—stares back.

And it’s smiling.

You flinch.

But you don’t look away.

You should feel afraid. You do.

Your eyes sting with tears—fear, pain, pleasure—you can’t tell anymore.

You only know that he’s inside you; he’s never leaving.

But it doesn’t stop you from moaning his name.  It doesn’t stop your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeperinto you. It doesn’t stop your cunt from greedily swallowing more of his cock.

You could feel it; his cockhead twitching deep within you, and you knew he was close. Hell, you were close. It felt like your soul was being ripped from your body and stitched back together with him in the threads. 

For the first time in his long existence, Sebastian found a mortal he didn’t want to devour.

He wanted to keep you.

Not a contract. Not a soul to consume.

A bride.

His.

“Say my name,” he murmurs, not as a command—but as a ritual.

When you do—gasping, drenched, ruined—his voice lowers to a whisper made of smoke and flame.

“Mine. Now and always. Let every god watch as I take you.”

It crashes through you like a spell spoken in fire.

Not pleasure—obliteration.

Heat floods your veins like sacred venom, ripping through every nerve. Your body convulses. Your magic shrieks. You shatter around him, crying out from a place deeper than your lungs—your soul.

You scream.

From pain. From pleasure.

From the knowing.

That something inside you has changed. That you are no longer yours.

In the mirror, the truth reveals itself.

Smoke spills from your mouth like a curse. His seal glows on your belly—faint at first, then brighter, branded into your flesh. Behind him, the glamour slips entirely.

Claws. Horns. A mouth full of jagged teeth and a gaze that burns.

requested by ; nobody / rewrite of old post (from 2021)

character(s) ; sebastian michaelis

reader info ; cis female, ciel’s sister, inexperienced

genre ; smut / minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

content ; sexually explicit content, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex (fem receiving)

original request ; lost to time, unfortunately

Sebastian Michaelis x female reader // Sebastian Michaelis x reader

Heyaa everyone! Didn't think I'd need a Masterlist so soon but it got a little messy.

Tempt me, my lady (Sebastian x female reader)

Teaser/ Pre-story

Main story nsfw

Good ending? nsfw

Costume Party (Sebastian x female reader)

Main story nsfw

Plague Trilogy (Sebastian x female reader)

History, revoked nsfw

Atonement for delay (quick fictions or whatever has no full story)

Church session (Sebastian x gn! reader) nsfw

Dark Temptation (Sebastian x female reader)

Be my good kitten (Sebastian x gn! reader)

Part One

Part Two nsfw

Nephalem storyline (Sebastian x female reader)

✸ day 5 - thigh riding drunk sex w/ sebastian michaelis.

✸ summary - your desperate need to go out for a night with the girls turns into Sebastian's need to bring you right back home. ✸ pairing - husband!sebastian x fem!reader ✸ warnings - praise, unprotected sex, explicit language, aftercare, fingering. minors dni. ✸ a/n ; so excited to be finally participating in my first kinktober. please please lmk what you think. comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

kinktober masterlist coming soon.

it was a girl’s night. one that you desperately needed. being a wife to Sebastian was more than amazing. even when he worked so hard, he made sure you were fed, that you were well kept, maintenance appointments continuously booked and never short of love or affection.

but when you’re cursed with being human, you run across the pitfalls of monotony. you wanted to go out with your friends, but the schedules either always clashed or just never happened.

tonight, finally, after multiple scheduling of babysitters, off your husband’s dime of course, you and your friends were able to go out and enjoy yourselves.