Seven Minutes in Heaven Host: Madam Red. Audience: Alois Trancy and Ciel Phantomhive, snickering on velvet chairs with drinks they’re far too smug to actually sip. Participants: You. Sebastian. A glass bottle that seals your fate.

The room is warm with candlelight and aristocratic mischief, glittering masks and champagne flutes. A party soaked in perfume and secrets. You sit in the circle like it’s nothing, pretending not to feel the demon’s crimson stare already fixed on you.

The bottle spins.

Once. Twice. A wobble.

Then it stops. Pointed straight at Sebastian Michaelis.

You don’t move.

*He does.

He rises without flourish, but with intent—like gravity answers to him. Alois lets out a wolf whistle. Ciel mutters something dry behind his gloved hand. Madam Red just fans herself with glee and shoos you both toward the heavy closet doors.

They close with a thud. A lock clicks. Seven minutes.

It’s dark, barely enough room to breathe. But you feel him. Closer than sound, closer than thought.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

Sebastian steps in slow, hand finding the wall behind you, boxing you in without touching you. You can feel the faintest brush of his breath on your skin—tea, cloves, something not from this world. His other hand moves, ever so lightly, brushing a loose thread from your shoulder like it insulted him by daring to touch you first.

Then comes the low chuckle.

Not loud. Not smug. But amused. Dark. Dangerously pleased.

As if this was something he’d fantasized about in the rare seconds he let himself fall from perfection. As if he’d been waiting—not just for the bottle to land—but for the excuse to close the space between you.

And then—

His lips just barely graze your ear. His voice?

Velvet dipped in wine and warnings.

”I have waited far too long for this..”

and time is ticking.