character: alastor
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pet/master dynamic (use of the term Master), toxic relationship, edging, pet names, fem!reader
words: 665
Alastor doesn’t normally enjoy being ridden; Alastor doesn’t normally allow you to ride him. It relinquishes too much control, grants you too much power, and leaves him feeling bored and restless.
Most of the time.
But sometimes, he gives in. Sometimes, he lets you use him like a toy.
And sometimes, when he’s feeling especially cruel, when he’s feeling like he wants to put in the effort and play, he’ll force you to edge yourself on him, eyes never leaving the pages of his novel as he nonchalantly instruct you to speed up, slow down, swivel, bounce, stop, hold, hold, hold—cockhead digging into that swollen patch of flesh buried deep within you, his hips shifting in micro-circles as he grinds into sensitive flesh, pained little sounds climbing higher and higher, tinged with pleasure, and don’t you dare fucking cum, darling—now begin again.
So you do, and he drones on, commands drawling from his lips without casting you a single glance, eyes skimming over the words in front of his face, sometimes hovering, sometimes retracing their past trails, but never leaving the page.
It’s almost offensive, how bored his tone is, how much he acts as if this doesn’t matter to him, as if he doesn’t care, as if it’s all for you, despite the way his cock twitches and his breath hitches, the very edges of his words gone wispy whenever your orgasm is on the cusp of cresting.
He knows your body so well that he doesn’t even need to see you—doesn’t need to read the expressions on your face, features twisted tight with hedonism, doesn’t need to witness the harsh trembles rippling through your flesh—to know when you’re teetering on the edge of full-blown pleasure.
No, he can feel it, feel it in the way your cunt begins to pulse with irregular flutters around his shaft; he can hear it, hear it in the cracked gasps he keeps forcing from your chest, fragments catching on thick moans; he can smell it, smell it in the dense, heady arousal copiously coating his thighs, slick and shimmering.
“Please, Master,” you’re finally sobbing, when every muscle in your body has gone achy and heavy with continuously coiled tension, never allowed to loosen, release, snap, constantly rewound with a few simple orders. “Please, please, let me cum. It—It hurts!”
It’s supposed to hurt, you silly little girl. It’s not fun if it doesn’t.
“Now, now,” he’s saying conversationally, the slight breathlessness to his tone the only indication he’s being affected at all. “You wanted this, remember, sweetheart? You asked for it. Begged, actually, if I recall correctly.”
You did, you did, but you’ve been at this for over an hour now, your body lacquered with sweat, quivering as tiny tremors of overstimulation bolt through your veins with each brush of your clit, each rub of his head, leaving your flesh feeling hypersensitive, overexposed.
“I just—I thought—I wanted to—” hiccups stutter your words, nose twitching with a harsh sniffle.
A coo drips from his lips, spoiled syrup, sick and sadistic. Poor, pathetic baby.
It stings, his disregard corrosive, gnawing away at your cheeks. A fresh torrent of tears floods your eyes, casting a thick watery shield that bulges along your lash line, wavering on the verge of overflowing, a single slow blink sending them cascading down your face in glittering streams.
“Really, you should’ve known better,” he’s saying as you collapse against his chest, weeping into the curve of his neck. “What else did you possibly expect?”
You don’t know, you aren’t sure, you can’t remember, brain gone melty and stupid beneath the constant enticement of pleasure, held just out of your grasp. Something tangles on your tongue, garbled and wet as it seeps into his flesh, fingers curling in starched cotton as you attempt to pull him closer.
“Oh, dear,” he sighs gleefully, a palm petting your head. “If you want to ride me, you have to pay the price.”
character: alastor
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem!reader, heavy pet/master dynamic, use of Master and Sir, toxic relationship (alastor is mean!), overstimulation, dacryphilia, use of pet as a term of endearment and degradation, minimal prep
words: 3.4k
notes: whew!!! this ended up being waaay longer than intended ehehe but!! once again exploring riding alastor and all of the fun that comes along with it. pls enjoy and as always heed the warnings!
It’s late when you appear in the threshold of his bedroom door, lip caught unsurely between your teeth and gaze veiled by thick lashes. Sock-clad toes overlap, toes wiggling unsurely as your fingers twist into a knot in front of your body.
He sits across the room in one of his plush armchairs, legs crossed and attention focused on the book in his hands, casting you a single, second long disinterested glance as he asks, what is it, sweetheart?
“Can I—Can I ride your cock?”
Crimson eyes flick up from the pages, interest piqued, steadily holding your stare over the edge of the novel. Your features twist in a cute little wince, eyes squinting against the intensity of his gaze, but you don’t dare to look away, baring yourself to him.
His scrutiny burns, tears your skin from your bones and gouges your eyes from your skull, pries apart your ribs one by one and rips into muscle, ravenous to reach your core.
And all the while you let him, quivering form standing vulnerable and raw in front of him, offering to him, as his unblinking stare combs over your entire body—from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, unhurried and invasive, climbing back up to reach your face, eyes lidded with indifference.
Finally, he shrugs a shoulder, muttering out a nonchalant, “Hm. I suppose so,” through a contradicting slimy smile.
But when you scamper over to him, so cute, so eager, so fucking pathetic, ready to straddle his lap, he informs you that you’ll have to do all of the work on your own.
You’re the one who wants it, after all. Why should he have to put in any of the effort?
You suppose he has a point. Either way, it makes no difference to you, dropping to your knees the very instant he informs you, body wedged between his spread legs as dainty fingers creep up his thighs, muscles tensing with the ghost of a shiver as your touch skims over them.
They don’t undo his pants—they don’t even make it to the fucking zipper, opting to cup his soft cock in one palm and his balls in the other, rolling and rubbing in a gentle circular motion.
And his legs spread infinitesimally wider.
An invitation, a silent urge to keep going.
So you do, like the obedient little pet girlfriend you are, watching with glazed eyes and gaping pupils as his cock fills with blood beneath your teasing touch, twitching to life, hot and hard in your little hands.
Grinding the heel of your hand into it, it jerks in response, a playful little giggle dripping from your lips, two fingers stroking the shaft, then pressing slow, hard circles into the head.
And, oh, aren’t you just fucking precious, nuzzling your cheek into it adoringly, breathing out a devoted oh, Master, so airy and melting on your tongue, dense and hot and soaking through his trousers.
“Fuck,” he pants out, the curse nothing more than a wispy murmur.
Looking up at him, you run your tongue over the head in hard, slow laves, dragging the slick muscle along his straining cock, the flames from the fireplace flickering in your bleary eyes, licking at desirous pupils.
The cotton is rough against your tongue, abrading your sensitive tastebuds and leaving tingles in their place, but you don’t care, administering heavy rhythmic licks along his shaft, long and languid.
His cock throbs under your lapping, another one of those silent persuasions, and you nestle into it again, your own nonverbal response, rubbing the tip of your nose into the slit and smearing a dewy drop of pre-cum across your skin. Another dollop oozes through his trousers, pearly and glittering, eager to replace what’s been lost.
The garnish incentivizes you, entices you, and you press an open-mouthed kiss to the yearning head, lips curling around it in a warm, damp embrace, and then sucking slightly, siphoning another drop of that sticky salt to seep onto the slick muscle.
It’s delicious, his essence, so acrid it stings your sensitive skin, copper and decay painting over your tastebuds in thick streaks, each rub depositing another ropy line.
A moan vibrates around the head, and your tongue glides over it firm and fast, desperate to encourage more of the bitter substance, eager for another taste of his seed. Your lips pucker as the force of your suction increases, slicked and glittering with your own sick drool, viscous and pooling at the corners of your mouth to trickle down your chin, tinted slightly milky.
“Hungry, are we?”
Another sound of obscenity gurgles past your lips, head nodding in messy strokes, as if you’re drunk off merely a few drops of pre-cum.
“Maybe you don’t need to ride Master after all.”
Your motions freeze, the haze his taste had cast over your brain instantly eradicated, tongue mid-lick as your lidded gaze drifts back to his, wide and terrified.
An eyebrow quirks, the smug arrogance smeared across his face stretching, daring you to retaliate.
“N-No,” you mumble against him, body starting to tremble between his knees, fingers scrabbling against his thighs. “No, Sir, please, I—I want it—”
A heavy palm smooths over your hair, thumb caressing the crown of your head in a manner that feels almost condescending before thin fingers tangle in your strands, hard, yanking and pulling your face up, dense strings of saliva slapping against your chin.
“You have it,” he says, a gleeful malice glinting in his irises, smile spreading wider to reveal razored teeth. “You just want more.”
Shifting his hips up in a small jerking thrust, he nudges your chin with his clothed cock, cotton soaked all the way through with your spit, a smudge of pre-cum shimmering at the tip.
“Do you think you could get off on just this? Sucking me off through my pants like some desperate little bitch?”
You could, you’re nodding, nose twitching as you swallow the sob clawing at your throat. You could, but you really don’t want to.
“Yes, but—I want to ride it so bad, Master—Need to feel it inside of me, Master, need your thick cock fill—filling me up!” you hiccup on a sob, pleading. “Please, let me ride it, Master. I need—need—”
“Need, huh? Is that so?” he hums. “I’m not entirely convinced. You seem quite content with simply suckling on it through my pants, swallowing mere drops of pre-cum,” he tilts his head in mock thought, eyes glittering, “but I guess it doesn’t take too much to satisfy a whore like you.”
And it’s true, you do seem content with such scant amounts, keenly siphoning another dewy drop of precursory pleasure onto your tongue, rolling the drenched muscle over his cockhead slow and purposeful, a soft moan vibrating in your throat as it pulses beneath your mouth again, dribbling more syrup.
“No, no, Sir—Master—please, let me ride it!”
Oh, how pathetically precious you are, gazing up at him with glazed eyes, tears perilously balancing along your lash line, fat droplets of crystal clinging stubbornly to pretty black wisps—one single blink would send them cascading down.
Alastor’s brows raise. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t be content with just this?”
Sharp glints of sadism flare in his eyes, impossibly wide smile twitching as it tugs up at the edges.
“My, my, what a greedy little pet I’ve got myself.”
“No!” you cough, spitting out the denial so fast it tangles on your tongue. “No, no, not at all, sir.”
“No?”
“No,” you repeat, head shaking with vehemence. “I will be satisfied with whatever Master will give me.”
You recite the statement dutifully, but the painful sincerity ringing in your voice clear and high indicates that it’s authentic nonetheless.
“And?”
“And I will be thankful for it,” you breathe out, blinking up at him obediently, the words an oath on your tongue, twin streams of salt shimmering on your cheeks attesting to their veracity.
Crimson beams down on you, smile smeared across his face wide but close-lipped, indifference lidding his unrelenting gaze, contradicted by the sheer power glowing brightly in his irises.
He holds your eyes for a bit—stretches the moment, lets it linger, lets the desperation grow, lets you marinate in it—before he finally murmurs out good girl, the praise packaged with a patronizing but much-appreciated pat to the head.
You don’t dare move, though, your stare staying entrapped in his own, body rigid and motionless as it awaits a direct order, pliable putty in his palms.
“Now,” he says in a calm breath. “Get on my cock.”
Finally, permission.
It has your body bolting like a flash of lightning, set alight by a handful of such simple words, snapped into action by his demand.
Then you’re clambering into his lap, avid fingers popping the button and tugging the zipper and pulling his cock free from its confines, massive and heavy in your soft palms.
A tender noise sounds in your throat, something caught between awe and desire, and you can’t help but grind on it a little, head gliding over your swollen clit easily. Your juices glaze his shaft, leaving a pretty glimmering film coating his veiny skin.
Your cunt isn’t properly prepped, but that doesn’t really matter (it’s your own fault, anyway, for spending too much time worshipping his cock), slit already slicked and dripping with arousal—so fucking easy, you are for him; so fucking wet you are, all from barely touching his cock—that he slides in fluidly enough, one of your hands wrapped around the base steadying him as you sink down on his cock.
A grunt stutters in his throat, half-stifled by his wide, closed-lipped smile, harmonizing with your low whine of pain as your cute little hole stretches, splits, struggles to swallow him whole in one slow gulp.
But it strains around his girth ardently, delicate skin tearing into tiny stinging fissures as your sweet cunt gorges on him, salivating and voracious.
You always manage, every single time, no matter how much it burns, because then he’s bottoming out, head of his cock pressed snugly against your cervix. Your hips shift in little experimental ruts, grinding the tip into the sensitive mound of tissue and whimpering.
A hiss slithers through clenched teeth, your whole face screwing up in pain as your cute cunt flutters around him. A dull ache begins to simmer deep in the pit of your belly, a small palm instinctively pressing to your gut, whining a bit when you feel him, burrowing into the tissues from the inside out.
“Does that hurt?”
“Uh—Uh-huh,” you gasp out, eyes still scrunched shut tightly, head nodding in tight, tense little motions.
“Tell me.”
“It hurts, Alastor,” you mewl, lids lifting to stare at him, to show him the agony simmering in your irises, fresh tears beading your lashes, teetering precariously on the points.
Arrogance softens his features—that smug satisfaction dimming the glint in his eye and the edges of his smile—and his gazes falls from yours, refocusing on the worn novel he had been reading before you so rudely interrupted with your neediness.
That’s your cue to begin.
You’ve become fairly proficient at using him as a toy, fingers curling around the plush top of the armchair, palms planted on either side of his head for leverage and stability as your hips begin to rock—slow, almost shyly at first; hesitant, cautious, testing.
But you can never keep that up for long, far too eager to allow the build-up of that delicious tension, far too greedy to not chase after the immediate high, vying and ravenous and entirely addicted, unable to grant yourself more than a handful of moments to savour it, desperate to fuck him like some sort of wild, primal animal.
It’s what he loves most about you—your fervour.
Your fervour to obey, your fervour to cum all over him, your fervour for whatever part of him he will so graciously gift you—his cock, his cum, his attention, his discipline; it doesn’t matter which it is, it’s all the same to you. Him. Any part of him, every part of him.
And even though he always makes you do all of the work, riding him is your favourite.
Because the best part about riding Alastor isn’t even getting to cum—it’s getting to watch him cum; clear and sharp and so, so beautiful.
No blurry tears to obstruct your vision, no hair curtaining his face as he folds you in on yourself and pounds you into oblivion, no involuntary scrunches of your lids snapping shut in excruciating pain, just his face, open and accessible, expression entirely unadulterated.
Pure.
The pleasure smashes through his facades, through all of his pretences and carefully crafted masks, leaving him wholly unfiltered, raw, real.
It’s the closest to authentic that you ever get. That you’ll ever get.
But the fact that he allows you to orchestrate it, the fact that he allows you to witness him in such a vulnerable and personal state? Well, that’s something special to you. That’s what makes this position the best.
It’s a difficult feat to get him there, to have his cock throbbing and filling you, hot and sticky and so, so much, without the use of violence or sadism, but you manage.
Because there’s just one other thing that works: Power.
Angling your hips just right, you fuck yourself with his cock, rolling the head over that plush spot, fleshy and engorged deep within you, assaulting it harsh and fast, just like he usually does.
“Sir, Sir, Sir,” you’re chanting out in time with the gyrations of your hips, eyes glassy and shining with devotion.
“Hm?” An eyebrow raises, disinterested, gaze refusing to leave the pages in front of his face.
“Thank you, Sir,” you gush, words flowing in an appreciative stream. “Th-Thank you for allowing me to ride you.”
His eyes flick up for a moment, clear and sharp, holding your own, a question imbued in the subtle motion.
“It—It’s so good, Master,” you answer in a whine, staring at him with such stark sincerity it almost hurts, irises twinkling. “Your cock feels so g-good!”
Pomposity polishes his features, lidding his eyes and curling his smile.
“Yes,” he hums out, stare returning to his book. “You are quite a privileged little girl.”
“I am, I am,” you agree with vehemence, voice tapering into a whine. “I’m so lucky, Master.”
“And yet, you are still a greedy little brat.”
“Can’t help it,” you moan. “I jus—I jus’ can’t get enough of it, Master; of you, Master.”
His hips jerk slightly—a barely-there motion, something you’d never notice if you didn’t know to look for it—and you whimper loudly, bouncing accelerating, his little movement a non-verbal demand to ride him harder, to fuck him faster, to give him more.
And you happily oblige. Even when his orders are silent, written inconspicuously in the shift of his pelvis, you still instantly obey.
God, he’s got you trained so well.
You can see it engulfing him, this potent power he holds over you, ultimate and absolute. Authority cloaks his shoulders, the glow in his eyes glaring bright, his chest puffing out just a touch as his spine straightens.
“I know you can’t, pet,” he says, arrogance wispy in his tone, brimming with a type of hedonistic pride. “It will never be enough for my selfish little girl, will it?”
No, no, no, your head is shaking, compliments pouring from your mouth, encased in thick strings of drool.
“I—I love it s’much, Master,” you’re babbling, half-delirious, hips gaining speed with each rock forward. “Love your cock so much!”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah,” your head nods, loose and slack, words slurring a little. “Feels so good, Sir; feels the best, Sir.”
“The best, huh?”
“The best, the best, the absolute best—Better than any cock I’ve ever ridden in this life and every other.”
“F-Fuck,” he breathes out, static eradicated from his voice, leaving it raw, naked. “Even without Master doing anything, it’s still the best.”
“Still the best,” you confirm. “Still my favourite.”
A half-stifled groan sounds in his throat, something he tries to swallow down, something that refuses to be silenced, pleasure clawing at the back of his tongue.
The burn in your thighs intensifies as your pace increases, muscles flexing and gliding beneath your skin, your lungs stinging with each ragged inhale, chest heaving with your uneven gulps.
“Fills me up so perfectly,” you continue, words fading into an airy mewl, high and needy. “Better than anyone else ever could, ever can, ever will.”
“You’re goddamn fuckin’ right,” he growls out, and even though his eyes are framed by heavy lids, his irises are incandescent, power staining them a radiant blood red, deeper and darker than normal, gaping and starved. “No one but your Owner could ever make you feel like this.”
Your head moves in frantic motions—yes, yes, yes!—fingers curling over the top of his armchair, nails scraping against the upholstery and leaving shredded little gouges in their wake.
“No one compares, Alastor—No one could ever, ever compare!”
“Christ,” he nearly whines, the curse shattering at the end as his hips stutter up—involuntary, instinctive.
Three more grinds over that plush spot, hard and fast and rough, and then you’re convulsing in his lap, cute little cunt clenching almost violently around his cock—a desperate plead of sorts, begging him for his cum; please, Master, give it to me, please, Master, I want it so bad!
The words fall from your mouth in a tangled stream, fucked sloppily from your throat as your hips continue to buck, each swipe of your clit over his slick pubic bone forcing another vicious ripple of chills to shudder through your form.
It hurts, body shocked with erratic jolts of overstimulation, but you don’t dare stop, drops of sweat sprouting across your skin, tiny jewels strung along your hairline and adorning your temples, jagged little yelps slipping past your gritted teeth.
And it’s your dedication that finally sends him tumbling over the edge, your borderline religious commitment to ensuring his pleasure even at the expense of your own, book falling from his palms and fingers digging into your flesh as his hips jackhammer up.
Two merciless pumps of his cock before he’s spilling into you, giving you exactly what you’re sobbing for, stuffing your little cunt full of his seed until it can’t take anymore, until it’s too much, until it’s seeping past the tight seal of his shaft to dribble down his balls in thick dollops of cream—and more, Alastor, more, more, gimme more!, your thighs tensing on either side of him as your little hole constricts purposefully, desperate to milk him for every last drop, the rolling of your hips turned ravenous, ruthless.
“Fuck, fuck,” he’s hissing, claws piercing your hips as he forces you to stop, little trickles of crimson oozing from the tiny punctures. “S’enough.”
“S’never enough,” you whine dreamily as your body slumps forward, head buried in his shoulder, little tongue lapping up droplets of dewy sweat in kittenish licks.
“You really are such a spoiled little pet,” he says, but his voice is gentle, a palm petting the back of your head.
A hum vibrates on the back of your tongue and you nuzzle your face further into his damp neck, tongue flattening against his skin and following the curve down to his sharp collarbone, lips latching over one of the protruding knobs and sucking.
“Can’t help it,” you sigh out, muffled, the words humid and slick on his skin. “It really is my favourite thing in the whole world, Sir. I adore you.”
The tender confession beads along his neck, your hot breath turned to tiny droplets of condensation, and he sighs, the tension coiled in his muscles beginning to ebb. His limbs unwittingly melt into your own as he rests his chin on the crown of your head, quivering hands retrieving his book and finding his previous page.
When he speaks again, his voice is soft, so quiet you nearly miss it—would’ve missed it, had you not felt the words rumble in his throat.
“I adore you, too.”
More than he wants to. More than he should. More than he could ever adequately express.
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem!reader, blood + blood eating, periods, dry humping, biting (hard enough to break the skin), toxic relationship, noncon, possessiveness + entitled behaviour, pet/master dynamic, unintentional overstimulation + multiple orgasms, unrealistic amount of period blood, slashing/cutting the skin, alastor is getting off on the pain he’s inflicting on you
notes: this fic is extremely dead dove and involves alastor eating your period blood among other things. it gets gross; please read the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: lose control by teddy swims
words: 3.8k
The first day of your period is always, by far, the worst.
Because the first day of your period is the heaviest, the bloodiest, and, according to Alastor, the tastiest.
Which translates to: Alastor spending the entirety of the first day with his head buried between your legs, hungrily slurping blood from the most intimate part of your body, large claws curled around your hips and pinning you to the mattress, rendering you completely helpless beneath his grasp—defenceless against his vicious tongue, trapped at the mercy of his insatiable addiction.
You’ve lost track of time at this point, lost count of how many times he’s unintentionally made you cum, lost consciousness more than once, elusive and slipping from between your fingers, an intangible mist that you can’t seem to keep a solid grip on—something that melts in the heat of your palms as you squeeze too hard, too desperately.
But that promise of pleasure always seems to draw you back into the light of wakefulness, presses gasps of air into your lungs and shocks your mind from it’s muddled fog.
It’s building once more, a dense heat roiling low and slow in the pit of your stomach as it furls in on itself in an almost lazy manner—a ball of fire that grows hotter and heavier, pulses larger and larger as it expands, flares with every swipe of his nose against your swollen clit, singeing surrounding organs, consuming bordering tissues, boiling the blood in nearby tangles of vessels—until it stops, dims, dies once more, withering away to simmering little embers, yearning to catch flame all over again.
His unintentional edging eats away at your tattered sanity, renders you delirious for release, little fingers tangling in his bangs and yanking, a pitiful attempt to grind his face into your cunt, to catch your slick little nub on the tip of his nose.
The laps of his tongue, once soft as velvet, have turned rough against your licked-raw cunt, every drag of the wet muscle along your slit more painful than the last, sending tiny spikes searing through your gut.
It hurts, but it doesn’t stop you from being a greedy little thing, craving another orgasm, for that sweet, sweet relief that rushes through your exhausted body, that releases the tension building in your muscles, each graze against your clit coiling fibres tighter and tighter until your entire body has gone rigid, aching for reprieve.
For what it’s worth, Alastor doesn’t really seem to care—if anything, he encourages it, the hands on your hips aiding in your movements as your pelvis rolls up, the motion pushing another rush of warm blood from your hole. His tongue wiggles further inside of you, curls into a hook in response, siphoning the substance from your core into his throat with keen little growls exhaled out his nose.
It turns him into something primal—past animalistic, past inhuman, something ineffably sinister, all of his senses sharply honed on his singular task, antlers sprouting branches the longer he eats from you, the worse the pain grows.
He eats your blood like a starving man, with such vigour you’d think he’s never tasted something so delicious, obscenely drinking from the center your body—a delirious attempt to drain you of your essence, dangerous teeth just barely sealed behind puckering lips and an avid, twisting tongue.
It sounds disgusting, the crude smacks of his lips and working of his tongue echoing throughout his bedroom in thick squelches, his chin and his cheeks and his mouth drenched in your combined fluids—blood and spit, hurt and hunger.
It’s ritualistic in a sense, the way his tongue sprawls, swirls into your body, cups, and then darts back, scooping blood and tissue down his throat before forming a point, the tip circling the dips and contours of your cunt, sure to clean any remnants his messy eating might’ve left, before repeating the cycle over again.
Anguish turns stifling as he smothers himself with your core, time gone syrupy as it drips by dense glops, unhurried and unavailing. His tongue feels coarse against your once silky skin, now abraded by his incessant feeding, his methodical motions having caused tiny fissures to sprout along your hole.
Any faint flickers of pleasure have been completely eradicated now, morphed into torrid cinders that scorch your skin, pitchy wails scratching at your chest.
Something suspiciously similar to stop! shatters in your throat, your fingers burrowing further into his hair, knuckles rooted against his scalp right next to the base of his antlers and pulling.
He growls against you, the sound vibrating deep within your cunt, little tremors that snuggle into your flesh like worming maggots, a moan prying past your lips. A large palm flattens between your hip bones and presses down firmly, eliciting a squeak from your chest as it tries to milk your uterus from the inside out, desperate for more blood.
Another sound of frustration echoes behind his sternum, the fingers curled around your hip flexing, his talons further puncturing your flesh.
It isn’t enough for him.
Because, really, when has it ever been? When will it ever be? Your Owner has always been selfish when it comes to his precious pet.
There are already tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, streaming down over your temples in shimmering little trails. Droplets of salt glitter, suspended in spiky lashes, as your eyes flutter, blinking rapidly to clear your bleary vision and dislodging more water in the process.
Wordlessly, his head lifts from the apex of your thighs, elbows dimpling the mattress as he uses them to hoist his torso up, nosing along the junction of your hip with one deep inhale and letting the scent of fresh blood, trickling from the tiny piercings his claws have left, lead him.
His tongue, pigmented a dark crimson, unfurls from his mouth to flatten against your flesh, bathing over the little wounds in slow, deliberate laves. But that isn’t enough, either, a starving snarl ripping from his chest as he repeats the action, this time dragging his lips along, too, using them to encourage another bout of blood from the cuts as he sucks, hard.
It’s so strong, so forceful it has tiny tangles of vessels snapping beneath the skin, spilling enticingly into the surrounding tissues. A cry rips from your throat, back bowing off the bed as a bruise rapidly develops under his mouth, yet another mark he stains into you.
But staking such weak, insufficient claims isn’t what he’s here for today.
Something dark rumbles in his chest, the type of greed that’s borne in his core and nurtured by obsession, that rattles his ribs as it aches to escape, to consume more and more and more.
It’s tormented by the blood trapped below the barrier, ichor that teases him, taunts him, tests him—and, well, that’s just not fair, is it? How dare your body do such a cruel thing to its keeper; how dare your body withhold something that belongs to him.
Sharp teeth sink into supple flesh with zero resistance and scrape, effortlessly removing the first layer of skin and freeing the blood pooling beneath it. His avid tongue instantly sops up the substance, smoothing over the wound and pressing down powerfully, procuring another torrent of crimson.
But his rapacity still remains unfulfilled—if anything, it only grows in its appetency, that splash of blood serving as nothing more than a canapé.
He needs something deeper.
With another slow, vast sniff, he trails the tip of his nose along the expanse of your body, hunting for something thick and pulsing and allowing instinct to guide him, ears pricked and tuned into the frequency of a steady, strong pounding—and he finds it just above your belly button.
Stopping, he licks the area once—a long, broad stroke of his tongue, gliding across your skin and leaving a viscid smear of saliva in its wake.
Then a claw is puncturing your skin, slicing across your stomach in a controlled line, scarlet immediately seeping from the laceration, the tip of his talon missing your aorta by a hair.
It burns, a yelp sticking in your throat, tangling on a sob as you cough around it, spine arching instinctively. Cooling tingles skitter across the new incision as he breathes out a single puff of air, admiring his handiwork, before his mouth latches over it.
“Alastor!” you sob out, fingers curling against his shoulders and tugging, his name a garbled mess on your tongue. “What are you doing!”
“Hold fucking still,” he growls into the fresh injury. “Or I will rip your aorta out with my teeth.”
You know he won’t, know he values you far too much to kill you—his precious pet, his perfect little plaything, his prized possession—but that doesn’t mean that he won’t bring you alarmingly close to death—again.
Even still, and as fun as that is, he’ll never fully go through with it.
Because you’re so fucking obedient—he’s never found someone so dedicated, so devoted, so fucking desperate to please him, to go above and beyond and make him proud, all without a contract.
And he’s never giving that up.
Besides, he’s grown quite fond of you.
Predictably, you obey his order the instant it leaves his lips—never a single wisp of defiance drifting through your murky brain—squirming calmed, even as pangs quiver through your body.
He’s still for another moment or two, letting that delicious anticipation build, before he dives back into feeding, digs his tongue into the wound and tears it wider, another gush of warm blood rushing to fill the new gaping.
Another sound of pain cracks through his bedroom, jagged and crisp, and he nearly whines into your stomach, the wriggling of his tongue turned vicious.
It burrows into the wound, tip hooked as it plunges through the sticky substance, writhes under slippery tissues and broken capillaries in it’s quest for more, the rough voraciousness of it all sending blistering spears shooting through your stomach.
You’re well past the point of sobbing now, unintelligible pleads spilling past your lips soaked with spit, garbled and howled, but your nails scrape at his scalp, fingers tugging a little on his antlers, a moan vibrating against your flesh as his hands wrap around your hips again, holding you still.
He feeds on the stomach wound until the blood ceases to flow freely, until it requires too much effort on his part, blood working hard to begin congealing the gash only to be split open by his siphoning, over and over and over again.
Only then does he continue his exploration, scouring your body, nose curving over your ribs and outlining your breasts as claws slit superficial little slashes in your flesh, tongue swiping over them in experimentation, until finally he finds another heavy throbbing, right above your collarbone.
His breath, pushed from his lips in harsh, fast little pants of hunger, is infused with your blood, the stench of bitter copper stinging your nostrils as it wafts across your skin. It collects in damp little droplets against your neck, his tongue once again unfolding from its cavern to press, hard and flat and wide, against your jugular.
There’s no licking this time, no slow haul of the slick muscle to glaze the canvas before the inevitable incision, just his tongue held smooth and still pinned over the vein, feeling the steady rush of blood. Saliva drools steadily from the corners of his mouth, drizzling onto your chest in thick glass cords, tinted pale pink.
A shiver scampers up your spine as his irregular huffs ghost over your wet skin, chills erupting across your flesh. For a singular instant, everything is still, stagnant—your breath and his teeth and those wandering claws, the only constant being the pulsating thrum of your blood beneath his tongue—before his fingers are moving again, one palm curling around your neck to hold you still as a keen talon slices into your flesh once more.
A scream curdles in your throat, stifled by the hand still collaring your neck, his mouth latching over the wound to lap at the blood. Searing pain radiates from the site, shooting along your jaw and shoulder, and your spine arches off the mattress, struggling beneath his body.
“Stop, stop, stop,” you’re sobbing out, the plead spilling from your lips in a continuous sticky stream, letters tangled in threads of spit. “Please, Al—Master, please!”
Thunder rumbles up his throat and spills into the wound his tongue is prying open—a warning, or a denial, you can’t be sure—as his hips keep you pinned to the bed, his thighs spreading yours wide, his knees sinking into the mattress.
You’re trapped under him, helpless and vulnerable to his vicious attack as his lips pucker and his tongue wiggles and his teeth scrape, collecting you beneath their edges. The agony is excruciating as he devours you, as you thrash and cry and tremble pathetically, your efforts entirely in vain and failing to deter him at all, your ceaseless struggling barely a hitch in his routine.
“Please, please, please,” your chanting, bloated tears weighting your lashes, lids fighting to stay open. “Please, Sir, it—it—Stop!”
A roar ruptures in his throat, rough and loud, and he yanks himself away from his meal, raising his head to glare at you.
“Have you forgotten your purpose, pet?” he spits, flecks of your blood splattering across your cheeks, a smatter of crimson freckles. “Hmm?”
A large hand twines around your jaw and squeezes, hard enough that your cheeks hollow and your mouth puckers. His claws dig into your face as he forces you to look at him, his nose brushing your own.
“Does Master need to make you write it out a hundred times, again?”
“No,” you weep, head trembling in a poor imitation of a shake, still locked in place by his bruising grip.
“Then what is it? Why do you exist?”
“To serve you.”
“How?”
“In—In any way you want me to, Master.”
“Exactly,” he purrs, but the word is razored, teetering on the edge of vitriolic. “So be a useful little pet, like you’re supposed to, and let Master take what he owns, what he’s owed.”
And so, you do.
Because you’re nothing if not faithfully, blindingly obedient to your owner.
His grip relaxes, and your jaw raises, neck bowing off the sheets, offering itself to him unabashedly—your body, your blood.
Something nefarious spreads across his face, stretched smile curling at the edges as it reaches his eyes, a malicious little melody playing on the back of his tongue.
He takes a moment to admire your sheer obedience, your willing and unwavering faith him him, a claw tracing the newest injury, leaving behind a shallow outline in your flesh.
A whimper falls from your lips, but you don’t dare to look away from him, even as the tears lacquering your eyes finally overflow again, streaming down the sides of your head to collect in your hairline.
“Good girl,” he says, and although his voice is soft, the compliment is sharp—mean, mocking, hardened by a layer of patronization.
“Th-Thank you, Sir.”
And then he’s plunging his tongue back in, mouth sealing over the wound tightly, another shrill squeal clawing at your throat. Yet despite the white-hot pain it inspires, his saliva stinging the new contour, you do your best to hold still, to be good, body quivering with the immense effort.
“Christ,” he mutters, the word muddled with blood as he rubs his mouth into the cut. “Your suffering is so fucking delicious.”
His statement is so sick, tinged with a vile sort of pleasure that churns your stomach, acidic bile collecting on the back of your tongue, the revolt so overwhelming that you almost don’t feel it, twitching against your hip as it fills with blood, hot and hard and straining as his pelvis beings to shift, rutting in irregular little motions.
For a moment, you can barely believe what’s happening, mind numb with terror and shock. For a moment, your mind refuses to believe what’s happening, scrambling to scrape together some sort of patchwork excuse for this behaviour—maybe he was just moving to get more comfortable; maybe it meant nothing at all—but the rutting fails to cease, uneven and unskilled, a moan shuddering his breathing, and your body freezes beneath him.
If he notices, he doesn’t seem to care, the rocking of his hips never slowing, another muffled sound of pleasure soaking into your skin.
They’re sweltering against your neck, those little noises of ecstasy, every soft moan and cracked whine and hoarse grunt huffed out damp and humid, beading in little dewdrops on your marred skin.
“M-Master,” you gasp before you can stop yourself, wiggling a little beneath him to confirm your suspicions and whimpering when his cock throbs in response. “You—You’re—It’s—”
“What?” he pulls back slightly, chest rising and falling against your own with ragged little breaths. Something smug plays with the corners of his smile, twinkles of sadism shining bright in his eyes.
He’s going to make you say it.
Your gaze flees his own—it’s too intense, eyes watering with a fresh bout of tears, pins of embarrassment pricking your cheeks. “It’s—”
“Look at me when you’re talking to me.”
Immediately, your stare snaps back to his, wide and submissive.
“It’s hard,” you force words from your tongue, the admission fading to a shameful whisper, face twisting in a wince as if the letters slashed your tongue.
“What is?”
“Master—” you flounder, head shaking a little.
“Go on,” he urges, grinding his hips into yours, slow and purposeful. “Tell me. You’re a big girl.”
“Your cock,” you nearly whine, eyes squeezing shut, fat tears leaking from the seams. “Your cock is hard.”
“It’s your fault, you know,” he murmurs, tongue rolling over your cheek thoughtfully, leaving watery streaks of blood smeared in its wake, mopping up the salt and swallowing it down, growling a little. “Crying out in pain like that.”
“Alastor,” you sob out, head shaking in messy little motions. “I don’t—I’m not—”
“It’s quite cute, the way you’re trying to act as if you don’t love this,” he muses airily, another gust of tangy metal nipping your nose as it wafts across your face, his forehead resting against your own.
Inhaling deep and measured, his ribs expand against yours, sharp bones digging into soft flesh, a gentle tremor coursing through his form as he nestles his face into your own, noses bumping together.
“You can’t fool me, pet. I know you too well.”
His thigh hitches higher, wedged tightly between your legs, shoved up against your cunt, the abrupt action eliciting a gasp, your eyes snapping open to search his own.
“I can smell your arousal, silly,” he says, voice low and smooth, nose tracing along your soiled cheek until his lips are at your ear. “In fact, it’s so strong that it’s overwhelming your blood.” A chuckle reverberates along the cartilage. “I know my pet is a nasty little girl.”
Barbs of humiliation flush through your body, fiery and stabbing through your veins, and he laughs again, a dark and wicked strain that vibrates from his chest into yours.
“Now,” he begins, the word slimy against your ear. “You’re going to be a good little girl for me and let your Master finish his meal.”
It isn’t a question, nor is it a request—it’s an order, and it’s an order he knows you’re desperate to obey.
Because, really, you live for him now, don’t you? Live to please him, to serve him, to make him proud. Because you’re nothing without him now, aren’t you? All of your self-worth wrapped up in your Owner, all of your purpose derived from him, all of your validation sitting heavy on his tongue, desperate to suck those vague compliments and shallow praises from his lips, to swallow them whole, always ravenous for more.
Because you’re just as greedy as he is, in a way. And he knows it.
And he loves it.
His hand wraps around your throat again, pressing his claws into the delicate flesh slow and forceful and procuring new trickles of blood, cascading down your neck in ribbons of crimson.
A groan spills past his lips as he nuzzles his cheek into the tiny wounds, daubing his face with you while his hips begin to increase in speed and force.
Starched cotton chafes the wound on your stomach as he humps away at you, the thin, firm muscles sculpting his thigh flexing against your cunt with each of his movements.
“Ow, ow, ow,” you’re weeping, stuttered by the hiccups catching in your chest.
“Aw, does it hurt? Huh?” he lifts his head slightly, glowing eyes scouring your face with voracity. “Am I—f-fuck—hurting you?”
The rolling of his hips judders a little as you bawl out a confirmation, gnarled and weighted with spit on your sloppy tongue, a whiny hiss sucked through the gaps of his clenched teeth.
It all hurts so much, the grinding of his shirt against the slits he’s carved into you and the rubbing of his thigh against your sensitive cunt and the digging of his tongue into his newest infliction.
It all hurts so much, but you don’t shove him off, don’t push at his shoulders or kick at his hips, arms winding around his shoulders and clutching, a leg entwining with his own, knee hooked over the back of his.
Sharp teeth bury themselves in the fresh slash, persistently oozing on your neck right above your jugular, and gnaw at the borders, raw skin splitting further beneath their razored edges. Another scream gurgles wetly in your throat, mangled by a sob, his responding gruff sound of pleasure seeping into the wound he’s feeding on, white-hot and buzzing.
The hair framing your temples is saturated with dense salt, the strands beginning to crust and dry in flat little knots against your skin, casualties of the beading sweat and ceaseless tears.
The flesh of your cheeks feels heated and sore, gone tight from the thick streams of dried tears that stain them, tiny remnants of salt streaking your face.
He must be getting close already, snarls panted out against your shoulder, uncoordinated movements accelerating with each noise you make, faster and faster and faster until finally his teeth sink into your unmarred shoulder, a shriek piercing the atmosphere as his hips stammer, grinding hard, and then still.
A vicious shudder courses through his entire form as his cock throbs, body rippling beneath the force of it. Hot cum fills his trousers, sticky and thick and so, so much, viscous dollops leaking through the fabric. It’s tacky and blazing against your hip, the little jolts of his pelvis rubbing it in crude bands across your skin.
Your fingers tighten, clinging to him, desperate for the comfort only he can bring, even as his strong jaw flexes and his teeth burrow deeper into soft flesh, embedded at least an inch or more, his tongue laving in messy strokes over the blood-slicked skin bunched between his lips.
“Master, Master, Master,” you’re sobbing into him, his breath harsh and stinging against the bite.
Everything aches, muscles pulled taut from agony and anticipation, heavy with tension. Tiny pricks of pain erupt across your body in waves, conjured with each brush of his clothing. Sobs and screeches have left your throat ripped open, every rush of air feeling like an inhalation of razor blades.
You’re still speaking, still chanting out his honoured title, but your ears have gone numb, your own voice unrecognizable, nothing more than a distinct vibration in your chest.
It’s only when his cock is beginning to soften that he finally dislodges his teeth from your body, licking over the carvings of his mouth once, twice, three times for good measure before his head raises to look at you.
The sight is stunning, kicks the breath from your lungs and the fog from your brain, attention suddenly honed on him, tuned into his frequency.
Strokes of crimson paint his jaw in messy smears, his tongue licking lazily at the blood coating his chin, streaking it further. It’s almost artful in a sickeningly intimate way, how he’s been glazed in you, your blood staining the lines of his teeth and the curves of his gums, his skin shimmering with his own diluted drool.
His breathing is still frayed, cedar dyed with pungent copper breezing over your face in gentle huffs. A knuckle skims along your cheek, gaping gaze following it’s trajectory, his claws varnished a glittering scarlet, only a shade or two brighter than their natural colour.
“See?” he pants out, question airy on his tongue but infused with malice, eyes refocusing on your own. Something sinister tugs at the corners of his lips, broad smile stretching impossibly wider, peaked edges of his mouth nearly nudging his lower lashes. “Was that so difficult?”
character: alastor
warnings: 18+ for mature themes (no smut) minors do not interact, fem!reader, pet/master dynamic, toxic relationship (possessiveness; reader is nothing more than a silly little doll for alastor to play dress up with), implied size difference, a hint of blood
words: 1.1k
Alastor is a creature of habit, a man of routine. He has his daily rituals, his rigorous schedules, his lists of tasks, all performed to perfection each and every day.
And Alastor likes to begin his mornings in a very specific way.
You know the procedure by now inside out, upside down, could recite it backwards, if he so desired you to.
By the time he wakes you, he’s already laid out your outfit for the day; intimates, dress, socks, accessories, all spread in an immaculate flat lay on his seldom-used bedspread.
You are always expected to adorn yourself with the garments he’s selected, to pull on each and every piece all on your own, fabrics lovingly caressing your exposed flesh as his gaze slithers after the material, leaving burning smudges on your skin.
But, of course, you can never do it all completely right—not like Master can.
Because it always ends the same, this little morning sacrament: with Alastor fussing over you—straightening out a bow, smoothing out a wrinkle, tugging up a sock, readjusting a sleeve.
There is always something wrong he has to fix, to make perfect.
And the finishing touch, the finishing touch is always for Master to add.
A leather collar, as red as his eyes and adorned with a heart-shaped tag, his name in an elegant scrawl engraved in the platinum. He’s always so tender when he fastens it around your neck, after he has thoroughly approved of your dressing for the day, more tender than you’d ever thought him capable of; more tender than he ever is otherwise.
It’s all just another way he claims you, degrades you, announces that you are his—his to decorate, his to desecrate, his to do whatever the fuck he wants with you.
That pretty little silver heart that rests so daintily against your clavicle, that rises and falls and glitters with each of your gentle breaths, will never let you forget that.
Today, as it is with most days, he has chosen a white colour palette.
Sitting in his usual armchair with his legs crossed, folded hands resting in his lap, he watches as you undress in front of him, left vulnerable and raw to his gluttonous glare. It stings, his gaze razored and slitting into your skin, prickling as it rakes over your unprotected form, leaving you feeling hypersensitive, overexposed, like he’s stripped away some fundamental layer and left you barer than bare.
Yet to the untrained eye, he would appear only mildly interested, possibly even teetering on indifferent, but you know him better than that.
You are not the untrained eye—not anymore.
You know that the glowing in his gaze is brighter, bolder and more brilliant than normal as he sharply catalogues every action—pretty silk slipped off, dainty lace sliding on.
You know that his pupils are abnormally large, having gnawed away at his irises in their attempt to consume the scene in front of him—a scene he’s witnessed a hundred times before; a scene he never tires of nonetheless.
You know that his smile, usually sharp and stretched, is a little bit softer around the edges, a little bit sweeter as it seals hungry teeth behind curled lips.
His chest swells and deflates with calm, even breaths, his unblinking gaze holding yours for a moment—in, out, in, out—and you stand still as a statue, waiting.
Such a good little pet he’s got himself.
He lets the moment linger for a little, basks in the exquisiteness of your obedience, allows that sweet suffocation of your compliance to grow until it’s nearly unbearable, until you’re struggling to keep stationary under his unrelenting stare, until the weight of it is crushing, compressing your ribs, flattening your lungs as you anticipate his approval.
Finally, he nods, and then, you begin.
First, the intimates; pure snow-white lace encrusted with tiny crystals, dainty material skimming your flesh in a faint caress, clinging to your supple curves as you fasten hooks and adjust waistbands.
Next, an ivory milkmaid dress, complete with cinched puffy sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, the corset top outlining the natural lines and bends of your torso, skirt flaring slightly at the hips and flowing into loose pleats around your thighs. Little white flowers detail the garment, embroidered in silk across the linen, blooming with each of your graceful inhales.
Then, a pair of white thigh-high nylons to garnish the outfit, adorned with tiny white polkadots, sleek and sheer as they hug your legs.
He doesn’t miss the ripple of chills that follow after his eyes as they glide up your body, trailing the curled knuckles hooked in the band of your stockings. Nor does he miss the delicate shiver that dances up your spine, or the tensing of your muscles as you linger in limbo beneath his stare, anticipating his next order.
No, he witnesses it all.
And he smirks, huffing out an airy snort, your frame flinching with the sound.
“Does my gaze make you uncomfortable, dear?”
“No, Sir, of course not,” you respond immediately; well-trained, obedient.
“No? Then why has your body gone rigid beneath my eyes?”
“I just—” you begin, faltering a little, a small frown on your face.
Suddenly, he rises, stalking toward you calmly, both hands clasped behind his back. That infamous collar, held securely in his grasp, jingles with each of his steps, such a delicate sound for something so sinister.
Stopping an inch or two from your face, your head snaps up, the motion instinctual, eyes wide and subservient—searching for guidance, awaiting your orders like the good little girl you are.
A palm wreathes around your jaw, points of his claws pressing into your cheeks as he forces your head up further, revelling in the soft pained yelp that hitches in your throat, tangling on a gasp.
“Do you feel like a piece of meat, on display for your owner?”
“Y-Yes, Sir.”
Crimson searches your face, slow and scrutinizing, lids narrowing slightly as his smile sharpens.
“Nothing more than a pretty little prize to be paraded around on my arm, proudly and in public?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Leaning down, he grinds his forehead into your own, inhibiting your gaze from fleeing his, neck bent at an unnatural angle as he looms over you. He stares at you for a moment, scarlet so bright it hurts to look directly into, so brilliant you’re sure it’ll leave sunspots blotting your vision when you finally look away, but you don’t dare to blink.
Slim fingers flex around your jaw, tightening, and his claws pierce your cheeks—shallow little pricks that’ll be unnoticeable in a few minutes, dots of blood rushing to fill the tiny dents. His tongue laves over each in a single, slow drag, wide and wet as it cleans the wounds and streaks his tastebuds with copper, sealing them with a thick salve of saliva before pulling away.
“Good,” he finally murmurs, the word a puff of breath wafting across your face, warm and woodsy. “Because you are. And Master likes for his things to look presentable.”
character: alastor
warnings: no smut but still 18+, heavy pet/master dynamic, toxic relationship, blood, alastor is obv experiencing intense feelings of infatuation
words: 818
notes: a thought i had based on just how much alastor casually touches charlie throughout the entire series hehe—something that would manifest tenfold with his favourite pet, i think!
For someone with a penchant for sadism, Alastor can be surprisingly touchy with his precious pet.
It’s primal: a compulsive need, an instinctive addiction, an insatiable parasite. It’s something he can’t control even if he wanted to—and he doesn’t have any interest in denying himself such a luxury.
Not when you are his.
It’s possessive; a physical marker, a visual claim that you are owned, that you belong to him, answer to him, are of service to him. It’s a single finger, hooked in that pretty crimson collar, curled tightly around the leather as he leads you around the hotel with him, keeping you near, a bony knuckle pressed tight to your pulsing jugular.
It’s a large palm, laid flat on the small of your back above the swell of your ass, fingers splayed wide and claws just barely piercing the thin cotton of your clothing as he guides you—to your seat at the dinner table, when you’ve been especially well-behaved; to the living room to witness a new group activity; to his bedroom, when he decides it’s time for his pet to sleep.
It’s four fingers cuffed around your wrist, keeping you tethered to him via a leash of his flesh, obediently trailing behind him like the sweet little pet you are as he goes about his business in town, dutifully keeping silent just like he told you to, nuzzling into the space between his shoulder blades when he stills for an extended period of time, the ball of your nose rubbing over the prominent notches of his spine, his responding hum vibrating against your flesh.
It’s protective; a way to ensure that you are within reach of him at all times, so that he can defend against any and all incoming threats and potential dangers. It’s an arm curled around your shoulders, pressing you flush to his side where he can tuck you safely beneath his touch, or an arm twined around your waist, palm cupping your hip as he clutches you close, closer.
It’s his thigh slotted up against your own during one of his routine lunches with Rosie, your elbow threaded through his as he chats and eats and laughs and plots, dainty fingers toying passively with the hem of his shirtsleeve, fingertips just barely brushing the thin skin stretched across his wrist.
It’s his palm swathed around the nape of your neck, tips of his claws digging into your skin just hard enough to be a reminder—be good, behave—grip flexing the moment he senses any peril, instantly ready to yank you out of harm’s way and draw you back into himself, where you are shielded and secure, where you fit perfectly.
It’s peaceful; an odd type of comfort he’s never quite experienced before—something deep-seated, something growing in his soul, something that soothes any unruliness the instant it begins to spawn within him, rattling his ribs and eroding his throat as it rages with gnawing teeth and thrashing claws. Doused in your presence, in your supposed love for him—your devotion, your affection, your obsession—it diminishes, dries up and dies; even if only for a moment.
It’s his chin resting on the crown of your head as he works and you sleep, curled into his chest, breaths damp and gentle against his collarbone, lulled into fitful dreams by the skillful scratch of his pen against parchment, the gentle clink of the metal pen nib against the glass ink bottle, the sharp scrape across the rim as he disposes of excess ink, a heavy sense of contentment sinking in his chest.
It’s demanding you sit at his feet during his nightly reading session, your body wound around his leg and a foot wedged between your thighs, his palm cupping the crown of your head as he strokes your hair in soothing, rhythmic motions. It’s allowing himself a brief glance down at you, something dense and warm seeping through his ribs and into his lungs when you nestle your cheek against his calf, fatigued eyes refusing to close without his explicit permission, licks of flame flickering in glazed pupils as you watch the blazing fireplace.
It’s him groping for you the moment anything mildly disconcerting happens, desperate to feel your flesh beneath his touch—filling his palms with fistfuls of you, staining his teeth and soaking his tongue with scarlet flowing from your throat or your wrist or your bosom, inhaling your scent harsh and deep as he buries his nose in you, and letting it pollute him, consume him, sedate him.
And despite how new it all is, how scary it feels, how vulnerable it leaves him as it pries his ribs apart bone by bone, digs its talons into his tendons and pulls them apart string by string to expose, offer, whatever it is that throbs in his chest for you, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Girl please stop writing alastor, if I cum again I'm gonna throw up 😭❤️ you're too good at writing himmmmm I think the way you characterise him is *exactly* the way I imagine him to be... he definitely makes you undress at night too, he sits there with a mug in his hand, watching you strip, he makes a fucked up ritual for everything. He probably bathes you himself while tending to your stitches cuz why would he ever let you do that? You won't do it right, not the way *he* does it....
OH OH OH and I've been meaning to ask you for the longest while: is the cut he gives reader during "make a mess of me" the one that tends to in the short piece where reader ripped open her stitches while wearing white?
I hope you feel better soon, and I hope this month's period is easier on you ❤️
AHAHAHA oh my gosh anon!!! ◟( ˃̶͈◡ ˂̶͈ )◞ you’re so sweet aaaah thank you so much, that is SUCH a huge compliment!!! i really love writing alastor and exploring him as a character, i find him super fascinating and rly fun to write!! <33
omggg you are absolutely right, he 100% turns your undressing + bedtime routine into some sort of sacrament he controls; after he’s brushed your teeth and washed your face and tended to your hair, he picks out your pjs, watches with that smug satisfaction as you pull off the outfit he assembled for you this morning and slip on the cute lil nightie he’s selected for tonight. there’s a certain type of pride glimmering in his eyes, barely dimmed by the steam curling up from his tea; something sharp and bright that flares with each of your obedient actions, something that glows with the potency of such powerful ownership. and then, when you are finally finished and ready to curl up in the fluffy lil bed that sits in the corner of his room right next to his writing desk, he allows you to kneel at his feet, chin resting on his thigh as slim fingers tenderly unfasten that precious collar, still weighted around your neck <3
oh, of course! tending to your wounds—his wounds—happens to be his favourite ritual; well, right behind gifting you those injuries, that is. he always forces you into the clawfoot tub, even if you don’t necessarily need a bath; always makes sure the water is just a hint too hot, so he can devour that adorable little wince the moment the water stings your skin; and always cleanses your body head-to-toe, paying special attention to the gashes and bites and scratches he’s etched into your flesh—new and old. he revels in the sweet little gasps he pulls from your throat when he presses a touch too hard, the precious little hisses spit from between clenched teeth when he grinds soap into a fresh cut, murmuring out in that syrupy tone, oh, does that hurt, sweetheart? <3
ah good question!!! it is not the same wound, no (though u could read/interpret it that way, if you want to!), in my mind they were two completely separate incidents hehe c: aw thank u so much! uGH i spent most of today in bed writhing in pain >.<
What is your Alastor’s goal? Like if the reader became so broken by him would he throw them out? Is he hoping for a balance of obedience as well as disobedience? We all know he gets bored very quickly so I’m wondering what’s your thoughts on this? Where is that fine line between entertaining to boring?
ah okay so!!! beware, i kinda rambled on beneath the read more ahahaha (*ﾉωﾉ)ᵉᵉᵏ
well if i’m going to be completely honest with you, he doesn’t necessarily have an overarching ‘goal’ since i’ve only been writing little fragments of their lives together/their relationship. he has a goal in each piece, obv, and they’re all very simple of course, because more than anything i write for myself and to explore a character i really love in silly lil scenarios my mind creates ehehe. but if i had to give him a larger goal that encompasses all of the fragments, it would be companionship.
as i mentioned in this ask, he’s drawn to reader because of her extreme devotion to him without the need of a contract; how she’s willing to do anything for him, to quite literally be his obedient little pet and always stares up at him with stars of worship in her eyes, all on her own. it’s pure, it’s real, and he loves that. but just because she is unwaveringly subservient, doesn’t mean she is incompetent or unable to do things on her own + be independent. she won’t cling to him unless he wants it.
he does give her tasks to do and hobbies to take up (certain books to read, certain activities to do etc.) because his pet needs to be well-read + intelligent and all of that. she has her own errands + duties to attend to as well, so she’s more than a mindless little doll (because you’re right, he would get bored of that SO fast); it’s more just that she has to be (and is) willing to drop everything for alastor the moment he wants her to—and he is absolutely drunk off of the potent power this grants him. there are an infinite amount of scenarios he can throw her into in order to play with this extreme level of ownership and control, which means he can always find a way to keep things interesting, fresh, and fun.
i write alastor as an extreme sadist and as someone who is only aroused and able to get off on serious sadism, right? her pain (physical, mental, emotional; any kind) is what ‘turns him on’. additionally, we know that alastor is extremely shady and manipulative, and has a bit of a sick, twisted ‘playful’ side to him—with means he isn’t above playing dirty, provoking reader into misbehaving or tricking her into breaking a rule, solely so he has an excuse to punish her or otherwise hurt her. he doesn’t need an excuse, obviously, he knows she’ll ultimately let him do whatever the fuck he wants to her, but it’s more fun when she unintentionally breaks a rule, because there’s an extra layer of psychological pain there; shame and guilt for disobeying her master.
he knows she loves it too, though; she loves playing that foul little game just as much as he does, and she isn’t entirely meek either; she will speak back to him on occasion, will beg him to stop or let some snarky little remark slip (she almost does this in the piece about alastor dressing you in white) or shove at him etc, but it’s really just this messed up little cat-and-mouse routine that comes with the 100% guarantee that she’ll never escape or leave him, no matter what he puts her through or how much she pretends to push back. i mean, she’d have to have some sort of streak of vile wickedness running through her blood to be as insanely attracted to him as she is.
so, really, that’s where the line between obedience and disobedience is drawn; she may be playfully bratty back, but never to the point of actual disrespect, and never for real. she might whine a bit about him intentionally tricking her into breaking rules etc, but she’ll also play up that aspect of guilt etc because she knows he gets off on it, and she gets off on serving + pleasing him.
wHEW okay, hopefully this answers ur questions!!! thanks for taking an interest in my iteration of alastor, that’s really cool and it makes me feel so aaaah happy n warm hehehe <33
was thinking of asking something similar but how would your Alastair translate into back then in his human form or I mean like how would be maintain his control with reader like through marriage or?????? I don’t know if that makes sense I’m sorry 😣
ooooh you mean like how would 1930s human alastor maintain his control over a reader during that time??? like how would he exert that same kind of ownership over them as he does to my readers in hell???
i dunno! that’s an interesting question!!! marriage is definitely an option that he might end up taking, just because a big pretty shiny ring on her finger sends a pretty clear message to anyone who sees her (but there’s a part of me that doesn’t ever see alastor as a marriage guy??? idk!!!) and replaces a collar nicely for the era. all-in-all though, i think his methods would probably be fairly similar to what i mentioned he does in hell with his precious lil pet. like he’d still be interested in her for the same reasons + expect the same things from her that he does in hell. i also think that even as a human, the only thing he can get off on is extreme sadism (so his human counterpart better be willing to allow him to slice them up!!).
