Tamsy is possibly one of the worst people you could attempt acting on your shyness around
he swats your hands away from your face immediately, threatening to physically restrain you if you can't behave
and if you're in a position where you can try hiding your face in the pillows/mattress/whatever it is he's pulling you back by your hair to make you look at him (unless you're bald...idk he'll figure it out)
and if you try turning your face away he grips it with one hand to keep you in place
he loves looking you dead in the eyes and watching you squirm because you're flustered
"C'mon, dove. Let me hear you."
his words are gentle, lulling you into a sense of safety but his actions are oh so mean
his voice comes out honeyed, trying to coax you into being more vocal while the slam of his hips into yours are forcing it out of you
he takes your shy demeanor as a challenge; surely he can make you break
sometimes though when he notices you're feeling needy but refuse to say it he'll play dumb and abstain to see how long it takes you to crack
if/when you do he'll lay back and make you work for it
he likes how pathetic you look on top of him (bonus points if you cry)
the only time he allows you to hide your face is when you're on top of him with your face resting in the crook of your neck
and the reason he lets that fly is because he can actually hear your quiet moans and whines
when he's feeling extra sweet he'll tell you how cute you are and how good you're doing while he kisses you all over your face/neck/chest
long story short Tamsy will find a way to worm you out of your shy hiding even if he has to get a little more rough with you
you know the truth about tamsy. problem is that tamsy knows you know.
since that day he doesn’t leave you alone. like a shadow he’s hovering over you, following you. others call it adorable, making jokes he has a crush on you. you call it predatory, and one day - when the chance is given - he strikes.
your room is dark when you feel him besides you in bed. his scent fills your nose, his hair tickles you as he caresses your body.
“good, you’re awake.”
you don’t respond. a sick thrill of fear and something else shoots through you.
“mm. say again what you’ve told me eight days ago.”
“t-tamsy,” you gasp as his hand slides into your sleeping shorts.
“say it again. slower this time, with my hand between your legs.”
the sudden grab of your pussy makes your back arch, but tamsy doesn’t budge. he has you caged in and exactly where he wants you to be - at his mercy.
his long fingers part your pussy lips, and he hums amused when he finds you wet. not once his eyes leave yours as he lazily circles your clit.
“you’re a monster.”
the last thing you see is his smile before he covers your eyes with his other hand. you can only feel as he pumped two fingers into the tight channel of your cunt, and fucks you aggressively with them.
there’s no mercy with tamsy caines, especially not when it comes to you. he has his ways to make you shut up - you only need to be a good girl and have your legs wide open for him.
𓏲ּCW𝄢 NSFW | MDNI | it's a NSFW alphabet, there's a bit of everything.
🪽Dove's notes: GRAAAH TAMSY GRAAAAAAAHHH
A = Aftercare
Tamsy is not an overly affectionate person by default, but he would always clean his partner after sex and dress them. It's part of his own aftercare, a ritual of sorts if you may— The routine and control that comes with being responsible for what happens to your pliable body brings him gratification to an emotional level.
He will also demand that you stay after and sleep with him. If you had plans? Too bad, they're automatically cancelled. No exceptions.
Although subtle, Tamsy tends to linger much more often around you for the next two days without even realizing.
B = Bondage
Where to even start with this one.
The biggest AND best rigger out there. His partner must be a rope bunny otherwise it won't work.
Tamsy likes to have you at his complete mercy when in the bedroom and is not above using less...conventional methods to hold you still. He is personally a fan of Bowline knots for the sheer amount of uses it provides, Hishi Karada because it makes his bunny look absolutely lovely, Sheepshank to provide his partner both the illusion of being able to move around and a bit more comfort, Ladder ties to hold you in place when he needs and he usually mixes labbing and playing for aesthetic purposes.
Something worth highlighting is the fact the entire process is arousing for him. From picking the material and color to wrapping them around your body with calm and precision, relishing how you look when tied up. The rope burns and bruises left behind is also something he loooooves to see, like he's obsessed with, and each time they peek out of your clothes in public he feels rush run through his body.
C = Crying:
Absolutely gets off on watching you cry and whimper. That iron will of his won't crack regardless of how many tears roll down your cheeks or how much you plead. Unless you call a safe word/use a sign there is no mercy from him.
D = Dominance:
Very much a dom and he enjoys grooming his partner to fit his vision of them.
I'd like to make it clear Tamsy has no need to raise his voice or be aggressive to show he's the one in charge. His dominance lays in the way you're subtly and carefully trained every day to abide to his requests— From small things such as deciding what you wear or where you sit to offering your body obediently for him to tie with a simple gesture of hands from him.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
He doesn't come off as someone with no experience to me. Though I think his partners are chosen veeeery strictly by standards that only make sense to him.
F = Favorite position(s):
Reverse cowgirl with a reverse prayer knot and a tight leash around your neck, which he will tug on it occasionally to “help” you stay upright.
Strappado with a spreader bar so he can fuck his partner's little mouth while they have a vibrator or dildo shoved inside them.
Missionary but with a frogtie and elbow restraint so his partner is helpless when he rams his cock into them.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Tamsy is serious in the strict sense. He may have a calm poker face on and speak sweetly, but he is not letting you fool around. Your focus should be only in this very moment and jokes will not be well received during sex.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
For personal reasons only I like to think he has a biiit of hair on his carpet. Nothing much though, just for aesthetic purposes like always.
He also has a personal taste for a well groomed partner just like himself because being able to see every little detail when you're spread out for him is important. He will shave his partner himself if you let him and takes it upon himself to be responsible for how you look. (He loves this sort of thing.)
I = Impact play:
Hitting you is not necessarily his thing, but is also not completely off the table. Tamsy wouldn't use his hands when he does it— He'd opt for some type of tool like paddles or floggers.
Although I'd like to add this type of play is reserved strictly for partners that are actual masochists and he would use it more often for their pleasure rather than only for punishment. (he has much crueler punishments for misbehaving bunnies.)
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
He is not too keen on having fun by himself and considering how busy he is Tamsy forgets that's even an option. He prefers to wait until someone he likes appears than playing by himself.
K = Kissing:
was also be covered —here—
But to add to that, during sex his kisses are treats you need to earn. He will give them everywhere except for your mouth, waiting patiently for the moment where you're about to cum to press his lips against yours and won't pull away until you ride out the wave of orgasm, swallowing your moans and gasps.
Something unique about his kisses is that he uses them as emotional regulators. During your training, your body is taught to relax when he kisses you and assimilate them to comfort so that even during more intense plays where he's speaking a bit more harshly or pushing your limits you still feel that small gesture of affection.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Always somewhere private where he's confident no one will walk in and with a sturdy headboard and comfortable mattress. He is not doing any deed on some flimsy old bed.
M = Masochism:
Sadist, and a big one at that.
His favorite thing is watching his partner struggle and submit to him. He loooooves a good breath play as well and if his partner is a M then those desires of his will come out much more strongly— He will indulge in much harsher degradation, humiliation and advanced plays. He needs someone that can match his level of freak.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
He is not a sub in any shape or form nor would he enjoy being placed into that role.
Overly bratty/natural brats. Like I said, he likes to train his partners and although some defiance most certainly is welcomed at first, actual brats NEED to be brats to get off (if thats not obvious) so that's a no for him.
He also couldn't have a vanilla partner and someone that's overly sensitive is an automatic turn off for him.
O = Oral
He enjoys a good blowjob as much as the next person. Tamsy likes to receive them when your arms are tied and his body is the only thing you can rely on to support yourself without tipping over, taking his cock deeper into your mouth until you choked on it.
Being eaten out by this man is a treat. He will do it while your body is at the mercy of his ropes and your eyes blindfolded so that you're surprised when you feel his mouth sucking and licking you. He is a slow eater— Tamsy will edge you a handful of times with his mouth before you're allowed to cum and when you do he'd fuck you with his tongue until you cum again.
P = Patience:
Looooots and lots of denial.
He will only reward you if you can hold back your orgasms until he gives you permission. Of course he makes it basically impossible to on purpose to see you fail and punish you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Not his thing. He likes to have the time and space to torture pleasure his partner.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Natural risk taker. A rule of thumb for him is that he is willing to try anything at least once IF his interest is peaked enough.
If remote vibrators were a thing then he would have the time of his life playing with you under the strict rules that you absolutely could not let anyone find out or he'd never play with you again. (He may or may not be joking, who knows with this guy).
Tamsy will also have you wear a variation of knots under your clothes during the day to see how well you can maintain his gift until he comes back to check.
S = Sleepy sex:
Do NOT bother him when he's sleeping. That's the quickest way to upset him.
That rule also applies to you because he won't bother you when you're resting. Tamsy likes his partner and him to be completely present during sex and resting time is strictly for resting.
T = Top or bottom:
Vers! and a power bottom.
He enjoys both giving and receiving and looks for a partner open to switching whenever he wants to. Being on top with Tamsy is something you'll have to work for it— He doesn't let others touch him willy-nilly and it's a reward you need to prove be worth of.
U = Underwear:
He appreciates soft and flowy fabrics, particularly so if it gives him easy access to you. Silk robes, matching lingerie. Oh and if you want to earn extra point then you have to color match him. Go for dark blues, whites or a soft yellow when picking out a piece.
He is also big on picking out clothes for the ones he loves and you can trust him to make you the prettiest, sexiest version of yourself.
V = Voyeurism:
He can't say he's completely uninterested when he watches some other couple get it on. It's the same rule as everything else: If his interest is peaked, then he will indulge.
Were the situation arise and he's not yet completely emotionally invested in you then Tamsy would certainly be interested in watching you in the hands of others. Whether he may interrupt in the middle or not depends on his affection level.
W = Wild card: (A personal headcanon that can be considered unexpected)
I feel like this whole thing has been a wild card lmao. But if I had to choose then although he is very self-centered Tamsy's pleasure is directly driven by his partner's. If you're not feeling so good you struggle to even think straight and is just bearing through it then he also won't get much into it and will quickly grow bored. He is not someone that can complete disregard his partner's feelings in the bedroom, though he looks like he would.
X = X-Ray:
I ain't doing this LMFAO sorry pookies dick anatomy is not for me. yk, a dick is a dick. Just know it's probably the prettiest dick you've seen and circumcized.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
His sex drive is not overly high or too low. He usually fluctuates between them because he rarely has a partner around to soothe them anyway. With someone fixed though he can be quite active in the bedroom.
Z = Zones (His sensitive spot/s)
Pulling on his hair will make him hard without fail, especially when you do it a bit rougher by accident.
His back is also very sensitive so scratches of nails or/and kisses are both veeeery welcomed by him.
𐔌 ✦ tamsy caines with a pierced cock and tongue is a total meanie in bed. ꒱
smut drabble , mdni , first time writing please don't throw bricks at me.
will not be naming any specific ones for the penis during the drabble, but i wrote this with the prince albert and frenum ones in mind. feel free to imagine others, though !
one good look at his face and everybody can tell that this guy is a bit of a jerk during intimacy. trying to convince me of the opposite is useless.
he's receiving head ? he holds your head down and gives you no room to breathe for a least a few seconds — absolutely loves the way you glare at him from under your lashes with those pretty teary eyes when he does let you inhale some air. loves even more when you pull on his piercings as a silent payback. he does look like he has a bit of a thing for pain to me, so he'd probably do it on purpose.
he's giving head ? expect him to constantly brush his tongue piercing against your clit. either doesn't let you cum, pulling his mouth away from your cunt when he feels your fingers tightening on his hair, or allows you to cum but doesn't give you a break. so what if you just came ? if you can cum more than once on his cock, it certainly won't be so hard to do it on his mouth, too.
dicking you down ? an absolute menace. will rub his entire length against your folds, making sure that you feel the metallic texture against your core, and make you beg for him to just fuck you senseless, even if he was the one to initiate everything in the first place. you never know when he will choose to tease you, letting you roll your hips against his tip, making you plead oh so much only to just slowly slip the tip in, or when he will simply slam you down on his cock and rearrange your insides like there's no tomorrow, all while cooing to your moans.
any of the options lead to the same path, though: him "accidentally" slipping out when you're close to having an orgasm, just to rub the piercings against your clit, degrading you with such a sweet tone that you can easily confuse his words for praise when he's dumbing you down enough, before thrusting right back in, no mercy whatsoever.
Thinking about Tamsy and riding his pretty face... Well actually he has you tied up, gagged and blindfolded as he forces your squirming hips down on his face.
Orgasm after orgasm and he wouldn't let you go, a munch if you will. His face was a mess, covered in your fluids and so were your thighs that were quivering around his head. Broken moans and sobs are all you can manage with the gag in your mouth that your slobbering all over.
Tamsy's grip on your hips tightens as he continues his assault on your weeping cunt. He licks a stripe up from your slit to your clit, giving it a kiss making you shutter.
"Ah, you keep trying to move away. Didn't I tell you to sit still, my dear... Maybe a few more orgasms and then maybe Ill consider about giving you what you really want, hm?"
You couldn't see him but you could tell he was smirking. smug bastard..
Enjin is the type to smack your ass every chance he gets. He can't help himself; he's handsy and shameless about it. He doesn't care who sees, and loves it when you get annoyed at him, laughing at how adorably flustered you get.
Zodyl waits until he's alone with you, then fully cups your cheeks and squeezes possessively as he leans into your body. He loves how you stop and shiver at the contact, and also arch your bottom against his hard thighs, as though asking him to be a little bolder.
Zanka isn't the ass-smacking type, so you do it to annoy and embarrass him whenever you can. It's gotten to a point where if you're in the vicinity, he's watching you from the corner of his eye, getting ready to dodge and defend himself from your ruthless smacking.
Gris is the quiet, appreciative, gentle pats kinda guy. He does it discreetly if you're in public, but it's always a soft little push against the rounded flesh, which makes you warm inside at the contact. When alone, he pats repeatedly and rhythmically, and it's comforting, almost a relaxation technique.
Tamsy makes touching your ass look like an accident. He'll brush up against it with his hand and you feel it glide across before he stops, looks you straight in the face and apologizes. But you see the little curve of his lips and know that he's not apologetic at all, that's merely his way of letting you know you're at his mercy.
Blinking, the cleaner immediately pauses; looks up in order to give way to an axis tilt. And you immediately groan; become annoyed since you know him better than anyone. Obviously, the cluelessness that’s currently resting impassively on Tamsy’s face can only mean one thing: prolonged torture is about to take place within the confines of his room.
Momentarily, you begin to wonder about your life choices, but it’s not like the action will yield any fruit. By and large, you’re dating a sadist, so it’s better not to think too deeply about this decision— especially since you don’t want it to change.
Sinking further into the chair at his desk, you pout; elicit a chuckle from the man in question. And as you cross your arms, you discard all of your white flags, knowing that you’ll probably regret it in due time.
“Rough? In what way?” Scoffing, you briefly swat at the air; busy your eyes with a random spot on the wall.
“You know what way,” you quietly murmur, feeling rather irritable. But before you can continue, your heart immediately stops; freezes as something taut begins to wrap around your ankle.
It’s unmistakable. Currently, a long piece of thread is dancing along the sensitive parts of your skin, and it’s the same string that is attached to Tamsy’s lifeline. Tokushin. Clearly, you’ve been outmatched.
Not that you really mind.
Immediately, you swallow; start to feel heat pool up between your thighs. A soft whine almost breaks through, but you’re quick to contest its appearance; fast at forcing it back down.
“Do I?” Tamsy murmurs. Right on cue, the fibers continue to work their way around your other leg, coalescing your want into nothing but pure need. Tamsy is also currently making his way over to you from across the room, meaning that the race has just begun.
“I… I think you do.” A wavering concession; a muted compromise. At this point, a whisper is all you can muster up, since the permafrost that exists between you and Tamsy always advances like clockwork. He pries, and you melt. You show teeth, and he bites; eclipses the disobedience; overshadows the dissent. It’s a game you like to play, but if there’s anything you’ve learned over the past year, it’s that Tamsy is a winner. He plans for the future; knows how to work with a shallow opening. And truth be told, you like that about him; enjoy being pushed just as much as you like pushing. With him, all steps forward are met with a step backwards. Eventually though, you run out of places to hide.
Frankly speaking, you’re counting on that.
A shiver passes through your spine, and now, his focus is peaked. Your legs begin to get pulled apart.
“It’s always good to be sure though,” Tamsy murmurs, thumbing over your cheek. Belatedly, his fingers ghost over your lips, and that gesture forms a crack, one that transmutes into a weak spot. Without even realising it, you’ve inadvertently started to lean into his touch, and a knowing smile documents your lack of composure. “Don’t you think?”
But right now, you can’t. Not while he’s looking at you like this and touching you like that; showering you with an endless supply of attention. It’s too much. But simultaneously, it’s not enough. So you inch closer; intervene with his plans; break away from the script as you acknowledge your instincts and try to grab hold his free hand. However, lack shortly crowds all of your senses.
Keening, you whimper; hear him kiss his teeth at the overindulgence. Scrutiny. His eyes narrow at the blatant lack of respect. Suddenly, Tokushin begins to gather up your wrists, and they unexpectedly become bound; tied behind your back.
Tracing along your inner thigh, Tamsy squeezes; digs crescents into the plushest parts of your flesh. This time, you heel, adhering to the unspoken command as you squirm under his grip.
“Looks like you don’t.” Tamsy exhales, but placidity is far from the fore. He’s disheartened at best; disappointed at worst. “So I’ll make it easy for you… okay?”
Closing the gap once more, he painstakingly takes his time; unhurriedly brushes his nose against yours. The pause is neverending, so your mind finally shatters, and you can feel him grin as the shards dissipate into the void.
“Beg for it. And maybe, just maybe… I’ll give you what you want.”
NOTE : tis my first time posting something so I hope you guys like it or I’ll kms, I’ve been obsessed with Gachiakuta so I gotta share my obsession with y’all teehee.
Bf! Jabber the type to say “it’s ‘cuz I’m black isn’t it?” To piss you off even more.
Bf! Jabber the type to box the air around you and going “uss uss uss”
Bf! Jabber the type to fiddle with his rings while staring at you with hooded eyes as you speak.
Bf! Jabber the type to smirk when you get mad and pull you by your belt towards his lap, saying “I’m sorry ma, forgive me, yeah?”
Bf! Jabber the type to moan loud in public if you swat him playfully.
Bf! Jabber the type to look at you with the nastiest side eye during a serious situation, you both trying your best not to laugh.
Bf! Jabber the type to say “take me out to dinner first.” If you grab his thigh while he’s driving.
Bf! Jabber the type to give you nicknames like “ma”, “lil’ lady”, “ma’am”, “my girl”
Bf! Jabber the type to twirl you around after you put on the most cuntiest outfit.
Bf! Jabber the type to press his knees to the back of your knees to see you fold.
Bf! Jabber the type to grab you by the waist, pressing his cold ring fingers on your exposed skin just to see you shudder.
Bf! Jabber the type to take a fat ass chunk of your food after you asked him if he wanted a small bite.
Bf! Jabber the type to kick his feet while he texts you and say “girl you play too muchhhh” in his empty room while giggling.
Bf! Jabber the type to slap your ass as he passes through.
Bf! Jabber the type to rest his head between your thighs as he scrolls through his phone.
Bf! Jabber the type to shut up with the biggest smile when you tell him to shut up.
Bf! Jabber the type to laugh so loud at your joke just to go serious all of a sudden and say “it’s not that funny.”
Bf! Jabber the type to say something smart while you give him the most obvious question. “What are you cooking?” “Food.” “Jabber, I know IT’S FUCKING FOOD.”
Bf! Jabber the type to hit the dougie while you’re mid scolding him.
𓉳ིྀᬊ 𝓬𝔀 — choking. rough sex. jabber is a de-ge-ner-rate!
choking jabber while riding him is the quickest way to force an orgasm out of him.
you’re already on the verge of snapping his dick in half with how hard your riding him, grinding your cunt back n forth at a harsh pace, clenching around his girth like your trying to cut off blood circulation in his cock and he adores it. low groans rumble in his throat as he feels himself getting closer to his orgasm. “mmphm..harder dollface. y’too soft with me.”
soft? you knew he was fishing a reaction out of you, he always does whether it was in or out of the sheets. but something about now ticked you off, you didn’t know if it was even rational or just jabber’s natural talent of annoying you by breathing the wrong way. but, he always got what he wanted, he always does, this time with your hand around his throat and your nails digging painful crescents into his skin. a half gasp punched out of his throat, then you felt his dick twitch. “shiiit..fuck, ‘m bouta cum baby..” he moaned out the best he could, lavender irises rolling to the back of his head as a sick grin stretched across his lips.
you hate being around your boyfriend sometimes. because when you were together, he always found the need to follow you around like a puppy. literally. a dog.
you could be in the bathroom, minding your business, taking a dump, maybe. and jabber would stay outside the door waiting on you like he couldn’t go anywhere without you, “you done in there, baby?” he’d ask you, his ear against the door. and once you finally came out, he’d complain like he’d been holding a grudge, “what took you so long?”
jabber would stare at your food like he was abandoned for days on end without anything to eat. the moment you ordered something he claimed he didn’t want, he’d plop down beside you on the couch and just stare. drool pooled at the corners of his lips, a drop slipping down his chin.
rolling your eyes, you’d spoon-feed him a couple of bites, and next thing you know, half of your plate would disappear. all while he sat there, pupils wide, drumming his hands on the couch, chewing like this was the best thing he’d ever had.
he’s constantly trying to get your attention. he’d bring you a new ring he’d found at a store or buy you some random trinkets he'd seen while thrifting. he’d drop it in your lap and stare at you, crossing his arms, rocking on his feet, flashing his canines at you, as if he was waiting for a treat, knowing you’d love whatever it was he picked out for you. “whadd’ya think?” he asks, already smiling. “found it at that one store over there on uh...y’know that one street.”
sleeping in bed, jabber would crawl all over you, clinging so close that it got unbearably hot as you tried to sleep. he’d lay against your boobs or stomach like they were his favorite pillows, pawing at the fabric that separated him from them. pushing his head, you’d snap at him, “move, jabber. i have to get up early in the morning.” he’d make a sound, similar to a whine like you betrayed him but later, sink lower under the blankets. after a few seconds, you’d feel cold air where it shouldn’t be, his mouth following—pleased with the high-pitched sounds that slipped from your lips.
jabber would love for you to mark each other. he was serious about it. like, it was your little pact to everyone else that you belonged to him, and he belonged to you. he’d stare at the mark on his neck in the mirror in the morning, dragging his painted black nails over it. “what?” you’d grumble, rubbing at your eyes. and he’d grab you by the neck and tilt your head back while looking in the mirror at yours. “yours ain’t dark enough.” he’d pout, his eyebrows furrowing as he brought his lips down to your neck.
alastor who bristles at the idea of being touched/cuddled, but loves to be the one doing the cuddling. he'll cling onto you like you're a ratty old stuffed animal he's had for decades; probably has his arms wrapped around you in a way that is completely preventing you from moving your arms at all (and also maybe from breathing). hope you like getting chewed on.
Summary: Alastor and the reader were married in life. Then he got killed. They're reunited when the reader gets sent in hell but her appearance as a sinner eerily resembles angels in heaven.
You had loved him without knowing.
That had been the cruelty of it.
In life, he had been a gentleman. Charming, polished, well-spoken. The sort of man neighbors admired and trusted. The sort that old ladies complimented and young couples tried to imitate. He held doors, kissed your knuckles, brought home fresh bread on Sundays, and danced with you in the kitchen when the record player crackled to life.
He never raised his voice at you.
Never raised a hand.
And he never told you what he did when he left the house at night.
You only found out after he died.
They found him in the woods, mistaken for a deer by some drunk hunter, they said. Wrong place, wrong time. A clean shot. He died alone, not in your arms, not in his bed, but in the dirt, with leaves sticking to his blood.
The papers came after.
His name was everywhere.
Not just as a victim.
But as a monster.
Headlines snarled about him. Serial killer. Missing persons. Decades of unsolved cases suddenly stitched together like a grotesque quilt, and he was the thread running through all of them.
And you were his wife.
“Did you know?” they asked you.
Again and again.
That question haunted you more than his smile ever had.
Did you know?
Did you know?
Did you know?
You didn’t.
But you had stayed.
Even after courtrooms. Even after stares in the streets. Even after his belongings were torn apart for evidence.
You kept the ring.
And when you died, long after the world had decided what he was — you didn’t wake to pearly gates.
You woke to fire.
To red skies.
To screaming.
You woke to Hell.
Alastor had never imagined you would follow him there.
He hadn’t expected Heaven, of course, not for himself. But for you? You had been an angel walking among mortals. You had smiled at strangers, treated him with kindness even when the world had turned on you because of his sins.
You should have been rewarded for that.
But Hell had a twisted sense of humor.
He spent years convinced you were safe somewhere above: untouchable, unreachable, forever beyond his bloody hands.
He missed you anyway.
Sometimes, when the Pentagram City chaos dulled just enough, he imagined you walking through clouds instead of ash. Imagined you laughing again. Imagined you learning peace without him dragging it down.
He told himself that was better.
Even when it burned.
Even when it felt like rot.
Then one day, Hell buzzed.
Not just with violence, that was constant. No, this buzz was different. Excited. Greedy. Sharp.
Vox saw a brand. A spectacle. Something new to broadcast and twist into entertainment.
Valentino saw profit - flesh and fantasy dressed in false holiness.
Velvette saw a trend - something unreal, something dangerous, something that would make Hell click “share.”
They crowded around you like vultures in designer clothes.
And you stood there, confused, shaken, white-feathered wings trembling behind you, still dressed like a soul that hadn’t realized it was damned.
“You wanna be safe?” Vox asked, his screen flashing blue and red. “You stick with us.”
“You’re a walking fetish, sweetheart,” Valentino purred, smoke curling from his fingers. “We’ll make you legendary.”
“We can make you untouchable online,” Velvette added, smiling sharp. “But you gotta play smart.”
They framed it like an offer.
But you could feel the leash already tightening.
And that was when the air changed.
The static came before he did.
A low hum. A familiar crackle.
Like an old radio station sliding back onto a long-lost signal.
The crowd shifted.
They always did when he arrived.
Red eyes. Antlers. Smile too wide to belong to a sane being.
Alastor stepped through the parted crowd like he owned the ground beneath it.
And when he saw you?
For one terrible second, the world stopped.
Not in a poetic way.
In a violent way.
The air warped.
The shadows froze.
His smile flickered, not gone, never gone, but strained, like cracked porcelain trying to hold.
“…Darling?” he said softly.
You stared.
Because you knew that voice.
You’d heard it across dinner tables. Through laughter. Through lullabies hummed when the world felt too loud. Through radio, most importantly, because now his voice carried static on its own.
“You,” you breathed.
His gaze traced you: your face, your hands, your wings.
Wings.
The irony was cruel, even by Hell’s standards.
“I always knew you had a touch of the divine,” he said lightly. “I didn’t expect Hell to agree.”
You didn’t have time to react before a cane tipped up, his shadow curling unnaturally, and the space around you bent.
One second, their voices were in your ears.
The next, everything vanished.
You were inside the Hazbin Hotel.
An old couch. The warm colors. The fake hope clinging to its walls.
He had set you down carefully, like you were made of something fragile rather than dead.
“They will not touch you,” he said immediately. “Not while you’re here.”
You stepped back. Your wings rustled.
“Don’t,” you said. Your voice shook now. “Don’t pretend like nothing happened. I know what you were. I know now.”
His smile softened, just slightly.
“I had hoped,” he admitted, “you’d never have to find out.”
“You let me mourn you,” you snapped. “You let me defend you when they called you a monster.”
“And I will let myself burn for that,” he replied calmly. “But not let them have you.”
You laughed bitterly. “You’re not doing this for me. You’re doing it because you want to own me.”
His eyes darkened.
“You were never owned.”
He stepped closer.
“But you were loved. Are loved. And Hell doesn’t get to take that from me as punishment.”
“You killed people,” you whispered.
“Yes,” he agreed, without flinching.
“And you never told me.”
He tilted his head.
“No,” he said. “Because I wanted at least one thing in my life to be innocent.”
Your throat tightened.
Your wings stirred behind you, unsure.
“And now look at you,” he added gently. “Hell’s little joke. Giving you feathers when all you ever did was bleed for me.”
Silence wrapped around you.
He didn’t reach for you.
Just stood there, as he always had, waiting.
“I don’t trust you,” you said finally.
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he answered. “But you will stay. The Vees won’t let a creature like you go without trying again.”
“And if I refuse?”
His smile regained its edge.
“Then I shall continue fussing over you until you’re tired of fighting it,” he said cheerfully. “Just like I used to with your cold feet in winter.”
Your breath hitched despite yourself.
…He remembered everything.
“Come now,” he added more softly, offering his hand. “Let your monstrous husband keep you safe a little longer.”
And even with all your fear.
Even with the truth clawing at your heart.
You still recognized the way his thumb hovered at your knuckles, just like it always had.
The lobby had gone silent when he led you down the staircase.
You didn’t remember ever walking beside him feeling so much space between your bodies.
Even in life, when you argued, when doors slammed and pride stood tall between you, there had always been something warm tethering you together. A gravity. Something unspoken that kept pulling you back.
Now there was distance laced with danger, curiosity, fear.
Every eye in the Hazbin Hotel followed the two of you.
Charlie froze mid-sentence, smile softening with surprise.
Vaggie’s hand drifted instinctively closer to her spear.
Angel Dust looked you up and down, whistling low.
Husk blinked slowly from the bar like he was trying to decide if you were real or another hallucination from cheap booze.
Niffty had already practically teleported next to you, sparkling-eyed.
Alastor gestured to you with a flourish of his cane.
“Everyone,” he announced, voice carrying through the room like a radio broadcast from an older, more dangerous era, “this is my dear wife.”
Dead silence.
Then...
“Well, isn’t this just precious,” Angel drawled. “Didn’t know you were the marrying type, spooky.”
“Only once,” Alastor replied pleasantly.
“You’re his what?” Husk muttered.
“Was his wife,” you corrected automatically, voice dry.
“Is,” Alastor returned smoothly. “Death is merely a minor inconvenience in that regard.”
Charlie blinked, then brightened instantly. “Hi! Hi, oh my gosh, hi! It’s so nice to meet you! I’m Charlie. I own the hotel and...and we’re trying to help people get into Heaven. Redemption and all that!”
You hesitated.
Something inside you tightened.
Because that…That had struck something painfully human in your chest.
“Heaven?” you repeated.
“Yes,” she said warmly. “Some of us believe sinners can be redeemed. It’s not impossible.”
Your fingers curled slightly.
You thought of your life.
Of the people you forgave instead of fighting.
Of the way you stood beside him even after the world collapsed around you.
“I don’t think I belong in hell,” you said quietly.
The room went still again.
And this time, Alastor didn’t interrupt.
Charlie’s eyes softened.
“Well,” she said gently, “that’s exactly why you should stay.”
You swallowed.
And then Alastor spoke again, far more casually than the moment deserved.
“She will be,” he said, “staying in my room.”
The silence was no longer shock.
It was alarm.
Angel choked on his gum.
Husk raised a brow.
Vaggie’s eye twitched.
“In your...” Charlie started.
“My room,” he repeated. “It is already sufficiently large. And significantly better protected.”
You stiffened beside him.
“And what if I don’t want that?” you asked under your breath.
“You do,” he murmured back. “Even if only temporarily.”
His smile stayed fixed, polished, controlled, but there was something just beneath it that hadn’t existed before. Something desperate.
Charlie hesitated only a second before nodding. “Okay. Yeah. Um. That’s fine. As long as you’re comfortable.”
You weren’t. But you also weren’t about to continue arguing in public. So you just nodded once. And he guided you away.
His room smelled strangely familiar.
Like old paper. Like dust caught in sunlight. Like static after rain.
The same tidy precision he always carried with him extended here, books stacked, cane placed perfectly against the wall, gramophone resting like a relic of another world.
Except now there were claw marks in the furniture.
And shadows that moved when they shouldn’t.
You stood near the door, wings shifting uncertainly behind you.
They felt…heavy.
And wrong.
You tried to fold them, but the unfamiliar weight threw off your balance. You stumbled slightly, catching yourself on the back of a chair.
Alastor was instantly there.
“Careful now,” he said, hands hovering just close enough to catch you without touching.
“I don’t know how to use these,” you muttered.
“Well,” he replied, “I have had to adjust to antlers, hooves, and an infuriatingly expressive tail. You’ll manage feathers.”
Still, his voice softened.
“You never cared much for balance in dancing either,” he added, teasing gently. “Yet you always insisted on leading.”
You huffed a weak laugh despite yourself.
“You complained about that forever.”
“And I survived,” he said. “A small miracle.”
You tried folding them again.
Slower this time.
They trembled.
Your hands moved instinctively to smooth them, fingertips brushing along the feathers as if checking if they were real.
They were.
“You think I don’t belong here,” you said quietly.
He stilled behind you.
“I think,” he answered, “Hell is inefficient at deciding who deserves what.”
“That’s a very polite way of saying their system is broken.”
He chuckled softly, the sound layered with static.
“I always told you bureaucracy was the greatest evil of all,” he replied.
Then, after a moment:
“You do want their little redemption plan, don’t you?”
You nodded hesitantly.
“I don’t want to spend eternity surrounded by murderers and…other demons,” you admitted.
A grin curved his mouth.
“Well,” he drawled, “that ship has regrettably sailed, darling.”
You glared slightly over your shoulder.
“I meant worse ones.”
He laughed.
A real one this time.
You turned more fully toward him. He looked different, monstrous, taller somehow, sharper around the edges.
More honest.
“You’re trying very hard,” you said.
He tilted his head.
“To do what?”
“To show me you’re the same man.”
His eyes softened just a fraction.
“I am,” he said.
Then his gaze darkened.
“I merely look closer to the truth now.”
You swallowed.
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Oh, I rather enjoy it,” he replied. “It’s quite liberating, actually. No more polite pretending. No more hiding the mess beneath the suit.”
Then, more quietly:
“You loved me before you ever knew.”
Your chest pulled tight.
“And now you know everything,” he continued, stepping closer, careful not to crowd you. “And I will not force you to love me now.”
A long beat of silence.
Then, softer, almost hesitant:
“But I will still take care of you. Whether you deserve Hell or Heaven.”
Your wings stilled.
You searched his face, the familiar smile, the unfamiliar monster, the same eyes that once watched you across candlelit dinners.
“…You’ve always been like this,” you said. “Doting, I mean.”
“I prefer the term devoted,” he replied.
Representative. Elegant.
Terrifying.
And heartbreakingly, horribly yours.
He reached up slowly, giving you all the time in the world to stop him, and gently tucked a stray feather back into place.
His touch was careful.
Like he was still afraid you might disappear.
“And until Heaven decides it wants you,” he added quietly, “you’ll have me.”
Hi! Could you write Alastor x Reader about reader is extremely beautiful sinner who’s also Velvette’s top model but staying at Hotel like Angel, I mean she’s smell so good, always wears fancy clothes, hair always done, heels… etc. (I hope wrote right lol)
“ What A Looker . “
╰┈➤ Summary: As one of Velvette’s top models, you had duties to fulfill. However, you wanted a little break for yourself. This break is certainly a breach of contract, but Charlie swore she would protect you until you decide to leave. During your stay, you meet the crispest gentleman you’ve ever met. One issue, though. He’s also the most frightening overlord in all of Hell.
╰┈➤ Tags: Model!Reader, Alastor being a gentleman, sfw
╰┈➤ (a/n: thank you so much for the suggestion!!! i luv writing alastor<3)
You needed to get away.
Get away from work, fans, contracts, dirty old sinners.
So, you ended up at a shitty old hotel. It was obnoxiously red, poorly decorated, and the owner was far too cheery. But, the cheeriness was better than the coldness that everyone looked at you with before. The only person you knew there was Angel, who was an absolute doll. He was the cutest little thing, and you two got along well. Technically, you were both coworkers. He just worked with Valentino and you worked for Velvette.
Throughout your first week at the hotel, you never wavered on your appearance. Your hair was always done, wearing the highest fashion, heels clacking, and a sweet perfume you put on your neck and wrists. You walked like you owned the place, and in a sense, you did. You were always at the bar, and Husk had to scare off any creeps who approached you. But, one day, a man approached you that Husk didn’t scare off.
“May I buy you a drink?”
“No, fuck—“
Before you finish your sentence, you glance up at him. Holy shit. Isn’t that the radio demon guy? His smile freaks you out. But, at the same time, he is kind of attractive. In a weird way. Maybe it’s his demeanor? He comes off as very gentlemanly.
“I mean… sure.”
“Another round, Husk, on me.”
As he’s distracted, you look him up and down. He’s tall and lanky. Very tall.
“Aren’t you going to drink something?”
“I don’t day drink, my dear, I find it to be uncouth!”
You giggle at his statement, and his little ear flicks in response. Is that a good sign?
“You’re funny. What’s your name? I mean, I know you’re the radio demon and all, but what’s your actual name?”
“Alastor. And you, ma cheriè?”
As you tell him your name, he lifts up your hand and presses a kiss to the back of your palm. Your face immediately flushes, and you adjust your hair partly out of nervousness and partly because you want to look your best.
“Y-you’re very sweet.”
“Nonsense, I’m just being polite.”
‘Just being polite’… That rings through your mind. A man who doesn’t want to sleep with you. You want to breathe a sigh of relief, but he’s practically the only man you’d sleep with.
“Your politeness is uncommon in Hell.”
“Well, everybody has their secrets, no?”
Alastor gives you a coy smile that makes your heart skip a beat.
“I suppose. What’s your secret, Alastor?”
He leans forward closer to you and murmurs, “Only if you tell me yours first.” There’s a static overlay covering his words, but you can make out what he’s saying.
“My boss doesn’t know I’m staying here, ‘n they’re gonna be pissed once they find out,” you whisper in an equally low voice.
“She must be an unreasonable woman.”
“Believe me, she—“
Something stops you in the middle of your sentence. You never said your boss was a woman. Maybe he knows you from the magazines?
“How’d you know my boss was a woman?”
Alastor just gives you a wink in reply.
“How about I tell you over dinner, sweetheart?”
God, did he freak you out. But, God was also insanely attractive.
Alastor's hips rolled aginst your frame. His cock was buried deep inside you for what felt like the umpteenth time that endless night.
You wondered if he ever got tired from the way he continued to slam into you with stamina that hardly differed from the first round.
The shadows in the lounge danced around your entwined forms like spectators. Watching your body trembled beneath him, walls clenching around his length as he stretched you out. His antlers were taller than usual, casting jagged silhouettes on the wall. Sweat glistened on your skin from the dim lighting. It dripped down your torso mingling with the sticky mess from his previous releases. It leaked from you each time he pulled out, only to be pushed back in by his next thrust.
“My, what a desperate little thing you are,” he cooed, his voice was laced with static. His smile widened as he pushed your thighs wider apart, claws digging into you with each snap of his hips. “A-Alastor, fuck!” You whined. “It feels so good.” You arch into the sheets, pushing your groin up to meet his thrusts.
“Listen to you, not a shred of dignity left.” He didn’t bother hiding his amusement as he leaned in closer, pupils dilated as his eyes locked onto yours. He used a hand to grip your wrist above your head as the tip of his cock nudged against your cervix, grinding there as if he were marking you from the inside out.
You could feel him throbbing against your walls, his balls were heavy against your ass with each thrust. Slamming into you as his grip on your wrist tightened. “Feel that, dear?” Earning a soft moan from you which vibrated across his skin.
His pace quickened, the rhythm of his hips became sharper; demanding the wet sounds of your pussy to fill the air. He released your wrist, using it to roamed your body instead. He traced the curve of your breast before pinching the hardened nipple, eliciting a gasp that made his smile twitch. “Such a beautiful sound, I should put it on the airwaves.”
The tension coiled tighter within his core, obvious from the way his exhales got deeper and the way his thrust grew more erratic. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your skin without breaking it, his was breath hot against you.
You purred at the way he pumped a pleasurable pressure into you, rubbing against you tender walls, making your cunt squeeze around him. “That's it, feel the way I fill you up.” Alastor grunted, he slammed his hips, cock pulsing as the first wave of his climax hit. Thick ropes of cum tore from him, coating your insides in a fresh warmness that mixed with the cum from before. His hips jerked in shallow pumps, milking every drop into you.
Even then, he wasn’t satiated. Perhaps he would never be. After all, hell had cursed him with a beauty that he couldn’t impregnate.
So while the aftershocks rippled through him, he straightened, a menacing smile returning to his face. “One more. my dear.” He shifted his grip, hooking your legs over his shoulders to angle himself impossibly deeper. Without waiting for his cock to fully harden, he resumed his assault into your pussy. The movements started sloppy before he pounded into you with the similar, renewed vigour.
The overstimulation made your legs tremble, toes clenching with every slide of his cock sending tingles through your core. You bit your quivering lip as you felt every detail of him tear into you. “Al... Wait…” You pushed your words out between moans, failing to communicate a sentence. “Slow… shit, s-slow down.”
He glanced down at you, observing the way you inch him closer with your legs. The way you ask him to slow down but arch into his movements each time he pounds into that special spot.
“How eager, you sure know how to amuse a man” he murmured, voice dipping lower. His claws dug into your hips as he thrusted relentlessly, the slap of skin on skin echoing like applause. You felt him throb again inside you, the telltale twitch.
“A shame really, had fate been kinder, I’d have you all round by now,” he hummed his words which vibrated through his chest. One hand slipped between you to circle your clit, he kneaded down, matching the pace of his thrusts.
The dual simulation snapped the pulling string of pleasure within you, your orgasm crashed over you just as his did. His cock kicking as he drenched your insides in his cum. His warmth bled through you, pushing your limits until it seeped out around him. He rode it out in slow rolls, a thumb still kneading at your clit as he ensured your walls soak up every drop.
Finally, he eased back, though his dick remained in you, plugging his cum in place. Alastor's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he traced a claw along your jaw. “There, now my lady is properly tended to.”
❀.ೃ࿔ ❀.ೃ࿔ ❀
This is for the person who requested this! I hope you enjoyed and happy holidays to you too 🎄
I saw this BEAUTIFUL NSFW alphabet for Alastor and I just had to do my own! How i write Alastor is VERY ooc so I don't wanna see any comments saying "Errmm...thats now how hed act.." (I also make him demisexual so don't come for me)
WARNING: Very worshipful Alastor, FemReader! Lots of praise
A — Aftercare
Alastor treats aftercare like a sacred ritual—something he cherishes as much as the act itself.
He’s breathless, trembling, still buzzing with leftover hunger… but the moment she melts under him, his whole demeanor softens into something tender, reverent, and unbearably gentle.
He kisses her thighs first, every time.Slow, loving little pecks traveling up her hips, like he’s thanking her body for letting him near it.
Then he pulls her onto his chest, holding her so tightly she can feel his heartbeat sprinting.
His voice?
Low, warm, still edged with leftover static as he whispers,“My darling… thank you. Thank you for letting me adore you.”
He rubs her back with those big, elegant hands she loves so much, humming old jazz under his breath until her body fully relaxes.
And god—if she’s shaky or overstimulated?
He gets feral about making her comfortable: water, a warm cloth, her favorite pajamas, carrying her if her legs don’t work.
He won’t drift off until he’s absolutely sure she’s safe, warm, and tucked under his arm.
B — Body Part (His + Hers)
His: His Hands
He knows.
Oh, he knows how she looks at them.
Those long, elegant fingers?
The ones that wrap around her waist, her throat, her hips—The ones that can snap a demon’s spine but turn gentle the second they touch her?
He absolutely uses them on purpose.Trailing them along the inside of her thigh just to see her breath catch.
Tilting her chin up with a single finger.
Spreading her open with palms that feel too big and too gentle all at once.
He loves that she’s obsessed with them.
It feeds the possessive part of him in a way nothing else does.
Hers: Her Breasts
He is insane about them.
Not just the shape, not just how soft they are—but how responsive they are to him.He’ll bury his face between them, nuzzling like a man starved.
He’ll squeeze them from behind while kissing her neck, just to feel her arch back into him.
And when she gasps?
When her breath stutters because his thumbs brushed her nipples?
He grins.
That wicked, lovesick, ruined grin.
He talks to them, too.
Soft little praises like:
“Aren’t you just perfect… look at how you react to me, my sweet.”
He’s obsessed.
C — Cum
Alastor is surprisingly neat… unless he’s lost control.
Most of the time, he prefers finishing on her stomach or thighs—just so he can watch it drip down her skin.
He gets entranced by the sight, voice going airy and shaky when he breathes,“Beautiful… you look exquisite like this.”
But when he’s especially worked up?
When she’s been teasing him, praising him, or riding him until his voice breaks?
He’ll cum inside her with this guttural, breathless moan.
His ears go flat, his hands lock on her hips, and he presses his forehead to her chest like he’s praying.
He shudders through it, overstimulated and overwhelmed by how tight and warm she feels.
And afterward?
He stays inside her as long as she allows, arms around her waist, quietly panting against her skin.
D — Dirty Talk
Alastor is poetry dipped in filth.
He speaks like he’s whispering forbidden scripture against her throat.
His voice stays smooth, rich, honey-thick—but the words?
Absolutely depraved.
He never shouts.
He purrs filth.
“Look at you… trembling on my fingers like you were made for them.”
“Spread wider for me, darling. Let me see everything that’s mine.”
“You’re doing so well… give me just a little more.”
And when she’s the one in control?
When he’s beneath her, flushed and breathless?His dirty talk becomes worship.
“Please… keep going. I want all of you.”
“My beautiful girl… you undo me.”
“I’m yours. Whatever you want, say it—take it.”
He never stops talking.
He can’t.
The more he loves her, the filthier he gets.
E — Experience
Alastor is… shockingly inexperienced where it matters.
Yes, he’s had flings.
Yes, he’s touched bodies before.
Yes, he technically knows how things work.
But those encounters were shallow, hollow, emotionless.
He didn’t care about them.
He didn’t want connection, only distraction.
So when he’s with her?
He’s lost.
Not clueless — just overwhelmed.He knows how to touch.
He knows how to make someone come apart.
But caring?
Actually wanting to please?
Actually trembling at the thought of disappointing her?
That is new.
And it terrifies him in the sweetest, most devastating way.
He watches her like a student watches scripture.
Memorizing every shiver, every gasp, every pattern of her breathing.
He wants to learn her perfectly, to know her body better than she does.
And because he’s so invested, so eager, so affected by her?
He ends up being incredible.
All instinct sharpened by obsession.
He doesn’t want to be “good at sex.”
He wants to be good for her.
F — Favorite Position
Alastor loves anything where he can see her face.It ruins him how expressive she is.
Every twitch of her mouth, every flutter of her lashes, every soft little gasp—He drinks them like sacrament.
But his absolute favorite?
Her on top, straddling him, riding him until his composure shatters.
He loves the way her hips roll, how her chest bounces, the control in her hands when she pins his wrists above his head.
He loves looking up at her, flushed, panting, his ears twitching with every downward grind.
And he adores how it forces him to admit how weak she makes him.
He tries to keep his smile sharp, his voice teasing—but it always dissolves into breathless moans and worshipful murmurs.
Seeing her take what she wants from him?
It destroys him in the most beautiful way.
G — Goofy (Are they goofy during intimacy?)
Alastor?
Not goofy.
Not even by accident.
He doesn’t make silly comments, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t break the mood.
He’s intense.
Focused.
Locked in.
But—with her, occasionally, something strange happens:If she laughs?
If she makes a teasing joke or giggles because he accidentally kissed her too hard or fell forward when his knees gave out?
He smiles.
A real one.
Soft, warm, fond.
He’ll murmur, “You’re adorable…”
and press a kiss to her cheek or jaw before diving right back into worshipping her like nothing happened.
He isn’t goofy.
But he indulges her goofy.
And secretly loves when she lights up in the middle of something heated—it makes him fall even harder.
H — Hair (Down There)
HIS
He is very…old-fashioned.
Meaning:
Yes, he has hair down there.
Dark, soft, curly, definitely matching the color of his “drapes.”
Not wild, not unruly—He’s naturally tidy.
He trims only when it becomes inconvenient.
He doesn’t shave.
He would never fully remove it.
It feels unnatural to him, too modern, too sterile.
The hair sits low and neat around his base, soft enough that she likes nuzzling against him there, which drives him insane.
HERS
He LOVES when she’s natural.
Loves it.
The moment she mentions shaving?
His ears tilt back like she just threatened herself.
He’ll kneel between her thighs, hands spreading her gently, voice firm but reverent: “You’re perfect as you are. Don’t take a thing away from me.”
Hair, no hair—she’s always gorgeous to him.
But her natural state?
That’s his favorite.It feels intimate.
Real.
Her.
He’ll press his cheek between her thighs, inhaling her scent, loving how warm and soft it all is.
The idea of her shaving makes him pout.
He doesn’t like the thought of anything altering her body in a way she doesn’t want—and he’s far too obsessed with every inch of her just as it is.
I — Intimacy
Alastor treats intimacy like it’s a holy experience.
Not sex.
Not fooling around.
A ritual.
He’s the kind of man who cups her jaw like she’s made of stardust, presses his forehead to hers, and breathes her in as though her scent alone is enough to keep him alive.
He kisses slowly, deliberately—like every kiss is a vow.
His touches always start soft.
Fingers tracing her hips, her ribs, her thighs.
Mapping her again and again, like he’s terrified he’ll forget the shape of her.
And when she moans?
When she sighs into his mouth?
His whole body melts.
He whispers things like:
“You’re everything.”
“Let me love you… let me take care of you.”
“I need you—more than breath.”
He becomes vulnerable only in these moments.
Only with her.
He lets her see him stripped of the persona, stripped of the smile—just a man who loves her too much.
J — Jack Off (Do they? How often?)
Oh, he does.
For her.
Only for her.
He never touched himself before truly wanting her.
But after falling in love?
He can’t stop.
If she’s asleep beside him, smelling warm and sweet and perfect…If he’s replaying her sounds, her expressions, the way her thighs wrapped around his waist…He will bite his knuckles to muffle his moans and stroke himself slowly under the covers.
He imagines her—her soft gasps, her body opening for him, her nails in his back.
He cums quietly but violently, whole body shaking, whispering her name like a prayer.
And afterward?
He always turns toward her, kisses her shoulder, wraps an arm around her waist, grounding himself.
He feels guilty every time.
Not for doing it—but because he didn’t want to wake her.
K — Kinks
Alastor has…so many.
But they all orbit one thing: serving her.
Taking her apart piece by piece until she’s shaking and breathless and covered in his devotion.
His biggest ones?
• Oral fixation (on her)
We’ve already established in previous fics he spends HOURS between her thighs.
He loves her taste like a starving man loves food.
He loses himself in it—eating, kissing, sucking, moaning into her until she’s crying.
• Praise / Worship
He talks to her like she’s divine.
He praises her body, her reactions, the way she falls apart on his tongue.
He purrs when she praises him back.
• Subtle Submission (but only to her)
He would never kneel to anyone else.
Ever.
But for her?
He drops to his knees without thinking, without hesitation.
He likes when she tells him what she wants.
He likes giving it.
• Possessiveness (sweet, not cruel)
He doesn’t want to own her life.
He wants to own her pleasure.
He wants to be the only one who knows how to make her gasp like that.
• Body worship
Her thighs.
Her breasts.
Her stomach.
Her pussy.
Her everything.
He touches her like she’s a miracle.
L — Location (Favorite places to get intimate)
Alastor’s favorite place isn’t a location—it’s a position of vulnerability.
He loves her in his lap.
Anywhere.
The bedroom, the couch, the kitchen, the radio booth, -if she’s in his lap, straddling him, close enough he can smell her perfume and kiss her throat…He’s gone.
But specific favorite spots?
1. The Bed
Because he can take his time.
Hours.
Slow, deep, controlled movements that leave them both shaking.
2. His Armchair
Where she rides him while he grips her hips and helplessly begs for more.
Nothing makes him unravel faster.
3. Leaning her against a wall
His mouth on her neck, his hands everywhere, grinding slow and heavy while whispering sinful things into her ear.
4. Anywhere private with a door he can lock
He’s possessive—he wants her sounds to belong to him alone.But no matter where they are, if she climbs on his lap?
He’s instantly hard.
Instantly devoted.
Instantly hers.
Q — Quickie
Quickies with Alastor are rare…but when they happen?
They’re devastating...
A typical Alastor quickie goes like this:
She kisses him.
Just a kiss.
Soft, needy, wanting.
His ears shoot up. His tail wags.
His breath stutters like she just sucker-punched him with desire.
He’ll grab her waist, push her back against the nearest surface—a wall, a counter, a locked door—and growl:
“Don’t tempt me unless you’re ready.”
Because once she gives the slightest nod?He loses it.
He pulls her panties aside, not off—one of his favorite quickie things—and pushes into her in one slow, sinful stroke.
The pace is brutal.
Controlled, but deep enough to leave her breathless, legs quivering.
He doesn’t kiss her lips during quickies.
He kisses her throat.
Her shoulder.
Her jaw.
Wherever he can bury his moans.
He cums fast—not because he lacks control, but because she makes him insane.
Afterward he’s shaky, panting into her neck, hands gripping her hips like he’s afraid she’ll disappear.
Then he straightens her clothes, kisses her forehead, and whispers:
“You make me lose myself, darling…”
And he looks like he wants to bend her over.
R — Risk (How risky do they get?)
Alastor doesn’t do “public” risk.
He refuses to let anyone hear her sounds, or see her undone, or even suspect what they do together.
But private risk?
That’s his weakness.
He loves:
• Being almost caught
Not by strangers—but by someone knocking on the doorwhile she’s already crying into his shoulder, full of him, trying to stay quiet.
• Doing things someplace forbidden
His radio booth during off-hours.
His office during a meeting break.
A locked storage room in the hotel.
Anywhere that feeds his possessive streak:
“Everyone is wondering where she is…and she’s here, on my cock, moaning into my neck.”
S — Stamina
Endless.
Truly endless.
He doesn’t get tired.
He doesn’t get winded.
He doesn’t soften easily.
He can keep going long after she’s shaking and overstimulated—but he never pushes her beyond what she wants.
He doesn’t just have stamina…he has control.
He can hold off his orgasm for as long as she needs, even if he’s trembling, even if he’s gritting his teeth and panting against her skin.
But when he finally lets himself cum?
It hits him hard.
His whole body shudders, his ears flatten, his breath stops, and he buries his face in her neck like he’s trying not to cry from how good she feels.
He recovers fast.
Too fast.
Within minutes, he’s kissing her inner thighs again, murmuring:
“One more. Just one more, please…”
And it’s never just one more.
T — Toys
Alastor doesn’t need toys.
He doesn’t want them for himself.
But he will use them on her—if she wants, if she asks, if it adds to her pleasure.
He’s very picky, though.
• He only uses things that let him watch
A small vibrator on her clit while he fucks her slow?
Yes.
Watching her hips jerk as he holds it in place?He groans for that.
• He refuses anything that replaces him
No penetrative toy is allowed inside her unless his fingers or cock are also there.
He wants to be the center of her pleasure.
• He likes holding the toy against her
Because he feels every tremor of her thighs.
Every shiver.
Every clench.
And he watches her face fall apart with this proud, possessive hunger.
• He never uses restraints
He wants her hands free.
He wants her to hold him, claw at him, grab his hair, wrap around him—he wants to be touched while he ruins her.
• His favorite toy?
A bullet vibrator between her thighs while he eats her out.
He holds her down, tongue deep inside her, while the toy makes her scream.
And he moans like he’s the one being overstimulated.
U — Unfair (How much do they tease?)
Alastor teases in a way that feels designed to break her sanity.
He doesn’t tease to withhold.
He teases to make her need.
To make her beg.
To make her so desperate she can’t think in full sentences.
His favorite torture?
He gets her close.
SO close.
Rubbing his thumb over her clit in slow, devastating circles, tongue sliding deep inside her, hips grinding gently against her inner thigh…
Right as she starts to gasp and grip his hair—
He pulls back just enough.
Only enough to stop the peak.
Not enough to relieve her.
And while she’s trembling, whining, reaching for him?
He kisses her thigh and whispers, voice low and wicked:
“Shh… don’t rush. I want you to fall apart properly.”
He teases with control, not cruelty.
He wants her shaking, panting, ruined by the time he gives her what she wants.
The payoff is always worth it:
When he finally lets her cum?
He holds her down and devours every second of it, moaning like he’s tasting heaven.
V — Volume (How loud are they?)
Alastor:
He’s quiet—
but not because he’s stoic.
Because he’s trying not to lose control.
He growls.
He pants.
He moans into her neck with broken restraint.
Every sound from him is deep, sharp, raw.
He talks a LOT—
low, breathless, teeth-gritted pleasure:
When he gets close, his voice drops into a dangerous, shaky whisper that gives her goosebumps.
He only gets truly loud if she’s on top, grinding down on him just right—
then he actually swears, breathless and undone.
Her?
He’s obsessed with her being loud.
He lives for her cries, her moans, her begging, her breathy little gasps.
If she tries to hide her sounds?
He pins her hips and growls:
“Don’t you dare quiet yourself. Let me hear you.”
Because her pleasure drives him insane.
W — Wild Card
Here’s the feral part nobody expects:
He loves breeding her.
Not the fantasy of children—
the instinct.
The possessive, primal need.
He fucks her harder, deeper, rougher when he’s close—
hands gripping her thighs, hips snapping, voice low and vicious as he moans into her ear:
“Take it—take all of it—take every drop—”
He loses all control when he cums inside her.
He buries himself to the hilt, shaking, panting, holding her hips down so she can’t move, like he needs to spill every last bit as deep as possible.
Afterward he kisses her belly, reverent and shaky:
“You’re mine…”
He’s not cruel.
He’s not forceful.
But he’s feral when he finishes—
and he loves watching it drip out of her.
X — X-Ray (What are we working with?)
This man is not small.
Hell probably had to recalibrate its measurements for him.
He’s long.
Thick.
Heavy enough that she feels him even when he’s just resting inside.
Approx vibe?
Not pornstar absurd, but big enough that she gasped the first time.
Big enough to stretch her beautifully.
Big enough he has to go slow at first, whispering praise into her ear as she adjusts around him.
He curves upward just slightly—
and he uses it like a weapon.
He knows exactly how to angle his hips to:
• hit that perfect spot
• make her legs shake
• make her back arch
• make her gasp like she’s losing her mind
And the way he reacts to the tight, warm way she squeezes around him?
That’s what makes HIM tremble.
Y — YEARNING
For most of his afterlife, desire was something he regarded with contempt. Carnal need was a fool’s chain, something lesser men clung to. He’d sneer at the very idea of craving anyone, much less in the sweaty, undignified way demons tended to.
But then she happened.
Now it lives under his skin like a fever he refuses to acknowledge—even to himself.
A constant ache.
A pull.
A hunger with her name carved into its teeth.
Outwardly, he’s impeccable.
Polished smile.
Perfect posture.
Voice smooth as a radio jingle.
He’ll tilt his head, act amused, pretend he’s above all of this.
And then she so much as leans toward him.
Brushes against him.
Sighs his name under her breath.
Gives him that look she doesn’t even know she gives—soft, trusting, wanting.
And it absolutely annihilates him.
His mask shatters instantly.
His body locks up like he’s been shot.
His pupils blow wide.
His claws flex.
His breath stops in his throat.
Because the moment she starts yearning?
He doesn’t just stop hiding it—
he stops being capable of hiding it.
He becomes feral in the quietest, most controlled way imaginable.
Voice dropping low.
Hands hovering near her hips.
Shadow twitching like it’s begging to touch her first.
His need for her is constant—humiliatingly high now, embarrassing in its intensity—but when she shows even a hint of her own craving…
He’s done.
Undone.
Ruined.
Hers.
And he doesn’t bother disguising it.
He leans in.
Corners her.
Speaks against her throat.
Tells her exactly what she’s doing to him in that velvet, unsteady voice he hates letting her hear.
He becomes the kind of dominant who trembles while he holds her down.
Not because he’s afraid—
but because wanting her this much feels like a sin even Hell should forbid.
Z — HOW FAST THEY FALL ASLEEP
He doesn’t sleep.
Not really.
Two hours a night at most, and only because her presence makes his body quiet enough to slip into something like rest.
But her?
The second she curls into him?
He melts.
He’ll sit up against the headboard, arms around her waist, chin brushing her hair—intent on staying awake, listening to her breathing, guarding her like a predator with its kill.
But his body betrays him.
Always.
Every time.
As soon as she’s settled, warm against him, heartbeat steady and close…
His eyes get heavy.
His shoulders loosen.
His ears droop.
His voice softens until it’s not even a whisper, just breath.
And he fights it.
Clings to consciousness with stubborn pride.
He wants to stay awake and adore her.
Watch her.
Memorize her.
Touch her hair.
Trace her back.
Kiss her temple every few minutes because he can’t help himself.
But give him five minutes—
five—
and he’s out.
Not sprawled, not snoring, nothing uncouth.
He drifts off holding her like she’s the only thing anchoring him to this plane.
Face buried against her shoulder, breath warm on her neck.
Arms wrapped so tightly around her waist that she has to pry them loose if she needs to get up.
His shadows tuck themselves around the bed on instinct, a protective ring of flickering tendrils.
He doesn’t command them—
they do it because his sleeping self refuses to risk anything touching her.
And if she moves, even slightly?
He wakes immediately.
Not fully—
just enough to check she’s safe, murmur her name in a low, dazed voice, and pull her back against him before sliding under again.
He sleeps like a lovesick creature chained to its favorite dream—
deep, heavy, and impossibly fast…
but only when she’s in his arms.
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